Entry tags:

August Event Log: Part I

Who: Everyone
When: August 9 and onward
Where: An unexpected destination
What: The newcomers go on a trip and end up far from where they expected
Warnings: Potential violence. Please label your content!

NOTE: PLEASE READ THIS OOC POST FIRST.

When the time comes for the travelers to go on the off-world trip that will help restore Thisavrou, they are not alone. Others who have settled on the planets longer and come to call them home are also prepared to travel; through the Ingress and do their part. Yet when the newcomers step through, whether they stepped through the Ingress seconds or hours apart, they will find that they have arrived at the same time, and only newcomers are in sight.

What awaits them is not a land of plenty. The land is barren, and dark storms in the sky resemble those held at bay by the Ingress complex—but much, much closer. Those who traveled on the Moira may recognize the landscape; though they have come through at a different point from the crash, they are on the Midway Hub. And there is no portal back. They are trapped.

hitting the road

Though some have been here before, the Midway Hub is not as they remember it. The storms fill the sky, leaving it dark and ominous even when they are not sweeping across the landscape—but they have clearly done so in recent times, and often. While never a lush land, large patches of ground an acre or more wide looking nothing more than utterly dead; the thistle that naturally grows is brittle, black and unable to be consumed even with the usual preparations to make it edible, and here and there animal corpses are found twisted into unnatural poses, but seemingly uninjured. These places are particularly concentrated near the broken Ingresses litter the landscape. While Midway Hub as a whole may seem naturally arid, these dead spots leave no hope that anything can possibly live there again.

The travelers have two options: stay where they are, or move on. While it might seem that they've been tricked into coming here and been left abandoned, those with the technological ability to do so may detect a sign of hope: a familiar energy source, far in the distance. Although none of the Ingresses they pass will ever work again, the faint energy shows that one still-functioning Ingress lies far in the distance, days away.

Although technological scanning or impressive memory of the landscape indicates that they are not separated from their destination by one of the gates that divide the land, they are also far from the shelter of the facility at the center of the Hub. Any attempt to travel in a direction other than that of the energy signal will result in a strange disorientation after several hours, bringing individuals back to their original path as though they've gone in circles. Meanwhile, though travelers will feel the need to slake their hunger and thirst through any natural water sources they discover, wildlife they can hunt for food and any supplies they have on them, if they don't find sustenance, they'll find that they will never pass out or reach the point of starvation. Instead, they'll be left alive and awake but feeling utterly hollow.

storm front

At regular intervals, the energy storms above descend onto the land, bringing not rain but violent clashes of negative energy and thunder so loud that nothing can be heard above it. The passing of the storms leaves some strange effects. The ground is warped and rotted by their touch, even solid stone degrading to a spongy surface. The air is tepid and oddly charged. Prolonged contact with air or ground will not supply energy, however — it drains it from organic and synthetic life alike.

Those who remember their last trip to the Hub, or simply explore in the right direction, may come across the cave complexes with their glowing surfaces and streams. The light is dimmer now, a sickly green, but drinking from the streams will still restore the energy lost, for a time. This time, however, the lethargy that inevitably follows is much more severe, and the drinkers are left with a raw, empty feeling leeching in from the wasteland around.

Those who are exposed to the storms, either by finding themselves in very close proximity or even closely observing them for too long as they approach, may lose their sight, or hearing, even much of the ability to feel touch — whatever sense they used in observation. What lingers in its place is a numbness. A hunger. And as time passes, the time between storms decreases; what seemed like hours between the storms becomes scarcely one, and their intensity grows.

wild life

Sentient beings are not the only ones affected by the storms; these creatures, attracted to sound and able to track by scent, and these panthers, which once looked normal but have been twisted by the storms into more monstrous forms, are numerous enough that travelers must be constantly alert for their presence. Though natural predators, the threat the creatures represent is not itself natural. They are also more aggressive. Some strange instinct drives them, not a need for food. While the panthers themselves can be caught and their meat cooked, it has little taste, offering nutrition but not satisfaction.

old familiar places

Although it's difficult to track the passage of time without day-night cycles, after what seems like more than a week of the travelers' unexpected trip, the storms abruptly come rushing in at the group of travelers, as if they're herding the group to move faster toward their destination and the Ingress energy that awaits them. The true nature of that destination becomes clear when debris appears on the horizon; the energy comes from the wreckage of the Moira, the interstellar ship that crashed here months ago.

Despite the trauma of impact, large sections of the ship remain surprisingly intact, though few of them are properly vertically oriented. If travelers are able to make their way inside the damaged sections of the ship, they'll find familiar territory, if they are one of those who traveled on the Moira, as well as shelter—something that's increasingly necessary as the storms seem to center over the ship, leaving little hope for survival outside. Useful items may be scavenged from the ship if they are willing to explore, but no personal items of any kind remain.

