The sound was rough and scratchy and broken-sounding, a corrupted file trying to playback through some of the worst static Sam had heard. He turned his head to stare at the featureless mask, trying to tear meaning from the wind’s roar and the unsettling rumble that never went away.
It didn’t make sense. Rinzler didn’t talk-apart from the “user” back in the arena. Okay, so maybe he only talks as he’s deliberating a kill. But that word had sounded a lot better than the noise coming out of the program now, and Sam didn’t think it was all the wind. Even focusing on it (rather than shutting out the sound with all his power), not much made it through.
“Use-from-in arena.” Sam’s confusion burned away as hostility rose up again, overwhelming. That was right, they had done this before. He remembered the solidity of the arena floor, cool smooth glass pressing against him as the faceless program held him down-with edged disks ready to slice, rather than hands gripping him close. He glared back at Rinzler, seething with anger as he hollered through the rushing air.
“If you’re looking for a rematch, you’ve got about thirty seconds left!”
He regretted the suggestion as the form around him tensed, hands clenching painfully before loosing to the previous hold. “No.” Sam could feel a crackling effort wrecking through the program’s chest and throat as volume was forced into the vocalization.
“The lightcycle-from your-use it!” The sound was urgent, though still difficult to decipher. If the ceaseless rumbling reminded Sam of a broken hard drive, Rinzler’s voice now sounded like someone had taken the drive and smashed it, crashing and shattering mixed with an electrical crackle.
What he was saying, though… Sam’s face twisted in confusion, his hand hesitantly moving down. The lightcycle baton? From the blue program Clu had destroyed? He had no idea how the hell that would help-does he want something besides my corpse to break the fall?-but it seemed to be what Rinzler was after. The impression was unexpectedly confirmed as the program, seemingly frustrated at Sam’s fumbling reach across his body, abruptly released his right hand, shoving it down towards the tool. Sam considered using his new freedom to throw a punch at the black-helmed head behind his own, but the angle was terrible. Besides, it’d be much more effective once he had the baton.
He unclipped it, half-expecting to have the rod snatched away, but the program’s only response was an increase in the rattling noise, disturbingly reminiscent of a purr. Sam tensed as he glanced down-the water was closer now; the lowest of the huge rocks visibly rushing towards him. Rinzler’s buzzing, crackling speech sounded again, but Sam didn’t need to focus to understand what was being said. “Use it.” But how? Why? How the fuck is this going to help?
“Look, I love bikes as much as anybody, but-”
A unintelligible burst of static-filled noise cut through his speech like a wail of frustration, and Sam’s world went sideways. He was flipped and shoved, maneuvered, his frantic attempts to lash out terrifyingly ineffective. The baton was pulled from his grasp; well, he’d expected that-but the program was still in motion. Sam turned, was grabbed and shifted, and when he abruptly stopped moving, he found their positions were nearly reversed. The orange-lit program was in front of him, still far too close, one arm reaching back to grip Sam’s shoulder. Although he mostly faced away, Rinzler’s upper body was twisted back, helmet cocked and staring inches from his face.
He connected solidly, somewhat to his surprise and entirely to his pain. The helmet felt less like a piece of armor and more like the arena floor-black, featureless, solid. Yeah. Really should’ve known better. Through his daze, he could see Rinzler shake his head, momentarily stunned-then the slackened grip tightened with a surging growl. Sam was pulled forward, the program’s back now pressing into his chest, and he could feel the surging crackle of tense effort as Rinzler’s vocalizations amplified, forced again to brief clarity.
“Hold ON.”
The hand on his shoulder released, briefly trailing down to tug Sam’s hand around the program’s front before letting go entirely. Rinzler reached out, both arms on the now-orange baton and Sam glimpsed the water past his shoulder-shit, he could see the waves. They were falling, he was falling, about to die in a computer on top of a program who’d injured him, hunted him, tried and maybe succeeded at killing him… and who now asked Sam to hold him.
The fuck!?
The helmet tilted back to look at Sam, and he glowered back warily. He could think of a lot of people he’d rather die holding. Rinzler didn’t move, didn’t react, although Sam could feel the tenseness in his form, the irregular rattling shaking through his chest. Whatever crazy plan he had, whatever he had wanted with the damn baton… he was waiting.
For Sam.
Screw it.
He grabbed on, both arms across the program’s chest, and Rinzler moved, head jerking frontwards as he pulled the baton apart. Sam groaned, his head dropping to the dark-clad shoulder in frustration. That was it? But he made himself look, watching through the rezzing lightcycle as the blackness rushed towards them. He wouldn’t turn away, and it was still beautiful, even now. There was light and water and lines of orange stretching forward into handles and nose, out into…
Oh.
Oh.
It can do that?
Sam’s grip tightened as the jet formed and he slammed forwards against Rinzler’s stillness as the drop became a dive.
They skimmed the water’s surface, then rose above.
Re: Hold On [1e]crystalshardMarch 3 2011, 18:11:48 UTC
Oh, Sam. *headdesk*
At least Tron(zler) knows what he needs to do. And the lightjet batons and lightcycle batons being the same thing makes perfect sense - after all, how would they know when they were likely to need either and tool up ahead of time?
