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the_machine

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The Machine has no name. It has been known by many things over the millennia across nations and planets, but all are local titles, guesses at Its nature. It is simply The Machine.

Behind reality, It exists. Its gears and pistons are always moving. Its chains are always grinding and pulling. Its Work is unknowable, as are Its goals. Its Work is all there is to It. The Machine works for the sake of work, exist for the sake of existing. It is ever expanding, growing, adding new parts, new structures, new land of black marble. The dimension of The Machine contains only the machine. Its boundaries are defined by, and for, The Machine.

Behind walls and spires of black and white marble is flesh, pulsing blue and purple, all throbbing veins and pulling muscles. Pulsing pistons of metal hide a core of living tissue, all flowing with a blue liquid, all breathing slow, deep breaths. Within the walls, under the grounds, are tunnels, where rigid shafts of flesh pulse and grind together. Rivers of teal and blue flow and gather, and where it grows stagnant, forests grow, towering trees in dark, foggy caverns.

What once were people populate these empty tunnels and vacant walkways. They are the gears, the towers, the pistons. They are the rigidness of flesh and the pulling muscles. They are the pulsing hearts of dark flesh. They are The Machine now. Some found The Machine on purpose, or by accident; others were brought in by The Machine itself. Their bodies exist in reality unaltered and they live their lives, happily knowing that in another world, their true forms serve this ever expanding Machine.

The Machine has always existed. It will always exist. It will always grow. The Machine is eternal. The Work will always continue.

the_machine.1606176915.txt.gz · Last modified: 2020/11/24 00:15 by immelmann