The runners wait, their feet pressed hard against the blocks. They’re so still that they might as well be carved from rock. They’re fixed and focused. They’re in the zone, as the old-timers say. A few are wearing identical headbands: 51% is emblazoned on them, black letters on a white background, referring to a line they shouldn’t cross if they still want to call themselves human, symbolising a kind-of code that some of them pay lip service to, an unenforced rule that some of them loosely adhere to.
The runners keep waiting. Not a sound comes from the overcrowded stands and bleachers: It’s as if the stadium and everyone in it are frozen in a perfectly silent moment of time. The moment stretches on.
And then the snap-crack of the starter pistol echoes through the sky.
The runners do what they’re supposed to do: They run, they run hard. The crowd cheers and shouts and boos. The runners’ support crews – their families, friends, spouses, trainers, managers, doctors – chew their fingernails or look away or join in with the cheering crowd. The air is backgrounded by the plastic-tick of thousands of cameras snapping thousands of photos, the shrill song of artificial cicadas.
There’s barely enough room between some of the runners to slide a ruler, that’s how bulked-up they are. Some of them are tall and thin – too tall and too thin, almost insectoid. Some look unmodified, their unmarked flesh disguising all manner of implanted enhancements. One of them even has four legs, though that much work surely excludes him from the 51% club.
They run. They run hard. So far, there’s no clear leader.
A moment later, a rumble builds from within the crowd’s collective belly, a heavy moan of excitement and anticipation – the favourite has pulled ahead, as everyone knew he would. He half-turns and keeps on running, he smiles at the crowd and keeps on running, he turns back and keeps on running.
He pulls further ahead. It’s unbelievable, can barely be possible, can’t really be happening. The crowd are now shouting his name, lovers and haters alike, entranced by this marvel of nature and science.
“Man-grove!” they call, splitting his name in two. “Man-grove! Man-grove!”
He turns again, he smiles again, he keeps on running.
Superimposed on his field-of-vision are readouts sent directly to his optic nerve. They bear a flood of information, detailing his proximity to his competitors, the distance he has already run, the distance to completion, the performance of his technological enhancements, the wind speed, fluctuations in the weather, the wear and tear on his muscles, the strain on his organs, his hormone levels, his brain chemistry, the build-up of toxins in his body…
It’s a mess, the amount of information delivered far beyond the human mind’s capacity to consciously understand. Luckily, the quantum processor fused to Mangrove’s brain does the work for him, adjusting his body and accommodating any changes in a manner that’s almost instinctive.
He keeps running. The other runners try to keep up but Mangrove, he’s just a freak – the other runners push themselves harder than they knew they could, but they might as well be walking.
And then, on his optical display, Mangrove receives a warning that requires his actual attention: Oxygen-Conversion Efficiency at 18%, Please Advise.
He starts to slow down. It’s barely noticeable, but it still gives the other runners a chance to catch up. Mangrove focuses on the proximity sensor flashing away on his optical sensor. The other runners are right on him now.
He swears aloud.
He likes to think that in the old days, back before he was born, if he had hit a wall while running he would have chosen to embrace the pain, to push through, to dig deep, to hold on, to snatch a phrase from the grab-bag of sporting clichés. After all, that’s what his heroes did – they had no other choice. But this isn’t the old days, and so he sends a thought-command to his quantum processor, which floods his being with adrenalin, testosterone, norepinephrine and instant-acting cortisol, emptying the tanks embedded in the flesh of his neck.
A formless and wild animal-energy overtakes him and everything is suddenly too bright, too loud, too intense. His vision reddens, his eyes bulge, his smile becomes a snarl, his heart pumps so hard that he’s worried it might pop.
He looks at the other runners crowding him. He growls low in his throat. He looks ahead to the finish line. He pulls away once again, running faster than he ever thought possible.
And just like that, he knows that he’s won, that it’s only a matter of time.
As he crosses the finish line, he sends another thought-command. This time, his quantum processor spikes his brain with serotonin. Simultaneously, it makes him sweat and sweat and sweat, purging his body of the excess hormones that allowed him to win. He has an image to maintain. He knows the difference between being a good runner and being a superstar. He can’t let the public see the blind beast that really ran the race.
As the crowd continues to cheer his name, he turns in a slow circle and bows low. He tears the headband from his head, the slogan ‘51%’ smudged with sweat, the whole thing a dripping mess.
He balls up the headband and throws it into the crowd, as if it’s a treasure to be cherished.
