Multiversal travel can be disorienting, but there’s no need to worry! All side effects are temporary and lessen with each trip. Your body may experience several sensations at once: being pushed forward as if a hand is resting on your back, momentary and startling blindness, a gentle ringing in your head. You may have difficulty discerning whether it is hot or cold, but where you have been prodded is noticeably warmer than the rest of you. Some may suffer dizziness while others are perfectly fine. You notice that the area you are in is filled with a soft cerulean light and feels slightly humid and dark despite the glow around you. Regardless of your current state, however, the stress of transit forces your body into unconsciousness.
Waking up is another story. Or maybe it isn’t.
You find yourself in a nondescript room; sometimes with others who have found themselves in the same situation, sometimes alone. Welcome to Avagi Station, your new home.
Avagi
That First Step, it is a Doozy:
There are always risks to exploring new environments and Avagi is rich with new nooks and crannies to explore. You’re checking out a new corridor that’s been opened, though there have been signs warning that there are areas where structural stability has been weakened by neglect and the passage of time. But maybe things have been going well, you’ve found a few interesting things of note and you’re ready to head back to your bunk for the day.
Except when you turn to leave, the floor is giving way without a screech of metal. Hopefully you’ve got some good reflexes and can catch yourself before you topple down a shaft that seems to go down at least thirty or forty feet. Do you call for help or struggle to handle it on your own? And more importantly, how are you getting around this giant hole in the floor now that it’s there?
The Buddy System:
In order to help new arrivals find their bearings the more experienced residents on board have decided to try out the buddy system in order until the new arrivals get their space legs. The guide is responsible for answering any questions, showing them all the important facilities and making sure their new friend doesn’t wander anywhere too dangerous. And what better way to get to know your buddy than to try and help them find all the supplies they need to be comfortable in their new home? Hopefully the barter blocks have some clothes in your size or else it could get a little bit awkward come laundry day.
Shining Bright:
The Observation Station is the best place on Avagi to get a look at the storm that rages all around. However today when you stop by there’s something strange and new to look upon. It’s not clear if it’s a change in the environment or perhaps an effect of the living energy that opens the portals but the entire room is filled with softly glowing floating lights. If you venture into the room and dare to touch one of the lights you’ll find that you find a song playing in your mind that fills you with a deep and abiding sense of peace. What you do with that feeling is up to you but it seems that these lights aren’t going to cause any harm then why not let yourself relax in a beautiful space for a little while?
Kaittos
This month there is a portal to the planet Kaittos, a peaceful world containing one large land mass and a scattering of lived-on islands across a clear blue ocean. On the mainland, a large city-state occupies the central region and southern coast and resembles what some travelers from some versions of Earth might know of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon.
Bustling and lively, the city is clean and well provided-for due to the temperate climate and the bountiful natural resources found on its northern side; orchards, farms and forests extend into the distance, butting up against a small mountain range. The technology level is low compared to Avagi, with carriages and candles in place rather than cars and electric lights, but the craftsmen of the world have managed some very impressive mechanical feats.
Kaittans, the local residents of the world appear somewhat humanoid, but the bipedal race has hooves rather than feet, silvery skin and three eyes with vertical pupils. Although there is no sign of any other sentient species in the world, the locals are nonetheless excited to meet their guests, rather than suspicious or afraid; for some reason, they are not surprised that aliens exist, merely that they are here.
Visitors are encouraged to explore the city and partake in an exchange of goods and ideas, to share their culture and stories with the locals. Perhaps there’s a merchant willing to trade a bauble for a story or you want to try something entirely unknown to your palette in the culinary quarter. The possibilities, while not quite limitless, are enough to keep the curious busy for quite a while.
Speaking of timestamps, Ram's going to need to recalibrate his internal chronometer because wherever this is, it clearly doesn't match Encom's system timewise. Which is... strange. But his clock is going a bit haywire so he shuts it off for now and goes back to wondering why this program would need his last timestamp.
That line of thought shuts down fast as he watches the security program split his disk into two. His mouth drops open and he's so caught up in /how is that possible?! that he ducks the disk heading his way even though it's flight path clearly misses him by a good fourteen inches.
The two disks cut through one of the overhead pipes and Ram tracks their trajectory back to the program, flinching closer to the wall when the pipe lands heavily next to him. Silently, he updates the numbers to his calculations and adds the variable of a second fragging disk. He will not be getting away from this program easily.
