Tap, tap, tap. My anxious foot continues the rhythm on the station floor as I strain to look over the tops of the trees, searching for the telltale purple glow of the airtrain. Every moment I don't see it speeds up my already frenzied heartbeat, anxious butterflies beginning to stir in my stomach. The one and only entrance exam is today. If I'm late, it'll be another year before I can apply. I glance over at the curved glass wall opposite me, chewing my cheek as I check the blue holographic clock for what must have been the fifteenth time in the last ten minutes.

The airtrain is always on time, I reassure myself. It's like dad always says. The only certain things in this world are death, taxes, and airtrain schedules.

According to the time tables behind me, the train should drop me off at the Academy exactly ten minutes before my test starts. I have no reason to worry. In an attempt to take my mind off things, I reach into my pocket and take out the crumbled application. I do my best to smooth it out over my knee, clicking my pen a few times as I try to regather my thoughts.

"Why do you want to attend AA?"

There are a lot of reasons. To walk in the footsteps of my greatest role model. To learn the skills and build the name I'd need to open my own successful mechanic shop.

I need to go deeper than that.

I continue clicking my pen, using the background noise to try and focus my thoughts. Why do I want to open a mechanic shop so badly? I already have the opportunity to get a job at my dad's company, and I'd likely end up doing very similar work. So why is it so important for me to be independent?

A memory slowly bubbles to the surface, old and hazy. When I was still an impressionable child, my dad brought me to tour part of his factory. Even to this day, I can picture it in my mind. The warehouse was the largest space I'd ever set foot in, its echoing expanse several times larger than your average air hangar. Large industrial lights hung from the ceiling, but even their light couldn't quite reach the ground. Row upon row upon row of conveyor belts lined the floor, stretching as far as the eye could see before they were completely hidden in shadow.

Occasional sparks and the blinking beams of tiny blue lasers lit up the dim air, their perfectly efficient patterns dazzling the eye and hypnotizing me into silent reflection. Their blue light glinted off of millions of tiny diamonds, all of them varying in color and sizes. Life was being breathed into them before my very eyes, their runes being carved into intricate and complex patterns. It was beautiful. My father had brought a tiny slice of the cosmos down to earth, twinkling stars moving in a never-ending march of creation.

Looking down at the factory floor from up above, you would never have noticed the automatons directing the process. Bathed in shadow, all you could see of them was the occasional glint of steel, or the dim blue sensors that served as eyes. Then a large bang resounded through the warehouse, the metal amplifying the sound until it had the power of a gunshot. Auto technicians shouted to each other from their perches on a lattice of catwalks, and a spotlight was shined down onto the factory floor as they searched for the source of the noise.

The light stripped the cosmos of their wonder and exposed what lay underneath it. All of the automatons' bodies were welded directly into the floor, their chasses a dirty gray color from years of accumulated grease. One of them had lost an arm. Something in the back of my mind registered that was what had caused the sound, but it seemed like a minute detail in comparison to what lay before me. Despite the sparks erupting from the disconnected socket, the automaton worked on, its dull blue eyes still fixated on the crystals marching past. It showed no signs of pain. It didn't even have a face.

Back then, I didn't understand. I had nightmares for days after that visit, where my own legs had been bolted to the ground, and every crystal that I carved rubbed away the skin on my fingertips. By the time I woke up, they had been worn down to the bone. I hesitate for a moment, pulling myself out of the memory and refocusing on the lined paper beneath my pen. Now that I'm older, it makes sense that all dad's factory automatons are heartless. Giving those machines sentience would be tantamount to torture—not that many people would care one way or the other. I respect my dad for his uprightness, especially as a businessman.

Even so, the thought of reattaching arms to those machines makes me nauseous. It would be like walking through a graveyard day after day. Or even worse, I would follow in my dad's footsteps and be responsible for it. All of it.

In contrast, the sight of those cute little yellow rainbows on Screw's face makes something inside me glow. He may have the worst timing in the world, but I would never turn him away. I smile to myself as I ready my pen, a strange mix of that warm glow and the giddy butterflies of the poster guiding my thoughts.

