Homeless; On current apping plans ( Looking at Abax )

[whoami]

You're kidding. Right? I mean, this has to be some sort of joke, because if you do go through with this, we're both screwed.

No, I'm serious. You, and me both, mun. Screwed.

You? You get screwed because you, and I both know that you don't even have the time to pull this off, and you already have little freakouts over "being slow" and other such silly crap.
Me, though? I get to deal with a whole bunch of people I either don't know, or who want to kill me. Even beyond that, there's guys in here who want to kill me enough already!

...Oh, and I'm not even going to touch that 'shipping' stuff. You've got issues if you think that's going to fly.

Comments

[whoami]

[ Hey. It's called "trying to mind his own business". Not Sam's fault you've got a hardon for trying to kill him :T

Stopping, then, and scowling. ]

What.

[notglitching]

[Less amusement, now. He stops too, disk hand clenching faintly, though it doesn't reach back yet. Always with the questions, user. Rinzler's not the one with answers. The pause draws out, then the irregular growl breaks with a low snarl.]

Purpose.

[Question in return. Though it comes out more of a demand.]

[whoami]

[ Neither does Sam, but he's got the distinct feeling of being a quickdraw contest, here. Clenching both hands into fists at his sides, Sam just shakes his head in frustration. ]

Oh, so the one word thing is a trend? What am I supposed to do with that, exactly?

[ Charades was never Sam's strong suit. ]

Clarify parameters; "purpose" for what.

[ Ha. Take that, program-speak! ]

[notglitching]

[ Noise skips at that—harsh and low and furious. A lot of things come easier here. Speech still isn't free enough for Rinzler that he has words to waste satisfying your whims. Oh, and as far as your "program-speak" goes?
You don't get to give him orders.

A beat of stillness. Then? Rinzler blurs. Hunch uncoils, a step and fluid strike—shove. No weapons. No hesitation. Just sudden, immediate removal of the space between before he remakes it with an open-handed push.

Head jerks up towards the other as noise surges hateful and voiceless—indication. Answer. Purpose for who, user. For you.

Why are you here? ]

[whoami]

[ No, Sam couldn't quite track what just happened here. Rinzler moved inhumanly fast, and there's just a beat of tension, automated reflex putting Sam's right foot back, readying himself for the ( expected ) punch. It doesn't come, though. Just being shoved.

Still. Sam may be many things, but if someone pushes him? He pushes back. Expression snapping down into frustrated irritation, Sam takes that step back, and uses just one hand to push at Rinzler's shoulder. ]

What? What do you want from me? You're the one who's been around for however-many-cycles, or years, or whatever! You're the one--

[ That knew. That was there. You want answers that Sam just doesn't have, Rinzler. His mouth still shuts with an audible clack, and Sam resumes the scowling match.

Not backing down. He's not afraid of you. ]

[notglitching]

[That inhuman speed? Hasn't gone anywhere. The program turns, just slightly, as the user returns the strike, an orange-lined hand flashing up to divert—catch—the other's shove. Grip locks around the user's wrist, his own glare fixed close and furious as the grating rattle of mismatched code cuts through the narrow gap.

He's the one?
He's always the one.

Rinzler doesn't have what you're looking for.

And then there's no speech, no words, nothing but the rumbling glitch of his own constant sound. Neither of them has answers. Rinzler would laugh, if it occurred to him. If he laughed. He shakes his head.

Grip releases—pushes the striking hand back, then lets go. And Rinzler turns, stance clenched and tight and angry as he moves to walk away. He should have known better than to look for answers from you, Sam_Flynn.]

[whoami]

[ Oh no you don't. You don't get to walk away, Rinzler. Sam knows it's probably stupid, but...well, he's never been known for his self preservation. Reaching out to grab Rinzler's upper arm, Sam uses a bit of his own strength, which isn't inconsiderable. For a human. ]

Hey! No way! You opened this can, so we're going to eat it all!

[ Stepping into Rinzler's space, and leveling angry eyes at the program. Blue eyes. Favors his mother in most ways, but the eyes... ]

What do you want, huh? You want purpose? You want someone else to tell you what to do? Or do you want my purpose? Because that's a lot more complicated.

My "purpose" isn't for you to question. Or know. It's none of your damn business. But if you ever cared about what happened, you'd at least face me, and tell me what it is you're looking for!

