The Red River Institute for Gifted Children did not sit on a map. It existed in the blank spaces between upstate New York's rolling hills, a sprawling geometry of white stone, brushed titanium, and reinforced glass that felt less like a school and more like a high-end laboratory for the human soul. To seven-year-old Vaun Meyer, stepping out of the black SUV was like stepping onto the surface of a new planet—one where the gravity was governed entirely by the gaze of the unseen.
The air here was different. In Baltimore, the air was heavy, tasting of damp concrete, exhaust, and the lingering, taunting scent of his mother's cooking. Here, the air was filtered, temperature-controlled, and smelled faintly of ozone and expensive floor wax. It was clean. It was sterile. And to Vaun's awakening senses, it was incredibly loud.
He stood on the tarmac of the primary intake bay, his single suitcase gripped in a hand that felt small and fragile. Hovering just ten feet away was a sleek, spherical drone. It didn't make a sound, but Vaun could feel the tiny displacement of air from its stabilizing rotors. Its red recording light blinked in a slow, rhythmic pulse—the heartbeat of Vought International.
"Intake 402. Aero phenotype. Subject is stationary," a mechanical voice droned from the drone's speakers.
"He's not stationary, he's assessing," Mr. Vogel said, stepping out of the SUV and smoothing his charcoal suit. He didn't look at Vaun; he looked at his tablet. "The announcement video has reached fifty thousand impressions in four hours. The engagement rate is skyrocketing. They love the 'Silent Prodigy' look. Don't ruin it by crying, Vaun. Vulnerability only sells if it's scripted."
"I'm not crying," Vaun said, his voice as flat as the horizon.
He didn't feel like crying. He felt a strange, intoxicating pressure behind his ribs. Every time Vogel's tablet chirped with a notification, the air around Vaun's fingers seemed to thicken, becoming a tangible extension of his will. He looked at a stray leaf skittering across the tarmac and, with a microscopic flick of his mind, he pinned it to the ground. He didn't use a gust of wind; he simply increased the atmospheric pressure in a six-inch radius until the leaf was as immovable as a slab of lead.
"Processing is through the North Portal," Vogel said, gesturing toward a massive set of sliding glass doors. "Welcome to the rest of your life, Aero. Try to keep your PQ—Popularity Quotient—up. The food in the lower tiers is... well, it's not 'Elegant Eats.'"
The processing was a cold, clinical affair. Vaun was led through a series of white-tiled rooms where his Baltimore clothes were replaced by a slate-grey jumpsuit made of a high-tension polymer. It was cold against his skin, a constant reminder that he was no longer a child, but an asset. He was measured, weighed, and scanned by doctors who didn't speak to him, only to their digital recorders.
"Intake 402. Bone density: +12% above baseline. Lung capacity: Exceptional. Neural pathways show high synaptic firing in the motor cortex. He's built for velocity and precision."
By the time he was led to the Gamma Wing—the dormitory for "High-Potential Elementals"—Vaun's follower count had ticked over to 8,500. He felt the surge like a shot of pure glucose. The hunger that had defined his life in Baltimore was being replaced by a different kind of starvation. He needed the numbers to keep rising. He needed the world to keep looking.
"This is your assigned housing," the guard said, stopping in front of Room 104. "Your roommates are already inside. Metrics are monitored twenty-four-seven. Any 'unsanctioned kinetic displays' will result in a PQ penalty. Understood?"
"Understood," Vaun said.
The door hissed open.
The room was a minimalist cube of white polymer, dominated by a floor-to-ceiling window that looked out over a massive, subterranean training tank. In the corner of the room, a boy who looked like he was made of spare parts was vibrating. He was wiry, scrawny, with knees that seemed too big for his legs and eyes that darted around the room like trapped flies.
Suddenly, the boy wasn't across the room. He was three inches from Vaun's face.
"New kid! The wind-guy! Aero! I saw your video—the steam halo was cool, but it was slow. Slow is boring. I'm Reggie. I'm fast. I'm the fastest thing in this wing, maybe the whole school. Want to see me do a lap?"
Before Vaun could blink, Reggie was a blur of blue and grey, a rhythmic slap-slap-slap of sneakers hitting the linoleum that sounded like a machine gun. He circled the room ten times in three seconds, skidding to a halt exactly where he had started. A faint scent of burnt rubber and ozone filled the air.
"That was Mach 0.4," Reggie panted, his grin hyperactive and desperate. "The drones caught it. My count went up by twelve! Twelve fans for one lap! How many did you get for walking in?"
"I don't know," Vaun said, his eyes narrowing. He didn't like the way Reggie occupied the space. Reggie was loud. Reggie was chaotic. Reggie was taking up all the air.
"Hey, don't mind Reggie. He hasn't had his V-stabilizers today."
A third boy entered. He was broader than the other two, with deep, soulful eyes that looked like they had seen the bottom of the ocean. He looked sad, even as he offered a small, shy smile.
"I'm Kevin," the boy said. "I talk to the fish."
Reggie snickered, zipping over to the desk and back. "He talks to the fish! Vought's 'Aquatic Ambassador.' They keep him around because the Florida markets love the 'Ocean-Friendly' branding. He spends half his time in the tank because the other kids think he's a freak."
"The fish are nicer than the kids," Kevin muttered, sitting on his bunk. "They're lonely. They say the water here tastes like metal."
Vaun looked at his new roommates. Reggie Franklin, the boy who couldn't stop moving because he was terrified of being forgotten. Kevin Moskowitz, the boy who looked for a family in a fish tank because the one he had was too busy marketing him.
