thisavrou_log | Ass-Kicking!

Happy would be one word. Violent another. Really, though, if Nihlus wanted a specific, factual descriptor? Incoming would probably work best.

The coordinates were simple to track down, and if the bulk of Rinzler's transporters had been stored in a nearby garage, the enforcer always kept one transit option on his person. Jungle isn't much impediment when approaching by lightjet. The haze of fog spread across the treetops makes finding a landing space a little harder... but a slow circle overhead shows a thinner patch, half burned off by the sun.

The glint of light off metal painted garish red isn't a bad sign either.

Rinzler leans sideways, pulling his jet into a tighter spin before the vector steepens to a gravity-powered dive. Closer. Closer. Wind whips by and he leans forward, body flat against the frame. The trees are growing at an alarming rate, the clear space between them now in sight, and there, dead center—

Engines reverse with a harsh roar of sound... as Rinzler snaps the baton back together. The jerk of deceleration inverts his frame neatly; the jet fades to wireframe and vanishes just past the threshold of the trees. Leaving... well, good news and bad news for any fight-picking Turians in the area who happen to be looking up.

On the bright side? Rinzler doesn't have his disks out!

On the other? He's still dropping very, very fast.

And with some very specific aim.

The distant, eerie thrum of a lightjet approaching draws Nihlus out from doing a final systems check on his arm and he looks up to see the orange-black silhouette against bright blue skies. His HUD automatically puts a marker on it as he pulls his new limb out of maintenance mode, red plates sliding back into place with a series of smooth whirs and clicks.

As the jet dives and disappears briefly over the treeline, Nihlus rolls his wrist experimentally to make sure nothing was out of place. Then he spreads his feet apart, armored talons digging into the packed, sun-baked earth. Lifting the bionic arm up, he listens to the strange, hollowed-out roar of the approaching aircraft decelerating, tracking the marker flickering over his visor...

There.

The jet's ghostly wireframe disappears. Rinzler blows past the treetops with an explosion of leaves, feet first, intent clear as the skies above them. Nihlus' trajectory takes a split second to adjust-

The program will hear a low crack, the whistle of something flying through the air, a red blur. If Nihlus got his aim right, he'll also promptly be getting a literal grappling claw clamping around his ankle, glowing orange wire pulling taught with a crisp ZIP. Using his own weight as a counter, the Spectre will try to yank Rinzler off his current path and slam him right into the hard, bare dirt.

Edited 2017-02-06 04:08 (UTC)

As fast as the enforcer's moving, it's scant nanos from the jet's disappearance until impact. A fraction of a user second to align, to aim—

—to react, as audio splits with a sharp crack, and something hits him first.

Threat. Attack. A fault-crashed tether, and Rinzler's moving even as the variable logs, frame curling in a red-black blur as his empty hand jerks his disk free. As Nihlus leans, light-cable pulling taut, leaving a fraction of a fraction left to slash the singing, humming blade across the line. Sparks fly, a flare of seething, furious potential, and the wire—

Doesn't. Break.

...Glitch.

The ground? Hits hard. There's another crack of sound on impact, one Rinzler, at least, feels more than hears: a crunching blow that whites out visuals and sends warnings flaring through his frame. It's luck more than calculation that disperses the blow, indrawn posture translating the force with a horizontal roll across the ground. If nothing else, it might prove difficult to brace against.

Not that Rinzler's relying on that. Visuals aren't needed to track the direction of that tug, and the disk in his hand slings out along the vector before his forward motion even slows. When he does come to a stop, he'll do one better—empty hand wrapping around the line to yank back.

The momentum pulls Nihlus forwards and he lets it, hocks leaving a parallel line of trenches his wake, pale dust cloud rooster tailing behind him. He's grinning under his helmet though, hard and triumphant, jaw still ringing from the crunch Rinzler'd made hitting the dirt.

"Glad you could-" he twists as the disk skips over the edges of his shield with a blinding SNAP of Eezo-blue sparks. "Make it!"