[notglitching]

[Motion registers in periphery, focus snapping back as the program starts to turn. Of course, focus turns to a vicious, sudden freeze at the grab. Noise stutters out, teeth bared in a snarl as the program stills, glares up from his hunched stance, somewhere between shock and hate and bitter memory. Rinzler's not seeing Flynn in those too-similar eyes.

The lag lasts barely twenty nanos before it breaks, arm jerking back. Strong for a human isn't enough, Sam. His other arm flashes back to pull his disk free, clench around the slim ring as the edge flares. Another half-second after the error's resolution, and the program's crouched, armed. Free.

No move to strike, though. It would be easy, would be done—he wants to. But he doesn't strike, and he doesn't back away either. Rinzler's faced you before, user. He's not running now. Even when you lie and order, ask for answer and deny it in the space of a breath. What's he looking for?]

Doesn't matter.

Don't get to question.

[Spat out, growled out, forced past a grinding wash of static error. You don't have any claim to give him purpose. He'd asked for yours. His glitch, apparently, expecting any user would grant him permissions to know.]

[whoami]

[ So that's how it's gonna be, huh? Fine. But just because you're defaulting to a fight doesn't mean Sam has to. You want to fight? Then Sam will fight.
Just not the way you're thinking.

He raises his chin angrily, staring down at the ( eerily familiar ) face colored with so much hate. Oh, Sam wouldn't ever make the mistake of seeing Alan in Tron - Rinzler. Alan wasn't capable of that kind of hate. ]

Fine. My 'purpose' is brand new, so I'm still figuring it all out. It's not something you get to walk up, and demand out of me, though. But you want to know? Learn to ask.

It's nothing that special, anyway. It's to fix things. The mess that got left behind. The mess that everyone else--

[ Choking a little on that, but bravely using his anger as simultaneous fuel, and shield in one. He could do this, damnitt. ]

...That better people have been trying to hold together without me. The Grid. The company. Everything dad worked for. It's my purpose to put it back together.

[notglitching]

[Alan wasn't capable of that kind of hate. Tron might not have been. Rinzler? Is. Expression twitches with a resentful, derisive edge as Sam_Flynn starts. He did ask.

There's a shift, as the words continue. Quiet, flat—closed. The hate or wariness or bitter rage doesn't fade, but there's something else beneath it. Something coiled, something dead, something the program would need far more than stilted words or an unmasked face to know how to express.

The Grid.]

Not yours.

[What comes out instead is quick, and surprisingly uncalculated for Rinzler's speech. Short. Almost defensive.

Almost enough to sound as if Clu's enforcer still cares what happens to the system.]

[whoami]

[ You don't make much sense, do you, Rinzler? Sam's confusion is right there along with irritation, but one is starting to get an edge over the other. ]

No. The company is mine. It's always been mine. But the Grid? That doesn't belong to anybody. It...just is.

And it needs a lot of work.

[ Looking Rinzler up, and down, still suspicious of those orange circuits. Can't help it, really. For the largest part of Sam's experience on the Grid, this program was hunting him. ]

...You gonna try to stop me?

[notglitching]

[Rinzler shifts at the assessment, hand clenching on the still-humming disk as his already-tense stance draws closer. Doesn't belong to anybody. That flags as wrong, as lie or error or false creeping delusion. The system is Clu's. He knows better, and the user should too. He should make Sam_Flynn learn.

He doesn't move.

Sharp resentment flares back at the examination, almost enough to override the gnawing pressure of the building shoulds. Rinzler doesn't know what standards of use or threat the user's measuring him by, but he can crash himself with it. Rinzler's not his, either. Try earns a twitch of a smirk more vicious than satisfied.]

Don't 'try'.

[whoami]

[ Try measuring threat, or neutrality. You'll be closer to the truth. Sam still hasn't gone for his disk, figuring if Rinzler meant to take a swing at him, he'd have done it by now. ]

That's not an answer.

[ But Sam isn't here to argue existentialism with a program. Especially not this program. Sighing, he throws his hands up in a gesture of dismissal. ]

I know what I'm going to do. When you figure out if you're going to try to stop me, or help me, let me know.

Either way. I'm still going to do what needs doing.