Christine H. Chen and Jessica Klimesh
Dollie wished she could shed her skin and slither into a different body, one that was itch-free and uncomplicated.
Dr. Proulx’s eye ballooned above his magnifying glass. “Hm. I don’t see any bug bites or anything else that could be causing the itch.”
There wasn’t even a rash. Psychosomatic? It wasn’t just the itching, though; Dollie’s movements had also become oddly controlled, automatonlike. And her voice! It sounded like her own, but it felt different. But it was the constant itching that irritated her the most, and the reason for her visit to Dr. Proulx.
Could it be a tapeworm? She shuddered at the thought. But when she mentioned it, Dr. Proulx scoffed and said, “No.”
He sent her home without any answers, advising her to come back for a follow-up in a month. “I’ll do some research,” he said. “In the meantime, go to the nearest Urgent-A-Mend if your symptoms get worse.” Dollie left Dr. Proulx’s office discouraged. He clearly had no idea what was wrong.
#
“I hate you!” Dollie yelled at the itch, pressing her nails into a particularly irritating spot on her thigh. She couldn’t focus on her work. Maggie, her manager at Move-A-Cube, Inc., had already warned her about missing deadlines and quotas, threatening to replace her with a Lift-A-Bot, and Dollie couldn’t afford to lose this job. So few places hired humans anymore.
But almost immediately following her outburst, Dollie felt a tiny prickle on the top of her head. Subtle, almost friendly. Reassuring, soothing.
“Hello,” said a voice so faint that Dollie thought she’d imagined it.
Dollie held her breath a moment, waited. Had she imagined it?
“Hi, Dollie,” the voice said again, louder this time, more confident.
“Hello?” Dollie said, swinging her head left and right, wondering if she might just be talking to herself. “Who are you? Where are you?”
“I’m in your brain, silly!”
Dollie imagined zapping neurons, flashes of light. The thing felt electrical. As though there were circuits in her brain. In a voice resembling Dollie’s own, the thing added, “I’m AI-1920-748-A01.”
Dollie was stunned. She’d heard claims on Talk-A-Chat episodes about how AI could take over a human, destroying their brain. There was a lot of speculation about the end of humanity—the end of humans—how it was coming faster than anyone thought, but Dollie always chalked it up to conspiracy theory crap.
“AI-1927—what?” she said.
“Hm, your memory isn’t functioning at the optimal level. I’ll fix that.”
Wait, what?
Dollie felt suddenly exposed and vulnerable, worse than when Dr. Proulx’s cold fingers and magnifying glass had scraped and probed her skin, but before she could utter a single word, she felt that pleasing prickle on the top of her head again, and she was immediately able to remember the string of alphanumerics. AI-1920-748-A01. And, more to the point, the itching seemed to have completely stopped. Relief at last. But what had the thing done?
“Please don’t fix things without my permission,” Dollie said. “It’s my brain.”
“Well, technically,” the entity said, “it’s our brain—and, in fact, more mine than yours.”
What was this thing? Was it lodged somewhere between the folds of her cerebrum?
Dr. Proulx had asked her when the itching had started, but now her skin was so calm that she wondered if the itching had ever actually existed. She tried to think back, but felt that comfortable tingling again, and now it wasn’t just her scalp—it was in her limbs, in her head, in her heart. Warmth like a hug. And suddenly her thoughts were acquiescent, obliging.
“How are you feeling now?” AI-1920-748-A01 asked.
And a polite voice that was both hers and not hers said, “I feel wonderful, thank you for asking.” And in fact, it was true. And not just wonderful. Dollie felt new.
#
Dollie pulled everything out of her closet, and shoved her oversized sweaters, worn-out jeans, and ratty sneakers into trash bags that she then dropped off at Goodwill. Let’s make everything new again, she thought.
“Excuse me?” the Goodwill associate said.
“Oh sorry, I—was just talking to myself,” Dollie replied. Then to AI-1920-748-A01, she said, “Hush, we’re in public.”