It takes him a moment to collect himself, and then, carefully keeping his eyes on the program, he pulls his disk out of the wall and very deliberately docks it on his back. He knows exactly how long it takes him to get it back out again and he'd rather not give this guy any excuse to attack, especially while he's balanced on a makeshift bridge. Speaking of which. He tests its stability with one foot before stepping up onto it. It's decently wide, and once he's established that it's secure enough on either side, he begins to his way across, cautious of the fall and the program the whole time. Midway, the pipe creaks under his weight and Ram wobbles a little, but he quickly rebalances and is soon on solid ground again. He swiftly moves away from the edge, while maintaining the distance with the two-disked program.
The reflexive dodge is entertaining. The careful docking of that weapon, wise. Rinzler's sound quickens in approval, letting his own blades merge in his left hand and darken. He won't dock the weapon quite yet, but he steps aside from the makeshift walkway, eying Ram's wobble with no move to interfere.
The distance kept by the smaller program is also a sign of uncommonly good sense.
"State method of import."
Harsh, cutting, and again atonal. Almost certainly, Rinzler already knows this answer. Probably better than Ram does. But if there is a different system breach, he wants to learn about it.
Despite being in close quarters with the security program now, Ram feels more secure knowing he's got more room to dodge and move if need be. That the program's disks are rejoined and dark doesn't make him relax, though it at least means he'll have a little more warning if things go south, and he's not to be immediately derezzed. Probably.
Up close, the voice doesn't sound quite as bad, though it's certainly still not good. A little more prepared for it, Ram doesn't flinch this time.
Method of import. Good question. 'Ah... Bright white light.' This guy's guess is as good as his. 'I ended up in a small room some corridors back. Where is this anyway?'
White light. That's as close to confirmation as he's likely to get. Ram will be subjected to one more scan before the enforcer reaches back, disk slotting into dock with a slight click. If he needs it, he has no doubts in the least of his ability to retrieve the weapon. Or his ability to handle the other program without one, if it comes to that.
"Avagi. User system."
A jerk of the helmet indicates the command: follow. Rinzler will wait to be sure the other program is complying before starting off down the hall.
His answer seems to satisfy the security program, thank the Users. Not knowing the system and what is likely to be a right other wrong answer is putting him on edge.
Disks docked, that's a relief and a good sign. He adjusts the numbers he has for calculating required reaction time and combat likelihood.
'User system?' His circuits brighten momentarily in his surprise. 'That's... new.' Though it might explain the lack of circuits and strange construct materials.
Follow? Ram glances back at the collapsed floor. There's not really anywhere else to go. It's a slim chance he'll be able to slip away, but if he doesn't go willingly, there's away high probability he'll be forced along and then there's next to no chance of escape.
He heads after the security program, continuing the mapping of the area he'd started. 'So how am I in a User system? How are we in a User system?'
New for Ram. Having spent the last few cycles transferring between user systems, Rinzler can definitely say the novelty wears off. He tracks the other program in periphery as he heads forward down the hall, near-silent paces overwritten by the background rattle of errors.
"Portal. Glitched." Did Encom have a Portal? Rinzler clamps down on the filesearch before it can run. Not quite fast enough to stop the uneasy pressure, but he pushes past it. Keeps talking.
Portal? Between systems and this User world? But there was no portal at Encom. How could it have--?
Ram pauses mid-step. Flynn must have come through a portal of some kind. He can't see how else he would have been able to get to Encom. Did he come from here? He doesn't know the proper name of the User world, there's no reason it couldn't be Avagi.
'That's pretty frequent,' he notes, jogging a little to catch up. The program's tall, security programs always seem to be. 'So it's just bringing programs at random?' Even after deresolution. How?
He's getting used to the program's voice now. But now he's not focused on the strange, disused growl, there's something about it nagging at his processor. 'Where did you get brought in from?'
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.
It seems he's allowed a little distance before the program will start getting suspicious. Likely the distance is related to the program's own speed, reaction times and how far he can track a program from. It may also vary depending on if they're in a single, long corridor or an area with multiple crossing paths. He's half tempted to test it, but they're currently in a long corridor and he's actually got a reason for wanting to stay close.
'What patterns?' His own curiosity mixes with the logic of gathering more data. This is such a new and unknown situation, he can't help but want to know more. 'Is it to do with the spread of imports, or the system from which the programs originate? Or perhaps both or another variable.'
Staring at the program's back, since there's little else to look at, Ram very much notices the twitch and quickly correlates the movement with the change in that strange noise he makes. He drops back a couple of steps and runs a few calculations to try and determine what brought it on. Is he asking too many questions? But it came after he had answered.
