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When Faust first stepped into the morning air, it chilled his lungs with nostalgia and promise. His skin tingled. Pigeons cooed as they chased each other among the silver birches. Throughout the leafy suburb, windows lit up and behind them shadowy figures rushed around, pulling on clothes and buttering toast and staring at phones wondering if they could get away with pulling a sickie.

Faust was categorically not a morning person, and as he plodded onto the heathland behind the estate, his stomach twisted in disgust at the sight of the running group. The lycra-bound lunatics numbered thirty strong, and if they weren’t doing jumping jacks or calibrating their sports watches, they were laughing loudly about what a beautiful morning it was.

Like, yeah, it was beautiful, a robin just landed inches from him and sang a little song. But they didn’t have to be so fucking obvious about it.

He lingered, and Connie bumped into him. She was still wearing her pyjama bottoms, in part because she told him she was ‘done with trying to project the right image’ but also because when she’d called the elevator to go back to her room the grinding of bone had sounded way too close for comfort.

“Hey!” she said. “Don’t just stop, man!”

Faust watched as his co-worker Deadward joined the warm-ups, high-fiving everyone, and they shared such saccharinely sweet smiles suggestive of solidarity that he immediately felt unwelcome. Everyone knew that the happier a group looked, the less they actually liked each other.

They’re all just fucking Tarquins, he thought. Rest in peace, grandpa.

He looked down at the ragged old t-shirt and shorts that he’d picked to avoid looking like he was trying too hard. It was obvious they’d never accept a loser like him who hadn’t run a mile in his life – even the fat members of the group were sporting marathon victory tops.

“Earth to Faust,” said Connie, rapping him on the scalp. “You look like a guy that’s psyching himself out.”

“It’s pointless,” he declared. “I could no sooner get along with those people than I could fart the national anthem.”

“Okay, two things,” said Connie. “Thing number one: you can just rewind if it doesn’t go well, don’t sweat it. Thing number two: we can vote to give you musical flatulation, so you should have picked a less shit comparison. Thing number three—”

“Alright,” he agreed.

They strolled over. The group now formed a circle while a Spanish woman, who was more muscle than skin, explained the route to them. They’d seen Faust and they were closing him off, even his co-worker Deadward didn’t spare him so much as a second glance, and he decided that the message was very clearly heard, thank you very much, and that the runners would surely be happier without him. He cleared his throat, but nobody cared.

“Yo, guys,” shouted Connie, beaming as she practically wrestled her way into the circle. “We’re here for the running group, this is it, right?”

Faust aged a thousand years where he stood, and had to catch his balance on the double-edged walking stick else before he fell into the heather. He braced for the rejection. The name calling. The pointed ignoring.

The muscle-bound Spaniard smiled and said, “Oh, sure! Welcome! What are your guys' names?”

“Glad you could make it, Faust!” said Deadward, forcibly shaking his hand. It was odd to see the nipples poking through the shirt of a man who normally dressed exclusively in mourning-wear.

The name was out. Faust winced for the rejection, and it was time for the ridicule. He was still seething over ‘Fast’.

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“Nice to have you along, Faust,” said the muscle-woman, gently high-fiving him. “My name’s Karen Despacito. It’s okay if you want to laugh about it.”

A couple of the group members chuckled, and Karen guffawed loudly before turning to Connie with an expectant twinkle in her eye.

“Constance,” said Connie, smashing that high five out. “We’re doing a 5K, right? I’m great at those. My record’s like 18… well, 20… okay, fine, I’m just kidding with you, like 24 minutes on a treadmill.”

“24? That’s really impressive, Constance! We definitely won’t have to worry about leaving you two behind, then!”

Karen stepped into the middle of the circle to re-explain the route they’d be taking across the heathland, but Faust didn’t hear a word of it because Deadward nudged him in the ribs and started muttering at him.

“Ayy, player,” he said, eyeing Connie up. “Thanks for finally coming along, I told you you’d like it. Where’d you pick up a catch like that?”

