The gun shattered the morning.
Two hundred athletes exploded forward in a wave of motion that looked more like machinery unleashing than humans beginning to run. Enhancement lights blinked in perfect synchronization—green for optimal, amber for pushing limits, red for system stress. A constellation of technology worth more than small nations surged into Singapore's brutal morning.
Jayson Rodriguez ran with them for exactly three seconds.
Then physics took over. Enhanced athletes accelerated with servo-assisted power, their strides eating impossible meters. The gap opened like a wound—first meters, then tens of meters, then a chasm that grew with mathematical certainty.
By the time they hit the first kilometer marker, Jayson was alone.
Not completely alone—a few enhancement athletes with early system failures had already slowed, their million-dollar legs stuttering in the heat. But alone in the way that mattered. The main pack had vanished around the first turn, leaving him to run through their wake of superiority.
"One kilometer, 4:18," his earpiece crackled. Maya's voice from the media center, carefully neutral. She'd promised not to sugarcoat, not to lie about his position or prospects.
4:18. Two seconds faster than planned. The adrenaline of the start, the pull of the pack, the weight of expectation making him stupid. He forced himself slower, finding the rhythm Sarah had beaten into him over eight months. Let them go. Run your race. Trust the distance.
The course wound through Marina Bay's showcase district first—smooth roads, perfect surfaces, crowds packed ten deep. The noise was overwhelming. Some cheering for the natural athlete, more documenting the curiosity, most just witnessing what might be the last time enhanced and natural shared an Olympic course.
"RODRIGUEZ! RODRIGUEZ!" A cluster of supporters in "HUMAN" shirts pressed against the barriers. He wanted to acknowledge them but couldn't spare the energy. Every joule had to go toward the impossible math of lasting 50 kilometers.
Two kilometers. Already the enhancement athletes were out of sight, their pace something from another species. Jayson ran through their absence, feeling the weight of last place settling on his shoulders like Singapore's humidity.
But last place was still placing. Still racing. Still asking the question.
His father's shoes sat in his pack at gear check, but he could feel them anyway. The weight of history, of a fourth-place finish that had defined possibility for his family. Now he ran to define possibility for strangers, for kids who'd started believing that human might still mean something.
"Three kilometers, 13:07," Maya reported. "Pace adjusted. Looking smooth."
Smooth was relative. The heat was already a living thing, wrapping around him like wet cloth. Enhanced athletes managed it with internal cooling, perspiration control, metabolic optimization. Jayson just sweated, his body's ancient cooling system working overtime in conditions it wasn't designed for.
The earpiece crackled again. Different voice—Sarah from checkpoint one. "First enhancement DNF just happened. Cooling system cascade. Medical's responding."
One down. 198 to go.
The thought shamed him immediately. These weren't enemies to defeat but athletes to respect, even if they ran with advantages he'd never have. Their failures weren't his victories. His only victory would be in finishing, in proving that natural could still cross the line when everything said it couldn't.
Four kilometers. The course turned inland, leaving the showcase district for Singapore's industrial edges. Here the crowds thinned, the surface roughened, reality began to bite. Jayson found himself truly alone—no other athletes visible ahead or behind, just the rhythm of his breathing and the slap of shoes on warming asphalt.
This was what Sarah had warned about. The loneliness of being lapped by evolution. Enhanced athletes ran in packs, their neural links allowing communication, shared pacing, distributed suffering. He ran in a bubble of his own limitations, no one to share the load.
"Five kilometers, 21:38," Maya said. "Holding pace. Position... last of active runners."
He'd expected it, trained for it, accepted it. But hearing it confirmed still stung. Somewhere ahead, Wei Chen Jr. was probably running sub-3:00 pace, his grandmother's legacy fueling anger-enhanced performance. Somewhere, Thompson pushed through early kilometers with conflicted determination. Somewhere, Ava fought her glitching systems with Russian stubbornness.
And here, dead last, Jayson Rodriguez ran to prove that last was still running.
The industrial district showcased Singapore's hidden face—warehouses, processing plants, the infrastructure that kept the future running. No crowds here, just security cameras and the occasional worker pausing to watch the anomaly pass.
