The Price Of Love

The outside world was unknown to her, but she could see a glimpse through the window in his room. And it was through that window that she saw the car drive by.

"Is that him?" Alana asked, giddy with anticipation.

"That's him," Charles answered, offering an indulgent smile. "Once he enters the building, we will confirm your compatibility codes, and you will be finally ready to come out and see our wonderful little town. And, of course, you get to start a life with your perfect soulmate.

The young woman's heart drummed in anticipation. The world felt new to her, but Alana had a few recollections, tidbits of her past self, before the miracle of neural emotional rewiring. Few people have had the privilege to access this cutting-edge technology, and even fewer were brave enough to jump headfirst into it. The possibility of a brand new life, untethered from the baggage caused by past disappointments or trauma, free to love without fear of restraint. Many have tried to find this feeling through therapy, medications, or shamanic drugs. But Charles Preston had unlocked the secret of happiness by implanting an emotional rewiring microdevice directly into the brain's limbic system. It was the same principle used for years to alleviate physical pain by manipulating the brain's pain centers, only this device was thousands of times more sophisticated.

Before the miracle implant, Alana was just like many other women. She was exhausted, frustrated, and hopeless. Years of stupid dating apps and thousands of dollars spent on so-called matchmakers had left her in absolute despair. She was beautiful, a brilliant scientist in her own right, and a decent person. Why, then, was it so hard to find love? When all hope seemed lost, she heard through the grapevine of science contacts that a revolutionary behavioralist had found an infallible method to match soulmates as long as they were willing to take the plunge. It was a "blue pill, red pill" strategy: after a careful selection process, the few chosen signed up to be transported to an undisclosed town in New England and to go through a surgical procedure to implant a device that automatically removed the person's blocks and restrictions and left them clear and open to love. Then they would be matched to someone that not only fulfilled their physical requirements and standards of attractiveness but was also a sexual match. That was achieved using a proprietary system that searched for the kind of histocompatibility required for an organ transplant but applied to sexual attractiveness. The cost was astronomical, beyond reach for most people. Still, Alana was such a catch that the Preston foundation had offered to cover all expenses because they predicted that her success story would be an excellent advertisement for their future endeavors. So she gleefully said yes.

Trent Harrington smiled as the self-driving car took him through the streets of the picturesque New England town. Finally, after hours of driving inside a vehicle with wholly blackened windows, the tint on the glass decreased, and he could see the fantastic view. The tiny town that until 2028 had been a classic piece of rural life was now an even smaller, almost secretive hub for the rich and not-so-famous. An elite group of tech tycoons less interested in fame and more driven to search for a pleasurable life had acquired the town bit by bit in a coordinated attack that left the former inhabitants with full pockets and no regrets. Then with the precision of a Seal team, the Preston Consortium demolished the fading houses and replaced them with a modern version of a Thomas Kinkade painting.

Trent smiled. His obsession with tech had paid handsomely; now, he was retired at age 30 and ready for leisure. But more than anything, Trent was driven by the promise of the one thing he had not been able to find or buy: love. But his billions had bought him a slot in the exclusive community where love was guaranteed.

The new founding father of the town, Charles Preston, had made a fortune in behavioral research. He had gone beyond psychotherapy and other traditional western approaches to the human psyche and developed an algorithm and a device to find real connections for people like Trent. Men that had not been blessed with the skill to form significant relationships. Trent was ready to do whatever it took to be as happy as the Preston Consortium promised. His sexual histocompatibility samples were already processed, and a notification that a perfect candidate was selected arrived in his email. Trent Harrington was only a chip implant away from true happiness.

"Welcome!" Charles Preston himself greeted Trent as he came out of the car. Behind him was a gorgeous woman. The shy man went pale and was about to go into the usual panic that accompanied these situations, but the girl ran and wrapped her arms around him.

"Oh my God," Alana said with tears in her eyes. "This is it, I know it, I can feel it. You are everything I ever wanted."

Trent was shaken, but excitement won over all other feelings. He tried to talk, to be honest, and tell her that his device had not been implanted yet, but the fear of disappointing the goddess in his arms kept him quiet. He looked at Charles, who smiled beatifically.

"Why don't you two go find your new place and get to know each other? It is possible that the histocompatibility and Alana's implant would be enough to grant you both happiness. Go ahead, enjoy each other, and then we'll see if Trent's implant is even necessary."

Trent tried to argue, to say that it didn't feel fair. But Alana was pulling him back into the self-driving car and giving instructions to find their new house. She couldn't wait to start their life together. Her joy was contagious, and Trent went along with it.

