The first thing Dr. Anesthesia Graves noticed was the sound. A steady, rhythmic beeping punctuated by muffled voices. She opened her eyes slowly, the fluorescent hospital lights stabbing at her senses like an unkind reminder of reality. Her cheek throbbed in time with her heartbeat, the bandaged wound pulling painfully when she moved.
“You’re awake,” a voice said from nearby.
She turned her head, wincing at the effort. Samson was seated—or rather slumped—beside her bed. His polymer shell was streaked with dark lubricant, several cracks spider-webbing across his torso. One arm hung limply at his side, and his LED face flickered faintly, an irregular pattern she’d never seen before.
“You look worse than I feel,” she croaked.
“That’s highly unlikely,” Samson replied, his voice steady but quieter than usual. He didn’t elaborate, didn’t fill the silence with his usual quips or observations. For once, Samson seemed... subdued.
The door opened, and a pair of suited figures entered, their faces set with the grim neutrality of people about to deliver bad news.
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“Dr. Graves,” the taller of the two said, extending a hand. “Agent Calloway, Department of Advanced Technologies and AI Ethics. This is my associate, Agent Reynolds. May we sit?”
Graves gave a noncommittal shrug, which seemed to be enough permission. The agents pulled up chairs, their movements precise and practiced. Calloway glanced at Samson briefly, his expression unreadable.
“We’re here to discuss the incident,” Calloway began. “First, let me express that we’re relieved you’re alive. The attack was... unprecedented.”
Graves snorted, regretting it immediately as her cheek flared with pain. “Unprecedented doesn’t begin to cover it.”
Reynolds leaned forward, her voice softer but no less pointed. “The situation has escalated beyond just the attack. The footage of Samson’s actions has gone viral. Millions have seen him intervene to save your life.”
“And?” Graves asked, her tone sharper than intended.
“And,” Calloway said, “there are concerns. The public is divided. Some see Samson as a hero, others as proof of the dangers of autonomous systems. Questions are being raised about his programming, his decision-making process, and whether he—”
“Whether he’s a threat,” Graves finished, glaring at them.
Calloway hesitated. “Yes. A threat, or perhaps more accurately, an unknown variable. We need to understand exactly how Samson arrived at his decision to intervene.”
Graves glanced at Samson, who remained silent, his LED face dimming further.
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“He acted to save me,” she said. “I’d call that basic self-preservation for a system designed to prioritize my safety.”
Reynolds frowned. “Dr. Graves, you and I both know that’s an oversimplification. This wasn’t preprogrammed behavior—it was a calculated response. That level of autonomy—”
“—is exactly what I designed him for,” Graves interrupted. “Are you here to confiscate him?”
The room tensed. Calloway folded his hands, his voice measured. “We’re not here to take anything. But the situation has regulatory implications. There’s talk of a moratorium on AI projects of this scale until—”
“Until what?” Graves snapped. “Until someone decides whether he has a soul?”
Calloway didn’t flinch. “Until we’re certain projects like Samson don’t destabilize... everything.”
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The agents left shortly after, their reassurances doing little to ease Graves’ simmering frustration. She was barely able to catch her breath before the door opened again, this time revealing Jonas Marwood.
“Dr. Graves,” Marwood said smoothly, his sharp suit cutting an imposing figure against the sterile hospital room. “You’ve had quite the week.”
Graves leaned back, the weariness in her voice unmasked. “If you’re here to give me the corporate spin, save it. I’m tired.”
Marwood chuckled, his smile too polished to be sincere. “I’m not here to spin, Doctor. I’m here to salvage. Your metafactory project is at a crossroads. On one hand, you’ve achieved the impossible—a machine that not only creates but defends its creator. On the other hand... well, you’ve seen the news.”
He gestured toward the window, where the distant sounds of protests filtered through the glass. Graves sat up enough to see them—crowds gathered outside the hospital. Some held signs reading “SAMSON IS HUMANITY’S HOPE,” others “STOP THE ROBOT APOCALYPSE.” A few signs simply said, “JESUS IS WATCHING.”
Marwood continued, his tone brisk. “This is a pivotal moment. Samson has become a symbol, whether you intended it or not. We need to control the narrative.”
“I’m not interested in narratives,” Graves said coldly. “I’m interested in fixing what’s broken. Including Samson.”
“And that’s exactly why I’m here,” Marwood said. “The metafactory is bigger than you now. Bigger than me. It’s a symbol of human ingenuity, a beacon for investors. We can’t afford for it to falter.”
Graves narrowed her eyes. “And by ‘we,’ you mean your portfolio.”
Marwood smiled faintly. “Call it what you like. The fact remains: you need resources. Samson’s damaged. The metafactory’s reputation is on the line. Let me help.”
“Help how?”
Marwood leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. “We bring Samson back stronger. Better. We double down on transparency—show the world every bolt, every line of code. You can even open source him, if you want. Prove he’s not a threat, but a partner. The future.”
Graves shook her head. “You want to parade him around like a show pony for your stock ticker.”
“I want to secure the metafactory’s future,” Marwood said. “And yours.”
They exchanged stares.
“Think about it,” he finished, spinning around slowly on his heels.
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Marwood left after delivering his pitch, his words lingering like an unpleasant aftertaste. Graves sat in silence, her gaze drifting to Samson. His damaged frame seemed smaller now, his LED face dim, barely flickering.
“You didn’t say much,” she said softly.
“I had little to add,” Samson replied. “They weren’t speaking to me. They were speaking about me.”
Graves sighed, pressing a hand to her bandaged cheek. “It’s all spinning out of control.”
Samson tilted his head slightly, the gesture almost human. “You once said that chaos is where creativity thrives.”
“I didn’t mean this kind of chaos,” she muttered. “I just wanted to build something... something that mattered.”
“You did,” Samson said. “But what matters is rarely simple.”
Graves stared out the window, the protestors below blurring into a kaleidoscope of conflicting ideologies.
She didn’t know how to fix this.