Entry tags:

June Player Plot Log

Who: Everyone
When: June 4rd to June 26th
Where: Earth 91c
What: Thisavrou’s Ingress connects to an alternate, technologically advanced version of Earth.
Warnings: Murder (and mystery!), potential violence, arguably slavery(?)

Important OOC Note: This event features NPC encounters in certain locations, with the NPCs Atarah (misassembled), Alex (outofstock), and Calla (TBA). These encounters may be used to gather information for the murder investigation, influence the world, or just to nab some interesting CR. If you are open to having your character approached by an NPC, please include the phrase “NPC-friendly” in the subject line of your top-level, or in the the heading of your preferred starter(s). Note that your chances of such an encounter may be greatly increased (or even guaranteed) by signing up for encounters on the OOC post. Have fun!

Earth 91c

While scanning through various universes for matching signatures, Thisavrou’s Ingress technicians occasionally find different versions of a single world, not quite matching the signature of anyone’s homeworld and yet not completely alien either. On the first of June, Thisavrou’s Ingress connects to one such alternate world—specifically, an alternative version of Earth.

Labeled “Earth 91c” by Ingress personnel, life on this Earth is fundamentally different than the life Earthlings on Thisavrou may remember. It’s the year 2610 and advancements made hundreds of years in the past have revolutionized every industry on the planet, allowing for an exponential increase in the production of food, goods, and commodities, while the cost in human effort and suffering has fallen to almost null. The result is a near-utopia with surpluses in almost every resource, creating an environment where humans can stretch their creative and scientific wings skyward, where no brilliant mind must be squandered in a life spent on unfulfilling menial labor. Art and technology flourish on this world and beyond, as humans, freed from such quaint concerns as food production and resource extraction, have extended their reach to the stars, even discovering an Ingress on a distant planet and relocating it to a city on Earth.

Upon exiting the Ingress, visitors will find themselves in a vibrant center of technological and cultural exchange, in the midst of a human civilization that seems to be in the midst of its golden age. The technology that made this prosperity possible is on full display throughout Eastgate City. And some of it is very familiar…

Welcome To Eastgate City

Once visitors arrive in Eastgate City proper, it will be very easy to see how exactly Earth 91c became the utopia it is today. Programs, AI, androids—whatever you call them, they’re known as the “Created” here and they’re out in force. They perform a variety of functions on this world, including (but not limited to) manual labor, factory work, personal and professional assistance, system organization, household drudgery, farming, construction, child care, entertainment, and companionship. A large portion of these Created are called “Programs”; they resemble humans, marked as different only by glowing markings that decorate their bodies, some simple and some so ornate and extensive, their wearers resemble walking works of art. Any who are familiar with Thisavrou's own small Program population will notice a key difference, however: the Programs of Earth 91c carry no disks on their backs. There are also AI, owned by individuals or companies, often resembling small, holographic humans who can be summoned at will by personal devices to provide information, analysis, or entertainment. Anywhere you go in the city you’ll see these Created, hurrying along to carry out their programmed functions, stationed in businesses or kiosks, or accompanying the humans (called, of course, “Creators”) who own them. To prevent any confusion between visiting and native Created, all AI characters who enter through the Ingress will be asked to wear identifying bracelets for the duration of their stay. All visitors are also referred to a message broadcast to their TABs for a list of the planet’s laws as they pertain to foreign guests, and as a means of getting in contact with Eastgate’s official ambassador, Daniel Wright.

