Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He doesn’t pay attention to the restlessness, the itch in the back of his mind. He thinks it’s the winds of change pushing him from the largest shareholder to the new face of ENCOM, the wayward son finally stepping into the too-large shoes of his visionary father. He thinks it’s the miracle that is Quorra, watching her wide-eyed awe and wonder at the brand new world around her. He thinks it’s the move from the modified old Dumont shipping containers by the river to a downtown loft, a respectable home for someone to rides an old Ducati to work every morning.

He thinks it’s the nightmares that wracked his nights for weeks and weeks after. How does he move on from the night he found and lost his father? How does he file away the vivid memory of the aged, familiar face staring at him with so much grief and regret, saying his name like he’s an illusion? The lights of TRON City reach for the stormy sky as he takes his first uncertain step on the Grid. Clu laughs at him as the Black Guards haul him away to the lightcycle arena, his father’s voice echoing around the walls.

“I’m not your father, Sam.”

He’ll wake up soaking in sweat, sheets tangled around his legs, and with Marvin sitting at the foot of the bed, cowering and wagging his tail uncertainly. He'll get up and limp to the bathroom to splash cold water on his face and neck, stare down at the porcelain bowl while water dripped from the tip of his nose and his chin. Then he’ll look up at his reflection.

He always shivers at the fear in his eyes.

* * *

It got better.

He busied himself with studying ENCOM the company inside and out, overhauling it from the top down, and diving into the work his father left lying around his old office above the arcade. He ventured downstairs once or twice but he never stayed for long and he never touched the glassy table with the running clock, skirted around the humming drives while filching yellowed manila folders and the yellowed map tacked to the wall.

Nothing he looked at could tell him what Flynn meant when he said that Quorra could change the world.

Sam smiled at the awe on Quorra's face the first time she saw the sun, laughed the first time Quorra yawned, had a beer, had coffee, had juice, had a cheeseburger, went shopping, rode a glass elevator, learned that Jules Verne had been dead for over a century, had a go at the old arcade game machines, went to the zoo and saw flamingos. He smiled as she complained about the unnecessary details in a typical User’s life, from flossing and rinsing with mouthwash to the necessary etiquette involved in interacting with Users like ENCOM's new board of directors, and tried valiantly to explain how a string of words can mean ten different things because definitions and intent can't be coded. He hugged her when she said she missed the Grid and her fellow ISOs, held her close while she cried into his shoulder and soaked the fabric through with hot tears. When she talked about the cycles she spent with Flynn, he withdrew deep into his mind and told himself that jealousy was unbecoming.

Sometimes she’d notice his silence and take his hand in both of hers. “He always talked about you, Sam. He told me so much about you and, well, sometimes I see that in you. Sometimes I see that - that kid he described.” She’d rub her thumb over the faint white scars on his knuckles, relics from the motorcrossing days that Sam would never be able to tell his father. “He always said he’d give up everything - and I mean everything - for one more day with you.”

He’d look down at their linked hands, turn his over, lace their fingers together, and swallow hard.

“Yeah.”

In those moments he’d feel the shape and the weight of the microchip resting against his collarbone, and pretend that in some way his father was still with him.

Chapter Text

Six months.

The itch prickles at the back of his mind. He feels uneasy and restless, like he doesn’t quite fit inside his own skin. He takes to fiddling during meetings, fingers drumming on the desk while listening to reports, suggestions, updates, the occasional grievance. At times his mind scatters and he'll miss whole conversations, his cues, and meetings will end with suspicious glances and concern in Alan's eyes.

Those are always the worst moments, so he takes to occupying half his mind with things that'll keep him grounded in the here and now, the present.

“Maybe you just miss planning and executing your yearly prank,” Dillinger says during a late-night meeting.

“Ha, ha,” Sam deadpans while quitting his game of virtual go.

Quorra looks owlishly between them.

“It’s a long story,” Sam says. “I’ll tell you later.”

She nods and pulls up the list of submitted complaints and suggestions for the latest OS. Quorra and Dillinger then talk about their approach to the complaints, which glitches they plan to address first, and what the timetable is for uploading OS patches. Sam watches her excitedly pull up a file and flick it to the center of the table, loses himself in her bright enthusiasm as she explains the details and the number of beta testers they need for a test run. Bringing her here might be the best decision they ever made - after which apartment complex to move into - considering how she skyrocketed from a curious, fresh-faced “intern” to one of ENCOM’s best programmers. When Alan asked where the hell he found her Sam only smiled and said, “Showed up at my door one day and I took her in.”

His father’s rescue. The last ISO, the Miracle.

Soon he’ll have to decide whether to continue rooting through the old folders and files or if it’s time to consult with Quorra about undergoing tests to unravel her biology. It’s a far fetched idea, more likely to be seen in some terrible SyFy movie, but with the way his father went on about revolutionizing medicine, maybe-

“-Sam? Sam.”

He starts. Quorra and DIllinger are staring at him. He blinks again and they’re still there, still watching him. Slowly Quorra sits back down and starts closing files, knowing what he’s going to say.

“Sorry.” Sam kneads at his temple like he’s exhausted. “It’s been a long day. Why don’t we - why don’t we wrap it up and finish this in the morning?”

Dillinger gives Sam a calculated look while saving his files and dismissing them from the screen. “Try to get more sleep. Don’t want to look like you spent all night coding for fun.”

Sam frowns. “I’m not. What makes you say that?”

Dillinger gestures vaguely as he packs his things in his satchel. “Well something’s distracting you from business here. I suggest getting that sorted out by the end of the week.”

He leaves without another word. Sam slumps in his chair while Quorra shuts down the massive touchscreen computer. He only looks up when she sets her motorcycle helmet on the table.

“It’s been six months-”

“Not now,” Sam says and pulls his jacket off the back of the chair. “Let’s go.”

He ignores her accusing glare as they leave the room.

* * *

He plasters himself to the wall. The cool surface is fleeting relief for the burn in his lungs and legs; he relaxes against it for just a second, a rapid inhale-exhale of hot air, before he takes off again.

The corridors twist and turn on a whim, and sometimes come to an abrupt halt. Whenever he slams into one his heart stumbles with his heavy limbs and he looks around wildly for the padded echo of light feet, the incessant ticking thrum that bounces off the dimly lit walls.

It’s getting closer. He pushes himself off the dead end, pleads with his body to keep running as he staggers off in the opposite direction.

He skids over broken bits of data, kicks them aside as he runs down another hall. He just barely misses getting his feet tangled up in discs lying haphazardly all over the floor, doesn’t have time to wonder who fought here and lost. He has to keep running, has to get to the other side so that he can warn the others - warn his father and Quorra - that they need to go, they need to go now-

Something hits him hard and he crashes to the floor. He grabs for his disc as he twists around but his fingers close on air. He spots a disc an arm’s reach from him and lunges for it.

A foot plants on his shoulder and shoves him back down. He stares up at Rinzler’s seamless helmet, at his wide-eyed distorted reflection as Rinzler unhooks his discs. The air vibrates with a subsonic hum as the discs’ circumferences light up fiery red-orange and Sam swallows hard around a dry throat, scrambles backwards clumsily as the program advances.

“Don’t,” he says. “Don’t, okay, don’t, come on, I’m not even supposed to be here-”

The ground drops out and he jerks awake with a gasp. His eyes dart wildly around his surroundings, taking in light and shadow. His harsh breaths grate in his ear, his heart thuds in his chest, and he can’t - he can’t move. Something’s trapped him here. He starts kicking, untangling himself from twisted sweat-soaked sheets until the pile slinks off the mattress onto the floor.

Sam stares up at the ceiling, telling himself it’s just a dream and he’s safe, he’s in his room, just ignore the instincts yelling at him to run. He tells himself over and over until he no longer feels like he just ran a marathon, until he can trust himself to sit up and walk to the bathroom. He staggers in, slamming the lights on, and flinches away from the explosion of brightness overhead. He ignores the mirror while he turns on the faucet and splashes lukewarm water on his face and the back of his neck. All the while his heaving breaths echo in the tight space and the sounds tug him back to the corridors lit with cyan-white circuits. He shuts his eyes tightly and grits his teeth until his jaw starts hurting.

A cold nose butts against his leg and Marvin whines. Sam looks over the edge of the sink at him, dripping water all over the floor. Marvin wags his tail hesitantly, twitching whenever a droplet hits his head.

“Yeah,” he says. “I could do with a walk.”

* * *

He and Marvin must’ve made a strange sight, wandering around the block at three in the morning in early June. At the third corner on his block he stops and shifts his weight back on his heels, tilts his head up to stare at the sky while Marvin marks his territory on a telephone pole. A satellite crawls past the stars and the edge of the sky glows faintly from the city lights. This late at night the distant roar of Los Angeles seems even louder even though significantly fewer cars traverse the freeways.

“Come on,” he says, tugging at the leash, and Marvin reluctantly follows him back into the apartment complex.

Sleep is the logical next step but Sam takes one look at his bed, grabs a stack of folders from his desk, and goes to the living room. He grabs a Corona from the fridge and gives Marvin a biscuit, turns the TV on and sets the volume to almost mute, and spreads the folders out on the coffee table. He takes a long pull from the glass bottle and wipes the condensation on his jeans before carefully unfolding the map he took from the basement room.

Time ticks by as he meticulously flips through each page in every folder, eyes skimming over too-familiar words and numbers. He even has a separate folder for ideas his father jotted down haphazardly on scrap pieces of paper, ideas that sounded ridiculous in 1988 but are entirely plausible now. Two of them are already in the process of becoming reality and only Quorra and Alan know where they really came from.

Marvin lifts his head when a door in the hallway creaks open, then jumps off the couch and runs over to Quorra as she sleepily walks into the kitchen and searches around for a glass.

“Shouldn’t you be sleeping?” she asks.

“Couldn’t,” he replies and tosses another folder onto a growing pile at his upper right.

His eyes are still on the loose leafs but his ears tune in to her filling a glass with water and walking over, Marvin following her. Sam glances at her as she perches at the edge of the loveseat and peers down at the yellowed Grid map.

“So you’re gonna stay up all night instead?”

He shrugs. “Whatever it takes-”

“Until what? It’s been six months, Sam. We’ve checked and double-checked and triple-checked. There’s nothing here.”

“There’s has to be.” He nods at the dog-eared copy of A Digital Frontier: Mapping The Other Universe on the table. “He said a lot of things without actually saying them. He talked about the Grid and no one fucking realized.... And all the ideas he talked about, everything he imagined for the future, whatever he wanted to do, we can do it now.”

“But do we really want to?” She sips from her glass and clasps her hands around it. “You were thinking about it earlier tonight, weren’t you? That’s why you kept spacing out.”

He knows where she’s going with this. “I was just tired-”

“So what was he talking about at the meeting? I don’t think he cares if you get enough sleep or not. He was saying something else, wasn’t he?”

“Dillinger?” He looks at the book’s cover again. “Just reminding me to stay focused to cover his own ass. I’m the CEO, Quorra; can’t afford to daydream whenever I want. Or prank the company. Or code for fun.”

“But you’ll stay up all night on a weeknight for this,” she says, tugging a folder out of his hands.

He sighs. “It’s - it’s Dad. I look at the projects we’re working on right now and it feels like he’s here. It’s what he wanted to do, and now I can make it happen. I can make his legacy real.”

“But what about you? What about me?”

He pauses with the Corona pressing against his bottom lip. Thoughts of science fiction tropes bubble up in his cluttered head and he carefully sets the bottle down before turning to her. “What do you want to do?”

She shrugs. “I like what we’re doing now. It’s amazing what Users - what we can do on the other side, building worlds for - for the programs so that we can interact with them. I want to keep working on that.”

“Wish I can say the same,” he says. “I just keep - I keep thinking I missed something, that maybe I misread something, misheard something. Maybe there’s something between the lines that only we can see because we know what really happened.”

“Is it really that important, though?”

Frustration flares up white-hot in his chest but he holds his tongue. Snapping at her would be the absolutely stupid thing to do because that wouldn't be fair to her. Most people wouldn't understand where he's coming from, because most people didn’t have to experience the last twenty-some years of his life. As quickly as the anger rises up it vanishes and he feels hollow, drained. He buries his face in his hands.

“I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m doing. I just know that I have to do something. I spent my whole life in Dad’s shadow; I feel like, if I do this, if I make this last thing of his reality, I can finally move on.”

He doesn’t say what he can move on to because he doesn’t know what comes next.

“So,” Quorra says slowly, spelling out her thoughts as they form, “if figuring this out will help you - and me - move on, why not... go back to the arcade?”

“I already spent nights there. I read all the files in that upstairs office front to back and upside down-”

“I mean the Grid.”

Sam freezes.

The Grid. He’s thought about it abstractly - when he wasn’t waking up from nightmares of being trapped inside it like his father was - but he never thought about taking a look inside the computer, never considered the idea of going back in. He brushes his fingers against the microchip still hanging around his neck; he never once plugged it into a computer but if she’s right and Flynn left something on it....

“What, see if he left a file somewhere?”

She stares at the map, mouth a nervous thin line. “You won’t find it just by opening it up from any computer. There’s a reason why we survived in the Outlands for so long.”

She’s talking about the safe house. She could be right - his father could've left something there, something he wrote down to occupy himself while Clu consolidated his control over the Grid. However, the Outlands is a digital mess; untangling the safe house from it could take days from this side of the decades' old computer and Sam doesn’t have that kind of time anymore.

“You think there’s anything left? After what happened?”

“I don’t know,” she admits. “The reintegration wouldn’t be powerful enough to wipe the system so it should still be there. The city, too.”

“And you’re sure we can’t find it if I just plug this in?” he asks, holding up the microchip.

She hesitates, hides behind the rim of her glass as she drains it. She sets it down and says, “You don’t have to do this.”

He doesn’t want to. He can’t sleep right now because he had just dreamt of being trapped somewhere on the Grid and chased by Rinzler until he couldn’t run anymore. He knows now what’s inside the computer under the arcade but it’s been six months. He has no idea what happened in there since the night he brought down Clu’s system and his father died, and he doesn’t want to find out. But Quorra could be right and he’s fast running out of options.

If he goes in there and finds nothing, then that’s it. Game over. End of line. He’ll drop all of this and focus on what Quorra wants to do. He’ll put his ghosts to rest and move on.

He swallows down the now lukewarm and sour Corona, and sets the empty bottle on top of the yellowed map.

“Wanna go to the arcade?”

* * *

He flips on the lights in the old arcade and his heart thumbs achingly in his chest as he soaks in the neon sights and 80s sounds. Quorra closes and locks the door while he goes to the jukebox and rolls a token between his index and thumb while flipping through the selection.

“Do we have time to squeeze in a game?” she asks, idly pressing the buttons on the Space Invaders control pad.

“You’ll never stop at one,” he teases. This is why he only brought one token with him.

She pretends to pout and hops over to Fix-It Felix, Jr. She watches the animation for a few seconds. “Ever wonder what goes on inside these?”

He entertains the thought for just a second. “Probably a bad idea.”

Probably because they’ve already experienced it and that machine is called Tron. He looks down the long aisle of games to the one guarding the doorway and then selects a song. Kansas starts blasting from the jukebox’s dusty speakers while sets his helmet on the air hockey table and heads for the stairs leading up to the office on the second floor.

Carry on my wayward son,
For there’ll be peace when you are done.
Lay your weary head to rest.
Don’t you cry no more.

Quorra follows him up the creaking steps. The plastic sheets covering the couches and desks have been piled up and shoved into a corner of the room. An IKEA desk lamp watches over a desk piled high with even more manila folders and loose leafs. Quorra leans against the doorway and watches him sift through them. He doesn’t really see the pages of sketches, diagrams, and half-assed notes scribbled all around them; he already knows each of these pages, the contents of each folder, by heart but he still feels compelled to go through them. Some hopeless voice in his head keeps suggesting that one night soon he’ll come up here and miraculously discover the key sandwiched between musings about networks and file transport via Solar Sailers and how to increase a lightcycle’s stability in the Outlands.

After a minute, punctuated by the occasional sneeze, he looks up to see her still watching him with an unreadable expression.

“What?”

“I just had a lightbulb moment,” she says, “about what Ed said earlier-”

“You call him ‘Ed’?”

“We worked together a couple times so I thought it’s okay. Am I not supposed to?”

She forges on before he can say that of course she can, it just sounds weird. “So two days ago we were talking about subroutines and why you took forever to respond to Eileen’s email about E3, and I might have said you were acting... restless.”

“Restless,” he echoes.

“Was that the wrong word?”

He starts stacking the pages and piling folders. “You tell me.”

“Sam,” she says quietly and he looks up at the oddly solemn tone, “I’m worried. And he told me others were worried about you, too.”

“They’re worried I’m restless?”

“He said some of the people in the company were around when Flynn got trapped on the Grid. Remember those newspaper clippings you saved from that time? People said that Flynn seemed to be losing it right before he disappeared.”

He suddenly realizes exactly what Dillinger’s weird comments earlier tonight were about. Ice-cold dread claws at his chest as he finishes organizing the desk, bracing himself for Quorra’s words.

“Is that why he told you to stop acting so distracted? Are people afraid you’re gonna be just like him?”

“No, they’re just not too hot about me waltzing into the building and calling all the shots when six months ago all I cared about was breaking into the servers and putting the new OS online for free.”

“Sam.”

He sighs and gestures towards the stairs. “We know the truth, Q. And I’m not my dad. I’m not gonna space out during meetings and talk about things nobody understands like I’m hallucinating or losing my mind. I just need to do this one last thing. If I find anything, great. If I don’t... I’m done. I’ll put everything into storage and move on. I swear.”

They head downstairs in tense silence. Sam thinks about what Quorra said, what Dillinger said, how he’d been acting in the last month, how others must’ve interpreted it. Neither Alan nor Lora said anything but if the people that comprise the “old guard” - the men and women who were there at the beginning of the Information Age, who saw ENCOM rise and Dillinger’s father fall, who saw Flynn take the company to new heights before disappearing without another word - noticed, then who knows what they intend to do with him. Alan had already warned him to be on his best behavior when he first took the company back and Sam obviously couldn’t sack everyone at the top. These people had serious pull and if they decided he posed a threat to the company’s stability and future then they could stop him from making his father’s visions reality.

Sam catches sight of the Tron machine guarding the basement door and hopes that he’ll find what he needs.

Carry on my wayward son,
For there’ll be peace when you are done-

The machine slowly swings shut behind Sam and Quorra as they make their way down the stairs, muffling the ending stanza to the song.

Their footsteps echo in the cool damp space. Ahead are the double doors, already gathering a layer of dust. Sam picks at the new padlock until it unlocks and pulls the doors open.

He hasn’t been down here in weeks and wrinkles his nose at the ticklish dusty smell as he switches on the light. The few times he had he took the liberty of rearranging the clutter and dusting everything so that he doesn’t keep sneezing as he poked around for his father’s things.

Quorra tosses her backpack on the couch and flinches back at the blooming grayish cloud rising from the cushions while he slowly walks to the computer and touches the screen. The screensaver promptly vanishes, unveiling a command prompt and the computer’s most recent activity. The time stamp at the bottom of the log informs him that a copy of the operating system was made and the digitizer was powered down.

He hears Quorra move across the room to him; she leans against his side as she stares down at the log. “So you never looked?”

“Couldn’t.” He pauses. “I should probably extend the time the digitizer stays on before I go in.”

“Didn’t he say it’s a power drain?” she asks. “What would that do?”

She has a point. The last thing he wants is the power grid crashing while he’s on the Grid and he shudders at the idea. Worse, that’ll attract all kinds of attention to an otherwise defunct arcade and he doesn’t want to explain why it managed to suck up all the electricity in the old neighborhood.

“Okay, then we have a problem.” He sits in the chair and looks at the now-empty corkboard above the screen. “How are we supposed to get out if the digitizer shuts off before we reach the safe house?”

She folds her arms tightly over her chest as she leans against the table. “Well... I was thinking that someone needs to make sure it stays open on this side,” she finally says.

He turns his head to stare at her profile. She won’t meet his eyes. “You’re not coming with me?”

She shakes her head. He notices her rubbing at her upper left arm; that’s where the symbol marking her as an ISO would be. It doesn’t show here.

“You don’t want to go back,” he says carefully.

“I can’t,” she says. “I miss it. It’s my home, of course I miss it. I guess it’s just that... there’s nothing there for me now. There’s nobody left.” She offers him a weak smile and then pushes off of the table. “Time’s faster on the Grid. You can probably find the files in an hour.”

“If they’re there at all.” The screensaver’s back; he taps the cool surface and the command prompt shows up again. He considers his options and then types in a few commands. “Portal's open how long, eight hours in the Grid?”

"About ten minutes here."

He chews on his bottom lip for a moment. "If I'm not back in ten, give me the full hour and then open the portal."

"What if you need more?"

"Then open once every thirty minutes. That should be enough."

She nods and goes to sit down on the couch. She pulls her Kindle out of her backpack. “I'll do that.”

“Getting cozy with Jules Verne, huh?”

He laughs when her face turns red.

“How about I leave you in there for the rest of the night,” she mutters but she’s smiling and it’s a stronger one.

Chuckling, Sam turns his attention back to the command prompt and starts typing. “You know what to do, right?”

He stiffens as the digitizer whirs to life. The prompt asks if him if the aperture’s clear and he stares at the two answers. He should confirm it, yes the aperture’s clear, bring him into the Grid. Something in him lurches at the thought of going in, though, and he swallows hard as he wavers between activating it and letting it overload the power grid.

“Sam.”

He looks over his shoulder at her.

“Be careful. With Clu gone, who knows what the city is like now.”

He hadn’t considered that. He didn’t even know if the city really was standing. But if it was, and with Clu - with Flynn - gone, there’ll be a power vacuum. Chaos. And he’ll be heading straight into it.

But what other option does he have? He doesn’t have the time to unravel the Grid code and, if Dillinger is to be believed, the Board is becoming restive, displeased with his recent behavior and performance. The Grid could be chaotic, could be dangerous, could be his last trip anywhere, but this is the only option left for him now. This is the only way Sam can move on.

“I’ll be fine,” he says, and confirms that the aperture is clear.

Chapter Text

The second time is just slightly better than the first. Between one breath and the next he’s on the Grid, eyes blinking rapidly to adjust to the cyan blue glow of the pristine Spartan room under the arcade-shaped building. He forces out an exhale as he sits back for a little longer. It’s eerily quiet down here and he doesn’t like it.

He can’t imagine what he’ll find when he actually leaves the building.

“Okay,” he tells himself. His voice echoes, magnifying the lonely feeling. “Let’s go.”

He idly notes that he’s not wearing battle gear as he makes his way up the stairs but a long white stripe runs down the right half of his jacket and a few more accent his shoes. They weren’t there the first time the digitizer ported him in. He touches the circuit and his stride falters as his nerves vibrate and heat crawls up his fingers.

“Weird,” he mutters.

The circuits illuminate the stairs and the flawlessly smooth curving corridor, a curious contrast to the slowly degrading water-stained concrete lining the staircase in the actual arcade. He slides a finger along the surface as he makes his way up and quirks an eyebrow at the pencil-thin tendrils of cyan circuits that flare up and then fade. Interesting.

The first time he was here he didn’t even notice that the ground floor of the building lacks far too many things. Now, without confusion and panic clouding his mind and with his footsteps echoing a little too loudly, he feels wrong being here. There should be rows of machines filling up the spaces, old framed posters hanging from the walls, the air hockey table hogging considerable space on his right side, warm lights and neon giving everything a nostalgic 80’s vibe. The space he’s walking through is cold, dark, glossy, and disturbingly empty.

He pauses at the door. Blue light seeps through the cracks and he wonders what in the city is generating it. He holds his breath and pushes the door open.

The first impression is that nothing appears to have changed within the last six months. The streets are still empty and the buildings still glow cyan, just like the first time. But when he raises his eyes to the skyline he can see silhouettes of darkened skyscrapers and the ghostly relic of the tower that housed the End of Line Club. He can’t see that structure from here, not that he plans to go near it anytime soon. Beyond the towers he sees the faint glow of the portal and thinks to himself, Eight hours until it closes and traps me in here.

Quorra’s on the other side. They have an agreement; she knows when to reactivate it if it powers down before he reaches it.

He takes a step forward and then hears a ticking purr, like the platters of a hard drive about to catastrophically fail. He drops his gaze to the massive intersection in front of him and sees a faceless program leaning against a lightcycle parked on the curb. His stomach drops and tension closes on his chest.

Oh no. No, no, no, what are you doing here, you can’t be here, you can’t-

“User,” Rinzler says, pushing off the lightcycle. It collapses into a baton and he grabs it before it hits the ground, slides it into the holster on the outside of his thigh as he walks toward Sam.

Sam can’t breathe. His heart pounds and a wordless roar fills his head as he stumbles back; he reflexively reaches behind him for his disc but, just like in some of his worse dreams, his fingers close on nothing. He has nothing to protect himself with. His survival instincts are kicking in, but he’s weaponless and escape is miles away.

“What are you - how’d you - how?” he says as he takes another step back and Rinzler takes a step forward. He remembers watching Rinzler abruptly remove himself from the pursuit and deliberately crash his light jet into Clu’s, giving them a chance to reach the portal unhindered. When he saw only Clu standing on the narrow bridge to the portal he thought- “You died.”

Unlike in his dreams, Rinzler doesn’t press the advantage. Instead he stops short and tilts his head to the side. His arms hang loosely at his side. The program doesn’t reach for his discs or his batons; he just stands there, back straight, hesitating.

“I didn’t,” a rough, slightly muffled voice says. “I’m not... I am....” Rinzler bows his helmeted head, his hands clenching and unclenching. “I am....”

Rinzler’s circuits are blue.

Sam clamps down on the desire to punch the program in the neck and run. There isn’t going to be a fight and there won’t be any cat-and-mouse game because this isn’t Rinzler.

His eyes suddenly focus on the cluster of circuits on the program’s sternum as his father’s heartbroken voice whispers a name in the back of his head. A flood of memories rush in, full of the stories Flynn used to regale him with at night, tales of the Grid and the program he brought with him from the company, a single name that haunted Sam all his life long after his father disappeared and the world moved on.

“Dad called you Tron.”

Rinzler - Tron jerks his head up and takes an involuntary step back. Sam watches nervously as the program turns away and the helmet rapidly retracts from his head, revealing a dark head of hair. Sam feels out of sorts watching this; Rinzler was always the faceless predator that stalked him through the endless streets, that always broke the floor of the gladiator cage and sent Sam falling to his death. Having the program unmask is unnerving. It feels wrong, like so many things have been in the last five minutes.

“You can call me Tron, too,” the program says quietly and looks at him.

Sam stares at Tron’s face and Tron returns the gaze steadily, almost defiantly, daring him to say something.

He ends up saying, “You look like Alan, just... younger. A lot younger. This is freaky.”

Tron’s eyes widen. “Alan-1? You know him?”

“Alan-1?”

“My User.” Tron steps forward and Sam twitches, forces himself to stay still. This isn’t Rinzler and he’s not in danger, yet. Tron notices, though, and stops. “Former User. It’s been... cycles since I last heard of him.”

“Oh. Uh, yeah, I know him. He’s my... he looked after me while Dad was... here.” Sam trails off as Tron glances away, eyes dropping to the ground and shoulders slumping forward.

“I see,” Tron says quietly.

Sam doesn’t quite see it. He leans forward and tilts his head, trying to get Tron’s attention, but then the program snaps his head up and fixes stern, scrutinizing eyes on Sam. Sam jerks back; he feels like a rebellious, uncontrollable preteen about to get lectured by Alan, except Alan is now much younger and also a computer program.

This is so wrong. Also, freaky.

“Why are you here?” Tron asks.

“I’m looking for something.” He suddenly realizes that his father might’ve told Tron about the ISOs. He had to have told someone, considering how difficult it was for him to keep anything particularly exciting to himself. Alan and Lora said as much. “Did Dad ever tell you what he wanted to do with the ISOs?”

There. A flinch. Tron stares at the building across the street, head cocked like he’s listening for something. Then the program sighs. “Isomorphic algorithms. The Miracle.”

“Yeah, I know. Did he say anything? He had to have said something-”

Tron smiles wistfully and Sam feels an inkling of hope. Maybe this trip won’t take that long after all. “He said they’d change the game. They’d change everything. He never got far, not when they... disagreed on what to do with them.”

Oh.

Sam swallows hard and looks elsewhere, uncomfortable with the pain and distance in Tron’s face. “So he never had a specific idea?”

“If he did he never told me.”

So much for taking care of business and getting out of the Grid in less than eight hours. He sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “Well, I have to see if Dad left anything here. Q and I didn’t get far with the ‘changing the world’ thing and we’re running out of options.”

“You need to get to the Outlands,” Tron says. Sam stares at him as he turns and walks to the curb. How’d he know? “Lightcycles can’t handle the terrain so we’ll have to find you a light runner.”

“I’m gonna guess there aren’t a lot of them,” Sam says, hurrying after him. “But Dad wasn’t the only one to own one, right?”

“Doesn’t make it easier to travel through the Outlands,” Tron says. “Most of them were destroyed in the last few cycles; the others disappeared. Probably cached by other programs.”

“Why would they hide the light runners? What can they do with them?”

“You know what they’re capable of. They’re not as powerful as tanks but they’re more maneuverable and can get into places tanks can’t.”

There’s an uncomfortable suggestion of violence in the program’s words and Sam finds himself looking over his shoulder as he asks, “Tanks?”

Tron gestures down the wide empty street. “This sector used to be crowded with programs. Most of them disappeared after the Purge, and none came back after the... reintegration. They don’t have any use for this place.”

“I don’t get it.”

Something flashes in the space between them and Sam reflexively reaches out to catch or deflect it. He stares at the baton in his hand and then up at Tron.

“This isn’t the same Grid you left,” Tron says. He gestures in a direction with another baton. “There’s a neutral sector not far from here. We should go before others converge on this location.”

Neutral sector?

“With Clu gone, who knows what the city is like now.”

“What happened here?” Sam asks. What aren’t you saying?

Tron doesn’t answer; instead he rezzes a lightcycle into existence and leaps onto it. Swearing under his breath, Sam runs after the blue blur and pulls his baton apart; code spills out of the two halves and coalesce into a sleek black and white vehicle underneath him. The breath knocks out of him as his chest hits the chassis and the lightcycle forms a shell over his back as it bolts down the street; the tip curves against the back of his neck and rapidly unfolds into a temporary helmet to block out the wind.

“Handy,” he mutters as he makes a wide left turn at an intersection and gives chase.

He feels himself relax as he follows Tron through the empty sector. The familiarity of riding a lightcycle is a small comfort and he doesn’t try to suppress his smile as he pulls alongside Tron. The program nods to him and angles their path towards the brighter sectors of the city.

It ends quite abruptly.

They hit a freeway bridging this sector with another and blocking the way is a solid line of light. Tron suddenly pulls ahead and turns his lightcycle, blocking Sam’s path and forcing him to stop. His heart slams into the back of his throat as he skids, overbalances, and tumbles to the ground. The lightcycle detaches from him as it slides away and collapses back into an innocuous baton.

“What the fuck?” Sam groans as he sits up. Then a strong hand grips his upper arm and hauls him to his feet.

“We have company,” Tron says, nodding to a group of programs approaching them.

“Well, shit,” Sam says, rubbing his sore shoulder, and then hisses when Tron yanks him back.

The group - gang? - stops several feet before them. They don’t have the friendliest faces; several of them have cracks and holes all over them, including their heads, and Sam’s suddenly reminded of the program that growled at him on the Recognizer six months ago. He shudders at the memory.

A program steps forward, swinging a green-lit baton in his hand. “What are you doing out here?”

“Not your business,” Tron says.

“It is when you’re involved, when the portal’s suddenly open. Why aren’t you hiding in that neutral club, Rinzler?”

Why did the program call Tron “Rinzler”? Tron said he wasn’t... unless he’s lying. But why would he? There’s no Clu, no one he has to answer to, no one who’d want to set him on a User, right? Suddenly nervous, Sam glances at Tron, looking for a tell, but he doesn’t know what to look for.

“And who’s that with you? Why don’t you leave him with us?”

“He’s coming with me,” Tron says coldly. The whirring ticking gets louder and everybody else flinches, including Sam. “You can’t have him.”

“We’re not leaving any program alone with you. Step away from him.”

A tall yellow program to Sam’s left suddenly moves forward and Tron shifts ever so slightly in her direction, keeping Sam behind him and away from the two programs. Sam bristles at the gesture but keeps his mouth shut.

“He’s unusual,” the yellow program says, tilting her head to the side and assessing him. “Not a typical program.”

Sam rolls his eyes at that. “Not this again.”

“Don’t,” Tron says.

“Why? If they knew-”

“Remember the Gaming Grid?” Tron takes a sliding step to the right as a program shifts uneasily on her feet. Sam realizes the line of programs is becoming a circle. “They knew only one User and look what happened. If they’re not indifferent towards Users they’re hostile.”

“Why would they hate me? I didn’t do anything-”

The program with the green-lit baton frowns. “Who are you?”

Not a program, Sam thinks smartly but considering that they’re now surrounded by armed and nervous programs, he probably shouldn’t antagonize them.

“We’re wasting time, Octane,” the yellow program says. “The portal’s been open long enough for something to have come through. Leave them and let’s move on.”

“You want to just let him go?” another program speaks up. “Are you crazy? This is Rinzler-”

“I’m not Rinzler,” Tron says stiffly but the other programs don’t seem to hear him.

“We’re not wasting anything,” Octane says. “There’s a reason why he was even in Iota.” He points his baton at Sam and Tron immediately shifts into a defensive position. “Identify yourself.”

“No thanks,” Sam says. “We’re just passing through. That’s not illegal.”

“Why are you even associating yourself with him?” the other program asks. “Do you even know who he is? What he’s done?”

Tron flinches.

Sam opens his mouth to say yes, he does know, he fought Tron on the Gaming Grid and the Rectifier’s command deck, he was told countless stories about Tron and his father stopping the MCP from pulling a Skynet, but hesitates. No, he really doesn’t know. He was on the Grid for just a night and started the chain reaction that destroyed both his father and Clu.

And even though a guarded part of Sam’s mind wants to stay as far away from the program as possible, even though the protective stance Tron’s taken screams of Rinzler, Sam just can’t leave him. He knows Tron is the only one left who knows, who gets it, who can help him find what he needs, but on some deeper level he feels he can trust this program.

Or maybe it’s just Alan’s face and childhood nostalgia mixing up with a really bad night that led him back to the Grid, but his gut instinct has rarely led him in the wrong direction. Rarely.

“I know enough,” he says carefully. “But I trust him over you.”

He doesn’t understand the sudden aching pang in his chest when Tron stares at him, incredulous. He also doesn’t know why the programs surrounding them are all taking light discs off their backs.

“Did I say something wrong?” Sam asks.

“Probably.”

The program moves forward, disc humming loudly in his hand. “You’d trust that glitch over everybody else? Were you rectified, too? Is that why you’re backing him-”

“Don’t!” Octane snaps. “Something’s not right. He needs to identify himself-”

“You’re wasting your time, Octane,” the program replies and flings his disc.

Tron throws an arm out and shoves Sam to the ground. The yellow program kicks the aggressor off his feet and pins him down with a foot on his chest but the damage is already done; the green disc slices through the layers of digitized clothing and breaks the skin on Sam’s left upper arm. Sam twists onto his side, clamping his hand over the gash and hissing in pain while the disc boomerangs back to its program.

The air thrums and Sam looks up to see Tron unsnapping his disc into two halves; they blaze white-blue in his hands as he repositions himself over Sam. The programs around them glance at each other questioningly and a few of them actually look terrified. Then Sam feels liquid heat seep through his fingers.

“Shit,” he mutters and angles his hand slightly to see vivid red staining his palm. Its vibrancy is jarring, other-worldly.

“Get up,” Tron says quietly, tersely. “We have to fight our way out of this.”

“Would be great if I had something to fight with,” he says. “Dodging discs isn’t going to get me anywhere. Haven’t played dodge ball in eighteen years.”

He looks around, taking in the lit discs and beam katanas the other programs are wielding. None of them look interested in launching an attack and a few throw nervous glances at Octane and the yellow program. They must be the ringleaders, Sam thinks.

“Sam,” Tron says. “Stay behind me until I disarm someone.”

“Right,” he says and pushes himself up onto unsteady feet.

All eyes go to the bleeding gash and Sam steels himself for the inevitable, grimacing internally when he feels the blood trickling down his arm under the sleeve.

“He’s a User,” a program whispers.

“User.”

“User....”

“A User’s on the Grid again.”

“I said something was off about him,” the yellow program says. “This changes the game completely.”

He edges away from the suddenly predatory look in her eyes. The others are thunderstruck, in awe, or even more terrified than they were a few seconds ago. Tron stares at his arm before flicking his eyes down and Sam follows the gaze to the rivlet of blood on the back of his hand and bright red droplet falling from his index finger.

“What do you think you’re doing associating with the likes of him, User?” Octane asks.

“Like he said, not your business,” Sam retorts before Tron can get in a word. “I don’t plan on staying, okay? Let me do my thing and I’ll get out of your... code in a millicycle.”

“Why wouldn’t you want to stay?” the yellow program says. “The Grid’s your playground too, isn’t it? Or you could make it all yours, if it still belongs to the one before you. You can rebuild and destroy as much as you like or make it a perfect system, just the way you imagined it-”

“What are you talking about? I’m not imagining anything here,” Sam protests. “I don’t-”

“But you could,” Octane cuts in. “You can. You’re a User. You’re exactly what we need.”

He’s completely lost the thread of this confrontation. He has no idea what they’re talking about now, or what they want. He looks at Tron but doesn’t find clarity there, just a grim-faced program who then moves in front of him when the yellow program raises her lit disc in a threatening manner.

“Get out of our way,” Tron says in a steely voice. “I’m not asking again.”

“Or what?” she asks. “You’ll fight us all and win? Don’t forget - you’re protecting a weak, weaponless User now. You’d be better off giving him up and running back to Rho to hide for another cycle.”

She’s unfortunately right. They’re surrounded by at least ten armed programs and Sam’s hobbled with no weapon and an injured arm. A few of them don’t look as confident as the yellow program talks, though, and he considers how that could play into Tron’s advantage. He wonders for a wild second if Quorra will appear out of the blue, plowing through the programs in a light runner and rescuing him like the damsel in distress he apparently is. He wonders if he should’ve come to the Grid tonight, if at all.

“You shouldn’t underestimate me,” Tron says and Sam stares at the small, self-possessed smile on his face.

That apparently sets the program off and she launches her disc.

Tron deflects it easily and Sam watches it ricochet away from her. Another program darts in, swinging a beam katana, and Tron blocks it with a disc before slicing his arm off with the other. The dismembered limb blackens and then shatters into bits; the program collapses on top of the shards, paralyzed and nonfunctional. Tron kicks the deactivated beam katana at Sam and he snatches it up with his good hand. The circuit nodes on it turn white as it starts humming and he jumps when the blade materializes.

“Just so you know, I took Ultimate Frisbee, not fencing!” he yells to Tron, and then ducks to avoid a green-lit disc streaking at his head. “Shit!”

“Don’t hurt the User!” Octane snaps as he dodges one of Tron’s discs. “We want him alive! You hear me, Sigma? Don’t-”

They want to capture him? Why? Going by the yellow program’s rant he’s pretty sure they don’t want him around, so what’s this Octane saying? What’s Octane’s endgame?

“Sam!” Tron yells and he snaps out of his thoughts in time to block a blue program’s beam katana with his own.

His grip isn’t that great - he really has no idea how to handle swords - and he feels his blade slipping and giving way. So he does the next best thing: he lets it drop, marvels for a second at the sparks of light as the beam katanas slide against each other, moves out of the way as the program stumbles forward with momentum, and swings at the exposed back.

He doesn’t watch the program derezz. He turns and dodges a yellow-lit disc, sees the murderous intent in the yellow program as she holds out her hand and lets the disc return to it.

“Thought he said you can’t hurt me,” he says, keeping the beam katana between them.

“Who said I follow him?” she replies and flings her disc again.

He throws himself out of the way, tumbling to the ground just like he practiced years ago in capoeira classes, and rolls on his left shoulder. White-hot pain shoots down to his fingertips, and he drops the beam katana to grab at the throbbing wound. A second later he remembers he’s in the middle of a fight and opens his eyes to see Tron leaping over him to deflect the yellow program’s blow.

“Can you still fight?” Tron asks, turning his helmeted head to Sam.

He flinches from the memory of Rinzler pinning him down on the floor of the Gaming Grid, the edge of his red-orange disc pressing close to the base of Sam’s throat, and Tron freezes.

The yellow program and another seize the moment and close in on Tron; Sam slams the heel of his foot into Tron’s side to knock him out of the way of a green-lit disc. Tron recovers inhumanly fast and dispatches the green program before she could get her disc back. He nods to the program-less disc as it hits the ground before spinning on the balls of his feet to block another program’s beam katana. Sam scrambles to his feet, dodges the yellow program, and snatches up the disc. It vibrates in his hand like it wants to escape but he wraps his fingers tightly around it and it settles. The darkened circuits fill with white light and its edge blazes brightly as it hums in his hand.

“Much better,” Sam says breathlessly, notes movement out of the corner of his eye, and turns around to bat away a program’s disc.

It goes in the wrong direction and the assaulting program’s eyes widen before Sam sends the white disc through the program’s chest and one of Tron’s rips through his abdomen. Sam grins at Tron through the cascade of broken code and snatches the disc back on its return. The program’s helmeted head nods in approval and then he turns, plows through two programs in a blur of blue and black, and hones in on Octane.

Sam has a brief window of time to marvel at Tron’s deadly speed and to be grateful that he’s not at the wrong end of the dual discs, and then he dances away from the reach of a program’s disc. He assesses the program’s hesitance and uses the moment of indecision to fling his disc at the program’s left leg. The program manages to block it and looks up just as Sam lands a kick on the side of zir neck, sending ze sprawling to the ground. Sam grabs his disc and turns to see the program scrambling to zir feet to run away.

The program’s not the only one; Octane decides his losses are not worth capturing Sam and he gestures for the remaining programs to retreat. The yellow program is nowhere to be seen but Sam has a feeling she left the fight after she failed to derezz Tron. Sam watches Octane and two programs use a running start to leap onto their lightcycles and speed back to the city, leaving him and Tron standing in the middle of the shattered remains of the other programs.

The sudden silence is a bit much after the whirlwind of a fight and Sam braces himself on shaking knees, dragging in much-needed air as his heart pounds in his head. His body is going to hate him once the adrenaline subsides.

“Shit,” he gasps. “What the fuck was that?”

He hears Tron kicking aside abandoned batons, discs, and beam katanas, and then jerks away when something touches his left arm right above the wound.

“It’s already healing,” Tron says.

“What?” Sam straightens his back and tugs at his sleeve, widening the rip and causing little bits of digitized clothing to break off, to see that the gash is now an absolutely angry red line under the drying blood. Sam rubs at the stain and watches the dried edge flake off in little hexagon bits. “Is that normal?”

Tron shrugs. “If our injuries aren’t catastrophic we go to repair programs and… Users for assistance; we can’t self-repair.”

“Huh.” He prods at the healing line and winces. “Still hurts.”

“Then don’t poke it.”

Tron crouches down, brushes away bits of code, and presses his fingertips to the ground. Glowing impressions of footprints rise up to the surface and Sam stares while the program tilts his head this way and that like he’s trying to make sense of them.

“They tell you anything?”

Tron stands up and the footprints fade. His helmet retracts, revealing a concerned expression. “I can follow them back to their point of origin but you don’t have that kind of time.”

“I have a couple hours before the portal closes,” Sam says. “It won’t take that long to get to the Outlands, right? I think I have time.”

“You want to know why Octane wants you alive.”

“Don’t you?”

Tron doesn’t say, just picks a baton off the ground and hands it to him. “We shouldn’t talk here.”

“Why not?”

“Because Octane won’t be the only one coming here to investigate. Everyone knows that if the portal out there is open, then so is the one under the building in Iota. They’ll want to know why, after twenty-five cycles, it’s active again when the Grid’s only User reintegrated Clu and destroyed them both. Octane wanted you alive for some reason; the other program wanted you dead. Do you want to find out what the next program to meet you thinks?”

He has a point. Sam sighs and looks down at the baton. “Then why the neutral sector? Because none of the programs in there have an opinion of me?”

“Of Users. Flynn was their only User and that’s the only definition they know.”

“What makes your definition of Users different?” Sam asks.

Tron gives him a look strongly reminiscent of the one Alan used to give him whenever he played dumb to get out of trouble. “I’m not from around here.”

Right. Alan compiled him on the ENCOM servers before Flynn ported him here.

“Why’s there even a neutral sector?” Sam asks. “Why ‘neutral’?”

“Its residents don’t align themselves with the ones fighting for control of the Grid.” Tron unhooks the baton from the holster on the side of his leg. “Let’s go. The sector isn’t far from here.”

Sam frowns at Tron’s words. Quorra had warned him to be careful, that they don’t know what the state of the Grid is. So far he arrived in an abandoned part of the city, fought a large group of programs that wanted to either capture or kill him, and was told that a neutral area exists because programs are fighting each other to fill in the Grid’s power vacuum. The long six months of avoidance and willful ignorance must have done some serious damage to the system, a thought that sits uncomfortably in his head. Even his father didn’t allow that to happen, which was why he compiled Clu.

Sam shakes his head. His obligations are to Quorra and ENCOM, not Flynn’s Grid. He moved on from that, didn’t he? He left his hang-ups about his father behind when he took Quorra out of the Grid and declared his intention to become ENCOM’s new CEO to the world. That’s why he spent the next six months studying the space between the lines of Flynn’s copious and disorganized notes, that’s why he got increasingly distracted during meetings, that’s why he’s even on the Grid again to look for something his father might have left behind.

He should see a therapist after this.

“... Sam?”

He blinks and looks up at Tron. “I’m here.”

“I hope so,” Tron replies. He turns, runs towards the rest of the city, and pulls apart his baton. The lightcycle rezzes under him and he steers it in a wide arc, stops it in the middle of the freeway, and turns his helmeted head towards Sam.

“Right,” Sam mutters and quickly follows.

* * *

“A light runner?” the Siren asks as she pushes two electric blue cocktails across the counter. She studies Sam keenly and then turns her attention back to Tron. “What do you need one for?”

“It’s not your business,” Tron says mildly while studying the tall slender glass. He misses the Siren rolling her eyes at him and muttering something a lot like “Of course it’s not.”

Sam looks over his shoulder at the rest of the club. He guesses maybe fifteen other programs are in here and all of them are preoccupied with each other, their drinks, the music, or all of the above. A few had given Tron a second look when they entered the establishment but most didn’t even glance at Sam once. He wonders how that yellow program knew something wasn’t right about him.

He notices the MP3s up on the platform in front of the dance floor at the center of the club and narrows his eyes at them. Something about their appearance, besides the long crack running down the helmet of one of them, pings at the back of his mind but he can’t place it. The one with the cracked helmet notices him staring, elbows its companion, and points in his direction. The other MP3 tilts its helmet his way and gives him an acknowledging nod and a thumbs up. Confused, Sam just tilts his glass at them and turns back around to the Siren.

“Do I know them?”

She looks at him like he’s an idiot. “How do you expect me to answer that?”

“I mean, who are they? I swear I’ve seen them before.”

The Siren sighs with her shoulders as she moves things under the countertop. “They came to me after the End of Line Club blew up. They barely escaped intact.”

“The End of... it’s gone? How?” He couldn’t tell from his vantage point if the structure was still at the top of the skyscraper but the building did seem oddly dark. Then again, most of the city blocks he went by on the way to this club were dark and lifeless. “What happened to - where’s Gem?”

She goes still and grief shines in her hexagon pupils as she quietly says, “Gem and Castor derezzed with it, microcycles after Clu left.”

After they gave him Dad’s disc, Sam thinks bitterly. So whatever Zuse wanted he never even got it.

He sips at the cocktail to distract himself. The tip of his tongue tingles upon contact; the cocktail feels like liquid electricity, setting off little pleasant shocks as he gives the mouthful an experimental swirl, and it slips warm and buzzing down his throat. It heats him up like Scotch minus the alcoholic burn and he hums thoughtfully as he gulps down another mouthful.

A tipsy yellow program appears on his right, leaning on the countertop and gesturing for the Siren. “How about a purple one this time, Crystal, eh?”

“I think you’ve had enough,” she says but turns to pull carafes off the shelf. “How’s a green one sound?”

“Great! Gets my circuits pulsing.” The program watches her for a second and then turns his attention to Sam. “Haven’t seen you around. You new to the sector?”

His eyes drag down the length of Sam’s body and Sam shifts uncomfortably under the intrusive gaze. He supposes he’s lucky the program appeared on his right side and not his left, where one can see the dried blood and a fast-healing wound through the rip in his sleeve. All the same he’d rather not be the center of any attention, so he shrugs nonchalantly and says, “Yeah. So?”

“Hey, I’m not suggesting anything. We’re on the same side, aren’t we? By which I mean no side, just a lot of running and hiding from the glitches ripping this city apart.” The program shakes his head. “Whatever you did before you leave that at the door. Here, we forget about all that and just do enough to survive. Isn’t that why you’re here?”

He looks intently at Sam, yellow-green eyes boring into his head. Sam has a feeling the program isn’t just drunk on cocktails or extremely friendly towards unfamiliar programs. He keeps his mouth shut as he swirls the contents of his glass, watching the tiny chilled cubes clink against each other. He waits for the program to take his non-answer as the cue to leave and go bother someone more receptive.

Instead, the program slides closer into his space and asks in a low voice, “So, what’s your function?”

Tron suddenly leans in from Sam’s left. “I think you’ve asked enough questions.”

“I’m a query program; I’m not even close to asking him enough questions. But if you want him all to yourself, then go right ahead. I can always look elsewhere.”

The program takes his neon green cocktail from Crystal, winks at her, and strides into the crowd on the dance floor. Sam stares at the space the program just vacated and then turns to Tron. “The fuck was that?”

“Don’t worry; he does that to every program he hasn’t spoken to yet,” the Siren says coolly. “It’s not like he singled you out because you’re special.” She ignores his scowl and leans in, quietly says, “Light runners are hard to come by now. I can get you one, but it’ll cost you.”

“Really?” Tron rumbles.

“I didn’t come by this establishment without making deals with other programs,” she says. “And I don’t just give out my resources to anyone who asks. But for you,” and she looks right at Sam, “I might make an exception. After all, you’re the Creator’s son and your needs are far greater than mine.”

Sam starts. He remembers saying nothing about who he really is to her and Tron didn’t say anything either. How...?

“I knew you were different,” she says. “I just didn’t know how.” The Siren suddenly leans into his space, brown eyes pinning him to the spot while her mouth articulates each word with infinite care. “Bring me Zuse’s cane.”

Zuse can’t be alive. She just told them Castor and Gem died with the club so that cane he carried with him would’ve disintegrated, too. The Siren’s fucking with him. He’s not going out there in search of something that doesn’t exist and he opens his mouth to tell her off.

“We shouldn’t discuss this here,” Tron says uneasily.

She smiles. “You’re right.” She tilts her head up and loudly says, “The bar’s closed for the next hour. Boys, crank it up.”

The MP3s nod in unison and abruptly switches tracks; the previously mellow house music becomes faster and louder, piquing the interest of the other programs at the bar. Crystal nods to the beat as she clears the bar top of energy carafes. “Let’s talk shop in the back. Bring your drinks.”

She walks out from behind the counter and rounds the corner into a small hallway. Sam grips his half empty glass, wondering what else she’ll demand of him. Tron gives him a questioning look and he says, “Last time I did this they turned on us.”

