Chapter 1: Enter the Cloutosphere

The rain hit the pavement in slow, deliberate beats, like an overly dramatic lo-fi track. Tack Angel stood under a flickering street lamp, his gaze fixed on the glowing neon letters hanging over the school gates: South Metro High – Home of the InstaGators.

“Another day, another transfer,” he muttered under his breath, adjusting the collar of his jacket.

Behind him, a sharp, cheerful voice broke the moody silence. “Hey, new guy! You trying to brood your way into the emo clique or something?”

Tack turned to see a wiry boy with messy hair and a grin so wide it practically had its own gravitational pull. He was juggling three oranges. Badly.

“Trevor Morris, at your service,” the boy said, dropping an orange with a splat. “But you can call me Trev, Trevy, or ‘please stop talking.’”

Tack blinked. “...Tack Angel.”

“Nice. Short. Mysterious. You’re gonna kill it here, new kid,” Trevor said, casually stepping on the fallen orange like it was a power move. “Come on, let me show you around before the bell—unless you prefer the classic loner arc.”

Tack Angel had just moved into Metro City, a long way away from his country home, and the noisy activity was already overwhelming. 

The day passed in a blur of introductions, small talk, and increasingly questionable advice from Trevor. By lunch, Tack had met two other students: Talia Westland, a punk rocker with an attitude, and Mike Chestmore, the football star who thought every life problem could be solved with a motivational quote and a wicked flex.

“I’m telling you,” Mike said between bites of his sandwich, “if you believe in yourself, anything is possible.”

Talia rolled her eyes. “Right. I’m sure that’s how you passed math.”

“Math is about heart,” Mike shot back, flexing his biceps for no discernible reason.

Tack smirked. “That makes no sense. Do you guys always argue like this?”

“Pretty much,” Trevor said, sliding into the seat beside him. “It's like a sitcom nobody asked for except me.”

Before Talia could fire back, the loudspeaker crackled. A warped, distorted voice rang out: “Attention students... and by students, I mean victims. Class is now in session. Come to the gym if you dare.”

The cafeteria froze. The lights dimmed.

"What's going on here?" Talia asked with frustration. "I don't have time for this bullshit." 

“Oh, sweet!” Trevor said, completely unfazed. “This is new. Let’s check it out!”

The gym was unrecognizable. Where there should’ve been bleachers and basketball hoops, there were now swirling, glitchy walls of static. A massive, glowing sign hung from nowhere:

WELCOME TO THE CLOUTOSPHERE

“What the heck is this?” Talia asked, staring at the flickering walls.

“It’s like someone hacked reality,” Tack muttered, his eyes narrowing.

Trevor clapped his hands. “Or maybe we’re in a video game! Dibs on the wizard class! Dibs! I called dibs!”

Before anyone could process the weirdness, a shadowy figure emerged from the static. Its face was a blank screen with a smug emoji plastered on it, and its voice oozed with faux confidence.

“Ah, fresh meat,” it said. “You’re here to prove your worth, aren’t you? Or will you crumble like the rest under the crushing weight... of SOCIAL VALIDATION?”

“Oh no,” Mike whispered. “It’s a motivational nightmare.”

The Shadow raised its hands, summoning smaller creatures that looked like smartphones with legs. They beeped menacingly.

“Defeat them,” the Shadow taunted. “Or lose all your followers forever.”

The fight was chaos. Trevor attempted to karate-kick one of the phone monsters, only to trip over his shoelaces. Talia swung her backpack at another, but it simply dodged with an infuriating ding.

“This isn’t working!” Mike shouted, holding a chair like a shield.

Tack, however, felt something stir inside him. As the Shadow loomed closer, its smug smile twisting into a jeer, he clenched his fists.

“You think I care about clout?” Tack growled.

A burning sensation coursed through him, and a voice echoed in his head: “Thou art I, and I am thou... Let’s roast these fools.”

Tack’s glasses flashed as a figure erupted behind him—a towering gladiator in a toga, wielding a massive hashtag-shaped sword.

“I am Dankus Maximus!” it bellowed. “Prepare for peak engagement!”

With a single swing, Tack obliterated half the phone monsters, sending sparks flying.

“Whoa!” Trevor yelled. “Dibs on one of those cool hallucinations!”

As another phone monster lunged, Trevor slipped on the banana peel he’d dropped earlier. He hit the ground with an “oof,” but instead of looking embarrassed, he grinned.

“Wait... THAT’S IT!” he shouted.

