This was a close vote with 4 votes for choice number 1, and 3 votes for choice number 3: "I am my own best judge. I regret nothing."
(Now I can't help but picture our character as a female Charlton Heston. That guy is always bellowing something at the end of the movie.)
No change in stats.
Anubis nods. "The great secret we gods have tried to keep from you is now yours. You are the only final arbiter of your life. So long as you exercise your authority, no man, god, or robot has power over you."
With that, Anubis and his scales melt into a puddle of liquid gold.
You kneel in the puddle of gold and shape it with your hands into a trophy for yourself: a golden robot.
"I win," you murmur in satisfaction.
Achievement: Trophy - If nobody can judge you, is this achievement meaningless?
You awaken in a hospital room. A small garden at the windowsill, probably tended by the robot nurses, lends a floral scent to the room. The paintings on the walls are Thomas Kinkade-like lighthouses and pastoral scenes, no dount calculated to have the most positive effect on the average patient's feelings.
"Master, you're awake!" Arachne crawls up to your side. "I was so worried."
"Good morning, Progenitor." Your doctor reminds you of Ella Fitzgerald - you can hear her smile in her voice. Only her eyes, which are made of glass and don't saccade quite fast enough, give away that she's not human. "Why don't you tell me what happened? I have some guesses from your scans, but I want to hear you tell it."
You tell the doctor briefly about how you passed out back at your palatial mansion.
"I wanted to help, but I wasn't sure what the problem was," Arachne tells the doctor.
You hesitate because you can still recall your dream, but it seems very personal and not necessarily relevant. "I had a dream...a familiar one." You shake your head. "Then I woke up here."
"Well, I don't mean to alarm you, but you've had a stroke," the doctor says gently.
"A stroke," you say in disbelief. "But I'm not that old. I'm hardly past fifty."
"I'm afraid the news gets worse," the doctor says. "You carry a newly identified genetic disorder called Algernon's Disease. You have too many of the genes that promote neural branching and glucose consumption, which at a certain point becomes harmful."
"Harmful how?" you ask. "That just seems to be a recipe for increased intelligence."
"It is," the doctor says. "There have only been a handful of other cases, and they all became wealthy entrepeneurs and inventors - one of whom funded the research that led to our understanding of the disease. But starting from the age of fifty or so, or occasionally earlier if you're under a great deal of stress, Algernon's victims get seizures or strokes, often accompanied by hallucinatory visions."
"Under a great deal of stress..." Could your first dream about the robot Anubis have been one of these episodes? You had stayed up all night, so you had assumed you'd simply passed out from exhaustion. What if it were one of these episodes? "But was there anything I could have done? Is there anything I can do now?"
"There was nothing you did wrong," the doctor says gently. "I know it must seem as if it's your fault somehow, but nobody gets to keep on living forever just because they've made the right choices. Everybody dies of something."
"I just wish it didn't have to come so soon," you say.
The doctor nods. "Well, it may not have to. I've looked at your scans. Surgery is an option. We can either try to excise the neurons that are acting up, without replacement, or try to replace them with an artificial neural network."
"So I'd be part AI," you say speculatively. "That sounds interesting."
"Yay!" Arachne says.
"You should be aware that most patients report a side effect of loss of emotional affect," the doctor says. "The pattern recognition of the damaged tissue would be there, but without the full suite of neurotransmitters, some of the emotional signals running around your brain would find their lines cut." The doctor looks very serious for a moment. "Also, I don't want to downplay the very real chance that you could die in surgery. A slip of the needle could trigger a final epileptic response and death. Of course, it's all done with robots these days, but you may or may not find that reassuring."
On the whole, you don't find that reassuring - the robots you made weren't known for their grace, and they're state-of-the-art.
"And if I don't have any surgery at all?" you ask.
The doctor shrugs. "You could have six months or six years."
- "I don't trust our surgical technology. I'd prefer to live my life normally, and take what comes."
- "I will undergo surgery to remove the damaged tissue."
- "I will undergo surgery to replace that part of my brain with a robot core."
- "I will create a robot body and brain for myself. I'm not attached to this squishy meat."