He regrets the implication when he sees Tron look away, shoulder slumping.

“Don’t worry,” the program says quietly. “There won’t be a problem this time.”

* * *

“Not many programs knew Zuse and Castor were one and the same,” Crystal says as she sits back in a solitary white bubble chair. “He made sure of that, after the Purge and the resulting rebellion swayed in Clu’s favor.”

Sam watches Tron walk up to the transparent soundproof barrier standing between the rather cozy room and the rest of the club. The program clasps his hands behind his back, stance a tad wide and weight resting more towards the ball than the heel. He wasn’t kidding when he said this conversation won’t end as badly as the one between Sam and Zuse did.

“Sit down, SamFlynn,” Crystal says, gesturing to the off-white couch across from her and a low long coffee table.

He frowns internally as he sidles over to it and sets his cocktail on the table. Was he imagining things or did he hear the distinction in how she said his name?

The Siren’s gaze bores into him as he sits on the edge of the couch. She reminds him of Gem, full of eerie, controlled calm and knowing exactly what’s going on around him and in his immediate future. He won’t be surprised if she tells him she can read minds, too.

When she doesn’t continue the conversation he decides to prompt it.

“You said Zuse and Gem died at the club.”

“I said Castor did,” she corrects. “Zuse is still alive but under a different identity. That’s his specialty, you know.”

“Yeah, she told me. Quorra. She-” Now’s not the time. “Why the cane?”

Her lips curve into a calculating smile. “You’re not the only one he pissed off. Just because he’s still one of the most powerful programs on the Grid doesn’t mean he shouldn’t pay for what he did to us. Taking his cane would be a declaration that some of us know.”

Sam quirks an eyebrow and looks over his shoulder at Tron. The program meets his gaze, mouth a thin line, and then continues to watch the club. If Tron tried to communicate something to him about the Siren’s request he didn’t get it.

“Got anything else in mind?” Sam decides to ask.

“You can bring me his disc,” Crystal says and her smile is all teeth. “Or you can undo the last one thousand and twenty-five cycles, or you can restore Gem. I always told her not to get involved, especially when Zuse started getting friendly with Clu’s crowd.”

Her eyes slide to her right and Sam follows her line of sight to Tron.

“Zuse won’t be too friendly or approachable this time,” she says as she rises to her feet. Sam follows suit, watching for a cue. “He also moved his business to another sector and intends to use it as his base of operations. I’ll give you the sector. Bring me his cane and his pride, and you’ll have your light runner.”

She looks at his left arm. “If you want to move through the Grid undetected you should do something about that. The programs you fought on the way here know you’re a User, correct?”

“And they escaped,” Tron adds, finally turning his full attention to them. “Their names are Octane and Sigma.”

“Octane?” Crystal asks. “That name’s turned up in conversations. I can put out a query, see what he’s up to and what use he has for SamFlynn. Without naming him directly, of course; some remember what he said on the Gaming Grid. I never heard of Sigma, though. I’ll see what I can find.”

Tron nods. “Thank you.”

The Siren goes to a shelf and picks up a hexagon chip similar to the one Quorra gave Sam to help him find Zuse. She hands it to Tron. “I don’t know where in the sector he’ll be. You need to be discreet; after what you did he’ll be on the lookout for you.”

Tron’s smile is crooked as he flips the chip between his fingers. “That won’t be a problem.”

Sam gets the feeling the programs are agreeing to something without his input. “Now wait a sec-”

“You should stay here,” Tron says. “I’ll find Zuse and fulfill our end of the bargain.”

“You gotta be kidding me. I’m not hiding in here.”

“Word will get out about you. I told you before, we don’t know if the next program we meet wants to derezz you, capture you, or let you go. And the goal is to get you to the Outlands, not a dangerous sector deep in the city.”

“Dangerous for who - me or you? Just because you’re a security program doesn’t mean you’re keeping me out of the equation.”

“I’m not,” Tron grits out.

“Yeah, you are. I need to be there every step of the way; this is my business, my thing, my fight-”

Tron takes a step towards him, jaw set and shoulders stiff, and he tries not to think about Rinzler as the rattling hum grows louder again. “I have to protect you-”

“I know that.” Sam clenches his hands tightly. “You fight for the Users and a free system and that’s great, I appreciate it, but you don’t have to go this far to keep me safe. I held my own once I had an actual disc, remember? I can fight. You know that.”

He remembers getting his ass kicked by Rinzler and needing Quorra’s help during the second confrontation but they don’t count, he’s not fighting anything out there as competent as Tron. Maybe. Hopefully. Not that it matters. Sam hasn’t sat on the sidelines, waiting for people to come back, since his father left him behind with stories and broken promises. He won’t be left behind again, no matter how dangerous the Grid would be.

After a long, tense moment Tron appears to deflate. He takes a step back and assesses him. “You’ll need armor.”

What? “What?”

“You need to be ready to defend yourself at a moment’s notice and what you’re wearing now will hinder your movements. It won’t protect you from a disc or a beam katana.”

“I can defend myself just fine,” Sam says.

Tron gives the rip in his jacket sleeve a pointed look. “I’m sure.”

“I don’t see what armor’s gonna do for me anyway,” Sam says. “They didn’t do anything to stop discs from cutting through the others.”

“Those weren’t optimized for protection,” Crystal interjects, and Sam starts; he forgot that she’s still in the room. “The idea of the Games - Clu's Games - was to fight to the death; nobody survived them.”

“But I did,” Sam says.

“Then you stole the gear when the ISO broke you out of the Gaming Grid,” Crystal continues. “After Reintegration I salvaged what I could from the Armory.” She looks him square in the face. “You don’t mind, do you?”

It takes him a moment to realize that she’s asking him to wear the same kind of armor she, Gem, and the two other Sirens stuffed him into before shoving him into the gladiatorial games. The echo of some of his more visceral and violent dreams shiver through him and he shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot.

“That’s a bit conspicuous,” Tron says. Rightfully so, in Sam’s opinion. Then he realizes he’s basically agreeing to Tron’s suggestion that he stay behind and decides he doesn’t care how much of a target he’ll be.

“Do you have a better idea?” Crystal asks.

Sam can’t think of any. True, his clothes won’t protect him in combat, but the armor he wore on the Gaming Grid is pretty distinct and he could end up being a giant walking bull’s-eye. On the other hand he’ll be able to fight better in it and minimize his chances of bleeding all over the place and exposing who he really is.

“I’ll put it on,” he says. “Whatever it takes.”

The Siren nods in acknowledgment and walks to a panel on the wall next to the shelf. She touches it, revealing a tight lattice of white circuits, and swipes her index finger across it. A floor panel in the middle of the room flickers and brightens to a glowing cool white.

“Follow me,” Crystal says, stepping on it.

Sam follows Tron onto it. As soon as they’re all standing on it the panel jolts and sinks below the floor.

* * *

The sublevel room looks like a crude replica of the Armory. The scale is much smaller, there are no holding compartments for Sirens, and the wall panels flicker erratically. There’s also only one way in and out of the room, which makes everything a touch claustrophobic.

“The armor is over there,” Crystal says, pointing somewhere behind and to her left.

Tron steps off the lift and activates a panel; a narrow one underneath detaches from the wall, revealing a drawer stuffed full of armor pieces. He looks at each piece he picks up distastefully and even tosses a few over his shoulder. A chipped chestplate hits the floor and shatters.

“Be careful; I don’t have that many sets left,” Crystal snaps. Then she turns to Sam and raises an index finger. The circuit line on it glows brightly. “Hold still-”

Sam balks, backs away, and stumbles when his left foot doesn’t land where he expects it to. He throws his hands up as the Siren advances, says, “Whoa, hold it. I told you, it’s got a zipper.”

“The layers look needlessly complicated,” she says skeptically. “This is an efficient way of removing them.”

“The layers,” Sam says, shrugging out of his jacket, “come off easy enough, okay? Watch.”

He balls up his jacket and tosses it to the side, then pulls his shirt off. He starts toeing off his shoes while popping the stud on his jeans and then realizes something. “Can you turn around?”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t like getting undressed in front of strangers with lasers on their fingertips.”

Crystal’s eyes seem to burn into his skull. “Are Users like this, Tron? Unnecessarily complicated about the simplest tasks?”

“I wouldn’t know; I only interacted with one at our level,” Tron replies.

She does turn around, though, and Sam quickly unzips and shoves his jeans down, kicks them off his feet before hopping back onto the platform. That triggers skin tight but breathable material to form on him from the feet up. He watches the little hexagon shapes lock into each other as the material moves up his knees, his thighs, over his boxer briefs, and onto his stomach. He frowns when he realizes that a particular area of his body is conspicuously flat and carefully pokes around, thinking that he must look ridiculous right now. He doesn't feel particularly bothered, though, and there are more important things to focus on; he shuts the train of thought down and instead pays attention to the fabric wrapping around his shoulders and stopping halfway up his neck to form a seamless hem.

“This is so weird,” he mutters, touching the fabric at his hip.

He realizes then that there’s not another distinct sound in the makeshift armory and looks up. Crystal still has her back to him, hands on her hips in a show of impatience, but Tron is watching him and not looking through the drawer. Sam suddenly twitches with the need to cover himself even though he’s already covered from neck to toe. He chalks up the sudden flush of embarrassment to Tron looking like a really young really stern Alan, and that’s a really uncomfortable thought.

“You can turn around now,” Sam says awkwardly and then coughs to clear his throat.

Crystal does and she’s not impressed. “What did you think we were going to do? You think I haven’t seen it all?”

He opens his mouth for a retort, thinks better of it, and tactfully says, “I’m not answering that. Can we get this over with?”

She looks over her shoulder at Tron, who’s now fussing with what looks like shoulder pads. “You can handle this, right? I can’t leave the club unattended for too long, especially if the MP3s get up to their usual tricks.”

“What, besides throwing a rave?” Sam says.

“I have no idea what that is,” Crystal says as she shoulders him off the lift panel, “but I don’t like the sound of it. Take what weapons you need and make sure to put them back when you’re done. Good luck.”

Sam watches the lift carry her back up and seal them inside the sublevel room. He then looks at Tron. “You can activate that lift, right?”

“I doubt she wants to keep you down here forever,” the program says. He picks up several pieces of armor and walks up to the platform. He taps on a corner with his foot and a table materializes; Tron sets the equipment there and hands Sam a shoulder guard. “These’ll activate and lock into place automatically.”

“I know. I was there for that,” he says. He takes it and presses it up against his right shoulder, watches it unfold and extend down his arm to his wrist to form a protective layer.

He starts when Tron unexpectedly shows up on his left and sets the other shoulder guard there. The gash on his upper arm is a dulling throb but Sam still twitches as the armor moves over it.

“You don’t need to go out there,” Tron suddenly says.

Sam resists rolling his eyes. “I’m not good at sitting around, okay? If I can do something, I will.”

“Even if it draws attention to yourself?”

“I should tell you about the stunts I used to pull on the company,” Sam replies. He thinks about what type of program Tron’s supposed to be and adds, “You’d probably hate me. I have a reputation for the unauthorized accessing, process-interrupting, and evading authorities thing.”

He flinches when Tron sets the backplate on him. It latches on but doesn’t extend any further. “Pretty sure this goes all the way down-”

“It needs the front to connect to,” Tron says, stepping around to face him with a large piece of armor in hand. “This isn’t a game, Sam. I meant what I said.”

“So did I,” he retorts. “I’ve been here before, remember?”

He shouldn’t have said that. He recoils internally at the sudden coldness in Tron’s face as the air thickens with tension. Tron doesn’t look at him as he sets the front piece on Sam’s chest and steps back while it unfolds and locks into place with the piece on his back. Darkened circuit lines flicker white and glow steadily, and he swears he feels that light seeping into him through the synthetic layers.

“I do,” Tron says carefully. “Doesn’t mean it’s any less dangerous out there now. You need a disc.”

The program steps off the platform and goes to another section of the wall to activate another drawer. Sam watches him shake his head at the contents, push it back into the wall and search for the next.

“Did you always do this for Dad?” he hears himself ask, because he’s an idiot who needs to dredge up those kinds of memories.

“Not often, and only when necessary,” Tron replies. “The Grid had its structural flaws and he never looked before he jumped, but it was never dangerous enough.”

Until that night, Sam thinks, watching him go through another drawer before pushing it back in and moving to the next. How many drawers are in that wall?

“My job, my function, was to protect him and the Grid’s inhabitants and keep them from disrupting the Grid’s processes,” Tron continues, his voice becoming noticeably rougher with each word. “After... the Grid worked perfectly and fewer and fewer programs disrupted its processes each cycle, but I couldn’t protect anyone. Now the Grid hasn’t worked properly in twenty-five cycles and everybody’s turned on each other or hidden away in places like this sector.”

Sam doesn’t know what to do with that. He clenches his hands tightly, focusing instead on the feel and friction of the fabric.

“There’s a difference between you and Flynn.”

Tron’s voice breaks through the fog in his head and Sam blinks it away. His eyes refocus on the program, who’s now standing in front of him with a blank disc in hand.

“What’s that?” he asks warily.

Tron steps around him and Sam instinctively holds his breath, braces himself.

“He didn’t know how to fight,” Tron says and locks the disc into the dock on his back. “You do.”

Every nerve in his body seems to come alive, vibrating as though something’s pushing power into them. It swells for one, two, three seconds, and then subsides to a quiet hum at the back of his mind. Sam reaches behind him to touch the disc and it thrums under his fingertips.

“But you still don’t want me going out there,” he says.

Tron steps off the platform again to take something out of an open drawer. “I’ll do what I can to get us to Zuse’s sector and back, but if something goes wrong and you can’t get back to the portal-”

“Tron fought for me. I never saw him again.”

And it becomes clear what Tron’s been trying to do all along.

“It’s not your fault,” he says. “You didn’t trap Dad here. You didn’t fail to protect him.”

When Tron doesn’t say anything he adds a more tentative, “You know that, right?”

Tron turns around and tosses two batons to him. “Put your clothes in one of the drawers. You can retrieve them once we bring back Zuse’s cane.”

He’s not going to talk about it. Fine. Sam locks them into the holsters on the side of his thighs and sweeps his clothes off the floor, stuffs them into the drawer with the least amount of things in them, and follows Tron back onto the platform. He doesn’t know what Tron did to activate the lift but it’s coming down now and he itches with the need to get on it, get up, get out, and find some distance from the program.The conversation, the spoken words and unsaid thoughts, the implication behind them buzz in his head and it’s a little too much for him to handle right now.

He just wanted to find a way to reach the safehouse in the Outlands and then the portal from there but in the hour, the hour and a half he's been here, he met Tron, fought a group of programs and bled all over the Grid, and got dragged into an Armory by a Siren to suit up to fulfill a nonsensical but dangerous request in order to even get to the Outlands. His reappearance seems to have jumpstarted something on the Grid and he keeps saying the wrong thing around Tron, the only program who knows and is willing to help him. He feels even more lost than the last time.

“Sam.”

He realizes they’re standing in the room and his cocktail’s still on the coffee table. He swipes it and empties its contents while following Tron out of the room, sets the glass on the bar as they walk by, and ignores the curious glances in his direction as they leave the club.

Chapter Text

Breathing heavily, Sam locks his disc onto the dock on his back and braces himself on his knees. The late night meeting and the three hours of poor sleep are catching up and he wonders if he can keep going at this pace before he makes a mistake.

“Sam?”

He looks up to see Tron kicking an inactive disc away from an unconscious program. Three more lie on the street, circuits glowing dimly like a computer in sleep mode.

“Are you all right?” Tron asks for what must be the fourth time since they left the neutral sector.

He’s not; he’s exhausted and wants to be back in bed. “I’m fine. How long did you say they’ll be out?”

“Ten minutes.” Tron yanks his baton out of the program’s hand and slots it back into its holster on his left leg. “This way.”

He takes off down the street and makes a sharp right into a narrow space between two tall buildings. Swearing mentally, Sam runs after him. He takes one last look around, spots a new group of programs swarming in on the unconscious bodies, and propels himself into the alleyway and out of sight. He slams into the wall as he slides in, sees a blush of delicate cyan circuits at the point of impact, and wonders as he follows Tron to the end of the alley.

“Is it supposed to do that?” he asks once he catches up.

“What is?” Tron asks while scanning the next street for activity.

“This.” Sam slams the side of his fisted hand against the wall and watches circuits bloom and fade between one heaving breath and the next.

“If you want to compromise the stability of the building, then yes, it’s supposed to do that,” Tron says after a moment.

Sam thinks about the ripple of circuits when he slid his fingers along the corridor of the digitizer input port and repeats that gesture. “And this?”

Tron’s expression is unreadable. “You’re a User.”

“That doesn’t tell me anything.”

The program looks away. “Don’t expect me to have all the answers. We’re almost at the next sector.”

They jog across the street and into another alley. Sam ignores the burning in his muscles as he tries to keep up with Tron’s brisk pace. “How many after that?”

“Four.”

“Fuck, man, are you serious? It didn’t look that far away in the display,” Sam says.

He may not know the exact size and distance of the Grid but the map Tron pulled out of Crystal’s disk suggested a trip that couldn’t take more than an hour. He feels like he’d been running and fighting for at least two hours and they still have to cross four sectors?

“A direct line to our destination would take us through densely populated and highly unstable sectors,” Tron says. “This route is safer.”

Sam decides not to pick up on the slight hitch in Tron’s voice at the word “safer”. They did have to fight programs on their way here but the fights were brief, against at most four programs, and they always ended quickly. The first confrontation wasn’t even one - two large programs stopped them in their tracks to relieve them of their batons and Tron disabled them before Sam could successfully undock his disc.

“What did you do and how’d you do it?” Sam had demanded while Tron picked up their discs and threw them at the rooftop of a low-rise building across the street.

“Hit them hard enough here-” Tron pointed at his sternum. “-or here-” He pointed at the base of his neck, right above the distinct cluster of circuits. “-and they’ll go off-line. They’ll reboot in ten minutes.”

“So, no derezzing?”

“They just wanted these,” Tron said, gesturing to his batons. “Deresolution isn’t the correct response.”

They made themselves scarce when other programs appeared to investigate the scene. As they crossed to the next sector, Sam asked, “What if they didn’t want just the batons?”

“If they threaten physical harm, be prepared to derezz them,” Tron said. “If not, disable them and move on.”

That’s how it’s been the next two sectors and Sam can’t complain, even if he wants to. Complaining wouldn’t do anything anyway, so he just grits his teeth and keeps his head above water as they move through the city blocks.

Most times Tron tells him when they’re about to enter a sector; Sam can’t tell the difference though he imagines the architecture and the attire of the sector’s occupants shift a little to reflect the distinction. Then they step out of the alley and Sam stops in his tracks. Tron takes a few steps further before stopping and turning around to him with a questioning look.

“Where are we?” Sam asks, his voice just above a stage whisper.

He doesn’t feel comfortable talking loudly here. The street is empty but for them and the buildings are all dark, but there’s something eerie and cold in the atmosphere. In fact everything appears to be dimmer, the cyan glow of the city restricted to the horizon.

“Another sector,” Tron says but there’s a guarded look in his eyes.

“Yeah, I can see that,” Sam replies. “What happened here?”

It’s quieter than Iota but for all the wrong reasons. The wrongness is what’s prickling at the back of his neck as he follows Tron up the street to an intersection. The buildings are just as dark on the next street and there’s not another program in sight. They’re the only sources of light, and while Sam’s used to traveling up and down the coast at night he’s not comfortable being here. Their padded footsteps echo too loudly and the rattling ticking hum Tron makes ricochets off the smooth surfaces in a disturbing cacophony not unlike some of Sam’s more vivid dreams.

When Tron doesn’t answer Sam picks up his pace until he reaches the program’s side and taps on his arm. “Hey. What is this sector?”

“Abandoned. Marked as unfit for the Grid. Nobody’s been here in cycles.”

“Everything looks structurally sound,” Sam says. “It’s in the middle of the city; why would anyone abandon it?”

“It wasn’t by choice,” Tron says testily.

There’s only one program Sam knows of who could make those kinds of decisions. But if Clu was coded to strive for perfection then wouldn’t he use this sector to help accomplish that objective? Now that he’s gone why hasn’t any program moved in here? There has to be at least six unoccupied city blocks here, more than enough room for anyone looking to get away from whatever else is happening on the Grid.

“Why hasn’t anyone made use of this place after... wards?” Sam asks. “He’s not here anymore.”

“Nobody can use it. Programs skip this sector even if they don’t want to.”

“Then why are you here?”

Tron doesn’t answer until they’ve walked for a couple blocks. “I’m not from around here. My origin is different, my User is different, my code is different. It’s different enough that I can bypass some of the restrictions placed on the Grid.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

That was what Tron was supposed to do on the ENCOM servers, Flynn used to say. He worked outside of the MCP to make sure everyone, including the MCP, worked as they were supposed to and not step out of bounds. He was the watchdog, the exception to the rule, written years before firewalls, spywalls, and anti-malware programs were commonplace.

That must’ve been an advantage on the Grid, and Sam can’t have been the only one to realize that.

“What really happened here?” Sam asks.

Tron picks up the pace, much to Sam’s annoyance. The city glow seems to be getting brighter so they must be near the other side of the sector.

“The Purge,” Tron finally says. “Many ISOs moved to Arjia City but others still lived here. This was one of their sectors. Afterwards, Clu closed it off.”

By purged he means.... “How many?”

“I can’t remember,” Tron says carefully. “The programs that tried to save them didn’t survive.”

What about you? Sam wonders. Where were you when this happened? “Can this sector work?”

“Not without someone with the permission to lift the error coded into the sector,” Tron replies and now he’s giving Sam a strange look. “That requires either a powerful utility or a User.”

Is Tron hinting at something? Sam can’t get a read on the program but it feels like he’s testing the waters, testing him. Sam doesn’t know what to do with that, or the possibility that Tron might expect him to do something. He knows he’s the only User now, and if Flynn could manipulate the Grid at will, so can he. The thought is unsettling and Sam tries to ignore the dread coalescing in his chest. The idea that he can do whatever he wants and doesn’t have anyone to answer to doesn’t sit well with him because he knows what could happen. He already experienced it.

“You mean me,” Sam says around a dry mouth.

“I mean someone who can dedicate themselves to the Grid and perform these tasks,” Tron replies. “It doesn’t have to be you.”

Why are you giving me an out? You know I’m the only one who can do anything. So why?

That means Tron doesn’t expect anything from him, doesn’t expect him to stay or at least come back to fix the mess he helped create. If that’s the case, then why is he helping Sam? What can the program possibly gain out of this?

“Is there anything I can do now?” he asks.

“Not without bringing attention to yourself,” Tron replies. “Which we want to avoid.”

Point.

Sam follows him off a large street and into a narrow alleyway. They’re the only light source and in the glow of his armor’s white circuits Sam makes out imperfections in the side of the building on his right. He slows down to take a closer look and then touches a line of geometric imperfection with his fingertips. Nothing happens. He slides his hand along several inches of it and the imperfection appears to spread and deepen.

“Is it supposed to do that?” he asks.

Tron turns to him. “What is?”

“This. Never seen it before,” Sam says, tracing the increasingly prominent imperfection as it branches out like a tree.

“What did you-”

The building shudders and as Sam jerks back a part of the wall the imperfection runs through crumbles. He can’t make out much of what’s inside it, though he swears he sees a disc or two on the floor. Before he can react - maybe poke his head inside for a better look, maybe ask Tron what just happened - the program grabs him by the arm and yanks him down the alley. Sam stumbles, finds his footing, and then willingly runs when the building groans and slowly collapses in on itself. Debris pelt at them as they run out into the street on the other side of the block. Tron doesn’t stop moving until they’re another block over; once he determines they’re safe he lets Sam go and looks back at the source of the unsettling grinding sounds while Sam staggers to the curb and sits.

“What the hell was that?” he gasps. “That wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“In a way, it was,” Tron says. “You aggravated the damage done to that building and brought it down.”

“All I did was touch it! This didn't happen the last time, or - or earlier. Why's it happening now? What the fuck’s going on?”

The program crouches down in front of him, studying him with keen gray eyes. They’re much sharper than Alan’s, Sam thinks on a whim, and laser-focused.

“I don’t know,” Tron finally says.

“Bullshit.”

“I mean it. Do you think I can understand how Flynn did things on ENCOM and on the Grid? He built the Grid and created Clu to be just like him, to be able to maintain it. They know what to do with this-” Tron raps the ground with his knuckles. “-and how, but you’re an unknown, you don’t. The Grid isn’t stable anymore and you could be destabilizing it even further.”

“That’s - that’s fucked up,” Sam says. "I'm not even trying to - what the fuck?"

Ignoring the simulated fabric wrapped tightly around them, his hands look normal. Innocuous, if one ignores how swiftly they can disable security systems and hack into company servers. They’re not capable of destroying a four-story structure by poking at some damage done to the side of it.

“You don’t... have problems fighting us,” Tron says carefully, like he’s bracing himself for whatever reaction he might elicit. “You don’t have problems derezzing us.”

“But that’s not - I know what I need to do to survive. Not the - not the derezzing thing, I'm not a murderer, I was trying to survive. This,” and he touches a segment of the curb, watches fine bluish circuits bloom and fade under his finger, “isn’t the same thing. I don't go around breaking entire worlds. I’m not that kind of person.”

“It’s not just about destroying infrastructure. You can restore and build-”

“I’m not playing God!” Sam snaps. “I"m not here to do that. That's not why I came back. I know what I can do, what I'm capable of, 'cause I'm the only User left. I can do what Dad used to do, if I wanted to. But I'm not doing that. I'm not him.”

“Then why are you here?” Tron asks and Sam hears steel in his voice. “Why are you here looking for what Flynn wanted to do with the ISOs when you don't want to be like him?”

Sam doesn’t want to have this conversation right now, not here, not ever. “Look, can we not - we have things to do that won’t happen if we just sit here.”

Tron considers this for an agonizingly long second before nodding once and standing up. Sam gathers himself to follow suit but freezes when the program offers a hand.

“The next sector is just two blocks away,” Tron says while Sam takes the hand and lets the program pull him up to his feet. “And you’re right.”

“About what?” Sam asks.

“That you’re not like Flynn,” Tron says, lets go of his hand, and starts walking up the street.

Sam stares after him, the words ringing in his head. Most people either judge or praise him for taking after Flynn. The praise is what made ENCOM stocks skyrocket after he took over the company; the judgment is why he’s here. He lived with the comparison all his life and even learned how to read people by how they see him compared to his father. To hear that said so neutrally, to have someone agree with his declaration that he’s not Flynn, unsettles him.

He grasps at the reasons for coming back to the Grid, reasons that sound increasingly flimsy and hollow, while following Tron to the border of the inactive sector.

* * *

Seconds after stepping out into a much brighter and more lively sector Tron throws an arm out and stops Sam in his tracks. Confused and a bit annoyed, Sam looks around but doesn’t see - four programs are watching them from across the street.

“Called ahead for a welcoming party?” Sam asks.

“Last time I checked, no.”

Tron nudges him to the right but the programs move with them. They follow on their side of the street as Sam and Tron cross an empty intersection and onto the next city block. Sam notices the program flexing his fingers and wonders if they’re going to have another fight on their hands. He considers dragging Tron back to the inactive sector to avoid it; he’s not a coward, not running away, but he’s getting so tired fighting every program they come across on the way to the sector Zuse is hiding in.

“We have to get across, don’t we?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Is there a shortcut anywhere? Another route? Some way to avoid talking with them?”

“When you say ‘shortcut’-”

One of the four programs hollers, “Identify yourselves, programs!”

As one they turn to the group across the street. Sam snaps back, “You first.”

The green-lit program in the group bristles. “You’re the trespassers here. Identify yourselves or leave.”

“This sector isn’t yours for you to demand that of us,” Tron says, moving in front of Sam. “We’re only passing through.”

“How do we know that? You think you’re the first to say that only to try toppling Luce?” another program, one of two with blue circuits, replies. “Tell us who you are.”

“If you’re so desperate to cross the sector,” the other blue-lit program adds, “then hand over your discs and batons.”

“No,” Tron says.

“Seriously?” Sam asks. “You can’t just turn your back and pretend we were never here?”

He shouldn’t find the scandalized expressions on their faces hilarious but they are and he has to fight not to laugh. Then one of the programs brings out a beam katana and the situation stops being ridiculous.

“Identify yourselves,” the program says coldly. “We won’t ask you again.”

“You’ll regret it,” Tron replies.

The other three programs arm themselves. The white-lit program in the group doesn’t hide his confidence, says, “At least we’ll get some discs and lightcycles out of this.”

“Oh come on,” Sam groans as he takes his disc off its dock. “You can’t be serious.”

Tron looks over his shoulder, eyes flicking over Sam from head to toe. “Stay close and don’t push yourself. I’ll handle this.”

“The hell you are-”

The white-lit program flings his disc at them. Tron blocks it with his but doesn’t pull it apart into two like Sam expects. Then again Tron’s probably the only dual-wielding program on the Grid and revealing it would give his identity away.

“Try to disable them,” Tron instructs him while the programs run out onto the street towards them. “They’re not worth derezzing.”

“Pretty sure they want to kill us,” Sam says, testing the weight of his disc.

“It’s two to four. Odds are we’ll be done with them in ten minutes or less,” Tron says and launches himself at one of the blue-lit programs.

In the time it takes for Sam to swing his disc up to block the green program’s beam katana and kick the program's left knee out from under him, Tron skirts around the blue-lit program’s reach, deflects his disc, and slams his elbow into the base of the program’s neck. The program drops to the ground, circuits flickering and dimming, and Tron turns on the next program.

Sam isn’t quite so smooth in his takedown of the green-lit program; the program quickly gathers himself and barrels into Sam, almost knocking him flat on his back. Sam twists away at the last second but slips in his landing and loses his grip on his disc while banging his knee against the edge of the curb. Hot disabling pain shoots up and down his right leg and he bites his lip hard, choking back an agonized cry. He takes a little too long lurching to his feet and hobbling over to his disc; the program gets there a half-step before he does and kicks it away. Sam does the next best thing - he knocks the program’s feet out from under him, scrambles on top, and wrenches the program’s disc off his back.

The program throws him off and turns to him, beam katana blazing in hand, but freezes at the sight of the disc slowly going white in Sam’s tight grip. As realization dawns on the program, Sam punches at the circuit line running diagonally on his chest. To his immense relief the program collapses in a heap at his unsteady feet. Breathing hard, he tosses the program’s disc aside, watching the ring of white fade into a dim green, and stumbles to his own. He looks up to see Tron knocking down the last program. Tron kicks the program’s disc out of his hand and turns to Sam.

“Are you all right?” he asks.

“Never been better,” Sam says, trying and failing not to limp. “At least I’m not bleeding every - hey!”

The program at Tron’s feet lurches to the side and then throws himself at the back of Tron’s knee. He pushes himself up as Tron stumbles and swings as soon as Tron turns around to face him. His fist catches Tron by the jaw and while Tron staggers back the program then lunges for his disc. Sam flings his but his aim is off by a mile. The blue-lit program grabs his weapon and turns around on Sam.

“I know what you are,” the program snarls, advancing on Sam. “I saw-”

Tron comes at him in a white-blue blaze, slams him into the ground and pins him down with a foot on his shoulder. The program yells and grabs at his ankle to throw him off-balance but Tron slices his left hand off with a disc and derezzes him with a blow to the sternum with the other. The program shatters in a cascade of red-hot shards.

A loud rattling noise fills in the sudden silence as Tron slowly straightens himself. He moves as if in a daze, eyes focused elsewhere as he locks his discs together and catches Sam’s out of the air. He toes at the cooling bits of broken data and then turns to Sam with a blank expression, the left side of his face marred by a faint jagged line running from his neck up towards his eye. Sam feels his heart lodge in his throat and his hands clench tightly as he takes an unsteady step back, readying for flight or fight.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” Tron says. He sounds shaken.

“Done what?” Sam asks, unable to take his eyes off the program’s face.

Tron tosses him his disc and Sam forces himself to move his arms to catch it, fumbles with it for a few seconds before getting a solid grip. He watches the program study his own disc before locking it onto its dock but elects to keep his out. He doesn’t feel safe right now.

“Derezz him,” Tron says. He doesn't move into Sam's space even though he keeps glancing at Sam's injured knee. “I shouldn’t... have reacted like that.”

“You said if they’re gonna hurt us we should. And you didn’t have any problems derezzing the ones on that bridge a while back.”

“It’s not the same thing. I knew exactly what I was doing then. This - him - I can’t even remember processing the threat.” Tron points to the three unconscious programs. “My default is to disable them, suspend all activities until the programs are cleared.”

“But the past thousand cycles,” Sam says carefully, “that’s not what you did.”

“System failures are not acceptable,” Tron replies bitterly and the jagged line on his face darkens, “and the goal is to finish the game.”

The faint memory of an automated voice echoes in the back of Sam’s mind.

“System failure. Release Rinzler.”

“Okay,” Sam says, taking a slow, cautious step towards Tron, “but that program - he was a threat. He attacked you, tried to attack me. I don’t know how you guys handled problematic programs and processes while Dad was in charge and with... but now? I’m-”

Are the words at the tip of his tongue the right ones? On some level he understands what’s bothering Tron, what’s making this situation different from the previous one. He has an inkling of an idea what the deeper issue is, what’s making Tron upset with himself. Sam just can’t help feeling grateful that Tron reacted without thought and with such unbridled fury.

The program in question is waiting for him to finish his sentence so he clears his throat and haltingly says, “You saved my ass. That’s more than I can ask for.”

“I’m supposed to protect you while you’re here,” Tron says but the tension leaves him bit by bit.

Sam shrugs. “Considering how even buildings are trying to kill me, I’m kind of glad you have my back.”

“Noted.”

Maybe he’s imagining things but he’s pretty sure Tron just smiled right there, an honest one that lasts for just a second but is all his, not a likeness of Alan's. It’s gone just as quickly and Sam wonders if he’s just seeing things. He’s exhausted to the point that he's having trouble focusing and processing details like that line - a scar? - on the left side of Tron's face where the program hit him. It’s fading, or at least lighter than a second ago.

“Uh, hang on.”

“What?”

Sam starts to gesture at his own face but stops. The scar's already gone. He definitely remembers Tron saying he couldn’t self-repair but that scar disappeared on its own, and Tron acts like he doesn’t even know that punch damaged him. “Um, never mind. So... where to?”

“Somewhere else,” Tron says, walking between the three unconscious programs and picking up their weapons. “We’ve been here long enough. How's your knee?”

"It's fine," Sam says. He doesn't trust it to support his weight but the pain is manageable now. "Let's go."

They leave the street, ducking into an alley and crossing several blocks until they’ve put enough distance between them and their assailants. Tron drops the confiscated discs while passing through another city block and quickly leads Sam across the next street. Sam catches a glimpse of a trio of yellow-lit programs loitering in front of a structure that actually looks busy but quickly averts his gaze when one of them lifts her head in their direction.

“So, remember what I said before we were ambushed?” Sam asks.

“You want to know if there’s a shortcut to our destination,” Tron replies. “There could be.”

“What do you mean, ‘could be’?”

Tron suddenly grabs Sam by the arm and drags him behind a building that looks like an external hard drive. Sam stumbles over his feet as he tries to keep up with the program’s brisk pace. Tron doesn’t let go until they’re deep inside the city block and their circuits are the only light source. Sam yanks his arm back and rubs at the imprint of Tron's iron grip while scowling at the program.

“Was that really necessary?” he demands.

“No,” Tron says.

“Why are we here? I don't see any shortcut.”

"Not yet. You need to make it."

"What?"

Tron looks at him like he's an idiot. "I'm not capable of writing them. Nobody is, except you."

Sam blinks, then looks at the ground's interlocking hexagon tiles and up at the towering walls of the buildings around them. "Right. Okay. How am I supposed to do that?"

"Reshape the Grid to meet your needs," Tron says. "I never could understand how Flynn did it but that's because he's the Creator, he accesses it differently."

"And... Clu?"

Tron's response is decidedly colder. "He had utilities to assist him and he was limited to what Flynn compiled him to do."

"Right." Sam rubs his hands together, and then stops as a thought - several thoughts - crosses his mind. "What if I break it?"

"Then you'll fix it and try again," Tron says.

Sam quirks an eyebrow. "Trying to go Yoda on me?"

"I'm trying to what?"

Sam shakes his head. "Never mind."

He can't stop wondering what'll happen if he tries what Tron said. Nothing might happen, or the ground might light up in a complex array of circuits that tell him nothing. Or it'll break apart under his hands and feet, sending him crashing into... nothing. What's under the Grid?

"Flynn shaped the Grid out of the Outlands," Tron says when Sam asks. "There is a sublevel but it doesn’t encompass the entire city. If there was something before it I wasn't there."

Digital wilderness. The wild tangle of code that could take even Sam days to unravel. If he breaks the city it'll just turn back into the Outlands, completely undoing everything his father built and Clu maintained. The thought is fantastically unsettling.

"Jets are out of question, right?" he asks, voice a little rough around the edges. "A little too flashy for espionage?"

"Do you want to walk to the sector instead?" Tron asks.

"Hell no." His feet will kill him before they get there, his knee aches, and his whole body's sore. "I told you, I'm not here to play god."

He crouches down, careful to put the brunt of his weight on his good knee, and touches the ground with his fingertips. Hair-thin tendrils of circuits bloom outward from five points of contact and, as he watches, they weave into each other as if of their own volition until they form something hilariously familiar.

"Oh," is all he can say as he looks down at what's basically an interactive command prompt

He chances a glance at Tron; the program isn't even watching him. Instead he's scanning the area, body tense but arms hanging loosely at his side like he's ready to react at a moment's notice. There are only two ways in and out of where they've wedged themselves into the alley but Sam still feels overexposed. He feels nervous about this when he didn't even hesitate to break into ENCOM Tower. Of course, hacking into the servers isn't at all comparable to being able to literally reshape the ground he's standing on.

"This could take a while," Sam says. "Never done this before, so-"

"Take as much time as you need," Tron says. "But you won't take too long."

"Yeah?" He shifts his fingers just a bit and stares in awe as information crowds into the translucent window. He starts analyzing it instinctively and realizes it's the digital makeup of the city block they're hiding in. "What makes you say that?"

When Tron doesn't reply he forces himself to look up. The program is watching him, an odd expression gracing his face. "You're a User."

"That doesn't say a whole lot," Sam says. "I could've extracted the files from the safe house from the other side but finding them would've taken days."

"Flynn always said it was better working on the Grid from the inside." Tron suddenly crouches down on the other side of the glowing window, eyes watching but not registering what's under Sam's fingertips. "And you're a quick study. Maybe even quicker than Flynn."

Sam pauses in his search, realizing he needs the location of their destination to make the shortcut possible. "You're saying I'm better than Dad?"

"No," Tron says, "but you could be."

Sam has nothing to say in response. The careful way Tron says those words hints at something deeper than "you could be a better programmer than your father". He recalls what Tron said about how other programs see him. Unlike Tron, they only know one User, and that User created this world, created them. What could Sam possibly do better? What could he possibly offer?

"Programming is programming. Things changed a lot in twenty years but under the hood, it's all the same. I don't know more than Dad did," he says. "You have the disk Crystal gave you?"

He doesn't bother asking where Tron was storing it. He flips it over in his hand and sets it down on top of the interface. He watches circuits etch into the disk's smooth surface and a hexagonal hologram form several inches above it. He touches it tentatively and feels a slight pressure at his fingertips; as he watches the hexagon distort and stretch while little droplets of light pile upon one another. It looks like a three-dimensional topographic map of a city, or perhaps a small part of one.

"This the sector?" he asks.

"Yes."

He touches it again and the map collapses back into a hexagon. Another tap and the luminescent particles come together to form lines of code. Three seconds skimming the lines and he now knows exactly where the shortcut ends.

"Think I got this," he says and flicks his fingers at the interface under the disk, bringing it up near the sector code. He looks at the missing data on the lines that will execute the shortcut, reaches for the sector code, and flicks his index finger. A ghostly copy of a specific line detaches from the sector code and slides into place.

It feels like the tumblers in a lock aligning perfectly with a satisfying click. A spiderweb of thin lines carve into the ground under the hexagon disk, creating a perfect circle. Then the circuit defining the circumference seems to burn into the ground, slicing through the tiles. Sam stares at it, then at the interface hovering above it. When he pulls his hand away it fades and the disk's surface becomes flawless and unmarked by circuit lines. Tron picks it up and tucks it away while Sam sits back on his heels, feeling unexpectedly tired. He looks at his fingertips and then at the results.

"Is that it?" he asks.

Tron touches the center of the circular array and the ground derezzes to the edge. Sam peers into it; translucent rungs guide the way down to a glossy sublevel floor.

"This will work," Tron says and he sounds... proud.

Sam looks up and whatever response he has lodges itself in the back of his throat at Tron's warm, pleased smile. His heart clenches too tightly and when the program looks away to check their surroundings one more time he takes a deep, shuddering breath, tries to relax and get himself under control.

What the hell was that?

"So," he says roughly, and then quickly clears his throat. "So, who's first?"

* * *

The shortcut looks like the grungy underpasses in downtown L.A., minus the wear and tear and the smog-coated concrete. Sam's footsteps echo softly while he tests the footing. Behind him Tron steps off of the last rung and the manhole overhead seals itself up.

"Ever been here before?" Sam asks as he touches the wall. The surface is smooth and cold, and it seems to hum under his fingertips.

"No," Tron says, "but it looks like the early stages of the Grid, before Flynn created the infrastructure for it."

Sam lifts his hand and watches the faint whitish imprint of his hand fade back into the glossy colorless surface. So this is what the newly tamed Outlands would look like - wild digital code unraveled and made ready for the User to create, to build. He presses his hand back on the wall and watches circuits spread out from the points of contact and come together as another interactive command prompt. He reads the data it presents; like before, this one details the city block they're now underneath but with a flick of his index and middle fingers he creates a branching window showing him information about the surrounding area.

Something taps his shoulder and he starts.

"We need to move," Tron reminds him. The corner of his mouth curves upward in an amused smile as he steps back and unhooks one of his batons.

Sam reluctantly dismisses the display and grabs his. "So," he says nonchalantly, gesturing down the tunnel with it, "it's just a straight line from here to the end?"

"Were you expecting something else?"

"Not really." Sam tosses the baton up in the air as he walks over to Tron's side. "Race you."

"You'll lose," Tron replies, and bolts down the tunnel.

"Seriously?" Sam says and runs after the program; Tron's already rezzed his lightcycle and Sam hastily does the same.

The tunnel lights up as they rocket through it, helping them stay on a straight, unwavering path to the end of the shortcut. The soft white circuits blur into two bright lines at the edge of Sam's field of vision as he focuses on Tron's lightcycle. He hugs his lightcycle's chassis, coaxing it to pick up speed, and it rewards him with incremental gains. He reaches within a half-length of the lead and is nearly head to head with the program when he sees another set of transparent rungs a short distance ahead of them.

Sam hits the brakes hard and the lightcycle skids a few feet before coming to a full stop. He sits up as the protective backing retracts from his disc dock. "Almost had you."

"Almost," Tron echoes, dismounting from his and picking up the baton as it finishes collapsing the lightcycle back into it. "You'll have to do better if you want to win."

"Never thought you'd be one to cheat to get ahead," Sam says. He's just as reluctant to get off the lightcycle but Tron's waiting for him next to the rungs.

"I wouldn't call it cheating if you didn't set the rules beforehand," Tron replies. "Don't assume everyone will play by your definition of 'fair'."

"I don't. Just didn't expect it from you."

Tron's smile goes stiff and Sam wishes he could take that back. The program then shrugs it off. "I don't know why everyone expects me to play by their definitions. If I did that, I wouldn't be able to function at an optimum level."

"You still follow protocols, right?"

And now there's that increasingly recognizable exasperated look thrown his way. "I don't break every rule, if that's what you're asking."

"Just checking," Sam replies with an easy grin and earns another smile.

Tron insists on being the first to go up, just to make sure the shortcut didn't take them somewhere dangerous. Sam rolls his eyes and watches the program climb up the rungs; as he nears the ceiling circuits burn a circle right overhead and that section of the ground gives way. Tron pulls himself above ground and then sticks his head back under to say, "All clear."

Sam quickly follows suit. He pulls himself out of the manhole cover and stands up to see that they're in yet another alleyway. He looks behind him to see the shortcut seal itself and vanish. On either side is the hustle and flow of traffic, the kind that suggests a thriving city neighborhood - or Grid sector. Sam follows Tron towards one end of the alley and they step out onto a brightly lit street. Programs traverse the sidewalk and two red-orange tanks roll across the intersection to Sam's left. The buildings here seem to pulse with activity but if Sam narrows his eyes he can see darkened structures two blocks down.

"So," he says slowly. "Zuse. We have to find him."

"He doesn't go by that name," Tron reminds him, "and Castor died with the End of Line club. He'd have assumed a new identity, one that'll allow him to continue to function as himself while deceiving everybody else."

"That's actually not as helpful as it sounds," Sam says.

"But it's something to keep in mind," Tron replies and steps in behind two programs walking towards the intersection on the left. "Come on."

Sam keeps an eye on the tanks as he follows Tron across the intersection onto the next block. He remembers Tron talking about tanks and light runners, and wonders what the tanks here are supposed to do. Are they patrolling the sector and protecting the programs here? Or are they patrolling with the intent to keep everyone in line? He watches them slowly turn right at the next intersection and then notices that Tron's head is cocked in their direction; the program had been monitoring their every move. Sam then realizes that at some point Tron shuffled him away from the curb, shielding him from the tanks.

"Not sure if you can stop one of them from firing on me," he says.

Tron just looks at him and then pulls him out of the way of three green-lit programs conversing with each other while barreling down the sidewalk in the opposite direction.

Bright and bustling as the sector seems to be, the closer Sam looks the more he realizes that these programs aren't really doing anything. They walk up and down the streets, loiter in front of buildings, and enter the few that seem busy, but they don't move with real purpose, look at everyone warily as they pass by each other, and generally appear... bored. More than a few simply stand next to inactive structures with apathetic expressions.

Tron suddenly slows and puts his right arm out, herding Sam away from the curb. Ahead of them a crowd of programs stand around a blue-lit program kneeling next to a rezzed lightcycle leaning against the sidewalk. Its front wheel is heavily damaged and Sam can't stop cringing at it as they walk past. The program next to it looks like she's working with an interface linked to the lightcycle's digital code and it's a wonder comparing the determination and drive in her face with the mild curiosity and indifference in the faces of the programs around her.

"... a repair utility?" a program asks its neighbor. "Didn't think there'd be any left here."

"Why bother repairing it? Pollux can provide another," another program says.

"At what cost? I wouldn't, especially if I can repair it myself."

A chunk of the lightcycle's front wheel falls off and shatters at the kneeling program's feet. The crowd goes silent while the repair utility freezes, stares at the broken bits on the ground, and then up at the interface. She touches a window and the interface shifts in answer, presenting her with something lit up in fiery red. Sam doesn't realize he stopped walking to watch the process until Tron touches his elbow.

"We need to move," Tron says quietly.

"I know, but that lightcycle," Sam says. "She's a repair utility, right?"

"Possibly, but she might only not be able to restore lightcycles. This crowd's been here before we arrived."

"How do you know that?"

"Everyone and every process creates a time stamp. I accessed this one while you stood there watching."

"Okay." Sam watches another part of the lightcycle detach, aggravating the damage. It actually hurts to watch the vehicle slowly fall apart. "It can't be hard to fix."

Tron frowns. "You're not."

"You said she's been here for a while, right? It has to suck trying to fix something and not knowing how or why. And it's a lightcycle, Tron; I'd hate to just walk away from it when I can fix it."

He looks at the program when he doesn't get a response. Tron's staring at him, mouth a flat indecisive line. "Oh come on. It'll only take a minute. And if they ask, I'll just say I'm a repair utility, too."

"I thought the plan was to not attract attention," Tron finally says.

"And I won't if I say I'm just another program," he replies.

The crowd behind them murmurs as something breaks and Sam looks over his shoulder to see cracks running along the lightcycle's chassis. The damage is spreading despite the utility's best efforts.

"Fine," Tron says. "Just don't do anything else that'll give you away."

Sam rolls his eyes and starts elbowing past programs to reach the utility. He toes aside the cold glassy bits of data as he goes to her side and watches her work. After a couple seconds she stops to look up at him.

"Uh... hi," he says when she doesn't say anything. "Noticed you're having trouble with that lightcycle."

"You're not a repair utility," she says.

He freezes. How can she tell? "I am. Well, I can fix things."

Her eyes flick up and down his body. "Then why are you wearing that?"

The crowd shifts restlessly and Sam hears the words "Gaming Grid" and "Disc Wars" move from mouth to mouth. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Tron pushing through the crowd towards him, and wonders how he already lost control of the situation.

"I was supposed to compete but the... whole system went down," he says. "I was wearing this when I got out and, uh, figured it'll be safer to keep this on me. Y'know, given what's going on... here...."

Her frown lessens and she stands up. "I suggest you get rid of it, then. I can't tell what you are. You said you can repair this?"

The murmuring around them quiets and Tron stops moving. Sam glances over his shoulder at the tall program, gives him a quick reassuring smile, and then turns to the repair utility. "Yeah. Used to fix these and, uh, light runners before everything happened. Recognizers, too."

"Recognizers?" she says, stepping aside to give him room. "Haven't heard of them in a while."

"Yeah, good thing, too," he says as he tentatively touches the lightcycle's chassis. He frowns when the interface that he pulls up looks completely different from the one the utility was working with.

"What's that?" she asks. "That doesn't look like any interface I've ever seen."

He quickly dismisses it and tries again. He's not sure if his intent could affect how things look but the interface that pops up again looks more like hers - simple and heavy on the graphics.

"It's just... a little glitchy," he says.

He can't see the exact damage with this interface but it's the only way he can repair the lightcycle without arousing suspicion. He taps his finger on the diagram of the lightcycle and smaller windows pop up around it. He selects the one linked to the front of the lightcycle and it presents him with a quick rundown on its damaged wheel. Another tap, and a new window prompts him with a question. He selects an answer and the lightcycle begins restoring itself, new code filling in the ugly gaps the damage left on it. It takes seconds to complete the repair and the interface glows brightly as it shows him the restored lightcycle. Satisfied, Sam minimizes the display and stands up.

"There you go," he says.

The repair utility looks annoyed as she walks around the lightcycle, not quite believing what's in front of her eyes. "Why didn't it take when I did that?"

"I don't know," he replies, which is sort of true. He has no idea what kind of repair utility she is or how to find out without giving himself away.

"That's how it's been for cycles," someone in the crowd adds. "Nothing makes sense."

"Like the portal," another says and the crowd loudly agrees. "It's open again but nothing's changed."

Sam can't stop himself from looking heavenward. The portal is just a distant star but it's still the brightest thing in the sky. No program can miss it unless they spend their cycles looking everywhere but up.

"But it's open. That means a User knows we're here, right?"

"When's the last time the Creator cared about us? It's better if we're left alone."

"Yeah, whatever comes through the portal will probably wreck what's left of the city."

"The portal is the output; you're talking about Iota and nobody goes there-"

The back of his neck prickles and he turns around. Tron is right at his back, arms folded over his chest. His face is blank but the message is clear: it's time to go.

"So, uh, enjoy your lightcycle," Sam tells the utility while Tron pushes programs out of the way, forging a path for him to follow.

"Thanks for letting me avoid Pollux," she says. "What's your-"

Tron grabs his wrist and tugs him along at a faster pace. The crowd drowns out the rest of her question and the ones standing at the outskirts of it gives Sam curious looks as he passes by them. After they cross the next street Tron's grip on him loosens and Sam yanks his arm back.