The Grid. Clearly not the Game Grid, there was no one in Encom with armor or circuits like that. He runs a quick search through systems he's contacted or heard of in the past, but "the Grid" doesn't turn up any matches.
'Haven't heard of it,' he admits. 'Have you been here long?'
Helpful, Rinzler. But it's not an answer he wants to process. Not a topic he wants to open: not with this too-curious [file missing] lit in user-loyal blue.
File "missing". File Tron's. He doesn't like it, and likes even less the near-retreat that answers his distraction; space drawn with the familiar caution of a dissident about to bolt. Rinzler stops entirely, mask snapping back to glare as he growls out a hash of temper and corruption. Waiting, for ID: Ram to catch the fault up. Just because he doesn't have a proper reason to detain this program doesn't mean he won't chase if it does run. Or drag it physically to their end goal.
Assuming Ram does fall in line, Rinzler will turn back forward, making a right at one intersection before continuing. It might seem he's dismissed the second question entirely—or perhaps just run out of patience to address it. After almost two full micros, though:
Somewhat helpful, it's at least an answer. Ram is still mildly surprised the program is answering him at all, but for all the monosyllabic responses he's getting, he can still glean some information from them.
When the program stops and growls back at him, he pauses, tense, fingers ready to snatch his disk at a femtocycle's notice. But the security program doesn't reach for his disks or make any further advancements, and after a moment, Ram realises that he's waiting.
'Ah, right.' He steps closer again, though still maintaining a distance that would allow his reaction time to pull his disk before the program through his. 'That better?'
Seems to be because the security program starts off again. Ram follows, looking left down the other Hall as they turn, but seeing no noticeable difference.
When he finally gets an answer, he has to remember what he asked. 'So you've been bouncing around a bit? I didn't realise there were different User systems.'
They pass another junction, still no indication of signs or location. 'Hey, where are you taking me anyway?'
It is better. It isn't. Rinzler doesn't turn again, but something of the same frustration lingers, tension prickling through the close hunch.
The other program's careful distance is perfectly familiar. It's a configuration he's hunted for a thousand cycles, and it's more than tempting to complete the match. Close the gap. Agitate it into running. Bring down his target and take it back to Clu. This isn't Clu's system, and he hasn't ordered any such retrieval. Still, Rinzler doubts his admin would mind the opportunity.
...
This isn't Clu's system, but threat assessment is still necessary. If he isn't certain of the other program's goals, it's Rinzler's task to make sure. Take its disk. Strip all relevant data. But (Ram) the import hasn't shown much sign of hazard yet, and Rinzler isn't—sure. What he might find.
...
Tron knew this program. He isn't Tron. All the more reason to have it done with now: wipe or leave it, but maintain distance from the source. He hates the sick pressure of errors. Hates the paralysis it's locked into his thoughts. Yori hadn't been this maddening—but Yori mattered, and he'd broken readily for her. (This program) Ram (is) (isn't)—
[Corruptible content—]
...
He doesn't know.
He doesn't answer, either. Not this time. One query is irrelevant, one obvious. The last, just as easy to do instead of say. Rinzler shuts down what he can of the useless looping and continues halfway down the hall before turning toward an open doorway on the left. The room inside is large, with several exits and a cluttered workbench to one side. Rinzler steps to one side, nodding the other program in ahead. If Ram is going to act so much like he'd prefer to run, he can go first.
Silence, except for the ever rumbling growl. Is that a quirk? A glitch? Does it serve some function or is it merely an extra add on like his own ability to whistle? Given what he's seen of the security program so far, the last doesn't seem likely. The limited circuits, from what Ram, familiar with far more complex circuitry systems can infer, suggest stealth. To have a constant noise would counteract that.
Seems like the conversation is over, conveniently when getting to the currently relevant questions. Ram sighs and looks around the corridor again, still no sign of where they're going. 'If we were playing twenty questions, I've still got five,' he mutters.
The further they go, the greater Ram's uneasiness becomes. Parameters, location and intention are all unknown and the margins for error coming up in Ram's calculations are making him grit his teeth. And then there's the program himself. Ram stares at his back as he follows, eyeing the double disks, currently merged, on his port. He's familiar with security programs from Encom, but this guy is from a different system. And yet he is both very different and simultaneously, though more subtly, very similar. It's bothering him.
They reach a doorway, beyond which the lighting changes a little. As Ram gets a glimpse inside, he sees multiple doorways and his calculations leap with the new info. The program steps aside and gestures him through, but passing would bring him within reaction distance.
