[closed] karma police, arrest this man

[alan_1]

Who: Alan Bradley and Rinzler
When: The evening of March 7th
Where: The garden
What: Rinzler got tattled on. Initiate dadtalk.
Warnings: Discussion of violence, possibly brainwashing.




[The evening after Alan makes his introductory post to the network, Rinzler will find the following audio message in his inbox. It’s short, to the point, and unmistakably terse.]

I need to speak with you. Now, if possible. I’m in the gardens.

[Alan wishes they didn’t have to have this conversation -- at least, he wishes he could afford more time to sort out his thoughts before confronting the program. But with the reports of past violence he’s been receiving on the network, he knows it can’t wait; he can’t risk Rinzler harming, or God forbid, killing someone because Alan had hesitated when he should have acted. He doesn’t know if the program will even listen to him -- all he knows is that Rinzler is afraid of him and that part of him, however twisted and fearful, still knows Alan as his User. Whether that’s enough to overcome whatever violence has been seemingly hard-coded into the program, Alan can only wait and see.

When Rinzler arrives at the garden, Alan will be there waiting for him, pensive gaze growing stern when he sees the program enter. Alan doesn't say anything yet, nor does he move to approach the program. Instead, he only gives him a short nod and waits to see if he'll approach on his own.]

Comments

[notglitching]

[The stall lasts a little longer this time. Bel_Thorne had been a valid challenge, especially with surprise and Rinzler's damaged state on their side. And the second fight with the fast user had been predicated by threats. It had attacked him. Ordered him. Promised to show him what happened to rabid dogs if he should disobey.

But as much loathing as the glitch had triggered, Rinzler had never considered himself in danger. None of the combatants he'd faced were strong enough to beat him, that one least of all. The mask shakes from side. No. They weren't threats.]

[alan_1]

Then why? Do you even know? [For all that Alan is trying to remain composed, it’s hard to keep the anger and hurt from his voice. He wants to help Rinzler. He wants to protect the people on the ship. And he can’t do either because the program can’t or won’t tell him the source of the error.

’If the error’s in his code, all it would take is a few keystrokes…’ The thought comes unbidden and for a moment Alan has to look away from the program. He shouldn’t -- can’t think about programs like that anymore. They aren’t just lines of code on a screen he can delete when they aren’t giving him the results he wants. But if there are peoples’ lives at stake… Just the thought of the concession makes him feel a fresh pang of guilt.

He looks back at the program, expression more pained than angry now, his voice weary.] Are you going to say anything at all to explain yourself? You have permission.

[notglitching]

[Why? Rinzler keeps from flinching for the most part, but fingers curl just a fraction at his sides. He does know. Whether for a threat or an insult, with his double or his roommate or that glitching user error, there's exactly one point of commonality in all the fights.

He'd wanted them.

It's not about function. It's not anything that could ever count as an excuse. It's the largest failing in Rinzler's memory, and one he's always, always known enough to hide. Better to be rated glitched or stupid, better to be punished for a failure of code, than to expose how many thoughts and frustrations he's hidden for himself. Clu might have tolerated minor lapses, but Rinzler had never gone so far as to openly act against his admin's goals. Not that he can remember.

He's crossed that line already here, and noise harshens, loud and erratic, as Alan-one encourages him to point out the flaw. He doesn't want to be recoded. He wants even less to tell the user how. Fingers twitch jerkily on his wrist, halting answers half-sketched in the air, but all of them delete before completion. Function. Didn't. There's a flicker of I— that wipes itself before it even has a chance to hold. I has always been the problem. Rinzler's a tool. A part of something. He isn't meant to act as if he's whole.

It doesn't take long before the display closes. The helmet bows, and his left hand shifts, locking briefly around the shackle of the MID. Clu wasn't wrong, and the irony is painful (if not nearly so much as that look on Alan-one's face). Permission or no, Rinzler doesn't have anything worth saying.]

