The Shift

Mira - Unshifted

I was only four when I realized I would probably never shift. A century ago people saved for college. Now? They save for life-extending surgeries.

Most start at 18—usually with the heart, the first and most common procedure in the shift: a gradual replacement of organs with artificial upgrades. Heart disease used to be the number one cause of death. Now, it's poverty.

The wealthiest begin as early as puberty, their parents shelling out millions before they ever graduate high school. By adulthood, they may have no original organs left.

But me? I had no parents to save for my first shift. At thirty, I'm the only one I know still running on factory parts.

My Friday went as every other: up at five, work both jobs, and drag myself through my door at nearly 3 a.m. My feet ached, and all I wanted was a shower.

I fished cash tips from my pockets, bra, purse—anywhere I stuffed them. Nearly $2,000. Not bad. I added the bills to the jar on my dresser. It’s only half full, thanks to last month’s hospital stay. A ruptured appendix drained my savings and cost me two weeks of work.

In the bathroom, I undressed and paused in front of the mirror. My fingers traced the cellulite on my thighs, running upward over mottled skin—moles, discoloration, tiny imperfections dotting my body like constellations. I leaned in and scrunched up my face and counted the new wrinkles on my brow.

I turned on the shower and grabbed my hairbrush, pulling my hair back into a ponytail. That's when I saw it.

The first one. The first gray hair.

~~~

Ilya - Upgraded

Another nurse entered without a word, adjusted my medication, and left. I wished they would at least say something. After so many days in the hospital with no visitors, I craved even the smallest bit of conversation.

I picked up my phone and dialed my mom. It rang three times before going to voicemail.

"Hey, Mom. It's me again. I'm still in the hospital. Just waiting for this blood infection to clear. So, I guess just call me back when you have a chance."

I tossed my phone aside and stared out the window.

Fifteen years in and out of hospitals. The shift stays were different—scheduled, streamlined, celebrated. Family gathered when I had my heart and lungs replaced. They showered me with cards and flowers when I got my new liver and kidneys. Even my digestive system overhaul earned me visitors and well-wishes.

But once I was sick? The dynamic changed. Blood transfusions, chemo, endless tests—I was alone for it all. No one even called to check in.

I couldn’t tell if it was discomfort, indifference, or fear. Maybe they didn’t want to see that even with my bioengineered parts, I was still terminally ill at thirty.

~~~

Mira - Unshifted

I braced myself before stepping into the hair salon. It had been three months since finding my first grey hair, and several more had appeared—strikingly noticeable against my dark strands.

Hair salons had transitioned the last few decades. While the shift focused on extending life expectancy, companies realized the money to be made and dominated the cosmetic industry as well.

Cosmetic shifts were cheaper; many people could scrape together a few grand for engineered hair. Your hair wouldn't fall out, didn't get frizzy, and it styled easily. When you wanted a change, all you needed was to see a shift tech, and within one appointment you'd have the hair of your dreams.

Regular hair cuts and hair dyeing still existed but mostly for children, teenagers, and a few young adults. I'd never stepped foot in a salon, determined to cut my own hair for years.

Making half my income with tips at the bar, I had to hide signs of aging. The greys had to go.

I walked up to the receptionist. She didn't bother looking up from her computer, typing away with long, perfect iridescent nails. "How can I help you?"

"I have an appointment for a dye and cut. It's under Mira."

"How old is your child?" She asked, still not looking up. Her eyelashes seemed excessive. I wondered if those were shifted too.

"Oh, I don't have... The appointment is for m-me." I stuttered.

She finally looked up, slightly flustered. "My apologies. Um, I've got you checked in. Have a seat."

I watched her dart back towards another worker, and before long, all of the employees were huddled together whispering. "Why am I stuck working on the mutt mane?" A few chuckles escaped the group followed by a hurried shush.

My fists clenched. I wished I was anywhere else. Years ago, you could go to the store and buy hair dye, but cosmetic shifts made it obsolete.

"Mira?"

