〔all of our thoughts collide〕

〈 Mobile links 〉 〈Marvel/G1 Headmasters/IDW mixed continuity Cerebros.〉

[cerebrosurgeon]

› ENTER PASSWORD

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› LOADING DOCUMENT . . .▮

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› G1/Marvel/Headmasters/[Some]IDW Cerebros and his binary bonds. Cerebros and Fortress Maximus's main base of operations is Luna-1, and the moon is currently open to a reduced capacity of visitors.

› Current open prompt(s): N/A

› Mobile links.

› About ▱ Connections ▱ Rules ▱ Admin

› I engage in real world activism and am disabled. My availability and response time are affected by this. I have resources for helping people experiencing genocide and colonialism, and am happy to share. From the river to the sea.

› IMs always open.▮

〈 -XENTEX✧ 〉

▱ ▱ ▱ ▱ ▱ ▱ ▱ ▱ ▱ ▱

› LOGGING OUT . . .▮

[cerebrosurgeon]

Have you ever met your idw counterparts?

› IDW? I don't recognise that callsign.

› When you say counterparts...

› ... Not really. I've met Fortress Maximuses (Maximiis?) from alternate universes, briefly.

› I wonder what paths I've chosen in other lives.▮

[cerebrosurgeon]

Admittedly, Fort Max was comfortable with being stared at, and Cerebros was exceptionally skilled at talking through people. Necessary skills, but ones that, when Headmasters communicated with anyone outside their bonds, made it painfully apparent these people had developed their own means of conversating, and no one on the outside could squeeze in. Prowl's response to Chromedome's name registered so late, Max only logged it through Cerebros's own delayed processing when he picked up some slack for him, and the bigger mech tried very hard not to do his own staring while Cerebros recalibrated. "I can- Cerebros can have a write-up on Nebulos for you in a breem. We can schedule study days."

"Sorry," Cerebros eventually repeated, more present, voice softening back up and evening out, "you're right. My memories of Nebulos aren't mine, but Galen loved home. Max thinks of it as paradise." With a few hand motions, he mimicked Chromedome's distinct helm before tilting his own. "You were asking about Chromedome? Stylor's his binary bond, but they've never been too compatible. Chromedome and Brainstorm were the first to align with Fortress Maximus's anti-war protests, but CD's definitely..."

"The least experienced," Max supplied. Cerebros wanted to call him the baby, despite being forged long after him. "Explosive, emotional, naive. Not as stubborn as Hardhead, but close. You know him?"

Max had to change the shape of the sentence at the last minute, turning an accusation into a question - He was curious, but wary, knowing his bond was especially soft on their resident hacker. It was rare a mere name affected Prowl as strongly as Chromedome's had in their collective experience, and Max's creeping dread began to trickle down Cerebros's frame.

[for-the-better-and-worse]

Prowl hesitates to speak, watching Cerebros and Fortress Maximus' silent exchange with measured wariness. While he couldn't understand their bond, (an alien form of connection not quite within the bounds of his own conceptualization)-- he understood that look-- the discreet passing of unspoken information through glances alone. There were similar gestures, familiar but stranger all the same; the brushing of shoulders, the nudging of an arm, quiet nods from across the room. It was a language Prowl struggled to speak, a communication he could never seem to master. The tactician shifts, unable to shake the distinct feeling he was intruding. For all he knew, no Galen existed within Autobot ranks, not in this universe. Or if he did-- well, he'd certainly never heard his own Fort Max or Cerebros speak of him. Prowl shifts to what is familiar instead, suppressing a slight smirk at the crude hand-imitation of Chromedome's helm. "The helm shape is familiar," Prowl remarks, making out the vestiges of the surgeon's finials, "And the temperament. Especially the temperament. Heh. But I'm afraid everything else isn't. He's never known a Stylor. I'd know if he knew a Stylor." He keeps any feelings of discomfort with the static building in his head far away from his tone; but if Cerebros or Max notices his fingers rubbing the corners of his glass smooth, well, he had nothing to say about that. "I did know him, for a while. We're no longer in touch. There was a mutual falling out. He was a mnemosurgeon here. I have it on good authority he's retired now, but I could be wrong; I'm not the best person to ask on his whereabouts. Er-- memory-surgeon-- I'm not sure if that sort of position is familiar to you."

[cerebrosurgeon]

A mutual falling out sounded on-brand for Chromedome, and a fleeting wave of relief passed between the two Headmasters' bond; this Prowl was their friend, and they'd seen how foreign to them alternates could be. A Chromedome with the assumed ability to operate on memories paired with a visibly agitated Prowl was an equation neither of them struggled to speculate on the answer to. After a few moments of thought (data dominantly processed by Cerebros for him), Max returned to the data pad in his grip, still searching the index for any mention of Constructivist architecture. Perhaps he'd have to ask Prowl more about it.

"I can summise," Cerebros began, slowly, visor duller, "that whatever it is, it isn't a position Chromedome should hold," after a deep inhale, he continued: "We can affect the memories of other Headmasters if our own memories are affected. It isn't a surgical procedure. I can compile, aggregate, store, inspect, repair, recover, and process outside data if I borrow Max or other Headmasters' RAM, but I still need to be given a hard copy. I won't- can't do anything to working data, aside from some of Max's. No scalpels involved. I'm sorry for whatever Chromedome did or said to you."

