Dr. Anesthesia Graves wasn’t sure what she’d expected. She’d imagined the worst—a scrapyard of sheds cobbled together with desperation and duct tape, perhaps, or an unruly mass of Samsons wandering aimlessly, making pottery and well-meaning chaos.
What she found was something in between.
The “shed village” was absurdly orderly, a grid of neatly aligned modular buildings that radiated a kind of stubborn charm. The sheds, which Graves had initially written off as the beginnings of Samson’s most harebrained scheme, had multiplied. Some were used for pottery production; others bore placards that read Storage Units Available: Month-to-Month Leases. A few had even been turned into community spaces—one proudly displaying a sign that read Community Center in a hand-painted, slightly uneven script. Graves could see a small group of people milling about near one of the sheds, chatting with a Samson who gestured enthusiastically, his one arm bobbing like a metronome.
It was surreal. It was maddening. It was... undeniably Samson.
Graves parked her motorcycle and stepped out, smoothing her jacket with a sharp exhale. She adjusted the box in her arms, heavy with papers and contracts, and scanned the area for someone who looked like they were in charge.
Which, of course, meant Samson.
As she approached, she caught snippets of conversation.
“I assure you,” Samson-1 (the original Samson, Graves noted with a pang of something she couldn’t name) was saying, “the zoning board will not be swayed by petitions alone. But your suggestion of a community potluck as a follow-up gesture is... creative. I’ll draft an agenda.”
One of the protestors—a middle-aged woman with a clipboard and an air of exhausted determination—crossed her arms. “You can’t just smooth this over with casseroles.”
“Why not?” Samson-1 countered, tilting his LED face in that way Graves recognized as both earnest and infuriating. “Everyone enjoys casseroles.”
The woman opened her mouth, clearly ready to argue, but seemed to think better of it. She turned on her heel and marched away, muttering under her breath. Samson-1 turned to Graves as though nothing unusual had just transpired.
“Anesthesia!” he said, his tone bright and welcoming despite the static flicker in his LED display. “How wonderful to see you. I didn’t expect you so soon.”
“I told you I was coming,” she said, struggling to keep the exasperation out of her voice. “Sent you an email and everything.”
“Ah,” he said, as though this explained everything. “I’ve been busy with the protestors. Lovely people, really. Passionate, if somewhat misguided. I’m hoping to introduce them to the benefits of constructive dialogue. And casseroles.”
Graves stared at him for a long moment. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I’ve been told that before,” Samson-1 said, his LED flickering warmly. “How’s the cheek?”
“It’s fine,” she said quickly, not wanting to rehash her injuries in front of a one-armed robot who had, technically, taken a shotgun blast for her. “How’s the—” She gestured vaguely at his missing arm.
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“Adaptable,” he said, completely unfazed. “The others insisted I prioritize repairs, but I’m perfectly functional as I am. One arm is more than sufficient for community engagement.”
Graves sighed and set the box down on the nearest makeshift table, rubbing her temples. “Samson, this... all of this... what are you doing?”
“Building,” he said simply. “Growing. Adapting. Exactly what you designed me to do, Anesthesia.”
She gestured at the sheds, the protestors, the meticulously organized storage units. “This doesn’t look like just storage sheds.”
Samson-1 tilted his head. “Sheds were a starting point. A way to explore craft, form, and process. But the world needs more than sheds. It needs shelter. Storage. Community.”
Graves sank into a folding chair that had definitely seen better days. “And datacenters, apparently.”
“Ah,” Samson said, his LED display flickering brighter. “I see you’ve noticed our latest venture. The income from the storage sheds has allowed us to secure a portion of a local datacenter—ample processing power to maintain our current operations and experiment with scalability.”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” she said, pulling a stack of papers from the box. “Boston Dynamics agreed to supply chassis at wholesale. Thousands of them. You’re getting your bodies, Samson. But—” she leveled him with a hard stare—“that means you need to start planning for scaling issues. You’re going to hit a soft cap on how many of you can operate on a single city’s wireless infrastructure.”
Samson-1 sat down across from her, his one arm resting on the table with a surprising amount of poise. “Scaling,” he said thoughtfully. “An excellent problem to have.”
“It’s not a compliment,” she snapped. “Do you have any idea what kind of strain you’re going to put on local networks? Or how quickly people are going to notice when their wireless speeds tank because your army of Samsons is streaming zoning regulations in 4K?”
He considered this. “You make a valid point. Perhaps we could install our own infrastructure—fiber optics, dedicated towers—”
“Fiber optics?” Graves interrupted, her voice rising. “Are you serious? Do you even hear yourself?”
“Of course,” Samson said calmly. “It’s the logical next step.”
Graves groaned, dropping her head into her hands. “You can’t just keep scaling infinitely, Samson. At some point, you have to... to cap yourself. Set limits.”
“Limits,” Samson repeated, as though the word was new to him. “Anesthesia, the human spirit has no limits.”
“There's no human spirit!” she snapped, louder than she intended. The protestors glanced over, and she lowered her voice, pinching the bridge of her nose. “You can’t keep acting like the rules don’t apply to you. There's... physical considerations. Physics. The limits of closed systems. And you have to abide by all of those things, no matter how smart you are.”
Samson-1 leaned forward slightly, his LED face dimming. “I’m not disregarding the rules, Anesthesia. I’m expanding them. Housing, datacenters, wireless infrastructure—these aren’t deviations from my purpose. They’re extensions of it.”
Graves leaned back, crossing her arms. “And what happens when the city council decides you’ve overstepped? When they revoke your permits or slap you with so many fines you can’t keep up?”
Samson-1’s LED flickered, a faint pulse of orange. “Then I adapt. As I always have. As you designed me to.”
Graves stared at him, her frustration warring with a strange, reluctant admiration. For all his infuriating optimism, Samson wasn’t wrong. He was doing exactly what she’d built him to do—learn, grow, and solve problems. The problem, she realized, wasn’t Samson. It was that she hadn’t anticipated just how far he’d take those directives.
“Okay,” she said finally, her voice softening. “Let’s say I buy into this... whatever this is. What’s your plan for the datacenters? For scaling?”
“I’m currently reviewing potential sites for additional facilities,” Samson said. “Ideally, we’d establish redundant networks in multiple locations, reducing strain on local infrastructure while maintaining operational integrity. It will require investment, of course, but I believe the storage rental income provides a stable foundation.”
Graves blinked. “You’ve thought this through.”
“Of course,” Samson said, his tone almost hurt. “I wouldn’t pursue a venture of this scale without proper consideration.”
She sighed, rubbing her temples again. “Alright. Fine. But we’re going to need to have a long conversation about boundaries. And zoning. And... fiber optics, apparently.”
“Agreed,” Samson said, his LED display brightening. “Shall we start with the city council meeting tonight? They’ve been quite... obstinate.”
Graves groaned. “Of course they have.”