The user won't fight him. The user won't run. The words that drift up from the still form on the ground are dull and weak, a sickening reflection of his own failures. He should have known. Should have expected this. He had, but then he stopped, and looking at them now, Rinzler can't begin to understand why.

(...that's a—)

He doesn't want to.

The words are pointless, out of place. The words are wrong. Shoulds have never mattered (not for him), and whoever's faults are on display, it's not an answer. Noise rolls out in a storm of rage, but the program's stance is less coiled now than simply bent. Contorted. Jagged. Rinzler cracked apart a long, long time ago, and whether the user is himself or just a copy, he remembers what he did.

That has to be enough.

Disks merge to a single, singing edge. The program's empty hand comes down, digging into the crevices of the user's armor as he drags Nihlus up. Neither of them have a face today, but Rinzler's stare is fixed and palpable: no search, but a demand. Look at him. Fight him, or leave, or answer the question, but Rinzler will have some satisfaction if it breaks them both.

It takes much more work the second time. Circuits flicker, disuse and effort producing a static scrape.

"Tell me."