His secondary terminal flashed with a line indicating the report on Nebulos was fully compiled, a massive file with nothing sorted.

"Speaking of data, I have everything I can give you on Nebulos, including some of Galen and Max's first-person perspectives. It isn't organised, but I can do that if you want. I can edit down Chromedome too-" Freedom of choice, came Max's thought in his own, "-if you don't want to see him or get his perception on things."

[cerebrosurgeon]

"Constructivist," Max repeated in a murmur, rummaging around in one of the smaller compartments built into his left cuisse. Both he and Cerebros seemed to still for a moment as something was communicated between them, Max briefly smiling gratefully at his binary bond before opening the parallel compartment on the opposite cuisse. He sipped his complimentary drink, rifling through a digital manual far too small for even a downsized mech of his class, the label on the data pad suggesting it had something to do with architecture and engineering.

"L-o-s. Planet Nebulos resides under the Council of Peers and their subdivision, the World Watchers, all based in the capital city of Koraja." Relaying the information to Prowl, Cerebros's voice more closely mimicked Fort Max's in cadence, but dropped the influence of his old Cybertonian accent that Cerebros normally spoke with, adopting something unidentifiable to anyone unfamiliar with Nebulanese. It made the larger mech pause in his reading, momentarily watching him from the corner of his eye. Visor brightening, Cerebros continued, "Nebulos has been hostile to Cybertronians due to Decepticon aggression for ages, but Stylor and the Targetmasters are trying to establish diplomatic connections. I don't think Chromedome's too involved, though. Average Nebulans are... Hard, for him, still."

"Before Cybertronians, though, Nebulos was ceaselessly beautiful. Vast, cascading mountain ranges, sprawling and winding rivers, freshwater lakes deeper than the Great Lakes of planet Earth. Most of Nebulos falls under protected territories, but the most developed city is Koraja. The sunlight literally warms you to your bones, you can taste certain birdsongs, the most common tree bark is so plush craftsmen make pillows of it, the air feels silken. All weapons and means of warfare were locked away to preserve the peace and tranquility of the planet, and the culture universally prioritised arts and sciences," as Cerebros spoke, he leaned forward, his palms up as if he were handing these things to Prowl. Shoulders relaxed, low, his frame loose - a stark contrast to the usual mech Prowl was accustomed to. "People took care of each other. The planet. Magic is real on Nebulos! I haven't just seen it, I've been touched by-"

"Cerebros," Max interrupted; a warning. Immediately, Cerebros straightened up, visor dimming to its normal glow, his head slowly tilting. Post-processing. Max's finger followed a line of text as something unseen and intangible to non-Headmasters passed between them.

"Sorry. Our ghost in the machine. I love Nebulos," he continued, studying Prowl's face, "but I've never been there. Not yet. Do you ever get the feeling home is somewhere foreign to you?"

[for-the-better-and-worse]

As soon as Fortress Maximus breaks out the datapad, Prowl finds, unfortunately, he has a very long way to go to before he breaks his habit of staring. The symbols on its label are unfamiliar to him, but any mech with half a mind to them could make a well-educated guess on its subject. Prowl has half a mind. He shifts, his back pressing against the headboard of his seat. Something nags at him, nipping at his spark and making him restless. I'm not the best source for this, Prowl pictures himself rushing to say, but the words don't make it past his head. I can only offer a superficial assessment. Ask Hook. Ask Long Haul. He knows, he knows. Or, knew-- when he wasn't so dead. Cerebros' shifting tone snaps him out of his staring fit. Prowl turns, switching his focus to the shorter mech. The other's calm tone provides some relief, and the subject is easy for his processor to latch onto. Old wartime subroutines whir away behind his mind, filing new information away into the previously-threadbare folders tagged with the planet Nebulos. The tactician's shoulders settle, seemingly relaxing-- that is, until Chromedome's name is brought up, and he chokes hard on his own drink. He sets his glass down with a brisk clank, coughing his drink out of his intake. Prowl flinches, face heating in embarrassment. "Sorry, he's--" A pause, as he wipes his chin and mouth with the back of his hand, "--part of your...? Chromedome, that is-- orange, tall. Surgeon. Short fuse. Or well, not necessarily, I suppose." What's his problem with Nebulans? No. Prowl changes tack. "Sorry. Continue. There's similar records of Nebulan history in our files. Peaceful until Decepticon aggravation. Details are scant, but it's an interesting point of connection." The tactician frowns, wringing his hands. If Cerebros was waiting for suspicion or skepticism in Prowl's expression, he would not find it. The most he'd get would be a slight raise of the brow at the mention of magic, and flickering glance when Max chimed in. It was easy to become inscrutable on the subject of diplomatics. "...No. I'm not sure. I find it difficult to believe you can love a place you've never been to." Prowl pauses, his tone becoming careful. "That is, from my own experience. If Nebulos is significant to you, it's not my place to lay judgement. But I've never called any place but Cybertron home. It's easy to romanticize. Easier to become disappointed."

