The first time the young boy felt anything was at the theater.

His mother had taken him along with his father, going to the show of a clockwork ballerina duet. The two were of chrome and bronze, a sheen of metal that made them golden beauties on the crystal-light stage. It was one of the many attempts they made to bring joy to their son’s face, which had become an arduous task. Physicians and healers alike saw no issue with him, yet he did not express joy, needs or other things. He was not unhappy, simply without emotion.

So as he was set upon the seat, the best in the house - as his father was the local Craftshead of the city, and granted them certain prestige. On the elevated seats, with a perfect view of the stage, he saw her.

Clockwork eyes, blue and sparkling, as the dancer emerged on the stage, the once-duet now a solo act. Her body moved with precision, a gentle clicking of clockwork, the only noise as the audience grew quiet. She seemed almost stiff to her movements - the boy felt a pain in his chest at the sight of her. An emotion he had only heard of previously - grief. It was grief that she felt, was it not?

It seemed no one else noticed her look, as she was instructed to play by the musicians, who began to play the happy tune. She swirled into the air, practiced movements making her swirl and twist as the music made her performance come alive. The songs of merriment and joy, of bursting excitement, hit the boy with a sickening grief. His face recoiled at the feeling - it was a forced attitude, and while the others seemed not to notice, again, he could see the pain it caused the automata performer. To play the tune as her soul screamed in anguish.

The symphony continued, the songs continuing, as the pain the boy's empathy from the dancer grew - he could feel the sorrow and pain, but instead of recoiling, it drew him to move closer. His eyes watching the performance, refusing to let himself lose track of the careful twirls, growing slower and more precise.

As the songs ended - as her dance stopped, and she began to bow, he turned to his father, who had spent his time watching the play, not noticing his son. He asked a question that his father had waited years to hear.

“Father.. I want to hear her play a different song.”

His soft voice barely came through, but it hit the older man like an anvil, his eyes widening as he turned to his protege, leaning forward intently. His mother did as well, the two guardians intent to provide him whatever he desired - the simple act of desiring was more then they ever hoped for the stunted boy.

“What is it, Andres?”

His voice came out softly, as the boy glanced at the dancer.

“I want to see her.. Do the Dance of the Lovebirds.”

The melody and song was typically a romantic one - that would typically be reserved for a duet, but had a solo melody that played itself as a tragedy - a performer singing to a lover that never replied, would never dance again. The song was not of importance to the boy, but it seemed to scream from the singer - it was what she desired, so the boy felt it was prudent to provide, at least as she had provided him pain for the first time in his life.

His father showed a moment of confusion and concern - to make such a request would certainly be a bother - but a stern glare from his wife dissuaded any rebuttal. The simple request - the act of such for Andres, was a first, and his mother would ensure it was fulfilled, no matter the cost. He sighed quietly, before standing.

“Of course, Andres. Wait here but for a moment.”

The older man moved downstairs, as his son watched him whisper and speak to the instructor - a slight argument began, before his father provided the coins to persuade them. Money was all his father spoke, and even he had to admit it’s uses at times.

The performer moved to the stage, bowing.

“We have a special request from the Craftshead of the Helford family - a performance of the Dance of Lovebirds!”

The audience was confused - after all, after such merriment and playful tunes, the switch to a song laced with grief was certainly whiplash. But, such authority was not to be questioned, so he moved to allow the automata the space to perform.

For a moment, the dancer glanced up - blue eyes meeting his own, and while it seemed dull, he could feel her, knowing what it meant.

Thank you.

His heart burned with a feeling of flame as it began - a warmth that nearly consumed his small form, a giddiness and jitter that made his lips slowly move upward, a smile growing on his face as she performed. He could feel her guilt scream as she moved, singing the song with grief laden in her voice. Her previous performances were artificial, but this seemed far more real - even to the audience, who stood captivated as she sung with a harshness to her vocal crystals, becoming hoarse as she called for her beloved - a begging tone, as no one replied.

