thisavrou_log | now you've hit a wall, and you've hit it hard

Entry tags:

now you've hit a wall, and you've hit it hard

Who: Rinzler and OPEN
When: August 1-?
Where: Moro deck and beyond
What: Rinzler got his ass kicked and drags himself off to recover. A followup to this.
Warnings: severe injuries, references to mindfuck and violence. Glowy, glowy dismemberment. Rinzler?

He remembers gold lights and sharp impacts. He remembers words, slick and close and far too heated. Thin the herd. Bradley. Let's play a game. But not a game, a test, and every line far too familiar.

He remembers the snarl of nausea rising through his code, the moment where can't and shouldn't gave way to already did. He remembers failing. Fighting. He fought Clu, and the numb anticipation that truth brings is enough to jar himself halfway through reboot on his own.

Rinzler doesn't need to remember anything to know who won.

Gold lights. Gold lights, but when visuals reset behind the shell that holds him in, the room is empty, only his own faint red-orange glow illuminating the barracks floor. Broken code lies scattered on the ground in dull, grey fragments, half-faded back to null already. It might not be a proper system, but some values never change.

He has to go.

Functions stutter, half-settled from the reboot. He needs his disk; needs to work right (~~serve Clu~~), but Rinzler's been broken far too long to let those kinds of errors stop him now. He can't think about it (won't), and if diagnostics are too lagged to call, that hardly makes a difference either. The sharp spike of pain as he drags his legs underneath him reads instability, code lost on the right side below a knee. The battered ache through core and dock registers impact and interrupt, the source of his shutdown. A hand on the ground and he pushes himself up, but he's still unbalanced and unsteady, with no time to source the flaw. Rinzler reaches for the door.

...and stops, mask tilting with bewilderment, to the jagged, crumbling stump of shattered code where his left arm should have been.

Oh.

...

No. (Useless.) He can't stop, can't process any of it now. A staggered step forward and he jerks his right side to the lead, elbow slamming the control switch for the door. It slides open, and Rinzler lunges out into the hall, ragged steps forward because it's far too late to go back. His room is close, but not safe; Clu will find him and he can't be trapped again. He makes it to the lift, keying in a floor at random before slumping against the wall. The low rattle of code conflict echoes loudly in the space, and Rinzler locks his focus on the sound, letting his own white noise drown out as much as he can.

He has to keep running.

[[OOC: Pick a floor, any floor! Rinzler will dodge public areas as much as possible, but his orientation is slightly awful right now. If you want something more specific, prod at

notglitching; he'll be in this state for the better part of a week. I'll match prose or spam.]]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

As he presses the button to call the lift to Mero Deck, Wash casts a glance down each side of the hall. The last thing he wants is someone stopping to tell him that he looks like he's in rough shape and should maybe be resting. That is absolutely what he should be doing and what he's supposed to be doing, but this is him sneaking out of his room for a breather and a break from the crazy that laying around with nothing to do but think brings down on him. He doesn't want any other people telling him to go back to bed.

When the doors slide open, his attention shifts back to the elevator, but his eyes find the figure inside and blink in surprise.

"Rinzler?" Most of their meetings are by random chance, but this is the first time in at least a month or two that it hasn't been in the midst of combat. It's almost weird, in a way, to run into the program in a more normal setting now. This oddity doesn't bother Wash for long, however, as his gaze trails down to catch sight of the state Rinzler is in. "What the hell--?"

That is definitely a missing arm. That in itself is shocking, but the way it looks only adds to the effect. It doesn't look like an organic wound, as he'd sort of expected. It looks... less ripped and more broken. There's no blood or ripped flesh, just empty space and light. ...Code? --Whatever it is, it's obvious enough that it's not good, and the ex-Freelancer doesn't hesitate in pressing one hand to the door to keep it open before taking a couple awkward, limping steps forward, other hand reaching out to grab for Rinzler's arm in an attempt to pull the program out of the lift. Like hell is he letting Rinzler go anywhere else before he finds out what the fuck happened.

"How'd this happen? You were fine when we got back to the ship."

