Quick Author's Note:

Alright! Try number two for getting this story off the ground. I have more free time now, so I should be able to spend some time on it. Wish me luck, and thank you for reading! Constructive criticism is encouraged. :) 

***

I stare down at the paper in front of me, tapping my pen against the grease-stained workstation in time to my heartbeat. Anticipation is making it race, and I can't help but bite my lip as I try to work out how I should present myself on paper. Considering I'm mostly self-taught, my resume doesn't exactly sparkle, and the essay portion is bound to cause me a headache. But then again, it may not even matter in the end. Whether I like it or not, my name alone is likely going to turn heads.

I click the back of my pen, scribbling in the margins a few times to make sure the ink is flowing. Then I take a deep breath and begin my application, daydreams of being admitted to the Automaton Academy already forming in my head. Living in a dorm room, meeting other prospective engineers, getting to work with automatons day in and out...

Name: Dia Krystallo

Dia Krystallo. Daughter of Chris Krystallo, head crystal carver and co-founder of Dynamic Crystals, the largest crystal manufacturer in the country. I pause, an uneasy feeling settling in my gut. My dad has been nothing but supportive of my decision to pursue my passion of automatic engineering, but I can't help but wonder what the registrars will think of it. The heiress of an influential company decided to give up her fortune to further her education. Is that brave, stupid, or stuck up? I chew the inside of my cheek, guilt beginning to set in.

What if I'm taking up a seat someone else needs?

The Automaton Academy is the most prestigious automaton-focused trade school in the country. It admits exactly a thousand students a year. No more, no less. Those thousand students are considered the cream of the crop, already dedicated to their craft and well-versed in one of the Academy's five tracks of study. Students that survive the rigor of the school are sought after all over the world, swiftly taken into the fold of whatever company can get their hands on them.

I glance around my little makeshift workshop, tapping my pen against the workbench again. I may only be working out of my dad's garage at the moment, but everything I see still causes a strange fluttering in my chest. Racks of tools are hung up neatly on the walls, the low industrial lights making them shine. A few of my pet projects are lined up on a second work bench on the wall across from me, my haphazardly scrawled "blueprints" littering every free space and spilling onto the floor. Next to the bench is a bright red toolbox as tall as I am. It's filled to the brim with odds and ends, though there's one drawer that's dedicated to my crystal collection. Shoved in the back of the garage are several donations from my dad—retired industrial-grade tools and saws that I had fixed up for my use.

I smile to myself, remembering how busy the past week had been. Several of the administrative automatons in dad's company had needed repair, and he'd been willing to let me try my hand at them. The patchwork of grease stains on the floor are my badges of honor—signs that I've done something useful. Dreams of someday opening my own shop makes my heart sing. I'm grateful to my dad for letting me play with his toys and all, but the idea of using what I love to stand on my own two feet is undeniably appealing.

Gender: Female

Age: 18

I stare up at the poster I'd nailed to the gray of the wall, that familiar fire in my belly igniting at the sight of it. The word "innovation" runs across the bottom in bold blue letters, the smiling face of my personal hero peering out of the rest of it. His newsboy cap is tipped up to expose his salt-and-pepper shock of hair, his mustache nearly bent into a V-shape by the strength of his smile. His bright blue eyes are wrinkled at the edges, giving him a strangely mischievous look. It almost feels as though he was sharing an inside joke with me.

I would give anything to have even a fraction of Giovanni's skill. Before he disappeared, he created the most lifelike automatons the world had ever seen—and not only in appearance. He was the inventor of the core crystal known as the "Human Heart," an AI program that gifted our beloved machines with sentience. You could live your whole life in the presence of a Giovanni automaton without ever realizing it was powered by crystals, or made of metal. Even after he disappeared, his Human Hearts have been replicated and reused in everything from common household automatons to military grade H.A.T. agents.

He graduated from the Automaton Academy.

I can almost imagine myself taking his place in the poster. My shoulder-length grease-brown hair would be wavy and wild, its toffee highlights shining in the flash of the camera. My hazel eyes would be wide, that strange ring of green at the center vibrant as I grin. The spray of freckles across my nose likely wouldn't be the only thing on my face, either. I'm notorious for accidentally smearing grease on me. There would be a wrench in my hand, my sleeves rolled up as I point it to the camera.

Adrenaline pounds through my veins at the thought of walking in his footsteps. And just like that, I find myself scrambling to fill out the rest of the information. High school grades, extracurriculars, yada yada. Before I know it, I've reached the dreaded essay question.

"Why do you want to attend the Automaton Academy?"

I hesitate for a moment, glancing at the poster of Giovanni for inspiration. Just when I find the intro I was looking for, a loud banging results in a long line of black straight through my application.

"Goddammit," I mutter, examining the accidentally crossed-out essay portion. It's not unusable, but it'll look messy. I huff and turn to look at the closed garage door, wincing slightly as another round of banging reverberates through my small space. "I'm closed for the day!"

"Dia! Dia, are you in there?" a voice croaks, muffled by the layer of metal between us. "Dia?"