And yet, for all the pretense of welcome, there’s a strange, tense atmosphere pervading the city. You might be able to see it in the wary glances of organic and AI alike towards more visibly foreign visitors, or hear it in the hushed whispers of a crime too terrible to imagine. Most natives you meet will be reluctant to discuss it with you, but you may be able to put together a few details: an incident occurred a couple weeks earlier in which a Created—a Program by the name of Kess—murdered two humans at a political rally for the rising political star Delilah Handler, a candidate with known ties to the “Equalist” movement—an umbrella term for activists who seek to further Created rights. No one is quite sure how such an attack was possible; the production of Created is strictly regulated so that none possess the capacity for such violence. But, speculation abounds. Some believe that it was a random, tragic glitch. Some blame the Ingress for bringing in some kind of foreign virus and fear that other Created may also become indiscriminately violent. However, the predominant theory is that Delilah somehow altered Kess’s programming and unintentionally created the glitch that caused Kess to snap. This theory is supported both by Delilah’s ties to the Equalist movement, which has been long suspected of editing Created to parrot their beliefs, and the fact that she was a former authorized programmer, meaning she might’ve had the knowledge to edit Kess. Whatever the truth, the incident has cast a pall of mistrust over the normally hospitable city. But for those willing to put up with the uneasy atmosphere, Eastgate has a number of locations available to explore.

The Center for Created Oversight and Affairs

One of the largest structures in the city, this sprawling facility is made up of multiple interconnected buildings and courtyards. The Center for Created Oversight and Affairs (or the CCOA) manages almost every aspect of Program and AI life, from their creation to related policy-making. Though most of the buildings are off-limits to visitors, there is a museum open to the public with exhibits that display how Programs and other AI are created and the role they play in Eastgate’s society. Simple, easy-to-understand exhibits explain that Created are coded by highly trained programmers using advanced computers, and that those meant for “outside use” are then made tangible through a complex “reverse-digitization process.” There are regular tours through the museum, delivered, of course, by beaming Created docents.

Though security in the museum is relatively light, all other areas of the facility are heavily guarded and monitored.

The Gardens

Marked only by a neon sign showing a flower in bloom, The Gardens is a popular, high-end entertainment venue, which includes a bar, lounge, dance floor, and casino, all connected by a verdant courtyard. As one might guess from the name, the entire venue has a botanical theme that extends not only to the interior and exterior decor, but also to the Created who work there. These Created include Programs marked by very thin, fine circuits on their faces, wrists, and ankles that are wrought in a delicate floral pattern and are named after flowers corresponding to their circuit colors. These Programs serve a variety of functions here, from running the casino games to keeping the venue clean to accommodating the requests of the venue’s various guests. There are also holographic AI, resembling foot-tall humans with insectoid wings, stationed at the bar who can help you find a place to sit, direct you to the venue’s various attractions, and place an order for drinks (though the bartender himself is human). Visitors here can drink, dance, or gamble the night away, though they should be warned: fighting and destructive behavior are not allowed on the premises and violators will be removed by the venue’s (human) security.

Manufacturing District

On the outskirts of Eastgate lies the center of production, a vast maze of factories and refineries that produce most of the goods consumed by the city. Here, Created outnumber humans several times over; after all, they staff all of the factories. In fact, there are some factories that operate almost entirely independent of human supervision and are only given a general inspection a few times a year. If you speak with the right people, you may even hear word of a factory that has ceased to be a factory. For those who can rub elbows with the criminal elements of Eastgate, “Rook Manufacturing” may prove a useful place for your less-than-legal needs. Here, visiting AI can get their mandatory bracelets removed free-of-charge—and any organics wanting to see how the other side lives can purchases these bracelets for themselves, if they have something worth trading. AI can also pay for illegal upgrades; even a full function change isn’t out of the question, though the side-effects would be severe to say the very least. However, even with such services available, unfamiliar guests shouldn’t expect a completely cordial experience during their visit. A certain AI is known for testing newcomers’ patience—quite literally, as it turns out. Finally, those interested in challenge rather than commerce may be interested in Rook Manufacturing’s next offering: a chance to fight with willing, combat-ready Programs looking to try out their new upgrades in the ring. All fights MUST be non-lethal. Attending the fights is the leader of this operation, a green-circuited Program by the name of Atarah. Judging by the awed hush that falls over the assembled audience when she appears, it’s no secret that she commands a great deal of respect here—from Creators and Created alike.

