Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Prologue

Alan slammed out of his office, furious. Barely a week had passed since Flynn disappeared, and the Board was more worried about stock prices than where the hell their leader had gone.

Knowing this wasn’t a rage that would easily dissipate, he took the stairs for the first dozen or so flights down. He swung onto 48, then had to stop and reorient himself, used to coming here from the elevator. The door slammed behind Alan, and Roy turned around, grinned, and waved him over. Something eased in Alan’s chest on seeing his other best friend, and it brought a small but real smile to his face.

“Hey, Tron. You look flustered,” Roy teased as he neared. Alan’s smile fell away, and Roy sobered as well. “What’s up?”

Alan’s mouth answered without his consent. “I’m takin’ off early. You wanna beer?”

Roy’s first reaction was a blink, then, “Yeah, okay,” he said, worry and surprise warring over his expression. “Lemme shut down here.”

They left in silence and rode to the bar a block away from Flynn’s arcade on autopilot. It was quiet for now, being mid-afternoon on a school day. (Alan glanced at his watch, then remembered it didn’t matter. Sam was already home.)

Alan ordered a burger, since he hadn’t eaten yet, and the bartender brought an extra basket of fries for Roy along with their beers. “Any news of the Great Flynnster?”

Alan took a swig of his beer before answering, “No.”

The bartender – Max? Mike? – sighed and pulled out a trio of shot glasses, filling them with tequila before holding one aloft. Roy joined him. “To Flynn. May he come home safe.” They took their shots, but Alan didn’t touch his – too risky on an empty stomach.

Matt – no, Marcus! – slapped the bar in farewell, and they took their food to a table when Alan’s burger came out. They chatted about various troubles, rumors, and hijinks going around at Encom while they ate, and Alan felt the last of his anger melt away.

Until Roy introduced a new subject with a hesitant, “Hey, Alan? There’s something I’ve been wondering – don’t bite my head off, okay?”

Alan swirled the water in his glass, eyeing Roy with a tinge of unease, before setting it down. “Okay.” He leaned in and tried to keep his expression open.

“Do you think, maybe . . .” Roy paused, not looking Alan in the eye. “Maybe – with all his talk about the grid and programs like they were real – maybe Flynn was going crazy, and we didn’t catch it?”

Alan took a deep breath before responding with, “You don’t think we’re real, Ram?”

Roy snorted and relaxed at the nickname. They didn’t use it very often anymore – it’d made Flynn wince every time he heard it right after Jordan died, and they’d fallen out of the habit.

Alan shook off the memory before making himself seriously consider the question, then he shook his head again. “No, Flynn’s not crazy. He developed TRON the same way; even called Lora YORI for a few months before she kicked his ass out of it.” And gave him the prototype laser to play with. Alan blinked, wondering if the two were somehow connected, then put it aside for later musing.

Roy heaved a sigh so relieved his forehead nearly touched the table. “Thank God,” he murmured. “It’s been keeping me up nights worrying.”

* * * * *

They parted ways maybe twenty minutes later – Roy back to Encom, Alan still loitering in front of the arcade. On impulse, he went inside and flipped the breaker. The arcade came to life, and Alan’s breath caught in his throat. He could almost feel Flynn sneaking up behind him, about to slap his back and crow about “the power of the Game” or something. Or maybe Flynn would come charging downstairs, bleary-eyed and annoyed that someone had interrupted his nap. . . .

But the arcade just blinked and whirred and bleeped, a shallow, static facsimile of its lively owner. Alan sighed and wandered down the main aisle to the TRON game. He watched it cycle through the various rounds before it flashed the high scores.

Flynn, of course, had the top spot with the perfect score. Sam came next with 625,037 – maybe half of which had come from his dad’s assistance – and the rest barely reached past 120,000.

A faint smile touched Alan’s lips as the screen moved on. He gripped a joystick, mind flashing back to a memory of happier times.

“Dude, you suck at this,” Flynn says, knocking his last enemy into its own jetwall so smoothly it almost looks like an accident. “Why d’you keep makin’ me come to the rescue?”

“I’m not making you do anything,” Alan growls back, frustration mounting as he jerks his stick left to avoid another lightcycle. “It’s not my fault you insisted on the hardest – Damnit!” He slams his fist down on the console as his player derezzes. Flynn smirks a little and idly presses in a combination on his buttons. Alan’s lightcycle reappears, brand new. “What the – How’d you – ”

“User privilege. Now shut up and drive!”

A sigh escaped as the memory faded, and Alan shook his head. What was he doing here? This place had never been his rabbit hole to fall into. He released the stick and stepped away. The game once again flashed out of the high scores back to the advertisement, oblivious to his presence. He turned away and headed for the door. There was nothing for him here. “See ya later, Flynn,” he murmured, then flipped off the breaker and headed for home.

. . . Only, he didn’t go there. When his exit came up, he drifted left and let the highway take him over the Sound, to the other Flynn residence.

Chapter Text

Chapter 1

Alan unlocked the gate and let Sam go in first. The boy stopped maybe two feet into the doorway and stood there with a mild, pouty glower while Alan fumbled to find the breaker again in the growing darkness. His petulance quickly melted away when the lights and machines came on, only to be replaced by dying hope and a growing grief as no one appeared to welcome them. Alan’s heart tugged, and he clasped Sam’s shoulder. “So I’ve got about five bucks’ worth of quarters,” he said, trying to inject cheer into his voice. “You think that’ll be enough?”

A faint smirk pulled at Sam’s mouth. “For me, sure,” he said, and flicked a glance up at Alan, “for you, not so much.”

“Why, you – ” Alan yanked him in for a noogie. Sam squealed and struggled for about five seconds before Alan let him go. Atmosphere lightened, Alan handed Sam maybe a half-dozen coins and sent him off to play while he went to get more change.

When he got back, the air was pounding with music, and Sam was standing on a small stool in front of the TRON game, looking confused and vaguely hurt.

“What’s wrong, Sam?” The boy jumped and nearly unbalanced. Alan steadied him with a hand low on his back.

“TRON won’t take my quarters,” Sam yelled back over the music.

Alan felt his brow knit, and he grabbed a quarter of his own. “Did you try both slots?” he asked, pushing his quarter in the farthest one as Sam answered, “Yeah, but it – ”

The coin spat right back out, hit a groove, and spun briefly before flopping down. Alan knelt to retrieve it, and fingered the groove. “Has this always been here?” he asked, looking up at Sam.

Sam shrugged.

Of course – he’s a seven-year-old in his father’s arcade. Why would he look at the floor? Alan thought as his gaze followed the double-ring to the left corners of the game. “Hop down a sec,” he said, rising to his feet. Sam did so, pulling his stool back as well as Alan started pulling the game away from the wall, revealing a door. Alan wedged himself in the tight space and pushed the door open, half-expecting it to reveal an old storage area, or maybe a second entrance to the one Flynn already had.

He got a stairwell descending into inky darkness, instead.

Sam crowded into him, peering down fearfully. Alan swung an arm around him and squeezed him close. “Hey,” he said. Sam looked up at him. “Your Dad have a flashlight upstairs?”

Sam’s eyes lit up. He nodded and darted away without further prompting.

While he waited, Alan pushed the game further back and pulled Sam’s stool over to keep the door propped open. Clasping the edge of the door, he took the first couple steps down and squinted, trying to see how far it went. He stood there for a few long minutes as the music faded to silence, debating with himself on what might be found down there, and if Sam should be here to see it. Should they call the police first?

“Uncle Alan?”

Alan immediately stepped back into the main room and poked his head out from behind the machine. “I’m still here, Sam.” He heard the boy sigh with relief before he rounded the machine carrying two flashlights. Alan let Sam through, then took a flashlight and tested it by accidently flashing the beam right into his eyes. He yelped, and heard Sam snicker at him while he tried to blink the spots out.

“I checked ‘em both, Uncle Alan. Even brought extra batteries, just in case.”

Alan squeezed one eye shut and used the other to peer at Sam. “Alright, Mr. Smartypants,” he said lightly, “you go first.”

He held onto Sam’s shoulder for guidance as they went down. The spots were almost gone when they hit the bottom and found another door, keys still hanging in the lock. Anxiety pounding in his throat, Alan held Sam back at first, then grit his teeth and nodded the go-ahead when Sam looked up at him.

Sam had trouble turning the key, though, so Alan ended up opening the door and going through first, anyway.

Somehow, he didn’t expect to find a slightly-dustier copy of Flynn’s office at Encom. He stepped aside and let Sam in when his first sweep didn’t reveal any bodies or signs of violence. Sam put his flashlight into a pocket of his coat and went straight to the desk, while Alan pointed his flashlight to the ceiling, letting the light diffuse the darkness into a milder gloom.

“Hey, the computer’s still on!” Sam said, sitting on his knees in the chair. Alan hmm’d absently, focused on the wall nearest him.

Sam apparently took that as an OK to keep poking at it, muttering at himself as he worked through the code. Alan left him to it, too taken with the books on psychology and evolution and war strategies to really care (what the Hell had Flynn been working on?) . . . until a distinct humming caught his ears. He looked to Sam, who didn’t seem to notice the new noise, then a growing light on the other side of the room snagged his attention.

What in the world was Lora’s laser doing here? Why was it pointed at Sam . . . ?

And why was it powering up?

“’Laser aperture clear?’” he heard Sam ask himself, then the boy shrugged and nodded, “Yeah, okay.” He reached for the green button.

