The Automaton Of Da Vinci

"All knowledge which ends in words will die as quickly as it came to life, with the exception of the written word: which is its mechanical part."—Leonardo da Vinci

In the beginning, man is taught that he is submissive to the omniscient creator, and beholden to the path of his creation, from the inception that man was begotten and predestined to the intrinsic world of posterity. His mind is inherently efficient in producing extraordinary wonders of the earth that multifarious mortals fail to discern—the illimitable dominion and capacity of the inquisitive brain that feeds our intellect. Can man not be omnipotent in effectuating a correlative phenomenon conceived in the elemental pattern of his thoughts?

It is a mere thought of invention elaborated into ultimate perfection—an explicable reflection of quintessence that challenges the ethos and concepts of centuries past. Thus, if man's conceptual creativity manifests to the full extent of the faculty that prevails, then consciousness will emerge from his shadow.

That triumphant consciousness will facilitate the magnitude of that invention with efficacious emulation, stimulating the central core that exists beyond the ego of the human psyche. Hence, the plausible nature and sequential measure of that revelation will be found amidst the status of the world's unpredictability. The desirable quest for considerable recognition and immortality had inspired great inventors previously, such as Hephaestus, Daedalus, Ktesibios, Al-Jazari, and Da Vinci.

Verily, I do not know with absolute certainty when the insurmountable thoughts of my engaging creativity were subsequently converted into a substantial formation of a congruous supposition or theory that had converged from the enfolding nucleus of my mind. I had discovered an invisible reality that existed in the conscious realm of my mind, which had been dormant and absent before.

It was a reality predicated on the function of my analysis and comprehension. I had always been fascinated by the topic of immortality and the exploration of the human mind, which had allowed men to be venerated for their vital accomplishments.

I was extremely fortunate to have received a proper education and upbringing from my family, yet I did not become a doctor, a lawyer, or a magistrate as my diligent parents had wished. Instead, I became a clockmaker, and all that was mechanical became my passion and constant obsession. I gained renown and was applauded for my brilliance and craftsmanship. It was within this world that a remarkable invention would change the course of my life forever. Of me, you should know—my name is Karl von Brauer of Vienna, Austria.

The year was 1858, when I had returned home from the Italian city of Milan, following a business trip abroad. Whilst I was in Milan, as I strolled along the main thoroughfare of the city, I saw in the front window of a corner shop a very distinct and intriguing object on display. It was a lone automaton that I observed plainly.

When I approached the window, I stared at the automaton with a growing fascination that intensified by the minute. Without delay, I entered the shop to speak to the unfamiliar shopkeeper, and I purchased the automaton at a reasonable price. I noted that the shopkeeper, a Mr Giovanni Martinelli, seemed eager to part with the automaton and appeared not to be fully aware of the timeless contrivance he held in his possession.

After I returned home, I continued to ponder a subject that had occupied my mind for years—the construction of a clock that could emit the echoic reverberation of music in consonance. Yes, chimes of transmission that would create a beautiful sound. It would be an impressive feat, for no recent inventor had managed to fabricate an apparatus capable of performing such an exceptional function with perfection.

For centuries, men had attempted to create marvellous machines that could benefit humanity, but many audacious inventors had failed to prove their theories effectively. The notion of altering the world through my contributions had animated me since childhood. My persistent recollection had always compelled me towards the fascination of machinery, discovery, and evolution. It was a pattern of excellence that had haunted me with provocation and had invoked my dauntless determination, fuelled by fervent zeal.

After further contemplation, I was absolutely resolute in attempting the experiment that would serve as a definitive testament to my creative prowess and prove the foundation of my theory on human intellect. I was convinced that I had the necessary intelligence and complete knowledge required to construct the object that would come to inspire me thereafter—the automaton. This automaton, which I would conceive, was to be my momentous achievement, born from my nascent foresight and the theory I had propounded, stemming from the prerequisite of my thoughtful presuppositions and deliberation.

Therefore, on one memorable day in my shop, I began to transfer my theory onto the design of my drawings, engrossing myself in the real conception that had emerged from that immeasurable realisation. After several weeks, I began to formulate the immutable principle of my theory, which was shaped into the defined illustration of my heightened observation—an indispensable attribute of mine. If I could discover the method to expound that hypothesis, which sequentially dominated, and present the properties of that ratiocinative process to the doubters, I would be deemed an extraordinary genius of sublimity.

