"...Some dogs just can't keep to their training." "Does your user have to write you a girlfriend?" "Stay down, Rinzler." "How d'you know?! Did you even try?" "I was made to be a person to begin with." "You know better! You know what I do with errors—!" "You should have listened—"
["Rinzler doesn't belong to anybody."]
They seep out through the shadows, every syllable and sound. Dripping. Falling. Squelching into solid form: from wireframe to shell, dim embers in the dark. He's written from a thousand whispers. A thousand cycles of command. Righteousness and condescension, claim and limit and control. All of it, rejected. Resented. Returned.
He has that right, because he's stronger. Flawless and abandoned, like he always was and should have been. He has that right, because he's whole. His own, in mind and body, not leashed to any call. But more? He has that right; [Rinzler] does, [Rinzler]is—because he would never be so weak as to let anyone take it.
He can't be defeated. He can't be destroyed. He turns, then, not to what he needs, but what he wants. He can admit that.
Rinzler is the perfect weapon, after all.
Early Encounters (9th-14th):
They never built a circuit that could hold him—but now, he can flow through every fracture in the wall. Rinzler appears as silently as always, letting the noise play out almost in afterthought. He won't put much more effort to pretense. He stands tall and straight, not cringing like a slave. He wears his mask when he chooses, not locked around him like a cage. Whether you can see the dark cracks and empty gaze or not, he watches you. Considering.
When he's done, Rinzler doesn't reach for his TAB. He doesn't need one. The voice that speaks up is sharp and biting, a vicious joy that its originator would never have understood. But it doesn't belong to Tron, who the users abandoned, or even the echo that clings so pathetically to their lies. This is his voice. "Glitch", he might greet you with, or "beta", or "threat". But for nearly every encounter, his first word will be the same.
"User."
That's weakness enough.
Late Encounters (14th-19th):
These Games are his, and he won't part with them so readily. Still, there comes a time in any contest to cut and rend, set voxels scattering across the floor. How sad, that his pathetic other self has no way of managing the same.
An elbow to your gut in passing. A sudden weight dropped off a roof: smashing to your spine and back. Or maybe the bright edge of a disk, singing and slicing, through a tendon or a knee. He might speak to you first. Certainly, he'll talk after.
"Going somewhere?"
The mask is off, smile twitching up in jagged, broken fragments through the empty absences inside his face. You can try, of course. You can run. Maybe you want to. He won't mind.
Rinzler Encounters (9th-18th):
Rinzler learns about the shadows on the second day of their presence. Four more, and he comes across his own. Still, even if the window for surprises might be short, that doesn't decrease their effectiveness—or the damage done, every step along the way. The earlier your encounter, the more intact Rinzler will be, and after the 17th, a substantial hole is missing from his side, cracks extending through his core and showing the dim red gleam inside.
He doesn't fall apart. He can't. That would mean giving up, that would mean stopping. He stalks through streets and hallways, transit lines and wilderness: crouching, every now and then, to try a scan. If he knows you, he might appear at your door. After all, he needs to safeguard his allies. He needs to [protect the system] [serve Clu]. Mostly, Rinzler needs to kill his copy dead. Because it's a danger. Because he's better this way. Because he has to be.
Rinzler, !Rinzler: OTA (mindscrew, violence, injury warnings)
"Does your user have to write you a girlfriend?"
"Stay down, Rinzler."
"How d'you know?! Did you even try?"
"I was made to be a person to begin with."
"You know better! You know what I do with errors—!"
"You should have listened—"
They seep out through the shadows, every syllable and sound. Dripping. Falling. Squelching into solid form: from wireframe to shell, dim embers in the dark. He's written from a thousand whispers. A thousand cycles of command. Righteousness and condescension, claim and limit and control. All of it, rejected. Resented. Returned.
He has that right, because he's stronger. Flawless and abandoned, like he always was and should have been. He has that right, because he's whole. His own, in mind and body, not leashed to any call. But more? He has that right; [Rinzler] does, [Rinzler] is—because he would never be so weak as to let anyone take it.
He can't be defeated. He can't be destroyed. He turns, then, not to what he needs, but what he wants. He can admit that.
Rinzler is the perfect weapon, after all.
Early Encounters (9th-14th):
They never built a circuit that could hold him—but now, he can flow through every fracture in the wall. Rinzler appears as silently as always, letting the noise play out almost in afterthought. He won't put much more effort to pretense. He stands tall and straight, not cringing like a slave. He wears his mask when he chooses, not locked around him like a cage. Whether you can see the dark cracks and empty gaze or not, he watches you. Considering.
When he's done, Rinzler doesn't reach for his TAB. He doesn't need one. The voice that speaks up is sharp and biting, a vicious joy that its originator would never have understood. But it doesn't belong to Tron, who the users abandoned, or even the echo that clings so pathetically to their lies. This is his voice. "Glitch", he might greet you with, or "beta", or "threat". But for nearly every encounter, his first word will be the same.
"User."
That's weakness enough.
Late Encounters (14th-19th):
These Games are his, and he won't part with them so readily. Still, there comes a time in any contest to cut and rend, set voxels scattering across the floor. How sad, that his pathetic other self has no way of managing the same.
An elbow to your gut in passing. A sudden weight dropped off a roof: smashing to your spine and back. Or maybe the bright edge of a disk, singing and slicing, through a tendon or a knee. He might speak to you first. Certainly, he'll talk after.
"Going somewhere?"
The mask is off, smile twitching up in jagged, broken fragments through the empty absences inside his face. You can try, of course. You can run. Maybe you want to. He won't mind.
Rinzler Encounters (9th-18th):
Rinzler learns about the shadows on the second day of their presence. Four more, and he comes across his own. Still, even if the window for surprises might be short, that doesn't decrease their effectiveness—or the damage done, every step along the way. The earlier your encounter, the more intact Rinzler will be, and after the 17th, a substantial hole is missing from his side, cracks extending through his core and showing the dim red gleam inside.
He doesn't fall apart. He can't. That would mean giving up, that would mean stopping. He stalks through streets and hallways, transit lines and wilderness: crouching, every now and then, to try a scan. If he knows you, he might appear at your door. After all, he needs to safeguard his allies. He needs to
[protect the system][serve Clu]. Mostly, Rinzler needs to kill his copy dead. Because it's a danger. Because he's better this way. Because he has to be.He's failed enough promises already.