thisavrou_log | There's a memory of how we used to be

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There's a memory of how we used to be

Who: Rinzler and YOU
When: Various dates through May
Where: Kauto, Chioni, your brain
What: Magic, dreamwalking, CR pileups, snow. A wide variety of shenanigans.
Warnings: Mindscrew references and violence ranging from "likely" to "guaranteed". Also, freaky dream shit, especially from Nihlus.

A. Powerswap I: In Your Dreams (May 9 or 12)

Rinzler has always hated to shut down. He doesn't like presenting weakness, especially in a world with as many hazards as this one. But even more disconcerting is the process of defragment: unfiltered memories, piecing together in patchwork echoes to make dreams. Especially when his own code punishes the recollection on waking.

Over the last cycle, things have changed, at least a little. The crackle of reprimand doesn't cut so deeply, and the rigid lock of automation no longer strips him of those thoughts. He can remember, just a little. Just enough. But one cycle of memory can't erase the weight of a thousand strangled by correction, and as conscious processing shuts down, Rinzler's default sentiment is one of dread. He doesn't want this. He hates it. He wishes he could get away.

He can.

One step. Another. He doesn't move, but he grows distant, grey silence dampens the cycling of memory and the minute self-corrections of his code. Rinzler reaches out and finds himself somewhere else. Somewhen? Whatever your experience, whatever your nightmares or sleeping fantasies, they'll find a new shape stepping into them, one who definitely doesn't belong.

[[ooc: Rinzler has Solas' powers, which include manipulating as well as entering dreams. That said, he also has no clue how to use them!]]

B. Powerswap II: ...And Beyond? (May 10-13)

Sleep isn't the only function misaligned. The lag hits not long after waking, a subtle downgrade of his strength and speed. More edits show themselves in quick (disastrous) succession. If the spate of users exercising new abilities are any sign, the error is widespread—so, one that might be expected to roll back. As far as Rinzler's concerned, it can't come soon enough. Clu can't fix him. His normal fuctions don't work. And even more problematic than the rest, he's not a user.

He isn't supposed to have powers.

Maybe you bump him in the hall. Maybe you step up behind the program a little too quickly. Maybe it's not even you. Rinzler is paranoid at the best of times, and between the virus and these edits, it's far too easy for far too many people to set him off. Is it a reflexive flare of barrier magic? A bolt of ice? Or a shower of flaming meteors? The possibilities are practically endless, and that's if he isn't trying.

C. ~~Grid~~Glowbugs! (May 16-22)

After the recent onslaughts of insanity, the mission posting on his TAB provides a strange (but welcome) sense of normalcy. Gridbugs. A threat he knows, a problem he can deal with. It's important, after all, to test that all his restored functions are up to par.

Rinzler doesn't even care (much) about his growing grudge against this system. He finds an ride on (top of) the EN-line train passing closest to the faults, and scans the transit route for damage, looking for the right place to jump off. Of course, that doesn't mean he's the only one heading toward the infestation. Or that a glowing, growling, armored shape might not be noticed, perched on top of your commute.

D. Subzero say what? (May 22+)

On reporting the cleanup, Rinzler comes across a couple misconceptions. First (and ridiculously), the savrii call the errors glowbugs. Second, the official he spoke to seems to believe the (grid)bugs source from Chioni. It's stupid. Ridiculous. Chioni is a user world, and the glitches are entirely digital in nature.

Still, that doesn't mean there might not be an infestation there as well.

The second partition of this system is one he hasn't explored so fully. The first two user-months, it had been overheating, and this month, the users guarding the transit lines try to turn him back for the opposite excuse. 'It's too cold'. He listens to their idiocy with a silent air of scorn, walks off, and makes his own preparations. He'll take anyone who wants to go.

The Moira's transporters seat up to six, though anyone looking to view their descent will need to stand behind the pilot's seat through a very turbulent ride. Clouds swirl below in a dark vortex, one Rinzler hesitates not at all in plunging into and right through. If one didn't know better, they might say he's enjoying the slaps of massive windforce that threaten to send them spiraling off-course, or the flurries of snow that choke viewscreens and weigh down the craft.

