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_log2016-01-02 05:25 pm
notglitching) wrote in thisavrou_log2016-01-02 05:25 pm
Entry tags:
Leave all the lost souls behind
Who: Rinzler, Tron, and Bel Thorne. Later adding Wanda, Zam, Gregor, and maybe others!
When: A few hours past midnight on Jan 2 (actual murderfights), and fallout over the next few days.
Where: Starting at the Observation Deck, ending up in the hold and medbay
What: error--conflicting types for function declaration
Warnings: mindscrew/trauma references, laser disk violence, blood, injuries, and snark
Low-power shifts, it seemed, were part of every user system. The Moira might not shut down quite as fully as that school, but activity levels had dropped markedly half a millicycle back, and by now, most users were either in their quarters or off visiting the planet-shape below. Definitely an improvement, from Rinzler's point of view.
Dimmed as it was, the hallway illumination was more than enough to travel by. No need for scans to find a path, though he kept up awareness on all fronts as he climbed silently toward the higher levels of the ship. There was something disquieting about the empty spaces in this ship, reflections stretching, whispers calling from the edges of a room. All the more reason to keep searching for the threats.
And all the less reason to sleep. Not that Rinzler ever needed much dissuading on that count. He paused halfway up a ladder, gaze catching for a moment on the red-orange reflections on the wall. Reboot had always been a painful process, but on the Grid his systems had corrected any glitch too soon for the enforcer to retain any memory of why. But in the user world, in that user body he'd been in? There had been dreams. Faces in the wrong shapes, lights in the wrong colors, and a system far too vast and bright to be his world. Rinzler jerked his head to the side, pushing back the nauseating twist of [warning—] in his code.
He wasn't sure what would happen if he went to sleep now.
Focus redirected almost gratefully to the field of stars as he started out along the observation deck. These lights, at least, no one had turned off. But something seemed distorted further down the hall, and the enforcer slowed to a halt, mask fixing on the faint blue glow approaching the far entrance. Yori? Hope hurt, but logic wiped it far too quickly. He'd checked the directory, and besides, the shade was wrong, a cool blue-white that set his code on edge. Rinzler stilled, one hand reaching silently to retrieve his unlit disks. It didn't have to be an enemy, not here.
But it felt wrong.
When: A few hours past midnight on Jan 2 (actual murderfights), and fallout over the next few days.
Where: Starting at the Observation Deck, ending up in the hold and medbay
What: error--conflicting types for function declaration
Warnings: mindscrew/trauma references, laser disk violence, blood, injuries, and snark
Low-power shifts, it seemed, were part of every user system. The Moira might not shut down quite as fully as that school, but activity levels had dropped markedly half a millicycle back, and by now, most users were either in their quarters or off visiting the planet-shape below. Definitely an improvement, from Rinzler's point of view.
Dimmed as it was, the hallway illumination was more than enough to travel by. No need for scans to find a path, though he kept up awareness on all fronts as he climbed silently toward the higher levels of the ship. There was something disquieting about the empty spaces in this ship, reflections stretching, whispers calling from the edges of a room. All the more reason to keep searching for the threats.
And all the less reason to sleep. Not that Rinzler ever needed much dissuading on that count. He paused halfway up a ladder, gaze catching for a moment on the red-orange reflections on the wall. Reboot had always been a painful process, but on the Grid his systems had corrected any glitch too soon for the enforcer to retain any memory of why. But in the user world, in that user body he'd been in? There had been dreams. Faces in the wrong shapes, lights in the wrong colors, and a system far too vast and bright to be his world. Rinzler jerked his head to the side, pushing back the nauseating twist of [warning—] in his code.
He wasn't sure what would happen if he went to sleep now.
Focus redirected almost gratefully to the field of stars as he started out along the observation deck. These lights, at least, no one had turned off. But something seemed distorted further down the hall, and the enforcer slowed to a halt, mask fixing on the faint blue glow approaching the far entrance. Yori? Hope hurt, but logic wiped it far too quickly. He'd checked the directory, and besides, the shade was wrong, a cool blue-white that set his code on edge. Rinzler stilled, one hand reaching silently to retrieve his unlit disks. It didn't have to be an enemy, not here.
