The plane descended through Denver's familiar brown haze, and Jayson pressed his face to the window like a child. Two weeks since Singapore. Two weeks of hospitals, interviews, IOC meetings that reshaped athletics' future. Two weeks of being symbol, spokesman, revolutionary.
Now he just wanted to be home.
"Nervous?" Wei asked from the seat beside him. His partner—still strange to think—had insisted on coming. "Natural athlete returns home, brings enhancement athlete to family dinner. Very modern."
"My mother will feed you until you burst. My father will tell stories until you beg for mercy. My sister Maya will interrogate you about technical specifications."
"Sounds perfect." Wei shifted, his rebuilt servos whirring softly. Insurance had covered basic replacements, not the premium models. He was relearning to run with equipment worth merely thousands, not millions. "My family dinners involve spreadsheets and disappointment. This will be educational."
The plane touched down to no fanfare. Jayson had insisted—no media, no welcome committee, no documentation of the homecoming. Just Miguel and Maria Rodriguez waiting at arrivals like their son hadn't just rewritten athletic history.
But the moment he emerged from security, limping but walking, his father broke.
Miguel Rodriguez—stoic, strong, builder of foundations—crumbled at the sight of his son. Tears streamed down weathered cheeks as he pulled Jayson into an embrace that spoke of pride too large for words.
"Mijo," he whispered. "My son. You did it."
"Finished last, Papa."
"Finished everything." Miguel pulled back, hands on Jayson's shoulders. "Fourth place taught me to run clean. Last place taught the world to run together. You won bigger than I dreamed."
His mother was crying too, but practically, already fussing over his weight loss, his limp, the general disaster of his appearance. "Too skinny. Too pale. Too much suffering for cameras, not enough eating."
"Mama, this is Wei Chen. My—"
"Partner. Yes. I know everything." Maria turned her motherly assault on Wei. "You also too skinny. Enhancement doesn't include eating? Come. Both of you. Food first, then stories."
The drive home was surreal. Sector 12 looked the same—working-class houses, chain-link fences, lives built on double shifts and careful savings. But "HUMAN" signs decorated windows. Chalk drawings covered sidewalks. A mural on the community center showed two figures crossing a finish line together.
"The neighborhood has opinions," Maya said from the front seat, grinning. "Mrs. Chen from the corner store says you're heroes. Mr. Williams says you're idiots. Most fall somewhere between."
"What do you say?"
"I say my brother's too stubborn to know when to quit, and that stubbornness changed the world." She turned to Wei. "Also, your servo specifications are fascinating. The power-to-weight ratio alone—"
"Maya," their mother warned. "Food first. Technical interrogation later."
The house smelled like childhood—rice, beans, the specific comfort of Maria Rodriguez's kitchen working overtime. But the walls told new stories. Every surface covered in photos, articles, printouts of moments from Singapore.
"Your mother's shrine," Miguel said, almost apologetically. "She collected everything."
Jayson stopped at one photo—him pouring water over Viktor's seized servos. He barely remembered the moment, lost in the blur of desert survival. But someone had captured it, shared it, made it larger than the act itself.
"This one," Maria said, pointing to another image—Wei and Jayson crossing together. "This one I look at every morning. My son and his competition, choosing to be human together. Better than any medal."
The dinner table groaned under Maria's assault of food. Plates appeared faster than they could empty—tamales, rice, beans, fresh tortillas, the salsa that had burned Jayson's childhood tongue and now tasted like belonging.
"Eat," Maria commanded Wei, who was staring at the spread with something like awe. "Enhancement needs fuel. Natural athlete needs fuel. Everybody needs fuel."
"Mrs. Rodriguez, this is—"
"Maria. You're family now. Crossed the line with my son, you're family." She loaded his plate higher. "Besides, too skinny. Both of you. Singapore took too much."
They ate while Miguel told stories—not about the race, but about Jayson as a child. Running before walking. Racing neighborhood kids on legs that weren't yet steady. The time he'd run from school to home, seven miles, because the bus broke down and waiting felt impossible.
"Always moving," Miguel said. "Even sleeping, his legs would twitch. Like they knew they had somewhere to go."
"He gets it from you," Maria said, touching her husband's hand. "The need to prove something. To show the world that working people matter."
"I proved I could finish fourth clean," Miguel said quietly. "He proved finishing last with honor beats winning without soul."
Wei had gone quiet, absorbing this family that touched easily, laughed readily, built love from small moments. "My family dinners are... different," he finally said.
"How?" Maya asked, done pretending she wasn't fascinated by everything about him.