If one did know better? They would know that Rinzler does.

[[ooc: Prose or spam freely; I'll match! If you're after something different, you can wildcard or poke me at

notglitching to plot a thing out.]]

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Since arriving in this system, Rinzler's spent no small amount of time and effort keeping track of former allies. Where, naturally, keeping track of means literally tracking them down. He knows their functions here. Their locations. Access is important in the event of a crisis, and he's mapped out routes into all of their homes. For the more security-conscious (Nihlus), it's almost become a Game: Rinzler trying to slip in, while the opponent works to supply sufficient countermeasures to stop him.

But Shepard took a somewhat different strategy, when she'd noticed his presence outside the rooms. She decided to invite him in.

Which is why Rinzler is here, tonight, rumbling only a little awkwardly at the door. After two seasons of Powernauts and a few short films, procedure: Movie Night is well-established. This week, however, the user had offered an additional challenge. It was his turn to find viewing material.

The trip to the procurement depot had been brief and uneasy, decision made by proximity of package... and, just maybe, the second word of the title. Space Race: the epic story of a diverse group traversing the known galaxy in competition for... some kind of prize? The description's not so clear.

Plenty of time to figure out the details. For now, he keys the door chime, and steps in.

Even if the 'contaminant' (virus) warning hadn't been broadcast over the public feed, the sudden stains among the population would be difficult to miss. Possessing neither the slightest trust in the admins nor the capability to ingest past his mask, Rinzler isn't inclined to report in himself. He watches, though. The ones who enter. The ones who leave. And the growing, active fear among the savrii.

Looking for someone to blame.

It's no coincidence, then, that his usual patrol stops outside a house with several yellow-green stained betas. He'd taught Asriel and Frisk the basics of disk use aboard the ship, but between the circumstances of its crash and their new life here, he hasn't taken time to check in. That, perhaps, needs remedying. A quick circuit to scan the house for IDs, and Asriel will hear the light tap of a pebble bouncing off the nearest window.

Knock knock.

Asriel isn't the only one who'd come back from the Grid with a code disk. He's just the only one who'd been enthusiastic on the topic of its use. Frisk was more cautious—more afraid, of what the weapon might do to others.

And not nearly protective enough of their own code.

Noise rattles out a little louder, but Rinzler forces the incident out of queue. He can't think about it. Not how Frisk had harmed themself, not who had fixed it—not now. Whatever his (their?) admin might be planning, there were other threats now, and Frisk had to learn self-protection in more ways than one. The signature flags close by on his scans—they're passing by the entryway.

Frisk will hear the buzz of their door chime.

On first being told of the contaminant-induced error, Clu had ordered a report in the event of even marginal changes. When Rinzler wakes from another strange rest cycle to find his functions lagging and a strange buzzing in his mind? He doesn't wait to calculate the match. Something is different, something is wrong, and if there's any chance this virus is affecting him... he can't let that happen. He can't afford to stall.

Rinzler can't view his own code, after all.

Clu can check. Clu can fix it. Clu always has, after all: every glitch or error (or memory) that impeded his function. But Clu promised not to wipe him like before, and this is different. This is urgent. This correction, he might need.

It doesn't quite remove the quiet, squirming sense of dread.

Head bowed. Shoulders curved. The pattern of defaults is easy to fall into, but tension clings to the enforcer's frame like static as he reaches toward the door. Clu will hear the chime of an entry request: paired to a familiar ID.

Frisk pauses for a moment, surprised to have a visitor, but they hurry to the door and open it with little suspicion. The Savrii might be suspicious and hostile to anyone that had to be decontaminated, but that's only been in public. They hadn't heard of anyone being followed home yet. So anyone coming to visit must be a friend to someone in the house.

And it turns out it is. Frisk beams when they see Rinzler standing there and pull open the door wide to invite him inside. "Hi, Rinzler! D'you wanna come in? Um, I think I can find some batteries if you're hungry..."

