How generous. [The phrase hums out, just a shade too satisfied to be scathing as Rinzler surveys his prey. The blue-white flickers have less stopped than frozen, a struggling, mazelike pattern that doesn't quite reach more than surface deep. A sham. Pathetic. He was supposed to be better, wasn't he?
Fingers squeeze on Rinzler's exposed disk dock, a scorching burn of power held. The enforcer stutters—chokes, throat working uselessly as inputs blank with nausea. Still, he can make out the low click of a disk undocking. The whir of activation.]
We could cut this out. [Rinzler's disk taps lightly on the edge of a long circuit—specifically, the end still lit in Tron's blue-white.]
Not that he'd learn that easily. [The contemplative pleasure shifts to a broad grin, black eyes lifting to Alan. The shadow's head tilts, just a little.] But that's what you're here for, isn't it? To make things stick.
What do you think, u҉̕͢s̶̀͟͟e҉͘͢͠͝r̀̕? Is there a lesson you'd prefer?
no subject
Fingers squeeze on Rinzler's exposed disk dock, a scorching burn of power held. The enforcer stutters—chokes, throat working uselessly as inputs blank with nausea. Still, he can make out the low click of a disk undocking. The whir of activation.]
We could cut this out. [Rinzler's disk taps lightly on the edge of a long circuit—specifically, the end still lit in Tron's blue-white.]
Not that he'd learn that easily. [The contemplative pleasure shifts to a broad grin, black eyes lifting to Alan. The shadow's head tilts, just a little.] But that's what you're here for, isn't it? To make things stick.
What do you think, u҉̕͢s̶̀͟͟e҉͘͢͠͝r̀̕? Is there a lesson you'd prefer?