The Flickering Reckoner exists in superposition—observers report seeing it shift between three distinct forms depending on viewing angle, each one a different stage of Lola's sprint frozen mid-stride. Its surface ripples with VHS tracking errors that spell out countdown numbers in reversed digits, flickering from 20:00 to 0:00 and back in irregular pulses. When held, it feels like gripping a frame that's trying to skip forward, vibrating with the kinetic memory of panic-fueled sprints. The entity emits a low hum pitched exactly to the frequency of a rewinding cassette tape, and in quiet moments, bearers swear they can hear their own breathing from timelines that no longer exist.

Witness to every attempt that almost succeeded, the Flickering Reckoner stands as proof that elimination isn't final until you stop trying. It doesn't grant victories—it marks those who understand that the arena demands multiple lives, that champions are built from versions of themselves that failed. This entity gravitates toward bearers in Pool B who've learned the cruel mathematics of competitive survival: your first run teaches you the course, your second run teaches you yourself, your third run reveals whether you belong. It whispers the same truth to every challenger: you're not fighting for first place, you're fighting to still exist when the clock stops.