“Sam, no!” Alan dropped his light and charged at Sam, but –

- a bright flash of light –

- a strange scattering sensation –

- and suddenly Alan’s shoulder slammed into the floor, arms wrapped around Sam’s waist. They laid there for a moment, belated adrenaline making them tremble, then Sam asked, “Alan . . . what was that?” his voice small with fear.

Alan’s arms tightened around Sam instinctively before he answered. “I don’t know.” They stayed that way for a few more seconds, clinging to each other and maybe half-expecting to fly apart again, before Alan made himself take a deep breath. “You okay?”

Sam nodded, but his eyes were still wide when Alan let him roll out of his arms. He sat up, shoulder twinging in protest, and looked around the suddenly not-so-dark room again. The laser, and almost everything else, had disappeared, a new pair of shiny desks standing on either side of the room where the bookshelves had been. Each one had a glowing screen built into the wall they faced: Flynn’s – or what had been Flynn’s – desk still had The Grid; the one nearest them held a stream of code Alan didn’t want to look at too closely; and the one by the door had another Grid full of green, red, blue, and yellow dots floating Pac-Man style through a map – something to do with security, maybe?

Security of what? Alan wondered as he stood, giving Sam a hand up as well.

A soft beeping sound drew his gaze back to the main Grid screen, where he saw a lager white dot blinking in roughly the same spot where they were under the arcade.

That can’t be good.

“Uncle Alan?” Sam asked, his little hand tightening on Alan’s.

“Yeah?”

“I . . . I need to pee.”

Alan couldn’t help the sympathetic huff that escaped him when he looked down into Sam’s embarrassed face. “I don’t blame you, kid.” They headed for the stairs, which were lined with faint, flickering lines of light like the aisles of a movie theater. “Still have your flashlight?” Alan asked, and Sam quickly handed it to him.

Sam’s stool had disappeared from the top of the staircase, but TRON was still easily pushed aside, only to reveal a dead arcade. Laser must’ve flipped the breaker, Alan thought. The lights and screens downstairs must be connected to a generator, or something. He handed the light back to Sam. “Here, you go on up. I’ll wait down here.”

Sam grabbed it and raced for the bathroom upstairs without a second glance at Alan. The second after he disappeared, Alan sighed and leaned back against TRON, letting his own nerves come out as he raked a hand through his hair.

TRON bleeped at him, and he startled away.

. . . Only it wasn’t TRON he was looking at anymore.

Matching Animals? he thought, watching it cycle through childish pictures of a lion, whale, mouse, and butterfly, naming each one. Then it flashed to the high scores: RAM and TRN battling it out for first, with YRI and CLU almost tied at third.

FLN and SAM were nowhere to be seen.

Not wanting to guess at what it meant, Alan lunged for another game further up the aisle: Walk the Dog, it blinked at him, its high scores again filled with unfamiliar names. Heart pounding, he went and poked at one near the entrance: Daytime/Nighttime; a new mixture of the same thing. A sick feeling threatened to overwhelm him –

A high-pitched scream ripped through the air, and Alan charged outside . . . to a street so dead it looked like the set for a ghost town.

Where had the scream come from?

“Run, Corra!” a woman yelled, and Alan headed for the nearest corner. A dark-haired girl of about ten nearly plowed him over before he rounded it. He clutched at a light-edged Frisbee on her back as he stumbled back, catching his balance. She froze, and he quickly repositioned his hands to her shoulders. “Easy, easy,” he murmured soothingly, then went to one knee so they could see each other easier. “Are you hurt, honey?”

Wide eyes blinked at him. “You – you’re –”

A shattering-glass sound and malicious laughter made her stiffen and look back, obviously terrified. Alan squeezed her shoulders to get her attention back. “Get in the arcade,” he said, and stood up. “Now.”

He gave her a couple seconds’ run-time, then rounded the corner himself.

Five or six young men wearing strange, under-lit armor stood around a disturbingly large puddle of glass, congratulating each other. One caught sight of Alan, and something faintly like fear crossed his features as he poked at his nearest buddy, whispering something. A moment later, their leader was stalking towards Alan, light-Frisbee whirring threateningly in hand.

“Where is the Iso, Program?”

What’s an Iso – wait, program? Alan scowled. “Who’s asking?” he asked, crossing his arms.

The guy gave him a weird look, like he hadn’t expected that response. “Cray2-4-7. Harboring and assisting an Iso is a crime, and is subject to deresolution.”

What kind of threat is that? Alan added a glare to his scowl. “On whose authority?”

Cray’s cronies shifted nervously behind him. None of them seemed to like where this conversation was going. “S-System Administrator Clu, Sir.”

“Oh.” Alan pretended to relax, even smiled a little as the others mimicked him. Then he shoved Cray back, hard. “You can tell System Administrator Clu –” he shoved again, “ – he can stick it where the sun don’t shine, and come derezz me himself – ” shove “ – before he can touch one hair on that girl’s head. Now, git!” And with one last shove, all five scattered to the wind, feet crunching in the glass as they ran.

Feeling immensely accomplished, Alan watched until they disappeared, then headed back to the arcade. I kinda like playing the hero, he thought, feeling a little cocky. Maybe there’s some TRON in me, after all.

About twenty feet away from the arcade doors, a bright light shot down on top of Alan. He stopped and looked up, confused; had to use a hand to block out some of the light to see . . .

A red-lined, distinctly Recognizer-shaped thing had its spotlight aimed at him as it descended from the sky, and all the little details Alan had been ignoring suddenly clicked into a complete picture. Oh my God, we’re on the Grid!

“Sam.” He started to – but the ground all around him had melted away as he’d stared, and there was nowhere for him to go without killing himself.

Alan barely bothered to struggle when two red-lit programs – not good, so not good – grabbed and pulled him into the Recognizer.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2

Sam came back downstairs to unfamiliar sounds coming from a few games and a room empty of his honorary uncle. He swallowed, faintly annoyed as fear crept over him again. Wasn’t it bad enough he’d nearly wet his pants earlier? He wasn’t a freakin’ baby, he didn’t need to cling to a grown-up every other minute!

Something shifted and fell on the other side of the room, and Sam managed to strangle his scream down to a yelp. “H-Hello?” He swallowed, and he tiptoed toward the noise, his voice coming back a little stronger as he looked around. “Uncle Alan? Is that you?” A head popped out from behind a game and Sam jumped, the light bouncing crazily in his grasp.

“What’s an Uncle Alan?” a girl’s voice asked.

“It’s – ” he jerked the light, splashing it right into her face, and she shrunk away. “Sorry – Who’re you?”

“Quorra. Are you going to kill me, too?”

“What? No.” He rounded the game she was hiding behind and stuck his hand out to her. “I’m Sam Flynn. Have you seen Alan?”

“Samflynn?” She eyed his hand with confusion before looking back up at him. “Like the Creator?” She stood. “Did you bring Tron back?”

Sam dropped his hand, too surprised to be offended. “You play TRON?” When did girls play video games?

Her dark hair bobbed excitedly, her eyes wide with hero worship. “He saved me outside and told me to come in here. Is he our next Conductor?”

Okay, Sam was totally confused now. But before he could start straightening it out with the crazy new girl, the TRON game lurched forward on its secret hinge. Quorra grabbed his arm and pulled him back behind her machine, taking a Frisbee – no, a Light Disk – off her back and making it light up.

Cool.

A soft glow stepped out from behind the game, and Quorra whispered, “Shut it off!” to Sam. He flipped off his light, but the sound had drawn the stranger’s attention.

“Yori?” a familiar voice called.

They didn’t answer. A moment later a soft click and whirring sound greeted Sam’s ears, and he peeked around the corner of the game. But all he could see was white-lit armor – is that good? He couldn’t remember what Daddy said about white programs – and a hand holding an active Light Disk, ready for battle. Sam pulled back and grinned to himself. “We’re on the Grid.”

Quorra slapped a hand across his mouth and glared at him.

Too late. The stranger had heard him and had narrowed down where they were. “Program, identify.”

Quorra grabbed Sam’s arm with her free hand and turned them to face the stranger, making sure to keep Sam behind her as she lifted her Disk in challenge.

The stranger sighed and relaxed with a grin, instead. “Greetings,” he said, returning his Disk to his back. “I’m Ram. I’ll be – ” When he realized only Sam was behind Quorra, though, he frowned. “I thought there were more of you,” he said.

“There were,” Quorra answered.

The man – program, whatever – looked from Quorra to Sam and back again. “So Yori . . . ?”

Quorra lowered her Disk, and shook her head slightly.

Ram seemed to wilt a little, jaw clenching for a moment before he pulled himself back together. “We must keep moving,” he said, going back to the TRON game. “If this site has been compromised – ”

“Uncle Roy?” Sam asked, finally connecting why the program seemed so familiar. “You look kinda weird without your glasses.”

Ram gave Sam a confused look that turned suspicious. He beckoned Sam closer, then knelt and grasped Sam’s shoulders. “What’s your name, child?”

Sam opened his mouth, but a bright light streaked across the outer windows before he could answer; something big with red lines and a loud engine noise followed it to the ground outside.

“Quickly.” Ram jumped back onto his feet and yanked the TRON – wait, not TRON – game open. “Down the stairs before they come inside.”

Quorra slipped right through without argument, but Sam hesitated. “What about Uncle – ”

Ram grabbed ‘round his waist – Sam’s flashlight dropped with a clatter – and carried him down the stairs, letting the door and game swing back into place on their own. When they reached the base of the stairs, Ram pressed at a black panel Sam hadn’t seen before, and two new doors opened in the wall.

The one on their right revealed a brightly lit tunnel, and the one ahead of them had three shelves of glowing stick-things. Ram set Sam back down on his feet and turned to Quorra. “Can you drive, Iso?” She nodded, and he tossed a glowy-stick to her. “Follow the green arrows. Go!” She ran into the tunnel, and an engine revved and faded away.

