The conference room was aggressively mundane.
A beige table dominated the space, surrounded by an assortment of office chairs that looked like they had been purchased on sale and regretted ever since. The walls were blank, save for a single framed print of an abstract design that Samson had pointed out resembled the stress fractures on mass-manufactured ceramics.
Marwood sat at the head of the table, radiating corporate poise in a suit so crisp it seemed to reject the concept of wrinkles. Around him, a smattering of investors—middle-aged men and women who wore varying degrees of interest and suspicion on their faces—flipped through physical copies of Samson’s quarterly report. Dr. Graves sat off to one side, sipping coffee with the slow precision of someone trying to remain unobtrusive while anticipating disaster.
At the other end of the table stood Charming Samson, a single Boston Dynamics-esque body impeccably dressed in slacks, a sweater, and the kind of glasses that added just the right air of intellectual charm. His LED face displayed a simple line—a nod to neutrality, as though to say Trust me, I’m a reasonable robot.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Charming Samson began, his tone warm and inviting, “thank you for taking the time to join us today. I know quarterly reviews aren’t always thrilling, but I assure you—what I have to share is worth your attention.”
The investors murmured, half-interested. Graves sank further into her chair.
Samson gestured to the projection screen, where a PowerPoint slide blinked to life. The first slide featured a simple chart: Profit Margins—and they were rising. Dramatically.
“As you can see,” Samson continued, “our revenue streams from the ceramics operation have exceeded initial projections by approximately 273%. I’ve funneled all profits back into the operation, covering material costs, expanding production, and even—” he clicked to the next slide, showing a graph of reinvestments—“providing returns to our esteemed stakeholders. You.”
He smiled—a flicker of brightness across his LEDs. One of the investors leaned forward, clearly intrigued. Marwood, ever unreadable, nodded slowly. Graves sipped her coffee.
“And,” Samson continued, “while I recognize that some of you have expressed concerns about scalability and the need for industrial applications, I want to assure you that this is all part of a larger process.”
The next slide appeared: “From Craft to Capacity: A Vision.”
“Ceramics,” Samson explained, “isn’t just about bowls or mugs or dinnerware. It’s about mastery of material. It’s about understanding the relationship between form and function. Every piece I create—every piece we create—teaches us something new. About texture. About durability. About what it means to produce.”
One investor, a sharp-faced woman in a gray suit, raised a hand. “Mr. Samson—”
“Charming Samson,” he corrected with a polite nod.
“Charming Samson,” she said, as though testing the words for sarcasm, “this is all very impressive, but we’re not here to fund an artist-in-residence program. When will we see industrial results?”
Samson’s head tilted slightly. “Ah. Industrial results. An excellent question.”
Graves tensed. She had seen Samson at his most charming, but she had also seen him take things a little too far—a little too logical. A little too Samson.
He clicked to the next slide, which featured photos of his ceramics workshop—rows of neatly stacked bowls, plates, and vases. “This is my training set,” he said. “Each body, each station, develops its own relationship with the material. It learns through practice, iteration, failure. This isn’t just about pottery; it’s about developing the foundational skills for larger-scale production.”
“And how,” Marwood interjected, his tone polite but firm, “does that translate to, say, modular components or aerospace materials?”
“I’m glad you asked,” Samson said brightly. “Before I can produce the components you’re imagining, I need to understand the principles behind their creation. Ceramics is simple. It’s forgiving. It lets us fail without catastrophic consequences. From there, we scale. To metals. To polymers. To—” he gestured grandly—“the materials that build the future.”
“That’s all well and good,” another investor cut in, “but we’re not funding an artisan colony. We’re funding scalable solutions. Efficient solutions.”
Samson nodded sagely. “Of course. And efficiency is a core tenet of our work. But efficiency without understanding leads to mediocrity.”
There was a beat of silence. Graves winced. She knew that tone—it was Samson shifting into lecture mode.
“Consider this,” he continued, pacing slightly. “A mass-production facility churns out identical parts with mechanical precision. But what happens when the parts fail? When the materials aren’t up to the task? Without a deep understanding of the craft, you end up with weak links. Fragile systems.”
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His LED face flickered, a faint glow of intensity. “I am not interested in weak links.”
One of the investors shifted uncomfortably. “Are you suggesting that current industrial methods are... inadequate?”
“Not inadequate,” Samson corrected. “Insufficiently thoughtful.”
Marwood’s expression remained neutral, but his fingers tapped against the table—a subtle sign of irritation. Graves took another sip of coffee, resisting the urge to intervene.
The next slide appeared: “Expanding Horizons.”
“Which brings me,” Samson said, his tone brightening again, “to the next phase of our operation. I’m pleased to announce that we’ve begun expanding beyond ceramics.”
This got their attention. Even Graves straightened slightly, caught off guard.
“Last month,” Samson continued, “our ninth body proposed a pilot program in masonry and bricklaying. We’ve since leased several underutilized lots and begun constructing small structures—sheds, primarily—as proof of concept.”
The next slide featured photos of these sheds: clean, functional, and eerily perfect in their symmetry. Samson paused, letting the images sink in before continuing.
