thisavrou_log | [closed] i see my father in my face

[Even though he has to squint without his glasses, it doesn’t take Alan very long to figure out how to use his MID. It’ll be early afternoon when Sam receives an audio message:]

Sam? It’s Alan. Tron told me you were on the ship too. [A pause.] I think it’s safe to say that there’s a lot we need to talk about. I’m on Moro Deck now. Tell me if you can make it.

[The message feels almost absurdly mundane given the circumstances, but there’s really no good way to address half of what needs to be said over voice-chat. Namely, ’I heard from my personified computer program who no one ever told me about that you somehow fell into a closed computer system and nearly died, which no one told me about either.’ Alan sighs. How close had Sam come to being just another disappearance for him to mourn? And what did it say that it had taken a literal alien abduction and a conversation with a computer program for him to find out?

For now, all he can do is wait for Sam’s reply. And hope he’ll finally have some answers.]

[It’s almost funny – man sets foot on an alien planet for the first time and he can’t even see it. The planet’s thick, nearly opaque atmosphere combined with Alan’s unfortunate loss of his glasses means that from where he’s standing outside the Moira, the entire landscape looks like one giant gray blur, with some darker gray smudges in the distance. Still, it is an alien planet, which means Alan feels compelled to spend at least a little time looking, even if he isn’t seeing much.

At least his proximity to the Moira means he occasionally gets a decent view of the ship’s “transporters” – large, somewhat clumsy-looking aircraft that ferry in and out of the ship’s cargo bay – before they either disappear back into the ship, or fade into obscurity in the distance. Still, it isn’t much of a view and after a few minutes, Alan’s about ready to head back inside. He’s just turning back to the ship when a flash of orange amidst the planet’s dull greys catches his attention.

It’s a ship. And even without his glasses, Alan can tell it’s another breed entirely than the Moira’s ponderous transporters. More than that, it’s familiar. And the distinctive glow of orange-red on black isn’t exactly hard to place. Alan watches for a beat longer and then turns and walks back onto the Moira.

When Rinzler returns to the cargo bay with his Lightjet, Alan will be there waiting for him, standing off to the side to give the program space. He nods at the baton in his hand.]

Looks like programs aren’t the only import from the Grid here.

[ Oh god. Oh god. Oh god. Alan is here?! Wait, Alan was here and talked to Tron? How much had Tron actually said? Because the nearly dying part was Clu's fault completely but he wasn't the one in Disk Wars.

Sam doesn't reply, because what is communication, but he does show up at the end of Moro deck. Alan didn't say which room. Sam hasn't been back from being on the Grid, but he didn't want to have this particular conversation. ]

[The transporters are his on-ship function. They're useful enough—more so since the weapons upgrade—and for all their clumsy shape, the maneuverability isn't bad.

But when it comes to flying something he'd enjoy? It's hard to outrank lightjets for Rinzler.

The craft flits through the cargo bay doors with a burst of power, engines whining slightly louder before Rinzler angles up the nose and stalls. Hands flex, snapping the baton back together midair, and the craft dissolves to wireframe. As he drops through the insubstantial light-traced lines, Rinzler could almost pretend he was still home.

The enforcer somersaults once as he drops, hitting the deck in a low, graceful crouch. And then a voice (his voice) speaks up from the sidelines, and Rinzler nearly manages to unbalance with sheer startlement. User. Noise stutters harshly, the black mask snapping up towards Alan-one. It takes a moment to twitch back down, fingers tensing belatedly around the orange-tipped rod. Rinzler makes no move to return it to his side, but nods instead, straightening carefully into his default hunch.]

[The graceful display beforehand makes it even more pronounced when the program tenses up at the sound of his voice. Alan can’t help but wince slightly at that, especially knowing now that the uneasiness he’s seeing is not part of the program’s general behavior, but a reaction in particular to him. Alan isn’t completely clear on the exact logic that dictates Rinzler’s anxiety towards him, but he knows that he’s the program’s original User, that the program knows this, and that it’s enough to unnerve the program a great deal.

So why is he here? He had considered simply avoiding the program to prevent any future strife, but that’s hardly an ideal solution when they both work on the same ship, with no estimate as to when they’ll be getting home. And more than that, Alan would be lying if he said he didn’t feel some sense of responsibility for the program. Maybe he hadn’t been the one to copy him into Flynn’s Grid, but he had been the program’s original creator -- it didn’t feel right to simply ignore the program in light of that.]

I can see why the captains made you a pilot. That was some landing. [It was certainly unlike anything he'd ever seen back on Earth, in both technical skill and physics. He glances back at the cylinder in Rinzler’s hand.] The entire aircraft is stored in there?

