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I also updated the Verses List to include the RectifiedAU. I like to leave the descriptions for these pretty brief, but the story between Ozias and Red stems pretty far. I think I included the most significant parts for anyone looking to invest in that verse.Â
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>>"I see you've found my little...hobby." [closed]
"Iâm guessing subtlety âŚ.is not your strong suit.â he answered in reply. He couldnât stand the Guardâs cockiness and how he seemed to get away with most anything. Not really much of a stretch from when he was enlightened.Â
"Perhaps I wasnât clear enough with my words⌠or perhaps you refuse to comprehend anything that isnât wearing a Siren suit." he scowled, holding his ground as he stepped closer to him, "Youâre interfering with my workâŚand more importantly Cluâs work. So, I suggest you cease your egregious behavior or start taking lessons from Rinzler.âÂ
Talking to an Elite like this would no doubt spark anger, annoyance, and a good excuse to threaten the End of Line. Indeed, he was testing a lineâŚa veryâŚthin one. "At least he knows how to behave himself." he added, his expression changing to his own brand of mischief, as a smirk formed on his lips.Â
_While the Entertainer continued on what the Guard across from him would call "babbling," Ozias had turned to face that neat exhibit of death decorating the bedside wall of his private quarter. A hand was raised to fix one otherwise undisturbed cube, sitting evenly with the others beside it, its glow fizzled out long ago by some untimely and probably very unpleasant end. He took it between a black-clad thumb and index finger and plucked it from the sleek, mirrored shelf where it previously rested in peace. And as the now red-circuited Eckert finished, the Guard turned in silence with the dead cube in hand, and paced disturbingly calmly toward the other program.
_"It amazes me how carelessly newly rectified programs like to speak for the most elite and powerful program in this system, despite receiving no deliberate message from him whatsoever." A few short steps would soon separate the Entertainer from the Guard, who stopped with boots apart as the cube was raised at eye-level between them.
_"Well I have direct compliments from the Luminary. Compliments regarding my astounding loyalty to the force and its purpose, as well my resilient efforts to ensure the full functionality of this system." His fingers bent around the cube like the segmented legs of a creeping code worm, until the entirety of its square edges was consumed by the Guard's large, gloved hand.
_"So unless you intend on rezzing a more appealing render, you had better comprehend my words, Program." An unpleasant crunch sounded from the cube, almost inaudible at first, until what must have been its entire construct collapsing beneath the Guard's cruel vice made it louder, and horribly clear. Soon after, his palm opened, releasing near transparent dust to trail around his hand and leak between his splayed fingers.
_"Stand in my way, and the only direct word from the Admin you will receive, will be the last you'll ever hear."
[Red] "It's my Rez Day, and all I'm getting is death threats."
  "Nothing out of the ordinary, right?" No way to celebrate, in his opinion. Despite his ego and his reputation, Ozias himself preferred celebratory practices that did not engage him in any loud, public events-- that probably had something to do with the fact that it put his habits out in the open, not to mention he himself was a fairly old program. But the ISO, in all her decorative red circuitry, was a puzzle regarding her date of creation. Did she mean the specific cycle she had actually been born into the Grid, or the date of her rectification? He'd keep that thought to himself.Â
  "You want something grander?" He probably should have prepared something for her- that was the expectancy for the odd status he fulfilled as her...partner, or whatever he was to her, and she to him. But he hadn't a damn thing; fantastic boyfriend, this one. "I've got nothing but patrols until next cycle; the squad can go on without me. You want a drink, I can take you out for that, but don't expect anything fancy."Â
>>Scarred Memory_[Red]
The more he said, the more questions arose in Quorraâs curious system; even the memory, which surged to life in the threat of a glitch, wanted its answers. Her violet-tinted lines flared, but she pushed it back, by trying instead to focus on the program exposed before her, and how the dim light played with the angles of his form with all of his subtle movements. Sure enough, that distracted stare turned again to allure.
