3:17 AM. Race day.
Jayson woke to find Sarah already in the common room, studying weather data like a general planning battle. The windows showed Neo-Singapore still glowing, a city that never admitted darkness.
"Couldn't sleep either?" he asked.
"Sleep's overrated. Weather update—morning temp's already 31 degrees. Humidity 91%. By the time you hit the desert section, we're looking at 44." She didn't look up from her screens. "Perfect natural athlete weather."
"You mean terrible."
"I mean honest. Enhancement systems work harder in heat. Efficiency drops. Complexity becomes liability." She finally looked at him. "Get dressed. One last run. Dawn patrol."
The Village at 3:30 AM was eerily quiet. Enhancement athletes trusted their optimization protocols, sleeping precisely calibrated hours. Only the natural and the broken wandered before dawn.
They jogged through empty skywalks, down to street level where Singapore's heat waited like an ambush. Even before sunrise, the air felt thick enough to swim through.
"Four kilometers," Sarah said. "Easy pace. This isn't training—it's ritual. Letting your body remember what it knows."
They ran through silent streets, past enhancement clinics dark for once, through the old district where somewhere an artist was probably drawing chalk portraits. Jayson's body moved automatically, eight months of Sarah's rebuilding encoded in muscle memory.
"Feel that?" Sarah asked as they turned back. "The quiet before. Your last hours as yourself before you become everyone's symbol."
"I'm already everyone's symbol."
"No. You've been an idea. In six hours, you become proof or disproof. That's different." She slowed to a walk for the final kilometer. "Whatever happens out there—DNF, miracle, or somewhere between—remember you chose this. Nobody made you line up against machines."
Back at the Village, they found unexpected activity. Athletes were emerging early, support crews mobilizing. The Centennial Ultra was pulling everyone into its orbit.
"Rodriguez!"
Thompson jogged over, already in his Atlas gear. "Heard you were up. Wanted to..." He paused, searching for words. "Look, we won't see each other during the race. Different speeds, different worlds. But my nephew's watching. Made his whole school get up at midnight Detroit time. Just... give them something to remember."
"Planning to."
"I mean after you DNF." Thompson's smile took the sting out. "When you're sitting on the side at 30K, cooked by heat and reality, remember those kids watching. How you quit matters as much as how you run."
"Who says I'm quitting?"
"Math says. Physics says. Every enhancement company's projection model says." Thompson extended his hand. "But models don't account for stubborn. So prove them wrong. Or at least make them work for it."
They shook. Thompson jogged off to his final preparations, leaving Jayson with the weight of expected failure.
"He's not wrong," Sarah said quietly. "The models are brutal. But models assume you're running their race. You're not. You're running yours."
5 AM. The chalk portraits had multiplied.
Jayson discovered them on his way to get breakfast—the courtyard Ava had shown him now covered in art. Not just athletes anymore. Children running in streets around the world. Parents watching with hope and terror. Enhancement clinics with "CLOSED" signs drawn hopefully across their doors.
And in the center, a new portrait of Jayson. Not running this time—standing still, looking back at smaller figures following. The weight of leading when you didn't ask to lead.
"You're up early."
He turned to find a small woman with paint-stained hands, chalk dust in her hair. Local, not an athlete, wearing a janitor's uniform from the Village.
"You're the artist?"
"Artist?" She laughed. "I clean floors. But at night, I remember my daughter. Ran like wind before the enhancement loans buried us. Now she processes data in a cubicle, legs worth more than our house gathering dust."
"So you draw."
"I remind. People forget what we gave up. Think enhancement was inevitable instead of chosen." She looked at the portraits. "You make them remember choosing."
"I'm just running a race."
"No. You're running a question. What are we if we're not enough as we are?" She pulled out fresh chalk. "Mind if I add something?"
She drew quickly—sure strokes of someone who'd been practicing. When she stepped back, Jayson saw she'd added words beneath his portrait. Not in English, but he understood anyway. The universal language of endurance.
"What does it say?"
"'The last one is still one.' My daughter's coach used to say that. Before enhancement made last place obsolete." She gathered her supplies. "Six hours until you run. The world will watch. Some hoping you succeed, more expecting you to fail. But a few of us... we're just grateful someone's still asking the question."
She left him with the chalk and the dawn. Around the courtyard, motion sensors triggered, lights flickering on. Soon enhancement crews would swarm through, the portraits would be photographed and shared, and Jayson would stop being able to pretend this was just about running.