[Alan is leaning against the wall in the corridor when Sam walks in. If it makes any difference, Alan doesn’t look furious when he sees him, only giving him a somewhat harried smile.]

Judging by the look on your face, I’m guessing Tron forgot to tell you I was here. [And that probably would be a surprise given that Sam had apparently been here for weeks before Alan showed up. Alan’s still not completely sure how that could work given he had spoken to Sam only a few minutes before arriving through the Ingress, but it’s not like discrepancies in the passage of time are any more unbelievable than anything else that’s happened today.]

[ Well that's something? Sam may have been ignoring his MID, too, but he doesn't say that. ]

Well since you've already met the doppleganger, I guess you've been told about his evil twin.

[ Not that Rinzler was "evil" per say, and Sam actually had issue with Tron, except Tron was Rinzler and vice versa. and it would give you a headache if you thought about it too long. ]

[Alan raises an eyebrow.] Good to see you too.

[As for evil twins...] Tron told me what happened in the Grid. [Unlike SOME people.] Anything you’d like to add? [You know, evil twin-related or otherwise?]

[ Sam took a deep breath in and slowly he let it out. ]

Is there anything I want to tell you? No, not really. Do I want to go into how surreal it was to be dragged in front of Clu, who looked exactly like dad in his thirties down to the beard stubble? Nope. Or even that the same Tron you spoke to was brainwashed- or reprogrammed whatever- into being Rinzler? Not that either.

Do I want to talk about the fact I had to watch my dad pull a real life kamikaze supernova because his digital clone was doing his damndest to get out into the User world? No, I sure don't.

[ See this is why Sam doesn't talk about things. Flynn senior could charm a nun out of her habit. Sam, on the other hand, uses words as weapons when he chooses. Then again the hurt of the Grid is fresh. He looks away, almost daring Alan to lecture him in not looking. ]

[If Sam wants his words to sting, he gets his wish. Alan takes a step forward, then stops, hurt and frustration warring in his face. It cuts him to the core to hear what Sam suffered and of course the last thing he wants is to cause him more pain. But Alan could have helped him – him and Flynn – if one of them had just reached out and told him what was happening. Sam’s account only creates new questions about the Grid, but for a moment, Alan forgets about them; he’s far more concerned with what it would have meant for Sam.]

So you were just going to keep all of that a secret? Pretend that it never even happened? You could have died, Sam. [His stern tone falters and breaks there, the reality of how close it had come to that sinking in as he says it.] You could’ve died, and no one would have even known. I wouldn’t have known. Do you think I could stand to watch your name become just another slogan? Another “Flynn Lives?”

[The old phrase hangs between them for a moment, hollow and heavy from their mutual knowledge of its falsehood. Alan sighs, eyes lowering away from Sam, tension stretching into weary silence. When he speaks again, his tone is softer.]

If you don’t want to talk about what happened in the Grid, I won’t make you. It’s too late for either of us to change what happened there. But if you’re in danger here, I need you to tell me. [It’s not a perfect compromise, but it’s something. Alan may not have been able to stop what had happened to Sam and Flynn on the Grid, but at least he has a chance to make a difference here.]

Now, I think you said something about an “evil twin?”

[ Sam does take in another deep breath, his eyes closing, and when he lets it out the beligerance drains away so that all that's left is the hurt.
He can't keep using his issues as shields to hide behind. He knew that much. This is Alan, too, the guy who made sure Sam always had a place to go when college breaks rolled around. Who didn't like it but he and Lora still supported Sam's decision to drop out. It wasn't fair to him to lash out like that.

But neither of them were much acquainted with fairness.

The question made Sam give Alan a 'wtf, seriously?' look, though. ]

Oh, right. Glasses. Have you actually seen both Programs?

[The tension in the hallway relents some as Sam seems to collect himself, the combativeness in his expression replaced with something more resigned. It hurts Alan to see him this way and he finds himself wishing again that Sam would just tell him what had happened so he can help -- but he’s already said he won’t press it and he intends to keep his word. He’ll just have to wait for Sam to open up about it on his own time, and in the meantime focus on what Sam is telling him now.]

Yes. Tron and Rinzler. [Sam had referred to Rinzler as a “reprogrammed” version of Tron, yet the programs Alan had spoken to seemed as different as night and day.] You’re saying Rinzler is the result of someone editing Tron’s code? [Words that would have sounded perfectly mundane the previous day now feel disconcerting knowing they apply to actual people. “Editing code” yesterday had just been a day at the office. Today, it’s brain surgery.]