Before the media throng can pounce, Mangrove’s support crew drag him away and lead him to the medical suite in the stadium’s basement. His wife, his husband, his mum, his brother, his trainer, his manager – they all fuss over him, congratulating him on his win, asking if he’s okay, flattering him to the nth degree. Only his doctor stays silent, standing back and offering a slight frown rather than an outstretched hand or a pat on the back. At the medical suite door, now that the commotion is over, he takes charge.
“Everyone out, you all know the drill.”
The entire support crew congratulate Mangrove a last time. His spouses lean in and kiss him on the cheeks, one after the other. His mum gives him a hug. His brother, his trainer, his manager, they all shake his hand a last time. And then they drift away.
Mangrove, the joker that he is, makes a big show of pretending to follow them.
“Very funny,” his doctor says. “You know, I haven’t seen that one before.”
“Really?” Mangrove asks with almost too much sincerity.
It’s a routine that they perform well. But like all routines, it has to end – they enter the medical suite, Mangrove lies on the nearest bed, his doctor starts to get busy.
“Nice race,” his doctor says. “Although by the look of things, it got a bit hairy near the end.”
“Yeah, but I pulled up fine, like I always do. Faster than a you-know-what, eh doc?”
“That’s the one.”
His doctor connects a fibre-optic cable to the port just beneath Mangrove’s right ear. He attaches clear plastic tubes to ports on Mangrove’s neck and thighs, and alternately drains fluid away and refills the tanks. He waits for the custom-built diagnostic computer to synchronise with Mangrove’s quantum processor.
Mangrove feels the moment as it happens; it’s as if his mind has suddenly been exposed to open air.
His doctor ums and ahs as he looks over the incoming data.
“Everything seems okay, but we’ll need to sit down and talk about your lung capacity – you’ll fry if you keep pushing yourself like you did today.”
“How’s Thursday, same time as always?”
His doctor begins the disconnection process. Mangrove stares at the ceiling. With his amplified hearing, he can hear through the walls, can hear the crowd still calling his name. Only one thought runs through his head, a wide and deep concept reduced to a single word and repeated again and again:
Winner! Winner! Winner! Winner!
“Go on, kid – lap it up,” his doctor says as he pulls free the last cable and disconnects the last tube.
Much later that night, after returning to the stadium and bowing to the crowd yet again, after signing autograph books and kissing babies and posing for selfies and cultivating his public image, after the fun and games of the press conference, after the tedious solemnity of the medal presentation, after the party and after the bars and after the clubs, after falling asleep in the arms of his husband and wife, Mangrove wakes suddenly.
He’s crying, even though he hasn’t realised it yet. He was having a nightmare, a nightmare that’s actually a memory. It’s still with him; he’s still remembering a lost little boy scavenging in a junkyard for scrap to swap for food, a lost little boy who was always hungry.
He’s still remembering his childhood.
It’s a brand new day, and for Mangrove that means it’s back to business: He wakes before dawn and goes for a run, nothing too strenuous, just thirty or forty kilometres; he returns home at sunrise, has breakfast and coffee with his husband and wife; he looks over his schedule and talks to his manager; he goes for another run.
It’s the afternoon now, and his driver is taking him to a broadcast station in town so that he can take place in a televised debate that he doesn’t remember agreeing to.
He calls his manager.
“Alright, alright, I went over your head,” his manager says. “But this will be good for you, and even better for your image.”
At that word – image – Mangrove is in.
“Good one,” his manager says. “Let me know how it goes.”
It’s a disaster.
The debate is on the ethics of enhancements in sport, and such a dog-whistle topic has drawn out all the usual freaks, professional protestors and culture warriors. A security team has to escort Mangrove to the studio doors, shouldering aside a blockade-forming throng made up of the perpetually outraged and the eager-to-fight, made up of Human First-devotees and robot-rights activists united in an unlikely partnership.
Suddenly, Mangrove gets hit in the face by an overripe orange thrown with great force.
“Fuck you,” Mangrove yells in the presumed direction of the assailant, trying to simultaneously wriggle free of the security hulk holding him back and wipe his face clean.
The urge to challenge the assailant rather than let it go is almost instinctive, a throwback to the vast majority of his life. It had been drilled into him over the years: You’re either tough and take no lip, or you’re a loser or a victim or dead.
“Say it again, I dare you!”
“Freak!” the assailant calls in response. “You belong in a lab, not on a running track.”
The hulk keeps holding him back.
