That broken-console sound thrums through the pressure suit, cold and deadly and familiar. A glint of red on one knuckle -- a bright glow through a film of desiccating blood -- confirms the impossible, even before Bel recognizes the wicked curve of the rising disc. It's a brand of impossible that seems to happen far too often nowadays.

Spotty memories or no, Bel's priorities shift immediately from 'disable' to 'disengage'. Despite rigorous training since returning to Ariel, there's a skill gap uncloseable by simple human reflex: Rinzler, damn the dehumanizing mores of the system that birthed him, is literally designed for this. The perfect, programmable soldier.

Secondary priority: get away from that disc.

The stunner hand lashes back to the right, forgoing the shot for a chance at deflecting Rinzler's disc arm. Simultaneously, Bel twists right and elbows down at the encircling arm, hoping to break its grip and let the next impact throw them apart.

Their helmets are touching, Bel's large enough to allow freedom of movement without providing a choke point in an industrial environment. Maybe a shout will transfer; maybe not. Bel shouts anyway.

"Rinzler! Stand down!"