"Quarterly reports. Performance metrics. ROI discussions." He smiled sadly. "My last placement was a spreadsheet cell. My value calculated in endorsement potential lost."
"And now?" Maria asked.
"Now I'm eating the best meal of my life with people who measure worth differently." He met Jayson's eyes. "Your son saved more than my race. He saved me from becoming fully machine."
The table went quiet. Then Miguel raised his water glass. "To running human. However we're built."
They toasted with water and horchata, enhanced and natural, family expanded by finish lines crossed together.
After dinner, the neighborhood arrived. Not all at once—Sector 12 had learned subtlety from years of looking out for each other. But steady streams of visitors, each with their own piece of Jayson's story to claim.
Mrs. Chen from the corner store, where he'd bought energy bars with saved coins: "Always knew you were special. Told everyone—that boy will show them. Natural athlete from our streets."
Mr. Williams, the skeptic: "Still think you're crazy. But good crazy. Kind that changes things. My grandson wants to run now. Natural. Says Jayson proved human is enough."
The Garcias, whose daughter Sofia had started running: "She watches your race every night. The parts where you help people. Says that's what heroes do—not win, but lift others."
Coach Peterson from high school, who'd told him he was too slow for varsity: "I was wrong. Speed's just one measure. You found others."
They came with food, stories, children who wanted photos with the "Human Hero." The house overflowed with community pride, with ownership of what one of their own had accomplished.
But it was Ana Clara who broke through the noise, arriving with her kids as evening settled. They burst through the door like joy itself, wearing handmade "HUMAN" shirts, carrying a poster they'd painted.
"Uncle Jayson!" They tackled him, forgetting his injuries in their excitement. "You're on TV! You're famous! You ran with robots!"
"Enhanced athletes," Ana Clara corrected, hugging her brother carefully. "Though robots isn't far off." She looked at Wei. "No offense."
"None taken. I was essentially a robot until kilometer fifty-eight." Wei knelt to the kids' level. "Your uncle saved me from forgetting I was human inside the machinery."
The kids studied him with that direct child assessment. "Do your legs hurt?" the youngest asked.
"Every day."
"Like Uncle Jayson's?"
"Different but yes. Pain reminds us we're alive."
"That's silly. Laughing reminds us we're alive." She demonstrated, giggling until everyone joined in.
Ana Clara pulled Jayson aside while the kids colonized Wei, demanding demonstrations of his servos.
"You look terrible," she said with sibling honesty.
"Feel worse."
"Good. Means you left everything out there." She gripped his hands. "The kids talk about nothing else. Not that you raced—that you helped. That you showed them strength isn't just winning."
"They paint that mural?"
"With half the neighborhood. Took three days. Mr. Williams complained about property values, then donated the paint." She smiled. "You changed us, hermano. Reminded us that Sector 12 produces more than survivors. We produce humans who lift others."
As night deepened, the visitors thinned. Wei sat on the back porch with Miguel, comparing notes on running clean versus running enhanced, finding common ground in the suffering. Maya cornered Jayson in the kitchen, tablet already out.
"The IOC announcement goes live tomorrow," she said. "Mixed categories, natural development programs, the whole restructuring. You did that."
"We did that. Every athlete who suffered in Singapore."
"But you and Wei crossing together—that image broke through. Made it impossible to maintain the division." She pulled up projections. "Twenty thousand kids have joined natural running programs since the race. Enhancement clinics report thirty percent fewer youth modifications. Parents are choosing to let their children develop naturally first."
"And enhancement companies are adapting. This isn't victory—it's evolution."
"Exactly. Both paths validated. Choice restored." She set the tablet down. "Mom saved your college fund. Never spent it. Says to use it for the training center."
"What training center?"
"The one you and Wei are obviously starting. Natural and enhanced athletes training together. Learning from each other. Building the future you accidentally created."
He hadn't thought that far ahead. Been too focused on healing, on processing what happened. But Maya was right—the moment demanded more than symbolism.
"Here?" He gestured at Sector 12. "Build it here?"
"Where else? Let enhancement come to the neighborhoods it forgot. Let natural athletes train where the streets taught them hunger." She grinned. "Besides, Mom's already planning to feed everyone. Might as well make it official."
Midnight found Jayson on the roof—the spot where he'd made his decision months ago. Denver spread below, unchanged and completely different. Same lights, same smog, same working-class struggle. But now with possibility threaded through.
Wei joined him, moving carefully on servos still learning their limits.
"Your family," Wei said simply.
"Yeah."
"I've never experienced anything like that. The warmth. The acceptance. The way they just... included me."
"That's what family does. Expands for whoever needs it."