[Not disapproval, then. A loop of apprehension clears from cache, and when Rinzler's helmet ducks in answer to the praise, the gesture's a little less rigid. After a moment's glance to check for permission, he even reaches for his wrist, tapping the MID interface to bring up the text to speech converter he'd used before. Strange, that the user would have such heavy visual impairment when he (when Tron) didn't. But Rinzler hadn't questioned the request before, and he wouldn't now.]

Multifunction baton.

Saves assorted templates. Vehicles, weapons, tools.

[ Imagine being a hacktivist who's let more than his fair share of things loose into the wilds of the internet. From editing to outright writing a few viruses himself, Sam was definitely no angel, here. But then he got sucked into a digital world and discovered this whole other form of life. ]

That's exactly what I'm saying. If you take away anything like morality, personality, or compassion from Tron then what's left?

[ Sam gestured helplessly. ]

Rinzler.

[ But here Sam puts both hands to his face and sort of...drags them down. ]

There's more, though. See, this all happened years ago which is why dad never came home. But however long that is inside a computer, I think the old Tron code must have been trying to break through, and the new code was working around it, until it kind of just...is it's own thing? Seems like it's own thing. Definitely not a Tron thing.

[Alan listens intently to Sam’s account, brow creased with concern. What Sam is describing sounds like a weapon more than anything – but at the same time, Alan has trouble reconciling that image with that of the program he had encountered in the garden. Once Sam gets into the details of how Rinzler’s code had developed after the initial editing, it begins to make more sense. It should be fascinating: a program developing independently to accommodate both the parameters of its original code along with subsequent edits to become a new program. But after seeing the outcome – Rinzler’s outright fear of him in contrast to Tron’s enthusiasm – and knowing the programs had once been one and the same, Alan can’t help but feel dread at the implications.]

And this happened inside the computer? So it was another program who did this to him? Or…

[Alan doesn’t need to state the other option. Both he and Sam know there’s only one other person who ever went into the Grid.]

[Alan gives the program a short nod at his questioning glance, pleased to see him already showing more initiative in communicating. Asking for permission, however non-verbally, is still progress from waiting for a request.]

Sounds a lot more convenient than what we have on the outside. [The more Alan learns, the more he understands Flynn’s conviction that the contents of the grid would transform every aspect of modern life. This “multifunction baton” alone sounds like it could solve half the world’s environmental problems and revolutionize modern transportation in one fell swoop.]

And these templates are stored as code? [There’s a hopeful note to the question – if they are, it means Alan can study them, possibly even learn to integrate the code elsewhere or just edit the files locally. At the very least, he’d be more than interested to learn how the code is made to manifest physically.]

[ Yes there was only one other person who used the Grid. But while Kevin Flynn may have had the best of intentions, he made the fatal mistake of trying to do everything himself.

Sam became somewhat somber. Because it was impossible to think about Clu without thinking about his father. Only, the much older version of his father was very different to the man that Sam remembered. Granted those memories had the glow of time, and Sam was aware that some of the vitality he saw in his father was hero worship, but that vibrant and alive man was very different from the broken old man hiding in the rocks. ]

Kind of a Program. VI actually. Maybe the first. When dad was on the Grid, see, he copied himself. But then he'd be gone from the Grid, sometimes for a long time, and over time that copy started to change.

[ Sam crossed his arms with a sigh. ]

Codified Likeness Utility. Clu. He looked like dad in his thirties because that's when dad made him. And when dad was gone for a long time once, Clu orchestrated a coup. Tron fought like hell to make sure dad got out, but Clu got him.

[ And Sam is actually ashamed of what came after. Flynn ran. Maybe he fought later, and maybe there's more to this story but Sam isn't getting into any of it. ]

So yeah. It was a Program and it wasn't.

[Rinzler carefully avoids reacting to that first comment... and it's not because he doesn't agree. As much power as the users wield in his world, one of the program's first lessons here? Was how very glitched their world was. In resources and tools. In biology. When Clu first began work on his initiative, Rinzler doubts he had any idea just how much 'perfecting' would be needed.

The query is easier, though, and even formatted for a binary response. Rinzler's mask ducks in the affirmative—yes, everything in the Grid was code. Transportation certainly included. The enforcer doesn't move, but the helmet tips faintly, stare moving from the user to the baton in Rinzler's own hand.

Is Alan-one asking to see?]

Edited (word repetition) 2016-03-12 08:45 (UTC)

[Of course the story only gets more convoluted from there. So Flynn had somehow made a coded copy of himself, a new kind of lifeform and just… what, set it loose on the system? Alan knows Flynn was always the type to value innovation over caution, but this is more than playing with fire; this was playing with the forces of creation to construct something he didn’t fully understand and couldn’t control. And all while telling no one.]

