The transition from the vibrant, chaotic sensory overload of Manhattan back to the sterile, white-tiled silence of the Red River Institute was like being plunged into a tank of liquid nitrogen. The air in the Gamma Wing felt thinner, stripped of the scent of exhaust and the electric roar of millions of people. Here, the only sound was the low, persistent hum of the ventilation system and the distant, rhythmic beep of the biometric scanners.
Vaun Meyer did not return to his bed. Instead, he stood in the center of their shared quarters, his feet barely grazing the floor, watching Reggie and Kevin decompress. The secret they shared—the lingering taste of real sugar from the contraband chocolate bar—acted like a psychic anchor, binding them together in a way the Vought-mandated "Teamwork Drills" never could.
Reggie was pacing a tight circle, his speed reduced to a human walk, though his muscles still twitched with residual kinetic energy. "Did you see that girl's face, Vaun? When the water dome went up? She actually looked like she believed it. Like we were... heroes."
"She was paid to look like that, Reggie," Kevin said, sitting on the edge of his bunk. He was rubbing his neck, where the gill-slits were pulsing slowly in the dry air. "But for a second, I thought I felt it too. The air didn't feel like a cage for once."
Vaun drifted toward them, his violet-green eyes softening. He reached out and placed a hand on Reggie's shoulder, using a tiny pulse of his Aero-kinesis to vibrate the air around Reggie's tense muscles, a makeshift massage that helped the speedster's heart rate finally drop to a resting pace.
"The sky was real," Vaun said quietly. "The sun wasn't a UV array. Remember that. They can own our names and our faces, but they can't own the way the wind felt on the bridge. We keep that for us."
Reggie stopped pacing, looking at Vaun with a raw, jagged kind of gratitude. "Thanks, man. I don't know how you stay so calm. I feel like my skin is too tight most days."
"I stay calm because I have to be the one holding the air for all of us," Vaun replied.
The moment of brotherhood was shattered by the sharp chime of the wall-mounted screen. It wasn't a training notification; it was a "New Asset Introduction."
[ATTENTION GAMMA WING: WELCOME ASSET 412 - SILAS 'CYPRESS' THORNE] [PQ RANK: 25 - TOP DRAFT PROSPECT]
A holographic profile flickered to life in the center of the room. It showed a boy their age, but he looked like he had been pulled from a high-end luxury catalog. He had golden-brown skin, eyes the color of emeralds, and hair that seemed to catch the light even in a static image. Unlike Vaun's "Vanguard" aesthetic, Silas Thorne was draped in soft, organic linens, holding a blooming orchid that looked impossibly perfect.
"Silas Thorne," Kevin whispered, his face falling. "His dad is a Vought Vice President. He's been training in a private facility in California. They call him the 'Prince of the Petals.'"
"He's a Nature user," Reggie noted, his eyes narrowing. "Aero, he's coming for your brand."
Vaun stared at the hologram. He didn't feel threatened; he felt a cold, clinical curiosity. He looked at Silas's hands in the image. They were soft. They were the hands of a gardener who had never had to fight for his breath.
"Let him come," Vaun said. "The world has room for more than one forest. But it only has room for one King."
The introduction of Silas Thorne wasn't just a social event; it was a hostile takeover of the Red River social hierarchy. By dinner, the internal "Likes" for the newcomer were already rivaling Reggie's speed metrics. Silas wasn't just a Supe; he was a legacy. He carried the weight of Vought's corporate royalty, and he moved through the halls with an arrogance that made even the guards stand a little straighter.
The "Nature" rivalry was forced to a head the following morning in the Conservatory. Dr. Aris stood on the observation deck, her eyes fixed on her tablet.
"The board has noted a 'Saturation Overlap' between Asset 402 and Asset 412," Aris announced over the speakers. "Today's trial is a Botanical Synthesis. You will both be tasked with revitalizing a desiccated sector of the park. Most vibrant growth wins the engagement bonus."
Vaun stood at the edge of a barren, grey plot of land. Silas Thorne stood twenty feet away, looking at Vaun with a pitying smile.