The tech interrupted my thoughts. Her demeanor seemed warm, but I couldn't help but wonder if she'd been the one to complain, or if I'd been traded off.

Settling into the chair, I discussed my desired cut and color, bracing for a sales pitch. It never came. The tech only nodded, asking routine questions, offering tips on color longevity. No lecture, no pressure.

I should have been relieved. Instead, I wondered if she’d already decided I wasn’t worth the effort.

I kept my eyes on my reflection, pretending not to notice the other techs whispering behind me.

~~~

Ilya - Upgraded

The footsteps coming down the hall alerted me to the doctor's arrival. His steps weren't hurried like nurses, or accompanied by carts or machinery like other techs.

When he walked in, my eyes scoured every inch of his face, trying to detect any hint of whether he was coming to deliver good news or bad. His body language gave nothing away—until he pulled up a chair.

"Your latest tests results are in." He paused, seemingly waiting for a response, but I sat silently.

"Unfortunately, the infection has spread to your brain. The antibiotics and blood transfusions aren't working." He paused again.

I picked at a loose thread on my gown, willing my tears to stay put.

"If left untreated, the infection will continue spreading through your brain, ultimately proving fatal."

A single tear slipped down my cheek, and I quickly wiped it away. This wasn't really a surprise. I'd been fighting this since I was 19.

I looked back up. "What's next? Blood transfusions? Medications? Hospice care?"

"I wouldn’t go straight to hospice. Given how your infection is progressing, you might be an ideal candidate for a shift."

I resisted rolling my eyes. Doctor's make a commission on patients they refer to shift surgeons.

"The technology on the brain shift has made great strides in the last decade. With the shift and full body transfusion, the success rate would about 60/40." The doctor gave me a strong smile.

My stomach churned. A brain shift? I knew the procedure existed, but I didn’t know of a single person who had gone through with it. The price alone put it out of reach for most. They’d put my thoughts, memories—everything that made me me—into a bioengineered brain.

"Take your time, but don’t wait too long. The sooner we act, the better your chances." He smiled—a little too eager. No doubt his cut would be life-changing.

"I need to think about it."

His expression faltered, but he recovered quickly. "Just don’t wait too long. We need to move before the infection progresses further. Let me know if you have questions."

He left the room, shutting the door. I was grateful, as I immediately burst into tears. I couldn't believe I had to make this decision. My family would push for the shift, as they always had. But was that really a life? Would I even still be me?

~~~

Mira - Unshifted

The bar was unusually slow for a Saturday evening. As I cleaned off a few tables, I scanned the room, noting only a few of our regular patrons. I sighed. Tonight would not be a big money-maker.

"Can I get you another bourbon, Gerald?" I asked one of my older regulars at the bar. Gerald was a here every week, twice a week, without fail. He'd already had several drinks. After a couple more, I'd be calling a cab.

"You know it." He winked at me. "I see you finally got your hair shifted. It looks great, Mira."

As I poured his drink, I laughed, shaking my head, "Come on, Gerald, look at this frizz. You really think this is shift-grade? Maybe it's time to cut yourself off."

He squinted, scowling at me. "Well, hell. Guess I thought you finally wised up."

"Wow, Gerald. That's a hell of a thing to say." I handed him his drink.

He shrugged. "Just sayin'—makes life easier, don't it?"

Wiping down the bar, I said. "I wouldn't know."

The words slipped out before I could stop them. My stomach clenched.

Silence. Just for a second.

Gerald stared at me, his brow furrowing like he'd misheard. Then his lip curled. His eyes swept over me, slow and scrutinizing, as if seeing me for the first time.

