A/N- This tale is my take on the Parts shop gang. Rating is for mild dark themes.

1- If It Ain't Got that Swing (The Phonograph)

Velma winced at the bright light. Her mistress had just yanked her cover off. This could mean only thing. Mistress had company.

And what soiree would be complete without music?

Two men in tuxedos lifted the phonograph off the table and carried her into the ballroom. They gently lowered her onto another table. Across a team of maids set up the refreshment table.

The Mistress was right by the entrance, talking with a couple other ladies. One of the men tapped her on the shoulder.

"Gregory, why don't you play some music?" She handed the butler (Velma could only assume that's what he was) a record.

Velma wished she could read. The butler strode over and slid the record onto her turntable. He lowered the needle. The dulcet sounds of Duke Ellington filled the room.

A twelve-year old boy dashed through the crowd, headed for the refreshment table. Mistress suddenly spotted him. "Ricky, have you finished studying?"

The boy nodded. "Sure, Mom." He gave a smile, the kind one only makes if they're lying.

"All right," Mistress replied. She walked away, perhaps to talk to more people. Ricky crammed a couple cream puffs into his mouth.

The lyrics still rang in her mind.

"It don't mean a thing... if it ain't got that swing..." Velma murmured.

Her audience just stared at her.

"And?" the cassette tape player (Cassius) asked. He moved one of his tapes as if to say, "Go on?"

Velma shook, breaking herself out of the reverie.

"and then it happened..."

Velma sat in the attic by the window. It had been a full ten years since her last use. Mistress was in the yard, talking with a pair of uniformed (as in military) men. Velma moved closer to the window, trying to determine what they were saying.

Rodney, an antique radio, took the opportunity to dash up the attic steps. "Velma, have you heard?"

Velma turned in the direction. "What's going on?"

Rodney paused and played a broadcast. "307 Allied troops killed in the battle of Midway." Rodney pointed at a man limping towards the house. "Our boy Ricky was one of the lucky ones." Velma got a better look at Ricky. "Got away from battle with a leg missin'."

Velma sighed. "He was lucky. I was not."

"What do you mean?" a very cranky pencil sharpener (Sharpe) asked.

"I was in the attic, needle deep in dust!" Velma explained. "And it only got worse."

It was 1985, the day Mistress passed away. Two young men combed through her possessions. Velma saw them pick up Rodney. The old radio had long since stopped working. His last broadcast was something about beetles.

"What're we gonna do with this?" one man said to the other.

"Sell it to an antiques market." His friend said. The second man approached the window. Velma sat there, nearly buried in dust. "What's this?" He fished a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped some of the dust off.

The first man dropped Rodney in a box. "It looks like an old record player."

Velma felt herself being lifted off the windowsill. "Wonder if this thing still works." The men carried her down the attic steps and towards the front door.

Where were they taking her? She wondered. She found herself being shoved into the backseat of a car. The two men got into the front seats and drove off.

Velma stayed put, still stunned that someone found her.

"Hey, Bill, know anyone that can get this thing working?" The passenger asked.

"Let's give St. Peters a shot," Bill replied. "My mom buys stuff from him a lot."

The car parked in front of a shop. Velma felt herself being pulled out of the backseat and dragged inside the shop.

A fat balding man stood in front of the counter, cleaning off a screwdriver. "Oh, a customer!" He said.

Bill suddenly, and quite ungraciously, dropped Velma on the table. Velma was surprised her wooden base didn't crack. "Hey, can you get this to work?" he asked.

Mr. St. Peters chuckled. "Of course. I'll take it to the back room and see what I can do."

The ceiling lamp overhead gave a slight chuckle. "Oh, yes, Velma had quite the first impression."

"I was getting to that part. Hold on."

"I apologize. I'm getting a little ahead of myself."

Velma opened her eyes. She was sitting on a shelf, surrounded by dismembered and broken appliances. She shivered. Did something move?

The ceiling lamp seemed to lower itself. A lamp without its shade twitched.

"They're sentient, like me..." Velma whispered to herself. She shouldn't be surprised, but in this unfamiliar setting...

The bare bulb lamp inched closer. "Hey, Igor, get a look at the new girl. How long is she gonna last?" His voice was shaky, but bitter.

"Wattson, no need to scare her," a second, creepier voice said. "She'll learn when the time comes."

Velma slowly turned around, coming face to face with the ceiling lamp. She let out a whimper.

"Good evening." Igor said, trying his hardest to sound polite.

"Get away from me you creep!" Velma shouted. She struggled to get off the shelf, only to realize she was at the top. She got back into place. Any farther and she would've been in pieces.

Watson got off the shelf. "New girl, try not to off yourself here. Can't have..."

"Mr. St. Peters..." Igor finished.

"...knowing our secret!"

"New girl?" A voice from the bottom shelf asked. A reel-to-reel tape player slowly got off the shelf and looked upward. She smiled.

"Now you're not the only out-of-date music player here, Loretta."

Loretta flashed Wattson a dirty look. "You take that back."

Wattson shuddered.

"Gentlemen, Ladies," Igor interrupted. "If we're going to be... companions... we might as well get along."

"Or try to." Wattson grumbled.

Why I named the characters what I did.

Cassius- It sounded similar to Cassette Player.

Sharpe- Short for Pencil Sharpener.

Wattson- I've seen a couple fan-fics where that was his name, so I decided to use it. I couldn't think of anything clever.

Velma- it just stuck.

Loretta- Something spur-of-the-moment.

Igor- Since I have the feeling that he's Elmo's assistant (albeit unwillingly), why not give him an appropriate name?