Ram closed that door, pulled another stick from a strap on his leg, and hauled Sam into the tunnel. “Put your hands on top of mine,” he said, holding the stick out in front of them as the door slipped closed. Sam eyes it uneasily for a moment, but did as he was told. “Now I want you to hop on three, two, o- – ” Ram broke the glowy-stick in half, and bright blue-white lines formed around them, becoming an enclosed motorcycle. Ram revved the engine, and the tunnel walls blurred around them as they sped away.

Sam’s fingers turned into claws, and he had to remind himself to breathe as they twisted through some S-turns. He did not like this – going so fast, losing Uncle Alan, and that whole weird talk with Quorra . . .

Daddy had said the Grid was dangerous, but he’d never said how it was dangerous. Shouldn’t Tron and Clu have made it safe by now, anyway?

Sam was feeling kinda sick by the time they caught up to Quorra and slowed down a little. One of Ram’s hands wiggled under his, and the glassy bubble around them melted away. Wind smacked him in the face, and Sam breathed deep, suddenly feeling a whole lot better.

“Are you alright, child?” Ram shouted against his ear. Sam nodded. “We’ll reach safety soon.”

He eventually relaxed and started to enjoy the ride, but then Ram turned away from where the arrows were going. Quorra revved up next to them and waved her arm questioningly. Ram’s hand wiggled again, pressing a button on one handle before he said, “Change of plans. Be ready to raise your shield in a minute.” Quorra gave an okay signal and drifted behind them again. The bubble came back maybe five minutes later, cutting down the engine noise. They went up a ramp and came out on land that looked like the asteroid the Millennium Falcon hid on in Star Wars.

“Where we going, anyway?” Sam asked. “Who was that back at the arcade, and why are we running from ‘em?”

Ram shook his head. “Can’t talk and drive out here,” he said, lightcycle wobbling as they ran over a rock. “Ask again when we get there.”

Get where? Sam wondered, but didn’t ask.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3

The guards herded Alan, two blue-lit guys, and a green-lit lady off the Recognizer and toward a stadium-like building when they landed. Once they were lined up, something locked over their feet, and the guards backed away.

Nothing happened.

 Alan took his chance. “Hey.” The others looked at him, eyes suddenly going wide with surprise – or maybe awe – like they recognized him. “Any of you know a guy named Kevin Flynn?”

The ground suddenly plunged beneath them, the guy and lady to either side of Alan grabbing at his arms as he wobbled from the force. They fell for what felt like the height of Encom Tower, the wind battering Alan’s ears as his stomach hovered in the back of his throat.

When they settled on a new floor, Alan leaned over, pressed his hands to his knees, and breathed deep, groaning as he wished for some Dramamine. The lady pressed a hand to his shoulder. “Yes, we still believe in the Creator,” she said. Alan looked up at her, confused and uneasy with the connotation.

The guy on his other side mimicked the lady, adding, “We are honored to fight with you unto the end, Tron.”

Tron? Alan straightened, but couldn’t find his voice to protest, or even question. Still feeling a little dizzy, he swallowed and nodded instead.

Three women in striking white suites came and led the others away, the youngest guy shouting, “Long live the Users!” just before he disappeared into the darkness. Alone, Alan stayed stuck, waiting and wondering what the hell was going on for a few long moments before the floor fell again.

It wasn’t nearly as long or as rough this time – more like an elevator than dropping off a cliff face – but the new floor didn’t look any different from the first when he stopped again.

Four women in white came out this time. They stripped him of his clothes, replacing them with armor that glowed white when it turned on. He sensed one separate from the group, and turned to watch her grab a Frisbee and return.

“This is your Identity Disk,” she said, looking Alan straight in the eye.

“Everything you do or learn will be imprinted on this Disk,” another woman said.

“If you lose your Disk or fail to follow commands,” a third continued, “you will be subject to immediate deresolution.”

The Disk clicked onto his back, and Alan gasped, shivering a little as his mind expanded into the new space. He bowed his head and exhaled, body calming exponentially.

“ . . . Proceed to Games.”

Alan’s head jerked up. “Wait, what?” he asked. The women began to retreat. “What about games?” They kept walking. “What am I supposed to do?” Alan shouted.

A blond one paused; turned back to look at him. “Survive,” she said ominously, and melted away.

A tunnel of light appeared, and Alan’s shackles slipped off his feet. At a loss for anything else to do, he walked into it.

A cheering crowd greeted his ears as his eyes adjusted. Something surged under Alan’s feet, and he looked down . . . then wished he hadn’t as the ground fell away from the square he was standing on. It didn’t go very high – thank God – but it was enough to leave him feeling a little queasy again. He hated heights; could barely stand his office window on some days. Why, oh why had he come to a place that was apparently obsessed with them?

Four more squares holding programs in red armor rose around him as a lady’s voice declared Disc Wars. The one in front of Alan started some elaborate twisting-turning-flipping routine, and he looked at the guys to either side, watching one, then the other pull their Disks from their backs and turn them on.

A strange buzzing sound approached from behind him, and Alan instinctively dropped to his belly. A Disk sliced through the air where his chest had been and slammed into the showoff, shattering him into glass as the crowd che- –

Wait.

Glass?

Alan’s mind flashed back to the glass in the street outside the arcade, and he swallowed in a suddenly too-dry throat.

Another buzzing caught his ears. He jerked aside just as another Disk gouged the floor beside him and bounced away. Alan scramble back onto his feet, grabbed the third Disk before it could hit him, and barely noticed the sting as he flung it at the guy behind him just before the program’s Disk returned to him.

His square disintegrating under his feet – and the last two programs temporarily unarmed – Alan took a risk and jumped for one of the empty squares.

He didn’t make it.

He landed on another square maybe ten feet below, not six inches behind another masked man in red. They stared at each other for a breathless heartbeat, then the program lashed out. Alan blocked the swinging Disk and shoved back-back-back, and almost fell with the program as he went over the edge. Alan’s arms pin-wheeled a couple times before he caught his balance and staggered back to the square’s center, then he took a knee – partly to catch his breath, partly to avoid another Disk flying over his head – and nudged his glasses back up his nose as he surveyed his new situation.

A green-lit program was holding her own against the other three reds, twisting and blocking and dodging as easy as breathing. She could only keep two at a time in her sight, though, and Alan finally pulled his Disk from his back, a helmet sliding over his head as he debated on which side-program to go for first.

A Disk came at him from above, and Alan cursed as he dodged it, remembering the two programs he’d left behind. He couldn’t do anything about it from this angle, though, so he threw his Disk at a program with its back turned to him.

It hit, and the strike apparently triggered something in the game, because Alan’s square started to move toward the lady program as the two upstairs came down. About halfway there the lady whirled to face him with a snarl, and Alan flinched back, holding his hands out. “Whoa, easy. It’s me!”

“Tron,” she answered, her Disk lowering a touch. She glanced at his hands, and an odd expression passed over her features. “You’re bleeding.”

He looked. “Huh.” He flexed his hand, studying it as more blood oozed out of the cut on his palm. Then he shrugged. “I’ll live.”

Their squares merged and suddenly the game was back on as a Disk zinged between them. Almost like it was choreographed, their backs met in the center, each staring down two new enemies as Alan’s Disk returned to him.

~ ~ ~ ~

He stops in a narrow space between buildings, gasping for breath. He looks back the way he’d come, and is relieved to see a lack of pursuit. He edges over and peeks around a corner – then jerks back and presses against a wall before the new wave of Sentries can spot him. He returns to the dark safety of the alley; crouches and dims his circuits as much as he can to avoid detection while his mind scrambles for the next step.

He’s a marked Program; caught fighting for the Resistance and condemned to play Games until he drerzzed. Having escaped, he will be derezzed upon recapture.

He can’t expose Zuse’s sympathies by walking into his club, but he had to get the news out. Flynn needed to know.

A couple voices rise in the crowd, arguing, distracting his attention for a moment, and a plan begins to form. He plays with it, twisting and turning it in his mind, calculating his odds of success; of survival.

It doesn’t look good, but he doesn’t have any other options. He’ll have to pray that it’s enough.

He nods to himself, then creeps back toward the city market and merges into the crowd using a small gaggle of drunks as cover. When they pass two Sentries without raising an alarm, he darts to the Square’s center and takes a deep breath.

“Tron Lives!” he shouts. Several Programs stop what they’re doing and look at him. “Tron Lives! Tron Lives! Tron Li- – ”

A beam katana slowly exits his throat, and the watching Programs hastily return to their chores as he collapses, clutching his throat as he fights his deresolution.

He’ll live, but he’ll never speak again.

Chapter Text

Chapter 4

“There” turned out to be a garage hidden in a mountain. Ram slowed down and dropped the bubble when they got inside.

“Ram! Report?” a program called as he popped out from a light car. What’re those called? Daddy’s never mentioned them.

They rolled to a stop. “Isos recovered, but Yori’s dead. The Arcade site might be compromised. What’re you doing down here, Shaddox?”

“We overheard a report after you left. Something about programs chasing Isos and meeting Tron somewhere near the arcade. A Recognizer was diverted to investigate, so . . .” The program shrugged and smiled wryly. “We were gonna come to your rescue.”

Ram smirked back. “Sorry to disappoint.”

Shaddox snorted and waved a hand at him. “Better get up there. He won’t believe you’re fine until he sees it himself.”

