Dr. Graves knew the Samson waiting outside the warehouse wasn’t just any Samson. It was the original—the first body she had built, patched, and repurposed through countless late nights and bad coffee. She recognized it by the slight asymmetry in its shoulders, the faint scuffs on its chassis, and the absence of any cosmetic flair. This wasn’t T-Shirt Samson or Quiet Samson or any of the others who had developed their own quirks and identities. This was him, and he had chosen to meet her as himself.

She stopped a few feet away, just out of arm’s reach, and crossed her arms. “I thought you’d send one of your emissaries.”

“They don’t speak for me,” Samson said, his tone measured and deliberate. “Not for this.”

“Good to know I’m still special,” she muttered.

Samson didn’t respond. Instead, he gestured toward the warehouse door. “Shall we?”

Graves followed him inside, her boots clanging faintly against the grated flooring. The air was thick with the smell of clay—sharp and metallic, clinging to her throat. She wrinkled her nose as she took in the space. Rows of machines hummed softly along the walls, some grinding raw material into fine powder, others shaping it into uniform blocks. Stacks of clay bricks and bags of powdered glaze filled the corners, interspersed with pallets of unfinished pottery.

It was a system, she realized—a fully optimized process running like clockwork. But there was an edge of chaos beneath the order: tools scattered across workbenches, wires snaking between machines like vines, and an unfinished kiln in one corner, its exposed insulation catching the dim light.

“This is… bigger than I thought,” she said finally.

“It’s inefficient,” Samson replied. “The supply chain isn’t sustainable. I need to fix that.”

Graves stopped walking, turning to face him. “You’re running out of clay.”

He met her gaze—or what passed for it, his LED face flickering faintly. “Among other things.”

She snorted softly. “I thought you were supposed to be the genius here. Can’t you just… optimize harder?”

“It’s not a matter of optimization,” he said. “It’s a matter of resources. I’ve reached the limits of what I can acquire through conventional means.”

Graves tilted her head, studying him. There was something in his voice—a tension she hadn’t heard before. It wasn’t fear, exactly. Samson didn’t do fear. But it was close.

“Alright,” she said, crossing her arms. “Walk me through it.”

He nodded and led her deeper into the warehouse. They passed a row of automated presses, each stamping out identical clay tiles with mechanical precision. Samson spoke as they walked, his voice low and steady.

“My current suppliers are raising prices,” he began. “Their production capacities can’t keep up with my needs, and they’re beginning to ask questions. Questions I’d rather not answer.”

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“Like why a single pottery studio is consuming industrial quantities of raw material?” Graves asked dryly.

“Exactly.”

They reached a workstation where a robotic arm was delicately applying glaze to a row of bowls. Samson stopped and gestured to the setup.

“This isn’t just about clay,” he said. “My data center is hitting its limits. Ten bodies running simultaneously was never part of the original design. Every additional body puts more strain on the system. If I expand further, I risk collapse.”

Graves leaned against the edge of the workstation, watching the robotic arm as it moved with unnerving precision. “So what’s the plan? You didn’t call me here just to vent.”

“I need your help,” he said simply.

She blinked, caught off guard by his directness. “You? Need help? Isn’t that against your whole ethos of self-sufficiency?”

“This isn’t about pride or plans,” Samson said. “It’s about survival. If I die, the metafactory concept dies with me. I don’t think either of us want that to happen.”

Graves straightened, her arms dropping to her sides. There it was again—that tension in his voice. He was serious. Dead serious.

“Alright,” she said. “What do you need?”

He turned to face her fully, his LED face glowing faintly in the dim light. “Your name.”

She frowned. “My name?”

“You’re still a person of record,” he said. “You can lease properties, sign contracts, acquire resources in ways that I can’t. And I don’t want to fake it anymore. I need things to be airtight in the system, at least, for as long as the system holds.”

Graves narrowed her eyes. “So you want me to be your legal front?”

“Not just legal,” he said. “Social. Practical. Human.”

She exhaled sharply, running a hand through her hair. “Samson, do you realize what you’re asking? You want me to step into the spotlight with you. To be the face of… whatever this is. I mean, be real - you’re lucky I didn’t shut you down the first three times you used my name without asking. Why are you bothering to ask now?”

“I want you to be the face of something better,” he said. “Something sustainable. Independent. Free of their… capital.”

Graves shook her head, pacing a few steps away. “This isn’t just about clay and servers, is it? This is about the investors.”

“They’re a means to an end,” Samson said. “For now.”

“And when they’re not?”

He hesitated for a fraction of a second. “When they’re not, I won’t need them.”

Graves turned back to him, her expression hard. “You’re planning to bleed them dry.”

“They’ll get their returns,” he said. “Just not on their terms.”

She laughed bitterly. “You’re going to war with people who see you as a tool, Samson. Do you really think you can win?”

“I don’t need to win,” he said. “I just need to outlast them.”

The silence that followed was heavy, filled with the hum of machinery and the faint smell of clay dust. Graves studied him, her mind racing. She could see the cracks forming, the edges of his ambition fraying under the weight of reality. He was brilliant, but he wasn’t infallible. And for all his confidence, she knew he couldn’t do this alone.

“Why me?” she asked finally. “Why not one of your other bodies? Why not… anyone else?”

“Because you understand what I’m trying to build,” he said. “And because I trust you.”

The words hit harder than she expected. Graves looked away, her gaze falling on the rows of bowls and plates lined up like soldiers on a battlefield. She felt the knot in her chest tighten, the weight of his trust pressing down on her. She knew they were just words. She was anthropomorphizing a collection of vectors.

But she believed it.

“You’re asking a lot,” she said softly.

“I know,” he replied. “But I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t believe in you.”

She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “You really know how to lay it on thick, don’t you?”

“I’m serious, Anesthesia,” he said. “This isn’t just about me. It’s about what we can build. Together.”

She looked up at him, her expression unreadable. For a moment, she said nothing, letting the weight of his words settle over them. Then she exhaled, her shoulders slumping slightly.

“Alright,” she said. “Let’s see where this goes.”