We are not interested in cloning the Michael Jordans and the

Host: The evening air hung heavy with humidity and neon reflection. The city buzzed with machines and ambition, its streets shimmering under rain-slick lights. Somewhere in the industrial quarter, behind a door with a flickering EXIT sign, lay a bio-tech lab that looked more like a cathedral of light and glass than a place of science.

Rows of incubators glowed faintly blue. The hum of machines was constant—steady as a heartbeat, fragile as a moral question.

Jack stood beside one of the incubators, his grey eyes reflecting the embryonic shimmer inside. Jeeny stood opposite him, her arms folded, her expression caught between wonder and fear.

The quote hung between them like a code etched on the walls:
“We are not interested in cloning the Michael Jordans and the Michael Jacksons of this world. The rich and the famous don’t participate in this.”

The hum deepened. The debate began.

Jack: “You see, Jeeny, this is what progress looks like—ethics wrapped in courage. Zavos wasn’t wrong. He didn’t want to worship fame; he wanted to democratize creation. To let the ordinary man play God, not just the ones already treated like one.”

Jeeny: “You call that progress? Playing God with genetics? That’s not democratization, Jack—that’s arrogance. It’s the oldest story in history. We don’t learn—we just find new tools to repeat the same sins.”

Host: A faint pulse of light flickered through the glass chamber. The tiny cells within divided, alive, mechanical, miraculous. Jack’s reflection merged with them—his face framed by the pale blue glow of potential.

Jack: “No, Jeeny. It’s not arrogance—it’s continuation. Every invention—fire, vaccines, AI—was once called hubris. You think cloning is about vanity, but it’s about choice. What’s more humane: to let someone die of infertility, or to give them a second chance at life?”

Jeeny: “A second chance—or a second copy? There’s a difference. What happens when a clone grows up knowing he’s someone’s replica? When his very existence is a reference, not an origin?”

Jack: “Existence doesn’t care about origin. Ask a child born through IVF. Ask a machine trained on human memory. They don’t question their legitimacy. They just live. Why do we get to decide what kind of birth is pure enough?”

Host: The machines hummed louder, a mechanical choir singing softly to no one. A screen blinked alive, displaying a coded sequence—an imperfect DNA strand trembling on the edge of correction.

Jeeny stepped closer, her voice trembling, but not from fear—from conviction.

Jeeny: “Because it’s not about birth, Jack—it’s about intention. You talk about helping the ordinary man, but who decides what’s worth replicating? We won’t clone Michael Jordan—fine. But who stops someone from cloning a perfect soldier, a perfect worker, a perfect servant? It always starts with compassion and ends with control.”

Jack: “Control’s just another word for structure. Humanity needs it. Without it, we’re chaos. You fear cloning because you think it erases the soul. But what if it proves we never needed one to begin with?”

Jeeny: “Then what are we, Jack? Just data and cells pretending to be meaning? You’re talking about turning the human condition into a lab experiment. You think we can engineer morality along with muscle fibers?”

Host: Jack moved toward the window overlooking the city. Beyond the glass, the skyline pulsed like a living circuit—an organism made of light, ambition, and noise. He spoke softly, like someone explaining inevitability.

Jack: “You think too small, Jeeny. Cloning isn’t about vanity—it’s about survival. The world’s burning, diseases evolve faster than vaccines, and you’re telling me we shouldn’t replicate what works? You save one mind, one heart, one set of perfect lungs—and maybe you save humanity.”

Jeeny: “And maybe you destroy what makes it human. You keep saying ‘replicate what works,’ but you forget what hurts makes us real. Suffering shapes us. Imperfection gives us art, music, empathy. If you clone out pain, you clone out the very poetry of existence.”

Host: The argument grew dense as the air around them. The soft hum of machinery now sounded like breathing—steady, inescapable, intimate.

Jack: “So what’s your solution? Let people die? Let potential rot in a Petri dish because we’re afraid of the mirror?”

Jeeny: “No. But we should at least look into the mirror before we copy it. You think cloning is liberation—but it’s just a new kind of servitude. You replicate bodies, not souls. You can’t engineer conscience.”

Jack: “And you can’t preserve it either. Every generation gets further from the garden. We’ve already traded our souls for screens, our truth for algorithms. Cloning’s just the next logical step—a cleaner form of the same hunger.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s time to step back, not forward. Because every time we act without asking why, we lose a piece of what we are. We become efficient, yes—but hollow. Just because we can doesn’t mean we should.”

Host: A power surge flickered through the lab. The lights dimmed, shadows rippling across their faces. For a heartbeat, everything stopped—machines, hum, air—except for the quiet tremor in their breathing.

Jack’s voice came softer now, almost fragile.

Jack: “You know, Zavos once said the rich and the famous don’t participate in cloning. Maybe that’s the point. Maybe it’s not about immortality—it’s about equality. About giving ordinary people a chance to outlive their own limits.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s about giving ordinary people the illusion of immortality while taking away their uniqueness. The rich don’t participate because they already have what cloning promises—legacy. The poor just get another kind of factory.”

Host: Silence again. A long, breathless silence that carried both the weight of science and the ache of philosophy.

The embryo in the incubator pulsed—alive, fragile, unaware of its role in this conversation.

Jeeny moved closer, lowering her voice.

Jeeny: “You see that cell, Jack? That’s not a revolution. That’s a question. And every time we answer it without humility, we lose something we can’t clone back.”

Jack: “And if humility kills us first? If refusing to act means extinction?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe extinction is better than imitation.”

Host: The lights brightened again. Jack stood still, his reflection fractured across a dozen glass surfaces—each one slightly off, slightly distorted, like failed versions of himself.

He turned toward Jeeny, his voice quieter now, the sharpness replaced by something like resignation.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe we’re not meant to make copies of life. But tell me, Jeeny… when your child is dying, and there’s a chance—a single cell that could bring them back—would you still call it arrogance?”

Jeeny: (after a pause) “I don’t know. I’d probably call it love. And that’s what makes it so dangerous.”

Host: Outside, thunder rolled. The rain began to fall again—steady, cold, cleansing. Inside the lab, the hum softened. The incubator glowed faintly, cradling its secret between faith and science.

Jack turned off the lights. Jeeny stayed a moment longer, watching the quiet spark of life flicker behind the glass.

And in that half-lit silence, between creation and consequence, they both understood:

the future doesn’t begin with cloning.
It begins with the questions we dare not answer.