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big & small
"It is an exploration for truth; the reveal can be more terrifying than the unknown."
With supplies low and the general morale of the crew very much the same, the Moira still continues to move through the Runoff at a decent speed. As per Captain Ira's orders, plans to stop at the nearest port of call to re-supply and (hopefully) give those aboard a chance to recover from the catastrophe of the Luminous Sea and its subsequent plants have been made priority. Without much incident, after nearly a week and a half of traveling, the ship makes ready to dock.
WELCOME TO THE MINI COLONY
The Mini Colony was first established as a outpost between the Fixed Moons and the Living City of Inanna. Yet, over the centuries, it has flourished into an outpost of trade and commerce as well as is home to numerous individuals from across the universes. The temperature is generally mild all year, and even when it isn't, there are control units throughout the Mini Colony regulating weather conditions to keep it from such high extremes. Its citizens, while diverse, appear to cohabitate together well and are generally welcoming to those traveling through. However, beyond the numerous tourist areas, there are more dangerous and less friendly places in the Mini Colony. Anything and everything can be found here. You just have to know the right person to ask.
☄ OUT AND ABOUT There is quite a lot to see in the Mini Colony, and not even an entire week will allow for all that this place has to offer. Aside from the multiple businesses found within the MC, there are also plenty of other sectors ready to be explored by those crew members willing to brave these particular places. Yet, within these sectors, there are some "unknown" places that not even the locals really give much attention to. If explored, everything is as normal as any other place on the Mini Colony, but as time progresses, the trek through begins to take longer and longer. Soon, you find yourself tired and with no end in sight as to happening upon another sector, and after a while, a nearby bench seems to beckon you to sit. Upon sitting, a soft humming sound fills your ears and in the span between blinks, you're suddenly waking up on the Moira just as it docks at the Mini Colony. Talk about deja vu.
☄ SWEET NOTES After a few days, those aboard the ship may notice that particular areas of the Mini Colony are beginning to prepare for some sort of celebration. This festival is known as the Desiderium Festival, which derives from "an ardent desire for something that has been lost", and is a celebration to remember and honor the dead—as well as the living. It is celebrated with a particular fruit that ripens around this date every year. This citrus fruit is tart, yet sweet, and crumbles into caviar when removed from its rind; the fruit has no special effects on the eater but pairs nicely with alcohol for after-hours consumption. The group that throws this festival, the Lamaria, make paper from the rinds of the fruits, which is then used to write on and is the only proper paper for these notes to be written on. As fitting the occasion, people wear special finery to present the notes to their friends and relatives and to wear to the grave sites where they leave the notes for the dead. These tend to be burgundy and lime colors, like the fruits, and are shot through with gold. Participating is considered a great honor, so if asked to join, carefully consider before declining.
( ooc; For questions, go here. Please comment to activity check to receive new ranks (if applicable)! The CR Meme is also up! )
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hownkai) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thisavrou_log2016-10-02 12:25 am
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"We seem to have done nothing but fight since you arrived," he begins, pausing a reasonable distance away. "We should talk."
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The black helmet angles to the side. Why?
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"I should probably offer an apology for attacking you when my... our User was killed," he says, recalling their last encounter. "I was not processing correctly." He won't mention that Rinzler wasn't exactly himself at the time either, glitching with blue circuits as he stood over Alan's body.
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Sometimes, he wonders if he should.
His sound is quieter by the time Tron's done, though the apology itself draws a skeptical stare. They're made to delete threats, and even if Rinzler had been himself enough to count, that should only be more reason for antagonism. They're not allies. Still, arguing seems just as pointless. The helmet ducks: acknowledged, accepted. Moving on.
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He moves to the side, shifting to lean against one of the tables in the medbay. He's only slightly closer to Rinzler now, but still not within striking distance. "I have never categorized you as a threat," he continues. "I know by logic that I should. You have attacked me and others on multiple occasions. However..." he trails off, shaking his head as his circuits dim slightly. "I cannot do so. Especially since... I am you as well."
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Why?
He's attacked the blue-lit program. Harmed his friends. Killed users with his own disks, first once, then twice, then again and again. He'd been worse than useless when Alan-one had needed help, and if Tron didn't blame him for that any longer, Rinzler wasn't so sure. He serves Clu. Why wouldn't Tron hate him?