'Well, I would, but I don't know where we're going,' he says. 'Could be any of those doors.' He braces. This is either going to get him forcibly shoved into the room, told which door to head for, or the threat of disks.
Rinzler doesn't have a face to glare with. Still, the sentiment is anything but subtle. The opaque mask fixes on Ram, frame bristling with a wash of sudden loathing.
Does it think Rinzler is stupid? That he can't recognize the stall, the push—the fault-crashed test for what it is? Avoidance and distance, boundaries strained in preparation for a break. Rinzler knows the patterns just as well as Rinzler knows the answer it deserves. Derezz the glitch. He shouldn't have given it the opportunity to start with. And certainly, a function that can't follow basic instructions has no place in Clu's—
This isn't Clu's system. He'd been trying to help.
This isn't Clu's system, and if this glitch can stop, for one micro, treating this like—
(—what he is—)
[Error—]
Fists are curling at each side. Noise scrapes out a discordant snarl, surging as Rinzler jerks his mask back toward the entry, wordless and enraged. He knows his function.
Ram can practically feel the sudden fury radiating off him, and though he doesn't take a step back, he does tense and quickly reassess his calculations. This is admittedly not a reaction he had considered likely, at least not to such a degree.
'Hey, you'll forgive me for not wanting to turn my back on a highly capable security program with two disks,' he says, hands raised slightly.
With the increased anger, chances of the situation devolving into a confrontation are increasing. However force has not yet been used and the program has had ample opportunity to initiate, but seems more focused on getting Ram wherever he wants him to go. Which means he likely wants him there alive, though the lack of manhandling is a different matter, one Ram is still puzzling out. In the mean time, it is unlikely that he's been brought to this room to be derezzed, whereas continued resistance increases the possibility.
'Okay, okay.' he lowers his hands, activates his limited motion tracker and expands his proximity alert to a further reach while calibrating his reaction time. Then he walks past the program, the door forcing him to pass just within his reaction time range. He skips back out of range once he's in the room, but makes a point of positioning himself near the centre. Look, not trying to escape.
Security. The harsh rattling skips, just slightly. Still, Rinzler won't correct the mistake.
He will follow Ram in. The other program's deliberate positioning is largely ignored; once inside, Rinzler turns toward the workbench, a few quick steps to retrieve one of the devices cluttering its top. He tosses it to the actuary without looking, turns and raises a hand slightly: showcasing the similar accessory currently attached to his right wrist.
"Communicator."
Avagi Communication Extension, the startup screen will inform Ram—in addition to prompting for an ID.
"Provides access to public broadcasts and shared data. Can enter own requests."
Ram starts compiling a list of the times the clicking noise changes, tagging the instances with how it changed and what Ram did or said beforehand. He doesn't know if he'll run into this guy again, but to be safe, he'd rather be better learned in what might prompt a reaction. He can cross reference once he has more data to make it more accurate.
All hostility seems to drop once Ram's in the room and he watches the program fetch something off a table and throw it to him. He catches it easily and looks it over, looking up in confusion, though not at what it is.
'...Thank you?' This, help, was very far down the calculated possible outcomes of their excursion. That seems to be happening a fair bit with this program, some reassessing is clearly in order. He'll check the communicator for bugs and listening devices once he's alone, but even so. 'Thank you.'
/Query_whyhelp?
Very little about this program is making sense. From his strange sounds, to his difficult to predict behaviour, to his voice, which is nagging at Ram's processor the more he hears it. This time, it's a segment long enough that he has a chance to record the last sentence and mull it over.
Ram's ping will bounce back unacknowledged. Unread, though the specifics might not be apparent. The user world doesn't carry proper signals. The program he's transmitting to isn't configured like Ram is. There are plenty of reasons why the effort might have failed.
Connection rejected is just one among the set.
Static rustles behind Rinzler's shell: recycled air, exhaled in derision. The actuary's stare is just as obvious as its bewildered courtesy, and plenty reason to ignore the latter. It has what it needs now to bother anyone but him.
Ram manages to keep the frown off his face when he gets no response but his own, unopened ping. He quickly lists through the possible reasons for this and quickly determines that there are enough that there's no sense in dwelling on them, and instead moves to a method he knows will at least be heard.
'Why are you helping me?' There is curiosity and a hint of confusion in his tone. It's not often he meets someone who acts so unexpectedly as to maintain such high margins of error in his calculations after this long.
The last one was Flynn.
'What's your designation?' Users, he doesn't think he's ever asked a Red Guard their name before.