Rinzler's yank wrenches him forwards and he grunts, struggling for balance, trying to stop his talons from catching on plants and pebbles. Clapping his claws over metal wrist, he kickstarts the reel, lets the sudden pull flatten him against the ground, elbow and knee skidding over dirt as the quickly shortening line wrenches them together. The disk is going to be making a reappearance again very soon but he has every intention of slamming his boots into that shiny helmet before the program has a chance to catch it.

No, that disk won't beat Nihlus back to Rinzler. On the other hand? Visuals are coming back online in static-laden bursts—enough to catch the flare of sparks, and track the deflection. And in the other hand? Well, Rinzler's not entirely disarmed.

He staggers a little as the pull intensifies, but holds his ground, one knee and one foot digging into the surface underneath. Diagnostics are running in the background, but if the ache of impact can be felt through his whole core, nothing seems broken past use. Good enough. Rinzler eyes the rapidly approaching form, twists his left-handed grip to brace against collision...

...and activates the baton still closed inside his right. One end flares a bright red-orange, doubling in length as a crackling halo surrounds it—before flicking sharply down to intercept the incoming attack. Setting? Stun-stick.

Those shields are a problem.

He'd like to turn them off.

Oh- crap-

Nihlus plants his boot against Rinzler's leg and brings his arm up to try and deflect the stick-

But it slides past his forearm and into his side before he could stop it. The impact jags through his ribs and there's a series of POPS as electricity sizzles and arcs over his armor. It knocks the shield bar on his HUD down to a flat zero.

No time to think about it.

Using the tension on the tether to jerk himself up, the Spectre swivels to clamp his arm down on the stick, trying to trap it under his armpit, pin the tip to the dirt under him. Assuming that works, he'll then arc to bring his knee up to try and smash it into the side of Rinzler's helmet.

The sudden flare and loss of power, Rinzler can feel as much as see. As close as they're fighting, even Nihlus might feel the uptick of noise that rolls out in answer—satisfaction, quick and sharp. Gloating? Maybe just a little.

But Rinzler's still caught, still stabilizing from the fall, and the renewed yank of the tether lags him just enough to stop him pulling back the stick in time. Its tip jams downward, power leeching to the ground before he cancels the template back to the baton. The follow-up blow connects squarely. His helmet is too solid to break, but the strike is hard enough to smash his head back, off-balancing his stable position. Irritating.

He rolls with it. One clenched fist uncoils, slipping free from the loop of cabling to plant on the dirt behind. Both legs kick upward, whipping back and down as the program's body pivots in a flip. In a normal fight, the maneuver might gain distance. Here? That really depends on whether Nihlus manages to let go before the slack runs out.

If he doesn't, Rinzler's more than willing to haul him along for the ride. The baton stays ready as a guard, but on landing, the enforcer's free hand will flash up and out. As versatile as the templates might be, he prefers his real weapon.

And it's finally come back.

Nihlus twists, rolls in the opposite direction, onto his feet, reversing the reel as he does so that he wouldn't be pulled along with the flip. A quick, remotely sent command makes the claws release and he swings the tether around, the grapple-hand drawing up a crescent of dust around him. He catches the cord on his thigh, turns and smoothly transitions into spinning the rope with his left hand.

He should be keeping close. He should be keeping the pressure on Rinzler, stop the Program from getting any sort of breather, any sort of distance. Instead... he starts circling slowly, sunlight and the cord's orange glow gleaming off of his visor, the low, heavy whoosh of his grapple-hand traveling through humid air echoing around the clearing.

"Fifteen seconds until the shields regen." Nihlus cocks his head, a smile in his voice, subvocals laced delicately through with a taunt. "Think you can land a hit before that?"

The spin quickens suddenly and Nihlus shift, grabs the grapple hand and snaps his arm out, sending it screaming through the air, claws aimed right at Rinzler's throat.

The disk slams into his outstretched hand and fingers flex, a flare of power brightening the blade's white edge to overshadow the red-orange glow behind. Dim cracks can be seen with careful scrutiny, but there's no sign of weakness to the fluid ease with which the program settles to a crouch. Rinzler is stable. Rinzler is ready.

And Rinzler is listening, too.