They sat in comfortable silence, processing the distance between Singapore's finish line and this Denver rooftop. Partners now, carrying the weight of example.
"The training center," Wei said eventually. "Maya's right. We should build it."
"With what money? My college fund won't go far."
"My grandmother's already allocated resources. Says it's investment in the future she wants to see." Wei smiled. "Natural and enhanced, learning together. Racing together. Proving together that human has many forms."
"In Sector 12?"
"Where else? Let the future grow from honest ground." He stood carefully. "I should go. Early flight tomorrow."
"Stay. Mom's already made up the couch."
Wei looked surprised. "I couldn't—"
"Family doesn't let family find hotels. You crossed the line with me. You're stuck with us now."
They climbed down to find Miguel waiting with blankets, Maria with one more plate of food, Maya with technical questions. The house absorbed Wei like it had absorbed every stray Jayson had ever brought home—completely, without question, with the faith that more family meant more strength.
Later, alone in his childhood room, Jayson pulled out his father's shoes. Still stained with Singapore's trials, still carrying the weight of impossible kilometers. He set them next to his trophies—few and modest, all from before he understood that winning meant more than placement.
A soft knock. Miguel entered, moving like he had when checking on young Jayson's nightmares.
"Can't sleep?" his father asked.
"Too much in my head."
Miguel sat on the bed's edge, the mattress creaking with familiar sound. "I never told you about after fourth place. The flight home. How empty I felt despite running clean."
"Empty? You were proud—"
"Later. First, empty. Because I ran alone. Competed alone. Crossed alone." Miguel touched the shoes. "You fixed that. Crossed with Wei, brought Viktor's story, carried Ava's hope. Full instead of empty."
"I finished last."
"You finished complete." Miguel stood, kissed his son's forehead like he hadn't since childhood. "Rest. Tomorrow brings whatever tomorrow brings. Tonight, you're home."
Morning came with Maria's breakfast and unexpected news. Maya burst in, tablet glowing: "Singapore Marathon added a natural category. Boston's considering mixed heats. Chicago wants you as honorary starter. The world's reshaping itself around what you proved."
"What we proved," Jayson corrected, finding Wei already at the table, helping Maria cook.
"He learns fast," Maria announced. "Better student than you ever were."
They ate surrounded by family noise—Maya's technical questions, Miguel's quiet pride, Maria's endless food production. Normal chaos charged with new energy, with possibility spreading from their small kitchen table.
Ana Clara's kids arrived like tiny tornadoes, demanding Wei demonstrate his servos again, asking Jayson when he'd race next, painting the future in crayon-bright optimism.
"When you're healed," the eldest announced, "we're all running the community 5K. Natural. Like you showed us."
"All of you?"
"The whole block. Mrs. Chen says her knees are too old, but she'll walk. Mr. Williams says it's foolish, but he bought new shoes." She grinned. "Sector 12 runs together now."
By afternoon, the house had become impromptu headquarters. Marcus Chen arrived with contracts for the training center. Sarah brought architectural plans. Ana Clara coordinated community volunteers. The future took shape between Maria's tamales and Maya's spreadsheets.
"Six months to build," Marcus said. "Natural track, enhancement lab, shared facilities. Athletes learning from each other instead of against."
"In Sector 12," Wei added firmly. "Where running means survival, not just sport."
They planned through dinner, through evening, through Maria insisting everyone needed thirds. A training center that would bridge divides, built where bridges mattered most.
That night, Jayson stood in the backyard where he'd run childhood laps around dead grass. The same stars, the same fence, but now with Wei beside him, both planning tomorrow's run. Slow miles on healing legs, natural and enhanced finding new rhythm together.
"Thank you," Wei said suddenly.
"For what?"
"For crossing with me. For showing me home isn't just where you start—it's what you carry and who carries you."
They stood in comfortable silence, two athletes who'd found partnership in shared suffering, family in unexpected places, future in the space between their differences.
Inside, Maria called them for leftover pie. The house glowed warm against Denver's night, full of voices planning tomorrow, full of love that expanded for whoever needed it, full of proof that sometimes last place was exactly where you needed to finish to change everything.
Jayson looked at the stars—same ones that had witnessed his rooftop decision months ago. Then he'd run from Sector 12's limits. Now he'd build something here that made limits launching points instead of walls.
"Pie," Wei said practically. "Before Maya eats it all."
They went inside together, natural and enhanced, partners in whatever came next. Behind them, Denver slept. Tomorrow it would wake to find the future building itself in Sector 12, one shared stride at a time.
But tonight: pie, family, and the quiet satisfaction of being home.