It takes Rinzler longer than it should to register when the lift's momentum slows, and the soft slide of the doors draws a lagged glance upward. He needs to get out. Keep moving, find somewhere to hide (but they've run this pattern before, and he knows better now than ever how it ends). He can't stop. If he stops, he won't be able to get up, and Clu is close, Clu is near—

A figure looms above, blocking the light, and Rinzler tenses, hand twitching for a baton that isn't there. Power is flagging, scans shut down to conserve, but the ID does register, if slowly.

So does the grab. Rinzler's not quite fast enough to evade (and that says a good deal), and lights flicker, red/blue/red as his noise rattles up in a low growl. Wash will get him a stumbling step and a half before the program manages the footing to jerk back against his hold. The motion holds little of Rinzler's usual fluidity, but it's strong, and his wrist twists with the motion, bringing his hand against Wash's own forearm.

The message isn't hard to read. Let go. Rinzler doesn't need his other arm to break the user's.

Anger isn't unexpected. Wash shrugs off the growl, more focused on getting Rinzler out of the lift to talk to him, but the fact that he actually manages to tug the program closer at all? That's a surprise. The flickering colour of his lights, those are written off as some issue to do with the obvious damage that Rinzler has sustained--the fact that anyone could manage to do this to Rinzler is starling in itself. He hasn't seen anything like this and sure as hell never expected to. He's seen the way Rinzler fights.

When the program finds his footing and refuses to be pulled further, then proceeds to make it clear that he wants to be released, Wash stares him down for a long moment. He has no intent to harm, only to make sure Rinzler is safe. Still, with a disgruntled exhale, he releases his grip on Rinzler's arm and pulls his hand back, holding it up in some vague apology.

"Fine. I'm not touching you." And he won't. He can respect personal space--it had honestly been more of an instinctive action, anyway. A want to get the program out of the lift, get him somewhere safe, get him medical attention... Anything along those lines. Not touching Rinzler, however, doesn't mean he's going to let go of the situation at hand. Wash's voice gets more stern--perturbed, even. The anger isn't at the program, rather at the state that he's in and at who or whatever put him in it, though that may be a bit challenging to interpret. "What happened?"

Rinzler holds that stare, noise a static-choked snarl until the user lets him go. Then the helmet dips, frame folding unsteadily back to his close hunch. The lift doors slide shut behind him, easy exit vanished, and Rinzler flags a little sideways, damaged shoulder bumping on the wall. The glittering shards of red-lit data that scatter on the ground probably weren't staying attached anyway.

At least he made it to another floor. Wash is still talking, and the anger registers, but Rinzler's not nearly focused enough to guess who it's for. Fortunately, he also can't muster up the energy to care. If the user attacks, he'll fight. Wash isn't fighting, though, not now, and Rinzler stares blankly for a long moment before twitching his intact shoulder in a helpless, uneven shrug.

It's complicated.

He can't stop. He has to keep moving. The lift is closed, but the hallway stretches out ahead, and Rinzler steps forward, weight careful on the damaged leg as he tries to step past Wash.

A shrug is all he gets. A shrug. That is the most inappropriate answer to give in this situation that Wash almost can't believe that's all the response he's getting. He's staring again, this time more incredulous than anything else, just watching the program in disbelief. This is not a shrug-worthy incident. This requires actual explanation. And he's not going anywhere until he gets some idea of what the hell has happened.

When Rinzler starts to move, makes to step by him and walk away, Wash reacts instantly. He sidesteps directly into Rinzler's path, putting them practically toe-to-toe. Maybe it would be smarter to walk along with Rinzler, but if someone around here is hurting him, they're probably looking to do so again. And Wash already has an idea of who it is.

"Oh no," he gives his head the very slightest of shakes, gaze boring directly into the program's helmet. "You're not going anywhere without telling me what's going on. A shrug isn't an explanation when you're in this condition. What the hell happened, Rinzler? Was it Clu?"

