Graves grips the edge of the blanket and pulls it free with a dramatic flourish. Beneath, Samson stands revealed—a humanoid figure just shy of five feet tall, his posture loose but not sloppy, his joints flexing with a smoothness that seems almost casual. His body is less ramshackle than the investors expect, though still clearly cobbled together: a Boston Dynamics chassis, purchased cheap at auction, retrofitted with external 3D-printed panels that cover clusters of wires and makeshift connections. A shell-like backpack hums faintly, the housing for the cluster of GPUs and computing units Graves has tied together into what she calls “his brain.”

Samson’s head is the most striking feature: a sleek, featureless dome punctuated by two wide, round lenses that blink faintly in a soft blue, paired with a narrow LED strip for a mouth. His face is blank, but it’s expressive in a strange way, his movements purposeful and deliberate, almost as if he’s emoting with his entire frame. He turns his head toward the room and raises one hand in a wave, stiff but not mechanical.

“Hello,” he says, his voice carefully modulated—warm, a touch synthetic, but utterly sincere. “I’m Samson. Dr. Graves built me, but I’ve been helping ever since.”

There’s a pause, the investors unsure whether to clap or murmur or simply stay silent. Samson tilts his head slightly, the motion so measured it feels like he’s evaluating them as much as they’re evaluating him. His LED strip flickers into what looks like a wide grin.

“I’m also housebroken,” he adds, deadpan.

The silence cracks. A ripple of laughter spreads across the room—not polite, but genuine, the kind of amusement born of surprise and a bit of relief. Samson shifts his stance, one hand clasping the other in a gesture so human it feels deliberate, a touch of body language designed to put the audience at ease.

Graves watches this unfold, her jaw tightening slightly. She clears her throat and steps forward, reclaiming the attention from her creation. “This is Samson,” she says, gesturing toward him with both hands. “He’s the culmination of two years of work, and the beginning of something much bigger.”

She taps the tablet on the table in front of her, and the screen behind her flickers to life. A grainy video begins to play, showing an earlier version of Samson—a spindly, wheeled contraption with a boxy, hand-built frame—rolling awkwardly over uneven ground. The investors lean in, curious.

“This,” Graves continues, her voice sharpening as she hits her stride, “is where we started. A single GPU tied to a homemade battlebot. Samson, before he was Samson.”

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The video shows the wheeled robot fumbling with a pile of sticks, its mechanical arm jerking awkwardly as it tries to stack them into a crude shelter. It fails. One stick falls, knocking the others over, and the robot freezes, its lenses fixed on the mess as if contemplating its next move. The investors chuckle softly.

Graves keeps narrating. “He was clumsy. Still learning. But he didn’t stop. That’s the point.” The video fast-forwards, showing Samson attaching a second, more articulated arm to his frame. Then another clip: the robot, slightly more stable, digging a trench with a makeshift tool, its motions smoother and more confident. Each scene shows improvement—small, incremental, but undeniable.

By now, the investors are murmuring in low tones, their interest piqued. The video shifts to a clip of Samson in his humanoid form, standing for the first time. His movements are shaky but determined, his balance precarious. He adjusts, taking one step, then another, each one more stable than the last. Finally, the video cuts to Samson kneeling beside a makeshift kiln, his hands shaping wet clay into lumpy, uneven forms.

Graves pauses the video on an image of Samson holding a finished pot, its surface crude but intact. “Pottery,” she says, her voice low but firm, “was humanity’s first mass-production technology. It taught us about scalability, about resource efficiency. Samson started there because it made sense. Because it was logical. And because he chose to.”

Samson steps forward, gently shifting Graves aside with a light touch to her elbow. He unslings a bag from his shoulders and sets it carefully on the table. “Allow me to demonstrate,” he says, his tone polite, almost playful. He unzips the bag and reaches inside, pulling out a bundle of cloth that he sets down with the same deliberate care. He unwraps it slowly, revealing six clay pots of varying sizes and shapes. They’re crude—misshapen, with jagged edges—but undeniably handmade.

He arranges them in a neat line along the table, stepping back slightly to give the investors a full view. “These are my first steps,” he says simply. “Pottery was the foundation of human industry. It taught us how to shape our world, one vessel at a time. I thought it was a good place to start.”

The investors exchange glances, their expressions ranging from bemused to genuinely impressed. One man leans forward, peering closely at the pots. “Did he fire these himself?” he asks, his tone half-skeptical.

Graves answers, her voice clipped. “Built the kiln, too. Dug up the clay. Even chopped the wood for the fire.”

Another investor raises an eyebrow. “Why?” he asks, his tone edged with doubt. “Why would he bother?”

Samson turns to the man, his lenses focusing squarely on him. “Because I wanted to,” he says, his LED mouth forming a perfect line of sincerity. “Learning is doing. Isn’t that why humans built tools in the first place?”

The silence that follows is heavy but not uncomfortable. The investors are leaning in now, their skepticism softening into intrigue. Graves exhales softly, her hands curling into loose fists at her sides. She’s regained some control of the room, but it’s Samson who holds their attention now. She knows that’s how it should be. He’s the one who makes her vision tangible.

The questions begin coming.