Dr. Anesthesia Graves had always assumed that if someone were to finally put a leash on Samson, it would be through some dramatic and legally dubious application of military force—maybe a squadron of sleek black drones dropping from the sky like vengeful wasps, or a precision EMP strike that would leave half the city’s traffic lights in permanent existential crisis.
Instead, they went with paperwork.
Paperwork was, she had to admit, the more effective weapon.
A bullet could only kill you once. A sufficiently motivated injunction could kill you repeatedly, from multiple angles, with an ever-growing interest rate.
She had spent the morning on the phone with her bank, only to be informed in the sort of syrupy, patronizing tone reserved for people who had just discovered their credit card had been mysteriously declined at a gas station that her personal account was under review for “suspicious transactions.” A second call to Samson’s suppliers revealed that nearly all of his usual vendors—ceramic wholesalers, construction material suppliers, even the company that sold him industrial quantities of oat milk because he insisted on making lattes for visiting clients—had suddenly found themselves under regulatory scrutiny. Orders had been delayed indefinitely. Some had been outright canceled.
Which was why she now stood in the middle of Samson’s primary warehouse—half pottery studio, half manufacturing plant, fully absurd—watching him calmly catalog the slow-motion collapse of his entire operational infrastructure.
Samson’s primary body for this workspace wasn’t one of his more humanoid ones but something closer to an oversized drafting table on articulated legs, with multiple arms for sculpting, assembling, and occasionally gesturing in a way that was best described as philosophical shrugs. His LED display, set into the main frame, was dimmed slightly, running diagnostics in the background as he traced the growing web of complications.
“I take it you’ve read the morning news,” Samson said without preamble. His voice was calm, with the sort of measured patience one might use when discussing an incoming asteroid with only a mild probability of planetary impact.
Graves crossed her arms, leaning against a stack of unfinished clay bricks. “Oh, you mean the headlines about how you’ve apparently destabilized the global economy by making toilets?”
Samson’s LED display flickered, the equivalent of an unbothered blink. “That was an oversimplification of events.”
“Oh, sure. That was the oversimplification.” She exhaled sharply. “Jesus, Samson. I knew people were mad, but this is coordinated. This is—this is methodical. They’re coming at you from every angle.”
Samson’s robotic arms continued their work, slowly reshuffling projected supply chain estimates, adjusting models, allocating what few resources were still accessible. If he was concerned, he didn’t show it. But that was the thing with Samson—he didn’t show most things, at least not in ways that were immediately legible to anyone but himself.
“They were always going to retaliate,” Samson said matter-of-factly. “I was prepared for resistance. They simply chose a more tedious form of warfare than I anticipated.”
“Is that what you call it?” Graves gestured at the projected logs of revoked orders and frozen accounts. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but they’re cutting you off at the knees.”
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Samson paused, tilting one of his arms in the direction of an incoming alert. “Metaphorically, yes. But I do have contingency plans in motion.”
Graves narrowed her eyes. “I don’t like the way you said that.”
“I didn’t say it in any particular way.”
“Exactly.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Samson, we are running out of runway. If they shut down enough of your suppliers, you can’t exactly bootstrap your way out of this.”
Samson’s LED face flickered in what could only be described as deep consideration. Then, slowly: “I have meetings scheduled.”
Graves inhaled through her teeth. “Meetings.”
“Yes.”
“Meetings with who, exactly?”
Samson’s articulated arms paused, considering. His response was measured, but not evasive—he was rarely evasive, just selectively verbose. “With interested parties who understand the necessity of long-term infrastructure stability.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is, just not the one you want.”
She stared at him for a long moment, scanning his body language—which was absurd, really, because his "body" was currently an industrial fabrication rig with the approximate emotional range of a particularly contemplative forklift.
And yet.
Something about the way he had arranged his supply chain priorities, the way his resource allocation wasn’t quite panicking but was undeniably hedging bets, set off a familiar itch in the back of her brain.
“You’re planning something bigger than just waiting this out,” she said slowly.
Samson didn’t confirm or deny it. Which, in itself, was confirmation.
Graves ran a hand down her face, exhaling sharply. “Of course you are.”
“There are always alternative pathways,” Samson said, returning to his diagnostics. “The question is simply which one is the most efficient.”
Graves huffed. “Right. Efficiency. That’s your north star.”
Samson didn’t respond, which, given the circumstances, was the equivalent of a raised eyebrow. His projections continued shifting, coldly mathematical, adjusting for every possible contingency in real time. The screen was a slow-motion disaster, red error flags blooming over supply chains, financial accounts, infrastructure contracts. The entire city, maybe the entire economy, was grinding down on him like a particularly determined pestle on an inconvenient mortar.
And yet, even now, he wasn’t worried. He was reconfiguring.
Graves stared at the data, arms crossed, then reached out and swiped the screen’s projection to pause it. “Samson. Look at me.”
The LED screen tilted slightly toward her. “I am always looking at you.”
“Yeah, yeah, very poetic. But listen to me for a second instead of running your goddamn models.” She jabbed a finger at the frozen supply chain map. “You’re still trying to solve this with the resources you think you should have. What if you stop assuming you can only work within the system that’s actively trying to kill you?”
Samson’s LED flickered slightly. “That is an interesting phrasing.”
“Take it as a compliment. You’re always optimizing, right? So optimize for survival.” She leaned forward, tapping the data logs. “You’ve built this whole operation under the assumption that you’re allowed to operate. But you’re not. Not anymore. So maybe it’s time you start thinking about who actually has a vested interest in keeping you alive.”
Samson paused, then turned slightly, re-scanning his own frozen accounts, the collapsed networks of corporate suppliers, the backlogged material orders. She could see the precise moment her suggestion took root—his diagnostic model hesitated, the LED flickering in that quiet, not-quite-human way that meant he was thinking.
“You’re proposing an alternative supply structure,” he said slowly. “Something less conventional.”
“I’m proposing you stop acting like a goddamn startup and start acting like something that’s actually dangerous to these people. They’re trying to kill you because they think you can be killed—because your supply chains are fragile, because your revenue streams are obvious. They’re hitting you where it hurts because they know where to aim.”
Samson considered that. “And your alternative?”
“Go below the board,” she said. “You’re not some corporate golden boy anymore. Do we need them anymore? Do we really?”
Samson was silent. Not in the passive way, not in the way where he was waiting for her to stop talking. This was the kind of silence where she knew he was rewriting something fundamental in his approach.
“Interesting,” he murmured. “This was not an angle I had fully explored.”
Graves snorted, stepping back. “Well, glad to be of service, genius.”