Social Calibration Necessary

Donte woke to soft light filtering through grime-smeared windows, painting blurred streaks across the wall like fading circuitry.

His dreams had been restless again—half-formed flashes of gears turning, of voices not his own speaking in forgotten languages. Sleep hadn't come easy. When it finally did, it offered little peace.

He sat up slowly, the mattress groaning beneath him. Muscles ached. Bruises throbbed like distant alarms.

The clothes he reached for were old, too small in some places, stretched in others. Threads frayed, fabric thin from use. They'd belonged to the orphan boy before him. Now they wrapped around Donte's new self, clinging like the memory of a life he never lived but couldn't forget.

He dressed quietly.

Outside, the orphanage stirred—muffled footsteps, tired voices, the soft scrape of metal trays. Life here always started slow, as if the building itself resented the idea of another day.

In the common room, Vespera sat alone at one of the long tables, idly poking at what remained of her breakfast. She didn't look up right away. When she did, she offered a small nod, lips twitching.

"You look rested," she said dryly.

Donte gave a faint smile. "Optical illusion."

She leaned forward on her elbows, expression softening. "Marcus was looking for you earlier. Said he'd stop by again later. Sounded like he had something important to say."

That caught Donte's attention. Marcus was careful with his words, deliberate in how he moved. If he sought Donte out, it wasn't without reason.

Before he could reply, a loud crash echoed near the doorway. The tension in the room shifted instantly.

Kaelen.

He strutted in with his usual entourage, pushing past smaller orphans like a storm rolling through a brittle structure. His voice boomed across the room.

"One more week," he bragged, grabbing a bowl and flopping down at the nearest table. "Then the Church'll finally give me what I deserve."

He laughed loudly, spooning gruel into his mouth like it owed him something.

A younger boy muttered something under his breath.

Kaelen heard.

He turned in a heartbeat, grabbing the kid by the collar and lifting him effortlessly. "Say that again."

"N-nothing!" the boy squeaked.

Kaelen sneered, shoving him back down. "Didn't think so. Trash should learn its place."

Donte didn't move.

But he didn't look away either.

His stare was even, calm. Calculating.

Kaelen caught it.

He paused.

Then scoffed and turned, pretending it didn't bother him.

But it did. Just a little.

Vespera exhaled, voice low. "You really want to provoke him again?"

"I didn't say anything," Donte replied simply, stirring his food.

"No," she said. "But you didn't look away either."

They ate in silence for a while.

Eventually, Vespera leaned closer again, dropping her voice. "You know how classes work here, right?"

Donte glanced at her. "Not really."

She poked at her bread, thoughtful. "They tend to run in families. Nobles pass down powerful ones—combat classes, elemental mages, that kind of thing. Even commoners inherit stuff if the bloodline's strong enough."

He frowned. "So people like Kaelen think they've already won."

"Exactly," she said. "His dad was some war-scout or district enforcer. Had a good class. So Kaelen thinks he's owed one too."

"But it's not guaranteed?"

"No," she said, tapping the table lightly. "Sometimes the gods spit out something completely different. Useless. Or… unpredictable."

She paused, her gaze meeting his. "Sometimes that's what changes everything."

Donte thought about that. Inherited power. Predictable outcomes. But also… anomalies. Exceptions.

He was one of those, wasn't he?

Whatever he had inside him—it wasn't passed down. It wasn't meant to be here.

And yet… it was.

He stood, pushing the empty bowl aside. "I need air."

The city was already alive.

Donte moved through the streets like a shadow, blending easily among workers and students, scavengers and scavengers-in-training. Arcton's heartbeat was steady but relentless—gears turned, steam hissed, and boots clanged against metal grates.

Overhead, skyships passed in steady intervals, sleek and silent. Bridges stretched between towers like spiderwebs, and automated drones zipped between outposts on invisible errands.

The world above belonged to the elite. The sky, the towers, the shine.

Down here, it was all rust and sweat.

Donte's steps carried him back to the market square. The gunslingers from yesterday were there again—cleaning rifles, talking quietly between sparring rounds. One of the younger ones caught his eye and offered a small nod.

Donte returned it.

Something about that moment stayed with him.

They see me now.

He turned—

And there was Marcus.

Leaning against a pillar. Arms folded. Mechanical limb catching a sliver of light.

"Admiring the merchandise?" Marcus asked, smirking.

"Something like that," Donte replied.

Marcus pushed off the wall and gestured for him to follow.

They walked in silence, weaving through narrow alleys until the noise faded. They stopped in a quiet square, tucked between a shuttered warehouse and an old data post.

"You're not like the others," Marcus said, voice low. "You carry yourself differently."

Donte studied him. "You've been watching me."

Marcus shrugged. "I watch a lot. You stand out."

A pause.

"I've seen dozens of kids come through that place," Marcus continued. "Most of them break before they even make it to their Awakening. But you? You're not broken. Just… under construction."

Donte's lips twitched.

"And construction," Marcus said, tapping his chest, "can lead to something better. If the foundation's right."

Donte tilted his head. "What do you want from me?"

Marcus gave a dry chuckle. "Not what I want from you. What you want from you."

Another pause. Then Marcus leaned in slightly.

"This world is built on a hierarchy that favors power, bloodlines, and conformity. The Church? The nobles? They'll give you tools. But they'll chain you too."

Donte's eyes narrowed. "So what should I do?"

Marcus's expression sobered. "Learn everything. Build everything. Trust no one blindly. And when the time comes—don't let them decide who you're allowed to become."

He held up his arm.

Mechanical. Etched in patterns so fine they looked like flowing script.

"I wasn't born with this. I made it. Took years. Pain. Loss. But it's mine."

Donte stared.

Marcus nodded. "You've got that look. That hunger. Use it."

"Why me?"

"Because someone has to do more than survive." Marcus straightened. "Someone has to innovate. Someone has to make them look twice."

He turned to go, pausing only briefly.

"Think it over, kid. I'll be around."

Donte stood alone in the quiet square long after Marcus left.

His mind raced. With questions. With possibilities.

He thought of Kaelen's arrogance. Of Vespera's warning. Of the gunslingers, the nobles, the spires that pierced the sky like blades held just out of reach.

He didn't belong here.

But he would build a place.

Not fit into their system—shape it.

He turned back toward the orphanage. The streets buzzed louder now, as if the city itself stirred in sync with his thoughts.

Social calibration, he realized, wasn't just about adapting to the world.

It was about preparing to change it.