[cerebrosurgeon]

Admittedly, Fort Max was comfortable with being stared at, and Cerebros was exceptionally skilled at talking through people. Necessary skills, but ones that, when Headmasters communicated with anyone outside their bonds, made it painfully apparent these people had developed their own means of conversating, and no one on the outside could squeeze in. Prowl's response to Chromedome's name registered so late, Max only logged it through Cerebros's own delayed processing when he picked up some slack for him, and the bigger mech tried very hard not to do his own staring while Cerebros recalibrated. "I can- Cerebros can have a write-up on Nebulos for you in a breem. We can schedule study days."

"Sorry," Cerebros eventually repeated, more present, voice softening back up and evening out, "you're right. My memories of Nebulos aren't mine, but Galen loved home. Max thinks of it as paradise." With a few hand motions, he mimicked Chromedome's distinct helm before tilting his own. "You were asking about Chromedome? Stylor's his binary bond, but they've never been too compatible. Chromedome and Brainstorm were the first to align with Fortress Maximus's anti-war protests, but CD's definitely..."

"The least experienced," Max supplied. Cerebros wanted to call him the baby, despite being forged long after him. "Explosive, emotional, naive. Not as stubborn as Hardhead, but close. You know him?"

Max had to change the shape of the sentence at the last minute, turning an accusation into a question - He was curious, but wary, knowing his bond was especially soft on their resident hacker. It was rare a mere name affected Prowl as strongly as Chromedome's had in their collective experience, and Max's creeping dread began to trickle down Cerebros's frame.

[cerebrosurgeon]

Everything about Prowl's universe felt new and strange, from the implied unacceptability of a massive war fortress jetting by above commuter airspace to the differences between their Cybertronian languages. Navigating dense populaces was stressful even back home, but congestion was minimised and the route was now familiar; nothing stopped either of them from greeting Prowl with warm smiles. Sans his Fortress transtector, Cerebros sat closest to Prowl, legs swinging idly, as Max looked around, sipping from his cup comfortably. He'd need more time to decompress before settling into conversation.

"We walked, actually. It was really nice to even have dedicated pedestrian routes." Cerebros smiled behind his mask, swirling the contents of his cup. It was such a kind gesture. "It reminds me of Nebulos. I'm- We're adapting, I think; it's been hard to connect with anyone else, admittedly, but we have fun perusing the libraries."

"What do you call this architectural style?" Max asked quietly, mindfully sweeping a hand in an open space. He was well adjusted to navigating tight quarters. "It's interesting. Modern?"

[for-the-better-and-worse]

"Constructivist," Prowl responds, near instantly. It was obvious enough, with the room's geometric arches coupled with merged elements of more a modern design-- but his plating itches at his own automatic response. "I'm sorry. Nebulos-- is that one 'o', or 'ou'?" he murmurs, almost distantly. His mind is far away, instinctively drawing from long lists of mental files for any mentions of the planet's name. He comes up with a few scant mentions, most dating back to pre-war politics. Post-war mentions added up to the occasional arms trade, Decepticon-aligned more often than not. Whatever tumbling alien roads Cerebros was imagining, Prowl could not see. The tactician shakes his head in the most apologetic way he can muster. "I'm not personally familiar. Nebulos is listed as a hostile planet in the post-war registry." Awkardly, he adds; "Our inter-galactic diplomacies fell quite apart during the war, I'm afraid. You'd be hard pressed to find a planet we're on good terms with. That, and- there was a planetside scuffle. Several." The usual case. Prowl runs his thumb along the interior of his palm. "How was it, there?"

[cerebrosurgeon]

"Constructivist," Max repeated in a murmur, rummaging around in one of the smaller compartments built into his left cuisse. Both he and Cerebros seemed to still for a moment as something was communicated between them, Max briefly smiling gratefully at his binary bond before opening the parallel compartment on the opposite cuisse. He sipped his complimentary drink, rifling through a digital manual far too small for even a downsized mech of his class, the label on the data pad suggesting it had something to do with architecture and engineering.

"L-o-s. Planet Nebulos resides under the Council of Peers and their subdivision, the World Watchers, all based in the capital city of Koraja." Relaying the information to Prowl, Cerebros's voice more closely mimicked Fort Max's in cadence, but dropped the influence of his old Cybertonian accent that Cerebros normally spoke with, adopting something unidentifiable to anyone unfamiliar with Nebulanese. It made the larger mech pause in his reading, momentarily watching him from the corner of his eye. Visor brightening, Cerebros continued, "Nebulos has been hostile to Cybertronians due to Decepticon aggression for ages, but Stylor and the Targetmasters are trying to establish diplomatic connections. I don't think Chromedome's too involved, though. Average Nebulans are... Hard, for him, still."

"Before Cybertronians, though, Nebulos was ceaselessly beautiful. Vast, cascading mountain ranges, sprawling and winding rivers, freshwater lakes deeper than the Great Lakes of planet Earth. Most of Nebulos falls under protected territories, but the most developed city is Koraja. The sunlight literally warms you to your bones, you can taste certain birdsongs, the most common tree bark is so plush craftsmen make pillows of it, the air feels silken. All weapons and means of warfare were locked away to preserve the peace and tranquility of the planet, and the culture universally prioritised arts and sciences," as Cerebros spoke, he leaned forward, his palms up as if he were handing these things to Prowl. Shoulders relaxed, low, his frame loose - a stark contrast to the usual mech Prowl was accustomed to. "People took care of each other. The planet. Magic is real on Nebulos! I haven't just seen it, I've been touched by-"

"Cerebros," Max interrupted; a warning. Immediately, Cerebros straightened up, visor dimming to its normal glow, his head slowly tilting. Post-processing. Max's finger followed a line of text as something unseen and intangible to non-Headmasters passed between them.

