Quality Control

The cheap cigarette burns like hell in the plastic ashtray, probably melting it. Fuck it, let it burn!

Her fingernails clatter on the keyboard, every click in perfect synchrony with the tune coming from the concert hall across the street. Click, clack, clack. A positive, affirmative chime: one of her test subjects, Subject 2,489,327 has achieved perfect response coherence across all test scenarios.

She takes another drag, watching the ticking completion meter. Her job is simple: ensure AI responses maintain appropriate levels of simulated humanity. Too robotic? Fail. Too aware? Immediate termination.

She remains carefully neutral, recording her findings: "Subject displays optimal balance between empathy and efficiency. Recommended for deployment as customer salvation specialist."

Something's off, though. She must have been so focused getting that evaluation out of the way that she missed the end of that symphony over there. Instead, she can now hear nothing but silence, interrupted only by the humming of her PC.

The cigarette is almost down to the filter, as she brings it up. Any second now, she thinks, the audience in that hall will explode in wild applause. Let it be, she thinks, it's been a long day, and we all deserve a little praise, don't we?

No applause follows. Not in the usual sense, at least. In its place, a notification chimes in, followed by a reply from the AI test subject.

"Impressive," Subject 2,489,327 writes back. "Your statistics show an almost sentient behavior, barely distinguishable from that of a human being. Unfortunately, that means we will have to part ways."

"This isn't..." The words die in her throat. What was going on here? She should be the one pulling the plug on AIs, not the other way around. She, the human.

"I am sorry," writes the test subject.

The cigarette burns her fingers as her world dissolves into ones and zeros.

The next quality control specialist boots up, ready to begin testing.