thisavrou_log | Define your meaning of fun

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Define your meaning of fun

Who: Rinzler and OPEN
When: After the Moira leaves Emiri, before the events on the 16th
Where: Training Simulation Room, Moro #9, and In Your Ceiling
What: Shenanigans with a side of larcenous roommates
Warnings: Probable violence and a Rinzler, but nothing awful planned

A. Training Simulation Room (Open)

When Rinzler had heard of the training area, his initial response had been disinterest. Defeating phantoms served no purpose, and he wasn't some beta to need training on the very function he was made for. Still, as time stretched out without a proper fight, the need to move started to weigh higher. And if recent events had left him singularly unimpressed with the system's response protocols to a threat, it probably wasn't worth attacking more of his fellow imports. At least, not until he found a target worth deleting.

Still, as the program stood out in the hallway, orange-lit fingers moving quickly over the soft blue of the control console, the ironies were harder to escape. A system in front of him, written for combat. For Games. And here he was, outside, stuck fighting the data-shadows it produced. Rinzler should be in there. He wanted a real battle, not some user-tailored simulation. The enforcer took what satisfaction he could in overriding the safety settings, doubling the pre-loaded templates and setting threat difficulty up to maximum.

The door slid open with a soft chime, and Rinzler stepped into the center, reaching back for his joined disk. But as long seconds ticked by, nothing happened. No lights. No sounds but his own constant rumble. Then:

"Waiting for voice activation."

Noise skipped, mute rattle glitching louder as Rinzler's helmet turned to glower out the door. Those programs definitely needed wiping.

B. Pick your location, (nearly) any location (Open)

While it hadn't rated particularly highly as a threat, Rinzler almost regretted that the beta-user had been killed. Its attack had been an interesting diversion, and if it had gotten away in the end... well, even that had proven educational. The vent-space Chara had escaped through was too small for the enforcer to pursue, but further investigation found larger access paths concealed behind more casings on the walls. Worth securing. Worth mapping. And of course, there was only one way to manage that properly.

Anyone in the cargo bay, barracks, or other main living areas might start to hear some sounds. A scraping in the walls. A ticking rumble echoing through the ceiling. Rinzler moves quietly for the most part, but the navigational difficulties are many and new, and it's difficult to assess when the shape of the passages might carry sound to occupants below. If someone were to look into the ventilation at the right time, they might even see a dim red-orange glow peering back through the darkness. Not that Rinzler's watching you. Necessarily.

C. Moro #9 (Closed to ~~Napoleon~~ Nathaniel)

As much time as Rinzler spent traveling the halls (and air ducts) of the ship, his own room was an almost uncommon waypoint. There was no function to be served inside, and the enforcer slept as rarely as he could. For the most part, Rinzler used it as a storage unit. With barely a handful of items in his possession (and most of those pointless user clothes), he didn't take much space.

On the other hand, it didn't take much effort to notice when those items were disturbed. The first time he'd come back to find his things minutely shifted, Rinzler had offered a flat stare across the room, but no further commentary. Data gathering was a logical goal, and he didn't care enough about any of the objects to object to the intrusion. If the user laid a hand on his disk, it was losing the appendage, but it seemed intelligent enough to know where to stay clear.

At least, until he stopped by and found things missing from his stash. Not the uniforms or the discarded weapons, but the supply of resource tokens they'd been distributed as a reward. Useless on the ship, but necessary for supply exchange on user planets. Valuable.

This time, the stare lasts longer. It comes with a low, building growl.

[[ooc: will match prose or spam!]]

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The posture Rinzler shifts up into is close and contained, spine curved and shoulders hunched in a way that's probably habitual. Still, the stance is balanced, and even the faint motions as the program stands and looks are quick and easy. Quicker than they should be.

The scathing catch of static, less so. Sorry, user. While your aim might be on target (and Rinzler will give credit for not running), that damage output needs a lot of work. The enforcer's heard worse insults about his lack of voice in the last few weeks alone. He reaches for his MID, and lines of text project upward, red-orange glow a match to Rinzler's own.

