Rinzler / Tron (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
notglitching) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thisavrou_log2016-02-14 05:46 am
notglitching) wrote in thisavrou_log2016-02-14 05:46 am
Entry tags:
Define your meaning of fun
Who: Rinzler and OPEN
When: After the Moira leaves Emiri, before the events on the 16th
Where: Training Simulation Room, Moro #9, and In Your Ceiling
What: Shenanigans with a side of larcenous roommates
Warnings: Probable violence and a Rinzler, but nothing awful planned
A. Training Simulation Room (Open)
When Rinzler had heard of the training area, his initial response had been disinterest. Defeating phantoms served no purpose, and he wasn't some beta to need training on the very function he was made for. Still, as time stretched out without a proper fight, the need to move started to weigh higher. And if recent events had left him singularly unimpressed with the system's response protocols to a threat, it probably wasn't worth attacking more of his fellow imports. At least, not until he found a target worth deleting.
Still, as the program stood out in the hallway, orange-lit fingers moving quickly over the soft blue of the control console, the ironies were harder to escape. A system in front of him, written for combat. For Games. And here he was, outside, stuck fighting the data-shadows it produced. Rinzler should be in there. He wanted a real battle, not some user-tailored simulation. The enforcer took what satisfaction he could in overriding the safety settings, doubling the pre-loaded templates and setting threat difficulty up to maximum.
The door slid open with a soft chime, and Rinzler stepped into the center, reaching back for his joined disk. But as long seconds ticked by, nothing happened. No lights. No sounds but his own constant rumble. Then:
"Waiting for voice activation."
Noise skipped, mute rattle glitching louder as Rinzler's helmet turned to glower out the door. Those programs definitely needed wiping.
B. Pick your location, (nearly) any location (Open)
While it hadn't rated particularly highly as a threat, Rinzler almost regretted that the beta-user had been killed. Its attack had been an interesting diversion, and if it had gotten away in the end... well, even that had proven educational. The vent-space Chara had escaped through was too small for the enforcer to pursue, but further investigation found larger access paths concealed behind more casings on the walls. Worth securing. Worth mapping. And of course, there was only one way to manage that properly.
Anyone in the cargo bay, barracks, or other main living areas might start to hear some sounds. A scraping in the walls. A ticking rumble echoing through the ceiling. Rinzler moves quietly for the most part, but the navigational difficulties are many and new, and it's difficult to assess when the shape of the passages might carry sound to occupants below. If someone were to look into the ventilation at the right time, they might even see a dim red-orange glow peering back through the darkness. Not that Rinzler's watching you. Necessarily.
C. Moro #9 (Closed toNapoleon Nathaniel)
As much time as Rinzler spent traveling the halls (and air ducts) of the ship, his own room was an almost uncommon waypoint. There was no function to be served inside, and the enforcer slept as rarely as he could. For the most part, Rinzler used it as a storage unit. With barely a handful of items in his possession (and most of those pointless user clothes), he didn't take much space.
On the other hand, it didn't take much effort to notice when those items were disturbed. The first time he'd come back to find his things minutely shifted, Rinzler had offered a flat stare across the room, but no further commentary. Data gathering was a logical goal, and he didn't care enough about any of the objects to object to the intrusion. If the user laid a hand on his disk, it was losing the appendage, but it seemed intelligent enough to know where to stay clear.
At least, until he stopped by and found things missing from his stash. Not the uniforms or the discarded weapons, but the supply of resource tokens they'd been distributed as a reward. Useless on the ship, but necessary for supply exchange on user planets. Valuable.
This time, the stare lasts longer. It comes with a low, building growl.
[[ooc: will match prose or spam!]]
When: After the Moira leaves Emiri, before the events on the 16th
Where: Training Simulation Room, Moro #9, and In Your Ceiling
What: Shenanigans with a side of larcenous roommates
Warnings: Probable violence and a Rinzler, but nothing awful planned
A. Training Simulation Room (Open)
When Rinzler had heard of the training area, his initial response had been disinterest. Defeating phantoms served no purpose, and he wasn't some beta to need training on the very function he was made for. Still, as time stretched out without a proper fight, the need to move started to weigh higher. And if recent events had left him singularly unimpressed with the system's response protocols to a threat, it probably wasn't worth attacking more of his fellow imports. At least, not until he found a target worth deleting.
