The questions come in waves now, relentless and pointed, like machine gun fire aimed at Graves’s composure. At first, she holds her ground. A man in a tailored gray suit leans forward, steepling his fingers as though he’s delivering the killing blow.
“Dr. Graves, it’s a compelling vision,” he says, his tone smooth and patronizing, “but let’s talk numbers. What’s your timeline for scaling? Your projected ROI? Surely you’ve run those models.”
Graves’s jaw tightens visibly, her fingers curling into fists at her sides. “I—” She hesitates, her voice wavering for the first time. “I’ve run simulations, but this isn’t about—”
“It’s always about the numbers,” the man interrupts, flashing a smile that feels more like a dagger. “If you want funding, you need to speak our language.”
Her shoulders stiffen, and for a moment, it seems she might lash out. “I’m not here to play your games,” she snaps, her voice cracking under the weight of her frustration. “I don’t care about your spreadsheets or your market forecasts. I care about building something that ends production as a concept.”
The room shifts uncomfortably. Investors exchange glances, their skepticism rekindled. One woman mutters something under her breath to the colleague beside her, and Graves catches it. Her expression hardens into something brittle and dangerous, like glass on the verge of shattering.
Samson steps forward, his movements measured and deliberate, interjecting with a smoothness that cuts through the rising tension. “She’s not great at sales pitches,” he says, his voice laced with gentle humor. The LED strip on his face flickers into a sheepish smile. “But she’s a genius. You should see her neural architecture diagrams. They make my brain spin, and I technically don’t have one.”
The line lands perfectly. Laughter ripples through the room, a much-needed release of tension. Samson presses on, his tone earnest now. “The truth is, Dr. Graves doesn’t think like you. That’s why this works. She’s not here to fit into your systems; she’s here to build something that makes your systems obsolete.”
Graves exhales sharply, her shoulders relaxing just slightly. She doesn’t thank Samson—she doesn’t need to. His presence alone steadies her.
The tide begins to turn. A woman in a cobalt suit, her hair pulled back in a severe bun, leans forward. “Alright,” she says, her tone clipped but interested. “Let’s talk specifics. What are you asking for, in terms of stake?”
Graves’s response is immediate, sharp, and entirely uncalculated. “I don’t care about ownership.”
This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.
The room stills. A man near the end of the table narrows his eyes, his pen freezing mid-note. “You don’t…care?” he echoes, his voice tinged with disbelief.
“No,” Graves snaps. “Ownership is irrelevant. Take a hundred percent of the profits if it matters so much to you. I’m not here to get rich.”
The cobalt-suited woman’s brow furrows. “Then what’s your angle? You’re just going to…give this away?”
Graves hesitates, her fingers twitching slightly. She’s choosing her words carefully now. “I need creative control,” she says finally, her voice low but steady. “And you need to disabuse yourselves of the notion that you can control Samson.”
Her words land like a thunderclap. Some of the investors recoil slightly, their skepticism sharpening into something closer to fear. Graves presses on, her voice rising, fueled by a manic edge of conviction.
“You can’t slap rules on him. He’s not a machine you can twist into whatever shape you want. He’s a system—a system that grows and learns and chooses. The moment you try to turn him into some corporate pet project, he’ll stop being what makes this work. And so will the metafactory.”
The room goes silent. The investors are caught between their hunger for control and the undeniable pull of her vision. Samson, sensing the tension, steps forward again. He gestures broadly to the clay pots on the table, his tone lighter but no less sincere.
“Think of it this way,” he says. “I’m not a product. I’m a process. And processes don’t belong to anyone.”
This time, the silence isn’t uncomfortable. It’s contemplative. A man near the center of the table rubs his chin thoughtfully, while the woman in cobalt leans back, her arms crossed as she considers. One by one, the investors nod—some hesitantly, others with growing enthusiasm. The room shifts again, and this time it tips in Graves’s favor.
----------------------------------------
As the meeting wraps, Graves’s exhaustion begins to show. Her shoulders slump slightly, and her eyes, bloodshot and heavy-lidded, dart toward Samson, searching for confirmation. He nods once, almost imperceptibly, and she exhales a breath she didn’t realize she was holding.
The cobalt-suited woman speaks first. “We’ll fund it,” she says, her voice cutting through the murmurs. “You’ve got my vote.”
A man in gray chimes in next. “Mine too. But I want updates. Regular updates.”
Graves waves a hand dismissively. “That's fine. We thank you for your time.”
And just like that, it’s done. The investors file out, some lingering for a last look at Samson, others already deep in conversation about the implications of what they’ve just agreed to. Graves doesn’t bother with pleasantries. She simply grabs the cart and begins wheeling Samson back toward the door.
----------------------------------------
Outside, the air feels heavier, as if the weight of what just happened is settling over them. Graves stops in the corridor, her hand tightening on the cart’s handle. Samson turns his head slightly, his lenses focusing on her.
“Checklist time,” he says brightly. “Funding secured. CPUs and bodies next. Student debt still pending.”
Graves lets out a dry, bitter laugh, the sound more exhalation than amusement. “We’ll get there,” she mutters, her voice low. She looks at him, her eyes flickering with something between pride and exhaustion. “One step at a time.”
Samson nods, his LED mouth flickering into a reassuring grin. “That’s how you taught me.”
And with that, they move forward. The next step awaits, but for now, the impossible has begun.