Having never lived in a networked system, Rinzler also missed the glorious advent of the modem sound. He can, however, register loud noises and fast. His stare snaps up at the jerky twitching (prey? threat?), and when it jumps down in front of him, it's all the program can do not to startle right back off the rooftop.

That thing is huge. Huge, pale, cracked and broken. Virus? Possible, but scans aren't working to confirm. The thumping, pulsing organ in his chest picks up to impossible speeds, a wash of conflicting signals (fight run scare RUN) swarming conscious processing as he tries to push them back. He wrestles down the startled flinch-jump before it can execute—the creature's fast and large enough to catch him midair, and he doesn't have any disks to defend with. Rinzler flattens, instead, weight balanced across all limbs, ready to run, dodge, or close the gap.

The noise coming from his vocalizer, though? Catches the program entirely off-guard. It starts as his usual rattle, and rises, bubbling and furious in a hissing, angry wail. It's intimidating. It's loud. Again, the program locks down his reactions, keeps his stare fixed on the creature looming just ahead, but...

But it's a strange way to learn he has a voice like this.