thisavrou_log | Tell me a piece of your history

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Tell me a piece of your history

Who: Rinzler, the counseling/arbitration staff, and OPEN
When: April 25th through early on the 29th
Where: Around the ship, especially counseling offices
What: Mandatory therapy, part one of ???. Also, murdercat makes the rounds.
Warnings: References to murder and mindscrew-- aka the usual Rinzlerness.

A. Morning of the 25th: closed to Neal Cassidy

When Rinzler is released, there's nothing he wants more than to move. Run, fight, carry out any function besides looping, anything that doesn't leave him trapped in a small space. It's been over thirty millicycles since he was free to travel more than a few steps. Since he had his disks in dock and batons at his side.

Of course, it's been just as long since he'd been damaged. Since one user had smashed a gaping hole into his side, and another had compounded the damage to knock him offline. Just as long without repair, in confinement too debilitating for even the fractures to heal. Even once he'd been moved away from the heat, rest wasn't a real option. Rinzler had been attacked once in their cells already. He wasn't going to be caught off-guard again.

It's been ten user-days since Rinzler was allowed to move around. It's been even longer since he slept. Rinzler spends most of his first day of freedom in a fitful rest cycle curled up in the locked cockpit of one of the transporters. When he wakes, it's to the quiet alert of his MID. There's a message.

Neal_Cassidy. Probation Officer. Instructions to report and discuss the remainder of his sentence. Rinzler isn't sure what needs discussing, but if he's not enthused about the supposed 'counseling', there's still no purpose to delay. Within about ten minutes, Neal will hear a faint chime from his door. One (1) Murderous Computer Program: reporting in.

B. 25th-29th: closed to Elle, the Arbitration crew, and associated

User Elle_Days was taking charge of his case. Privately, Rinzler wondered if that was because of skill, interest, or simple necessity—whatever Chara had done to drive off their rectifier, it seemed to have worked better than expected. Still, Rinzler wasn't going to object to the former editor's absence, and if his experience with Elle had bordered on annoying, she was vastly less objectionable than the other users assigned to share his room. Of course, since he'd killed one, that wasn't saying much.

Over the next few days, Rinzler appears as he's instructed, whether to Elle's new office or to the arbitration officers and other crew assigned to fix him. Correct him, rather—Rinzler's disks stay on his person at all times, and while he manages to refresh most of the armor template eventually, he can't quite cover the gap of broken code hacked from his side. He doesn't plan on surrendering his code for edits, so as far as he's concerned, it isn't going to be fixed.

If it's a problem, it's not one he's complaining about. Not that Rinzler seems particularly talkative about anything. He'll serve out his daily hour without problems, and generally respond to questions posed, but getting the program to provide more than basic output? Might take work.

C. 25th-29th: around the Moira—OPEN wildcard

Only one hour of Rinzler's day is required to be spent in mediation. More are spent off-ship, running extractions on Del Pascia. During the rest? He can be found almost anywhere around the Moira. Working on transporters. Checking references in the library. Observing the cat-creatures in the garden—they don't seem to have changed noticeably. If there's no task or distraction to accomplish, he'll test his own functions in the cargo bay, using the stacked crates and machinery for an impromptu obstacle course.

While Rinzler isn't quite up to his usual mobility, he's not planning to spend one more micro idling than he has to. All the same, there's more than one instance where the program disappears without warning—or can be encountered making a quick exit from a room. Scans have been on high alert since he recharged the power to maintain them, and some signatures are very easy to sense coming.

Alan-one is looking for him, and Rinzler doesn't need to ask why.

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[Zam may have offered her assistance at Rinzler’s trial, but she honestly wasn’t expecting anyone to actually take her up on it. After all, when one pictured a good influence in regards to violence and proper uses of it, a former bounty hunter was probably not the first image to spring to mind.

And yet here she is in the training simulation room, waiting for the program to arrive. Amusing as the whole situation is, she does intend to follow through. With her on-ship job only taking up one day out of the month (and not even that much this time around), it’s not like she doesn’t have the time. And she’d be lying if she said she didn’t have personal reasons for offering her help like this; her curiosity about Rinzler has only grown since he checked the ship’s video feeds on her behalf and sparring is often as enlightening a way to learn about someone as conversation. Probably more so in this case, given how taciturn the program can be.

