You can never say that I didn't try

[notglitching]

Who: Rinzler and OPEN
When: April 14th through the 24th
Where: the Hold
What: Rinzler killed some people and copes poorly. Set after this log.
Warnings: references to character death and mindscrew, glowy injuries, unfortunate assumptions. (See also: Rinzler.)


The first place Rinzler woke up in this system was a cell. He'd been locked in after a fight with his duplicate—with Tron. Not that the enforcer had been capable then of even hearing the older version's name. Rinzler had attacked because he had to, because the overrides built in his mind detected conflict and demanded he delete the source. Since then, he's shattered that if/then chain. Chipped away at the filters on his memories, even managed, once or twice, to speak.

But he's back where he started, and he knows better than to expect things to end the same way.

For the most part, visitors will find Rinzler seated on the low bench back against the wall. Circuits burn dimly in the shadows, almost outshone by the dull glint of fractured code that covers a full half of the enforcer's core. He's turned slightly to conceal the injured side, but the spiderwebbing cracks through code and armor are obvious to see, and he doesn't have the power to refresh his shell and cover up the damage.

The low rattle of corrupted code echoes through the cell and down the corridor, though it does nothing to compete with the invectives from the user locked in one door down. Rinzler approaches shutdown just once, curled up against the wall, and if the flickering lights and twitch of limbs is any sign, it's anything but restful. The program won't notice anyone approaching then, but he probably wouldn't mind being woken.

Once or twice, Rinzler rises, pacing, frustration and the need to move boiling up through the despair. There's nowhere to go, though, nothing to do, and even that much risks opening his damage further. Maybe he should. Fracture, break, rip himself apart and leave them voxels on the floor to claim and punish. Rinzler wonders if he ever tried before. If he does, he can't remember. He wonders what they'll make him into. Alan-one had told him what would happen, told him he'd correct the fault if Rinzler fought again. Now two users are dead, and if there's any hope at all, it's that they'll decide he's too worthless to salvage.


[[ooc: the duration during which Rinzler can be visited depends largely on the results of his trial, so there may be some time-wobbling. In particular, if he ends up with solitary confinement... no longer applicable; Rinzler will be visitable for both the trial period and his sentence. ETA 2: As of the 20th, temperature conditions will be improved thanks to Vision + co.

Prose and spam both welcome!]]

Comments

[skelepun]

It should, and it is. But no harm in seeking out the literal root on why someone is the way they are.

"Don't know 'em. But this CLU person, they're the one who designated what threats are and how to deal with them, right? Because let's be real... I watched the tape." Sans' eyelights dimmed out to darkness, empty sockets narrowing in on Rinzler. "She was no real threat to you, I don't care if she was carrying ten shovels."

[notglitching]

By the program's standards, the lights that gutter out to blackness hardly rate unusual. No, the oddity is how much sharper the absence seems to focus. Rinzler stares back, featureless helmet meeting empty eyes. Processing remains as lagged and fractured as externals, a creeping sense of warning squirming amidst the glitches from the heat, but it hardly makes a difference. There isn't anything he needs to say.

She wasn't a threat. That much is true. But what she was? He doubts this monster wants to hear.

[skelepun]

Unfortunately for them both, Sans has a vast ocean of patience left to spare. Not that a program would likely be wired with a weakness for intimidation, and Sans knows it.

Still, he's content to stare for some time. Long enough to gather what he wants to say.

"So why did you kill my friend?"

[notglitching]

Rinzler doesn't look away. When the words finally do come, they're so predictable he hardly needs to listen.

Attacked.

He could leave it there. It wouldn't be wrong. And really, that's the only part that matters. The user had attacked and failed to kill; jumped in a fight with no concept of what it took to win. But Sans isn't the only one who's angry, and Rinzler's tired of these Games.

Too stupid to stay clear.

[skelepun]

At first, Sans presumes Rinzler will leave it at attacked. It's in keeping with his usual frustrating vagueness. Not much he could do about that, not when he's guilty of the same 95 percent of the time.

But Rinzler didn't leave it there. Sans grin stretches to something unnaturally broad. It's the closest thing to a grimace his anatomy allows.

"I just wanted to talk to you, man. But if you keep going on the way you are, welp... It's not gonna be a very pleasant experience for you."

[notglitching]

Talking, Rinzler's already determined, is just about all this monster does. It's irritating. Pointless. The threat is at least more interesting, even if he doubts it has the strength to follow through.

The enforcer's helmet only angles, noise skipping out to fill the silence. He doesn't care about its judgement. And if Rinzler knows better than to think he'll be allowed to stay himself, that doesn't mean he has to submit early. Especially not to this.

[skelepun]

"I tried to tell ya, buddy."

What happens next is fast. In the space of a moment, the emptiness of Sans' left-most socket fills with sickening, strobing blue-yellow light. In the next, his hand is raised, flung towards the hold ceiling. Then down again. Then up again.

Sweat beads at Sans' forehead, before hurling Rinzler back to the floor. No bones. This isn't that kind of discussion.

[notglitching]

Under normal circumstances, Rinzler would have seen it coming. Under normal circumstances, he might be able to react. Here and now, with heat glitching half his functions and damage limiting the rest?

There's a flash of light. And pain.

It's his intact side that slams into the ceiling. That much saves him from derezzing, but the blow still sends sharp sparks of agony through half his core, unhealed fractures grinding glass-edged against one another. Processing is still locked on what and where when the momentum reverses, and he's not nearly so lucky this time.

Visuals white out, one arm going limp entirely as the cracked and aching hole cut through his side crashes into the surface of the bench. Circuits flicker and go dark in patches, warning: critical threshold— looped and seizing through through processing in a way that's much too recently familiar. There's a skittering sound as red-orange voxels scatter across the cell, and when the hook of force in his core jerks back up, automation shoves all conscious thought aside.

It's the arena, but too fast, reactions lagged and with his enemy locked out of reach. It's the arena, but he's already half-shattered. The enforcer doesn't have the power to stand, much less fight back, but he curls inward as gravity inverts, shoulder rolling with the force as he turns off the ceiling, re-orienting to take the next fall on the only part of his shell he can still feel.

It's still too hard, too much. More cracks spiral out from the widening gap as he hits the floor in a heap, and if the program's limbs are still twitching inwards, trying to brace for the next blow, Rinzler's in no shape to defend himself.

[skelepun]

Hand tucked neatly back into his pocket, Sans looks on with vague displeasure on his face. He really doesn't like doing this, nor does he relish thinking what Papyrus would say if he could see Rinzler now. Murderer or not, he had a soul.

It's Papyrus, not Rinzler, that prompts him to conjure a femur. It glows green, illuminating Sans' skull with a sickly cast.

"I'm not saying you need to be reprogrammed, I'm saying you need to get your command line in order. Peter shouldn't have done what he did, but this little web goes back longer than that and we both know it. You've gotta learn to keep yourself in line, kid. It's in your best interest."

He tosses the bone towards Rinzler, following it up with a few more. He's not much of a healer, but magic is magic. It works as well on robotic creatures as it does on organic ones. A soul is a soul.

And as quickly as the cruel twist to his perpetual grin came, it smooths away once more. Sans looks nothing if not benign, as if he just gave Rinzler some folksy advice instead of a beatdown.

"Hope you're feeling better. Think on what we talked about, okay? I don't really have the guts for this kinda thing, hehe."

With one last tap on the bars, Sans winks: "Seeya around, Rinzy. I've always got an eye socket out, don't forget."

If Rinzler looks up, he'll find the space Sans occupied moments before suddenly very, very empty.