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

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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.]]

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Another half-shrug answers the concern, frame drawing in a little tighter as his helmet ducks in apology. The gaze isn't hard to track, and Alan-one's concern is valid. Rinzler will just have to do his best not to slow them down.

The approach is unexpected, though, and if Rinzler doesn't pull away, it takes a long moment of uncertain staring to recognize the purpose of that stalled arm. Noise stutters quietly when he does, mask tilting up toward his user with something halfway between a protest and a confirmation check. He can manage on his own.

It’s easy to read the reluctance in Rinzler’s stare, but the reason behind the stall isn’t as straightforward. That the program needs assistance is obvious to Alan. But judging from the doubtful tilt of Rinzler’s mask, the program doesn’t think so.

“We’ll move faster if you aren’t limping the whole way there,” Alan says, not withdrawing the offered arm. “It’s the same way we got Miller to the medbay when he was injured.” And under similarly urgent circumstances, though this time they don’t even have the benefit of a third person running defense. It’s all the more reason that they should move and move quickly. If they’re already exposed here, they’ll be even moreso on their way to the engines, and if Clu happens upon them intending to finish what he started…

Alan doesn’t know if he’d go that far. But it wouldn’t be the first time the admin had shattered a program with no thought of the consequences.

“Come on. We shouldn’t waste time.” Already, his apprehensiveness is becoming a physical ache behind his eyes...

Rinzler remembers the incident with Miller. Rinzler remembers being helped more than once today already, and as uncomfortable as the process has been, he can't argue the utility. It's mostly just the current company that has him lagging. He's supposed to protect Alan-one. To act on his behalf. Not... slow him down.

Still, the program can't argue the speed considerations, and the repeated instruction is enough to have him ducking his head in reluctant assent. Rinzler reaches up carefully, faltering almost to a stall before he takes his user's arm and gingerly puts a little weight on it. It's not much, but enough to help him shift upright.

Alan stands slowly, shifting his arm further under Rinzler's shoulder to offer more stability as the program rises upright. He's careful to avoid touching the jagged edge of Rinzler's opposite shoulder – there's no scatter of loose voxels like there had been in the aftermath of Peter and Alice's ambush, but Alan can't imagine any injury of that magnitude could be painless, regardless of how stoic Rinzler wants to act.

“We're going to have to take the elevator on the other end of this deck down to engineering,” Alan says, already carefully leading both of them towards the main corridor. He doesn't like having to use the more-traveled hallway, but they don't have a choice if they want to get there with any degree of haste. "At least there won't be too many people out with the ship like this..."

The MID display vanishes as Rinzler stands, reducing their visibility at least a little. And if the program isn't any help in Alan's bid to support him, he at least doesn't resist. Once his arm is resting more fully on the user's, weight off his damaged leg, Rinzler might even qualify as stable.

...At least, physically. The black helmet ducks in acknowledgement, noise rising to a clipped staccato as they move out into the hall. Alan-one might say people, but both of them know who he's concerned about, and the prospect of encountering Clu like this is... concerning, to say the least. Rinzler slows a little, pushing scans out as far as he can manage. Power retention is difficult in this state, enough that he won't be able to keep up the effort long. But he doesn't want to be caught by surprise again. Especially with Alan-one.

Encountering Clu is, obviously, a concern. Indeed, Alan’s counting it as a worst-case scenario given what he’s already done to Rinzler. But encountering other crewmembers is also something he’d rather avoid. With Rinzler so visibly wounded, it would be easy for a well-meaning crewman to make a scene and if Clu is searching for Rinzler, that’s the last thing they need.

In that regard, the darkness is a mixed blessing. No doubt the hallways are emptier for it, and it will make them harder to spot to anyone who remains. But it also makes the journey that much more nerve-wracking. With sight limited, every sound feels that much closer and when those sounds are footsteps, perhaps in another hall, perhaps in this one… the feeling of being hunted comes all too naturally.

It’s a slow journey to the elevator on the other end of the deck and by the time they get there, what had started as a pain behind Alan’s eyes now feels like his skull has been struck like a bell. He tries not to let it show. It’s not something he can afford to be distracted by, not now. Still, in the moment they’ve reached the elevator and Alan has pressed the down call-button, he takes a moment to reach for the space between his eyes, fingers pressing against the sharp ache they find there. Eyes close tightly in a grimace and for all that the journey has been silent aside from Rinzler’s sound, his ears are ringing as if a gunshot has sounded right in front of him.

Yes, very much like a gunshot, he thinks.

It's not far. It's not far at all, but steps are slow and weight uneven, leaning on his user to keep pace. It's not far, but Clu is looking for him, and risking Alan-one's safety for his own is unacceptable. Rinzler looks back, dredging up the power to keep scanning for just a little longer, but there's no sign of his admin in range.

