She loomed there like a watchtower, all light in the eyes and face and skin, yet casting nothing but a pit of darkness and precarious despair on her champion, her prize, her beloved automation. Ever since the day he was delivered to her in parts and pieces and custom demands, he had been her wonderful little boy, her wonderful immortal child of steel and perfection. He placed fingers on keys quickly, quietly, all movement of the music absolute of the piano, in the shadow of his caretaker. The hollow breaths he took came between notes, all timed as to not disturb the rhythm, and often rested for consideration of the next keyfall. All for the best she insured, all for your greatness, you must shine, you must shine for me, and play the perfect notes. You must play your best.
But he did not play his best, the thumb was cursed to slip in the momentary flush of his nervousness; it plagued the entire piece, stamped the red on the white keys like the sign of correction that would soon be. In an instant the room turned silent, and her fingers swiftly attacked with their pointed sword, the needle plunged the foe through, fat to cuticle of the boy’s thumb. His eyes sprouted with tears motionless. With time and correction, stimulation, motivation he would learn, as all machines would.
“Thumb on key,” she told him, and tugged at the thread that held his tiny, disobedient thumb, the first drop of blood landing on the key that would have been his salvation, “The correct key. The correct thumb. The correct tone.”
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“Yes caretaker.”
“Again. Your effort now.”
But the walls shook, the two sole citizens of this beautiful kingdom for the first time, confused. The far wall broke, throwing marble and glass across the floor and the carpets, flying dust like wedding rice. The woman screamed, all white now like a banshee made from hellfire, yet was not so fast as to stop the intruder’s bullet that punctured her square in the head. She crumbled, a beautiful Jericho, as a bigger mountain stood in the marble arc.
The boy was frozen, until the gigantic man bent down and held his hands, thawing them, and freeing them to tremble with his entire body.
“Where did she pierce you? Did she knit your fingers to the piano keys already?”
The automation stared confused at him, the behemoth’s voice revealed an edge of a frightened tone, and when the two looked for a moment, he realized that the boy was holding a flute. The woman he had shot resembled nothing of ice or snow, but was tanned and held a darker shade of hair. He stood up and, despite his size and the wall he just imploded, realized his childhood days were never quite past him.
“Are you an automation?” the boy asked.
The Caretaker could not answer, because he did not know. But his words flowed right out of his mouth, as he took the boy again by the hands and let the metallic hulk of his knee rest on and crack marble beneath him.
“My name is Samuel.”