But it felt wrong.
we've almost reached the interrupt interface~
One of the new abductees, the helmeted stranger with bad-disk rumbling noise the red lights along his armor, was striking out at another crewperson with something that flashed brightly in his hand, the long flex of his body almost miraculous in its perfection. The other, forced away from what had almost been a grapple, was about to throw something that shone bright blue -- Tron. The lights along his armor were flares now, and both were wounded, bright gashes spilling -- what, tiny glowing specks? That couldn't be good.
Other projectiles, already on their flight paths as Bel turned the corner, caromed off the walls. Jumping either warrior was a bad idea as long as one of them still held a weapon. And this was no ponderous drunken brawl. The two fighters were good.
Bel was already moving. Twenty years of instinct and training took over, adrenaline spiking. Skidding out onto the deck, well out of reach of either fighter, Bel held both hands out just above waist level, an empty, disarming distraction within easy snatching distance from the small stunner still appended to the belt. To the fighters, the mercenary would appear lean and lithe, somewhat shorter than either of them, soft brown hair framing a sharp face in a raggedly ambiguous cut; perhaps not particularly threatening, but moving with confidence, the alto voice raised to a roar.
"Stand down! Both of you--!"
Under a second had passed from the first quick look.
It would have taken a similar fraction to realize that something was wrong -- the flung projectiles weren't losing momentum and bouncing to the floor, like any self-respecting metal object in the grip of the ship's artificial gravity, but curling back toward their respective owners.
And even as Bel's gaze turned from one fighter to the other, a ticking rumble revved up, twin to the helmeted man's incessant robotic purr.
They'd never really talked, but Bel had seen Tron about the ship helping others during the recent heating breakdown. A little tall for comfort, but perfectly proportioned and with a look of gentle sternness that he might not know the power of himself, especially if -- as rumored -- he wasn't actually human. But it was a different face that caught Bel's attention now. Snarling. Transformed.
Transforming.
His light-spots flashed red. The new inhuman purring growl was somehow coming from him.
Oh yes, this is definitely trouble.
no subject
The shouted command made him falter, stumble. A User's command, issued toward both himself and Rinzler. His overwritten coding demanded obedience, instant submission. Clu had required no less. But this was not Clu, not Alan-1, not even Flynn's voice, but still, his programming insisted that he follow, the split-second of glitch enough to make him step back.
His disc returned to his hand and he straightened, gaze flicking to the side, trying to see the new person who had arrived to stop them.
no subject
It was an opportunity.
The maskless figure turned away, and a red-lit disk flashed out. One rebound off the wall, aimed to catch his target from behind. It wouldn't surprise Rinzler if his mirror was quick enough to answer the attack. He would be, after all. But between the swift attack and the user's helpful distraction? Rinzler's own strike had much better odds of slipping through.
The enforcer snatched his second disk from the air and dove forward in a blur.
no subject
This was not the fight Bel had signed up for.
Tron, at least, had halted. Good. That cut the number of potential enemies in half. Still in the low, crouching spin they'd fallen into upon the unexpected near-brush with the blue disc, Bel dove to one side and fired from the hip. Even with the motion, it'd be hard to miss the red-lit freak hurtling right the hell at them.
no subject
He couldn't derez, not like this, not here.
A bright gash opened across his chest, Rinzler's disc slicing from shoulder to waist, not deep enough to destabilize Tron's code entirely, not enough for a cascade failure, but enough to send him staggering, stumbling to one knee. He couldn't raise his arm again, Rinzler's next attack would surely take his head off, there was no stopping it now...
A flash of light, an unfamiliar sound, and the expected strike did not land. Vision blurring, Tron turned his head, focusing on the newcomer to the fight. Had they stopped Rinzler, somehow?
no subject
known], it was far more acceptable scattered across the ground in broken voxels. That was how things should have ended. That was what he (he) deserved.(You failure.)
The errors didn't matter. Not the warning flags, not the crackling press of redirect, and certainly not the sourceless loathing that seemed to set them off. He was so close to fixing things, so close to wiping the glitch that had been fracturing his code for longer than he could remember. He could be better. He could be perfect, could work right, the way he should have, all this time. He had to. The red-orange disk thrummed in his grip, charge building as he lunged. So close—
—that he nearly missed the other threat completely.