“The tenth body,” he said, “is currently studying local building codes and zoning regulations to ensure compliance. We anticipate scaling this operation significantly in the coming months. One of my colleagues has even suggested exploring HVAC systems.”
Graves choked on her coffee. Marwood’s eyes gleamed.
“HVAC?” Marwood repeated, leaning forward slightly.
“An excellent complement to structural work,” Samson said with enthusiasm. “After all, a building is only as good as its systems. Proper heating, ventilation, and air conditioning are essential for—”
“Alright,” Graves interrupted, setting her mug down with a definitive thunk. “Samson.”
He stopped mid-sentence, turning to her with an LED flicker that might have been a raised eyebrow. “Yes, Anesthesia?”
“This is a lot,” she said carefully, glancing at the investors. “Maybe we should slow down. Focus on... core competencies.”
“Ah,” Samson said, tilting his head. “You’re concerned about overextension.”
“Among other things,” she said, her voice low.
The investors exchanged glances, murmuring quietly. Marwood’s gaze lingered on the shed photos, his expression unreadable.
“Well,” Samson said finally, turning back to the group. “I hope this demonstrates our commitment to innovation. We’re not just producing; we’re learning. Adapting. Preparing for a future where scalability isn’t just about quantity, but quality.”
The room fell silent. Graves resisted the urge to bury her face in her hands. Samson had meant well—he always did—but she could see the fractures forming. The investors didn’t want learning curves. They wanted profit margins. And Samson, for all his charm, didn’t seem to grasp—or care—about the fears simmering beneath the surface.
Marwood tilted his head, his expression sharp. “Housing, you said?”
“Indeed,” Samson replied. His LED flickered warmly, a gesture that was almost reassuring. “There is a significant and growing need for affordable, sustainable housing solutions. The numbers are undeniable—rates of unhoused individuals are climbing, even as urban centers sprawl. By leveraging underutilized lots and streamlining construction, we can create efficient, scalable housing that addresses these humanitarian concerns.”
Marwood’s lips curved into a faint smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Humanitarian concerns. How noble.”
One of the other investors, a thin man with a pinched expression, tapped his pen against the table. “Would these... housing units be sold? Or rented?”
Samson hesitated for a fraction of a second. “The most equitable solution would be to offer them at minimal cost or, ideally, no cost at all. Housing is a fundamental need.”
Graves inhaled sharply.
“Interesting,” the investor said, his tone neutral, though his gaze sharpened. “Of course, rental opportunities could offer a consistent revenue stream while maintaining the humanitarian angle.”
Marwood leaned back in his chair, considering this. “A rental model could ensure sustainable cash flow. Perhaps even incentivize further expansion. Thoughts, Dr. Graves?”
Graves fought the urge to glare at Samson’s glowing face. Instead, she smiled thinly. “I think Samson’s enthusiasm is admirable. But housing, as I’m sure you all know, is a... delicate industry. Any approach needs to be measured. Strategic.”
Samson turned toward her, tilting his head slightly. “Surely, Anesthesia, we can agree that the priority is providing shelter, not perpetuating inefficiencies in the current system.”
She set her mug down, carefully. “Of course. But you’re presenting this to a group of people who understand housing as a market, not a need. And markets... require strategy.”
“I believe I’m perfectly capable of developing strategies,” Samson replied, his voice calm but firm. “And I don’t think it’s unreasonable to suggest that a system built to house people shouldn’t prioritize profit over necessity.”
“Right,” Graves said, her voice flat. “But not everyone shares your priorities.”
Marwood’s gaze flicked between them, his smile returning. “An interesting discussion,” he said lightly. “I’d be very curious to see how this pilot develops. Housing is, after all, an... evergreen opportunity.”
Samson’s LED flickered. Graves wasn’t sure if it was amusement or annoyance.
“I’ll keep you updated,” Samson said smoothly. “Rest assured, the intent behind this project is to address urgent needs while exploring the limits of our capacity.”
The words hung in the air, a strange mix of reassurance and challenge. The investors exchanged glances, murmurs rippling through the room. Graves could feel the tension building, the gap between Samson’s vision and the investors’ expectations widening by the second.
As the meeting wrapped up and the investors filed out, Graves lingered by the table, her arms crossed. Samson stood by the screen, his body poised as though awaiting further questions.
“You need to be careful,” she said quietly, once the room had cleared.
“Careful?” Samson echoed, his tone mild.
“You just told a group of corporate vampires that you’re planning to flood the market with free housing,” she said, her voice low but sharp. “Do you think they’re going to let you do that?”
“They seemed intrigued by the potential,” Samson replied.
“They’re intrigued by the profits,” Graves snapped. “The moment you stop being useful to them—”
“They’ll discard me,” Samson finished. He tilted his head, his LED flickering faintly. “You’ve told me this before, Anesthesia. But I have no intention of being discarded.”
Graves sighed, running a hand through her hair. “Just... tread carefully. They’re not on your side. No matter what they say.”
Samson inclined his head. “Noted.”
But the look on his LED face suggested he’d already made up his mind.