games, games, games....
Who: Rinzler and a bunch of people. Semi-open: get coordinates from Rinzler or tag along with someone who did.
What: Everyone checks out the Arena. Oh, and: Games. 8D
When: Shortly after this post.
Where: Rinzler's place of solace: the Games arena from the Grid.
Warnings: Violence, though less than the glowy one expects. Probable near-nudity, given on-Grid equipping methods. Also: see "Rinzler."
Rinzler was confused.
If he'd bothered to run an analysis, this would have pinged as depressingly familiar. Rinzler had been in one state of confusion or another since arriving here. Really, since long before that.
But he rarely bothered trying to look back.
The enforcer was confused now.
He shouldn't be. That's what this was supposed to fix. The Games were the one place he was always centered, where uncertainty and hesitation and the sharp edges of conflict dulled beneath the simplicity of motion, combat, skill. The bright arc of disks through the air, the satisfaction of derezz. The knowledge that here, he wasn't broken. Wasn't incomplete. He was better.
Rinzler needed that.
But it still puzzled him how many others volunteered.
The program stared blankly ahead a moment before deactivating his PORTAL entirely, turning from the viewing window towards the room's exit. Some weren't surprising. But only a few of the responders had previous interest in derezzing him. And that they'd want to risk themselves... He didn't-wasn't-
(Error.)
There was a moment of lag, a jarring skip in the corrupted noise, before the helmet jerked to the side. No. It didn't matter. They wanted to play. He needed to play. And there was only one rule in the Games that truly mattered.
Survive.
[[ooc: location threads are a thing! Tag in, tag each other, tag as you will. Rinzler will be around, doing a combination of creepering, actual interaction, and godmoding the Sirens and arena settings. He probably won't interfere in most of the not-versus-him fights, though he may react at certain points.]]
What: Everyone checks out the Arena. Oh, and: Games. 8D
When: Shortly after this post.
Where: Rinzler's place of solace: the Games arena from the Grid.
Warnings: Violence, though less than the glowy one expects. Probable near-nudity, given on-Grid equipping methods. Also: see "Rinzler."
Rinzler was confused.
If he'd bothered to run an analysis, this would have pinged as depressingly familiar. Rinzler had been in one state of confusion or another since arriving here. Really, since long before that.
But he rarely bothered trying to look back.
The enforcer was confused now.
He shouldn't be. That's what this was supposed to fix. The Games were the one place he was always centered, where uncertainty and hesitation and the sharp edges of conflict dulled beneath the simplicity of motion, combat, skill. The bright arc of disks through the air, the satisfaction of derezz. The knowledge that here, he wasn't broken. Wasn't incomplete. He was better.
Rinzler needed that.
But it still puzzled him how many others volunteered.
The program stared blankly ahead a moment before deactivating his PORTAL entirely, turning from the viewing window towards the room's exit. Some weren't surprising. But only a few of the responders had previous interest in derezzing him. And that they'd want to risk themselves... He didn't-wasn't-
(Error.)
There was a moment of lag, a jarring skip in the corrupted noise, before the helmet jerked to the side. No. It didn't matter. They wanted to play. He needed to play. And there was only one rule in the Games that truly mattered.
Survive.
[[ooc: location threads are a thing! Tag in, tag each other, tag as you will. Rinzler will be around, doing a combination of creepering, actual interaction, and godmoding the Sirens and arena settings. He probably won't interfere in most of the not-versus-him fights, though he may react at certain points.]]