The start of a story inspired by this article: https://www.nytimes.com/2024/11/23/style/enhanced-games.html#:~:text=In%20the%20summer%20of%202023,of%20banned%20substances%2C%20including%20performance%2D
The skin around his nails sat red raw, he could almost feel the flesh pulsating. The skin along his arms prickled and bumped and the hair stood almost as straight as his posture. He was in a constantly alert state, could barely turn his head for fear of something “short-circuiting”. The small room, or cell, he waited in was of a plain grey shade, holding only a couple fold out chairs and a table which housed a bowl of apples and a glass of lemon water. They’d kept him on a strict diet of foods he’d never tried before. Pomegranate, quail eggs and artichoke, things that would cause certain nutrients to spike at the correct time, or dip when they needed to. He was resistant to it at first, he thought he could get away with bending the rules; leaving some foods on the plate or eating a bit later than planned. They didn’t scold him, but every time he drifted slightly out of place, the contract loomed a little bit closer over his head.
It had been a month since he’d signed that piece of paper. Only thirty days and everything had changed. It was strange, he saw it in his teeth first. The space between each tooth started to widen and he’d wake up with a horrible clenching sensation in his jaw. He asked his assigned doctor about this, who beamed in response and assured him that that meant everything was working “perfectly”. Then it happened quickly; his arms, his legs, his chest and his feet- they all changed so drastically that he couldn’t even call these body parts his own any more.
They praised him endlessly, ensured that he was the best subject they had, and that he was going to make history. He had no interest in making history. When they approached him working a late shift in the garage that night he could barely see himself making it to the end of the year, and now he was going to make history. He doesn’t know how he was spotted, but he reckoned that they’d been keeping tabs on him for a while. He’d never claimed to be an Olympic athlete. He’d won a few cross-country competitions here and there and had some pretty good marathon times, but had gone mostly under the radar since he was a young adult. He was in his forties now, a mere ghost of the athlete he used to be and way past competing age. After a freak injury and a deeply soul-destroying addiction to pain relief medicine, he’d managed to float back to normalcy, working a regular job and keeping his head down. It wasn’t luxury, time moved slowly and he always felt a pull of “what it”, but it was working for the moment.
But when they came in, the two Americans with bright smiles and ironed shirts, and spoke about the “enhanced games,” he let himself be pulled. The “what if,” transformed into a tangible thing, the dream of returning to his old self. De Souza, the creator of this event, described it in fantastical terms. He spoke of older athletes reentering their glory days, the average Joe finding success as a record breaking athlete. The room in which he waited for his results to see if he was eligible for the games held a diversity of faces. Some athletes from before whom he recognised, their shoulders hunched over, hoping not to be spotted to older men covered in boil and sores, clearly just picked up off of the street. To them this must be their big break, giving up their autonomy to be pumped with drugs and raced around a track. This one pay cheque would have them set for life. This being the first of the Enhanced Games, De Souza fronted a lot of money for the contestants as a gentle bribe to encourage them to participate. The public were skeptical, questioning the morality of allowing what was essentially a drugged Olympic games. De Souza responded by throwing more money and more sponsors at the event, touting that this would drastically alter public perception of what makes someone human. If people could run faster, swim farther, jump higher than ever before- then what else are we capable of?
And that’s another record broken folks! The tannoy burst into the isolated room in which he stood. The sound of the crowd cheering followed. There were thousands out there, maybe even people he knew. Despite the controversy, most were excited for the day, especially for the event he would participate in, the 100 metres. The advertisements promised that you'd see a man run as fast as a cheetah, and maybe he would be that man. Despite how entrapped he felt, the door was always open. That was a specific stipulation in his contract; he could leave whenever he wanted. But how would he go on afterward, knowing he possessed all this power. His muscles now naturally rippled with enormous strength and the thought that he’d sacrificed so much to no avail scared him. He’d at least have to try…
A bright LED screen came to life across from him, a countdown of 60 seconds began. All of a sudden, his legs began to cramp. He let out a reflexive scream which he quickly stifled. He’d been told that his body may react strangely, and assumed that this was just a simple side effect of the different fluids that had been circulated around his body for the past six weeks. Every second that past, the cramp became tighter, so much so that he now struggled to stand. As his knees crushed into the stone floor, a sharp twinge struck his heart. He grabbed at his chest, this did not feel like the standard pain that was expected.
“H-help me…,” he croaked into the empty room, knowing that no one could hear him. As the countdown continued, the crowd responded in uproar. Every time a cheer erupted, the life leaked from him a little more.