"I want to change the world, one automaton at a time."

The prompt had asked for 500 words. I had given eleven. I know I should write more, but I've run out of time. The air around me is lit up by a telltale purple glow, and I look up in time to see the glass ceiling above me slide apart. A few yards above the station, I can barely make out the crystal-studded bottom of the airtrain.

"Please remain behind the red line," an automated voice says.

As the violet glow of the telekinetic crystals begins to fade, the train slowly floats down into its designated hole in the station floor. I carefully fold the application and slide it back into my pocket. A bell-like tone rings through the station as the train's white doors slide open, only a handful of people exiting. It's rare for people to commute this far away from the city, and I have no trouble finding a seat.

"Doors closing—brace for liftoff."

My stomach lurches as the train slowly levitates back into the sky, the purple glow returning as the tops of the trees slowly fall away below. Then we're off, the train making its way through the sky like a fish through water. I lean back into the thin fabric of my seat, shoving my trembling hands into my pockets. In a matter of minutes, I'll be taking the most important exam of my life.

I stare out of the window in an attempt to calm myself, taking in the city skyline. It looks like a collection of large glass teeth; some buildings rounded, others pointy. Even from here, I can see the worm-like white bodies of airtrains flying in and out of the city's forcefield. That forcefield is the only pretty thing about the place from a distance. Its translucent iridescence makes it look like a giant bubble. I may be desensitized to the wonder of it all, but I've been told most people would be enamored. Skalisma is, after all, "the birthplace of modern automechanics."

As the train turns away, so too does my attention. I indulge in a little bit of people watching, observing the flow of bodies at each stop. Many of the people already on the train are commuters coming home from their jobs, their briefcases or bags in hand. There are a few school age children, some of them with owl-like automatons perched on their shoulders. The owls look over their shoulders at open workbooks, whispering facts and figures into their ears. Some younger kids can be seen playing with the newest line of automated toys. One little girl is entranced by a butterfly her mom had bought her, its eyes glowing a soft purple as it flitters around her head.

Then there are the automatons. They come in all shapes and sizes, some humanoid, some not. Some appear to be heartless, staring straight ahead at nothing. Other bots look out the windows of the train car, or in some rare cases, secretly join me in my people watching. One automaton has shopping bags hanging from every available spot on their arms, its face carefully neutral to avoid betraying its discomfort. Another is at the shoulder of its puppeteer, holding his briefcase while he scrolls through his phone. They all have one thing in common, though. Despite the car only being quarter full at best, every single one is standing.

"Next stop: Automaton Academy."

The uneasy feeling in my gut returns as I stand to exit, my application in hand.

Here goes everything.

***

Stepping off the airtrain feels like stepping into a different world. Off in the distance, I can make out the large cast iron gates of the Academy. They're larger than life, stretching at least two stories into their air. Large metal 'A's are woven into the bars on either side of a large brick arch, which I assume serves as the academy's official entrance. I say assume because it's impossible to tell what lies behind the arch. My view is obscured by the iridescent bubble of another forcefield. The same goes for the fence itself—weaving between the iron bars are the telltale iridescent wisps of forcefield magic.

Sadly, I won't be seeing the campus interior today. I turn away from the gates, following the last of a stream of students toward a much more unassuming structure. The admissions building is large, but made entirely of brick. There aren't even any windows. I sigh to myself as I get in line to enter, wondering why they had to make their testing facilitates feel like a prison. Next to the entry doors is a small window into an office, not unlike you'd see at the movies. Inside that window is an automaton. From what I can tell, it seems to be collecting applications. I try in vain to smooth the paper out across my knee, but it doesn't really help. Before I know it, I'm next in line.

"Hello there!" it says cheerfully, face stuck in a permanent smile. "May I have your application please?"

"Ah, yeah. Here," I say, turning in my crumpled mess of a paper. Its expression doesn't change as it works to smooth it out, but I can sense its annoyance in how aggressively it's handling the thing. "Sorry about that. I was running late."

"It's no problem at all, miss," it mutters. When the application is flat enough to lay on the table, its eyes glow red, and it scans the contents. "No problem at all."