Still, as the program stood out in the hallway, orange-lit fingers moving quickly over the soft blue of the control console, the ironies were harder to escape. A system in front of him, written for combat. For Games. And here he was, outside, stuck fighting the data-shadows it produced. Rinzler should be in there. He wanted a real battle, not some user-tailored simulation. The enforcer took what satisfaction he could in overriding the safety settings, doubling the pre-loaded templates and setting threat difficulty up to maximum.
The door slid open with a soft chime, and Rinzler stepped into the center, reaching back for his joined disk. But as long seconds ticked by, nothing happened. No lights. No sounds but his own constant rumble. Then:
"Waiting for voice activation."
Noise skipped, mute rattle glitching louder as Rinzler's helmet turned to glower out the door. Those programs definitely needed wiping.
B. Pick your location, (nearly) any location (Open)
While it hadn't rated particularly highly as a threat, Rinzler almost regretted that the beta-user had been killed. Its attack had been an interesting diversion, and if it had gotten away in the end... well, even that had proven educational. The vent-space Chara had escaped through was too small for the enforcer to pursue, but further investigation found larger access paths concealed behind more casings on the walls. Worth securing. Worth mapping. And of course, there was only one way to manage that properly.
Anyone in the cargo bay, barracks, or other main living areas might start to hear some sounds. A scraping in the walls. A ticking rumble echoing through the ceiling. Rinzler moves quietly for the most part, but the navigational difficulties are many and new, and it's difficult to assess when the shape of the passages might carry sound to occupants below. If someone were to look into the ventilation at the right time, they might even see a dim red-orange glow peering back through the darkness. Not that Rinzler's watching you. Necessarily.
C. Moro #9 (Closed to
As much time as Rinzler spent traveling the halls (and air ducts) of the ship, his own room was an almost uncommon waypoint. There was no function to be served inside, and the enforcer slept as rarely as he could. For the most part, Rinzler used it as a storage unit. With barely a handful of items in his possession (and most of those pointless user clothes), he didn't take much space.
On the other hand, it didn't take much effort to notice when those items were disturbed. The first time he'd come back to find his things minutely shifted, Rinzler had offered a flat stare across the room, but no further commentary. Data gathering was a logical goal, and he didn't care enough about any of the objects to object to the intrusion. If the user laid a hand on his disk, it was losing the appendage, but it seemed intelligent enough to know where to stay clear.
At least, until he stopped by and found things missing from his stash. Not the uniforms or the discarded weapons, but the supply of resource tokens they'd been distributed as a reward. Useless on the ship, but necessary for supply exchange on user planets. Valuable.
This time, the stare lasts longer. It comes with a low, building growl.
[[ooc: will match prose or spam!]]
Training room, 2/14
Bel stepped inside, stunner still hanging from their belt. Normally, it would have gone in a locker, but with Rinzler in the room, keeping it handy was only practical. It had taken longer than Bel had wanted to reach peak performance again after landing in medbay that time, but growing lax wasn't an option -- not here -- and the sparring simulations had helped, taking away the complacency of training with friends.
Rinzler was still an enigma, though. Explanations aside -- living programs, living systems trapped in feudal hierarchies while their Users spun onwards all unknowing -- even in denying the applicability of human values to programs' lives, Rinzler had reacted like a person, not a machine... and in ways that aren't unfamiliar.
"Or do you have it set on 'deadly war zone' for fun?"
no subject
For now, the black mask angled slightly, taking in the user's questions along with its gun. Was it here to try its luck again? Rinzler's raised hand closed easily around a joined orange ring, undocking his own weapon with a deceptively casual click. Its outer edge stayed unlit for the moment, hand lowering casually to the program's side, but Rinzler's motions remained fluid, balanced even from the stooped hunch. He'd come in here to fight. Hard to say if the user was planning on the same, but certainly, he wasn't letting it displace him.
