Chapter Text
One
Nothing was quite so exciting or flamboyant as Castor on his back foot. When pressed to the edge, threatened, and fearful, this particular program went all out in order to convince his persecutor that he, and he alone, breathed life and joy into the Grid.
In Rinzler’s mind, the Grid would be better off without him. He had never understood why CLU allowed him to continue functioning.
Castor had thrown a party for CLU. A “celebration” he called it, though there was absolutely nothing to celebrate. He had failed CLU so miserably that in his defective, illogical coding he had decided to invite all of the regional Enforcers and all of the high ranking administrative programs and all of his Very Important Programs and all of his sirens to celebrate CLU's reign with enough loud music and liquid energy to obliterate the senses. As though he hoped that he could simply dazzle CLU’s fury away.
Rinzler stood at CLU's flank on one of the End of Line’s balconies, shivering with tension as hundreds of programs thronged around and below them. His attention darted constantly from program to program, analyzing every one of them, gauging their intentions, measuring their actions, estimating the possibility that they intended harm toward CLU. His defensive and tactical processes cycled so rapidly that he could barely think around them.
CLU leaned casually against the railing, a tall glass of bright green energy dangling from his gloved fingers. He watched the crowd surging below him, the corner of his lip curling in what Rinzler recognized as loving distaste. Coloured lights flashed over his features, staining him in shards of yellow, purple, red, and white. "Relax," he said without looking at Rinzler. He spoke so low that his voice shouldn’t have carried over the music, but Rinzler had been programmed to hear him no matter the ambient noise, no matter the distance between them. "No one here will try to derez me." His smirk deepened and he added, "No one can. Go down there, Rinzler. Mingle with the people. I know how much you enjoy that."
A dismayed shudder worked through Rinzler’s circuits. He stared down at the packed crowd in trepidation. Mingling. Mingling meant that his social codes would struggle to function under his tactical codes. Every wrong glance, every brush of an elbow, every sharp noise would trigger a defensive retaliation that he would then need to suppress. It was… exhausting.
Perhaps CLU wanted Rinzler to lose control and obliterate Castor’s customers and employees for the low price of losing some of his own soldiers. Perhaps unleashing Rinzler into the mob was his not-so-subtle punishment for Castor’s failures.
It wouldn’t be the first time. Or the last.
Unable to resist CLU’s command, Rinzler nodded and padded to the hovering stairs leading down to the club’s main level and the sunken dance floor. With each step, he vibrated more and more with growing trepidation. Castor had gone to excessive measures to entertain CLU. The club’s square floor panels shone in patterns of vibrant colours shifting with the music. The bar had been replaced by a glowing fountain spouting spirals of blue and green energy toward the ceiling. When the energy rained down into a large, white basin, programs dipped their cups or, for those bold enough to try it, they simply tilted their heads back and let the sparkling drops fall into their waiting mouths. Over-energized programs danced in a frenzy: flailing, spinning, twisting, leaping, grabbing hold of each other, grinding circuit-to-circuit in an obscene prelude to a code transferral. Sirens–more sirens than Rinzler could ever remember seeing in one place–roamed through the crowd, ensuring every hand held a glass and no one danced alone, tempting programs to release their inhibitions.
If he went in there, he was going to derez someone. Lots of someones. He could already see the flashing floor covered in shining bits, could already hear the screams when the programs realized who had entered their midst.
Before he reached the bottom step, Rinzler targeted the nearest tall bar tables where they lined the edge of the dance floor, tucked against the railing and the raised floor of the surrounding mezzanine. He could slide in behind one of them and put some distance between himself and the other programs, while still fulfilling CLU’s command. If he made it that far, perhaps he could prevent unnecessary carnage.
Rinzler stepped past the two bouncers guarding the stairs and immediately had to raise a forearm to shove away an inebriated Enforcer. The program stumbled and fell, knocking several other programs to the floor. Rinzler grimly stalked by them.