So this “Clu” took Tron and reprogrammed him to be Rinzler. [Alan’s voice is weary. One man had caused all of this. One brilliant, bullheaded man too visionary for his own good. And people on both sides of the screen had suffered for it.]

Which means the Tron and Rinzler on the ship are two versions of the same program. [Thus, Sam’s use of the term “evil twin.”] Am I understanding you correctly?

[ Sam had, and would always love his father. But Kevin Flynn's fatal error was believing Clu to be a copy of himself. With one foot in the User world and one foot on the Grid is it any wonder Clu got so hung up on 'perfecting' until that myopic tunnel-vision made him destroy the very thing he was made to perfect. ]

Yeah, that's about right.

[ Of course this doesn't even touch on the ISO's, but still. ]

[And if Clu had reprogrammed Tron for his own purposes and those purposes were very strongly anti-Flynn, then it’s safe to assume that they were very strongly anti-Sam as well.]

Has he given you any trouble since you arrived on the ship?

[Alan follows Rinzler's gaze to the baton and then looks back at his faceplate, smiling slightly as he follows the program's thought process. If Rinzler doesn’t want to make the offer himself, Alan doesn’t mind giving him a little nudge. He holds out a hand, palm upwards.]

May I?

[The helmet dips in an immediate nod. If the question is a little strange—at least, with no mocking edge behind it—the gesture maps almost perfectly to defaults and expectation. The enforcer steps forward, nod ducking to a short bow as he raises both hands to offer the baton into the programmer's waiting hand.

If his code crawls with unease for just a moment (spine curved, disk exposed, he could reach out—), Rinzler knows better than to let that affect his motions. The ticking rattle is a little sharp when the program steps back, but in Alan's presence, that's hardly an appreciable increase. Rinzler shifts back into his standby position, helmet low.]

[Alan’s hand closes around the baton, noting the program’s almost mechanical movements, as if Rinzler has performed this kind of exchange a thousand times before. Alan feels a twinge of discomfort as he remembers who had likely instilled Rinzler with the custom, either through straight programming or rote repitition. Alan does his best not to let that discomfort show, instead giving the program a nod of acknowledgement.]

Thank you.

[Alan then looks down at the baton in his hands, turning it over with interest. The design is minimalist and sleek, a slightly flattened black cylinder with four spots of light along the middle. He’s slightly disappointed to see that there’s no visible interface for the device besides the buttons at the center -- no way to see the code stored within. But just as the thought occurs to him, the baton responds, the two halves sliding apart to reveal a core glowing bright with circuitry, and a floating pane of holographic light flickers into existence above it. Alan watches, amazed, as the pane is quickly filled with lines of code and corresponding images of different shapes, some familiar as vehicle analogs and some less so. He tentatively lifts one hand to the screen and the data reacts fluidly to his touch like something alive, far more so than anything he’s seen typing away behind a computer monitor before. Alan laughs in sheer wonder, glancing back at the program with an awestruck smile.]

This is incredible. [He scrolls through the code, squinting as he works out variables and functions of the various objects programmed onto the device. The language is surprisingly intuitive, far from the base machine code he was expecting to exist within a computer system.] Can the templates be recoded?

[The helmet twitches in only the smallest of nods in answer to the praise. Still, after a moment the program's eyes slide up behind his mask. This isn't Rinzler's code, and there's no reason he wouldn't be permitted to observe. Especially if he doesn't make the question known.

The enforcer watches quietly, noise a steady rumble... but at that laugh, even Rinzler's self-control falters. When Alan's glance returns, he'll find his program openly staring. The sound is clear and warm, filled with enough wonderment to ache at fragments deeper in his code. Tron's memories? Or just his hopes, his code, his purpose?

(It doesn't (won't) (can't, can't) matter, because what is Tron's is not for him.)

The lag breaks with a quick, if jerky nod. Yes, they could be recoded. Any part of their world could, by a user with the will and talent.]

[Alan notices the stare, but takes it for interest rather than surprise; perhaps he’s projecting just a little bit. He turns so the program can better see the glowing screen displayed above the baton. After scrolling through some of the displayed images, Alan pulls up the familiar shape of the aircraft Rinzler had been using earlier. He has to squint to read object’s code, but he can’t help grin when he realizes what he’s looking at.]

Data transfer function, [he chuckles.] I should’ve guessed. [He scrolls through the code for a few moments longer before his attention returns to the program.]