His phone buzzed. Maya: Can't sleep. Ran the numbers again. If you hold 3:30 pace and 40% DNF... you could finish 45th. Maybe 40th. It's possible, Jayson. Barely, but possible.
He texted back: What if I hold 3:25?
Then you die at kilometer 35 and prove enhancement right. Don't be stupid. Be steady.
Another buzz. This time his mother: Candles lit. Whole neighborhood awake. Mrs. Chen made soup for everyone. Your father can't sit still. We love you.
Then his father: Remember—the shoes carried me to fourth. They'll carry you to whatever place matters. Run with joy, mijo. The rest is just numbers.
6 AM. Final preparations.
The suite buzzed with nervous energy. Maya ran diagnostics on her tracking systems. Lisa and Kai reviewed security protocols for post-race chaos. Sarah laid out Jayson's gear with surgical precision.
"Shoes—primary and backup. Nutrition—gels, salt, emergency calories. Hydration system. Bio-monitoring that Maya rigged. Everything tested, everything redundant." She paused. "Your father's shoes?"
"In the bag. For after."
"Good. Psychology matters. Run in the future, finish in the past." She checked her watch. "Breakfast. Real food. Then we prepare your mind."
Breakfast was surreal. The dining hall filled with enhancement athletes following precise pre-race protocols. Jayson ate eggs and rice, simple fuel while around him others consumed optimized nutrition their systems demanded.
Ava appeared, moving carefully. "Race day," she said unnecessarily. "My servos are already glitching from the humidity. Going to be interesting."
"You could DNS. No shame in protecting your career."
"From a malfunction? No." She sat gingerly. "I'll DNF when my legs literally stop working, not before. Someone has to run imperfect besides you."
"We should start a club."
"We did. It's called the human race. Enhancement just made everyone forget they're members." She studied him. "You ready for what happens next?"
"The race?"
"The weight. Win or lose, finish or fail, after today you're the answer to a question. Natural athletics either dies with dignity or finds a pulse. No pressure."
Wei Chen Jr. entered the dining hall, spotted them, made a direct line to their table. His entourage followed, a wall of enhancement worth more than buildings.
"Final meal?" he asked Jayson. "Smart. Doubt you'll feel like eating after failing in front of the world."
"Junior," Ava said quietly. "Walk away."
"From the malfunction defending the obsolete?" Wei Chen's perfect features twisted with disdain. "My grandmother dishonors our family helping you. After today, when you're medical waste at kilometer 30, I'll buy her factory myself. Convert it to proper enhancement production. Let the future bury the past where it belongs."
"Your grandmother sees further than you," Jayson said quietly.
"My grandmother sees ghosts. I see reality." Wei Chen leaned closer. "You know what the enhancement companies call you? The Last Mistake. One final error before natural athletics gets filed under extinct."
"Better to be the last of something real than the first of something false."
Wei Chen's augmented hand clenched—servos whirring with enough force to crush stone. His entourage tensed. For a moment, violence hung in the air like Singapore's humidity.
"Gentlemen." Lisa appeared, Kai flanking her, both radiating professional readiness. "Separate tables might be wise. Big day ahead."
Wei Chen straightened. "Enjoy your final hours of relevance, Rodriguez. After today, you'll be trivia. A footnote about the last natural who thought he belonged."
He left trailing perfectly synchronized footsteps. The dining hall slowly resumed normal conversation, pretending nothing had happened.
"He's scared," Ava observed.
"Of me? I'm running for 40th place."
"Of what you mean. Every natural athlete who finishes makes people question why they mortgaged their futures for enhancement. You're not just running—you're auditing an entire industry's promise."
7 AM. Final preparations took on ritual weight.
In their suite, Sarah worked with focused intensity. "Hydration starts now. Small sips every ten minutes. Your body needs to be saturated but not sloshing."
Maya fitted the bio-monitoring band she'd engineered. "Heart rate, core temp, basic metrics. Can't match their systems but at least we'll know when you're dying."
"Comforting."
"Honest. Which is our only advantage." She synced the band to her tablet. "I'll be tracking from the media center. Real-time splits, position updates. Sarah will be at checkpoints with Kai. Lisa's running interference with media."
"And my job?"
"Run like tomorrow depends on it," Sarah said. "Because for natural athletics, it does."
The phone rang. Marcus from Portland, where it was still yesterday: "Factory's running overtime. Orders coming in faster than we can fill. Win or lose, you've already changed something. But Jayson?" His voice grew serious. "The enhancement lobby's moving. Talking about rule changes, separate categories, ways to make sure this never happens again. Today might be the last time natural and enhanced race together."
