Command: Recall (Recalling...)
>Memory
>Date: 11/2/789;11:53AM
>(Obtaining...)
Memory Obtained.
Command: Convert
>Writing
>Language: Equestrian
>Format: Regular
(Converting...)
(Conversion complete)
I am Scrappy.
The stallion working on my gears tells me so. He is my Maker. He says that soon I will talk. But for now, I must wait. I am a unique Automaton, he says. But I must be patient. I try ask him what he means by unique. It is not a word or phrase in my records. But I cannot vocalize. But he knows that, and he knows what I am trying to ask. The Maker always knows.
The stallion says, you are Scrappy. Made completely from spare parts. You are special because of that. That means you are unique. There is something else, Scrappy, that makes you unique. Other Automatons are built for one job and one job only. You are unique because you can learn. You can learn to speak, you can learn to do things. To do anything! You are an incredible little pony, Scrappy.
I know that Automatons are not built to feel emotion. But I feel something inside that makes me feel good. It makes me want to stay being me. I search my records. My records are like an engine, with millions of intricate parts forming it. There, I can combine and create words and sentences. There, I store memories. There, I am Scrappy. My records show nothing. So I signal to the Maker, so he knows I am missing information. He opens my chest-plate and looks to my engine. I use the engine to inform him of my feelings.
Pride, he says. That is what you are feeling. You are proud to be Scrappy. You are proud to be my little Automaton.
The Maker pats my head, and seals my chest-plate again. He goes to work on my throat. There, he is placing tubes of glass. My vocalizer. What he calls my 'wind pipe'. I am proud of that wind-pipe. He pushes it into place. It locks, and I use the air sac in my core for intake. At his command, I exhale. Air rushes from my mandible. My mouth opens to allow the air out. Once the air exits, it closes again. He opens my chest-plate once more, and puts in a small box, attaching it to the end of the wind-pipe, connecting it and the air sac. I feel new gears put into place. My magical energy engine in my cranium allows me to sense touch and texture. I feel new gears start to whir as I test them. They have been connected to my records. My audio intakers, what the Maker calls my 'ears' are already attached to that same spot in my records.
"You are Scrappy. Record that."
You. Are. Scrappy. Record. That. I feel my record automatically update with words that my new voice box will be able to replicate. The recordings in my records match with definitions that are already there. I have learned my first words.
"Input command. I am Scrappy. Repeat."
Input. Command. Repeat.
I. Am.
"Command, repeat."
"I-Am-Scrappy."
"Very good."
Very. Good.
"Very-Good?"
"Yes."
Yes.
I have acquired twelve new words. My vocabulary is growing. I feel pride again. I wish I could record words that I already know. But I do not have my own voice. I must make recordings of the voices of others to communicate. There is a difference between recordings and records. Records are memories and general knowledge. Recordings are words obtained by using my audio intakers. My 'ears'. I have a new feeling. My records do not tell me my feelings. I need new information. I gesture. Maker answers.
"You feel excitement, Scrappy. And I do, too."
Feel. Excitement. And. Do. Too.
Powered by magic. Propelled by gears. Commanded by magic. Commune by gears.
Scrappy.
Excitement. I am unique. Pride and excitement!
Then there is knocking. I go to answer. Maker looks worried, tells me to stay. I obey.
Maker goes to door. Ponies enter. Identities unknown, facial recognition failed. Masks obstruct true identity. They touch Maker roughly. Maker is vocalizing, unintelligible noises. No words.
Unknown ponies make noise.
"You old bastard, should have known we'd beat the tar out of you!"
Old. Bastard (bastard not found in records dictionary, discarded as slang). Should. Have. Known. We'd. Beat. The Tar. Out. Of.
These ponies are a great help. They have assisted me with acquiring new vocab. I want them to keep talking, but they leave the house, taking Maker with them. I have been told to stay. So I stay.
I count hours. Two. Ten. Thirteen. Nineteen. Twenty-five. Forty. One hundred thirty two. At hour seven hundred sixteen, ponies come. I identify them easily. Maker's mother. Maker's father. Maker's brother. They are wearing black. They carry me and other belongings from Maker's dwelling.
I am excited. Maybe Maker is moving. They take me to the Temple. They take me to the Offering Room.
I recall this place, Maker took me. Offerings are made when a pony is born, when good things happen, when bad things happen. When a pony dies. They leave me there. I guess Maker will be returning to the Offering room to retrieve me. I wait. I continue waiting. I count hours, but my gears do not continue to count that far. I count days.
Thirty. Eighty-five. Two hundred forty five. One thousand three hundred nine.
Then I couldn't count anymore.