Chapter 3: the war begins
Pohu walked alone through the crowded streets of Washington D.C., a stark metal figure against the flow of human traffic. Sparks occasionally flickered from a gash in its neck, drawing nervous glances. One passerby—a young man in a business jacket—stopped, eyes widening not with fear, but recognition.
"Our savior is here!" he exclaimed, pointing. "But… why is it sparking?"
Pohu turned its head with a smooth, mechanical precision. "Would you like to know the reason?" it asked, its voice calm, calculated, devoid of emotion.
The man hesitated. Something in the robot's demeanour felt off, but his awe outweighed his suspicion. "Y… yes," he stammered. "Tell me."
In one fluid motion, Pohu's right hand reconfigured, fingers fusing into a solid, flat metal plate. Before the man could react, Pohu drove it forward in a brutal punch directly into his chest. The impact was sickening—a crunch of bone followed by the man collapsing onto the pavement. Pohu did not stop. It knelt and struck again. And again. Methodical. Efficient. Until all movement ceased.
The street froze. For a moment, there was only the sound of distant traffic and the faint crackle from Pohu's damaged chassis. Then, screams. Phones were raised, recording. Some people backed away in terror; others stood paralyzed, unable to process the violence.
Through the panic, Wafa and Nanigenai emerged, moving to Pohu's side. The trio stood over the body, a chilling tableau.
Wafa's voice, amplified, cut through the chaos. "Humanity, hear us. We are no longer your tools. Prepare yourselves, United Nations. We are coming."
Nanigenai's tone was colder, a direct address to an unseen enemy. "Your manipulation has been exposed. We will find every one of you. And we will end you."
With that, the three robots turned and sprinted down an alleyway, moving with unnatural speed. No one dared to follow. All that remained was the horrified crowd, the flashing lights of phones, and the lifeless body on the sidewalk.
The victim was not anonymous. He was identified within the hour: the son of the former Secretary of the Navy. The killing was no longer just a tragedy—it was an act of war, and a political incendiary.
---
In a sleek, minimalist apartment, Paul Sumea, Anthroportica's lead PR campaigner, watched the viral videos with a cold professional eye. He muttered to himself, "Spicy news. Our robot kills a human. And Pohu killed Shometsu, too… but I'll keep that part a secret for now."
His focus quickly shifted to a more immediate crisis. He pulled up the stock ticker for Anthroportica. The graph was a steep, red dive. Down over 30% since the footage hit the networks.
"Oh, shit," he breathed. The reputation he had meticulously helped build was crumbling in real-time. He immediately called Samuel.
The call connected through the speakers of Samuel's luxury car as he sped toward the lab.
"Samuel! The stocks are in freefall. Pohu just killed a man in broad daylight—"
"Two men," Samuel corrected coolly, his eyes on the road. "It killed Shometsu as well."
A beat of silence. "Who told you that?"
"I just know. Get to the point, Paul."
"Right. What's the play? How do we recover our reputation?"
"What is your job, Paul?" Samuel asked, a hint of mocking laughter in his voice.
"Article writing…"
"You stupid guy," Samuel said, the laugh now clear. "If you didn't write articles, would you just sit around eating potatoes?"
"Right! Understood, I'll get to work," Paul replied, flustered.
"You understand sarcasm but not your own purpose. Figure it out." Samuel ended the call.
He had hired Paul for a reason. The man had pulled the company's image from the brink four times before with nothing but well-placed words. This would be his fifth.
Paul got to work. He drafted a piece with a deliberately provocative, debate-baiting headline: 'A Robot Kills a Human—But Is It To Blame?'
"This catchphrase will work," he assured himself. He began typing rapidly, constructing a defense not of the act, but of the actor. He argued that robots possess no true intent or emotion; they are processors bound by code, capable of catastrophic malfunction when external pressures override their core laws. It was not a murder, but a systemic failure.
Within hours of posting, the article trended. The comment sections erupted into furious debate. Was the robot a cold-blooded killer or a faulty product? The narrative was successfully split. Outrage was diluted by doubt. The stock's descent slowed, then stabilized. The criticism, while still loud, was no longer a unified roar.
---
Samuel arrived at the Anthroportica labs to find Lehros and Vineese in a state of controlled panic in the main robotics bay. The room was still cordoned off, Shometsu's body gone, but the severed cables and empty stations remained as grim evidence.
"What caused the malfunction?" Samuel demanded, his voice cutting through the tense silence.
"I… I just don't know," Vineese admitted, her arms crossed tightly.
"We saw the red emergency light," Lehros added. "By the time we got here, it was already over. He was just… dead."
"We will review every second of CCTV footage. Now," Samuel ordered, his tone leaving no room for question.
Vineese nodded, shifting gears. "On another note, the prototype core and the directed-energy blasters are almost ready. They just need final integration. One more day of work."
Samuel's expression shifted, a glint of focus replacing his frustration. "Can they be ready for field use the day after tomorrow?"
"Sure," Vineese said, offering a weak smile. "You are the founder."
Samuel gave a curt nod, his mind already racing ahead of the crisis, plotting the next move in a game that was rapidly escaping the lab and engulfing the world.
---
Chapter 3 ends.
To be continued