"Then I better make it count."
"You already have. Everything else is bonus."
After the call, Sarah led final checks. Every piece of gear examined, every gel placed precisely in pockets, every detail that could be controlled locked down.
"Your mind?" she asked finally.
"Terrified. Ready. Both."
"Perfect mental state. Fear keeps you sharp. Ready keeps you moving." She checked the time. "One hour until transport. Let's walk."
They found the streets around the Village filling with early crowds. Supporters wearing "HUMAN" shirts. Enhancement company reps in corporate colors. Media from everywhere, documenting the collision of eras.
Near the transport staging, they discovered a new chalk installation. Not portraits this time—a timeline. Human running from prehistory through present, ending with a question mark dated today.
"She was busy last night," Jayson murmured.
"Who was busy?" Sarah asked.
He told her about the janitor-artist, her daughter, the weight of drawing reminders. Sarah listened, then surprised him by kneeling and adding her own chalk mark—a small figure at the timeline's end, arms raised not in victory but in attempt.
"My contribution," she said, standing. "To remember that trying matters even when succeeding doesn't."
8 AM. Transport to start line.
The bus was segregated by competition category, but the Centennial Ultra combined everyone. Jayson found himself surrounded by enhancement athletes worth more than some nations' GDP. They sat in perfect stillness, systems already optimizing for race conditions.
He took a window seat. Ava sat beside him without asking.
"Nervous?" she asked.
"Beyond nervous. Approaching terror."
"Good. I'm glitching every thirty seconds from anxiety. My team wants me to DNS, save myself for races that matter."
"This doesn't matter?"
"This matters too much. That's the problem." She stared at her tremoring hand. "You know what I realized? I've been enhanced seven years. This is my first race where finishing means more than time."
The bus wound through Singapore's dawn streets. Crowds already lined the route—some cheering, others protesting, most just witnessing the last collision between what was and what would be.
Through the window, Jayson saw them: children in running shoes, holding homemade signs. Parents who'd refused enhancement loans. Elderly who remembered when Olympics meant pure human effort. But also: enhancement advocates, progress believers, those who saw him as regression to primitive times.
"Heavy," Ava murmured.
"Getting heavier."
"Want to know a secret?" She leaned close. "Half the enhanced athletes on this bus are terrified of you."
"Of me? I'm nobody."
"Exactly. A nobody who qualified. A nobody who made their million-dollar systems look optional. You're their worst nightmare—evidence that maybe the emperor's wearing very expensive nothing."
The bus arrived at Marina Bay, where the start line waited like a portal between worlds. Athletes filed out in order of bib numbers. Enhanced first, processing toward staging areas. Jayson waited, H001 marking him as different, last, other.
Finally his turn came. He stepped into Singapore's morning heat and found chaos.
Crowds pressed against barriers. Media swarmed with questions. Protesters and supporters created walls of noise. Through it all, the start arch loomed—gateway to 50 kilometers that would answer questions nobody was sure they wanted answered.
"Rodriguez! Rodriguez!" Reporters surged forward. "Final thoughts? Predictions? Response to enhancement companies calling this a stunt?"
Lisa materialized, creating space. "No comments. athlete needs to prepare."
They pushed through to the warm-up area. Sarah waited with final instructions, but her face said everything: This is it. Everything we worked for. Everything we feared. Everything that matters.
"Remember," she said simply. "You're not racing them. You're racing the idea that human isn't enough. Prove the idea wrong, even by a single place, and you change everything."
9 AM. Final hour.
Jayson began his warm-up routine, trying to ignore the thousands of eyes tracking his every move. Around him, enhancement athletes went through synchronized preparations, their movements identical, optimized, perfect.
He ran awkward by comparison. Purely human. Beautifully flawed. Necessarily imperfect.
The speaker system crackled: "Athletes to staging areas. Thirty minutes to start."
This was it. The approach to the starting line. The last walk before running into history or humiliation.
As Jayson gathered his gear, his phone buzzed one final time. A video from Ana Clara in São Paulo. She was at her chalk starting line, surrounded by hundreds of kids in makeshift running gear. They all raised their hands and, in accented English, shouted: "HUMAN!"
He tucked the phone away, shouldered his pack, and walked toward the start arch where 199 enhanced athletes were already gathering, their systems synchronizing for optimal launch.
In thirty minutes, a gun would fire. The Centennial Ultra would begin. Natural would race enhanced for possibly the last time in Olympic history.
