He doesn't like that. He doesn't want that. The squirming builds, lagged and unsteady: twitching away from the scrape of points on circuits, helmet jerking raggedly against the threat's hold. Diagnostics are gone, code raw and aching and still trying to reset, but he should be better than this. No matter heat or drain. Rinzler was tested against every circumstance on the Grid. Rinzler was perfect.

([Rinzler] was always made to fight.)

Slowly, responsiveness picks up. Recovery can be read in the strength and timing of the struggles. Awareness can be read in the tense loathing that threads through them. The slick, wet slide against his indicator draws a flicker and a flinch, frame yanking in forcefully enough to dig the pattern of restraint into his wrists. It's this that turns that tension to a lock, memory slamming back in jumbled fragments. Had he—Clu—?

No. No, and revulsion washes through every fragment of processing he's gathered—every line he's cleared from the virus' malicious code. Get. It. Out. Teeth sink in, and Rinzler thrashes: mask against hand, limbs against bonds, disks flaring as hands twist in search of a target.

Code splits with the taste of ozone.