A/N: I don't do this. I don't just impulsively have story ideas and then put them down on paper (figuratively) while watching the Opening Ceremonies. Except obviously I do. So here's the deal with the deal: I put this up here and if there's an overwhelming response this weekend, I'll run with it. Deal? Deal. If not, completely cool and I'll stick to other stories.

I don't own 'Skins.'

August 13, 2016, 9:40 P.M.

He frowned angrily, foot tapping rapidly, as the other fifteen thousand people in the building rose to their feet, roaring in anticipation. He exhaled heavily, running a hand through dusty blonde hair before clasping both his hands behind the crown of his head. This was supposed to be a great moment—the capstone of four years of arduous training and his friends struggling against one another day after day to make this moment possible—and now it was about to fall apart instead of embodying the spirit of triumph and redemption that this competition espoused. He shook his head dejectedly and let out a loud groan. Next to him, his teammate paused from clapping to look down and glare at him. Unperturbed, he remained sitting, foot continuing to tap.

Below, on the right side of the stadium, a group of four women emerged onto the blue deck, waving up at the crowd in matching white warm-up jackets as the announcers dutifully dictated the country from which the women hailed and their names in both Portuguese and English. Momentarily, a second quartet appeared (these in luminescent orange windbreakers) and proceeded towards their designated lane to the disgruntled fan's right. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees as he glanced along the row of seats past his disapproving teammate to where two men in navy blue blazers stood side-by-side, heads nearly touching as they whispered furiously over the cheering. One of the men shook his head, gesturing towards where the fourth set of women (green jackets with yellow trim) was making its way across the deck.

"Are you really going to sit there when they walk out? Show some fucking respect, Jesus," implored the frustrated teammate with a roll of his eyes.

"Why should I when our girls don't even respect 'emselves, eh? It's a miracle the four of them are even competin' after this mornin'." He shook his head and stood up despite his diatribe. "Leave it them to top their own shit from London."

The final group of four women emerged from the entryway across the arena and the two teammates roared in support despite their bickering, yelling as loud as they could and interspersing whistles with their clapping. As the cheering died down and the last group took their position, huddling together and calmly removing their stark white parkas with stylized navy blue and red letters and lion's heads on the back as they tried to get some last minute stretching in, the taller of the two teammates leaned down to his childhood friend. "Don't you dare mention that race—bad luck, mate."

"Ah, come on, Freds, if theys haven't put it past 'em by this point, they never will." Nevertheless, James Cook worried his bottom lip as one of the four women stepped away from the huddle and up onto the slightly raised bulkhead with seven other competitors. "'Sides, bit late to worry about bad luck now. Just gotta go out and compete, yeah."

Freddie pressed his lips into a thin line as the first set of women received the direction to jump into the massive pool. The splash of their insertions was drowned out by the roar of the crowd. "Yeah. Just gotta compete."

Down on deck, the other three members of the relay crouched next to the chairs and receptacles for their warm-ups behind the last lane of the pool, linking pinkies in a superstitious ritual as the starter's slightly garbled voice cut through the air and silenced the crowd.

"C'mon, Ef!" one of the girls whispered encouragingly as the other two opted to forego cheering on their teammate in favor of exchanging far more poisonous words.

"Just don't make sure you don't fuck up your turn this time, yeah? I know you don't care about us, so do it for yourself if it helps us medal."

"Why don't you worry about that exchange instead of my leg, bitch?"

"Fuck's sake you two! Shove it—"

"Swimmers take your marks..."

All three fell silent as the entire aquatics center held its breath for that final, awesome moment of anticipation before the starting buzzer. Two sets of chocolate brown eyes squeezed shut behind glossy dark goggles; a set of cold blue ones remained open, staring across the small space between them.

Four Years Earlier

BEEP

The crowd roared and the first swimmers threw themselves backwards, arcing through the air and into the water, exploding away from the wall as they began the first leg of the competition's final event. Behind each lane, the other three members of each relay resumed their final pre-race rituals. As the competitors in the water completed their turn at the far end of the fifty meter pool, the second member of each relay approached the starting blocks, swinging arms back and forth or pressing goggles to their eyes and taking several deep breaths.

The swimmers in the water drew closer far quicker than the next relay members could comprehend and they hurriedly stepped onto the blocks, framing their approaching pinwheeling arms with their hands. From her position in lane seven, Emily Fitch saw in her peripherals other teams make their exchange and she refocused on the girl closing in on the wall in front of her.

She swung her arms in a counterclockwise rotation, stepping forward with one foot and then the second as she launched herself from the block gracefully. Her body passed right over her teammate before scything into the water. The water—a crisp twenty-seven degrees Celsius—was not a shock, but did still add to the adrenaline coursing through her system.

Water rushed past her as she executed a strong underwater pull, hands serpentining through the water into a quick snap of both feet before shooting her hands back forward as her legs bent at the knees and snapped in a near heart-shape and she broached the surface. Immediately, Emily began taking powerful breaststrokes, trying to focus on quick strokes and making sure to glide slightly at the conclusion of each stroke. She hit the far wall with both hands, dropping her elbow and shooting her opposite hand past her ear as she pushed off at an angle and continued rotating around to her stomach. One final underwater pullout and she was again gliding along the top of the water, stroke after stroke bringing her back to where she knew her sister waited anxiously on the block to dive in for the next leg.

Emily passed underneath the flags marking the final stretch of the pool and made sure to count her strokes; she hit the number she knew her sister was anticipating and snapped her kick, gliding into the wall and pressing her fingertips into the yellow and black Omega timing board. She popped up, checking their time on the board at the opposite end of the pool. She noted her split—the isolated time of her one hundred meters—and heaved herself out of the pool.

Her heart sank.

Standing there, stone-faced, was an official in a white sportcoat. "Miss, were you aware you left the block early?"

A false start?! Emily gaped, incredulous. It couldn't be. She shook her head. "No, I couldn't have."

"Unfortunately, Miss, there's not much debate." Emily continued shaking her head as she stepped down off the bulkhead onto the deck where Effy was standing, back to the competition pool, as she stared into the azure depths of the practice pool. Collapsing into the plastic chair behind their lane, Emily cradled her head in her hands, slowly peeling off her swim cap as her sister completed her useless leg of the relay and their final teammate and countrywoman stepped onto the block. Even amidst the furor growing as the Americans took aim at a world record in the lane next to them, Emily heard the splash that signaled the anchor of their relay, Michelle Richardson, was starting her leg of the race despite the outcome of their race already decided.

Emily looked up as her sister emerged from the pool, removing goggles slowly, pained eyes meeting those of her sister. Unable to hold her gaze, guilt overwhelmed her and Emily turned away. Her eyes roved across the lower levels of the seating and settled on their coach, who looked like he was struggling to contain just as much disappointment as Emily felt dripping off her with each drop of water.

Disqualified—in the Olympic final. In London.

Her eyes lingered on a British flag as she continued scanning the crowd and her efforts to contain her emotions failed. As Katie embraced her, Emily squeezed her eyes shut and sobbed into her twin's shoulder as the race completed and the crowd cheered in celebration.