The door slides open, and Shepard is pulling a bag of popcorn (or at least, a very similar substance) out of the microwave, bouncing it back and forth between her hands, before emptying it into a bowl.

"Hey! Right on time." Giving the popped kernels a toss, she points at the the reader under the TV with a free leg. "Scan it the case code, and we can settle in for a minute while it downloads on to my box."

Shuffling over, dressed in sweats and her classic hoodie, she curls up on the couch, watching Rinzler smilingly, TAB open for dialogue. "So? What'd you pick?"

Clu has burned so much runtime insisting on standards, cutting holes in datsets until they align, that at first nothing registers as amiss.

He'd ordered Rinzler to appear, to drag that bitter stack of ~~dangerous~~ useless User platitudes with in him, pager and all--report and submit to inspection.

Of course he's come. Everything's as it should be.

It is.

"It's open, man."

Analysis? Spite? Another test? Let Rinzler interpret it as he likes. He's becoming so proficient at that.

And if he doesn't know by now, not even Clu can help him: nothing worth having is easy.

Open. Of course it is. Rinzler stalls only a moment, fingers curling against the framework of the door, as if to ground. As if the odd, mismatched humming in his head could be channeled out like any surplus power. It can't, of course, but he still tries, then lowers his hand, a single touch to the access pad. The door slides open.

Frame hunched. Sound steady. He steps inside—alone, of course—leaving the opening to seal up behind him. The enforcer's helmet stays low, but eyes flit up behind it, lingering on Clu as something unlocks in his throat.

Permissions.

Clu set the conditionals for this report. Clu knows why he's come. Should he provide the data? Better not to stall, not to waste time. But better also, not to presume. Not to interrupt. Take direction, wait, follow. Don't overstep. (Don't speak, not ever.) And if some of those lines are outdated; if the framework of interaction has changed, Rinzler's not so confident in the moment as to project how much.

Especially when he's damaged. Especially when he's wrong.

He waits for acknowledgement.

Tex hasn't gone far in her quest to get away from that which vexes her—she's noticed the powers she has acquired, but she doesn't yet know how to use them, so she has taken a job away from home, but only in R5. She could return home, if she truly wanted.

But she doesn't want to. Not yet. Because along with the powers she's gained to control and read other people's thoughts, she's started to dream more. She doesn't really know what to do with that. She avoids going to bed until she has to, which is really all she can do. Otherwise, she has to let this run its course.

The setting is bleak when she enters her dream. It looks like Blood Gulch—but Blood Gulch never looked like this. Blood Gulch was always sunny, always hot, always glinting, despite its flaws. This place is dim, and much, much bigger. The bases tower overhead, the banners that fly outside tattered and worn, and the fog—oh, the fog. Perhaps if it weren't for the fog, Tex could work out where she was and what is happening, but no. This place is far too chilled and still for that.

"Fucking creepy-ass garbage," she mutters to herself, gazing up the side of Blue base at the sorry excuse for a flag that flies off its buttresses.

Lavellan doesn't understand how his own new powers work, or what kind of person they could have come from. What he does know is he has a sort of innate ability to... know where people have gone. Sort of. Maybe. Probably, the original owner could use it in a more sophisticated way, but he gets the impulse enough to start going in the right general direction.

He hopes.

After a while he starts to doubt, because he really has no idea who he should be looking for, or if who he wants to find is where he'd being led. Then he turns a corner to see a... man? in a helmet? set fire to a nearby store in a manner that absolutely does not seem deliberate, and Lavellan thinks he's found who he's looking for.

This guy has to be the one who took his powers, and therefore the ones Lavellan got must belong to him. Because that's the situation that makes the most sense right now. Lavellan is rather known for setting things on fire.

No need to startle him, though, when he seems enough on edge as it is. Instead Lavellan strolls up as casually as he can manage, hands up to hopefully indicate to this stranger he doesn't mean any harm.

"Having some difficulty, are you?"

Rinzler shakes his head to the offer—outside would be better, and his power levels are still fine. He does lag a little at that smile, though. It's certainly not the first time he's seen the expression on Frisk's face, but, it's... good. As a status check. He calls up his TAB and adds a more overt one.

