He doesn't want the apology. He doesn't want anything at all, except a chance to take all of it back. The ambush. His own failure to scan, to search, to do his function with two viruses aboard the ship. And more, the weakness that made all of it a possibility. He'd been so afraid of Clu. Of being fixed, of being wiped, of letting his admin put all his broken parts in place.
He'd been so afraid, he'd given his code to a user. Trusted a user.
A user who might have done all of that again.
If Nihlus had, he wouldn't have to process the mistake. The thought flickers through cognition, chased by a wave of revulsion and sheer loathing, and Rinzler jerks his helmet to the side again. He doesn't want to hear the apology. He doesn't want to process the what-ifs. He doesn't want to see the pathetic trembling (and he's shaking too) (and none of it's new, none of it's different—so why does it still hurt—?)
He's not supposed to. The command is just as powerless (and certainly, it hadn't stopped him yet), but Rinzler seizes on the excuse, on the memory of Clu's fuming rage as he'd pieced Rinzler back together. He should have known better. He knew what users were like, he was to stay away. He shouldn't be here.
It's small. (It's cowardly.) But it's enough to break the choking, awful lock. Rinzler takes another step back. Then another. His disk burns itself out in his left hand, and he ducks his mask and turns away. He's gone from sight in seconds.
no subject
He'd been so afraid, he'd given his code to a user. Trusted a user.
A user who might have done all of that again.
If Nihlus had, he wouldn't have to process the mistake. The thought flickers through cognition, chased by a wave of revulsion and sheer loathing, and Rinzler jerks his helmet to the side again. He doesn't want to hear the apology. He doesn't want to process the what-ifs. He doesn't want to see the pathetic trembling (and he's shaking too) (and none of it's new, none of it's different—so why does it still hurt—?)
He's not supposed to. The command is just as powerless (and certainly, it hadn't stopped him yet), but Rinzler seizes on the excuse, on the memory of Clu's fuming rage as he'd pieced Rinzler back together. He should have known better. He knew what users were like, he was to stay away. He shouldn't be here.
It's small. (It's cowardly.) But it's enough to break the choking, awful lock. Rinzler takes another step back. Then another. His disk burns itself out in his left hand, and he ducks his mask and turns away. He's gone from sight in seconds.