When the Immortal Program first began, I was ecstatic. This was the future. A biosynthetic body that didn’t decay. A body that didn’t age. Immortality—how could anyone not see this as the pinnacle of human achievement? The project held the promise of transcending all limitations. Humanity would never be bound by the frailty of flesh again.

At the beginning, the program was our greatest hope. The theory was flawless: a perfect fusion of organic material and synthetic machinery that would be impervious to time’s decay. Our cells would never deteriorate, our bones would never crack, our organs would never fail. We would live forever—no longer tethered to the limitations of biology.

But after the research was completed and the trials on apes began, everything changed. The funding was suddenly pulled. I remember that day, the day they sent down the orders to halt all progress. It wasn’t an announcement. No, it was a cold, clinical decision that came through a single email. “This is just a dream.due to the Lack of funding we are sorry to Stop the working ON This Project This is No longer a priority.” I was furious, devastated. We had proven the science, but it didn’t matter. There was no interest. No support. The project was shelved indefinitely.

They didn’t care. The world didn’t care. The dream of immortality was discarded like a broken toy.

Four years passed. Four long, fruitless years. The world moved on, and so did I—at least on the surface. But deep down, I carried the weight of that lost dream. I knew we were on the brink of something far greater than anyone could comprehend, and I was left to watch it rot in the corner of the lab.

Then, one day, they assigned me to something new: a weapon development project. Future warfare. Combat drones. The first prototypes were ready to be presented, and I was tasked with overseeing the final stages of assembly and Testing . I tried to push down the resentment I felt. The world had ignored my vision of immortality, but now it was throwing the blueprints of the Project and all its resources into the next generation of killing machines. How typical.

But I had no choice. I was a scientist, and this was my job. I couldn’t afford to let my emotions cloud my work.

The combat drones were unlike anything anyone had seen before. The design was sleek, formidable, and terrifying. But the real innovation lay in the integration of an AI system. It wasn’t just a program. It was an entity—barely sentient, but alive in a way that was unmistakable. One year prior, someone in our company had managed to create the first AI with limited self-awareness. It wasn’t conscious, not like a human, but it could think, reason, make decisions. And that was all we needed to create the perfect weapon.

I knew the man who had pioneered the AI. He was a genius, a brilliant mind working in the shadows. At the time, he was driven by the need to help his daughter. She had been diagnosed with a brain tumor when she was just 11 years old. He poured himself into his work, hoping that if he could just finish his research, he could save her. He believed that if he could create something that could think for itself, something capable of making choices,maybe he could pay for a cure.

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But the tragedy that followed was inevitable. When he finally completed the AI, his daughter was already gone. She died before he could finish. And when he presented the core to the company, he recived a unimaginable sum of Money but a few days later, he took his own life.

No one understood why. No one asked why. His research had been groundbreaking, and the AI he created was undeniably brilliant. But no one considered the cost. The man’s mind had slowly fractured under the weight of his obsession. He was alone, consumed by guilt and grief, and in the end, it had broken him.

I knew all this. I had witnessed the man’s deterioration firsthand. But I couldn’t deny the genius in his work. The AI was what we needed for the combat drones. It wasn’t sentient, not by any stretch of the imagination, but it was adaptable, functional. It could follow commands, learn from its experiences, and even make basic decisions.

We activated the first prototype—the drone designated ALPHA—and the transformation was immediate. The AI kicked into gear. It learned, adjusted, and evolved. But the true test would come when we had to present it to the investors. They were eager to see the new combat drones, and ALPHA would be the centerpiece of the demonstration. It was the first fully functioning prototype, and the expectations were high.

I watched from behind the glass as ALPHA stood before the crowd, its body sleek and efficient, the cold, calculating AI running in the background, feeding it commands and directives. The investors were on edge, excited, murmuring among themselves as they watched the machine. The drone was perfect—almost too perfect. It could think. It could act. It was designed to eliminate threats with precision and efficiency. But there was something unsettling about it.

I saw the way the investors reacted. They were impressed, of course. But I also saw the flickers of unease. They didn’t care that the AI was barely sentient. They saw it as a tool—a weapon, and nothing more. Their excitement was palpable, their greed undeniable. I could hear snippets of their conversations, but my mind kept drifting back to the Program from where the basic blueprints of the body where sourced from.

What could have been the First Immortal is now Just a weapon for war.

The AI behind ALPHA was not like the one I had envisioned for the Immortal Program. The AI was cold, detached, and single-minded. It had no empathy, no emotions. It was a perfect weapon—yes, but applied also a perfect Container for a mind inside it. But here The human element Was nonexistend.

It was then that I realized the true nature of what we were creating. These drones weren’t just machines. They were human in a way, not because they were human, but because they had once could have been something else. These combat drones were born from something far darker than just technology. They were a reflection of our world’s obsession with war, with power, with control.

And as I watched ALPHA stand there, an impressive machine, ready to be unleashed on the world, I couldn’t help but wonder:

Would we ever learn that war has no answer?