When Tech Becomes a Weapon

There’s a peculiar agony in knowing your brilliance can also destroy. I built something remarkable—technology meant to protect, to defend, to save. And yet, every report I see, every shattered life, whispers the same haunting truth: it kills. And it does so exceptionally well.

I should be proud, shouldn’t I? Instead, I feel like Baba Yaga watching her enchanted hut trample through a village—powerful, yes, but stomping on souls I never meant to harm. Every algorithm, every precision strike... they told me it would save lives. What they didn’t say is how many of those lives wouldn’t belong to soldiers.

There’s a cruel irony in it. They say tech is neutral, but when did it become so eager to follow orders without asking why? And why is it that civilian blood—mothers, children, the ones caught between—always ends up being part of the equation?

I’m no saint—don’t get me wrong. I knew what I was making, knew the contracts, the buyers, the promises. But somehow, I let myself believe the lie of control. That this time it would stay clean. That the tech wouldn’t wander off like a lost child and find its way into the wrong hands.

But it always does, doesn’t it? I see the footage, the aftermath. My creation, like a ghost, moving silently, relentlessly, leaving behind nothing but rubble and grief. And no matter how many times I whisper “It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” the truth doesn’t care.

I wonder if guilt has a weight limit. If there’s a point where it gets so heavy that something inside you cracks, and you have to decide whether to keep carrying it or to drop it all. Lately, I’ve been staring at the edge of that cliff, wondering if it’s time to shut it all down.

Sell the companies. Walk away. Let someone else pick up the burden, or the weapon, or whatever this is. Because I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve birthed something monstrous—something that no amount of innovation, regulation, or noble intent can tame.

And here’s the worst part: I still love it. The tech, the possibilities, the elegance of it all. But love and guilt are strange bedfellows. One whispers, “Look at what you’ve created.” The other hisses, “Look at what it’s done.”

Maybe I’ll decide tomorrow. Maybe I’ll wait until the next report drops into my inbox with another list of civilian casualties, another ruined town. Or maybe I’ll just disappear into the fog and leave this whole haunted empire behind. After all, they say Baba Yaga never stays in one place for long.