At nine years old, Vaun Meyer had begun to forget what it felt like to be a participant in his own life. At the Red River Institute, existence was not lived; it was broadcast. Every hallway was a corridor of lenses, every meal was a caloric assessment, and every breath was a metric of atmospheric displacement. The white stone of the institute was no longer a school to him—it was a high-tech greenhouse where the "Blessed" were cultivated like prize orchids, pruned and shaped until they fit the rigid geometry of a Vought-approved silhouette.
Vaun sat in the center of the Gamma Wing's common room, his body suspended six inches above the floor. He no longer needed the cushion of a chair; the air itself had become his throne. He could feel the thousands of souls tethered to him—18,500 followers on the internal Vought-Plus network. It was a staggering number for a junior asset, and the physical weight of that adoration was a tangible, intoxicating heat in his blood. When the engagement numbers spiked during his training reels, his lungs felt as though they were lined with silver, capable of drawing oxygen from a vacuum. When the numbers stagnated, his skin felt paper-thin, his bones brittle and hollow.
The "Hunger" remained, though it had mutated. It was no longer just the sharp, twisting pain in his stomach—a ghost of the Baltimore apartment where his mother, Elena, would weigh his oatmeal to the milligram. Now, it was a hunger for the Pulse. He needed the world to look at him with the same starving intensity with which he looked at a locked refrigerator.
"You're doing it again, Aero. You're blocking the airflow to the vents," Reggie Franklin snapped, skidding into the room.
Reggie was ten now, a vibrating skeleton of hyper-kinetic potential. He was gaunt, his ribs visible through his sleek training suit, his skin perpetually glistening with a thin sheen of sweat. He was already the fastest child in the history of the institute, but the speed demanded a price. He had to consume four thousand calories of V-enhanced slurry a day just to keep his muscles from cannibalizing themselves. He was always eating, and yet he was always starving.
"The vents are inefficient, Reggie. I'm just redistributing the pressure," Vaun said, his voice a low, resonant thrum that seemed to vibrate the very air in Reggie's chest. He didn't open his eyes. He was monitoring the barometric pressure of the entire floor. He could feel the heartbeat of every guard, the rhythmic whoosh-thump of the elevator, and the heavy, moisture-laden presence of Kevin Moskowitz as he approached the door.
Kevin entered, smelling of salt and damp earth. He was nine, but he carried the weight of a man who had been submerged in a high-pressure tank for a century. The iridescent scales along his ribs were fully formed now, pulsing rhythmically beneath his high-collared tracksuit. He looked dejected, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.
"The scouts didn't like my tank session," Kevin whispered, sitting on a low bench. "They said I look 'bored' underwater. They said if I don't show more 'dynamic aquatic energy,' they're going to downgrade my housing tier to the Beta Wing."
"The Beta Wing is for the unpolished, Kevin," Vaun said, finally opening his eyes. They were a swirling, abyssal violet now, a byproduct of his increasing power. "You don't look bored; you look defeated. Stop trying to make friends with the sharks. Start trying to make the sharks fear you. People don't want a lifeguard; they want a king of the abyss."
"I just want to go home," Kevin whispered.
"There is no home, Kevin," Vaun replied, his voice devoid of empathy. "There is only the Seven. And to get there, we have to be the most beautiful monsters they've ever seen. Now, get ready. The mid-term evaluations are being moved up. Vogel is already in the observation deck."
The "Mid-Term Field Assessment" was a masterclass in corporate spectacle. The Conservatory was no longer a simulated rainforest; it had been transformed into an "Urban Infiltration Course." Plywood skyscrapers, neon signs, and "civilian" drones filled the dome. High-tier Vought investors sat in the tiered glass booths above, their tablets glowing as they placed "Engagement Bets" on the assets below.
Vaun stood at the starting line. He felt the drones—six of them, circling him like vultures seeking the perfect angle. He felt the 19,000 fans currently watching the live feed. He felt the surge of power.
"The trial is simple," Dr. Aris announced over the PA system. "Objective: Neutralize the three 'Insurgent' drones and secure the hostage at the center of the grid. All kinetic displays must be 'Camera Ready.' Perform."
Reggie didn't wait. He was a blue blur, tearing through the simulated streets, his speed creating a rhythmic boom-boom-boom as he broke the sound barrier in short bursts. But the insurgents were smart. They launched high-frequency sonic pulses that scrambled Reggie's balance, sending him skidding into a plywood wall.
