It takes a moment, but the enforcer's hand shifts to match, red-lined fingers lacing carefully between Yori's own. The grip is loose, room left to pull away if she decides to. She doesn't, though, and Rinzler lets himself hold on.

Tron failed. He did. It is confusing, and all the more so when he lets himself slip back through the cracks of memory, to values he isn't sure he has a right to claim. He isn't Tron. He wasn't anyone else, then. Is he now? Rinzler had thought so; Rinzler had claimed as much to Clu. But it's much, much harder to assume that level of importance in contrast with Tron's convictions. Tron's memories. Tron's love. Tron was whole; Tron was strong; Tron defined his place and purpose. The only thing Rinzler knows for sure is that he's so much less than that.

Especially with her. Rinzler's stare drifts down to their joined hands, and silently, he shakes his head. He doesn't know how to tell Tron's counterpart that the memories of the program who she loved are the last thing he can stand to process now.

Yori is too clever to miss the fact forever... but whatever she might choose when she learns, they've spent enough time on doubts for now. Rinzler offers a slight nod: forwards, up the slope. As thorough as the verbal sidetracking had been, their destination isn't far. Assuming she still wants to work on the ship?