To the words, Rinzler only offered a shrug. Maybe he had. Why did it care?
no subject
Rinzler's body language is also perfectly clear, and the corner of Bel's mouth goes up as well. Nice to see you too, circuity cube-person. The vocal rumble is still there; apparently that doesn't go away, even when the cosmetic damage is... healed? fixed? Hard to get answers when the man won't even talk.....
With a quick glance around, Bel takes in the size of the room, the speed at which a combat program might start, the glimpse of variables they'd seen. Seen worse might be stretching it. But seen close... might not.
"If you want to run that, I can...." tell it to start -- no. Feeding the program's narrative of oppressive Users doesn't have to be in the cards, not under these circumstances. Bel's head tilts, considering. "...Pass along the message. Would this simulation stretch to two?"
no subject
But the words that close the lines are something else entirely, and the stillness that comes after holds as much surprise as suspicion. Is this some kind of trick? Or does it really think it can show Rinzler up at his own Game? Less clever than he thought, if that's the case.
Still, the enforcer's not going to refuse a contest, particularly from this source. The helmet inclines slightly, noise smoothing to a steady pitch as Rinzler's hands match on his weapon. Two participants means it won't take as long. Less challenge. But it wasn't as if Rinzler had doubts of winning in the first place. Red-orange disks jerk apart, humming to life in each hand.
no subject
Bel's a little surprised when the program actually agrees. Does he think they'll be fighting each other? The discs light with that low, visceral noise; one could imagine the humming edge slicing atoms in half.
Still.
Progress.
Bel nods, and turns around.
There's a single step back to the door, and around to the console. Every nerve Bel has is ready to dive out of the way at the slightest whisper of sound behind them, the smallest flare of increased power in the hum of the twin discs.
If Bel's misjudged the meaning of the near-lethal Game settings to someone so... breakable, misread the balance between the program's homicidal bent and the disinclination to get locked up again over someone who turned their back, it'd probably happen sooner or later anyway -- best to invite it under controllable conditions.
The rest of the turn to face the console brings Rinzler just barely back in sight.
Good.
Bel breathes again, and unhooks the stunner, keeping it pointed safely down and away, fingers nowhere near the trigger button. It's going straight into the locker, but there's no reason to give Rinzler ideas. "I'm raising the number of enemies by half again," Bel says conversationally, "since there's two of us. I have a knife set for these sessions."
Knife-plus, technically. They materialize as Bel steps back into the room -- one reasonably long and double-bladed, one backup (consigned to a boot), and a short iron bar, hefted in Bel's left hand for a moment, to get the weight. Weapons that don't have to be identical to be useful.
No need to ask whether Rinzler's ready. Is digital adrenaline as heady for programs as its equivalent for organics? Bel picks a spot not too far away, breathes deep, and smiles.
"Training room on."
no subject
The answer that comes is again unexpected, though by half indicates at least some restraint of ego. The enforcer's helmet dips, though only briefly, lingering longer to assess on the weapons that rezz in. No special functions, if his scan is any sign. Well. He's curious.
Stance settles, curved spine and tense shoulders shifting to something low and easy, disks humming at the end of each arm. The default simulation had started with four enemies. With the user's addition, this fight would be upgraded to six. Lightly armored, heavily armed—and thanks to Rinzler's modifications, pushing the maximums on tactics, teamwork, and aggression. If the enforcer's privately tagging a seventh potential threat... well. It doesn't need broadcasting.
Bel speaks, and blue wireframe traces out the shapes, disappearing in an instant beneath the illusion of human soldiers, clad in dark tactical gear with a range of weapons at the ready. The user speaks, and Rinzler moves, one disk slinging out in a bright blur. His target jerks its gun up just in time to block, but the disk bites deep into the metal, ripping it from its wielder's hands and scoring a line through their shoulder.
