He saw the flatline on the monitor as the track monitor behind Quincy Hall suddenly flat-lined.
Darius Swift couldn't turn his head enough to look at the screen; he'd lost use of his head and everything below his neck due to an automobile accident at age 3. However, he'd seen the flatline twice previously within the same hospital's facilities, both times from the next room and the previous room (across the hall) from where he lay. The nurses always rushed in whenever it occurred.
This time was different.
Because Quincy Hall was in the 8th lane in the 2024 Olympic Men's 400 meter final, which was forty meters from the finish line and Hall was surging toward the end.
Darius's computer sat on a tray above his bed and displayed everything. Lane eight. The American runner in the outside lane. He'd been 4th place at 200 meters, and he remained in 4th place at 300 meters, and now he was racing towards the finish.
"Come on," Darius whispered.
Every word required significant effort. Every word required significant effort. His room at Riverside Care was small, clean, and only decorated with the track and field posters his mother had taped to the walls nearly three years prior to the last visit she made. There was Usain Bolt running mid-stride. There were gold shoes of Michael Johnson. There was FloJo with her fingernails and that gigantic smile.
Darius had spent twenty-two years gazing at these posters. Twenty-two years of watching others run.
On the monitor, Hall was quickly approaching the leaders. Matthew Hudson-Smith of Great Britain had run in the lead throughout the initial 300 meters and looked unbeatable. Behind Hudson-Smith was Muzala Samukonga in lane seven. Following close behind Samukonga in lane five was Kirani James, the Grenadian legend.
But Hall continued to gain on the leaders from the outside.
"He has a high closing speed," Darius said to the empty room. "No one is prepared."
Darius had followed Hall's season. Darius knew Hall's splits, how he distributed his pace, and how he typically saved something for the final 100 meters. Most 400m runners ran extremely aggressively in the beginning and attempted to hold their ground to the finish. Hall did the opposite. He allowed the others to exhaust themselves and then chased them down.
There were thirty meters remaining in the race.
Hall was in second place and was rapidly closing the gap on Hudson-Smith. Hudson-Smith was clearly fatigued. You could see it in his shoulders and in the manner in which his arms were wildly flailing rather than propelling himself forward. Hudson-Smith had run perfectly in the first 300 meters of the race and had reserved no energy for the final lap. Behind Hudson-Smith, Samukonga was also losing steam.
There were twenty meters left in the race.
Hall was side-by-side with Hudson-Smith.
Darius tried to lift himself upward. His body did not respond. It never did. The ventilator hummed beside his bed, taking his breaths for him because Darius's diaphragm gave out six months earlier. Dr. Okafor said it was simply a matter of time. The accident had severely injured Darius's spine, yes, but the real cause of his decline was the muscular dystrophy that was discovered much later. The accident had created two separate conditions that were gradually shutting down Darius's body.
There were ten meters left in the race.
Hall was ahead of Hudson-Smith by half a step. Then by a full step.
"Yes," Darius exhaled.
Quincy Hall crossed the finish line in 43.40 seconds. Olympic Champion.
Then he fell.
Did not merely fall, but landed flat on his back on the track with his arms and legs splayed wide apart as though he were creating snow angels on the purple surface. The cameras zoomed in on Hall as he lay there completely exhausted, waving his arms and legs in celebration and exhaustion.
The flat green line on the monitor beside Darius's bed reflected the flatline.
He recognized it peripherally – the way you recognize a fly landing on your arm while you are unable to feel it, yet you see the movement. Darius's peripheral vision began to darken, the edges of his vision disappearing.
Odd.
On the screen, Hall was still lying on his back, now merely lying there with his chest heaving. The camera then shifted to Hudson-Smith, the silver medalist at 43.44, collapsed in his lane. Next, the camera focused on Samukonga, the bronze medalist at 43.74, holding his head in shock. Jereem Richards of Trinidad and Tobago had finished fourth. Kirani James, the Grenadian legend, finished fifth.
Darius had watched countless competitions. Olympics, World Championships, Diamond League competitions at 3 AM because they were airing live from Europe. He had studied split times and stride patterns and had developed the ability to visualize what the announcers could not. Since you cannot move and cannot perform any action but watch, you learn to truly see.