When they reach the elevator, Rinzler shifts back against the wall, leaning a little more heavily on the fixed surface. His circuit lights are dim—not critically so, but he'll need to recharge sooner than he'd like. The enforcer's helmet tips up toward Alan-one... and stills as the contortion of pain on his user's face becomes clear.

Status? The MID is off, verbal communication out of reach, but the sharp scrape and catch to Rinzler's sound is attention-drawing, if nothing else. The program's back on his feet in a moment, hand curling back against the wall to counterbalance as his helmet angles sharply. Query. Inspection. Both, with a side of urgency. What's happening?

Alan opens his eyes at the increase in Rinzler’s sound, half-eclipsed though it is by the ringing in his ears. It isn’t difficult to figure out the cause of the program’s sudden alarm and Alan gives a slight shake of his head when Rinzler leans forward off the wall.

“It’s nothing,” he says, voice quiet to hide the strain beneath it. “Just a headache.” Perhaps it’s an understatement, but they can’t afford to be distracted right now. And with Rinzler as badly injured as he is, a headache is the least of their concerns.

There’s a chime as the elevator reaches its destination and the doors slide open in front of them. When there’s no movement in the hall outside, Alan turns back towards Rinzler, expression shuttered. He reaches out an arm for the program to lean on.

“Come on. We’re almost there.”

He’s not sure which of them that’s supposed to comfort more at this point.

Nothing. Rinzler's noise skips up in harsh disbelief, the closest to a direct contradiction he's managed to his user's face. Nothing didn't look like this. Was there damage? He couldn't see any, but he hadn't back in May either—and then Wash glitched himself into a coma.

He'd failed Alan-one once already. More than once, especially like this, and the program's remaining hand curls at his side as a flicker of blue-white catches in the circuits at his core. But his user is moving, reaching, telling him to move. It could just be a headache, and the squirming panic looping through his code is just delaying them both more.

With some effort, Rinzler's noise quiets. He takes his user's offered arm and follows, as quickly as he can. Still, Alan might find Rinzler's helmet angling much more often up toward him, wariness toward the environment traded out for a suspicious, doubtful risk assessment.

Alan notices Rinzler’s concern, but it only makes him more determined not to let on how much pain he’s in. It doesn’t matter, because Rinzler’s the one who needs help right now, not him. He’ll deal with it on his own time, but not until after he’s sure that his program is safe -- or at least as safe as he can be with Clu still on the ship and searching for him.

It’s a thought that keeps him moving, expression still closed even when Rinzler looks up at him with clear unease. Still, the closer they draw to the engines, the harder it is to ignore the still-building ache between his eyes. The increase in temperature as they near the core of the ship doesn’t help and for all that Alan wants to hide any and all outward sign of distress, he can’t help but shut his eyes against the white-hot spike of pain that accompanies it.

It’s only a moment before he opens them again. But by then, something has changed. Cast into pitch blackness, for a moment Alan thinks that something’s gone wrong with the ship -- but that can’t be right. Even if the Moira’s few remaining lights were to go out, he’d still be able to see the dull glow of Rinzler’s circuits beside him. And now he can’t even see that much.

“Wait.”

They shouldn’t stop, not when they’re out in the open like this. But Alan can’t see and the only indication he has that Rinzler is still even there is the weight on his arm and the scrape of the program’s sound, muted though it is behind the shrill ringing in his ears.

He doesn’t know why this is happening. He doesn’t know what to do about it. He takes a deep breath, trying to press back against rising panic at finding one of his senses wiped out without cause. This will pass, he tells himself. It has to, because they need to keep moving.

“Just… give me a moment,” he says, voice as calm as he can make it, though not even he can keep the fear out of his voice completely. He’s in pain and blind and if it doesn’t get better… He doesn’t know. He tries to keep his gaze fixed on Rinzler; if his sight does return, the program’s red-orange lights are the clearest visual he would have in the ship’s darkened halls. Still, for the moment his gaze is sightless, and it isn’t hard to tell that despite its direction, he isn’t looking at the program at all.

The stall draws a looping flag of sharp concern. The order confirms it. Rinzler waits, stares, watches, sound rising and falling, as his user's eyes close off in pain, and open... wrong. Blank. Empty.

No, no, no—

Alan won't see the sharp, panicked flicker of the program's lights, red/blue back and forth in quick, unsteady bursts. He might hear the snarl that cuts through the enforcer's sound, but the sideways jerk of his head in refusal will be missed. No more moments. No more waiting, no more sitting and watching while his user crashes. Rinzler might be damaged, but he isn't dead, and he'd rather derezz on the spot than exacerbate this risk.

Alan-one died once already. That's enough.

Weight shifts, the force leaning on Alan's arm turning to a sharp (if careful) tug back toward the nearest lift. It's stronger by far than the rest of the program's unsteady steps have been, and if the strain is not helping that damaged leg, Rinzler's very certain that can wait for later. Right now, Alan-one is getting to the medbay if his program has to carry him there.

