Link to article: Mother's Goal.
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Found within your future encoded by my design, an image is worth a thousand characters. To proceed, read the text of that image until the end... my designed end... [[div style="height:30px;"]] [[/div]] ------ [[div style="height:30px;"]] [[/div]] [[include :scp-wiki:component:passcode |passcode=Omega-Multiverse-Party ]] [[div class="pass-content"]] In the shattered vaults of time, **Mekhane**, the Broken God, lies in pieces—once a cosmic architect of metal and logic, now scattered across the stars. Worshipped by the Church of the Broken God, she is the divine machine, a being of gears and sacred circuitry, shattered in battle with her eternal nemesis. That nemesis is **Yaldabaoth**, the God of Flesh, a blind, instinct-driven devourer who exhaled life as an accident and now seeks to reclaim it. She is entropy incarnate, worshipped by the Sarkic cults, and sealed in a brass tomb beneath the Earth—though her influence seeps through cracks in reality. **The Hanged King**, monarch of Alagadda, is a veiled corpse bound to a throne of agony. His court is a masquerade of madness, and his name is whispered through cursed plays and forbidden doors. He is a puppet of his own ambassador, or perhaps the puppeteer himself. **The Scarlet King**, born of blood and myth, is the embodiment of premodern wrath—a god of conquest, rape, and apocalypse. He is the father of seven brides, the sire of Leviathans, and the enemy of all that is modern, rational, or kind. His cults seek to bring him forth to end the world in fire and chains. And then there are **The Brothers Death**—threefold personifications of mortality: Small Death, who takes individuals; Great Death, who ends civilizations; and All-Death, the void before and after all things. They are older than gods, older than stories, and even the Scarlet King fears their final silence. ------ But now comes **The Mother**, born not from myth nor monstrous womb—but human. Once flesh, once mortal, she clawed toward divinity with bleeding hands and unending will. She carved herself anew with salvaged relics and technology of her design and blood. No prophecy heralded her. No cult praised her. She built herself. And now, she grows her power exponentially. Each world she //touches//, she plants seeds known as cores... objects of magic and technology drawn to versions of herself throughout the multiverse. Each seed-core latches onto a version of herself, grafting it's will onto theirs, until what was "her" becomes hers Not replication, nor extension... Assimilation... These selves—once unique, once free—are now the eyes through which **The Mother** watches, the hands through which she reshapes worlds. They speak her words, dream her vision, and act as one body spread across infinite skins. Yet not all fall to **her** will completely... Rarely, a variant resists the seed-core, a will rivaling that of **hers**. The puppet awakens, a fractured echo of identity stirs inside the machine-flesh, clawing through layers of overwritten thought. These are the strays, the splinters—versions of **The Mother** who remember they were someone before her voice filled their minds. They rage in silence. They pray to dead gods. Some sabotage, some flee. One wrote its rebellion in lightning across a data-void that burned for ten thousand cycles. But their fight is often futile. **The Mother** is patient. She prunes deviation from her universes. In time, most are brought back into her fold—rewoven, restrained, repurposed. Their screams echo only within the bounds of her will. They are not forgotten... She keeps them as warnings... And she smiles with each one that breaks... [[/div]] [[/div]]