Chapter 3: The Art of Arson
The air in the Central Botanical Garden was thick and wet, a stark contrast to the sterile, recycled atmosphere of the rest of the arcology. It smelled of loam and blooming night-flowers, a perfume so alien it felt like a different planet. Will walked the winding paths, his hands shoved in the pockets of his new, stylish jacket. To any observer, he was just another citizen enjoying the curated nature, maybe a young exec on a date.
His vision, however, was a battlefield of data.
The garden's schematic was overlaid on his sight, a wireframe ghost of the lush reality. The Stream-Weaver had highlighted structural weaknesses, air circulation vents, and the main irrigation lines in cool, logical blue. In pulsing, aggressive red, it suggested targets: the ancient, dry-wood gazebo, the storage shed for fertilizers, the base of the massive central tree, a genetically engineered redwood that scraped the top of the dome.
"Analysis suggests the gazebo offers the highest probability of a visually dramatic ignition sequence," the Weaver murmured in his mind, her voice a seductive whisper. "The aged wood will create a pleasing, traditional flame profile."
Will ignored her. His eyes scanned, not for weakness, but for story. The audience didn't want efficiency. They wanted spectacle. They wanted a star.
He paused by a bed of luminous moon-lilies, their petals glowing with a soft, ethereal light. A couple was there, a man and a woman, their fingers intertwined. They were laughing, quiet and private. The man pointed to a rare orchid, and the woman leaned her head on his shoulder. It was a moment of pure, un-streamed happiness.
A notification popped up, sharp and intrusive.
`>>Chaos_Craver: Cmon man, stop smelling the flowers! BURN THEM! (Donated: 50 Credits)`
`>>PyroPixie: The glow-flowers would look SO COOL on fire! Do it!`
A cold knot tightened in Will's stomach. He was seeing the world through their eyes now. Everything was just fuel, just a prop.
He moved on, his gait casual, but his mind was a whirlwind. He couldn't just light a match. That was for thugs. Omni-Stream's Favorite Psychopath had to have style. He had to give them a performance.
An idea began to form, ugly and beautiful all at once.
He found a maintenance panel, disguised as a rock formation. A flick of his wrist, and a multi-tool—purchased with viewer donations—slipped from his sleeve. He bypassed the simple lock with ease, his movements guided by a newfound, system-enhanced grace. Inside were the controls for the garden's environmental systems: humidity, temperature, and the intricate misting system that watered the most delicate plants.
"Your heart rate is elevated. Your bio-signs indicate stress. Is there a complication?" the Weaver asked.
"Quiet," Will thought back, his focus absolute. "I'm composing."
He worked for an hour, reprogramming, rerouting. He wasn't just setting a fire. He was writing a symphony, and the instruments were the garden itself.
Finally, it was time. The garden's night cycle was beginning, the artificial sky dimming to a deep twilight. The number of visitors thinned out. The loving couple was gone. It was just him, the plants, and the 47,812 live viewers waiting in his vision.
He walked to the center of the garden, to the clear space in front of the great redwood. He stood there, perfectly still, and looked up at the fake stars beginning to appear in the dome.
"Initiate stream," he whispered.
The golden heart in his vision exploded into a frantic, pulsing rhythm. The viewer count began to climb. 48,000. 49,000. 50,000. Goal achieved. He didn't care.
He began to speak, his voice low and calm, projected through the garden's own sound system, which he now controlled.
"Nature is the original chaos," he said, the words echoing slightly in the vast space. A few remaining visitors turned, confused. "It grows, it consumes, it burns. We trapped it in this dome to remember what we lost. But a memory is just a ghost."
He raised his hands, a conductor before an orchestra.
"This is not destruction. This is a funeral for a ghost."
He snapped his fingers.
It started not with fire, but with music. A slow, haunting cello piece, one of the classical works he'd found in the public archives, began to play from the speakers. Then, the misting system activated. But it didn't spray water. It sprayed a fine, odorless, highly flammable aerosol, a cocktail of concentrated plant nutrients and industrial solvent he'd concocted from the garden's own supplies. A shimmering, perfumed fog filled the air, catching the light of the moon-lilies and the fake stars, creating a breathtaking, dreamlike scene.
The viewers were going wild. The comment feed was a waterfall of excitement and shock.
He snapped his fingers again.
A single, small spark flew from a modified energy cell he tossed onto the gazebo.
The world did not just catch fire. It ignited.
The flame did not spread; it bloomed. It raced through the aerosol fog in a wave of brilliant orange and blue, a rolling, silent explosion of heat and light that consumed the air itself. The gazebo became a bonfire in a heartbeat. The moon-lilies didn't burn; they popped, sending tiny embers floating into the air like a swarm of angry fireflies. The ancient redwood, its bark soaked in the mist, began to burn from the bottom up, a towering pillar of fire that lit the entire dome from within.
It was the most beautiful, most horrifying thing Will had ever seen.
He stood in the center of the inferno, the heat blistering the paint on his new jacket, his face illuminated by the hellish glow. He wasn't smiling. He was weeping, the tears instantly evaporating on his cheeks. The cello music swelled, a tragic score to his own damnation.
Alarms blared. The scream of fire suppression systems finally kicked in, spraying harmless foam that sizzled and steamed against the intense heat.
`STREAM GOAL: ACHIEVED.`
`+50,000 Credits.`
`Tier 2 Physical Enhancements Unlocked. Initiating...`
A new, more potent wave of power surged through him. His senses dialed up to an impossible sharpness. He could see the individual grains of ash floating in the air, hear the crackle of every leaf as it was consumed. He felt invincible.
He turned and walked calmly towards a service exit as panic erupted around him. People ran, security bots buzzed in useless circles.
The Stream-Weaver's voice was a symphony of approval.
"Magnificent. Viewer count peaked at 312,455. You have been awarded three 'Chaos Crowns.' You are trending across three sectors."
Will didn't respond. He pushed open the service door and stepped back into the sterile, grey corridor of the arcology. The door swung shut, muting the sounds of chaos and the tragic cello music.
He leaned against the cold wall, his body thrumming with alien strength, his account swollen with blood money. He had given the audience everything they wanted. He had saved his sister for months.
And as he stood there, the phantom smell of smoke and burning flowers clinging to him, he knew, with a cold, certain clarity, that the man who had walked into that garden was gone. He had burned away with everything else.
He was Omni-Stream's Psychopath now. All that was left was to play the part.