Ram waved back at him, and they drove on until a large square lit up beneath them and started to rise on its own. Ram lifted Sam off the lightcycle and dismounted, scooping up its glowsick after the ‘cycle shrunk. He shook his head at Quorra when she tried to give back her stick. “No, keep it,” he said. “You might need it later.”

“We’re not driving anymore,” Sam said, crossing his arms and scowling as hard as he could. “Where are you taking us, and why are we running?”

“We’re going up to the command center of the Resistance,” Ram said, giving Sam another weird look. “And we ran because the guards in that Recognizer would have killed you if they found us.”

They hit the top floor, and Ram told them to stay put before disappearing into the crowd. Quorra pulled Sam close, keeping an arm around his shoulders as they looked around.

“30-56, ninety-nine are correct – ”

“The three music players are creating a song in memory of – ”

“ –on Lives! Tron Lives! Tron Li- ”

“Damnit, Ram needs help now!” Sam zeroed in on that voice, his body edging away until Quorra’s arm fell. “Everything else has to wait until –”

“Daddy!” He ran, unaware of the startled and confused gazes that followed him, and leapt into his father’s surprised arms.

Sam held on tight, fighting back tears as Flynn stroked his hair and fell to his knees whispering, “Sam . . .Sammy.” Eventually Flynn pulled him away. “Sam, kiddo . . . how the hell did you get here?”

“I found him hiding in the Arcade with an Iso,” Ram said, stepping out of the crowd with Quorra at his side. “He called me ‘Uncle,’ but the Recognizer came before he could tell me his name.”

“Tron was probably fighting them out front,” Quorra suddenly piped up. “Maybe we could’ve – ”

“No,” Ram countered, “Whoever – whatever it was – it wasn’t an ally of ours, and it was right to run – ”

“Sam,” Flynn said, ignoring the debate and looking to his son instead, “How’d you get in here in the first place, man?”

“Me ‘n’ Uncle Alan were gonna play TRON at the arcade,” Sam said. Flynn’s breath caught in his throat. “But TRON wouldn’t work, and Uncle Alan found a door behind it, and we found a secret room, and – and.” Sam paused, unsure how to describe it. “I dunno what happened next. One minute I was messin’ with the computer, then a bright light ‘n’ a weird tingly feeling, and Uncle Alan was holding me on the floor and I needed to pee.”

Flynn snorted faintly, his face pale. “Did Alan come with you guys?”

“No,” Sam said, his bottom lip threatening to stick out again. “Unc- – Ram didn’t let me look for him when that big red thing came down. Was that a Recognizer?”

“Are Alan and Uncle Alan the same thing?” Quorra asked. “I bet Tron could’ve helped us – ”

“No,” Flynn said, and stood up. “He couldn’t.” He looked around, finally noticing the silence surrounding them. “Back to work, guys,” he ordered absently, and the other programs scattered back to their tasks.

“ – Lives! Tron Lives! Tron – ”

“Flynn? What is it?” Ram asked when Flynn winced.

Flynn pulled Sam in close again and ruffled his hair before answering, “Alan Bradley is Tron’s Creator.”

Ram shook his head a little, confused.

“Is that why you made TRON look like Uncle Alan?” Sam asked, looking up at his father.

Flynn’s mouth twitched, but he didn’t stop staring at Ram. Sam looked at Quorra, who shrugged back, equally lost in the conversation.

“So he looks – ” Ram’s eyes widened. “But – he’s a User! Surely he can’t – surely you don’t think Clu could – ”

“I’d rather not find out,” Flynn said, his voice grim.

Chapter Text

Chapter 5

Three, maybe four rounds later, their square fell into the ground again. At least ten reds still surrounded them, but Alan and Shara had developed a rhythm that eliminated half of ‘em within a couple minutes. Alan grinned to himself as they closed in on the remainder, trying not to feel too cocky. (It hadn’t worked out for him the last time.)

Shara knocked out two more as Alan’s Disk rebounded from a third kill, and they shared a breathless smirk just before a new noise growled a bass note under the crowd’s roar. Shara’s smirk died on her lips, a soft ‘Oh, no,’ replacing it as portions of the floor flipped over and motor- - no, Lightcycles – came out and began circling them.

Alan sighed hard. “They really don’t want us surviving this, do they?”

“If Clu can’t convert us, he has us fight to deresolution.”

“Clu?” Alan asked, turning as the name pinged in his tired memory. “As in the System – ”

“Down!” Shara tackled him, an enemy Disk slicing into one of her arms as they fell in a tangle of limbs. Alan threw his Disk at their attacker, shattering him (it? He didn’t really care) as he struggled to sit up in a growing puddle of glass shards.

Shara was disintegrating, eating up from her damaged arm.

The crowd cheered. A steady Nonono rolled through his mind as he pressed a hand against the wound, uselessly trying to staunch the flow. He didn’t realize he was saying it aloud until Shara’s other hand came up to stroke his cheek.

“It has been an honor to fight for you,” she said, her voice turning static-y, “User.”

A heartbeat later, she was gone. Gone with nothing but a small pool of pale green glass pebbles lying on the black floor to claim that another person had died in Alan’s place.

The noise surrounding him was little more than a dull echo in his ears as he scooped up some of the pebbles and gripped them tightly in his fists. They stung against his cut palm, but that only made him clench harder. . . .

Something thrummed close by, but Alan ignored it as a strange, icy-warm tingle shot through his palm and up his arm. He could almost feel it stop and curl up somewhere in the back of his mind. He opened his hand, expecting shards to come tumbling out.

And some did. But not enough to disguise the sudden lack of a bloodied cut, or the faintly green tinge in the flickering light of his armor.

Shara?

A sharp pain lanced through his back before an answer could come, and with an enraged howl he whirled around and hurled the other handful of shards at the guard who’d poked him.

The shards shouldn’t’ve done anything beyond obscuring the guard’s vision for a second or two, then harmlessly bounce off the guard’s armor before returning to the ground.

But the guard dropped its stick (staff?) and stumbled backwards as it began to disintegrate under a dozen-or-more shards that somehow pierced through its armor. Alan took a couple quick steps forward and kicked it, sending it to a shattering, scattered death on the floor.

He snarled at the streak of glass, barely aware of the utter silence that suddenly surrounded him.

“I-Identify yourself, Program,” someone stuttered over the loud speaker.

The voice jerked Alan back into the wider world, and he turned, looking for the most likely place for the voice to come from.

The guards behind him skittered away uneasily, like they were afraid of him.

As they should be, he thought darkly, feeling one corner of his mouth curl up.

“Identify!” a new, angrier voice demanded over the line, and There. The big, gold-lined rectangle sitting at the center-top of the arena stands.

Alan straightened into what Flynn had once called his Screw you . . . Sir stance, and replied, “User. Alan-One.”

The crowd might’ve started murmuring a moment after that, but another thought had already slammed into Alan’s mind by then:

Where the hell did my Disk go?

*  *  *  *  *

Alan took some slow, deep breaths on the elevator ride up, trying to calm down after the adrenaline rush. The nerves behind dealing with an open-air elevator helped distract him a little, but every time a guard shifted, he tensed up again. When it stopped, they walked him through a lobby-like area to another set of doors and pushed him in.

At a glance the room seemed barren, except for the empty chair and small table sitting in front of the window opening to the Arena. Without any other guidance, Alan headed for it. Then an odd grinding sound caught at his ears. Barely a moment later, he was kneeling next to a program that was curled up on the floor and flickering a strange red-orange color as its . . . voice? tried to find an outlet.

Alan’s seething anger melted completely as he looked over the program, concern taking its place. Something was clearly damaged or broken, but it somehow wasn’t serious enough to kill the program. Why was it lying here, instead of getting fixed? Or was there no place for programs on the Grid to be fixed?

But then, this was Flynn’s world. And Flynn was a giant twelve-year-old who rarely managed to think beyond his own immediate bubble on a good day, even if he had someone around to regularly pop said bubble.

Flynn’s probably never thought enough ahead to worry about helping damaged programs heal, Alan thought.

Sighing to himself as that old, familiar frustration developed a new facet, Alan laid a hand on the program’s shoulder –

The program suddenly jumped or flipped or something, and started clawing at Alan like a panicked cat trying to escape a filled bathtub.

“Woah, easy – Easy! I’m not gonna hurt you.” Alan somehow managed to grab both of the program’s wrists and press them back into its chest. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

The program stilled, the grinding sound exacerbated by the activity. It trembled under Alan’s grip as though expecting . . . punishment?

For what? Being startled?

Alan pulled one hand away, reaching to push his glasses back up, only to run into the cover of his helmet instead. He huffed at himself as he eased away. “Sorry to scare you, man. Just wanted to know if you were okay.”

A faint “You . . .” came through the grinding sound, the program reaching for Alan’s face.

There was something . . . childlike in the gesture, and Alan leaned his cheek into the program’s fingers. “Hi.”

“Nevermind Rinzler,” a familiar voice blithely told him over a faint swooshing sound. The program snatched its hand back and resumed trembling as the voice continued, “He’s been having trouble integrating some upgrades.”

Anger flashed through Alan’s body, whiting out his vision. He heard the program (Rinzler?) whimper as he turned around, muttering, “Stupid, selfish sonnuva- ” as he charged and slammed his fist into his best friend’s face.

Flynn staggered back under the blow, his outstretched arms curling back in to catch his balance as Alan shouted, “I thought you’d grown out of this! You can’t abandon Encom – abandon Sam – to pretend you’re some benevolent God of a made-up kingdom! Do you have any idea what kind of damage you’ve do- – ”

The alien look of murderous rage on Flynn’s face made Alan pause; note the strange yellow coloring on the other man’s armor, the weirdly cut-but-unbloodied lip . . . He backed up a step. “You’re not Kevin Flynn.”