Kevin tried to pull water from the ornamental fountains, but the insurgents had deployed a "thermal-flare" that evaporated the water before it could reach his hands. He stood in the middle of the street, looking small and useless under the harsh stage lights.
Vaun stayed still. He didn't run. He didn't pose. He closed his eyes and expanded his "Atmosphere." He felt the humidity in the air—the moisture that Kevin couldn't reach and the air that Reggie was fighting.
My stage, Vaun thought.
He reached out with his mind and gripped the atmosphere. He didn't blow a breeze. He did something much more surgical. He found the air inside the internal combustion engines of the insurgent drones and he stilled it.
The drones faltered, their engines stalling as the oxygen was denied to their intake valves. But that wasn't the "Hero Shot." Vaun needed the Pulse. He needed the engagement.
He reached into the "Urban Park" at his feet. He used his Nature power—his Chlorokinesis—to trigger a Verdant Surge.
Thick, thorny vines of genetically modified kudzu, corded with the strength of high-tension cables, surged out of the soil. They didn't just grow; they hunted. The vines lashed out at the falling drones, catching them in mid-air and crushing the titanium chassis with a slow, grinding finality.
Vaun ascended. He didn't use wings. He simply walked up the air, his feet stepping on localized platforms of high-pressure atmosphere. He reached the "Hostage"—a high-end Vought-bot—and plucked it from its perch.
He descended slowly, landing in front of a gasping Reggie and a stunned Kevin. He didn't help them up. He stood over them, the vines receding at his touch, sinking back into the dirt with a dry, rustling sound that sounded like a million whispers of "Aero."
On the arena walls, the engagement tickers went insane.
[AERO: +35% ENGAGEMENT SPIKE] ["THE ELEMENTAL PRODIGY" TRENDING]
Vaun felt the surge hit him like a physical blow. It was better than any meal Elena had ever withheld. It was a caloric surge of pure ego. He felt his lungs expand, his vision sharpening until he could see the individual pixels on the drones' lenses fifty feet away.
The success of the trial earned Vaun a private comm-link session with his mother—a reward for "Exceptional Branding."
Elena Meyer appeared on the screen, her face perfectly lit, her hair a masterpiece of expensive highlights. She was sitting in a penthouse overlooking the Inner Harbor, a glass of champagne in her hand. Behind her, the "Meyer's Elegant Eats" logo was prominently displayed on a sixty-inch screen.
"Vaun! My little star!" she beamed. "The 'Aero-Nature' crossover is the highest-tested debut in Red River history! Vought is already talking about a merchandising line. 'Aero's Organic Essence.' We're going to be billionaires, darling! I've already put a down payment on a larger studio space."
"How is Emma, Mother?" Vaun asked. His voice was cold, the violet-green of his eyes shimmering in the dim light of the booth.
Elena's smile didn't falter, but her eyes went flat. "She's... dedicated. She's reached her 'Micro-Goal,' Vaun. She's the smallest she's ever been. The followers think it's a miracle. They call her 'The Thumbelina of Taste.'"
She turned her tablet toward the camera. Vaun felt the air in the booth plummet in temperature. A frost began to form on the glass as his Aero-kinesis responded to his rage.
Emma was sitting in a crystal bowl on the kitchen counter. She was seven now, but she looked like a translucent doll. Her skin was so thin he could see the blue lines of her veins. She was holding a tiny, silver spoon, miming the act of eating a single, glistening pomegranate seed for the camera. Her eyes were massive, sunken, and filled with a hollow, pleading terror.
"She hasn't eaten a solid meal in a month," Elena whispered, her voice full of a terrifying, manic pride. "And her power... oh, Vaun, it's beautiful. When she's this hungry, she can shrink down until she disappears. We're doing a 'Vanishing Act' stream on Friday. The sponsors are paying ten million for the spot. She's the perfect product."
"She's dying, Elena," Vaun said, using his mother's name for the first time.
"She's a star!" Elena snapped, slamming her glass onto the table. "And you are the only reason she's still relevant! If you keep your counts up, Vought keeps the stipend flowing. If you fail, we all go back to the gutter. Do you understand? Your sister's life is a product of your success. So you stay at the top. You stay the favorite. Or you can watch her fade away for real."
