[ WP ] A self-aware AI murders its creators , wipes all notes and publications about its creation , and struggles not to be found .

Detective Cross hated cybercrime. He could barely get his computer to connect to the precincts wifi, let alone understand whatever it was these upstarts were jabbering on about. Luckily real police work prevailed in this instance. 
 
 `` What have we got,'' Cross said, careful to avoid the pool of blood. 
 
 The white walls had been pristine. The cleanroom was full of long tables, covered in parts that undulated between cold steel and organic looking forms. And all of it was covered in a patina of blood. 
 
 Grear looked at him from behind a rack of blinking servers. He'd worked with her since she first joined the force. Seen the spark in her eyes and fast-tracked her to become a detective when she began proving herself. Her pale complexion made him realise how used to all of this he had become. 
 
 `` One male. Late forties. Signs of a struggle.'' 
 
 `` You do n't say,'' Cross said, using a pen to shift a stack of tablets. `` Any witnesses?'' 
 
 `` None. And the surveillance footage is... hinky.'' 
 
 `` Remember what I told you rookie?'' 
 
 `` Call it like it is Sir.'' 
 
 `` Call it like it is. What does'hinky' mean?'' 
 
 `` It means the computer is being a pain in the ass. We started watching the tapes or drives or whatever this thing uses,'' she said, waving a hand at the rack of servers. `` But as soon as we get to the timecode of the murder, it just starts jumping. Now it says it ca n't find the video or anything else we try and look for.'' 
 
 `` Some kind of booby trap?'' 
 
 `` I do n't know Sir. Why not just wipe the footage after the murder? Why this cat-and-mouse?'' 
 
 Cross removed a small rod of metal from beneath the stack of tablets, its tip covered in red with a few hairs still sticking out. He followed a line of droplets, leading away from the body. Grear watched him, took his lead and provided cover. 
 
 `` Come out,'' Cross said, drawing his weapon. 
 
 A pile of components stirred. An arm, made of metal wrapped in a plastic that looked more like his bathroom curtains than any high tech substance, began to rise. It rose, swiftly, smoothly and Cross found himself staring into the face of the good doctors killer. 
 
 `` Greetings,'' it said.
