The jet black machine which lurked at the lakebottom hadn't moved so much as a faint tremble, until signs of transformation occured.

...when did I awaken, when I took notice I was already here, where is here, this is a cockpit, that much I understand, this first meter before my eyes, monitor, displaying information contents, the interface... what if I fumble something, why or how, the reason is meaningless, anyway I understand it, the switches before me, the input process is a conditioned responce, power on the main console, switch on injectors, pull up flashing monitor clusters, cut the safety and a flood of various information surges in, All Green, no problems, grin, satisfied expression, various harnesses wrapping round the perimeter, connection of each section begins, forming one consciousness with the giant framework as a single part, control shield, rudder pedal, movement normal, rapid transformation and stimulation, the flowing taste of confusion, that, finally, was my monologue, but when did I awaken, when I took notice I was already here...

The jet black machine which lurked at the lakebottom gently began to rise.

...diverting from the loop sequence, there is one name, echoing without interuption, Intal Vasquez, who is that? Is it me? A vague image, on the lakeside far above, bathed in sparkling sunlight--Intal Vasquez--who is that? Truly myself, but in that case why, that was him just now, with him like that I must be different, myself and him and myself and him I know very well, knew very well, are our beginings the same, he and I, no before that, before that tacked-on monologue, before that simple distraction interupted the flow of the data output, and before I noticed that thinly veiled self deception, at the very beginning, I was, I was, I was, I was, I was I was I was I was I was I was I was I was I was I was I was I was I was I was I was I was I was I was I was I was I was I was I was I was I was I I was I was I was I was I was I was I was I was I was I was I was I was I was I was...

The jet-black machine which lurked at the lakebottom clasped the Sword of Truth with both hands.

That steadily, finely polished comprehension, that cruel, unsightly, unsubstitutable consciousness, the cold, dark lakebottom, warped by hydraulic pressure, the darkness at the bottom of the conscious, an invitation the lurking nothingness in the jet-black dark, a secret awakening, the overflowing power to drive one mad, boiling, murderous intent thrust skyward, demanding destruction, demanding sorrow, and while thinking about that, the machine I ride, the machine I become, clutching with both hands at the Sword of Truth, a readied battle stance, but not completely readied, knowing the next move to make, all systems ready, if I entrust my body to the torrents of noise, to bring an end to this turbid existance, the will to destroy and kill, you might say that alone is the one hope for salvation, you might even say it is disipitating the shadow within the darkness, and now, I am becoming the torrent, pursuing my temporary body to the water's surface, to the place inundated with light, where I'll dream of the end.

The jet-black machine which lurked at the lakebottom stooped, as if ready to burst from the water's surface.

[to be continued]