Just like at the stadium yesterday, Mangrove sends a thought-command to his quantum processor, which floods his being with adrenalin, testosterone, norepinephrine and instant-acting cortisol, emptying the tanks embedded in the flesh of his neck.
A familiar formless and wild animal-energy overtakes him, and he loves it. He easily shrugs off the hulk. He barges forward, pushing people aside, weighing into the crowd.
“Fuck you all!” he shouts, his words thick, dangerous, slurred.
He throws punches. He takes punches. He’s a warrior, a berserker, a maniac. He finds the man that he decides is the assailant. He starts beating on this man. The crowd start booing Mangrove. They start insulting him: Monster! Neanderthal! Deformity! Mockery! Fake! Crook! Cheat!
At that last one, he snaps.
“I didn’t break no rules!” he screams into the assailant’s face, his grammar breaking under the strain of the hormones coursing through him. “51% for life, no other way, that’s me!”
Now he’s punching the assailant to emphasise every word, even though the assailant didn’t actually say anything.
A last thwack, and then Mangrove actually roars. It would be ridiculous if it weren’t so primal. The assailant is still, his face a bloody pulp. The watching crowd are silent.
“That’ll teach you,” Mangrove says, looking with contempt at the wreckage of the assailant.
He turns away. He looks over the gathered crowd. Looking back: Upheld camera-phones and data-pads and palm-dials, all click-click-clicking away. Straightaway, he sends a thought-command – the flood of raging hormones eases as he sweats it out.
Mangrove realises what he’s done. He realises what he’s done to his image. He once again barges forward until he’s free of the crowd. And then he does what he does best: He runs.
Mangrove finally makes it home, having covered maybe a hundred kilometres or so. The house is dark, empty, quiet. He pulls out his phone and turns it on. There are too many messages to go through – the thought alone makes him groan aloud.
And then it rings. It’s his manager. Of course it’s his manager.
For a moment, Mangrove is tempted to just throw his phone across the room. But he knows that he’s done a lot of damage, and that he has to ‘fess up.
“Yo,” he says nonchalantly.
“Don’t you ‘yo’ me, kid. My office, now – the sponsors want your blood.”
Mangrove groans a second time.
“And pull your fucking head in.”
At that, his manager hangs up on him.
The meeting just finished. Now that it’s over, a thoroughly chastised Mangrove has gone for another run. Thinking back on it as his feet slap a tattoo on the blacktop, he realises that the meeting could have been worse – the earth could have stopped turning, the sun could have fallen into the ocean, the stars could have gone out.
After much toing and froing, after it was made clear that there was no way of avoiding a 1-year suspension, after his sponsors threatened to pull their endorsement, after the facts of a court case were detailed at length, after he realised how much of his dirty laundry the prosecution would air, after it was explained to him that this was the only way of avoiding a lifetime suspension, Mangrove agreed to publicly apologise and generously compensate the assailant and undertake untold hours of community work. He was told in no uncertain terms that if he wanted his once-adoring fans to believe his longwinded self-justification, to accept his excuse that it was an ‘allergic reaction’ rather than the result of his numerous enhancements, to look at him as the victim of a sob-story upbringing who had experienced a medical problem that then caused a brain-snap rather than as a brute who can’t control his temper, then he would have no choice but to grovel and beg.
He runs. He runs hard.
No matter how hard he tries, no matter how much he pushes himself, he can’t run fast enough to escape himself.
In the months that follow, Mangrove dedicates himself to rehabilitating his image. He begins by attending twice-weekly meetings with his manager, an advertising consultant, a media masseur and a brand expert. They discuss the problems, brainstorm possible solutions and potential roadblocks, and slowly develop a plan for Mangrove to follow.
The media team eventually hit on the idea of appropriating the night of Mangrove’s brain-snap. They leave the footage alone; nothing can save that. Instead, they test different lines from his accompanying rant on a variety of focus groups, settling on ‘51% For Life.’ This makes them happy, as they see a nice synchronicity in it – Mangrove’s prior links to the pseudo-philosophy the slogan headlines serve as a nice framework for the story they’re trying to tell.
He meets with others who chose to walk the same road he did, albeit for different reasons: Soldiers, rescue workers, cops, fire-fighters, those people who made themselves more than human in order to help those worse-off than the average Jack or Jill. He discovers that they have their own form of 51% For Life, a creed that helps them hold onto their humanity. And he meets those who had no choice but to walk his road, those who lost limbs or organs due to accident or violence or sickness or bad-genes, whose only option was an enhancement or death. In order to gain a full understanding of the movement that he is beginning to speak for, he meets those at the other end of the spectrum: The poor and displaced who have been hurt or maimed, tucked away in charity-hospitals and dilapidated respite centres dreaming of life-altering enhancements that are simply beyond them.
