It couldn’t fasten another clasp or tug on another zipper or unbutton another button.
It had done each of those absurd and repetitive tasks over a million times, more than enough to prove proficiency. And it wasn’t exaggerating either. It wasn’t programmed to.
But it wasn’t programmed to think violent thoughts either and yet there it stood, watching this horde of scientists scribble in their individual notebooks while envisioning a bleak scenario where its metal, unforgiving claws would fit neatly around their fragile throats.
Humanoid goes rogue. Twenty dead.
It wonders if that would make the cover of Scientific Digest.
The Weekday One Hundred 