Six kilometers. The heat was building with the sun, turning the air into soup. Jayson's shirt was already soaked through, the technical fabric doing its best but fighting a losing battle. He thought of the altitude tent, the mountain trails, the preparation that had seemed so thorough but now felt inadequate against Singapore's assault.
"System failures mounting," Sarah reported from her checkpoint. "Three more DNFs. Servo overheats. Keep your rhythm. Their complexity is becoming liability."
Seven kilometers. A strange sound ahead—mechanical whining, followed by cursing in what sounded like German. Jayson rounded a corner to find an enhanced athlete on the roadside, his left leg locked at an impossible angle, servos seized completely.
The athlete looked up as Jayson approached. "Natural boy. Still running?"
"Still running."
"Good. Someone should." The German grimaced as medical approached. "My systems cost eight hundred thousand euros. Beaten by humidity. There's a lesson there."
Jayson wanted to stop, to help, but the medical team was already working and the clock didn't pause for sympathy. He kept running, carrying the German's bitter blessing forward.
Eight kilometers. The loneliness was complete now. No other athletes, no crowds, just industrial Singapore baking in morning heat. This was the part no one filmed—the unglamorous middle miles where dreams went to die. Where the gap between enhanced and natural became undeniable. Where even supporters would turn to other stories.
But Maya's voice remained steady: "32:54 at 8K. Exactly on pace. Sarah says to take extra water at the next station. Heat index is spiking."
Nine kilometers. The water station appeared like an oasis, staffed by volunteers who looked surprised to see him.
"Natural athlete?" one asked, scanner confirming his lack of enhancement.
"Still running."
They handed him bottles with something like reverence. He drank deep, poured one over his head, felt momentarily human again. The volunteers watched him go like witnesses to something historical.
"Position update," he asked Maya as he hit 10K.
"You're... 187th of 196 still running. Four DNFs so far. But Jayson—you're exactly on target pace. 41:25 for 10K."
187th. Not last. The math was cruel but honest—he was faster than mechanical failure, slower than everything else.
The course left industrial Singapore for the coastal section, and the heat became a physical wall. The sun, barely an hour into its climb, turned the waterfront into a furnace. Enhanced athletes had systems to manage this. Jayson had sweat and stubbornness.
Eleven kilometers. The path hugged the shoreline, offering spectacular views that meant nothing when survival was in question. Spectators had returned—tourists mostly, filming the oddity of the natural athlete still somehow moving.
"Is that the natural?" he heard someone ask. "Still running?"
Still running. It was becoming a mantra, a definition, a question and answer rolled into one.
Twelve kilometers. Movement ahead—actual athletes, not mirages. Three enhanced runners, walking. Their gaits suggested system conflicts rather than total failure. As Jayson approached, they formed a wall across the path.
"Natural needs to learn his place," one said. Eastern European accent, maybe Polish.
For a moment, Jayson thought they might physically block him. The dynamics of pride and humiliation, of being passed by the "inferior" athlete. But as he got closer, they parted. Barely. Making him weave between them.
"Enjoy it," another called. "Only time you'll ever pass enhancement."
He didn't respond. Couldn't spare the breath, wouldn't spare the dignity. Let them hate him for still running. Someone had to carry the question forward.
Thirteen kilometers. The coastal path offered no shade, no mercy. The heat index Maya reported was approaching dangerous levels. More enhanced athletes appeared ahead—walking, stopped, some in medical tents. Their perfect systems, designed for optimal performance, struggling with the simple challenge of thermal management.
"Position update," Sarah's voice cut in. "You're 181st. Fifteen DNFs and counting. The leaders are already at 30K, but that's not your race. Your race is lasting."
181st. Climbing by attrition. It felt hollow, like inheriting money from tragedy. But Sarah was right—his race was different. They were racing time. He was racing possibility.
Fourteen kilometers. A water station materialized through heat shimmer. Volunteers watched him approach with expressions of disbelief and something else—respect? Pity? Both?
"Extra bottles," one said, pressing water into his hands. "You're sweating more than the enhanced athletes."
"Human cooling system," Jayson managed between gulps.
"Primitive but functional. Like the rest of you." The volunteer's smile took the edge off the words. "My daughter's watching. Natural athlete, twelve years old. Hasn't decided about enhancement yet."