His court-ordered community service comes to an end, and without even really thinking about it, he signs on for at least another six-months. He establishes a fund to aid those poor and displaced people that need enhancements but have to make do with primitive 20th-century healthcare. He organises charity-runs, officiating and adjudicating with good humour, acting as a ringmaster cum party-host cum DJ. He keeps meeting with others like him, happy to just talk to them and spend time with them, although he meets them in private more and more often, being with them not for the sake of publicity but because it’s the right thing to do.
He accepts the necessity of the cameras that follow him everywhere, knows that they play an integral part in his public rehabilitation, in the changes that he is experiencing. But nowadays he sometimes likes to be left alone.
He still runs, he still runs hard. But for the first time in more than a decade, it isn’t something that he does every day.
A year has passed, and Mangrove is just about to run his first post-suspension race. He’s wearing a brand new 51% For Life headband; a couple of other runners are wearing them too. They’re all waiting for an official to tell them take their places. The crowd are curiously quiet. They’re not silent, but they’re not cheering or booing either, more talking amongst themselves about what might happen out on the track, about what Mangrove might do, about how badly he might lose it.
They’re also talking about what he’s doing right now – gone is his usual show of cockiness and arrogance, gone is his collection of poses, gone is his almost ritualistic display of hyperactivity and confidence. Instead, he’s still and calm, focussed only on the race.
An official calls them out. They wait, their feet pressed hard against the blocks. The crowd have finally fallen quiet.
The snap-crack of the starter pistol echoes through the sky.
They run, they run as one, a heaving mess of arms and legs. Mangrove is right in the middle of the squeeze, getting a feel for the rhythm of his competitors, keeping pace but not pushing, not yet.
They round a corner: One lap down.
They keep running. Mangrove can’t hear the crowd, can’t hear the rumble of his competitors’ feet raining down on the track, can’t hear the strain of their breathing. Instead, he’s fixed is on his own breathing, on his own body, on his own step. He’s still in the thick of it, getting jostled and bumped occasionally, sometimes shoving back, and he’s loving it.
They round another corner: Another lap down.
It’s time to push. Mangrove gives it everything he’s got and starts to leave his competitors behind. He keeps running. He feels good. He allows himself a smile; it isn’t cock-sure or smarmy, merely an expression of happiness borne from getting lost doing something he loves.
They round another corner: Another lap down.
The crowd begin cheering, only occasionally at first but more and more often the further Mangrove pulls ahead. He half-turns and keeps on running, he smiles at them and keeps on running. Once again, his smile is one of happiness, not pride. He turns back and keeps on running. He pulls further ahead.
This time, it really is unbelievable, can barely be possible, can’t really be happening – he hasn’t raced in over a year, he’s out-of-shape and out-of-practise, he should have been demolished by now.
Just like in the old days, the crowd are shouting his name, lovers and haters alike.
“Man-grove! Man-grove! Man-grove!”
The runners round another corner: Another lap down.
Something starts beeping. Mangrove sends a thought command, checking his systems. Everything shows a green light, except for the proximity sensor. He focuses his conscious attention on it: His two nearest competitors are starting to catch up. He keeps running, willing himself on.
They round another corner: Another lap down.
The two competitors are still gaining ground. Mangrove pushes himself harder, but he can’t shake them – they’re still catching up, they’re still catching up, they’re still catching up, they’re neck-and-neck, and now they’ve overtaken him. Mangrove focuses, gathers his thoughts, tries not to freak out.
This time, he starts to catch up. He allows himself a second smile. The crowd go wild.
They round another corner: One lap to go.
Mangrove isn’t catching up fast enough. He knows that. He knows that he has to get it together. He knows that if something doesn’t give, he’s lost. And so he sends a thought-command to his quantum processor, which floods his being with adrenalin, testosterone, norepinephrine and instant-acting cortisol, emptying the tanks embedded in the flesh of his neck.
That familiar formless and wild animal-energy overtakes him.
He channels it, tries to control it. He catches up to his competitors and squeezes between them, growling at the elbowing he receives. He looks ahead to the finish line. He keeps running.
The three runners are squeezed together tighter-than-tight; you couldn’t slip a cigarette paper between them. Mangrove keeps pushing himself, an effort almost superhuman. He’s an inch in front. Two inches. Three inches.
There’s the finish line. The crowd start screaming louder.
