thisavrou_log | 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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

If Rinzler knew this wasn't Bel's assignment, he would probably have hung up on them already. He didn't owe them any answers, and what little respect the user had earned for their competence during the fight was bleeding away fast. But he wants this over with, and the enforcer settles for a long and frustrated glare, lights flaring in their angry orange as he types in the response.

It's nothing he hasn't told already to the rest.

Duplicate.

And just as quickly,

Wrong.

It's him, but it isn't. It shouldn't exist. He doesn't want to think about it, or talk about it, or do anything but make it disappear.

Oh, he owes Bel plenty for the dislocated shoulder and all that blood and having to postpone that ~~date~~ clandestine investigative survey with Miles. Don't think that's over, Rinzler. But the two curt words don't help at all.

"Dammit."

Clones. Why does it have to be clones.

"Listen," Bel growls. "Are the two of you psychically linked? Do you inhabit the same physical space? Are all your experiences up to this moment identical? Because if the answer is no, you are wrong. The two of you are separate people. You've been individual from the moment your experiences diverged. You don't get to erase him just to be the only one of yourself. You already are. And the same goes for him."

The speech is punctuated with long shaky breaths, and the lean face is greyer at the end of it, but Bel's never had time for galactics who treat clones as disposable body doubles, and they're not starting now.

"Learn to live with that, or you're apt to find this trip really, really boring."

If Bel was hoping their impassioned speech would hit a nerve... well. Disappointment on all sides. The black helmet stays trained on the feed, but only to offer a sarcastic tip to the side. Though it is useful to know he isn't the only one whose buttons are being pressed. Rinzler will be saving this tactic to file.

User standards not applicable.

Corrupted copy.
Wrong.

So much disappointment. (Though Bel would pay to be there if Gregor gets a crack at talking Rinzler around. No one does disappointment like Gregor.)

Bel stares flatly at the helmet. That headtilt was very eloquent.

"He's lived here for months without spontaneously attacking another crewperson. Your record is one day. Doesn't speak much for your standards."

The enforcer shrugs, low rumble ticking out almost evenly now. Threat deletion is his function. If the user expects him to be ashamed of the attempt, it's even more glitched than he'd expected.

The mask angles again; silent query. Is there anything else?

They can't keep Rinzler in the hold forever. The ugly choice of whether to kill him, maroon him, or continue attempts to rehabilitate and integrate him is -- thankfully, perhaps -- above Bel's pay grade, but things aren't looking good from here. Brainwashing, loyalty, conviction, personal hatred... in the heat, it doesn't matter what a soldier clings to if he's willing to die before losing it.

In a grim sort of way, Bel can respect that.

"'User' isn't a culture I'm familiar with," Bel says finally. "Who are they, people who don't keep their faces covered all the time?" Is it a religious thing? Bel's seen weirder ones.

The only reply for long moments is a flat, suspicious stare. Rinzler's grown accustomed enough to users not knowing what he is—or what they are in comparison. But whatever else this one might be, it isn't stupid, and there were enough voxels spilled as well as blood for even the least observant glitch to register the differences. Not to mention the user's pointed little jab about which one of them was real.

A taunt, then? Glaring back behind the opaque mask (he doesn't need a face), it certainly feels like one. Still, Rinzler's not ashamed of what he is, and the user hardly needs his words to fuel its sense of superiority.

Humans.
Programmers.

Shoulders twitch impatiently. Neither word's complete. Neither should be necessary. The term defines itself.

Users.

A flat stare back. Tron looks perfectly human, except for the part about breaking into bioluminescent cubes when cut. Alien humanoids? All right, this is finally getting interesting.

"Where are you from, then? You're not Gems; they're all women." Even with the capability to shapeshift into any physical form. So odd. "But don't tell me you're that advanced and have a programming taboo. Surely every advanced civilization has some form of computing." A quirk of the lips. "Or are your people just that good at math?"

Programming taboo? Hardly. The enforcer bristles, a staticky skip of frustration interrupting his constant mechanical whir. Gems is unfamiliar, but the rest... is it playing stupid? Gloating? Whatever systems these users own, Rinzler's not a part of them. What's the point?

Programs.

The mask jerks down, unequivocal self-reference.

You use us.

...and there's that complete sentence.

..and that draws Bel up short.

It still doesn't explain. Even Beta Colony hasn't managed to create true artificial intelligence, and who would load one as vicious as this into a... what was it, a bionic body? A cyborg? ~~Clones.~~ But if it were possible -- and here it is, right here -- they do know who would. They've seen him, cringing against a bulkhead wall as the Admiral's fury knifed through his assumptions of entitlement over his living works. Him and so many like him... if someone did create AIs, sentients-rights abuses would be the first thing on the menu. Of course they'd treat them as property. Of course they'd use them for war.

Bel's mouth flattens. "We all use each other, one way or another. No one's immune to that." A thin, useless sentiment to one who'd never known freedom. (That's coming with us? They'd wanted to kick themself, later. Nicol had helped, though she'd had to make do with hands.) "Well. For whatever it's worth, you get to choose who uses you, now. Just like the rest of us."

The stall is satisfying. It doesn't last nearly long enough. The curl of circuit-lined fingers isn't visible across the feed, but Rinzler's noise is audible as always, building voicelessly into a snarl. We 'all' use each other? Easy for the user to say. It might not have any claim over him (not now; not yet; they have his disks), but Rinzler knows what he's for. 'Choice' was never meant to be a part of that.

User standards: still not applicable.

The mask turns away. Is it done? He'd like to be.

Not a popular subject with this one, clearly.

"No, not personally, if you don't want them to be." Bel's eyes close for a moment, brow knotting. "But you'll find them interpersonally important if you're going to live and work with anyone else."

~~[[just realized what icon you're using ^^<3]]~~

Shoulders tighten, a fraction too defensive to really qualify as a shrug. Last he'd heard, that was the users' choice too. And at least in any short term, it didn't seem a likely problem.

~~[[I'd have used the Ram one, but these two... |D;; ]]~~

Leave all the lost souls behind

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