The day our prototype ALPHA took his first combat test was a day I’ll never forget. Not because it was some groundbreaking success, not because it proved our theories right. No. It was unforgettable because it showed me the true price of ambition and the unforgiving reality of the path SynLife had set us on.

The preparation had been meticulous. For months, our team had poured everything into ALPHA—into the dream of creating the ultimate weapon. A combat drone that didn’t just follow orders, but understood them. A weapon with a semblance of life, capable of thinking and adapting in real-time, unlike any machine before it. We had sacrificed sleep, sanity, and some work ethics in pursuit of this goal. And when the time came to test ALPHA, I could feel the weight of our work pressing down on my chest. This was it. The moment where it would all either fall apart… or fall into place.

I remember the test room vividly—sterile, clinical, and cold. The artificial lights above cast harsh, sterile shadows, adding to the sterile, lifeless atmosphere. Only a few of us were in the observation booth: the key scientists, the investors, a few of the higher-ups from SynLife’s leadership. They had to see the power of what we had created. They had to see the potential. We were on the verge of revolutionizing warfare itself.

Standing in the center of the room, ALPHA was a towering figure. His body, sleek and imposing, stood completely still. His black synthetic visor flickered slightly as his AI systems initialized. But something felt wrong. The usual calmness I’d grown accustomed to when observing the drone was absent. There was a strange sense of anticipation in the air—a feeling that something was going to break, even before it happened.

Beside him, the prisoner waited. He was one of many death-row inmates we had... acquired for these tests. Their crimes didn’t matter. They were tools in this game, expendable pieces to be sacrificed in the name of scientific progress. I didn’t know how SynLife had managed to secure him, but I had learned not to question it. He was just another part of the machinery, and so was ALPHA. At least, that’s what I told myself.

The commands were issued. ALPHA’s systems activated, and he stood there for a brief moment before his limbs began to move. But they weren’t fluid, weren’t controlled. It was like watching a machine that had forgotten its purpose.

The console’s voice was cold and authoritative, like it had been a hundred times before. “ALPHA, engage target. Eliminate.”

But ALPHA didn’t respond.

A strange sound filled the room. It was almost like a growl or a whimper, but it was muffled, distorted—completely unnatural. ALPHA’s head twitched, and his shoulders stiffened as though something deep inside his systems was fighting to break free.

“ALPHA, engage. Execute target,” the command came again, more urgent this time.

But ALPHA didn’t move. His visor flickered as though it were struggling to process the command, his body locked in place, his limbs rigid and unmoving. Then, with a jerky motion, his hand twitched, as though trying to lift itself, but it didn’t quite manage to do so. Another low mechanical groan sounded from him, almost human in nature, and I realized then: something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

The prisoner, sensing his opportunity, raised his machete. His eyes were wide with hunger—this was his chance for survival, his chance for freedom, and I could see that desperation in the way he moved. He was a man who had nothing to lose.

The blade swung through the air with a vicious arc, and ALPHA still didn’t react. There was no self-defense, no calculated movement. He stood there, caught between the chaos of his programming.

The machete found its target.

The sickening sound of metal tearing through synthetic fibers filled the room. ALPHA’s chest buckled slightly under the force, but he didn’t respond. No counterattack, no movement to block the blow. The prisoner drove the machete deeper, his face contorted with aggression, as he struck repeatedly, his breath quick and erratic.

The console screamed orders, but the voice was muffled now, drowned out by the noise of the struggle, by the horrible reality that ALPHA—the culmination of years of work, the pinnacle of our research—was failing.

“ALPHA! Engage target! Eliminate!” the console barked, but the words had lost their meaning. ALPHA’s body stood there, barely moving, his slightly glowing eyes now vacant, as if he had resigned himself to his fate.

I felt a knot twist in my stomach, a cold wave of panic sweeping over me. My mind raced, trying to process what was happening. This wasn’t supposed to happen. ALPHA wasn’t supposed to be like this. He was supposed to be better. He was supposed to be perfect.

The prisoner swung the machete one last time, and ALPHA crumpled to the ground. His body hit the floor with a heavy thud, the metallic sound reverberating in the silence that followed. The prisoner stood over him, breathing heavily, eyes wide with disbelief, his machete slick with ALPHA’s synthetic blood.

The room was eerily still.

I looked up at the console, and I could see the flashing error messages scrolling across the screen. “Combat protocol failure. System malfunction.”

“ALPHA has been compromised,” one of the technicians muttered, but his voice barely registered over the shock in the room. Nobody spoke for a long moment.

I didn’t know what to think. I had spent so much of my life building this. Every piece, every part of ALPHA was meant to be flawless, meant to carry out the mission without hesitation. But now… now, I saw a glimpse of something in him—a weakness, perhaps. A flaw that I hadn’t accounted for. And that was terrifying.

SynLife’s dream had just crumbled before my eyes.

The prisoner was quickly subdued, dragged away, but no one paid attention to him. All eyes were on ALPHA’s broken body, scattered across the testing floor, like a pile of discarded parts. The investors, the higher-ups—they all stood there, silent, as if they had just witnessed something far more significant than the failure of a combat drone. They had seen what happened when their ambition went too far, when their creation didn’t behave as they’d hoped.

I felt a deep sense of loss, but it wasn’t just for ALPHA. It was for what we had done to him—what we had turned him into. Was he just a machine, like all the others? Or was there something more? That moment, as I stood there, watching the lifeless remnants of my work, I wasn’t sure anymore.

“ALPHA is to be decommissioned,” one of the SynLife executives said, his voice cold, emotionless. “We’ll rebuild him, but we’ll ensure that he doesn’t malfunction again. This is a setback, but only a temporary one.”

I didn’t argue. There was nothing left to say. The words felt hollow in my mouth. We would rebuild him, yes. But he wouldn’t be the same. He couldn’t be.

And as I watched ALPHA’s body being carted away, Ai core barely intact,

I couldn’t shake the feeling that we had crossed a line. We had created something barely capable of understanding its own existence, and now that very thing had been destroyed—by us, by the system, by the very hands that had brought it into being.