notglitching | IC Inbox: Inugami

[Prometheus please is definitely Rinzler's first response. Expressed in one (1) personalized eyeroll. If the malware has to wreck something in the room, this is practically ideal. Neither permanent enough for any damage to linger nor valuable enough to care about its loss. Still, he's not sure why facial hair equates to stress relief.

The question gets a shrug, backpack clinking a little with the motion. Rinzler retrieves his phone from a pocket, crouching down to closer viewing level before holding up a short reply.]

Glitch: unwilling to reclaim it.

[Well, that's vague. Still, there's a faint aura of smug about the enforcer that might give a few ideas as to how Rinzler wound up with it in the first place. And why Axl hadn't tried to take it back.

So on this totally new topic involving pots and kettles...]

Familiar?

[He's asking about the glitch, not the tactic. Communication might be one of Rinzler's shortcomings, but he's hardly so bad a listener as to miss that tone of voice.]

[there seems to be a myriad of reasons why he chose this target. But, in all honesty, neither of them had been (re-)programmed to be forthcoming with explanations. Besides, Rinzler doesn't seem to care and Prometheus definitely couldn't care less about explaining himself. Besides, the moustache wasn't the only damage though, short of full on ripping the canvas to shreds, it looks like it will be the last bit of vandalism.

He leans over to read the phone and laughs quietly at the designation that Rinzler has assigned to the Maverick Hunter:] How accurate!

It's too bad... He kept going on about how impressive he allegedly is. But if you managed to chase him off, I have to wonder if those claims aren't just a figment of his imagination.

... [he bares his teeth. It's not a grin, but not quite a grimace either. If this Hunter was a sampling of how effective they were during the Maverick Wars--]

Hardly. He's apparently from my world... And an ineffective antique at that.

[Careful there, Prometheus. By implication (and transitivity), you almost seem to be saying Rinzler is unimpressive. Where the enforcer's from, losing to him isn't a sign of weakness. It's a given for those unfortunate enough to cross his path.

Eyes slit slightly in response, though the enforcer doesn't comment on the phrase directly. True, certainly, that the glitch gave up more easily than any proper target should. He hadn't even been able to get a real fight out of it yet—and not for lack of trying.]

Different timestamps?

[It certainly hadn't come across as older than this pair...]

[kettle, kettle, kettle... Must we go over how we're the same again or will the pot just be met with the same level of denial as before? They had their games, they had their rules and they had their roles. It just so happened that Prometheus was expecting a little more out of someone who claimed to be a Maverick Hunter only to be met with some beginner's attempt at code.

Even now, Prometheus isn't certain if Axl picked up on the confirmation that they were Mavericks or not. Considering how fast Rinzler was to take the open invite to a fight...]

Based off of what he's told us? Yeah. By several centuries.

[he starts spinning the palette knife in his hand idly. His voice has been kept soft and low this whole time, as if to let Pandora sleep]

I certainly hope he's not a representation of what was expected of Hunters in his time. Though... [he chuckles softly, lopsided smirk on his face clearly meant to read as 'smug'] Not a lot has changed over the years. Bunch of weaklings.

It's hard finding a challenge out there, don't you agree?

[Sorry, pot. Denial is this kettle's specialty. Still, on this topic, Rinzler's not likely to disagree. Axl had come across much more like an untried beta than any real kind of threat.

Centuries translates to hectocycles. Hunters registers as a repeat—the glitch had claimed the title with some attempt at pride—and so confirmed as a proper term. As functions went, it sounded like a subset of his own. Still, that didn't mean it was done well. Especially in a user-run system.

The enforcer's mouth curves a little grimly, but he inclines his head. Point to Prometheus—on that issue, at least, there's no difference at all. Here or at home. A thousand cycles of perfection had flushed out all the glitches worth considering, and for too long now Rinzler's function has been relegated to wait and follow. And wiping whatever strays they dredge up for the Games, of course. As little as he may like the damage this system has inflicted on his code, it's kept things interesting.

Case in point. Rinzler's gaze shifts briefly from one reploid to the other, and if he makes no move to verbalize the query, it's not hard to read on the enforcer's face. What are they, really? Malware is an easy label to apply, well-matched to their active taunt of function and control. But they're far too clearly combat-coded to be a completely undirected glitch. True too that few random errors show this kind of concern for one another.]

[accustomed to chatting with Pandora, Rinzler's lack of speech doesn't actually impede Prometheus' attempts at conversations/taunts, despite his outward grievances. Though his attention has drifted to the repetitive motion of the palette knife in his hand, spinning it like he was. It's too fragile and item to be considered a viable wewapon save as a last resort or a tool to mutilate an oil painting... As the silence draws out, it's as if the Reploid didn't even notice the question]

...

