I am Bellator.

Or, at least, a Bellator; a steam-driven locomotive, propelled on two legs, and motivated by a simple, clockwork differential engine narrowly designed for war.

A strange thing it is then, to expect articulate thought from such an engine. One such thought being--”I am Bellator.” Nonetheless, I have thought it. And it is true.

I'm not exactly sure when I became aware of my steam-driven existence. Only that, at some point; I realized that I was no longer human.

Yes, human.

Because I remember being human.

I remember having oatmeal for breaks fast; and kissing my wife before taking my kids to school on my way to work. I remember work. I was a businessman of some sort--suit and tie and a nine-to-five work day. I don't remember what I was selling though, only the times I stood in front of a glaring screen and the old boys club I eventually became a part of as I rose up the ranks. I remember the Friday night drinks at work, the complaints, the dejection at all too impossible to meet quotas, and the thrill of getting that month-end bonus; those slick, chrome-plated, automatic wristwatches. God, do I remember the watches.

And my wife's blow jobs. I especially miss her fucking blow jobs.

But now I'm here, adrift in the ennui of my own idle thoughts. Waiting for that next waking moment of utter panic, rage, and confusion.

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I've started to get better though, the more waking moments I had. I even remember some of them, in a somewhat shattered mosaic of images utterly devoid of context or continuity.

I remember a reckless young man, black of hair and twitchy with guns, push me into the midst of three rampaging bellatores. I'm not entirely sure what he was trying to do, but from the taste of panic and surge of adrenaline in his magic--I'm not sure if he was trying to do anything at all. That shard ended right where it started.

I remember a waif, with braided, hazel-hued locks, maneuver me square into the flank of a barreling behemoth. Her magic was sweetest to me, confident and precise, nudging me onward in all the right places, instilling my sword with urgency as the chopper it held swung down with finality on the neck of the much too eager jack. I tasted her swell of pride too, felt her thrill and ecstasy in a job well done. Had she maintained her focus on me just a little while longer, I might have gotten a better resonance with that tinge of taint and hurt in the deep seams of her magic. It was a mystery to me, a curious matter I wanted to explore, but the shard broke before I could dig any deeper. I think she felt me prod then. There was a hint of surprise in her magic, right before she shut me down.

There were a few more that I could picture out quite clearly and distinctly, some kid with frazzled red hair, a balding black guy, and a sweet vixen of a red-head whose magic practically sizzled and sparkled when she woke me.

She kept me awake the longest after her run. That was when I had the hint, just a hint, that maybe this magical focus of theirs wasn't a one-way street to begin with. And just like the steely eyed waif from before, she shut me down right before I could even reach anywhere near her magic.

I was disappointed, but patient. I could afford to wait. Not much else to do here; and thanks to my current artificial coil, I no longer have the luxury of hormones signaling boredom or frustration. And without the hormones, without the signals of time, a hundred years might have already passed and I'd be none the wiser.

Inevitably, another young thing will wake me. And when they do...