The room will be bare when Rinzler walks in -- Zam hasn’t activated the simulation yet -- and the changeling herself will be standing in the middle of the room. Perhaps most would be daunted by the idea of engaging in combat training with someone who had murdered two people only a couple of weeks earlier, but the act of killing is far more mundane in Zam’s line of work -- she’s far from scared. In fact, if the faint smile and the lightness in her stance is anything to go by, she’s looking forward to this.]

There is a large part of Neal that feels like the universe is screwing with him. New life, new leaf apparently, and now the thief has become the reformed probation officer.

Irony, thy name is Neal Cassidy.

Though, in all honesty, his life as a thief/hot wire-er of cars/wanted man has been behind him for quite some time, but he still never imagined this. Making sure people carried out sentences, making sure offenders didn't repeat their crimes. He's had plenty of probation officers since about 1990, but somehow he has a feeling this is going to be pretty damn different than his experience. He has no idea what to expect, mostly because he's never (as far as he knows) had a conversation with...honestly he's not even sure what to consider Rinzler (which he feels bad about). AI? He's trying, here.

When the door opens, he looks up, stands, clearing his throat a little. "Thanks for making it. How you holding up?"

As the door opens, Neal will hear something... if not exactly a response. There's a ticking, rumbling whir, like a damaged hard drive skipping with each beat. Its origin? The black-armored shape staring in the doorway. If he drew close enough to Rinzler at his trial, the noise will be familiar. If not, get used to it. It never goes away.

Visually, the program looks little different than he had before—dark armor, opaque mask, spine curved in a faint hunch that seems to be his default. Even the damage from the fight remains more or less unchanged, a gap of smashed-apart code where a human's ribs would be, with nothing but jagged shards of glass-like data glinting from within. Cracks of light spiral out from the absence in geometric lines, crossing most of Rinzler's torso and creeping up toward his left arm.

Still, Rinzler's circuitry is glowing brighter than the damage now, and at the question, his shoulders twitch in a slightly lopsided shrug. He's functioning. The program steps into the room, stopping a few paces from Neal before angling his helmet to the side.

You wanted to see him, user?

[Zam's not the only one who wasn't expecting that offer to pass scrutiny. Of all the punishments and substitutions suggested at his trial, Zam_Wesell's was both the most violent and, at least in Rinzler's estimation, the most redundant. He knew how to fight, whether for a kill or capture.

Still, when it meant one hour less spent talking and one more practicing attacks? Somehow Rinzler wasn't planning to complain. He shows up a few minutes before the scheduled hour, noise rumbling out ahead as he slips in through the open door. The program's motions are a little more careful than usual, and not (solely) from any wariness—even with the power to refresh his armor, the damage to the code beneath was hardly gone. As evidenced by the quite visible hole through his side.

Still, any discomfort doesn't seem to be slowing him down much. Rinzler's helmet twitches in a faint nod as he approaches Zam, stopping a few paces away. Reporting for 'counseling', trojan.]

Oh. Okay. No speech. Fantastic. Regrouping, Neal clears his throat and looks over the damage.

"So you're not getting fixed up then. That your choice or is something else going on?"

They'll get to the mandatory part of this soon, but he's determined to be the compassionate sort of probation officer who actually cares - even if he has no idea how far that's going to get him, here. And hopefully he'll get the hang of communicating.

She's in the library when Rinzler enters, checking references to put together some lessons, and her attention is drawn to him immediately. She snaps shut the book she's looking at and approaches, carrying the book with her.

"You and I might need to have a talk."

Rinzler doesn't move—he's used to inspection. Still, here at least it goes both ways. Eyes shift behind the opaque mask, assessing the user. Direct address. Awkward nonverbals, at least for a beat. Had he surprised it? Overall, the current threat profile is low. Good.

There's a beat of lag at the question. Rinzler isn't glitched enough to want to be broken, and it's not hard to imagine the assumption being used against him if he lets it stand. Still, Vision's broadcast had alerted more than enough of the ship's programmers to his circumstances already.

The black helmet ducks, tip pointing toward the tetra-amino indicator on Rinzler's front. His choice. If it's a simplification, the claim certainly isn't a lie. Rinzler won't surrender his code to any edits.

Rinzler's listing a little to the right—possibly from injury, but more likely from a pre-emptive turn towards the reference section. However, he corrects quickly enough at Tex's address, mask tipping to face her.

Agent_Texas. Or Allison, if one went by the data from his scans. The first time they'd met, that scan-sense had nearly confused things into a fight. But if it's possible, certainly, that she's pulling him aside for more of the same... Texas had been the single voice of the entire ship to speak for innocence at his trial. To claim the fault lay with the users.