"What the hell was that for?"

"That wasn't a User-friendly crowd and I don't want to stick around in case they get too curious about you," Tron says while scanning their immediate surroundings. "Should've warned you that your access to the Grid looks different from ours. If they knew what a User interface looked like-"

"But they didn't so we're fine. And warn me before you drag me off like that; thought my wrist was gonna break."

Tron flinches, staring at his wrist. "I didn't realize - I'm sorry."

That wasn't exactly the reaction Sam expected and he quickly says, "It's fine. Just, tell me before you do that." He rocks back on his feet. "So, now what?"

"We find Pollux," Tron says.

"Why?"

"It sounds like Pollux is the program running this sector," Tron replies. "If that's the case then we move to the heart of the sector, find Pollux, and ask if a translation program took up residence here."

"That program back there thanked me for letting her avoid meeting the guy. You really wanna go find him?"

"You have a better idea?"

He doesn't. Tron accepts his silence as a victory and nods in the direction of an even brighter section of the sector.

As they move towards it Sam notices Tron maintaining a certain distance between them when before he'd stick a little too close and try to direct Sam’s path. Sam wonders if Tron's taking the request to "warn me before you drag me off somewhere" a little too seriously, and then decides it's best not to follow that train of thought. He skirts around two programs and jogs to catch up to Tron.

"What happens if we don't find Pollux?" he asks.

"We will," Tron replies.

"Say we find Pollux and Pollux has no idea where Zuse is. What then?"

"Crystal says he's here," Tron says, "and she's rarely wrong."

This part of the sector is distinctly more crowded, with many more programs crossing streets and loitering in front of lit structures. Sam has to elbow quite a few out of the way to keep up with Tron before deciding he can better save his energy if he just tailgates the program instead.

"She just had to ask me to get his cane," Sam mutters. "Why his cane?"

"You heard her," Tron replies. "She isn't going to give up a valuable resource just because it's you."

"Can't blame her, but seriously - his cane? She couldn't ask for anything else? She knows I'm a User-"

"Sam," Tron snaps over his shoulder.

"She could've asked for a lot of other things," Sam says in a lower voice. "What if we can't find him? What if we did and he didn't have his cane? What if he lost it when - when Clu destroyed his club?"

"He has the cane," Tron replies.

"How do you know?"

Tron's stride falters. Frowning, Sam picks up the pace to reach his side, shouldering aside a passing program, and quietly asks, "You met him after the reintegration?"

"If you were paying attention," Tron says, "Crystal warned that he'd be on the lookout for me. So far nothing indicates he knows we're here. Find Pollux, get Zuse's actual location, and move in on him before he gets wind of me."

"What did you do?" Sam asks.

Tron smiles grimly. "I took back what's rightfully mine."

Before Sam can ask for the exact details a voice pipes up, "Looking for Pollux? Doesn't work that way; usually he'll come looking for you."

Sam whirls around, hand reaching behind his back for his disc. Tron slides in between him and a short yellow-lit program, shielding him from her and drawing attention from passerbys.

"Explain yourself," Tron says.

"You're a defensive bunch," the program says. "I'm not going to derezz anybody here, if that's what you're wondering. I just overheard you two talking about finding Pollux and Zuse. Interesting. I mean, nobody's gone by that name in a long time."

"Force of habit," Sam quickly says.

"You should update your definitions, then; that name's been underground since the Purge," she replies. "Where have you been?"

Sam hears a loud rattling ticking noise and looks at Tron in alarm. The yellow-lit program doesn't act like she notices; she just raises an eyebrow at him, or Tron, he can't tell. Sam taps Tron on the shoulder and hisses, "Hey, quiet down."

Tron frowns but the noise sinks back to a muffled whir.

"As I was saying," the program says breezily, "Pollux usually finds you. He's good at that, you know. He hears you have a problem, you need something, and he shows up offering help."

"What's the catch?" Sam asks at the same time that Tron asks, "Who is he?"

"He looks for utilities. They're tasked with maintaining and optimizing the infrastructure, making sure every process runs as smoothly as possible. Utilities are rare these cycles; he looks for them, offers them whatever items they need, whatever purpose to fulfill, and they help him maintain this sector."

"Then why do some try to avoid dealing with him?" Sam asks, remembering the repair utility's last words to him.

"Not everyone wants to be tied to a sector or another program," she says. "And Pollux is... pretty glitchy. If he doesn't like you or if you refuse to help him he'll set his Sentries on you."

"Sentries?" Sam demands. "I thought-"

"We need his help finding someone," Tron says. "You know where he is."

"Zuse is long gone," she replies. "Went underground when the resistance collapsed and, by all accounts, vanished. Derezzed."

There's something unsettling about her. Her brown eyes dart between him and Tron, assessing them in a way that leaves him feeling exposed, and she keeps smiling like she knows something they don't. Like she knows where Zuse really is.

"Where can we find Pollux?" Sam asks.

"A half-built memory bank on the far side of this sector," she says, jerking a thumb over her shoulder. "But not for long; he moves every one point two millicycles."

He nods. "Thanks for the-"

"Did Pollux send you?" Tron asks. "You just said he finds programs in need of assistance and offers help for a price. You know we're looking for him and you just told us where to find him."

She cocks her head, arms akimbo. "Do I look like I work for him?"

"I can't tell," Tron says and his tone goes hard and flat, threatening. "Identify yourself."

"Security programs," she mutters, rolling her eyes. Sam can't help but feel a certain kinship with her. "If you suspected my intentions you would've asked me that the moment I started talking. I'm Enyo. I sweep through sectors, looking for faults and errors. If I find them, I mark them and hope someone can fix them."

She's looking at Sam the entire time and he wonders if she figured out who he really is.

"Then why us? We're not faults and errors," Sam says. "We're just passing through."

"You could be," she says with a grin. The pupils of her eyes flicker yellow for a second. "But I think I'll let you slide. The whole sector's riddled with problems; what difference can you make?"

Her attention shifts to Tron. "You should get that looked at," she says, gesturing at his everything. "I'm sure there's a utility somewhere around here that can handle programs. A scan would be harmless enough."

"I'm fine, thank you," Tron says defensively.

"Keep telling yourself that," she says cheerfully. "Don't break the entire sector. Good luck!"

She slides around Tron and walks away at a rapid pace. She vanishes within seconds, though Sam thinks he saw a glimpse of yellow in the crowd. He turns back to Tron, who seems a bit dazed.

"What just happened?" he asks.

"I don't know," Tron says.

Sam stands up on his toes but he still can't see her. "So, think she's right? About Pollux?"

"She's not malicious, and right now what she gave us is our only lead," Tron replies. "Unless you have a better idea."

He doesn't. "I don't."

"Then come on. We need to find that memory bank before he moves."

* * *

The half-built memory bank is the tallest building on its block. It's taller than anything in a two-block radius. The streets are empty and only a few street lamps work, illuminating the way in a patchwork of light. The toppled relics and skeletal structures of incomplete memory banks hint at the sector's history as a thriving, integral part of the Grid. Now, minus the clearly defined section of bustling city blocks, it's a ghost town.

"What happened here?" Sam asks.

"Reintegration," Tron says.

The memory bank is several stories high and unlit; its support pillars rise even higher into the sky. From here Sam can't see or hear any signs of activity, and wonders if they're too late or if Enyo fed them the wrong information.

"Think anyone's home?" he asks.

"One way to find out," Tron replies. "We-"

He throws an arm out and Sam walks into it. The program tilts his head just slightly in warning and Sam steps back, eyes scanning their surroundings while reaching for his disc. His eyes widen when two horribly familiar programs step out of the shadows of a wrecked building just like in several of his dreams.

"Identify yourselves," a Sentry asks.

"On whose behalf?" Tron says.

"You're not authorized to access this area," the other Sentry says and hefts its grip on its staff.

Sam edges close to Tron and hisses, "What the fuck, how are they still functioning? Shouldn't they stop working without Clu around?"

"We're not - they're not directly linked to him, just his system," Tron replies. The program seems to have an internal debate with himself before stepping up to the Sentries and coldly saying above a more pronounced ticking noise, "Stand down."

One Sentry obeys, adopting a lax stance. The other maintains on the defensive and repeats, "Identify yourselves."

"You can do that?" Sam asks.

Tron reluctantly says, "Yes. How can Pollux reprogram Sentries? That makes no sense-"

"Identify yourselves."

"Shut up," Sam says. "How many Sentries survived the reintegration?"

"Most of them were on the Rectifier, which was destroyed. The ones left in the city were derezzed by other programs. I don't know how many are still standing or where they are, or who can access their discs."

"Maybe that's why Pollux looks for utilities."

"There aren't any that can rewrite a program's directive," Tron says. "There are programs that can mask them...."

Sam waits for Tron to elaborate but the program just stares at the Sentry in front of them. Tron's eyebrows then furrow and he asks, "Who gave you your directive?"

"Pollux."

"Who is he?"

"Unable to comply."

"They always talk this much?" Sam asks.

"Yes." Tron gestures at him and enunciates, "I have a repair utility who wants to speak to Pollux."

The Sentry turns its helmeted head to Sam, then sidesteps once and then forward until it's toe to toe with him. It scans him - at least, that's what it sounds like - and then steps back. "Scan incomplete. Unable to verify identification. Request denied."

"I take it that's a no," Sam says. "Just knock it out and-"

Tron slams his elbow into the side of the Sentry's neck and the program collapses at Sam's feet. He blinks at its body and then quickly kicks aside the staff. He turns to the other Sentry, fingers flexing and ready to grab his disc, but it doesn't react to him or its fallen companion.

"That's just creepy," he says. "Should we leave them like that?"

"Yes," Tron replies. "We need to move before others discover them."

They move off the street in a straight line towards the bank, Tron leading the way. Piles of rubble and cracked support beams loom over them and Sam shudders thinking about the building he accidentally brought down in the inactive sector. He then wonders what this sector would look on the screen. What would all of this look like on the other side, anyway?

He runs into Tron's back.

"What the fuck?" he hisses, rubbing his chest. The program's like a brick wall.

"Sentries posted around the base of the memory bank," Tron replies. "We're not here to antagonize Pollux so we'll have to move quickly, disable the Sentries when we can, and find him."

He looks at Sam and Sam scowls. "What, you don't think I can do it?"

"Follow my lead," Tron says and darts around a pile of broken data.

Sam runs after him and reaches for his disc when he spots a Sentry ahead with its back towards them. Tron is even faster; he leaps at the unsuspecting program and slams his fist into the disc dock; the Sentry drops but Tron catches it before it hits the ground and carefully drags it to the side. Sam picks up the Sentry's staff and chucks it into the pile next to the disabled program. When he turns around to check on Tron all he sees is the Sentry's body.

"Tron?" he calls out.

Data tumbles down the side of the mountain of debris behind him and he whirls around, hands clenched and ready to throw a punch. Tron frowns at him as he chokes on his gasp, and says, "Don't fall behind."

"Wasn't," Sam says hoarsely.

The path Tron paves to the memory bank's entrance zigzags through the destruction of the buildings around it. The only time Sam can catch his breath is when Tron takes out an unsuspecting Sentry; after that they're on the move again, closing in on the unlit entryway.

"Can you?" Tron asks, studying the three Sentries guarding the doors.

"Can I what?" Sam peers over the top of the pile of debris they're hiding behind. "Yeah, sure."

"Good," and Tron launches himself over Sam and slides down the rubble, rolls forward while undocking his disc, and flings them at the Sentries charging at him.

"What the hell," Sam mutters, scrambling after the program.

Tron's discs break the staffs but don't hit either of the two Sentries he disarmed. In the time it takes for the discs to return to him he knocks one Sentry to the ground and slams his elbow into the base of the other Sentry's throat. Sam ducks under the third Sentry's staff, trips the program up, and slams his fist down on the exposed disc dock. The Sentry collapses under him and he stands up. He turns to see Tron jogging into the building and quickly follows.

The memory bank's interior is just open space interrupted by support beams. Sam looks around for signs of Sentries or Pollux as he follows Tron deep inside.

"Could use some decorating," he mutters. He sees the beginnings of partitioning walls but mostly chunks of useless bits on the floor.

Tron abruptly stops and darts behind a pillar. Sam follows suit and peers around the program to see what's interrupting their search. A Sentry stands guard near what looks like an elevator shaft. Judging by its stance it probably has no idea that there's been a security breach.

"Great, he's on another floor," Sam says. "How many are in this building?"

"I counted eight. The ninth is unfinished."

Sam watches the Sentry cock its head like it heard something. Like it heard them. "Is there a way to locate him without checking each floor?"

"Possibly," Tron says, fixing him with a significant look.

Sam sighs and crouches down on the floor. "Watch my back."

He has no idea what he's doing but there's no time like now to figure things out. He presses his right hand on the ground and watches circuits and data bloom under his palm. His eyes narrow as he attempts to decode the information; the incomplete memory bank is a mess and he can't pinpoint the location of the program they're pursuing. He taps the edge and watches the display change and become a three-dimensional miniature. It still doesn't give him a clear picture but now he can make out other programs in the building.

"Cluster of programs on the fifth floor," he says. "Maybe five, six programs? Three on the third, two on the eighth."

"Can you distinguish between them?"

He tries. "Can't. Code here's too tangled. Could take hours making sense of it."

Tron hums thoughtfully as he kneels down next to Sam to study the display. "He could be on the eighth."

Sam notices movement outside the building. "Think the others woke up. We need to go."

He minimizes the display while Tron stands up and scans the floor. He wobbles a bit as he stands and leans against the support pillar.

"Sam?"

He waves it off. "I'm fine. We need to get to the elevator."

Tron nods and turns around to watch the lone Sentry. Sam closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, willing himself to hang in there, they've got a lock on Pollux's location, they're closer to their goal. He hears a body drop and jerks his head up; Tron's not next to him. He pushes off the pillar and stares at Tron hopping over the Sentry's body to slam his hand on what must be the "UP" button. He looks straight at Sam and Sam doesn't hesitate another second, runs to the elevator shaft and skids inside the lift. Tron taps on one of a series of nodes to the left of the door and the lift shudders under their feet before moving up.

Sam leans against the wall and studies the ceiling. "If you're right and he's on the eighth floor, then the other program has to be a Sentry."

"I'll take care of it, Tron replies.

Sam doesn't say anything when the program positions himself in front. The elevator slows as it reaches the top floor and Sam wonders what they'll find when the door opens. Hopefully, Pollux will be there and they can talk him into helping them find Zuse. He doesn't want to know what could happen if Pollux refuses and they have to escape-

"Hey," he says. "How are we getting out of here?"

"Baton," Tron says.

Sam raises an eyebrow at his back. "What? How is rezzing a lightcycle supposed to-"

The elevator door opens and Tron leaps at the Sentry on the other side; he hooks his arm around the program's neck and uses his momentum to bring them both down. The Sentry struggles to regain its bearings but collapses as soon as Tron slams his fist into the base of its neck. Sam looks around; the floor is just as vacant as the first except for the crystalline desk and chair set haphazardly in the middle. He frowns at the pile of inactive discs on one end of the desk and then at the makeshift minibar set up next to one of the support pillars.

"What the hell?"

The floor is high enough that Sam can see the cityscape. Half of the skyscrapers are silhouettes and high in the sky is the winking star that tells him the portal is still open. It's a breathtaking vista and it takes him a long second to tear his eyes away to address more pressing matters.

"Well, well, well," a familiar voice says somewhere behind him. "We meet again, son of Flynn."

Sam reaches for his disc but freezes when he feels something cold press against the back of his neck. He glances at Tron, who's making that uncomfortable loud ticking noise again. Tron looks pissed.

"If you'll be so kind as to lower your arm," Zuse says calmly and Sam does.

He's prodded forward and takes careful steps over the Sentry's body towards Tron. As soon as the object pressing against his neck disappears he whirls around to stare at the program. Zuse is tsking to himself while poking at the disabled Sentry; behind him the elevator door opens and five Sentries file out. Tron shifts closer to Sam and watches them keenly as the Sentries surround them. Suitably satisfied with whatever he's looking for in the disabled program, Zuse gives Sam and Tron a winning smile and limps over to his desk. Sam clenches his fist, wishing he could deck the back-stabbing program.

"So, son of Flynn," Zuse says, leaning against the desk. "User. What brings you to my sector?"

Sam sputters. "You're - I thought - you're Pollux?"

"Yes, of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

He really has nothing to say to that. He didn't even consider the possibility that Pollux and Zuse are one and the same. He glances at Tron again to see that Tron didn't expect this, either. But now that Sam knows, it makes some sense - Zuse was able to reinvent himself as Castor and survive for a thousand cycles, after all. He takes another look at the program tapping his cane against his foot. Zuse's attire isn't as flashy as Sam remembers but he still looks immaculate and completely out of place in this wreck of a sector. There is a noticeable scar crawling up his leg and Sam wonders how he got it.

"You're controlling Sentries?" Tron asks. "How?"

"I used to mask ISOs and smuggle them out of the city," Zuse replies. "I helped newly compiled programs adapt to the Grid. It's not hard tricking them into believing that the system still runs."

"And the programs here accept that?"

"They'll accept anyone who can maintain a stable sector," Zuse says, "which I can. It's all we want, isn't it?"

He gives Sam a significant and incredibly uncomfortable look.

"So," he continues, "I've been hearing some very interesting things around these parts. I don't mean the portal - everyone knows it's open. I mean a violent confrontation at the edge of Iota. I mean a series of battles across several sectors, all with the same signature. I mean a powerful repair utility accompanied by a security program making its way through my sector. Next thing I know they break into my current base of operations looking for me."

Zuse gestures at them with a flourish before pushing off the desk to limp over to the minibar. He hooks his cane on the edge of the countertop and sets out carafes, bottles, and a tall slender glass. He hums to himself while fixing up a neon pink cocktail but glances up every couple of seconds in Sam's direction. He drops a delicate glass umbrella into the glass but doesn't immediately drink it. Instead he leans on the countertop and looks between Sam and Tron.

"Not feeling very chatty, are we?"

Sam makes a show of looking at the Sentries surrounding him and Tron. "What do you think?"

"There is that," Zuse says. "But what was I supposed to expect? Nothing's certain these cycles; we do what we can to survive. Don't we, Rinzler?"

Either the lighting in this building is terrible or Sam really did see a jagged line flare up on the left side of Tron's face and neck, the exact same line that he saw after that one program punched Tron in the face. It's gone just as quickly and he glances at Zuse, notes the wariness behind Zuse's easy and confident smile. So he's not the only one who noticed. Tron cocks his head to Sam questioningly and he shakes his head.

"Too soon, then," Zuse says after a long moment. "Fine. Why don't you tell me how you found me? I was so careful covering my tracks whenever I went out to find programs that need me. How'd you find my current hideout? I'm curious. Enlighten me."

A little birdie told me, Sam thinks but says nothing. He doesn't know why Enyo offered them so much information but whatever her endgame is, her information held up to task and it doesn't feel right giving her up to Zuse. He doesn't trust the program with any kind of information. Judging by Tron's silence, the program must feel the same.

"But you have a source," Zuse says when he realizes neither of them are going to talk. "Fine, I'll find it myself. But I know you were looking for me. Why? What could a User and the most hated program on the Grid possibly want with me?"

There's no good way to say they want his light cane. Sam rocks back and forth on his feet, eyeing the staff held by the Sentry standing right in front of him.

"We're looking for a light runner," Tron suddenly says. "I know there was a cache near here."

Sam looks at him sharply. "What are you-"

"A light runner?" Zuse's eyes narrow. "Now why does he need to go to the Outlands?"

"How-"

"Light runners are off-Grid compatible," Zuse says and finally takes a sip of his cocktail. He pushes the umbrella to the other side of the glass. "The Grid is dying but we'd rather stay here than go out there. Only you'd have a reason to."

A slow smile forms on his face like he's having a revelation. "So what is that reason, son of Flynn?"

"Not your business," Tron snaps.

"Not yours, either." He leans against the counter, eyes on only Sam. "So what is it? If you tell me, I might find you that light runner."

"I don't think so." He's not trusting Zuse with anything.

"I don't think you understand," Zuse says and his words take on a menacing tone. "Nobody gives freely here. Resources are limited. Precious. You think I'll hand over a light runner just because you're a User? You give me something, SamFlynn, and I'll give you that light runner."

"I'm not telling you why I need it," Sam replies.

Zuse sighs and shakes his head. He picks up his cocktail and takes a delicate sip from it while plucking up his cane. He limps over to Sam and Tron shifts, moving closer to Sam. Zuse looks at Tron like he's seeing the program for the first time.

"Or," he says, refocusing on Sam, "you can give me your disc and I'll give you whatever you need."

"What do you want with it?" Tron growls.

"Protective, are we? Watching you try to redeem yourself is quite something," Zuse says. "I think the word is... pathetic? Here's how it works - if you want something from the Grid, be prepared to give back."

"Like my disc," Sam says. "You think I'm gonna give it to you for a light runner?"

"Depends on how you plan to get back to the portal," Zuse replies.

"Without his disc he can't go back," Tron says. "You'll strand him here."

Sam's eyes widen at the words. His hands clench and he fights the urge to reach for his disc, to make sure it's still on him. Whatever happens, he won't be trapped in here. He can't. He's not leaving Quorra out there by herself, he's not putting Alan and Lora through it again.

"Why do you want it?" he asks carefully, masking his fear as best as he can. "What can you even do with it? It's not a master disc, and you're not Clu."

"Your disc can grant access, permissions, privileges. The Grid needs to be restored, but not by a User or a likeness utility. You've seen the Grid. You know what you did to it, what Flynn and Clu did to it. It deserves better."

"You think that's you?" Sam demands. "You sold me out to Clu and then he tried to kill you. You're the wrong person for the Grid. All you do is adapt and take advantage-"

"You think you're better?" Zuse asks. The false charm vanishes and the program leaning on his cane in front of Sam is bitter, angry. "You think you can come here after what you did to the Grid cycles ago and claim to be better than any program? You're not a god, SamFlynn. You don't deserve the Grid and its programs."

Sentries be damned, he wants to deck Zuse in the face. He doesn't know what he can do with the Grid, what he wants to do with it, but he can't let a program like Zuse take over. The Grid deserves better.

"He hasn't had a chance," Tron says.

"A chance? He had one, and brought the system down on our heads."

"You can't maintain the Grid on your own."

"That's what his disc is for," Zuse replies. "So how about this? Give me his disc and I'll let you go free."

"Are you-" Sam starts forward but Tron throws an arm out, holding him back. The Sentries shift, gripping their weapons tightly while their helmeted heads tilt in Sam's direction.

"I mean Tron," Zuse says. "I don't need him. But you'll be useful. You're better than any utility left in the city."

"Fuck you," Sam says. Cane or no cane, he's done. "We're getting out of here."

"And how do you plan to accomplish that?" Zuse asks.

Five Sentries on this floor and Zuse is not a fighter. He spares a quick look over his shoulder and sees the Sentry Tron put down earlier now standing guard next to the elevator shaft. Six Sentries and Zuse, plus more on each floor below this one and around the memory bank.

"Your baton is an upgraded version," Tron says quietly. "It can rez a light jet."

Sam suddenly understands what Tron meant when he asked about their escape plan. He nods once, a subtle gesture, and sizes up the Sentry in front of him.

Zuse frowns. "What are you-"

"Stand down," Tron commands and two Sentries immediately obey.

Sam yanks his disc off his back and slams it into the nearest Sentry's leg. The disc's burning white edge cuts through the armor and the Sentry staggers, falls over when its leg shatters. Sam doesn't look while he ducks under the next Sentry's staff, doesn't look at the first Sentry still trying to grab him while its form collapses into red-hot bits of data. Sam blocks the staff with his disc and then twists away, letting the Sentry stumble forward. He slashes at its exposed side and spins around, disc up and ready, to find himself at the wrong end of Zuse's cane.

"I've summoned more Sentries," Zuse says. His arm trembles and he sways, unable to stand steadily without support. "You think you're better, SamFlynn?"

"Don't know," he replies breathlessly, studying the program's weak stance, the hint of doubt in Zuse's eyes. Zuse will hesitate. He's not the type to get blood on his hands, so to speak. "But you're not better than Clu."

He sees Tron derezz the last Sentry out of the corner of his eye and, when Zuse starts shifting his weight to his good leg, he jerks away from the light cane and slams into the program's side, knocking them both to the floor. The light cane slides away from Zuse's hand and Sam scrambles for it. He hears the elevator door slide open and look over his shoulder to see Sentries spill out.

"I got it!" he yells while grabbing the cane. "We need to go!"

"I'll hold them off," Tron says. "Get out of here!"

That's the very last thing on his mind. "No fucking way-"

He trips, tumbles to the ground, and loses his grip on both the cane and his disc. He glares at Zuse, who's grinning while slowly getting up, and then ducks just in time to avoid getting hit in the head by a Sentry's staff. He rolls out of range and jumps to his feet. The cane is a couple feet away but he doesn't see his disc anywhere.

"Screw the cane," he mutters to himself and runs at the nearest Sentry.

He jerks away at the last second, letting the charging Sentry's momentum carry it out of the fight, and then get thrown into a pillar. The wind's knocked out of him and it takes a second too long for him to catch his breath and push himself up into a sitting position. He takes in Tron darting around the Sentries, discs a blue-white blur as he parries and slices, slowly and surely cutting down the number of security programs around him. He then looks up at Zuse, who's leaning on his cane and frowning deeply.

"You came all this way just for this?" he asks. "Now why would you do that?"

"Someone asked nicely," Sam says, slowly sliding his hand to the baton hooked onto his leg. "Someone who knows the truth."

"Is that so? And what did this program hope to gain by having you steal my cane?"

"Hell if I know," he replies, grabs the baton, and hits the cane out from under Zuse.

He kicks at the program, shoving him away, and grabs the cane. He uses it to lever himself up onto his feet and sags against the pillar when the floor sways. The light-headed sensation seeps away and he jumps over Zuse, uses the baton to block a Sentry's staff and pushes it aside while looking for his disc.

Something grabs his dock and yanks him backwards; he stumbles, wrenches himself away, and swings at his assailant. Tron grabs his arm, stopping him, and says, "Found your disc. Now rez the jet and go!"

Tron pushes him towards the windows wrapping around the floor. Sam only takes two steps back, says, "Not without you."

"It's not me they want," Tron says. He blocks a Sentry and derezzes it, only to have two Sentries replace it. "Sam!"

He takes a deep breath and looks at the windows. He can see the silhouette of the city and the portal's gleaming light in the sky. He knows they're high enough, that he can rez a jet before he hits the ground. And these jets have weapons.

A Sentry swings at him and he jumps away from the staff’s range. He tucks the cane under his arm and runs right at the window. He ducks his head and sticks out an elbow at the last second, holds his breath and mentally braces himself as he propels his body through the glass. It shatters into bits of data around him, distracting him as he fumbles with the baton and tries to activate it. His stomach hurtles up his throat but he's jumped out of helicopters, planes, and off the top of ENCOM Tower before, he can think through the panic of falling.

He yanks the baton apart and hopes it doesn't rez into a lightcycle. His helmet and visor unfold and wrap around his head, and he thinks for a wild second that it'll do nothing to protect him from the inevitable. Then the white outlines spilling out of the two halves of the baton solidify into a light jet and he almost slams his face into its glossy body as the jet abruptly stops his momentum. He takes a deep breath and then another, secures the cane under his arm, and guides the jet into a u-turn to face the eighth floor of the memory bank.

He can make out Tron amongst the Sentries but little else and he needs a clearer view. He looks down at the controls and finds what looks like the triggers of the light jet's automatic guns. He pushes down and clings onto the light jet tightly as the guns fire, shattering the glass windows. The Sentries freeze, momentarily stupefied by the unexpected attack, and Tron takes advantage of the lapse to derezz the two closest to him before running right at Sam. Sam brings the jet as close to the building as he can and angles it, and watches Tron leap over the massive drop onto the jet behind him. The light jet tips backward from the added weight and Sam almost loses the cane trying to compensate.

Tron grabs it and hooks his other arm around Sam's waist. He tucks himself in against Sam's back and tells him, "Angle for that tower."

Sam tilts the light jet in the direction of the dark skyscraper in the distance and they begin distancing themselves from the memory bank and Zuse. He looks over his shoulder as the light jet gains altitude to see Zuse and two Sentries standing at the edge of the floor.

"Are we flying this all the way back or what-"

The light jet jolts. Too late Sam sees a white-lit disc slice through one of the engines on the right wing and arc back to its owner. The light jet rapidly loses altitude as the engine shatters and Sam fights to keep it from nosediving. They're still high above the rooftops and Sam tries to guide it towards the nearest flat surface. He loses control as the entire right wing begins to derezz, shards of code torn away by the wind.

"Hold on!" he shouts and braces himself.

When it comes down to it, Sam doesn't remember much of the crash. He remembers Tron tightening his hold around his waist and wrenching him out of his seat. He remembers not landing hard on an unforgiving surface while the light jet explodes upon colliding with the rooftop. He remembers his helmeted head hitting the floor.

The first thing Sam becomes aware of as he resurfaces is how much he hurts everywhere. He's had bad accidents before - they come with the motorcrossing and skydiving territory - but they're nothing compared to the white-hot pain lancing his sides as he tries to breathe, the agonizing ache in every joint and limb, the jarring sensation of his brain trying to orient itself. He doesn't even want to know how mottled and bruised he looks under the armor.

The second thing he becomes aware of is the ticking thrum all around him. And the near-black mass hovering above him. And the blue-white circuits inches from his cracked visor.

"Tron?" he says. He sounds like death but he thankfully can't taste iron on his tongue. Can he actually bleed to death on the Grid? He doesn't really want to find out.

"We're all right," Tron says, looking down at him, and Sam stares at the paper-thin scars on his face. They're fresher than the thick jagged line running up the left side of his face, which isn't fading away like all the other times.

"Your face," he says numbly. "What-"

"The jet," the program says and carefully moves off of him. "How do you feel?"

"Like shit," he groans and tries to sit up. Every part of him screams for him to stop. "Where are we?"

"Rooftop, still in this sector," Tron says. "We need to leave."

"No shit," he says. He looks over his shoulder at the pile of bits that was a light jet. "Where's the cane? Did you lose it?"

"Here," Tron says and holds it up. It's miraculously intact. Sam wants to break it in half and throw the pieces at Zuse's face. "Can you walk?"

He can, if he wants to. He doesn't want to. He thinks the pain is dulling but everything still hurts too much. "Gimme a second."

"We don't really have one," Tron says. The program stands up easily but his stride is uneven as he walks to the edge of the roof and peers down. "He knows we crashed. He'll come looking for us."

"Yeah, yeah." He tests his arms before propelling himself off the floor and hisses as he forces himself onto his feet. The floor sways and he staggers to the side but he's intact, he's fine. "For the record, I've done a triple-axle off a skyscraper but I'm never doing this again."

"I’ll keep that in mind."

Chapter Text

The journey back to Crystal's club in the neutral sector is the worst since that one time the Ducati got a flat tire and Sam walked for miles along the 101 at four in the morning looking for help because he was an idiot who forgets to charge his phone. He tries not to think about the experience while limping after Tron down mostly empty streets and alleyways. He knows that he's physically fine thanks to his weird User healing factor but that doesn't change how exhausted he feels. His body aches with phantom pain and he desperately wants to lie down somewhere, take a quick nap to chase away the dizziness-

He collides with a street lamp and swears vehemently while rubbing his shin. Tron's at his side in an instant, gripping his elbow tightly to hold him upright.

"Are you all right?" the program asks.

No, he's not. He just ran into a lamp. He’s hurting and embarrassed. He shrugs out of Tron's grasp. "I'm fine. Wasn’t paying attention."

Tron looks at him oddly but drops the matter.

Sam isn’t the only one slowing down. When they ran into two Sentries while escaping Zuse's sector, Tron took a clumsy step and a Sentry nearly killed him. Sam got in between them at the last half-second and stabbed the program with Zuse’s cane before yanking Tron off the street and inside an abandoned building.

"We're not doing too hot," he had said, heaving for air while peering out the doorway. The other Sentry was still out cold on the street and no one had come by to investigate.

"We can't stay here," Tron said, already on his feet and looking alert. Sam didn't buy it but played along anyway. "Let's go."

Sam can't stop watching the program in front of him as they pass by every shadow, nook, and cranny. Neither of them are in any condition to fend off another assault. He knows for certain that Tron isn't, even if the program doesn’t believe it.

He hears voices rounding the corner up ahead but doesn't see their owners; Tron shoulders him into an alley between two darkened skyscrapers and they wait until a group of programs pass by. They look harmless but Sam still holds his breath and wills them not to look his way. Once they're gone and their voices fade, Sam sags against the wall.

"There has to be a faster way to get back to Crystal," he mutters while rolling Zuse’s cane between his hands. He slowly slides down until his ass hits the floor and he looks up at Tron for suggestions.

Tron is staring at a spot somewhere to the left of his foot, arms folded over his chest. The rattling ticking sound that reminds Sam strongly of sonar and his worst nightmares echoes off the walls and he reflexively shudders. He wonders why the programs didn't hear the sound.

Sam studies the fresh scars on Tron's face. They haven't faded and he wonders how they affect Tron's ability to function; every line of code matters and whatever forced the marks to etch themselves on Tron should’ve rattled something out of line. There’s also the huge old scar running up the left side of the program’s neck and face. It looks old and severe but Tron seems to function fine despite it.

And then there’s that incessant ticking sound that screams to Sam of a glitch deep in the base code.

"Why isn't it going away?" he asks. His voice rasps against his throat like a pack-a-day smoker’s. "That noise...."

"I don't know," Tron replies cagily. "It comes and goes when I overexert myself."

Is it his place to ask about the distinct scar, the one that looks like Tron had it for years and years under the helmet? What happened? Why didn't Dad fix it?

Sam hesitates at the wariness in the program's eyes and switches tactics, says, "Didn't have to put yourself between me and the crash."

Tron cocks his head to the side. "I'm a security program."

What does that even mean? Tron wasn’t coded to play bodyguard for anyone, unless Clu repurposed…. He shuts that thought down and instead says, "You could've died."

"I'm not easy to take down," Tron says. "I've never been."

"I know," he says with a faint smile. He drops it at the bitterness in the program's face. "Not invincible, though."

"I do what I have to do," Tron replies. "You don't seem to care about your well-being."

He flinches. "If you haven't noticed, I can heal myself. You - you need someone else to fix you, right? Like a utility program or a User. Not a lot of repair programs around, apparently, but... I’m here."

He taps his fingers on the cane, watching for Tron's reaction. He wonders what it would be like to access an active disc like he saw his father do for Quorra. What would he find if he tapped into Tron's? Would Tron let him?

He gets his answer when the program pushes off the wall and walks to the end of the alleyway. He peers out, scans the street, and says, "Let's go."

Sam sighs and gets up.

* * *

The shortcut is Sam’s idea.

"Should've done this earlier," he mutters, studying the display under his fingertips. "Why didn’t we do this earlier?"

Tron says nothing. He stands guard while Sam traces their path back to the beginning, to the exact coordinates of Crystal's bar. Sam should've remembered that every action he takes here would be logged somewhere else on the Grid because that's what computers do. To be fair, he's tired and unused to tinkering with the Grid while within it.

Tracing back to their point of origin is easy enough. When he looks at the little glowing map, though, he can see that their path goes beyond the club and winds through the city all the way back to the digitizer's input portal. A little blue line that he knows represents Tron keeps going and-

"Sam," Tron interrupts mildly.

Right. He minimizes the display and activates the shortcut. Knowing what to expect now he descends first, careful not to lose his balance on the glowing rungs or drop the cane. He unhooks his one remaining baton and tosses it from one hand to the other while Tron climbs down the rungs and the shortcut entrance seals itself.

"Rematch?" he teases.

Tron just looks at him. "Not in your condition."

He sighs. “I know.”

The journey back to the neutral sector is uneventful, although Sam almost loses the cane twice. He sticks close to Tron's hip the entire time, watching the program and the long straight path until he can see the glow of translucent rungs at the end of the shortcut.

"Won't they stare if they see us popping out of the ground?" he asks while dismounting.

"Only if you made it end inside the club," Tron says, muffled voice becoming clear as his glossy helmet retracts and disappears. "Crystal wouldn't like it if you did."

"She'll kill me," Sam agrees.

The shortcut ends next to the building, thankfully. A trio of brightly lit programs stop to stare while Sam tosses the cane to Tron and hauls himself out. Tron stares at them until they finally move away. Sam braces himself against the side of the building and thin cyan circuits briefly bloom under his fingertips. He stifles a yawn and rubs his eyes to make them focus. The ticking thrum draws near and he tenses until the program asks if he's all right.

"Fine," he says. "Just tired. Really tired." Sensing Tron's concern, he gestures at himself and adds, "Long day, late night, didn't sleep well, came here at... what, four? Five in the morning? And then I crashed a light jet." He laughs. "After this is over, I'm sleeping for a month."

Tron doesn't say anything in response but when Sam looks at him, the program is watching him with a bemused and worried expression. He also looks alert and unaffected by the last several hours, unlike Sam.

"Aren't you tired?" he asks.

"I've been through worse," Tron says.

Sam sighs.

The club pulsates with heavy beats and Sam thinks he'll go deaf before they find the Siren. He hugs the cane while following Tron through the crowd, not willing to risk losing it after everything he went through to get it. After a dizzying half minute he realizes that the programs surrounding them are stepping back, parting like the biblical sea. Tron and he must look like a sorry pair of programs, what with his painfully distinct gear and Tron's scars and that unsettling rattling sound.

He finds he doesn't care about the varying degrees of alarm on the programs' faces. He's too tired to care.

Crystal is at the far left end of the bar, talking with three programs. Her eyes flick in their direction and she smoothly cuts her conversation short, turns and starts taking carafes off the shelves while Sam gingerly slides onto a barstool and sets Zuse's cane on the bar. He then buries his face in the crook of his elbow and tries to tune out the world.

"Tell me you're getting us a light runner," he mutters when he hears glass being placed near his head, "or I swear-"

"You fulfilled your end of the bargain. That is all I needed. Just give me time to make the arrangements."

He tilts his head to get a good look at the Siren. She's smiling while holding the cane and he wonders what kind of hard bargains she made to establish her bar and maintain it. Crystal places the cane somewhere behind the counter and sets two tall glasses on it.

"You look terrible," she tells Tron. "More than usual."

"I'm fine," Tron replies.

Sam slowly raises his head to watch both programs. Tron's not even sitting on the vacant barstool; he stands with his hands braced against the counter, pretending that he’s not relying on it to stay on his feet. But no one can claim to be fine while walking around with such visible and audible damage; Crystal looks troubled by it but says anything while pouring vividly blue energy from a tumbler into the two glasses.

"I don't know what this'll do for you," she tells Sam while pushing a cocktail to him. "It's potent."

"Define 'potent'," he says warily.

"It’s energy. Especially useful for overclocking programs, if you want to know how potent it is." She raises her voice slightly and looks in Tron's direction.

"That dangerous?" He'd thrived on energy drinks when he was younger. He picks up the glass and sniffs its contents. He doesn't smell anything distinct but the inside of his nostrils prickle. Curious, he carefully sips the blue energy and shudders as his mouth tingles before going blissfully, temporarily numb. "Wow."

It doesn't affect him more strongly than the one he had several hours ago, but he's not complaining. He rather enjoys the gentle prickling heat sliding down his throat and spreading out to his limbs. He swears, though, that the circuits on his armor glow brighter for a second or two before the warmth from the cocktail fades.

"Well, at least I know it won't derezz you," Crystal says.

He freezes. "It can do that?"

"Some programs can't handle the energy spike," she replies. "I've seen it happen."

He pretends not to be more tentative about his next sip but she rolls her eyes all the same.

"He's not a program," Tron says while swirling around the contents of his glass. He's already halfway done. "It won't affect him."

"Just because you can handle these better than most doesn't mean I'm giving you another," she says coolly. "You can't keep this up forever."

Sam narrows his eyes while glancing between the two. "What's going on?"

"Nothing," Tron replies. "You don't have to worry about it."

"He should," Crystal says. "You're not at your best right now-"

"Don't."

"It's that sound, isn't it?" Tron goes still and tense. "Not the kind that’s been going on before… all of that happened but you shouldn’t be making that sound right now."

"Not usually," Tron says evasively. "But it's not an issue."

"It’s connected to the scar, isn’t it?" Sam asks. "The old one on the left side of your face?"

Tron flinches and that rattling noise becomes louder. Nearby programs stare at him and start backing away. Even Crystal looks uneasy.

"You can't seriously pretend that you're okay," Sam continues a little nervously. "Just - at least do something about the new ones. They just make you a little buggy, right? How do you fix it?"

"Repair programs and Users," Crystal says quietly.

"That's me," he says, not bothering to distinguish between the two. He takes another sip and sets the glass down a little too hard. "I'm the reason why you got them. The least I can do is-"

"You can't," Tron says. He sounds detached, distant. His gray eyes are unfocused and he grips his cocktail tightly. "Not my disc."

"But-"

"You just said these injuries make me 'a little buggy'. They're not catastrophic. If I'm not on the verge of crashing or derezzing then I'm fine. We have more important things to do."

Sam remembers how his father repaired Quorra's arm. It's one of his most vivid memories and the strongest reminder of what he's truly capable of. It also didn't take very long to do, but then again, Flynn’s been doing this since before Sam was born.

"We can't go anywhere until she gets that light runner anyway," he says. "And if you're a security program, shouldn't you want to run at optimum levels?"

To protect me? a voice in his head finishes unhelpfully, but he ignores it. He watches and waits for Tron to respond, react, something, anything. The program seems paralyzed, unmoving and unblinking, and if not for the slight tremor in the hand gripping the cocktail glass he'd think the program had literally frozen up.

"No one's allowed access to my disc," Tron says in a cold, rough voice. He takes his cocktail and leaves, wading into the crowd of programs without looking back once.

Sam stares until Tron disappears. His vision blurs around the edges. What did I do? Did I - I pushed him-

"I've heard that the rectification process isn't usually terrible," Crystal says somewhere behind him. "That doesn't mean they wanted to go through it."

He slowly turns around in his seat. "What does that mean?"

"I know of one program who escaped the Rectifier mid-rectification and lived to tell the tale. He said it forced in code to override what you are and what you’re meant to do. It turned you into a Sentry or a Black Guard whether you wanted to or not. Most of the programs being rectified weren't aware of what was happening. A few did."

She doesn't need to elaborate on which one of the few is in her club right now. The weight of that revelation sinks in his chest and bores a hole through it. He shrinks into himself as he recalls everything he told Tron. "Shit. Shit. I didn't mean to - I didn't-"

"I know," the Siren says and he clings to her soothing, slightly steely voice. "So do I."

He only wanted to repair the scars on Tron’s face and find the source of the awful ticking noise. His best intentions drove Tron away. Sam knows the program holds so much close to his chest but he had no idea Tron remembered being turned into another program against his will. The thought is repulsive and Sam hates that he didn’t know better, didn’t back off when the first warning signs appeared.

He drains most of the energy cocktail, feels the bright liquid slosh hot and heavy down his throat. It won't get him drunk but the familiar action helps him wrestle with his frenetic thoughts.

"Now what?" he asks pathetically.

"You didn't know," Crystal says.

"Not an excuse."

"No, it isn't," she agrees. "But now you do, and you should keep that in mind."

He scrubs at his hair and slumps over the counter. "He's not - after what I said, he knows what I can do to him. He's not gonna want to be around me."

"You think you can survive out there on your own?" she asks. "You don't know nearly enough about the Grid, especially one that's keen on you."

"I’ll manage," he says. He thinks about the hostile programs, the suspicions about his function and his masked identity. He thinks about Zuse controlling the last Sentries. He thinks about the wild Outlands and the safe house hidden in the expanse. He was in too much shock to remember how Quorra got there and he vaguely remembers how to get back to the city. "No big deal."

The Siren snorts. "I'm sure." Then, softly, "He's not going to leave you."

"How do you know? He knows I can tamper with him if I wanted to."

"But you won't," she says. Something in her voice makes Sam look up and his breath catches at the flash of white in her hexagon pupils. "You're different."

The firm conviction in her voice, the care with which she says those words, makes him shiver and drop his gaze to the cocktail glass. Why is she so convinced of it? Does it really matter that he's neither Flynn nor Clu?

He's so tired. This is too much for him to handle in one sitting, too much for him to process. He pokes at the glass with a finger, says, "This isn't doing anything."

Crystal removes it and places it under the counter. "Then I suppose you'll just have to rest and recharge while I get the light runner I promised you."

That sounds like a welcome prospect and he nods numbly. "Where?"

"In the back," she says. "You'll be safe. No one will risk harming you while you're here."

"What about Tron?"

The look Crystal gives him is both sympathetic and condescending. "I told you, he won't leave while you're here."

Sam still glances over his shoulder while sliding off the barstool to follow Crystal. He can't distinguish between circuits and their owners but he thinks he sees a flash of four blue distinct nodes. Swallowing hard, he tears his eyes away from the scene and hurries after the Siren.

He stops at the doorway to her quarters and stares out at the club scene through the soundproof barrier. Not as many programs crowd the dance floor as before; most of them just sway in place, talking with the programs nearest to them. He wonders what they look for when they come here. He doesn't realize he’s walking across the room to the barrier until he feels it vibrate with the MP3 programs’ beats. From here, he can see the scars on some of the programs, the jagged geometry of the blackened lines on their bodies.

"They can't see you," Crystal says. "This is how I keep an eye on the club."

"Not just to make sure they don't riot, right?" he asks quietly.

She doesn't answer right away. "Neutral sectors are difficult to maintain, especially one as active as this one."

"Then why are you okay with me being here?"

"You didn't declare yourself," she says. "As far as I'm concerned, you're a neutral party."

There's a hard edge in her voice like she's disgusted that he chose not to delve deeper into this chaotic Grid. Does she want him to get involved? Most programs didn’t seem to want Users around anymore; why does she think differently?

"Should I be?" he asks.

When she doesn't answer he looks over his shoulder at her. The Siren's face is unreadable.

"The bed is yours," she simply says, gesturing to it.

He waits until she leaves and then turns his attention back to the scene. He watches for a while, noting the shift in the mood of the crowd when the MP3 programs change the beat. He can feel it through the barrier - it’s faster, heart-pounding, meant to excite and exhilarate - and the programs on the floor respond. Their faces brighten, eyes lighting up like their circuits, and their bodies follow the pulsing cadence of the music with frenetic motions. Happiness infuses their every action and Sam smiles why swaying in time with them.

They'll remember once the music changes, a quiet voice in the back of his mind says. That's why they're here.

Sam doesn't know why the thought hurts so much.

* * *

Sam doesn't know how he's a spy working undercover at Millikan Library at Caltech. Actually, this barely resembles the campus library; there is a street where the pond should be and it looks like a picture-perfect Parisian street lined with ironwork fences and fancy cafes. The Eiffel Tower looms in the hazy distance.

Why is Quorra walking into the library dressed up as a clown? And since when did the library suddenly become a cafe selling pizza?

Sam ends up talking to Gem, who's lounging about at a small table in front of the cafe, wearing a fashionable trench coat and staring at the roundabout. She's not drinking her latte.

"Did you get it?" she asks as soon as he walks up to her.

His lips move in reply but he doesn't know what he said. She smiles and says, "Good. I'll see you back at the hotel in two hours."

"What hotel?"

Instead of answering, Gem stands up and walks away to join Crystal, who's leaning against a scooter parked by a meter. He raises an eyebrow while the two Sirens climb onto it, Gem wrapping her arms tightly around Crystal's waist.

Someone is standing on the sidewalk on the other side of the street, staring at Sam. The Sirens ride out of his line of sight but the scooter's loud rumbling persists while Sam narrows his eyes, trying to sharpen the blurry figure. He can't explain his need to identify this person; he climbs over the iron fence that wasn't there before and tries to cross the street.

He can't cross the street. No matter how many steps he takes he can't get off the sidewalk.

The blurry figure turns to walk away and Sam breaks out into a run. He can't make up any ground, can't close the gap between them. He's still on the sidewalk, one that stretches for miles and miles. He can see the street and the person on the other side, but he can't get onto the street. Why?

He just has to know who it is. His gut tells him it's someone important, someone he's been looking for. His head tells him not to lose the person. His heart hurts because the distance between them isn't getting any smaller.

"Wait!" he yells but nothing comes out. "Wait!"

He throws himself forward in a last-ditch effort and sits upright, eyes wide and lungs heaving for air. He has to blink several times for the black to recede to the edge of his line of sight. Once he can see, he realizes that he's not in his bed. He's not in his room. And he can see two helmeted DJs mixing music for a dance-happy crowd of people decked out in shades of black and white with EL taped on at various angle-

He's on the Grid. Sam looks down at himself and his breath catches at the familiar sight of the soft white circuits on his armor. The Gaming Grid, where he fought for his life against a mute killer and met someone wearing his father’s face. Except this isn’t the arena. He’s in a club. He’s - he scrubs at the back of his head while trying to get a grip on his situation.

A shifting sound in a corner of the room takes him away from his frenetic thoughts. He looks around and sees Crystal sitting in her white bubble chair, legs crossed and chin resting on a propped arm. A tall thin glass of rich emerald green liquid hangs precariously from the long tapered fingers of her other hand. She appears to be entranced by the club scene but after a moment her eyes flick in his direction.

"I wasn't sure if I should wake you," she says. "I've never seen anyone so distressed while at rest."

"Nightmare," he says hoarsely. "Dream. I... I don't sleep well."

She looks at him blankly and he wonders if programs dream.

"How long was I out?"

"Point two five one millicycles," she says. "Is that enough?"

Calculations flit through his head. About two hours. Definitely not enough, but he tries to shake off the sleep anyway. He rubs at his face and takes a deep breath. He doesn't actually feel air flow into his lungs but the action helps clear his head.

"Yeah," he says. "It's enough. What about the light runner?"

She makes a low, amused noise. "Don't worry, SamFlynn. It's waiting for you at the border of the Grid."

"I'm not doubting you," he says. "Just wanted to make sure."

"Can't even trust a Siren's word?" she asks.

She doesn't know what Gem did to him. He slides to the edge of the bed and sets his feet on the floor. "Sorry. Past several hours have been all kinds of crazy."

"So I've heard," she says. "A program stopped by the bar while you slept, said that Pollux's sector was in lockdown. Something about a pair of rogue programs trying to destabilize it."

"Don't know what you're talking about."

"Neither do I," Crystal says.

Sam thinks about standing up. She says the light runner is ready, he lost two hours to sleep, and he doesn't want the portal to close while he’s in the Grid. Knowing Quorra is on the other side doesn’t alleviate his fears of being trapped, meaning he needs to move. He needs to do more than think about moving.

"Where's Tron?" he asks. His voice sounds terrible but he doubts an energy cocktail will soothe his throat.

"Somewhere out there," she says, gesturing at the one-way barrier with her drink.

Sam watches, knowing full well that there's no way he'll be able to pick out he security program from the crowd. He doubts Tron would actually be on the floor. He leans back on the bed, arms braced behind him, and watches the programs swaying and writhing in front of the MP3s. Thinks about the long trek through the Grid to find Zuse. Compares the experience with his first tumultuous visit to the Grid and his father's old bedtime stories.

"They're good at helping the others forget," Crystal says softly.

He looks at her questioningly and she nods to the MP3 programs. "They can spin out the right beats and the right rhythm and make everyone forget about the inevitable for a full millicycle."

"Inevitable?"

She gives him a hard look. "What do you think is happening to the Grid?"

Sam thinks about what he saw. "Chaos. Stagnation. A locked up system."

