The black mask bows. He means it. He wants it. This isn't a Game. It never has been (not for Rinzler), but this is different. More. He wants it to be more.
He wants, so maybe it is.
Maybe.
One point. Two. Pressure maps itself in a careful cluster of potential, circuits prickling as a savage ache of expectation settles in his dock. He doesn't move. He doesn't, he won't (and really, would it matter if he tried?). Power surge or shutdown, edit or hook or hollowing erasure, Clu's purpose is a thought alone from execution. It's more deadly than a leveled disk. It's much, much more terrifying.
One last thing. Sound clatters out a raw, broken grind, despair and panic looped too tightly to execute. His chin tilts up, a fractional lift, but Rinzler does. Not. Flinch.
no subject
He wants, so maybe it is.
Maybe.
One point. Two. Pressure maps itself in a careful cluster of potential, circuits prickling as a savage ache of expectation settles in his dock. He doesn't move. He doesn't, he won't (and really, would it matter if he tried?). Power surge or shutdown, edit or hook or hollowing erasure, Clu's purpose is a thought alone from execution. It's more deadly than a leveled disk. It's much, much more terrifying.
One last thing. Sound clatters out a raw, broken grind, despair and panic looped too tightly to execute. His chin tilts up, a fractional lift, but Rinzler does. Not. Flinch.
Say it.