The heat is nauseating. The failure (the fear) that sunk into his processing at the last kill was paralyzing enough. But as the [user] [threat] snatches his disk from just beyond his reaching hand, a new sensation locks through Rinzler's mind, just as sick and desperate as both errors combined. It has his disks. Both of them, and he can feel the touch, intrusive contact wrapped and clinging to his code.

It's wrong. It's disorienting. It's the most Rinzler can do to track the blow as it comes in, much less avoid the flat, blunt impact that slams against his wrist. There's a crack of impact, grip twitching spasmodically as the darkening edge slams against the circuits on his hand. No, no, no. He won't let go, won't lose it too, and fingers curl tighter, making up for the lapse as he tries to jerk the blade back in.

Rinzler's empty hand lashes out, elbow driving toward the user's face, but it's rough and jerky more than coordinated—meant to buy space; get it off at any cost. He's desperate, and it leaves him open.