"The system - whatever's left of it - is dying," she says, bitter and certain. "Every centicycle, parts of the Grid corrupt and collapse. Fewer and fewer programs serve any real functions. They do what they can to maintain the Grid as is. The rest of us... just try to stay alive. Some more than others, like Octane."

"You find out who he is?"

"He's one of the programs vying for control of the system. They gather sectors and other programs to create what they think is a viable system, but they're not Clu."

"What about you? You're in charge of this sector, aren't you?"

She sits forward, eyes on her glass of liquid emerald. "My sisters and I have some sway on the Grid. We established neutral zones for the ones that were tired of everything. I bargained for this club to provide a steady supply of energy to programs with no purpose left."

"But not for free," he says.

"Some provide the raw energy and some filter it for our consumption. Some protect this sector and some function as my eyes and ears. But what can I do when I have no power? No way of repairing the damage done to it?" She looks up at him. "That's what the Grid is now."

He swallows hard as she continues to stare unblinking at him. He hears the judgment in her words and thinks he knows where she’s leading him with this conversation. He doesn't know if he's ready for it.

"What are you going to do," Crystal says, "once you have what you came for?"

That's the question, isn't it? Does he shut down the system, sparing the Grid another several cycles of slow, systematic collapse? Does he take over from his father and Clu, becoming its User and Creator?

His memories of the Grid are still twisted and bitter, but new ones are starting to layer over them. He got a feel for the city his father used to talk about in such glowing terms and it's not so bad when he ignores how much of the Grid wants him gone. It’ll take a lot of time and effort to revive the Grid but he can do it.

The real question, he supposes, is whether or not he'll commit to the Grid.

“Dad… wasn’t really himself in the weeks before the coup,” he says slowly. “He was always too busy, too distracted, too excited about what could be to pay attention to what was in front of him. Company was ready to throw him out because they couldn’t trust him with the future.”

Crystal frowns to herself while picking his words apart. She then says, “You think the same will happen if you become the User?”

He shrugs. “I know Clu did what he did because Dad wasn’t paying enough attention to you guys and he had to do something. Dad told him to create the perfect system and he tried. Look where that got us. That should tell you how bad we Users are at thinking things through. I don’t… do you really want me around after?”

“There is no Clu,” Crystal interrupts. “What you and he did broke the Grid, and nobody that’s left can repair the damage. Nobody has the privileges, permissions, and abilities that you have. It’s either you, SamFlynn, another Clu, or nothing.”

She sighs heavily and then abruptly stands up. He watches her gulp down several mouthfuls of energy while walking up to the barrier and studying the programs on the other side.

"I believed in Clu once," she says softly. "I thought he could do what Flynn wouldn't, but I was wrong. Once I realized that he fabricated conflict between us and the ISOs I took back my allegiance and tried to save them."

"But you were working for him," Sam says. "On the Gaming Grid-"

"I had to survive," she replies. "We all did. Remember what my sister told you? That was the overriding directive: Survive, or die. Your survival skills were - are admirable."

"All I did was bleed," Sam says. He shudders at the memory and reflexively rubs his neck against the phantom heat of a disc's searing orange-red edge.

"You survived, and now you're here." She turns around to face him. Backlit by the circuitry and the lights of the club behind the barrier, she makes a fearsome sight. "You didn't answer my question."

No, he hasn't. He doesn't know what the right answer is. If he takes on the Grid, he can’t treat it like a pet project to tinker with and then shelve for weeks at a time. Just shut it down when you have something else to do, a voice in his head says, but how can he think about doing that to the programs he met and fought with? Wasn’t that the reason why Flynn brought Tron to the system under the arcade?

But look what happened to him, to the Grid, to Sam. Sam can’t risk falling into that same trap, not after learning that he’s on thinning ice with ENCOM’s board of directors. But Sam has what his father didn’t have - hindsight, years of trauma, and Quorra. He’s not Flynn. He won’t make his father’s mistakes. But is this what he wants?

"SamFlynn?" the Siren prompts.

He looks out at the club, at the MP3s spinning out their beats, at the programs on the floor losing themselves to the music. He catches a glimpse of a distinct pattern of blue-white circuits moving through the raucous crowd. They are all here because of what his father, Clu, and he did to the Grid, and he’s the only one left to clean up the mess.

"I’m one of the reasons why we’re here," he says distantly. "Least I can do is undo it all and stabilize the system."

He looks up at Crystal and returns the small smile she offers him.

"Thank you."

"I can't fix everything," he warns, because he can't get her hopes up, he can't make the same promises Flynn made. "I can't do what Dad did."

"But you can do something. That's what the Grid needs." She looks over her shoulder at the club. "It’s what we need."

She nods at something on the other side of the barrier and he follows her line of sight, scanning the lights and colors until his eyes land on Tron slipping past the dancing programs blockading the hallway to Crystal's private quarters.

"We all have a function here, a purpose, even if Flynn only needed us for one thing and then never summoned us again. Few of us came from another Grid. Tron was one of them and even then he was different. He was never like us because he could do things nobody else could, not even Clu. After Clu rectified him, the rest of the Grid fell."

"He means that much here?" Sam asks.

"Flynn named this city after him," she says, "and Clu never bothered to change it. But he did enough damage. Tron only survived this long after the reintegration because he still believed in the Users."

She drains her glass and sets it on the coffee table, wanders over to the shelf next to the panel hiding the underground armory. She picks up a die-sized spiked object and rolls it between her thumb and index finger.

"I used to think it was just some odd line of code that was slipped into him, but now I think it's something he learned from another Grid. I don't think I'll ever understand."

"You're saying you don't believe in me?"

"No." Her expression is unreadable. "I'm saying that he still believed in you."

Sam doesn't know how to respond to that. He ends up saying nothing at all because Tron walks into the room. Sam stands up immediately, swallowing hard when the program looks right at him.

"The portal could close before we reach our destination," Tron says. "You should head back-"

"Q's on the other side," Sam replies a little unsteadily. "I can afford to get stuck here for a couple millicycles. That's more than enough time to get to the Outlands and back, right?"

Tron considers the question and then nods. He turns to Crystal. "We need to go."

She sets the silvery sea urchin back on the shelf and picks up another hexagon disk. "The light runner is at these coordinates. It's right at the edge of the city so you can leave without drawing unnecessary attention. I'll know if you find it."

"Thank you," Tron says.

"Yeah," Sam adds. "Thanks."

She nods and moves back to her white bubble chair, sinks down in it and crosses her legs. "Good luck."

* * *

Sam does a double take at the program perched on the light runner parked just down the block from the shortcut exit he wrote.

"You again."

Enyo gives him a little wave that's more a jaunty salute. "Me again. The light runner, as Crystal promised." She pats the smooth surface before sliding off the hood and sauntering over. "By the way, great job with Pollux's sector. What used to be his sector, anyway. He went and vanished point one millicycles ago, and now half the city won't stop talking about it. Rumors abound that a User really is walking amongst us, promising order and freedom from chaos."

She waggles her eyebrows and grins cheekily at Sam, who takes an involuntary step back. How did she even know?

"I didn't do anything yet," he says weakly in the face of her cheer.

"Well that's what I heard." She looks at Tron and her knowing smile softens. "I wasn't kidding, you know. But as long as he's with you, I guess you'll be all right."

"Why are you here?" Tron asks, instead of demanding that she clarify everything.

"Crystal asked if she could loan my light runner to a couple of programs looking for something in the Outlands and I said sure, as long as I can meet them. Had a feeling it'll be you. Can't think of another program with reason to go out there."

"Why do you have a light runner?" Sam asks.

"Questions, questions," she singsongs back. "The light runner is yours. Try not to crash the light runner or glitch it. I need it functional for the next time Octane tries to take my sector."

"Your sector? I thought it was the Sirens'."

"Crystal and I established this sector as a neutral zone and her sisters maintain another one on the other side of the city," Enyo says. "Well, we did establish Rho as a neutral zone but now that we're harboring a User...."

She turns to leave, takes a step, and then looks over her shoulder. "I hope you find what you came here for, SamFlynn. Good luck."

Enyo winks and then bounces away, leaving them with a yellow-lit light runner and a short paved road that ends at digital wilderness. Sam stares at her until she skips around the corner of the block and disappears.

"What the hell," he mutters.

"Sam," Tron calls out. "Get in."

He turns around to see Tron open the light runner's hatch; under his hand the vehicles circuits flicker and shift from Enyo's yellow to Tron's blue. He climbs into the passenger's seat and pulls the hatch down, watches Tron fiddle with the controls as they light up. The light runner's body thrums and shudders, adjusting its suspension system while studs form on the massive tires. The light runner rocks back and forth slightly as Tron steers it off the smooth road onto the Outland’s coarse terrain.

"She had the light runner all along," Sam says. The cyan glow of the city pulls back to the very edge of his line of sight and he twists in his seat to stare at the half-dark Grid.

"She needed a reason to lend it to us," Tron says.

"Being able to steal Zuse's cane isn't that great a reason," Sam says.

He's not sure what to make of Tron's half-smile as the light runner picks up speed, rapidly putting distance between them and the city.

"That's not the reason she was looking for."

Chapter Text

Massive walls of unrefined digital code confine the light runner to a narrow twisting path through the ravine. The only thing illuminating the path is the light runner's blue circuits and visibility is just several feet around the vehicle. Either Sam is getting old - hilarious - or needs to take another joyride down the PCH on the Ducati at four in the morning because this is an even more nerve-wracking ride than he remembers. Or maybe he was just too high on adrenaline and panic to pay attention to the route Quorra took to the safe house.

Thirty-five minutes and only the landscape has changed, rock formations rising and falling haphazardly and without any real rhyme or reason. The oppressive overcast sky shields the light of the distant portal but he can still see a glimmer of it through the clouds. He finds himself holding his breathe the longer he stares at it, just waiting for it to flicker out as the digitizer shuts down, and forces himself to look elsewhere. He ends up watching Tron maneuver the light runner; the program hasn't said another word since they drove into the Outlands.

It feels like forever before they're finally out of the ravine. The mildly claustrophobic sensation disappears and Sam breathes easier. The city glows faintly somewhere to his right and then a rising wall of rock blocks his view of it. The light runner veers close to it and Sam gets a glimpse of the geometry in the formation before Tron steers the vehicle away towards the open plain.

Another five minutes pass before a question pops into Sam's mind.

"You know where we're going?"

"Yes."

Sam frowns. "How? You've never been there-"

"A second generation lightcycle was recovered downtown cycles ago. Its point of origin traced back to a remote location deep in the Outlands."

Tron's words hit Sam like a punch in the gut. He didn't think the lightcycle would leave a trail; thwarting the Sentries by swapping it for an identity-masking cloak seemed to be enough at the time. He should've known better. Of course Clu could trace the lightcycle's route back to his father's hideout, and of course Clu did do that.

"Shit," he bites out, hands clenching on his knees while he stares at his reflection in the hatch.
He led them straight to Flynn and Quorra. Why did neither of them say anything? "Fuck, I should’ve - of course he did that."

"They were long gone by the time we arrived," Tron says. "He knew they were going after you. All he needed to know was where you were going."

The End of the Line Club, Sam thinks, collapsing in his seat. He regrets it a second later when the light runner bounces over some big rock sticking out of the ground and the back of his head slams against the seat. Rubbing at the sore spot, he sits up and stares out the window, watching the Outlands roll by like a lifeless, gloomy side scroller. They appear to be the only source of light and life for miles; even with Tron next to him, Sam feels lonely and insignificant. He can't imagine what it must've been like for his father and Quorra.

The ground suddenly evens out like they're traveling on pavement or controlled lines of code defining the road, and he goes on the alert. He doesn't remember this from his earlier trek. Then again he doesn't even know how to get to the safe house. The walls of the ravine they entered grow skyward until they block out almost all light but the light runner's circuitry. Sam peers out the window, trying to catch a glimpse of some identifying marker, but all he sees are gray-blue flashes.

"Where are we?" he asks.

"To the safe house," Tron says flatly, though Sam does hear the slightest hesitance in his voice. "The Outlands isn’t defined by sectors so navigating it is - oh."

"Oh" is the light runner making a hard right and skidding across what is definitely a paved road. Sam grabs the defunct steering handle in front of him and holds on as the vehicle comes to a sudden stop. He unfolds himself and stares outside at the crudely compiled artificial structures nestled into the shadows of the canyon. They've stopped in the middle of what looks like a ghost town, with rough narrow walkways spidering outwards and winding around these buildings. Half of the structures are heavily damaged and perfectly geometric chunks of rubble litter the ground.

"Where are we? What is this place?"

"An ISO colony," Tron says softly. "Probably built at the beginning of the Purge. It was one of the last to fall."

Something about the tone of his voice makes Sam twist in his seat to look at the program. Tron stares straight ahead, eyes vacant and lost, and he grips the light runner's controls so tightly that miniscule fractures appear under his palms, pulsing a dull, sick blue. The rush in Sam's head from the earlier drift-and-stop is subsiding and now he hears that rattling, grinding hum vibrating in the tiny enclosed space under the light runner's hatch.

"Why are we here?" Sam asks.

Tron doesn't answer right away. The grinding noise carries on, broken erratically by stutters and stops and a softer thrum. It drills into Sam's head, it won't stop, and Sam thinks about opening the hatch and scrambling out to get away from it. His fingers twitch.

"I made a wrong turn," Tron says. "I know the route is the right one but somewhere... I made a mistake."

Oddly, the first thought to come to mind is Enyo's insinuation that Tron should get scanned by a repair utility. It’s logical given what was done to him, but Sam is starting to suspect that something else is making him glitch, making him forget his set task and follow another. The program wasn't even aware of what he did until he drove them to an abandoned town carved into the digital wilderness.

"Okay," Sam says. "How do we get out of here?"

Tron closes his eyes and the rattling hum drops to something more manageable. "The colony had a back door, in case Clu ever discovered it. It should be clear now."

"What's that supposed to-"

The light runner lurches and then leaps forward, throwing him back in his seat. Sam grabs the edge of it tightly and watches Tron direct the light runner towards a particularly narrow passageway going up and back into the network of canyons and ravines. The wheels bump against the walls as the light runner speeds along the path and Sam swears as a small boulder glances off the body. Overhead, the rock walls curve towards each other, blocking out the overcast night sky, and Sam can't see the portal's light anymore.

The light runner bursts out of the ravine and rapidly puts distance between it and the network of canyons hiding the ISO colony. Ahead of them is a stretch of flat land scattered with rocky outcrops; in the distance is another network of canyons and mountains. Somewhere above and to the left is the light of the portal, glowing faintly through the clouds.

Sam takes a deep breath and tries to relax. He can't.

"So what was that?" he asks. "That colony?"

"Built by ISOs."

"I know, you already said that." That doesn't explain Tron's clipped, detached answers to his questions. That doesn't explain how he froze up upon realizing where he’d taken them and how desperate he was to leave. "What was it to you?"

He almost expects Tron to say it's nothing just to avoid talking about it.

"It's one of several colonies built into the Outlands, and Clu removed every one of them. I found the route to that colony and led the Sentries there. No survivors. That was his command." A bitter smile cuts across Tron's face. "Don't worry, that colony was the furthest any ISO got into the Outlands. You won't see another here."

That's not what bothers Sam. He doesn't look when the light runner tilts onto a familiar road, one that takes them through a narrow tunnel at the base of a sheer rock wall and climbs up the side of the mountain. He stares at Tron, wondering made him remember the route to an ISO colony he wiped out. Well, no, he didn't kill the ISOs there; it wasn't him that brought Clu's soldiers to that hidden city.

Does Tron know that? Or does he think he was fully complicit in the genocide, the purge? How long has he lived with that? How did he cope for so long without falling apart?

He's not, Sam thinks. "Maybe we should stop for a minute."

No answer.

"Pull over."

Out of the corner of his eye he can see the mountain and the glimmer of white near the top that's the safe house. They're almost there, where all of Sam's answers are waiting for him. He doesn't want them yet.

"Hey!" He reaches across the center console and grabs the steering handle right above Tron's hand. The light runner lurches again, losing momentum. "Pull over. We have to talk."

He doesn't let go of the handle, not even after the light runner slides to a stop next to the tunnel. He watches the way Tron holds himself, shoulders tense and tight, eyes looking everywhere but at Sam. He doesn't say anything but the hitching thrum speaks for him. He's not okay.

Sam licks his lip, searching for the right words and coming up with none. He was never one to have a heart to heart with anyone; he never befriended anyone who was worth the effort, and even though he now has people in his life that he cares about, he's still has a hard time talking about the things that trouble him, that still trouble him.

But for Tron? He wants to try.

"Back there," he says, watching Tron close his eyes, "with that colony, you - you think you’re responsible for what happened there. You think you killed all those ISOs, you led the search for them-"

"I did do all of that. Not 'I think'," Tron says harshly. "I was there. I remember everything."

"But that wasn't you."

The program flinches, turns his head to finally look Sam in the eye. Sam tries not to let his gaze wander to the scars marking Tron's face while stumbling over his train of thought.

“It was me,” Tron says but his voice wavers just a bit.

"Clu rectified you," Sam says. "He made you Rinzler. Whatever you did after, whatever you remember doing, that wasn't you. You - you had no say in any of it. You had no control over yourself. I don't want to go Good Will Hunting on you but you have to - you have to understand that. What happened back there wasn't your fault. It was Clu’s."

Tron says nothing. Sam swallows around the lump in his throat and shifts in his seat, uneasy and hot with embarrassment in the face of the program's silent scrutiny. His hand slips down the light runner's steering handle, bumping against the back of Tron's circuit-laced fingers.

"Don't know how you've been living with that over your head," he says in a shakier, weaker voice, "but you need to know that - that program I met when I came back? The one that fought for me, saved my ass too many times, showed me what this place really is like? That's you. Not the one that killed the ISOs, not the enforcer, not Clu's... attack dog. You're not Rinzler."

Tron twitches at the name and glances away. "That doesn't change anything. I still know what I did to the Grid, to the ISOs, to Flynn."

"Clu's gone. So’s Dad, and the ISOs, they’re all - almost all gone, but the Grid's still here. It’s here and it needs you. Everything's going to change and everyone's getting a second chance. I mean everyone, including you." Softly, he adds, "I just want you to give yourself that chance. Please."

Tron says nothing. His eyes are fixed elsewhere but Sam can see his face in the reflection of the hatch's curved glass. Tron looks so tired and Sam wonders if he pushed too hard. He lets go of the steering handle and sits back, needing to distance himself. He freezes when Tron grabs his hand and holds it tightly, fingers curling around his.

"I can't promise anything," Tron says. "But I'll try."

He gives Sam an uncertain smile. Seeing it makes Sam's heart constrict, floods his body with heat; he returns it with a shaky grin, feeling like the world tilted violently on its axis and he can't find his footing anymore. The only thing anchoring him now is the hand clinging onto his.

"Good. Okay. Uh-" His voice cracks and Sam clumsily clears his throat. It's the most conspicuous sound he's ever made. "I guess we should keep going."

Tron nods and lets him go to coax the light runner into motion. While the light runner backs up a couple feet and turns its massive wheels towards the tunnel Sam stares down at his hand, rubbing his fingers together. He notes the lights that flick on as they head into the tunnel, lighting their path down to the lift at the base of the safe house but doesn't look up. He tries not to think on the shift in his head but he still feels the tension in his chest and the phantom feel of a hand wrapped around his. He hears his heartbeat, now in rapid tandem with the lights at the edge of his sight, telling him that something has changed and there's no going back.

* * *

The ride up to the safe house is silent. Tron stands a distance away, staring straight ahead as the lift carries them up, lost in thought. Sam wants to shove his hands into his jacket pockets but he's not wearing his jacket and this armor has no pockets, leaving him to fold his arms tightly while studying one of the backlit panels underfoot. He rocks back and forth on his feet, trying to pretend he’s not anxious, not afraid of what he might not find in the abandoned house.

This might be the worst elevator ride he has ever been on.

At first glance, the safe house looks exactly the way it did when Sam snuck out with the second gen lightcycle. He takes a cautious step off the lift while squinting through the dark and gloom. As soon as his foot touches the floor, the interior lights up, panels flickering on for the first time in cycles and casting everything in a soft white glow. He scans the main room as he walks down the center; a few books have been haphazardly shoved back into the shelf lining the wall and someone had upended the go board, scattering the black and white pieces all over the floor.

Tron drifts in the direction of the shelf and tilts his head to the side to study the print on the spine. The program moves to tug a book out but hesitates and takes his hand back.

"It won't bite," Sam says, and tries not to laugh when Tron shoots him an indignant look.

Finding nothing else out of the ordinary, he walks into the next room and almost steps on a silver apple. He picks it up and stares at his distorted reflection. He tosses it up in the air while looking around and notices another apple on the floor.

"The hell?" he mutters while gathering an armful of silver apples, candle holders, and a bowl.

He dumps them on a couch in front of the decorative fireplace and studies the deactivated prickly object on the mantel before turning around to continue his search. Seeing nothing he hasn't seen already, he goes back to the main room. Tron is completely engrossed in one of the books and doesn't acknowledge him as he walks by. Seeing the program study the book with intense concentration reminds Sam of Quorra's unabashed love of reading, but he doubts Tron will develop any sort of infatuation over Jules Verne.

Sam goes to the other side of the main room and slips into the narrow hallway that ends at the bedroom he'd been given. The door is wide open but the interior is otherwise undisturbed. Sam goes to the shelves and studies the decor, picking up a few objects and turning them over in his hand. The white dresser across the room is full of empty drawers; he pushes the furniture to the side to expose the wall but doesn't find a hidden compartment or object.

He goes to Quorra's room and enters with some apprehension. Even though she no longer lives here, he still feels like he's invading her safe haven. He pads around the room, taking in the delicate crystalline bottles on the dresser and recalling her giddy enthusiasm at discovering perfume; the look on the sales clerk's face as she tested every bottle on her arms had been priceless. His nose twitches at the memory.

The only things worth perusing in the dresser drawers are a copy of Jules Verne's Around the World in Eighty Days and what appears to be a plain journal. He ponders its existence and debates reading a page or two of it, if anything was written in it at all. He decides to hold it up by its covers and shake it to see if anything falls out from between the pages. He catches glimpses of words scrawled on the pages and wonders how she was able to transcribe her thoughts in such a human fashion.

He gives the Jules Verne the same treatment but the novel drops no secrets. With a sigh, he puts both books back in the dresser and shuts the drawer. He looks around the room one more time, wondering how Quorra was able to live here for almost twenty years without breaking down from cabin fever. Did she relish her hours slinking around the city, seeking out information to bring back to Flynn? What would his father have done with it?

One section of the safe house remains unexplored but his steps falter while crossing it at the sight of Tron out on the deck. The program had abandoned the books in favor of the view; he stands stiffly, hands clasped behind his back, while staring across the Outlands to the distant cyan lights of the Grid. Sam crosses the transparent barrier, twitching at the change in pressure as he steps outside onto the deck. He walks around the shallow pool to Tron's side and leans on the rail, looking out at the lights on the horizon. From here, the city is a blur, a cluster of cyan fireflies. High above the Grid shines the portal, a stark reminder that he's on the clock.

Sam doesn't go back inside just yet.

"Hey," he says. Gray eyes flick to him. "You okay?"

Tron considers the question, face impassive but for a slight upward curl at the corner of his mouth. "I'm fine. Have you found anything yet?"

"No," Sam mutters. "Don't even know what I’m supposed to look for. Have one more place to check before I call this entire thing a bust."

"What happens if you find nothing?"

He shrugs. "Thought about it before I came here. If I find something, great. If I don't... well, it sucks but what can you do? I took a risk and it didn't pan out. Just means some things weren't meant to be."

He thinks about the hours he spent here, the conversations he overheard, the promise he made to a Siren, the program that led him to his father's safe house. "Don't regret coming here, though."

Tron nods at that, his smile small and pleased. Sam looks elsewhere, ignoring the warm curl in his chest.

"You should finish sweeping the house," the program says.

He sighs. "Yeah, I should."

He hops up the stairs back into the house. As he turns to enter his father’s room, he glances at Tron; the program hasn’t moved but his head tilts just a bit like he's watching Sam. Sam shakes off that strange anxious feeling and heads to the last room.

Flynn's room has no door. Sam sees the bed, the small shelves of books, and the dresser upon entering it. He starts by looking under the bed and flipping through every book on the shelf, searching for something that doesn't quite fit. He pauses in the middle of skimming through Aristotle's Poetics to consider the possibility of Flynn storing his thoughts and ideas on a small hexagon chip like the ones Crystal gives them.

Sam fails to find a hexagon chip wedged into a corner of the room or nestled within the pages of books written by classical authors. He then turns to the dresser. The top three drawers contain a few changes of robes and a dark cloak. He takes them all out to unfold and examine in hopes of having something fall out from between the folds. Discovering nothing, he then searches the emptied drawers before stuffing the robes back in. He pulls open the bottom drawer and freezes.

Slowly Sam pulls out a black leather jacket, a dark shirt, and a worn pair of jeans, the clothes his father wore the night he didn't come home.

He leaves the shirt and jeans on the floor and walks to the bed, sits down heavily on the edge and clutches the leather jacket with shaking hands. He tries not to bury his face in it, knows better than to hope it'll still smell of the beach and motor oil. He rubs his fingers over the worn, smooth texture and closes his eyes; his memories are ragged now, full of holes and faded to a muted gray with time, but he can still remember. One that still plays in his head with a touch of Technicolor is of the jacket hanging off of his shoulders, his hand in his father's while they walked along the now-rebuilt Redondo Beach pier and made bets on the fisherman's catch. He still remembers the feel of warm leather wrapped around him as they sat in the sand and watched the surf on Santa Monica Beach.

Footsteps approach but he doesn't look until he hears the hitching hum of the program standing in front of him. Tron is staring down at the jacket, his face blank, but Sam still sees the cracks in the slumped shoulders, the thin line of the program's mouth, the weary sadness in the eyes. Tron suddenly looks old and very tired; Sam thinks he can see the memories flashing through the program's face as he reaches out and tentatively runs his fingertips over the leather. His hand shakes as he pulls it back.

Sam glances down at the jacket and huffs a laugh, a harsh awkward sound in the heavy silence. He shakes his head and closes his eyes, tightens his grip on it.

"Didn't think - had no idea he kept this. All these years and he didn’t throw it away. Wish I had more time with him, you know. Wish it didn't have to be about the Grid or Clu or 'removing oneself from the equation' and just waiting for twenty fucking years."

The mattress dips and Sam slowly looks left to meet Tron's intense gaze. The program sits so close that Sam can feel the irregular whirring vibrate in what little space is still between them. The air is thick and sinks onto his shoulders, weighs him down with so many unsaid things. Sam drops his gaze to his feet and swallows against the bitterness in back of his throat.

"I'm sorry."

Sam flinches. He still hates the expression of sympathy and reflexively mutters, "What for?"

Tron doesn't say. Silence stretches and Sam thinks that he shouldn’t have reacted so bitterly. It isn’t fair to take out his resentment at his father on a program who had suffered and had lost so much.

“I didn’t… I didn’t mean it that way,” he says awkwardly. “Sorry.”

He wishes he hadn't opened the bottom drawer. The memories still hurt.

Precious seconds tick by, and then Tron abruptly asks, "Did you check that interface?"

Sam stares at him and Tron nods at the far corner of the room where a desk sits under a window looking out at the Outlands and the city. It's molded after ENCOM's famous touchscreen desk computers and colored jet-black in stark contrast to the bluish white and silver of the room. How did Sam manage to miss it?

He folds the jacket over his arm as he walks to the desk and stares down at his reflection on its flawlessly smooth surface. If this is an interface, then there must be a way to activate it. He presses the palm of his hand on the surface and yanks it back when the desk hums and the surface lights up, circuits burning through the black to map out the border of the interface. Distilled code crawls across the screen and underneath the chaos he sees a list of numbered folders.

"The hell?" he mutters.

He taps past the scrolling code and brings up the hidden directory. The first folder bears a timestamp - the only part of it Sam cares about is the date "1986" - and when he opens it he sees lines of data detailing plans for upgrading and expanding the Grid. He skims through them, finding the notes peppered with thoughts about isomorphic algorithms, an ISO named Radia, and a location labelled Arjia. For some reason or another, his father didn't go into any particular detail with his notes and Sam closes the folder with a frustrated sigh. The next few folders contain more plans for the Grid and more vague notes and half-finished thoughts, like Flynn jotted down his ideas as they came to mind and moved on without a backwards glance.

Like a kid in a candy store, Sam thinks.

The more he looks the more discouraged he becomes. There simply isn't anything substantial file on the ISOs. Come to think of it, nothing here explains how the ISOs and the Grid will revolutionize the world. Sam recalls his father's excitement over the ISOs' potential - Quorra's potential - but nothing here would say how.

And she doesn't even care, he thinks. She's already ready to do everything else. I could be-

He pauses right before opening the next folder and rereads its label.

1989.

A slow chill works up his spine as he glances down at the next folder.

1990.

1991.

The last folder is labeled 1992.

"What is it?" Tron asks from somewhere behind him.

Sam shakes his head. His hand hovers over the folders but can't bring himself to tap on the screen. He doesn't want to know what his father put in this hidden directory while watching Clu consolidate his control over the Grid, knowing he lost everything and everyone he held dear. Sam curls his fingers. Maybe it's better not to take a look. He wouldn't find anything useful anyway; Flynn wouldn't waste time on his visions of a digital future when more immediate, visceral things were happening on the distant horizon.

"Sam."

He stiffens, realizing now just how loud the inconsistent humming is. He glances over his shoulder at Tron, who'd moved silently to his side while he was engrossed with and then horrified by the damning realization of what these folders must contain. The program leans in to look at the screen and his warm thrumming presence soothes Sam’s nerves, gives him something to ground himself to as he summons his courage.

"Dunno what'll happen if I open these," Sam explains hesitantly. "These were made after Clu."

Tron says nothing but he doesn't move away either. Swallowing hard, Sam slowly taps on 1991, bringing up a massive list of unlabeled files. They're indistinguishable except by number so Sam decides to take a chance - he taps on a file near the bottom of the list.

Sam can't breathe.

His father's face, neck, and shoulders take up the entire screen; Flynn's still young, still looks too much like Clu, but there are wrinkles forming that Sam knows weren't there in 1989 and there is a deep sadness in Flynn's eyes that hurts.

"I...." Flynn bows his head and sighs deeply before looking up and through Sam. "I don't know why I keep making and saving these... memories. And people wonder if we can ever capture our thoughts and translate them into images, audio, or video. Thing is - last night, I dreamed about Tron again."

The persistent hum stutters. Sam doesn't dare look at the program behind him.

"He kept telling me something was wrong, something wasn't right. Wasn't right with Clu, the ISOs, the Grid... but I didn't listen. I never listened, and look what happened. I - I never should’ve brought him here. He wasn't written for the Grid, he had no actual purpose here. Tweaked his code a bit to make him compatible with the system, but there's no point in installing a firewall when nothing else was ready to connect with something like the Grid.

"I bet there are a lot of systems better than the Grid now. I wish I could see. I had so many - so many ideas, and I was just waiting for everything else to catch up. Now I'll miss it all. Miss technology moving forward, miss ENCOM become what it should be, miss Alan and Lora and Roy, miss Sam growing up...."

Sam blinks rapidly but the burning sensation in his eyes won't go away. He presses his lips together tightly to stop the trembling and swallows against the hot lump in the back of his throat as he watches his father sigh again and rub his face in frustration.

"Maybe that’s why I had that dream again. Guess the guilt’s getting to me. I never told him what happened after I copied him over and now… company was moving faster than ever and, well, when you have newer better programs to debug and release, you replace the old ones. Saved what I could, what I thought was still useful and could be improved. Just couldn’t save them all. Last thing I remember is a new firewall being written to replace the current version of Tron. So. No more Tron monitoring the ENCOM network, no more Dumant, no more Ram, no more Yori-"

Sam jerks away from the grating noise behind him and turns around to see Tron leaving the room. Sam stares at the empty space next to him before glancing down at his father's face. He doesn't hear the rest of the recorded memory. Something else tugs at him, compels him to follow the program. Sam dismisses the file and leaves the room. He immediately sees the distinct cluster of blue circuits out on the deck.

Tron doesn't acknowledge Sam when he draws near. The program stares straight ahead, clenched hands held stiffly at his side. "You should finish that memory file."

"Fuck no," Sam says before he can stop himself. "That’s not important. You - you're not - I'm sorry."

Tron turns to him, startled. "Why are you apologizing?"

"Because you didn’t need to hear that. Or maybe you should’ve since Dad wanted to tell you, but not yet. It’s just too fucking soon after-” He waves at the distant city and laughs a little hysterically. “He told me so many stories… I had no idea. They were just stories to me. But they were real, and they’re gone. They’re gone and he’s gone and-”

He can’t speak. He might throw up. He takes a deep breath but it’s shaky and shallow and he has to take another. Tron watches him, eyes narrowed and mouth a thin frown.

“Sam?”

He shakes his head. “It’s - it’s nothing.”

“No, it’s not.”

Trust the program to see right through him and expose his little white lie.

"I can't do this." He's suddenly so tired, so weary His legs feel like jelly and he abruptly sits down next to the pool. "I don't want to listen to Dad talk about his regrets. His guilt. All the things he imagines happened while he was here. He - when I saw him for the first time in twenty years, when I asked what the fuck happened-"

A word lodges in his throat. Another crashes into it. The third collides and the fourth piles on top and no sound comes out. He feels so tired and helpless and yet so angry. He thought he was over it six months ago, that he'd left that stage of grief behind. Finding that leather jacket and those folders, reading those half-finished notes, watching that video, all triggered the old anxiety, the old fears, the old anger for the life he was forced to live when his father abandoned him two decades ago.

"Sam," Tron says and his voice is calm and warm, and very close.

Sam blinks and realizes he'd folded into himself. He looks at Tron; the program is kneeling in front of him, watching him carefully. Tron looks unsure of what he’s supposed to do with a distressed User, but Sam feels suddenly, overwhelmingly grateful that he’s not alone. Heaving a sigh, he bows his head and presses it against his bent knees.

"I thought I was over this. Thought I... this isn't even about me," he says. He raises his head. "You left when Dad brought up Ram, Dumat, and Yori."

The stuttering hum screeches and rattles while the program goes absolutely still.

"I know who they are. I know what Yori was to you. He never - I had no idea. I didn't know you were the only one he brought over from ENCOM."

"There - there were a few others, but I don’t remember them. It's been too many cycles," Tron says quietly. "They've all probably been derezzed."

"But how could he not bring them over when they-" Helped you beat the MCP and make things right between Dad and Dillinger, a very young voice supplies in the back of Sam's mind. "-were your friends. Why weren't they the first ones Dad copied over-"

"I had hoped," the program says. He closes his eyes as if to collect himself. "He brought me here when the Grid was so new and unformed. We really did build the city together, even though it wasn't my intended purpose. Those first cycles were the worst, but I - I carried on. I waited until we had the Grid Flynn envisioned, until we had programs to maintain it and do what he asked of it. I'd hoped he'd bring the Grid to a network, he'd bring the others, he'd bring Yori, Ram, and Dumont. Then the ISOs came and I had too much to do. After Clu took over.... Now I know the truth."

"I'm sorry," Sam says, because there isn't anything better to say after that.

They sit here for a while, with the water lapping gently against the sides of the pool and Tron's rattling thrum settling back down into something like the gentle hum of a functioning hard disk drive. Sam’s limbs ache but he doesn't want to unfold them and get back to his task just yet. He stays curled up with his chin tucked under his knees, studying the hexagon tiles on the floor, the circuits on his armor, the program crouched down in front of him.

"You should finish the file," Tron finally says. "Make sure that there's... nothing left for you."

Sam sighs and bows his head. "Yeah. I should do that. You'll be okay?"

Tron nods. He doesn't move, just watches Sam stand up, stretch out the kinks in his limbs, and slowly climbs the stairs back inside the safe house.

The interface is a glossy black surface. As soon as Sam brushes his fingers over it, the screen lights up to reveal the list of memories. He considers finishing the current file like Tron suggests, but instead he scrolls up to an earlier file on the list. His breath hitches as his father's face fills the screen again.

"So," Flynn says, "Clu is sending rectified programs into the Outlands. Probably looking for my disc or the ISOs and ISO sympathizers hiding out here. I don't think he'll ever get as far as this house, but if he does it's all over. Game over."

Flynn sighs and closes his eyes tightly. When he speaks again his voice is gritty, shaking with constrained grief. "Don't know why I'm still making these. Never gonna watch these later... and there's no way you'll find your way here."

Something pounds in the back of Sam's head. His fingers curl tightly around the edge of the interface as he stares unblinking at his father's face.

"So this isn't for you. This isn't for anyone.

"But... just in case, if - if you ever find your way here and you find your way through the code, which I know you can do, and find these, I just want to tell you that I'm sorry. I'm sorry I never came home that night, kiddo. What I'd give... what I'd give to spend a year, a month, a week, a day, an hour with you. I miss you so much, Sam. You have no idea."

Flynn shakes his head and sits back, eyes wet and hands clasped together and pressed against his mouth. A full minute passes before he regains his composure. "Guess that's all I have to say this millicycle. Need to check in on the ISO in the other room, make sure she's okay. Dunno how she managed to survive for this long. She's a rare bird, too rare for the Grid, for my mistakes. I've made enough of them. Need to keep her safe and wait for Clu to screw up big time."

"Only other thing I can do now is hope for some kind of miracle."

* * *

"I wonder how pissed off ENCOM is with its CEO MIA. They haven't been happy with me for months, probably expected me to snap and disappear like that. They're probably happier now."

"So Bostrum fell."

"Dreamed about Tron again. I should've done more that day, but I didn't. He told me to run and I did exactly that. I didn't stay and fight. Now he's dead because of me. It's my fault. Mine."

"Quorra finally asked me to teach her how to play go. I think she'll be okay."

"If we win back the Grid I'm developing the Outlands. ISOs have been making colonies out here. Terrible place. Gridbugs are a constant problem. But they survive. They make it work. They're incredible."

"I wish your mother was still alive."

"Haven't heard much about the Argon situation but... now there's just one city left standing."

"I made Clu in my image. I wrote him to maintain the best possible system. I don't understand. What went wrong?"

"There's no Miracle. He destroyed everything."

"This is the last one. I can't keep making these. They just remind me of what I'm missing out on. You'll never see this, but I just want to tell you that I’m sorry. I'm sorry I never came home. I'm sorry we never got to play doubles, sorry we never got to play on the same team.

"I hope you grow up without this hanging over your head. You're the company's biggest shareholder now, and I may have said a thing or two about your smarts, how quick you are to take up coding. They’ll probably expect you to join the company, maybe even take over and do a better job than I did. But if... if you don't want to do what I did, if you decide to sell your shares and do your own thing, don't let anybody stop you. You'll never have to spend an entire week arguing with the board or getting chewed out by Alan for being underdressed almost every day.

"I wish I could see you grow up and become a better person than your own father. I hope your grandparents and Alan and Lora do that for me since I'll... since I won't be there for you.

"So I guess this is a goodbye, Sam. I love you."

Chapter Text

Sam watches the data copy over from the interface to his disc. The process, once he figured it out, makes an entrancing sight; the disc sits in the middle of the interface, edge glowing hot white, while a circuit array burns into the interface's surface and connects the disc to the directory of Flynn's memory files and data. But after a while even the most awe-inspiring of sights can get dull if nothing changes, so he starts pacing around the room, picking at the books on the shelves while his father's leather jacket remains tucked under his arm.

After the last bit of data copies over to Sam's disc, he locks the interface to his disc's signature as a safeguard against unauthorized access and shuts down the display. He picks up the disc and stares down at it; the disc's circuits glow steadily and it hums in his hands like a living thing. He locks it back onto the dock on his armor and turns to leave, but stops when he sees his reflection on the table's darkened surface. He looks older than his twenty-eight years, with the eyes and bearing of a very tired and world-weary person. Shuddering, he turns and quickly leaves the room.

He finds Tron in the room with the useless fireplace, staring at the spiked silver object in his hand. Tron glances over his shoulder at Sam and places the object back on the mantelpiece. "The portal closed."

Great.

Sam goes to one of the ridiculously ornate chairs and collapses in it. He didn't think he could feel gravity's pull so acutely in a digital environment but it drags at his limbs and his mind anyway, and he just doesn't have the energy to fight it. He closes his eyes and covers them with his hand to block out the room's bright light. "That's fine. That's okay. She knows what to do if it goes out before I get back. I can work with it."

Seconds tick by before Tron responds. "Did you find what you're looking for?"

He wonders how to explain the hours of scrolling through memory files, feeling his heart twist and shatter with every word his father says. "Found an answer, but dunno what to do with it."

"It wasn't what you expected?"

Sam cracks an eye open and watches Tron sit down in the other chair. He can't read the expression on the program's face and wonders what he's processing right now, especially in light of what Flynn confessed in that memory file. Thinking about it makes Sam question what his father was even thinking when he prioritized some outdated ENCOM programs and utilities over Yori and Dumont. The thought infuriates him; weren't they his friends, his allies? Wouldn't it have been better to bring them over with Tron during the early stages of the Grid? Maintaining legacy programs isn't unheard of, so why - he reels in his frustration. What's done is done and whatever he thinks of his father's decisions won't bring them back.

He looks up at the ceiling and takes a deep breath.

"Used to idolize Dad," is what he answers with. "Not as much as you, but he was my hero. Probably had to do with the stories he told me at night. Think he exaggerated a lot of it, though; huge difference between winning a lightcycle match using a joystick and winning a match on an actual lightcycle.

"But I thought he couldn't do anything wrong, even when he started going out late at night without any real good reason." He pauses to gather his thoughts before they trip over each other, idly notes the strangely knowing look in Tron's face. "Then he disappeared and I - I was so confused and so fucking angry. Why would he leave me? Twenty years later I found out why, and the first time I saw him he spent half of it talking about what the Grid can do, what the ISOs, what Quorra can do. None of that mattered to me. I just, I just wanted Dad back.

"Now that I think about it, he wasn't really good at being one. Wasn't good at taking care of the Grid, either. But in some of those files, he said - I think he realized what he did to me and he was so sorry. He knew what he did and he kept saying sorry, kept saying I shouldn't... follow him. I shouldn't waste my life looking for him, for answers I wouldn't find. He said he was sorry for fucking up my life, which... must've been the most mature thing I ever heard him say." He laughs and the sound is bitter and wet. "So that's what I'm doing. I'm gonna forget everything he wanted to do but couldn't. Q was ready to let it all go and now I... I think I am, too."

His voice cracks and fades, and he stops to collect himself. "So no, it wasn't what I expected. It was something I needed."

He rubs at his eyes and takes a deep breath. He still feels a bit lost, drifting in limbo without rudder or sails. He supposes that comes with every image of his father fracturing as those memory files played.

"I'm sorry," Tron says quietly.

Sam shrugs. "Just need time. I got over him disappearing; I'll get over this, too." He sits up and leans forward, elbows on his knees, studying the program sitting in the chair across from him. "You okay with all of... all of this?"

This, he hopes Tron reads as, means what Flynn confessed in the file, the implied apology for making life on the Grid so difficult for the program.

Tron stares at his feet. "I don't know. I wasn't meant to deal with these things, but I never had a choice."

"And if you did?"

The program flexes his hands, turning them over to study first the palms and then the long blue circuits lacing the backs of his fingers and knuckles. "I'd choose to go back to the ENCOM server where I belong, but if Flynn said it changed beyond recognition then I don't belong there anymore. I'd choose not to have to deal with an increasingly dangerous situation that's beyond my control, but Clu had his opinions about Flynn and about running the Grid and Flynn wasn't as attentive as he should've been. I... I'd choose not to be Rinzler, but I know what I did. I remember.

"But that's all in the past, the history. Until the memories are overwritten I'll live with them, but I'll be... okay. I'll manage."

Sam nods at the words, drums fingers on his knees to distract himself from the small swell of pride in the back of his throat. Echoes of his father's voice and some of the Tron-focused memory files spurs him to ask, "Do you want me to connect the Grid to a network?"

Tron snaps to attention, the thoughtful introspection swept away by a bright and burning hope. "Can the Grid handle it? Flynn never seemed to have a purpose in mind when he compiled the Grid and Clu was powerless to do anything more than maintain and either rectify or derezz what didn't work."

Sam thinks about the system humming away in the arcade's basement. Over twenty years old and it still functions, still works, which means he can build on it, make it better. He'll need to replace and upgrade hardware without compromising the system, hunt down software that can run on an old, ever-changing OS that runs on a home computer. He'll need to reshape the Grid, remove whatever order Clu managed to shape out of his father's wild randomness, before he can make it compatible with modern-day networks.

This project could take weeks, months even, when he factors in ENCOM's demands.

"It'll take a while," he warns. "Have a day job so I can only work nights."

"Not every night," Tron says, and something about his tone makes Sam sit up. "You don't have to come here every night."

"Why-"

"The Grid doesn't need constant monitoring."

"But look what happened when Dad didn't come in for long periods of time. Clu-"

"There is no Clu, and I trust you'll make the system stable enough that it and we can run without you being involved at all times," Tron says patiently. For a program that can't physically age like his User can, he looks and sounds incredibly old. "Don't ruin your life over us, Sam."

Oh. Oh.

He doesn't quite know what to say to that, what to do with how plainly Tron told him what not to do. He just nods and says, "I know."

They don't say anything else for a while. Sam thinks about curling up in the chair and catching up on sleep in this lonely house in the mountains. He tries to do so, shifting to find the best possible position that won't leave a crick in his neck when he wakes up, and then Tron stands up and says, "We should go."

He sighs. Tron's right, unfortunately; there's nothing else for them here. He carefully extracts himself from the chair, follows the program out of the room while saying, "Since I'm stuck here for a few hours, maybe I can take a look at what the system can do right now and what I need to fix first."

"Can't wait to get started?" Tron asks as they step onto the lift.

Sam stares at him. Tron sounds like he's teasing. The program notices him looking - or rather, his expression - and the corner of his mouth curls upward in a small secret smile. Sam can't help returning it with a grin of his own; warmth and an undercurrent of potential buzz under his skin as he rocks back on his heels and waits for the lift to reach the light runner at the bottom of the mountain.

For the first time in a long time, he feels hopeful.

* * *

"I might’ve promised Crystal I’ll fix the Grid," Sam decides to say on the long journey back to the city.

Tron raises an eyebrow. "Why?"

"She asked me what I'm doing after I get back from the safe house," he says, rubbing his thumb along a seam on the leather jacket in his lap. He doesn't look behind as the safe house shrinks into the distance. "Convinced me that since I'm partially responsible for everything that happened on the Grid I should at least clean up my mess."

"Sirens," he thinks he hears Tron mutter under his breath. Then, louder, "But that's not the main reason why you're taking over the Grid, is it?"

"It's not," Sam says automatically, and just barely stops himself from adding, You are, because that isn't the reason he planned to say - and where did that come from, anyway? He dredges up the actual answer but he doesn't sound very convincing when he says, "The Grid's amazing and I want to see it grow."

The reason is a true one but he really does want to take over it for Tron, to make it the kind of system where Tron can function as the firewall he's meant to be. The work could take weeks and involve either tracking down obscure parts or rebuilding everything from scratch, but he’ll do it and gladly because Tron deserves a second chance at running on the Grid, a second chance to be himself.

The intensity of the thoughts catch him off-guard. They wrap around his chest and squeeze so tightly that he has to shut his eyes and clench his fists to keep his composure.

"Sam?"

He takes a deep breath and looks at Tron. "It's nothing."

Tron looks unconvinced but doesn't press the issue.

Ten minutes pass in relative silence before Sam, in his infinite wisdom, blurts out, "He dreamed of you, that night I found the Grid. Told Q right before he saw me."

He glances at Tron; the program looks straight ahead, a thoughtful frown on his face.

"A lot of his later memory files were about you. Kept talking about that night, how he shouldn't have run, shouldn't have let Clu gain the upper hand, shouldn't have left you behind.”

"I shouldn't have run. I shouldn't have left you behind. I could've stopped him, I had the power, I made him, but I didn't. I ran. I left you to die. What kind of friend am I?

I'm so sorry, and that would never be enough."

“He never got the chance to apologize, but-"

"He wanted to," Tron interrupts. "I'll never understand many of his decisions, will never agree with some of them, will always wish he did more, but I don't... resent him for them.” A beat. “It wasn't him who staged the coup."

"If I ask around," Sam says carefully, "I might be able to dig up copies of Yori and Dumont. Might even find a backup copy of Ram; Roy was never good at tossing anything away."

"I appreciate the offer, but it's unnecessary," Tron says. The words come out slowly, like he's picking them with care. There's a momentary uptick in the rattling whirring hum before it continues ticking along at a quieter, more even pace. "They won't have the memories of the ones I knew from ENCOM. It wouldn't be the same, and I have others now that I have memories of, that have memories of me. I'd like to focus on them instead."

The smile Tron gives him is the same small one from the safe house, with the bittersweet current of someone with memories of what they once had and lost. Sam feels lightheaded and now a little confused; why does he reacting like this?

"Okay," he breathes out, managing to keep his voice steady. "Okay."

He stares at the Outlands for a couple minutes, trying to ignore the buzzing under his skin. It's almost gone when Tron starts another conversation.

"Quorra," he says in a way that reminds Sam of the way a trio of baffled kids said her name while at Griffith Park last weekend. "How is she? How did she... adapt to the User world?"

Curious about his intent, Sam says, "She's fine. Took her a while to get used to it. It was... interesting." He shakes his head and laughs to himself at some of the memories. "She's doing great, actually. Picked things up so fast it's almost... inhuman. She works at ENCOM now, managed to get a finger in every pie.”

“Pie?”

“She can do anything the dev teams ask of her. Right now she’s working with one to relaunch Dad’s old games for the new consoles.”

"Does she miss the Grid?"

He almost has whiplash looking at Tron. The question is blunt, laced with worry and anxiety and guilt. We need to work on that. "She does, but she's not ready to come back yet. She'll tell me when she is."

"I see."

The silence is heavier as it settles back into the light runner. Sam now notices that they're in a network of canyons. He can't see the city but the faint glow of its lights above the silhouettes of the walls is unmistakable. The portal's light is nowhere to be found and panic bubbles up in his throat before he reminds himself that Quorra's on the other side, Quorra knows about the digitizer and the world inside the computer. He's not trapped in here like Flynn was. He won't be.

"After we rebuild the Grid," Tron suddenly says, "we should give her something to come back to."

Sam forgets about the portal entirely in favor of staring at Tron. Tron looks at him warmly and with that smile that Sam is starting to suspect is just for him. The thought flares hot and bright in his chest, threatens to flush up his neck to his face. Before he could fumble with a response, with a couple ideas on what they can do for her, Tron looks skyward, frowns, and abruptly changes course. The light runner scrapes by the steep rock wall on its right, chipping off data, and at the upcoming fork, careens to the left. The passageway narrows dramatically, the sides of the canyon curving towards each other and blocking out the sky.

"What the hell was that?" Sam demands, scrambling back into his seat.

The light runner's lights go out as it speeds along the curving path; they're now traveling in near darkness, the canyon dimly lit by their circuits. Sam curls his fingers around the edge of his seat and barely manages not to crash into the inactive controls on the dashboard in front of him or bang his head against the hatch's glass walls as Tron makes vicious turns at random forks and branches in the path. All the while the program keeps looking up like there's something above them.

"We're being followed."

Chapter Text

"Followed? Are you kidding me?" Sam looks up just as the light runner makes another turn and he bangs his head against the side of the cockpit. "Fuck! By what?"