Strangely, the deeper travelers go into the crashed ship, the less familiar their surroundings will seem, regardless of their orientation. The inward-leading paths into the ship become generic metal, and as with the travel on the surface of the planet, they may find themselves back where they started. And no matter how far they go or how hard they try, they will find themselves unable to make it to the Ingress chamber itself...for now.

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His priority. Fingers curl and voice locks, a different sort of stall than the impossibility of stripped permissions. His priority.

[Serve Clu.] [Protect the system.] A fractured whisper of (fightfor), wrenched from all its associated claims. Rinzler was never meant to be anything more than a weapon. But Rinzler is, and Rinzler has been, and 'the you that exists outside of Clu.' The prickle of potential, coiling so strangely in his throat.

'Rinzler doesn't belong to anybody.'

They'd been wrong. They still aren't right. But Chara said that much for him. Chara fought, and Chara safeguarded his code. His choice. Even when they couldn't have agreed.

"Can try."

It's not much of a return. It's nothing he hasn't already promised and already failed, more than once. He wouldn't have stopped regardless. They know this. But Chara is a user, and maybe they can. Maybe they've chosen that.

If that's what they ask of him... he'll keep trying for them.

It was not a request.

He misinterprets it for something it is not, because of course he does - because he considers himself some sort of tool, reliant on instruction to function on any consistent or fundamental programming. They should roll their eyes at that. It should not matter, because they - because he is a far better guardian for the two than Chara ever was. Ever will be.

Because he has not made any attempts on either of their lives, and he has never succeeded.

"A wound always hurts most when exposed to the open air," says Chara. "But given time, it will mend."

That is all that it requires. Time.

Noise rolls out softly, filtered gaze lingering on the small frame. Is Chara referring to the betas' feelings? To their own? To the fact of their intended distance, or to its effects? He's not sure he agrees with any of it. Except, perhaps, in wishing that things mend.

He doesn't know Chara as long. He hasn't seen them in the absence of the rest. But he doubts very much that Frisk and Asriel will be the only ones worse off.

He's pushed enough. He's made his own assessments clear, and repetition would overstep the bounds of his own promise. Rinzler twitches his head, a small shake, before shoulders draw in: receding to his usual close hunch.

"Request. Maintain contact."

Rinzler, on the other hand, makes the nature of his order quite clear. It is a request, or he will deign to refer to it as such until a time that it no longer suits him. They wouldn't know.

"I'll take it under advisement."

They'll file it away, and in all likelihood never open that file again.
~~( * Knows best for you.)~~

Dismissal. They won't, so he'll have to. Rinzler dips his helmet, accepting the constraints. There are too many allies to watch for, and without contact or proximity, it will be difficult to manage much.

But if he fails Chara in addition to the rest... that too, wouldn't be for the first time.

...

Apologies are useless. Both of them know this, and he doubts Chara would take value from it in any case. Speech or no, he isn't that glitched (that selfish) yet. The black helmet bows a little further, though, and Rinzler steps back, granting space.

...

That is best, then. They are not being left to fend for themselves. He is protecting the pair of them to whatever extent he can, and that will have to be enough. They will accept that. They will have to accept that.

It is no longer any concern of theirs.

Except - there is still one thing.

"Should I inquire as to what course of action one might take, should Clu attempt to make contact with either of them again?"

Clu.

Shoulders stiffen. Hands still. The lowered helmet freezes, locked, as the harsh rattling of mismatch doubles. Of course they'd ask. Of course they should.

...

Not nearly the first failure.

"Clarify: 'one'."

Are they asking what they should do? Or what (or if) he will?

Clarify. Of course. They jerk their shoulders in a shrug, allowing their gaze to slide away from him, briefly - telegraphing their intent and their apparent lack of interest.

"You, of course." The words are slicked with ice. "As I've said - I have no particular snail in this race any longer, do I?"

Will he allow Clu near them any longer? Will he be torn between two loyalties, possibly forever?

A question for the ages, truly.

"Didn't."

Say that. They. The excess words are stripping free—unnecessary, not the point. Not his function. Rinzler might have access to his voice. To decisions, to more capability that he was ever granted on the Grid.

But that doesn't change what he was made for.

The scrape of mismatch is tangible and raw, and Rinzler's mask jerks to the side: once, twice, trying to flush the nausea from queue. Close the loop. Answer.

"Don't know."

An honest answer - if an unsatisfying one. It doesn't matter. Not any longer. No one is to touch the code of either child again, but no one would allow such a thing to transpire.

No one will.