Is that enough to warrant trust? No. But it definitely earns his interest. Rinzler's helmet inclines: no argument from him. Does she want to talk here?

She nods toward a study carrel that's off to the side near the entrance. "In there."

She leads the way and enters, then turns to face him. "I heard the talk at the trial about reprogramming you. I picked up on the fact that there's someone here who could do it, too." She frowns, and her gaze goes off to the side for an instant. She knows the Director did something to her coding, probably more than once, and that's always disturbed her. "I've assumed that's not something you agree should happen."

The destination is easy to assess, and a quick burst of power to peripheral scans confirms: no one else in listening range. Rinzler steps after. His noise is a low rumble, whirring quietly to fill the space between... until reprogramming comes up.

Sound rises, clipped and harsh with static as Rinzler goes still. She'd heard. She picked up on it. She had, and who knows how many others. That had been the real hazard of the the users' trial: not the cages or worthless assignments they doled out as punishment, but the time spent under inspection, with the whole system free to share ideas on how he should be used. Alan-one might have created him, but any number of users here could pose that kind of threat, given time and access to his disks. Rinzler's creator was just the only one who'd promised to.

The program's stance doesn't change appreciably, but there's a wary tension coiled through his spine that wasn't there before. And the volume of that noise hasn't dropped. Rinzler shakes his head. He doesn't want to be rewritten.

[Zam returns the nod, smile still playing on her lips.] You’re early. [She sounds pleased. She had a feeling her version of “therapy” might be of more interest to the program than the more conventional options offered.

Her eyes flick towards the frankly impressive wound at the program’s side -- were that type of damage inflicted on an organic, they likely wouldn’t be able to walk, much less spar. The wound is clearly not so debilitating for Rinzler, though it can’t hurt to check in. She nods towards the rupture.] Is that going to be a problem?

Honestly, the only reason Aurelia even bothered showing up was out of a mild curiosity. More murders? How fun! She's annoyed she didn't get to see any of it. This ship can get so boring.

She waits for Rinzler in their allocated Arbitration Area, arms crossed and not even trying to hide how annoyed she looks at being there. Vaguely, she wonders if she should get herself an office. Kind of weird to actually want to have a workspace. Ah, she can fit it out with a weapons lab or something. That would be nice.

Aurelia is pulled out of her fantasizing by Rinzler's arrival. She doesn't greet him, merely raises an eyebrow.

"Are you the bugger that interrupted my week?"

Edited (that was worded awkwardly gomen) 2016-04-30 10:17 (UTC)

Rinzler arrives precisely on time, noise rattling out low and even. User ID: Aurelia is an unknown, and after her public threat to half the network, the program's a little curious. Still, his expectation on arrival...

...well, it wasn't that. Rinzler's mask tilts a little to the side before ducking, shoulders twitching in a small shrug. He'd be inclined to blame his parole officer; certainly Rinzler didn't ask to be here. But yes. He's in her charge for the next user-hour.

[The black mask inclines slightly, but he doesn't feel much need to explain his timing. The question takes a little more output. Red-lit fingers tap at his MID, and both hands move quickly over the projected keyboard that appears.]

Mobility limited.

[The fact that Rinzler actually admits to it probably tells Zam more than anything about the seriousness of the wound. All the same...]

Can still fight.

[He still wants to. And after daily reminders of how precarious his position is—in everything from his keepers' reminders to the stares of the remaining crew... Zam can bet Rinzler isn't giving up the chance for combat easily.]

Of course. [Zam expects he wouldn’t have shown up if he couldn’t. She winks.] Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle. [They are just sparring after all. Hopefully neither is planning to do permanent damage to the other. She takes a few paces back.]

Training room, on. [The room goes dark for a fraction of a second and then lights up again, their surroundings now entirely different. It appears as though they’ve been dropped into a dojo of some sort. The floor beneath them is padded with worn, dark red mats and the wooden walls of the room are lined with mirrors. Strong sunlight pours in from high windows and serve as the room’s primary means of illumination. In all, it’s very similar to where Zam used to train back when she was still an apprentice of the Mabari Order, though all the normal trappings of a Mabari facility -- the inscriptions, the symbols, and the tapestries -- have all mercifully been scrubbed from the simulation.