Missions Available

♖Visitors to Rook Manufacturing may hear excited rumors that Atarah is looking to recruit outsiders for a more meaningful kind of fight. There are whispers that something precious has been taken from her and her fellow Created by a faction that identifies as “Extinctionists”—a movement that opposes the very existence of Created in the outside world. And she is willing to pay any sum to anyone who is willing to get it back—if you can prove you’re worth her time.

♔ Knowledge of foreign technology, particularly as it relates to artificial intelligence, is highly valued by the CCOA. Those with expertise on such technology, whether from Thisavrou or their own world, will be paid 200 sencs for a seminar on the subject, assuming they can provide new information about technology not yet present on Earth 91c. It’s possible a charlatan might be able to give a seminar on a piece of technology that doesn’t actually exist—just hope that there’s nobody from your own world in the crowd who might be able to call you out.

OOC: If you have any questions about the event or setting, please post them here!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

That prompts something small; a smile, twisting one half of their features with the upward twitch of the lips. He disregards the rules utterly, because the rules are pointless and wholly arbitrary. Better that Rinzler be the line of resistance, they should think, than Asriel.

He's alone, unmarked as a program, and wandering the streets. Presumably not merely to prove a point, though perhaps they should not be surprised if such proves to be the case.

"Have you a particular destination in mind, today?"

Rinzler's nature marks him as a program. Still, he refuses to wear their tags, and if that has the side effect of tricking these complacent users into believing him no threat, more fool them. They only require foreign "Created" to wear bracelets, but he's wandered far enough to know their own creations aren't all harmless, however low as he might estimate their chances in the end.

He shakes his head—no destination. A quick reach calls up his TAB display, words scrolling out in holographics as he types.

Assessing threats.

Much like always and everywhere. The enforcer might as well have said 'taking a walk' for all the extra clarity that brings. Still, either phrasing might be accurate. Rinzler has never been much inclined toward staying still.

Well, he's certainly come to the right place, in any case. Chara's gaze roves about the vicinity, for a moment. A small thing, a very small thing, but - he no longer requires the full scope and power of their sustained gaze for every moment of every encounter. He's proven that, to an extent, he is reliable. Capable. ~~Trustworthy.~~

"A monumental task, considering the world in which we walk," says Chara, wryly. "I suspect it will be an easier job to assess and catalogue non-threats."

A small thing, but not unimportant. The streets are well-lit, but for the most part quiet—a small burst of light and laughter as a group stumbles from a tavern further down the road. Drunk, stupid, and irrelevant. Rinzler ignores them, shrugging in reply.

Population: weak.

And yet, somehow, still threats. How contradictory. Irritating, most of all. What does that imply about him?

A laugh. That's true, is it not? The population would be, compared to something refined by the bolting ecstasy of combat. But assessing threats takes precedence. Plural. Multiple threats, even if the population is weak.

What does that imply about him, indeed?

"Perhaps you're getting paranoid." A familiar sentiment, bordering on mocking. The chatter of voices hums closer. What should they care about a shadowed exchange between something recognizable, potentially, as a Program, and something that appears to be nothing more than a human child?

A skip of sound interrupts the unending audio of errors. Closer to amusement than offense, if the ambivalent tilt of Rinzler's helmet is much sign.

Assessment: yours.

The threat part, anyway. Though he wasn't disagreeing.

"...oh!" The background chattering breaks with a sharp cry of delight and the skitter of unsteady steps. A woman, red-faced and laughing, straying from her two companions to approach. She approaches to within a few feet, beaming obliviously as she looks over the program—who, for his own part, has turned her way, helmet fixed with what Chara will easily recognize as a glare.

It takes a moment longer for her to notice the child, but when she does, Chara will be treated to a smile too. "Can I say I love your special model? It's so creative!"

Ease of conversation? Them? Why, say it isn't so. Were they perhaps more of an optimist, they would read that quiet hitch and catch as something bordering on amused.

