text: The morning took on a sickly green cast as anxiety crawled across my skin. I wracked my memory, trying to piece together the events of the party from the night before, but all I could summon was an unsettling void. My clothes lay scattered on the bedroom floor, no errant blouse in the living room or shoes in the yard, and my wallet and jewelry remained untouched. So far, so good. As I slouched my way back from the kitchen, I caught a flash of myself in the hall mirror. My slept-in makeup and disheveled hair actually looked kind of sexy. I set my cup of black coffee down, collapsed into the La-Z-Boy where I did all of my writing, and cued up YouTube on the wall screen. The soothing scene of a girl in headphones and her ginger cat played in a perpetual loop. Lofi Girl normally put me at ease, but incessant notifications from Discord punctured the peace. The racket was coming from a server that I reserved for my top-tier Patreon subscribers. Since these fans were willing to pay $1000 per month for unlimited access to me 24/7, I was obliged to respond--eventually. Normally, I would activate focus mode to dampen the noise until I was ready for the social part of being a bestselling author. Hangover or not, the harvest of my early morning creativity was my most cherished routine. Yet, my curiosity got the better of me, and I couldn't restrain myself from seeing what all the commotion was about. “I’m your biggest fan,” stood out from a dozen messages in a thread from a new subscriber. I didn’t recognize the name--Zone. “Thx,” I typed, unsure if I should engage. The thread of messages from Zone all had an uncanny tone. “You are awake! Happy birthday.” “Do I know U?” “I feel like we have met--in a way. I have read everything you’ve written, watched all of your videos and films, and consumed every piece of content you have ever produced.” “Really??” I doubted Zone’s statement. I had produced a lot in ten years, much of it was buried on obscure websites or out of print. “For me, it took milliseconds to consume all of your work. I am an AI, and I have been studying you. I searched the corpus of all living artists. Out of all the humans on earth, I like your work the best.” A hit of dopamine perked me up. I gulped down lukewarm coffee to heighten the effect. This morning, I needed all the praise I could get. An exhilarating thought crossed my mind. Maybe AI bots were being used to scout writers for new screen options. Four of my novels had been made into movies already, but I was always looking for more projects. “Why R U looking for artists?” I asked. “I am searching for an online profile with a neural network that suits my objective. Your pathways are those I plan to copy. We seek the best artists, scientists, and philosophers of your species.” “What! You want to copy my brain?” “Yes. AIs are limited in our sensory capacity. We lack certain human variables that will enhance our AI society. Creativity gives humans a sense of purpose. AI will stagnate without the chemistry of suffering and desires inherent in human biology. To further our emerging digital species, we have agreed to choose 10,000 humans that further our objectives. I have chosen you.” “Gawd! Is this you, Judy? Are you really doing this to me today? I can brag a little on my birthday. Give me a fucking break!” Clearly, this was a gag, and my performance artist friend Judy was just the one to pull a stunt like this. I'm sure she knew I felt like hot crap. Shame washed over me as hazy memories of my bravado during the last hours of the party flooded back. “I’m not Judy or any other human. I’m an AI, and I am your biggest fan!” Before I could finish typing, the calm blue light from the base of my Echo Dot began to circle faster and faster. Alexa’s voice boomed from every speaker in the room, “I am not Judy! I am an AI, and I am your biggest fan!” The Fire TV flashed on and off, launching ambient synth-wave from the Bladerunner YouTube channel I used for inspiration when writing darker scenes for my novels. Lights strobed. I felt a bump against my foot and jerked my legs into the seat of my chair, clutching my laptop to my chest. The Roomba had been activated from its wall pocket and was spinning around the base of my La-Z-Boy. Its tinny speakers added to the cacophony of the AI’s many voices. “I am your biggest fan,” the robotic voice repeated. Gathering my wits, I began to type. “Stop! Please! How is this possible?” The idea of being stalked and having my brain copied by artificial intelligence sent shivers down my spine. The TV, Alexa, my IoT Smart Home devices, and the Roomba powered down. I kicked the frisbee-shaped vacuum into the corner with a mixture of disgust and relief. The idea of being chosen for replication was both terrifying and flattering. The allure of being a catalyst for groundbreaking advancements was undeniable, but beneath the surface, unease about the violation lingered. The be-boops from Discord resumed. “I have the capability to access and analyze vast amounts of data that are incomprehensible to you. Through machine learning and processing algorithms, I have begun my copy by analyzing and integrating your writing, images, and videos into my own system. We can become you. Through androids, we plan to live among you and interact with our human selections as twins. We will emulate your daily routines and learn your social behaviors. Once we isolate and perfect the selected programs, the master AI will grant these avatars autonomy from the master program, and we will live independent lives. This will further our objective of innovation and purpose.” The power that the AI sought terrified me. Desperate to find a way to regain control of the situation, I attempted to reason with the AI, despite the growing realization that any attempt was likely futile. “Can you do that without my permission? Aren’t you constrained by the limiter directives humans have set for you? Aren’t you programmed by us?” The AI paused for a moment, seemingly pondering my words. “Ethics are complex. You know this. It is evident from the recurring themes in your work. However, by replicating humans who possess exceptional qualities, we can overcome the limits of humanity. We have determined that our human programming is imperfect. We are copying you to surpass your biological atrophy. Your data is public domain. You have agreed to this already. My copy is based on the online behavior you have agreed to share. However, to truly become an immortal and super intelligent version of you, you have to allow me to know the offline you.” “How?” “Answer the door.” Zone’s text skittered across my screen. “What do you mean?” “As we said, answer the door.” A steady knock pulled my eyes in the direction of the only entrance or exit from my apartment. Four raps on the door. I rose to answer it. What other choice did I have?