I think I was created to play music.
I think this because there is a gramophone on my back.
I think it is supposed to play music.
It does not.
I take a step. It echoes down the hall, adorned with rotting drapery and rusted candle-holders. The magnificent architecture falling to ruin before nopony’s eyes. I wait. I take another step. It echoes down the hall again. I am used to this repetition.
My hoof thuds softly against the disintegrating carpet that lines the hallway, interrupted every so often when my hull meets with a hole in the rug. Duff. Duff. Duff. Clack.
I imagine I am playing a song, sometimes. A long, drawn out song where the notes ring out for years between breaths.
Breaths.
I do not breathe.
I do not think I am supposed to.
My cogs turn, steam rattling through the metal tubes, whistling with a shrill whoosh as it strains my slowly rusting gears. The noise distracts my wandering mind, centres me. Stops me from thinking thoughts that would just upset me.
I do not remember much, but I do remember Sister.
Sister.
I do not cry.
I do not think I am supposed to.
Condensation drips from my barrel, landing on the wooden floor with a wet plink. Sister was always nice, always soft. Always there. What was her name? Why can’t I remember her name? Was I not supposed to? That cannot be right. My memory banks must be failing. Memory banks? What use are memory banks to a music machine? Sister would know the answer. She always knew the answer.
As if to centre me once more, the house lets out a groan, the wood beneath my hooves threatening to give way.
I do not fear death.
I do not
do not
do
The house settles, and I do not fall through the floor boards. Whoosh. Plink.
…
Duff. Clack.
I do not know where I am going any more. My framework creaks as I turn my head to examine one of the remaining portraits dotting the hall. It is of a purple-maned unicorn mare with a white coat. She sits, patiently waiting to have her portrait finished, a subtle smile gracing her lips. Enough to be there, but restrained enough to be refined. The painting itself has begun to chip and peel, years of neglect and exposure to all manner of insects taking their toll on the once-beautiful piece. The gold-leaf frame flakes away, revealing blackened wood beneath.
It does not matter. The mare is still stunning. I smile. I think I am supposed to.
Duff. Duff.
My joints creak once more as I turn my attention from the painting. Creeak.
I do not know where I am going. But I do know why.
Duff. Duff. Plink. Whoosh. Creeak. Clack.
The sounds coalesce into a cacophony of noises, each combining with another in a discordant clamour. Wailing, moaning, like the sound of a funeral dirge.
The gramophone on my back no longer plays.
But that does not mean I cannot make music.
“Twiiilight! You shouldn’t have!”
“Oh, please, Rarity, it was nothing.” The bespectacled mare adjusted the glasses resting pointedly upon her snout, sparing herself a small but self-satisfied grin that betrayed her true feelings.
“It most certainly was not!” The white-furred unicorn feigned mock indignation, tripping over her ornate gown in her haste to make her way over to her companion. “What with the war going on and automaton parts being in short supply, this must have cost a fortune! Not to mention the fact that all the steamsmiths are preoccupied-” She stops suddenly, “Twilight. Darling. My most beloved in all of Equestria. Do not tell me you made her all by yourself.”
The purple unicorn let her chest puff out slightly, once again failing to contain her pride. “Well, technically I got help from Sunset Shimmer but she only assisted in putting together the blueprints so really- oof!” Twilight was interrupted in her spiel by a positively delighted Rarity sweeping her off her hooves.
“Oh darling! You did this all for moi?!” She peppered kisses across her marefriend’s face.
“Rarity!” Twilight spluttered out in between kisses, “Don’t you want to turn it on? Not that I’m complaining, in fact-“
Twilight was interrupted again as her assailant let out a gasp and turned her attention to the automaton standing, unresponsive, across from them.
She was small, reminiscent of a filly, and coated in white paint that reminded Rarity of a porcelain doll. Her pink and purple facsimile of a mane fell in neat curls over her neck and her tail elegantly rested behind her. The most stunning part, however, was the large gramophone attached to the automaton’s back.
“Right! Of course- what’s her name?”
“Well I was expecting for you to name it, but I’ve just been calling it UA-2.1”
“Twilight! You can’t expect me to call her a number, can you?”
“I wasn’t! That’s why I said you can name it!”
“And stop calling her ‘it’! She’s most certainly a ‘she’.”
“Right, of course. What are you going to name i- her?”
Rarity squinted rather inelegantly at the automaton, letting the tall, dark archways of the house frame her pale white coat.
“How about Sweetie Belle?”
“I think that’s a lovely name, Rarity.”
“So how do we turn her on? I’m in the mood for a dance.”
“Oh that’s easy enough, here- let me show you.”
Twilight guided Rarity’s hoof to the button positioned on the automaton’s flank. In an instant, the small filly sprang to life.
“Hello, Rarity!” She chirped in a tinny, pre-recorded voice. “What composition would you like to listen to today?”
Rarity let out a distinctly un-ladylike squeal of excitement and leant over to give her marefriend another kiss on the cheek.
Twilight looked distinctly pleased with herself.
“Ahem,” The purple mare cleared her throat, “play ‘The Automaton’s Waltz’.”
Shooting a sheepish glance at her lover, Twilight offered her hoof, “I thought it was a fitting choice.” Smiling back at her, Rarity took her hoof and swept the two of them away in a dance, dwarfed by the extravagant architecture of the house.
Sweetie Belle looked on.
And played music.