The final hundred yards of Hall was poetry. Coming from the outside lane of lane eight, where you could not see any of the other competitors, racing your own competition until the final straightaway, when you came after everyone who believed they had secured safety. And then falling to the ground in sheer delight and exhaustion, creating snow angels on the track as a child.
The darkness encroached upon Darius's sight at an increasing rate. Darius knew what it signified. He had known for two weeks when Dr. Okafor had that discussion with him. The one in which she employed terms such as "limited time" and "arrangements to be made" and "is there any family we should contact."
He had informed her that there was none.
His mother had not returned to see him since he turned 19 years old. His father had never been present in his life since before the accident. It was simply Darius and the nurses and the television broadcasting a world that he would never be able to interact with.
On the screen, they were playing Hall's final surge in slow motion. The manner in which Hall lengthened his stride at 350 meters. The manner in which Hall continued to drive his arms despite the fact that the rest of the competitors' arms were flailing wildly. Optimal mechanics under extreme fatigue. Then Hall fell to the ground, created snow angels on the track, and expressed pure, unadulterated emotion.
That is why the 400-meter is a beautiful event. It is not about how fast you can run. It is about how fast you can run when your body is screaming at you to stop. When lactic acid is burning through your legs and your lungs are aflame and every impulse tells you to ease up. The 400-meter is about forcing yourself to continue to run through pain that would cause most individuals to stop.
Darius had spent twenty-two years living in a body that consisted solely of pain. He understood that competition far better than anyone else.
Darkness enveloped the edges of Darius's vision entirely. The flatline tone emanating from the monitor was distant. As though it was coming from another room.
His final thought before the darkness consumed him was that he would never feel the blocks beneath his feet. Never hear the starter's pistol. Never experience the initial explosive thrust, the drive phase, or the transition to top speed. Never be able to collapse onto the track in sheer exhilaration after having given it everything he possessed.
Never know what it feels like to run.
Nothing.
No sound. No light. No pain.
The last one was the most surprising to Darius. Darius had spent his entire life in pain. Muscle spasms, pressure ulcers, the constant ache in the back of his neck from the position he had to sleep in. Pain was his baseline. His norm.
Absence. Pure and complete.
He had no body. No mass. No sensation whatsoever.
Only consciousness floating in a void.
Is this death?
The thought existed without a voice to articulate it. Without a breath to convey it.
This is... serene.
For the first time in twenty-two years, Darius felt no discomfort. He had dreamed of experiencing movement for twenty-two years, of running, but perhaps this silent emptiness was the true escape.
The irony dawned on Darius. He had been obsessed with the ultimate physically demanding activity. Track and Field. Pure human movement reduced to its simplest form. Run faster, jump higher, throw farther. Push your body to its limits.
And he had witnessed it all through a screen. Trapped in a body that could not even scratch his own nose.
At least it is over.
A point of light emerged from the void.
Darius observed it. He did not have eyes, but he was capable of perceiving it. The light expanded, growing from a dot to a marble to a softball. Blue. Bright electric blue.
It pulsated.
What...
The light flattened, expanded, became a rectangle. A screen. White letters appeared on it.
[System Initializing…. ]
Darius watched it. Or whatever the equivalent of watching it was when you do not possess eyes.
No way.
He had read hundreds of web novels during the long nights when the pain kept him awake and the nurses would not provide him additional medication. Web novels about people dying and receiving systems. Web novels about people receiving second chances. Web novels about reincarnation into new worlds with abilities akin to video games.
He had always regarded them as mere escapism. Fantasy for people who desired to believe in something greater.
The loading bar expanded at a glacial rate.
[System Initializing…50% ]
Come on. Come on.
What if this is real? What if he actually receives a second chance? Not just at life, but at a life in which he may be able to move. May be able to run.
[System Initializing…99% ]
The bar halted.
Darius's consciousness froze. The number remained stationary. 99%. Not moving.
This was cruel. Crueler than cruel. To demonstrate him hope, genuine hope, and then crash. To allow him to observe Quincy Hall's comeback and then have his own comeback fail at 99%.
Please.
He was unsure whom he was pleading. God? The universe? Whatever force controls systems in web novels? He simply knew he could not endure this. Not after everything.
The screen flickered.
[System Initializing…99% ]