"Sorry. Our ghost in the machine. I love Nebulos," he continued, studying Prowl's face, "but I've never been there. Not yet. Do you ever get the feeling home is somewhere foreign to you?"

[for-the-better-and-worse]

cont. @cerebrosurgeon

Though aware his guests could do little more than pantomime, it felt wrong not to put in some effort in courtesies. He'd offered both Cerebros and Fortress a drink, cups scaled to fit within their servos. Magnesium shavings floated on the surface, reflecting the pale high-rise ceiling above them, stark with its incandescent lights. (There'd been the matter of Fortress Maximus' size- something that Prowl had only managed to consider last minute, the duo already en-route. He'd promptly cleared out a lobby-space in the foyer, moved everything from upstairs down, meticulously organized the room to a neurotic degree, and waited until the two had arrived. Catching a few stares had been inevitable, though regrettable for Prowl's personal standards as a host. At this point, it was easy for a mech to pick a stranger apart from a crowd-- just about everyone had at least the barest sense of familiarity with each other, four million year long war considered.) "I hope the drive went smoothly," Prowl began, somewhat stiffly. Socializing for the sake of interaction wasn't his strong suit, not by a long shot. "The new construction developments along Lower Epsilon congests the roads in the mornings. I'd oversee a detour, but recent-- sorry. I shouldn't talk about work. That is to say-- ahem-- how are you."

[cerebrosurgeon]

Everything about Prowl's universe felt new and strange, from the implied unacceptability of a massive war fortress jetting by above commuter airspace to the differences between their Cybertronian languages. Navigating dense populaces was stressful even back home, but congestion was minimised and the route was now familiar; nothing stopped either of them from greeting Prowl with warm smiles. Sans his Fortress transtector, Cerebros sat closest to Prowl, legs swinging idly, as Max looked around, sipping from his cup comfortably. He'd need more time to decompress before settling into conversation.

"We walked, actually. It was really nice to even have dedicated pedestrian routes." Cerebros smiled behind his mask, swirling the contents of his cup. It was such a kind gesture. "It reminds me of Nebulos. I'm- We're adapting, I think; it's been hard to connect with anyone else, admittedly, but we have fun perusing the libraries."

"What do you call this architectural style?" Max asked quietly, mindfully sweeping a hand in an open space. He was well adjusted to navigating tight quarters. "It's interesting. Modern?"

[cerebrosurgeon]

〔 CALL SIGN PROWL : 2 NEW MESSAGES 〕

› Oh-

› Thank you.

› Max can fuel up on processed Energon, but he runs best on the pure stuff. (He won't admit he has a taste for Energon wine)

› I don't have the hardware for PO energy consumption, but I'm really good at pantomiming.

› Anytime tomorrow?▮

[for-the-better-and-worse]

[ RECIPIENT: CEREBROS. SENDER: PROWL. ] > I see. In that case, I'll just prepare something from what I have on tap. I'm sorry I can't offer you anything suitable for your consumption. > Feel free to rummage around my cabinets when you arrive. A few colleagues of mine enjoy leaving snacks around my office; some sort of elaborate prank, I'm sure. Energon sticks, metal flakes- if any of them suit you or Fort Max, please, take them. I'm not a big enjoyer of snacks. > I'm available all day. You can drop by around 12'00, if an approximate time helps.

[cerebrosurgeon]

〔 CALL SIGN PROWL : 3 NEW MESSAGES 〕

› I don't expect you to offer something only my team could, no worries!

› Max is going to be all over your snack hoard, though. He might clear you out.

› Thanks, Prowl. I'll hail you when we're en route. Looking forward to seeing you again.▮

[cerebrosurgeon]

[ RECIPIENT: CEREBROS. SENDER: PROWL. ] > Work has been running ahead of schedule at the office lately. I happen to have a free day tomorrow. If you haven't had the chance yet, and are willing, I'd like to invite you to the office for a drink.

〔 CALL SIGN PROWL : 1 NEW MESSAGE 〕

› You're on my schedule.

› Fort Max and I, or just me?▮

[for-the-better-and-worse]

[ RECIPIENT: CEREBROS. SENDER: PROWL. ] > I wouldn't mind his presence. Although I'm unsure whether I own the quantity of engex he may consume, considering his relative size to the average Cybertronian bottle. I apologize. > Do either of you have a preference?

[cerebrosurgeon]

〔 CALL SIGN PROWL : 2 NEW MESSAGES 〕

› Oh-

› Thank you.

› Max can fuel up on processed Energon, but he runs best on the pure stuff. (He won't admit he has a taste for Energon wine)

› I don't have the hardware for PO energy consumption, but I'm really good at pantomiming.

› Anytime tomorrow?▮

[cerebrosurgeon]

[ RECIPIENT: CEREBROS. SENDER: PROWL. ] > Work has been running ahead of schedule at the office lately. I happen to have a free day tomorrow. If you haven't had the chance yet, and are willing, I'd like to invite you to the office for a drink.