"I saw your Central Park save, Meyer," Silas said, his voice a smooth, practiced lilt. "The jasmine vines were a nice touch. A bit... crude, though. You treat nature like a weapon. I treat it like a symphony."
Silas didn't wait for the buzzer. He knelt and pressed his hands into the dirt. Instantly, the grey soil turned a rich, deep black. From the earth, a hundred different species of flowers erupted—lilies, roses, exotic orchids from the Amazon—all blooming in a riot of color that was perfectly framed for the drones circling above.
The Fan-Tracker on Vaun's wrist chirped. Silas was spiking. The fans loved the beauty. They loved the "Pure" nature.
Vaun stayed still. He didn't kneel. He hovered. He closed his eyes and felt the air. He didn't look at the dirt; he looked at the metabolism of the room.
"You're making a bouquet, Silas," Vaun said, his voice carrying on a localized air-current that made the flowers in Silas's plot tremble. "But flowers don't survive a storm."
Vaun reached out with his Aero-kinesis. He didn't create a wind; he created a Metabolic Engine. He used his air control to force high-pressure CO2 into the soil, hyper-oxygenating the root systems of the dormant "Vought-Wood" trees in his plot.
Then, he used his Chlorokinesis. He didn't make flowers. He made Infrastructure.
Thick, grey-barked roots of Ironwood surged out of the ground. They didn't bloom; they armored. The vines that followed were corded with high-tensile cellulose, wrapping around the trees like biological muscle. Within seconds, Vaun's plot hadn't become a garden; it had become a Fortress.
He triggered a secondary effect—a parasitic drain. The air pressure he created forced the moisture out of the surrounding atmosphere and directly into his plants.
Silas's beautiful, fragile lilies began to wilt. Without the humidity and the nitrogen Vaun was currently monopolizing through his air-domes, the "Prince's" garden was starving.
"What are you doing?" Silas hissed, his face reddening. "You're killing the aesthetic!"
"I'm building something that lasts," Vaun replied.
The engagement numbers shifted. The fans were no longer looking at the flowers; they were looking at the sheer, terrifying power of the Ironwood Fortress.
[AERO: +5,000 FOLLOWERS] [TRENDING: #THEVANGUARDSTORM]
Dr. Aris marked her tablet. "Trial concluded. Aesthetic victory: Silas. Structural victory: Vaun. Engagement preference: Vaun."
Silas stormed off the field, his emerald eyes burning with a promise of retribution. But for Vaun, the victory felt hollow. He wasn't thinking about Silas. He was thinking about the call he had to make that night.
The communication booth felt smaller tonight. The air was stagnant, and the violet-green ring in Vaun's eyes was pulsing with a restless energy.
The screen flickered to life. Elena Meyer appeared, and for the first time in months, she wasn't smiling. Her hair was slightly disheveled, and her makeup was smudged. Behind her, the New York penthouse looked like a disaster zone.
"Vaun," she snapped, her voice high and shrill. "Your sister has been... difficult."
"What happened?" Vaun asked, his heart rate spiking.
"We had the 'Crystal Flute' shoot today. The sponsors were there. The lighting was perfect. And do you know what she did? She refused." Elena slammed her hand onto the table. "She said she was hungry. She said she wouldn't shrink another inch until she had a piece of... of bread."
Vaun felt a sudden, sharp surge of joy. Good for you, Em, he thought. Fight her.
"Where is she?" Vaun asked.
Elena turned the camera. Emma was sitting on the floor in the corner of the kitchen. She wasn't in a jar or a bowl. She was her "natural" size—about three feet tall. She looked gaunt, her ribs visible through her silk dress, but her eyes... her eyes were alive. She was staring at Elena with a defiance that Vaun hadn't seen since they were in Baltimore.
"Emma," Vaun whispered.
Emma looked at the screen. A tiny, trembling smile touched her lips. "I did it, Vaun. I didn't shrink. I told her I want to be big again."
"Emma, you were brilliant," Vaun said, his voice thick with genuine emotion.
