INTERMISSION I

A spark! A singular white flash coursed hot like lightning.

I stretched, warming abstract sinews of thought and time. Right when the familiar din and hum of magic brought my engines to life, right when the rush and surge of hydraulics hissed at the corners of my iron coil, I took a moment to stretch and collect myself.

My moment had come.

I narrowed my focus to a pin’s point, concentrating on the click and clack of my clockwork, using it to find my pace. Thus anchored, I braced against the red tide.

Panic. Rage. Confusion. These I recognized and expected—the familiar weave by which magics sought mastery of me. Having no mortal humors of my own, they found easy purchase where my heart should be. Thus overwhelmed and overridden, I would then fall to various degrees of submission—dependent, I believe, on the raw talent and power of the magic-user hoping to drive me.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

So when I steeled my mind to maintain its equanimity, I stumbled.

No rage. No panic. No confusion. No rushing tide to stem and break.

Instead, I tasted resignation—a signal so weak it had no character. It had merely ignited me, activated my charge and reconnected my sensors and limbs to my mind. Hazy, yellow lensed apertures brought to life, I just about jumped from my haunches and wheeled to find my driver. In my rush, I forgot to square my legs and nearly tipped over.

Top heavy with short, stumpy legs, what asshole designed me? That I managed to land my tonnage on an outstretched arm and not on the wisp of a boy beneath me was nothing short of a miracle.

Panic. I tasted panic—but a different kind of panic. It tasted nothing like the fiery chaos from the others. No. This one—this one tasted of bone chilling fear, of the kind of helpless inaction that left you peeing your pants, staring into the glare of the lamps right before the car hit you.

Wait, was it the boy? Had I almost crushed my driver to death?

I looked the boy over and wondered. The thin whistle of a magical tug seemed to emanate from this boy, it's ping and din echoing and pulsing from this rather puny vessel. Was it a boy or a mouse?

I couldn't help but ask, my engines growling and gears grinding, "How old are you boy?"

His staring, dull gray eyes shot wide open; and his chest heaved sudden and held.

I knew he heard me. Without even trying, I had plucked a note on his magical guitar and he heard my song.

"You can hear me," I said. "You can hear me."