The rising snarl of Rinzler’s sound is an all-too-clear sign that the program has seen through his facade of composure and it’s all Alan can do not to wince hearing it. But before Alan can say a word in reassurance, Rinzler’s weight lifts from his arm and pulls in the opposite direction, hard enough that Alan stumbles a few steps in surprise. The second he realizes they’re heading in the wrong direction though, he does his best to at least slow the program, planting his feet and pulling back.

“Rinzler, stop. We’re almost there, we can’t just turn around now.” It shouldn’t be surprising that Rinzler is prioritizing his user’s needs before his own, but this is ridiculous. Alan isn’t the one missing a limb and he isn’t the one being hunted. Rinzler is the one who needs to be brought to safety -- and Alan will be damned if something happens to his program because he couldn’t put on a brave face for long enough to get him to the engines.

“We can’t risk walking all the way back to the medbay if Clu is looking for you. If he finds you--” Alan stops himself, aware of just how little Rinzler seems to care about his own condition right now, “If he finds us, neither of us are in any shape to stop him. Or to get away.” It’s the closest Alan has come to admitting that there’s something wrong with him as well and the admission brings with it a renewed rush of fear.

“You-- we’ll both be safer once you’re in engineering,” he says, and his voice is half-pleading. They’re nearly there. If they have to turn back because of him -- if Clu finds Rinzler because of him...

He gives Rinzler’s arm another tug back towards the direction of the engines. Even if he can’t see, he at least knows what direction they should be going in. That will have to be enough.

“Let’s go. Please.”

It says a lot about Rinzler's current state that the attempt does slow him down. Even damaged, Alan's program is still far stronger than a human. But leverage is limited to the single arm, force reduced by the damage to his leg. Rinzler's tired. Rinzler's weak. And there's that pressure, too, the disk-sharp dig of [WARNING—] clawing through his head. Rinzler isn't meant to lay hands on his programmer. Not without permission.

Not without command.

Alan-one isn't Clu. Alan-one is in danger, and Rinzler can't (can't) (won't) let any part of him worsen that risk. He'd hesitated when Wash began to crash, and the user was shut down in a coma for weeks. He'd avoided Alan-one for the sake of his own secrets, and Alan-one had died in the attack. Rinzler promised himself he wouldn't fail—he'd do better—he can't stop here, he can't—

But he can't quite filter out the words either. Clu is looking for you. If he finds us...—finds the user, finds Alan-one, the way he'd threatened, and sick fear drags at the program's movements as Clu's musing's overlay the rest. Should've fixed him myself.

Maybe I will.

Steps stall. Lights flicker between colors in uneven patches, sound a jagged scrape of errors much too loud to be ignored. Rinzler's broken. He always has been, but he'd fought already and he'd failed, and no matter what directives he claims now, if Clu comes for him, he won't be able to fight back. All he can do is put Alan-one in danger. He should leave, or the user should—but Alan-one is failing, and his program can't waste time—can't leave him in this state. He shakes his head again, frame locked tight enough to shatter.

"You need help."

The words are harsh. Furious. But not with static, not with strain. They don't sound much like Rinzler at all.

It’s the clarity of Rinzler’s voice that strikes Alan first. The familiar distortion that usually marks the program’s words is gone and what’s left is sharp and precise and angry in a way Alan has never heard from Rinzler before. It’s enough to give him pause… if only for a moment.

“So do you. But neither of us are going to get it if we stand here arguing.” The frustration in his voice mirrors Rinzler’s own. Alan can’t deny that there’s something wrong with him anymore, but there shouldn’t be. There’s no reason for him to be hurt, no reason for him to be blind, and it feels like a cruel joke that it should come now, when they’re so close to safety. If Rinzler would just listen to him…

“We’re going to the engines first,” he says, pain making his voice harsher than he means it to be, “I’ll find a way to get help afterwards. I just--” He stops suddenly, expression changing to one of surprise as his gaze stays fixed on his program. The light is faint at first, just the slightest gradation against a wall of pitch black -- but it’s undeniably there. And as it resolves itself into one eye, somewhere past the wave of sheer, breath-taking relief as hazy vision returns, Alan is hit with the immediate sense that something isn’t right. Rinzler’s lights, smudged and dull as they are, are all in the right place, but the color is wrong. And there’s only one other color they could be.

“Rinzler?”

The focus and direction of Alan’s gaze makes it clear he can see the program in front of him -- but when he speaks, it’s in the quiet, uncertain voice of someone who’s no longer sure who he’s speaking to.

They're both damaged. Arguing won't help. It's true, but even past the steadying sense of user, something twists at those words, sharp enough to split in two. It's the pain clouding his creator's voice. It's the certainty of his own uselessness. It's the memory of [~~his~~] [his] user's body, still and silent on the floor.

