Clu scrambles for one disk. Rinzler eyes the tableau scornfully, and reaches down, hands meeting and jerking apart to produce two. They linger carelessly at either side, extensions of his frame as he surveys the crumbling shape backed against the furniture. Not quite a corner, but it will do.

He doesn't strike yet, though. They're talking, after all. Clu helped him.

"You did." Acknowledgement, soft and calm and sweet like acid.

"But I never needed you."

A soft click, and opaque sections start to fold away. A fractional glimpse of dark hair and darker eyes—

—as charge crackles, shapes blur, and disks smash forward like forked lightning. The first, edge out, to engage Clu's weapon or remove the limb that carries it. The second? Stopping just short of Clu's throat. Rinzler's arm curves with the blow, frame surging behind it: a forearm strike, to tip Clu past the point of balance, and slam him down to the surface behind. Trap, not kill. Not so quickly.

That would hardly be fair trade.