Orphaned Seed
Copyright© 2026 by Fantasylover11
Chapter 3: Calibration
Noah went to the track at six-thirty in the morning because it was the only time the town didn’t have eyes.
The sky was the color of a dirty thumbnail. The chain-link fence around the field was cold under his palm when he climbed over it. Sprinklers had run sometime after midnight; the turf smelled sharp and green, and the painted lane lines shone faintly with dew.
Kara was there.
Not on the field. On the lowest row of bleachers, hood up, legs tucked under her like she’d gotten here early just to prove she could. Her phone sat in her hand, screen dark.
Noah paused at the edge of the track.
“You serious?” he asked.
Kara lifted her chin. “Six-thirty,” she said. Like the time itself was the point.
The overlay hovered at the edge of his vision like it had always belonged there.
LVL 2 MYT 5 GRC 5 VIG 5 WIT 6 RSV 6 PRS 5
He didn’t look at it for long. He didn’t want to get used to it.
Noah started with a warm-up lap, then another, because the penalty had taught him something he hated: the Interface didn’t care about his pride.
He felt Kara’s attention on his back the whole first lap.
By the third lap his breathing found a rhythm.
In the far lot, a single car sat with its lights off. Probably grounds crew. Probably nothing.
He shook out his arms and lined up at the start of the straightaway.
“Hey,” Kara called.
Noah glanced over.
She held her phone up. “I’m timing. Don’t be weird about it.”
“Just numbers,” he told himself. “Just a screen in my head.”
He sprinted.
It felt normal. His legs burned. His chest tightened. The world narrowed to his footsteps and the hard slap of rubber on track.
But when he crossed an invisible finish line in his own mind, the overlay shifted.
PATTERN SIGHT (R1): ACTIVE
The air arranged itself.
Noah blinked, and for half a second he could see his own motion like a diagram: the angle of his knee drive, the wasted sway in his shoulders, the fraction of a second he hesitated before pushing off. It wasn’t a vision so much as an understanding that arrived complete.
He slowed to a jog, heart pounding, and tried again.
On the second sprint, he corrected without thinking—relaxed his jaw, lifted his hips, kept his arms closer to his ribs.
The difference was small.
It was still a difference.
He stopped at the end of the lane and put his hands on his head, staring toward the bleachers.
If he kept doing this, he’d get faster.
If he got faster, people would notice.
The overlay updated like it had heard the thought.
SIDE QUEST: DON’T GET CAUGHT CONDITION: AVOID BEING OBSERVED DURING IMPOSSIBLE PERFORMANCE
Noah let out a tight breath through his nose. “Impossibly” was doing a lot of work there.
He walked to the infield and started reaction drills—short bursts, sudden stops, quick pivots—trying to push the edge without stepping over it.
Kara watched in silence for a minute, and then her voice cut in, flat with concern she didn’t want to call concern.
“You’re moving different,” she said. “Like you’re trying not to make noise.”
Pattern Sight offered him corrections faster than he could consciously form them.
He kept going.
The world stayed neat.
Then, without warning, the neatness smeared.
His tongue tasted metallic.
The overlay flashed a new panel, stark and intrusive.
STRESS WARNING RISK: BACKLASH
Noah’s legs went unsteady, not from exhaustion but from something stranger—like his balance had been borrowed and someone wanted it back.
He stopped immediately, bending forward with his hands on his thighs.
The morning air felt too thin in his lungs.
He forced himself to breathe slow. In for four. Hold. Out for six.
The fullness behind his eardrums eased a notch.
The overlay settled.
PATTERN SIGHT (R1): OFFLINE NOTE: OVERUSE INCREASES STRESS
Noah straightened and wiped sweat off his upper lip with the back of his hand.
So it wasn’t free.
Good. Bad. Both.
He looked toward the parking lot again.
The car was still there.
Then a door opened. A figure stepped out, shoulders squared against the morning chill.
The track coach.
Noah’s pulse tripped.
“Mercer?” the coach called, voice carrying easy across the empty field. “That you?”
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