Taller than Ram, certainly. But if motion sheds the weight a little, there's a lean—a hunch—still clinging to the enforcer's frame. Sloped shoulders. Bent spine. More predatory than submissive in the current context, but even when the faceless mask tilts back to keep his not-quite-target in his sights, there's a height Rinzler won't rise to. An invisible line he's too well-coded (too well-trained) to approach.

If Ram were to have any reason to pull the data, he'd find it correlated near-exactly to the height of a certain user he had met.

A shrug ripples through the dark outline. "Some patterns." The way imports seemed to cluster from specific groups, or sets with close relations. The fact that so far, he (or Tron) had known every program or user from their worlds. But statistics aren't Rinzler's function, and he doesn't pretend to understand the method. If there is one.

Yori would be the better choice to ask. But no matter the fragmented impressions, no matter what this program might have been to Tron, he isn't sending it her way without more data.

...

[Warning—]

The twitch of irritation is more obvious this time. So is the rise in Rinzler's growl.

"System ID: the Grid." With a few stops along the way.