Things have been quiet since Alan's initial PSA about Clu, and knowing the bits and pieces that he's learned about this other program, Wash can't help but believe that's exactly who's behind this. Shit was bound to go down at some point, and with how quiet it's been? This has to be it.

Sound rises again as the enforcer's blocked, frame coiling in with wary frustration. If he were slightly more intact, it might even look menacing. As is, the program's weight is noticeably slanted to one leg, elbow tucked close to minimize the imbalance his missing arm presents. His back is empty of his disks, but Wash will notice from this range that the paired batons Rinzler's battled with instead are absent too.

The program will fight if he has to—and certainly, he still seems willing to make the attempt. But he doesn't look to be in any shape to win.

Rinzler can't stop. Wash won't move. Answering doesn't seem to occur to the program, though whether it's inability or just stubbornness is hard to say. Then again, he might not have to. Wash mentions Clu, and the program stiffens, fingers curling inward as his frame locks. It was Clu. It was him. It was Rinzler's fault (it wasn't), and he won't betray his admin. But the same sharp anger seethes back up through every line of processing, and this time it's not so easy to displace. He shouldn't have fought. (He shouldn't have lost.)

Rinzler has no idea what he should have done.

"I'm not looking to fight you," Wash establishes as Rinzler's stance shifts, the program clearly annoyed all over again--but Wash isn't going to get out of the way as easily as he'd let go of Rinzler's arm. He will fight if he needs to, if it means getting the stubborn fucking program pinned down and still, and answering some damn questions already.

At least he gets some form of answer in Rinzler's reaction to the uttering of the name Clu. It's easy to notice the way the name hits him, and Wash has to take that as a 'yes'. There's no other way to read it. His own hands clenching into fists, the ex-Freelancer takes notice of the lack of batons and his eyes narrow further. First Rinzler's disks, now his batons? Where are all of his weapons going and why are they going anywhere?

"It was, wasn't it?" He questions, eyes darting back up to Rinzler's helmet. At least he hasn't been reprogrammed, but this is hardly any better. Jesus. "What did he do? I swear to god, I'll go find him and ask him myself if I have to." And in realizing finally that Rinzler can't exactly type any answer given one arm is missing, Wash brings up his MID, opens up the keyboard, and turns it (somewhat awkwardly) in Rinzler's direction to give him a way to answer and to show that he is, indeed, serious about this.

Ask him myself. Oh, there's a familiar turn of phrase. A threat, a promise. A recent one, even. Visit each of them, turned back and reflected, and as much as Rinzler had struggled to keep Clu from his allies, he didn't feel any better about the reverse possibility. The enforcer bristles, and as Wash turns his wrist to give Rinzler a way to talk, the black mask tips from face to MID and back before he reaches out to type a single word.

Don't.

Don't.

Not quite the response Wash is expecting. And definitely not the answer that he's looking for here. Teeth gritting in frustration, he stares at the text for a long moment, then shifts his gaze back to Rinzler's helmeted face.

"Seriously?" He asks, only slightly incredulous. There's still more anger than anything else, and now that Rinzler is seemingly trying to protect someone, be it him or Clu, it's only more aggravating. There should be action taken in response to this! Whatever the hell happened, Rinzler couldn't have done anything to deserve this, and as far as Wash is concerned, Clu needs to learn a lesson or two.

"He can't do this, Rinzler." He starts again, voice impressively level considering the high level his emotions are at. "And he sure as hell can't get away with it. If you let them get away with it, they just keep going. They don't stop. The same thing happens, over and over." He's dealt with enough of that in his time. He's had enough of assholes getting away with what they've done. And he's had enough of people he cares about being hurt or killed. "I'm not going to let him do this again."

Oh, Rinzler's serious. He meets Wash's gaze dead-on, the low rattling a steady, clipped whir that fills the narrow space between. All questions of what he deserved aside, the user can't go after Clu.

My admin.
Programmer.

Clu made him. Clu gives him direction. Clu has every right, over Rinzler and his code, and the fact that Rinzler's kept so much from him already is the malfunction. It's an error Rinzler chose knowing what it would mean, one he decided to accept when he committed it. But that meant accepting the risks, too. He knew this could happen. He did it anyway because the other options were worse.