Power spiked in close periphery, and far too slowly, Rinzler registered the weapon raised in the user (user)'s hand. Far too slowly, he slammed an elbow to the side to knock its aim off-track. The pulse fired, and Rinzler felt a voiceless snarl twist behind his mask as a wave of energy hit his right side. Systems locked, limbs unreadable past the crackle of raw power. Visuals glitched in and out. He was falling (no), shaking, motor functions lagging unacceptably between command and execution. He staggered, one knee dropping to the decking underneath.
Not the first time he'd been caught with a stun-strike. Not the first time he'd kept going. But this was different, and his copy was still out there, and he didn't have time. Rinzler seized his own functions and wrenched, no elegance but speed as he slammed his disk towards the new attacker's core. Wipe it. Move. Finish the Game.
no subject
It didn't.
Without eye contact, body language was Bel's only warning that the attacker's attention was shifting. The three of them were almost on top of each other now, a streak of bewildering shattered blue cutting across Tron's body, the masked man striking downward even as the stun hit him, even as Bel's body hit the floor. Bel's stunner hand was wrenched downward, the elbow strike numbing, the enemy claiming the high ground, striking in a blur of fire--
On desperate ground, attack.
Bel twisted, their trapped arm a wrenching fulcrum, legs snapping upward to lock around the masked man's neck. Heaving upward with a wordless shout, their free hand finding leverage in the space between helmet and neck, Bel slammed the attacker face-first at the floor in the direction he'd been going already.
There wasn't time or space to do anything about the striking arm. Something bit deep into Bel's leg, unimportant in the greater scheme of things, if this one last move could be the deciding one, if they could make it count -- wounds could be healed; death couldn't. (Not always. Even here.)
The trapped arm was dislocated, stunner still somehow clasped in hand. Pain would catch up momentarily; one way or another, this little war would be over. But for one more moment, adrenaline would serve.
The tiny crystals spilling from Tron's chest were still hitting the floor, the armored bulk of the stranger hurtling downward among them, where Bel and momentum had carried him: right in line.
One more shot.
no subject
Another bright flash from the strange weapon and finally Rinzler's discs weren't moving anymore. Tron reached for the control on his MID, panting, cooling systems overworked. "Medical... emergency. Assistance requested... observation deck..."
His hand dropped limply to the deck as more blue-glowing voxels spilled from his wounds and darkness closed over him.
no subject
Especially since it hadn't come from him.
Enough time to map the attack, but limbs were too slow and unresponsive to avoid it. The best he could manage was to twist with the force, hitting the ground in a swift roll. One disk was still returning, but he clenched the other in a fist, free hand planting on the ground as he turned back. Motor functions were still shuddering with lag, purchase slippery on the wetness (blood) beneath, but he could still be faster, finish the attack (game) (user user—) [WARNING—]
A lag. A glitch. A fraction of an instant's hesitation, circuits dimming towards a flicker, and suddenly 'coulds' mattered very little indeed. A pulse of blue swamped through awareness, stun-charge storming outward from the circuits at his core, and everything went dark. The enforcer hit the ground, disk slipping from an insensate grasp.
no subject
Bel fired. The masked man was sliding on something, oh... but the second stun was enough. Good thing, too. Gravity was taking over, along with pain, right on schedule. A full-body flinch as the second red-ringed disc struck the floor a foot away, clattering to a stop without a conscious hand to receive it, punched a gasping cry from Bel's lungs, their one good hand fumbling through hot wetness to find the wound and hold it closed.
Tron had collapsed too. But he'd called for medical help. Good -- now Bel didn't have to, not that they could have done it one-handed anyway. Where was the stunner? Oh -- skidded off along the floor; it had gotten away, somehow.
And that surely was a great deal of blood.....
Cold all over, ragged breaths stuttering on full-body shudders as lungs labored to pull in more air, Bel could feel shock closing in. All in all... not the worst individual fight they'd ever been in, though definitely in the top ten. And granting the med-techs hurried up, and/or cryo worked as advertised here, it wouldn't be the last.
The world narrowed down to breathing, and Bel cast a last glance at the two slumped bodies and panted out, "I win."