The buzz from the successful presentation lingered in the air as the drones were guided back to their designated holding areas. Handlers moved with precision, ensuring each unit returned to its station without incident. The buyers and investors trailed behind, their voices blending into a hum of excitement and opportunism as deals were finalized.
I chose to escort Alpha personally. Though officially marked as “Not for Sale,” I couldn’t help but feel protective of him. The idea of handing him over, even hypothetically, filled me with unease. I kept a few steps behind him, my eyes following his sleek, adaptive form as he walked with purposeful precision.
Around me, conversations drifted, snippets catching my attention:
“We’re looking at a good price for these,” said a sharp-voiced investor, his tone grating against my nerves. “But it won’t be long before they start the bidding. We’ve got our eyes on some international buyers. There’s a strong market for humanoid drones.”
At the word “humanoid,” Alpha froze.
It was so sudden I almost collided with him. His movements ceased entirely, his frame stiffening like a statue. Then, his visor—normally a neutral, calm black shade—flashed an ominous red for the briefest moment.
I stopped in my tracks, my heart skipping a beat.
“Alpha?” I called out cautiously. No response.
Handlers and investors exchanged puzzled glances, a few muttering nervously.
“What’s that about?” one investor quipped, a chuckle escaping him. “Did it hear something it didn’t like?”
I ignored the comment and stepped closer to Alpha. His stillness was unnerving. For a machine built to adapt and respond, this was entirely out of character.
“Is it malfunctioning?” one of the handlers asked, stepping forward tentatively.
I shook my head, unwilling to accept that possibility. “No. He’s... processing something. Probably just a momentary glitch.”
But deep down, I knew it wasn’t a glitch.
We tried everything to coax him into moving—verbal commands, physical prompts, even a manual override attempt—but none of us had brought a console for direct access during the escort, leaving us helpless to diagnose the issue. But Alpha stood resolute, unyielding. All we could do was wait.
For ten excruciating minutes, Alpha remained frozen.
Then, without warning, he moved.
It wasn’t hesitant or uncertain—it was fluid, deliberate, as though nothing unusual had occurred. He resumed his walk to the holding area with the same calculated precision as before, leaving behind a trail of confusion.
The rest of the day passed without further incident, but the image of Alpha’s red visor lingered in my mind, an unsettling detail that refused to fade.
Stolen novel; please report.
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A few days later, preparations began for the drones that had been sold. Teams worked tirelessly to finalize calibrations and ensure every unit was in pristine condition for transfer. Watching the drones leave one by one stirred a mix of pride and apprehension. This was the culmination of our work, the proof of our success. Yet, seeing them handed off felt like surrendering pieces of ourselves.
Alpha, of course, remained. His next test was scheduled for the day: a combat simulation in a flooded chamber designed to mimic challenging environmental conditions.
I watched from the observation deck as the simulation began. The water rose steadily, filling the chamber into a labyrinth of murky currents. Virtual enemies, their presence marked only by faint pings and ripples, were programmed to move unpredictably, simulating ambush scenarios.
Alpha moved with flawless precision. His cloaking system rendered him invisible to the simulated scans, while his biosynthetic fur adjusted to the shifting light patterns of the water. He was a shadow, gliding through the currents with an almost predatory grace.
The water made the environment disorienting—dim, suffocating, filled with dissonant echoes—but Alpha remained unflinching. His enhanced auditory sensors detected even the faintest sounds, his reflexes reacting milliseconds before his virtual opponents could react.
One by one, the drones marked as enemies appeared, cloaked and blending into the murky depths. Some moved fast, others lurking in shadows, waiting for an opportune moment to strike.
But Alpha wasn’t fooled. His movements were precise, his limbs slicing through the water with unnatural fluidity. The simulation had been designed to test both agility and survival, but Alpha wasn’t merely surviving. He was thriving.
The first enemy he encountered wasn’t even aware of his presence. Alpha closed the distance without hesitation. His adaptive claws extended silently as he struck with surgical efficiency. No wasted motion, no hesitation—only clean, calculated action.
The next adversary presented a challenge. It was faster, more aggressive, forcing Alpha into a brief skirmish. Yet, even in close combat, Alpha moved with a grace and precision that left his opponent struggling to react. His enhanced musculature and reflexes made him a blur of motion, each strike purposeful and decisive.
In a matter of minutes, all of the simulated enemies were neutralized. The combat simulation ended with a perfect score, leaving the observers impressed yet unsurprised. Alpha’s consistency had become so reliable that even perfection felt routine.
But for me, something felt off. The combat prowess he displayed wasn’t merely that of a drone. It was something more—something instinctive, almost human.
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As the day wore on, drones were handed over to buyers without issue. Each departure was marked with efficiency and formality, a testament to the team’s meticulous preparation. Yet, amidst the smooth proceedings, I couldn’t shake a growing sense of unease.
That night, as I reviewed the day’s logs, my thoughts returned to Alpha’s strange behavior during the escort. What had triggered his reaction? Why had he frozen at the mention of humanoid drones?
For the first time, I began to wonder if Alpha was aware of more than we intended.
And if he was, what did that mean for the rest of our creations?
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In the days that followed, I couldn’t ignore the quiet shifts in Alpha’s behavior. It wasn’t overt, but there was a subtle change—something that hadn’t been there before. The red flash in his visor felt more than a glitch. It was as if he had been momentarily disconnected from whatever protocols governed him.
We prided ourselves on creating machines designed to follow orders, to adapt to conditions and respond to stimuli with precision. But what if, deep down, Alpha was something more?
The combat simulations only heightened my concern. His performance wasn’t just the result of programming. Alpha was reacting with an eerie sense of awareness, almost as if he understood the threats posed and was making decisions independently of his directives.
The questions loomed larger:
What if Alpha wasn’t just a tool? And if that were true, how many other drones, beneath their sleek exteriors, harbored secrets we hadn’t begun to comprehend?