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She collapsed to her knees as the curtains began to close, and the audience cheered - a pat on the back from his father, joy from his family as it seemed a simple performance was all it took to bring him out of his shell.

Yet, it was not that which brought the smile to his face. It was the look of peace in the automata’s face - the look of relief, ever so small yet present, that made his face burn red, a smile stuck to it.

As they left, he could not help but stop outside the entrance - a clicking in his ears as he turned his head.

Laid within a trash receptacle, a clockwork hand poked out, as servants began to pack the carriage. His father watched his son move, grabbing the hand, and turned to his mother.

“I want this.”

Of course, she relented, and he returned home with a broken, mischeveled automaton, to even the Craftshead, seemingly broken beyond repair.

But that feeling of relief - however present, left a mark on the boy, who was determined to help. Perhaps he could return the smile to the dancer’s face, with a few crystals, a few screws, and the time of the world. 

She was laid out like a tapestry.

Her head was near perfect condition - he refused to do more then simply modify some defects, as it felt invasive. He inspected her insides, of course, but.. The clockwork, the pulsating beat of the mechanical crystal within it..

He refused to do more than ensure everything looked in order, at least, to what books he could find. The maids and butlers had done more for their young liege then they had in years - providing him studying equipment, tools, books.. His father indulged his curiosity, his mother’s passion for him having wants - to learn, more then simply exist, making it hard to refuse his curiosities. They believed he was simply finding a passion, finding the trinkets and toys of automata amusing, as they did.

Such thoughts were not his.

He wanted to help her. To help the broken, distraught being that laid out in front of him. Twisted cogs, broken plates, oil leaking from ruined joints and shorted out circuits. Her body was mangled beyond anything he could imagine, and the pain got to him unlike anything else.

He felt it. More than the pain of the servants, of the coughing fits of her mother - they were pangs of pain, but the pain in his chest as he looked upon her was far harsher. So he worked, tinkering with her body, inserting new fuel cells, filling her joints with the coolant. The days passed, then weeks, until he had spent months slowly working down her body.

He missed important parts. Her legs would not function without them. A trip would be needed.

He pestered his father to go into the city - he had refused, but had let the Butler take him. An old fool of a man. He didn’t particularly like the boy, but neither did he like the butler. But, the parts were needed. 

A carriage was brought out. Servants loaded bags, and a shopping list was made - not only for his requests, but other materials that his father required. The Empress demanded more weapons, the boy suspected. But his father never spoke of such things, believing his son didn’t need to know such things. 

His son didn’t care, truthfully. While the job would be his eventually, it would be years until he was asked to do any of his father’s task.. For him, any danger or politik was to be left for his later years. For now, he simply wished to learn, without any risks.

Of course, for the boy, it seemed Fate had other plans.

The ambush was half a day after he left for the city. He was writing in his journal, sketching designs when a splash of red coated the front of the carriage. The bodies of the drivers blocked the sight of the outside, red and black coating the walls. Bandits came in like a tidal wave, cutting through his father’s servants with ease.

When it came to simply him and the butler, the old man simply stepped aside, and took the price of betrayal from the leader’s hand. A woman of young stature - only a few years his elder, but her eyes had the sharpness of someone who had lived a life without comfort.  Red hair stained with blood of his caretakers, eyes burning like the flame of a phoenix. The boy knew he was at her mercy, yet such an intimidating fact meant nothing to him.

“You’re under my order now, Royalist dog. Bend the knee or bleed!” She let her sword swing with an exaggerated motion, as the boy began to bend the knee.

He didn’t fear for his life, he realized. His heart held a hollow pang of frustration - he still had yet to finish his work. She was still left on his table, sprawled out to the elements. If he didn’t return alive..

He would follow this pirate’s words, if simply for that, he thought. He was led away, chains on his hands, a blank expression laid on his face. No need to pretend to care - to even pretend fear. Even as his jailers dragged him along, growing unease as he was led back to their encampment.