[alan_1]

[Alan watches the program tap haltingly at his MID, but whatever response Rinzler may have been formulating never comes. The text display closes and Alan eyes cast downward as the full weight of the problem settles over him once more. There are no answers for him to work with. No clear solutions. He’s going in blind to a situation where the lives of the people around him are at stake, without a word of guidance from the very program he’s trying to help.

For all that Rinzler’s interactions with him have been marked by fear, Alan realizes that he’s afraid too. Afraid of what he might have to do. Afraid of what will happen if he doesn’t.

His eyes return to the program. His own head lowers to match the downward cant of the helmet, still searching for a gaze to meet behind the dark faceplate.]

Rinzler, look at me. [It’s spoken gently, but Alan makes a point not to continue until Rinzler looks up. He needs to know that the program is seeing him -- not as some almighty creator here to punish him for his errors, but as someone trying to help.]

I know you’re capable of developing past your programming. The fact that you’re here right now is proof of that. Even if Clu programmed you for violence, it doesn’t have to define you. [His tone is insistent here. Hopeful.] I need you to prove that to me. And to everyone else on the ship. If you can’t, and these attacks continue… [Alan forces himself to keep his gaze steady here, as much as he wants to look away.] ...then the only option I’ll have is to fix the fault in the code itself. [That the thought pains him is clear to see in his expression. He takes a deep breath and when he speaks again, his voice is softer.] I don’t want that. Do you understand?

[notglitching]

[He doesn't want to look up. He doesn't need to. But after a moment, Rinzler complies, and Alan-one's expression is both more and less than he'd expected. Less anger. No simmering cold rage, no sneer, no false smile, mocking and too-sharp.

But that disappointment is thick enough to drown in.

Rinzler contains his flinch. He keeps his helmet angled up; he waits and listens; he writes every line to memory. He doesn't twitch in protest, or point out that Clu wasn't the one who had written him to fight. Tron was designed for violence as well, to delete threats or targets the users had flagged. But that wasn't what Rinzler had done, and the program knows his combat functions aren't the problem. The problem was presumption. He'd attacked users. He'd set his own targets, by whim and want rather than command.

Rinzler is not Tron. He's not a user. And independent function is (lost) (not his) (forbidden).

The question is permission in its own way: Rinzler bows his head, eyes lowered at last in assent. Spine curved, mask down—what externals he can control are perfectly obedient. It's only the program's sound that scrapes and jars, conflicting lines looping and tightening as he processes the new directive. Don't fight. Rinzler is a weapon, meant to break and kill and hunt. But this is hardly the first time he's had his function twisted on itself, and he can pass this test just like the others.

If he tries very, very hard, he can even pretend the consequences of failure aren't any worse.]

[alan_1]

[Alan watches the mask lower once again. Rinzler’s seeming assent isn’t surprising -- hard to imagine anything else given how the program usually acts around him-- but he can’t help but feel some measure of relief all the same. This unpleasantness could all end here. It has to.

Still, his relief is tempered by worry as the program’s noise builds and stutters. It’s a sound Alan has come to associate with internal struggle, just as likely to prefigure a breakthrough as it is a freeze. With the reprimand part of the conversation over, the sternness in his gaze is quickly replaced by concern. There’s an undercurrent of trepidation as well, the thought that maybe he’s asking Rinzler to do something that he isn’t capable of -- what if recoding really is the only way to resolve this and Alan is merely delaying the inevitable? What if he’s not protecting the crew, or Rinzler, but himself?

No. He can’t fall into that line of thinking, not without giving Rinzler a chance. He asks the program no more questions, simply speaks, voice quiet and reassuring.]

If you ever need help or just want to get in touch...[Alan gestures to his MID.] You can contact me any time. [He knows it’s a longshot with how reluctant the program tends to be about initiating communication, but he feels the need to put the offer out there all the same. Just because he’s expecting Rinzler to change his behavior doesn’t mean the program has to go it alone.]