Fifteen seconds. An opportunity. A taunt (again), but better yet—a challenge. It's answered with a swell of sound, low rumble filling up the distance. And with a slow, almost casual gesture. The baton clips back at his side. Hands meet, disk splitting to a pair of perfectly matched blades. It's a retort in its own kind, spelled out with every easy shift of Rinzler's frame.

Fifteen seconds? He could manage it in five.

The grapple arm snaps out, and Rinzler moves, eeling to the side as one disk flashes up, scoring sparks along the cord as it scrapes past. But the enforcer is still moving, darting, lunging out, and his second disk slices out in parallel just above waist level. Game? On.

Despite himself, despite his words, Nihlus' eyes still flicker over the cracks in Rinzler's frame, breath wavering for a split second.

He pulls the tether taut between thumb and knuckles, perpendicular to the oncoming blade, sending another spray of crackling sparks into the air as he directs the attack out and away.

Not right now. Not right now. There were things to fix and hesitating now wasn't going to do either of them any favors.

Inhaling sharply, he lets the swell of regret wash over him and moves. His hand pushes outwards, simultaneously pulling the grapple-claw back, translating the momentum sideways so that the cord slipped off of Rinzler's other disk to catch against his wrist and loop around it.

If that maneuver works, he'll yank the caught wrist and try to ram a knee right into the line of glowing circuits in the Program's gut.

Fourteen seconds. He has no intention to make it easy.

If Rinzler notices the hesitation, he doesn't acknowledge it. This is a fight, this is a contest, and doubt has no place here. Worry, even less. And as the one who went skydiving without a wingpack, he's pretty sure he does get to make that call.

Sparks fly, weapons hum, and the enforcer pushes just a little more power to the slashing blade. The cord doesn't cut, but he thinks he sees a gleam of brightness scored into the line when his disk slides off—not impossible, if he had the time to charge his disks enough. He'll save that data. The striking arm twists, wrist curving sideways from the cable to flick one weapon inward at short range. If nothing else, it ought to make a good distraction.

Not that Rinzler doesn't have his own issues to contend with. The shift of tension in the cord off to his side is tangible, and when he feels a limb caught for a second time, it's not hard to guess what's coming next. Power coils, and the enforcer leaps, arm pulling—pivoting—off the yank on his tethered wrist. His mask dips to his chest, body curving and releasing midair, leaving nothing below for Nihlus to strike out at.

Above, though? Both legs will be smashing down towards the user's helmet, with a lot of angular momentum just behind. Consider that favor returned.

(Thirteen.)

Turians don't exactly have a lot of gut to suck in but Rinzler gets to witness Nihlus do he best to try. The blade sizzles by micrometers away from his armor, leaving a barely visible streak on his abdominal plates.

Aaand then Rinzler's flipping. Of course he's flipping.

Nihlus doesn't let himself spare a moment to envy that maneuverability. He drops down low, shoves his shoulders up, head tucking under cowl plating- just in time to brace for impact.

This particular part of Turian anatomy was made to take those sorts of shocks, but the force of it still knocks his teeth together hard enough make his gums ache. Mandibles sore from the blow, he plants his foot on the tether and straightens abruptly, pulling the Program down and bringing his elbow up.

(Twelve.)

So that frame design does serve a purpose. Interesting. The sudden pressure jerks the program's upper body down and to the left, a sharp torque against his own momentum. Rinzler twists sideways, body spinning with the pull to hit the ground hand-first—and let his empty right hand snatch the disk from his trapped left. Without the weapon, he should be able to un-loop it.

...If not before taking an elbow to the side. Armor and speed deflect the force, but it's still enough to hurt, sensation zigzagging across the impact damage from the fall, Sound skips—surges—seethes out in a quick, aggressive beat as Rinzler folds his lower body backwards in a bladed line, left hand slipping from the slackened line just far enough to grab the tether instead of being caught by it.

Rinzler doesn't want to move apart too far. Not considering Nihlus' reach, not considering their mutual choice of weapons... and especially not considering the vector of the disk still in his hand. As his legs drop down and back, Rinzler's weapon makes the other end of the axis: slashing in a white-edged blur up towards one very bright red target.

See: that arm.