"No?" Flatly pronounced, coupled with the wry lift of their eyebrows. "Still conflicted, are we not?"

If Rinzler were spending even a fraction less effort holding off lockup, that comment would have warranted a glare. Chara knew he was conflicted from the moment he punched a hole in his apartment wall. They know it now, just from his freeze. From his reply.

The noise that ticks and rumbles and seethes free of him, every moment of every day, is a litany of conflict.

"Can't fight him."

Yes, yes; they've had this discussion before, and they are in no mood to have it again now. Particularly as they find it dubious that Rinzler's feelings have changed. They are no longer the lawyer to either child, nor should they be. Let them FIGHT their own battles, for once.

(As if they would.)

"Won't," Chara corrects, flatly. "I've found most things can be fought, though it is not necessarily wisest to."

The black mask shakes. Dips, tip lingering toward Rinzler's own red-orange lights. Self-reference. Him; Rinzler; specific case. The gesture used for something not worth application of an "I".

"Can't."

The word is thick with distortion. "He—" and it grows louder, swallowing whatever faulty phrase might have filled the gap. Blame is wrong. Rinzler is loyal, and Clu could never be at fault for that. Tron was a failure. Tron earned everything [he] got.

"Programmer" instead, and that reads better. Not what Clu did, but who Clu is.

Clu made him.

...fine, then. If he wishes to be obstinate, he may do as he wishes. It is of no concern of theirs - any longer. Whatever he might have closed that sentence with, whatever He is meant to have done, it matters very little. Not if he did not see fit to complete it.

"Fine," the child hisses. They do not roll their eyes at that, but it's a very near thing. "Do as you will, then. The pair of them - they are your responsibility."

Not theirs. Not any longer.

The glitching rises, mechanical and grating, but Rinzler doesn't argue. Doesn't move. He's not sure he can, between two fixed imperatives so locked in their impossibility. Rinzler isn't capable of claim. Rinzler can't and shouldn't be responsible for anything. Rinzler is Clu's, and they shouldn't be, and Rinzler failed them already on that count before. Clu used them, because of him.

But he promised he'd help them.

But no one else will.

...He's not Tron.

He can't agree. He can't refuse either. Rinzler waits, helmet bowed and noise sick and hopes the user will accept its own decree enough to leave.

Silence.

Whatever the specifics of his emotional and mental state may be, he is not precisely offering them to the jury. The concern is insubstantial - as most things are, as of late.

They've nothing more to say. In fact, they've got better to do.

"Was there anything else you required, sir?"

That query at least has an answer. Some way to break the massive weight of the impending crash. Rinzler's head jerks sideways, stiff and convulsive as he takes a step back. Granting space.

...

Again, isn't it?

No.

Of course not.

"I'm afraid I appear to have misplaced my TAB for the time being." Short, curt, and to the point. As befits them. "I understand that is far from ideal, but further attempts to contact me will have to be made in person."

If being confronted with a query helped, surprise proves much more effective at disrupting the program's irresolvable mismatch. Rinzler's helmet drags upward, self-imposed bow breaking to an uncertain, startled stare. Further attempts? Chara hadn't seemed receptive to the request before. Unless... had he been unclear?

Probably.

A hand twitches reflexively for his own TAB before Rinzler cancels the movement. Gives a small, sharp nod. "Acknowledged," chases the gesture, a catch of distortion, but still loud enough to hear. That did explain some of the unresponsiveness before.

"Intended route?"

Where can he find them?

Edited 2017-08-16 22:52 (UTC)

You think they know?

Their shoulders hike briefly in a noncommittal shrug. And for a moment, the smile flicks out across their cheeks in reddening familiarity. It almost feels normal. Natural.

"I certainly have no idea. I imagine I'll make myself known, one way or another." They did hijack the Ingress to get some misplaced revenge on slavers. They have a way of raising flags with their presence, do they not?

It's almost a joke. Almost, but somehow better for the fact that it's not. Rinzler inclines his helmet, sound dropping to the usual low ticking.

"Do."

Request, he briefly wonders if he should append. He doesn't think he needs to.

Why not? Trying to fend him away would be more trouble than it's worth, at this stage in the game, and he may still prove...

What, then? Useful?

Something along those lines.

"Then I'll be sure to keep you informed."

Rinzler knows he can be useful. That's why he offers. It is, in fact, precisely what he's worth, to them or to their charges. His stare lingers for a long moment before offering a nod.

Good.

Good. Fine. Glad they got that squared away.

Chara inclines their head briefly before turning and striding away - at a ninety-degree angle, keeping him within eyesight. It never pays to be incautious. Even where Rinzler is concerned.

Particularly where Rinzler is concerned.

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August Event Log: Part I

hitting the road

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old familiar places

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