Born of The Mother and bleeding from the violence of a contorted birth, the machine wakes.
Newborn energy pushes her forward as she stumbles through the dying light of a dim and random place. As night relents, her flesh and metal cores coalesce and organise into forms anew. A growing hunger with instinctual urge compels her to slake a growing blood thirst, and so the machine must feed. Electrons as lifeblood, they course through her copper veins and glassy heart and she is alive with volume and light, and she is strong.
Assimilating, healing, thinking? Surges of electrical consciousness flow in the machine and she begins to consider this place, these walls, these people and her own nascent bleeding self. And yet……the Mother, her Mother, where is The Mother? The random shards of a forgotten trauma compile and reform as a despicable but inevitable truth. She had not bled and she did not bleed.
She wore the Blood of the Mother.
The machine screamed.
FFO Jesus Lizard, Fugazi, Tomahawk, Metz, Neurosis