Threats: not acceptable.

As unsteady and outright broken as the program might be, there's a familiar coil settling into his spine. Wash should know at least that much of what Rinzler's written to do.

Isn't Clu Rinzler's reprogrammer? Wash is pretty damn sure that's what he heard before he went through the Alter Ingress to try to rescue him. From Clu. This kind of loyalty to someone who plays with your mind at will? It's ridiculous. It only makes Wash angrier. Not even because Rinzler wants to protect the asshole who did this, but because he believes he needs to. He's been fucking programmed to do that by Clu, hasn't he?

"Contrary to what you apparently believe, you don't owe him anything." Wash practically spits the words out, his distaste more than evident on his face. He recognizes the fact that Rinzler is prepared to fight him, now more than ever for being a potential threat to Clu, but he doesn't stop there. "I get that you might have this loyalty to him programmed into you, but Jesus Christ. I know you can think for yourself. And I think that part of you, somewhere, knows how messed up this is."

Gesturing to Rinzler's injuries, his broken code, Wash clenches his jaw. The program is clearly being used and manipulated and god help him, does that ever rile Wash up.

"You need to stay the hell away from him."

So that bristling? Not stopping. Neither is the harsh, scraping edge to the enforcer's sound. The user's wrong. The user's lying. (The user's a threat.) Wash has no idea what he's programmed for, or he'd know better than to keep pushing.

At this rate, Rinzler will have to fight him, and the hand he still has left clenches to a fist as Wash gestures to the one he doesn't. He's damaged, he's imperfect, he's unarmed and weak enough to lose, and Rinzler knows he shouldn't be this way. He knows why it happened. And underneath the certainty of his own errors, there's a flicker of resentment that might not even be Tron, too. Clu attacked. Clu threatened his user.

He'd been trying to run now.

The program's stare stays fixed on Wash, frustration seething through every line of frame and shell. It takes more effort than it should to unlock his own fist, but when he reaches for the MID, each line flows quickly across the projected screen.

Programmed to protect Clu.

To serve him. To be loyal. But first and foremost to keep Clu safe.

Can't leave him to a threat.

If Rinzler's continued hostility bothers Wash in any way, he doesn't show it. The clenched fist doesn't escape his notice, but he pays it little mind. Rinzler can attack, if he wants. Wash isn't even sure where the odds would lie on a fight between them here and now, with both of them injured as they are, but he doesn't care about that. What he cares about is... Well, Rinzler.

"Funny, I thought maybe we'd been getting along alright, but if I'm just a threat the moment I point out he's using and abusing you, I guess maybe not." He'd almost feel betrayed if he hadn't been prepared for something like this. Of course, Wash understands that programming can be hard to break, but he also remembers what happened on Amisses-Re. Rinzler had seemed awfully relieved to be saved from Clu's clutches, and he's pretty damn sure he hasn't been following his program to a T since he arrived on the ship. Those could be incorrect assumptions, but considering the state the program is in? Unlikely.

Lowering the arm his MID is on, he exhales a humourless breath of a laugh and steps back. This is ridiculous. Maybe he does feel a little betrayed. Rinzler had called him an ally. Said that he's supposed to help him. Rescued him on more than one occasion, and fought with him, too. Wash expects to be put lower than the creep who reprogrammed Rinzler, but to be turned on so quickly for even subtly implying a threat in Clu's direction...

Why does he even care what's going on? If he's really of that little importance to Rinzler, then why should he care if the program is in trouble?

"Programming can be broken. I don't think yours is fully intact anymore. But you know what?" Raising his hands, Wash takes another step back and shakes his head. He's done. This wasn't worth getting worked up over. Shouldn't have even bothered him. "Forget it. You want to keep this mess up, that's your prerogative."

Rinzler's already all but locked with tension. From conflict, from frustration. From the ticking, seething shift of calculation, variables setting and aligning for a fight he doesn't want. He'd been trying to resist. Trying to run from Clu, when fighting back had failed. But resentment or rebellion, fear or anger or the need to stay intact... there are some imperatives none of that can stand up to. If Clu is in danger, Rinzler can't leave it alone.

