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Dyson didn’t know what to make of him. He had seen a User, of course. Flynn, all big smiles and empty words. He and Clu were both possessed of grand ambition and massive egos, but only Clu had the necessary follow-through.
This one only looked like Tron if you squinted a bit and re-ran your facial recognition routines. White hair, furrows around the eyes and mouth. Wearing a long coat and a black suit with few lines, aside from a stylized and very small “A” on his chest that served as an identifier.
He seemed harmless.
“What are you doing here?”
“I came to talk. I hear you knew my son.”
“Your...?” He had heard of the string, but the search parameters were coming up empty on what it meant.
“Of course, I should have been more specific. I’m asking about Tron.” The User’s appearance may have been very different from Tron, but the voice was uncanny in its resemblance, even more so than Flynn and Clu. “I saw what you did to him.”
“You think I’m scared of you because you’re his User?” Dyson sniffed with contempt. “You should know better than to come in, especially unarmed. Tron was a useless bunch of junk code.”
Was he imagining it or did the corner of his mouth twitch upward in a vague smile? “I take a bit of offense to that.”
Dyson scowled. “How about I take offense to you being here and send you back to him as a pile of voxels?” To prove the point, he pulled the disc and hurled it towards Alan.
With a subtle flick of his left index finger, the disc curved away and struck a wall. Cursing, Dyson pulled it back and hurled again. Once again, it curved to the side. A third time, and it stopped - just stopped - in midair. Alan casually plucked it from the air and snapped it in half to Dyson’s horrified shock.
“If you can’t play nicely with your toys, you don’t deserve to have them, Now...” Alan raised his left hand and Dyson found himself flying backwards, hitting the interrogation rack on the far wall. “I came here to try and understand why you did what you did to Tron, but I can see that interrogating malware is a waste of my time.”
Dyson struggled but found himself unable to move, pinned fast to his own rack. He had put Tron on this rack, partly decompiled him, rebuilt him bit by bit until only Rinzler remained. He had been proud of his work and delighted to wipe that smug look off Tron’s face.
Alan paced up to him, looking Dyson over with an unreadable expression on his face. “It’s probably a good thing we are alone, though. My wife certainly won’t approve of this. My sons might not...well, Jet wouldn’t, but Tron might.”
That’s when Dyson heard it, the thin whine of the saw blade. He carved up Tron with it - face first. And it was coming closer to his own face. “Please! Mercy, User.”
Alan shook his head. “I’ll be quick. That’s your mercy.”
Less than thirty seconds later, the only thing left of Dyson was a pile of decaying cubes. Alan brushed his hands off on his pants and walked out the door as casually as he walked in.