“No,” the doppelganger said, then shoved its hand against Alan’s chest. Energy blasted through Alan for one horrific moment before he managed to stumble away from the contact and drop to one knee, gasping for air. He sensed more than saw the doppelganger’s approach before it said, “I’m Clu,” and kicked him into unconsciousness. . . .

*  *  *  *  *

He came to to someone whimpering and . . . petting him? The grinding noise, at least, quickly reminded him where he was. And the accompanying pain told him there was absolutely no chance that this wasn’t some extra-wacky dream he was having, either.

Bummer.

He tangled the fingers of one hand with Rinzler’s, trying to let him know Alan was awake without any possible enemies noticing.

Rinzler paused, then let out a particularly loud whine. (So much for that . . .)

“Oh, shut up!” their captor said from some distance away. “If he was dead, he wouldn’t be breathing. You know that.”

Alan went still, but when Clu didn’t come any closer or say anything else, he took the risk of opening his eyes. Rinzler had gone still and quiet over him, and Alan finally got a face-to-face – well, face-to-helmet – look at the program.

The little T of boxes at Rinzler’s throat was flickering even worse than before between red-orange and some brighter color. The grinding sound had mostly faded – though whether it was because of Clu’s annoyance, or because Alan was awake again was up for debate.

Alan gave his reflection a small smile, hoping to give the program some degree of encouragement. It turned into a grimace as he rolled to his side to sit up – he must not’ve been out long. His whole body still felt achy and twitchy from whatever Clu had done to him. He managed to hold back the grunt, at least, but stopped to catch his breath when he got to his knees. Rinzler leaned toward him with a soft, almost questioning purr of sound. Alan patted his shoulder, offering another smile before he pushed to his feet. “So this is the Great Clu, huh?” he asked, voice raspy like he’d been screaming for hours. “Killer of kids, Destroyer of any program who doesn’t agree with him.”

Clu went still where he was sitting sideways on the chair. He’d been fiddling with something in his lap, and it’s light still played over his features in a grotesque simile of Flynn’s cheerful goofball expression.

How in the world did Alan mistake this monster for his friend earlier?

“Some Isometric Algorithms may look like children,” Clu said, then tilted his head. “And perhaps that is part of why Flynn was so taken by them . . . ” He shook it off. “But they are a blight and corruption of the System, as all Programs can see.” He said as he turned off the light and flung his leg from off the chair arm back to the floor. He stood up and advanced toward them as he continued, a Disk loosely grasped in one hand, “It is my duty as System Administrator to protect the Programs under my care, even if the Creator thinks his pets are better than – ”

They all stopped – all, because at some point, Rinzler had imposed himself over half of Alan’s body and shuffled them backwards as Clu walked towards them. Clu scowled, grip tightening on the Disk as Rinzler hunched further down onto himself under their gazes. Alan’s own hand crept up to Rinzler’s outer hip, ready to shield the program if Clu attacked.

He’d had enough people dying to protect him today.

Just as Clu opened his mouth to snarl something, a new door opened with a soft swoosh. “Luminary,” a strange looking program said as it stepped through. It hesitated, obviously sensing the tension in the air as it glanced between them.

“What, Jarvis?”

“B-by your word, Sir.”

Quick as a light switch, the anger snapped off of Clu’s face, an unnerving glee taking its place. He took a couple eager steps toward Jarvis . . . then stopped. “You want your Disk back or not?” he asked, mockingly holding it out to Alan before pushing it at Rinzler. “Or maybe your new sweetheart would like to hold it for you.”

Rinzler cringed back, clearly not wanting to have any contact with the Disk. Alan took it just so Clu wouldn’t be able to keep picking on the other program.

“How do I know it’s mine, not some trick – ”

Clu snorted, rolled his eyes, and sneered, “Rinzler, be a good little slave and teach your new master a few tricks,” he grinned. “Maybe it’ll give him a fighting chance.” And with that, he walked out the door.

“James Bond, you are not,” Alan said, more insulted on Rinzler’s behalf than his own.

A brief pause in the grinding noise indicated Rinzler’s . . .  surprise? amusement? at Alan’s words as the doors hissed closed.

“Is there a way to tell?” Alan asked, holding the Disk gingerly between his hands. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, but if there’s a way you could show me – ”

Rinzler took Alan’s Disk and . . . pushed buttons, maybe, and brought out a column of light from the Disk’s center that then shaped itself into a code-filled bust of Alan.

“Woah.”

Rinzler presented it back to him, and he took it with an uneasy reverence, mind buzzing with new questions. Could dropping it like this hurt or destroy him? Can any program do this with another’s Disk?

Making sure he had a firm grip on it with one hand, Alan raised the other to stop the gentle spin. Code rose to meet his fingertips, almost in greeting; then, with a flick of his fingers, Alan somehow . . . zoomed into the “shoulder” area to discover a small, jagged break in the code exactly where his actual shoulder had been aching for the last several hours. On a hunch, he pinched it back together, and with a small poof of dust, the code was whole again when he pulled his fingers away.

“Huh. I guess this is how you rewrite a program from inside the Grid.”

He sensed more than saw Rinzler flinch away from him.

Alan instinctively closed down and depowered his Disk, his helmet finally (finally!) coming down as he took in the program.

“I’m Alan Bradley, by the way,” he said after a moment, raking a hand through his hair.

Rinzler’s shoulders relaxed a touch, the grinding sound becoming a purr as he nodded.

A corner of Alan’s mouth pulled up. “Guess you knew that already.”

Rinzler shrugged, weight shifting as a guardedness eased from his stance.

Fireworks went off outside, the crowd beginning to cheer as a male voice boomed.

“I get the sense that you n’ Clu aren’t really friends,” Alan said, eyeing the window.

The purr became a growl, making Alan laugh as he looked back to the program. Then he stilled.

“Would you know anything about the guy who made him? Do you know Kevin Fly- – ”

“User!”

Lightning-quick, Rinzler jumped into a fighting stance in front of Alan, a Disk in each hand as he stared down the guard –

(Wait. Two Disks? Rinzler must be massively old or massively important to the Grid as-a-whole to require so much space. No wonder he was having trouble with Clu’s “upgrades” – if the program was anything like his maker, then he’d probably just slapped on changes without stopping to work through how to fully integrate them into the existing system.)

Something niggled at the back of Alan’s mind, but he ignored it as the guard advanced on Rinzler like he was a threat.

“You should know better than to startle a warrior,” Alan told the guard, pressing a hand to Rinzler’s shoulder as he stepped in between the two. Rinzler whined a complaint, but melted back into a more relaxed stance as Alan looked him over.

“The Luminary demands your presence –”

“So the ‘Luminary’ needs to learn his manners, too.” Alan rolled his eyes at the guard. “I am somehow unsurprised at this revelation.” (A small break in the grinding clearly showed Rinzler’s amusement this time.)

“Now –”

A raised eyebrow was all Alan needed to convince the guard he could wait a bit, too.

“Listen,” he said, turning back to Rinzler. “You don’t owe me anything, but I have a favor to ask of you.”

Rinzler went completely silent; straightened to his full height like a soldier at parade rest.

Wow, we’re pretty much the same size, Alan thought, then squeezed the program’s shoulder. “Stop trying to protect me.”

Rinzler jerked. “I . . . fight for –”

“Fight for yourself first.” Alan glanced at the guard, then edged a little closer. “I’m gonna get us out of here, but I’m going to need help to sort out this mess, and that means I need you alive. I don’t know how long it’ll take either, so I need you to stop jumping to my defense every time someone looks at me funny.

“Can you do that for me?” Alan asked, staring at his reflection and wishing he knew for certain that he was looking the program in the eye. “Can you stay alive and wait for me to come back?”

Rinzler seemed to . . . deflate, but he nodded.

“Thank you.”

He released Rinzler’s shoulder and let the guard herd him through the door and out to whatever his next stop would be. With barely a second’s thought, he reached up to put his Disk back in its dock –

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

He tries to yell a warning, but it only comes out as a half-strangled yowl as the door closes again on his prison. He falls to his knees, trembling with a new grief and terror.

He has failed a User – his User.

The SysAdmin could clearly tamper with a User’s Disk. But to what effect?

Would Alan1 even exist anymore, after this?

Chapter Text

Chapter 6

Alan’s Disk locked into place and his vision went – -- sideways. He staggered a little, even leaned on the guard at his side – who promptly shoved him off like he had cooties or something. He caught his balance as they stepped onto – oh goody, a set of stairs. At least they had railings to hold onto.

Alan took a few deep breaths on the way down, trying to calm his roiling stomach as pressure built behind his eyes.

What the hell? He’d been fine ten seconds ago –

Until he’d put his Disk away. A Disk that Clu had been playing with while he’d been unconscious.

Could a program reprogram a User?

A surge of anger brought a surge of light to his circuits, which somehow calmed his stomach but ignited his migraine.

Ugh. Great.

The guard behind him gave him a shove, and he stumbled down the last couple steps as nausea threatened a return.

“Oh, thank you ever so much for joining us, User,” the strange-looking program – Jarvis? Jarvis – sneered at him over the loudspeaker, the crowd adding jeers and mockery to it in response.

Alan swayed a little on his feet, the racket not helping his head at all. Then he took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders as he stared Jarvis down. Why should the opinion of a faceless mob be important to him?

It only took a few heartbeats for Jarvis to get twitchy, and a couple more for a helmeted Clu to raise his hand and silence the crowd.

