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paixaorpg2011-02-12 06:50 pm
biphasic.livejournal.com) wrote in paixaorpg2011-02-12 06:50 pm
initiating program... [active/open]
Character(s): Rinzler and whoever shows up
Content: A displaced program arrives in the city of domes
Setting: Niflheim gate
Time: Week 29, middayish
Warnings: None as of yet
Lines. Rinzler wasn’t unfamiliar with lines. True, most of the reasons programs would bother to stand in a line were gone under CLU’s new regime, but he’d seen plenty of conscripts lined up before the games, or lined up while one of the Recognizers decided what their ultimate fate was going to be. This new line bore little resemblance to those lines. For one thing, the sky was all wrong, blue and filled with something white that he didn’t have a word for, instead of the more familiar dark skies of the Grid. How did the programs here even live, without the comforting crackle of the sporadic lightning?
Speaking of programs, that was the other glaring oddity. The programs in line looked like nothing that he’d even begun to dream up. They had no disks (not entirely uncommon, given that was often what a Recognizer pulled a program in on), no markings to give him any indication of who or what they were, and that unsettled him more than anything. Had he stumbled across a rogue colony of ISOs. No, no, those had all be purged from the system. CLU would not have failed in such an important duty. But if not that, then what than? What was he to do in a system where he had no directive, no idea of what to do? It was frustrating, maddening, and despite himself a low growl began deep in his throat.
No CLU, nothing familiar, no indication of what sector of the system this even was. All the things that his system wasn’t prepared to deal with. He wanted that familiarity. Something to mark how things would be and he turned again to look at the line of programs. Nothing to mark them. They could have been anyone. But there was a fragment of something real in there. These programs had no disks. Therefore it stood to reason that they were imperfections and worse, imperfections in an imperfect quadrant. And that, he knew what to do with. How many times had CLU said it: imperfection was not to be tolerated, not in his vision of the perfect system. (He could almost hear it in CLU’s voice now, easy-going, but draconian.)
Not, of course, that he would ever dream of doing CLU’s work for him. No, that was beyond what he’d ever been allowed to do. He was just the system security. And what better system to secure than one that was riddled with perfection? The more he exposed, the more CLU would know when he came - and come he would. He always did. He would be... well, he was never pleased, but perhaps appreciative. Yes. That would be nice.
Still, he couldn’t help notch his intermittent rumble up to a white noise growl as he took his place among the other programs in line. He shouldn’t have been made to suffer such things. As a matter of fact, he was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he almost missed the program asking for names at the gate once he arrived. He could have laughed, if he hadn’t had to all but repeat himself to be heard - the sector truly was out of touch if it hadn’t heard of his exploits on the Game Grid. Another thing to report to CLU, but for now he had simply to learn. But where did he even start, he wondered to himself as looked back and forth across the swarm of programs milling around inside the gate proper.
Content: A displaced program arrives in the city of domes
Setting: Niflheim gate
Time: Week 29, middayish
Warnings: None as of yet
Lines. Rinzler wasn’t unfamiliar with lines. True, most of the reasons programs would bother to stand in a line were gone under CLU’s new regime, but he’d seen plenty of conscripts lined up before the games, or lined up while one of the Recognizers decided what their ultimate fate was going to be. This new line bore little resemblance to those lines. For one thing, the sky was all wrong, blue and filled with something white that he didn’t have a word for, instead of the more familiar dark skies of the Grid. How did the programs here even live, without the comforting crackle of the sporadic lightning?
Speaking of programs, that was the other glaring oddity. The programs in line looked like nothing that he’d even begun to dream up. They had no disks (not entirely uncommon, given that was often what a Recognizer pulled a program in on), no markings to give him any indication of who or what they were, and that unsettled him more than anything. Had he stumbled across a rogue colony of ISOs. No, no, those had all be purged from the system. CLU would not have failed in such an important duty. But if not that, then what than? What was he to do in a system where he had no directive, no idea of what to do? It was frustrating, maddening, and despite himself a low growl began deep in his throat.
No CLU, nothing familiar, no indication of what sector of the system this even was. All the things that his system wasn’t prepared to deal with. He wanted that familiarity. Something to mark how things would be and he turned again to look at the line of programs. Nothing to mark them. They could have been anyone. But there was a fragment of something real in there. These programs had no disks. Therefore it stood to reason that they were imperfections and worse, imperfections in an imperfect quadrant. And that, he knew what to do with. How many times had CLU said it: imperfection was not to be tolerated, not in his vision of the perfect system. (He could almost hear it in CLU’s voice now, easy-going, but draconian.)
Not, of course, that he would ever dream of doing CLU’s work for him. No, that was beyond what he’d ever been allowed to do. He was just the system security. And what better system to secure than one that was riddled with perfection? The more he exposed, the more CLU would know when he came - and come he would. He always did. He would be... well, he was never pleased, but perhaps appreciative. Yes. That would be nice.
Still, he couldn’t help notch his intermittent rumble up to a white noise growl as he took his place among the other programs in line. He shouldn’t have been made to suffer such things. As a matter of fact, he was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he almost missed the program asking for names at the gate once he arrived. He could have laughed, if he hadn’t had to all but repeat himself to be heard - the sector truly was out of touch if it hadn’t heard of his exploits on the Game Grid. Another thing to report to CLU, but for now he had simply to learn. But where did he even start, he wondered to himself as looked back and forth across the swarm of programs milling around inside the gate proper.
no subject
"The Niflheim Gate..." Belldandy had been here before. She felt a surge of energy. Was there a new visitor to Paixao?
"Hello! Is anybody out there?" her cheery voice rang loud and clear.
no subject
All things considered, it was slightly impressive given his outfit was almost uniquely unsuited to blending into the crowds Paixao, if only for the simple reason of being black from head to foot. Nor did the few patches of glowing orange circuit lines, or the fact that the whole thing was topped off by a helmet, giving him a rather sinister appearance.
But either way, there he was, standing before Belldandy, when most would have scarcely realized him to be even near before.
no subject
Belldandy materialized a business card and offered it to the gentleman in front of her. "My name is Belldandy. I'm a Goddess First Class, Category Two, Unrestricted. This place is Paixao, a place we've all somehow been drawn to. I know it must be terribly inconvenient, but there are several people here who've banded together to help each other! You would be more than welcome to join us!" She smiled, unfazed.
no subject
Sadly, the business card gets nothing more than a blank stare, not that anyone'd be able to tell that with the helmet tinted as it is. He's never seen a business card before, and the only programs he could imagine needing something to introduce themselves with wouldn't bother. (Somehow Castor seems to flamboyant for nothing more than a... faulty chip? Somehow that didn't quite seem right.
Still, there's nothing more than silence to greet Belldandy's words, except perhaps for a very slight tilt to his head. He doesn't really understand a good half the words she just said.
no subject
Leave it to her to find the silver lining in everything."I know it must be overwhelming, Mr. Black," of course she'd give him a nickname until he gave her his name, "so if you have any further questions, you may feel free to contact me through the journal you've been handed!"no subject
Nor could he really say he was entirely sure he liked the idea of being called by something that wasn't his proper designation. But for that he'd need to actually speak. Still, he hadn't even been told that he couldn't speak. He just generally didn't see much of a reason to.
"Rinzler," he corrected, in a voice that sounded almost as if it were being filtered through a synthesizer, distorted beyond what most anyone would have considered to be at all human-sounding.