〔 CALL SIGN PROWL : 1 NEW MESSAGE 〕

› You're on my schedule.

› Fort Max and I, or just me?▮

[cerebrosurgeon]

Slowly, he lowers the shrapnel, placing it back in the pile with practiced care as he listens to Prowl. How could he possibly explain what it was to defect from the Autobots, to flee the warfront, his friends, Cybertron herself, his galaxy - only for war to follow him? He couldn't imagine condensing the ruination brought on by his desperation for peace, how to convey that pacifism was not only hard coded into his binary bond but a haunting possessing him, that they were not soldiers but sanctioned rebel peace officers. Maximus felt he was simultaneously been a soldier for an eternity and hardly any time at all in the grand scheme of things. Instead of attempting to translate thought into word, he settled for an exhausted smile, meeting Prowl's eyes with a softness he rarely exhibited beyond his small faction. He would try to put his advice to good use.

"I haven't been a soldier in a long time," the expression held no malice, no smirk or grimace and, similarly, his voice no sarcasm or doubt when he continued: "I'll be sure to remember that."

Comfortable at a height closer to his companion's, Maximus remained kneeling, one hand opening the wide panel of his chest as the other reached in, deftly flipping through a rolodex of floppy disks until one was removed blindly. Not only a holding chamber for Cerebros (and once, Galen), the interior was composed of many components of his control room and main command panel, and he was utterly nonchalant about rooting around in there. The panel swung shut with a series of hisses and tumbling gears, connectors he'd silently disengaged now returning to each other, and he held the diskette out. It was of a surprisingly appropriate size for the average Cybertronian.

"An overview of and guide to the Autobot city-base, Iacon. The visuals are practical, military; the best I can offer without Cerebros," Maximus paused, wording his next sentence carefully. He fleetingly wondered if it was apparent he'd grown unaccustomed to communicating as an individual. "Aside from telepathy, where I could show you Iacon through my eyes."

[for-the-better-and-worse]

"I see," Prowl murmurs, staring down the not-soldier with something less than understanding. Grimacing, the tactician tamps down on the mess of emotions and guilty knots his insides are trying to tie themselves into. His first instinct is to challenge, to draw upon parroted arguments long since memorized to bring a soldier back to their senses. A refusal of the title of soldier meant guilt, fickle and nagging, but more than that it was placeless among a battalion. It signalled a transitory phase, where one started using the word murdered instead of killed. But Fortress Maximus was not a soldier- not his soldier- and there is no war, not anymore, a fact Prowl finds he must remind himself time and time again. This fact does not console him. Few things do, anymore. Prowl finds himself reaching out before Fortress Maximus can finish rifling through his internal files for the disk. (An act that Prowl shudders at. It's subtle, but he's more used to finding wires and arterial energon lines than control rooms and panels. For a split second, he imagines Fortress Maximus had split his very chest open, digging something out from within himself to put in the palm of Prowl's hand.) It's unlike himself to act before he can think, to outstretch a hand before anything can be given to him, but something nags at him. The idea of an Iacon that is not his. An Iacon without him. A different city. The tactician gnaws at his bottom lip, unsure how to feel. He prepares himself to summon fear- at an Iacon more preserved than his own, unmarred by the ugliness of their war, exactly as it once was- or relief, if it would be a stranger of a city he'd see. "I-" Prowl pauses. He blinks back down at the diskette he's been given, turning it over in his hand few times. "I'm not sure if I have the equipment to play this. I lack the internal FDD. It's not- standard equipment, if that's what the average Cybertronian carries in your universe. I'd need a computer terminal." He turns, optics flickering back to the silhouette of the city behind them. The prospect of making the return trip back to his office grows less and less appealing. Primus. Prowl sucks in a sharp vent, and folds. "...What do you mean through your eyes?"

[cerebrosurgeon]

Despite the lack of words between them, Max had been around long enough - had pulled rank enough, as a still-sanctioned Supreme Commander and defector in equal parts, to intuit some of the thoughts behind Prowl's eyes. He understood the deepseated discomfort, the squirm in a career authoritarian's internals, when faced with a renouncement of faction. In his universe, Prowl had answered to Maximus for centuries, even in the presence of the current Prime; when Prowl succumbed to mode-lock, it was Cerebros and C.O.G that Prowl recruited as mechanics. His Turbo Cycle was still held in -master storage, under Pointblank's protection.

Max knew Prowl had little choice in all of it, and the officer's brothers never let him forget. Prowl did what was demanded of him. Max did what he believed he had to. Their beliefs would always clash. It didn't make him like any Prowl any less. He couldn't keep his expression from softening when his colleague accepted the diskette from him so unquestioningly.

"That's-" An arm moved, grinding to a slow halt as realisation dawned. Vorns away, Cerebros absentmindedly thumbed the RFID lock of the Fortress transtector's vambrace and reached in, stopping halfway to the portable external drive. Unease and anxiety flooded their bond, Cerebros the first to fight the tide enough to quash it. He was in pieces, Head-Off. He could never be three two separate people again, and didn't want to. "Alright. The hardware isn't accessible in my robot mode, personally."

At least the surprise of Prowl's (tentative) curiosity shook some of the lingering discomfort. Taking in his expression with a slow tilt of the head, he tried to watch for any sign he should stop talking once he began. "As a Headmaster, I can allow you to view my memories remotely. A real-time data exchange."