Alan bit back a smirk; no point in crowing over such a tiny victory in a useless battle. He’d probably need the energy to deal with whatever childishness Clu was building up to, anyway.

“Users seem to think we need them to function,” Clu mused into the quiet. He turned toward Alan, looked him up and down, and growled, “Shall we test that theory?”

A large portion of the crowd shouted its agreement. The rest seemed more hesitant, like things had gone off script and they weren’t sure about what would happen next.

Alan opened his mouth to ask – probably far too sarcastically – if he was getting a choice in the matter –

“Perhaps,” Jarvis piped up, “the challenge of the Grid?”

. . . And they were back on script, if the crowd’s answering roar was any indication. Alan closed his mouth and sighed through his nose instead. At least his migraine was starting to ease. Whatever Clu had tried to do to him hadn’t managed to stick for long. He closed his eyes, bowed his head, and took another deep breath, anchoring himself into his own skin again.

A pleasant thrumming sensation rolls under his feet; tingles in his fingertips. He can almost see a willow-the-wisp of green shimmering through his inner landscape, and he’s comforted that maybe a piece of Shara will survive through him –

A throat cleared, jolting him out of . . . whatever that was, and Alan opened his eyes to an open box under his nose. One padded slot was already empty, so Alan took the sleek black baton from the other slot. “What’s this supposed to be?” he muttered to himself, idly flipping the baton to inspect each of the glowing ends. “Some kinda lightsaber?”

“I’ll give you a hint,” Jarvis offered, voice laced with scorn, “No.”

The crowd laughed, and Alan resisted rolling his eyes at them. He wasn’t here for their entertainment.

“Prepare for: Lightcycle Battle,” an automated announcer called, and Alan struggled to not deflate instantly.  One of Flynn’s favorite games, and Alan had yet to adjust to the disconnect between his positioning in front of the screen and what was supposedly going on behind . . .

But there’s no screen here, Alan realized as Clu strutted away. And between the three of them – Flynn, Roy, and himself – Alan had always been the most confident driver of their Ducatis back home. Nothing fancier than speeding and the occasional sharp turn, really, but . . . maybe he’ll have a better chance in this than what Clu expects.

“User,” someone called. Alan turned, just as a quartet of blue and green programs gathered around him. A blue one bowed his head and asked, “What would you have us do?”

“Not make me the boss, for one thing,” Alan quipped, startling them into looking directly at him. “Look, I’ve only been here a few hours. I barely know anything about – ”

“Watch it!” Lightcycles zoomed through the group, flinging two to the ground while the other two – another green lady and a tall blue guy – sandwiched Alan between them.

The first blue guy scrambled up to his feet and shouted, “Use the levels. Protect the User. GO!” Then he dashed off and –

Oh.

“So that’s what the baton’s for,” Alan murmured, watching the new blue lightcycle circle ‘round and charge off toward Clu’s group, a green ‘cycle not far behind.

“User, quickly,” the green lady said softly, then she and tall-blue started running.

A brief hesitation, and Alan followed, long legs eating up the distance separating them. A strange instinct whispered Now, and Alan jumped, broke the baton in two, and felt a lightcycle build itself around him.

The crowd cheered as he landed, and he screeched to a stop and looked back to where they came, fully expecting to see two new piles of glass scattered in the arena.

Clu’s ship had left the field wide open, so it was easy to see the other blue and green ‘cycles still harassing Clu’s group in the distance.

Relieved, Alan glanced around, getting a general lay of the land before revving his lightcycle and heading for the pair, his bodyguards flanking him. A slight darkness in the middle-ground had Alan look up and realize that Clu’s ship was still hovering over the center of the field.

Like bringing a gun to a knife fight, Clu’s determined to win, even if he has to cheat to do it, Alan thought.

Alan rolled to a stop again as he stared up at the ship, then he came to a decision. “Blue Leader, this is Blue Five. Do you read?” Tall-blue winced next to him.

“We don’t have private coms, User. Everyone can read you,” the leader’s voice answered.

Another way for Clu to cheat. No wonder tall-blue winced.

Alan pushed on, anyway. “Listen, this fight’s between Clu and me. This whole teams thing is just to create drama.”

“Agreed. And?”

And? Alan almost choked, surprised at the leader’s casualness. “And I’d rather you guys spend your energy on getting out of here, not on being cannon fodder for me.” What the hell have you been teaching your programs, Flynn?

“Tron would have our Disks if we abandoned a User,” someone said, “let alone –”

“And what would he do for ignoring a User’s orders?” Alan shot back.

“All I’m hearing are suggestions,” Blue Leader said, then cut the line.

The crowd laughed and, once he got over the surprise of being ignored, Alan couldn’t help smiling a little himself. Much as he didn’t want more deaths on his conscience, he was relieved that they were at least choosing this route.

Blue Leader and his green Second broke off from Clu’s group to rejoin them near the middle of the arena. It took a minute for them to figure out who went where – Alan refused to take point, since he didn’t know yet how the “game” would be played from this angle – then Clu’s group charged at them again.

And then the game was on, apparently. The green Second dropped back with Alan and the green lady, while tall-blue charged ahead and split off from the group with Blue Leader. They went down a ramp and disappeared under the floor. Alan felt a slight tug-and-drag on the back of his ‘cycle, and a glance back revealed a bright white ribbon now trailing behind him.

“I’ll follow your lead,” he shouted to green Second, who nodded and lead them into a turn. . . .

*  *  *  *  *

Green lady was the first one they lost, followed shortly thereafter by the two blues, who at least managed to pull a couple of Clu’s team down with them.

Alan and green Second – Green Leader, now? – squeezed a third red into crashing between their light ribbons, only to turn and discover that Clu had gained a new recruit. Was there no end to Clu’s cheating?

They rolled to a stop watching.

“Please,” Alan said as the new trio turned to bear down on them, “If there’s any chance of getting outta here, take it. There’s no point in wasting your life to protect me.”

Green Leader chuckled humorlessly. “You sound like Tron,” he said, a smile tugging at his lips. He looked up at Clu’s ship, almost as though he was fighting back tears. “If only he had lived to meet you . . .” His eyes closed, his circuits brightening little, before looking back to Alan. “I never much liked Flynn, even before the Isos showed up. But Tron . . .” he shook his head. “Every system needs a Tron.” He took a deep breath, then pressed a fist to his chest and nodded a bow. “It is my honor, Alan1.”

The next thing Alan knew, Green Leader was charging his lightcycle at Clu’s left guard, then somehow jumping off just before contact to tackle the right guard to the floor, his sheer momentum shattering all three to pieces.

The crowd gasped, as though finally realizing the brutality of this “game,” but Clu didn’t so much as glance back to check on his team. His only acknowledgement of any change was to pull his own Disk from his back like he was preparing to deliver the killing blow.

No. That’s it, Alan thought, getting off his lightcycle. He picked its baton off the ground and clicked it onto his thigh as his helmet came down. I’m not playing anymore. His thumb pushed a button on the side as he started walking towards Clu.

“What exactly am I on trial for, anyway?” he asked, voice echoing through the speakers – then ducked and rolled away from Clu’s Disk as the bloodthirsty crowd cheered. “I dropped into your world by complete accident a handful of hours ago,” he said, watching Clu use his Disk to help turn his lightcycle faster. “I protected a child; helped a stranger; asked about a friend.” He ducked again, the crowd considerably quieter this time as they listened to him. “If these things are illegal, then what’ll be next? Crossing the street?” Another swipe/duck. “Having an opinion?” On the fourth round, Alan grabbed and twisted, flinging Clu off his lightcycle. “Making a choice?” he asked as Clu rolled to a stop, his lightcycle crashing somewhere behind Alan.

“I’m not your enemy,” Alan said, walking empty-handed toward Clu. “I don’t want to be your enemy.” He nudged Clu’s Disk out of easy reach with a foot before kneeling next to him. “Why are you so determined to make me one?”

Silence.

Clu snarled breathlessly, but otherwise didn’t answer.

Alan sighed, disappointed, though he hadn’t really expected for Clu to articulate himself very well in the heat of the moment – like maker, like program – so instead he stood and walked away from Clu to address their audience. “I’ve had enough carnage for the day. I’d like to leave now.”

He waited while they stared at him; as they murmured amongst themselves. Then cringed as someone started to chant, “User, User, User,” and others caught on, volume and rhythm growing.

“U-ser! U-ser! U-ser!”

He was kinda relieved to see the red-clad guards coming into the arena, even if they were pointing their weapons at him. The crowd booed their displeasure, but Alan lifted his hands and went to meet them –

- someone shrieked –

- glass tinkled from somewhere above –

 - and suddenly Alan was knocked to the ground, Rinzler using his own Disks to block one about to bury itself in Alan’s back as glass rained down around them.

The Disk ricochet back to its owner. “Out of my way, Rinzler,” Clu growled.

Rinzler lowered his Disks, a soft “No,” slipping through the grind of his voice as he stood up.

After a startled moment, Alan scrambled up onto his own feet and reached for Rinzler’s shoulder –

 “Resist!” someone shouted from the stands –

And all hell broke loose.

Rinzler and Clu charged at each other

            Guards grabbed Alan and started dragging him away

Disks and programs alike flung themselves into the arena in an every-man-for-himself style brawl.

It didn’t take much for Alan to get away from the guards, but the melee quickly disoriented him anyway. He pushed, punched, and dodged his way back to where he thought Clu and Rinzler should be, only to find a mass of strangers wrestling in a growing pile of glass.

“Rinzler!” he called.

A strangled scream answered from his left. The brawl parted just enough for Alan to see Clu sitting on Rinzler, one hand blasting energy through the writhing program.