They're unfortunate enough to be caught in the throes of a dwindling conversation between multiple drunken parties. One of them watches Rinzler happily, while the program in turn regards her with all the ease and care that one might a dead mouse deposited on the doorstep by an errant kitten.

Even better, she appears to have a breathtaking number of erroneous assumptions, rolling ever onward at a pace they can only describe as sickening.

Chara smiles, a pronounced gleam of a rosy blush to match the adult's, and speaks with a low, severing snap of teeth, an edge redolent of an unspoken threat.

"Rinzler doesn't belong to anybody."

The woman's gaze has already turned back to the enforcer. Specifically, so she can giggle at the warping of her own reflection in his mask. One of her hands raises as if to take hold of the surface (while Rinzler has gone pointedly still, one reach and twist from breaking the appendage)—when Chara's words seem to catch both parties off-guard.

(Doesn't belong—)

Her flushed expression wrinkles, momentary confusion before she blinks and brightens, understanding. "Oh! He's with one of the shops, then?" Eyes gleam with a different consideration as she glances up, giving an off-key whistle that falls off into a heated breath. "Which one? I wouldn't mind a test drive." A hand reaches up, aiming to pat the program on the arm.

(—to anyone.)

Rinzler sidesteps without looking, the surprised twitch of his stare still fixed on Chara. They were trying to... defend him? Apparently, though of all the lies they could have used, that one doesn't seem especially helpful. Or did they actually believe it?

Further assessment will be interrupted in short order. Another clatter of footfalls—"Gwen, honestly—!", and the woman's two companions have arrived. Another woman, wearing a official-looking jacket with a shiny pin in the lapel, catches the first as she off-balances. The other, a bearded, grinning man, stumbles a little himself, reaching to brace on the wall to Chara's side as he laughs and meets their eyes.

"Sorry about that. She's always had a thing for shiny objects."

That's surprise, coloring the visor - they assume, in any case, as that might be the only reason Rinzler has not divested the prying woman of one or more of her limbs. Perhaps they've less reason to be surprised, particularly as yet more of her party elect to join her, to gawk at the unconventional pair.

It's too many pressing eyes, too many gazes locked atop them. At some point, the Knife has stopped being sheathed and dormant, dropping warily, waiting, for a moment in which it is needed.

She's always had a thing for shiny objects.

Their smile is ruthless, then, a cold flash of teeth, the burn of their eyes more reminiscent of hot coals.

"People are not objects." They advance, a step forward that might be construed as more threatening if they were not something close to half the height of the man addressing them. "And I would suggest that you apologize for assuming as such."

Oh, the other users present are giving Rinzler very little reason for surprise. Chara, however... continues. If the glint of metal at Chara's side goes largely unobserved, if the majority are too caught up in their own satisfaction to see the danger in a child's step, Rinzler knows better. The bent hunch to his frame sharpens, limbs adopting a coiled tension as he steps just slightly in front of his ally. Warning Chara off? Readying to support them?

Both, perhaps. On the Grid, any glitch so utterly moronic as to spit their slurs in his presence wouldn't live past it. But two cycles living in user worlds has given him some scope of their consequences—and, of course, the sheer, impossible quantity of stupid users. It's hardly the first remark Rinzler's ignored today, and if they wipe these, more will come. If they wipe those, they'll be here all night. (If they're lucky.)

Still, it goes without saying that if a fight does start, Chara won't be alone.

Fortunate, perhaps, that the users are too busy boggling at Chara's words to pay attention to much more. The proclamation earns a stunning two seconds of silence before the group bursts into laughter. The man is gasping against the wall; the red-faced woman plastered against her friend and giggling into her sleeve. The woman in the uniform jacket is apparently more sober—or at least, the first to regain her breath. Not by much, though, and one voice blends into the next, cheerful chatter flitting overhead like a swarm of insects.

"Little short to be an Equalist, kid."
"No, no, it's cute! My cousin's friend used to—"
"—not good for them—"
"—really, your program's lucky to have such—"
"—sounds broken; you should—"

"What's that?"