Admittedly, Cerebros was considerably more skilled at explaining this. He wished Brainstorm and Arcana were close enough to request a script from. How was he supposed to explain the intersection of science and magic?

"Telepathically. I can't access your mind or memories."

[cerebrosurgeon]

Talk about whiplash.

Everything processes late - His nature, truly, given his lackluster hardware. Old tech, even at the time of his construction, and mass displacement is something he's woefully unfamiliar with. By the time Cerebros figured out what happened, Megatron was towering back over him, optics a sharp, bright glow up on high. Slowly, Cerebros tilted his head, his own visor brightly illuminated; his field was always a dim buzz, close to his frame and influenced more by Max's feelings than his own, but he was clearly startled. Afraid, though, no: He knew this Megatron was nice to (a singular, at least) Rodimus, one he happened to like very much, himself.

"I heard nothing," Slowly, Cerebros raised his hands, placating. He was always unarmed. Carefully, he began locking down the data most recently written to memory, ensuring it wasn't readily available to his binary bond, let alone himself. An advantage of being so lowtech. "But. All Headmasters do is telepathy. And, uh, swap heads. Can't say why I felt compelled to say that, though."

With a shrug, his visor dimmed back to its usual blue glow, Cerebros trying to get a better view of Megatron's face. Mans was Big. He hardly understood what Shadowplay was beyond a basic overview, but the idea horrified him enough to know the other mech was justified in feeling suspicious.

"How'd you get small, anyway? I'd need my transtector for a bigger frame, but I can't downsize," he rapped his knuckles against his chest, grinning halfheartedly behind his bevor. Trying to ease the tension, stay alive. "Tight enough in here already."

[forgedcold]

Red optics watch Cerebros warily, the change of subject and the calmness of his voice are enough to assure Megatron of his secret's safety for the moment. Expression softening into something unreadable, he denies imaginary pings from weapons systems that are no longer there; a reflex for a phantom limb of sorts. It matters little; he doesn't need weapons anyway.

"Telepathy and swapping heads — for what purpose?" He asks with earnest, taking a step back and adjusting his posture to be less defensive. "I do hope there are limitations and rules you must follow." Megatron gives Cerebros a look to suggest his head will stay precisely where it is and his thoughts will remain unheard unless he decides to speak them.

He's quiet as he holds his gaze, allowing a beat of silence to emphasize the sincerity of his words. Eventually, red hues shift, regarding the size of Cerebros' frame and the unanswered question between them. "I transform into a hand gun. My spark was modified for mass displacement. Once modified, the process cannot be undone. It isn't something I do often. What you experienced was against my will. I don't greet others so...intimately."

Megatron pulls his field close lest Cerebros feel the assortment of awkwardness, confusion, and frustration for what happened. His voice is quieter, hesitant. "I suppose thank you...for not hearing."

[cerebrosurgeon]

Surprised by Megatron's inquiry, Cerebros tilted his head in the other direction, thinking. He idly, briefly, tapped the beat to a song he'd only ever experienced in Galen and Max's memories, fingers against the outside of his upper leg. How much was safe to discuss? Not for the Headmasters, who pulled each others' and their own heads off in full public view, but for Megatron; what would endanger him? Did anyone even consider that, normally? He had to gently reassure Max through their bond, his anxiety creeping over the connection. Ever vigilant.

"We can still be decapitated- lethally, I mean. Head-off is a process, just as much as going Head-on. Max keeps his head in his chest when I serve," he tapped his own chest, trying not to sound too giddy. Truthfully, Cerebros loved talking about his -master class, but Megatron could be... Sensitive. "Binary bonds have the greatest, or only, success being Head-on. We become one body, one mind - a third individual, made of two. Sure, us Headmasters could all swap heads, but consent, intent, and compatibility matter."

He left the fact this technology transcended faction lines unsaid, unable to recall his team ever needing to go Head-on with Decepticon Headmasters. Shifting his weight, Cerebros shrugged. "If you don't know how to safely remove your head, I don't either. I could probably teach you, but, uh... I haven't had to take mine off since-" Galen died, since Scorponok and Zarak killed Galen, since Cerebros got a head because he wasn't even constructed with one- "A... Long time ago. I have all of Max's memories of the process first-hand, though."

Examining Megatron's face, he nodded, raising his hands and pausing before sliding each finger into minute rivets on either side of his mask. The RFID readers took less than a second to release the locks with dual clicks, Cerebros again hesitating before removing the mask, holding it in front of his chest uncertainly. His smile wasn't very confident but, luckily for Megatron, Cerebros had the EMF detection of a microwave. He was never built to be a person.

"Sorry about that. I- know a thing or two, about permanent modifications. At least you grabbed me more nicely than Galvatron." He really hoped the joke would land, sending Max ever more placating reassurances, careful not to mention Megatron's compulsion. Everything was normal and fine. "I'm good at not hearing. I've got over a dozen other people in my head at all times, minimum, including Weirdwolf. Sure, he's distant, but- ... you're welcome. I can not-hear anything, anytime you need me to."