“Man-grove! Man-grove! Man-grove!”
He soaks it up as if it’s just another form of energy to be converted into muscle power. He gives one last push, running faster than he knew he could. He cruises over the finish line, a good six-inches ahead. The scream of the crowd becomes a roar. Mangrove sends another thought-command; his quantum processor spikes his brain with serotonin and makes him sweat out the excess hormones.
He falls to his back and lies flat on the track, exhausted. He tears off the filthy ‘51%’ headband and tosses it aside. The roar of the crowd is echoing in his ears, the roar of his name the only thing he can hear. All he can think is the same thought as always when he finds himself in this place, a wide and deep concept reduced to a single word:
It’s funny how quickly people can fall back into old habits – Mangrove is once again in the medical suite in the stadium’s basement, accepting the congratulations of his support crew. As always, only his doctor stays silent, standing back rather than offering an outstretched hand or a pat on the back.
“Everyone out, you all know the drill,” he says as if he’s reading from a script.
The support crew congratulate Mangrove a last time and then start to drift away. Mangrove, a joker through and through, makes a show of pretending to follow them. But his heart isn’t really in it – it’s a half-arsed effort, more perfunctory than high-spirited.
“You okay?” his doctor asks.
Mangrove looks at him, not knowing what to say. He’s torn between joy at beating his competitors after such a long lay-off, and frustration at how hard it was to do so. And he’s agitated because he doesn’t know how to reconcile his pride at winning with his newfound status as an advocate for a cause. And he’s disappointed at the mixed-signals that he knows he’s sending to the people who believe in him.
“I’m alright,” he finally says. “It was a hard race, that’s all.”
“Well, that sure is how it looked.”
“Yeah, doc, but still – faster than a you-know-what, eh?”
“Only just, only just, and the next one will be even harder. It’s nothing that time and training won’t fix, but you unfortunately don’t have the time – the final is only a week away.”
“Yeah, but she’ll be right.”
“If you say so.”
His doctor goes through the routine of checking Mangrove’s systems, draining fluid away and refilling tanks. Mangrove lies there on the bed, silent, waiting. No matter what he does to distract himself, he can’t stop thinking about the words he just heard.
It’s the next afternoon, and Mangrove is freaking out. He’s been training all day, but he still can’t hit the target that he’s set himself. His doctor’s words are still haunting him. The final is only six days away. He feels doomed. He feels weak. He feels like he’ll lose everything if he doesn’t do something drastic. He tells himself that he’s contemplating doing these things because people look up to him, because he’s now a role model, a spokesman, an intellectual.
But he can’t lie to himself: He wants to win because winning feels good.
He calls his doctor. He asks about an upgrade. His doctor is completely against it, pointing out that Mangrove is currently sitting at 56% human. He makes it clear that nothing major can be done without some substitution and a lengthy convalescence. Mangrove is adamant, even if it’s just a tweak to his existing systems that will in turn tweak his confidence.
His doctor gives in. He has to – it’s Mangrove’s body to do with as he wishes. He schedules surgery: Tonight at 9 o’clock in his private theatre.
The surgery went seamlessly, and Mangrove is now the proud owner of an extra set of hormone tanks and the associated bits-and-bobs necessary for a smooth interface. To top it off, his doctor has dosed him with a serum to speed up the healing process.
Mangrove couldn’t be happier.
He’s still woozy from the anaesthetic, and so his doctor drives him home and draws the curtains and puts him to bed.
Mangrove has just woken up. The anaesthetic has worn off. The sun hasn’t risen yet. The final is only five days away.
He decides to go for a run and put his new toy through its paces, even though it’s still dark outside. He drinks some water, goes to the toilet and then gets changed. He puts on a brand new ‘51%’ headband, just for luck. He eats breakfast standing up, treating the food as mere fuel for the coming exercise. He walks out the door, even though his last mouthful of muesli has barely been chewed.
And away he goes.
He warms up by rat-running through the flat and sprawling suburb he calls home. He keeps to the middle of the road, only moving to the footpath when his satellite-linked GPS warns him of the approach of an early-morning car or van or bicycle.
He keeps running. The sun rises. The world begins to wake up.
As the traffic thickens and grows more intense, Mangrove leaves the suburbs behind, making his way to a paved track snaking alongside the nearest creek. He opens up. He runs hard. The world passes in a blur. He doesn’t see the river beside him or the narrow ribbon of bushland surrounding him – all he sees is the track unrolling beneath his feet.
