We already live in a subscription economy. Your phone, your music, your television, even (believe it or not!) tractor diagnostics software now requires annual fees to unlock functions that farmers once controlled themselves. This story simply asks: what happens when human experiences themselves become premium services? In a world where everything has a price, how long before existence itself requires a monthly fee?
Subscription-Based Reality
Marcus stared at the renewal notice, his coffee growing cold. Social Recognition+ would expire in seven days unless he paid £347.99. The amount sat there like a taunt—exactly £127 more than his remaining account balance.
“Temporary setback,” he muttered, reaching for his phone. He’d sort it, surely. The customer service bot answered immediately.
“Hello, valued customer! How can I enhance your human experience today?”
“I need to discuss my Social Recognition+ renewal. I’m a Head of Department at Greenfield Academy, been a premium subscriber for six years. I just need a short extension while I sort out a banking issue.”
“I understand your concern! Unfortunately, subscription services cannot be extended beyond the renewal date. Might I suggest our Basic Social Package at £47.99 monthly?”
Marcus felt a chill. He’d seen Basic Package people—the ones who worked in shops where customers’ eyes never quite focused on them, who stood in queues that somehow never moved. “What exactly does Basic Social cover?”
“Basic Social ensures minimal human acknowledgement during essential transactions! You’ll be seen by cashiers, medical professionals, and immediate family members up to three hours daily.”
“Three hours?” Marcus’s voice cracked. “What about my job? My students?”
“Employment interactions require Professional Recognition, available as an add-on for £89.99 monthly.”
The line went dead. Marcus stared at his phone, watching his reflection fade in the black screen.
On Monday morning, Marcus strode into the staff meeting with his usual confidence. He’d sort it, surely. A man in his position didn’t simply vanish!
“Right,” said James, the deputy head, not looking at him. “With Marcus absent today, I’ll need someone to cover his Year 11 classes.”
“I’m here,” Marcus said, louder than intended.
James’s gaze swept past him to Janet. “Janet, could you take them? You know the syllabus.”
“James, I’m literally standing here.” Marcus waved his hand in front of his face. He blinked, looking mildly confused, then continued talking.
The meeting progressed around him. His name was mentioned several times—always in reference to his absence, his workload being redistributed, his responsibilities being “temporarily reassigned.” He spoke increasingly frantically, but nobody turned, nobody responded. He might as well have been a ghost.
Panic rising, Marcus rushed to his classroom. The Year 10s filed in, chattering loudly. He stood at the front, calling for attention. The noise continued. A paper aeroplane sailed past his ear. Two students began playing cards at the back.
“Open your textbooks to page forty-seven,” he shouted. Nothing. A girl near the front glanced around with mild confusion, as if she’d heard something but couldn’t locate the source.
Marcus grabbed a marker and wrote his name on the whiteboard in huge letters. The students’ eyes slid past it as if the board were blank.
By lunch, Marcus was sitting in his car, hands shaking as he called the subscription service again.
“I need to upgrade back to Social Recognition+ immediately. I’ll pay anything.”
“Wonderful! Our premium service is now £547.99 monthly, with a reconnection fee of £199.99.”
“That’s more than double what I was paying!”
“Demand-based pricing ensures optimal resource allocation! Would you like me to process your upgrade?”
Marcus looked at his bank balance. £220.73. “I… I can’t afford that.”
“No problem! Our Basic Social Package remains available, or perhaps you’d consider our new Community Tier? For £89.99, you’ll be fully visible to family members and recognisable to shopkeepers during business hours.”
“What about my job?”
“Employment requires Professional Recognition+ starting at £234.99 monthly.”
The cruel mathematics were becoming clear. He couldn’t work without Professional Recognition, but couldn’t afford Professional Recognition without work!
“What happens if I can’t pay anything?”
There was a pause—whether algorithmic or deliberate, Marcus couldn’t tell. “Standard Human Experience allows for acknowledgement during emergency medical situations only.”
That evening, Marcus sat in his living room, watching his wife Rachel make dinner. She moved around the kitchen with practised efficiency, setting one place at the table.
“Rachel?” His voice sounded thin in his own ears.
She hummed absently, scrolling through her phone. Her subscription was current, of course. Her marketing job paid twice what teaching did.
“Rachel, can you see me?”
She looked up from her phone, frowning slightly, then shook her head and returned to scrolling. Her expression was the same one she wore when she thought she’d left the television on in another room.
Marcus stood directly in front of her. “Please. I’m your husband.”
Rachel’s eyes tracked past him to the window behind. She pulled her cardigan tighter and muttered, “Getting cold in here.”
He reached out to touch her shoulder. His hand passed through empty air.
Her phone buzzed with a text. Rachel’s face lit up as she read it, a smile Marcus hadn’t seen in months crossing her features.
“James wants to grab coffee tomorrow,” she said to the empty room, typing back eagerly. “Finally, someone interesting to talk to.”
Marcus sank into his chair, understanding at last. He hadn’t just lost his subscription to Social Recognition. He’d lost his subscription to existing in other people’s reality.
Tomorrow, when Rachel came home from work, she’d probably start redecorating the study. After all, she’d never really needed that extra room.
The renewal notice was still on the coffee table, but even Marcus was starting to have trouble focusing on it. Soon, he thought, he wouldn’t be able to see his own reflection.
The subscription model was elegant in its cruelty. How could you complain about a service when you couldn’t afford to exist long enough for anyone to hear you?
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