And Wash isn't listening.

Rinzler is tense. Rinzler is furious. And there's enough of both that probably, it's no surprise if the subtle difference in the reason goes unnoticed. Wash isn't listening, but he's still speaking back, and the words that answer Rinzler's attempt at explanation are enough to freeze the program all over again. Just a threat. Maybe not. He's still numb, still locked, still trying to parse the reversal when the user laughs, and that sound makes a perfect match to every expectation he'd learned to leave behind.

Users leave. Users betray you. Users don't care, and he should have known better, should never have assumed—

The MID falls away beneath his touch, and Rinzler's fingers twitch inward against nothing as the display blinks out. He doesn't move as the user steps back, lowers his hand slowly as Wash speaks. Forget it. This is...

He's leaving. He's not going to interfere. It's not what Rinzler meant (but this was always going to happen) (but he was glitched/weak/stupid to look for any other end). The faceless helmet lowers in acknowledgement, stance drawing in unevenly as he emerges from the combat-ready crouch, but Rinzler makes no move to follow. Or to move. This is better. Isn't it? If Wash doesn't care, he doesn't have to fight him.

As unsteady as he feels now, Rinzler knows he'd lose.

Any intended separation of reason goes completely over Wash's head. And he's not about to go searching Rinzler's actions or words over with a magnifying glass to work out any hidden meanings. It's easy to believe there aren't any when this is what you're used to-- you can be friends until you aren't useful anymore. Until you're not in the way.

Rinzler's just another on a list of people who managed to fool him into thinking anything otherwise. And it stings a bit extra because he'd been wary as hell about it, but the program had still managed to gain his favour along with any scrap of whatever was left that resembled trust. What the hell had he been expecting, really? Of course this is blowing up in his face. It stings, but Wash can't find it in himself to be surprised by it. Not really.

Letting his arms drop back to his sides, he gives Rinzler a long look. He watches as the program so quickly switches into a more regular stance, apparently no longer looking to pounce on him for saying the wrong thing. Walk away now, he tells himself, it doesn't matter. And yet, he's standing in place, staring at Rinzler in distaste mixed with just a tiny hint of confusion.

"What, now you don't want to fight?" Did he miss something? What the hell. When he's friends, there's going to be a fight, then the second he's not, it's no big deal? It's honestly only that baffled confusion that holds him where he is, no actual hope that he misconstrued something somewhere. "I know your social skills are a little skewed, but this is pushing it."

Regular might be pushing it. Rinzler's usual slight hunch is more of a ragged lean, trying to keep the now-lopsided weight off of his damaged leg. He's unsteady and unstable, loose code ready to slough free from the stump of his shoulder. With both the pull to combat and the momentum of escape bled dry, it's harder to recall the impetus that got him here. Rinzler's strongly considering sitting down here in the hall.

Wash is watching, though, and he's not going to be that glitching weak. He shouldn't have to. The user is leaving, the user won't be here to see him break, but the pause draws out, and it doesn't take any great insight to read the disgust lingering on his expression. Rinzler's fingers curl at his side, shame and anger stiffening his frame, but he's drained and tired and he's done, and if (Wash) the user isn't going to attack, he needs to leave already.

Rinzler can't talk. Without his other arm, Rinzler can't even turn on his own communicator. Still, however much else the user is implying, the question is at least a binary, and Rinzler's helmet shakes mutely to each side.

He doesn't want to fight.

Out of all the body language Rinzler has used thus far, the shake of his head is by far the easiest to read. ...He doesn't want to fight. It's official, Wash is only growing more confused, and the more confused he gets, the more annoyed he grows. If he doesn't want to fight, what had been happening a minute ago?

"You don't." Maybe it's intended to be a question, but it sounds more like a statement. This is almost tiring, trying to figure out what the hell is going on all of a sudden, but Wash continues to stand there in the hallway. He regards the program with less distaste now and more frustration. Even Maine was--is--easier to read than this.

