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Within thirty seconds of posting, the comments started rolling in.
"What am I even looking at? I came here for the long legs."
"I thought it was going to be a cryptid. I was ready to go cryptid hunting."
"This is clearly a mech leg. The rest of the photo is just darkness."
"So this is the new mech you're working on?"
Ryan, slurping noodles, typed a one-handed reply: *"Not mine. My team built this one."*
The comments pivoted instantly.
"I knew it but hearing him confirm that he runs a whole research team at fourteen still makes me want to sit in a corner."
"Why are my eyes wet. Oh right. Because I'm eating lemons."
"What do I need to do to join your team? Would you accept a graduate student?"
Ryan didn't reply to the rest. He finished his noodles and opened the system panel to check progress.
*Project Two: 79%.*
He stared at the number.
Last time he'd checked, it had been at 68%.
Eleven points in just over a week. That wasn't normal progress. Summon Points accumulated gradually based on how often his name got said. Eleven percent in a week meant his name was being mentioned at roughly three times the normal rate.
Something had happened.
Ryan pulled up the Harvard prosthetic video Chloe had mentioned. The one from the Whitfield Lab, now backed by Helios Group. He found the top repost on the domestic platform.
The comment section was a warzone.
"Harvard's technology is objectively better, but I guess the fanboys can't handle facts."
"Paid trolls funded by foreign money. Your chat logs got leaked."
"Just because you can't accept that your idol is behind doesn't make it a conspiracy."
"The Whitfield lab is already backed by Helios. They'll be on the market before Mercer even finishes his first working model."
"Ryan Mercer was smart enough to run mechs. He should have stayed in his lane. He's getting demolished in this one."
The fight rolled through every ideological flavor imaginable. Nationalism, science worship, brand loyalty, political affiliations. Comment thread arguments that started with "the technology is better" ended with "your mother" eight replies deep. The linguistic creativity was genuinely impressive.
Ryan checked other places. The battles were everywhere. Every discussion about him, every video involving mechs or prosthetics, every adjacent topic. The same patterns. The same language. The same coordinated hostility wearing slightly different masks.
This wasn't organic criticism. This was a paid campaign.
If it had been anyone else, the coordinated smear would have been infuriating. But Ryan wasn't anyone else. Ryan had a system that converted every mention of his name into research progress, and the system didn't care about sentiment. A million people yelling that he was a fraud generated the same points as a million people calling him a genius.
His appetite doubled.
"Two more bowls, please," he called to the cafeteria staff.
Those trolls weren't hurting him. They were his workforce. The most productive people on the internet right now, doing hundreds of thousands of dollars' worth of R&D labor without knowing it.
Ryan had always believed that haters were undervalued in the broader economy. Now he had proof. If he ever led humanity to the stars, the monument wouldn't just bear his name. It would list every troll who'd ever called him a fraud in a comment section. They deserved the recognition. They'd earned it.
He returned to his own post. The trolls had arrived there too, already tangled with the regulars in a fresh round of combat. Ryan watched the engagement numbers climb while he ate.
His phone rang. Tom.
"Dad."
"Do you know what's happening online?" Tom's voice was tight.
"The coordinated troll campaign? Yes, just noticed."
"How are we going to respond? Do you have people who can push back on this? Content moderation, account takedowns, something?"
"No."
"Ryan. This looks like it's coming from Helios Group. They've invested heavily in Whitfield's lab and they're treating us as a competitor. This is a market warfare operation. They're trying to poison our brand before we launch."
"Probably."
"Then we have to do something!"
Ryan slurped another bite of noodles.
"Dad. I'm not worried about the market."
"You should be! A coordinated smear campaign from a company with Helios-level resources could ruin us before we sell a single unit!"
"What's their R&D budget for the Whitfield lab?"
Tom paused. "I've seen the numbers. Hundreds of millions already, and they're projecting several hundred million more to reach production."
"And what's our R&D spend to date on Prism Sciences?"
Tom pulled up the ledger. He ran a company. He had the numbers at his fingertips.
"Including your neural link hardware, the sensor cap fabrication, Mason's team's salaries, and the materials acquisitions, we've spent about five hundred thousand dollars."
"Five hundred thousand."
"Five hundred thousand."
Ryan let that hang in the air.
"Our first-generation product is going to be ready for production at under ten million in total R&D cost. Their product is going to market at a price that reflects several hundred million in development. We'll undercut them by an order of magnitude at launch."
"But if nobody trusts our brand, price won't matter."
"Their product also requires targeted muscle reinnervation surgery to use. It's a prerequisite. Nerve transplantation, months of recovery, surgical complications, and a permanent physical modification that can't be reversed. Our product doesn't require surgery. The user puts on a sensor cap and operates a prosthetic. That's it."
"And no amount of troll farming changes that. When the products go head-to-head, a non-invasive device at a fraction of the price is going to crush a surgical solution at premium pricing. Helios knows it. That's why they're attacking us now, before we can launch. They're buying time with paid engagement because they can't buy time with their technology."
Tom was quiet for a long moment.
"You really aren't worried."
"I'm delighted. The more they talk about me, the faster my research goes."
"Your research goes faster when people argue about you?"
"Something like that." Ryan didn't elaborate. The system was not a topic for phone conversations.
Tom exhaled. Some of the tension left his voice. "Fine. But we still need to finish the first-generation product. The longer it takes, the more damage they can do."
"It'll be ready soon."
"You said that yesterday."
"And I'll say it tomorrow, and the day after, and then one day I'll say 'it's ready' instead."
"I hope that day comes before my hair falls out."
"I make no promises about your hair, Dad."
Tom laughed despite himself and hung up.
Ryan turned back to his noodles. The bowl was cold. He ordered a third one and settled in to watch the trolls generate Summon Points on his behalf.
The real productivity, he thought, was finally arriving.
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