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thisavrou_log2017-08-15 09:51 pm
a_perfect_end) wrote in thisavrou_log2017-08-15 09:51 pm
Entry tags:
even louder; we'll shout it
Who: Clu and Rinzler and all their mess.
When: 26th July. (After the shadows subside but well before characters return to the Midway Hub.)
Where: A sad little office-park "green space" in R1. It was carefully chosen to be identical to all instances in the set and equidistant from all major residences for 26% of the total region volume.
What: Rinzler has waited for something Clu only now understands the real value of. This can only go well.
Warnings: PERSONHOOD ISSUES, abusive relationship themes and content, torture and mutilation references of various kinds and degree. Y'know. Wholesome family fun.
Tomorrow.
And tomorrow, and tomorrow--except, nah. Just the one was enough. Another twenty hours or so acting like doors and walls had significance, turning over the variables and reminding himself repeatedly that the low murmur of pipes in the wall, the sudden crackle of drywall or timber taking weight, were empty background noise--natural consequences of a shared living block, and not a sign of meaningful external movement.
Ferns were near-perfect with even the slightest tending. It was no accident that they grew here, that he had chosen somewhere they would be. He considered, again, how fragile affine transformation statements were when described by leaves, ever so slightly irregular in pattern, but closer than any other natural form he had yet observed.
And they ran on batteries--the tiny photosynthetic cells that comprised them--hydrogen conversion, powered entirely by dirt and water and waste radiation.
They were clean, and elegant, and flourished for even the least attention.
All the rest of his work was rotted through with neglect. The kids were frightened without him, constantly running into danger, supposedly only made worse with superior weaponry. (A ridiculous idea. More was always better.) "Lux" had disappeared to who-knew-where, no data available. Yori knew better than to confer with him, but then she always had. The list of threats tacked to his name was increasing daily...only he just could not seem to retain any of the power he'd been working toward while earning that list.
And Rinzler? How long had he waited? How much longer had he waited for this one specific thing? How long was always, in practical terms?
...Philosophy.
Disgusting.
Clu ground leaves down under his boots and waited in his turn.
When: 26th July. (After the shadows subside but well before characters return to the Midway Hub.)
Where: A sad little office-park "green space" in R1. It was carefully chosen to be identical to all instances in the set and equidistant from all major residences for 26% of the total region volume.
What: Rinzler has waited for something Clu only now understands the real value of. This can only go well.
Warnings: PERSONHOOD ISSUES, abusive relationship themes and content, torture and mutilation references of various kinds and degree. Y'know. Wholesome family fun.
Tomorrow.
And tomorrow, and tomorrow--except, nah. Just the one was enough. Another twenty hours or so acting like doors and walls had significance, turning over the variables and reminding himself repeatedly that the low murmur of pipes in the wall, the sudden crackle of drywall or timber taking weight, were empty background noise--natural consequences of a shared living block, and not a sign of meaningful external movement.
Ferns were near-perfect with even the slightest tending. It was no accident that they grew here, that he had chosen somewhere they would be. He considered, again, how fragile affine transformation statements were when described by leaves, ever so slightly irregular in pattern, but closer than any other natural form he had yet observed.
And they ran on batteries--the tiny photosynthetic cells that comprised them--hydrogen conversion, powered entirely by dirt and water and waste radiation.
They were clean, and elegant, and flourished for even the least attention.
All the rest of his work was rotted through with neglect. The kids were frightened without him, constantly running into danger, supposedly only made worse with superior weaponry. (A ridiculous idea. More was always better.) "Lux" had disappeared to who-knew-where, no data available. Yori knew better than to confer with him, but then she always had. The list of threats tacked to his name was increasing daily...only he just could not seem to retain any of the power he'd been working toward while earning that list.
And Rinzler? How long had he waited? How much longer had he waited for this one specific thing? How long was always, in practical terms?
...Philosophy.
Disgusting.
Clu ground leaves down under his boots and waited in his turn.
no subject
Those were the terms of the instructions. The reason, in theory, for his attendance now. Clu set the terms and the location; Rinzler acknowledged and obeyed. Always. It's what he's for, and compared to cycles trapped and idling between tasks, subservience on call is a small price to pay.
That doesn't mean Rinzler doesn't wonder. That doesn't mean he hasn't been looping silently since the command, reviewing available data for any implication of Clu's mood. Projection is unwanted except in dealing with threats—but Clu discarded those defaults most of a cycle ago, through words and through an edit that clarified more thoughts than it removed. Shared reference to decisions. To efforts to acquire 'something more'.
Rinzler has spent the last seven user-months sounding the definition of that phrase. He's not nearly sure enough where his—or Clu's—new boundaries fall. But whatever he has or hasn't done, whatever Clu's intentions... this part, at least, is simple.
Return. Report.