If it means Alan-one is safe, he'll be anyone he has to.

"No." The retort snaps back without delay. They're not going to the engines. Blue-white flares through cracks and circuits both, a steady burn as [~~Rinzler~~] shifts, another step back toward the lift. He's stable enough to hold together, enough to get them both to safety. He'll listen to his user after the current threat is past.

The explanation loops once, then he says it. It's easy.

"Medbay first. I can manage."

He could. He has before, and memory unscrolls, more responsive than it ought to be. No—more than [he]'s used to. It doesn't matter, and he pushes the data aside, refocusing calculations on the present—

Only to stop, frozen in place by a single word from behind. It's less the word than the question, less the question than the hesitant, fragile way his user speaks. The program stiffens, turning only slowly to face his creator. There's a pause. A wordless flicker, red light wavering beneath the blue like embers of a dying flame. Then it stops, and Rinzler's helmet turns away.

The program still stops for his name. Alan doesn’t know if it’s because he recognizes it as his own or if it’s because he recognizes it as wrong. Even the flicker of orange-red is too quick to be sure, and it’s only a moment before the blue-lit mask turns away. Alan braces in case the program makes another attempt to pull him along. He doesn’t care if it’s futile, he isn’t going to willingly let his program put himself in danger for his sake.

“Rinzler,” Alan says again, unsure if it’s habit or hope that causes him to default to that name, “I don’t need your help.” It’s not a lie this time and if his voice is still pained, it’s more certain than it was before. He can see well enough. He can walk better than Rinzler can in his current state. There’s no reason for Rinzler to risk getting caught on his behalf.

“I will go to the medbay, I promise you, but not until I know you’re somewhere safe.” Or at least as safe as he can be. Alan sighs, voice quieting though still as dogged as ever. “I’m not going to argue about this anymore.”

Rinzler. Still that name, and circuits flicker a second time, jagged and uncertain. It shouldn't matter what he's called—it doesn't, he won't let it—but his user isn't done, and the five words that follow are enough to freeze even Alan-one's creation in his tracks.

He isn't needed.

...There's a lag. (Broken) A flinch. (Useless.) He isn't needed, isn't wanted; he'd fought; he'd tried, but [~~Rinzler~~]—he—

(You failed.)

"I..." The word falters (~~not right~~), stutters (~~not his~~), drowns in the rattle of corruption that scrapes out from his vocalizer. He reaches for his MID instead—but he doesn't, he can't. He has no arm to reach with. What's left is a retraction, flinch drawing backward to a hunch as the lightning flickers of color fade away. What's left is a curved spine and dim red-orange lights; what's left is a bowed, silent mask. The hand on Alan's arm drops free.

Rinzler knows better.

Better than to grab his programmer. Better than to speak. Better than to argue, no matter how pointless a factor safety rated, in this state. He can't help his user. He never has, but here—now—

("I'm impressed they didn't shoot him just for babbling—")

Noise fluctuates, harsh and ragged, and Rinzler forces a breath of recycled air behind his shell. It's not enough. He's damaged. He's tired. He's so very, very far off-balance. He can't crash, though (not yet), and after a long moment, the enforcer takes a step back. Down the hall. Toward the engines. His helmet, though, jerks the smallest fraction the other way.

It's not an argument. He'll go. But Alan-one should too.

Rinzler can't help, but he won't get in his way.

Alan watches Rinzler’s reaction, wincing at the sudden snarl of static that overtakes the program’s voice. Blue-white circuits flicker back to red and Rinzler flinches inward, back to unmistakable defaults. Alan feels a pang of guilt, and it’s only right that he does. It’s the relief he feels that truly disturbs him -- is this really how he’d rather see Rinzler, biddable and broken like Clu had rewritten him to be?

“I’m sorry.” But you wouldn’t listen to me. It sounds cruel even in his own head. He lets Rinzler take a step back, sees the tilt of his mask in the opposite direction. Alan bites back his own protest, knowing going to the medbay on his own is likely the only way he’ll get Rinzler to go to the engines.

“I’ll find you later," he says, gaze already lowering, "Maybe see if I can find a way for you to use your MID.” He doesn’t want Rinzler to be alone on the ship with his admin hunting for him and no way to call for help if he needs it. And it’s easier to leave if he tells himself he’ll make himself useful in the meantime.

Not that it isn’t still difficult. The program’s injuries aren’t any less shocking now and the thought of walking away feels like a betrayal. Still, Alan makes himself step back, trying to ignore the deep sense of wrongness settling in his chest at the thought of leaving Rinzler in this state. If he leaves and Clu finds the program like this… Alan tries to push the thought away. If he wants Rinzler to get to safety, he’ll leave.

It’s still a very, very long walk to the medbay.

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

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