Carolyne of course
Undeserved Ascendance
chapter 9
by
copier
· original author:
Carolyne leaned back in the booth, the empty wrappers and cups forming a small battlefield around her. The chocolate shake was gone—straw sucked dry—and a pleasant heat spread through her limbs, not the sluggish fullness she expected after so much food, but something electric. Like her blood had been replaced with sparks. She rolled her shoulders experimentally, feeling the fabric of her tank shift over muscle that felt denser, more responsive. Her heart beat steady, strong, almost impatient.
She looked across the table at Miguel, who was still nursing the last of his fries, one eyebrow cocked at her like he was waiting for the inevitable complaint about being “too full.”
Instead she grinned—slow, sharp, the kind of smile that usually meant trouble.
“Papi,” she said, voice low and teasing, “you talk a big game about how fast you are on the court. Bet you can’t even keep up with me on the track.”
Miguel paused mid-chew, then laughed. “You? Running? Since when do queens run unless someone’s chasing them with a camera?”
“Since right now.” Carolyne stood up in one fluid motion, no wobble, no heaviness. Her legs felt coiled, ready. “Come on. One lap around the outer loop—quarter mile. Loser buys the next round at the party Friday.”
Jenna clapped her hands together. “Oh my god, yes. Do it. I need content.”
Sofia looked up from her phone, eyes wide. “You’re serious? It’s freezing out there.”
“Cold makes you faster,” Carolyne shot back, already heading for the door. “Unless Miguel’s scared.”
Miguel stood, tossing his napkin down like a gauntlet. “Scared? Of you? Mami, I ran track in high school. You’re about to get humbled.”
Jenna bounced in her seat. “I’m filming this. Don’t hold back.”
They spilled out onto Maple Street, the winter sun low and pale, casting long shadows across the cracked sidewalk. The outer loop was the unofficial campus track: a wide concrete path that circled the athletic fields, the library, and half the Greek houses—roughly a quarter mile if you cut the corners right. A few students jogged or walked dogs, but the path was mostly empty this time of afternoon.
They reached the unofficial starting line—an old lamppost with faded paint—where a faded “NO SKATEBOARDS” sign still clung. Carolyne toed the crack in the pavement, bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet. Her breathing was calm, almost bored. Miguel stretched his quads, rolling his neck, trying to look casual.
“Ready when you are, reina,” he said.
Carolyne didn’t answer. She just stared straight ahead, dark eyes locked on the curve of the path.
Inside her body, the nanobots had already registered the spike in adrenaline, the motor intent firing from her motor cortex. They interpreted the command instantly: *locomotion—maximize efficiency*. Trillions of microscopic machines flooded her quadriceps, hamstrings, calves, and glutes with targeted reinforcements—cross-linking actin and myosin fibers, thickening tendon sheaths, dilating capillaries for better oxygen delivery. Her diaphragm and intercostals received the same upgrade: smoother contraction, greater volume per breath, optimized alveoli gas exchange.
She didn’t feel the changes as pain. Just a sudden, euphoric clarity in her legs, like someone had oiled every joint and rewired every nerve. Her lungs felt deeper, hungrier for air.
Jenna counted down. “Three… two… one—go!”
They exploded forward.
Miguel took an early lead—longer stride, years of muscle memory. Carolyne let him have it for the first fifty yards, staying loose, letting her body calibrate. Then she leaned in.
Her legs snapped into a higher gear without conscious effort. Footstrikes felt lighter, quicker, almost silent. Each push-off sent her surging forward, not straining, just flowing. Her arms pumped in perfect counterbalance. Breathing came easy—deep, rhythmic, almost meditative.
Miguel glanced back, eyes widening when he saw how close she already was.
The path curved around the edge of the soccer field. Halfway. He poured on more speed, shoulders hunching, elbows chopping. Carolyne matched him effortlessly, then edged past—first half a stride, then a full one. The gap widened by inches, then feet.
Miguel growled something unintelligible and kicked harder, lungs burning. Carolyne felt nothing but power. Her vision sharpened; she could see every pebble on the path, every breath fogging in front of her. She pulled ahead by three strides, then five.
At the final straightaway Miguel made one last desperate surge—face red, teeth bared. Carolyne felt the nanobots fine-tune her stride cadence, shaving milliseconds off each step. She crossed the invisible finish line a heartbeat ahead—not a blowout, not even a stride. Just enough.
She slowed to a jog, then a walk, hands on hips, breathing steady. Miguel staggered to a stop beside her, gasping, bent over, palms on thighs.
“Fuck,” he wheezed. “How…?”
Carolyne turned to him, curls barely mussed, cheeks flushed only enough to look alive. She flashed that slow, victorious smile.
“Lucky day, I guess.” Her voice was smug, velvet-wrapped steel. “Or maybe you’re just getting slow, papi. Too many fries?”
Jenna jogged up, phone still recording. “That was insane! You were flying!”
Sofia arrived last, hugging her sketchbook. “I thought he had it. Then… poof.”
Miguel straightened, still panting, but grinning despite himself. “Rematch. Double or nothing.”
Carolyne laughed—loud, bright, ringing across the empty path. “Next time, maybe. Right now I’m feeling generous.” She reached out and patted his cheek, nails grazing just enough to remind him who won. “You’re buying Friday. Don’t forget.”
She turned on her heel and started walking back toward the dorms, hips swaying with that same possessive confidence, only now every step carried a little more weight, a little more certainty. Behind her, her friends followed, still buzzing about the race.