"I thought⌠youâd never been assigned to the Games," she mused, eyebrow raised. A couple steps would bring her to him, as the storage space was nothing more than a closet, lined with narrow shelves on either side and crates against the back wall, and lit only by a bar of orange above the threshold of the door which, to their now nearly forgotten dismay, could not be locked from the inside.
She straddled him easily, and the light-lines exposed along her bare inner thighs where her armor had derezzed brightened with a satisfied buzzing. She ran two slender fingers over the scar on his bare abdomen. âYou said a Guard was only sent to the Games if he were being punished. I can only imagineâŚâ she chuckled low, lifting her eyes to meet his, the golden rims pulsing with remnants of the overload.
Her hand flattened against his skin, system eager for information. âTell me more. About that cycle. WhenâŚâ Her breath caught in her throat. âWhen the Marshal was wounded.âÂ
As she sank back down over him, his body shuddered helplessly. Tired, over-driven circuits and sensors flared with orange and sensitivity, and he expelled a quiet, stuttered breath. Forcing himself to relax, he leaned back against the storage boxes and twitched only his lowered eyelids when her fingers gently grazed the dim scar trailing over his bumpy abdomen.Â
"It was a bad few cycles for me," he answered with a low note of annoyance. Her curiosity on the secondary subject was much more enticing a topic, however. How many programs were aware of his involvement? That very moment the fate of the ISOs had been written in coded cubes. And here was one of them, sitting contently on top of his lap with unique circuits trimmed in violet, for him. How lucky a vicious, devious program was he?Â
"Now that is a memory I have stored fondly." It took a moment for his eyes to trail up to her own, and perhaps inspired by his observations, his hips rose gently from his seat to push up against her. "Tron was there, and all the programs and ISOs present in the capital." Everyone, and no one to see the face of the terror who threw that first disc. Where was the glory in that?
{{WAIT WAIT but this could be priceless omu--}} [/access:-UserWorld!AU; Red_] "That's dirty."
Send me "thatâs dirty" and I will generate a number for what my muse will say to yours.
"I didn't realize it was that big."Â
In fact, he was fairly certain it had grown, that odd addition to his now human vessel. With some embarrassing discovery, they had both found the uses for the parts of them so new, but there were still plenty of things to learn. It was both uncomfortable and frustrating, and given their habits and overuse of their program vessels on the Grid, they had been inclined to become infuriated with their progressing struggles.Â
The current issue, however, was that driven by temptation. There were no active circuits on their bodies, merely remnants of their program bodies. He could feel no rising fritz of energy or electricity within him, but a similar sensation that ran up his lower spine and caused this...thing...to respond. It was located in the place he'd once used to connect with many a program and one unusual ISO prior to becoming human, but now, only this.Â
From inside the door frame of their hotel room's bathroom, he looked up at said ISO, body naked and brows furrowed with slight confusion. "The references on the Grid had very little supplied about human bodies. Do you remember anything useful that the one User told you?...from before?"
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>>Dirty Violet_ [Red]
Send me "that's dirty" and I will generate a number for what my muse will say to yours.
He tried to resist the temptation of an eyeroll. Tried, but failed. His head moved with the motion of his eyes, but stopped short from completion when her knee found home in his abdomen. The Guard scrunched, knees weakening before he toppled over from a loss of balance, crushing his arms underneath him and jutting the cuffs into his lower back.Â
So thatâs what that felt like? Very uncomfortable.Â
With a grown that developed into a snarl, he looked back up at her. âWhat- the frag- are you upset about this time?â He could only imagine. His knees bent up, planting his boots flat onto the reflective floor below, should he need to push himself back for any variety of reasons. And when those reasons were caused by the rectified ISO, they were many.Â
"ShhhhâŚ"
She practically sighed as she stepped around him, a strange mixture of tension and boredom in her motions. It was when she seemed calm that one should be most afraid, and she most certainly appeared calm, as she stepped over him and fell to her knees, and so placing his face between her legs.