Zam paces a few steps to the side, feeling the slight give of the mats under her boots. Normally she’d remove her shoes in such a setting, but as this is simulated, she’s not too concerned with scuffing the mats.]

Ground rules before we begin: one, no weapons allowed. So no using your blades. Two, when it’s you and me, fight’s over when someone taps out. [A pause as she considers the fact that sparring conventions often differ between planets, and likely more between different universes.] “Tapping out” mean anything where you’re from?

"Not a talker, then?" Oh, good. This just got even more boring.

"Well, darling, I'm sure you know why you're here. You did a murder, got caught, and now a lot of people have been inconvenienced." she says, then gestures to a seat. They wouldn't be expected to stand for the hour, after all. It's just a simple table set up, nothing interesting.

"Now then, I do have somewhat of a plan for this. Firstly, we're going to go through what happened. Then I'm going to tell you how to not get caught. Because really, darling, I don't care if you do this again. I just don't want to waste my time dealing with it. Understand?"

It's her first time doing this, and Karen's a little bit nervous. It's exciting - well, maybe exciting isn't the best choice of words, considering the subject at hand. She wishes she'd talked to Matt about it first. As a lawyer, he was the one more used to this sort of thing. Karen was more used to answering phones, pouring coffee-

And talking to people. And caring. She was good at that too, even if she doesn't quite realize it. There's a faint smile on her lips when she goes to meet him.

"Hi, I'm Karen Page. I don't believe we've met."

[There's a staticky skip of noise that sounds suspiciously like a derisive snort. Then the training room activates, and Rinzler's busy glancing around. The space is too-bright, but at least it's open, with enough height to maneuver vertically, too. He takes a step, rating the ground-surface oddly squishy. Still, it's sturdy enough to spring from, and he turns back to Zam's lecture without much delay.

No weapons. Irritating, but expected, and his helmet dips in a nod. There's a little more lag at the second rule, and Rinzler shakes his head. He doesn't know the term.]

There's a moment of staring before Rinzler goes to comply. His motions are a little careful, exposed damage at his side glinting a dull orange hash as he slides into his seat, but the constant rumbling doesn't waver. Neither does Rinzler's attention. This isn't what the program had expected. At all.

But he's listening. The helmet dips: understood.

Neal's watching right back, not quite sure what to expect, but he sits down to indicate this is casual, nothing he thinks they have to be tense over, though he's not even sure Rinzler's tense at all.

"All right. Look, you know and I know why you're here. I have to make sure you go through with everything you're supposed to. A month of meetings for an hour at least, every day. Doesn't' have to be with me, I can get you hooked up with someone more appealing if you want."

How they're going to discuss this, Neal has no idea, but he puts that out there for now, leaning back in his chair.

She watches him, eyes flicking down to the exposed damage briefly.

"Now," she starts, clasping her hands in front of her, "I'd appreciate it if you could actually find some way of communicating what happened from your point of view, darling. There's a text to speech function on the MID if that would help. I daresay I didn't pay attention to what was going on at all."

Rinzler's at the meeting place on time, noise whirring out in its constant rumble as he turns toward the user on approach. No expression is visible past the opaque mask, but his helmet tilts a little curiously, assessing.

The greeting gets a nod. Is he supposed to return the data? Rinzler's fairly sure Karen_Page has been given his ID, so he waits for now. The user can clarify what's needed.

The black helmet angles down to track the user's motion, but Rinzler shows no other sign of deviating from his spot. The program's shoulders are drawn into a slight hunch, but it seems more habitual than anything.

He listens to the data. Not much of it is new. His listing had included "counselors" and "arbitration officers" as the primary editors, but if this user is administrating his sentence, it makes sense that it could claim priority. Is it implying he has some kind of choice in the matter, though?

Interesting.

Rinzler reaches for his wrist, a tap activating the MID's communication functions. Just to the side, a textbox appears in dark grey, orange characters scrolling across as he types.

Function (meetings)?

Noise skips a beat, though whether it's irritated or just amused is hard to say. Rinzler reaches for his MID, a few quick taps bringing up a text interface and holographic keyboard. When he types, the characters project off to the side—red-orange overlaid on a dark grey.

Speech: not necessary.

Text to text. He's got this.

"I see," she says. Quite literally, too.

"Do tell me what happened, darling. As you saw it. Leave out no details."

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Tell me a piece of your history

B, training simulation room

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all the trainings /o/

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Library

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ALL OF THEM \o/

beeeeeeeeeeeeee

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b.

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