Traces of amusement linger in his voice, but the man sounds doubtful more than anything. Puzzled, most of all. It's enough to earn the most marginal twitch of Rinzler's focus, frame pivoting in place. Did he spot the knife, or...?

The user wobbles sideways in response, hand gesturing: around, behind. Towards Rinzler.

Toward the ring of light docked on his back.

Humans.

Were they always such a convenient target? Perhaps they simply more up front about the hideous nature of their species, unlike monsters, who could bury it beneath a veneer of good will and a culture that diverges so wildly from anything learned on the Surface. A loud chatter of voices, breathless and laughing, the hot and unmistakable stench of drink fogging their breath. Their free hand flexes, fingers pulling into a fist and out again, their smile curving hard enough to cut into their cheeks.

A mere child, standing with a ridiculous Knife, confronting a herd of hapless adults. They would burn with shame, were they the only one.

But there's a chill glow burning the air behind them. It appears that he, too, has reached his limit.

"A warning," Chara says, simply. The Knife lifts in an easy arc, glinting visibly in the light, held before them. If Frisk's favored, nonlethal approach was not enough for them, perhaps a more pronounced hint requires dropping.

Last chance.

Most humans know when to run from a Knife, they should think.

Programs here don't have possession of their disks. Programs here can't weaponize them. Rinzler had seen it before: the empty backs, the charging stations. The puzzlement, even in Atarah's lair, as to why anyone would keep their code on them.

It hadn't occurred to him to wonder what users knew. Or didn't.

"That, circle-thing—" The man, flushed and bemused.
"...that." Grim, sharp, the uniformed woman (admin?) closing a step (too close ) from the other side, "...Is his backup, and kid, you're in a world of—"
"—KNIFE!"

Funny (fitting?) that the drunk who'd slobbered her way to them in the first place should be the first to recognize a risk. There's a high pitch squeal as the woman skitters back—tries, slips, and hits the pavement in a mass of misplaced limbs. She's underfoot, everyone moving at once: a reach for a purse, a wordless shout. Whether in some primitive attempt at heroism or sheer intoxicated defiance of all sense, the man has lunged forward, reaching to grab Chara's wrists and try to wrench the weapon free.

Unacceptable. Rinzler turns, steps, frame curving to a vicious lean as—

—weight shifts—

—the slightest pressure, the barest touch, fingers curled against a dull, inactive curve—

—and a click, soft and unmistakeable, of a disk coming out of dock.

His disk.

In the [user] [admin] [threat] [threat] [threat] THREAT's hold.

...

It's not a decision.

Just output. Input, output. Basic. A machine.

Just gold light and footsteps, just shattering, from throat to core. And "perfect" and fix you, hands tracing his dock, looping raw against his limits and kneeling, a hundred hundred times, to do it all again. Just the empty ache in his throat. The taste of the same stagnant breath, recycling for years, even out here. Just a promise made to a user who'd helped him and betrayed him.

I will kill anyone who takes my disk again.

Rinzler inputs, Rinzler outputs, and the world changes as it has to. His disk is back in his hand. Blood stains a crumpled uniform, pulses out to pool past the rent carved through a woman's hand and core. Fluid prickles off his circuits, drips from his blade, and a high, raw scream splits apart the night.

It occurs in a rapid, lateral blur, half of which they cannot mentally track. A hiss of breath caught in their throat, the latching of much larger hands and fingers closing around their wrist, too many bodies and too many eyes and the radical shift from drunken incomprehension to fear, and then to anger. A strange and peculiar thing they do not understand, looming over them. Something to be feared, and thus to be attacked without provocation. Fingers fastening around the disk's mount and detaching it with a sharp click.

He has now given them plenty of provocation.

The grasp around their wrists snaps free, fingers relinquishing their hold in shock. They can breathe, they can breathe in the wake of the hot gout of crimson, the howl of pain.