They stayed blissfully locked in their new, idyllic house for a whole week. Trent, whose sexual experience had been quite limited due to his awkward personality, was suddenly adored by the most fantastic woman he had ever met. She worshipped every part of him, and Trent rejoiced in it, frequently falling into tears that Alana kissed away and turned into endless pleasure. She loved him so freely and absolutely that the shy man let go of his inhibitions and fears and drowned in an ocean of happiness.

It was all perfect until Alana woke up with a terrible headache one day. When Trent tried to bring her close for comfort, she pulled away, a look of disgust on her face. Fear crept on him.

"Perhaps we should go to the clinic and get Charles to look at your implant?" he suggested in a trembling voice.

"Yes," she answered dryly, grabbing her coat and heading to the car, not allowing Trent to help her. The self-driving car was at the clinic in a matter of minutes, and Alana rushed in, yelling Charles' name. The Scientist came out of his office, not perturbed by her furious demands to get the damn implant removed right this second. Instead, he looked at Trent and said:

"I'll take care of her. Why don't you go through those doors and sit with the others that are waiting?"

Trent nodded, terror written on his face. Was he about to lose Alana? Once the chip was removed, would she feel repelled and leave him? Could they try again, get Alana's chip fixed, implant Trent's and give their relationship another chance? All those thoughts swam in his mind as he opened the door to the waiting room. Except this was not a regular hospital waiting room. Instead, there was a poker table, seven or eight men sitting around, playing, smoking cigars, and drinking. They didn't look the least concerned. One of them greeted Trent.

"Are you the new guy? Welcome! Have a seat. Brought your girl for a tune-in?"

"What?" Trent asked, confused.

One of the men snorted.

"Brand new groom. Little fellow doesn't know the whole deal. Time to pull the plug, I see," he said, and all the others at the table cackled.

"What are you talking about?" Trent was more nervous by the minute. This was a bizarre situation, and he could not grasp what was happening.

"Oh, you thought it was fun before; you should see how it will be now. Your woman is about to go full-on, sexy kitten, ever-pleasing, and completely insatiable. It's worth the coldness, that's for sure."

"What coldness?" Trent asked, a dreadful feeling growing in his gut.

"You'll see. It takes a minute to get used to it. But is nothing a heating blanket cannot fix."

The table exploded in laughter again.

He took a seat, a hollow, horrific feeling churning his stomach. Someone put a bottle of bourbon and a glass in front of him. Trent was paralyzed by fear for a long time, but the men around didn't notice or didn't care. After what felt like an eternity, the door to the room opened, and Charles walked in, followed by a smiling Alana. The table exploded in catcalls.

"Wow! You lucky bastard! Look at those tits! And those lips! That girl probably has vacuum-level suction in that mouth!" someone enthused, patting Trent's back and laughing. Worse, Alana did not react to their vulgarity; she just walked around the table and sat on Trent's lap. The smile on her face was sweet, but her eyes looked dead. Very, very dead.

"What did you do to her?" Trent shouted.

"Alana's brain rejected the implant. So we had to overhaul her. You won't have problems with her anymore. Just bring her once a week for an amniotic infusion, and you can have her at your beck and call."

At that moment, Trent realized that although Alana was sitting on his lap, no warmth was gathering between them. Her body was getting colder by the minute.

'What did you do?" he screamed. "Why is she so cold?"

"She's optimized," Charles responded.

"She's a cool chick now," someone snorted.

"I call mine my sexy penguin," another added.

"I'm more open about my tastes, so I like the word undead," one of the men said, making some chortle.

"I prefer zombie bride," another one responded, inciting even more laughter.

"Don't worry, mate," a man with a British accent offered. "Keep her amniotic infusions on schedule. She won't rot. Come on, give it a try. What's her name?"

"Alana," Trent answered automatically, too horrified to comprehend fully.

"Hey, Alana, why don't you blow your guy right here? Show us what you can do," the British man said. The others whooped and cheered. Alana went to her knees, but Trent stopped her. She smiled and returned to sit on his lap, the same empty smile on her face.

"You monsters!" Trent yelled. "I'm calling the police."

"We are an independent town, Trent," Charles shrugged. "No police and no one has jurisdiction here. You can choose to leave if you want. But Alana stays. Her body rejected an implant that she volunteered to take. Since she signed her remains to us in case of accidents during the procedure, her corpse now belongs to the Preston Consortium. You can either continue your role as a donor, use her in her new, ever-pleasing state, or choose to get a new bride for an escalated price. Alana here can become a lovely addition to the house of recreation we are building for the members that require a bit more…variety.

Trent sat there, comprehension dawning on him. This is what a couple of billion dollars can buy, and that is what he had become. With tears in his eyes, he reached for the bottle of bourbon, smashed it on the table, and gave Alana a last look.

"I'm sorry, love," he said before violently ripping off his own throat with the broken glass. As darkness took him, the last thing he saw was the absolute, dead indifference in his beloved Alana's eyes.