(Eleven. Ten.)

Rearing back, Nihlus tries to put more length on the tether but he's not-

Fast enough-

There's a raking SCREECH, sparks spinning out in a wild, arcing spray that left afterimages in his vision even through the visor. Nihlus immediately locks the spool down but the damage is done, disk wedged between the wound up tether, cut into the rods that fed the line in and out of the arm.

Ten.

Didn't even make it halfway. Spirits, Rinzler was going to be so damn smug, wasn't he?

He snaps the mangled arm sideways, 90 degrees to the angle of attack, before the disc can cut completely through. Trying to trap it, trying to wrench Rinzler closer, pull him off balance. Lifting his foot off the cord, he flicks his wrist up and uses the loose length to try and loop around the Program's neck. It's followed up by a swift kick, same foot, aimed at the side of his opponent's ankle.

New goal: try and hogtie the bastard.

Going to be? Nihlus should really know better than to put much delay on any gloating. He's close enough to hear the quick smoothness of the enforcer's noise, almost a hum (or purr) of satisfaction. Point to definitely him.

Not that he's letting his guard down. The disk flares brighter, edge twisting to slice its way back out through the innards of the limb, and if Nihlus' wrench delays recovery, it won't be for long. As weight shifts back onto his feet, Rinzler's other hand likewise frees up—and snaps up, aiming to catch the loop flicked toward his mask and add it to the length of tether already coiled in his grip. The arc continues, a punch aimed for his opponent's throat—

—when that kick cuts in beneath and neatly sweeps out half his footing. Oops. Rinzler stumbles, strike reversing to a hard, fast yank. He refuses to be the only one off-balanced.

Rinzler was quickly getting more and more control over the tether, but that also closed the distance between them pretty tidily. Not necessarily a good thing when there was a disc between them, but Nihlus can work with it.

"You're an ass," he cheerfully informs the other as he lets himself be yanked in, keeping the mangled arm raised, tension on the cord. Planting his foot down between Rinzler's as he stumbles, Nihlus swipes his good arm out to deflect that disk hand, aiming for the inside of that black wrist.

Then he surges up to try and headbutt the program right in the damn chin.

Oh, that smug whirring? Is letting up not at all. Though if Rinzler didn't know better, he might suspect Nihlus had something against his helmet at this point. The program's disk hand twists—not avoiding the deflection, but wrapping around, disk angling to dig into the underside of that armored forearm. This leaves just enough time to duck his head, coil his limbs, and...

...jump.

The blow connects. Hard and fast, the top of Nihlus' helmet slamming into the pointed tip of Rinzler's. But Rinzler is moving, Rinzler is turning, taking the momentum from the strike and adding it to his own backflip. And this time, between the loops of tether and the contact Nihlus so helpfully provided with his good arm? Rinzler's doing his absolute best to drag the user along, and slam him right into the ground.

Edited (whoops typo) 2017-02-21 22:45 (UTC)

Rinzler's helmet just needs to stop being a big, shiny target, okay?

Nihlus probably shouldn't have been as taken off-guard by the jump as he was and yet-

Armor and carapace takes most of the force again but between the packed dirt and Rinzler's weight, it still knocks the air out of his lungs. He'd instinctively turned his head sideways to avoid getting his fringe jarred, leaving his helmet bouncing off the inside of his cowl, starbursts blooming behind his eyes.

Ow.

If he'd been in better form, Nihlus would be moving by now. He can't wait for his lungs to work again, he can't wait for the aches to fade. It's not even close the hardest he's ever been hit, dammit and the armor dampened most of it. He needs to get up. Get up.

Get up-

Or at least take advantage of having a heavily curved back and roll to get Rinzler the hell off of him.

Off won't be too much of a problem. Rinzler lands in a low, braced crouch, and if he doesn't hesitate to drop the bulk of his weight (and an elbow) right into the user's core, he avoids actually stepping anywhere that Nihlus might trip up. Still, the advantage of that wide, balanced stance? Stability. Which means a whole lot more when Nihlus is trying to roll away... and Rinzler still has a firm grip on that tether.