Inside her body, the nanobots hummed contentedly, already logging the new performance baseline, plotting the next incremental upgrade. Carolyne didn’t know it yet, but the luck she’d claimed wasn’t luck at all.
They...?
She looked across the table at Miguel, who was still nursing the last of his fries, one eyebrow cocked at her like he was waiting for the inevitable complaint about being “too full.”
Instead she grinned—slow, sharp, the kind of smile that usually meant trouble.
“Papi,” she said, voice low and teasing, “you talk a big game about how fast you are on the court. Bet you can’t even keep up with me on the track.”
Miguel paused mid-chew, then laughed. “You? Running? Since when do queens run unless someone’s chasing them with a camera?”
“Since right now.” Carolyne stood up in one fluid motion, no wobble, no heaviness. Her legs felt coiled, ready. “Come on. One lap around the outer loop—quarter mile. Loser buys the next round at the party Friday.”
Jenna clapped her hands together. “Oh my god, yes. Do it. I need content.”
Sofia looked up from her phone, eyes wide. “You’re serious? It’s freezing out there.”
“Cold makes you faster,” Carolyne shot back, already heading for the door. “Unless Miguel’s scared.”
Miguel stood, tossing his napkin down like a gauntlet. “Scared? Of you? Mami, I ran track in high school. You’re about to get humbled.”
Jenna bounced in her seat. “I’m filming this. Don’t hold back.”
They spilled out onto Maple Street, the winter sun low and pale, casting long shadows across the cracked sidewalk. The outer loop was the unofficial campus track: a wide concrete path that circled the athletic fields, the library, and half the Greek houses—roughly a quarter mile if you cut the corners right. A few students jogged or walked dogs, but the path was mostly empty this time of afternoon.
They reached the unofficial starting line—an old lamppost with faded paint—where a faded “NO SKATEBOARDS” sign still clung. Carolyne toed the crack in the pavement, bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet. Her breathing was calm, almost bored. Miguel stretched his quads, rolling his neck, trying to look casual.
“Ready when you are, reina,” he said.
Carolyne didn’t answer. She just stared straight ahead, dark eyes locked on the curve of the path.
Inside her body, the nanobots had already registered the spike in adrenaline, the motor intent firing from her motor cortex. They interpreted the command instantly: *locomotion—maximize efficiency*. Trillions of microscopic machines flooded her quadriceps, hamstrings, calves, and glutes with targeted reinforcements—cross-linking actin and myosin fibers, thickening tendon sheaths, dilating capillaries for better oxygen delivery. Her diaphragm and intercostals received the same upgrade: smoother contraction, greater volume per breath, optimized alveoli gas exchange.
She didn’t feel the changes as pain. Just a sudden, euphoric clarity in her legs, like someone had oiled every joint and rewired every nerve. Her lungs felt deeper, hungrier for air.
Jenna counted down. “Three… two… one—go!”
They exploded forward.
Miguel took an early lead—longer stride, years of muscle memory. Carolyne let him have it for the first fifty yards, staying loose, letting her body calibrate. Then she leaned in.
Her legs snapped into a higher gear without conscious effort. Footstrikes felt lighter, quicker, almost silent. Each push-off sent her surging forward, not straining, just flowing. Her arms pumped in perfect counterbalance. Breathing came easy—deep, rhythmic, almost meditative.
Miguel glanced back, eyes widening when he saw how close she already was.
The path curved around the edge of the soccer field. Halfway. He poured on more speed, shoulders hunching, elbows chopping. Carolyne matched him effortlessly, then edged past—first half a stride, then a full one. The gap widened by inches, then feet.
Miguel growled something unintelligible and kicked harder, lungs burning. Carolyne felt nothing but power. Her vision sharpened; she could see every pebble on the path, every breath fogging in front of her. She pulled ahead by three strides, then five.
At the final straightaway Miguel made one last desperate surge—face red, teeth bared. Carolyne felt the nanobots fine-tune her stride cadence, shaving milliseconds off each step. She crossed the invisible finish line a heartbeat ahead—not a blowout, not even a stride. Just enough.
She slowed to a jog, then a walk, hands on hips, breathing steady. Miguel staggered to a stop beside her, gasping, bent over, palms on thighs.
“Fuck,” he wheezed. “How…?”
Carolyne turned to him, curls barely mussed, cheeks flushed only enough to look alive. She flashed that slow, victorious smile.
“Lucky day, I guess.” Her voice was smug, velvet-wrapped steel. “Or maybe you’re just getting slow, papi. Too many fries?”
Jenna jogged up, phone still recording. “That was insane! You were flying!”
Sofia arrived last, hugging her sketchbook. “I thought he had it. Then… poof.”
Miguel straightened, still panting, but grinning despite himself. “Rematch. Double or nothing.”
Carolyne laughed—loud, bright, ringing across the empty path. “Next time, maybe. Right now I’m feeling generous.” She reached out and patted his cheek, nails grazing just enough to remind him who won. “You’re buying Friday. Don’t forget.”
She turned on her heel and started walking back toward the dorms, hips swaying with that same possessive confidence, only now every step carried a little more weight, a little more certainty. Behind her, her friends followed, still buzzing about the race.
Inside her body, the nanobots hummed contentedly, already logging the new performance baseline, plotting the next incremental upgrade. Carolyne didn’t know it yet, but the luck she’d claimed wasn’t luck at all.
They...?
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June 13
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