Can't answer that unless I know what you've classified us as. [he catches the palette knife abruptly, looking at his reflection along it's metal surface. The enforcer can catch the grin on Prometheus' face before the Reploid even turns around to look at him] Other than as a 'threat,' of course.

So, Rinzler, what do you think we are?

Edited (whoops) 2015-12-19 08:28 (UTC)

[As long as that quiet draws out, the stilled surprise when Prometheus does speak is, for a moment, palpable. The enforcer isn't hard to read, but that doesn't mean he's used to it happening. Or maybe he's just not used to having those quiet thoughts acknowledged. It was much easier to contain expressions when he didn't have a face... but it's true, too, that far fewer people bothered to watch for anything so minor from the weapon trailing in Clu's wake. He only provided one kind of output that mattered.

Another failing of this system? Or his own? Or is it just a peculiarity of this program? Tempting to dismiss it so readily, but this isn't the first time the others in this place have seemed to be looking for more. The enforcer shelves the uncertainty for now, eyes dropping to the phone as he types out a reply.]

Reploids; program analogs written for user world.
Additional tags: malware, combat functions.
Designation DAN-001 Prometheus: close-range design. Aggressive, favors direct strikes, grabs. Talks. [Can text make linefaces?]
Counterpart: lighter model, ranged/reconnaissance approach. Indirect, utilizes distraction. Less durable. Claims additional prototyping capability.

[Someone was paying attention. To what he can categorize, at least.]

Function, timestamp, user/admin: unknown.

[there's a soft chuckle when he reads 'Malware' written and another, slightly louder, chuckle when he spots Rinzler's irritated mention about Prometheus' tendency to be chatty. Such a heart to heart they're having!

The data Rinzler has on them so far was very surface level... And not entirely accurate either. Probably based solely on observation and their first encounter. Still, it's not bad and decidedly thorough for what he had available.

Prometheus taps the palette knife against his chin lightly in thought]

'Program analogs' huh? I suppose that's one way of looking at it... [he pauses momentarily]

Timestamp; 2XXX [mid-century? It's definitely farther forward than the 21st century. He's already told Yori, so no point keeping that to himself] I like how you're still hung up on that function issue of yours though. Hardwired?

[a moment of considering, then, softly, as he lowers the palette knife;]

DAN-002 Pandora. Like you've already figured out, we're meant to be a unit.

[The enforcer's stare flattens a little at the laughter. (And good luck convincing him you aren't all programs.) But there is data amidst the mockery this time. Almost a favorable ratio, even. Rinzler's brows furrow a little at that timestamp, as close to an admission of surprise as he comes. Hundreds of cycles in the user world? Hard to calculate how much might change. Outside the system, even Rinzler and Yori were only a few dozen cycles apart.

The scowl slips back quickly enough when the topic turns to function, and Rinzler's noise skips a beat in irritation. Directives aren't an issue. And caring about them hardly makes him the glitched one here. He's typing before Prometheus even closes that last line.]

Function required for system utility.

Lack of function: waste of resources; probable destabilizing factor. Glitch.

[There are other tags he could use. Stray. ISO. The first were to be rectified, or disposed of in the Games. The second, deleted on sight or turned over to Clu. Rinzler wasn't yet in operation when the Purge began, but he had been instrumental in tracking down and wiping the surviving virals after.

...so, that'd be a yes on the hardcoded thing. In spades.]

Heh. I knew I could count on you to be an immovable object.

[and, like usual, he doesn't sound offended at all. Instead, he goes back to spinning that little knife in his hand. It's a little faster this time, thoughtful moment passed]

But didn't you tag me as Malware? Like I'd need a function if that's the case.

[he catches the knife] And Reploids are a little more advanced than your average program. How does it go... 'More than the sum of our parts'?

[a scoff] What a joke.

[Stubbornness is possibly the one thing you can't code out of ~~Tron~~ Rinzler... even if the value assignments he's backing have been changed. Sound catches faintly as he huffs out a breath and shakes his head. Shows what Prometheus knows. Malware might flag a source of instability or harm, but not all threats to the system happened out of chance. Some were deliberately made to be that way.

Not that he has any particular stake here. The user world is far too glitched for another disruption to even register, and nothing he's been assigned to clear. If Clu went through with his initiative... well. That would make for some new parameters. But more than likely, in a different world.

Eyes track the motion of the knife by reflex, but there's no particular wariness to the enforcer's stance as he steps over toward the empty desk, unslinging his backpack to sort through its contents. No argument either. He's not going to compare code with someone from kilocycles in the future, and Rinzler's never had much use for average besides. His stare lingers, though, head quirking a little to the side as the reploid stalls. A joke?]

[..........]

