He Chose
His body. Their terms and conditions.
The new office still smelled like primer.
The vial was empty. Senator David Reis capped it, dropped it in the wastebasket. His daily T shot. Ritual done. The antitrust briefing was at noon.
Anya leaned in the doorway. “Five minutes, David. Your nine o’clock is here.”
“Who?”
“Mr. Bolus. From IDENTAS.”
“A donor?”
“He says you’re an alumnus.”
Bolus was thin. His suit was gray. Even his eyes seemed filtered, like grayscale video.
“Congratulations on the win, Senator,” Bolus said. “We’re very proud of our placement.”
“Placement.” David set his coffee down. “I appreciate the support, but—”
“Not support.” Bolus tapped his tablet. “Ms. Hartwell. Phase Three Phenotype Expression Trial. 2010. Participant 449B.”
David’s jaw closed on whatever he was about to say.
Bolus kept going. “You’re our most successful proof of concept.”
“My medical history is confidential. But you know that already.”
“Your medical history is,” Bolus agreed. “Your license agreement is not.”
He turned the tablet. David’s old face looked back at him from a scanned intake form. The photo was bad fluorescent light and a paper gown and someone who had learned to stop looking at cameras.
“Your vote on the antitrust bill is next week,” Bolus said. “We need you to vote no.”
“Or what?”
“This is a subscription, Senator. Not a cure.” His eyes dropped. Came back up. Taking inventory. “Anya has my number.”
He placed a matte-black card on the desk and left.
The primer smell was stronger. Like the room was still drying around him.
That night the itch started. Low at first, along his forearms. He searched IDENTAS. Shell companies. Patents. Trial abstracts. Nothing with a face on it.
He posted on X: Corporate ghosts knocking. Stay tuned.
Two minutes later his phone rang.
“Violation of Clause 9,” Bolus said. “Your account status is now subscription-pending.”
The itch moved up his throat.
He went to the bathroom. Three e-vials on the glass shelf, lined up the way he lined them up every Sunday. A small red LED on each one. He picked one up. The little screen read:
Authorization required. Contact provider.
The medicine was in his hand.
He put the vial down on the edge of the sink. Picked it up again. Same screen.
He knew this direction. Had traveled it before in the wrong way, for too many years, and he knew exactly what the itch was telling him about where it was going.
He opened his front camera and went live.
“IDENTAS owns my transition,” he said. “They want my vote or they take my body. Fight with me.”
Thousands joined. The comments moved faster than he could read them.
His vision blurred. He blinked hard.
The itch was under his ribs now. His throat felt wrong in a way that had nothing to do with the broadcast. He tried to swallow.
“Fight with me.” Breathy. Thin.
His legs went. He caught the sink with one hand. The phone clattered on the tile, camera facing up. The light fixture white and still.
“Fight—”
The stream kept running.
The room looked like a hospital. The doctors outside spoke in tones that didn’t carry.
He was trending.
His voice sounded like an echo of someone he used to know.
Bolus appeared in the doorway, tablet in hand. “Per Clause 17B you’re non-compliant. We can’t authorize treatment. Unless you sign.”
David’s hand hovered over the tablet.
His phone was on the bedside table. The stream still running. The comments still moving.
We see you. We see you. We see you.
He looked at the camera.
His knuckles looked smaller than he remembered.
He hurled the tablet at the wall.
Bolus picked up the pieces with the patience of a man who had budgeted for this. “You have until midnight.” He left.
David reached for his phone.
Outside the window the sky was doing something. He couldn’t tell if it was getting lighter or darker. He didn’t look away from the camera long enough to find out.