"Most likely what's left of the rectified programs," Tron says. "After the reintegration, there was another purge. This time the rectified programs that weren't on the Rectifier, the programs that were loyal to Clu, were all pushed out or derezzed." The program glances up and then pushes at something on the center console; the light runner becomes almost airborne as it streaks through the canyon. "They're Sentries and Black Guards."

"Clu's dead. He's been dead for months. Why are they even bothering with us?"

"We're programs, and the rectified ones don't have many subroutines," Tron says. "One of our - one of their functions is to track down illicit activity in the Outlands, because it could be Flynn and we’re always searching for him."

Sam stops himself from commenting on the slip-up; now’s not the time to give it undeserved attention. "There's no one to track down the activity for. Also, you're pretty self-aware for a program."

"That's partially Flynn's fault."

A light glows at the end of the narrow, sharply twisting tunnel and it's the city, cyan and beautiful. Something flickers overhead and Sam looks up; dark shapes jump over the gap between the cliffs. He twists around and sees a dull red-orange glow behind the light runner.

"Shit, they're behind us!"

Tron moves his hand over the light runner's center console and the vehicle goes even faster; momentum shoves Sam back in his seat as the light runner hurtles down the canyon, chassis rocking on its suspension while the wheels scrape by and score the craggy walls.

When Sam looks up again he can now make out the silhouettes of darkened lightcycles moving parallel to the light runner, circuits a dull reddish throb.

"I thought lightcycles can't go off-Grid."

"They can't without a specific path to follow," Tron says, and Sam remembers the relatively uneventful ride back to the Grid in the second gen lightcycle, guided by the coordinates Quorra gave him.

The program presses a button on the console. Nothing happens to the light runner itself but when Sam looks over his shoulder, he can see blinking blue lights tumble along the ground.

"Hold on," Tron orders and the light runner jolts forward again.

Rapidly approaching them is the mouth of the network of canyons; it opens up to an open stretch of rough terrain, and beyond that is the Grid. As they burst out of the canyon, Tron hits another button and missile launchers rezz on the light runner's chassis. They swivel and angle up to fire on the canyon walls at the same time the mines explode in a blue-white roar. Sam flinches reflexively as the mouth of the canyon disappears under rubble and broken code.

Nothing seems to follow them out of the canyons. There are just several miles of flat ground to cross before they reach the relative safety of the city. Sam settles in his seat, says, "That was-"

The light runner makes a sudden hard left. Sam slams into the side of the cockpit as the vehicle skids across the ground, stops short of colliding with a large red-orange light ribbon. Sam stares, heart pounding, as the red light runner circles them, missile launchers rezzed and locked onto their position.

"Are you kidding me?" he demands as lightcycles emerge from the canyon, circuits llit red with rectification. "Where the fuck did that come from?"

The programs dismounting from the lightcycles appear to be comprised mostly of Sentries and more than a few sport the kind of visible damage that would kill humans. All but one bear the red-orange circuitry of the rectified, and the program that doesn't is decked out in a vaguely familiar array of yellow. He can’t remember where or when he saw the program and wishes it would take off its helmet.

"Remove yourself from the light runner," a Sentry orders in a deep mechanized monotone.

"Okay, okay,” Sam says to himself. Then, “We can't just run them over?"

Tron raises an eyebrow and nods in the direction of the other light runner's missile launchers. Right. Sam slumps in his seat. "Shit."

"If you don't get out of the light runner, we'll drag you out," the tall yellow program says loudly. "Talking to you, SamFlynn."

Startled, Sam stares at the program and then at the other light runner with its rippling light ribbon barricade, at the Sentries standing in a semicircle around them. They're pulling out staffs, beam katanas, and discs, intent on making good on the yellow program's threat. He doesn’t like their chance of surviving the confrontation unscathed, but when that has ever stopped him from trying?

"Not liking our chances here," he mutters as he reaches over his shoulder for his disc. He starts when Tron slams a baton into his chest, knocking the wind out of him. "What-"

"The odds of both of us escaping are too low," Tron says while watching the Sentries, tracking their every move. "If things go... south, I can distract them long enough for you to get back to the Grid-"

"No." Sam tries to shrug off the program's arm, refusing to look at the baton. "No way. Not a chance."

"Sam-"

"You're not getting away with it." Tron looks at him sharply. "I'm not running from this. You hear me?"

"I heard you, but you need to take this. Just in case."

He leaves no room for argument or protest or even movement; he just stares straight at Sam, eyes hard and mouth a thin line. Tron looks exactly like how Sam used to imagine him when he was younger - the Grid's champion and the defender of a free system, firm and unyielding and utterly determined to do the right thing.

"Before you came back, he still believed in you," a Siren's voice echoes in his head.

Without another word, Sam wraps his fingers around the baton. Something flickers across Tron's face as their hands brush; he lets go and breaks eye contact to reassess their situation. Tron moves his hand over the center console and quietly says, "And stay behind me."

Sam hooks the baton onto the outside of his right thigh as Tron releases the hatch and the light runner powers down. Eyeing the Sentries surrounding them and the rippling light ribbon separating them from the city, he pulls himself out of the vehicle and cautiously steps up to Tron's side.

The tall yellow program steps forward, helmet folding back to reveal its face, and oh. It's Sigma, from way back in Iota. Where did she find these Sentries and how did she convince them to do her bidding? He glances at Tron, who looks just as confused by this development.

"So, SamFlynn,” Sigma says. “How has your time been on the Grid?"

"Could be better," he says. "Could be a lot worse. What do you want now? Where's that buddy of yours? Y’know, that Octane guy?"

Her eyes narrow at the questions. "I don't have to give you unnecessary information. I'll make it simple - give yourself up and we'll let Rinzler go."

"Why?" Sam asks, though he's pretty sure he knows the answer.

Octane wanted him alive. Zuse wanted his disc. Crystal wanted him to not abandon the Grid. They all want him to keep the Grid running and that has to be Sigma's reason, too.

"Because if you don't-" A beam katana materializes in her hand and she points its glowing yellow blade at Tron, stopping him from moving in front of Sam. "-I'll just rip the master disc off your back and derezz the glitch next to you."

"It's not-"

"It is," Tron says. "I felt it when you walked out of that room. Flynn must have saved a copy of his disc in his library."

Why would his father do that? How did Sam miss it slipping in with the other files during the transfer? He instinctively reaches for his disc but freezes when the beam katana's blade swings in his direction.

"Only if you're surrendering it," Sigma says.

"Fuck you," he replies. "And Tron's not a glitch."

"The Grid doesn't need programs like him," she says. "The Grid needs you. So give me your disc and surrender yourself, and I'll let Rinzler live long enough to let the city derezz him."

"You can't have him," Tron says. The blazing blue edge of his disc sparks against the beam katana's blade, pushing its point away from Sam's chest. "Back off."

Sentries raise their weapons but one of the programs next to Sigma - not a Sentry, Sam realizes, but a Black Guard - holds a hand up and stills them.

"You're outnumbered," the Black Guard says in that same mechanized monotone. A deep crack curves along the right side of its helmet, the jagged edges a matte black that soaks in the circuit lights. It's a little like looking at a crack in space and time. "Do you really think you'll be more successful than the last time?"

"What is he talking about?" Sam demands.

"The cycle Clu took over the Grid," Tron says. "He cornered us to take Flynn's disc. I bought Flynn enough time to escape."

"And where would you go?" Sigma says. "The portal is closed and most of the Grid still doesn't know whether to accept Users or attack them on sight. You have nowhere to run."

"Anywhere's better than here," Sam retorts. "I'll take my chances with the rest of the Grid. Pretty sure I can convince some of them we aren't all bad."

Sigma's condescending smile turns into a flat cold glare as she steps back, helmet rezzing over her head. "Fine."

Sam quickly detaches his disc and takes a defensive position, disc humming white hot in his hand. He can't look away from the rippling shift in the Sentries' positions, in the aggressive stances they take. "We're fucked."

"But you're staying," Tron says quietly.

"Well, yeah," Sam says. "Where else would I be?"

Tron smiles and then his helmet encloses around his head. Sam takes a deep breath as his helmet rezzes into place and the visor slides down over his face; adrenaline and anticipation flood his senses as he watches the Sentries, waiting to see who'll strike first.

The other light runner does. Out of the corner of his eye he sees it rock back on its suspension from the force of missiles being launched at them - at Enyo's light runner, and dives out of the way. He tucks his head under his arms as the light runner explodes, hissing as hot shards of broken code rain on his back. He lifts his head just in time to roll out of the way of a Sentry's staff.

"Shit, shit, shit!" He slams his left heel into the program's abdomen, scrambles to his feet, and slices the staggering program open with his disc. Sam looks over his shoulder at the remains of the light runner - Enyo's going to kill him - before twisting out of the way of a beam katana and a light disc.

He brings his forearm up to block another Sentry's staff and stumbles back from the force of impact. The program's on him before he can recover but the Sentry loses its head to one of Tron's discs.

Gripping his disc with shaky fingers, Sam looks around frantically for a beam katana to gain some leverage. All he finds are Sentries closing in on him from every side. He wonders if someone's going to yell out an order not to kill him. It would make fighting them much easier if they're not allowed to use excessive force on him.

A Sentry swings its beam katana at him. He ducks and elbows the program into another Sentry, then slings his disc at the one coming at him with a staff. The disc plows through the Sentry's chest and out, and Sam sweeps up the staff as the derezzing program drops it. He slams its end into the nearest Sentry, aiming for the sternum like Tron once told him, and the program drops to the ground. Sam catches his disc out of the air and derezzes the Sentry. He manages to evade another Sentry's disc and hits the program's exposed side with the staff, pushing it back. The Sentry staggers, tries to regain its footing, and Sam slams his disc's burning white edge into the program's stomach.

Through the cascade of broken code he sees Tron derezz Sentry after Sentry systematically and with deceptive ease. He shudders at the ruthlessness.

Sam ducks a swing from someone's beam katana, drops the staff as he trips over something on the ground, and loses sight of Tron as the Sentries close in on him. Sam shoves a program away and turns to block another's beam katana with his disc. He pushes the red blade back, putting all his weight into it. At the last second he twists away and as the program staggers past him, at the mercy of momentum, Sam slams his disc into the exposed back and shatters it. His arms burn from the effort but Sam only has seconds to catch his breath before he's dodging and deflecting another fiery disc.

Sam loses track of the Sentries he derezzes; they all blur as he shoves his disc and arm through a Sentry's chest, grabs the beam katana out of its derezzing hand, catches another off-guard with a backhanded swing, and derezzes it. Bits of code skitter across his visor as he kicks the next Sentry in the back of the knee and beheads it. Sam then spins sharply on the balls of his feet and blocks a staff with both disc and katana. He grits his teeth and pushes back against the Sentry, then sees something coming at him out of the corner of his eye and throws himself out of the way at the last second. The two Sentries collide, one derezzing while the other staggers back in a daze. Sam quickly pushes himself back up and flings his disc at the disarmed program.

He slices off a Sentry's leg with the beam katana and holds his hand out for his disc. Something blurs into his field of vision and he reflexively jerks away as a beam katana deflects his disc; a blow to his side throws him onto his side and knocks the air out of him. He pushes himself up on his hands and knees, looking around frantically for his disc; it's rolling on its side in the wrong direction - away from him.

Sigma approaches, beam katana in hand. She tilts her helmeted head down at him, cocks it to the side like she's staring at a bug on the floor, and then swings her blade down. Sam throws himself out of the way and jumps up on his feet. He lunges for a discarded staff and brings it up just in time to stop her next attempt to kill him, because that's what she's doing. All that talk about needing his disc and his User status, and she's trying to kill him.

"Shit," he hisses as he feels her put more weight behind her beam katana. The staff is slowly derezzing, bits of code splintering and showering the ground as the blade slowly cuts through it. His knees buckle and then lock into place as he tries to push her off before the staff shatters.

"Sam!"

He glances over his shoulder to see something blue-white fly at him; he drops and twists out of the way of Tron's disc as it veers towards Sigma. With resistance gone, Sigma's beam katana drops downward and through Sam's armor, breaking skin right at the left shoulder joint. Sam bites back a pained cry as the blade pulls out and presses the heel of his hand over the injury while Sigma stumbles to the side and drops to one knee. Behind her, an unlucky Sentry derezzes as Tron's disc boomerangs back to its owner. Sam feels blood seeping between the broken edges of the armor and holds his hand up to see it painted a shade of red that doesn't exist on the Grid. The bold color is distracting, as is the burning sensation in his shoulder, and he barely manages to refocus in time to scramble out of Sigma's way.

Her helmeted head stares down at him and he easily pictures disgust on her face. Then she steps back like she's graciously giving him a chance to pick himself up and be throttled by her again. He breathes heavily as he leans down to pick up his beam katana, clenching his jaw when he tries to wrap his left hand around the beam katana's handle and instead succeeds in aggravating the injury. He remembers how quickly the cut on his arm healed up when he first arrived but the one on his shoulder still burns and leaks blood. It worries him.

Sigma starts pacing in a wide circumference around him; behind her a few Sentries stand at attention, weapons in hand. Sam turns half-step by half-step to keep her in sight, right hand gripping the beam katana tightly and left hand trembling and painted red.

Behind her, Tron derezzes a Sentry and dodges another's beam katana before slamming his disc into the program's chest. He then spins around and blocks the scarred Black Guard's disc. Neither of them give way and none of the Sentries join in to tip the scales.

"Interesting," Sigma says. "When a program is injured and doesn't derezz immediately, the injury becomes a part of the code. Yours still hurts you. You're weaker than I thought."

"Still standing," Sam retorts.

"Barely." She twirls her beam katana and points its glowing blade at his left shoulder. "So what kind of advantage do I have over you?"

"No idea."

His eyes keep straying to Tron and she notices. "Expecting him to save you? You're just like the previous User - weak, chaotic, destructive. Relying on us to keep the system running and then abandoning us on a whim, just because."

"What did Dad do to piss you off," Sam mutters. He probably shouldn’t get mouthy at her but the pain is getting to him. "If you hate me so much, why do you need me?"

"I'm practical and you're necessary to a functioning Grid," she says derisively. "But only just."

She lunges forward and he barely brings up his beam katana in time to stop hers. He blocks her attack but the jarring impact leaves his left arm on fire and his hand weak; when she swings at him from a different angle, only his right arm moves to deflect the blow. He staggers back and almost loses his footing.

Don't fall, he tells himself desperately. You'll never get up.

He wonders if it's a good idea or a really terrible one to make a break for his apparently invaluable master disc. That requires knowing exactly where it is and he risks taking his eyes off Sigma for a second to scan the terrain for it. The hum of a disc pulls his attention back just in time to dodge and parry Sigma's newest assault, but the effort exhausts him, leaves him swaying unsteadily on his feet and his left shoulder throbbing painfully.

Two Sentries suddenly break away from the fight and head for something glowing faintly in the distance. Sam’s stomach drops when he realizes it's his disc. It's too far away for him to just run for it and he has to get Sigma out of the way first - the baton. He glances down at his leg quickly and almost heaves a sigh of relief when he sees it's still hooked onto the holster.

When Sigma swings her beam katana at him, he deflects it, twists out of the way of her disc, and rams his right elbow into her exposed side. She stumbles away and he bolts. A Sentry comes at him and Sam dodges the swinging staff, stabs the program with the beam katana, and leaves it in the derezzing body. He darts around another Sentry and grabs the baton. He pulls it apart, leaps onto the rezzing lightcycle, and braces himself as the vehicle hits the ground hard. He almost falls off when the impact knocks his left hand off the handle but he clings to the streamlined body with his legs and steers with his right hand, aims for the Sentries trying to take his disc.

Now he understands what Quorra and Tron meant when they said lightcycles couldn't handle the Outlands. The wheels spin wildly on the rough terrain, trying to grip the tangled nonsense of code and navigate through it to an undetermined destination. It takes everything Sam honed through years of motorcrossing to keep the lightcycle under him and moving forward as he chases down the Sentries. With only his right arm being strong enough to steer the lightcycle, he's forced to use his weaker left arm to - right, he doesn't have his disc. It glows some feet away from the Sentries, who are now distracted by Sam's appearance.

One of them flings its disc; Sam makes a hard left to avoid the red blur. The lightcycle drifts as he fights with the momentum and tries to keep the bike upright. After a few heart-pounding seconds he finally regains his balance and turns the lightcycle around just in time to see the other Sentry's disc coming right at his head.

The lightcycle slides across the ground before collapsing into a baton. Sam covers his head instinctively as he tumbles along, teeth clenched tightly. He comes to a stop on his side - his left, of all things - and he tries to breathe through the agonizing pain. the hot flare of it in his side and shoulder. HIs head swims, unable to tell him which way is up, and he curls into himself, trying to gather his senses.

Someone somewhere is yelling his name.

Footsteps rapidly approach. His eyes open and he tips onto his stomach, slides his right hand across the ground, and tries to push himself up. His knuckles hit something hard and sharp, and he blinks down at his disc. He then looks up at the Sentry running at him; the other is nowhere in sight. Sam takes a deep breath and grabs his disc. Its edge flood hot white in response and he smiles in relief. He brings his knees up under him and springs at the Sentry, swinging his disc to deflect the Sentry's beam katana. The impact jars his limbs and he staggers backwards, hits the ground hard. The Sentry recovers far faster and advances towards him; Sam scrambles back, willing himself to get back to his feet.

A blue-white blur slices through the air and derezzes the Sentry. Sam throws an arm up to block the explosion of shattered code. Searing heat bites into exposed skin and he flinches away from the collapsing program. When the pain dies down he lowers his arm and climbs to his feet. He looks around and sees Tron fending off several Sentries with one disc; the other one hasn't come back to him and he's losing ground.

No.

Sam half-runs, half-staggers to the discarded baton and activates it. As soon as the lightcycle's wheels hit the ground, he kicks it into gear and races back to Tron. The nearest Sentry - still yards away - spots him and throws its disc. Sam deflects it with his and then swerves to avoid another streaking red disc. More Sentries turn their attention to him instead of Tron, creating a loose barrier between him and the firewall program. From his position, Sam can't throw his disc accurately or hope to get it back. What he can do is pull more Sentries off of Tron and give him room to fight and whittle down the number of Sentries.

He turns the lightcycle around and charges at the Sentries. At the last second he feints left, deflects two discs, and puts distance between them and himself. The second time he does it he gains the attention of two more Sentries. The fourth time, a Sentry breaks away from the line and moves forward to cut him off the next time he makes a sharp turn, leaving an opening. Sam bears down on the Sentry and doesn't stop, slicing through the program. It collapses around his hand and forearm; he bites the inside of his cheek and thinks past the heat of the broken bits as he races past the Sentries. Ahead of him, Tron's fighting the Black Guard and two Sentries and Sam adjusts his grip on his disc, readies himself-

Sigma's disc crashes into the lightcycle's front wheel and it flips. Sam reflexively twists away from the lightcycle, unwilling to find himself pinned under it, and curls into himself before he hits the ground. Something heavy shatters near his head.

The world rings in his head. Slowly and with a pained groan, he rolls onto his back. The ground is solid and he clings to that while his mind tries to orient itself. Quick shallow breaths are the only way to deal with his right side; he tries to sit up, something requiring him to brace his weight on his still-healing left shoulder, and he bites through his lip as he manages to get up on his knees.

The heel of a foot presses on his left shoulder blade and shoves him down on his stomach. Swearing, Sam tries to push it off but Sigma simply leans her weight on her leg, pinning him to the ground. He almost sobs in relief when she takes her foot away but when he tries to get back up she kicks him in the side. He folds in on himself with a cry, presses his hand to his rib cage and tries to think of an advantage, any advantage, that he can get over the program circling around him.

"You don't give up, do you?" Sigma says. Her disc hums loudly and he flinches away from it. He manages to pry his eyes open and looks for his; it fell far from him and he won't be able to reach it in time. Sigma will cut him down right here, right now.

He had moments when his life flashed before his eyes and made him regret the decisions he made that often landed him in hospitals and his father's Ducati in the shop. His life doesn't play through his head this time; instead he feels the weight of the questions he'll never answer, the questions Quorra will be forced to answer for him. He'll die on the Grid just like Flynn did and Quorra will have to tell Alan and Lora the horrible truth.

"Step away from him!"

Sam jerks his head up just in time to see Sigma deflect Tron's disc. That leaves her open and vulnerable for the second one - and when did he even get it back? - which arcs around and comes in at her left side. She twists around and tries to knock it away but she's too slow; the disc slams into her side and she collapses. Sam scrambles backward, stunned by the sudden deresolution, and stares at the pile of cooling broken code until he hears Tron cry out.

His fingers wrap around a dropped beam katana and he forces himself onto his feet. Almost immediately he's set upon by three Sentries. Sam barely manages to deflect a blow from a Sentry's staff but the program is relentless and he finds himself taking one too many steps back while fighting them off. He's going the wrong way, he has to get to Tron, and that thought nudges him forward, wills him into slamming the point of his right shoulder into the nearest program. The Sentry staggers back and Sam slashes at its exposed side. It derezzes, giving him a clearer view of what's happening a few yards away.

A Sentry comes at him and Sam ducks its disc, pivots, and stabs it in the back. He lets go of the katana's handle, not looking as the Sentry fell apart at his feet. His attention is on the two Sentries flanking Tron and pushing him down onto his knees. The Black Guard standing in front of him forces his head up with the tip of its beam katana and tilts its cracked helmeted head like it's saying something. Then the Black Guard looks straight at Sam and he swears that the program is taunting him. He reaches for his back, for a weapon that isn't there, and the Black Guard stabs Tron through the chest.

The world lurches. A wordless roar consumes his mind. Red bleeds into his vision and he drops down onto one knee, slams his hands on the ground. The Outlands, the digital wilderness, the raw untamed code surrounding the orderly Grid, rises up under his hands, twisting and molding into crude functions. They ripple outwards from the epicenter under Sam's hands, derezzing every Sentry program they come across. The Black Guard jerks violently as if electrocuted, circuits darkening to a pulsing sickly red while the crack in its helmeted head widen. Blackened code chips off while it sways in place.

Sam stands up on shaking legs. His knees almost give way with the first steps he takes but he ignores the weakness in his limbs as he crosses the battleground to the Black Guard. The Black Guard lists to the side, circuits dimming. Its head tilts in Sam's direction and a broken monotone spits out, "I did you a favor, User, by following my directive and removing a defective program."

Sam slams his fist into the Black Guard's sternum and watches his form collapse. Breathing heavily, he looks around for more threats but finds none; the terrain is littered with shards of broken code and inactive weapons. A red light runner sits in the distance, the cockpit empty. The way to the city is clear and it glows cyan in the horizon.

He looks down at Tron's still form, at the bits of code chipping off the ugly wound just to the bottom right of the dimming blue circuits on his sternum, and falls to his knees next to the program.

Sam doesn't know what to do.

Chapter Text

Sam was done feeling helpless when he was twelve and realized his father was never walking through the doorway, saying, "Hey, kiddo," like all he did was fall asleep in the arcade’s office again instead of vanishing into the night five years ago. After that revelation he pushed people out of his life and kept them at arm’s length, unwilling to trust them when they could leave him behind. He was never putting himself in that position again, never letting himself feel lost and helpless and so angry.

Until he ran through the End of Line Club with a limp and unresponsive Quorra in his arms, unseeing eyes staring up at him.

Until he stood within the portal and stared across the widening gap between himself and his father, twenty years of want and grief caught in his throat as the white light engulfed him.

Until he failed to stop the Black Guard from stabbing Tron with a beam katana.

Sam swallows hard as he stares at the growing wound, at the bits of code chipping off and falling through the hole in the program's chest. The deresolution is slow and Tron's form is still stable, but that doesn't mean anything. If Sam doesn't do something to stop it, he'll lose Tron.

"Your disc," he blurts out. His voice sounds like he scraped his throat with coarse sandpaper. "Need your disc."

That means moving Tron to reach it, but just because the deresolution is slow doesn't mean that the program won't shatter if Sam touches him. But if Sam doesn't find the disc, Tron will derezz and he'll be left with nothing.

Sam won't lose Tron, not while he can do something.

With a deep breath and a pounding heart - and head and shoulder and side, because he took a serious beating and he’s not healing - he gingerly presses his fingertips on Tron's shoulder. He almost sighs in relief when his hand meets solid resistance; Tron isn't going to crumble like the Black Guard did. Carefully he slides his hands under Tron's shoulder and pushes the program onto his side to expose the disc dock.

There's nothing there. The disc is missing.

Cold panic rises up his throat and wraps tightly around his lungs. Sam looks around, frantically scanning the dim terrain in search of the disc, or two if Tron didn't get a chance to lock them together before the Sentries - before they - Sam clamps down on his mind and tells himself that the discs must be nearby, they never stray too far from their owners. He carefully moves Tron onto his back and glances at the gaping hole in Tron's chest before turning away to rake through the nearest pile of data with shaking fingers. He uncovers a beam katana and a deactivated disc that feels wrong under his hands. A quick check reveals it to be a Sentry disc and he tosses it far away before crawling to the next pile of code and dropped weapons.

Time seems to pass at a paradoxical pace, both agonizingly slow and lightning fast, and the panic rushes back. The discs simply aren't here, he's looking in the wrong place, they fell so far away that he'll never reach them in time - there, a faint blue glow several feet ahead and to his right. He stands up but his knees buckle and he ends up half crawling, half stumbling to the disc. It's one of a pair and the other is another few feet away, half-buried under cold broken code. He shakes it free of the bits and regrets doing so when pain shoots down his left arm.

He staggers back to Tron's side, trying to lock the discs together while keeping an eye on where he's stepping. He swears the third time the discs refuse to click and the words get lost in the wild emptiness of the Outlands. It reminds him that they are so painfully alone.

What Sam sees when he reaches Tron paralyzes him. The deresolution is speeding up and the horrible gap on the right side of the program's chest is growing. Sam almost forgets the discs as he stares, unable to pry his eyes away from the damage. He can see the ground through the hole in Tron's chest, lit by the angry glow of the wound's jagged edges. The spreading corruption reaches the edge of the large dimmed circuit on the right side of Tron's chest and starts chipping away at it while the circuit goes black.

"No... no, no, no, you can't - you can't-"

He crashes to his knees next to Tron, breath hitching as jagged rocks dig into them. He stares down at the discs in his hands; Tron lost them before he was stabbed, so the information within them won’t tell him where and what to fix. Sam can't work with that, so he pushes the program onto his side to expose the dock. With a bit of fumbling, he finally manages to combine the discs and locks it onto the dock.

The deresolution stops.

Sam breathes out slowly, watches the disc glow brightly while it syncs with its owner before dimming to a sickly blue light. What happens if he removes the disc now? Will Tron start derezzing again? Sam can't access the source code from this angle, though, and if he can't find and repair the code, he can't bring Tron back. He rubs his fingers against each other, and then hesitantly, cautiously reaches out with trembling hands, grips the disc's sides, and unlocks it. Sam sits down next to Tron's still form, the disc balancing in his lap. He stares at it, trying to remember how his father brought up Quorra's profile.

His mind keeps drawing a dazed blank. He rubs his face and takes a deep breath. I can do this. I'm a User. I’ll figure something out. I'll improvise. The thoughts loop in his head, pushing the fear to the very back. Another deep breath steels his nerves and he decides to try tapping on a dimly glowing blue node on the disc. Circuits flare and light weaves a holographic display just above the incomplete ring of blue.

One of Sam's more vivid memories of the Grid consists of the complexity of Quorra's digital DNA and the delicate way Flynn repaired the damage dealt to her. Tron's, in comparison, is laughably simple, but that makes sense - he was written decades ago in a language Sam knows by heart, while Quorra manifested on the Grid spontaneously without a User’s help.

The display reminds him of how old Tron really is, of the language Alan used to compile the program, and the vast technological gulf that Sam’s wading across to save the him. As he digs through the layers, his mind considers the possibility of updating both the language and Tron's capabilities to meet the demands of the contemporary system. What would he have to tweak in order to prevent somebody else from tampering with the code and fashioning their own kind of Rinzler - he shuts down the train of thought and shoves it aside.

Here and there he sees upgrades, someone's handiwork - Flynn's, it has to be - woven in so seamlessly that they're almost indistinguishable from Alan's. The deeper Sam goes, though, the stranger the upgrades and modifications get. At first glance, they have Flynn's signature but there's an eerie efficiency to them that he knows isn't his father's hand. Only when he hits gaps in the lines and imprecise repairs does he realize that he'd been looking at Clu's work. His hands still for a second as his eyes skim through the data, easily picking out what was original, what was Flynn's, and what was Clu's. Almost without conscious thought, his hands move to correct the wrongness and close the gaps where Tron couldn't self-repair and rewrite Clu's poisonous work. Sam knows his priority's the damage from the beam katana but he can't - he won't - suppress the flare of rage in his chest fueling the drive to eradicate every last trace of Clu from Tron's source code.

And then he finds it.

A massive, slow-growing hole is eating through functions, subroutines, and directives, and corrupting the rest of the code, turning it into shambles. Sam can't understand how Tron hadn't already collapsed into a pile of broken data considering the damage. He glances at Tron and his shoulders sag in relief when he sees that the program is still a compiled whole.

The first thing he needs to do is to stop the damage from becoming irreversible. He studies the source code, committing lines to memory, and then carefully reaches in to draw them out. He flicks them aside and they scatter like dust in the wind. Once he removes the last line of unstable code and lets it go, the rest of the code seems to suspend itself, unable to run until someone repairs and debugs it. The disc hums warmly in his lap as he starts writing new lines and sliding them into place, mindful of the language and syntax. He replaces line after line, ignoring the exhaustion as it seeps into his bones; he can't stop, blinking away the double vision and taking periodic deep breaths to clear his foggy mind. His wounds throb painfully, making his left arm tremble and his side ache something terrible, but he forges on.

Sam finally has to stop when he botches a line of code for the third time. He shuts his eyes and bows his head, grits his teeth at the needle-like pain lancing his side with every deep breath he takes. An insistent and very vocal part of his mind tells him to curl up on the ground and sleep, pretend that this is all some fucked up dream and he'll wake up in his bed to Marvin licking his face and Quorra tinkering around in the kitchen. The thought is so much better than this nightmare of a situation where he's alone in the Outlands, fighting off pain and fatigue and fear while trying to save Tron.

Tron. Save Tron.

He looks at Tron, or rather, Tron's back and the empty disc dock. There's nothing right about the limp body on the ground in front of him. Sam reaches over to... to do something. What is he doing? He curls his fingers and then unfolds them to brush over Tron's shoulder, feeling cold dead weight underneath instead of a warm living hum. Shuddering, Sam withdraws his hand and sits back, turning his attention to the glowing disc in his lap. It takes several tries to find where he left off, but once he finds it he starts inputting the missing lines at a rapid pace. He systematically whittles down the ragged gap, ignoring the burn of a mind and body pushed too hard for too long. Something burns in him, propelling him forward; it's fear, it's hope, it's Sam's need to have Tron alive.

"You shouldn't have...."

He sounds so harsh and broken. Sam swallows hard, wetting his lips and mouth, and tries again.

"You shouldn't have done that," he says quietly. "Shouldn't have left yourself open, shouldn't have - I'm a User, I'm needed, they need me alive. Well, don’t know about Sigma. Don’t think she cared as long as she got my disc. The point is, they don't need you. They don't need you like I...." ... do.

"Before you came back, he still believed in you."

"Tron! He fights for the Users!"

He'll probably do it again if he could, save Sam and leave himself open to attack. It's embedded so deeply in his programming, beyond Alan's intent when he first wrote the program. The directive overrides everything else, overrode even Clu's rectification to give Sam and Quorra the chance to escape the Grid. It's what saved Sam's life.

The Black Guard's harsh words echo in his head, unrepentant and bitter. It called Tron a defective program, said it did Sam a favor by trying to derezz him. What was the defect - the scars that Tron bore? The attempts to undo whatever changes Clu forced on him? What about the Sentries scattered all over the Outlands, the ones Zuse is controlling in a sector of the city? Did any of them fight their reprogramming like Tron did? Did they succeed? What role can they play on a post-Clu Grid, or will the other programs try to derezz them all?

The questions scratch the surface of the tasks Sam faces, all the wrongs that he needs to make right, and he can't address them all, can't save the Grid on his own.

"Can't rebuild the Grid by myself. I don't know what Dad did, don't know what Clu did, don't know where and when things went wrong. They want me to save the city and I said I will, I can't leave them like this, but I need someone who was there at the beginning. I need someone who gets it. I can't...."

Words build up in the back of his throat as he stares at the glowing display hovering before him. His eyes burn and his hands tremble while he drags in one shaking breath after another. He presses his lips together tightly, wondering if there's any merit to saying them when he's the only one who can hear them.

"I can't do this without you."

I didn't come this far to lose you. Not after everything you did for me.

He can't take any of that back and he doesn't want to.

Sam repairs the code with renewed determination. Nothing else runs through his head; all that matters now is undoing the damage and getting Tron back. Suddenly he's sliding the last line into place and his hands freeze in midair, watching as the complete code pulses bright blue-white. He can still see traces of Clu in the code, snippets and single lines here and there. They seem to burn, scorching the surrounding lines with their virulent presence, but Sam forces himself not to attempt to sift through and take them out. Recompiling Tron is the priority and all that matters now is that the entire profile is holding itself together, the code glowing strong and steady like the program it compiles into. There's always another time to completely clean out the rectification code.

He collapses the display and the sickly blue circuits on the disc take on new life, glowing brighter and stronger. He picks it up, the corner of his mouth curving up into a small smile when he feels it hum in his hands. Rather belatedly he hopes that this is the right way to repair a program; he'd only seen it done once before and Quorra wasn't the typical program.

"Here goes," he tells himself as he leans forward and carefully locks the disc onto Tron's back.

Once connected, the disc lights up as it starts syncing with its owner. Sam carefully tips Tron onto his back and watches, anxious and breathless, for something to change. He starts counting - arbitrarily, or in tandem with his heart - until the nodes on Tron's sternum begin blinking rapidly. Just like with Quorra's arm, new code weaves into the gaping hole in the program's chest, sealing it seamlessly. It doesn't look like Tron was ever hurt but Sam has to be sure; he carefully places his hand on the area and presses down lightly. The new code doesn't break, doesn't give way. It's as solid and real as the rest of Tron, and Sam's shoulders sag forward in relief. Then the large circuit under his middle and ring fingers abruptly lights up and he yanks his hand back.

Tron doesn't stir but his circuits are all alight and Sam can hear a low smooth hum, a kinder sound than the Rinzler-like rattling that often set him on edge. It sounds amazing and he can't help the tired laughs as he bends over and presses his forehead to the program's chest, feeling the warmth return as more functions awaken and start running.

"You're okay," Sam says. "You're okay. Everything's going to be okay."

* * *

He leaves the bucket of seawater, sand, and sand crabs near the foaming waves and wanders back up the beach to his father. It's a sunny, breezy day, with wisps of white clouds streaking the sky and seagulls calling to each other as they circle overhead. The sand is warm under his feet but not unbearably hot; when he buries his toes in it's wet and cool. The Pacific is boldly blue and the horizon is dotted with surfers and bobbing buoys.

Flynn looks up from the notebook he's writing in as Sam sits down next to him. "Tired already?"

"Not yet." He wiggles onto his back with his head on his father's lap, and watches a surfer ride a wave to shore. "Just resting. Then I'm gonna jump some waves."

Flynn hums. "Uh huh. Just let me know when you want to go home, okay?"

"'kay." He has absolutely no intention of going home anytime soon; the days he gets to spend with his father are few and far between, so even if he's tired and bored with the local beach he'll stay out here until sunset just to keep Flynn here a little longer.

While his father continues writing and humming a Bee Gees song, Sam watches the gulls and pelicans fly and people run about in the shallows, hopping over the rolling waves and splashing each other. He stifles a yawn as best as he can and shifts about on the beach towel to find a more comfortable position. Several minutes after he finds it, Flynn starts running his hand through Sam's tangled hair.

Sam keeps a tally of all the surfers who lose their balance and fall off their boards, and then narrows his eyes at a strange shape hovering above the horizon line near a whale-watching boat. It looks like the Grid portal and at the same time a massive freighter either heading to or leaving the port.

"Dad?"

"Yeah?"

Sam rubs his chapped lips together, asks, "You're not going anywhere, are you?"

Flynn's hand stops running through his hair and his father moves the notebook out of the way to look down at him. "Now what makes you say that?"

He walks his fingers across his father's knee, thinking hard about the quiet conversation he heard at home several nights ago. "Grandma said that you keep coming home so late that we never see you anymore."

"Well that's not true. I'm here. You see me, right?"

"Yeah, but... they kept talking like you might disappear."

"Oh come on, buddy. You know that's not true. I always come home."

Sam sighs and rolls over onto his back to look up at his father. "Then can you come home earlier?"

Flynn sighs, a full-body one that moves his shoulders. "I'll try, but running a company's not a whole lotta fun; have things I need to do and a world to change for the better, for you. But I'll tell you what - the nights I do come home early I'll take you to that old arcade, or any arcade around town, and we'll play a couple games. First round's on me."

"Promise?"

Flynn nods. "Promise."

"Cool."

His father returns to the pages of his notebook for all of two seconds, and then sets it down on the towel and says, "Hey, wanna go check out those tide pools?"

Sam quickly sits up. "Okay!"

Flynn ruffles his hair as they walk across the beach towards the rocky formations jutting out of the shoreline. Sam glances down at his bright blue bucket as they pass by and reminds himself to free the sand crabs before they go home. Foamy waves ripples over his bare feet and he kicks at the water. Not far from the tide pools are floating rock formations, installed to deter programs from wandering too close to the portal. Sam stares up at them as they come closer to the tide pools and then looks over his shoulder at the glowing imprints his feet leave in the sand. His father ruffles his hair again and he tries to duck, blinking blearily as the lights and silhouettes of a massive city slowly come into focus. It doesn't look like any city he visited in the night, and why is it on its side? Why is it still dark out? He tries wading through his sluggish brain for a name to attach to the city but he'd rather close his eyes and go back to his father and tide pools - wait.

This is the Grid. He's in the Outlands, not far from the city. He sees piles of useless broken code disperse across the terrain by the wind, traces of the battle with Sigma, the Black Guard, and the Sentries vanishing into the digital wilderness. The details of the fight are hazy, lost in his sleep-swamped mind. Something else happened, though, and it's not him surviving the fight. He looks up at the sky but it remains dark; Quorra hasn't reopened it yet. How much time passed since it first closed?

He should get back to the city, dig in to find a way to send a message up to the screen for her to read. That requires getting up, though, and he's not particularly interested in moving himself, not when he's so sore and tired. And right now, he likes where he's at; underneath the howling emptiness of the Outlands is a soft, reassuring hum, and something is caressing his head, soothing him back into that state between awake and dreaming-

Tron.

Heart pounding in his chest, Sam tries to get up but moving his left shoulder sends fire down his arm. His breath hitches and he clenches his teeth tightly, waiting for it to pass before slowly, gingerly shifting onto his back and looking up at Tron's amused face. The program removes his hand from Sam's head and offers a tentative smile.

For the longest time, all Sam does is stare. Tron is alive, eyes a warm lively gray and circuits a bright blazing blue. All the scars on his face have vanished except for a faint mark trailing down the left side of his face and neck, and disappearing under the collar of his armor. Sam wants to reach up and touch the side of Tron's face, feel the new and repaired code thrum under his fingertips. He flushes at the thought and shoves it away.

"Hey," he croaks, then hastily clears his throat. "How're you feeling?"

Tron hesitates, searching for words, eyes flicking between him and the city. Sam repeats the question in his head and decides it was not a good opening line, but what's he supposed to say to someone who was on the brink of death? Or deresolution, in Tron's case?

The program sighs as he looks back down. "Tired."

Despite himself, Sam laughs. "Understatement if there ever was one."

Tron just looks bemused but nods in agreement anyway, because Users. But there's something about the expression on his face as he continues looking at Sam, something more than just exasperated fondness. Like Sam's more than a User to him. Maybe he's just grateful that Sam brought him back from the brink.

Sam wonders if Tron ever saw Flynn repair another program, removing the damaged and bugged lines and filling in the gaps with new code. Does the process even make sense to him, or does he dismiss it as something exclusive to Users? Come to think of it, how is he even awake? Sam remembers how disoriented Quorra was after Flynn recompiled her arm, how reluctant she was to move after rebooting when she was always the restless one, and didn't Flynn give her something to help deal with the exhaustion?

"Aren't you tired?" he blurts out.

"You just asked me that."

"... right." Idiot.

Embarrassed, Sam tilts his head away. He really should get up. There must be a better place to rest and, especially in Tron's case, recharge than out here. Enyo and Crystal would be wondering about their progress. He needs to get an idea of what kind of damage the collapse of Clu's system had done to the Grid. He has to reach Quorra to tell her to open the portal.

So many things he should do, they should do, but he doesn't want to get up and do any of those things right now. He likes it here, where it's just him and Tron and the vast, untamed Outlands. Well, he could maybe do without the rocky uneven ground poking into his back.

His gaze settles on the Grid's bright cyan lights and towers, traces the awe-inspiring cityscape. It's beautiful, he thinks. Until now, he never really got a chance to just stop and stare. He only ever had glimpses, moments that were often dominated by the high adrenaline of the less-than-ideal situations he'd been shoved into. His time on the Grid was just one long fall down the rabbit hole, but now, with nowhere to need to go and no one to demand his attention, he just wants to lay here, head in Tron's lap, watching the digital city that dominated his childhood dreams.

After a while Sam closes his eyes again and dozes to the sound of Tron's soft whirring purr and the feel of the program's hand gently stroking his head.

When he resurfaces, it's to the Grid and the ever-persistent hum of the program with him. The fog rolls back from his mind when he takes a deep breath, and he decides that they've been out here long enough. He slowly lifts his head and braces himself on his right shoulder, then pushes himself up into a sitting position. His body protests every movement and he groans while pressing a hand to his aching side. The pain isn't as awful as when Sigma first kicked him but it still throbs under his palm.

"Sam?"

"I'm fine," he says in a strained voice. "Just give me a second."

The pain recedes in increments with every breath he takes, slowly becomes a dull, heated pulse under the armor and suit. He gives his shoulders an experimental roll and grits his teeth at the flash of burning pain in his left. He presses his hand on it and feels the raised edges of the tear in the armor where the beam katana went through. He picks at it, wondering if it'll heal before he gets to the portal or if he'll carry it with him back out. Quorra will have so many questions, let alone the hospital staff since this isn't something he wouldn't be able to shrug off with regular doses of painkillers. His side is slowly getting better, though, meaning that the weird accelerated healing privilege he has might finally be kicking in.

He looks at Tron. The program appears to be fine if one ignores the dull weariness in his eyes and the fact that he was dying not too long ago. Minutes? Hours? Sam stares at Tron's right side, then slowly leans over and carefully presses his hand over the spot. The repair is flawless and the program feels solid under his palm, but Sam can't stop seeing the chipping red-hot edge of the growing gap and the bits of code breaking off and falling through the hole onto the ground underneath. He glances behind Tron but the broken code is gone, swept away by the lawless Outlands. All that's left is the thrum under his hand, the soft purr like a working hard disk drive, warm and alive.

Tron shifts uneasily and Sam blinks, forces his eyes to refocus. The program's looking down at his hand, eyebrows furrowed, and he realizes what he's doing. Face burning, he takes his hand back. His index finger brushes against the edge of the bottom node on the program' sternum and light seems to spark at the contact. Tron's circuits flicker and flush a deeper blue - almost violet - before fading back to its normal shade. It happens so quickly that Sam wonders if he just imagined it, but his hand feels a little numb and very warm. He rubs his fingers together, then curl them and lowers his hand.

"Sorry," he says. "But do you feel it? Had to rewrite a lot and take out the lines that couldn’t run."

Tron doesn't say anything. He presses his fingertips to the circuits on his sternum, eyes downcast and mouth a thoughtful frown.

Sam thinks about what else he found. "If you want I can go into your disc and erase what Clu did to you. I saw what he did, how he... but I can take it all away." He watches the program's fingers slowly curl over blue circuits. "You deserve that, you know."

Tron looks up at him and for a moment, Sam can't breathe.

"I'll consider it. Thank you."

Sam swallows hard, nods, and stares down at the ground. He digs his fingers into the mess of digital code, studying the geometric shapes of the dirt instead of the anxiety rising up in his throat. It's nothing, he tells himself. It's nothing.

He keeps telling himself that until he feels vaguely normal again, and then looks up when Tron moves, unfolding himself and slowly standing up. Tron sways, takes a staggering step to the left, and Sam jumps to his feet, ignoring his own wobbly legs as he hooks his hand under Tron's left arm and holds him steady. "Easy, easy...."

Tron gives him a grateful smile, permission enough for Sam to sling the program's arm over his shoulder. He looks at the light runner sitting a distance away, still glowing the red-orange of the Sentries.

"Man," Sam says, "I hope Enyo doesn't notice."

"She will, but she'll understand."

"Still. Don't need more trouble today, not after what we just did. Ready?"

"I'm fine."

Sam looks at him dubiously. "Uh huh. Just tell me if you need to stop."

They move slowly towards the vehicle, passing by the discarded and dimmed weapons. Sam is sorely tempted to pick them up and stash them elsewhere, maybe in the makeshift armory under Crystal's club, but he doesn't let go of Tron. They stop every time the program's feet start to drag. Tron never says anything but he always looks relieved when Sam stops and sits them down for a couple minutes. Sam doesn't mind getting a chance to catch his breath; he's exhausted and Tron isn't exactly light, even if he's constructed out of weightless binary.

"I can just go ahead and bring the light runner back to you," he suggests when they stop for the fifth time.

Tron looks ready to protest but after another second or two of silence, he reluctantly nods. He shuts his eyes and bows his head, shoulders slumping forward, and the whirring sound stutters for a moment. Sam doesn't move to get up for even longer, heart pounding with sudden cold fear that he didn't do enough to repair Tron, that he'll have to take that disc off and run through the code again to find the errors he missed the first time.

"Don't take too long," Tron says quietly, stopping his panicked thoughts cold in their tracks.

He almost leans forward to see if Tron really was functioning, but the program cracks an eye open and stares at him. Sam clumsily climbs back onto his feet, touches Tron's shoulder briefly as he walks by, and makes a rather crooked beeline for the light runner. He makes a stop a third of the way there; while walking through the remains of the light runner that was destroyed his foot unearths the sleeve of his father's leather jacket. Sam kicks aside the cold bits of code, uncovering it, and crouches down to pick it up. He stares at it, wondering how he forgot about it and how it survived the light runner's destruction but it's in his hands now without a single mark on its buttery smooth surface. He tucks it under his arm and gets back up.

As soon as his hand touches the side of the light runner, its circuitry brightens and slowly turns white. He watches the progress for an entranced moment, then pulls up the hatch and slides in. He bundles up the jacket and places it in the footwell of the shotgun seat before staring at the steering handle, the controls, and the console. How does it even turn on? He really should've paid attention to how Tron activated it - right, he's a User. Sam rolls his eyes and presses his fingertips to the steering handle. Under them circuits weave over the handle's surface. The light runner hums while a window pops up with the vehicle's specs, from a detailed three-dimensional render of the light runner to its specific functions. He skims them until he finds the right line of code and triggers it to kickstart the light runner's engine. The chassis vibrates as it starts up and Sam dismisses the window, grips the steering wheel, and directs it to Tron's location.

He pulls up by the program and releases the hatch. He moves to get out of the cockpit to help the program but Tron's already on his feet and bracing himself against the side of the light runner.

"Need any-"

Tron hauls himself into the cockpit without trouble and settles into his seat before giving Sam a look that clearly says, "No."

Sam rolls his eyes. "Fine, fine. Next time, you’re asking me for it."

Tron smiles wryly and then bends down to pick up the leather jacket. Sam watches him carefully while lowering the hatch and making a U-turn towards the city but all Tron does is hold it in his lap. Something about the way he looks at it and touches a sleeve leaves Sam feeling like he's intruding on some private moment, so he turns his attention to the city ahead. After several minutes he spies the furthest edges of the Grid, where the rough terrain of the Outlands slowly smooths out into a network of organized hexagons. Once they hit the surface the light runner's treads retract and the body adjusts itself to accommodate the less troublesome city streets. Minutes later they reach the first buildings of the city, and then the Grid's looming skyscrapers swallow up the sky and the view of the Outlands.

Chapter Text

The first stories Sam's father told him were of his adventures at ENCOM a year before Sam was born. Flynn didn't hold back any details, believed nobody was ever too young or too old to be amazed by the world he discovered inside ENCOM's servers. Sam didn't understand most of it the first couple years. All he knew was that his father and someone named Tron defeated a dangerous enemy called the MCP to save ENCOM and the world, that Tron was a hero and his father was one of the most powerful people in that world.

"Like a god, then?" Sam asked during a retelling of the stories. He’d borrowed a book of sanitized Greek myths from the public library earlier that week and was a bit obsessed like kids his age are wont to do.

"Pretty much," Flynn said. He kept chuckling through that part, like he couldn't quite believe that that was how the programs saw him. "The MCP wanted to be better than us, than the Users, and he got close, real close, to doing just that but a program still defeated him."

"Tron," Sam supplied immediately.

"That's right," Flynn replied. "He saved everyone."

On this Grid, the Grid in the basement under the arcade, the programs called Flynn “the Creator”. To them, he was the User, the only one they ever knew, and they believed he could do anything. They used to believe in him. They don't anymore, haven't for years and cycles, and Sam can't blame them. If Users are gods, they're Greek gods - all powerful and seemingly invincible, but also petty, fallible, and, on more than one occasion, lacking in the common sense department.

That common sense is currently telling Sam he should pull over and prod Tron awake to get better directions to Crystal's club. Tron pointed him in the general direction of the location during their first five minutes back in the city, but when Sam turned to ask for a clarification he found the program at rest, body lax and circuits pulsing faintly like a desktop in sleep mode. Sam didn't have the heart to rouse him out of stasis, even though he had no idea what sector they're in or where they are in relation to the neutral sector, the digitizer input, or even Zuse's sector. He reasoned that Tron pointed in a direction to the left of the enormous dark building that rose high above the rest of the city, so he picked every street that seemed to head in that direction and didn't stop to ask.

As they wind through the city, Sam thinks about wandering around the sectors and mapping them in his mind for future reference. He sees a lot of Downtown in the layout, which he's grateful for since he's rather intimately familiar with - okay, he definitely knows he passed by that overpass before. In fact, he's sure he went by it four times, and the few pedestrians on the sidewalk are starting to notice.

"Great," he mutters, defeated, and pulls the light runner to the side. He kills the engine and sits back, watching the programs slowly gather across the street. They're talking to each other and pointing at the vehicle.

Sam tenses even though the growing crowd looks nonthreatening and mostly confused with the light runner. Still, it's more attention than Sam wants or needs right now; he's still a nobody or a repair utility to most of these programs, and in the wake of the fight with Sigma he'd like to keep it that way and off the radar of potentially hostile programs until he's safe within the neutral zone.

He should wake Tron and get concrete, highly specific directions - the maps.

The old maps of the Grid are on his disc, saved over from that secret directory, and he'll bet almost anything that they'll give him an idea of where he is and how to get to where he needs to be. He pries his disc off and pulls up the display. He flicks through the files, making a note to himself to reorganize them into orderly folders before remembering that he's a User and they don't work that way, and pulls up the map with the most recent timestamp. Something pings in his head while he stares at the detailed diagram and he looks at the timestamp again.

The map is over twenty years old. He groans and slumps in his seat, staring at the rotating hologram. The map would have changed significantly since then, though he'll more likely see degradation than expansion. The empty sector, invisible to all but him and Tron, comes to mind; there must be other sectors like it on this map, as well as the unstable ones that Tron mentioned before, which would make navigating even more difficult.