Why. Of course the program has to ask. Rinzler tries to keep from bristling too much as he retorts.
"Threat assessment."
That had been his first priority, certainly. Plus, it hardly helped the system to have confused functions wandering the halls. Anything else... shouldn't matter. Not here.
'Threat assessment?' That gets a raised eyebrow. He won't ask what the result is, it would only waste time. 'I'm not familiar with the section of threat assessments that involves communication providing.' Skepticism? Maybe. But, glitch, this guy has been doing things his own way so far, so who knows.
"Rinzler" turns up no results when he runs it through his data banks, which he should be surprised by, and yet a small part of him is. There's no reason he should know this program, being from a different system with his double disks and minimal circuits.
Ram blinks, but the four small squares don't change. This doesn't make sense. But the voice... No, stop. It isn't the only possibility. Don't jump to conclusions. It takes him a few more picocycles to find his voice again.
So much for that not-bristling. The actuary's flippancy prompts a glower that sharpens as it speaks; if it objects so much to the assistance, Rinzler will be sure not to repeat the fault.
But then it lags. Then it continues. And Rinzler doesn't need the needling flickers of [Warning—] to recognize the danger here.
"Enforcer."
The word snarls out in a clatter of static: the ticking growl suddenly loud enough to feel through the metal floor. It's joined to a fluid step. A twitch of fingers: up and back. If the motions before had broadcast predator, the faceless regard is much, much sharper now.
Enforcer implies something or someone he is enforcing. Although there are obvious similarities with security, enforcer does not hold the same possibility for independence.
Ram turns his hands palm outwards, raised slightly, trying not to think too much on the rattle vibrating up through the floor.
'Not necessary,' he says, shifting to put himself in a slightly submissive pose, that also gives him a chance to analyse the curve of Rinzler's back. He's too short for Tron, but he's hunched. Once he has the angle he calculates Rinzler's potential full standing height and-- it matches.
The time doesn't match up though. Rinzler had said he'd been out of his system for 3.68 cycles, Ram saw Tron only last microcycle.
Could he be a copy? Not the Tron Ram knows, but the same program on a different system? He thinks back. The height and voice match, albeit the latter has some... changes. Ram was too caught off guard by the double disks to analyse the style, but he remembers Rinzler had merged them in his left hand. Tron was left handed. And of course, the identifier. Tron's markings were unique in a way other programs' weren't, a sign of his independence. An enforcer wouldn't share them. Unless they had been there before the enforcer code was.
Ram swallows.
It's still not certain, but the physical evidence matches up and Ram wants to do a system purge because, if this is--frag--if this is Tron, copy or not, he shudders, how did he end up like this? Tron would never go red. Willingly.
The submissive pose is warranted. The continued processing is not. Rinzler can see it hesitating on the program's features, twitching in the small motions of its throat. Like questions looped and cancelled; like a truth Rinzler had always looked for, but never wanted to find out. He should kill it. He should leave. But Rinzler too, hesitates.
And then it's much too late.
The freeze is immediate. So is the flare of loathing, sick and sharp, the hate (hate) (fear) that flares so brightly through his lights. Rinzler is perfect; Rinzler is right, and Clu (made him) was right to make him (this way). There's no reason for the glitch's question. No reason at all for the struggling, surging pulse of something that rises at the words.
For the feeble flicker of blue-white.
NO.
Rinzler won't be wiped. Won't be replaced. Something crumbles, and with it, all cause for hesitation. His disk scythes free from dock in a violent slash—throws with the same motion. Rinzler is much faster than Tron ever was, but the interplay of words was never his first language. Rinzler was made to speak with violence, made for the choking grate of conflict and the swift, decisive moves that put it down. So few programs ever survived long enough to understand.
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thisavrou_ooc2017-11-17 07:40 pm
no subject
That line of thought shuts down fast as he watches the security program split his disk into two. His mouth drops open and he's so caught up in /how is that possible?! that he ducks the disk heading his way even though it's flight path clearly misses him by a good fourteen inches.
The two disks cut through one of the overhead pipes and Ram tracks their trajectory back to the program, flinching closer to the wall when the pipe lands heavily next to him. Silently, he updates the numbers to his calculations and adds the variable of a second fragging disk. He will not be getting away from this program easily.
