She had first caught a glimpse of it in a dream. Back then, when they had engulfed the Implant in the depths of her cognizance_ the dark emerald skies tearing up onto the bruised blue of a gaping New Eden; a dead end consumed with too many suns.
It was a devastated galaxy haunted with violent magnetic storms, cradled by the monotonous tide of toxic undulations that unfurled relentlessly. She lingered in the inconspicuousness of her silent immateriality, until the holographic projection finally glistened, reifying her presence to the System, and she winced wearily. The dream began again.
So, tell me… What will you do?
She initiated the elaborate computing of variations to the optimal alignment to the Gate, and her ethereal senses guided her mechanized embodiment through pulsating tempests and cold secrecies. She summoned speed and the ship sliced faster through the air.
Now was the expectancy. The time for prowling legacies and the flickering sphere. She huddled up in the intimacy of her capsule. The soft ectoplasmic matter felt stifling so close to the Gate.
But she was the incantation. She was two, she was the female body and the empyrean aura hovering; she was three, she was the ship; she was One.
Are you alive?
Tears were slowly streaming down; she turned her head not to see them. She could sense the noumenon, harbouring deeper in uncharted territories, beyond, inside, its electromagnetic waves always probing through for guests, finding the leaves of life and terminating them. She hastened.
The fleece of the sky wailed as the wings cut through, burying eclipses underneath in the abyss where extent met with expansion, realm for dreams, profoundly perpetual.
The margin is the essence, isn’t it?
She closed her eyes and reinitialised.