"Hey," he says, but Tron doesn't stir. He leans over and prods the program's shoulder but Tron doesn't so much as shift in response. He's out cold and Sam doesn't want to force him awake.

Which... leaves the programs standing across the street, staring, pointing, and whispering about the light runner. Sam stares at them and then at his disc. Should he risk asking them about the map and exposing his actual identity? He could always try to find out for himself by accessing the Grid directly but he's trying to remain incognito, not shout to the Grid that he's the User that came through the portal hours ago.

Decision made, he locks the disc back on its dock, glances at Tron for a second, and then releases the hatch. The programs flinch back and he almost laughs at the sight. Schooling his face into a nonchalant expression, he hops out of the cockpit, looks around the block, and steps forward. The programs watch him warily but don't back away as he stops in the middle of the street.

"Uh, hi," he says.

Nobody responds. They keep staring, which is really unnerving, so Sam tries again. "Uh, so I could use some help? I'm a little lost and need directions-"

"How are you lost?" a blue-lit program interrupts. A blackened scar curves from his left temple down to his jaw like someone tried to slice his face off with a disc.

"I'm not all there," Sam says vaguely, punctuating his words with random gestures. "Sometimes I remember and then I'll realize I don't recognize what sector I'm in."

"Do you need a repair utility?" another program asks. "Octane can get you one to repair your code."

Octane? There's no way he ended up wandering into Octane's corner of the Grid. The last thing he needs is to get on that program's radar again.

The green-lit program interprets his silence as confusion and helpfully says, "You're in one of Octane's sectors. He can help you function normally again; he was able to help me when I suddenly couldn't process the energy flow to this block-"

"Uh, no thanks," Sam says carefully. "Don’t want to get involved with that. I just need to get somewhere."

"Where did you even get the light runner?" the scarred program asks, taking a step forward. "They're impossible to come by."

"Not sure," Sam says. He forces himself not to step back when the program takes another step forward, no matter how much he wants to. "I just... found it."

"Where?"

Why does the program need this information? Sam gestures vaguely up the street. "There. I think. Like I said, I'm not sure where I am."

"Are you sure you don't want Octane's help?" the other program asks. "I'm sure he can have you fully repaired in exchange for that light runner. You don't even need that; it's peaceful here."

As if that’ll ever happen. Sam can’t allow Octane to gain access to the light runner and trace its history back to him and Enyo. He shakes his head again. "Look, I found this map in my disc; maybe you can show me where to go?"

"If you have a map, how are you lost-"

"I don't know how to read it," Sam says. He reaches over his shoulder for his disc and the programs jerk away. Some reach for their own. He holds his other hand up in a placating manner as he manages to tug the disc off its dock one-handed. "I'm not - it's just a map."

He watches them discreetly while accessing the files. Once he finds the file he brings up the graphical hologram of the map. "I need to get to... do you know a program named Crystal?"

"The Siren?" the green-lit program asks sharply, all traces of friendliness suddenly gone. "What about her?"

The other programs look wary, perhaps even a bit hostile. Sam tenses, suddenly and acutely aware of the location of the nearest programs in relation to him. He doesn't know what Crystal did to offend them but now he has to choose his next words carefully; the last thing he needs is a crowd of hostile programs looking to fight or take the light runner from him. "I just need to know where she's located right now."

"That's Rho sector," the scarred program says. "You're pretty far from it. Where were you originally?"

Sam feigns confusion. "That way?" he suggests, pointing up the street again.

"Why are you carrying around an obsolete map?" the other program asks, peering at the display with narrowed eyes. "This hasn't been the Grid's layout since-"

"Over a thousand years, I know. Just show me how to get to Rho. That's all I’m asking."

Hushed whispers ripple through the crowd. Sam shifts from foot to foot uneasily, realizing he might’ve dug his own grave with the impatient outburst. He needs to get those directions fast and leave before someone runs off to tell Octane about the light runner and the strange, unstable program driving it.

"If you insist," the scarred program says. "You're here-" He taps a section of the map near the edge of the Grid. "-and the sector you're looking for is here."

Rho sector isn't on the other side of the city; it looks like it’s only four large sectors away, but the program starts pointing out the changes to the system in the twenty-odd years since the map's timestamp. In seconds, the mostly straight path through the four sectors becomes a winding trail around and through eight.

"Survived the Gaming Grid?" the program suddenly says. Sam stares at him and the program nods at his armor. "Explains the glitching and forgetting."

Sam looks down at himself and remembers Tron's concerns that it would be too conspicuous. Apparently it is, but the programs just think that he's a survivor of Clu's gladiator games and Sam's not above taking advantage of their assumptions.

"Yeah. Match wasn't going too well for me but there was that flash in the sky and the whole thing collapsed." He shrugs. "Kept wearing these just in case Sentries decide to have a go at me again."

The green-lit program doesn't look completely sold on the story but the other one buys it with a sympathetic nod. "Octane was personally involved in sweeping those glitches out of this sector. You'll be safe here."

"I know, but I can't stay."

"If you insist," the scarred program says and steps back. "There's your route."

"Thanks." Sam minimizes the display and locking the disc onto its dock. And then, because he’s curious, he carefully says, "So I heard that the portal was actually open for a millicycle? Did a User come through?"

Programs within hearing distance frown and the scarred program has a tight, pinched look on his face as he says, "Yes, and I hope it's not true. Believe me, program, we are better off without another meddling User."

Sam nods slowly. "Yeah, I know."

He slowly backs away, trying to look as nonchalant as possible. The crowd had been dispersing for some time now and only a few programs remain standing in a cluster across the street, watching him make his way to the light runner and release the hatch. He hops in and waits for the hatch to close down over his head before slumping against his seat and letting out a slow, anxious breath.

Of course he had to stop and ask for directions in a sector that’s unfriendly towards Users. Typical.

Time to leave. He glances at his right while leaning forward to pry the disc off of his back; Tron is still asleep on his side of the light runner, which is worrying. Is it normal for a program to be out this long after repair and recompilation? Quorra acted fine after she woke up, but she wasn’t derezzing, Flynn had something to help her replenish her energy, and she’s an ISO.

Sam almost reaches over to press his fingers against the side of the program's neck before remembering that Tron wouldn't have a pulse. He instead opens up his disc's files and roots around for the edited map. He finds it and the route that'll lead him straight to the neutral sector. Now he just needs to figure out how to keep an eye on the map and drive the light runner at the same time.

"Could really use a TomTom right now," he mutters.

He doesn't trust any GPS unit to give him accurate directions to anywhere but he takes a motorcycle to work, knows the layout of most of coastal SoCal, and has his phone for the occasions when he does get lost. That’s obviously not an option here but he needs to be able to see the map without crashing the light runner into something. If only he could make the map show up as a large transparent display that also gives him their current location in real time.

"Huh." He looks down at his disc and then up at the windshield.

He pulls up the light runner’s source code, skims through the lines, and writes in new code. Then he minimizes the code display and pushes the map display on his disc up at the windshield. The map spreads across the glass, fine cyan lines drawing the city layout. A white dot near the border of one side of the city pinpoints their present location while another dot some distance away gives him Crystal's. The display is transparent enough to not obscure his view, including the sight of several programs looking at him curiously.

Sam doesn't relax until the map tells him they've cleared the sector. The sector he's navigating now is a cluster of dilapidated city blocks, buildings dark and crumbling, data rubble cluttering the streets, and not a single program in sight. The light runner casts a soft white glow to show the way but the light’s reach falls short and he can’t see very well in the gloom; he may be imagining things but he’s pretty sure some of the rubble in the streets may be inactive discs and tank parts.

Some forty minutes later, Tron finally stirs. A low hum fills the air as the program comes back online; he slowly sits up and stares at the display spread across the glass, then turns his attention to the sector Sam is taking them through. It's sparsely populated but many of the buildings are lit like they're in use.

"You know where to go?" he asks.

Sam considers telling him about the programs he asked for directions, about the many half-lies he told to keep his identity a secret, about their sentiments towards him. "I asked around."

Tron nods and leans back in the seat. "That'll work," he says softly. He tilts his head to the side to stare out at the sector.

Eventually the hum drops to a nearly imperceptible sound and when Sam glances over, Tron is sleeping again. Worry grapples at Sam's thoughts, sinks like a leaden weight in his chest. What's wrong with Tron? Why is he having trouble staying awake? What did the compilation do to him?

With a little push on console controls, the light runner leaps forward and picks up speed. The faster they get to the club, the faster Sam can ask the Siren about it.

* * *

"... why can't lightcycles? Is it about safety? I spent several years motorcrossing; it’s not that dangerous."

Tron just nods. He'd woken up again twenty minutes ago and remained awake since, but that's not exactly an encouraging development. He seems content to just listen to Sam let his mouth run off with a few ideas he toyed around with in his head, which Sam appreciates. It's nice having a nonjudgmental pair of ears around.

Sam pauses his rambling about his motorcrossing misadventures and the old Ducati to ask, "Feeling better?"

Tron shrugs. "I've had worse."

Sam doesn't know how to respond to that.

After a minute or two, Tron tells him to take a right at the next intersection. Three buildings down sits a welcoming sight - Crystal's club. With a tired smile, he pulls the light runner to the curb across the street from it and removes the map display from the windshield. Despite the distance and the light runner's thick chassis, Sam can still feel the MP3s' heavy rhythmic beat vibrate through it and him.

"They're gonna blow my eardrums out," he mutters.

"Your what?"

Sam shakes his head. "Never mind." He shuts down the engine but doesn't release the hatch right away. He finds he’d rather sit here for a bit, maybe close his eyes and nap; with the momentum of heading to a specific destination gone, he's starting to feel the toll of the past several hours.

"Sam?"

He blinks and the light runner's controls come back into focus. He rubs at his face, pushing the fog out of his head. "Right." He moves to open the hatch but stops to ask, "Can you walk?"

He feels the glare before he sees it and fights hard to suppress his smile. Tron still spots the twitch in the corner of his mouth and flatly says, "Yes, of course I can."

"Just checking," he says and releases the hatch.

A breeze swirls in, neither hot nor cold but still there, and it carries the music with it. Heat prickles at the back of his neck and Sam shudders, shakes off the sensation while extracting himself from the light runner. He's not entirely successful and very nearly lands face first on the ground. He catches himself but wrenches at his left shoulder in the process, and even if the injury is no longer visible it still hurts; he hisses, teeth clenched, and pushes away from the vehicle.

He almost crashes into Tron but the program manages to catch him by the arm. Sam leans into the program, tired and grateful, and presses his forehead against Tron’s shoulder, mutters, “I hate everything.”

Tron laughs, a low warm sound that sinks under Sam’s skin, and the feeling is so foreign that he starts and quickly steps back. “Sorry,” he says but can’t put together an excuse or a self-deprecating comment. He doesn’t even know why he’s apologizing.

Desperate for a distraction, he looks at the light runner and its white circuits. “She’d better not notice.”

“She’ll understand,” Tron says.

Nobody looks them when they enter the club, distracted as they are by the vertigo-inducing strobe lights, the beat the MP3 programs are spinning out, and the many neon cocktails that float in the air like fireflies. The entrancing sight is such a distraction for Sam's overtired brain that he keeps not looking where he's going and nearly colliding with unsuspecting programs; somehow Tron just knows to reach over and yank him back before he actually does so. After the third time Sam forces himself to focus on where he's going, which is trailing after Tron through the crowd to the bar at the back. Tron seems to be carving an easy path for him to follow and Sam does gratefully, ignoring the hot twisting feeling in his chest at the gesture.

Crystal, as expected, is behind the bar and pouring boldly colored energy from an assortment on carafes into tall slim glasses. How she manages to make the concoction such a bright chemical blue is baffling, because Sam may not be an artist but he knows his colors, and one can’t mix a blue out of a whole host of them. He thinks about asking her the secret as he slides up onto the nearest empty barstool. Other programs at the bar turn their heads to study the newest arrival but when Tron joins him a second later, forgoing the barstool in favor of simply leaning on the backlit countertop right next to him, they immediately shift their attention elsewhere. Two of them even look disappointed. Why?

The music grinds down on his nerves the longer he sits and waits for Crystal to finish dealing with a group of programs at the end of the bar. He folds his arms on the counter and buries his face in his elbow, blocking out as much of the light as he can. He thinks about his bed back home and burrowing into the sheets to sleep off the aches and pains and bone-deep exhaustion. At a muffled sound he tilts his head and cracks an eye open, sees Tron with elbows propped on the counter and face buried in his hands. Sam stares at the circuits on the back of the program's fingers and thumb until something white moves at the far edge of his field of vision. Ever so slowly, he lifts his head to look up at Crystal.

She sets two glasses down in front of them and glances between him and Tron. "You look like the Outlands chewed you up and spit you back out."

"Something like that," he says roughly, and then clears his throat. He pokes at the cocktail in front of him; Tron is already halfway done with his and looking far sharper than a few seconds ago.

"Drink it," Crystal says, pushing the glass at him with an index finger. "It won't affect you like it does for us, but it should help reenergize you."

Somewhere on the floor behind him the MP3s change tracks, replacing the dance beat with a slower tempo. Apparently it's the cue for programs to start drifting to the bar to chat or order drinks. Crystal hesitates, her eyes full of questions, but then someone calls her name.

"Holler if you need me," she says, pats Sam's arm, and moves away.

Sam pushes himself up into a proper sitting position, groaning at the effort. He almost knocks the cocktail over when his hand falls heavily on the countertop; he catches it before it tips over. He stares down at the unnatural color in the glass, swirls it around, and sniffs at it tentatively before tipping the energy into his mouth. Unlike the last time the energy prickles and stings as it coats his mouth and slides down his throat like liquid fire. It's a little too much and he coughs into his elbow, eyes burning until the cocktail's kick finally fades. In that time the world abruptly and sharply focuses, making him hyperaware of his surroundings like the music bouncing off the walls, the chatter of the programs around him, the circuit lines and panels on the walls and shelves behind the bar illuminating the neon colors in rows of glass carafes. He takes a second, more tentative sip and the heat slips down his throat more smoothly, floods his body and numbs whatever's left of the aches and bruises, reaches all the way down to his fingertips and toes. The circuits on his armor glow with new intensity with another swallow.

"Whoa." He holds up his other arm, staring at the blazing white lines on his forearm. The cocktail doesn't look too different from what the other programs are indulging in, but they don't look as buzzed and bright as he feels. "Is it supposed to do that?"

He looks to Tron for an answer and finds a strange and fond smile aimed right at him. He suddenly can't breathe for a different reason, can't move, can't think while those bluish-gray eyes are on him. Then Tron glances away and, just as abruptly, the moment passes and the dull roar of the club rushes back to the fore. Flushing hot, Sam stares down at the glass in his hand and fights the urge to press his heart back inside his chest.

He ends up eavesdropping on a group of programs standing somewhere to his left, talking loudly enough that their words float over the music and the two programs between them and him.

"... was there. She heard everything. And now he's tearing through the sectors, looking for the program."

"Why? Isn't he just a glitching leftover from the Games? Doesn't sound special to me."

"From what I've been hearing, something similar's been traveling through other sectors, doing things programs shouldn't-"

A rare white-lit program snorts derisively and takes a long pull of its bluish green cocktail. "You mean that so-called repair utility? Thanks to that program Pollux is gone and another sector's gone dark. I'll bet my baton they're the same program. I hope Octane finds and derezzes him; that program will destabilize his sectors within a centicycle."

"He'd better sweep fast; the program was looking for this sector and once he reaches it he'll be safe."

One of the two programs between Sam and the group leaves, giving him a better view of the group. His hand clutches his glass tightly as he listens and he only distantly notices the panels under his arms flickering erratically

"Well I always thought Enyo should be more selective of admitting programs to this sector. She even lets Rinzler hole up in here from time to time."

Furious, Sam sits up and turns to find the programs. A thin bald blue-lit program sees him first and fumbles with her green cocktail. One of her companions makes a smart reply, then turns when she frantically nods at Sam. The others eventually realize that the subject of their conversation is sitting just three barstools away and stare at him, dumbfounded. Sam glares back, thinking of something smart and cutting to say without revealing what he really is.

"I stand by my words," the white-lit program stammers out. "You're an irreversible glitch and you'll destroy this sector too if you don't leave-"

A hand suddenly presses on Sam's right shoulder, Tron quietly saying his name at the same time that Crystal breezes by, loudly saying, "I'll thank you not to derezz my bar, User."

Did she just - what the hell?

He yanks his arm off the counter but the damage is already done; a deep crack runs through a dead panel and bits of code chip off the edges. He quickly pulls up a display on the working panel next to it and writes in the missing lines, minimizes the display and lets the countertop repair itself. He smiles in satisfaction as the panel flickers back to a soft white and then looks up at the group of now terrified programs. Cover blown, he salutes them with his glass and watches them scatter. He shakes his head at them, then tips the contents of the glass into his mouth.

"So what other User tricks are you hiding up your sleeve?"

Perched on the previously vacant barstool next to him is Enyo. Where the hell did she come from?

"I'll tell her to stop declaring you in front of half the club but try not to do that again. We want a Creator who creates, not derezzes." She pats him on the arm sympathetically while he coughs energy out of his lungs. "So, did you find what you were looking for?"

Tron leans over to greet the yellow-lit program, pressing up against Sam's shoulder. Sam would ignore the innocuous contact, except he can't; Tron's presence is electrifying, sends a hot-cold shiver down his spine and catapults his heart up his throat. He curls his fingers tightly around his cocktail glass and tries to find his voice.

"Not exactly," he decides to say, pretending very hard to ignore his voice cracking. He thinks about the program next to him, about his father's tired voice, about Quorra on the other side. Quietly, he adds, "Found what I needed, though."

"Bet you did," she says. Her uncharacteristically serious tone has him jerking his head up. However there's no trace of the solemnity when she then says, "Nice light runner, by the way. Don't recall it having so many upgrades."

He stiffens. "Yeah, uh, about that-"

She holds her hand up, stopping him. "Say no more. You got what you needed and you brought me back a light runner. A really nice one, from my scan of it. Besides, never told you to bring back a specific light runner, did I?"

"Seriously?"

"Seriously," she says. "So, that Sigma program was controlling Sentries?"

Sam stares at her. "How did you-"

"I have my sources," she says smugly. "And I never said I couldn't check the light runner's history, did I?"

"Unbelievable," Tron mutters, and Sam can't help laughing at him.

Enyo's attention immediately settles on the security program and she leans in on Sam's left, sandwiching him between the two. She gives Tron a hard, scrutinizing look and then says, "You're different, too. Better. No need to mark you as something for the User to look into, not for a while."

Tron nods, smiling faintly. "I know."

Sam downs the rest of the contents of his glass in one go because he doesn't know what else to say. He swallows hard against the burning energy and breathes a little easier when Enyo finally leans away. Tron stays pressed up against his shoulder, though, and Sam doesn't know what to do about it. He starts plucking at the edge of the black simulated material wrapped around his left hand.

"Oh, right," Enyo suddenly says. "The portal's closed and you're still here. When is it supposed to open again?"

Sam frowns. "How-"

"You need to stop underestimating me," she says cheerfully. "You're not panicking. So."

"So," he says. "Quorra's on the other side and we agreed on a timetable for reactivating it. I'm not stuck here forever, but since I'm done now I need to... somehow get a message out telling her to open it-"

"An I/O tower," Tron says. "That's how Clu sent the message that brought you to the Grid. He disabled it to prevent a User from accessing the system that way instead of opening the portal."

Sam always did wonder how Alan got that page, but, "Tower?"

Enyo nods. "Tower. When Users called us to communicate their intentions, we went to I/O towers to hear them. They used to be considered sacred, since that was the only place where they talked to us. Nothing's sacred here, but the towers still mean... something. And if the tower's disabled, it's not derezzed, meaning SamFlynn here can make it work again." Bright brown eyes and an excited smile flash at him. "I bet you can even repurpose it to be able to send a message to the other side. Imagine - we can tell you what glitch or program is causing problems before you come in through the portal."

Sam nods slowly. "That can work."

"Excellent!" She slides off the barstool and leans on the counter, looking at him expectantly. "We can go now."

His inexplicable first instinct is to glance at the program on his right. There's a strange expression on Tron's face but it disappears under a familiar neutrality as he meets Sam's eyes. Sam turns back to Enyo and doesn't know what to make of the expression on her face. Neither of them talk; they're waiting for him to make the decision.

The thing is, Sam doesn't feel any real hurry to leave the Grid. The inactive portal ticks in the back of his mind, reminding him at regular intervals that he's trapped here until further notice and he needs to open the portal right now, but he doesn't feel much like walking out of this city and away from its people. He likes it here, and he could really use a break, a breather.

What was did Quorra say about time on the Grid and time back in his world again? She calculated, crunched so many numbers, and determined that a millicycle, the equivalent of several solid hours, is only about ten minutes outside the computer. If she sees the message as soon as Sam sends it up, she'll take at least a minute to activate the portal and it'll stay open for a millicycle. He'll have a window of over eight hours and that's just fine.

"Yeah, why not," he says, rubbing his thumb along the length of the slender cocktail glass. "Sounds easy enough-"

"Are you sure?" Tron asks. "Wouldn't it be better to rest and recharge before heading back out? We've been through a lot the past millicycle and this-" he holds up his empty glass "-doesn't have the same effect on you."

"I'm awake enough. Just give me a couple more and the tower's location, and I'll come up with a shortcut in no time," Sam says. This isn't that different from all those late nights he spent during his high school and Caltech years, when one ignores the difference between pouring over handwritten notes and blocks of text at four in the morning and fighting for his life constantly in the span of, what, eight hours? Ten? He catches the openly skeptical look Tron's giving him and petulantly says, "I can deal with it. Should've seen me when I was younger."

"Where have I heard that before," Tron mutters.

From Flynn, most likely, and Alan always did grumble about Sam taking after his father when he was younger and out of control. He grins at the thought and bumps against the program’s shoulder. "Better get used to it if you want me sticking around."

Is he seeing things or did Tron's circuits change color? The bluish-white glow suddenly deepens to a blue that's almost violet before stuttering back to its original hue. A cluster of programs walking by glance at Tron oddly but nobody else notices it. Not even Tron seems to notice and Sam wonders if he accidentally knocked something out of place when he was rummaging around inside the source code hours ago.

A second later he realizes that Tron said something. "What?"

Tron smiles. "Of course I want you to stick around."

Sam doesn't know what to say to that. He stares down at his hands while Tron slides away to talk to Crystal, leaving him with Enyo.

She's leering at him.

"What?"

"Nothing," Enyo says, but her smile suggests otherwise.

Sam does not trust that program.

* * *

The shortcut Sam writes is at least nine lanes wide and Enyo whistles impressively while she measures the width of the tunnel and runs a hand along the wall.

"Never seen anything like this before," she says while unhooking batons from the holsters on her calves. "Have you?"

Tron nods. “Once, but not like this.”

"Think I overdid it," Sam says while catching the baton she tosses him.

They end up racing each other from one end to the other, zipping along at a speed that would make the CHP faint and trailing rippling light ribbons in white, blue, and yellow. Sam doesn't know how Tron manages to finish a half-length in front of him and Enyo; the security program doesn't even try to hide a victorious smile while they dismount and pick up the batons.

As they climb up the translucent rungs to the surface level, Sam says, "Told you I can deal with it."

Tron pauses halfway up the next rung to give him an all too familiar look. Sam resolves to not let the tiredness he still feels - despite downing two more electric blue cocktails ten minutes ago - get the best of him until they're back in the neutral sector.

The disabled I/O tower is a massive construct, starkly distinct compared to the other buildings in the vicinity. In fact, the block it occupies is enormous, at least the size of four city blocks, and only lends to the I/O tower's imperious significance. Sam stares up at the graceful curving walls, so different from the sharp minimalism of the rest of the Grid, while Enyo skips ahead to the double doors to investigate. Tron lingers at Sam's side, looking up at the tower thoughtfully.

"How does this work again?" Sam asks.

"We come here when our Users summon us."

He heard his father explain the process so many times, but never from a program. "How do you know when they call you?"

Tron shrugs. He sounds distant as he says, "You feel it. There's a... something pulls at you from deep inside, calling you to the nearest tower. It's... difficult to explain to a User."

"What happens once you're called in?"

"Each tower is protected by a Guardian. You must ask their permission to go inside to communicate with your User. When the MCP took over, it forbade Guardians from letting any program in when a User called. It probably knew that Alan-1 would try to give me the key to stopping it in its tracks. Yori and I convinced Dumont to let me in when I was summoned, and he almost lost his life for it."

The Dumont that comes readily to mind isn't the program that helped Tron on his quest to defeat the MCP but rather the modified shipping container he lived in for several years as close to the river as he's allowed. He probably shouldn't mention that to Tron.

"Did Dad bring any Guardians here? Or did he make his own?"

"The Grid has only one I/O tower because he said this system can handle only one User at a time. He didn't believe a Guardian was necessary, especially since the User initiates the communication, not the program." Quietly, like what he's about to say is sacrilegious, he adds, "It'll be strange going back to a system with guarded I/O towers."

"Won't see that as long as the Grid stays a closed system," Sam says. "But there's no point cutting the Grid off from any network. It's the twenty-first century; the entire world's connected. And you're a prototype firewall. It's the perfect setup."

Tron looks incredibly pleased, and Sam decides for sure that once he finished repairing the Grid he's going to upgrade it to take on the modern networks. He opens his mouth to say something about it, and to maybe see that smile again, but Enyo interrupts, calling across the plaza for him.

"Looks like you'll have to break us in," she says as they approach. She has that look again, the knowing leer like she knows something and Sam doesn't. He's of the belief that she spends far too much time around Crystal.

While Tron stands guard, Sam presses the palm of his hand to the wall and brings up a display of the source code defining this construct. Enyo watches with rapt fascination as he writes in a few lines. Once he's done, he dismisses the display and tugs Enyo back by the elbow when the wall starts humming. Light blazes through the darkened circuits on the tower and once the very top is lit, the doors slide apart, releasing a blast of stale air. Inside is dim and unwelcoming; Sam takes a cautious step inside and as soon as his foot hits the floor the I/O tower's interior lights up.

"Whoa."

The lobby of the I/O tower is breathtaking and expansive, verging on the sublime; the gravity-defying sheer walls remind him of the exterior of the Walt Disney Concert Hall, only the highlights are tastefully placed cyan circuits rather than a burnished reflective surface. The scale is simply massive, reminding him that the Grid doesn't follow the usual laws of physics.

"Impressive, isn't it?" Enyo asks. Her voice bounces off the seemingly random curves, echoing and vibrating in the air.

"Yeah, it is." He looks up at the high ceiling; cutting through the curves is a long rectangular window running the entire length of the lobby and giving him a clear view of the clouded sky. "So, where are we going?"

Enyo points ahead to a low-set door at the other end of the lobby. Their footsteps echo as they walk and the sounds ricochet off the walls. Sam looks around, wondering how active it was when the system thrived. And how does it work, exactly? How was Clu able to reach Alan's pager?

The door is sealed shut and Sam brings up the code display to reactivate it. It slides open to reveal an equally enormous interior chamber; ahead of them, low semi-circular steps rise up to what looks like control station, vacant and waiting for someone to reactivate it. Beyond it the platform stretches out to a narrow walkway crossing a chasm to connect to a small entryway on the other side. Steep curving walls reach skyward, ending at a transparent ceiling that shows an even higher point in the I/O tower. That must be where the small entryway leads to.

"Wow," Sam breathes out while Enyo bounds ahead, going up the steps two at a time.

"This is where the Guardian verifies our identification and monitors our communication with our Users. They're usually required to activate the tower and open the link between us, but Flynn did away with that." Tron's words take on a mildly disapproving tone. "He said he was the only User around and the Grid wasn't connected to other systems, why the extra security? I... suppose some good came out of it. Without a Guardian in place, Clu was able to use the tower to send out a signal that brought you here."

"Yeah," Sam says, rocking back and forth on his feet. The urge to shove his hands into pockets rises but there are simply no pockets on this set of armor. He clenches his hands, and then folds his arms over his chest. "He did bring me here."

He doesn't know if he's referring to his father or Clu, not that he wants to think too deeply on that. He'd rather dwell on the idea that Tron thinks him coming here is a good thing and worth whatever security risk Tron disapproved of.

"If you're done gaping at the tower's interior," Enyo calls out, "I'd like to point your User fingers at this, SamFlynn."

"Magic fingers," he mutters under his breath as he climbs up the stairs.

He ignores Tron's baffled look, focuses instead on how much his body doesn't like having to go up a simple set of stairs. He's out of breath by the time he reaches the station, legs burning from use, and he doesn't do his body any favors when he launches himself over the inactive panels into the center of the station. He barely makes it and his knees almost give out when he manages to land on both feet, but he shrugs that off in favor of staring at the panels surrounding him. He presses his fingertips to one of the panels and brings up a pale cyan display filled with paragraphs of code.

"Let me get this straight: User calls you up, you come to the tower, the Guardian checks that you're the right program and... lets you pass over the bridge of death to that tiny door. What happens in there?" he asks, pointing somewhere behind him at the entryway across the chasm.

"You receive instructions from your User," Tron says.

Sam waits but when the program isn't more forthcoming he looks up from the code display. "Seriously? That's all you're going to say?"

The program shrugs. "That's what happens."

With a sigh, Sam turns his attention back to the code. He sees his modifications sprinkled throughout the top of the code, revealing the effects of his reactivating the tower. He just needs to find where Clu shut the tower down so that he can reanimate the building. As he scans through the display, flicking aside what he doesn't need, he slowly sees the process by which the I/O tower facilitates communication between User and program. By the time he reaches the correct lines of code and begins the process of removing them without disrupting another function, he knows exactly how to get a message out of the computer and onto the screen for Quorra to read. He just has to make sure the tower will output to the screen and not, say, through a phone line to the pager.

He really doesn't need Alan barging into the arcade at this hour with far too many questions for his foggy mind to handle, and that's after Sam manages to leave the Grid intact.

With the obstructive lines gone, the interior chamber begins to hum, darkened circuits on the architecture flickering to life and the control station blinking under his holographic display. Something flashes out of the corner of his eye and Sam jerks his head up to see a thin beam of light streaking out of the highest point on the tower into the sky.

"It's working," Enyo says happily. "Thought I'll never see it light up like that again."

Her cheer radiates off of her in waves, is infectious, and Sam smiles as he sets about making changes to how the tower receives and sends out information. "If I do this right, you can do more than just confirm or deny receiving instructions or data from me."

"How so?" Tron asks.

"Well, not to get too futuristic," Sam says slowly, biting his lower lip while deciding how to proceed with a new line of code, "but it'll be like... like how the MCP interacted with Users. But in a limited capacity," he adds quickly when Tron's expression darkens. "Not setting up a similar scenario here; none of you will have the kinds of permissions and privileges the MCP did, and the Grid's too decentralized for a single program to take over. I'm talking about you talking back, like JARVIS - never mind."

"That's not how it works," Tron says.

"Won't know it until we try it," Sam says. With a twitch and gesture of his fingers he draws in data and the display glows as the code debugs. "Besides, you talk to me just fine."

A small, pleased smile graces Tron's face. Suddenly tongue-tied, Sam turns back to the code display and finishes modifying the source code, stubbornly ignoring both the shaking fingers and the warm, light feeling in his chest. He minimizes the display and watches the control station come alive under his hands. He studies them for a moment and then makes the necessary changes to the parameters so that the output would go straight to the touchscreen and display the message correctly.

"From what I remember," Enyo says, and Sam has to look up because that's the calmest she's been since he first met her, "there's a beam of light that reads your disc, confirms its yours, and syncs your User's data or instructions with it. With you it would be the reverse, so you should put the right data in your disc before you go in there."

"Right," he says, reaching over his shoulder for his disc. He sets it carefully on the control panel, activates the display, and fashions a series of short lines of simple code that'll print out a request for Quorra to run the digitizer as soon as possible, and to stay out of the digitizer's way.

This is such a simple task that his mind ends up wandering and mulling over Enyo's words and Enyo herself. She talks as though she knows how an I/O tower works in a network like ENCOM's, not the single tower Flynn set up. How would she know that if the only system she's ever been on is this one? He glances at Tron; the program is frowning thoughtfully at Enyo but she doesn't notice, being thoroughly distracted by the working control panels.

He stifles a yawn while minimizing the display on his disc, earning the attention of both programs. He ignores them both, especially Tron's judgmental stare, and takes a deep breath to clear his head. The sluggish tired feeling doesn't go away, though, and he thinks longingly of his bed back home, of any comfortable horizontal surface he can sleep on. Too bad he has to take care of business here first. He contemplates how to hoist himself out of the center of the control station without falling on his face or breaking something, and he must've been a little too easy to read because Tron asks, "Do you need help?"

"I'm fine," he says. "Just give me a second." Then, "Run it by me again? I come here, the Guardian checks me over and gives me the green light, I cross that bridge to the tiny door, and... ?"

"The door leads to a small room. You take your disc, stand on the platform in the middle, and hold it up to the light," Tron says, watching Sam test his weight on a section of the control panel. "The light takes your disc and either syncs in whatever data your User sends you or syncs out the data your User needs.Then - Sam-"

Sam clears the station but doesn't land gracefully, banging his hip against the side while he staggers. Circuits bloom along the off-white side panel at the point of impact and fade just as quickly, earning a raised eyebrow from Enyo. She leans over and pokes at the spot while Sam rubs at his side, swearing.

"Could've gone better. But I'm fine," he says when Tron steps forward.

Tron frowns, itching to say or do something, but doesn't do anything while Sam hobbles towards the bridge. He peers over the ledge; the chasm appears bottomless, though he swears he sees a glimmer of something in the dark. He tells himself he has time to discover whatever's down there while inching onto the bridge towards the small door, he doesn’t need to find out now.

As he crosses to the inner sanctum of the I/O tower, he hears Tron's voice, a murmur that carries across the deep drop and imbued with fond memories of an older, happier system.

"All that is visible must grow beyond itself, an extend into the realm of the invisible."

Faith, Sam thinks. He's talking about faith. How strange.

While he's normally not afraid of heights - in fact, he's at the far end of being afraid of heights - he keeps his eyes fixed straight ahead; he doesn't trust his tired self to stay balanced if he gets distracted by how steep and unending the drop is if he slips. Quorra and Tron will never forgive him if he makes that mistake. Slowly the entryway comes closer and closer, until the bridge widens and he's on the other side. He glances over his shoulder, sees Tron and Enyo deep in conversation, and then steps through the entryway.

The inner sanctum is incredibly small, a tight space where the only other way out is up. Sam studies the tendrils of circuits crawling up the sheer walls, tracing them with his eyes until the light above nearly blinds him. Blinking away the spots, he turns his gaze elsewhere and finds the raised platform Tron described. He takes his disc off his back and turns it over in his hands as he steps up onto it. His presence seems to activate something; the platform, the walls, the very light seem to thrum with sudden power. He looks up while wondering how exactly the tower will read his disc and shields his eyes when the light intensifies. Deja vu rushes through him, carrying him back months to the second an actual Recognizer threw a beam of light on him and closed in on his location. From then on it's been a neverending fall down the rabbit hole.

At least this time he doesn't have to hide from Recognizers. Sam breathes deeply and then holds his disc up over his head, keeping his gaze downward. He waits and waits and waits, until something intangible tugs at the disc. It keeps pulling until he loosens his grip and the disc slips out of his fingers. He looks up and watches it ascend, circuits lit bright white with activity.

"The hell?" he mutters, watching it vanish in the light.

Now what? What is the tower doing with it? How is it transmitting his output to the screen for Quorra to read? How long will it take? What's he supposed to do in the meantime? He sways in place, waiting, but sits down on the edge of the platform when he sees nothing and standing becomes too tiring a task. His limbs feel heavy and his shoulders slump forward as he folds his arms in his lap and bows his head; he lets his eyes slide shut, listens to the hum of the tower at work doing who knows what with his disc.

He very vaguely hears the humming intensify and something clatter on the platform behind him. Something happened, he tells himself. The tower must've given his disc back. He should go get it. Then he can sleep. But after he gets back to that room in the back of Crystal's club.

A hand on his shoulder shakes him awake and he looks up at Tron.

"When did you get here?" Sam asks, then yawns and buries his face in the crook of his elbow.

Tron sighs and quietly says, "You should've waited until after recharge."

"Users don't work that way," he mutters.

"That's what they keep saying," Tron says, and Sam would ask him to elaborate but that's too much work for him right now.

"I'll be fine. Just a couple minutes," he says. He squeezes his tired, dry eyes shut and feels himself unwind. Tron's hand is still on his shoulder and he leans into it.

He regains consciousness for a few seconds when he feels himself being lifted up and carried away. It's disorienting and he tries to twist away to get back on his feet - he's not a baby anymore, he can stay up all night with his grandparents while waiting on news about his father's whereabouts if he wants - but whoever's carrying him won't let go. He blinks blearily and catches sight of a blurry cluster of blue circuits spelling a "T" just centimeters from his face.

"Put me down, I can walk," he tries to say, and the only answer he gets is a knowing hum.

Sleep clouds his mind again and at the end of the tunnel is a bright light. The Ducati roars as he swerves around the other cars, the sound vibrating all around him. Suddenly, there's no asphalt underneath, no ground, no cars, no tunnel. Underneath is the sky and the lights of Downtown.

He follows the graceful lines of traffic weaving between the 101 and the 405, wonders at the circuits on the skyscrapers. Up ahead, he sees the giant oval of Hollywood Park, with lightcycles circling the racetrack and trailing light ribbons in so many hues. Solar Sailers come in and out of LAX, following lines across the sea and over land. Sam sits back on the rumbling Ducati and watches the city thrive, the corners of his mouth tugging upward in an accomplished smile.

The sight is incredible.

The city dissolves and he hears someone approach, the somewhat muffled steps breaking through his fast-fading dream. Sluggish and bogged down in a sleepy haze, he listens and waits; they come to a stop somewhere in front of him.

"Still asleep?" It's Enyo.

"Yes," Tron sighs. "Not the first time this happened, but Users rarely know their limits."

"You'd know," Enyo says. Sam pictures her nodding sagely. "So they all like this? Run themselves dry and then collapse wherever they are?"

"I've only been around two, so I can't say. I just know that they don't know when to stop."

"Yeah," Enyo snorts. "I think Julia59 summoned me to one of the I/O towers back on ENCOM at least twenty times to debug and upgrade me. I just never met her face to face, so I don't know if she's anything like SamFlynn."

"Was wondering about the things you said."

"You caught me. I'm one of the programs Flynn ported over and modified to function on this system. He wasn't as bad as her, especially once the ISOs came along to distract him. I wasn't useful enough to Clu so I managed to escape detection and hid for the next thousand cycles. I don't know if anybody else is left."

"Doesn't really matter now, does it?" Tron says.

"Nope."

Sam's mind slowly comes online, slowly orients itself as he becomes more awake. He realizes he's curled up on the floor, back pressed against the wall; someone had thought to fetch his disc from the grip of the I/O tower and lock it onto his back. He hears Tron's quiet hum, a far different but no less distinct sound, and feels a hand gently caress the side of his head. A chill shivers up his spine while heat unfurls in his chest; Sam fights the urge to curl around the feeling and give himself away.

Silence hangs awkwardly in the air and then something squeaks, like Enyo twisting the ball or heel of her foot against the floor.

"He's more than a User to you, isn't he?" she suddenly asks. "More than the son of Flynn?"

Something in his chest - his heart, it pounds louder and heavier the longer Tron stays silent and Sam feels sick. He doesn't think he can breathe. The hand resting on his head suddenly weighs several tons and he just wants to get out and run.

"You don't have to say anything," Enyo eventually says, then switches gears. "Rho isn't the easiest to patrol. I'm sure you overhead some of our more delightful residents giving their opinions on who I should and shouldn't let in there. But we lost so many just to establish this sector, and now that SamFlynn's back it'll get worse. Not everyone wants him or thinks they need him, but we know better."

"I've heard this before," Tron says warily.

"If you mean the Purge - this isn't the same. You know the Grid would've been fine if Clu just left the ISOs alone. The Grid's dying and programs like Octane and Zuse, they think they know how to survive, how to keep the system going. You know better, but they're not going to just surrender. They have no reason to trust him."

"He said he'll save the Grid."

"Yeah," Enyo say, "and I can't wait for that cycle to get here but until then, Rho is still a neutral zone. You have my permission to take troublesome glitches offline and toss them out of my sector."

"Thank you," Tron replies dryly and she laughs.

"Ask Crystal's sisters if you decide you need help. In the meantime...." Enyo shifts restlessly. "Should wake him up and go back to Crystal's. I'll stay here."

"Why?"

"Well I'm no Guardian, but I think I can tell when someone's trying to reach our mighty User. And if the portal opens, just listen for the rioting in the sectors." In a softer voice, she adds, "You know, I don't think he'll say no."

What is she talking about? The low constant hum stutters while Enyo takes a step back.

"Why?" Tron finally asks.

"Why not?" she says, which seems to be her attitude towards everything. "We're usually happy doing our jobs right and having friends to be with on our millicycles off, but you... you're different, too."

"I...."

There's a knowing shush, accompanied by the echo of Enyo's footsteps that slowly fade. Sam holds himself absolutely still, hoping he still looks to be deep asleep rather than wide awake and panicking. The exchange storms in his head like a hurricane, words said and unsaid drowning out every other thought.

"He's more than a User to you, isn't he? More than the son of Flynn?"

He can't stop repeating the words because she might be right and Enyo has so far been right about everything. She confuses, confounds, and is more than a little vague, but this time she 's straightforward and direct. Neither of them could misinterpret what she's saying. Not Tron, at least, since the words were for him. But Sam doesn't know where he stands in relation to the program, doesn't know what to say about the strange way Tron is starting to affect him.

Somewhere above him, Tron says his name softly like it's something precious and he can't help the shuddering breath because he's never heard that from anyone before. Abruptly the hand lifts away and Sam steels himself, pretends he's just now waking up, and cracks his eyes open.

They're in the lobby of the I/O tower. He shuts his eyes against the too bright light.

"Well, crap." He sounds like it, too.

Slowly he rolls onto his back and forces his eyes open. There are glass panels on the ceiling like skylights and he sees the beam of light reaching from the highest point of the tower into the sky, presumably to the computer screen. He tilts his head back and looks at Tron, who's sitting against the wall next to him and is studying the circuits on the back of his left hand with a pensive expression. Sam freezes when the program looks at him with magnetic blue-gray eyes.

He licks his upper lip and then asks, "How long was I out?"

Seconds tick by before Tron finally answers. "Not too long. Sam-"

"I know. Take it the portal hasn't opened yet?"

"No."

His disc is pressing painfully into his lower back but he can't make himself move or look away. Tron raises his hand and Sam holds his breath, heart pounding in his head. The program hesitates, presses his fingertips together, and then lowers it while looking elsewhere. "We should go back. You need rest and I need to... think things out. Enyo proposed I patrol her sector with her while you're not here, and I need something to do anyways."

Sam slowly sits up and rubs the sleep out of his face. "Yeah, good idea."

They're no more than a few feet apart as they walk out of the tower and across the plaza to a discrete alleyway tucked in between two defunct structures on the next block, but they might as well be on opposite ends of the bridge between the Guardian's station and the inner sanctum. Tron had withdrawn into himself, shoulders slumping forward and head tilted downward in a way reminiscent of Rinzler. Sam staggers along behind him, tired and aching and mind awhirl with what he overheard-

Not just what he overhead. What Enyo didn't say still puts tentative half-formed words to the shift in his head, something that's been in motion since their journey to the safehouse in the Outlands. He doesn't know if he can stop it or if he even wants to.

He never expected to find it when he came here. It wasn't something he was looking for.

It's terrifying.

Chapter Text

Writing a new shortcut back to Rho takes some time, mainly because Sam's brain is so slow to supply the next line of code. He keeps yawning while watching the shortcut form on the ground in front of him, and has to force himself to get up and follow Tron down into the tunnel. By the time he reaches the floor, Tron has already rezzed a lightcycle and is watching him with an unreadable, contemplative expression.

Sam thinks nothing of it as he rezzes his lightcycle and gets on, but when he gives the program a cursory glance, Tron is still staring. "What?"

Tron shakes his head and looks away while his distinct black helmet rezzes into place. "Nothing."

The journey back is short, uneventful and quiet, so Sam spends the trek glancing sideways at Tron every several seconds. He sees nothing under the glossy black helmet. The eighth time he looks at Tron, the program's helmet is slightly angled in his direction, like Tron is watching him. Sam jerks back and the lightcycle swerves before he corrects his course.

Tron doesn't know how to be around him, either. The thought makes him nervous and he clenches his jaw tightly as he fixes his eyes on the path. He can't help feeling angry at Enyo for what she said, for disturbing what they have right now, for suggesting that maybe-

They hit the end of the shortcut and he lets the unfinished thought fade. He sits back after powering down the lightcycle, stares at the glossy chassis before closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. He's just so tired right now, too tired to deal with his mind. He hears Tron's footsteps, knows the program is going to ask after him and perhaps reach out with circuit-laced fingers, and quickly, jerkily, gets off the lightcycle. That stops Tron in his tracks and Sam sighs in uneasy relief while watching the vehicle collapse back into a baton.

He only looks up when Tron moves away.

Rho sector is quiet when one ignores the nonstop beat shaking the building housing Crystal's establishment. Sam looks up at the sky while Tron seals in the shortcut in the alleyway next to the club and sees the I/O tower's beam of light piercing the sky.

"Sam."

"Yeah," he says distantly, scanning for a bright star shining through the clouds. Quorra hasn't opened the portal yet. "Yeah, I'm coming."

Entering the club is like walking into a wall of music, light, and bodies. The beat is fast and heavy and the programs glow as they mingle and dance on the floor. More came in since he was last here and a few programs watch keenly as he follows Tron through the crowd. It's a little harder this time to not let everything beat on his senses and he may have hooked his hand around Tron's elbow in order to not get lost in the dizzying display.

He sees the MP3s over the heads of most of the programs; their helmeted heads bob in sync with each other and the music they mix. One of them suddenly looks up and straight at him, or at least that's what Sam thinks. Either way, it elbows its companion and they nod as one before abruptly changing tracks. The beat becomes heavier, pulsating in the spaces between bodies. It drums in his head like a second heartbeat, throbs under his skin and heats him up. The programs around him and Tron respond to the music with fresh fervor, with blinding smiles and burning eyes as the music moves through their bodies like an undulating current.

"What the hell?" he mutters, watching the effect ripple past them to the couches lining the wall.

Tron pulls him deeper into the crowd and after a minute of jostling past oblivious programs, Sam notices some of them getting up close and personal with each other, hands sliding along bodies and limbs and circuits in slow deliberate strokes. With every pass, the circuits flush purple and the programs shudder and smile in response. They never kiss, never mouth at exposed skin, never press up against one another. There are only hands and violet-tinged circuits, and something knocks at the back of Sam's mind while he keeps watching.

A very friendly program sidles up next to him, circuits flowing from white to purple and back, and he freezes when ze slides zir fingers up his arm. The touch feels like fire, heat and pressure sinking through the armor into his skin, and he breathes in shaky and sharp, drawing Tron's attention.

"Sorry, not interested," Tron says tightly and drags him away from the disappointed program.

Crystal is behind the bar, reading from what looks like a transparent tablet while sliding a green cocktail across the counter to a program. She looks up when Tron practically manhandles Sam onto the bar stool right across from her and shoulders a cluster of programs aside, resulting in indignant protests and grumbling as the cluster leaves the bar. Curiously, she doesn't seem the least bit affected by whatever the MP3s did with their music.

"Next time you intimidate my patrons, I'm throwing you out," she says nonchalantly while putting the tablet away. Sharp eyes flick between them before settling on Sam. "Well. You look ready to crash."

Sam shrugs. "Maybe." He can't shut off the pounding beat in his head or the throbbing hum under his skin, wrings his hands tightly because he feels strange and tense and not comfortable in his own skin.

"Sam?" Tron says. He sounds strained, like he's holding something back.

"I’m fine." He's not. "I'm fine. Shit."

Crystal makes a frustrated noise and it sounds like a bullhorn. "Are they - those glitching MP3s left me out again? One of these millicycles, I'm tossing them out and making Enyo stash them somewhere else."

"I was kidding about the raves," Sam mutters. "Did not expect the... touching, though. Or the purple circuits. What the hell's that about? You can change the color?"

Nobody offers an answer so he looks up. Crystal is trying not to laugh at his face and Tron is watching the crowd with a carefully neutral expression fixed on his face. The programs at Sam's left are giving him odd, almost scandalized, glances.

After that, connecting the dots is laughably easy.

"Never mind," he decides. He's so not in the mood to talk about the public displays and purple circuits. "Could use a drink."

"More like a long period of recharge," the Siren says. "What's the outcome of your trek to the tower?"

"He transmitted a message to the other side. All we can do now is wait for the portal to open," Tron explains. "Enyo is still there and said she plans to sweep the sector before coming back."

She nods in acknowledgement. "If you need to, take the room in the back; it's soundproof and you need the rest. Both of you."

"I'm not-"

"Yes, you are," Crystal says, staring Tron down. "Especially with a recompilation like that."

Sam starts. He definitely doesn't remember either of them telling her what happened in the Outlands. "How'd you-"

"I don't need to be a repair utility or a User to notice," she says. "We have ways of communicating with the Grid and each other that Users won’t understand. I can tell he’s better than before."

"I am," Tron agrees.

Now that Crystal said it, Sam notices, too, but not the way she said she did. The rattling broken ticking is gone but Tron also sounds more content, happier even when he doesn’t approve of Sam’s decisions. Maybe Sam should take another look at the source code.

"Here." Crystal presses a vial into Tron's hand. "It should help. Now," and her attention turns to Sam. "I need my gear back."

She looks him up and down critically and his face burns under the piercing scrutiny. Crystal leans over the counter and probes at the gash in the armor on his shoulder.

"That would've disabled most programs," she says. "Come on; need to give you access to my armory."

"Sure," Sam says and slides off the bar stool. He lands unsteadily and Tron reaches out, pressing a hand to the small of his back. He shivers and doesn't dare breathe until Tron moves away, and then stubbornly ignores how much he wants to feel Tron's hand on him again.

* * *

Crystal's room is blissfully quiet and Sam nearly moans in relief when he no longer has to listen to the MP3s' crushing beat. He ignores the look Crystal gives him and goes straight to the couch, curls up against the armrest while watching the Siren touch the panel next to the shelf to activate the lift. He shifts about but can't find a comfortable position; the armor is a little too stiff to relax in and after a minute he gives up. He sits back up and flops against the couch, closes his eyes and listens to Tron pacing nearby.

"Armory is all yours," he hears Crystal say. "Don't break anything. If you need me, I'll be at the bar."

"Thank you," Tron replies.

Sam cracks his eyes open to see Crystal leave the room and Tron lean over to shake him awake. He quickly holds a hand up, saying, "I'm up."

Tron's face clouds with confusion but he turns away before Sam can get a better read on him. He steps onto the glowing lift and gestures for Sam to join him, but slides to the edge when Sam gets on, putting space between them. Sam stares at the program on the way down to the sublevel room, confused and a little hurt. What did he do?

He doesn't notice the lift coming to the stop on the armory floor until Tron steps off, activating the panels along the walls and floor and lighting up the room. Sam follows slowly, watches Tron rezz a table on the platform and set the black vial on it before moving to the wall to look through the hidden drawers for Sam’s clothes.

"There's a node at the back of your neck," Tron says. "It'll release the armor from your body and instruct it to retract into removable pieces."