"Sure seemed like you did two seconds ago." He continues, folding his arms. Apparently he's planning on sticking around for a while now, at least to understand things. Why, he doesn't really know at this point. Or rather, he's pretending that it's because of the oddness of the situation instead of because he actually gives a shit about anything that just happened. Rinzler's actions, his words, they all pointed to wanting to fight, so how can he stand there and say he doesn't want to?

It doesn't sound like a question. It shouldn't need to be a question, so Rinzler doesn't treat it like one. He just waits, locking motor functions as tightly as he can to keep upright. Circuit lights are beginning to flicker—not the bright sparks of agitation, but a slower, ragged pulse between dull and out. He needs power. He needs to move. He can't move, but he can't shut down either, and the user was leaving, but now he won't. Is he planning to watch?

Noise stutters, too ragged to be a growl, but sharp and frustrated all the same. Rinzler can't move or speak or even type an answer now, but he can glare, and that expression, Wash has seen enough to be familiar.

If he wanted a fight, he wouldn't have wasted power typing.

Yeah, he's seen Rinzler glare enough to read that one pretty easily, too.

The only noise in the hall is that which comes from Rinzler, frustrated but kind of pathetic. Wash keeps watching him, seeming to be considering his options here. Eventually he frowns in his own irritation and huffs a breath, only to then take a step toward the program once more.

"Come on," he mutters, gesturing with an arm to somewhere down the hall before holding it out like he might offer support if Rinzler were to start to fall. "Where were you going? Where can we get you... whatever you need right now?" It looks like, on top of somewhere to get repairs, he might need some power, but like Wash has any idea how these programs work or where to get him either of those things anyway.

Further questioning can wait. He's not so much of an asshole that he won't help someone obviously in need, and okay, whatever, maybe there's some residual caring still sticking around. They can argue or bitch or glare at each other or even go their separate ways once Rinzler is in more stable condition. Besides, he owes Rinzler. The program has saved his ass twice now, and he has yet to offer anything in return. This can be for getting him to the medbay a couple months ago when he had his breakdown.

By the time Wash moves, Rinzler is far too focused on not doing so for their reactions to match up. There's a too-slow twitch, bracing inwards, a stall, just as belated, when the user's approach halts. The helmet tips to stare at the extended arm, but parsing its meaning seems far too difficult a task right now.

Come on is simpler (though that 'we' sets a full third of conscious processing to fractured looping), but he doesn't know where to. Repair isn't an option. He needs power, but it isn't safe to stop. He's stopped anyway, and he doesn't know if he can go again, much less in what direction. He never had any trajectory besides away, and the program's helmet dips again, shaking unsteadily to either side. He doesn't know.

That end of the hallway is as good a direction as any. Rinzler's lean slants forward and diagonal, only a little off-target from Wash's gesture. The dragging, unsteady shift ahead can't quite be called a step, but it's progress. Better than falling on the floor.

That shake of the head is ambiguous, and Wash isn't entirely sure how to read it. It could be that he didn't have a destination in mind, or he could be refusing to go anywhere. Thankfully, before Wash has to question it, he gets an answer when Rinzler takes a step in the direction he'd waved.

The step is weak, though. It looks almost like Rinzler's legs are going to give out from underneath him, which is hardly helpful for getting him wherever the hell he needs to go. Wash watches him for another second, jaw clenched as he again goes over his options--but no. No, he owes the program one, and this might be frustrating given the conversation they've just had, but whatever. Without waiting to argue with himself further and without bothering to ask if it's okay, Wash moves toward Rinzler and aim to get the program's arm over his shoulder, his own arm going around Rinzler's back. He'll drag the guy if he has to.

"So you don't know where you were going," he notes, just to clarify that this is indeed what had been meant by the head shake. Stifling a sigh, he makes a face. "There has to be somewhere to go to get you... What, power? I'm not going to know where to take you if you shut down in the middle of the hallway."

