The Fine Print
How I Subscribed to the Future and Lost Myself
Hi my friends,
I’m going to be exploring sci-fi short stories more regularly on Fridays. This may be less consistent than my regular Tuesday editions, but we’ll see how it evolves.
This is an experiment, motivated by positive feedback I received about The Printing Press. I am open to more feedback, and I can always create a separate section just for sci-fi ideas where people can subscribe, and perhaps more importantly unsubscribe, to that section separately. Let me know if that is the better route to take at contact@connectedideasproject.com.
Until then, welcome to the second edition of Sci-Fi Friday at The Connected Ideas Project!
Cheers,
-Titus
The Fine Print
I signed up for the Genomic+ Plan because it seemed like the logical thing to do.
You don’t think twice about these things when they’re pitched to you the way NexaBio does it—clean, reassuring, almost inevitable. Their slogan was everywhere: “Better You, Better World.” And why wouldn’t I want to be better?
It started with an email. A personalized invitation, just for me. They called it The Longevity Suite. The pitch was seductive: targeted genetic edits to prevent chronic illnesses, optimized metabolism for sustained energy, and enhancements to cognitive function. They’d even map my risk factors and “silence” any undesirable genes—like flipping a switch on everything that could ever go wrong with me.
And the cost? Not nearly as much as I’d expected.
The catch, buried in the FAQ, was that it wasn’t a one-time payment. You couldn’t just “buy” genetic perfection. It was a subscription, billed monthly for maintenance doses of CRISPR therapy to ensure the edits held.
The rep on the consultation call said it was like software updates for your body. “DNA doesn’t stay static,” she explained. “We optimize you continuously.”
At the time, I didn’t blink. A subscription model made sense. It was modern. And frankly, it felt like the cost of staying competitive in a world where everyone was upgrading.
I didn’t think of it as buying my future.
The first few months were incredible. I had more energy than I’d ever thought possible. The chronic migraines that had plagued me since my twenties? Gone. My body felt… lighter, as if it had shed years of accumulated wear and tear.
And the mental clarity—I can’t even describe it. It was like my brain had been under a fog my whole life, and suddenly someone switched on the high beams. Tasks that used to take hours were done in minutes. My boss noticed, of course, and soon I was spearheading projects I’d never have been trusted with before.
NexaBio sent regular updates about my improvements. I could track my cellular efficiency in real time through the sleek app they provided. Heart performance: +12%. Sleep quality: +9%. Every little number reassured me that I was becoming the best version of myself.
But after six months, the first invoice came through.
It was higher than I remembered. I pulled up the contract to double-check. Sure enough, I’d agreed to a “dynamic pricing structure based on individual optimization needs.” In other words, the more they improved me, the more I’d pay.
I shrugged it off. What was a little extra money in exchange for everything they’d given me?
The panic set in after a year.
I missed a payment.
Not because I couldn’t afford it—I was making more money than ever thanks to the promotion NexaBio practically handed me. It was a simple mistake: a credit card expiration I forgot to update.
Within 48 hours, the effects were… noticeable.
First, the fatigue came back. Then the migraines. My hands started trembling in a way they hadn’t since before the treatments. I thought maybe it was psychosomatic, but when I logged into the NexaBio app, there was an alert waiting for me:
“Urgent: Subscription lapse detected. Gene stability at risk. Update payment method to resume services.”
The words “gene stability” made my stomach churn. I called customer support immediately, and they reassured me it was no big deal. “Just a brief interruption,” the agent said, cheerful as ever. “Your edits are designed to revert gradually without maintenance—totally reversible once we process your payment.”
I updated my card on the spot. The symptoms faded within hours. But something about the incident left me shaken.
That’s when I went back and read the contract. All of it this time.
They own me.
I didn’t understand it when I signed. The terms were written in the kind of dense legalese that seems designed to make your eyes glaze over. But the gist was simple: NexaBio doesn’t just license you the upgrades. They own the rights to your genetic code, to every modification they make.
I can’t take my genome to another provider because NexaBio holds the patents on the sequences inside me. Even if another company could match their technology—and none of them can—I’d be facing lawsuits for intellectual property theft.
I also can’t stop the treatments. Without their monthly maintenance doses, my body will spiral into what they call “instability events.” The edits will unravel, and in many cases, they’ll reverse beyond the baseline I started with. I’ve heard stories of people who tried to quit—bones weakening to the point of fractures, immune systems crashing, organs failing.
Once you’re in, you’re in for life.
And it’s not just me.
At first, I thought this was a personal problem—a bad deal I’d stumbled into. But I started noticing things. Colleagues who had suddenly become inexplicably sharper, more ambitious, more… polished.
We didn’t talk about it, of course. The upgrades weren’t something you bragged about, not openly. But in private, over drinks, I started hearing murmurs.
“The migraines came back for a day last month—scared the hell out of me.”
“I’m up to $1,200 a month now. Think they’ll ever cap it?”
“Did you see the new enhancement package? Better reaction time. I signed up yesterday.”
It wasn’t just me. It was all of us. My company had quietly encouraged employees to enroll, reimbursing the first year of treatments to “boost productivity.” Now, the majority of my peers were locked into the same system I was.
I realized something terrifying: NexaBio didn’t just own me. They owned entire organizations. Corporations couldn’t afford to lose their optimized workers, so they offered stipends, structured bonuses, even new contracts tied to ongoing genetic subscriptions.
It was brilliant. And horrifying.
I want out.
I think about it every day. What it would be like to stop the treatments, to let my body go back to what it was. To live free of the app notifications, the metrics, the endless bills.
But I’m terrified.
I’ve read the medical reports about people who tried to quit. Some didn’t make it. Others… well, let’s just say they aren’t the same. NexaBio calls it “adaptive rebound syndrome.” I call it punishment.
And it’s not just my health at stake. If I quit, I lose my edge. My job. My place in a world that’s built for people like me now. The only thing worse than being owned by NexaBio is being left behind by everyone else who still is.
So I stay.
I pay the bills. I update the app. I tell myself it’s worth it—because the alternative is unthinkable.
But sometimes, late at night, I stare at my reflection and wonder if I’m still me.
Am I Clara Miller, the person I was born as? Or am I Clara 2.7, a licensed product of NexaBio’s design?
I don’t know anymore. And maybe that’s the scariest part.
Better You, Better World.
The slogan pops into my head at random moments. It’s everywhere, like a whisper I can’t escape.
But now, I hear it differently.
Better me, sure.
Better world? Only for the ones who can afford it.