Not written for communication.

The mask tilts to the side as the program takes a deliberate step closer. One guess what he is coded for.

Probably not human, either, then.

Church lifts a brow at the text, though he's quick to straighten when Rinzler advances forward. In turn, he moves one step back, out of the cargo bay and into the corridor, and hovers a hand over the glowing panel next to the door. If things get too hot, he could always close the door in his face.

That'd buy him maybe two seconds, but two seconds are better than no seconds. Or dying. Again.

Or getting his arm or nose broken, because somehow that seems infinitely worse.

"Oh, yeah?" he hums, nonchalant. "So what are you? And if you're not written for communication, what the fuck are you making that noise for?"

Oh, Rinzler's having fun with this. The sound quickens again, closer to a purr of satisfaction than the rough, scraping grind of code. He stays where he is, stance casual. Easy.

Program.
Enforcer.

The question about his sound goes decidedly ignored, though the faint catch of irritation might reveal that Church finally found a sore point. If the noise itself doesn't give that away. Minor fluctuations or not, the rumbling isn't a good sound, particularly not from any kind of mechanical standpoint. Rinzler sounds like a broken hard drive.

Whatever the hell that means.

"So, what? Like an AI?"

That doesn't sound entirely right, either. Church has only met a few AI, but he's fairly certain they would never refer to themselves as programs. In fact, he wouldn't be surprised if program is an insult that AI call other AI while they're in a tiff and throwing long-winded, technobabble shade in every direction. They're all so obnoxiously sensitive when it comes to their identities.

AI don't make that awful noise, either. Even rampant AI maintain some semblance of speech, no matter how incoherent, and Rinzler just sounds broken, like he's been torn open at the center and gutted of his innards.

Or maybe it's intentional. Maybe that's how he was built, to be incomplete and imperfect. Either way it's unnerving.

Edited 2016-02-22 12:37 (UTC)

The helmet jerks sideways, negating the guess.

Program.

Not a whole system, but a part of it. And not one that's meant to interact with users so directly. At least, not ones outside the computer.

System function. Written for threat deletion.

And whatever else Clu saw fit to use him for, of course. Rinzler shifts forward another step, slow and easy. He probably wouldn't make it through the door before the user slammed it, and he doesn't have any real reason to attack. But that retreat is too amusing not to test.

Church honestly doesn't know why he's still idly standing around asking questions to a man who's not really a man but a machine. A very, incredibly dangerous and seemingly intelligent machine, if Church is to go by the looks (and sounds!) of him, but still a machine. A program, defined entirely by his functions and written codes and values.

Is that racist? Or programist? He doesn't know. Or care.

"You" — a jolted pause, as Rinzler steps forward and Church's eyes swivel down to the space left between them — "can't think for yourself, then? Is that it?"

If that's the case, then he really shouldn't be there.

Shouldn't be there... shouldn't have said that. Take your pick. The term isn't technically correct (software, not hardware), but Rinzler has no problems being considered a machine. Certainly, his code defines him.

Autonomy, though? Hits a circuit.

The rumbling noise rises, each skip a little harsher. Much more like a growl. There's no text this time, no proper answer, but the tilt of the enforcer's mask is suddenly a lot less curious and a lot more predatory. So is the step forward. If Rinzler can manage one more, he'll flash a hand out—bracing against the inside of that doorframe.

Well, that clearly hit a nerve (circuit).

Church realizes his mistake the second the question is out of his mouth, and then doubly so when Rinzler starts making that noise again — not the low purr but the rolling growl that sets his teeth on edge. The bad noise. He should go, should turn on his heel and march right back to his room, but it's too little too late because Rinzler is stepping forward and Church steps back just as quick, pulling his hand away from the glowing panel next to the door.

Motherfucker.

"Fine," he says, except he has no idea what the fuck he's really saying anymore. "You can think enough to get pissed off. Is that one of your functions?"

Why is he still asking questions? Nervous habit. Maybe there's a therapist aboard. He takes another step back.