Status?

No reference to the color stain, but if it's relevant, he shouldn't need to.

Rinzler's always on time. He nods a greeting, glancing bemusedly at the popcorn-tossing procedure as he makes his way toward the display screen. It's the work of a moment to scan in the ID, and the device emits a tri-tonal sound as it hums to work.

Leaving Rinzler free to answer that question in the most direct way possible: by tossing the case toward Shepard for her to peruse. Maybe she can make more sense of it than he had.

Recommended by inventory function.

Something's different. Wrong. Off, and strange, and—and puzzling this time. It's not the flat greyness of the tall structures. It's not the unfamiliarity of when or where. Rinzler disks hold far more memory than he's permitted when awake, and this would hardly be his first time rediscovering old fragments. He feels a little more aware (a little more wary), but that's not...

...there's no sense of direction. No echoed words, no rediscovery, no sense of sequence falling into place. He waits to see where defragmentation might take him, and... it doesn't.

Strange. Puzzling. And all the more so, to feel so thoroughly himself through it all. Rinzler glances down at his own red-orange lights, sound rattling out softly through the fog, and steps back two paces before making a dash for the wall. If he can get on top of the building, maybe he can see what's going on.

Fire. Of course it would be fire. Rinzler might not have liked the user store: a discount warehouse of machine parts, with a proprietor who always managed to slip one too many questions about what he was made of into the routine exchange of resources. Still, if he wanted to destroy it, he wouldn't have used fire.

And definitely not while he was still inside.

As Lavellan turns the corner, Rinzler is fixing that as quickly as he can. Flaming debris rains down across the storefront, more explosions echoing inside in time with the infuriated shrieks of the store owner. The program, on the other hand, is dodging, ducking, and leaping his way out, a launch out of one window that terminates in a roll as his frame hits the pavement—well short of his intended mark. Glitched, glitched, glitched for gridbugs, and too crashing weak to move the way he should, besides...

The sound of footsteps draws a reflexive flare of scans, groping for ID—but his scans aren't working, and Rinzler jerks his mask around to look. User.

(Probably.)

(How the fault does anyone get by like this?)

He answers the inquiry with a low snarl, a hand dropping pointedly to settle on a baton. Difficulty might be an understatement, but if this user thought it could take advantage of his state, it was about to find itself worse off.

In that way dreams have of making sense only unto themselves, Tex is immediately aware of Rinzler—as a member of the opposing team, as a part of Red Team. He runs past her in the gloom of the fogginess and she turns the direction he was running and rushes after him, legs pounding against the dirt, which is hard packed and damp. She chases him, moving along as rapidly as she can, but finds that the effort isn't enough—he stays just a step ahead as they make their way to the top of the base.

The ramp is long, the angle steep. Tex is out of breath when she reaches the top. That's not right. She's still regaining strength after that horrible recovery she'd experienced after her fall, but she should be strong enough now to make a climb like that fairly effortless.

Familiar with Rinzler's flight style, Yori fastens herself securely into one of the right-hand passenger seats as Chioni's bulk draws near. Her hands feel clumsy in the new armor, despite the time she's spent getting accustomed since her hair and face went bright green. She'd prefer not to fall over in front of Rinzler if she doesn't have to.

Of course Rinzler delights in finding the most challenging flight path. Yori is glad she's not the one trying to keep control, but Rinzler won't have any trouble. She grins as the transporter tilts hard.

"Nice flying!"

The helmet's speaker is supposed to make that as clearly audible as if she wasn't wearing a helmet, but the echo of her voice inside it is tinny and over-loud. She's still testing the efficient uses of her armor. The shop in Kauto claimed its products functioned under freezing conditions or in space. Yori is sure which of those she'd rather test first; extreme cold is more dangerous to a User than to her, by all indications.

And that's what he gets, the nod long from the neck, quick even exactly equal steps removing distance between them. Clu raises an eyebrow, watching, letting values tick over as he watches for outer evidence of deviation--not to punish, or not only--but to reconstruct if necessary.