It takes him a moment to collect himself, and then, carefully keeping his eyes on the program, he pulls his disk out of the wall and very deliberately docks it on his back. He knows exactly how long it takes him to get it back out again and he'd rather not give this guy any excuse to attack, especially while he's balanced on a makeshift bridge. Speaking of which. He tests its stability with one foot before stepping up onto it. It's decently wide, and once he's established that it's secure enough on either side, he begins to his way across, cautious of the fall and the program the whole time. Midway, the pipe creaks under his weight and Ram wobbles a little, but he quickly rebalances and is soon on solid ground again. He swiftly moves away from the edge, while maintaining the distance with the two-disked program.
no subject
The distance kept by the smaller program is also a sign of uncommonly good sense.
"State method of import."
Harsh, cutting, and again atonal. Almost certainly, Rinzler already knows this answer. Probably better than Ram does. But if there is a different system breach, he wants to learn about it.
no subject
Up close, the voice doesn't sound quite as bad, though it's certainly still not good. A little more prepared for it, Ram doesn't flinch this time.
Method of import. Good question. 'Ah... Bright white light.' This guy's guess is as good as his. 'I ended up in a small room some corridors back. Where is this anyway?'
no subject
"Avagi. User system."
A jerk of the helmet indicates the command: follow. Rinzler will wait to be sure the other program is complying before starting off down the hall.
no subject
Disks docked, that's a relief and a good sign. He adjusts the numbers he has for calculating required reaction time and combat likelihood.
'User system?' His circuits brighten momentarily in his surprise. 'That's... new.' Though it might explain the lack of circuits and strange construct materials.
Follow? Ram glances back at the collapsed floor. There's not really anywhere else to go. It's a slim chance he'll be able to slip away, but if he doesn't go willingly, there's away high probability he'll be forced along and then there's next to no chance of escape.
He heads after the security program, continuing the mapping of the area he'd started. 'So how am I in a User system? How are we in a User system?'
no subject
"Portal. Glitched." Did Encom have a Portal? Rinzler clamps down on the filesearch before it can run. Not quite fast enough to stop the uneasy pressure, but he pushes past it. Keeps talking.
Strange, to have that be a method of correction.
"Uncontrolled imports every decicycle. Or more."
no subject
Ram pauses mid-step. Flynn must have come through a portal of some kind. He can't see how else he would have been able to get to Encom. Did he come from here? He doesn't know the proper name of the User world, there's no reason it couldn't be Avagi.
'That's pretty frequent,' he notes, jogging a little to catch up. The program's tall, security programs always seem to be. 'So it's just bringing programs at random?' Even after deresolution. How?
He's getting used to the program's voice now. But now he's not focused on the strange, disused growl, there's something about it nagging at his processor. 'Where did you get brought in from?'
no subject
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.
no subject
'What patterns?' His own curiosity mixes with the logic of gathering more data. This is such a new and unknown situation, he can't help but want to know more. 'Is it to do with the spread of imports, or the system from which the programs originate? Or perhaps both or another variable.'
Staring at the program's back, since there's little else to look at, Ram very much notices the twitch and quickly correlates the movement with the change in that strange noise he makes. He drops back a couple of steps and runs a few calculations to try and determine what brought it on. Is he asking too many questions? But it came after he had answered.
The Grid. Clearly not the Game Grid, there was no one in Encom with armor or circuits like that. He runs a quick search through systems he's contacted or heard of in the past, but "the Grid" doesn't turn up any matches.
'Haven't heard of it,' he admits. 'Have you been here long?'
no subject
Helpful, Rinzler. But it's not an answer he wants to process. Not a topic he wants to open: not with this too-curious [file missing] lit in user-loyal blue.
File "missing". File Tron's. He doesn't like it, and likes even less the near-retreat that answers his distraction; space drawn with the familiar caution of a dissident about to bolt. Rinzler stops entirely, mask snapping back to glare as he growls out a hash of temper and corruption. Waiting, for ID: Ram to catch the fault up. Just because he doesn't have a proper reason to detain this program doesn't mean he won't chase if it does run. Or drag it physically to their end goal.
Assuming Ram does fall in line, Rinzler will turn back forward, making a right at one intersection before continuing. It might seem he's dismissed the second question entirely—or perhaps just run out of patience to address it. After almost two full micros, though:
"0.18 cycles in Avagi.
"3.5 cycles in adjoining user systems."
It's been a while since Rinzler left the Grid.
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When the program stops and growls back at him, he pauses, tense, fingers ready to snatch his disk at a femtocycle's notice. But the security program doesn't reach for his disks or make any further advancements, and after a moment, Ram realises that he's waiting.
'Ah, right.' He steps closer again, though still maintaining a distance that would allow his reaction time to pull his disk before the program through his. 'That better?'