After thirty or forty kilometres, he spies ahead a rundown and abandoned velodrome. It’s an old favourite: Two kilometres a lap, it’s the perfect place for him to practise away from the public eye. He zooms through the rusty gates. He runs a few laps to familiarise himself with the track. He decides that it’s time to test his new toy.
He starts off slow – he sends a thought-command to his quantum processor, which floods his being with adrenalin, testosterone, norepinephrine and instant-acting cortisol, but only from the first set of tanks embedded in the flesh of his neck. He wants to step-up to maximum, so that he can really gauge the difference.
Once again, that familiar formless and wild animal-energy overtakes him. And once again, he channels it and tries to control it.
He’s having a lot of fun.
He runs about fifteen laps before sending a thought-command instructing his quantum processor to empty the second set of tanks. This new dose of hormones hits him like a punch to the face, and for a moment he’s staggered. But he quickly gets it together, finding his feet a bare moment later, every tiny piece of him operating on a hyper-fast frequency.
He’s running like he never has before. He’s absolutely loving it.
It’s as if he’s just wrestled to the ground a new truth, and is determined to hold onto it for as long as he can. It’s as if he’s a little kid who just realised that he can run. It’s as if he’s a teenager on the cusp of realising his potential. It’s as if running is what he was born to do. It’s as if he could run forever.
He’s a machine, his body and his brain and his enhancements working in perfect synchronicity. Nothing else exists – he’s completely forgotten about the fact that people look up to him and take him seriously, completely forgotten that he’s now a role model, that he’s now a heavy-hitter, a spokesman, an advocate, an intellectual, a capital-T thinker.
He picks up more speed. He keeps running. He picks up yet more speed.
He starts to worry that he might not have properly prepared himself, that he and his doctor might have dramatically underestimated the difference the upgrade would make. It’s only a little bit of worry, not enough to throw him off. But it’s there just the same.
He’s still speeding up.
A part of him wants to slow down, but a far larger part wants to see what happens if he doesn’t. He just can’t help himself – he craves the full embrace of the chemical fire coursing through him.
And so he wills himself to go harder, to pick up his pace.
The inevitable happens: He loses his footing and spills, falls, crashes, stacks, and ends up sprawled on the ground.
We’re in Mangrove’s least-favourite place: A hospital. He’s only just come around, his accident having rendered him unconscious, the doctors and nurses having taken extra precautions and administered a general anaesthetic before assessing him, such were the apparent severity of his injuries.
He’s been out for more than 24-hours. The final is only three days away. He’s a wreck.
His doctor is waiting.
“G’day, doc,” Mangrove says weakly.
“Ah, you’re awake, good. How you feeling?”
He’s woozy, dazed, out of it.
“Shithouse,” he says.
“Fair enough – you really lost it.”
His doctor looks away.
“What’s the damage?” Mangrove asks, trying to suppress the shake in his voice.
“Mostly cosmetic, thank Christ. It looked worse, at first. And you’ll be sporting some nifty scars for a while, but I guess that’s a small price.”
His doctor sighs.
There’s sudden panic in Mangrove’s voice, and he’s a lot more awake – every nightmare scenario he’s ever contemplated about never running again, they’re about to come true, he’s sure of it…
His doctor sighs again.
“It’s your foot,” he says. “You managed to break a couple of toes.”
Mangrove looks at his feet. He can’t feel them. He relaxes a little.
“No worries – all I need’s an implant or a bone-replacement, and then a quick dip in the fix-it tank to get me right for the race.”
“You’re kidding, right?” his doctor asks, unable to hide his scorn. “After installing those new tanks, you’re almost maxed out.”
“Almost,” Mangrove says with a smirk.
“Alright, alright – I don’t know exactly how close you are, but there’s probably a bit of wriggle room. The trouble is, there’s no telling how much work you’ll need until we open you up.”
Mangrove doesn’t say anything. He looks serious. His doctor catches on, tries to offer him a different point-of-view.
“It’s just a race,” he says. “Let this one go, treat it as a lesson for the next, and wait for your toes to heal. I don’t want you to fall over the line, not after all the work you’ve done to become this… I don’t know… This new you.”
Mangrove sets his chin. He thinks about everything that he’s learned in the last year, all the people that he’s met, all the friends that he’s made, all the things that he’s seen, all the changes that he’s undergone.
And then he thinks of the crowd, of them calling his name, of them roaring his name, of them screaming it, chanting it, bellowing it.
(Originally published in Red Planet Magazine Vol. 1 Issue 2, November 2019)