"Tell her..." What? That being human was worth it? That suffering had meaning? That choice mattered? "Tell her it's hard both ways. Might as well choose your hard."
Fifteen kilometers. The checkpoint where Sarah waited, though he couldn't see her in the crowd. Just as well—he needed to stay internal, focused on the negotiation between will and flesh. His watch showed 1:02:18. Still on pace for 3:30, if the pace held, if his body held, if belief could bridge the gap between human and enough.
The earpiece crackled with crowd noise, then Maya's voice: "Big pack of enhancement athletes just DNF'd together. Linked cooling systems created cascade failure. You're 169th."
169th. Thirty-one places gained by standing still. By being too simple to fail complex. The irony would be delicious if he had energy to taste it.
Sixteen kilometers. The coastal section finally turned inland toward the ruins. Jayson had studied this part obsessively—abandoned factories from Singapore's industrial past, preserved as monuments to what the city had been before becoming the future.
The surface changed from smooth asphalt to broken concrete. He shortened his stride, letting his unenhanced proprioception navigate the debris. Ahead, he could see why this section was causing havoc—enhancement athletes trained on perfect surfaces, their systems calibrated for predictable ground. Here, every step required adjustment, and adjustment meant processing power, and processing power meant heat, and heat meant...
He passed two more athletes, their servos whining as they tried to navigate rubble their systems weren't programmed for.
Seventeen kilometers. The ruins proper—skeletal buildings creating wind tunnels, broken glass glittering like trap stars. Beautiful in its decay, treacherous in its honesty. This wasn't the Singapore of tourist brochures or enhancement ads. This was what remained when progress moved on.
More athletes ahead, moving carefully through the technical terrain. Some had switched to manual control, overriding their systems to pick through the debris. It slowed them to almost human pace.
"Natural's gaining," one called to his companion as Jayson passed.
"Let him. This is his element—primitive conditions for primitive athletes."
But there was fear beneath the dismissal. Every natural athlete who passed them was a crack in the narrative, a question about the millions spent on their modifications.
Eighteen kilometers. His first fall. Foot catching on hidden rebar, sending him sprawling. The impact drove air from his lungs, scraped skin from his palms. For a moment he lay there, tasting copper and defeat.
"Stay down," a voice said. An enhanced athlete, also fallen, systems struggling to coordinate standing. "No shame in quitting here."
But Jayson was already moving, pushing up with bleeding hands. "Still running."
"Why? You're racing for 150th place. Maybe. In conditions that shouldn't exist."
"Someone has to."
He left the athlete processing that, picking his way forward through industrial archaeology. His palms stung, his knee throbbed, everything hurt in ways enhancement was designed to prevent. But he was still running.
Nineteen kilometers. The ruins gave way to a cleared section, temporary respite before the jungle. Medical tents lined the route, filled with enhancement failures. Volunteers looked overwhelmed—they'd prepared for some attrition, not this massacre of complexity.
"Position?" he asked Maya.
"157th. Forty-three DNFs. The heat and technical terrain are destroying projections." A pause. "Jayson, at this rate..."
"Don't jinx it."
"I'm just saying, top 100 is becoming possible. Maybe even..."
"Stop. One kilometer at a time."
But he felt it too. The impossible math shifting, becoming merely improbable. Each failed system ahead was a place gained, each DNF a step closer to proving something nobody was sure needed proving.
Twenty kilometers. The halfway point of the race loomed ahead, marked by timing mats and cameras. As he crossed, his watch showed 1:23:42. Still on pace, still vertical, still carrying the question forward.
The jungle entrance waited beyond—dark, humid, promising new forms of suffering. But first, one moment to acknowledge the impossible: he'd survived the start. Last place had become 157th. The natural athlete was still running.
His earpiece carried the sound of cheering from somewhere—São Paulo, Detroit, Sector 12. Kids watching, parents hoping, cynics waiting for reality to reassert itself.
Twenty kilometers down. Thirty to go. The real race was just beginning.
But for now, this: Jayson Rodriguez, natural athlete, had survived the starting line. Had watched 199 enhancement lights surge ahead and found his own rhythm in their absence. Had gained forty-three places not by racing but by enduring.
The jungle waited with its own tests. But first, water. Salt tablets. The simple maintenance of a simple machine refusing to accept its obsolescence.
Still running.