The moment it's done collecting the information, the application I had agonized over is tossed unceremoniously into a recycling container. The automaton creaks as it settles back into place, its badly rusted joints complaining with every motion.

Doesn't your puppeteer oil you at all? Poor thing.

"Your case number is 308945," it says, uncaring voice coated with honey. Then it gestures to a large pane of glass to my left, still creaking. "Place your hand there, please."

I do as I'm asked, sliding off my right glove. The glass is warm to the touch, and gives off the same red glow as the automaton had. I gasp and pull away as an unexpected stab of pain shoots up my arm.

"Woah!" I exclaim, rubbing my palm. "What was that?"

"Strange. I don't believe it collected your magical signature," it says. It hits some button on a panel next to it, the glass plane lighting up again. "Please place your hand back on the scanner."

"Why do you need my magical signature?"

The automaton gestures to the building's door. Much like the entrance to the campus, it's blocked by an iridescent sheen of magic.

"It's a matter of security," it explains. "The wavelength of magic is unique from person to person, and is therefore much more effective than a fingerprint or retinal scan. My purpose is to match your specific magical signature with your case number, and grant you access into the admissions hall."

"Oh... okay," I mutter. There's always a sense of uneasiness that comes with dealing with magic.

It'll only take a second. Nothing will happen.

I hesitate for a moment, twisting the crystals on my right bracelet. Then I brace myself and slowly roll it off, the green glow of my magic dying as it loses contact with my skin. The moment I slip it into my pocket, my forehead begins to burn. I press my hand back against the scanner. It had been warm before, hadn't it? It feels cool against my palm. I can feel my heartrate climbing steadily with every second that passes, but I try and keep my focus on the scanner in front of me. This time, there's no pain—only a strange sucking sensation. The panel eventually begins to glow sea green, matching the hue of my remaining bracelet.

"Scan complete. You may remove your hand now."

I shove my hand into my pocket as quickly as humanly possible, slipping my bracelet back on. I breathe a quiet sigh of relief as my heart rate goes back down, the cool evening breeze quickly bringing down my temperature.

"Alright. You can enter the building now," the automaton instructs. "You will be in testing room number five."

I murmur a muted thank you as I pass through the forcefield, still in something of a daze. The sensation of wool between my ears is familiar, but not in a pleasant way. I grit my teeth and shake my head as I find my way to room five. My stomach drops as I step into it, and I find myself stuck in the doorway. The room is about the size of my old high school cafeteria. Every bit of floor space is occupied by lines of partitioned desks, and all but a handful are already occupied. I chew on the inside of my cheek as I step in, quickly shuffling over to the nearest empty seat.

There has to be at least five hundred people in this room, I think. And this is room five.

Without meaning to, I do the math in my head. That's around 2,500 people.

The academy only takes 1,000.

Blood roars in my ears, drowning out the words of the proctors as they enter the room. Their faces are completely deadpan, giving nothing away. The next thing I know, the glass screen built into the desk blinks on, a red scanner asking for my palm.

Are we starting already?

The blood roaring in my ears only gets louder when I slip my bracelet off. I can barely focus by the time the sea green glow appears. The moment my bracelet is back on, I screw my eyes shut and take deep breaths.

It's okay. We're okay. We can do this, I tell myself. I take a few more steadying breaths, massaging my temples. We can do this.

I don't know how long I was in that position. It could have only been a few heartbeats, or a few hours. But eventually, the roaring in my head rescinds, and I slowly reopen my eyes. The first sample question is on my desk's screen, and I'm aware of the proctor giving typical pre-test instructions. And then...

"You may begin."

My heart sinks the moment the first real question begins on screen. Math. I pick up the provided stylus and get to work, jogging my brain to try and recall what I had learned in calculus last year. My confidence takes an even greater hit as the questions shift into programming. My basic knowledge of software concepts does nothing to help me as I stare down at the foreign language onscreen. In the end, I blindly chose the most complicated answer.