"Okay." He reaches up and behind his neck, probing the collar of the armor protecting his neck. "What about my disc? How do I carry it around if I won't have a dock for it?"

"You don't have to remove the disc dock," Tron says. He's pulling balled up clothes out of one of the drawers, and Sam recalls his grandmother having a fit whenever she found his clothes like that. "It'll phase through whatever attire you're wearing. It adapts to whatever mode you're in."

"Seriously? That's convenient." Not finding this magical circuit, he drops his aching arm and huffs in frustration. "Can you - I can't find it. Show me where it is or... uh...."

Tron drops his clothes on the table and steps right into his space. Sam freezes up, voice and breath and heart stuck in the back of his throat, while Tron raises his left hand to reach over to press that circuit. Tron stops, though, and searches Sam's face for something.

"May I?" he asks and Sam realizes why the program had started keeping his distance. What Sam thought was him trying to give himself some space to think out Enyo’s words Tron read as him trying to push the program away.

"Yeah," Sam says shakily, then clears his throat and gestures at the armor nonchalantly. "Go ahead."

Tron reaches over his shoulder and presses something at the base of his neck; Sam breathes out as the white circuits go dark and something detaches from him. The armor relaxes its grip on various parts of his body and starts retracting upwards. He holds his arm up to watch the protective layer fold up to his shoulder and then pries the shoulder piece off. Tron removes the other piece and steps back while Sam puts the pieces on the table and grabs his shirt. He feels the skintight black material slowly recede down his body as he tugs the shirt over his head and pulls his jeans on; it's a strange, ticklish sensation and he resists the urge to scratch the itch.

Remembering what Tron said, he reaches behind his back and raises an eyebrow when his fingertips brush against the disc dock; he feels along the edge and realizes the dock didn't cut a hole in his shirt but is simply sitting on top of it even though he put his shirt over it. The Grid makes no sense sometimes.

While shaking out his jacket, he notices Tron leaning rather heavily against the table, arms crossed tightly while the program stares down at the vial.

"What is it?"

Tron sighs. His circuits flicker for a second and Sam starts forward, suddenly fearful. "Tron? You okay?"

"It's unfiltered energy," Tron says. "We use it after recompilation to speed up the recovery process, or else we'd run slow until we're fully recovered."

"Dad had one, told me to give it to Quorra when she woke up after he recompiled her arm. You know, you were completely out of it on the way back from the Outlands, and I kept thinking that's what you needed to wake up," Sam says slowly. "But I thought you were fine after that Red Bull cocktail."

"So did I," Tron says, breezing past the reference, "but it wasn't enough. I've been recompiled before, but Alan-1 wrote me well; I never - it never felt like this." He looks up at Sam. "Was it that bad?"

The slow deresolution plays out clearly in Sam's head. Knowing how badly the damage destabilized the source code, how close Tron came to derezzing completely, is awful and terrifying, and Sam tries to keep his composure. His silence and his face must say more than enough because Tron drops his gaze to the table and his shoulders slump forward.

"I'm-"

"Don't say you're sorry," Sam says. "Just don't. It wasn't your fault."

Tron gives him a rather heartbreaking smile before picking up the vial and draining it in one long pull. He shudders like it's bitter medicine and drops the empty container on the table. Sam watches him carefully but if anything, Tron looks more alert than he did just seconds ago.

"Next time you don't feel so great, just tell me," Sam says. "Not gonna judge you for it."

"Could say the same for you," Tron replies easily. He scans the armory with sharper eyes and asks, "Are you missing anything?"

"No," Sam says while tugging on the collar of his jacket. "I'm good. You?"

"I'm all right.”

They say nothing while leaving the sublevel armory but the silence is more companionable. Sam still feels nervous but not terribly so, and he can think about it - about the anxiety borne out of possibility, about Enyo's words, about Tron - after he gets some much-needed sleep. Once back in Crystal's room, he goes straight to the couch and crashes on it, sprawling all over the white cushions and covering his eyes with his arm to block out the light. After the night he's had - more like a day and some hours, if he's going by the Grid time - being able to lie down somewhere comfortable and not have to worry about his ghosts for the first time in months feels overwhelming. The relief is so great he could cry.

Instead he tries to sleep and he nearly does, except, in that muddied, sluggish state between awake and asleep, he can pick up the distinct whirring hum of the other person in the room. He moves his arm off his face and cracks an eye open to see a tall silhouette watching the club activity on the other side of the soundproof wall.

"Seriously?" Sam says. "You're gonna stand there playing guard dog?"

Tron turns his head and for a moment Sam can't speak, struck by the sight of the program's strong profile against the lights. Then he realizes that while he was staring, Tron had said something.

"What?"

There's a huff of amused laughter from the other side of the room. "You should sleep."

"I'm trying," he saws around a yawn. He stretches out on the couch and crosses his arms tightly over his chest, turns his head away from light and shuts his eyes. Just worried about you.

"I'll be fine," Tron says fondly.

It's a while before Sam realizes he voiced his last thought out loud and by then he's too tired to care.

* * *

If he dreamed, he doesn't remember. The incessant echo of a heartbeat vibrates the dreamscape, disrupting the faint impression of images flipping through his head like a slideshow with a faulty projector. He comes to with a crick in his neck and a fast-fading feeling of loss.

The ceiling above him is the same but there's more space everywhere. He slides his hand along the soft surface and then slowly sits up. He rubs his face and looks around the room before realizing that he's on the bed, not the couch. When did he move here?

He thinks about lying back down but the longer he sits there, blinking sleepily, the more awake he becomes. And the more awake he gets, the more he notices the beat; it's not his heart but music, and it somehow got through Crystal's soundproof barrier. He doesn't hear actual music but he can feel its rhythm move around and through him. He slides to the edge of the bed and gets up, walks up to the wall and watches the scene on the other side. The MP3s are working the crowd with a fast-paced medley they're mixing on the fly and the programs on the floor are loving it. Circuits pulse in sync with the music and as he watches his heart matches the beat, follows it until his head buzzes with it and a disconcerted aching feeling settles heavily in his chest. A restless hum pushes and pulls at him, and he presses a hand against his sternum while turning away from the lights and sounds.

Where's Tron?

Sam looks around the room but Tron is nowhere to be found. But that's not right; he wouldn't leave Sam behind without a word, without making sure he'll be all right. He wouldn't just walk out while Sam is asleep and unable to follow - Sam takes a deep breath and swallows hard, curls his hands tightly and waits. He waits, swaying slightly where he stands, until he can string together a single thought. He's still here.

"Fuck." He buries his face in his hands, mutters, "What the hell."

He hasn't felt that panic in over fifteen years.

He needs a drink, badly. He rakes shaky fingers through his hair and leaves the room. He feels a bit like he's walking into a lightning storm, with the music pounding through his head like thunder and the air crackling, charged with something. He shakes off the pricking sensation on his skin and goes straight to the bar. A few programs notice him, look at him appraisingly, and he gives them a wide berth. He doesn't see Tron anywhere, but maybe Tron is just somewhere else in the club. Somewhere else but still here.

The bar is crowded, a row of brightly lit programs sitting at or leaning against the counter. He looks for a gap in the ranks and spots two green-lit programs leaving, bright drinks in hand. He makes a beeline for the vacated spot and slides onto the bar stool. He leans on the backlit panels and buries his face in his hands, blocking out the bright lights behind him and letting the racing beat wash over him. His heart beats faster with each new rhythm and the unsettling, restless ache in his chest deepens and spreads.

"You look like you need this," Crystal says somewhere in front of him.

He looks up at the Siren and the light blue cocktail she sets on the counter. The slim glass, and the small, rather charming umbrella in it, is a welcome sight and he smiles at her gratefully while picking it up. He takes a tentative sip because he doesn't know how much of a kick these drinks have; the first swallow is a jolt of electricity, makes his skin crawl and buzz. Sam blinks rapidly, stares down at the liquid energy; he swears he can see sound waves vibrate against resistance, against the glass and the energy and his hand, and the beat in his head starts up again.

"SamFlynn?" Crystal prompts.

He shakes his head. "Nothing. It's nothing."

He licks his upper lip and tastes the tang of energy. It strums through his body, sets a slow fire to his nerves; he's flush with too much heat, is too aware of his surroundings, and he doesn't know if it's the drink or the music. He turns in his seat to watch the MP3s but the helmeted programs don't so much as look in his general direction, too busy entertaining the crowd. He scans the mass of shapes and circuits but nobody looks like the program he's searching for.

"The portal is still closed, if you're wondering," Crystal says and he almost falls off his seat.

"You're still here?"

She pulls out a carafe and a highball glass from under the counter. "Took care of everyone looking for a buzz. Everybody else will just have to wait until she comes back."

He glances up and down the bar; most are chatting with each other or watching the scene, glasses of colorful energy in hand, but the few that are empty-handed look as restless as Sam feels. When one of them glances at Sam, he averts his eyes and instead watches Crystal pour herself something cheerfully pink. She then tops off his glass and he watches the colors swirl into a deep violet. She takes a long pull from her glass, hexagon pupils never leaving him. She's waiting for him to say something.

He pushes the umbrella to the other side of the glass and quietly asks, "Where's Tron?"

When she doesn't answer he looks up, his heart pounding too loud, too fast, trying to climb up his throat. The expression on her face is unreadable and he tenses, braces himself for the worst.

"He was here earlier," she says. "Came out from the back an hour ago, had a drink, asked me about this sector. We talked, but he wasn't all there, so I told him to stop wasting my time and go deal with whatever's bothering him first." She pauses, sets her glass down, and leans into Sam's space. "Something happen between you two?"

"No," he says automatically. He reconsiders while pushing his cocktail glass around. Something definitely did happen, is happening, might have been happening for a while. "Maybe. Don't know."

"Will it get in the way of your promise?"

"I...." When Crystal's face becomes grim, mouth a thin line, he quickly says, "It won't, I swear. I just need to...." Talk to him? Find him and ask if any of this is really happening? He wrings his hands, feels uncertain and nervous. "I need to talk to him about... something I wasn't looking for."

The Siren quirks an eyebrow. "That doesn't make sense."

He huffs a laugh, rubs his face. "Not supposed to. You ever not realize you were looking for something until it's there?"

"No. Is this a User thing?"

"Maybe." He takes a rather large sip from his glass and shudders at the prickling, electric burn sliding down his throat. He sets it down, stares at his faint reflection on the rippling surface. "I came back because I thought Dad might've left something here. That's what mattered to me. That's all I cared about, all I thought I needed. But I come here and I find...

"I find him."

The words come out a hoarse whisper, hesitant and afraid but there. He doesn't know how else to say it, how else to explain how deep Tron got under his skin. Sam didn't even know he survived that race to the portal and yet there he was, waiting for Sam outside the building, broken and glitching and pursued by half the Grid. He was there when he didn't have to be and he never left.

"I saved him," Sam says quietly, distantly. "Stopped him from derezzing and brought him back, and the entire time I kept thinking 'I can't lose you.' I just met him, and I wasn't even looking, but I couldn't - I don't know. I don't know what I'm doing."

A hand closes over his left wrist and he breathes in sharply, realizes just how badly his hands are shaking.

"I think you do," Crystal says, "and I'm not just saying it because I don't want to look like a fool backing a clueless User. So ask yourself this - what are you really afraid of, SamFlynn?"

There really isn't anything particular about the Siren, nothing that would compel him to say it, but the answer comes out anyway. He looks at her, unblinking, as the words tumble out into the open. "I don't want to fuck it up. Not with him."

"Then don't."

He shakes his head. "That's not-"

"Then don't. Indecisiveness doesn't really suit you." She takes his cocktail glass and a bit of energy splashes on the backlist panel. "Users are, for better or worse, unpredictable and adaptable. That's what I know, anyway. You'll be fine."

Her confidence in his apparently uniquely User trait warms him, makes him smile with the nervousness of someone about to commit to the unknown. He taps his fingers on the counter and she looks at him expectantly, waiting for the inevitable question.

"Where's Tron?"

"Last I saw, he went to the back," she says, tilting her chin towards the rest of the club. "He won't go anywhere without you."

Sam looks over his shoulder but he can't see through the crowd on the dance floor. He can easily picture Tron watching the programs from some secluded place in the back, watching and wondering and feeling just as confused as Sam does. But there's no denying the tension woven into the friendship they're building, no ignoring whatever Enyo suggested is happening between them. There's no way to avoid the potential, the possibility of having something more, and while a part of him doesn't want to even think about it, another fiercer part doesn't want to walk away.

He needs to find Tron, needs to know what Tron thinks, what he feels, what he wants to do. He turns back to Crystal, who nods encouragingly; he steels himself with a deep, unsteady breath, and propels himself off the stool and into the crowd. He pushes through the tight, writhing spaces between hot lit bodies, twists away from stray limbs and unaware programs swept up in the music. Somewhere behind him, the MP3s slide in melody after melody, beat after beat, layering them and electrifying the atmosphere. Music wraps around him, strums his nerves, makes him heady and breathless and buzzing with an empty, aching need. He presses his hand to his chest for a moment, catches his breath, and then reaches out to push a program aside. The crowd ever so slowly begins to thin and he stumbles out into the back of the club, where couches line the walls and a few programs sit at low tables lit with bars of white light, nodding and swaying to the beat. Sam looks around and a familiar face catches his eye.

Tron sits at the far end of the row of couches, elbows resting on his knees and a hand loosely holding a glass of blue energy. He's staring at the floor instead of the crowd, face pensive and torn, and Sam almost turns back to the bar. Instead he clenches his hands tightly and steps forward, slowly closes the distance between them. Tron looks up when Sam is standing right in front of him, and the program sits up straight, sets the glass on a table dragged over from its original spot without blinking once.

Despite the deafening music and his heart pounding in his head, Sam still hears the whisper, the low hoarse utterance of his name.

"Sam."

Nobody says his name like that. It hurts when he thinks about it, about how long he lived without encountering anyone who could affect him so strongly. For the first time, he found someone he cares about in a way so markedly different, someone who’s not his family, his godparents, his friend. Someone he wants to be with, for however long he's wanted. The thought roils hotly inside him, burns with the anxiety and fear and thrill of something about to happen.

What he ends up saying is, "I don't know what I'm doing." Nervous laughter bubbles up and he clamps down, takes a deep breath, and tries again. "I... that was... I don't - I'm not...."

Words fail him. He squeezes his eyes shut for a precious second and gathers himself - I'm a User. I'll improvise. - before looking up to meet Tron's steady gaze. The program's eyes watch him unflinchingly, but the program isn’t so calm; Sam reads the doubt in them, the uncertainty of this moment-in-flux, the fear of the unknown that neither of them expected nor looked for. And yet he sits there, watching Sam and giving nothing else away, and Sam wonders if he got it all wrong, if he's about to make a mistake. He takes an involuntary step back while ice-cold shame curls around his heart and that's when Tron moves, reaching out as if to stop him from leaving.

The world stops giving way under his feet and Sam thinks he can breathe.

"I'm not - not going anywhere," he says. He takes a slow step forward, watches Tron's expression shift from fear to hope. "I’m not leaving."

"I know.”

"I'm not - I'm not making this up, am I?" He steps forward again, closer. "It's not just me?"

Tron shakes his head and something in Sam breaks. He ignores the pounding in his head and the suffocating tightness in his chest, takes one more half-step and lifts his hand, reaches out. Tron tilts his chin up and holds perfectly still as Sam traces the curve of his face and the strong angle of his jaw with tentative fingers. The touch is light, fleeting, but Tron shivers and closes his eyes. Sam feels like he's been hit by lightning.

Swallowing hard, Sam pulls his hand back and Tron's eyes open, pupils flashing deep violet and gray irises reflecting the lights of the club like stars. Sam freezes, then starts when Tron wraps a hand around his forearm and tugs him forward. Sam follows without a second thought; his knees hit the couch and he crawls up on it, balances himself with a hand on the wall while straddling the program. He tries to remember to breathe but gasps when Tron presses a hand to the small of his back, right under the disc dock, and pulls him forward until their bodies are flush against each other.

This isn't new. You've done this before, Sam tells himself, but he’s awkward and nervous, so nervous. This is new and he's not just talking about getting intimate with someone whose genetic makeup consists of binary code. He never felt any great need, never wanted to have sex with anyone, and so he never looked, never expected or anticipated.

But here is Tron, who came to him offering help, who fought beside him and for him, who almost died for him, who wouldn’t leave his side. The knowledge that he is here and wants to be with Sam is dizzying and overwhelming. Sam takes a deep shaky breath and presses his forehead to Tron’s shoulder.

"This is insane," he says.

"Is it?" Tron asks.

Sam wants to say yes. He's in love with someone he used to idolize as a child, someone who tried to kill him, someone who's at least a thousand years older than him and wears a younger version of his godfather's face. But it's not like his life has ever been normal, and this is someone he wants, someone who feels right.

"No."

He shivers when Tron says his name against the curve of his ear, the voice a low warm caress promising so many things, and Sam thinks that, if given the chance, he'll never tire of it. Slowly he lifts his head and sits back, takes in the fond smile on Tron's face and watches it shift as Sam slides his right hand up Tron's shoulder to his neck, brushes his thumb against the faded scar. Tron's eyes storm over, pupils flashing, and his lips part as circuits flare and flush a deep purple-blue. The sight is terrifying and beautiful, and Sam thinks, That was me. You're reacting to me. I did that.

He sways forward but stops himself at the last second, hesitating, watching Tron for a reaction. He wouldn't know what Users do, would he? What do programs do when they come to this point? He saw the display on the dance floor, the deliberate contact between programs using only their hands. But Tron's the one who hauled Sam onto his lap, the one whose displays of intimacy are so much more human. He's from a different system, though. Maybe the ENCOM servers are more-

Tron leans forward and kisses him.

Sam freezes but the moment his mind catches up his heart goes into overdrive and he kisses back before Tron can pull away, slides his hand along the curve of Tron's face and buries his fingers in dark hair. He tilts his head for a better angle, slides his tongue against the curve of the program's bottom lip, and smiles when he feels Tron's hands curling tightly against him, trying to pull him even closer when there's no space left between them. He draws back slowly, mouth and lips tingling and electrified, and opens his eyes to find dark gray ones watching him, pupils glowing purple.

"Take it you don't do this often," he says, breathless and giddy and already missing the feel of Tron’s mouth against his.

"Not often," Tron says and he sounds just as winded. His eyes keep flicking downward and back up. "Yo - I know about the kissing but not... not like that."

The near-slip makes Sam wonder where she learned it but the thought also sobers him, makes him ease back because he knows what Tron used to have. He must look ridiculous right now, but it's not just the thought of Yori that bothers him; the history and the stories are woven so tightly into his childhood that at times he remembers just how old Tron is, remembers what the program had seen and done, and it makes doing this, wanting this, feel just a bit unsettling and wrong.

"I'm so stupid," he breathes out.

"Sam?"

He shakes his head. "Sorry. It's just... weird, knowing what you had before everything else happened. Before I was born."

"And you didn't... have this before?"

"Didn't cross my mind," he says. "I didn't exactly have a normal life, for a User. So this is all just kinda-"

"New," Tron says. He reels Sam back in, bumping noses. His mouth brushes against Sam's. "Different."

"Yeah," he breathes out. The light touch electrifies, makes his heart race and his body hum with anticipation. He swallows hard when he sees something deep and dark and alive in Tron's eyes. "So you want this?"

"Yes," Tron replies, and there's conviction and steel in his voice. "You're what I want."

Sam surges forward and kisses him hard, pressing him back against the couch. Tron doesn't react right away, seemingly stunned, but Sam rakes his fingers through the program's hair, drags his tongue along the line of Tron's mouth, pushes himself up hard against Tron's body, and Tron responds with a low moan and a shudder. His hands dig into Sam's back and thigh as he kisses back; he doesn't quite know what he's doing and Sam flinches when teeth clack and Tron's scrape the inside of his bottom lip. He breaks the kiss, flushes hot when Tron makes a low needy sound and tries to reengage, and says, "Slow down a sec."

Tron watches him, face aglow with the bright violet light of his circuits. He looks utterly alien, terrible and beautiful, and yet Sam's drawn in like a moth to the flame. He leans in, murmurs, "Follow my lead," and kisses Tron slowly, wraps his hand around the back of the program's head and deepens the kiss. He presses his tongue against the seam of Tron's mouth again, coaxing it open, and Tron slowly yields, lips parting and a tongue flicking out against his. Tron tastes a bit like energy, like the blue cocktail he was nursing when Sam found him, like a bridled force waiting for release.

The tang of energy prickles his tongue as he licks his way inside Tron's mouth, smiles inwardly when he feels the deep rumbling purr travel up from deep inside the program. Tron does exactly as told, twisting his slick tongue around Sam's, and Sam moans, shudders and curls into Tron's tense body. There's something about the friction at every point of contact, a tingling burn like static that sparks at his nerves that he knows isn't the trace of filtered energy. When he pulls back, heaving for air and brain fogged over, his mouth is numb and he can't feel that prickling tangy static anymore. What he does feel is the heavy hand curling around his right thigh, closer to his hip than knee, and a deep vibrating thrum as Tron leans in and kisses him like a starved man, mouth and tongue claiming every inch of Sam's. Sam can't stop the keening, wanton sound at the back of his throat or the reflexive grinding of his hips in response to the sudden onrush of intense pleasure... or the thin tendrils of cyan circuits blooming from under the hand he pressed against the wall for leverage. They branch out like those of a tree, searing into the wall and causing some of the dimly lit light panels spaced out along the back of the club to flicker.

Sam breaks off the kiss abruptly, stares up at the display with breathless confusion. He yanks his hand off the wall and the circuits fade. "Shit."

The low thrumming grates like a growl and Tron tightens his arms, pulling Sam close. He glances down at the program and then over his shoulder at the curious onlookers wondering about the circuits, or whatever they're doing. Embarrassed, he buries his face into the crook of Tron's shoulder, mutters, "Shit."

Somewhere behind him, the music changes tempo and he feels the charged atmosphere change and throb with new life and a promise of a good time. It tugs at him and he can't help lifting his head and looking around; the curious eyes are gone and programs are moving back to join the crowd. The timing is beyond suspicious and Sam cranes his neck, looking for the MP3s. The warm mouth skimming along the line of his neck pulls him back.

"Sam," Tron breathes against his pulse point. "Pay attention."

He'd love to, really, but now that he's reminded of where they are, he can't stop looking for intruding eyes, can't stop feeling naked and exposed even if he's in the safest place on the Grid with a powerful security program keenly interested in his well-being. He rests his forehead against Tron's, feeling just the slightest hint of static in the centimeters of space between them. "Can't. Not your fault, though."

There's a thoughtful hum and a hand sliding up his leg and under his jacket to wrap around his right hip bone. Sam doesn't understand how the touch could be so grounding yet make him feel like he's about to fly apart. Heat sinks through his shirt and he shivers, shifts against Tron in an effort to shake the feeling off - and stops when he realizes that something is missing.

"What is it?" Tron asks. His hands tighten their hold and his thumb slips under the hem of Sam's shirt, touching sensitive skin and making Sam hiss and jerk forward.

What he feels isn't what he expects, but then he remembers cataloguing the oddity hours and hours earlier in Crystal's underground armory, noting it and tossing it aside because it didn't matter, hadn't mattered for a long time. What matters is this new thing, these moments, the rules he's now playing with in a very different world; he shuts off the part of his mind hinting at possible body horror and presses his mouth to the corner of Tron's, quietly says, "Don't want to give them a show."

He feels Tron smile at the words, the corner of his mouth quirking up. "I don't... go there often, but I have a place near the center of the city."

"Yeah?"

Tron nods and that, that should be the cue for Sam to get off the program so that they can leave, but he doesn't budge. Instead he tilts his head up and kisses Tron, slips his tongue inside to reacquaint himself with Tron's hot staticky mouth. He presses up against the program while deepening the kiss and his hand slides down, thumb brushing against the edge of the circuit cluster at the base of Tron's neck. Something snaps like static discharge, hot and bright and pleasurable; it surges up his arm and he gasps sharply at the shock, at the rush of hunger and heat building under his skin. He stares at the violet circuits, wondering what the glowing nodes did, but Tron leans forward, an intensely focused gleam in his eyes that makes Sam shiver, and harshly whispers, "We're leaving, now."

As they weave through the crowd towards the exit, Tron takes Sam's hand in his, linking them together. Sam thinks about saying something smart about the handholding but nothing comes to mind; all he can focus on is the warm strong hand around his, the circuits lacing the fingers and thumb glowing steadily like a light in the dark. Near the door, he looks over his shoulder at the masses and the MP3s; one of them turns its helmeted head in Sam's direction and toasts him with a neon cocktail while the other gives him a thumbs-up.

"Seriously?" Sam says, and then Tron pulls him out of the club.

Chapter Text

"Older models," Tron says, pressing his fingertips on Sam's lightcycle to pull up a display featuring a map of the Grid, "have a slot for specifically modified data chips containing location coordinates. With these-" he traces a line from an arbitrary spot in Rho sector to the heart of the city "-whatever you input here will transfer to your disc and you can always access the map if you get lost."

"Why would I get lost?" he asks while studying the route. It's a circuitous path that he guess is meant to avoid the more troublesome areas on the Grid, a problem that he thinks can be more easily avoided by using a shortcut. "I have you."

Tron just smiles and brushes his hand over Sam's before walking down the street. Next thing Sam knows, Tron rezzes a lightcycle out of nowhere and is halfway down the street.

"Oh I see how it is," Sam says and gets on his while watching Tron make a right at the intersection.

The helmet wraps around his head as he lowers himself on the lightcycle; the back extends to lock onto his disc and the lightcycle leaps forward, taking his breath away. Buildings on either side blur as the lightcycle builds momentum and Sam ends up making a wide right turn before nearly overshooting a left three blocks later. He doesn't see Tron anywhere but a marked map burned into his mind tells him where to go.

Sam catches a glimpse of Tron's lightcycle after making another left. The thrill of the chase, of closing in on the black and blue blur down the street, fuels his racing heart and the adrenaline high coursing through him like fire. He guns his lightcycle after the program, wind whistling in his ear and the lightcycle purring under him.

The race is on.

Distance slowly whittles down between them until Sam can make out the distinct circuits on Tron's back but no matter how hard he pushes his lightcycle or how many corners he cuts, Tron maintains the lead as they weave through the streets towards the edge of Rho; as they near the neighboring sector, Sam spots an overpass and swerves left towards it.

He wishes he hadn't. Up here, there are no streetlights or lit buildings to mark the way; he is the only source of light on the highway and his lightcycle emits it only so far. The drastic shift in atmosphere drags Sam's attention away from the chase to his surroundings; near the border of Rho and this neighboring nameless sector, the buildings are dark and the streets empty. For all the work Enyo and Crystal did bringing life and functionality to Rho, it's still as broken as the rest of the Grid and he is the only one who can fix it. The weight of the responsibility starts eating away at the simple joy of racing someone from Point A to Point B and he shakes his head to jar himself out of the headspace.

"Focus," he tells himself, voice distorted by his visor, and he starts looking for the ramp the map in his head says is coming up.

He spots it and tilts his lightcycle towards it, propels it into the air and lands two-thirds of the way down the slope just in time to see Tron streaking by under the highway. Sam swears - so close! - and goes after him, tilting the lightcycle at such an angle that his knee almost scrapes the ground.

This sector is as straightforward as one can get; aside from the scattered overpasses and elevated roads, all the streets are laid out in a perfect grid; one just has to pick a direction and keep going to reach the end of the sector. Darkened towers loom on either side as Sam follows Tron through the area; some of them, he notices with brief glances as they streak by, appear to be ravaged by something.

Up ahead is a colorful glow. The map in his head fades just a bit, details fuzzying, and Sam glances down at the body of the lightcycle, trying to remember what Tron did to bring up the miniature GPS map. He's still looking down when they hit what must be a wall of light and the transition into color is brutal. He winces, reflexively tucks his head against his arm, and remembers he's on a moving lightcycle just in time to avoid careening into the sidewalk and running over unsuspecting programs. He waves an apology as he corrects his route and their angry insults about reckless glitches roll off his back.

The deeper they go into the sector, the more crowded it gets. Sam wonders what the draw is, what makes this sector so busy. Whose sector is this? Can't be one of Octane's, Tron wouldn't program their route to go through one of his sectors. He searches the mental map but finds no information, no comments floating around about each sector. And is he imagining things, or is Tron actually putting distance between them?

"Hell no," he mutters, jumps the sidewalk and scatters programs while cutting a corner, and almost crashes into an inactive tank sitting just out of sight. "Shit!"

He jerks the lightcycle out of a direct collision and it skims across the armored skirt covering the tanks wheels before hitting solid ground. Sam's chest crashes into the lightcycle's curved surface, knocking the breath out of him; he looks over his shoulder to see fading white tracks on the tank and a trio of startled programs on the sidewalk. When he faces forward, Tron's almost out of sight. Swallowing his heart back down his throat, he sends his lightcycle after the program.

The route carries them away from the hustle and bustle of the sector, which helps keep Sam focused solely on Tron; the program maintains a seven-length lead as they race through streets, overpasses, tunnels, and the occasional alleyway, because Tron apparently doesn't believe in his own route. The memory of the marked map is fading faster now, and Sam finally manages to make the display show on the lightcycle's chassis without crashing into someone or something.

They enter the next sector while he's looking for a shortcut and it's like plunging into ice-cold water, which Sam has had some experience with but doesn't like to linger on. Like the sector bordering Rho, it's dark and quiet but there's something threatening about the silhouettes rising up around him and the handful of programs loitering around the entrance of what appears to be the only active structure in the area. They jerk their heads up and stare when Sam and Tron pass by, like they're genuinely surprised to other signs of activity in this sector. Sam looks back at them, letting several seconds of distance grow between him and Tron, and wonders why they didn't go to the neighboring, thriving sector. Why are they still here? Where are the others?

The answer comes to mind swiftly - the Rectifier, the Gaming Grid - and Sam shudders. Now's not the time and place to think about that.

In the distance Tron's lightcycle tilts left at an intersection and disappears. A quick glance at the map shows him where that intersection is in relation to the route and which shortcut best serves Sam's interest. They're close to the central sector, the heart of the Grid, and Sam minimizes the display before sending his lightcycle through the unlit streets and alleyways at a dizzying pace, weaving a diagonal path to where he should meet up with Tron. He catches a glimpse of a blue blur as he closes in and he then emerges from a side street onto a larger one right behind the program. A quick burst of acceleration draws him even with Tron and buildings drop back, leaving them on a wide curving overpass bridging this sector with the sector at the city's center.

They're not far from Iota, Sam realizes when he seems the skyscraper that once housed the End of Line club loom in the distance, a dark cold relic of Clu's thousand-year-reign. The actual construct that held the club is gone and Sam wonders how the MP3 programs escaped. His mind wanders to the cracked helmet on one, to Zuse's limp and Crystal’s bitter words about Gem, to the horror at Zuse's betrayal and the fight that cost Quorra her arm and Flynn his disc. The thoughts crowd out the things Sam would rather think about and he has to shakes his head, blink several times to scatter them. Tron is watching him, the glossy helmeted head tilted in his direction and the unspoken question easy to read in its angle.

"It's nothing," he says loudly but doubts Tron can hear him.

The buildings here appear to be of a different construct, shaped to serve significant functions, or so he assumes. Now, these unlit inactive structures tell him that the system isn't firing on all cylinders. The few programs that Sam sees wandering around are determined not to make eye contact with anyone, keen on getting from one place to another without attracting attention.

Tron said he lived here. That would've made sense back in the day, when the city thrived and this sector served as the hub. How long has it been since the last time he was here? Sam can't imagine Tron having any reason to come to this place, especially after....

The program makes a right at a nearby intersection and Sam quickly follows, glad to put the skyscraper behind him. A left and a second right brings them to a narrow street lined with tall buildings. Two glow with activity, which includes a trio of programs leaving one and watching Sam and Tron go by. Tron makes another left two intersections down, and then a right, leading Sam deeper into the sector. Then the program's lightcycle decelerates and Sam follows suit, watches Tron pull to the curb in front of an unremarkable tower. The area is ordinary at best, the buildings dark and the sidewalks empty of activity, but Sam sees the cyan glow of the city in the skyline. It reminds him of his own city at night, though the lights are orange-yellow and the sky is often dotted with stars, satellites, and planes headed for LAX, Santa Monica, and Bob Hope.

Tron's already walking inside when Sam parks at the curb. He catches the sideways glance in his direction, the lingering fingertips on the cyan-white panel on the wall next to the sliding doors, and quickly climbs off the lightcycle. He swipes the baton off the ground just as it finishes compressing the lightcycle and almost trips on the curb as he hops up onto the sidewalk.

The lobby is lit with thin rectangular panels lining the edge of the floor. The interior decor is severely lacking - or rather, nonexistent - and the only thing worth inspecting is the cylindrical lift shaft at the other end. His footsteps echo off the curving walls as he crosses the floor to Tron, who's watching the display over the elevator door with too much interest.

"So we're playing hard to get now," Sam says nonchalantly, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets and rocking back on his feet.

Tron says nothing but when the lift door slides open, he reaches over and slides his fingertips along the base of Sam's disc dock. Sam gasps at the heat rippling through his body and shudders when Tron breaks contact. Pinpricks of light cloud his field of vision as he draws in a shaky breath after another, blinking rapidly to clear them away. When he looks up, Tron is waiting for him in the elevator, circuits shifting from blue to purple and back.

The door slides shut behind him and the elevator stutters, hesitating over its task before deciding to carry its occupants up to the desired floor. Sam studies the backlit floor panels, shifting from foot to foot and trying to contain the anticipation thrumming under his skin. He looks up as a pair of feet appear in front of his and considers the intense expression on Tron's face as he lets himself be backed into the wall. He hits the transparent rail behind him, braces himself against it while Tron slides in between his knees. Tron leans in, gripping the rail next to Sam's left hand, and caresses the corner of Sam's mouth with his thumb, a gentle yet firm touch that sparks and crackles from the friction. A shiver runs down Sam's spine and his lips part with a gasp. The motion draws Tron's attention and he leans in, eyes searching Sam's before kissing him.

Tentative at first, the kiss rapidly devolves as Tron wraps his hand around the back of Sam's head and deepens it, tongue sweeping over every inch of Sam's mouth. Moaning, Sam blindly reaches for him, hands scrabbling and finding the program's face to yank him closer. There's a rumbling growl at the back of Tron's throat that drops a decibel as Sam curls his tongue around Tron's and sucks on it; slick, absolutely filthy sounds echo off the walls and feed back into the need burning up inside him.

He feels glorious and lightheaded and in desperate need of air. "Wait, wait," he murmurs and Tron stops, pulls back while he sags against the rail, heaving for air. Tron looks impossibly composed in comparison, minus the deep violet circuits and the eyes locked onto Sam with nerve-wracking intensity. He maintains a distance that Sam finds impossible to do. He wants to wrap himself up around the program, but he's not quite sure how Tron feels about that kind of physical intimacy.

But Tron is someone who picks things up at a ridiculous pace and Sam will roll with it.

"You learn fast," he says, sliding his palm along the side of Tron's face. Tron leans into the touch, eyes closing for a moment while circuits flare, and Sam's heart just can't take the gesture.

"It's what I do," Tron replies and he sounds wrecked.

"That a challenge?"

Tron turns his head and brushes his lips against the heel of Sam's palm and the inside of his wrist; on most days Sam would shrug off the cheesy, overdone gesture, but right now he sucks in a sharp breath and shivers at the sensations prickling the surface of his skin. Tron opens his eyes then, pupils blown and glowing purple. He looks utterly inhuman, surreal and sublime, and Sam wonders why he's allowed to touch, to lay a hand on the program.

"You're just - you're just full of surprises, aren't you?" he says, earning a low hoarse laugh.

"Definitions need a little updating, but you're not that hard to figure out," Tron says, taking a deliberate step into Sam's space.

"That's the nerdiest pick-up line I've heard in a while, and it's not even that flattering." At the bemused look on Tron's face, he says, "Talking about propositioning an interested party or two for a good time. You never did that?"

"Never had to," Tron says. Another step forward brings him in between Sam's legs and he leans in. "I was also very busy. And not interested."

"And now?" Sam asks, voice a rough husky sound matched by the rumbling whirring coming out of Tron.

Rather than answer, Tron noses at the line of Sam's neck, mouth brushing over the pulse point; the featherlight touch shivers through him and he gasps, hips twitching like they're hard-wired to that spot. Tron looks at him curiously and then deliberately drags his mouth over the same taut line, teeth scraping skin, and Sam keens, hands clenching the rail behind him and body arching up. He sags against the wall, breathing hard and trembling everywhere, and so painfully aware of the program leaning in against him. His neck isn’t that sensitive but he feels like a live wire and Tron keeps teasing it, strumming the line and feeding it with just a touch.

"Shit, is - oh god." He can't even string together a coherent sentence. "Is this how-"

Tron devours the rest of his question and pressing a staticky hot tongue into his mouth. With a moan, Sam reaches out, wraps his hands around the program's face, and yanks him in. He curls his body around Tron, wanting to get as close to the solid wall of thrumming, living heat as possible. Tron doesn't relax, holding himself stiffly even as he maps every inch of Sam's mouth, so Sam works his right hand down to the small of Tron's back and pulls them flush against each other. The whirring rumbling hum stutters as Tron tenses, hesitating at the sudden physical contact, and Sam breaks the kiss at the change of pace.

"Hey." He licks at the program's mouth, strokes his jaw with the heel of his thumb. "S'okay. Relax." He rolls his body up against Tron, distracts him with a quick open-mouthed kiss, and breathes, "Just touch me," along the long faded scar.

Whatever doubt Tron had snaps. He turns his head and bites at Sam's mouth, kisses him hard while shoving his hands under Sam's shirt and rucking it up, palms sliding along Sam's body. Sam chokes on a startled cry at the electric rush under his skin, his senses lighting up like fireworks. Tron drags his long fingers around the curve of the disc dock and down Sam's spine, trailing white fire. It feels like watching the flushing violet circuits on the programs in the club, the bright lines intensifying whenever a hand brushes over them, and Sam wonders how the digitizer wired his body to run on the Grid, if that explains why he keeps reacting so strongly to touch.

Some reactions are purely User, though. His hips roll up against Tron's and the reaction, the heat and pleasure, blindsides him completely. He didn't expect that at all, given certain things, but he's not about to complain or wonder why, not when the heady sensation sinks into him as a hunger. He shamelessly thrusts up against Tron again, seeking more of the friction, and Tron responds in like without hesitation, matching his moves and encouraging the feedback loop with a hand on Sam's hip and another right under the dock. That just brings Sam's bared upper body into contact with the circuits on Tron's front and fuck, it feels like lightning on his skin, a roar of cold fire that leaves him breathless and lightheaded. Tron shudders and presses up against him again, wanting that friction, too, and Sam gives it to him, limbs shaking with what feels like raw nerve endings being electrified. He shuts his eyes tightly against the pressure building up inside him, against the intense glow of Tron's circuits and the backlit panels of the elevator and - wait, shit, they're still in the elevator-

His hand slips down the back of Tron's neck and his fingers press down hard on what feels like a well of heat. Electricity snaps and surges up his arm and into him; Sam gasps while the world whites out in a long heart-stopping moment. The elevator comes to an abrupt stop and the light panels go out.

A deep, shaky breath, and a dimmer world comes into focus, the small space of the lift illuminated by the violet-blue glow of Tron's circuits. Sam stares blankly at the opposite wall, feeling disassociated from his body; he doesn't think he can move again, not with everything misfiring and only the weight of the program sagging against him keeping him somewhat upright. Harsh breaths echo off the wall while he tilts his head, pressing his overheated face against the cooler wall, and clumsily brings up a code display for the elevator. With shaking fingers, he coaxes it into moving again and a few seconds later, the light panels flicker on.

He laughs weakly at the absurdity of the situation - they broke the elevator, what the hell - and looks down at the program leaning against him, face buried in the crook of his neck. He strokes the back of Tron's head and the program rumbles at the touch, circuits brightening and shifting between shades of purple and blue.

"So, uh, that just happened," Sam says quietly, haltingly. "I think."

Tron hums in response and the sound vibrates through Sam from where the program presses a slow kiss to the underside of his jaw. When the elevator starts losing momentum just seconds later, he reluctantly pulls away and steps back, leaving Sam feeling cold and aching for his presence and touch. Sam resists rubbing at the slow-burning imprint on his jaw and just stares at Tron, taking in the unsteady stance, the disheveled hair and flushed circuits, and the controlled, intense gaze.

His mouth goes dry and his heart starts pounding in his head again.

The elevator finally stops and Sam sways against the handrail, forcing his knees not to buckle. The door slides open and Tron breaks eye contact to look over his shoulder at the hallway on the other side. Sam can barely make out the lines of darkened circuits marking the walls at uniform intervals; he wonders what they're for until he realizes that he doesn’t see any actual doors. Are the circuits supposed to be the doors? He supposes he'll find out how that works soon enough, once they get off the elevator.

Slowly he pushes off the wall and takes carefully measured steps to Tron's side, touches his arm to get his attention and nods at the hallway.

"So, gonna show me your place or what?"

* * *

Turns out, the circuits running along the walls are inactive doors. Two-thirds of the way down the hall, Tron touches a line of a set of circuits and they glow under his touch, bluish-white light spilling into the darkened lines and carving out a tall narrow doorway. Sam glances around while Tron touches the door to activate it, wondering if other programs live on this floor. He had seen so few programs since they entered this sector; odds are, they're the only ones on this floor, maybe the entire building. He shudders uncomfortably at the thought that over time, fewer and fewer programs returned to this building until no one was left.

Sam quickly follows Tron into his apartment. Once past the doorway, the wall rezzes back into place. The entryway circuits dim but don't deactivate; Sam touches one of the lines and it pulses sharply like a spark from a wall socket. He yanks his hand back and rubs his tingling fingertips, glances over his shoulder to see where Tron went.

A short hallway opens up to the rest of the apartment but Sam finds himself distracted by the light panels lining the wall on his left. Only one of them works; the huge windows making up almost an entire wall of the apartment lets in most of the light. Sam presses the palm of his hand on a nearby panel and it flickers unsteadily to a soft white glow. When he takes his hand away, the light fades. Frowning, he pulls up a code display on the wall next to it and scrolls through the lines until he finds the broken segment. He inputs the missing code, bridging the pieces together, and watches the panel come back to life. When he minimizes the display and step back from the wall, the panel stutters just once before glowing steadily. Satisfied, he walks down the hallway to find Tron.

Tron is standing in the middle of what's basically an unfurnished loft, with a high ceiling and plain walls interrupted by nonfunctioning light panels and inactive circuits. The program glances uneasily at Sam, looking uncomfortable and unhappy. Sam can't blame him; there's something eerie and haunted about the emptiness in this room, the lack of evidence that someone inhabited this place. There's not even a chair, and he knows programs are User-like when it comes to their comforts.

"When was the last time you were here?" seems incredibly inappropriate so instead he asks, "Do you want to be here?"

Tron takes some time to answer. "It's safer here. Not many programs in this sector."

But do you want to be here? Sam wants to say. He doesn't like the program being tense and anxious within the walls of his private space. "You sure? We can go somewhere else. If there's somewhere else to go to."

Tron shakes his head. "I never really utilized this place to begin with. I chose here because Flynn insisted I have a place to 'crash'. Not the... best choice of words. And I never had the time to do so."

"Too much work?" Keep him talking, keep his processes moving, don't let him linger too long.

"Programs like me never really rest until the User suspends my activities or shuts down the Grid," Tron says. "The Grid never stopped running, so I rarely used this room."

"Yeah, figured that once I got a look at the bills," Sam mutters. It took a bit of digging to discover the reason why the DWP didn't shut down power to the arcade at any point in twenty years and the two decades' worth of bills was an unsightly mess.

Tron circles the room, studying the inactive circuits and touching the edge of a broken light panel. "This room's been inactive for a long time."

"Explains the lack of everything. I know for a fact you guys like your couches and beds as much as we do."

There's a small smile now, like Tron knows why Sam's pushing the small talk. He walks to a circuit line running alongside another inactive light panel, saying, "Watch this."

"Watch what-"

Tron touches the circuit line with his index and middle fingers. It flushes bluish-white under his fingertips and the light spreads up and down the line, branching out to imbue other circuits with power. As Sam watches, jaw going slack, objects unfold from the walls, glowing outlines rezzing and solidifying into the previously empty space. A low bed, a couch, a coffee table, and a million shelves clutter the apartment and the entire place suddenly looks lived in. Livable. Minus the defective light panels, but that's why the apartment is one-quarter giant windows.

"Whoa." Sam walks over to the couch and prods it; the cushioning pushes back, asserting that yes, it is there even if it materialized out of two-dimensional circuit lines on the wall. He sits down and wedges himself into a corner, toes the table with his left foot. It moves. "Last thing I expected. This is awesome."

He glances up at Tron, who's leaning against the wall and watching him, a small warm smile gracing his face. "She taught me how, on the ENCOM system," the program says softly. "I can show you how it's done, if you want."

How could he refuse? Tron is offering to show him something of Yori's, a significant gesture if there ever was one. That, and Sam's curious about a program carrying a process over from another system without a User's assistance.

"I'd like that," Sam says. "Later?"

They came here for a reason, after all. Tron nods, eyes flashing violet while his circuits flush the vivid hue. Sam gets off the couch and walks over to him, sways into his space and looks at the devious glint in the program's eyes before brushing a kiss against his mouth. Tron kisses back with a low rumbling hum, unfolding his arms and wrapping them around Sam to pull him closer. Sam backs them up against the wall, narrowly misses slamming into an empty shelf, and braces himself against - his hand goes right through the window because it's not a window, it's one of those translucent barriers. He startles, swears as he stumbles and slams into Tron.

"Sorry," Tron says, not even trying to hide the laughter while helping Sam right himself. "I should've warned you-"

"I'm fine, I'm fine." He's embarrassed and forever deny it ever happening. "I'll live."

He peers over Tron's shoulder at what he didn't see earlier - a small balcony with translucent railing wrapped around it. Beyond it is the bluish glow of semi-active sectors defining the cityscape, an entrancing glow outlining the silhouettes reaching for the overcast sky. Here and there, lines and pinpricks of cyan light mark active structures and to the left is the skyscraper that towers over the rest of the Grid.

The view is incredible.

"Seriously?" he says. "You didn't even come up here for the view?"

He pulls away from Tron and steps through the barrier onto the balcony. He leans on the rail, shivers while taking in the eerie silence and relative inactivity down below and within the surrounding buildings. For someone who spends so much of his time in the beating heart of L.A., this stillness in a sprawling city is unnerving. And yet the haunted glow of the dying city takes his breath away.

"Should've seen it a thousand cycles ago."

He glances over his shoulder at Tron, who's standing on the other side of the barrier and watching him. "Bet it was brighter. Noisier, too." Clu's Grid was bright but the silence was tense, furtive. He doesn't linger on the memories.

He turns around and leans against the rail, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. This world shouldn't be able to generate wind and yet there's a mildly cold breeze up here. "It's still amazing. And once everything starts running again, you'll have a pretty awesome view of the Grid."

"I'm fine with what I have," Tron says, and there's a slight shift in his tone, a rough drag that leaves Sam shuddering and flushing simultaneously.

"Could be better, though," Sam says. His mouth is dry, his voice hoarse. He can't tear his eyes away from Tron's. "Bet it'll make you actually want to come back here."

"Really," Tron says.

Sam may have walked headlong into a potentially cringeworthy conversation made of double entendres but he has a hard time feeling embarrassed when he watches Tron's demeanor shift from an easy calm to something dark and intense. It's almost predatory and his mind suggests, Rinzler-like, but he's not afraid. He's thrumming with anticipation, licking his upper lip and trying to stay still as Tron walks out onto the balcony and, in two strides, crowds him against the rail. It digs into his lower back, reminds him that there's nothing else to prevent him from falling, but that just adds a shivering, pleasurable rush up his spine.

Instead of kissing him, Tron lowers his head and drags his open mouth along the side of Sam's neck, rumbling and flushing deep violet all the while. He runs so hot, circuits glowing brilliantly against the sunless sky, and Sam wants. He pushes his hands in between them, palms sliding over the hard planes of Tron's armor and the burning circuit nodes, and up around Tron's face, tilts it up so that Sam can kiss him. Tron's mouth is even hotter, staticky and bittersweet and just so good. He wants to wrap himself up around the program, wants to feel Tron's hands on him, wants to lose himself to the unfiltered rush of heat and pleasure that fills his vision with stars. Tron must've been thinking the same thing; his hands grip Sam by the waist to tug him inside, and Sam follows willingly with halting steps, breathing hard and willing to forego it to kiss Tron again and again.

They stumble through the barrier back into the apartment but Tron stops and Sam ends up treading on his feet. Sam steps back and takes a good look at him. "What?"

Tron hesitates. "I'm... not sure what to do next."

"Think you have a pretty good idea," Sam says. He rubs his thumb along the side of Tron's face and the program purrs, leans into his palm. "Is it 'cause I'm a User? Or do you just... not do this often? Which wouldn't surprise me."

"Once Yori made her intentions very clear and I still missed all the signals," Tron admits. "Not my best moment."

It's amazing how easily Sam imagines that. "Just once?" he teases.

Tron glares at him but there's no heat. "More than once. When I'm on a mission, nothing distracts me."

"Sounds like someone I know," Sam says, and then frowns at himself because wow, Alan is not someone he wants to think about right now.

The comment pleases the program immensely. "Really?"

"We're not going there," Sam says. "Maybe later. Or never. But seriously - this isn't hard. Just...." He leans forward and kisses Tron slowly, thoroughly, coaxing out a low rumbling moan. He's breathless when they finally break the kiss; Tron isn't but his pupils glow a stormy violet like his circuits. "... stop thinking too much for a bit. I saw what went down at the club; does everybody do that or is it just the Grid?"

"The Grid," Tron says. His left hand slips under the hem of Sam's shirt and his thumb kneads circles into the bare skin just on the inside of Sam's hip. It's incredibly distracting. "ENCOM is more tactile, but only Yori and I knew about the kissing. Which is nice, but the way you do it...."

Sam flushes at the implied compliment, and then hisses when Tron drags his thumb along the divot of Sam's hip. He tenses up until the shivering rush subsides into a needy hum under his skin. "Well, Users, we're... touchy. Touching, we like that. Contact is great. Uh. I'd say more but... don't think that applies here." He nudges Tron backwards and the program lets him, smiles serenely at his stumbling words while continuing to touch him. "Which is nice. Was never really into the - fuck, okay, can't think."

Tron hums in response, pleased with himself, so Sam pushes him back another step and onto the low bed. Tron sits down and looks up, amused and curious, hands curling around Sam's knees. Sam just stares back, brushes his thumb over the program's bottom lip and watches Tron's eyes flash purple while a low rumbling fills up the loft's vast space.

"Yeah," he breathes out, more to himself than to the other person in the room. "We're doing this."

"We-"

Sam climbs onto the bed and into Tron's lap, straddling him. He tilts Tron's face up and kisses him, shivers when Tron wraps his arms around Sam's waist to pull him closer. Sam uses the slight height advantage to press deep into the program's slick mouth, chasing that prickling staticky tang that numbs his tongue in the most wonderful way. He reflexively rocks his hips against Tron's, groans in frustration when the friction only teases his fraying senses. He needs Tron's hands on him, all of him, and starts pulling his jacket off with the grace of an absolute klutz; the hood snags on his disc and he yanks at the jacket fruitlessly before Tron laughs and helps him pull it free. Sam tosses the offending jacket aside, face burning with embarrassment.

"Shut up," Sam mutters. "This isn't perfect."

"Glad it isn't," Tron says while doing exactly what Sam wants and sliding a hand under his shirt. "This is much better."