"You are in a fine mess, aren't you," warm and scalpel sharp, "if you've come to me first."

Can this thing even pass to them? It's after organics, clearly eats at them in some way, seems to have spread by direct access rather than incidental contact.

Too many unknowns.

They can't format, not even if something is truly wrong--not with the conditions in place that they already agreed to, that Clu has already set.

Just one of myriad reasons promises are so dangerous. They always cost.

"Give me a full symptom list. Omit nothing. If text is easier, use it."

He simply filed all the question marks away. Hesitation is waste and waste is weakness, and that's not what Rinzler needs from him now.

More to determine. More to test. And he himself is not an antiviral suite.

The tension clinging to Rinzler's frame might be a fraction more overt than usual... but for the most part, he holds to defaults well enough. At least, until Clu begins to speak. There's a twitch of the mask—not lifting all the way, not with Clu watching, but a stubborn glint of irritation meeting that warm, sharp edge.

He always went to Clu first.

It makes things easier, a little. Anger always does, even towards a source he's not permitted to resent. (Especially then.) Rinzler dips his head in a quick, precise nod, and reports as ordered. He doesn't give the text interface even the slightest glance.

"Second rest cycle off standards. Discovered damage during subsequent recharge." Or more precisely, that recharging didn't help the drained, pathetic feeling. "Power levels adequate, motor functions still experiencing lag. Estimated one-hundred twenty percent increase in reaction rate."

Estimated. He hasn't tested properly, or done any sort of combat diagnostic at all. (Having gone straight to Clu as ordered, there hasn't been time.) But he certainly feels more than twice as slow as he should be.

"Force also dampened." Weak. There's a beat of hesitation—but omit nothing, and even if he can't quantify the data...

"Unknown energy reserve present. Not compatible. Can—" A stutter, pause, and [his] [~~Tron's~~] voice is quieter, uncertainty creeping its way through a tone that had stayed almost defiantly clear and to the point.

"I can feel it."

Watching the arc of the case, Shepard plucks it out of mid-air, flipping it over in a smooth motion.

"Space Race?"

She looks up, eyebrow arched, before returning to the back, scanning the text, expression growing increasingly bemused with each line. "This might not be the kind of race you're expecting, but I'm down. Reviews look good."

The thin media box repeats its tri-tonal ping, and the screen lights up with the logo. Popping a piece of popcorn in her mouth, she scoots across the couch, making space for Rinzler in his designated spot.

"Do programs have snacks?"

Having no right to express resentment has never stopped Clu before. How much more direct his own queue would have been, without all the hide and seek. Cleaner without Nihlus. Certainly more straightforward, without Tron's Maker skulking in the wake of everything he does.

There's a frisson of tension down Rinzler's frame for Clu's words, for the implication forked away there.

That's interesting. It's so new it slips in past irritation, twitches at very old strings that murmur their own dead values before he quashes them in a gentle wash of null.

His wording was imprecise for the interval--retroactive but absolutely correct: if Rinzler had come to him first from the beginning, things would be...very different.

Still. When his enforcer answers him directly, crisp and factual with a toss of his head, that's better. That's by design, promise given and threat taken away.

Rinzler wraps the truth in syllables, strong and precise, and this is theirs alone.

The data are sobering, despite that satisfaction. In terms of base energy levels, the interposition of lack and surplus clearly indicate need for more than default combat diagnostics.

Which. Rinzler would not have had time for, not while holding to this report interval.

"No," softly, demurral--but for his own reaction, not Rinzler's data. "It's good you came in."

Spooling his own inferences from the diagram of long experience: "Clarify the nature of your recharge discovery. This doesn't sound or act like a stripped circuit." Gently, conversational, the register too high. "You wouldn't have knelt in my living room for a little thing like a crunched contact?"

And he doesn't miss that, what is either a major allocation error and incipient fault, or something else, some artifact of this wretched organic poison in this wretched organic place.

It's not all revulsion that curls his lips back, a feeling old and ugly and intimately familiar.

(You're not capable of understanding--)

"Specify." Smooth, easy. "We don't have hunches."