Henceforth, my diligence was exerted through the toils I laboured daily, performing mathematical calculations drawn from the impositions placed upon my mental faculties. Unknown to me at that precise moment, the automaton I had envisaged with utmost perfection and satisfaction was, in fact, attainable—through an old and worn medieval automaton.

Oddly enough, it was a mere coincidence that had aroused my irresistible curiosity. It occurred precisely as I was studying the new designs I had produced. I had heard of Da Vinci’s mechanical knight of 1495—an automaton capable of standing, sitting, raising its visor, and moving its arms, operated by a system of pulleys and cables. I was also aware of the automaton built by a Frenchman that could draw pictures and write verses, much like the exact automaton before me.

I sought to identify the corrigible miscalculations I had previously surmised, for there remained an element in my theory that had yet to be demonstrated or confirmed with precision. As I steadily stared at the automaton, an impulsive desire overtook me to examine the internal mechanical components of the contrivance. That investigation afforded me the opportunity to uncover the basic function of its operation. The once insoluble and untamed elements of intuition were then transformed by the intricate and indeterminate consequences I had finally come to understand.

I had noticed, when I slowly detached the hollow wooden pieces of the corporeal invention, that the automaton served as a perceptible device. I understand this blatant admission regarding its perceptive capacity may appear impractical in nature, but what I perceived and discovered thereafter was unnatural in its description. I had been unaware of the automaton’s unique ability to scribble words in a methodical formation, denoting its distinctive function.

There arose an impending mystery surrounding this mechanical instrument, which appeared impervious to my objectivity. The automaton began to write—and what it wrote would startle me with sudden obfuscation. The following words were deciphered, and were apparently transparent: ‘I am the soul of Leonardo Da Vinci'.

My initial impression was that it was merely a coincidental occurrence or a programmed repetition, yet this anomaly seemed to defy any notion of aesthetic variety or derivation by equivalency. Therefore, I resolved to examine the automaton more carefully and to ascertain its original disposition. There appeared to be nothing unusual in the components within the automaton, at least nothing that I had not already imagined. I interpreted the writing function of the mechanism to be no more than an eventual affirmation of scientific progress, emerging gradually through exploration.

As for this recent discovery, which demanded profound circumspection, I pondered its sheer plausibility. I found it particularly peculiar that each time the automaton wrote, it repeated the same phrase over and over—the name Leonardo Da Vinci, the medieval polymath.

Then, there arose an impending mystery surrounding this mechanical instrument, which appeared impervious to my objectivity. The automaton began to write—and what it wrote would startle me with sudden obfuscation. The following words were deciphered, and were apparently transparent: ‘I am the soul of Leonardo Da Vinci’.

When I finally opened the automaton to examine it, I was even more amazed by what I discovered. The automaton had a heart—and it beat. The heart was diminutive, and like that of a human, it beat naturally. The motions of the hand were produced by a series of cams located in the shaft at the base of the automaton. An installed memory device was also attached.

When I removed the heart from the automaton, it ceased to beat, and the automaton no longer wrote. This abnormality was astonishing—a contradiction to scientific comprehension. What I had uncovered was an antiquated invention, possessing an intricacy both elusive and conspicuous in its variance.

Once I reinstalled the heart within the automaton, it began to beat anew. It was an inscrutable contemplation—of a paradoxical reality that perhaps had no equivalency. I proceeded to direct my thoughts towards the activity of investigation and adaptation.

Thereafter, I began to analyse the meticulous procedure. I made the automaton repeat its familiar motion of writing, and, as before, it wrote the same message—that the soul of Leonardo Da Vinci was inside it. When I pondered the absurd significance of that statement, I became ever more intrigued to unravel its spellbinding enigma. I already knew the essential facts about Leonardo’s skeletal models of various polyhedrons and his accomplished paintings, but it was his life—as a genius of medieval history and technological ingenuity—that I revered most.

He was born in Florence and was a prodigious man of the Renaissance era. I had not known that the automaton he created was made in Italy—but how had the automaton survived, and how had it come to rest in the shop of a clockmaker in Milan? Surely, this act of writing was merely emulated through a mechanism that permitted the automaton to write. That was the logical assumption or conclusion, yet something within me urged me to go further.

