Prologue – The Life-Changing Verdict

It was hailed as one of the greatest scientific marvels before it was even released, and its significance was not overstated. MicroMD had started, as most companies do, with good intentions. As the name implies, the proprietary technology was originally intended for medical use only, and it revolutionized the practice of medicine. It started as a simple series of remote-controlled tools, intended to take surgical error out of the equation for medical procedures. Laser-like precision, without actual use of lasers, was the promise, and MicroMD delivered. The game truly changed, however, when they rolled out the nanotechnology.

A scalpel that could be reduced in size and remotely navigated around a gunshot wound to carefully cut loose a bullet fragment with minimal tissue damage and effectively no blood loss? It sounded like a flight of fancy, but MicroMD made it real. Order after order poured in for their products, supply being chronically short. A few years in, their initial public offering in the stock market nearly broke Wall Street. Nobody had ever seen the likes of this technology before. It was as much of a per se gamechanger as the microchip itself was. Thus, was technology’s newest golden child born.

Of course, it was not foolproof. Sudden lapses in the remote-control functionality causing tools to randomly expand and create blood clots or sever arteries. Electronic shortages on the products leading to permanent brain damage. It was far from perfect, but it offered far more good than it did harm. At least, until it didn’t.

Enter the fateful batch of nanobots. The ability to build the machines at full size and reduce them afterward led to wild innovation. The bots could be programmed to repair tissue, shrunk down to near cellular size, and injected directly into the bloodstream. These were more than just another tool; MicroMD claimed the nanobots would make doctors themselves obsolete. They offered the ability to chase cancerous cells throughout the body, with directly targeted use of chemotherapy and radiation to gradually eradicate the presence of cancer without any of the usual side effects. They could form links within the spinal column to create electrical stimulation that simulated nerve endings, in some cases remediating paralysis. Truly, an innovation to shatter, and subsequently reframe, the public perspective on what was possible.

The mistake, however, lay in MicroMD’s greed. Of course, the contracts and licensing agreements with insurance companies were fruitful, and the company was profitable beyond even the wildest expectations. As is ever the case with the truly fortunate of society, however, it was never enough. The decision was made internally to sell the nanobots directly to consumers, opening an infinitely wide range of profitability. The lofty aspiration was for the nanobots to become akin to the smartphone: a product that eventually every single person on Earth would hold in their hand for personal use thereafter. Viruses could be attacked and destroyed before they took hold in the body. In essence, MicroMD promised a permanent cure for the common cold, and whatever else that ailed you.

But greed leads to sloppiness, and rushed development meant faults in the system. This would end up being the crux of Clover & Glenwood’s class action lawsuit: the foreseeability of the harm MicroMD engendered in the population by releasing an incredibly dangerous product prematurely. Within mere days of the tubes full of nanobots being sold to society’s wealthy elite, one ghastly news story after another would start popping up on news stations and social media. Sudden size expansion of the nanobots leading to a loved one exploding while reading their children a bedtime story and crushing the children in the process. The nanobots losing connectivity and going rogue, attacking healthy cells and serving as their own form of the most aggressive, artificial cancer for the whole body. The initial release alone killed thousands and scarred infinitely more, even before the first recall was ever ordered.

The class action lawsuit that followed would be the keystone moment for the firm of Clover & Glenwood. The firm that previously languished in relative obscurity would become a nationwide sensation that dwarfed even the most intensely covered celebrity trials. The attention paid by the public to the case was enough to make the OJ Simpson trial seem comparatively insignificant.

In truth, though it was the case of a lifetime, and though the protracted litigation would consume hundreds of thousands of dollars in legal costs, expert witness fees, transcripts, subpoenas, etc. over the course of five years, Steve Clover never felt it was a particularly difficult one to prove. The outcome, as far as he was concerned, was effectively preordained. It didn’t matter which way you scrutinized the nanobots product: design defect, manufacturing defect, failure to warn. It had them all in spades. In the sometimes-murky field of products liability, the voluminous discovery in the case would paint a picture of deliberately cut corners, chronic and incessant malfeasance, and pure corporate greed.