Normally, programs avoided him, but that fountain had been flowing and the programs were losing their senses and logic. They lurched into each other and unwittingly careened into his personal space. Rinzler reacted reflexively, sending them back into the crowd, his strikes becoming progressively harder as the inputs became more and more overwhelming. Red hazed the edges of his vision, internal alarms blared. How did they not see the danger they were in?! With every impact against his arms, shoulders, and back, his defensive fury escalated. He was under attack, surrounded by the enemy. He reached for his disks–
“Woah, woah, back off.” A figure in the white of a siren slipped into the space next to him. He spoke, not to Rinzler, but to a staggering administrative program who had been about to fall on him. The siren redirected the program and sent her staggering in another direction. When he turned, he gifted Rinzler with a half-smile. “You look like a VIP, program. May I bring you to your private room?”
Startled out of his building rage, Rinzler stared at him, unable to come up with a response to the unexpected input.
The siren stared back, that easy expression never leaving his face. He looked like many of the other sirens: tall on his heeled boots and his interface white and ivory. His eyes glowed faintly silver, enhanced by winged black eyeliner and his short brown hair stood erect in a kind of tufted style. His beige skin looked smooth over his high cheeks and straight nose and around his thin-lipped, expressive mouth, with a pattern of swirls decorating his right temple. Only his circuit lights looked unusual; he had more than the other sirens and they were thicker, more like the bold strips of a gaming program. A pair of them ran down both the front and back of his body–from his shoulders down to hug his waist and then criss-crossing and joining over his hips, down his inner and outer thighs, then jogging to his shins and calves before ending in terminal rings on his ankles. On his arms, again, a circuit ran down both the front and back before terminating at the tips of his thumbs and smallest fingers.
Even for a siren, the effect was dazzling, almost overwhelming. The siren wasn’t just alluring, he was flaunting . A program didn’t have that many circuits unless they were designed to transfer and receive.
A scowl abruptly abolished his smile and he lunged past Rinzler to intercept a dazed Enforcer before he could throw an arm around Rinzler’s hunched shoulders. “Ask before you engage,” the siren snapped, turning the program around with surprising force. “The man’s not interested.”
“Are you interested?” the Enforcer slurred hopefully.
“I’m with him. Go cool off on the patio, buddy.”
I’m with him. The bizarre phrase whirled through Rinzler’s mind. Who would say that about him ?!
The siren spun and his smile returned. “Your private room, sir?” he prompted.
Interacting with the siren counted as mingling and removing himself from the main room would save several programs from annihilation. Rinzler nodded.
“Great.” The siren shifted closer, directly to the right and behind Rinzler, and jerked an elbow up to block a jumping program before she slammed into Rinzler’s back. With his other arm, he gestured at the nearest set of steps leading up from the dance floor. “This way, sir.”
With the siren hovering near him, but never quite touching, Rinzler led the way to the steps and up onto the much quieter mezzanine of booths where programs sat, drank, and enjoyed the close company of others. The siren broke away from his flanking position to stride elegantly ahead, his hips swinging. Rinzler expected him to lead them to one of the booths, but instead he moved to a doorway outlined in bars of white light. Without stopping, he turned down a dim corridor of velvety, patterned grey walls, subtle lighting, and curtained doors. The club’s music immediately became muffled and distant, heard in the chest more than the auditory sensors.
At one of the curtains, the siren stopped and turned to face Rinzler, an apologetic twist on his mouth. “I’m not trying to come on to you,” he said. “It just seemed like you could use a quiet place.” He twitched the curtain aside, revealing a small round chamber of padded grey benches, a circular table between them, and plush carpeting lit in rich purple and glimmers of silver. “You can change the lighting or put on your own music. Whatever you want.” The siren reached just inside the door to tap a control panel on the wall.
Rinzler took a tentative step into the hushed interior. The quiet was as refreshing as a shot of energy, clearing his mind and easing his spinning processors back to their normal cycle speed. CLU himself had stated that he was in no danger, quieting his protective codes and allowing Rinzler to have a moment to himself.
“You’re free to stay here as long as you’d like,” the siren continued. “I’ve marked it as occupied.” He backed away, obviously intending to return to the club.