I know that voice—it sounds like bad text-to-speech. I roll my eyes and get up with a groan, making my way over to the garage doors. They slowly fold their way up into the ceiling with the press of a button, the bright light of day making me squint. I shield my eyes as it glints off Screw's rusty metal plating.

"Hello Dia!" The voice comes from a metal grill that's been built into a hollow metal sphere—it reminds me of a large silver lollipop. His face has no expression outside of the cluster of yellow LEDs which serve as his eyes. When he sees me, he waves sheepishly, two yellow LED rainbow-curves replacing what would have traditionally been a smile.

"Hi Screw," I say, grumbling to myself. I look him up and down, searching for the source of today's visit.

The automaton looks like he was built by a toddler playing with a mechanic's toolkit. A bare-bones skeleton of metal piping has been covered every which way by rusting iron sheet metal and screws, giving him the appearance of a badly armored stick figure. He doesn't even have fingers, which makes him a laughing stock as a shop-keeping assistant. I would feel bad for the guy, if he didn't keep showing up at my doorstep. I've seen him so often that I know him inside and out; I can say with confidence that his inner workings are as badly built as his exterior. That being said though, I can't see anything obviously wrong with him on this particular visit.

"I told Gizmo I'd be closed today," I tell him. "You know, for the entrance exam. It's in a few hours."

"Oh, he knows," Screw says simply, completely oblivious to the underlying accusation in my voice. "Master apologizes for interrupting you, and says that he'll double the store credit if you make an ex-ex-ex-ex-"

Screw smacks the side of his head with his stub of a hand, making a sound not unlike a dropped mixing bowl. "Exception. Apologies—I've been glitching the past few days. It's gotten so bad I've been knocking boxes over, and you know how master feels about his merchandise."

"Oh boy, do I." On my first visit to Gizmo's Gizmos, I'd almost knocked over his prized crystal display. The one-eyed old man was going to wring my neck until he found out I had a knack for fixing things. It was astonishing how quickly he changed his tune. Now we have an agreement: I service his automatons, and he gives me in-store credit. "Alright, you. Come in."

"Thank yo-yo-yo-yo—"

The LEDs of Screw's eyes spaz out, blink a few times, and then fade completely to black. He shudders to a halt mid-step and then slowly, comically, tumbles to the ground. The amplified sound of metal-on-concrete makes my head feel like it's vibrating. One of the metal plates pops open in the fall, sending a dozen tiny screws flying into the corners of my workshop. I sigh as I close the garage door behind him, telling myself I'll have time to finish my essay on the train ride to the Academy.

***

After finding all of his loose screws, I slide my fingerless leather gloves on and get to work drilling Screw's plating back into place. Once I'm fairly sure he won't fall apart again, I open him up. It only takes a glance to see what the problem is. I wince at the sight of it, sympathy pulling at my heartstrings. All of his conversion crystals are out of alignment, knocked off their axes and rattling around on the bottom of his chest cavity. It's a good thing Gizmo sent him when he did—if he had kept walking around like this, he might have damaged the crystals permanently.

"You need to tell Gizmo to take better care of you. Seriously, how can you stand to work in these kinds of conditions?"

Of course, Screw doesn't answer. The last of his crystals likely came out of alignment when he collapsed earlier. In hindsight, it was extremely lucky timing on his part. Had he collapsed in some street somewhere, I have no doubt someone would have scrapped him for his parts. But as it is, he's completely powered off, and likely won't be waking up again until he's back in range of Gizmo's magic. I sigh as I pick the crystals out of him, shuddering at the thought of having to call Gizmo over to my garage. He's a nice enough guy, but that doesn't mean I trust him around my collection of materials.

"Let's take a look here..."

I sit cross-legged on the ground next to Screw and roll his conversion crystals in my hand, checking for damage. Like most common conversation crystals, they're cut into a flatter-than-normal octahedron shape, giving them the appearance of small 3D diamonds. I hold one of them up to the light, watching its runic carvings sparkle. My dad would be able to tell me exactly how the carving works, and why this particular carving allows for the storage of magical energy... but to be honest, the technicalities of crystal carving is way above my head. As far as I can tell, the carvings are intact, and that's all I need to know.

I hesitate for a moment, marveling at the way these crystals work. The things are tiny, only about an inch and a half at their longest point. Without the carving, the crystals are more or less useless; just a conductor for our magical energy. But slap a carved rune on it, and bam. Something about the way the energy flows is changed, and our magical power is converted into an effect of some sort. Without these crystals and others like them, the energy inside us could never be released. It's a wonder of engineering, one that keeps our entire world running smoothly.

And keeps me alive.

I glance down at the drain crystal bracelets on my wrists, the glow of my pale green magic lighting them up and making them glitter. If the drain crystals weren't constantly stealing and dispersing my unusually massive amounts of energy, I would probably end up like...

I shake my head, trying to disperse my wandering thoughts. There isn't time—I have to get to the entrance exam. I haul Screw upright with a grunt, and then get to work carefully replacing his crystals back into their axes. Unlike some of the newer models that have fancy anti-gravity mounts, his are simple metal loops. Flimsy loops too, by the look of it. How could something so simple malfunction so easily?