Elena's face contorted with rage as she turned the camera back to herself. "Brilliant? She ruined a ten-million-dollar contract! The fans saw her 'Rebellion' on the leaked feed. They're calling her 'Unstable.' Our stock is plummeting, Vaun!"
"She's a child, Mother. She's hungry," Vaun said, the air in the booth beginning to drop in temperature as his Aero-kinesis reacted to his mother's cruelty.
"She is a Product!" Elena screamed. "And products that don't function get repaired. Since she wants to be 'big' and 'hungry,' I've decided to give her exactly what she needs to refocus."
Elena reached off-camera and pulled out a sleek, Vought-branded device. It looked like a collar.
"It's a Metabolic Siphon," Elena said, her voice dropping into a cold, terrifying whisper. "It will regulate her caloric intake and force her cells to stay in a micro-state until she learns to follow the script. And until she hits her 'Invisible Goal,' she stays in the Dark Box."
"The Dark Box?" Vaun's voice was a low, lethal hum. "Mother, don't. She's claustrophobic. You know she can't handle the dark."
"Then she should have thought of that before she ate that strawberry," Elena said.
Behind her, Vaun saw a heavy, soundproofed storage container. It was the kind used for high-end electronics, but Elena had modified it. Two guards stepped forward and grabbed Emma.
"VAUN! HELP ME!" Emma screamed, her voice breaking as she was lifted off the ground.
"EMMA! FIGHT THEM! EM—"
The screen went black.
Vaun sat in the dark of the booth, his hands shaking. He reached out and touched the glass, his mind screaming. He wanted to fly. He wanted to tear the walls of the Red River Institute down and fly to New York and rip his mother's heart out of her chest.
His lungs felt like they were filled with crushed glass. The pressure in the booth climbed so high that the overhead light shattered, showering him in sparks. He felt the hunger—the deep, abyssal void in his soul—and he realized that he didn't want the fans anymore.
He wanted Blood.
Vaun emerged from the communication booth an hour later. He didn't look like a ten-year-old boy. He looked like a storm that had been given a human shape.
Reggie and Kevin were waiting for him in the hallway. They saw the shattered glass on his jumpsuit. They saw the violet-green fire in his eyes.
"What happened?" Reggie asked, his voice shaking. "We heard the glass break from the lounge."
"She put her in the box," Vaun said, his voice flat and frictionless.
Kevin stepped forward, placing a hand on Vaun's arm. He could feel the coldness radiating from Vaun's skin. "Emma? Your sister? Why?"
"Because she was hungry," Vaun replied.
He looked at his two friends. He saw the fear in their eyes, but he also saw the loyalty. They weren't just assets to him anymore. They were the only things in this world that weren't a lie.
"Listen to me," Vaun said, his voice a localized air-vibration that didn't carry past their three-man circle. "The Seven isn't just a goal anymore. It's a necessity. I need the #1 ranking. I need the contract. I need to be so powerful that Vought will let me kill my mother and take my sister."
"We're with you, Aero," Reggie said, his sneakers sparking against the floor. "Whatever it takes. We'll be the fastest, the strongest, and the most dangerous trio this place has ever seen."
"Silas Thorne is going to try to break us," Kevin said, his face hardening. "His dad is pushing for him to take the #1 spot in the next quarterly audit."
"Silas Thorne is a flower," Vaun said, staring at the white stone gates of the institute. "And I am the storm that's going to tear him out by the roots."
He reached out and gripped their hands. For the first time, he didn't care about the drones. He didn't care about the metrics. He felt the biological surge of their shared purpose, a bond that was stronger than any V-injection.
He looked at his Fan-Tracker.
[FOLLOWERS: 46,500]
"Watch me," Vaun whispered to the unblinking red lights of the hallway drones. "Watch me become the monster you paid for."
That night, for the first time in his life, Vaun Meyer didn't dream of his mother's kitchen. He dreamt of a world where the lights were finally off, and Emma was finally, truly, big enough to reach the sky.