Mingle with the people.
“Stay,” Rinzler said.
“Stay?” The siren’s silver eyes blinked and one of his curved brows twitched upward. “I’m not, well, I’m not that kind of siren. If you know what I mean. I can get one of the others–”
“No,” Rinzler interrupted sharply. The thought of other programs made his circuits crawl. This one had already proven himself. His presence did not grate or itch or cause Rinzler to struggle against his own instincts for violence. “You.” Then, to ease whatever trepidation the siren felt about Rinzler’s intentions, he added, “No contact.”
The siren didn’t answer immediately. When he finally dipped his head, Rinzler nearly sagged in relief.
The siren paced to the bench and seated himself, his wide-legged posture unusual for a siren. When Rinzler had perched stiffly on the other side, the siren gave him that half-smile again. He reached down, tapped the front of his bench, and a long, narrow rectangle hissed out. He tugged on it, gradually revealing a flat board. When he’d slid it completely free and set it on the table between them, Rinzler recognized it as a game board.
“Do you play?” the siren asked.
Rinzler lowered his head.
“I only just learned how, so go easy on me, okay?” The siren rubbed a gloved fingertip against the board’s edge, making it light up. A holographic projection formed in the air: the checkered, twisting Mobius strip battlefield of Mobius Chess. “You can be white,” the siren said, smirking. “You’re my guest, so you should go first.”
The humour of playing the white pieces when he wore black armour and sat across from a brilliantly glowing white program was not lost on him. Snorting softly, Rinzler chose his side and began, pushing his first pawn across two spaces of the infinite board.
Rinzler had never played a more frustrating game of chess.
There were established chess strategies. There were methods of play: defensive, aggressive, balanced. There were tricks and traps and ambushes. There were ways to read a program and anticipate their next move–their next ten moves.
None of Rinzler’s methods worked on this siren. He played with seeming recklessness, only to turn around and slip his knight or bishop behind Rinzler’s formations. He seemed immune to Rinzler’s attempts to lure him into ambushes disguised as common strategies. He either didn’t know the most basic of plays or he was an exceptionally talented chess program.
And when Rinzler did manage to take out his pieces, he didn’t have the decency to be upset.
“Oh shit, I didn’t see that one coming,” he muttered when one of his rooks disintegrated. “Good one, man.” He smirked at Rinzler before focusing back on the game.
What was wrong with this siren?!
Rinzler glowered at the other program’s amused expression from behind his helmet, confused and distracted. Even his mannerisms were wrong. He sprawled on his side of the bench, his legs inelegantly outstretched. He’d hooked an elbow on the back of his bench, letting the hand dangle. He’d been poised while walking, but now he just looked… relaxed. Comfortable.
Programs weren’t supposed to be relaxed or comfortable in Rinzler’s presence.
The board turned red, snapping Rinzler back to their game. Their finished game.
“Checkmate,” the siren declared, grinning. "When I said to go easy on me, I didn’t mean that easy."
Rinzler’s hands clenched. How had he lost?! Even in his distraction, he should have been able to defeat his opponent. But the siren’s play style was completely chaotic, unpredictable. Strangely intriguing. “Again,” he growled.
The siren glanced at the curtained door to the corridor and then shrugged. “Sure, why not? No one’s going to miss me.”
Rinzler stared in shock at him as he began to realize… this program didn’t know who he was. His casual manner, his bold chess style, treating Rinzler’s commands as mere requests ; he obviously had no knowledge of Rinzler’s rank and reputation. How was this possible?
“You want to be white again?” the siren asked as he reset the board, oblivious to Rinzler’s amazement.
Rinzler managed a nod.
Seven moves into their next game, the curtain shivered and a white-gloved hand twitched it aside.
“Syntax,” came the light, modulated voice of a female program. “What are you–” A blonde siren pushed the curtain further open, revealing her sleek bun and smoky eyes and statuesque interface, and then froze when her blue eyes caught on Rinzler. “Rinzler,” she breathed. She looked to the other siren and back again, her eyes widening and pale pink lips parting in fear.