“Death game,” mumbled Faust, showing him the word count on his hand. “Don’t get the wrong idea. She’s my life coach.”

“Woah,” said Deadward, poking the number before growing immediately disinterested in it. “She single, then?”

Faust looked at his co-worker, who was smiling, even with his eyes, and for the first time he began to suspect that Deadward actually kind of liked him rather than tolerating him. The dark patches under his eyes, the hooked nose that cast a shadow, and the emo-fringe – maybe they were just facial features and not signals of hatred.

“You still okay for drinks on Friday, bud?” asked Deadward. “And if you brought her? Hey, she’s available, right?”

“Well—” said Faust.

“Let’s get jogging, people,” shouted Karen Despacito.

At once, the mass of joggers spilled out onto the path, a natural sorting algorithm bringing those with the most chiselled tryhard expressions to the front while leaving those who couldn’t keep the gossip out of their mouths at the back.

“Come on, they’re getting away,” urged Connie, jogging up and down on the spot.

Faust smiled. “I’m kind of shit at running. Just go and win the race. I’ll be right behind you, promise.”

“Gotcha.” She was speeding away before he could blink, using her short stature to weave through the pack to the front.

Faust put one foot down, lifted the other foot up, and let it fall in front of him, repeating the action cyclically. He’d kind of forgotten how to jog. A loose stone rolled out from under him, and he nearly tumbled over, just catching himself at the last second but sending a jolt of pain up his leg.

You’re kidding yourself, he thought. You’re not a runner.

Tendrils of heather along the path brushed him. Deadward matched his pace, but a sizable gap was already developing between him and the casual gossipers.

“Good start man, keep it up,” said Deadward. “The first minute’s the hardest.”

You’re shit, thought Faust. You’re not strong enough to change.

He held his breath while passing through a sunbeam of buzzing gnats, and the next time he inhaled the oxygen deficit cracked upon his lungs. They were burning. They were already burning. He wheezed, hoarsely.

You’ve had plenty of excellent day ones, he thought. It’s the day two you struggle with. It’s the keeping going. It’s the resilience. You fuckup.

“Shut it!” he wheezed.

You’re a fuckup.

“No,” he cried.

You’re a fuckup.

He couldn’t take it anymore. He doubled his stride length, and thundered down the path, leaving clouds of dust in his wake, footsteps pounding in his ears, morning air chilling his lungs with nostalgia, and he blew past the mums gossiping.

“Woah, watch your pace,” said one.

“Woohoo!” shouted another.

“You can do it! Catch them up!” shouted the third.

“Faust, wait up!” wailed Deadward.

It wasn’t fast enough. He pumped his arms like pistons, leaned into the wind. By now his lungs were burning so deep inside that it felt as if his very soul was on fire. Still he ran, overtaking those lycra fucking posers one by one, winding round the corners until finally he had the leaders of the pack in his sight, Karen and Connie locked in a clash for pole position… and then he was turning his head to watch as he blew past them, and then all there was to do was swallow up the path in front of him.

“Dude, why are you fucking sprinting,” shouted Connie. “You know how long 5K is, right?”

“Do you know the route?” shouted Karen. “Does he know the route?”

Faust didn’t care about the route. His body was screaming in pain, but he knew pain, and he could fight it. He flew off the path into the forest, cutting through the brush, leaping over branches and bushes and ducking under ivy, splashing great dollops of mud over himself, until a root tripped him up and he came crashing to the ground.

Maybe it hurt. He didn’t know. He lay there and listened to the even footsteps of the joggers running past with a big grin on his face. His heart hammered in his chest – impossible to say what had changed.

The sun darkened, and a canopy of flesh knitted its way across the sky, supported by a pillar that seemed to spool out of Faust’s estate.

“I’ve got you now, Karen!” Connie shouted. She sounded happy. Best to keep her that way – happy and alive.

“Thanks for everything,” mumbled Faust.

He picked himself up, brushed the soil off his clothes, and cut his way out of the undergrowth with the inert Double-Edged Sword, alone.