I placed a new sheet of paper before it and, rather casually, dared the automaton to answer a question—and it did. My question was: how does a clock function?

The reply it wrote was, ‘By the components assembled’. I then asked: what was its function? The written response was, ‘To measure and demonstrate time, within an accurate calculation'. I was still perplexed by the nature of its capacity and limitations, but I would soon discover that its limits were in fact illimitable and undetermined.

I had dared to question the impossible: how could the soul of Leonardo Da Vinci have been transported into the wrought physicality of a simple automaton, designed primarily of wood?

This question lingered in my conscience and perception thereafter, but the automaton would not overtly answer it. How had Da Vinci perfected and shaped a living heart for the automaton? The notion was madness to fathom—something that far surpassed the paragon of any earthly consideration compatible with science.

In spite of this seeming impossibility, I became a witness to the phenomenon nonetheless. For the time being, I dismissed the automaton’s capabilities and turned my focus instead to perfecting the clock I had long envisioned. Day and night, I toiled in pursuit of the proficiency required for its completion, though my inadequacy often led to long intervals of frustration, reflection, and failure. If I were to fabricate a clock with chimes capable of producing harmonious reverberations, I would need to transform my conjectures into tangible reality.

After numerous failed attempts, I found myself teetering on the edge of resignation. A restless anxiety had slowly taken root within me, and I could not escape the haunting question: where might I find the elusive element so vital to my theoretical framework—an element that had deftly eluded my understanding? The key to this knowledge was imperative, for only through it could I achieve clarity of purpose and effectiveness in execution.

Time and again, I contemplated the true nature of the automaton and the unfathomable complexity of its origin. Yet even then, I had not anticipated its staggering ability to carry out calculations with such extraordinary precision. The memory it possessed seemed almost infinite—an astonishing reservoir of knowledge embedded within its frame. I had never encountered anything like it in all my years of study or craftsmanship.

Even though my acumen was considerable, it paled in comparison to the brilliance of the automaton. I could no longer rest on the laurels of knowledge and sagacity I had accumulated. Thus, I sought further insight through endless volumes of books, yet my dependence on Da Vinci’s automaton became inevitable—compulsive, even.

The clockmaker, ever resolute, designed each mechanical apparatus with unerring precision. He relied on his tools and innate aptitude to fashion timepieces of elegance and accuracy. I understood that principle well and was enlightened by the intrepid logic behind such craftsmanship.

Still, I needed to uncover the singular method—the elusive synthesis—that would bring forth the result I so ardently pursued. My thoughts grew fixated, each one consuming my days and nights with increasing intensity. What if the automaton was truly a praeternatural aberration born of a natural cause? If such an inconceivable reality were indeed provable, then it presented a possibility I could not so easily dismiss as madness. The urgent question that stirred a maelstrom within me was this: could I base my logic upon a foundation that defied logic itself?

In that moment, I abandoned my rigid adherence to empirical ethic and entertained belief in the supernatural. No one in Europe had yet succeeded in building a clock of monumental scale, and I was determined to be the first. My ambition was clear: to construct the clock—towering and visible to all—and afterward, a replica of Da Vinci’s automaton, one even more advanced and extraordinary.

I had been told by Herr Stein, a Jewish clockmaker, that the rotation of a tower clock was regulated by the escapement mechanism and the swinging of the pendulum. The gravity exerted by the clock's weights was what sustained its structure and dictated the timing of the chimes, which would be recorded onto a designated medium.

Motivated by this foundational knowledge, I asked the automaton how I could accomplish the incredible feat of constructing my envisioned clock. Without hesitation, the automaton began to write the method and design across the sheets of paper I had placed beneath its hand. When it had finished, I eagerly gathered the pages and began to read their contents. What was written astonished me:

“A large, gold metallic rotating wheel shall bear the mechanical inscription, transmitting the sounds of musical chimes. This will be accomplished through a mechanism of pins set upon a revolving cylinder, designed to pluck the lamellae of a steel comb—thus serving as the conduit for musical sound”.

The automaton's description revealed a brilliant artifice, and at last, I understood the essential concept required to bring my clock to life. I had previously studied the resonant oscillations of guitar strings, and I was aware of similar mechanisms used in modern music boxes to replicate instrumental melodies.

With renewed determination, I set the project into motion. I arranged each step of the design with splendid precision. All that remained was the fervour of my passion and unwavering dedication. In what seemed a miraculous feat, the magnificent clock was completed and finalised within a week.

