The Machina feels cool to the touch. Under the chromatic gloves, it purrs ever so slightly like a slumbering beast. The faint pulse signals its desire to break free from the Flux.
Could a machine even aspire to freedom?
She closes her eyes, darkness upon darkness behind the Chtara’s visor, and lets the field emerge from her fingertips like a river of thoughts flowing onto the machine, toward its core. The sacred engine responds with a loud burst, humming wistfully.
The elders used to say Sparks could bring Machina from the (g)oldworld back to life. But she likes to think the machines are just lying dormant. Waiting to prove their hidden potential to the world. Just like them.
It takes a minute, but the lights in the room eventually come to life, fueled by the generator’s newfound will. The Chtara’s night vision filter disengages, turning the world from saturated hues of green to the faded colors of her reality. She flips through the relics mechanically until she finds just the right one. It only takes a small spark to turn the relic player on. On the Run, by Pink Floyd, fills the room. She spends the night wondering what the (g)oldworld could have looked like, as the mesmerizing beats drift her to sound sleep.
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