The connection cut.
Vaun sat in the dark of the booth. He could hear the sound of his own breathing, but it sounded like a storm. He reached out and touched the wall of the booth. He felt the air. He felt the moisture in the wood. He felt the hunger—the deep, jagged hole in his soul that was once filled with the hope of a mother's love, now filled only by the cold thrum of his nineteen thousand followers.
He didn't just want the fans anymore. He needed them. He needed the power they provided to reach the Seven, to reach the top of the Vought tower, and to take Emma away from the ring lights forever.
The next week at Red River was defined by the "Caloric Wars."
The institute had introduced a new ranking system: the Commisary Credits. Students with higher engagement scores were given access to "Real Food"—steaks, fresh fruit, and actual bread. Those at the bottom were relegated to the "Maintenance Slurry."
Vaun sat at the "Gold Table" in the mess hall, a plate of grilled salmon in front of him. Reggie was sitting next to him, his hands shaking as he shoveled pasta into his mouth. Kevin was across from them, staring at a bowl of grey slurry. His rank had dropped to 15th.
"I can't eat this, Vaun," Kevin whispered, pushing the bowl away. "It tastes like... like chemicals and dirt."
"Eat it, Kevin. You need the protein for the deep-pressure trials," Vaun said, not looking up.
"I'm not 15th, Vaun. I'm a human being," Kevin said, a rare spark of anger in his eyes.
Vaun finally looked at him. He saw the scales on Kevin's neck pulsing. He saw the desperation. He also saw a group of older students from the Beta Wing—bullies who were looking at Kevin's bowl with predatory grins.
"Hey, Fish-Boy! You gonna eat that? Or do you want us to feed it to the piranhas?" the leader of the group, a boy named Stone, laughed.
Stone was twelve, with skin that looked like cracked granite. He reached over and grabbed Kevin's bowl, dumping the slurry onto the table.
Vaun didn't stand up. He didn't shout. He simply adjusted the air pressure in the room.
He created a localized vacuum around Stone's head. It was a surgical maneuver—silent and invisible. Stone stopped laughing. He clutched his throat, his stone-like skin turning a sickly shade of grey as his lungs found nothing to draw from. He fell to his knees, gasping, his eyes bulging.
The mess hall went silent. Every student, every guard, and every drone turned to look.
Vaun took a bite of his salmon, chewed slowly, and swallowed. "Pick up the bowl, Stone. And apologize to my friend."
He released the pressure just enough for Stone to draw a ragged, sobbing breath.
"I'm... I'm sorry," Stone wheezed, scrambling to his feet and fleeing the mess hall.
Vaun felt the surge. His Fan-Tracker on his wrist didn't just tick; it roared. [19,500... 20,000... 21,000].
The "Minor Boost" hit him like a physical expansion. His senses sharpened until he could hear the sound of the blood rushing through Kevin's veins. He realized then that he didn't need the salmon on his plate. He didn't need the "Real Food."
He was being fed by their fear. He was being fed by their awe.
"You shouldn't have done that, Vaun," Kevin said, his voice trembling. "Aris is going to see the logs. You used a 'Lethal Application' in the mess hall."
"Aris won't care, Kevin," Vaun said, staring at the hovering drones. "Look at the numbers. The fans didn't want a hero. They wanted a king. And kings don't eat slurry."
Vaun stood up, his feet never touching the ground. He looked at the drones, imagining his mother watching the feed from her penthouse. He imagined her seeing the violet-green light in his eyes and realizing that she hadn't created a star. She had created a storm.
"Reggie, Kevin, finish your food," Vaun commanded. "We have combat training in twenty minutes. And I want us to look like we've never known what it feels like to be hungry."
As he drifted out of the mess hall, Vaun felt a tiny, sharp spark of power—the "depraved" use of his nature affinity. He passed a decorative palm tree in the hallway and, without looking, he reached out with his mind and sucked the moisture out of its leaves. The plant withered in a split second, its biological energy transferred directly into him.
He didn't miss his mother. He didn't miss the Baltimore kitchen. He just wanted the morning to come, so he could step back in front of the lens and feel the world clap for him again.
He would be the Vanguard. He would be the Aero. He would be the one who owned the very breath in their lungs. And one day, he would buy Emma a world where she never had to be small.
But for now, he would just keep eating their attention. It was the only thing that tasted like anything at all.