One target damaged and disarmed. Five targets not, and as Rinzler steps up off the wall, two 'users' raise their own firearms to track the motion. Twin streams of fire hit the surface, pinpointing the glowing shape making itself such a clear target. But Rinzler isn't there. He's ducking, shifting, flowing just past the bursts as he runs along the wall, shortening the distance to his returning weapon—and that damaged prey. The helmet stays up, gaze tracking the room below.
Can Rinzler dodge bullets? No. Can Rinzler outpace the twitches of those hands and trigger fingers as they aim? Apparently so. There was a reason he'd opted for the height.
no subject
It's realistic. Some distant part of Bel's mind appreciates that. The soldiers' placement is almost random, enough to add unpredictability, yet tactically sound, as though they'd planned it amongst themselves. And Bel, unarmored and under-armed in comparison, is realistic too, as a noncombatant caught in a skirmish.
In a room this size, ranged weapons have the advantage. Except the one in the hands of the nearest soldier, barely six feet away, already swinging around to take aim.
Bel's moving before she's completely solid. With a wild yell -- attracting attention, but ideally attracting it away from Rinzler, who does have ranged weapons -- Bel's close enough to smash the bar into the soldier's hands. Bone snaps; she doesn't lose the weapon, but it burps out a wide shot and she can't recover fast enough to avoid the knife slashing up under her arm.
She staggers, struggles as Bel swings behind her, trapping the knife momentarily; it grinds between ribs and the armor's weak point, hot virtual blood slicking down Bel's arm. Bel throws the other arm over her helmet, the bar trapped behind it, and breaks her neck.
There are still too many foes in the room -- some now running this way. Good. Run right into it..... A grab for the firearm sends a spray of bullets toward the nearest troopers, ricocheting from their armored legs, before the gun inexplicably stops working. Dammit! -- deadman's switch, keyed to her signature, who knew -- all that matters is that the guns are useless to their side, and trying to use the body for a shield would pin Bel down.
On desperate ground, attack.
Throwing the body aside, Bel dives forward on a diagonal, a low, lean moving target, trying to put at least one soldier between themself and the rest. One more and the odds will be almost even.
no subject
And against the one that is, Rinzler's not going to lose.
The maneuver leaves him with no disks in hand, but Rinzler hardly needs them. His closer victim is still collapsing to the ground when the program plants an empty hand atop its helmet and vaults over, landing in a low, zigzagging roll. There's only one target left on this side of the room, firing off quick sprays to ward him off as it places its back against a wall. Not a bad maneuver, though it won't be enough for long. Rinzler cuts left, then right, body twisting like liquid past the shots as he eats up the distance.
no subject
The enemy is screaming, trying for a leg-sweep even with one arm and the other hand useless. Bel's clinging to the other, throwing all their weight on it, hands finding the gun -- still clutched loosely in the broken hand. Two for two. Not bad.
Bullets rip into the soldier's side. Friendly fire, for him; a stone-faced colleague more interested in killing the enemy than preserving an ally. A ricochet sings through the front of Bel's shirt, tugging the fabric.
Bringing the gun up, Bel fires point-blank into the approaching soldier's face.
no subject
Rinzler drops to his leading hand and pivots, a low sweep to hook its heavier armor around the legs and send it crashing downwards. The knife comes up in a slash as he lunges after; the program eels to the side, forearm briefly paralleling the target's own before his bent elbow smashes down into its throat.
The crunch is audible. The choking gasps that follow last for moments before it stills. Rinzler reaches back without looking, letting both weapons slam home into his grip as he rolls forward with his own momentum, off the corpse and up against the wall, coiled to spring. The black mask twitches back, toward the scattered shots across the room. Is it over?
no subject
The firing's stopped from the other side of the room, but Bel can't afford to pay mind to the brief, vicious sounds of close combat following it. Slamming into the second one's personal space, wounding him and taking control of his weapon without stripping it away, had been a great idea for about three seconds. The only idea, really, with the two soldiers too far apart to take out at the same time. But by the fourth second, the man behind Bel has gone from screaming to grappling, the helmeted head slamming into Bel's hard enough to disorient if not for thirty years of muscle memory.
