@decaying-cpu
Here, among the flesh and ichor of her splendor, the machine stands out like a sore thumb. But this, clearly, is no mere automaton. Mother can sense the intellect behind those piercing optics-- eyes that seem to search with each passing microsecond, as if she has come here to observe and catalogue.
As the two of them, machine and lifeform, eye one another, Mother can’t help but be reminded of herself. There was a time, not so long ago, when she dreamed in the digital ether. Perhaps that is why she allows the synthetic to remain in her inner sanctum.
“That is unnecessary,” She finally speaks, in a voice that sounds like a chorus of whispering wind. “Share your designation, please.”