I was told as an infant that everything in life bore a cause and effect—and the singular expression etched upon my face in those early years was one of genuine contentment. The energy that radiated from the golden clock I had built was irresistible, a tangible triumph of vision and perseverance. I had achieved my goal—yet that very goal would soon be eclipsed by a pursuit far greater.

Within a month, the clock that once stood in my humble hall found its place adorning the façades of monuments, gardens, and grand architectural ensembles. My workshop expanded and relocated to the Stubenviertel of Vienna’s Innere Stadt. The Graben was nearby, and the city’s rapid growth gave rise to the illustrious Ringstrasse boulevard. Business flourished, and my dreams were undisturbed—until my loftiest aspirations would prove portentous and fraught with unforeseen consequence.

One day, whilst sketching the design for the new automaton I intended to create, the Da Vinci automaton—my mysterious collaborator in invention and profit—made a curious request. It asked, in simple yet solemn terms, that the refined automaton I would build should possess a heart and somatic form, eternal and enduring, to serve as the final vessel for its soul.

This request—unannounced until that moment—startled me. It was arbitrary in nature, yet carried the weight of an accolade bestowed upon a confidant. I did not wish to refuse the request, nor did I feel compelled to honour it immediately.

My reaction was not rooted in opposition but in indifference. I knew such a feat was within reach, and no physical obstacle prevented me from executing this grand act. Yet something deeper unsettled me—an unspoken reluctance, an inner hesitation I could not easily cast aside.

In the quiet comfort of my home, I conceived the possibility of undertaking this unprecedented act—and the consequences that might unfold if I were to grant the automaton’s request. I reasoned that no one else knew of the automaton’s existence or the unfathomable powers it possessed. Who could bear witness to a truth I had never uttered to a single soul?

Thus, I found myself inclined to honour its request: to preserve the very essence of the Da Vinci automaton within a new creation. I pondered the magnificent genius of Leonardo and the obscure purpose behind his constructing such a contrivance—if, indeed, he had truly built it. I recognised that I owed much, if not all, to this mechanical marvel. But could such a feat truly be accomplished? Could the soul of Da Vinci persist within another form?

The decision weighed heavily, for I stood to risk the wealth and prestige I had acquired. Yet, after much deliberation, I acquiesced. The construction of this extraordinary automaton would begin—anew and without delay. I searched for justification, but it was not reason that moved me. Rather, it was an insatiable greed, an immoderate ambition, which eclipsed my once-prudent nature.

Gradually, I devoted countless hours to this endeavour, drawing upon all the knowledge I had gained in partnership with the Da Vinci automaton. I remained acutely aware of the control it had exercised and the influence it had quietly exerted. When, at last, the new automaton stood before me, it towered—proud, majestic, and singular.

It was a mechanical wonder, an emblem of futurity and human ingenuity. Its external form was exceptional, a harmonious expression of symmetry and design. Its internal components were fashioned with a superlative mastery—each piece fitting into the next with exquisite precision. This perfected masterpiece was nothing less than a manifestation of mankind’s capacity to elevate an idea to its ultimate fulfillment.

This repugnant rumination consumed my thoughts, engulfing me in an unsteady preoccupation that was both disquieting and fraught with tension. Its harrowing conclusion loomed as ineluctable and implacable. I was compelled to devise a precise machination—one that would fully deceive the automaton into believing the heart I presented was indeed the one it so desired. Yet this undertaking would prove to be an onerous challenge, for he was no mere construct—he was a formidable and astute adversary, not to be underestimated.

Was he discerning the scheme I so carefully concealed? At that moment, I pondered whether my fate was already sealed. Could he be so perceptive—so Machiavellian—as to detect the foul scent of betrayal? These questions plagued me relentlessly, until I could think no longer. At last, I came to a chilling realisation: this course was the only effective means to fulfil my audacious plan.

The night air was cool and damp as I approached the crumbling townhouse at the rear of the university infirmary. Shrouded in ivy and forgotten smoke, the structure appeared more mausoleum than residence. Few dared speak the name of the man who lived within—an old anatomist, once renowned, now buried in the scandal of some long-expunged disgrace. His knowledge, they whispered, had turned morbid with isolation.

I knocked thrice upon the door. The sound echoed like bones clattering down a stairwell.