He charged; heard Clu call Rinzler a stupid bit just before he tackled the program off his friend. He let a couple punches fly, then pressed both hands to Clu’s chest and shoved power into the program, unaware and not really caring how it might affect him.

A moment later, he was off of Clu and pulling a still-twitching Rinzler from the ground. “Hey, buddy, time to go. Can you walk?” he babbled.

Rinzler nodded weakly, leaning hard against Alan as he draped the program’s arm over his shoulder. They stumbled their way through the crowd for about a dozen steps when Rinzler suddenly stiffened, whirled back the way they came, flung out his other arm, and yanked a Disk out of Jarvis’s grip from several feet away. The other program meeped and scurried away as Rinzler clutched the Disk to his chest.

His Disk.

Oh. “Got ‘em both, now?” Alan asked.

Rinzler nodded again, took a deep breath, then took the lead, weaving through the mess of programs like he was idly dodging rain puddles after a storm.

Then they were out of the mob and facing a blank piece of the arena’s wall. Alan glanced behind them, checking to see if anyone was following or watching them. A tug on his arm, and Alan turned back to see Rinzler standing in a doorway.

“That’s one well-hidden door,” Alan muttered, then followed Rinzler through.

*  *  *  *  *

Rinzler lead Alan into an armory, where he turned into a whirlwind. First, he stuck something onto each of their chests, and activated them. A bubble of light snapped up around Alan, then slowly dissipated until only a faint geometric pattern lingered in his vision.

A shield of some kind?

By the time he could see Rinzler clearly again, the program had clicked on about half a dozen batons, and was rummaging through a drawer of glowing balls and putting them in a bag.

“I need to get back to the arcade,” Alan said as Rinzler approached him with the bag and another handful of batons. “I left a couple kids in there when Clu’s flunkies grabbed me. The girl might have a fighting chance, but Sam doesn’t have a clue what’s going on.”

Rinzler went still, staring Alan down as the grinding sound went silent. Then he seemed to take another deep breath, and nodded, dropping the bag of balls and stripping himself of batons again.

“You don’t have to come with me,” Alan protested as Rinzler flicked one baton on to reveal a lightsaber-like weapon with a double blade and gave it a twirl. Rinzler ignored him, shut the baton off and pressed it onto Alan’s upper left arm. “Just point me in the right direction, I’ll be able to find my way – ” Rinzler cracked open another baton, and Alan caught a flash of something with wings before it closed again. “Rinzler, you’ve done enough! You don’t need to – ”

Alan’s breath caught as Rinzler shoved him into a wall and pressed a baton across his throat. “Mine,” he whispered through the grind, fingers of his other hand dancing out a pattern high on Alan’s sternum before he darted to the other side of the room.

Alan stayed against the wall for a moment, heart pounding from belated adrenaline and growing confusion as he studied the program. Why would a program, tortured by the doppelganger of another User, be so eager to help and protect a stranger to the system? Why would Rinzler want to run the risk of getting caught again, even when Alan encouraged him to go his own way?

Was it another Tron thing? Why would so many programs hold a character in a game so highly, anyway?

He didn’t get it, but it wasn’t up to him, either. “You’re right. It’s your choice,” Alan said with a sigh. “I’m sorry.”

Rinzler twitched, like he disagreed, but then he straightened up and got back to work supplying them.

The baton with wings was pressed onto Alan’s right thigh, then Rinzler grabbed a handful of necklaces, put them in a pouch, and put that on Alan’s left hip. Then he stepped back to look Alan over.

“You’re arming yourself too, right?” Alan asked.

Rinzler nodded, but first grabbed a handful of small sticks and broke one open, offering it to Alan. When Alan took it, Rinzler made a drink gesture, so he downed the glowing liquid inside.

Energy shot through him like a cool shower after a hot day’s work, melting away the tension and soreness. “Oh, wow,” Alan breathed, feeling a little drunk from just that little bit. Maybe this wasn’t such a nightmare after all. . . .

He felt Rinzler press another pouch to the back of his right hip, but by the time Alan opened his eyes again, Rinzler was on the other side of the room, clicking something onto his left ankle and swinging a black cloak around himself.

He approached Alan, offering a long coat with a hood. Alan shrugged into it, its inner edges glowing a soft white as it settled around him. Rinzler cinched it closed, conveniently hiding everything Alan was carrying, then pulled the hood over Alan’s head.

“Y’know,” Alan said, reaching up, “If we’re hiding in plain sight, you’d probably look less conspicuous without – ” Rinzler shied away, Alan’s fingertips just barely brushing against the glass of his helmet.

Okay, haven’t earned that much trust yet, Alan thought, biting back a wince. “Right,” he nodded, trying not to let it affect him as he went for the hood instead. “Guess the hood’ll have to be enough, then.” He flicked it up, the cloth masking the markings on Rinzler’s helmet, leaving only the faint, warped reflections of Alan’s coat lining and other bits of light in the room to show that Rinzler even had a head.

Rinzler . . . nodded? maybe? and curled into himself as he stepped away.

Crap, what’ve I done now? Alan wondered wildly, then Rinzler pressed a button and another door slid open. Rinzler’s hood tilted toward him in a well, what are you waiting for? gesture.

Alan took a deep breath and strode out of their sanctuary, Rinzler a half-step behind him as they merged into the milling crowds beyond.

Chapter Text

Chapter 7

Sam’s feet banged against the desk as he watched Daddy and Ram and that Shadow-guy argue and worry in circles about what to do next. Daddy wanted to run back into the city and rescue Uncle Alan right now, but Ram and Shadow-guy kept saying things like “It’s too dangerous,” and “Clu could’ve taken him anywhere, by now.”

Apparently, Clu had turned into a bad guy and killed Tron before Daddy could leave the Grid like usual last weekend. And then he started killing kids like Quorra ‘cause he thought they were poison. And if anyone argued with him, he would kill them too, so now they were all trapped here with no way out, and Uncle Alan looked like Tron, so he might already be dead too . . . .

The lady-program who was “babysitting” Sam sent him another glare as his banging kicked up again. He huffed and turned his back on her – on everything, really – curling into himself as he reached into his jacket and pulled out his closest friend . . . the friend he’ll never get to meet.

He bit his lip, eyes burning as his thumb hit the button to light up the TRON toy. “He fights for the Users,” he whispered to himself through a tight throat, wondering what’ll happen ne- –

“What’s that?”

Sam jolted so bad he almost dropped the toy. One of Ram’s hands got tangled in both of his while the other pressed against his back, steadying him. A moment later Sam hastily wiped away the tears that had escaped, embarrassed at being caught crying over a toy.

“It’s – uh – it’s a toy Daddy made, f-for the TRON game,” Sam stuttered through his gasps.

“Oh,” Ram said, voice soft. Then he pulled over an empty chair and sat down, asking, “May I see?”

Sam hesitated, eyeing him up. The last time he’d let someone look at one of his TRON toys, Tommy Birdwell wouldn’t give it back, then broke it and called Sam a baby when he got mad. But Ram wouldn’t do that, right? He was a grown-up – a friend of Daddy’s, even – he wouldn’t steal a kid’s toy.

With that uneasy logic, he handed TRON over.

Ram cradled the figure in his palms like it was a precious object of immense worth . . . then frowned. “I don’t understand,” he said. “Why would this make you sad?”

“It’s – push his belly button.”

It took a moment, but, “Oh,” Ram breathed as TRON’s lines were revealed. Then he grinned. “Tron would’ve hated this,” he laughed, the lines of his armor getting brighter as his dimples popped out. “Can you imagine? Little Tron’s grand adventures in the Big City,” he danced the toy between them like TRON was talking a walk; one of TRON’s arms moved down, almost like it was patting Ram’s finger. Ram gasped, his eyes going wide. “And the limbs move? Even better!”

Sam giggled, in spite of himself. Ram was kind of a goofball, like Uncle Roy –

“Ram! We’ve found –” the Shadow-guy jerked to a stop, apparently surprised to see Sam still in the command center. “There’s, uh, there’s been a development.”

Ram shot up from his seat, completely serious again, TRON still lit up under his thumb as he followed Shadow-guy. Sam hopped down to follow him – he was not about to lose track of TRON – and glanced back when he heard his “babysitter” heave a sigh.

And stopped in his tracks.

The corner he’d been sitting on was all crackly, like the whole desk would fall apart if someone poked it in just the wrong place. Had his kicking really done that? Why didn’t the lady say something, instead of getting all grumpy and glare-y at him?

“Trisk, what’ve you found?” he heard Ram ask, pulling him back into his search for TRON.

“The audio’s still compiling,” Sam heard a new voice say as he squeezed his way into the growing crowd, “but visuals indicate Clu took part against a challenger in the Lightcycle ring. . . and lost.”

“Let’s see it.”

A bunch of screens flicked on, showing Uncle Alan and two other guys standing in front of a big ship. Uncle Alan wasn’t wearing his suit anymore. Instead he had white-lit armor like Ram’s, and he didn’t look like he was feeling too good. He kept swaying on his feet and rubbing his head like he was fighting one of his extra-bad headaches. The guy without a helmet said something that made Uncle Alan go still and do his not-glare thing until helmet-guy raised a hand and got things going again.

“Go ahead, Jarvis, piss him off,” Sam heard Daddy mutter behind him a minute later, when not-helmet-guy pushed a box at Uncle Alan. “I dare you.”

When four new people walked up to Uncle Alan, Daddy told Trisk to fast-forward to the end. Trisk didn’t seem to want to – even glanced at Ram first – but did as he was told.