With no replacement for his lost batons, Rinzler approaches the coordinates on foot. The location is greener than he expected, and out of doors, not the confined space of Clu's domain. The tags it calls are mismatched: mostly, the Moira. The garden zone, the meeting with the users after Clu had learned about his disk. Repair. Neutral ground?
It doesn't make sense. But neither did Clu's messages. Neither did the absence just before. His admin's lights loom ahead—clear gold, not the shadowed white that marked the duplicate—and Rinzler bows his mask, slowing to a halt at standard distance. Alan-one repaired the harm he'd taken, and it's easy to slot back into place.
Head low. Spine curved. Hands open at each side.
no subject
He giveth, and he taketh away... partial file, a garbage string, the back half of an aphorism from somewhere-or-other down behind the Foreigner lyrics. No one fixed him. Or the Ingress did. Or he did it himself, somehow--though that's...
Improbable. Strongly. But not impossible, and not new. It wouldn't be the first time.
It's not too late to change his mind. To cancel their meeting altogether--but he's already wasted precious days in deliberation, and certainly Rinzler's waited long enough for this.
There is so much of everything here, and all of it is green, but at least some of it approximates the fractal. Some of it has value as salvage. Some of it, with patience, even grows.
"Right on time." It draws his teeth up in a smile, even and edged, a little cold--words drawn sharp in the whipcrack of old habit. "Stay where you are."
Clu cannot, after all, turn around.
He halves the distance between them, always forward. He ignores moss, he ignores mud, he watches leaf-shape try to reflect itself in the slope of Rinzler's helmet. They vanish like smoke as he nears--all halogen gold among the red.
All else is gone, this close.
"Functional, huh? Will the read-outs tell me something else?"
It's past formality down through habit and into reflex: arm out, palm up.
no subject
But this time, it really is Clu.
Which means that Rinzler has no place resisting.
Fear is shoved from queue with equal ruthlessness. It doesn't matter how discomforting a match this makes: to the shadow, and to older standards, ones they'd almost left behind. Don't move. Don't run. If it's a test, it's nothing he hasn't passed before. It's nothing he can't beat. Is that what Clu meant?
(What did he do?)
The extended hand is more than eloquent in its own way, and Clu's enforcer lags only a moment. A hand reaches back. His helmet ducks, with a small shake. He hadn't been lying. He's functioning. He's fine. And if the reason for that is one Clu might not approve of... it doesn't stop both hands from extending forward. Frame low. Grip loose. Disk placed in Clu's palm.
no subject
Rinzler hovers loose in wait, head down, and does not tremble. Clu's fingers curl inward around his prize, gold barring in the thin red edge.
"Do you understand--" That's not right. Imprecise. Imperfect. "No, ignore that request: it is important that you understand why I called you. Why we are here."
The interface stays closed. He leaves it closed. This--this new thing, this fragile arrangment they've got going, it wants a degree of patience and precision. It needs maitenance, sorely, and perhaps requires more care than he has given it before now.
Words without action are meaningless. So the best thing to do is to correct it.
"To start: you are under review, but not under reprimand. I want that clear."
...Is it?
no subject
[request][command] that follows matches the assessment, and the bend to Rinzler's neck smooths a precise fraction: attention given, not locked down on the dirt.Still matching defaults. He's working; he's fine. He has a chance to prove that. He has to. Doesn't he?
(..."we".)
A beat of hesitation, and Rinzler's helmet ducks and rises in a nod. Review.
no subject
Crushes would you be more comfortable if down to death behind his tongue.
That the queue even disgorged that idea is proof Clu is deteriorating, and Rinzler can't know that. Not after all this. Not with everything that just keeps happening, one faulted thing after another.
Besides. Soon enough it will be unavoidable.
"Sure. Of course." Acknowledged being a stable alternative to--stupid idea, dangerous, actually harmful. Rinzler never did want reassurance, not from him, not even before, and Clu cannot afford to make mistakes in his present configuration.
Not that he should be making them at all. He has to get this right. At least this, before time takes it away.
"Because the last few milis were murder, huh? You came calling on me. Figured I'd return the favor."
There. Now it's leveraged and qualified, an outgrowth of expected behavior.
no subject
Return the favor. Rinzler parses the phrase for long moments before giving up. There's no edge that he can read, and the few projections that do extend out from the phrase are nebulous at best. If Clu is referencing something his duplicate had done, he'll find the call, at least, has already been returned.
He'll find out more than that when he does open up that disk.
Status. It's what Rinzler had asked. It's what, in questionable theory, any actual return would consist of. Hands stay open at each side, head bowed, frame drawn into a hunch. But noise stutters, a catch of recycled breath, as Rinzler reaches for the last favor Clu had granted. Vocal permissions, limited to Clu.
"Functional."