Seems to be because the security program starts off again. Ram follows, looking left down the other Hall as they turn, but seeing no noticeable difference.
When he finally gets an answer, he has to remember what he asked. 'So you've been bouncing around a bit? I didn't realise there were different User systems.'
They pass another junction, still no indication of signs or location. 'Hey, where are you taking me anyway?'
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The other program's careful distance is perfectly familiar. It's a configuration he's hunted for a thousand cycles, and it's more than tempting to complete the match. Close the gap. Agitate it into running. Bring down his target and take it back to Clu. This isn't Clu's system, and he hasn't ordered any such retrieval. Still, Rinzler doubts his admin would mind the opportunity.
...
This isn't Clu's system, but threat assessment is still necessary. If he isn't certain of the other program's goals, it's Rinzler's task to make sure. Take its disk. Strip all relevant data. But (
Ram) the import hasn't shown much sign of hazard yet, and Rinzler isn't—sure. What he might find....
Tron knew this program. He isn't Tron. All the more reason to have it done with now: wipe or leave it, but maintain distance from the source. He hates the sick pressure of errors. Hates the paralysis it's locked into his thoughts. Yori hadn't been this maddening—but Yori mattered, and he'd broken readily for her. (
This program) Ram (is) (isn't)—[Corruptible content—]
...
He doesn't know.
He doesn't answer, either. Not this time. One query is irrelevant, one obvious. The last, just as easy to do instead of say. Rinzler shuts down what he can of the useless looping and continues halfway down the hall before turning toward an open doorway on the left. The room inside is large, with several exits and a cluttered workbench to one side. Rinzler steps to one side, nodding the other program in ahead. If Ram is going to act so much like he'd prefer to run, he can go first.
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Seems like the conversation is over, conveniently when getting to the currently relevant questions. Ram sighs and looks around the corridor again, still no sign of where they're going. 'If we were playing twenty questions, I've still got five,' he mutters.
The further they go, the greater Ram's uneasiness becomes. Parameters, location and intention are all unknown and the margins for error coming up in Ram's calculations are making him grit his teeth. And then there's the program himself. Ram stares at his back as he follows, eyeing the double disks, currently merged, on his port. He's familiar with security programs from Encom, but this guy is from a different system. And yet he is both very different and simultaneously, though more subtly, very similar. It's bothering him.
They reach a doorway, beyond which the lighting changes a little. As Ram gets a glimpse inside, he sees multiple doorways and his calculations leap with the new info. The program steps aside and gestures him through, but passing would bring him within reaction distance.
'Well, I would, but I don't know where we're going,' he says. 'Could be any of those doors.' He braces. This is either going to get him forcibly shoved into the room, told which door to head for, or the threat of disks.
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Does it think Rinzler is stupid? That he can't recognize the stall, the push—the fault-crashed test for what it is? Avoidance and distance, boundaries strained in preparation for a break. Rinzler knows the patterns just as well as Rinzler knows the answer it deserves. Derezz the glitch. He shouldn't have given it the opportunity to start with. And certainly, a function that can't follow basic instructions has no place in Clu's—
This isn't Clu's system. He'd been trying to help.
This isn't Clu's system, and if this glitch can stop, for one micro, treating this like—
(—what he is—)
[Error—]
Fists are curling at each side. Noise scrapes out a discordant snarl, surging as Rinzler jerks his mask back toward the entry, wordless and enraged. He knows his function.
Just step the fault inside.
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'Hey, you'll forgive me for not wanting to turn my back on a highly capable security program with two disks,' he says, hands raised slightly.
With the increased anger, chances of the situation devolving into a confrontation are increasing. However force has not yet been used and the program has had ample opportunity to initiate, but seems more focused on getting Ram wherever he wants him to go. Which means he likely wants him there alive, though the lack of manhandling is a different matter, one Ram is still puzzling out. In the mean time, it is unlikely that he's been brought to this room to be derezzed, whereas continued resistance increases the possibility.
'Okay, okay.' he lowers his hands, activates his limited motion tracker and expands his proximity alert to a further reach while calibrating his reaction time. Then he walks past the program, the door forcing him to pass just within his reaction time range. He skips back out of range once he's in the room, but makes a point of positioning himself near the centre. Look, not trying to escape.
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He will follow Ram in. The other program's deliberate positioning is largely ignored; once inside, Rinzler turns toward the workbench, a few quick steps to retrieve one of the devices cluttering its top. He tosses it to the actuary without looking, turns and raises a hand slightly: showcasing the similar accessory currently attached to his right wrist.