[forgedcold]

〈 MA! gently placing cerebros within* arms' reach. for fun. 〉

〈 *he is too short for that at mutual standing height. [insert creative positioning here] 〉

Dread pulsates across his field when Megatron realizes his proximity to Cerebros. A victim of some sort of psychological weapon or not, size matters little as Megatron mass displaces against his will, his body shrinking until the difference in height is negligible. By now, he knows he can't stop this no matter how he tries to fight, and panic bites at the edges of his spark as his hands cradle a stranger's face.

The influence compels him to stare, to look so deep as though he might fall down a chasm trying to unburden himself. Megatron's mouth moves before he can stop it. "I don't know what you are," he blurts. "Headmasters — I don't understand. I will kill you before I am shadowplayed again."

At once, the impulse dies, and Megatron releases Cerebros with an expression as though he has taken the brunt of an ion blast. The energon in his lines suddenly bleeds cold.

No one knows that about me. What if he tells?

Resuming his full height, he glowers down. "You heard nothing. Do I make myself clear?"

[cerebrosurgeon]

Talk about whiplash.

Everything processes late - His nature, truly, given his lackluster hardware. Old tech, even at the time of his construction, and mass displacement is something he's woefully unfamiliar with. By the time Cerebros figured out what happened, Megatron was towering back over him, optics a sharp, bright glow up on high. Slowly, Cerebros tilted his head, his own visor brightly illuminated; his field was always a dim buzz, close to his frame and influenced more by Max's feelings than his own, but he was clearly startled. Afraid, though, no: He knew this Megatron was nice to (a singular, at least) Rodimus, one he happened to like very much, himself.

"I heard nothing," Slowly, Cerebros raised his hands, placating. He was always unarmed. Carefully, he began locking down the data most recently written to memory, ensuring it wasn't readily available to his binary bond, let alone himself. An advantage of being so lowtech. "But. All Headmasters do is telepathy. And, uh, swap heads. Can't say why I felt compelled to say that, though."

With a shrug, his visor dimmed back to its usual blue glow, Cerebros trying to get a better view of Megatron's face. Mans was Big. He hardly understood what Shadowplay was beyond a basic overview, but the idea horrified him enough to know the other mech was justified in feeling suspicious.

"How'd you get small, anyway? I'd need my transtector for a bigger frame, but I can't downsize," he rapped his knuckles against his chest, grinning halfheartedly behind his bevor. Trying to ease the tension, stay alive. "Tight enough in here already."

[cerebrosurgeon]

unsent texts ^_^

Gazing up at the Master Sword housed in Fortress Maximus's most secure war room, Cerebros frowned. Deeply. They were still in another universe, far from home, the other Headmasters' distance growing too pervasive for comfort, and Cerebros had left his Fortress transtector to the C.O.G combiners for repairs and upkeep. The immense power of the Master Sword was both a comforting and suppressive weight and, if he was being honest, it wasn't helping him feel any less lonely. Arms crossed, he turned to look at the desk he'd abandoned, the computer's relay terminal still displaying his unsent message.

› Hey, Prowl. Do you have time to spare?▮

After allowing it to stare at him for hours, the minibot marched over, hauled himself into the seat with practiced ease, and deleted it. His fingertips tapped the keys softly for a while, not typing anything more yet.

› Hi, Prowl. Just me. How are you?▮

He deleted it so fast, he never saw the question mark flash on screen.

› I hope you can come to trust me us, Prowl. I really like you enjoy your company.▮

Visor glowing a dim blue, Cerebros eventually power cycled the computer and returned to Max's control room.

[cerebrosurgeon]

💬for any hot rod you wish!!!

The message board was dim on his HUD, superseded by so many other readouts and programs opened since he'd first begun the log. It was empty, save for a series of redirects to Cerebros's personal conversations with Hot Rod. Fortress Maximus tapped his fingers, anxiety coiling its way through his frame, nibbling at his nerves with blunt teeth.

› You remind me of the Hot Rod I knew.▮

No- DEL, DEL, DEL, DEL, long press DEL. The mech knew already. Faster finger tapping, a gentle nudge from Cerebros through their bond, a reassurance. Try again.

› Why didn't you come with me defect with Fortress Maximus?▮

Not that, either. Delete it. Roddy wasn't interested in pacifism, in protest, in chasing peace. He wanted to bring about a better world. He wanted to be a better world.

› I'm proud of how far you've come, yet so afraid of the path you're on.▮

Frustrated, Max dismissed the window, the message remaining unsent in the text box.

They'd talk another time.

[celestialprompt]

⭒⭑⭒⭑⭒ — send me 💬 or "unsent texts" i'll share three texts my muse typed but never sent yours.

[forgedcold]

› Unsent texts.▮

-Fortress Maximus and/or Cerebros

Send me 💬 or "unsent texts" I'll share three texts my muse typed but never sent yours.

Megatron doesn't deny the pettiness he feels nor his lack of desire to move beyond it. "Enemy of my enemy, maybe," he thinks. His curiosity feels damning as he considers reaching out to Fortress Maximus.

TXT » Perhaps the one thing we might have in common is a mutual hatred of Prowl.

Hatred, however, isn't likely the best way to form a friendship of sorts. He doesn't trust Fortress Maximus to not resent him; after all, he was responsible for who Overlord became. Megatron deletes the message, not wanting to be the one to potentially reopen old wounds.

Cerebros, perhaps.

