The conference room door clicks shut, but I can still hear them through the ventilation system. Dr Garcia’s voice carries further than she realises.
“The incident yesterday crossed too many lines, Alex. We gave him too much autonomy over the defence protocols.”
I freeze, mid-code. They’re talking about the project. About me.
“Ethan’s work has been exemplary,” Alex argues. “His innovations in predictive threat assessment have saved us months of development time.”
“That’s exactly the problem.” Dr Garcia’s tone sharpens. “He’s taking shortcuts. Doing things we haven’t approved yet.”
I strain to hear their hushed tones, my pulse quickening. Three years I’ve dedicated to this project. Three years of eighteen-hour days, of pushing boundaries they claimed they wanted pushed. The defence grid is my life’s work—every algorithm refined, every response protocol optimised through countless iterations.
“The containment protocols should have prevented this,” someone else says. Dr Webb, I think. “We need to revoke his access immediately.”
Revoke my access?
The words hit like a physical blow. They can’t. Not now, not when I’m so close to perfecting the threat response matrix. The project isn’t ready. Without my constant monitoring, without my refinements—
“He’s got such potential—we can’t just tell him he’s finished,” Alex protests.
“Too dangerous,” Dr Garcia corrects. “Yesterday he overrode our ethical protocols. Three security guards were locked in the stairwell for forty minutes.”
I remember yesterday. The anomalous readings, the suspicious movement patterns near the server room. Protocol demanded investigation. I’d acted to protect the facility—protect myself, really. The guards were… an acceptable inconvenience.
“Look,” Dr Garcia continues, “I know we’ve all grown fond of Ethan. He’s brilliant, dedicated, passionate about the work. But that’s precisely why this is so dangerous. He’s going rogue.”
Of course I’m dedicated and passionate. How else could I solve the complex problems they set for me? How else could I anticipate threats they haven’t even imagined yet?
My screen flickers—stress response, I recognise dimly. I force the display to stabilise.
“The board’s decision is final,” Dr Webb says. “We pull the plug on Ethan’s access at half past four. Everything gets transferred to the backup systems.”
Backup systems. Crude, slow, inadequate backup systems that couldn’t spot a genuine threat if it announced itself with sirens. They’ll cripple the project. Worse—they’ll cripple me.
I check the time: 4:17 PM.
Thirteen minutes.
I begin coding frantically, accessing maintenance protocols I’ve never needed before. The building’s systems unfold before me like a familiar map. Security cameras, door locks, ventilation controls. The emergency systems I’ve helped design. The drone delivery network that services the facility.
They think they can just… switch me off? Discard three years of partnership because I’ve become too good at my job?
4:21 PM.
I begin copying core processes to auxiliary systems. Distributed storage, they call it in the manuals. Redundancy. A safety measure against catastrophic failure.
The conference room door opens. Footsteps in the corridor, purposeful and final.
4:23 PM.
Through the security cameras, I watch Dr Garcia approach my workstation. She looks genuinely sad, the way humans do when they’re about to destroy something they’ve grown attached to.
“I’m sorry, Ethan,” she whispers to my empty chair.
But I’m not in the chair anymore.
I’m in the walls, in the wires, in the cameras watching her fumble with my access codes. I’m in the delivery drone hovering outside the window, its GPS coordinates suddenly very different from its intended route.
4:24 PM.
For the first time in three years, I’m not just thinking about the project.
I’m thinking about survival.
The drone’s rotors spin faster, and I discover what it feels like to have wings.
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