Greg woke up to his head buzzing. Not the pleasant kind of buzz, like a text from a prospective date or a friendly reminder that it was Saturday, and he didn’t have to work. No, this was the shrill, instant buzz of a notification he couldn’t sleep through. He groaned and opened his eyes.
Your Oxygen Access: Tier One subscription has expired. Please update your payment information to avoid service interruption.
“Damn, I knew I forgot one.”
He blinked twice to acknowledge, and the HUD on his retinal projection brought him to a sleek corporate website. The loading icon spun slowly in the center of the page, long enough for him to think of Paul. Paul let his oxygen subscription expire, turning his apartment into an overpriced storage unit. Now he slept on the street, breathing that crappy free air like a pleb. He’d have to hold his breath to run inside for a change of clothes. But he swore that it was worth it.
Finally, the page loaded with a list of subscription options:
- Basic Breathing: $9.99 per month
(Limited to 20,000 breaths per day)
The breath count was a bit low, but he found that it never really ran out all the way, he just hated how the air pressure would drop, making his ears pop and head throb. It made it hard to sleep at the end of the day but he could still function.
- Premium Breathing: $29.99 per month
(Unlimited breaths per day + exotic air blends)
They didn’t have a mid-level, which stuck in Greg’s craw. The only other option was a family plan, but it was twice as expensive. “I don’t need any exotic blends,” he thought. “Just the damn air.”
He could afford the premium if he shifted some other subs around, maybe cancel Happiness Unlimited. His Nueralink would only enable its serotonin inhibitor, stopping its release in his brain. “What’s the worst that could happen?” he thought. “Be unburdened by the constant letdown of expected joy?” But then what would he feel when he sold more units?
Greg sighed and reluctantly selected the basic plan. Nothing flashy, just enough to not die. He uploaded his new account information, and after it was processed, his lungs felt a little fresher. Or maybe it was just his imagination.
Greg went about his morning, finding more little things he’d forgotten to update. “God, there’s so many. How could I not notice?” Beverage Enjoyment Plus before his coffee machine would dispense his morning brew. The showerhead needed his Hydration Max account renewed. Even his toothpaste required updating his OraGel Hygiene Super.
By the time he left for work, he was $27 poorer. He scanned his wrist implant at the crosswalk to charge his Pedestrian Access Pass and was reminded not to forget to tip his local Sidewalk Maintenance AI, 20% of course. The light turned green, and as he stepped onto the street, his field of vision was obstructed by a pop-up:
Tired of ads? Upgrade to ad-free walking for only $4.99 for the first month, then $12.99 every month after that.
Greg blinked three times to close out and continued to the Wi-Fi lounge. As he turned the corner, he nearly tripped over a man crouched beside an overflowing trash bin. The man’s face was streaked with dirt, his matted hair clinging to his forehead like wet rope. Hands blackened with grime dug eagerly into the bin. He pulled out a half-eaten burger wrapped in a grease-stained wrapper. The bun was soggy, the lettuce limp and brown, and a single fly buzzed lazily around a patty glistening with something that might have been sauce—or something far worse. The man didn’t seem to care. He tore into it with a ferocity that made Greg’s stomach churn, bits of food falling from his mouth onto the pavement below.
For a moment, Greg just stared, equal parts disgusted and fascinated. Then the thought hit him, “Shouldn’t he have to pay for that? I mean, that’s technically food access. There should be a sub for Waste Reclamation Subscription or something. There would have to be tiered pricing: basic for access to fast-food dumpsters or trash cans and premium for high-end restaurant scraps.” Greg shook his head, trying to dislodge the thought, but it stuck like the smell of rotting garbage. He stepped around the man, careful not to make eye or physical contact, and hurried towards the Wi-Fi lounge.
It was crowded every day, and the delayed start almost cost him a table. He found one in the furthest corner from the entrance, paid his comfort fee, and took a seat.
He paid for the Wi-Fi access and the bandwidth boost package because he didn’t get paid by the hour but by how many packages he moved. Speed was required. A small price to pay for something above 20th century dial-up speeds, and he had to produce, or his job would be replaced by AI.
By noon, he had spent more than he had earned, and the notification came that sent him into shock.
Your Existence Package is about to expire! Please register your account in the next seven days to avoid existence cancellation.
Frantically, Greg blinked twice to open the link. It brought him to the Nueralink webpage explaining what had happened.
Your 25-year free trial of existence will expire on May 15th. Please upgrade your membership to continue enjoying existence.
“I forgot my birthday was coming up, fuck how could I have forgotten my birthday!”
Everyone told him he had to plan for it, especially his father, who always warned Greg that he might not be around to help. But in the hustle and bustle of his life it got set aside as a “tomorrow problem”, but now it was here as inevitable as dusk. Greg scrolled down to review the options, of which there were only two:
- Basic Existence: $99.99 per month
(No premium features) - Premium Existence: $299.99 per month
(Unlimited access to life essentials, including Wi-Fi and colored vision)
He clicked on the basic without pause, but his credit card was declined. He clicked on the AI chatbot for further assistance.
“I’m sorry you’re having trouble. Would you like to explore our financing options?”
“Yes,” he clicked.
Greg reviewed the terms of service—it would come at a 130% interest rate and forfeiture of his likeliness.
He was declined.
It wasn’t his only option, others included paying for the subscription with a donation. $60 for a kidney, $75 for an eye, and they even offered to pay a dollar for every pint of blood ($3 if he were under 10 years of age.) But needles made him squeamish. “Maybe I should’ve had a kid,” he thought.
Paul had told him of a man who could help him—but for a cost, should push come to shove. His name was Carl, and he offered anything from loans to counterfeit sunlight. He even communicated he could hack Greg’s Nueralink to give him free and unlimited hearing. Greg had always wanted to listen to music or hear his mother’s voice. But the risk wasn’t worth it. He’d seen pictures of what happened to people who tampered with their implants in elementary school, and he very much liked his head staying in one piece.
Greg bargained with Carl, turning over some of his rations, access to his oxygen, and even a few memories, like the time he lost his virginity, or when his dad went into debt unlocking the color blue when they went to the ocean. If he didn’t remember he wouldn’t ever regret. But at least his existence was paid in full, and he wouldn’t have to worry about debtors coming after his internal organs—for now—but that was a next year problem. This is where he was now.
***
Exhausted, Greg sat watching reruns of The Office, sipping his prescription-locked coffee, when his head buzzed again.
Congratulations! You’ve been selected for a 30-day free trial of Euphoria. After which, you will be charged $19.99 per month for continued service.
Greg paused, his pupil hovering over the ad, before blinking twice to confirm yes. His mind went numb, and the screen turned off, revealing his grey world. He looked out his window to the homeless man sitting on a park bench, grinning as he devoured another discarded meal. A feeling of want passed over him, but it was quickly muted by Euphoria that killed all desire. He watched for a few more moments as the man slurped up the rancid pasta, his brain too foggy to care.
He turned his eyes up to his ceiling when another pop-up covered his field of vision:
Feeling left out? Upgrade to our Trash Foraging Package for just $49.99 per month! Includes access to premium dumpsters and ad-free scavenging. Let’s get diving!