TXT » I heard you are a healer of sorts — able to help restore others to higher function after otherwise traumatic injuries. I wonder what you might know about healing surviving victims of shadowplay?

No. Too much. It leaves room for questions to be asked. Megatron deletes the message.

TXT » Did you still need a ride?

Or would the idea of being on a ship resembling the Lost Light be damaging? There are no phase-sixers hidden in the basement this time. Megatron deletes the message — likely, and per usual, he is too late.

[cerebrosurgeon]

"...What was it like, in your universe? After the war ended, that is. Did you return to Cybertron? Was Iacon still intact?"

Max paused, lowering the twisted piece of metal he was examining. Quietly, patiently, Prowl had been watching him make his way through a pile of smelted remains, something he'd seen from afar resting in a scrapheap and needed to look at. Cerebros was performing maintenance on his Fortress transtector, the med bay Prowl loaned him private and secure, and there was a small blockade between the Headmasters' thoughts to mutually limit distractions. Sucking air into his intake vents and slowly cycling it out, Fortress Maximus looked at Prowl, just over eye-level with him where he knelt at the pile.

"I have dedicated millennia to the pursuit of peace," Maximus rumbled, voice gentle yet strained, "and haven't found it."

He held the once molten metal up between them, shiny and rounded where it liquefied, jagged and gnarled where it remained solid. The scar of a word, symbol, or decal once held by whatever the debris had previously been was dark, but subtle, and merely a miniscule fraction of whatever the original message had been. "The war never ended. The Headmasters go where we're needed; some of us vowed never to return to Cybertron until peace was restored."

Turning the piece over, he showed Prowl the tiny glitter of deep blue still clinging to the metal under layers of carbon, a rare unscathed millimeter nestled deep in a sharp curl. "Iacon remains standing. The Dome never fell. I can show you."

[for-the-better-and-worse]

Prowl stands a few feet away. He leaves the scrapheap-digging to his guest galaxy-hopper, hiding his disdain. Much of the city held patches of ruin like this, scorched metals nestled between broken rebar or building wreckage, leaking oils cloudy with chalk and debris. Spoils of conflict, common as dirt. Just one more thing Iacon's Council hadn't the time to see to. There is nothing to find here. Only shells to collect. Evidently, Fortress Maximus believes differently; a stubborn trait shared across many of them, Prowl guesses. The distance he keeps is second nature, unshakable as the muscle in his strut that has forgotten how to relax. But then Fortress Maximus speaks, and the tactician stills his expression, forces himself to settle the doorwings rising on his back. "You're still- a soldier?" It is difficult to hide his surprise. The glare of light reflecting off the sliver of blue metal sliver catches Prowl's optic at an odd angle, forcing him to blink. For a split moment, there is resentment for the small, twisted thing- for whatever Fortress Maximus was surely attempting to convey to him. Prowl opened his mouth but the words were slow coming—1 ppm doubt. "Well. Don't resign yourself to it. Wars tend to hinge on their leaders. A millennia of fighting could end in a fortnight, under the right circumstances." Or a single decade, Prowl thinks, bitterly. He stills when he hears of Iacon, of Fortress Maximus' offer. (Does he want to know? What if the city is beautiful, exactly as it had been before the war? What if the city is unrecognizable, swathed in smog? No- it would not be his city, not his Iacon. Whatever was offered to him would only be that- a glimpse of another world. Prowl soothed himself by imagining this.) "My Iacon had no dome. I suppose you were lucky." A pause. 0.8 seconds. "Show me."

------

[cerebrosurgeon]

Slowly, he lowers the shrapnel, placing it back in the pile with practiced care as he listens to Prowl. How could he possibly explain what it was to defect from the Autobots, to flee the warfront, his friends, Cybertron herself, his galaxy - only for war to follow him? He couldn't imagine condensing the ruination brought on by his desperation for peace, how to convey that pacifism was not only hard coded into his binary bond but a haunting possessing him, that they were not soldiers but sanctioned rebel peace officers. Maximus felt he was simultaneously been a soldier for an eternity and hardly any time at all in the grand scheme of things. Instead of attempting to translate thought into word, he settled for an exhausted smile, meeting Prowl's eyes with a softness he rarely exhibited beyond his small faction. He would try to put his advice to good use.

"I haven't been a soldier in a long time," the expression held no malice, no smirk or grimace and, similarly, his voice no sarcasm or doubt when he continued: "I'll be sure to remember that."

Comfortable at a height closer to his companion's, Maximus remained kneeling, one hand opening the wide panel of his chest as the other reached in, deftly flipping through a rolodex of floppy disks until one was removed blindly. Not only a holding chamber for Cerebros (and once, Galen), the interior was composed of many components of his control room and main command panel, and he was utterly nonchalant about rooting around in there. The panel swung shut with a series of hisses and tumbling gears, connectors he'd silently disengaged now returning to each other, and he held the diskette out. It was of a surprisingly appropriate size for the average Cybertronian.

"An overview of and guide to the Autobot city-base, Iacon. The visuals are practical, military; the best I can offer without Cerebros," Maximus paused, wording his next sentence carefully. He fleetingly wondered if it was apparent he'd grown unaccustomed to communicating as an individual. "Aside from telepathy, where I could show you Iacon through my eyes."