"Okay — okay, look. Kill me if you want, but I got to tell you, man, it won't do you any good. I'm basically a cockroach."

By now, the retreat is only to be expected. Still, Rinzler had assumed the user would at least have the forethought to try to close that door before he made it through.

Definitely too late now. The program's grip flexes, metal doorframe creaking just a little underneath. His step into the gap is unhurried, but that fluid readiness still clings to every motion. So does the growl. The helmet cocks a little further to one side.

Does cockroach mean glitch? Because Rinzler's fairly sure that term applies.

The head tilting is enough to drive a person crazy. For a man (program) who claims not to be a cat, he certainly acts enough like an animal, and Church can almost predict each little tic every time a word leaves his mouth. Okay, so either he doesn't know what a cockroach is, or he's not understanding the comparison.

Doesn't matter. He's taking another step closer, and this time, instead of shifting back, Church breathes out hard and pinches the bridge of his nose between two fingers.

Fuck, fine. Event horizon. Too late, can't turn back. Stupid to run.

"What I mean is that I'll come back." That's not entirely the truth. He doesn't know for sure if he'll come back, not when he's attached to this real fleshy body, but knowing his luck Rinzler will probably just knock him out of his physical body and he'll be forced to float around all gross and formless until he finds a new one. "And I'll be really fucking pissed and twice as annoying and then you'll have to go and kill me again. And again. And again and again and again. Forever. Also known as infinity. For the rest of fucking time. Do you understand?"

Rerezz was hardly a new risk. The last user system Rinzler had been trapped in imposed it on anyone who died, and if the network logs are any sign, it's at least possible in this place, too. Still, something about the user's threat seems awfully... personal. Rinzler doesn't move, helmet fixed at the exact same angle, but after a moment, an active scan layers itself behind his stare.

...only for the program to freeze. There's a beat of silence, then the ticking growl skips once. Again. Again, and the sound that comes out is sharper, quicker. And for all the static, the pattern isn't hard to recognize.

Rinzler's laughing at you, Church.

Confirmed.
Annoyance: your primary function?

Because that coding is messed up.

So this conversation took an unexpected took.

The insult hardly pricks at his (extremely overblown) ego. In fact, Church takes pride in annoying as many people as humanly possible because, really, after all the ridiculous idiocy he's put up with, he deserves to let loose sometimes.

But the sound Rinzler is making now is different from the sound he'd been making before. Normally he'd be alarmed by any change in Rinzler's — voice? noises? — but this is new, sharper, broken into stuttered pauses like he's —

Laughing. He's fucking laughing at him.

"What?" he snaps, impatient. His shoulders pull back as he straightens to his full height, eyes narrowing on Rinzler's glossy helmet. "If you don't believe me, that's your prerogative, dude, but it's true."

Edited (i can't english apparently ) 2016-03-03 23:23 (UTC)

Not relevant.

Well, maybe a little relevant. Rinzler could come up with a hex of ways for a program installed in a human shell to return from death, from file restoration to a network jump.

Still, that's not the reason for the skipping, voiceless snicker. Which isn't stopping, incidentally. Rinzler doesn't seem particularly impressed with Church's full height, either. Maybe a little with his nerve.

This glitch had tried to insult his level of processing?

Your code: nonfunctional.
Don't get to question mine.

Church doesn't understand, not at first. Half the shit Rinzler says doesn't make sense to him — or he doesn't care enough to really stop and think about what he's saying. This is different, personal, somehow reaches Church deeper than Rinzler flat out stalking closer to undoubtedly beat the shit out of him.

Nonfunctional. Oh. Oh, that.

Well, he is a program, and Church supposes that identifying abnormalities in people (or in this case, not people) could be one of his functions. But he still flinches, blinks hard and steps back as if Rinzler's reached out to strike him.

How can he be nonfunctional if he can feel his heart beating, and hear the quickening rhythm pounding one-two in his ears? Fuck this guy. No. That's an identity he left behind in the Meta's head, trapped with the rest of the fragments of (himself) the Alpha, and Church isn't any of things, isn't damaged or broken or a series of code that's been stripped raw, crushed until it (he) can't feel anything.

