[closed] i see my father in my face

[alan_1]

Who: Alan Bradley, Sam Flynn, Rinzler, maybe Tron?
When: Post-arrival
Where: Mostly on the Moira, possibly the settled parts of Ceta as well
What: Catch-all log for castmate interactions!
Warnings: None yet.



[Top-levels to be posted below!]

Comments

[alan_1]

[Perhaps Rinzler thinks he’s being ignored, but nothing could be further from the truth. Alan knows how sensitive the question is liable to be and though he has to at least give the appearance of focusing on the code in front of him, he can at least listen for cues in the program’s sound. Which means that when it goes from a steady rumble to an erratic stutter and then seems to cut out entirely, Alan’s full attention is on the program in an instant, the pane of light flickering out as the baton closes in his hand.

There’s something wrong. Maybe the program would deny it like he had in the garden, but it’s not a question this time. Rinzler’s lights flicker like a broken machine and Alan reaches for his shoulder without thinking, not knowing if he’s trying to steady to program physically or mentally, only that he can’t let him crash. The flash of blue catches him off-guard, as does that name, grated out in a tangle of distortion. He blinks, and then his grip tightens on the program’s shoulder.]

Rinzler. Are you-- [He stops himself. This isn’t the time for another question, not when Rinzler’s still shaken from the previous one and not when he wouldn’t give an honest answer anyway.]

...It’s alright, [Alan says instead, taking a breath to steady himself.] It’s going to be alright.

[A platitude, but one that asks nothing of the program. It’s the best Alan can do at the moment.]

[notglitching]

[Alan-one's hand settles on his shoulder, and the enforcer flinches. He shouldn't have spoken. Shouldn't have stalled, or glitched, or been in this place at all. Tron was the one the user wanted, and he half-expects to feel the touch slide back, pressure closing around disk and dock to wipe him clear entirely.

It doesn't. The program's lights flicker like a guttering candle, but the grip tightens, and when Alan-one speaks, it's not Tron's name at all. Rinzler stares up, noise skipping mutely. "It's all right". It isn't. He isn't. The user can't mean that.

Can he?

Crashing would be much, much easier. Circuits shiver, a sickening flip-flop of blue-white/red before Rinzler's colors slowly steady through the rigid frame. He can still feel it. A call, a ghost, a memory he shouldn't have. The sense of user/maker/mine, warm and supporting. It's not fair, not his, and the thought that it could be hurts so much more than the hooks and reprimands he's used to.

"It's going to be all right."

There's a quiver underneath Alan's hand, but Rinzler bows his head. Then, haltingly, he looks back up. Locked permissions twist and catch, the familiar jarring noise building painfully, but something else slips out with it. This time, deliberately.]

User.

[alan_1]

[Alan lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding when he sees the program’s lights return to a steady orange-red, the tension draining from his grip on Rinzler's shoulder. Given the way the program reacts to him, the possibility of permanent harm, however unintentional, is always at the back of Alan’s mind -- the possibility of pushing too far too soon, the possibility of saying or doing something that he can’t make right. As the program bows his head once again, Alan feels a wave of relief that this doesn’t seem to be the case this time.

He isn’t expecting Rinzler to look up at him again, the strained, unsteady movement accompanied by a build in the program’s usual sound. Nor is he expecting that word, not dragged out in a scrape of static as it had been in the garden, but spoken with effort and intent, without waiting for permission or prompting. For a moment, Alan is too shocked to respond, staring back at the program in astonishment. And then, slowly, he smiles.]

That’s right. [Said with gentle encouragement and more than a touch of wonder.] I’m your user.