âOhhh, #4...â she shook her head condescendingly and let out a low, dark chuckle, leaning back lazily on her palms. Why was she upset? He really didnât know, did he. A quick spark of heat would flush those hidden nether-circuits, before the answer was parsed. So a lax smile was given to him, as crimson began to leak into her eyes.
"You were looking through my disc while I slept. Iâd like to know why.âÂ
At first he flinched, not because she lowered over him and brought temptation down to such close proximity, but because he was expecting a thing to actually suffer by. This, however, was a rather pleasing surprise. Instinctively, his shoulders moved with the attempt to raise his arms and immediately he recalled their immobility. Excitement washed away with cautious annoyance, for he was incapable of taking her in any way he would have chosen given the use of his hands.Â
He could almost taste the warmth radiating from those lower circuits, stowed away beneath her suit, and yet so painfully close. But he knew her game, and it was only confirmed by the dialogue that followed. His neck craned as he leaned his scalp back against the floor, white hairs separating where they were flattened underneath the weight of his head. He didn't smile, but he certainly didn't look as dissatisfied as she might want him to.Â
"No different a reason than why you do it," he answered, lips brushing against the indented corner of her inner thigh. If she thought teasing him would gain her answers, then he would return fire to the best of his ability - hands or no hands.
"Thatâs dirty..."
Send me "thatâs dirty" and I will generate a number for what my muse will say to yours.Â
"Do you have the keys for the handcuffs?"Â
It was a fairly obvious fact that Ozias did not prefer to be without control, both in his public and private life, but with the red-circuited ISO, he had relinquished many a need in order to appease other interests. This, with his wrists bound together behind his back, was among those instances, but the tension was already building as those energized cuffs hummed out of his field of vision.Â
There was probably payback involved, and that made him noticeably nervous, even though he tried very hard to hide that affliction.Â
"Because I have a squad task coming up in the next few millicycles, and I would like to have the use of my hands."
â â
everybody has some kind of scar. send me a â to hear about a physical scar my character has, or a ⧠to hear about an emotional/mental scar.Â
Post-interface had the Guardâs breaths entering and leaving in shallow pants. What would be sweat on humans was instead the subtle flickering of exhausted circuits across his bare vessel. His chest collapsed and expanded against the heated air now encasing them in the small room. Should anyone enter the storage space, they would find quite a surprise.Â
Her question brought his focus back, and after dropping back to have a seat on a crate, and leaning back into others, he looked up at her. Her curiosity had regarded the broken-up scar extending across his abdomen, flexing with the movement of his stressed breathing. She was given a light chuckle at first, and then his head tilted back to observe her partially disrobed vessel with an eye of admiration - either for her appearance, or for the work done on it.Â
"This one?" he repeated, aiming two fingers at the previously noted scar. "Iâm surprised itâs taken you this long to ask." He gave the poorly reconstructed injury a glance before returning his stare to her.Â
"Disc wars," he answered, his toothy grin faltering into a closed-mouth smile. "I used to be assigned to Games a lot, given my expertise and unique methods of derezzing." She had seen many an example herself. "But every once in a while, there was someone thrown in there from the Occupation; a traitor. This glitch got me good, but it was obviously nothing I couldn't finish." He had killed the program, of course.Â
"And this one," he continued, and twisted his torso to gesture toward the splatter of discolored, damaged code just beneath his right shoulder-blade, the other prominent scar she had noticed, minus the most obvious one that decorated his chest, courtesy of this ISO.Â
"This one I received in front of Flynn's old portal entrance. The day that began the ISO wars." At that, he gave her a certain, hesitant look. Would she glitch at the thought? Had she been there the moment the first disc was thrown? Was she aware of who threw it?Â
"So many flying discs," he finished, easing into his posture again. "I wish I hadn't been wounded, or else I could have seen Dyson's idiot face get smashed apart."