"Communicator."
Avagi Communication Extension, the startup screen will inform Ram—in addition to prompting for an ID.
"Provides access to public broadcasts and shared data. Can enter own requests."
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All hostility seems to drop once Ram's in the room and he watches the program fetch something off a table and throw it to him. He catches it easily and looks it over, looking up in confusion, though not at what it is.
'...Thank you?' This, help, was very far down the calculated possible outcomes of their excursion. That seems to be happening a fair bit with this program, some reassessing is clearly in order. He'll check the communicator for bugs and listening devices once he's alone, but even so. 'Thank you.'
/Query_whyhelp?
Very little about this program is making sense. From his strange sounds, to his difficult to predict behaviour, to his voice, which is nagging at Ram's processor the more he hears it. This time, it's a segment long enough that he has a chance to record the last sentence and mull it over.
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Connection rejected is just one among the set.
Static rustles behind Rinzler's shell: recycled air, exhaled in derision. The actuary's stare is just as obvious as its bewildered courtesy, and plenty reason to ignore the latter. It has what it needs now to bother anyone but him.
"Further queries?"
Or can he go?
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'Why are you helping me?' There is curiosity and a hint of confusion in his tone. It's not often he meets someone who acts so unexpectedly as to maintain such high margins of error in his calculations after this long.
The last one was Flynn.
'What's your designation?' Users, he doesn't think he's ever asked a Red Guard their name before.
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"Threat assessment."
That had been his first priority, certainly. Plus, it hardly helped the system to have confused functions wandering the halls. Anything else... shouldn't matter. Not here.
(Not like this.)
"Rinzler."
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"Rinzler" turns up no results when he runs it through his data banks, which he should be surprised by, and yet a small part of him is. There's no reason he should know this program, being from a different system with his double disks and minimal circuits.
...Familiar minimal circuits.
/Warning: processor lockup detected
/System identified: logic_processor
/Rerouting
/Reroute successful//
Ram blinks, but the four small squares don't change. This doesn't make sense. But the voice... No, stop. It isn't the only possibility. Don't jump to conclusions. It takes him a few more picocycles to find his voice again.
'Are you independent security on your system?'
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But then it lags. Then it continues. And Rinzler doesn't need the needling flickers of [Warning—] to recognize the danger here.
"Enforcer."
The word snarls out in a clatter of static: the ticking growl suddenly loud enough to feel through the metal floor. It's joined to a fluid step. A twitch of fingers: up and back. If the motions before had broadcast predator, the faceless regard is much, much sharper now.
More vicious.
"Demonstration required?"
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Ram turns his hands palm outwards, raised slightly, trying not to think too much on the rattle vibrating up through the floor.
'Not necessary,' he says, shifting to put himself in a slightly submissive pose, that also gives him a chance to analyse the curve of Rinzler's back. He's too short for Tron, but he's hunched. Once he has the angle he calculates Rinzler's potential full standing height and-- it matches.
The time doesn't match up though. Rinzler had said he'd been out of his system for 3.68 cycles, Ram saw Tron only last microcycle.
Could he be a copy? Not the Tron Ram knows, but the same program on a different system? He thinks back. The height and voice match, albeit the latter has some... changes. Ram was too caught off guard by the double disks to analyse the style, but he remembers Rinzler had merged them in his left hand. Tron was left handed. And of course, the identifier. Tron's markings were unique in a way other programs' weren't, a sign of his independence. An enforcer wouldn't share them. Unless they had been there before the enforcer code was.
Ram swallows.
It's still not certain, but the physical evidence matches up and Ram wants to do a system purge because, if this is--frag--if this is Tron, copy or not, he shudders, how did he end up like this? Tron would never go red. Willingly.
'Who did this to you?'
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And then it's much too late.
The freeze is immediate. So is the flare of loathing, sick and sharp, the hate (hate) (
fear) that flares so brightly through his lights. Rinzler is perfect; Rinzler is right, and Clu (made him) was right to make him (this way). There's no reason for the glitch's question. No reason at all for the struggling, surging pulse of something that rises at the words.For the feeble flicker of blue-white.
NO.
Rinzler won't be wiped. Won't be replaced. Something crumbles, and with it, all cause for hesitation. His disk scythes free from dock in a violent slash—throws with the same motion. Rinzler is much faster than Tron ever was, but the interplay of words was never his first language. Rinzler was made to speak with violence, made for the choking grate of conflict and the swift, decisive moves that put it down. So few programs ever survived long enough to understand.
Shut up shut up shut up—
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