Sam sucks in a sharp breath as the program pushes his other hand under Sam's shirt and proceeds to scan the shape of his upper body. Every curious touch sends hot sparks down Sam's back and sets a slow fire low in his body; with a shuddering moan, he kisses Tron hard and grinds down as bright heat builds under his skin. He shivers and arches his back when Tron slides burning fingertips along his spine and traces patterns, teases him with maddening light touches.

"Fuck," he gasps into Tron's slick mouth, hands scrabbling helplessly against the program. "Fuck, that is - oh god, Tron-"

The whirring thrum stutters and deepens into an inhuman growl as Tron drags his fingertips up and down Sam’s back and sides, tracing invisible lines of burning circuitry on his skin. Sam keens and arches at the hot swell of pleasure, dizzy from the cacophony of sensations. Tron doesn't stop, doesn't let up, and Sam lets him, welcomes it. He pushes Tron down on the bed, braces himself on trembling elbows and kisses the program until he’s breathless, moans when Tron brushes circuit-lined fingers down his tense back.

If they keep going like this, Sam might implode, might come too soon, but he doesn’t care. The world is whiting out at the edges and he wants it.

"Don't stop," he says hoarsely, hands digging into the off-white bed sheets. "So good, don't stop, fuck, just don't-"

He moves against the program, grinding down and gasping at shivering rush of friction. His mouth brushes against Tron's and he tastes the prickling tang of static in the small space between them, thinks he smells the burn of ozone. He moves again at Tron's coaxing, at the hand settled low against his back and fingers slipping under the band of his jeans, and his bared stomach brushes against hot, sparking circuit nodes. Tron shudders and pulls him down, moves against him to create more friction, more of that electric roar, and it's simply too much. He gasps and it’s a hoarse cry, heat and pleasure rising and breaking like a tidal wave inside of him, and all he can focus on are the four flaring violet circuit nodes underneath.

He slumps against Tron, heaving, every breath crackling out of his numbed mouth. Tron rumbles steadily under him, tracing the curve of his back with shaking fingers. With some effort, Sam slides his arms under and pushes himself up. He sways, disoriented and still trembling from the echoing feedback, and then gives up and curls up on top of the program.

“That was… that was different,” he says.

“What were you expecting?”

Sam shrugs. “No idea.” A beat. “Not that I’m complaining.”

“Hope not.”

With a weak laugh, he pushes himself up again and is slightly more successful. He steadies himself with a hand on Tron’s chest, fingers sliding against the circuits on the program’s sternum, and freezes when Tron bites off a low groan.

"Tron?" Sam asks, licking his swollen lips. He traces the edge of a node with his thumb and Tron rumbles, moves against him. Sam doesn't quite feel his best but he leans over, says, "What do you want?"

Tron tilts his head and Sam obliges with a kiss, staticky and slick and with too much tongue. Sam moves his fingertips over the circuits and thinks he can taste the electric surge as much as feel it. Tron shudders and curls his hands around Sam's hips, looks up at him with bright, hungry eyes. But he doesn't make another move, instead says, "When you're ready."

"Couple minutes, then," Sam replies, and resumes kissing him. He feels more settled in his skin now, more sure of how he occupies this space. "Good to go in a bit...." His hand trails down to Tron's side, traces the edges of his armor. "Does this come off?"

Tron freezes and the low rumbling hum stutters, starts ticking like a warning. Startled, Sam pulls away and sits up. He waits but Tron doesn't say anything, doesn't move.

"Hey," Sam says. "You okay? Tron?"

The program doesn't quite look at him when he answers. "I can't. It comes off, but I can't. I'm not there yet, with anyone."

Sam stares at him blankly. Tron closes his eyes, steels himself, and says, "I don't feel safe without it. If I - if I disable it, I become an easier target, easier to-"

Rectify. “Okay,” Sam says. Something burns like bile in the back of his throat and he swallows hard. “Okay. That’s okay. We don’t have to.”

Tron's eyes focus on Sam's, sharper and brighter than before. His hand brushes against Sam's knee, moves up his thigh and slips under the hem of his shirt to wrap around his hip like a lifeline. "Thank you."

Drawing in a shuddering breath, Sam leans over and stops just short of kissing the program, bumps noses with him instead. "So, what do you want? What do you need?"

"Your mouth would be nice," Tron says dryly and Sam huffs a laugh. That turns into a sharp intake of air when Tron strokes the inside of Sam's hip with his thumb. "I just need you here. That's all I want."

"Okay." Sam brushes his mouth against Tron's, feels the static prickle on his lips from the brief contact. "You can have me. Whatever you-"

Tron tilts his chin up and catches Sam's lips with his, wraps his free hand around the back of Sam's neck and pulls him down to deepen the kiss. Sam expected it to be easy and slow, but Tron kisses with a distracting relentlessness, sweeps over every inch of his mouth and leaves behind prickling static and slick heat. His jaw aches when they finally pull apart; his mouth is numb, lips sore and tingling, and he feels more than a little drunk.

The program shifts under him, slides a hand up his back and rakes fingers through his hair, and rumbles when Sam arches into the touch and reflexively grinds down. Sam bows his head at the flush of pleasure and swears thickly when Tron traces what feels like an arbitrary line that sends light and heat rippling through his body. Sam presses his hand down on Tron’s chest, trying to balance himself on a trembling arm, but Tron drags his fingertips down another random line and he jerks forward, hand slipping and sliding over a violet circuit node. He shudders at the spike of pleasure, curls his fingers as it grips his body and feeds that undercurrent of pressure building and building at the base of his spine.

There's a growl, a deep rumbling thrum, and the world abruptly tilts, goes sideways, and stops with Sam on his back, breathing hard and staring up at deep violet circuits. Tron looms over him on hands and knees, flickering eyes sweeping over Sam from head to toe. Thrill shivers up Sam's spine at the intensity of the program's gaze and he swallows thickly with anticipation, reaches up and hooks his hands on the grooves in the armor at Tron's shoulder blades, right where a pair of circuits sit. He curls his leg around Tron's hip and pulls Tron down with little effort. Nodes on Tron's armored front press against the bared skin where Sam's shirt rucked up, sliding against sensitive nerves, and Sam gasps sharply at the bright burn of static, jerks up and pushes against the program. Tron groans and moves in response, presses a knee between his legs and bites into his mouth.

Sam makes a high and needy sound, which would be embarrassing if he wasn't completely out of his mind. His body's hotwired to whatever's going on down there and the pleasure doesn't subside; it simmers in his limbs, in his translated nerves, makes him want. His hips thrusts up against Tron's leg and he keens sharply at the implosion of bright sensations, digs his fingertips into circuit nodes and does it again. Tron rumbles heavily and presses him down into the mattress, grabs a handful of his hair and forces his head back to expose his neck; the program sets his mouth on the pulse point and drags his teeth over the spot.

"Fuck," Sam gasps, writhing and jerking up against the program. "Oh god, fuck, Tron-"

He moans and arches up again, fingers scrabbling against armor. His right hand twitches, slips down the curve of Tron's back, presses against the circuit low on the program's hip. There's a stutter, a harsh broken sound as Tron bucks under the touch and his circuits flare like fireworks. His face is aglow with that violet hue and Sam is briefly struck by how inhuman he looks. Then Tron's violet-tinged eyes focus on him and Sam moves, wraps his hand around the back of Tron's neck and pulls him down to crush their mouths together.

It's a bruising kiss; Tron is merciless with his tongue, thrusting in and stroking every inch of Sam's mouth. He tastes hot and sweet, bitter and addicting, and tantalizingly electric. When Tron pulls back, he bites on the program's bottom lip and manages a wicked grin when Tron rumbles at him.

"Come on," he says, breathless and reckless, pressing up against Tron and feeling him shudder. "Show me what you got."

That earns him a deep - Rinzler-like - growl as Tron grabs his wrists and pins them down on the bed above his head. Sam's breath hitches and even Tron looks surprised with himself.

"Are you-" And shit, hearing Tron talk in that sex-rough voice makes him squirm and press up against the program's leg. He'd reach out and touch the violet circuits, too, just to make Tron say more but his hands are stuck and Tron knows this. In fact, he seems pleased about it but he still asks. "Are you okay? Is this-"

"I’m fine," Sam says. He rocks against Tron again but it's just a light, teasing slide, and it hurts being left like this. He's aching and desperate, needs a response from the program, needs feedback. "Can you just - come on, don't leave me hanging."

"Hanging where?" Tron asks. He shifts his grip, covering both wrists with one hand, and slides the other down to the hem of Sam's shirt, touches bared skin with the back of his circuit-laced fingers. Sam flinches, tries to move, but Tron presses him back down on the bed. "You're on your back. Horizontally."

"That was terrible," Sam chokes out. "Really terrible. I can't believe you said-"

Tron cuts him off with a kiss, drawing out a low moan. "Sorry," he says and his voice is deeper, harsher, unapologetic. "I can do better."

He kisses Sam again, thoroughly, and shoves his left hand under Sam's shirt, maps every inch of his upper body with circuit-laced knuckles. Sam keens and pulls hard against the grip on his wrists, shaking and on fire as pleasure roars through every nerve. He's not the only one affected; the feedback leaves Tron trembling and just as hungry for more, makes his kisses harsher and his touch rougher. His grip on Sam's wrists loosens and Sam pulls his right hand out, presses it against Tron's side and slides up his back to curve around the slope of his shoulder blade, pressing down against the circuit node there; a strangled noise interrupts the deep rumbling undercurrent as Tron bucks against him in response.

"Sam," the program says in that hoarse voice, and god. "Sam-" He shudders as Sam strokes the node on his shoulder, jerks downward again. His hand slides up Sam's wrist and lace their fingers together tightly as he kisses Sam, and the intimacy of it almost undoes him.

Every inch of his body hums with the pressure building within to some incomprehensible level. They're so close that he can feel Tron slowly lose control, every move stuttering and stricken with the want crackling under the simulated layers, and that need seems to spill into Sam at every point of contact, in every increasingly sloppy, greedy kiss. He wants to see Tron wrecked and undone, wants to see him come apart, but the lights are too bright and the roar in his head is deafening; heavy heat uncoils in his chest and at the base of his spine, and he's starting to see stars with every bright and burning inch of contact, with Tron's circuit-laced fingers touching every inch of him.

Then Tron bows his head and kisses Sam, slides his circuits along Sam's front, and Sam rocks up against his leg. There's friction, the surge of lightning, a static-laced name breathed into his raw mouth, and it's too much, it's enough, and Sam's gone. He arches up with a cry as hot-cold pleasure seizes his body and overrides it, digs his fingers into Tron's bright violet circuits as his mind whites out.

Sam sinks down on the bed, shaking and gasping as aftershocks wrack his body. He hisses when Tron moves, sliding off and collapsing on the bed next to him. He tilts his head to the left to find Tron in a similar state, circuits flashing erratically between purple and blue while the thrumming vibrates the ozone-tinged air. Tron looks exhausted but his smile is weightless, free of burden, and his eyes seem to glow, irises laced with tiny circuits.

They lay like this for long minutes, coming down from the high. With a great deal of effort, Sam rolls onto his side in order to face the program and slides his arm across the small space, lifts his hand and touches the side of Tron's face. Tron rumbles at the touch while his pupils flash.

"Hey," Sam says, or thinks he does; he's a little too tired to talk and his voice sounds so faint to his own ears.

Tron isn't any better but the low, warm timbre of his voice makes Sam want to curl up close to him. "Hello, Sam."

Now what? He used to leave when everything was said and done, but that sounds like such a terrible idea right now. Besides, he's tired and blissed out and doesn't want to get upd. They can stay like this for a while, right? He can just stay.

With the thought looping in his head, he inches closer and tucks his head under Tron's, hooks his right ankle around the program's. The circuit cluster just inches from his face start blinking and he swears he can hear the program's many processes and subroutines gear down. Sam reaches over and touches the edge of a glowing blue square with his index finger, feels the numbing tingling energy winding up through his hypersensitive nerves; Tron purrs and draws in him, wrapping a protective arm around him. The program is so blissfully warm and such a comforting presence, and Sam lets himself go, too, closes his eyes and listens to the soft whirring hum while drifting off to sleep.

* * *

The warmth is what Sam notices first.

His fingers twitch against a soft surface as he slowly wakes up. He curls into himself and tries to will himself back to sleep for just a few more minutes, everything feels so warm and safe, and his alarm hasn’t gone off yet. No matter how hard he tries, he becomes more awake with every passing second, more aware that he’s not in his bed nor in his apartment and that there’s someone next to him, carding fingers through his hair-

The Grid.

Tron.

A deep breath clears the fog out of his head. He opens his eyes and stares at the cluster of blue circuits inches from his face, then tilts his gaze up at Tron.

“Hey.”

Tron smiles. “Hello, Sam.”

He reaches up and brushes his left hand along the side of the program’s face, heart beating a little faster as Tron leans in with a soft sigh, like he was waiting for Sam to touch him. Sam files the idle observation away and glances up at the play of cyan lights on the ceiling, then turns his attention to the cityscape. The sky is dark and he doesn’t know if he should feel so relieved by that.

“How long was I out?”

“Four hours and two minutes. Point five millicycles.”

So about five minutes since the Grid printed his message. Either the book she’s reading is really good or she’s asleep. “Okay.”

Words should probably be had about… this, about the status of their relationship, and what happens next, except Sam doesn’t know where to start. He never expected to find himself in this position and now his mind scrambles, filters through phrases, cues, and plot devices he picked up from other people. So naturally, Tron asks.

“What now?”

The first word out of Sam’s mouth is “Dunno”, because he doesn’t. He turns his head to the program and adds, “Don’t mind doing it again, though.”

“And after that?” Tron says wryly.

He taps his knuckles against Tron’s knee. “What do you want to do?”

Tron’s face turns thoughtful, eyebrows furrowing and lips pressing thin while searching for an answer. The longer he takes to say something, the more anxious Sam gets; there are no easy answers but he swears that they were on the same page. If the program’s having trouble answering, then maybe he just asked too soon. He opens his mouth to take the question back, but Tron then says, “I want to keep this. I think we work well together, don’t you?”

The program smiles warmly and Sam grins back, relieved and pleased. “Yeah, I think so.”

He’s still smiling when Tron leans over and kisses him, and it takes all of one second for it to go from a light caress to something heavy and charged, Sam dragging a hand through Tron’s hair while pressing hard into the program’s mouth. When they pull apart, Sam’s trying to remember how to breathe and Tron’s flushed violet all over.

There’s something else Sam should remember, something he should probably say - he shivers as Tron crawls over him on hands and knees, eyes glowing and focused solely on him. He takes a shuddering breath and says, “Just… one thing.”

“What’s that?” Tron asks, voice low and rough and not helping him stay on track at all.

“I’m not - I’m - fuck, if you keep looking at me like that-”

Tron chuckles and moves off of him. Sam sits up, because this is not a conversation he wants to have while on his back. He tries to scowl at the unapologetic program until he remembers what he wants to say and then the words pile up in his mouth. He presses his thumb to his right temple, kneads on it while deciding how best to explain.

“Before we… get on with the - with this, you should know….” How do you explain asexuality to a computer program? Does that concept even exist? “Probably won’t make sense but - fuck it. I don’t know about you, but I don’t really need the… sex. That thing you do where you go awesomely purple and touch me until I lose my mind? I like it, but I don’t always… want it. Need it.”

He shrugs nonchalantly but his heart beats heavily with the admission. He never talked about it with anyone, had no one to talk to in the first place, and doesn’t know what to expect, how to brace himself for the response. Tron could bypass it entirely like he did with other User-specific things, or decide this could be a little too complicated and back off. Sam doesn’t know which response he prefers.

“‘Awesomely purple’?”

Sam cracks, laughs while burying his heated face in his hands. “Was always better at coding than making speeches.” Then, “Really? That’s what you’re gonna take away?”

“No, but,” and the pause is just long enough that Sam lowers his hands to look at the program, “it sounded difficult to say.” Tron considers him for a moment, eyes still flickering purple-white. “I assume Users are particular about these things.”

“Could say that.” He feels Tron’s eyes narrow in his direction but now isn’t a good time to elaborate. “We assume a lot about each other and a lot of times that doesn’t end well. Figured I give you a heads-up before we keep doing… whatever. This.”

He gestures between them and starts when Tron takes his hand and turns it over, thumb brushing against the inside of his wrist. The gentle caress sends a pleasant shiver up Sam’s arm and he swears he sees infinite miniscule white circuits bloom and fade on his skin. He looks up at the program, wondering what Tron has in mind.

“Some programs only function to provide pleasure and some never seek it. Most fall somewhere in between, including me,” Tron says slowly, carefully. “I don’t mind what we do or how. But, you’ll tell me if I’m doing something you don’t want or need?”

Sam suddenly remembers what Tron said about Yori and missing signals. “Yeah. I’ll tell you.” Then, “So you want this?”

“This” means so many things to him, so many complicated things, but maybe the program has just one definition for it. Tron lets go of his hand to touch the side of his face, slides fingers down the curve of his jaw and tilts his chin up to kiss him. Sam goes lax, all the tension bleeding out of him.

“Yes,” Tron says against his numbed, tingling mouth. “You’re what I want.”

His answer is exactly the same as the one he gave back at the club a lifetime ago but there is so much warmth and weight in the words, a love that sinks deep and takes hold. Sam kisses Tron fiercely, wraps a hand around the back of his neck, and pulls him down.

* * *

Sam opens his eyes. He stares up at the bluish glow on the ceiling and wonders why the lights are so bright. He looks at the direction of the cast shadows and then slowly tilts his head to his left, watches Tron sleep. His eyes sweep over the program's peaceful countenance, tracing the long dark scar crawling down the left side of his face. The only lit circuits are the blinking cluster on the Tron’s sternum and the light is too dim to move the shadows overhead. Sam looks at the cityscape on his right.

A star shines high above the silhouettes and scattered lights of the Grid, strong enough to bleed through the dense cloud cover. A chill washes over him as he slowly extracts himself from under Tron, sits up, and slides to the edge of the bed. He runs a hand through his hair, breathes in and out slowly, and stands up.

The sleep falls away as he walks through the barrier out onto the small balcony. Sam tugs at his shirt and rubs his arms against the neutral breeze swirling around him. His eyes never leave the beacon of light, the single bright star in the sky. A part of him wonders if Tron chose this particular place partially to keep an eye out for Flynn's arrivals because there's nothing to obstruct his view of it.

Sam tries to ignore the apprehension rising up in the back of his throat, looks over his shoulder at Tron. Tron's on his feet, watching Sam, holding his jacket tightly with one hand. Sam glances back at the star and starts counting down the time.

The portal is open.

Chapter Text

The hangar houses a single broken Recognizer. Its windows are smashed and one of its legs had been snapped in two, yet it's still standing upright in a corner of the massive structure, a relic of Clu's legacy. Sam drags his feet to look at the darkened circuits and remember the one hovering over him, dragging him on board, and ferrying him off to the Gaming Grid. Tron doesn't so much as glance in its direction while walking to a door at the end of the hangar.

Boldly contrasting the fragment of the old system is the light runner parked next to its good leg, glowing pleasantly yellow.

The door across the hangar from them slides open and a green-lit program steps out. Eyes glued to the data pad in his hands, he doesn't watch where he's going and veers into Tron's path. Tron grabs him by the elbow to stall him and the program finally looks up, blinking rapidly while an irritated scowl forms on his scarred face. Then he just stares, eyes wide, and lets Tron push him back onto whatever path he's on. Sam looks over his shoulder at the program as he follows Tron to the door; the program is still gawking, data pad slipping through his fingers.

"'sup?" Sam says, complete with a lazy salute he perfected during his run-ins with the cops.

He laughs when the program starts and scrambles for his data pad, then wheels around and jogs after Tron. The program smiles at him, amused, while activating the door.

"What?" Sam asks.

Tron shrugs. "Flynn used to say that all the time."

"Oh come on."

Tron elbows him in the side. "You know what I mean."

"I know," he says, mockingly disgruntled. He's pretty sure Tron has an arsenal of increasingly embarrassing comparisons but he doesn’t mind; the program teases him for the sake of it, which is such a relief after years of trying to read people’s motives for saying the same thing.

Past the door is a dimly lit hallway. A narrow one branches away to the right, leading to an elevator shaft. At the end of the lit hall is another door. Sam starts looking around, half-expecting a surprise considering the program who took up residence here.

"Interesting place to live."

"It's inconspicuous and close to the busier sectors bordering Rho,” Tron replies. “You don't get where you are by hiding from everything."

"You think a Recognizer hanger is inconspicuous?" The building is distinctly shaped to store several Recognizers, which requires it to occupy an entire block.

"Nobody likes what the Recognizers were used for." Tron slows down as they approach the closed door. "We try to avoid these storage spaces when we can."

The door derezzes to reveal a large room. On one side, the wall is covered in smashed and defunct screens and panels; the other side is lined with an assortment of off-white couches, empty weapons racks, and a long low translucent coffee table. A long black table straddles the middle and the wall right across from Sam is marked with slivers of white light.

Enyo is leaning on the table, studying a data pad; next to her braced hand is a pile of discs, batons, and hexagon data cards. She doesn't look up as they step into the room or act like she knows they're here. She slides a finger across the data pad, scrolling through what looks like simplified code. Seconds pass and Sam suspects that she's ignoring them on purpose.

"So," she suddenly says, glancing up. The uncharacteristically stern expression fades away in favor of a familiar smile and a pair of wagging eyebrows that reminds Sam of a certain late night television host. "Heard you two put on quite a light show a millicycle ago."

Sam freezes. "What?"

"Crystal sent some programs over that wanted to chat about my wonderful attention to Rho's filters and they started talking about some kind of showy code manipulation going on in her club. Not that I'm asking for details. You can keep them to yourselves. Besides," she says, gesturing in the direction of the couches, "that's not why you're here."

Her eyes flicker between him and Tron while the corner of mouth turns up in a knowing smirk. She then turns smartly on her heels and strides off, leaving Sam to gape after her.

"Could be worse," Tron says quietly, amused.

"How?"

The program shrugs and pushes him toward the couches with a hand on the small of his back. Sam drags his feet a bit, feeling absolutely mortified and trying to shake it off before engaging in conversation with Enyo. He desperately hopes she doesn’t find more ways to casually bring up whatever transpired between them just to make him squirm.

True to her word, Enyo focuses on the task at hand. She drapes herself all over an armchair, left leg hanging off the armrest while she pretends to study the data pad she brought with her. She tilts her head back while Sam slides by to sit on the couch across from her and says, "Rather quiet beginning to the next stage of the Grid."

"Apparently I'm not popular enough to make an inaugural speech about it," Sam says. "Might end up starting shit instead of fixing it."

"You already are, but you knew that."

Sam glances at Tron, who remains standing. When the program doesn't move to sit down on the couch after a few seconds, he sighs and reaches back to unhook his disc from its dock. Enyo immediately sits up, setting her data pad on the low translucent coffee table between them. She leans over, elbows on her knees, and watches intently as he activates it and flicks through the disorganized memories until he locates the files he extracted from the safe house.

"So yours is the master disc now," she says.

"Apparently." He finds what he's looking for and with a quick upward gesture, opens up a holographic representation of one of Flynn's blueprints. "Dad had a map of the Grid but it's too old. Tron showed me the changes since the map's timestamp but he says you know the current Grid better."

"I have to," she says seriously. "Do you need an update now?"

"No, but when I come back I might need it. You two can sync up to have the same map, right?"

Enyo looks at Tron with a raised eyebrow. "Not exactly, but we can make them match. When are you coming back?"

"Two days,” he says, reluctance seeping into his tone. “How long is that in cycles?"

"Thirty-four point two-three-seven-five millicycles," Tron replies.

She glances between them. "I take it you two argued about this and SamFlynn lost."

"Maybe," Sam mutters. "I also need a log of what changes Clu made to the Grid and what happened after. A closed system run by a utility that can only rectify or delete errors is a huge problem and the faster I stabilize the Grid, the better."

Enyo nods. She's taken to watching the rotating the hologram with hard brown eyes, finger tapping on her chin. "What else?"

Sam minimizes the display and sets the glowing disc on the table. He rubs his face with his left hand and sighs. "I need a unified system. Who else is out there besides Octane and Zuse?"

"Well there's Luce, who runs Tau. A Black Guard apparently patrols a couple blocks near Delta, and a system utility's been the go-to program in Beta. Zuse is still on the run and Octane has a lot of support from the sectors he brought together right after the reintegration."

"The Grid won't work if I can't get its programs to cooperate," he says. "I need you to convince them I'm not another... 'Flynn' or Clu."

"But we still need a sysadmin," Enyo points out. “Thirty-four point two-three-seven-five millicycles is enough time for an error to manifest and there isn’t a hierarchy in place to contain and control it. And last I checked, no program here has a sysadmin’s permissions and privileges."

"The current Grid won’t accept a single sysadmin," Tron says. “But there could be several in place.”

"Is that possible?"

Tron glances at Sam, waiting for him to answer. They discussed this briefly before coming here - since when did a computer run a decentralized system and survive? - and tentatively settled on a temporary solution that didn't involve using all of Sam's considerable power as the Grid's new User. "I'm giving you and Tron some privileges until the system's stable. If you find something unstable you can repair or stabilize it, and it’ll go into a log I can read. That way I'll know what's going on when I'm not on the Grid myself and you won't have to deal with things breaking down while I’m away."

"What if we don’t have the permissions to repair it?"

"That gets logged in, too."

He wishes he can ask his father how not to repeat past mistakes. He knows all too well that he can’t let the Grid distract him from the rest of his life but he’s less sure of how Flynn’s absentminded neglect made programs so distrustful of Users in general. The situation is eerily similar to his first few months at ENCOM, except he doesn’t have to worry about people trying to murder him.

"Also need a list of missing programs and utilities,” he adds before the silence becomes suspicious. “Gonna guess a bunch of them went missing and then derezzed after the Reintegration."

"Some of them are still around," Enyo says. "They'll be hard to convince to come back but it's doable."

"Great," Sam says. "That's great." He gestures to Enyo. "Need your disc."

"What for?"

"One, I need to give you the map. Two, it’s probably a lot easier to get things done if you can write shortcuts."

Enyo's face lights up like New Year's fireworks and he laughs as she hands over her disc. "Shortcuts, huh? How exciting."

"I bet," he says while setting the disc on his knees.

The edge burns bright yellow as he pulls up her source code. Like Tron's, it's old and written in a different hand; his father's touch is minimal, her code altered just enough to make her fully compatible with the Grid, and as Sam goes deeper into it he can see why. Whoever wrote her - Julia-59, Enyo said back at the I/O tower, and he makes a mental note to find this person in ENCOM's archives - did an incredible job and he considers asking permission to use Enyo’s source code as a blueprint for an updated and upgraded program for contemporary systems.

He reaches over and activates his disc; he quickly locates his father's files and, with a flick of his fingers, sends a copy over to Enyo's. The display pulses bright sunshine for the few seconds it takes to sync in the new data and when the glow dims to something he can stare at, Sam resumes writing the lines of code granting her a few privileges and permissions.

At one point, he glances up to see the wide-eyed wonder in Enyo's face. It's the complete opposite of Tron's intense scrutiny when Sam copied over the same files and wrote in the same lines of code an hour ago. Sam took great care to explain every step and not follow his desire to do more without asking permission first. His fingers twitched whenever he spotted a broken fragment of the rectification code but didn't remove it; instead he made Tron another offer to clear out the fractured code. He dropped the matter when Tron started shifting uncomfortably and thought, I'll ask him later.

He scans through the code to make sure everything's in place and minimizes the display. He hands the disc back to Enyo, who takes it carefully - almost reverently - and studies the blinking light on the disc's inner circuit. She looks up at him, then at Tron, and then locks it back on her dock. She suddenly stiffens and her pupils flicker, glowing gold for the seconds it takes for the upgrades to sync.

"Wow," she breathes out, rubbing her fingers together and watching her circuits pulse for several seconds more. "Now that's something I haven't felt in cycles."

Tron smiles. "You get used to it."

"Bet he does more than that to you."

Sam groans and slumps against the couch, covering his face. "Really? You're really gonna go there?"

"I could, but I'm nice so I won't."

He doubts that.

"By the way," she says and leans over to grab something behind the loveseat next to her armchair, "you left this."

She tosses something at him and he catches it, then realizes it's his father's leather jacket. How did she - he left it in the light runner. He completely forgot about it.

"I remember seeing him wearing it while wandering around the city," she says softly. "Figured you want it back. Come on; you need to get to the portal and I need to babysit those MP3s for a couple millicycles."

"Why? What about Crystal?" he asks while standing up.

"She's gone to go talk to Yssandra and Nyx in Delta about you."

"Who?"

"Her sisters. They run another neutral sector and will be useful allies. They might also know what that idiot Octane's up to. Just because he escaped the Rectifier he thinks he’s qualified to rule the Grid. Ha!"

They follow her out of the room and down the short hall to the enormous hangar. In the shadow of the broken Recognizer, Enyo crouches down and plants the flat of her hand on the floor. Lines of code appear underneath, glowing yellow-white as they weave into a display she can understand and work with. It's different from what Sam sees when he accesses the code; hers is restricted but that doesn't stop her from looking incredibly pleased with what she can do.

"This makes my job so much easier," she says while inputting coordinates. She sits back on her heels to watch the circuits form a manhole cover and then looks up at Sam. "Thank you."

"No problem." Shifting colors out of the corner of his eye has him looking at the light runner; Tron's leaning against it, watching them, and the vehicle's circuits slowly turn blue like him. "Tell Crystal and those MP3s that I'll see them later."

"Of course." She lifts the shortcut cover and peers down at the glowing steps lighting the way inside. "Good luck on the other side. And tell Quorra.... tell her we say hello and that she should come visit when she's ready."

He starts. "How do you - never mind, you know everything."

"That I do," she agrees and climbs down into the shortcut. When only her head is visible, she adds, "Oh, and watch out for gridbug swarms."

Sam heard those words before, but, "Gridbug swarms?"

* * *

"Gridbug swarms," Tron says as the light runner swerves around a thick glowing swarm slowly devouring an old structure in the ruins of an ISO colony. "The result of bad code and instability, both in ENCOM and the Grid."

"How bad does it have to be for them to show up?" Sam half-rises out of his seat, twists around to watch the building collapse under the weight of the gridbugs.

"That depends. They'd manifest whenever Flynn unsuccessfully manipulated the Grid code but the swarms stopped being a serious threat cycles after Clu took over."

"What about after the reintegration?"

"They come and go, especially when a sector goes dark. Everyone knows to contain and derezz them on sight so they never spread far."

The swarm, Sam notices, is crawling up the sides of the ravine in relentless glowing waves. "And what about out here?"

"The Outlands is never stable and the old ISO colonies attract them," Tron says, with just the slightest hitch in tone. "They destroy the constructs and last another millicycle before collapsing from lack of energy. The Outlands has nothing to offer them."

"Okay. Say I make a really bad mistake while coding something and gridbugs start popping up. What's your protocol?"

"Containment," Tron says, "and deletion."

He presses something on the console and the light runner ejects a pair of blinking objects. Sam watches them tumble into the path of the swarm, which envelops them in a matter of seconds. He lets out a breath and then flinches when the bombs explode, shattering the bugs and the sides of the ravine. Rubble make short work of the surviving gridbugs.

"Right," Sam says after a long minute. "Gridbugs. I'll keep that in mind."

Of course whatever's causing a bugged system would actually manifest as digital termites. Go figure.

Sighing, Sam slumps in his seat and stares out at the massive outcrops and mountains while Tron weaves the light runner through the canyons and ravines in the direction of the star in the sky. The gridbug swarm is probably the most exciting thing to happen on what's otherwise an incredibly long and boring road trip. When he asked how long it would take, Tron estimated maybe an hour, two hours tops, without obstacles or interruptions. When asked why they didn't travel by air?

"Even if we found a functional Recognizer do you want to fly one? The larger light jets all derezzed on the Rectifier and it takes just over point one-five millicycles to fly from the city to the portal; I don't think you want to fly a one-seat light jet for that long."

"Point."

He'd been dozing until a couple gridbugs dropped down on the light runner, jolting him wide awake. Now he watches the digital landscape flit by, mind awhirl with thoughts that won't hold still long enough for him to read them. He scrubs his face and tries to focus on something else, anything. He looks down at the jacket in his lap, touches the cuff of the right sleeve and finds himself wondering why he didn't just leave it back at the safehouse. What's he going to do with it? He doesn't need it anymore.

That's the crux of it, isn't it? This is the end of the life he'd been living and the beginning of one he didn't think about having. The thoughts buzz in his head like white noise, sit like a ball of static in his chest, and he's so tense that he has to take one deep breath after another to calm down and clear his mind.

"Are you all right?" Tron asks and Sam flinches.

"I'm fine," he says. "Thinking too much."

He turns his attention back to the Gridscape and spots a collection of empty structures hidden in a crevice. It quickly vanishes as they round a turn. Just how many are there?

"Too many to count," Tron says. "At least, I don't try to."

Sam wants to slam his forehead against the side of the light runner. That was not supposed to be an actual question and he didn’t want to make Tron search those memories in order to answer. He settles for a quiet, "Sorry."

"Don't. You'll see more whenever you're on the Grid and you can't... apologize every time you say something about the Purge and Clu."

"Yeah, but-" You haven't seen her during the first weeks with me. "-I'll never get used to seeing these."

"Maybe you shouldn't," Tron says. "Maybe these colonies aren’t meant to be forgotten."

"Maybe," Sam echoes.

Time passes, until the star is no longer a star but a distant beam of light piercing the clouds. The sky opens up as the mountains and canyons slowly give way to a glimmering horizon. Sam sits up and leans forward, staring at the sea.

The Sea of Simulation, Quorra's slurred voice echoes in his mind. Once they got drunk on homemade mojitos and shots of tequila, a decision they regretted immensely the next morning. During the bender, they got to talking about the Grid before the Purge and she told him that she came out of the Sea. The ISOs all came out of the Sea, she said while shredding bruised mint leaves.

Instead of heading straight to the beach, Tron takes them up along the side of the mountain range that seems as endless and eternal as the beach it borders and the Sea beyond it. The way is rough but the program steers the light runner with quiet confidence and soon they reach the top. The light runner slows as it comes to the edge of the cliff overlooking the Sea and stops. The horizon shimmers with the portal's light; if Sam squints, he can make out the platform hovering high above the surface miles out from shore, a ghostly apparition like the freighters he'd see on the Pacific's horizon line from the beach back home.

Tron releases the hatch and a breeze swirls into the cockpit. It doesn't have a temperature but it's a wind just the same, coming from somewhere across the sea, and Sam shivers reflexively. Then he pulls himself out of light runner and stretches out the kinks in his limbs before shoving his hands in his jacket pockets and stumbling to the edge. Down below, chunks of slow-crumbling code in the form of broken stone dot the beach while the sea slowly erodes them and pulls them back into the dark waters. On either side the mountains stretch out into infinity, a barrier between the Sea and the Grid. Behind him the light runner's blue circuits cast an eerie glow.

Out here, Sam realizes how loud the city is even with the empty sectors and the nonfunctioning constructs. At the edge of the Sea, there is a resounding silence where there should be a thrumming undercurrent of energy and activity intertwining with the system code. The Sea is pristine and quiet, untouched and undisturbed by everything that transpired inland for thousands of cycles.

One can almost forget what happened here six months ago - a desperate race around stone pillars to the portal, Flynn drawing Clu away from Sam and Quorra to give them a chance to escape, the moment of reintegration as the activated portal roared around Sam and dragged him out of the Grid. Here is where life as he knew it ended. Here is where their lives ended - where Tron overrode his rectification and crashed into the Sea, where Quorra escaped the only home she ever knew for the User world, where Flynn and Clu reintegrated and ended the old system, where Sam's lifelong hunt for his father ended.

"They found me here."

Sam looks at Tron, who'd come to his side while he was lost in thought. The program looks a bit windswept but doesn't sway with the breeze. He stands unmoving, gray eyes fixed on a distant point.

"Who did?"

"Programs brave enough to come out here. They were looking for answers because the system was shutting down, and they found me. They couldn't identify me so they left me here to derezz." Tron stops and his circuits flicker. Sam reaches over and brushes his fingers along the program's forearm, watches him carefully. "Eventually I woke up and traced their footsteps back to the city. I haven't been here since."

You walked all the way back? is what Sam thinks. What he says is, "And now you're back."

Tron nods. "I am."

They don't say anything else for a while. Sam sits down on the edge, watches the water lap at the shore. He picks up a chunk of rock and breaks it into smaller hexagonic pieces, then tosses them over the edge. The soothing calm of the Sea lets him collect his thoughts, helps him remember something left inside the light runner.

"So I was thinking," he says. "Can you hold onto Dad's jacket for me?"

"Why? Don't you want it back?"

Sam tosses another chunk of rock over the edge. "Don't really need it right now."

Tron considers the request. "All right. If you insist."

"Thanks." He looks up at the distant portal beckoning him, telling him it's time to go. "So, Dad used a light jet to get there?"

"The portal used to be in the city, actually. Then he moved it out here to keep programs from getting too close. Light jets didn't exist yet; there was a Recognizer he kept out here to take him across. 'Just like old times'. He wasn't a particularly good pilot."

Sam snorts. "Where's it now?"

"Gone. The Sea probably reclaimed it. Doesn't matter anymore." Tron reaches down and unhooks a baton, tosses it to Sam. "Now we have light jets. We should go - spent enough time out here."

Sighing, Sam makes to push himself back onto his feet but stops when Tron offers his hand. Smiling, Sam takes it and lets the program haul him up. He watches Tron take the other baton and, well, leap off the edge while rezzing the light jet into place. The blue jet steadies itself and then comes back to the cliff in a wide arc, Tron's helmeted head tilted in his direction. Sam shakes his head with a low laugh, holds the baton out in front of him, and leaps off the cliff while pulling it apart.

* * *

The flight is short and uneventful, unlike the other two times he tasted flight on the Grid. Now that he doesn't have to worry about anyone shooting the jet out from under him, he can actually enjoy flight, the feeling of weightlessness and the absolute freedom. He bursts ahead with sudden acceleration and takes the jet up into the sky, loops down and dives towards the sea, skims the surface of the rippling water before taking the jet back up to a higher altitude. The wind whistles in his ears but the helmet and visor wrapped around his head keeps it out of his eyes, lets him see clearly the blue light jet ahead of him and the portal in the distance growing larger with each mile he covers. The closer they get, the dim roar of the Sea grows louder, and he realizes it's not the Sea at all but the pillar of light and energy emanating from the construct hovering above the surface.

The bliss he's feeling turns into a sickening weight in the back of his throat. This was the site of the last confrontation. This was where his father said goodbye.

Up ahead Tron's light jet descends as it reaches the long runway. He follows, slowing the jet as he reaches the portal but almost doesn't catch himself when the jet starts collapsing underneath him. His feet hit solid ground while his body still moves forward with some speed and he stumbles, falls and rolls on his shoulders. He gets back up, baton gripped rather tightly in his hands, to see Tron land several feet away with impossible grace, toss the baton up in the air while it finishes collapsing the light jet, and smoothly slides it into the holster on his leg.

"Showoff," Sam mutters.

He jogs to Tron but slows when he sees something else on the runway - a wing tip from the light jet Quorra piloted. He goes to it and kneels down, touches it; the wing tip shatters under his hand and the strong wind blows the shards off the portal into the sea. He peers over the edge, watching the shimmering cascade of code vanish, and turns back when Tron calls his name.

They climb the stairs quietly, looking everywhere but at each other or the portal's heart ahead of them. Sam hesitates for a second before taking the last few steps to the top and when he looks up from his feet he finds no one standing on the retractable bridge between the outer platform and the inner one. He can still picture his father and Clu facing each other, and he can definitely see Tron moving into his field of vision and quietly saying, "Sam."

He blinks and the ghosts vanish.

"Yeah," he breathes out. "Yeah. Sorry. Just remembering what happened the last time I was here. You know. Dad and Clu and the disc swap with Quorra."

The wind roars here, swirling underneath the portal and rushing upward like a tornado. It pushes and pulls at him, alternating between dragging him into the portal and blowing him back. It feels as indecisive as he is, wavering between leaving the Grid to start everything over, and staying here to experience the Grid, to save it, to be with Tron.

"So," he says, "this is it." He turns on his heels to the program. "Time for me to go."

Tron is staring at the ground, arms crossed tightly. The wind tousles his hair and Sam itches with the need to reach over and rake the dark strands back into place. Which he does, he just needs to touch, to feel, to know that he has this, and he makes a futile attempt to tame Tron's disheveled hair. Tron looks at him with a raised eyebrow and he laughs, says, "Sorry, I just - it was bothering me."

"I don't think anything you do can fix that."

"Probably not." He can fix a lot of other things, though. He can probably fix everything else; he's the User, after all. He lowers his hands, jams them in his jacket pockets and looks to his left at the bridge to the inner platform. "Remember what you said about Dad moving the portal here? Because programs were getting too close? What happens if one of them steps inside that light?"

"I don't know and Flynn never said. It wasn't meant for us to use."

"Probably fuck up the whole system. Still, she got through." With her digital DNA, that magnificent triple helix that doesn't exist anywhere else. "So if I modify the digitizer-"

"Sam," Tron says firmly. "You're stalling."

He is. He shifts on his feet, rocking back and forth on his heels. "It just feels... incomplete. Unfinished. Like, this - we just started and I'm already leaving. You don't know when I'm coming back, if I'm coming back-"

"But I know you're coming back. You were never your father, you know. You're different. For a User." A wry smile graces Tron's face as he wraps his hand around Sam's elbow and gently pushes him towards the bridge. "You should go now."

"Yeah." He takes a deep breath, ignores how thick and hoarse he sounds as he says, "I'll see you around."

He looks straight ahead at the portal's center as he crosses the bridge. He doesn't look down at the roiling sea several hundred feet below or over his shoulder at the program watching him go. The roar of the portal-generated wind is absolutely deafening and he has to shield his eyes with his arm as he gets closer to the pillar of light. He feels the power pulsing, rippling through him, and he reflexively holds his breath as he takes a step inside.

Before the rest of him passes through the wall of light, something grabs his arm and hauls him back out. Sam stumbles, blinking hard against the searing imprint of white light, and feels himself being turned around. Then a warm mouth presses against his while hands curve around his face to hold him in place. Sam kisses Tron back fiercely, wraps his arms around the program to pull him close. The portal thunders at his back while the wind tries to tug and push him away but Tron doesn't move, doesn't budge, anchors him down. He tries to memorize everything about Tron - the electric bittersweet tang of his mouth, the steady strength in his hands, the comforting whirring thrum of his body, the sense and idea that he will be here when Sam comes back.

"I'll see you around," Tron murmurs into his mouth, presses a last kiss, and lets him go.

Sam nods wordlessly, breathless and already aching for the program. His eyes never leave Tron's as he slowly steps back into the light.

The last thing he sees is Tron's smile and then everything goes white.

Chapter Text

"... have to wait long? I was reading and kind of dozed off. Booted up the digitizer as soon as I woke...."

Quorra's voice blends into the soft whirring hum of the servers, becoming a dull disorienting roar in his head. His heart pounds, pushing blood through his arteries, and his skin crawls as gravity tries to drag him onto the concrete floor. The digitizer shuts down, leaving him fully materialized. He slumps forward in the chair, covering his face to block out the words on the screen, and takes several deep breaths.

"... weren’t coming out so I - Sam?"

He doesn't - can't hear her walking to his side over the ringing in his ears, but he feels her hand settle on his shoulders, fingers curling tentatively around its slope, and he leans back into the touch. The gentle pressure sparks his nerves in a way the Grid never could and the world slowly rights itself. The air smells stale and earthy and he remembers his plan to install a better ventilation system down here, before deciding it wouldn't be worth the trouble or risk of discovery. Another breath and he feels the age of this hidden room and all of its secrets.

Slowly, he sinks back into his skin as the last echoes of the Grid fade. The tightness in his chest loosens a bit and he rolls his shoulders and neck; something cracks and he winces.

Quorra takes her hand away and asks, "Are you okay?"

He has a thousand answers to her one question but he doesn't know which one to choose. He decides to say, "I'm fine. Just - just give me a minute. Forgot how it feels coming out of the Grid."

He leans back in his chair and looks up at the yellowed paper still taped to the wall. He then swivels the chair around; empty juice boxes and an apple core sit in a pile on the coffee table while the jukebox upstairs continues rotating hits from the 70s and 80s at an obnoxiously high volume. Facing him is the lens of the digitizer and behind him is the touch screen table showing him a log of recent activities. Near the bottom of the list is the message he sent from the I/O tower hours - no, minutes ago, and the digitizer being activated not long after. The jukebox changes tracks while he reads the glowing pixels on the screen but he can't make out the song.

He taps on the screen and locks it, watches the tabletop darken until only six digits remain.

05:20:89

Quorra appears next to him. He looks up at her, notices her chewing on her bottom lip while looking between him and the running clock. Her arms cross tightly over her chest like she’s doing all she can to hold back the inevitable questions. He nods in her direction.

"So... what happened?" she asks.

Everything.

Sam glances at his reflection on the table; his face looks old, worn out, so very tired. Where does he even begin? Should he start with the state of the Grid and the abandoned sectors and skyscrapers? Does he mention finding Zuse still alive and conspiring from inside a derelict structure? What about Enyo and Crystal, two programs that decided to ally themselves with him? What about what he failed to find at the safe house, and the files his father left behind?

How does he talk about Tron? How does he tell her that she was right all along and it’s time to move on, but that he’ll be going back to the Grid as its new User?

"A lot. A lot happened. It's… it’s a lot to take in."

"Okay." She shifts from foot to foot, waiting for him to elaborate. "Do you... want to talk about it?"

He does, and he doesn't. Everything feels too soon, too raw. He has to tell her so many things but he also wants to go home, lock the door, and sleep for a month. He needs time to process everything before he can talk.

Time and coffee, actually. He could use a whole pot of it, and French toast. Eggs. Bacon. Hash browns. A setting that's neither the arcade basement nor the apartment.

"Let's go to Pipers," he says. "I could really use some coffee."

It's not the closest diner nor the best, but Quorra can never stay away from the eccentric Koreatown location for long. She nods and turns away to gather her things. Sam looks at the quiet digitizer on the other side of the room. He wonders what Tron's doing now and how much time already passed for the program. Tron told him to time his visits so as to not disrupt the life he has here; how long does thirty-four millicycles feel like? How could the program be so willing to wait that long?

"It just feels... incomplete. Unfinished. Like, this - we just started and I'm already leaving. You don't know when I'm coming back, if I’m coming back-"

"But I know you're coming back. You were never your father, you know. You're different. For a User."

"Sam?"

He blinks and the concrete floor comes into sharp focus. He stares at black low-heeled boots and tilts his head up to Quorra. He rubs his face and and stands up. "Yeah. Okay. Let's go."

His fingers drag along the smooth edge of the screen and he watches the clock run for a few seconds. Quorra moves towards the doors and, with a sigh, he turns his back on the computer. He follows her out of the room, locks the doors behind him with the rusty key, and goes upstairs.

We built, we built this city,
Built this city.
We built, we built this city....

The bright lights of the arcade spill down the stairs as he climbs up. Sam flinches - so much color, so much light, so much noise - and blinks rapidly until his eyes adjust. He stubs his toes on the second last step, swears under his breath, and limps over to push the TRON machine back into place. The jukebox changes tracks and Boston fills the early morning air.

Don't look back.
A new day is breakin'.
It's been so long since I felt this way.
I don't mind where I get taken.
The road is callin'.
Today is day.

Sam goes to the breaker to shut off the power while she grabs their helmets from the dusty air hockey table in a corner of the floor. The electronic cacophony of outdated beeps and neon lights go out in sections with each switch; Brad Delp falls silent as the jukebox turns off with the fourth one.

He looks up at the old office and a memory taps in the back of his head - a rainy night, his hand in his father's, and all the game machines lit up and waiting for him. Just three days ago he fell asleep sprawled out on the musty couch, too exhausted from his fruitless searching through the yellowed files to go back home. He'll never do that again; those days are behind him now and the weight on his shoulders is replaced with a calling of his own choosing.

Something moves out of the corner of his eye and his reflexes kick in, catching his helmet before it clocks him in the left temple. Quorra pushes the doors open and a fresh breeze swirls in, promising a warm day. The sky is still dark but there's a hint of light on the horizon. The moon is high up in the sky and JetBlue roars home to LAX miles away. Predawn is cool and he shivers while padlocking the doors. When he turns around, fingers picking through the key ring for the right one, Quorra is perched on the Ducati with her helmet in hand. She watches him keenly and he knows she's just barely keeping the never-ending flow of questions in check.

"Pipers?" she says while pulling her helmet on Her visor is up and her bright eyes follow Sam as he straddles the bike in front of her and moves to pull his on.

"Yeah." He pauses and stares at his distorted reflection, wondering how to occupy her mind on the twenty-minute trip to the diner. "... you know, I met someone while I was in there. In the Grid. Met someone on the Grid. He, uh, he's a friend of Dad's."

The horizon is paling to a white tinged cold yellow. He thinks about an early morning six months ago, when he told Alan he was going to take an active role at ENCOM and showed Quorra the sun.

It's a new day again.

He breathes out slow, fogging the visor. "Dad used to tell me stories about him. Didn’t think he’d still be around but he was. He was waiting for me.” And I promised I’ll come back.

"Who is he?" she asks.

Sam smiles.

"Tron."

Chapter Text

 

 

 

 

Copilots from shirozora on 8tracks Radio.

Track Listing

Am I Not Human? :: Two Steps From Hell
(instrumental)

I Can't Stop :: The Ruse
my brain took off in a taxi
i've got no change to catch a ride
this space right here draws me near
my hand is out they look me down
i'll wait it out it never gets too far

Rinzler :: Daft Punk
(instrumental)

Ghost Town :: Shiny Toy Guns
everyone living in a ghost town
everyone buried in waste land
we don't want to
we don't have to be like that

Lights :: Ellie Goulding
you show the lights that stop me turn to stone
you shine them when i'm alone
and so i tell myself that i'll be strong
and dreaming when they're gone

Dust And Echoes :: God Is An Astronaut
(instrumental)

Stripped :: Shiny Toy Guns
let me hear you make decisions
without your television
let me hear you speaking
just for me

Reset :: Mute Math
(instrumental)

Locking Up The Sun :: Poets Of The Fall
they're locking up the sun
they have their chosen one
you know this time they'll make him play along
they're taking to the arms
the fathers and their sons
there's nowhere left to run and hide

Lifeline :: Angels & Airwaves
if you hear a distant sound
and some footsteps by your side
when the world comes crashing down
i will find you if you hide

Starry Eyed :: Ellie Goulding
next thing we're touching
you look at me it's like you hit me with lightning

DJ Got Us Falling In Love :: Usher feat. Pitbull
'cause baby tonight, the dj got us falling in love again
yeah, baby tonight, the dj got us falling in love again
so dance, dance, like it's the last, last night of your life, life
gonna get you right
'cause baby tonight, the dj got us falling in love again

Retina and the Sky :: Idiot Pilot
could you tell me where we'll be
when the light is taking over everything

Don't Look Back :: Boston
don't look back
a new day is breakin'
it's been too long since i felt this way
i don't mind where i get taken
the road is callin'
today is the day

Eric's Song :: Vienna Teng
and of course i forgive
i've seen how you live
like a phoenix you rise from the ashes
you pick up the pieces
and the ghosts in the attic
they never quite leave
and of course i forgive
you've seen how i live
i've got darkness and fears to appease
my voices and analogies
ambitions like ribbons
worn bright on my sleeve