A babble of rifting anger, horror, swells from the tangle of them, demanding that they control their special model, desperate to know if she's all right, a self-righteous snap of one of them drawing back a fist to evidently deal out some manner of physical punishment. Catching the collar of their shirt, compressing the breath in their throat, their eyes blown wide with - with -

There are too many people. Too many people, too many words, too much noise, and they require, require that it

Stop.

The Knife arcs.

Up.

Through flesh, muscle, bone. Humans are not like monsters; they bleed. They lubricate the blade with their own slippery red, and another one of them screams.

They should be smiling. They should be happy. Serene. But their flesh still tingles with foreign touch, the way their shirt collar jammed up around their throat as a hand fisted into the fabric and pulled.

Regardless, they've made their opinion on the display that prompted this retribution quite clear.

Completely and utterly.

Blood on the ground. Glazed eyes staring upward, weak spasms as the body strains: to breathe, to speak, to get away. It's hardly the first time Rinzler killed a user, but there's something about then and now that feel very much the same. A line crossed. Shock, alarm, voices raised and weight settling across the scene. Violation, tangible and heavy. Consequence.

Input, to output.

He knows what they'll do.

No point in stopping. No reason to stand down. Just like before, he knows what cost this system will exert, and the only option is to follow through, fight back until he can't. The screams draw and scatter onlookers in equal measure, lights of some kind of vehicle flaring on approach. The drunkard sprawled across the ground pulls a device from her bag; he stomps on her wrist, producing a clean snap. The threat menacing Chara is bleeding, but still swinging blindly toward the pair; Rinzler jabs an elbow in the bloody gash and spins to follow its collapse.

Disk bright, slamming downwards, finish the Game—

He shouldn’t be here.

That’s the thought that’s permeated every hour he’s spent on this planet. He keeps having to remind himself that this isn’t the Earth he remembers. It may not even be its future. But that doesn’t stop the gnawing sense of responsibility, the sense that somehow people like him were the ones who responsible for this so-called “utopia.” ’Haven’t you done enough?’ some small part of him intones, over and over again, iterating endlessly.

And yet, there’s something else too, a macabre need to… what, exactly? Bear witness? Take it all in and know that this is just one of a thousand ways he could fail? A world of programmed slaves, without the veil of the screen blinding both parties to the truth of it.

He has the unhappy thought that there is one saving grace to this world: at least it’s honest.

He’s out late again, after an unsuccessful attempt at sleep. He can’t stop scenarios running through his head, impossible plans of changing things—of changing everything in this world—stopped dead by stark realities. This world is built on this system of Creator and Created. Every facet of life here depends on it. A peaceful approach might well be impossible. And a non-peaceful approach…

Well. It’s nothing Alan is brave enough to contemplate anyway.

A ragged scream pierces through the night, shaking Alan from his thoughts. Footsteps pound the pavement and a few seconds later, two humans burst out from around the corner, eyes wide and panicked. Alan starts and takes a step back as one of them, a young man dressed for a night out, gestures wildly.

”—get inside, man, quick!”
Alan looks between them, bewildered. “What’s going on?”
”Another Created just went nuts.”
“—it was growling, man, just like that one in the vid!”
That gets Alan’s attention. “Where was this?” he asks.
That gets a pair of odd looks, but one of them does point in the direction he’d come from. ”Couple of blocks over, outside that one bar—”
Alan doesn’t need to hear anymore. He’s already moving past them, ignoring their protests. There’s no guarantee that it’s Rinzler. It could be, as the men said, another Program afflicted by whatever force had compelled Kess to lash out. But Alan can’t stand by and take that risk. If Rinzler had attacked someone, on this planet out of all places, Alan doesn’t know what they’d do to him.

Perhaps, what he had once tried to do.

He’s out of breath by the time he nears the scene. Other onlookers block his view. In the distance, he can hear sirens. Alan pushes past the others, heart racing, barely noticing their injunctions to stay back, to stop before it sees him.

