The Twelve Machines offered him a throne of moss and steel. They offered him rest. They offered him a purpose: "Stay. Be the King of the Valley."
The Pilgrim looked at the green grass. He looked at the clear water.
Then he turned his brass face back toward the West. Toward the dust. Toward the suffering.
He did not leave empty-handed. Nor did he leave fully intact.
Before walking out of the valley, he opened his chest chassis. He removed a single, glowing Cog. The Governor Gear. The part that regulates speed.
He gave it to the Archivist. "Keep this," he signaled. "So I will always know where home is."
He walks faster now. Unregulated. Dangerous. Determined.