[Rinzler watches as his ally speaks, grip squeezing and loosening around his copy's dock with the possessive satisfaction of a predator flexing its claws. If the way lights dim and flicker with each interval is any sign, the touch isn't strictly external. Still, he'll shift aside without hesitation. Allow Alan to take his place.
It's Rinzler who struggles. Who gasps, raw and shuddering as the [interrupt] recedes. Tries to rise. Efforts are disjointed, connections cut, limbs stalling without proper support from the core. Still, he gets his arm underneath. He pushes up, at least a little. At least enough to turn his head. To hear the apology, and see the look on his user's face. It's wrong, he's wrong, he has to stop it, but—
—a click—
—and the rush of data blanks cognition, code and memory updating to backup. Rinzler can't resist the sync. Rinzler was made not to. All he can do is jerk his head aside.
This isn't right.]
"Sorry" is for people who do better.
[The words breathe out behind Alan in vicious sing-song as a hand reaches past him: grabbing his program's neck and forcing it back to the ground. If Alan turns, he'll find a quirk of an eyebrow, a smirk every bit as choked with condescension as the words. Will he improve?
If he doesn't, Rinzler's here.
The circle of light brightens in a ring, exposed in the bent curve of Rinzler's back. Disk synced and ready.]
no subject
It's Rinzler who struggles. Who gasps, raw and shuddering as the [interrupt] recedes. Tries to rise. Efforts are disjointed, connections cut, limbs stalling without proper support from the core. Still, he gets his arm underneath. He pushes up, at least a little. At least enough to turn his head. To hear the apology, and see the look on his user's face. It's wrong, he's wrong, he has to stop it, but—
—a click—
—and the rush of data blanks cognition, code and memory updating to backup. Rinzler can't resist the sync. Rinzler was made not to. All he can do is jerk his head aside.
This isn't right.]
"Sorry" is for people who do better.
[The words breathe out behind Alan in vicious sing-song as a hand reaches past him: grabbing his program's neck and forcing it back to the ground. If Alan turns, he'll find a quirk of an eyebrow, a smirk every bit as choked with condescension as the words. Will he improve?
If he doesn't, Rinzler's here.
The circle of light brightens in a ring, exposed in the bent curve of Rinzler's back. Disk synced and ready.]