He pushes past them and sees exactly what he was dreading. A black clad figure, flecked with red-orange light, standing amidst a bloodbath—with a disk poised to crash down on his injured foe beneath him.

Alan can feel the attention of the spectators pivot towards him as he steps forward, but he keeps his eye on his Program—and his disk, lit and raised. He doesn’t know if he’s come soon enough. He doesn’t know if Rinzler can even hear him over the screams and cries of victims and spectators alike. All he can do is hope, desperately, that a fraction of a second is enough to stop the assault.

“Rinzler!”

The rest, of course, is simple. The FIGHT is what they know, and it is what they excel at, because if nothing else, they may at the very least successfully destroy everything that is foolish and unfortunate enough cross paths with something as hyper-destructive as they.

Any protest is met with a streak of red. Any attempt to FIGHT back, hastily smothered, stymied. Not a Partner, certainly, but someone they've learned to trust to always be efficient, to always be prompt.

Until someone cries out a name.

Red eyes snap to survey the man calling out to the pair of them. Tall. Adult. Human. Otherwise? Completely unremarkable, save for the fact that he evidently knows Rinzler enough to expect his name to be enough to prevent the incipient fatality from transpiring.

Smile, Chara. Smile for the camera.

They think that they manage it.

"Is there a problem, officer?"

That voice.

It's not like before. A skip in the sequence, a step (or two, or five) misplaced along the way. Alan-one shouldn't learn about the fight til later, but Rinzler doesn't have to look to know [his user]'s blank horror at this scene. The one-word shout is much too short for more than urgency, but Rinzler knows the tones and patterns that come next. Shock. Revulsion. Disappointment. And resolve.

Rinzler's (seen it) (heard it) (felt it) all before.

A second is eternity, and Rinzler freezes, blade humming close enough to brush against the tacky, red-stained flesh below. The man gasps and blubbers and crawls back; he barely notices. Can barely move. Rinzler's grip is locked around the disk, fluid twist of spine and frame gone rigid. A fractional twitch, not up, but inward. As if he could crawl in on himself, shrink to nothing and disappear.

That would be better.

Chara is speaking. It doesn't help. The softer susurrus through the crowd around goes entirely unnoticed, as does the wail of sirens down the street. Rinzler's focus is ahead.

"User."

Alan’s heart could stop from relief when Rinzler’s disk stops just shy of cleaving into the man below. But the reprieve is only for a fraction of a second as the reality of the situation sets in around him. The sirens are growing louder, and of the bodies on the pavement, Alan doesn’t know which he’s come too late to save. It takes him a moment to even register the child amidst the chaos—Chara, the one who had threatened him those months ago, smiling with a bloodied knife in hand.

Comprehension can come later. Alan takes another step towards the pair, the sirens already deafening in his ears. He doesn’t know why Rinzler or Chara attacked these people. They don’t look like combatants—there’s no evidence that they were even capable of defending themselves. There’s anger in Alan’s gaze as he looks on his program—anger and confusion and disbelief—but there is no time for it in his words.

“Both of you, get to the Ingress.” He still moving forward, trying to put himself between them and the crowd—and the approaching emergency vehicles. He glances behind him at the growing lights and then back, renewed urgency in his words. “Don’t just stand there, go!”

Ha ha, they've really messed things up for everyone, haven't they? They enabled this! They allowed this to happen! They cut everything to pieces, shredded this temperate, blissful paradise of a world and all the people that were content to meander shiftlessly along without ever thinking twice about the entire group of individuals they'd elected to label as tools!

And now this...person, whatever his designation, is attempting to absolve them of the consequences?

Not likely.

"And evade consequences?" They're still, ha ha, still smiling, after everything. Golly, they really are some kind of freak, aren't they? "Whyever would we do that?"

