He can look right back at Alan just the same way he's being looked at.

Watching Alan watch him like something that crawled across the rug is downright bracing. It's the repeat observance of something mechanical, behaving exactly as expected: he's watching failure mode and waiting for the soft crash.

"Our--yours and Rinzler's--just gave it to you?"

Interesting data. It's certainly stimulating. Nothing positive, but definitely strong. Completely unhelpful, of course, but then help is not what Clu asked for.

(Actually, he did, only Bradley couldn't accept it--couldn't bear the weight of it, not for a moment, not for anything.

Clu had filed that away deep.)

Doesn't matter now, though. Now it's clear where he's been this whole time. His own face is smirking at him from between Alan's upturned palms.

Alan's words are quiet, methodical, but the look on his face is loud--clear, clarion disgust.

Clu considers that. He smolders with it and peels back his teeth, even and bright.

"Well," slowly, crooned until it has four syllables and a descant, "you gonna give it to me, or are you gonna play with it some more."