The door to the condominium creaks open with a sound like a groan from the universe. Anesthesia Graves—Doctor Graves to anyone who doesn’t know her well—shuffles inside, her boots trailing dried mud from the rain-soaked streets. The entryway rug, already bearing an impressive constellation of stains, accepts this indignity without complaint. She kicks the door closed with her heel, tosses her bag onto a precarious pile of books near the wall, and sighs.
“Well, that sucked,” she announces to no one in particular.
Samson is waiting in the living room, hunched over a pottery wheel like a craftsman from an alien planet. His hands, encased in snug, flexible gloves, are steady as they guide the wet clay into an approximation of a bowl. A faint hum of servos accompanies each careful motion. He glances up—or rather, the head of the Boston Dynamics humanoid robot he inhabits swivels slightly toward her.
“Date didn’t go well?” His voice is as smooth and measured as always, though tonight it carries a faint lag—a millisecond delay that’s just perceptible enough to feel uncanny.
“You’re perceptive,” she replies, shrugging off her coat. It lands on a pile of wires and circuit boards, which Samson had neatly coiled just hours earlier. Graves heads straight for the kitchen, where a stack of mismatched mugs teeters dangerously on the edge of the counter. She selects one and rinses it under the tap, the water sputtering briefly before stabilizing. “Tea or whiskey?” she calls out.
“Tea would be lovely, thank you,” Samson replies, with the kind of exaggerated politeness that makes her suspect he’s teasing.
She snorts, grabbing a teabag from the drawer and filling the kettle. “You don’t even drink tea.”
“And yet,” Samson says, his hands never pausing in their work on the pottery wheel.
By the time Graves settles onto the couch with her mug, Samson has finished shaping the clay into something vaguely functional. He lifts the bowl carefully off the wheel and places it onto a rack by the window, where several other lopsided creations sit drying. She watches him in silence for a moment, sipping her tea and feeling the tension of the evening ebb away.
“Tell me about the disaster,” Samson says finally, breaking the quiet.
Graves exhales, setting the mug down on the coffee table—currently a repository for half-disassembled electronics, a scattering of loose papers, and an empty bag of chips. “It started fine. We met at that little café by the river. She ordered a cortado. I made the mistake of asking what that was.”
“Ah,” Samson says, with mock gravity. “A rookie mistake.”
“Right? Anyway, she was nice enough to explain, but then I tried to make a joke about how the name sounded like it belonged to a surgical instrument. She didn’t laugh.”
Samson’s head tilts slightly, the LEDs on his face flickering into a faint approximation of a smile. “Perhaps she didn’t share your fascination with medical etymology.”
“Apparently not,” Graves mutters, leaning back and staring at the ceiling. The lighting fixture above them flickers faintly, a bulb nearing the end of its life. “It went downhill from there. I rambled about Samson—the AI project, not you—and she seemed interested, but then I started talking about the metafactory stuff. Big mistake. She kept asking me if I was one of those ‘AI apocalypse people.’”
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“And what did you say?” Samson asks, his tone neutral.
“I said I wasn’t—obviously—but then I tried to explain why, and it just… spiraled. By the time the check came, I think she was ready to call a priest.”
Samson chuckles, a low synthetic sound that resonates just slightly off from human. “You have a gift for making strong impressions.”
“Yeah, well, not always good ones.” Graves rubs her temples, the faint beginnings of a headache creeping in. “She said she had to get up early tomorrow. I don’t think she meant it.”
“She could have,” Samson offers.
Graves gives him a look. “You don’t believe that any more than I do.”
Samson raises his gloved hands in a placating gesture. “Fair.”
The apartment looks, as always, like a bomb detonated in the middle of a tech lab. Every surface is covered in some combination of gadgets, tools, papers, and personal detritus. A half-finished drone sits on the dining table, its wings skewed at an odd angle. The floor near the windows is littered with tiny clay scraps from Samson’s pottery experiments. Somewhere in the chaos is a laundry basket with clean clothes that have yet to find their way into a drawer.
Graves surveys the scene with a mix of resignation and fondness. “You know, if someone came in here without context, they’d think we were crazy.”
“They wouldn’t be entirely wrong,” Samson replies, returning to the wheel. He starts shaping a new piece, this one narrower and taller than the last. “Though I imagine they’d focus more on the humanoid robot throwing pottery.”
Graves grins despite herself. “How’s that going, by the way? The remote body thing.”
“It’s… odd,” Samson admits. “There’s an added layer of abstraction to every action. My neural pathways have to compensate for the transmission delay, however slight. It’s like trying to move underwater.”
“You’re making it work.”
“For now. If the lag spikes, I might accidentally turn this into modern art.” He gestures at the vase-like shape forming on the wheel.
Graves snickers, taking another sip of tea. “Modern art’s not so bad. Stick it on a plinth and charge five grand.”
“Tempting,” Samson says. “Though I prefer functionality.”
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The conversation drifts as the evening wears on. Graves talks about the date some more—mostly to vent—and Samson listens with the patience of someone who’s processed more data than any human could in a lifetime. Occasionally, he offers a quip or an observation, but mostly he lets her talk. It’s what she needs tonight.
At one point, Graves gets up to rummage through a box of spare parts, looking for something she swears she saw earlier but now can’t find. Samson, still at the wheel, doesn’t comment when she upends half the box onto the floor.
“You know,” she says eventually, sitting cross-legged on the floor amidst the mess, “sometimes I wonder why I bother. Dating, I mean. I’m terrible at it. Always have been.”
“Humans are social creatures,” Samson replies. “Even the terrible ones.”
She throws a crumpled piece of paper at him. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
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By the time Graves starts feeling the pull of sleep, the apartment is quiet again. Samson has finished his pottery for the night and is tidying up his workstation with the methodical precision she envies but will never match. The rack by the window is fuller now, each piece a testament to his patience and care.
Graves watches him for a moment, her head resting against the back of the couch. “Hey, Samson?”
“Yes?”
“Thanks for… y’know. Being here. Listening.”
He turns to face her, the LEDs on his face flickering into a soft, unreadable pattern. “Always.”
She smiles faintly, her eyes drifting closed. Somewhere in the background, the kettle clicks off, the last bit of warmth seeping into the room. The chaos of the apartment feels less overwhelming now, the silence less oppressive. It’s just another night—unremarkable, maybe—but that’s enough.
And somewhere across town, in a quiet, humming datacenter, Samson’s real self watches.