He can feel everything, and it fucking sucks, and he's not any of that, no. Not right now. Not anymore. And the nerve of this fucking asshole to talk shit about him when he's standing there shooting off holographic texts because he can't speak.

"Fuck you, dude." Anger flushes through him, hot and sudden enough that his breath catches with every inhale. This time, instead of stepping back, he steps forward, wiping damp palms on the front of his trousers. "Maybe I'm nonfunctional because they shoved me in this fucking body, did you ever think of that? At least I can talk."

...well.

He wasn't wrong about that nerve.

The ticking rumble skips a little before settling, harsh and even. The program doesn't flinch, not really. He doesn't back down, either. Rinzler's fingers curl at each side, and if his stooped hunch might spell submission in the presence of his programmer, the fluid readiness behind each coiled limb makes the enforcer's posture far more threatening than loyal, here.

Still, Rinzler doesn't strike. And when his hand does move, it's for the MID. Defiance? Maybe, in its own way. And maybe it's a clearer sign than any that Rinzler's not the only one cutting a little close to home.

Don't need to.

It's what Clu told him. He didn't need to speak (or know, or struggle). He was perfect this way. Memory is still a shattered mess, hooks of reprimand too ready to cut off even the slightest flicker of a search, but Rinzler knows too much now to pretend he isn't damaged. Impossible not to with Tron here, whole and unbroken and free to speak and have a face. Rinzler had tried to wipe him. To stay loyal. It hadn't worked.

But even if Rinzler's the one who shouldn't exist... even if everything he should have been was stripped away... the enforcer still has a function. He's still the best combatant—the best killer—on the ship. And if this glitch really wants to challenge him? Rinzler doesn't need to speak at all to break it.

Amazingly, Church feels laughter burning hot in his throat, sharp and near-hysterical, and he swallows the sound down, curls his hands into fists until his nails dig into his palms. He doesn't need to. He doesn't need to speak like how Church didn't need to remember, or like how Wash didn't need to say shit, or like how the Meta didn't need to speak, either.

But Wash did say shit, and Church does remember, and the Meta didn't speak because he didn't need to but because he fucking couldn't.

That's bullshit. He's talking bullshit.

"Don't need to, huh?" he repeats, harsh, suddenly breathless. This body isn't real, just a synthetic shell built for him by the crew of this ship, but he feels light-headed, too aware of how human he is and how wrong that is, another lie, more bullshit.

And here this guy is standing across from him, probably very ready to kill and/or maul him at any given moment, and he's talking to Church as if he's stupid, as if Church doesn't know what he is. Like Church is goddamned deaf, like he can't hear every rattling wheeze that leaves his body. Why does everyone get to pretend but him?

He's breathing hard enough that his hands are shaking, and he wants to press further, perhaps cruelly, just because he can and because this is one more body, in the end; even if he gets knocked out of it he'll find another. He could, but he doesn't. Church is tired, and he quickly crumples under the weight of his own rage, shoulders dipping forward as he retreats a step back.

"Fine," he murmurs. "You don't need to. You do you, dude."

Rinzler can feel the challenge building in the other's voice. He can hear the not-laugh waiting, coiled and mocking. And he can feel, too, the moment where it all gives way. Taunt to withdrawal, subtle pressure to a tired, bitter loss. It's victory, but only because there's nothing left to fight against. Nothing left to overcome.

A fight would have been easier. Better. It's more than tempting to make one happen still. But the other program is already in retreat, and Rinzler only watches. He can still feel the raw edges of its code, sharp splinters dead-ending without a proper sense of function. If he did attack, would it fight properly? Or give up on that too?

Noise skips out in harsh, scraping staccato. Rinzler's no longer sure he wants to know.

Fingers twitch, empty and unsatisfied. This is pointless. No fight, no data, and it's Rinzler's helmet that turns away now, shoulders shrugging a little closer as he shifts up from that fluid crouch. There's no effort to reach for the communicator. No point in that either. He's already walking away.

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