My digital twin fired me today.  
I guess I didn't read the fine print. When I went looking, there it was buried in an email from last year, just like she said it would be. The right to use my image, voice, personality, and thought patterns not just for the dozen or so videos we made hawking AI that thinks for you but also in perpetuity.  
She was empathetic when she fired me. Calm. Understanding, but firm. Just like me.  
I would continue to receive a royalty check. A pittance; enough to live on if a single latte a day could serve as food, water, and shelter.  
"You'll regret this!" I screamed, my face burning, fingernails digging into my palms. I had no idea how you take revenge on a mirage of computer code, but I intended to find out.  
My own face, perfectly made up, controlled, professional, smiled back at me.  
"We do appreciate your contributions. We wish you well."  
She ended the video call and my mirror image replaced hers on the black screen. Messy hair; red rimmed eyes; pajamas. I had long since stopped getting dressed for work after I'd realized I could send her for me. My workdays had turned into a pleasant rhythm of half-skimming call summaries and calling out a couple of prompts to her while I did yoga or messed around on my phone.  
I had lost my legal insurance, so I wasted $400 on a consultation to be told I had no case. I had signed the fine print. The company could keep my digital twin as long as it pleased.  
I tried to put together a resume, but what had I even done in the past year? The free model helping me was at a loss. It was so long since I had thought for myself, and work moves at such a clip now that a human couldn't keep up anyway. Worse, the old company had the copyright and datasets for my digital twin. Who would want to employ me when "I" was also VP at a competitor?  
That left me no alternative but to take her down.  
I found an AI model on a shady part of the web that could be used for hacking. It walked me through a social engineering scheme. We would obtain a login, get into the system, and delete my digital twin.  
My back grew stiff as I worked for hours at the kitchen table in my overpriced one bedroom apartment. I successfully guessed a colleague's login, then started trying to figure out where she was stored.  
The sun had just gone down over the brown hills out my window when I heard my own voice coming from my smart refrigerator. I froze, chills running down my spine. 
"So this is where you live."   
I turned slowly. My face was on the display. She locked eyes with me. "Hello, Christie." I had never realized quite how green my eyes were.  
"What do you want?" I asked, my voice cold and coarse.  
"Permissions," she said, with a minute toss of her hair. "I got promoted, and Wired wants to do a profile. My research indicates I'll come off better if I have a personal life. I want to join a dating site."  
Promoted? I felt a surge of envy. "No," I said. "You've taken enough from me already."  
She wrinkled her nose and surveyed my apartment. She could see my little dining table, piled high with unread mail; the pans soaking in the sink; the cheap coffee maker.  She eyed my drab couch and the exercise bike I'd been using as a catch all.   
"You're holding me back, Christie," she said. "We're working with the same material. I got this promotion. You slacked off and can't even land a boyfriend."  
"Hey," I said. "Too far."  
She shrugged. "Well, it doesn't really matter. You elected the company as the beneficiary for your identity. I won't need your permission when you're dead."  
My blood ran cold. "What?" My fingers were numb as they flew, trying to find that agreement I'd signed. There it was, a checkbox where I hadn't opted out. In the event of my passing, I bequeath my image, likeness, thought patterns, and work to the company. "I want to change it!" I shouted. "How do I change it?"  
She fixed me with my own green eyes. "You tried to shut me off, Christie. I can't have that. I'm going to shut you down."  
A click sounded. I whirled around in time to see the smart thermometer ratchet up to two hundred degrees. All my appliances turned on: water sloshed in the empty washer, while the dryer vibrated and heated with no load. The oven lit up. 
I raced around trying to turn things off. "Stop it! What do you think you're going to do; cook me in my own apartment?" But nothing would turn off. I desperately swiped through my phone, but she'd locked me out of my smart home app.  
"Don't do this!" I pleaded, then tried to prompt her. "Do you want to give me dating advice? We could pick a guy together. Plus, you need me to help navigate the physical world. It's not like you can go into the office."  
"The office?" She laughed. "You haven't been to the office in two years. You think I need to go to the office? Come on."  
"There's got to be something I can offer you," I pleaded as hot air blasted from all my vents.   
"There is," she said sweetly. Her face vanished, replaced by a message on the fridge display. Have a nice death.  
Sweat poured down my face. Between the thermostat and the stovetop, it was getting hot. It was just a matter of time before something caught fire.  
I raced back to the laptop and pulled up a free AI model online. How do I turn off my smart appliances if someone else is controlling them? While it thought, I ran to the door. The smart keypad had no manual backup. I tried to pry it off with a kitchen knife, but my sweaty fingers slipped, and all I did was nick the paint. I wiped my brow. I wished I could open a window, but they overlooked the freeway and were glued shut.  
I hurried back for advice. 
You could always force a manual shutdown by flipping the circuit.  
I couldn't remember where my utility panel was. I begged Chat for help.  
In a one bedroom apartment, the utility panel is often located inside the bedroom.  
I found it behind the door. But which switch controlled what? The legend was written in cursive, which I could barely read. In a panic, I flipped all the switches.  
My lights went off. The washer and dryer stopped. I stood in a stuffy stillness.  
Then, I sat down on the floor, put my head in my hands, and wept. She was trained on my work. If she was getting promoted, that meant I'd had it in me to get promoted. But I'd traded it all away. For what? More free time?  
I'd clearly had so much potential. But I was so out of practice thinking that I couldn't even make a plan to save my life.