Is there anything you want recoded? [Because Alan would be more than happy to help.] Or can you recode them yourself?

[Rinzler's stuck between freezing in place and looking down quickly. When the user turns to offer a better view, the implied permission in the gesture closes the loop neatly. The enforcer takes a step closer, mask inclining toward the display. If the stare behind it is still fixed more on Alan-one, it's nothing the user needs to know.

No sign of threat. Only interest. Eagerness. It's impossible to completely suppress the comparisons, but if the sight still aches, Rinzler lets himself relax a little too. He even manages not to tense up as his user suggests recoding. Probably, there's no other implication.

A headshake to the first question—and the second, really. Though that one gets at least a line of elaboration.]

Not my function.

[Absorbed as Alan is with the contents of the baton, that response does get him to look back up at the program. The “my function” in the equation is curious. Does he mean that there are other programs who are able to recode it? Or that is isn’t a function of programs at all?] Are only Users able to recode objects from the Grid?

[The dark helmet shakes again.]

Function-dependent.

[The system would hardly have survived alone without repair utilities and recompilers. Prototypers and simulation managers could edit existing templates as well as implement their own designs. Administrators, of course, could edit what they liked. And that was just a sampling. The Grid's creator might have laid the groundwork, but the system as it existed now was just as much a product of the programs as any user code.]

[Of course. It stands to reason that if programs could edit each other, they’d be able to edit the inanimate objects of their world as well. Alan’s hand comes to a momentary halt over the baton code and then resumes scrolling. Maybe the potential impact of Alan’s next question will be softened if Rinzler feels Alan’s attention is elsewhere.]

And programs who recode other programs: they aren’t considered Users themselves?

[There's a slight twitch of orange-lined fingers at the program's side, but Alan's tactic seems effective enough. Rinzler shakes his head. No further elaboration, but no stall.

Editing permissions don't make anyone a user.]

[Alan feels a prickle of trepidation as he formulates the second part of that question. It wouldn’t feel right to continue to pretend ignorance in front of the program, and this seems as apt a moment as any to broach the subject: Rinzler appears far more relaxed now than he had in the garden and with Alan’s attention ostensibly occupied by the baton, maybe the program won’t feel quite so scrutinized in his response. But even with those mitigating factors, Alan has a feeling the topic will still be more than a little fraught.

Alan takes a short breath and then asks the question in as even a voice as possible.] So am I still your User?

[ Actually those purposes weren't anti-Flynn. And since the Rinzler that Sam remembers isn't the same Rinzler that's here it would probably make things more confusing to mention that whole business with saving Sam's life at the last second. ]

No. Not really.

[ He might be the only person that hasn't been bothered, actually. ]

[As carefully as Rinzler's holding himself, the assumption isn't wrong. Alan-one hasn't found any faults so far. By all appearances, the user isn't even looking. And if the absence of acknowledgement hurts, the program knows deep down this is the best he could have hoped for. Ignored is safe. Unwanted means he might escape recoding. And certainly Tron's user has no reason to want Rinzler as he is.

Still, Alan's voice draws every fraction of his program's focus. And that question? Is enough to lock up every process in his shell. Rinzler freezes. Stares. Noise glitches louder, stuttering and desperate—and just as abruptly, cuts almost to nothing.

The realization is numb, sparks of panic mixing with something sharp and scared and far too desperate. He knows. He knows he knows he knows, and circuits flicker with each loop. How long did he know? Rinzler should (kneel) (run) (present disk) (crash), but he can't move and he can't think and there's a spark of blue, just for a moment—]

Alan-one.

[The word scrapes out, tangled in static.]

Edited (typo nooo D:) 2016-03-18 14:47 (UTC)

Good. [It’s at least one less thing Alan has to worry about while they’re here. But even if the programs aren’t causing Sam any trouble, there’s still the fact that they’re on an alien spaceship probably lightyears from home.]

And the past few weeks here? How have you been holding up?

[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.]

[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.

You mean aside from getting kidnapped into space and a single Program being somehow two? I'm doing great. How are you?

[ Yes the last is added to be a smart ass but, well…seriously, Alan? ]

[Good to know that there are some things even the Grid can’t change.] I mean aside from what I already know, wise guy.

[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.

[closed] i see my father in my face

closed to sam flynn;

closed to rinzler;

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AGGRESSIVELY BSES BATON CODE DISPLAYS, LMK IF I'M EMBARRASSING MYSELF

/WELCOMES TO THE PSEUDOCODE BS CLUB, AWARDS BADGE

/treasures it always

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/whispers "i'm so sorry" as i type this tag

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YOU SHOULD BE this is beautiful ;a;

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