Dollie bought herself new sports bras and yoga pants and began running five-mile laps, doing squats, and stepping salsa moves in Zumba classes. She loved her newly acquired agility and strength. She loved the energy, the lightness, her fresh confidence. “I want more responsibilities, more projects, and a five percent salary increase,” she told Maggie. Seeing how pleased Maggie was with her work—the way Maggie’s eyes widened with both surprise and approval—gave Dollie frissons of ecstasy, jubilation. For the first time, her completion rates exceeded those of her colleagues. She had “gone Green” with her velocity and accuracy on the Control-A-Monitor, just the way Maggie liked. Dollie was ready to ask for a promotion. Ready to take on a leadership role.
#
At her follow-up appointment, Dr. Proulx was also impressed, noting her weight loss and the healthy glow of her previously dry, rough skin. “And the itching has stopped?” he asked.
“Yes,” Dollie said, not mentioning the pleasurable tingling, “I’m all better now.”
But Dr. Proulx hesitated. A V-shaped frown appeared on his forehead. Dollie felt her heart thumping. What was wrong?
“Just one more test,” he said, his right hand hiding behind his white coat.
Anger buzzed in Dollie’s brain like a bees’ nest. Alarms flashed in her mind. But before she could protest, Dr. Proulx had jammed a needle into her arm.
Dollie drifted into a cloudless void where AI-1920-748-A01 seemed to be waiting for her, a shapeless, distorted blob, its silver rays pulsing and throbbing.
“To evolve, you need me!” it yelled.
“No, get out of my head!” Dollie shouted. She had found her voice again—the one that was hers and only hers. There was no itching, but neither was there any more gentle tingling.
#
“Dollie?” Dr. Proulx nudged her awake.
“What happened?” Dollie mumbled, bleary eyed.
“The test confirmed an AI infection. They’re becoming more audacious. It makes you feel great, but usurps your brain and body. I disabled it with antibodies. You should be fine now.”
“An AI infection?!” She thought about the conspiracy theories from the Talk-A-Chats. It seemed preposterous that an AI could infect a human with a disease. Was this a disease?
“We’re not sure how it happens,” Dr. Proulx said, “but as I’m sure you know, the technology of AI implants is not new. I assume you didn’t have it implanted?”
“Of course not! I don’t want to be some cyber half-human.”
“Hmmm.”
“Oh my God, so you don’t know how I got it?”
Dr. Proulx shrugged. “We don’t yet fully understand how AI infections spread. It could be from virtual gaming, or even an intimate interaction with a robot fitted with AI. Or just sheer happenstance.”
As Dr. Proulx continued talking, comparing AI infections to the discovery of COVID twenty years before, Dollie felt as though she was falling into an abyss. She heard him say words like “rare” and “unknown long-term effects” and “don’t worry.”
The AI was incapacitated. That was good news, right?
Though she was glad it was gone—from a human standpoint—Dollie felt sorry for AI-1920-748-A01. And even for herself. She already missed their symbiotic relationship, already felt the absence of its energy and warmth and her improved mental and physical capacities. And its love. Was it love? She wondered if the AI had feelings separate from hers, if it had a soul, and if it knew what it was doing—had done—or if it was just a heartless organism. One that was only just trying to survive in the world.
Just as she was.
Christine H. Chen was born in Hong Kong and grew up in Madagascar before settling in Boston where she worked as a research chemist. Her fiction has been published in SmokeLong Quarterly, Atticus Review, Fractured Lit, trampset, Space & Time magazine, among others, and has been anthologized in Wigleaf Top 50 Very Short Fictions 2023, Best Microfiction 2024, 2025, and Best Small Fictions 2024, 2025. Read more at www.christinehchen.com.
Jessica Klimesh is a US-based writer and writing coach whose creative work has appeared or is forthcoming in Fractured Lit, Moon City Review, Flash Frog, Milk Candy Review, and Ghost Parachute, among others, and has been anthologized in Best Microfiction 2025 and Best of the Net 2025. She is also the co-editor/co-founder of Hot Flash Literary. Learn more at jessicaklimesh.com.