The program's left hand flashes forward, taking advantage of the momentary lag to coil another loop out of the little slack remaining. If Nihlus holds still long enough, he'll even find one end slipping down over his helmet. A good idea is a good idea, after all, and if the user plans to try to thrash away, he might as well tangle himself in the process.

And if it doesn't work? Rinzler has plenty of tactics of his own. Say, the disk that's slicing in and down, a blurring, lethal hum—

...that pauses pointedly just below the user's throat.

Game?

The elbow gets him right under the ribcage where shell transitions to more flexible scales. Fortunately there wasn't anymore breath to knock out of him by that point. Pretty sure his diaphragm just exploded but that's alright.

He doesn't get much of a chance to react after that. There's a line around his neck just as he finally manages to inhale. The leathery kevlar around his throat stops it from digging in, but he can feel the pressure, reflexively reaches up to clutch at it-

Only to stop halfway with that disk's edge glowing a twitch away from neatly beheading him.

Nihlus is utterly still, breathing ragged, edged with electronic distortion through the mask.

Then he cuts the tether, tension whipping through it with a sharp snap. The now freed mess of a bionic arm lashes out to knock that disk out of Rinzler's arm- a move that will be promptly followed-up with an elbow to the glowing line of circuits in the program's gut if successful.

Sorry, buddy, he's not done giving you shit just yet.

And people wonder why Rinzler prefers fights to derezz. There's a quick oscillation of annoyed protest, sound rising and falling—dead users don't get to elbow him—before he gives in to the inevitable with very little actual complaint. That disk is getting dropped over his cold, dead voxels, but the mess of machinery does manage to knock it off its target.

And, of course, give him a new one. The whirring hum picks up, edge flaring brighter as Rinzler turns the blade, jerking it sideways, in, and ideally, through the bulk of that obstructing metal. He'd like to suggest a less target-colored replacement.

The counterattack does leave him still in range for Nihlus' followup, and while he twists to minimize the force to his cracked side, the impact still forces a nano's raw, unsteady stutter. Rinzler pays it back with a yank of his left arm—pulling that looped cable up... before it flashes back down, outside edge of wrist and hand slamming towards the throat it's looped around.

Breathing is overrated, Nihlus. Hope you weren't planning to start now.

Dead users who've been brought back from the dead twice totally have that privilege!

... At this rate, the beatdown is going to end with all the grace and dignity of a full blown slap fight, though.

A good chunk of his mechanical arm goes flying off into the distance somewhere. Nihlus doesn't try tracking it, not when he's suddenly being yanked up by the neck and- well, there goes his lung functions again.

"Gh-hkk!" he chokes out, good hand clutching at the tether to try and ease the tension. The sound can probably roughly be translated to 'Asshole!'.

The tip of his boot catches some of the slack line trailing away from them and he quickly hooks it between talons and hock, kicking upwards. It snaps straight with the weight of the hand grapple still attached to it, swinging around, aimed right at the back of Rinzler's helm.

You know, in case the program was under the mistaken impression that he didn't still have it out for his head or something.

About then, there's a flash of blue as his shields finally, helpfully crackled online.

The specific term might not quite parse, but somehow Rinzler can pick up on its intent. The smirk that answers, Nihlus will just have to imagine.

Not that Rinzler's entire frame isn't spelling out smug satisfaction well enough—he leans to the right, dropping his weight to plant on his disk hand in approximately 500% more dodge than that grapple-hand required. Dragging the coiled loop of cable along with, of course. The handstand pivots downward, folding to a neat crouch just on the far side of Nihlus' helmet...

...where Rinzler promptly leans forward, pulls out what slack he can, and steps on that tether. Enjoy trying to punch out his feet.

That is the most unnecessary amount of dodging Nihlus has ever seen in his life and he's worked with some pretty damn dramatic people.

Unfortunately, he's denied a chance at any snarky commentary, mostly because the tether tightens and he arches at the renewed pressure bearing down on his already aching throat. Turian lung capacity was impressive, but he hadn't really had a chance to catch his breath between the gut elbow and the neck punch.