Things get a bit better as the test progresses. There are questions on design theory, something that I had covered in depth in robotics classes throughout high school. Then it shifts into history, asking both general and very specific questions about the journey of the modern world into automechanics. I find myself relaxing a bit as I go through these, drawing on years of my dad's impromptu stories and lectures.

"I met Giovanni back in our academy days. The guy was crazy—I've never seen anyone spend so much time in the workshop before! But he pitched this idea to me. I was in the research track at the time, and had just discovered a rune that mimicked the electrical pulses of the human brain. He had this idea to stick some circuits in it, and bam! A few years later, we started our first company. That was all the way back in 2030. We were working out of our garage back then. But man, look at us now! There's hardly a bot out there that doesn't have a Dynamic logo inside it. If only good ol' Giovanni were here to see it."

Every answer I gave felt right. The first restrictions were placed on bots in 2035, after a home automaton had murdered its puppeteer. (In its defense, she was horribly abusive.) The Great Decommission happened in 2036, in response to public outrage at continued automaton revolt. Giovanni-made Human Hearts were all forcibly shut down. Giovanni himself disappeared in 2037.

The next questions are equally straightforward. Several different carvings appear on screen, and I'm asked what effect they would have if I were to power them. I recognize many of them from my time in the workshop, and continue on without issue. Before I know it, the multiple-choice section of the test is over. I take a moment to lean back in my chair and stretch, feeling more at ease than I had all morning.

But it gets even better. As I enter the open-ended section of the exam, a projector imbedded in the desk turns on, creating holograms for me to interact with. I can't stop smiling. A broken automaton is hovering at my fingertips, and I'm being told to fix it to the best of my ability. My gloved hands work quickly with the hologram, taking out malfunctioning parts and rearranging any inefficiencies I see. It was the most natural thing in the world, and as I continue on, I'm practically on top of the world.

Then that feeling dies. I set the stylus down for a second, staring blankly at the question before me, uncomprehending. I had already known that AA was famous for its connection with the H.A.T., but I hadn't expected to find questions regarding military tactics on the exam. A wireframe scenario is being projected before me. There are three figures; a green one which I assume represents me, another human, and an automaton. A description of the scenario scrolls across the bottom.

'You're under attack. A puppeteer is behind you, their puppet automaton rushing you from the front. The puppet is a non-sentient, and is imbued with a pyrokinetic crystal. Assume that you have a puppet of your own with a hydrokinetic crystal. What do you do?'

The answer should be obvious. It's fire against water—me and my hypothetical automaton would have no problem winning the matchup.

But then there's the problem of the puppeteer, I realize, staring at the slowly shifting image. Destroying the automaton doesn't mean that the attack is over.

With that in mind, I carefully type out my answer. I would have my automaton keep the other one busy while I went for the puppeteer directly. From what I've seen portrayed in TV and movies and such, the puppeteer doesn't often step into the fight themselves. There's some weird honor code in our society that says we'll let the automatons do our dirty work for us.

So theoretically speaking, if I could catch the puppeteer by surprise and subdue them quickly, I could end the fight without there being too much damage to anybody, I reason.

I hesitate for a moment, considering my pet projects. The blueprints on the floor of my workshop flash through my mind. I had recently been fascinated by the idea of implanting crystals into articles of clothing. It's a well-known fact that the body's biorhythms interrupt crystalline magic, rendering them less effective than they would be inside an automaton. But that doesn't mean they don't work at all. In my experimentation with them, they actually produce an effect of about a foot in radius. The information had never really been useful to me—there's no real reason to put a beam or forcefield crystal in my gloves, outside of pure curiosity—but if I were in a combat situation...

My fingers fly across the keyboard, the execution clear in my mind.

"I would have my automaton keep the other at bay while I rushed the puppeteer. I would have a beam crystal implanted in the back of one glove, which allows for the creation of a small laser beam. If the puppeteer wasn't intimidated into submission by a warning shot, I could easily subdue them with some practice. With the puppeteer out of the equation, the other automaton would stop attacking, as it is non-sentient, and incapable of following the orders of an unconscious puppeteer."

A few minutes later, the screen goes black. The written exam is over.