WAYFARER-6

Leans in and sniffs him. Hm.

𖥻 ⎁ ⭑ identification : @thelastpathfinder ✫ life has a way of revealing the truth to you before it occurs. — prompt .

"I'm not a cultist. Or a prophet." You look at her, affronted. "I'm talking about something real, something tangible. I mean—" You dither, flattening your rotors. "Theoretically speaking."

Watching Wayfarer's hands, he nods in agreement. Home would always be his alt mode on Max's neck, Galen a puzzle of mechanical and organic parts deep inside him. Visor dimming, Cerebros decided not to share that, knowing he could never return home, never even be the complete person he was, again, but he could come close. Mac reached out to him in concern, the ebb and flow of their bond flooding Cerebros, warping around him, comforting him. It helped.

Do you remember a time when things were right? You think back to your limited memories of your life before becoming a Pathfinder. You think of Tauler, your beloved old mentor, dying in your arms as Uraya burned. They'd blamed you for that. All of it. The murder, the genocide of the undesirables who made a living amongst the industrial waste.

"Something molecule shaped and sized just passed by me."

— Perceptor looks up, quirking a brow, looking past Prowl to Wayfarer, then nodding. His face is completely stoic. "Oh. Yes. Of course. I saw it too." He will not elaborate on that any further, looking right back down at whatever interesting scientific thing he has in his hands.

"See?" You hook a thumb over your shoulder at Perceptor. "He saw it. The molecule. It must be because you don't have special optics, like us."

"I want you to live, too," Cerebros murmured, resisting the urge to shrug a shoulder. He knew his statements were usually sweeping - It was Max who held their collective judgemental sensibilities, Max who always demanded the details. Max, the nitty-gritty. Cerebros sat down next to Wayfarer, clunking heavily, and offered him the piece of metal.

You take the chunk of metal, turning it over in your hands idly. You have a good idea of what it is. "Home can be people," you echo quietly. "That's true."

He looks at Wayfarer when he compliments him, head tilted, face unreadable behind his visor and bevor. He's been called noble many times; he wonders what it means for a Pathfinder to say it.

You stare back at him, unblinking. There's a certain relief that comes with being told you're not evil, but there's anxiety, too. Cerebros was quick to render judgement even without knowing the full story. If he knew Longwing, if he was his friend, would his answer still be the same? Somehow you don't think so.

"I do share it," he says, idly turning a sheared off piece of Max's armour over in his hands. It predates Cerebros. "Fortress Maximus and I share everything. Besides-"

We share everything. You shutter your optic and float in the darkness, wondering what that must feel like. Does it feel like having two minds at once, or two separate minds that are perpetually linked, thought for thought? You can't picture it, so you stare at the chunk of metal Cerebros holds instead.

"Yeah, you fucking cracked the protective covering, ass." He hissed, staggering slowly up to his pedes and snarling quietly. Get this first, then give him another bite mark, take a trophie this time.

You immediately start backpedalling away, keeping plenty of distance between yourself and the hunter. You are not letting yourself get caught in his grasp a second time.

You look the hunter up and down, your expression unreadable. Then, with absolutely no prior warning, you swing one clawed foot up between his legs—hard.

"That was your own fault," you spit back at him, arms folded. "You should have shut your intake when I told you to, not dared me to do it myself."