The sideways jerk of the dark mask is small, stiff with discomfort more than any potential for offense. Not a contact. Not circuitry or power flow at all, that he can tell—no matter how similar the effect seemed.

"No damage. Detected," he appends after—clearly, something is broken. "Noticed lag. Felt—" no, imprecise— "Reduced function similar to effect of drain on Midway Hub. Attempted recharge to correct."

A twitch of shoulders, shrug drawing inwards. The gesture is reflexive, informal, and ill-matched to the parameters of submission and report. But speech or no, Rinzler's communicated with a myriad of beings in the last cycle, and picked up a few protocols along the way.

He doesn't notice the slip. "Didn't help." Not with the lag, not with the weakness... not with the strange hum in the back of his mind. Specify, and Rinzler stills, a rigid freeze of warning crawling down his spine. It's less Clu's expression than Clu's tone; less either than the combination, anger coupled to a calm, easy intonation of control.

He needs to be clear.

(He needs to be perfect.)

"Secondary reserve." The barest hesitation between descriptor and term. "Internal. Not—" the same, not right, not accessible (is it?). He doesn't know, and noise rattles up louder in the pause. Retry. "I—" The wrong start, made worse by the complete lack of data to conclude it. I feel. I think.

I don't know.

No answer will come quickly.

Yori's recent change of outfits is one Rinzler can only view as sensible, especially considering the recent tensions system-wide. It's really only when considering her own skill as an analyst, that the choice becomes equal parts disconcerting. Still, the content of her words vastly outweighs the slight echo. Especially in this case.

Yori being (probably) too distant to catch the pleased uptick in Rinzler's noise, he twitches the controls a margin, offering a deliberate tilt of each wing in acknowledgement... before another gust of sleet nearly flips them over in the air. Whoops. Fly now, answer later.

It shouldn't take long. There's a lurch as they clear the cloud cover, the faint crackle of potential dimming. Then the descent eases, only the cling of frozen liquid to impair the craft as he angles them down toward a rocky overhang by the edge of some mountains. In all likelihood, they'd need to clean off some of it before taking off again, but the shelter might at least reduce how much.

Engines transition smoothly to repulsors, and Rinzler sets them down with a faint crunch onto the brittle surface underneath. Outside is an array of geometric white, and he takes it in for a long moment before slipping back to Yori's compartment.

Asriel had mostly stuck to staying indoors, out of fear that he'd be on the receiving end of people's violent paranoia and fears. The pebble flying against his window gets him to jump in the air - which is a little silly-looking, but his nerves are on edge lately.

He moves towards the window, peeks out and... immediately opens the window.

"R-Rinzler? What are you doing here?"

Not that he wasn't glad to see him, but the visit was definitely unexpected.

"Oh! Um...'m okay. I went t', um...t' get checked up." They look down when they admit that, ashamed to have been part of what brought danger to their new home. They should have known that something was odd, but...

"I haven't been sick or anythin' since th' one night, though! So, um, maybe I didn't get it?" Asriel has been somewhat off, certainly, but they haven't felt very ill or much different than usual at all. And Chara has been...well. Even Partners hold some secrets from one another.

Noise catches with a huff of static.

Assumptions: nonspecific.

Something, something, vague dig at user standards. (Though no really, he read that box too.)

Rinzler settles near the edge of the couch, a carefully calculated position that allows mobility at need. Funny, how that caution always falters about halfway through the movie. For now, though, his delusions of combat-readiness remain at least forty percent operational. He eyes the screen curiously as the title scroll gives way to a... familiar-looking view. Was this filmed on party planet?

Solid intake: uncommon. Not never, but why. Liquid energy standard for recharge in home systems. Recreational varieties available. Drinks yes, snacks not-exactly.

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Page 1 of 3

There's a memory of how we used to be

Closed to Shepard, later Nihlus (May 3)

Closed to Asriel (May 8)

Closed to Frisk (May 9)

Closed to Clu (May 9, later)

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May 11, in her dreams

b! sup bruh

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\o/

oh, y'know. arson~

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D.

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