[He does need to try something. He's not in good shape. And he has definitely been hunted by this crew before. It's a sequential chain of bleak and suffocating truth, verbal blows he has no way to fight or turn aside. He can't escape it. The user's right, and Rinzler slumps—sags—flinches inward, hunched frame bracing in on himself just a little more. It's how he's always held himself together. It's how he'll always have to.
He can't trust any of them. He can't expect to coexist. He'd fought for the system, only to see it crash and burn to scrap. He'd fought for his allies, only to lose them. To betrayal. To this place. He'd fought for Miller, too, and now the user's efficiently cutting off every exit—pointing out he never had any at all. The logic's ruthless. Perfect. He's going to be betrayed no matter what, and now, he's too weak to guard himself. Why not surrender his mind now? It's inevitable. It's best. For everyone, really.
He can't (he won't—) he can't, not again—no, no (no) nonoNO—
Tension snaps with a hiss of static, a crackle of light and sound. Rinzler's circuits gutter dim and bright, flicker blue before flaring back to red. He isn't working, he isn't right—but Tron isn't either, and the last thing he needs is to fight for the users now. The user isn't listening.
They never, ever do.
His frame uncoils. His empty hand lashes—reaches—out. It's not a strike or a blow, but there's some quality of both in the sharp grab that locks onto the front of Miller's uniform. And in the voice that snarls back behind his mask.]
I. Won't.
[The words are harsh with disuse. They're as edged as Rinzler's disk should be. They're forceful and staticky, frame shaking with the effort, because he doesn't own himself. He isn't free. But no matter how pathetic he's become, he won't make himself more of a slave willingly.
Slowly, the grip uncurls. Rinzler takes one step back. Then another. When he's far enough away, he turns and leaves, disk locked in his left hand.]
no subject
He can't trust any of them. He can't expect to coexist. He'd fought for the system, only to see it crash and burn to scrap. He'd fought for his allies, only to lose them. To betrayal. To this place. He'd fought for Miller, too, and now the user's efficiently cutting off every exit—pointing out he never had any at all. The logic's ruthless. Perfect. He's going to be betrayed no matter what, and now, he's too weak to guard himself. Why not surrender his mind now? It's inevitable. It's best. For everyone, really.
He can't (he won't—) he can't, not again—no, no (no) nonoNO—
Tension snaps with a hiss of static, a crackle of light and sound. Rinzler's circuits gutter dim and bright, flicker blue before flaring back to red. He isn't working, he isn't right—but Tron isn't either, and the last thing he needs is to fight for the users now. The user isn't listening.
They never, ever do.
His frame uncoils. His empty hand lashes—reaches—out. It's not a strike or a blow, but there's some quality of both in the sharp grab that locks onto the front of Miller's uniform. And in the voice that snarls back behind his mask.]
I. Won't.
[The words are harsh with disuse. They're as edged as Rinzler's disk should be. They're forceful and staticky, frame shaking with the effort, because he doesn't own himself. He isn't free. But no matter how pathetic he's become, he won't make himself more of a slave willingly.
Slowly, the grip uncurls. Rinzler takes one step back. Then another. When he's far enough away, he turns and leaves, disk locked in his left hand.]