They're Gonna Clean Up Your Looks...
Who: Rinzler(here_catch) and Castor (meeeeee)
Where: The End of Line Club, after hours.
When: Shortly after Castor agrees to fix Rinzler's discs.
What: Rinzler's first check-in.
Warnings: Will add some if necessary.
The music in the End of Line is a droning, soothing bass, left to loop for Castor's ears and his ears alone. The club has long closed, and he sits in his lounge on the sofa, the stairs withdrawn and a small table in front of him. Like the stairs, it folds out and in on his command.
Atop the table lie two discs, and he fidgets with the hologram feed of information from one, rotating it slowly and committing the coding to memory. In his lap lies a small, transparent interface with glowing text and a kind of touch-keyboard on the bottom. He types into it one handedly while staring at the security program's code; the speed of his hand is precise, constant, robotic. The typing is almost a stream of consciousness: questions and theories on how he might go about arranging the damaged coding, his hand moving with an almost separate mentality from the rest of his body.
He glances down only once, briefly, and pulls up another facet of the security program's peripheral functions, muttering under his breath. He grins vaguely to himself before it fades into his concentration. It's been a long time since he worked towards a legitimate goal.
Where: The End of Line Club, after hours.
When: Shortly after Castor agrees to fix Rinzler's discs.
What: Rinzler's first check-in.
Warnings: Will add some if necessary.
The music in the End of Line is a droning, soothing bass, left to loop for Castor's ears and his ears alone. The club has long closed, and he sits in his lounge on the sofa, the stairs withdrawn and a small table in front of him. Like the stairs, it folds out and in on his command.
Atop the table lie two discs, and he fidgets with the hologram feed of information from one, rotating it slowly and committing the coding to memory. In his lap lies a small, transparent interface with glowing text and a kind of touch-keyboard on the bottom. He types into it one handedly while staring at the security program's code; the speed of his hand is precise, constant, robotic. The typing is almost a stream of consciousness: questions and theories on how he might go about arranging the damaged coding, his hand moving with an almost separate mentality from the rest of his body.
He glances down only once, briefly, and pulls up another facet of the security program's peripheral functions, muttering under his breath. He grins vaguely to himself before it fades into his concentration. It's been a long time since he worked towards a legitimate goal.