Hip lifting under the guard's, shoulder under the shoulder of his gun arm, Bel throws him as hard as possible, chasing to kick the gun out of his reach. Which leaves Bel's foot in his reach, a scrabbling clutch weaker than it would normally have been; the knife is still in his other shoulder. It's enough to pull Bel off-balance, slapping the ground on going down -- uninjured, but it's time lost, momentum lost, and there's a cold pit in Bel's gut as they kick at the hand and try to reach the nearest weapon. Damned program bypassing the safeties, what are they even doing here--?
no subject
That's never been Rinzler's favorite sort of fight.
As distracted as both combatants are, there's not much need for subterfuge. Rinzler's first disk hums through the air, severing that damaged shoulder at the joint. The second, he rebounds off the ceiling—not necessary, but the angle's better there. It drops into the target's spine and sticks, lodging deep in their gut. Rinzler eyes the ensuing gore with distaste, raising a hand for his returning disk as he makes his way toward the corpse. It had better derezz soon. Still, the ticking rumble echoing through the room is a little smoother now. Satisfied... and maybe a bit smug.
Four-two, user.
no subject
The first disc hits the wounded enemy just as Bel's hand closes around the metal bar. The clutching hand spasms; Bel pulls free, whipping around with the bar raised just as the second disc severs the soldier's spine.
It's almost anticlimactic.
Bel straightens slowly, hand flexing on the bar to ease clenched fingers. A look over in Rinzler's direction confirms the rest of the opponents eliminated, even as the disced one emits a shattered breath and sinks rapidly from shock into death. One by one, they flicker out of existence.
The digital blood is the last to go, realistic to the final spatter. Whoever programmed this thing has a vile mind. Perfect for it, really.
The lodged disc doesn't disappear with the rest of the weapons, clattering to the floor instead. So they don't always return to his hand.... Bel turns to the approaching program, face bloodless and inexpressive but for a nod of appreciative respect.
"Fun, got it." The smile is humorless, but it's encouraging that the settings hadn't been about a death-wish. "Is that what it's like in your world?"
Not on, but in. Bel's caught up a little since the last time they'd talked.
no subject
On the bright side, it's put him in a good enough mood not to mind.
The sticky liquid is still fading from his blade when Rinzler stops beside it, but for all his dislike of the blood, he wastes no time at all retrieving the fallen disk. This user might not have been the one keeping Rinzler's weapons from him after the fight, but it was close enough to the incident to set the program on edge. No one is taking his disks from him again. It's only once his blades (his backups) are safely melded in one grip that Rinzler reaches across to key the MID display.
No blood.
The mask cocks, again inspecting the user.
No stopping, either.
There's no particular challenge to the words (though certainly, Rinzler wouldn't refuse one). Just fact. Only one combatant leaves the final round of Disk Wars alive.
no subject
"Little cubes instead, the way you are out here?" All the more unsettling that Rinzler hadn't modified the simulation to resemble his own world. Desensitizing himself? He certainly hadn't hesitated last time.
There's something magnetic about Rinzler in combat, a sharp contrast with his body language in other situations. It's almost as if he's more complete, more present -- more alive. Or unleashed.
Bel eyes Rinzler contemplatively. "I've visited a planet where they breed animals for death matches, just so bored robber barons have something to watch. They do it with humans, too. That kind of thing is illegal most everywhere else. There are still wars and invasions, scenes like this--" a slight head-tilt acknowledging the vanished carnage; on reflection, they have seen worse. "We just demand more complicated reasons. Rinzler, are you free?"
no subject
Rinzler had hesitated.
As it is, the masked stare lingers, matching the user's own as it dances lightly over dangerous ground. He's not one of their animals. It slips just past open comparison, though, circling back to a question just as faulty, if in an entirely different set of ways. There's a skip of sound before the red-lit fingers move to answer.
Told you.
User standards. Don't work.