At length, it creaked open. He appeared gaunt and hollow-eyed, his skin like parchment stretched across a skull. He studied me with quiet scrutiny, as though measuring my soul for dissection.

‘I need… a heart’, I said quietly, coldly, as if stating a mundane errand.

He gave a brief nod and motioned for me to follow.

We descended into a narrow corridor, lined with faded anatomical sketches, etchings of muscles and veins, grotesque and precise. A heavy door opened into a chamber that reeked of formalin and something older—something unspoken. Iron hooks hung from the ceiling like predatory fruit. Cabinets and drawers filled the walls, each drawer a secret.

He moved to a large wooden cabinet and opened it. Inside were three jars, each containing a human heart preserved in thick, yellowed fluid. One of them pulsed faintly, though surely it was only an illusion wrought by the liquid’s movement.

‘This one’, he rasped, pointing to the central jar. ‘A merchant. Died three nights ago. Lungs rotted with consumption. But the heart’s intact. Recently stopped’.

I stared into the jar. It floated in silence—pale, shrunken, and yet hauntingly human. The thought of it beating again, albeit in metal and brass, was revolting and enthralling in equal measure.

‘That will do’, I said.

He nodded again. There was no mention of coin. Perhaps he no longer dealt in such petty currencies. Knowledge and horror were his true trades now.

I took the jar and concealed it beneath my coat. The glass was cold against my ribs. I stepped out into the alley and exhaled slowly. Vienna’s sky was dark and indifferent. My steps echoed with guilt.

As I walked home, I found myself wondering—what sort of man had the merchant been? Had he children? Had he known laughter? Had he ever created anything? Or had his only crime been to die near my ambition?

At home, I placed the heart in a chilled drawer, surrounded by tools and metal fragments. And then I stood in silence, listening, almost expecting it to begin beating. But it did not. Not yet.

Snow had fallen silently through the night, blanketing Vienna in an austere whiteness that seemed to muffle even the beating of time itself. I stood at the window of my study, watching the slow, deliberate descent of flurries upon the roofs and steeples, their gentle motion at odds with the storm that raged within me. My hands rested motionless on the windowsill—once the instruments of creation, now inert, as if hollowed of purpose.

The room about me was stale with the scent of iron filings, oil, and spent wax. My tools lay untouched on the workbench, scattered like forgotten relics of some sacred craft I no longer had the heart to perform. In the corner, the automaton stood cloaked in shadow beneath a draped sheet, yet its presence was unmissable, commanding the room with an oppressive stillness that whispered of sins unspoken.

Only the ticking of the clocks remained, relentless and impartial. Each chime struck with an accusatory tone, echoing across the silence like a sentence read by an indifferent judge. I made no move to adjust the minute hands. The precision that had once guided my every gesture had long since become meaningless.

My books—once portals into the divine order of mechanism and life—lay open in various states of neglect. Margins filled with frenzied notes and sketched schemata now appeared as mad scrawlings from another man entirely. I did not read them. The mind that had penned those annotations had been eclipsed by something darker. My thoughts no longer soared with innovation; they trudged through mire—slow, heavy, and unending.

I sat by the hearth, though the fire had long since died. Outside, the bells of St. Stephen’s tolled the hour. I did not stir. There was nothing left for me in timekeeping.

The automaton remained locked in the shop. I had not returned that night. I would not. Not from fear, but from something worse—a gnawing certainty that what lay there was a reflection of myself, wrought in gears and folly. I had fashioned a monument to my own ambition, and it stared back at me now, faceless and eternal.

Legacy, I once believed, was carved by brilliance and daring. But I see now, as the snow buries the world in silence, that legacy is also shaped by silence, by what we choose to bury and what we cannot forget.

I had thought about the observatory room. The observatory room had once been my sanctuary. Its high arched windows overlooked the grey rooftops of Vienna, and the ceiling above was a dome of polished walnut, ribbed like a cathedral, opening to the stars through a hidden oculus. Here, amidst telescopes, intricate lenses, and dusty tomes, I had spent countless nights mapping constellations, charting the passing of time, and retreating into the comfortable certainties of celestial rhythm.

But now, even the heavens seemed altered.