This time, the twitch of tension as Wash closes the distance is too sharp and small to be called anything besides a flinch. No time to brace, no way to defend—but the shift and turn that follows the move is nothing like what Rinzler might have expected.

His arm is lifted, and he struggles to retrieve it; contact shifts across his back, brushing his disk dock, and the program flinches again, jerking sharply against the hold. He doesn't want to be shut down. He doesn't want to be rewritten. His disk is (missing) (taken) (safe?), but struggling goes nowhere, and only exhausts what little strength he'd had to keep himself upright.

He can't move. He can't run. He can't understand what Wash is doing. He was going to leave. It was necessary (it was right), (because users always leave) (because he was never worth coming back for). A few more fragments of loose code fall free, and Rinzler sways unevenly as he stares at the puddle of red shards, matching the color to the spiderwebbing cracks that brighten across his leg as he fails to put weight on it. He wonders just how much more it will take.

The twitch of the helmet to one side comes slowly, but it's probably an answer. He doesn't know where he's going. He doesn't know anything right now, least of all what's going on. The enforcer's sound ticks out in ragged beats, vibration tangible as he sags further.

Might need to figure out that power thing yourself, Wash. Rinzler doesn't seem too far from shutting down completely.

Wash takes note of the flinches, but he says nothing. Honestly, he'd probably react the same way if the situation were reversed, and while in most cases he might respect Rinzler's space, right now there isn't a lot of choice. It's carry most of the program's weight for him, or watch him stumble slowly down the hallway, ultimately getting nowhere before he powers down. This is just easier on both of them.

"Keep the weight off your leg. Lean on me, instead." He tells Rinzler flatly, in something of a demand but missing a sharp edge to it that might increase the certainty of it being one. Okay, so Rinzler has no idea where he was going beyond away, and he needs to get hooked up to power, however the hell that works. So where do they go? Wash is at a loss, he's never had to deal with something like this before and he doesn't know enough about Rinzler's type of programs to have a remote idea of how to get him power.

Cursing under his breath in frustration, realizing by now that asking the program any questions about anything isn't exactly getting him anywhere, Wash huffs and looks down the hallway ahead of them. Carefully, he starts to take a few steps forward, taking what he can of Rinzler's weight and coaxing the program along with the arm wrapped around his back. He could take Rinzler to his room here on Mero deck, it's unlikely anyone would look for him there... But the issue of power stands in the way of that, probably. What about the medbay? Do they have any resources to help inorganics? Wash has no goddamn clue, so while he thinks about it, he'll just get them walking down the hall and away from the elevator, which anyone could walk out of at any point.

Either Rinzler's listening, or he's just resigned himself to being dragged along. Either way, the lack of argument is probably a bad sign. The program's helmet is bowed, lights guttering near black, and if he still seems more inclined to shrink inwards than move with Wash, it won't take too much coaxing to get him to step forward. He knows he has to move. He just doesn't know where he's going—where he's being taken. Much less why.

Okay. Okay, fuck it, wandering around aimlessly is just going to be a waste of energy. One look at Rinzler's dimming lights tells Wash that pretty soon he'll be dragging all of the program's weight around, and he's having a hard enough time handling the bit of it that he's already taken on in his own condition.

They'll just go back to his room, and he can figure something out from there. He can set Rinzler down, maybe get a few answers out of him about power sources, and if not... There's probably the option of sending out a message to Alan, though Wash is still on the fence about him.

Decided, Wash tightens his grip on Rinzler and continues to coax him into walking down the hall until they reach room 008. Unlocking the door, it slides open and he pulls Rinzler inside, shuffling him around a bit until he can lower the program onto his bed, not trusting him to be left standing on his own. Thankfully, the room is empty save for Snake's dog, who's well trained enough to stay back and watch, and Wash's own three cats.

"Okay, Rinzler. Power. How do we get it?" He asks while extending his arm to the program, again offering his MID. Hopefully Rinzler's current power levels aren't too low to type out one more answer, because otherwise... he's going to have to try to figure this out for himself, or make a call. And he'd really rather not having to do either of those things.

now you've hit a wall, and you've hit it hard

mero deck

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