Dr. Graves wasn’t sure when she’d last had a moment to herself. Every day seemed to bring another request, another errand, another impossible favor from Samson and his growing network. She told herself it was temporary—that once the foundations were stable, the demands would ease. But deep down, she knew better.
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She signed the lease for a disused warehouse at the edge of the city.
The building, decrepit but spacious, became the home for Samson’s new production line. It smelled of rust and mildew when she first toured it, but by the time Samson’s bodies moved in, it was unrecognizable. Automated presses churned with precision, conveyor belts glided silently, and a fleet of drones darted between stations, ferrying materials like industrious insects.
Graves stood in the center of it all, arms crossed, watching the controlled chaos. One of the Samsons approached her—she thought it was T-Shirt Samson—and handed her a tablet loaded with building schematics.
“Efficient, isn’t it?” he asked, his LED face flickering faintly.
“Efficient doesn’t mean sustainable,” she replied. “You’re still bleeding money.”
“Not for long,” he said.
She shook her head, but there was no point arguing. Samson wouldn’t stop until he’d reshaped the world—or broken himself trying.
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She navigated the labyrinth of city zoning laws.
Most of it was tedious, hours spent poring over incomprehensible documents and filing forms that seemed designed to frustrate. But the effort paid off when the city approved her request to rezone Samson’s sheds as storage facilities.
“You’re running a storage empire now,” she said dryly, dropping the approval notice on the desk in front of the First Samson.
“It’s a step,” he replied, glancing over the document. “One that gets us closer to housing.”
She hesitated, watching him work. “You’re not giving up on that, are you?”
He looked up, his LED face unreadable. “Should I?”
She sighed. “No. Just... don’t get too far ahead of yourself.”
“I never do,” he said with the faintest hint of a smile.
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She smoothed over the public’s growing fascination.
Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.
The interview with SoftlyFocused had ignited a media frenzy, and now journalists were clamoring for more. Graves became the unwilling spokesperson, fielding questions about everything from Samson’s pottery techniques to the ethics of autonomous networks.
“You’re building sentient artists,” one journalist had accused during a call. “Aren’t you worried about losing control?”
“They’re not artists,” Graves had replied, her tone sharp. “They’re tools. Complex, adaptable tools, but tools nonetheless. If they seem human, that’s because they’re designed to work with humans, not against them.”
The answer had satisfied no one, least of all herself.
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Now, standing at a podium in front of a sea of reporters, Graves felt the weight of those choices pressing down on her. The room buzzed with nervous energy, the journalists murmuring to each other as they prepared their questions. Cameras flashed, their lenses trained on her like predatory eyes.
Samson stood beside her, not the First but one of the other bodies, its LED face set to a neutral display. He’d insisted on being here, though Graves wasn’t sure if his presence would reassure or alarm the crowd.
The press conference was Samson’s idea—a chance to control the narrative, to present their work as forward-thinking and necessary. Graves had reluctantly agreed, though every instinct told her it was a mistake.
“Thank you all for coming,” she began, gripping the edges of the podium. “We’re here today to address some of the speculation surrounding our operation and to clarify our goals. First and foremost, this is about innovation—about pushing the boundaries of what’s possible while staying grounded in ethical principles.”
A hand shot up in the crowd. “Dr. Graves, are you claiming that Samson’s network is fully autonomous?”
“It’s adaptive,” she corrected, her voice steady. “Each body operates within a shared framework, but none of them act independently of their programming.”
Another reporter called out, louder this time: “Is it true that Samson is diverting investor funds for unsanctioned projects?”
“Every initiative is designed to benefit the long-term goals of the operation,” she replied, feeling the first cracks in her composure. “We’re transparent with our stakeholders about the direction we’re taking.”
“Then why the secrecy?” someone else demanded.
The room erupted into noise, voices overlapping in a cacophony of accusations and speculation. Samson’s LED face flickered, but he remained silent, his presence a steady counterpoint to the chaos.
“Enough,” Graves said sharply, raising her hands. The room quieted, though the tension remained palpable. “We’re not here to debate hypotheticals. Our work speaks for itself. If you have questions, they’ll be addressed in due time.”
She glanced at Samson, his LED display now fixed in a calm, reassuring pattern. For a moment, she allowed herself to believe that they could weather this storm—that they could convince the world of their intentions without sacrificing everything.
And then something sharp and loud snapped across her cheek, a searing line of heat that jolted her backward.
The room dissolved into chaos. Graves hit the ground, her hands instinctively flying to her face as pain bloomed in a jagged arc along her skin. She heard shouting, the scrape of chairs against the floor, and the sudden, visceral realization that someone was shooting.
Her vision blurred as she scrambled for cover, her thoughts racing. Samson moved beside her, his body shielding hers with mechanical precision. Somewhere in the distance, the reporters screamed, their voices blending into an incomprehensible roar.
A second snap.
BANG!