He'd run hundreds of calculations. Watched, and learned, and waited. There wasn't time to plot out every variable, and far too many now in question. But it wasn't like Tron hadn't been watching, too. A cycle and more of guards and walls and barriers of light. Between the old data and the new? Rinzler had more than enough to make his move.
Transport had always been the best chance. Outside the cell's closed field, the familiar paired guards shadowing him back. Less guards now—and less guarded, since he'd returned from that last outing with his own disks on his back, circuits absent the user-loyal blue. Their mistake, which of those they'd focused on.
Not that he'd needed blades, not really. A fade back and a blur of speed connected with the the first guard's disk dock. The second focused far too much on those quick-drawn disks—and missed the kick that knocked him back into the force field. This barrier was live, power enough to scramble broadcast and force shutdown both. Satisfying.
Disks helped with the remaining force walls, overcharged strikes at the embedded field generators he'd flagged decicycles back. Speed and acrobatics to pass over the compound's outer gates, and he made out to Gamma. Another cage, of sorts, if larger—while technically active, the sector was more automated than not, and made a more than functional quarantine zone. Still, just over two micros of decrypting the code-lock, and the guard's stolen lightycycle baton offered a quick enough exit. By the time the margin he'd given for alarms was up, Rinzler was practically in Delta already. He bypassed the checkpoint, left the baton in an empty alley to deter tracking.
Expectations or not, skill and long-considered plans aside, there was something surreal about stepping out of that alleyway. No guards. No walls, no programmer, no code restrictions he could read. Rinzler examined that last assumption, line by line, as he moved slowly out. No commands. No restraints. Stare fixed on a passing red-lit program, and he ran projections on a hex's worth of quick deletions. Nothing stopping him from wiping it. Nothing stopping him from moving past, out to the transport hubs or further. It was dizzying. He wasn't sure he trusted it.
It was entirely the point.
Neutral white was dominant in this sector, and with his helmet in place, it hadn't been difficult to blend with the crowds. Keep moving. Population clustered as he moved further in, traffic almost high by the time the first search flagged in periphery. Close. Closer than expected, when he should have slipped the registry link. But search functions weren't hard to evade if you deviated far enough from standard routes. One muted signature and a friction exploit later, and Rinzler watched from half a building up. Another joined soon, paralleling scans in a close pattern to cover every datapath. Except the ones they couldn't read.
He snorted quietly. Not much purpose waiting. They'd found his trail, but not him. He could drop down. Or take the chance and run. Take new transport, stay in motion until he passed the city limits. Away from the insurgent system altogether. He was out. Free.
But that wasn't quite the purpose, either.
He stared down, lagged for a full micro, and moved, in a frustrated burst—upward. Off the ledge, up the sheer black surface, a flip up and over the roof's edge. The program stopped there, stared out across the sector and city beyond. Whites and blues and greens, and the ever-spreading orange. Not so different a view than he'd seen from the admin's tower, just centicycles back. But no window. No walls. And no user's code clawing at him to break it.
Rinzler stayed, and watched. And waited.