Rinzler slides into default, absolutely still, sloped to exact points and hovering in wait with perfect posture.

Clu's not-precisely-query kicks up a rumble of something suspiciously like discontent, a sharp uptick and a positively stubborn cant of the head. He never did like to play, not for stakes at this tier.

...Still.

"So she got lucky." A little shrug, perfunctory, almost rote; I meant to do that.

Clu's fingers tighten on the mylar, stroking, kicking up a cloud of confirm and wait soft as the brush of an eyelash. They can get started any moment now--it's Rinzler's choice whether he feels it or not--that's a fair counter offer, surely.

"It's not like she'll get a second chance."