Re: Hold On [1e]
anonymous
March 3 2011, 19:32:42 UTC
:) Yeah; I spent a lot of time confusedly checking up about the batons. I ended up going with it, 'cause when Sam and Quorra are trying to get away on the arena, Rinzler's batons (one for sure) produce lightcycles. But then at the end, they both get used for jets. So either they're multifunction or he swapped out somewhere.
The sound was rough and scratchy and broken-sounding, a corrupted file trying to playback through some of the worst static Sam had heard. He turned his head to stare at the featureless mask, trying to tear meaning from the wind’s roar and the unsettling rumble that never went away.
It didn’t make sense. Rinzler didn’t talk-apart from the “user” back in the arena. Okay, so maybe he only talks as he’s deliberating a kill. But that word had sounded a lot better than the noise coming out of the program now, and Sam didn’t think it was all the wind. Even focusing on it (rather than shutting out the sound with all his power), not much made it through.
“Use-from-in arena.” Sam’s confusion burned away as hostility rose up again, overwhelming. That was right, they had done this before. He remembered the solidity of the arena floor, cool smooth glass pressing against him as the faceless program held him down-with edged disks ready to slice, rather than hands gripping him close. He glared back at Rinzler, seething with anger as he hollered through the rushing air.
“If you’re looking for a rematch, you’ve got about thirty seconds left!”
He regretted the suggestion as the form around him tensed, hands clenching painfully before loosing to the previous hold. “No.” Sam could feel a crackling effort wrecking through the program’s chest and throat as volume was forced into the vocalization.
“The lightcycle-from your-use it!” The sound was urgent, though still difficult to decipher. If the ceaseless rumbling reminded Sam of a broken hard drive, Rinzler’s voice now sounded like someone had taken the drive and smashed it, crashing and shattering mixed with an electrical crackle.
What he was saying, though… Sam’s face twisted in confusion, his hand hesitantly moving down. The lightcycle baton? From the blue program Clu had destroyed? He had no idea how the hell that would help-does he want something besides my corpse to break the fall?-but it seemed to be what Rinzler was after. The impression was unexpectedly confirmed as the program, seemingly frustrated at Sam’s fumbling reach across his body, abruptly released his right hand, shoving it down towards the tool. Sam considered using his new freedom to throw a punch at the black-helmed head behind his own, but the angle was terrible. Besides, it’d be much more effective once he had the baton.
He unclipped it, half-expecting to have the rod snatched away, but the program’s only response was an increase in the rattling noise, disturbingly reminiscent of a purr. Sam tensed as he glanced down-the water was closer now; the lowest of the huge rocks visibly rushing towards him. Rinzler’s buzzing, crackling speech sounded again, but Sam didn’t need to focus to understand what was being said. “Use it.” But how? Why? How the fuck is this going to help?
“Look, I love bikes as much as anybody, but-”
A unintelligible burst of static-filled noise cut through his speech like a wail of frustration, and Sam’s world went sideways. He was flipped and shoved, maneuvered, his frantic attempts to lash out terrifyingly ineffective. The baton was pulled from his grasp; well, he’d expected that-but the program was still in motion. Sam turned, was grabbed and shifted, and when he abruptly stopped moving, he found their positions were nearly reversed. The orange-lit program was in front of him, still far too close, one arm reaching back to grip Sam’s shoulder. Although he mostly faced away, Rinzler’s upper body was twisted back, helmet cocked and staring inches from his face.
Sam headbutted him.
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Yeah... he's not helping so much.
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“Hold ON.”
The hand on his shoulder released, briefly trailing down to tug Sam’s hand around the program’s front before letting go entirely. Rinzler reached out, both arms on the now-orange baton and Sam glimpsed the water past his shoulder-shit, he could see the waves. They were falling, he was falling, about to die in a computer on top of a program who’d injured him, hunted him, tried and maybe succeeded at killing him… and who now asked Sam to hold him.
The fuck!?
The helmet tilted back to look at Sam, and he glowered back warily. He could think of a lot of people he’d rather die holding. Rinzler didn’t move, didn’t react, although Sam could feel the tenseness in his form, the irregular rattling shaking through his chest. Whatever crazy plan he had, whatever he had wanted with the damn baton… he was waiting.
For Sam.
Screw it.
He grabbed on, both arms across the program’s chest, and Rinzler moved, head jerking frontwards as he pulled the baton apart. Sam groaned, his head dropping to the dark-clad shoulder in frustration. That was it? But he made himself look, watching through the rezzing lightcycle as the blackness rushed towards them. He wouldn’t turn away, and it was still beautiful, even now. There was light and water and lines of orange stretching forward into handles and nose, out into…
Oh.
Oh.
It can do that?
Sam’s grip tightened as the jet formed and he slammed forwards against Rinzler’s stillness as the drop became a dive.
They skimmed the water’s surface, then rose above.
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loving this! ic an't wait for more. poor sam, such a confused bebe
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Lov
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Loving this like CRAZY, I nearly jumped in my seat when I saw it had been updated yeeeee
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At least Tron(zler) knows what he needs to do. And the lightjet batons and lightcycle batons being the same thing makes perfect sense - after all, how would they know when they were likely to need either and tool up ahead of time?
Loving this.
*waits*
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*stares at inbox for next update notif*
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(The comment has been removed)
also that is amazing lmao
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Anon, I'm loving this so much. Sam's thought process *facepalm* and your descriptions of Rinzler's rumbling, grating speech. Love, I tell you.
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I love the headbutting. XD
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