If you don't want people to keep reading you so easily, dear Rinzler, you might want to stop staring so intently at them. I can practically hear you asking over the constant error running in your background processes.

Reploids in my era are practically on par with humans. All the little errors and glitches, right down to allegedly being harder to re-program than your average program.

[Prometheus shifts forward into a crouch]

Well... It takes longer in my time, but with the right stimulus? Hacking and re-purposing people and Reploids is surprisingly easy.

[his gaze shifts to the damaged painting, expression neutral but probably not visible to Rinzler]

Not everyone is given a directive; just an expiration date. You have to find your own purpose... Or that's what the average citizen gets told anyway. Sounds nice doesn't it? But you're right; everyone has a function, an inescapable fate. In our case...

[there's a glint of light as Prometheus flips the knife over into a reverse grip. In one motion, he's drawn his arm back - to the left, just over his shoulder - and sends the knife into the canvas repeatedly. Despite the speed, the palette knife - created to be blunt and flexible, to mix paint - bends but doesn't puncture the canvas though it tears off a chunk of paint and starts denting it not long after]

Recruit... [thwack] Judge... [thwack] Seek... [thud] Fight...

[he raises the knife up and plunges downwards. The painting canvas and the palette knife seem to have had enough of the punishment though and both give way, the metal snapping as Prometheus forces it through the canvas. With his free hand, he holds the frame steady as he drags the ruined tool through the painting, ignoring the fact that the metal had cut through his hand. He doesn't even seem to notice the blood]

Feed it.

[The stare lingers, deliberate and irritated, before Rinzler turns to extracting the power cells he'd cached. He's not running errors. And that question, he'd meant to ask.

At first.

On par with humans isn't a new claim, but it's enough to draw a little focus. The users here aren't difficult to surpass... but that reference isn't strength or skill, is it? No, he means complexity. Independence. Rinzler stills, and if the prickle of warning is as weak as always in this form, he knows the prompt it flags without bothering to read. Not wanted. (Not allowed). Independent function is just as useless as the errors it creates.

It's not important. The reploid isn't talking about the Grid. But the flags still build as it continues, noise glitching out a little harsher with each beat. So they were repurposed. Code-chained to a directive, to hunt and fight by an external command. Hardly surprising. No, it's not unusual at all. There's no reason for the rigid lock of Rinzler's own hands around the edge of the desk. Or the bright/dark flicker of the circuit lines that trace them.

Eyes fix on the movements of the knife. The violence is soothing even secondhand, and Rinzler watches, half-hypnotized as he waits out the nausea. But the same corner of his code that's twisting (~~screaming~~) against the reset flinches sharply at the drip of blood, and suddenly, stillness is far too much to ask. He steps closer—stalls—twitches with the urge to wipe away the lines. He didn't want to hear this. He wants answers (who? why?). But that's the last thing he should hear, and he already knows all the parts that matter.

Nearly all.

...feed it?]

...

[he drops the broken handle to the ground and raises his injured hand to inspect the damage. One large, now bleeding (blood and oil and that's a laugh and a half, wasn't it?) cut courtesy of the ruined palette knife, a series of scratches where the torn edges of the canvas bit into his hand and some parts that were raw from pulling his hand through said torn canvas. ... Superficial damage.

Out of some sense of responsibility, Prometheus shifts and places his injured hand on the canvas. Better to bleed onto something that was going to get thrown out... He doubts Yori would appreciate both siblings bleeding all over her room]

Hm?

[he looks up when he senses Rinzler's sudden movement, the steady sound behind him increasing as he spoke. Did he touch a nerve? ... If he did, it's a little too close to home even if it was exploitable.]

What's up? Sorry, I missed part of that, you'll have to use your words.

[the questions of who and why this was done to them tied so closely with that last comment of his. But it's a little odd that Prometheus seemed to be backing down; was he testing Rinzler? Or did he realize he'd said too much?

...

He doesn't seem to care that much, if that weirdly neutral tone was anything to go by]

[Rinzler doesn't know what Rinzler wants to ask. Or if, or why for his own self. The sound rises and falls in ragged bursts, hands half-curled with the need for violence. There's nothing left to break, though, and the program stares almost blankly at Prometheus' bizarre gesture of concern: care taken for the floor where both the painting and the reploid had been equally expendable.

That too, isn't something that Clu's enforcer needs to question.

No. Circuits fluctuate a little and reset, a fraction dimmer than before. None of this is. Rinzler turns, tension bleeding back to his familiar hunch as he heads back to the desk to retrieve his phone. He makes a detour on the return trip, snagging some spare cloths from the dresser. Yori had procured them from one of her clubs, but the bandages hadn't seen a lot of use—no practical way to blot a flow of blood when it came from mouth and ears and eyes. And the only time he'd taken structural damage in this system, it wasn't so easily reversed. Rinzler drops the wad unceremoniously on the ground next to the reploid before turning his attention to the phone.]