A similar burning sensation engulfed him, and another figure emerged—a jester-like knight juggling oversized weapons.

“I am Critical Hitlius!” it declared, spinning a rubber chicken like a mace. “Let the shenanigans commence!”

Trevor unleashed his first attack: Banana Peel Takedown. A giant peel materialized under the remaining phone monsters, sending them flying into each other in a slapstick explosion.

“Ha! I love shenanigans!!” Trevor declared, striking a victory pose.

As the static began to fade, the group stared at the wreckage of the battle.

“So... that was, what was that?” Talia asked, picking up her backpack. "You have any idea new kid?"

"I have no idea, but I think I dreamed this would happen," Tack responded.
 
“Whatever just happened,I think it means we’re superheroes now!” Trevor said, his grin wider than ever. “And you know what that means...”

Mike raised an eyebrow. “We save the world?”

“Nope! We make a team name. I’m thinking... The Meme Warriors!”

Tack sighed. “This is going to be a long year.”

Tack Angel’s eyes fluttered open, and for a moment, he couldn’t tell if he was still asleep. The air smelled faintly of burnt circuits and stale coffee. Rows of flickering monitors stretched endlessly before him, casting pale blue light on the faceless, hunched figures seated at each station. Their fingers clacked at keyboards with unnatural speed, but their screens were blank except for an endless cascade of likes, shares, and emojis

He looked around, trying to piece together what was happening. This wasn’t the school gym anymore.

A soft chime dinged behind him. Turning around, Tack saw a counter that resembled the front desk of an internet cafe. Standing behind it was a man with elongated features, a thin smile that seemed carved into his face, and piercing yellow eyes. He wore a crisp suit that didn’t belong in a place like this.

“Welcome,” the man said in a voice that was both warm and unsettling. “To the Velvet Room. Or, as it appears to you... an internet cafe of endless engagement.”

Tack took a cautious step forward. “Velvet Room? What is this place?”

The man clasped his hands together. “This is a space between consciousness and unconsciousness. A liminal zone where your soul may ponder its true self, its desires... and its burdens.” His smile grew slightly wider. “My name is Igor, and I am delighted to make your acquaintance.”

Tack raised an eyebrow. “You look thrilled.”

Igor let out a low chuckle. “Your wit will serve you well, but do not let it cloud your introspection. You have stepped into a reality that you do not yet fully comprehend, and I suspect this is not the first time you’ve felt... unmoored.”

Tack’s mind reeled back to the gym, the static walls, the Shadows, and his Personage, Dankus Maximus, emerging in a blaze of neon. He remembered the surreal battle and Trevor’s ridiculous grin as he tripped his way into victory.

“Yeah, I’d say I don’t fully comprehend,” Tack said, crossing his arms. “What was all that? The clout monsters, the gladiator in my head? What’s happening to me?”

Igor gestured to the rows of faceless figures at their monitors. “The world you stepped into is an echo of your own, distorted by the collective desires and fears of humanity. People here endlessly chase validation, their true selves buried beneath the weight of their own insecurities.” He leaned forward slightly, his unblinking eyes locking onto Tack’s. “And you, Tack Angel, are a soul who stands apart. You resist. You question. That is why you were chosen to wield your Personage.”

Tack frowned. “Chosen by who?”

“By no one, and by everyone,” Igor replied cryptically. “But what matters now is how you use the power you’ve awakened. Will you rise to the challenge and confront the Shadows that plague both this distorted realm and your own?”

Tack glanced around the Velvet Room again. The faceless figures seemed oblivious to his presence, their keystrokes a mechanical hum in the background. “I didn’t ask for this. I was just trying to get through another school day.”

Igor tilted his head. “True. Yet, have you not always felt that something about your life was... out of place? As if the reality you know is only part of the truth?”

Tack hesitated. He thought about his transfer to South Metro High, the strange tension in the air he couldn’t quite put into words. He thought about the rain-soaked streets, the unfamiliar faces, and the creeping feeling that his life was being quietly nudged toward something he couldn’t control.

“Maybe,” Tack admitted. “But why me? What’s so special about me?”

Igor’s smile softened. “Perhaps you are not special, Tack Angel. Or perhaps you are. That is for you to decide.” He gestured to a keyboard on the counter in front of him. “But know this: the path forward will demand that you understand the choices that led you here. And you must ask yourself: what are you truly fighting for?”

Tack stared at the keyboard. On its screen was a question blinking in bright green text:

“WHO ARE YOU?”

To Be Continued...