Grabbing a pair of pliers, I get to work bending the loops back into place around the crystals. There are three of them, each allowing Screw three hours of power. He has a total of nine hours of independence. While it's possible for an automaton to charge themselves with electricity, it will dilute their owner's magical energy. If an automaton's crystals completely run out of their owner's magic, they'll shut down until they come back into range of their owner, or get claimed by someone else. I couldn't imagine having to live like that. On a whim, I uncurl the wire loops and start wrapping them around Screw's crystals in a spiral shape instead.

It will increase surface contact between the crystals and the wires, and hold them more securely in place. Why wasn't that the original design?

The third crystal seems to have a slight trace of Gizmo's magic left in it. If I squint hard enough, I can barely make out a pale orange glow. With some luck and a little electricity, it should be enough to get Screw back home. I sigh in relief, and twist the crystal into place. Right on que, magical energy begins humming out of the conversion crystal and runs deep into Screw's metal bones. He shudders to life, his yellow LED eyes blinking on. They're a little dimmer than they should be, but they're on all the same.

"How long was I out?" he groans, shifting in place. "Dia? That's you, right?"

"The one and only," I say, gently holding him down when he tries to get up. "Hold still. You're real low on power, and I want to check your heart before you go."

He sighs and rests his head against the wall, yellow pupils following me as I get up and open a metal box built into the concrete above his head.

"Here."

I hand him the magnetic end of the industrial-grade charger. The cord's size and feel are similar to that of a garden hose, but it definitely isn't water that flows through this thing. Screw attaches the magnetic end to a random spot on his chassis, the conversion crystals in his chest beginning to glow with a plain white light. Only the third crystal has a hint of orange, and it's fading quickly.

"You seriously need to start heading back," I tell him, ducking my head back into his chest cavity. The three conversion crystals are evenly spaced along the outside of the cavity, with his core crystal set securely in the middle.

In most automatons, the core crystal would be some sort of effect crystal; like a telekinetic, forcefield, or invisibility crystal. These kinds of crystals would give the bot some sort of magical power, which the bot's puppeteer could control and make use of. But Screw's core crystal is something more precious. A Human Heart.

No matter how many times I see these, they never cease to take my breath away. A palm-sized, bright red crystal has been cut in the shape of your stereotypical heart, its facets and intricate runes gleaming in the light of the conversion crystals. If I look closely enough, I can barely make out the green and silver of circuitry deep in its core. It's this miraculous marriage of computers and magic that allows for the consciousness the automatons experience.

There's only one aspect of the crystal that detracts from the wonder I feel. This isn't one of Giovanni's originals. It doesn't have enough facets cut into it; doesn't quite sparkle as brightly. A sticker has been stuck toward the base of the crystal, its once white paper spotted and turning black from accumulated debris and time. It has the tell-tale Dynamic Crystals logo on it, along with Screw's model number and version code. As is to be expected of a post-Giovanni Human Heart, Screw's has several government-regulated restraints coded into it. I can tell from his version code. 2.4. Every point in that number was another government mandate to regulate automaton behavior. I slowly run a finger across the sticker, itching to peel it off.

He'll never experience true free will.

"Dia? Everything okay?"

"Oh, yeah," I mumble, shaking my head slightly. "Sorry, just deep in thought. There's not any damage that I can see—this'll only take a second."

I double check to make sure that his heart is snuggly secured on its larger axis, lovingly wiping away the dust and grease that's collected in some spots. It may not be a Giovanni original, but it's still the most important part of Screw's inner workings. It's not quite the equivalent of his brain—many of his processors and memory space is contained in his head—but if it were to malfunction, everything that makes Screw who he is would disappear. It is, in effect, Screw himself.

"Alright, everything looks like it's in working order," I say, leaning back and swinging his maintenance panel shut. "Your crystals were just out of alignment. If it keeps happening, make sure to have Gizmo send you back, alright?"

"I will. Thanks Dia," he says. He creakily gets to his feet, and then holds one of his fingerless hands out to me. There's a piece of paper tied to it—I hadn't even noticed until now.

I carefully peel off Gizmo's IOU and drop it into its dedicated drawer. It's filled to the brim with similar IOUs, spanning back nearly a year. Gizmo is going to shit himself when I finally cash in on our agreement. I could probably clear out half his shop.

"You be careful on your way home, alright?" I call. Screw turns to look back at me as he hobbles out of the garage, the rainbow curves of his smile appearing as he waves to me.

"I will, Dia. Good luck with your exam!"

His words bring reality crashing back, and panic sets in as I look at the time.

"Crap," I hiss. The exam starts in half an hour. I was hoping for more time to write my essay, study, anything I could do to prepare. "Too late now."

I stuff the half-finished application and a pen into one of the many pockets in my grey cargo pants and make a beeline for the side door, snatching up my wallet and keys as I go. I don't turn around as the door slams behind me, black combat boots pounding a rhythm in the pavement as I sprint for the glass tube of the airtrain station.