They were just like him. They were assets. They were products. They were the "Chosen," and they were all starving for the same thing.
"I'm Vaun," he said, dropping his suitcase on the empty top bunk. "And if we're stuck in this wing together, we might as well be the ones the drones are following. If we look like a team, our engagement goes up together. Vought loves an 'Ensemble' narrative."
Reggie's eyes lit up. "The Gamma Trio! The Lords of the Wing! I love it!"
"Let's just start with the training," Vaun said. "I want to see how fast you actually are."
The training at Red River was a masterclass in psychological conditioning. There were no classes on math or history; there were classes on Optics, Engagement Dynamics, and Marketable Heroism.
"The public does not want a savior," Dr. Aris, the Lead Instructor, told them during a lecture in the tiered auditorium. She was a woman who smelled of ozone and lacked a single ounce of empathy. "The public wants a mirror. They want to see their own desires reflected in a form that is more beautiful, more powerful, and more disciplined than they are. You are not people. You are the aspiration of the masses."
Vaun sat in the front row, his Fan-Tracker glowing on his wrist. [9,200]. He was climbing, but not fast enough. He watched the older kids—the twelve-year-olds who were already being scouted for the Godolkin Junior Circuit. They moved with a predatory grace, always aware of where the drones were, always framing their faces in the best light.
The "Intake Combat Trial" was scheduled for Friday. It was the first time the fresh assets would be allowed to use their powers against each other in a televised setting.
"Today's trial is Static Defense," Aris announced as the Trio stood in the center of the massive, lead-shielded arena. "The objective is to remain within the central golden ring for sixty seconds. The drones are live. The Vought scouts are watching. Perform."
Reggie was gone before the buzzer finished sounding. He was a blue streak, zipping into the ring and doing victory laps, his speed creating a dizzying blur. "Top of the world! Look at the count! Look at it go!"
Kevin tried to move toward the ring, but he was slow. He tried to manifest a shield of water from the floor's hidden reservoirs, but he was hesitant. A larger boy from the Beta Wing—a brute with skin like cracked stone—shoved Kevin aside, sending him sprawling.
"Get out of the way, Fish-Boy!" the brute laughed, stepping into the ring.
Vaun stood at the edge. He didn't run. He didn't use a flashy gust of wind. He looked at the brute. He looked at Reggie. He thought of his mother's kitchen. He thought of the way she would suck the air out of a room just by walking into it.
My air, Vaun thought.
He reached out with his mind. He didn't blow the brute out of the ring. He did something much more surgical. He found the air in the six-inch space surrounding the brute's head and he stopped it. He created a localized vacuum, a pocket of absolute nothingness that clung to the boy's face like a plastic wrap.
The brute's laughter turned into a wet, frantic wheeze. He clawed at his throat, his eyes bulging as his lungs found nothing but an empty, heavy void to draw from. He stumbled, his skin turning a mottled, panicked shade of violet.
Vaun didn't stop there. He turned his gaze toward Reggie.
Reggie was still running, but as he entered the vacuum-affected zone, the lack of air resistance and oxygen hit him like a physical wall. At Mach 0.4, a speedster needs massive amounts of oxygen to fuel their metabolism. Reggie's legs gave out, and he tumbled across the arena floor, skidding into the water tanks.
The arena went silent, save for the hum of the drones.
Vaun walked calmly into the center of the ring. He stood there, his hands behind his back, looking directly into the lens of the primary drone. He didn't look like a child; he looked like a king standing over a graveyard.
He released the pressure. The brute collapsed, drawing in a ragged, sobbing breath. Reggie lay by the tank, heaving for air, his eyes wide with a raw, jagged terror.
"King of the Hill," Vaun said, his voice carrying clearly over the stadium speakers.
On the arena walls, the PQ tickers went insane.
[AERO: +15% ENGAGEMENT SPIKE] ["THE SILENT STORM" TRENDING INTERNALLY]
Vaun felt the surge. It was a flood of liquid power. Across the Vought network, thousands of people were hitting the "Like" button simultaneously. His lungs felt ten times their actual size. He felt light, as if he were made of the very air he commanded.
He didn't miss his mother. He didn't miss the lamb. He was Aero, and he was finally, truly, being fed.
That night, in Room 104, the silence was heavy. Reggie sat on his bunk, uncharacteristically still. He was staring at Vaun with a mix of fear and a new, desperate kind of loyalty.
"You almost killed that kid," Reggie whispered. "You almost killed me."
"I knew exactly how much air you needed, Reggie," Vaun lied. He sat on his bed, feeling the weight of the ten thousand fans he now possessed. "I told you. If we're a team, we're the ones at the top. But if you get in my way, you're just another obstacle for the fans to watch me overcome."
Reggie swallowed hard, then nodded. "The Trio. Right. We're the stars."
Kevin looked up from his goldfish bowl. "The fish say you're scary, Vaun."
"The fish are right," Vaun said, staring out the window at the white stone walls of the institute. "But being scary is better than being hungry. Now go to sleep. We have branding photos at 6:00 AM."
As he closed his eyes, Vaun thought of Emma. He thought of her in her high chair, tiny and fading. He felt a pang of guilt, but it was quickly swallowed by the warm, thrumming hum of his new followers.
I'm coming for you, Em, he thought. I'm going to be so big that they'll have to give you the world just to keep me happy.
He didn't dream of home. He dreamt of the sound of a million hands clapping. It was a beautiful, deafening roar.