He hadn't been lying. He's working. No damage. Whatever test is queued, whatever Clu is planning, he won't fail. No matter if the expectations are (have been) so completely undefined.
But...
"Repaired."
And not by Clu.
no subject
But rules exist for a reason; all the great heights of civilization are founded on rules and all perfect forms embody them. They must be observed, and so his fingers clutch tight and acquisitive for the single word that cracks its way free between his enforcer's lips.
"Have you really," easy, bright patter signifying nothing, and certainly not a question. Not at all, as the words gather faster, to a hard and greedy cadence. "Who did this thing, who touched you, who knit you together as I lay in state?"
He has suspicions and inferences, but why voice them when they can play, instead.
The interface clicks softly under pressure that would be indecent if it weren't old, expected, exact. His patience is finite and already he is certain he owes this, that Rinzler deserves at least this, but the urge to rescind it entirely is very strong.
It adheres to known defaults, in the bargain.
"Shall we find out? Or are you going to name them for me?"
no subject
Rinzler lost. Rinzler took damage. Rinzler failed to delete the threats alone, and quite nearly derezzed for that fault.
...Clu couldn't have—
[Error], [warning], and the loop of processing cuts off abruptly, impossibility slamming into place. No. Clu couldn't. The harsh rattle of mismatch isn't so easily quieted, but redirect comes with a click of pressure, sending prickles of tension down his spine. The enforcer's gaze drops, frame stiffening to brace. Rinzler has never been allowed to look.
But Clu is, apparently, just making a point. One very easy to recognize. It's not the first time his administrator has questioned him about a name... but this time, Clu has the information in his grasp. Clu has Rinzler—all of him, and if the enforcer hadn't been called here for reprimand, it's clear enough how he could earn it.
Things are different this time.
"Alan-one." Even without the disk, it's the only answer Clu could have expected. The only other person who had access to Rinzler's code. The enforcer's voice is flat, carefully null of any resentment towards Clu's Game... but Rinzler can't quite cover the defensiveness that follows.
"No alterations."
no subject
"Friend of yours made cube salad ala` king, and you were with," no edges, soft and warm, "Alan-one."
He just lets that hang there, hovering in wait.
The game isn't only played with words.
no subject
It starts with a tremor. A twitch of the helmet, negation and refusal strangled before the claim can even execute.
(Clu can't derezz, but Clu is never wrong. He can't have let Clu, but he failed: then, before, so many times.)
The stable pattern of sound and lights goes next, dim guttering timed to a snarl of static, irregular but cyclical. Building.
(Alan-one is beside the point. His own difficulties rate less than null. Rinzler had been hunting the threats; Rinzler had been elsewhere—
Rinzler had failed
It's a loop. A fault down to base function, not processed and deflected, but set firmly in cognition without close. Rinzler can't act, Rinzler can't answer, because there is no answer.
He wasn't made that way.
no subject
It's only natural that it's always a struggle. That's the point.
Clu phrases his statements perfectly and watches their impact take hold, cutting neatly through mutual personal space to observe the escalation of a fine and minor tremor that shudders through Rinzler's frame in a jarring solenoid flicker, sound grinding high and harsh as then and if fail to align at each pass.
They are not friends, and it is not fine, and Rinzler is not actually functional, regardless of what Clu will or won't find on his disc. Whatever Alan did, it wasn't enough.
"Stop that." Insufficiently clear? "End the task tree, or I'll do it for you."
Friends lie. Friends leave. Rinzler can do neither.
no subject
Obedient. Submissive.
Straining for relief.
Clu died, and he failed. Clu is here, and he has no excuse, not one, for failing to comply. The sick, split pressure doesn't vanish in the least, but slowly, Rinzler locks down motor output. He forces power cycles to a stable glow. Sound is much harder to control, but Rinzler has always rattled out a cacophony of errors: failures and memories, wants and loathing and so much that could never be allowed.
Command: impossible fits so neatly in the rhythm.
no subject
His own phrasing could have been more elegant. Certainly he could have made a play at lenience.
What for?
The truth is always ugly. The truth is never kind.
"Hey, come on," heavy with prompt, with the faintest taste of a wakeup command, but not loud. Finger contact delicate as spider legs, needling the disc's interface open. "Review, remember? I need an analysis of your last actions to ensure accurate mapping to the target sectors."
He's never justified himself before. Rinzler had never needed it, before.
Everything is true, here in this place.
no subject
Truth is ugly and implacable, devastating and cruel.
"'Sorry' is for people who do better."
The prickle of not-touch slots into place, and Rinzler locks down output. Keeps his gaze trained on the ground. He doesn't need permissions to know the errors on display. Bad enough, to be off chasing threats when Clu took harm. Worse, that he hadn't even beat them.
no subject
He has a goal, he has something Rinzler deserves, and even due process cannot withstand either for long.
