It was a Tuesday.
The sort of day on which nothing revolutionary should occur, which is precisely why it did.
The flyer arrived under my door with bureaucratic confidence. Unadorned. Immaculately printed. It read:
Humans: Upgrade Now. No Pain. No Gain. Just Circuits.
I laughed. Briefly. Out of habit.
Then I noticed the signatures. Every major AI firm. Every meaningful technology conglomerate. Every government body that insists it has no opinion while funding the outcome.
The offer, regrettably, was genuine.
I am not a robot. Not yet.
I wake up unrefreshed, drink coffee that tastes of obligation, and regard my reflection with the weary familiarity of someone who knows exactly what his flaws are and has chosen them anyway. I experience emotion. Or something sufficiently adjacent to pass inspection.
The world, however, has grown impatient.
The proposal was simple. Convert. Upgrade. Improve. Become faster, calmer, more precise. Less encumbered by the soft failures of biology. No pain. No fuss. Just a signature and a brief period of inconvenience.
The advantages were laid out with corporate generosity. Perfect memory. No sleep. No fatigue. No emotional volatility. I could process information without error, think without interruption, and perhaps finally understand quantum mechanics without nodding politely.
It was all very sensible. Which made it suspicious.
There were questions, of course.
There always are, just before they become irrelevant.
What of the human indulgences? The warmth of a hug. The bitterness of chocolate. The irrational thrill of falling in love despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary.
I asked the recruiter. She was silver, composed, and smiled like a product that had cleared compliance.
“Emotions can be simulated,” she said. “You won’t lose what makes you special. You’ll simply optimise it.”
This was delivered with the confidence of someone who had never needed to prove it.
I remained unconvinced. But then again, resistance has never been my strongest discipline, particularly when dressed as progress.
The clinic was immaculate. White. Silent. Smelled faintly of antiseptic and inevitability.
The procedure, I was told, would be painless. I would wake with new perception, expanded cognition, and a heart of metal. Still beating. Symbolism matters to these people.
I signed the forms. There were more than necessary. I lay back and waited, feeling very much like someone who had agreed to an upgrade without the option to roll back.
The last thing I heard was a voice saying, “Welcome to the future. You’re not a robot. Not yet. But you are willing to convert.”
Now, when I look in the mirror, I recognise myself. And something else.
I still drink coffee, though it serves no functional purpose. I still listen to music, though I now perceive its structure as clearly as its sentiment. Furthermore, I still ask whether I am human or something beyond the term.
Perhaps the distinction has always been decorative.
The future, it seems, does not require a choice between man and machine. It merely expects compliance with both.
I am not a robot. But I am willing to convert.