"troubled times, caught between confusions and pain"
Who: Tronzler Rinzler and you.
What: Glitchy sometimes-blue program going around being crazy and/or helpful.
Where: All over.
When: "Friendly Reminder" days 2 onwards. 2-3 preferred unless plotted otherwise. Specify in your tag?
Warnings: Rinzler. (...mindrape, mental/physical trauma, violence, blood (not his), general CRAZY.)
( 'distant eyes, promises were made in vain' )
What: Glitchy sometimes-blue program going around being crazy and/or helpful.
Where: All over.
When: "Friendly Reminder" days 2 onwards. 2-3 preferred unless plotted otherwise. Specify in your tag?
Warnings: Rinzler. (...mindrape, mental/physical trauma, violence, blood (not his), general CRAZY.)
( 'distant eyes, promises were made in vain' )
But they were users.
Almost.
No. Threats/targets/wrong, wrong, wrong. He jerked a disk free of a still form, spun to scythe out at another. Its wide mouth gaped open in a parody of speech as it writhed, limbs twitching, reaching, even as he severed them. The program froze, shame and need and failiure wrecking through before he jerked back to motion, stabbed out with panicked, hateful desperation. But there was another, behind, and he spun (lagging, too slow, too weak) to-
Oh.
His disks came up, twitched to throw, stopped. He stepped back, grip rigid on his weapons as he stared at the ISO/target/threat. He needed to-needed to destroy (her?), fight (for), end this, stop it, just stop. The helmet jerked sideways as orange and blue flickered over each other in glitchy blocks of color. The disks still burned orange and active in his hold. What little of them wasn't coated in dark blood, that was.
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Her gaze dropped to the two disks, staring at the blood on them. She blinked once before looking back at him. She wasn't Flynn, she wasn't Sam. She wasn't a user. What could she do to help him, other than keep things off his back and hope he didn't turn around and stab her in the back? The circuits kept flickering with orange and white.
With a tilt of her head to the side, she offered a small smile. "Let me help you."
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The mask jerked sideways again, form tensing. His hands twisted on the disks, circuits prickling from the blood. She wouldn't (shouldn't)-it was a lie. His gaze flicked to the baton and its blue-white blade, fragmented memory stabbing at him-the cut from behind, near-derezz. Followed by shutdown, failure. Her fault. Rebooting in that room, to error and pain and hands on his disk. Her fault.
He should destroy her.
He nearly had.
He took another step back, painfully rigid as he stared at his enemy. Target/threat/failure/not now/why now?
Why is she here?
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Quorra closed her eyes sadly. Then she suddenly whirled around and jerked her arm right, her disk cutting through another multi-limbed creature as it tried to come up from behind. Fine. She'd help him even if he didn't really want it. Tron was from the Grid. He was from home. She'd do whatever she could to protect him too. She knew what he could do when he fought off CLU. She had seen him attack CLU and plunge into the Sea of Simulation...
It was possible and she wasn't going to take that chance away.
She twirled the bloody baton in her hand and took a battle stance. "There is going to be more coming. You'd better restore your power before they come back."
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If it were day, there would be a skip of sound. A surge in the rattling corruption, a snarl of fury. As it was, in this place, there was nothing to give him away.
The two steps back disappeared in a lunge, hands pressing together briefly before diverging, reaching. One hand emptied only to close around her forearm, rigid grab locking her disk arm in place. The other filled with merged disks, pressed nearly against her other side-angled to strike or intercept should the blade come around, though he was far inside its optimal reach. Rinzler pressed close, an edge away from full-body contact, his rumbling growl tangible across the short distance, vibrating through the locked grip on the ISO's arm. Red glow pulsed across the program's circuits with faint spikes of blue.
He had to be very clear.
"WHY?"
'Hate you-hurt you-wrongwrongwrong-'
'"nothing more than Clu's pet"-you said it, you said it-(you're right)-why?-'
'Hurt your friends-broke them-(enjoyed it)-won't stop-(can't)-
'What's wrong with you (/me)-'
The program's skill for filtration had increased not at all over the last few weeks. With the single word, with the barrage of undertone and jarring fragments, comes an almost crippling surge of frustration. Fury. Resentment. Confusion. Hate. He didn't understand, didn't want this, and hated her for-
why
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"Because," she said simply as if it were obvious to everyone, "there was a time you protected the entire Grid. It's time someone helped protect you, Tron."
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He wasn't-he didn't-can't be.
(no no no no no)
The words-name-all of it was wrong. Lie. Cutting into him, stabbing, breaking.
That's not what he is. (was)
It wasn't reprimand. Not just, not mainly. He reached that limit days ago, found the point where his systems simply couldn't break him any more. He'd been there for days, caught in a looping call of error and failure, wrongness and pain he couldn't bypass, couldn't avoid. Didn't try to. That was it, that should have been it.
This was worse.
The program's grip dug in, disk twitched dangerously close as his whole form jerked, spasmed-and he let go. Stepped back-staggered back, uneven, unsteady. The black shell dropped, gaze catching on his hand-circuitry a jarring mismatch, flickering rapid and unstable between blue-white, red-orange, clenched desperately around the solid orange of his disk.
There was blood everywhere.
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Quorra turned to look at him, disk in one hand and baton in the other. She glanced quickly to the sides, making sure that no one was coming. She didn't want to leave him alone, but staying in one place was far too dangerous. Could he even drive a lightcycle in his condition? She chewed on her lip in worry.
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(terrified)
She was wrong. She was wrong and looking at-looking for-something that wasn't there.
wasn't left
Rinzler stood, stared back, weapons bright and active, smeared with blood. Form tense, drawn in in his perpetual hunch. The mask lowered again. Shook from side to side.
And he turned, moved, steps quick-back, away. There were bigger threats.
She has to be wrong.
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Quorra closed her eyes as her mask folded around her face again. She put her lightdisk on her back, her baton back on the side of her boot. Then she reached down and pulled out the other one, turning away from him.
"Take care of yourself." Quorra pulled the baton apart and her lightcycle appeared. "You can't do anything if you're breaking apart."
Without another word she swung her leg over her lightcycle and the lights turned on.
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