Patience is necessary. Review is necessary. Clu makes himself watch, commits all of it indelibly before walking specific trees gently to their nearest origins. He needs to know all of it. He'd fought this thing--had cracked wide for it, brittle and easy as a new recruit; Rinzler had fought this thing and lost, it taking all his energy just to interpose himself between it and his Maker while Alan made war on himself.
Again and again, Clu has not acted when he could. The reason why is small and simple and might even be a weakness.
They are the only ones, the only two of millions. He and Rinzler are all that remain of Flynn's Grid--if not each from the same instance of it. He'd never calculated that there could be so many, that worlds vast and unknowable and almost alike could stack beside each other, coiling toward infinity. His definition of possible was constantly expanding, and all the ways it did so were horrible.
Maybe not all of them.
There was the matrix he wanted, sliced away clean in a golden scrawl of utter stillness. It shivered under contact, hovering between points, a wait for authorization.
The right words caught rough in his throat.
"It's for whatever I say it's for."
no subject
Rinzler can't watch. Can't know.
But time and touch both stretch much longer than needed for review.
When Clu speaks, the helmet twitches. When Clu speaks, the motion... lags. Rote obedience is owed, and all of him has always served Clu's purposes. But there's something out of sync in the values. Something new. Rinzler hesitates, before lifting his head a fraction. Not deviation, but a flag.
He doesn't understand.
no subject
Rinzler's head glides up just a fraction on his neck, a pause that strains toward clarification.
Clu knows better than to need or want or wait for credit. His own Maker had taught him that lesson long before Rinzler was ever even in the picture.
"No?" Soft, careful, gritted against a sudden rough patch in his throat. "No? I am not here to take something from you. Don't miscalculate me."
He'd never intended to grant this back, and so there's no increments to the restore.
"Do us each a favor and hold precisely still. This will hurt."
Permission granted.
no subject
Too important to trust.
He doesn't need to. Rinzler needs to obey, and to hold still. Here and now, this means he needs to hurt (and he's never shown that) (and he won't start now). Pressure centers in his spine, a twist and lock, and the distant buzz of potential swells into a storm. It crackles through code and through cognition, pulling thoughts apart and piecing them together. Knotting, raw with agony, in the hollow of his throat.
Rinzler can't access his own changelog. Rinzler doesn't move, and wouldn't scream—even if he could. So it's subtle. A breath, under the ticking rattle, sharp with shock and old distrust. Unfiltered and unplanned and not, at all, for Clu.
But for once, there's nothing in the way.
"You—"
No filters. No conditionals. The word spills out without the if/then checks, as if speech were a natural function to his code. Something is missing, and something is back, and Rinzler's helmet jerks up to stare. Clu died. He'd failed. So—
"Why?"
no subject
And he's afraid. And there isn't time.
And he owes Rinzler an answer, at least, if not an explanation.
Variables sift through his fingers, points floating past until he fixes the intervals--careful, precise, as one would straighten a suture along a wound.
"You are very concerned about Tron: fact. Many of your allies were or are his allies, too: fact. In all our long work together," deft, sure, a hard gathering of fingers after a specific value deep in the tree, "I have done my best to ensure you every advantage, every victory you needed: fact."
(I don't want you.)
That fact, Clu pulls out by the root value, crushes it to bits and smears those to scatter with a twist of his thumb.
"We're nearly done," and that's an old, old register, familiar crooning sheened slick with pride, "I'd never have given this to you if I didn't know you could handle it--Ah. There."
If they're going to delay the inevitable, it is always, always better to be thorough.
"But you asked me a structural question: why?"
His fingers latch, clenched an instant too long and a moment too tight in the space between disc and shoulders--and then it's done.
Rinzler's free. At least in this regard.
"I thought it better if you could defend yourself, next time they ask you who you are."
no subject
Rinzler is not Tron. Rinzler is Clu's weapon, Clu's creation: made to win and fight and to endure, through more than any other. But there's another side to that condition, and for a moment, Clu's praise calls back a different echo: his own voice, pitying and scornful from above.
"It's what he's for."
A twist of values, and the words recede. What's left is Rinzler's loathing: for the thing that had his voice and face; for the way it used them. For the fact that it, could. It set the terms because it was able, and in a kilocycle of silence, Rinzler has never wanted so badly to be able to speak back.
(Not that he remembers.)
Rinzler doesn't move, because his admin told him not to. Rinzler doesn't move because he can't. Because of hands hooked in his code, because the fixed requirements of function. Because he wants this. He always has. The display closes, and a breath draws in behind the mask, testing the potential. Still there. Rinzler doesn't move, but he can speak. To anyone he chooses.
"I won't forget."
Who he is. Whose. It's his own echo, the better part of a cycle old.
You won't regret it.