No. Rinzler shrivelled inwardly. Now the siren knew who he was. Now he would be afraid.
“Rinzler?” the male siren repeated. “Is that your name? Sorry, I should have introduced myself earlier. I’m Syntax.” He waved his dangling hand at the female siren. “Hey, Gem. Rinzler’s just been showing me how to lose at chess.” He winked at Rinzler as though they were sharing a joke.
Rinzler stared, speechless. He couldn’t even be mad at the jibe, his shock and relief were so great.
Gem made a taut, guttural noise and clutched the curtain. “Syntax,” she murmured tightly. “You are required in the back. Rinzler, you may have your pick of the other sirens to attend to your needs.”
Rage flashed through his circuits. “No,” he rasped, letting a growl make the word tremble.
Gem flinched and bowed her head. “Yes, of course. As CLU’s second-in-command –” Her shadowed gaze flicked to Syntax. “–You may of course retain Syntax to attend to you. Syntax, I will let Castor know that you are occupied.”
“Yeah, thanks.” Syntax’s relaxed posture tensed. His dangling hand fisted and the other rubbed his bent knee. “Thanks for letting me know.” He shot a shaky grin at Rinzler. “Whose turn was it?”
Only when Gem had retreated and tugged the curtain closed did Rinzler’s fury fade. He shifted his attention back to the game. “Your move,” he said.
“Great.”
The interruption seemed to have thrown Syntax off more than he revealed, as he played in unusual silence and allowed Rinzler to obliterate his pieces one after the other.
“Checkmate,” Rinzler stated when the board glowed red. He watched Syntax, hungry for his reaction, and was disappointed when the siren simply nodded.
“Yeah,” Syntax said dully. “Good game, man.” He deactivated the board. “Do you want anything?” he asked. “A drink? To get back on the dance floor?”
Rinzler wanted none of those things. He shook his head.
“Okay, sure.” A little frown creased the skin between Syntax’s curved brows. His gaze drifted over Rinzler. He wet his lips and his frown deepened. “Then what do you want?”
Nothing. Except, perhaps, to return to that strange, comfortable place before Gem poked her head into their quiet little world.
“More games,” he finally decided.
“More games,” Syntax repeated. The frown cleared. “We can do that.” He stroked another edge of the game board, activating a different scenario. A projection of a tiled, inward space with ruffled edges appeared in the air. “How about hyperbolic checkers?”
After their third round, the ease had returned. Rinzler couldn’t explain why or how, but as he played there in that quiet place with Syntax’s company his codes ran more smoothly, his circuits hummed pleasantly, and he could simply be .
Then a murmured command spoken in the main club cut through the noise, through the curtain, through his contentment. “We’re leaving.”
Rinzler shot to his feet and strode out of the small chamber to follow his master’s voice.
♟️♟️♟️
Sam stared after the armoured shoulders, red disk, and glossy black helmet as they disappeared past the curtain, his heart still thudding rapidly from the surprise of the stoic program suddenly standing and sweeping out.
No, not just any program. CLU’s second. Rinzler.
He waited, unwilling to move until he was certain that Rinzler had gone, and counted slowly. Ten. Thirty. Sixty. One hundred and twenty.
Finally, he leaned over his knees, buried his face in his palms, and closed his eyes. He’d come so close to blowing his own cover. If Gem hadn’t stopped by, Sam would have had no idea that he wasn’t just interacting with another of CLU’s Enforcers. He would have definitely let something slip to reveal his true nature.
You’re a User , he reminded himself, fisting and relaxing his tense hands. You can’t go around making friends. You don’t know who these programs are. Who they report to.
Letting out a long breath, he rubbed his face and urged himself to stand and go find Castor to tell him what had happened.
Just four hundred and eight days to go , he told himself as he tottered along the back halls to the employee stairs up to Castor’s lounge. You can do this. Keep your head down and you’ll be fine. Rinzler’s gone. You dodged that bullet and now you’ll never have to see him again.