So it was that the so-called “nuclear verdict” came as no surprise, though there was an appropriate amount of champagne toasting involved afterward. A verdict of $500-billion dollars, split amongst the parties to the class action. The attorneys’ fee on the verdict was of such significance that calling the wealth “generational” fails to do it justice. It said much for the fortune MicroMD had amassed that they would survive the verdict, never reaching the point of having to declare bankruptcy. The subsequent criminal proceedings and legislative amendments that would follow were another story entirely, however.

Over the course of discovery, seemingly endless schematics, blueprints, designs and specifications would come to light. It transpired that MicroMD was on the cusp of its next great innovation: a human suit that borrowed from the same technology designed for recreational use for those that truly had so much money it had long since lost all substance and meaning to them. The intent was for the suit to cost $10,000,000.00 to purchase, an exorbitant sum that put even the most luxurious of sportscars to shame. It was actually quite far along in the product development cycle as well. The first iteration of the suit had been declared ready for testing, with paid human trials to commence once they had figured out how to regrow the organic material the suit reduced.

Unbeknownst to both his clients and his firm, Steve Clover had a secret. The world had given it the sanitized, clinical term of macrophilia, or at least a specific version of it colloquially known as the “giantess fetish.” He could scarcely believe his eyes when he first saw the report for the MicroMD human suit. It was hopelessly enticing to him that a version of it already existed somewhere. Steve would use a relatively standard discovery device, known as a litigation hold notice, to secure his eventual prize. A legal requirement for MicroMD to store documents and things for further inspection over the course of discovery to avoid any spoliation, intentional or otherwise, of key evidence. It would have been served in the regular course of discovery regardless; it just gave Steve an opening he would not have conceived of in his wildest dreams.

He was aware of the risks, of course. He would count himself fortunate if the only result were disbarment. Then again, Steve had always been the type of man that called himself undeniable. He would pursue the suit with a fervor unseen since his courtship of the paralegal Amy Allegria. The hundreds of thousands of documents and half-formed products from MicroMD had been set aside in a secure storage facility early in the litigation. Few had access to it, but Steve was one of them. Under the cover of night one otherwise bespoke evening, he slipped inside the facility and hunted down the briefcase that would forever alter his life. In a particularly shortsighted bout of hubris, he never suspected that the unnamed human suit could drastically shorten that life as well.

Steve announced his retirement a scant few weeks after the verdict. In truth, he felt the firm was in capable hands. His partner, John Glenwood, had no intention of retiring anytime soon. Contrary to Steve’s desire for an untroubled life of leisure (and more than a little play) for the remainder of his days, John felt he would rapidly grow bored with an idle lifestyle. There were still cases to be tried and won, precedent to be set, perhaps even a future career on the bench if he ingratiated himself to the right people. Coupled with the highly capable roster of associates and paraprofessionals, Steve knew that Clover & Glenwood would thrive in his absence.

Amy, however, did not take the announcement of Steve’s retirement very well. Still in her 20s, she found much pride and validation in her career and foresaw another 40+ years of it. Her reservations were somewhat mollified by Steve’s assertion that he would function as a stay-at-home dad for their eventual family. Taking him at his word, however, would prove to be one of her greatest misjudgments. Steve had set his heart on a particularly selfish course of action. Unlike the myriad other product offerings from MicroMD, the company had not yet fashioned the means by which to regrow organic material. The human suit was, for now at least, and potentially forever, a one-way ticket to a life literally diminished.

With this narrative foundation having been laid, we bring our story now to the present. Specifically, to the moment of Steve’s life-altering, fateful decision. A decision that had been made without his wife’s knowledge or consent. A truly selfish decision, that would set a downward spiral of strain on his relationship with Amy and, much like the nanobot product, ultimately culminate in wholly foreseeable tragedy.