IC Inbox: Inugami

[notglitching]

[The phone comes with a cheerful default greeting voice.]

Hello! You have reached the voice mail of:

[Cue ten seconds of uncertain rumbling.]

If you would like to leave a message, please do so after the beep!

Comments

[notglitching]

[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?]

[trap_factory]

...

[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]

[notglitching]

[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.]

[trap_factory]

[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?

[notglitching]

[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.]

[trap_factory]

[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.

[notglitching]

[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.]