There's a moment of scrabbling at the line until his manage to slip his claws under and yank so that the pressure is on the back of his helmet instead. A move abruptly followed by a fit of coughing harsh enough that he's curling against the ground instead of trying to punch out any feet.

Okay, NOW he's done giving you shit.

But only because his oxygen supply keeps getting depleted.

Asshole.

Well, that certainly looks like victory. On the other hand, Rinzler's sense of trust has been so grievously strained already. Some glitches clearly have no idea how to to stay dead.

Weight shifts back onto the line as the enforcer leans in. His disk is lit, if not leveled, and Nihlus will hear the whine notch up a few pitches in periphery. Contact comes from a different vector, though: the toe of Rinzler's other boot, pointedly nudging Nihlus' helmet.

Say it.

Nihlus holds his hand up at the nudge. Just- wait a sec there, buddy, he's gotta-

The coughing starts again and keeps going until he's heaving, cowl shaking heavily with each round.

Slowly, finally, after a good half a minute, it finally dies down. The Spectre rolls over flat on the ground and just lies there, gasping and peering up at Rinzler, chest rising and falling unevenly as he tries to prevent another fit.

Eventually, however...

"... You win," Nihlus croaks, utterly wrung out.

Edited (don't write while sick and sleepy) 2017-03-04 19:18 (UTC)

That sure is a lot of coughing. Rinzler's mask angles down, assessing, but outside the arm, nothing structural seems damaged. Still, by the time the user manages to speak, he's seriously considering walking off to find his second disk. Nihlus doesn't seem to be going anywhere.

There is something satisfying about hearing the words, though. Noise rolls out in a quick, even purr, helmet tipping in a nod. You bet he does. The enforcer's weapon goes dark, and Rinzler steps off of the tether, hooking the loose end with a small kick that half-uncoils the loop around its target.

Nihlus can manage the rest. Rinzler will be taking a short detour for the edge of the clearing, where a faint red-orange glow can be spotted in the undergrowth. Plants continue to be a problem, if one that he can solve in short order.

He'll be back soon.

Nihlus manages to get the tether off of his neck before giving up and just lying there for a while, listening to Rinzler going through the brush. It's been a while since he'd been so thoroughly flattened like this and he's not particularly inclined to move until he has to.

The cryo sleep and the medical coma combined had eaten up a lot of muscle-mass and he can feel all of that lack right now. He hadn't really managed to get back into working out until they'd walked into Savrou, and, well, between then and now, there hadn't been a lot of recovery time. The bionic arm had compensated somewhat, but not enough: he should have been able to hold out against Rinzler longer than this.

But... it was a success.

Rinzler hadn't killed him. And while it was a rather morbid metric to measure success with, the fact that he's still got his head after refusing to roll over the first time spoke a lot.

It was a start, at least.

"You need some omni-gel?" Nihlus wheezes finally, turning his head vaguely in the direction his friend had walked off in.

The brush doesn't hold out long. There's a few crunching sounds, joined by a crack as an unlucky sapling gives way, and Rinzler's second disk is free and humming in his grip. He melds them together as he steps out of cover, glancing toward his (still prone) opponent before reaching back to snap the weapon into dock.

Approach comes a little slower. Combat is familiar and easy; everything else queued up between them... less so. Still, this had been different than expected. Better. He'd wanted that fight.

And it's hard to see much to be afraid of.

Rinzler comes to a stop a few paces away, helmet shaking in response. He's fine—or well within tolerances, anyway. The mask tips pointedly toward Nihlus before angling to the side. What's the user's status?

"Uuugh, I'm dying."

Nihlus dramatically touches the back of his hand to the top of his helmet. He holds the pose for a bit before his head twitches just a little toward the program, as if peeking up at him.

There's definitely a grin going on behind that visor.

"I'm not actually dying," he adds, just in case the sarcasm got lost in translation.

Groaning, he gingerly rolls himself onto his front, pauses to have another bout of coughing, then slowly pushes up onto his feet, dusting the dirt off his armor.

"This is usually the point where the loser buys everyone drinks." Planting his hands against his knees, he peers at Rinzler. "Since you don't drink though, you wanna put in a claim for another prize?"