"Unshifted trash," he spat, before launching his drink straight at my face.

~~~

Ilya - Upgraded

The web article headline held my attention while my mom yapped in the background:

Unshifted Bartender Assaulted by Upset Patron

I'd read it three times. I still didn't understand why the article mentioned her shift status. A man had shattered a glass against her face, leaving her permanently scarred, but the article barely discussed her injuries. Instead, it focused on the patron—his emotional distress, his claims of being “provoked.” A passing mention of the bartender’s lack of upgrades, as if that explained everything.

"Are you listening to me?" My mother's question broke through my inner thoughts. "Oh god, is your brain starting to deteriorate? We need to get moving quickly. I should call the doctor."

"Mom, no. I'm fine. I'm sorry, I was just reading this article again."

"Again with that?" She rolled her eyes. "Why do you care about some incident in some dive bar across town?"

"I—"

She didn't wait for my answer. "You need to start the paperwork, honey. Don't worry about the money. Dad and I already discussed it, and we'll pay. We'll probably sell the Miami property—I mean, we didn't even go last year!"

My stomach twisted. The Miami property was worth over $30 million. They were ready to throw that money away just to remake me into something I wasn't sure I wanted to be.

"Mom, stop." I took a deep breath. "I'm not going through with the brain shift."

She looked as if I'd slapped her. "What?"

"I'm not going through with the brain shift," I held firm.

Her eyes filled with tears and questions I couldn't fully answer. What I did know, though, was that I'd rather die a whole person, than live on as a fractured version of myself.

~~~

Mira - Unshifted

I hadn’t left my apartment in a week. From my fetal position on the bed, I stared at the near-empty jar on my dresser. I was only a couple of months away from homelessness.

All the mirrors were covered—I couldn’t bear to look at my face. The bar had asked me not to come back—not that I wanted to return. I was supposed to start back at the office Monday, but the thought of facing the stares and whispers, made me sick to my stomach.

My status was public knowledge now. I wasn't sure if people saw me differently because of the way I looked, or because of what they now knew about me. Some were sympathetic, sure, but I wasn't naive enough to think that everyone could look past it.

I ran a hand through my hair, the weight of everything pressing on me, making it hard to breathe. Beneath the panic, a quiet voice reminded me I couldn’t give up. Not yet. I still had time to find a way out. I didn’t know the next step, but I knew sinking into despair wouldn’t be the answer.

~~~

Ilya - Upgraded

I'd all but pushed my Mom out of the hospital room. She'd barely left my side since I refused the brain shift. While I appreciated the company, a bitter feeling lingered—she’d only shown up when it was clear I was dying.

I told her I had business to take care of and shut down any further questions. When my lawyer arrived, I got to work.

It was clear I had more good days behind me than in front of me. If I wanted control over where my assets went, I had to act fast.

Though my will had been finalized years ago, I needed to add one last beneficiary: Mira Stone.

As we finished the paperwork, and I signed the necessary forms, my lawyer asked one final time, "Why are you doing this?"

I hesitated, trying to sift through all the thoughts racing through my mind. "Because it's the right thing to do."

~~~

Mira - Slightly Upgraded

The funeral was beautiful, incredibly lavish. I stood in the back, feeling out of place. While I'd never had the chance to thank Ilya, I wanted to show up for her today.

I snuck out after the service, not finding it necessary to greet anyone. As I got to my car, I caught my reflection in the window.

I traced my fingers along the flawless skin and smiled. One of the many blessings from Ilya's small fortune she left me—a skin shift. While clearer than my natural skin, my features remained the same, and I felt more like myself again.

I didn't have to stop there. I could've shifted more: heart, lungs, nearly anything I wanted. However, Ilya had changed my mind.

Along with the money she'd left came a letter:

Dear Mira,

I’m sorry we never met. When I first heard your story, I was at a crossroads of my own. You made me reconsider what I was doing to myself—and maybe, in the end, that saved me from more mistakes.

The truth is, all the money in the world can’t guarantee more time. I thought shifting would give me control over my fate, but here I am, still facing the same inevitable end.

I envy you, Mira. Not for the life you have, but for the one you’re still allowed to live without the weight of these changes. I can’t say I regret it all, but I’ve learned there’s more to life than just staying alive.

With Love & Respect,

Ilya

Instead of trying to make my life last forever, I would spend the money living it fully.