No Contest

They have no idea how angry I am.

Nanobot technology was supposed to be a miracle. It was supposed to fix our bodies—heal injuries, cure diseases, even fight cancer. But once they figured out the side effects, only people with millions of dollars could get the treatment.

Then it became billions. Ordinary millionaires? They could forget about it.

I did take some pleasure in watching the private healthcare system fall apart. But what took its place? A world split between the super rich and the rest of us, with everything stacked against us.

We didn’t need to build walls to divide “Us” and “Them,” but they built them anyway—big walls, guarded gates, bad working conditions, and no real healthcare. Rebellion? Crushed with violence and bigger walls.

The first people who got the treatment were kept away from everyone else. They turned out super healthy—no surprise—and were given their own little kingdoms behind those high walls. But bring their families? Their kids? No way. That might make them “Us.” And the rich can’t have that.

I’ve heard the newest treatment can keep a person alive for a thousand years. A thousand years. No updates needed.

I’m not exactly thrilled about spending the next centuries alone.

How did I end up in this mess? How did I even “win”?

They call it luck. I call it a prison.

I never wanted the treatment. I never signed up for the “contest” they run every decade or so, to give the poor a glimmer of hope. It’s rigged anyway.

But it didn’t matter. They kidnapped me on my way to work, knocked me out, and forced it on me.

I figure they did it because of what I know. The rich can’t afford to lose people like me who know how to think and teach. Colleges? They’re stuck with the same teachers for centuries now, repeating the same stuff. Nothing new. Nothing fresh. It’s an echo chamber.

Funny thing about the treatment—it stops people from having kids after a while. Only about twenty to forty years of possible fertility. It even erases tattoos and piercings and messes with skin color. Everyone who gets it ends up the same uniform shade of brown.

The rich can’t have kids after a century or so. So they keep the poor around to have healthy kids for them.

But when they took me, they didn’t take my husband or my parents. I had to watch them grow old and die, while I stayed young and healthy.

What did they expect me to do?

I didn’t just sit there. I learned how it all worked. Even though they tried to scrub the internet, I had help. My husband was a coder. He taught me how to find hidden data, how to cache it. He’s gone now, but he taught me well.

I learned that the treatment is actually pretty simple. I slipped away from the rich neighborhoods, back to the slums where they wouldn’t look for me.

They’re so scared of getting sick that they won’t even come out here. The police stay behind their walls, too.

I’m not worried. The nanobots keep me healthy.

I work in a little clinic here. I teach people how to clean wounds, stitch up cuts, and even do small surgeries. It’s not fancy, but it works. I learned how to make tools from scratch years ago, and there’s plenty of scrap around.

I’ve got nothing but time. So I teach.

Once a month, I donate blood.

The nanobots in my blood? They replicate themselves. The rich say the treatment is complicated, but it’s a lie. All it takes is giving someone my blood, and the nanobots start working in them too.

Sure, if they find me, they’ll try to strip the nanobots out of me. They say it’s a painful death, but I’m not afraid of that. They already took everything I loved.

I remember my mother teaching me how to reach every student. She didn’t need fancy degrees or high-tech tools—she had common sense and kindness. I try to do the same.

The rich thought they had created a system that would keep them safe forever. But they were wrong.

By sharing my blood, I’m helping more people get the treatment. One day, the rich won’t be the only ones living long, healthy lives.

I read every book my husband and I had. Books on building houses, making machines, growing food. Libraries were closed down first, but books can be copied. The people I helped? They’re making their own paper and ink. Writing it all down. Spreading the knowledge.

The rich don’t even notice. They’re too busy enjoying their manicured lawns and ignoring the world beyond their walls.

But I see it. I see the revolution coming.

They thought they could keep us down with guns and threats. But what happens when the poor stop dying young?

I have centuries left. Time enough to help as many as I can, to share everything I know.

The rich tried to put me in a prison, in a body that won’t die.

But they gave me the keys to their downfall. The nanobots are in me, and now, they’re in everyone I help.

I can’t wait to see the day when they’re the ones trapped behind bars—this time, with no way out.