Oh, Rinzler can translate dramatic idiot just fine. There's a rude skip of static and a stare that utterly fails to turn sympathetic as Nihlus goes and respirates himself another fit. The user isn't dying, and he's lucky not to be. Especially after that stunt with the elbow.

Not that Rinzler can exactly complain about the results. Frame shifts, an easy twitch from core through shoulders that doubles as diagnostic and a shrug. (No particular limits to mobility, though avoiding impacts to that side would probably be wise.) The protocol sounds reasonable, but Nihlus doesn't exactly have much Rinzler wants. He reaches for his TAB, and letters flash-up to the side.

Suggestions?

The rude noise earns Rinzler the sunniest, toothiest beam. Nihlus doesn't dare try laughing though.

"Currency. Favors. Hmm... cookies?" Rinzler was a fan of those, wasn't he? "If nothing else, I'll put it down as IOU. You can always cash it in later."

Slowly straightening up, Nihlus does his own version of diagnostics, seeing how far he could stand before the new injuries put him into another round of coughing. Between the scraping rawness in his throat and the bruising pressure under his torso, the answer wasn't too great.

Still, nothing grievous or fatal. Rinzler missed his vocal box and Turian trachea were very flexible, so the impact had a low chance of doing anything too terrible. Most of Turian vital organs were contained in their carapaces, so the elbow slam to his gut wasn't... the worst thing. Nothing to waste the limited supply of medi-gel on until he reached a hospital anyways.

"Knowing you, you've probably figured out where I live by now," he continues after catching his breath for a moment. "I'd honestly prefer if it you contacted me through my shop, however. Or at least announce yourself through the TAB first. My house security is potentially lethal."

Glad you're fond of scathing sounds, Nihlus. Cookies gets another one. Still, the terms sound acceptable enough, and Rinzler returns a second, quicker shrug. Acknowledged.

The assumption goes uncommented (making it a fairly safe bet)... but that warning earns a much more pointed quirk of interest. The frequency of the enforcer's sound picks up a little, helmet tipping to one side. Vent exploration on the ship had taught Rinzler plenty of reasons not to sneak into users' personal quarters without reason, and the network was generally more efficient regardless.

But.

Could Nihlus make that sound like more of a challenge?

"... You know what, I'm just going go disable the 'lethal' part of it," Nihlus mutters flatly.

The security was made specifically to keep Clu out of his house. If he's being honest though, it's not like there's anything interesting there for him to find anyways. Unless the admin fancied giant bean bags or something. The remotely accessible security cams should warn him of any potential danger anyways.

Planting his hands on his hips, Nihlus rolls his head and winces slightly as the move strained bruised flesh.

"You want a ride back to R1?" he asks, voice rasping. "I've got a car rented out nearby."

Sure, Rinzler flew in and didn't seem to be particularly low on charge, but it's polite to ask.

Probably a good idea. Even if (or, perhaps, because) Rinzler wouldn't mind the extra challenge. There's an ambivalent skip, and a slight shake of the program's head before Rinzler returns to his text interface.

Ground transport: inferior.

Not that he has any strong opinions on the matter.

Don't you ride a motorcycle now and again, Rinzler?

"Ground transport doesn't cost half as much to rent." Nihlus could have made a limb joke there, but he didn't. "Besides, I've got equipment to pick up this week and finding parking spots for anything flying's a pain."

The rental vehicles here don't condense down to a short baton for the most part, unfortunately.

"Did you see where my arm went?" he asks, moving around to gather up the tether. "I thought it didn't fly too far, but I don't see it anywhere."

Not into a plant-infested forest, he doesn't!

A slightly better sense of user humor might have left Rinzler impressed by that restraint. As it is, he only shrugs, conceding the point—for parking, at least. User funds have proven surprisingly simple to obtain.

A step to the side, and the enforcer's helmet slants a little, searching the space behind. Vectoring has always been a strong suit, but in the end, it's only when he replays the file directly that he can flag the lump half-buried in the dirt as arm, partial. Rinzler steps over, extracting the severed chunk and offering it back. His other hand is, of course, typing out some helpful commentary.

Suggest improvements to durability.