Threat: deleted?

[Definitely not what he'd been asking (~~glitching~~) about before. And only marginally more clear. Does Rinzler mean their targets? Their reprogrammer? Them? Any will do, really. He's just trying to bring things back to (acceptable) familiar ground.]

[Prometheus watches with mild interest as Rinzler attempts to sort through his codes. It was strangely fascinating in how obvious it was; even Pseudoroids didn't display decision algorithms so keenly and Rinzler, Yori and the third program had been too mentally advanced to be compared with even ancient Mechaniloids. The completeness of it was... Startling too. The rattle, his posture and his circuitry all working together to signal the enforcer's state of mind, from conflict one second then resolution the next.

Though he can't help but wonder if loyalty won through forced programming could truly be considered loyalty. Prometheus had been lying about his and Pandora's loyaties for so long... When had the old man noticed? Had he planned it from the start?]

Our targets weren't threats. If they weren't chosen, then they're trash. Simple.

[he reaches for the bandages as he talks. It might have been better to get the cut cleaned first, but basic auto-repair functionality should be sufficient in eliminating potential infections]

And we're still here, aren't we? [a sigh (he seems disappointed somehow. Disappointed and tired)] We're all still here...

[...]

[the bandage gets tied off a little more violently than might have been necessary. When he looks at Rinler again, that familiar grin is plastered across his face and the strangely out of character voice was back to his usual... Enthusiastic self]

Though I don't know whether to envy you or not! I mean... We have to live with the ghosts of what we lost. Yet here you are, like those errors are nothing but blips on a radar; here for a second and emptied out the next. How does it feel?

[Trash. Not 'chosen'. Rinzler angles his head a little, but if he's missing some of the context, the sentiment behind it is an easy match. Only those who were passed by for improvement were sent to the Games, after all—the strays and glitches too useless for a part in Clu's plans. It was his task to delete what floated to the top, however few of the contenders qualified as proper threats.

Still, to have no challenge at all, in how long...? He'd crash from sheer boredom. Not that he hadn't wanted to more than once already. Rinzler shakes his head. It's either a dismissal, or the closest thing to sympathy he's shown yet.

The feeling lasts about as long as you'd expect. Envy is enough to turn the uncertain look wary; by errors, it's hardened completely. Rinzler jerks his head to the side, sound picking up a little as he types.]

Not erroring.

[Outside of the user shell and the system (and Clu's absence, and his mask...)]

Performing optimally.

[It's not his fault the parameters are glitched.]

[that cat-like grin - almost knowing, despite him having about as clear a picture of the Grid as Rinzler had of his own world - stays on Prometheus' face in spite of the Enforcer's denial]

So you can't tell? Oh well, they do say ignorance is bliss.

[there's a soft grunt as he pushes himself up onto his feet and carefully leans the painting against the wall. He's going to have to go get something for himself and Pandora to eat, so he'll ~~break~~ take the painting out then. Still not enough trust in Rinzler to leave his sister with the Enforcer without Yori there- No, even with Yori, Prometheus doesn't trust anyone enough even though Pandora was recovering well enough]

I guess it's why you're not allowed to speak either. Can't have you asking questions that shouldn't be answered after all.

[he shrugs, insufferable smile on his face the whole time] Works for me. I can just say that I missed your questions whenever I don't want to answer.

[Red-lit fingers curl tighter around the phone as the reploid talks, every line of Rinzler's frame bristling. There's nothing to tell. Nothing to ask. The skipping, glitching growl builds a little higher, but there's no other sound. No voice, certainly. Clu said he didn't need one. Not his function (not allowed). No value in it, not for him. Yori had said the opposite, a quiet burst of oughts and fairness that somehow read as furious despite all the careful calm she'd layered in her tone. And Rinzler—

—Rinzler stills and stalls halfway to locking as the (nausea) (threat) (WARNING—) rises through his processing like a wall. It doesn't matter what he wants. It never will, and he hates it—hates this place for tricking him into considering the thought at all. Mostly, he hates the glitch across the room. A last furious glare turns in Prometheus' direction, and the enforcer turns his back deliberately, stalking back over to the blank desk. If it's going to ignore him anyway, there's not much point in bothering with text. Or anything else.

Still, if Prometheus is hoping for Rinzler to leave, he'll be disappointed. The enforcer just arrived, and he's got his own energy to sort and cache. Besides, retreating so soon would be admitting to a loss. Rinzler isn't going anywhere fast, though he won't be the one to initiate more conversation.]

IC Inbox: Inugami

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