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

[notglitching]

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.]]

Comments

[notglitching]

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.

[alan_1]

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.”

[notglitching]

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_1]

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.