(What does he need to do?)
Tron isn't him. He isn't Tron, Tron isn't him, and the black shell that locks off Rinzler's face jerks sideways, once, then twice. The rejection is immediate and furious, noise rattling out louder. But there's something odd to the movement. Something small. Like a beta putting its hands over its ears.
He doesn't want to hear that.
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"You saw it, didn't you? I was not... Tron when I attacked you. And that isn't the first time it's happened." It's still difficult to talk about, the code that's still entwined with his own, wrapped around Alan-1's original programming, twisted so tightly that he's not sure where he ends and Rinzler begins.
"I am still Rinzler, as well. Part of me is." He doesn't look away from his double, staring straight at him as though he can see through the helmet to the mirrored face underneath. "And that means if I categorize you as a threat, then I must do the same to myself."
Maybe you should, some part of him insists. He tries to ignore it.
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If it happened before, Rinzler would never have been allowed to remember.
The glitching, scraping noise grows louder. Clu is offline, but Rinzler can still feel his admin at his back, a silent hook of [programmer] claiming priority. He can feel the empty ache between his shoulders too, the absence where his backup should be docked. Clu would have taken it. Clu had taken it, so many, many times, to pull him apart and put him together.
He's supposed to.
Rinzler hates this. Hates Tron. It's his fault. For being here, for staring (with a face they shouldn't have) and talking (with a voice he can't use) when Rinzler wants nothing more than to leave. He can't leave his admin to a threat. He can't fight, but he won't back down. Still, he hates that stare. As if Tron can see him. As if Tron would. Tron fights for the users. Tron is whole, Tron is wanted, and Rinzler has only ever been the part the users left behind.
Tron's broken too.
And he's falling to pieces.
Fingers are curled at the enforcer's side, frame locked hard enough to shatter. Lights shiver, just a little, dim and bright in agitation. He's supposed to be perfect. He hates being weak. He reaches for the device locked to one wrist, and wanting words has never felt like more of a surrender.
Should.
The word lingers in the air for long seconds. He means it. Then Rinzler deletes the line and types another in its place.
Clarify: still.
He's listening.
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"Still," Tron repeats, nodding. Holding up one hand to show he's not attacking, he reaches back slowly and removes the joined discs from his back, then holds them level to open the interface. He can't edit his own code, but he can look at it, something he's avoided doing thus far. But if it can help to show Rinzler... he will.
The outline of his face... their face glows in blue above the disc for a moment, then breaks apart into lines of code, swirling upward. The programming is precise, orderly... except for gashes of red, overlaid like angry wounds over the original code, pulsing over gaps and covering broken segments, sometimes worked so deeply into the original it's hard to tell where one begins and the other ends. Tron feels vaguely sick looking at it.
"I can't change it. But his changes are still there." He nods toward the pod, expression darkening.
no subject
[ERROR—]
Motes of blue-white light float up from the disk, and Rinzler freezes, stare locked on the display. He can't. Tron can't. Except the image spirals apart, sectioning to show the code beneath, and clearly, Tron can. It's Rinzler who isn't allowed to look at his own code, Rinzler whose system is awash with warning flags and hooked compulsion. He needs to step back, turn away; he starts to, but—
But...
(He isn't Tron.)
He isn't Tron. This isn't him. It's not (but it is) (but it's not), and the harsh rattle in the enforcer's sound grows louder as his helmet dips and falters and comes back up. Rinzler's frame is still rigid, tense unease playing through every line. But it's a loophole. An excuse?
It's true enough.
He looks. He stares. General read-access isn't new, but he's never seen something this close to himself, and as the lockup fades, there's a flicker of something else, just under the surface. It's visible in the halting, uncertain slant of the black mask. In the way Rinzler steps closer without seeming to realize it. He doesn't touch, doesn't reach up at all, but attention traces the functions mapped in clear blue-white, lingers on the junctions where red (his color) merges and splits off. Is this what he looks like? No, wrong, he can't think that (and filters press close, prickling with violation), but...
He's in there. Parts of him. Fragments. Tron isn't a backup at all.
Rinzler's eyes lift to his double's face, and he doesn't know what to say.