Oh, there's that smug.

And color.

Oh my god Rinzler, plants can't infest the forest. They ARE the forest.

"How about orange?" Nihlus quips, tossing the tether over his shoulder before moving over to accept the severed chunk. "Then we can match."

He's going to swap metal out for fancy carbon and ceramics and then Rinzler can go eat those words.

"Thanks, by the way," he adds, after a moment, tucking the piece under his remaining arm.

There's a sudden, odd pensiveness to his words though, and the way he peered at the Program. For a moment he almost looked like he was going to say something but he catches himself, decides against it instead.

"So." A shrug here, suddenly awkward. "Guess I'll be seeing you around, then."

Fine. A severely plant-infested dirt zone.

Rinzler doesn't reject the color suggestion. He does, however, quirk his helmet just a little. The user really is going for minimum stealth capacity, huh? At least his circuit lights can darken, if he needs it.

There's a lag as Nihlus continues, tone and gesture weighted in a way Rinzler can't quite parse. It's too much to match just to retrieval, but what else would the user be thanking him for? Beating him? Gloating about it? The opaque shell dips reflexively at the goodbye, but Rinzler's hands linger on the text inputs, and after a moment, another line scrolls out.

Not going back.

A beat. Then, clarifying:

To the Grid.

Nihlus had asked. Before.

The helmet hides any expression, but the sudden stretch of startled silence probably spoke more than anything. Nihlus stares, his grip on the severed arm suddenly slack and he nearly drops the piece before managing to recompose himself.

"That- that's amazing," he says in hushed tones, subvocal woven through with relief and confusion and a complicated tangle of other emotions. "I'm so glad."

But why? Did Rinzler finally decide to go against Clu? After everything that'd happened and with everything Nihlus knows about them, that seemed unlikely. But then- what happened?

"What changed?"

It's an odd reversal. For all that Rinzler's the one who usually lacks a face, Nihlus has always been able to read him more easily than the reverse. But the user's careful reserve is shattered so thoroughly this time, it's almost embarrassing.

Maybe it would have been. But there's a quiet catch to the enforcer's noise as his mask dips in confirmation, the slight sag of tension not found where it should be. Two decicycles later, and Rinzler's still looping those same values. He still hadn't expected the reprieve.

Much less that Clu would listen. Much less that Clu would promise it might last.

Still, he's not quite so deluded as to think his efforts made the bulk of the difference. If Clu planned to return to the Grid, Rinzler would be going with him, regardless of what state Clu found acceptable.

Clu didn't want to ...a beat of hesitation (maybe it did matter, just a little) and Rinzler appends another word: either.

The paradoxical swamp of immense suspicion, worry and happiness takes a good moment to work through.

Suspicion, of course, eventually wins out, because Nihlus was spec ops and you didn't get anywhere without a healthy dose of paranoia.

Why had Clu changed his mind? He was surrounded by the very people he hated with little to no power over the situation like he'd had on the Grid. Asides from Rinzler, the other Programs were his enemies and any allies were few and far in between. As far as Nihlus knows, at least.

Or- had he always been planning to stay? If so, why?

And what happened between them that Rinzler was now comfortable differentiating his own wants from Clu's?

Too many unanswerable questions at the moment. The last was a potential positive at least: maybe the admin's change of heart was linked to his enforcer's growing independence. On the other hand, it was also a possible marker for manipulation.

Looking at Rinzler, he doesn't see any answers forthcoming, nothing he could read in the other's body language. Pretty sure the guy was just as baffled as he was.

"... Well. I, for one," he says finally, cocking his hip, head inclined in lieu of a smile. "Am looking forwards to our rematch, then."

The lag is telling. The questions are, in part, if not in whole, ones he's been looping for the last two user-months. Rinzler doesn't offer answers, but if he watches Nihlus back from behind his own helmet, the user at least doesn't show any objection. Where the shaky truce between his admin and his allies is concerned, that's all the enforcer can hope for.

...

Well. Maybe not quite all.

Rinzler's helmet inclines right back, sound quick and steady as he types.

Challenge: accepted.

Anytime.

Ass-Kicking!

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