But right now, in the dawn patrol's final moments, Jayson Rodriguez was still just a runner preparing to run. The weight would come with the gun. The symbol would emerge from the kilometers. The meaning would be written in struggle.
For now, just this: the approach, the preparation, the last quiet before noise.
Time to find out if human was still enough.
9:15 AM. The staging area was organized chaos.
Enhanced athletes filled designated corrals based on projected finish times. A1 for the elites—those expected to break 2:10. A2 for sub-2:15. All the way back to F, where Jayson stood with those projected to finish over 3:30—if they finished at all.
"Natural athlete to position F-47," an official directed, scanning his bib. "Back row, far right. For your safety."
The walk to F-47 felt like crossing centuries. He passed enhancement technology worth billions, athletes who'd rebuilt themselves for this moment, supporters who looked at him with expressions ranging from pity to anger to something like hope.
Thompson stood in Corral C, caught his eye, nodded once. Ava was in D, her systems already misfiring in the humidity, but her face set with determination. Even Wei Chen Jr. in elite Corral A turned to track Jayson's passage—making sure the natural athlete knew his place.
F-47. Back corner. A space cleared around him like he might be contagious.
"You lost?" The runner beside him—neural crown blinking, legs worth more than houses—seemed genuinely confused.
"Just finding my place."
"This isn't a place. This is where they put obstacles." The runner turned away, dismissing him.
Sarah appeared at the fence, as close as coaches could get. "Remember the plan. First 10K conservative—4:20 pace. Let them surge. Find your rhythm in the chaos."
"The heat's already—"
"I know. Everyone knows. That's your advantage. They're fighting it. You're accepting it." She gripped the fence. "Jayson. Look at me."
He met her eyes.
"Eight months ago you couldn't break 2:50. Now you're here. That means something. Make it mean more."
She left to find her checkpoint position. Jayson was alone among 199 enhanced athletes, their systems humming with pre-race optimization while his heart beat its ancient, unregulated rhythm.
"Ten minutes to start!" The announcement echoed across Marina Bay. "Final systems check!"
Around him, enhancement lights blinked in synchronized patterns. Neural crowns ran diagnostics. Cooling systems cycled up. The air filled with the white noise of technology preparing for war.
Jayson had only his breath, his rebuilt stride, and the weight of everyone watching.
His phone was in the gear check, but the giant screens around the staging area showed the global audience. Millions watching live. In São Paulo, Ana Clara's kids pressed against a borrowed TV. In Sector 12, his family clustered around Maya's laptop. In Detroit, Thompson's nephew wore a "HUMAN" shirt to school and took the bullying that came with it.
"Five minutes!"
The enhanced athletes began their final protocols—synchronized movements that looked more like machines booting than humans preparing. Jayson touched his father's shoes in his pack one last time, then began his own ritual. Simple dynamics Sarah had taught him. Leg swings. Arm circles. The basics that predated enhancement by centuries.
"Look at him," someone whispered. "Like watching archaeology."
"Two minutes!"
The crowd noise swelled. Somewhere in those thousands were the believers—those who thought human might still be enough. But more were the curious, come to watch extinction happen in real time. To see the last natural athlete prove why enhancement was inevitable.
The elite athletes in Corral A began moving forward, approaching the actual start line. The wave rolled back through the corrals, each group stepping forward in turn. By the time it reached F, Jayson was hyperaware of every sensation—the weight of humid air, the press of bodies, the ancient fight-or-flight chemicals flooding his unregulated system.
"One minute!"
This was it. The edge of everything. Behind him: eight months of mountain runs, altitude tents, Sarah's brutal wisdom, his family's sacrifice, a movement that had grown beyond anyone's control. Ahead: 50 kilometers that would answer whether human still belonged in the conversation.
"Thirty seconds!"
The enhancement athletes went still, systems locked for optimal launch. Jayson felt his body doing the opposite—heart rate spiking, muscles twitching, everything human asserting itself at the worst possible moment.
You're not racing them, Sarah's voice in his head. You're racing the idea.
"Ten seconds!"
The crowd counted down. Nine. Eight. Seven.
Jayson Rodriguez stood in the back corner of the last corral, surrounded by millions of dollars of human enhancement, carrying nothing but what evolution had given him and what will had built.
Six. Five. Four.
The morning sun broke through Singapore's haze, painting the course in golden light that made no distinction between enhanced and natural.
Three. Two.
Every eye watching. Every system primed. Every question about human limits about to be tested.
One.