Day/Video/Not Deaging
[On the peak of Demonreach, an island off the coast of the City, there's a visible plume of smoke curling up from the even further decimated ruins of the lighthouse and the completely wrecked splinters of the hut. Just visible over the edge of the cliff, the crumbled form of a Decepticon is laying eerily still.
Harry's face swings into view.]
I... ( Read more... )
Harry's face swings into view.]
I... ( Read more... )
Footsteps, approaching. Not rushed, not hurried-no need to be, with him like this. Voice-the user's voice. The one who did this. Wariness-cold fury-uselessness spike disjointed through his processing, connections still broken by jagged bursts of power. Rinzler does jerk back, does push away as proximity registers-only to lock up partway, unending noise a ragged snarl as electricity cracks through his unsteady barriers, disrupting the fragments of motion he'd managed to section off.
And then there's a coolness, a vague rush of not-energy, and the crackling pressure... fades. Not much, not gone, but internals spark, potential slackens, and he can feel his systems shifting. Realigning.
He can move.
Rinzler's mask snaps up as visuals return, fixes on the user-green? He disregards the junk data, seizes his body and moves it, twisting back, aside. Still jerky, still unstable, but it's control, action, ability, and he takes what he can. Disks merge to his left hand, right planting against the ground as he stumbles in the roll, pushing up to an unsteady crouch. Rinzler tries to guard, stance failing as the still-looping remnants of the surge snap through his arm and side with a bright spasm. His systems ache, a sharp prickling aftermath of burn, aggravated by the continuing sparks of broken force.
Not relevant. He shoves sensation aside, grabs what readiness he can and braces, attention locked on the threat-both threats, disk humming sharp in his grip.]
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The program is moving, though, getting up -- and has his disks, which she'll have to ask Quorra about in the future. For now, though... ]
I'm not going to attack you unless you attack me first. But I'd get out of here, if I were you.
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I'd do what she says. She's not a patient woman from what I hear.
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None of them is "indecisive".
The mask doesn't move, but his gaze flickers between the pair as he takes a step back. His processing's at half-function at best, but this doesn't take calculation. Two severe threats, his own state barely mobile. This fight can wait for later.
The program doesn't turn from his opponents, but his free hand reaches down to detach a baton. He's still a moment longer, calibrating subroutines, pushing the destabilizing crackle edging through his systems back. Then he turns-two steps and a leap-the last jerky, and shamefully weak. But it's enough.
He clears the nearer cliff, pulls his body in as best he can as too-close rocks shave the air to either side. A moment of clear air, and the baton breaks in his grip, lightjet rezzing to support him. From there, Rinzler drops the stabilizing functions, localizes control to steering, basic perception, and lets the electrical whiteness tear raggedly through his systems as the overload slowly, painfully burns itself out.
The orange-lit jet rises, clears the island. And he's gone.]
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