Deep, darkened wrinkles swirled like oak lines around the face of the weathered woman. Every Smile, frown, or expression of interest had left physical evidence. Every terrible habit disclosed inside large discolored pores. Every lesson or memory danced within her willful eyes. Her skin had surrendered to gravity, hanging carelessly off her porous bones. Her crooked fingers told that no one could point a finger over time, and she appeared to accept this, clasping her hands when not speaking—using them as bolsters for her words. Bethany sat, legs crossed, holding a recording device. She had soft, dewy skin. She looked no more than twenty-seven. Her cheeks flushed. They bounced back from late nights with one too many drinks. With shaking hands, she tried to keep steady and hoped that no one would see when she turned her eyes away. Why would someone choose to age?

Bethany gave a warm smile questioning the woman what her age was. She replied that she was one-hundred and six. Her face seemed stale and uninterested. Bethany's face scrunched in protest. One-hundred and six shouldn't look like this. But it did—without the cure. Bethany rubbed her thumb over her SIGNA. It had been her life-force; it was implanted into her skin, continuously supplying her the cure—which kept her DNA from breaking down and being damaged. The woman raised her thinning brows and asked, "how old are you honey?"

Bethany smirked at this, "How old do I look?"

"You don't look much more than twenty-five Id say. Let me guess— you are much older."

"Thanks. Well, I was given the cure when I was twenty-seven." Its the recommended age and it had finally been deemed safe for some time. That was some years ago. She sighed, staring off—"So that makes me a little over fifty..."

The woman shook her head in disbelief. "And you've got no god-damn wrinkles to prove it."

Bethany couldn't help but clench her milkwhite teeth. Bethany did have a smile line on the left side of her full mouth. Nothing major. She touched her hand to her face and decided to go with it, "well, no, I guess."

The woman opposite Bethany smacked her lips, "must be nice for you." She had no teeth. A metal tray sat beside her with some gritty, brownish mush she'd picked at. Bethany shrunk down, suddenly terrified. She tried to revive the conversation once more, "so, why are you here, Ola?" Ola raised a brow at this. "You mean other than the fact that I'm shriveling from the outside—in?" Bethany nodded the comment away, encouraging her to continue. "My husband. He was already sick when the cure was implemented. They had done some dosages to see whether it would take—but his immune system couldn't handle it."

"His body rejected the cure.", Bethany summarized.

"Yes..he wanted me to take it. To live on. I was about your age." She looked up at Bethany with a tilt of her head, "your real age. The cure was still so new—I didn't realize at the time how quickly it would progress. He kept growing ill—and sometimes, I still wonder if the cure didn't shorten his life instead. When he finally passed, I was stricken with a great deal of grief I thought id never overcome. He was my home. I couldn't imagine lengthening my life. Keeping young. I would have felt like a fake."

"So, every time the Council came knocking for me to take it—I refused. Until finally, I reached the cut-off. And now, here I am." She paused and snickered a little, "One-hundred and six years young."

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"That's quite a story." Bethany said, "do you regret your choice now?"

She folded her veiny hands, staring at something on the floor. "It's funny. I wonder at times what it would have been like had I chosen it. But it would have changed everything. I've met some wonderful people, some that have since died. If I had chosen the cure, I would have been able to do some of the things that I loved most into my old age."

"But, If I would have taken it—every time I saw myself in the mirror id look the same. It would be like lying to myself for all the time that passed. It would have felt wrong. I would look in the mirror and see myself unchanged after so many years—yet I'd know in my heart all the time and memories lived after my husband. Seeing myself age was like evidence—it made me remember he wasn't there. It forced me to reconcile with my life—with his death. He lives on through me. Each wrinkle helped me heal---it brought me closer to my husband. It brought me peace. And soon enough, I'll be with him again."

Ola had believed in an afterlife. Studies had shown energies expelled from the body after death—but it was impossible to track. Bethany changed the angle of the conversation.

"So, say your husband's body had not rejected the cure. And he was able to live on—would you have then?"

Ola glared at Bethany, "what do you think? If you had more time to spend with someone you loved—wouldn't you do anything? We always planned on growing old together. If he had never been sick at all sometimes, I wonder if he would have never considered the cure in the first place. He only took it for a chance at life. And this was after my begging him. If he had not wanted it and been well—well, I would have done the same." She then started coughing and smacking her lips some more and reached for her water on the tray. She took a sip, then added, "regardless, it's like I said—we will be together again. I have faith."

Bethany stood up from the chair, bowed, and said, "well, thank you for your time, Ola."

There were others. Twelve others left total in all of society—as far as anyone knew. Today, Bethany would only have time to talk to a few. Naturally, there were some more outgoing than others. So, she started there. They wanted their story told, or they just craved attention. Others would not show their faces. They'd avert their faces like Bethany was a bright light for tired eyes. Understandably, she was practically putting their entire life in question. No one had ever asked her why she decided to take the cure after all. But that seemed obvious. Everyone did. And by now, laws had been making it near impossible to make any other choice. That's why several protesters paraded outside the axial dome center where the old are kept—holding pro-choice signs with statements like MY BODY MY CHOICE; AGING IS BEAUTIFUL, LIVE YOUNG DIE OLD—three ideas Bethany only felt pity for. As she crossed them, pushing through into the building, she saw how harmless they were. They just wanted to live their lives like anyone else.

The only difference was—they had grasped onto the idea of nature taking its course. They didn't want any interference, which hadn't directly affected Bethany or anyone by any means—so should they care? Let them rot if that's what they wanted. The Council of each domain all had a plan to eradicate physical aging for good. Even if it meant a few casualties, their main argument was that aging creates disabled bodies that need care for—a needless and undesirable cycle in a futuristic society. Regardless of the amount of abled-bodied individuals willing to take care of such things, it didn't seem to matter to the Council. What they wanted was a clean, efficient, and fruitful society.

Most importantly, everyone needed to be contributing; if they weren't contributing—they were taking. Yet, inside the sizeable axial dome center, several dozen residents worked on and off the clock to ensure the long lives of the last of the old who dwelled there, a temporary irony—sheltered like preserved artifacts carefully placed behind glass. Bethany had the lone, golden ticket. She felt a wheel turning in her stomach, a thumping in her chest, and a surge of electricity through her veins. It could have been the cure making its way through her system, revitalizing all her cells. It could have been hunger. Or this morning's caffeine. With a consciousness scientists had just barely begun to understand, Bethany knew her bodily sensations by a different catalyst: intuition. She scratched at her implant with her long, purple fingernails and shivered.