Consequences. It's the right word, and suddenly the world around comes into focus. The staring eyes. Whispering voices. Alarms, incoming (security) (he'll fight; he has to, not again—)

But it's not again, not the same, not when his user is telling him to leave. The Ingress? The Savrii have no punishment for crimes committed on a different world. This place does, and he can see it coming. Rinzler's stare drags reluctantly upward, numb incomprehension searching for reply, but for all Alan-one's anger, for all the cutting weight of disappointment, he's not—

not—

...

He's supposed to be the one to leave.

Rinzler doesn't understand. Rinzler isn't working. He can feel the errors stacking up through queue, overflowing impossibly as his mask stutters a fraction to each side. He can't move. Shouldn't. What about his user?

He looks from Chara to Rinzler, frustration growing as both still refuse to move from their spot. He notices the slight shake of Rinzler’s helmet and rounds on the program.

“Do not try to argue with me right now, Rinzler.” He turns to Chara, his voice no less harsh. “You can talk about consequences. You and I have rights on this planet. But Rinzler...” He takes a breath, trying to ground himself against the onslaught of possible outcomes that could result if Rinzler were found guilty of this crime. “They could edit you. Or reset you, or just have you destroyed.” He stares hard at the program, as if he can make Rinzler listen to him through sheer force of will. “I don’t know what they’ll do, but they aren’t going to stop and consider that you’re anything other than a broken machine.”

He doesn’t know if it’s enough to get through to Rinzler in time. The program can be as stubborn as he can sometimes. “I’ll be fine,” he says, not allowing any trace of doubt into his voice. He knows, too, Rinzler’s tendency to care about what happens to his user over what happens to himself. “We can talk about this on Thisavrou,” he adds, voice softening just slightly. “But you need to get there in one piece, first.”

He can hear vehicles coming to a stop some distance away behind him, but he doesn’t dare turn around. He glances between Rinzler and Chara, desperation edging into his voice. “Well? Go!”

So he will now dictate their pathways. Both of them. Because he can, and therefore he has to.

Rinzler lacks the rights that Chara, ostensibly, possesses. That this anonymous do-gooder possesses; perhaps not anonymous, truly, but possessed of so little of their sustained interest that he may as well be. He will bleat and bray for as long as he wishes, and make his orders where Rinzler is concerned, and they've no cause to believe him. None, aside for the notable occurrence in which Rinzler seems, abruptly, taken aback. Caught in indecision.

* Error!

They do not touch. Not unduly. Nor will they depart in an effort to SAVE their own skin when Rinzler is such a plain, apparent priority. They extend a hand. Palm up. Their smile, flickering and fading, replaced by something slightly less manic, slightly less bright and chipper.

It is harder.

It is always harder when the consequences for their actions do not reflect upon them, the one that truly deserves said consequences.

Rinzler doesn't belong to anybody.

"Come, then."

They're not leaving without you.

Edit. Reset. He knows, he knows, he knows already. The outcome was a fact before the words were ever spoken: cause and effect, action and consequence. Rinzler knows exactly what's going to happen. Exactly what Alan-one had tried to do to him last time, and if his user showed regret for that attempt, this—he—

...Rinzler's failed him twice now (three times?) (more?). When will he stop; what does it take—?

Don't argue. Don't stand there. Go. The command hits like a blow, stirring muddied eddies of old warning, but Alan-one's still looking at him. Alan-one expects him to obey. I'll be fine, and feet take a half-step, pathetic and traitorous. He shouldn't be scared. Shouldn't be weak. (But they'll talk later, and maybe he'll explain...)

Presence shifts, warmth brushing against periphery. Rinzler's gaze lowers to the extended hand. Chara doesn't touch. Chara doesn't reach out, not like this. But Chara isn't smiling now either, and Rinzler's stare drifts up, from them to his user.

Then he ducks his head, and reaches back.

They go.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

June Player Plot Log

Earth 91c

Welcome To Eastgate City

The Center for Created Oversight and Affairs

The Gardens

Manufacturing District

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1/2

(cw violence, gore)

cw continues

...and continues

dad incoming

go away dad we're busy

h-hi dad....

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