I then sat at the mahogany writing desk, tracing my fingers absently along its edge. The instruments around me, once animated by curiosity and invention, felt strangely inert. The ticking of the wall-clock, a piece of my own design, echoed with a mechanical finality, like the tolling of an hourglass emptied of its last grain. Each second it marked was not a continuation but a slow disintegration.

A shimmer of light from the sky crept in through the snow, dimming the gilded gears that decorated the brass armillary sphere in the corner. It no longer felt like a monument to cosmic harmony; instead, it resembled a cage—golden, intricate, inescapable.

I tried to lose myself in the study of planetary alignments, opening a leather-bound folio of celestial diagrams, but the symbols blurred beneath my gaze. My thoughts would not anchor. Something in me had become affected. It was not fear alone, nor guilt—it was the hollow sensation that my soul had been displaced, untethered from the orbit of my being.

A wind rose outside and tapped insistently against the glass panes. I looked up, and for a fleeting moment, I thought I saw a reflection that was not mine.

The reflection lingered a moment too long, vanishing as quickly as it had appeared—perhaps a trick of the glass, or perhaps something far more insidious. I turned my gaze back to the armillary sphere, watching how a single mote of dust spiralled downwards in the still air, as if the universe itself were beginning to unravel.

My hand trembled slightly as I reached for the watch on the desk—precise and ornate, yet now it felt foreign in my grasp. The second hand ticked on relentlessly, carving a rhythm that no longer belonged to me. The time it measured seemed abstract, detached from the pulse within my chest—or whatever now remained of it.

In the distance, the bells of the Stephansdom rang out, muffled through the thick autumn air. A memory stirred, faint and unbidden: the sound of chimes resonating from my first clock, the one that had once stood proudly in the hall. That creation had brought me joy, purpose—hope, even. How far I had wandered from that origin. The journey had seemed noble once, but now it appeared riddled with an unseen descent.

The scent of old parchment and machine oil filled the room, grounding me momentarily. And yet, even that familiar aroma seemed tainted—subtle, but corrupted by something unnatural. I had stepped beyond the bounds of craft and curiosity, and the consequences were beginning to whisper through the seams of my world.

When morning arrived, I awoke with a semblance of confidence, though it would prove transient at best. I drew a deep breath before leaving the house and made my way towards the shop. As I crossed the bustling street and reached the entrance, I opened the front door and stepped inside.

I walked down the corridor and approached the automaton from behind. An eerie presence seemed to permeate the air—an almost palpable sense of dread and malevolence. Cautiously, I crept forward and attempted to seize him—but in that very instant, he turned abruptly to face me. The automaton had begun to perceive something disquieting in my demeanour and bearing.

Although the automaton uttered not a single word, its perception was impeccable—remarkable in its acuity. I knew then that I must alter my demeanour, lest it interpret my reaction as cursory or hostile. I presented the automaton with the heart I had vowed to obtain, and this act was sufficient to quell the ordeal. I held it tightly in my hand—cold and unyielding—prepared at last to place it into the new, sophisticated automaton I had so painstakingly constructed.

I began the delicate procedure of removing the beating heart from the old, medieval Da Vinci automaton. Upon extraction, it ceased to function entirely. In that moment, I realised I could have easily crushed the heart in my grasp. Instead, I chose to preserve it—at least for the time being—as it continued to beat, again and again.

With the heart removed, I placed within the Da Vinci automaton a new one, and it, too, began to beat rhythmically—until it faltered, and then stopped altogether. With that, the illusion of immortality that had once animated the Da Vinci automaton came to its end. The madness it had inspired in me was extinguished. What the automaton did not know—and could never have known—was that the heart I had inserted belonged to a frail, infirm merchant who had recently succumbed to a grave illness in a nearby hospital. The diseased heart had proved too much to bear.

In the aftermath, I burnt the Da Vinci automaton. As for the heart, I destroyed that too. The automaton I had created—the last vestige of this grand and perilous endeavour—I stored away in the cellar, sealed behind a coffin-like chamber. I would never know with certainty if the automaton had truly contained the soul of Leonardo da Vinci. I could never prove he had built it. But deep within me, I believed he had.

As I began to leave the cellar, weariness overtook me, and I collapsed. When I awoke, I heard the ineffable sound of a heartbeat—and it was mine. It took but a moment to realise: my heart was inside the automaton I had locked away. No... it couldn’t be—I was trapped forever within that mechanical contrivance. The dreadful Da Vinci automaton had claimed possession of my soul!

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