Uncle Alan’s group split up for a little bit at first, but then came back together once he figured out how to make and work his own lightcycle. The next few fast-forwarded minutes were all about lightcycles zooming all over the place, with nothing really happening.

Then one of Uncle Alan’s green friends exploded, and someone in the crowd gasped. Sam looked around (squinted, actually. For some reason, everyone’s lines had gotten really bright) and saw a green-lit lady pressing a hand to her mouth, her wet eyes still focused on the screen. A guy winced as Sam looked at him, and Sam turned just in time to see two lines – one blue, one red – melt into the ground.

Another one of Uncle Alan’s teammates had died.

Sam looked up at Daddy, thinking how much the people around them looked like how Gram and Mac have this past week.

“Team Delta eliminated,” Shadow-guy said gruffly.

“Just Jarrex left,” Ram agreed.

“Play here,” Daddy said as a red lightcycle exploded between white and green lines on screen, and the recording slowed down.

Uncle Alan and the last green rolled to a stop and talked for a little bit while helmet-guy went to get more helpers (that couldn’t be fair!). Then the green guy did a little bow-y thing at Uncle Alan before racing toward helmet-guy’s group.

Sam looked away just before the crash, flinching when everyone yelped.

Everyone except Daddy, who clapped and said, “Woah! I didn’t think anyone but Tron could – Alan, what the hell are you doing?!”

Did Daddy not notice that people were hurting? Did he not care?

Sam looked back at the screen. Uncle Alan had gotten off his lightcycle and was talking as he walked towards helmet-guy, who was still barreling at him. He ducked away at the last possible second, and kept talking as helmet-guy turned around for another pass.

He did it two more times, then the video got jerky just as helmet-guy came at him a fourth time.

“What do y’think you’re do- –”

“Audio synching,” Trisk reported.

The video steadied again as Uncle Alan yanked helmet-guy off his lightcycle, which kept going somewhere offscreen.

“I’m not your enemy,” Uncle Alan’s surprisingly loud voice said after the boom of helmet-guy’s lightcycle crashing. “I don’t want to be your enemy.” He nudged something out of the way with a foot and then squatted next to helmet-guy. “Why are you so determined to make me one?”

If helmet-guy had an answer, Uncle Alan was the only one to hear it. Instead he went to the crowd, and asked – in his not-asking way – to be let go.

No one answered at first, then someone started chanting. Uncle Alan didn’t look very happy about it, but he raised his hands and moved toward the guards.

“Alan, you really shouldn’t turn your back on – shit! WHO THE HELL IS THAT?!”

The new program lowered its Disks as it stood up, and Sam’s breath caught. He didn’t really see the rest of the fight; didn’t hear the grown-ups talking and arguing behind him as the video rewound and paused on the red-lit fig- . . . .

Huh.

“Why’s he red?” Sam asked, his voice silencing the conversation. “Shouldn’t he be blue? Or white, like Ram?”

“Sam,” Ram hesitated. “You know this Program?”

Sam snorted and shoved the hand still holding TRON up next to the nearest screen. He watched Ram’s gaze dart back and forth, figuring it out.

“No,” Daddy said, his voice funny as he shook his head. “There’s no way. It can’t be –”

“Tron lives,” Ram said.

Quorra smacked Ram’s other arm, startling everyone as she crowed, “See? Told ya!”

~ ~ ~ ~

He follows his User into the Arcade with a mixture of hope and fear. He stands on guard; watches Alan1 rush about calling for Samflynn, the User getting more and more frantic at the lack of response. Then, as Alan1 takes the stairs into the upper quadrant – what used to be Flynn’s resting space – an odd cylindrical shape next to one of the games catches his eye.

It takes pressing the switch on the side to remember its name: flashlight. Something must have forced Samflynn to leave it behind.

He turns it off again before kneeling to pull up the building’s records system. He slips a bit of the virus chewing through his own code into the system, then (what’s the term?) “rewinds” the memory a half-cycle, to when the Portal reopened.

A power surge of roughly one-and-two-thirds of Flynn’s norm appears in the data; shortly thereafter, two pair of footprints emerge from the Matching Animals game. The smaller pair immediately dash off upstairs; the larger pair briefly lingers in place, then jerkily moves from one game to another before rushing out the surface-entry doors.

A moment later a new, smaller pair of prints darts back inside and find a spot to hide; Samflynn finds her after that.

He must take a moment for himself when he sees another new – but this time familiar – print-set appear from the game. (The increasing gaps in his memory over the last several cycles from the Rinzler code overriding his systems has left him terrified that he’s been used to hunt down and derezz Programs fighting for the Resistance; Clu always seems especially gleeful when he returns to himself. And he hasn’t complained about Ram – or Yori, for that matter – interfering with his plans in quite a while.)

He watches as Ram takes the boy and the Iso back downstairs – and probably into the tunnels to escape, if the present status of the building is any indication – before adding a new fraction of the virus into the memory and closing it down. He stands slowly as he calculates what their next move should be.

1.   The riot at the Arena won’t distract Clu much longer; he may even be tracking them down already.
2.   Alan1 knows next to nothing about the Grid, its denizens, its history, and there’s no time or safe place to provide that information efficiently.
3.   He cannot, will not risk Alan1 being recaptured.

There’s only one possible solution he can think of, but he cannot guarantee Alan1 will survive the download.

He sets the flashlight aside and pulls his fused Disks off his dock; bites back a disgusted cringe at seeing the mottled coding of his dual identity. He seeks out the faint blue-white of his original code, shoving its largest chunks to one side as he delves deeper. (It’s easy enough to keep the red out of the pile, for the most part, but pieces of Clu’s gold-tinged virus are too thoroughly attached to his code. He can only hope Alan1 will be able to override it again, even in a weakened state.)

After one last sweep, he closes it down, separates his Disks, grabs the flashlight again, and heads upstairs.

The loft is a complete wreck when he reaches it. Cracks are even forming in the structure from Alan1’s distress as the User clutches at his hair and mutters to himself, “God, Sammy, where are you?”

The User is utterly unaware of his presence until he whispers a prayer for forgiveness and presses a Disk into Alan1’s dock.

The User collapses mid-word; convulses as his circuits flicker from the agony of new code integrating with his source-code.

The convulsions pass quickly, at least, though Alan1 continues to tremble as he pulls the User near the foot of the bed, puts one of his hands over Samflynn’s flashlight, and throws a blanket over him. It’s a flimsy protection, but it will hopefully camouflage the User from any casual searches while he reboots.

He trudges downstairs again, then pauses in front of Matching Animals, a new thought-string coming to mind.

1.   The bits of virus he set into the Arcade’s memory may not be enough to cover up the power surges from Alan1’s growing panic upstairs.
2.   Clu is familiar with his thought process; he may not be fooled into chasing an errant Program around the City, especially when said Program was last seen protecting a User.
3.  Alan1 needs as much time as possible to reboot, which in turn means that Clu must be kept distracted for as long as possible.

His hands flex and squeeze into fists as he – -- pauses; stares at the Disk still in his grip.

A horrible, repugnant plan surfaces. But does he deserve any better, after the betrayal he just committed?

He falls to his knees; casts a light anchor into the Arcade’s coding, trusting it’ll create enough damage without weakening everything. Then he presses the Disk into his dock.

He collapses; fights both the virus and the Rinzler coding just long enough to create a surge.

He may or may not see a Recognizer descend outside before losing consciousness as alien code overwhelms his systems . . . .

            “Rinzler,” a voice calls.

            Rinzler wakes, and is eager to please his master upon booting up.

Chapter Text

Chapter 8

            Danger surged through his circuits as he registered unfamiliar voices. He flung off the thing covering him and scrambled back until his Disk dock pressed against a wall, protecting it as best he could while his eyes darted between the two white-lit progr- – no, Isos – hovering over him. The male knelt and reached out –

            “Don’t,” he said, the word snagging on static in his throat. “Don’t –” he leaned to one side, coughing and hacking until mucus and shards of code finally exited his system, sizzling where they landed on the floor.

            “By the Maker,” he heard the male whisper as he gasp-gagged-spat the last bits out. “Gem, have you ever –”

            “It’s like he’s reintegrating. But I’ve never seen a User do that,” the female responded.

            Wait. He knows that voice. He paused in wiping his mouth; looked at her. “You.”

            The female dropped to her knees. “Forgive me, User. Had I known who you were, I –”

            “Would’ve gotten yourself killed,” Alan finished for her, then turned to the male; glanced over him as new information registered. “What’re you doing here,” he demanded.

            The male straightened. “I am Zuse. I maintain an entertainment center as a front while . . . assisting the Resistance and relocating other Isos –”

            “Clu knows. What’re you doing here.”

            Zuse gaped at him, pale skin somehow going paler. “I . . . there was supposed to be a meeting, but no one showed. Gem told me a User had appeared and . . . we came to find answers.”

            “Found you instead,” Gem murmured.

            Alan nodded and stood, fighting off the vertigo of dealing with two personalities at once.

He sensed more than saw the others rise to their own feet as he fought back memories. No time for that now. He took a deep breath. “Clu’s been giving you and the others false information to sound out the structure and numbers of the Resistance,” he told them. “When you figure it out, or otherwise become less useful, he’ll pick you off and make it look like it’s Flynn making a mess of things.” Or he’ll con you into betraying your own, just to live a little longer. He closed his eyes against the thought, bile rising again.

            “What do wo do?”

            Alan shook his head. “Ideally, you should warn the others and go into hiding until Flynn and Clu pull their heads out of their asses and finish their squabble face-to-face.” He opened his eyes and stared them down. “Realistically, you’ll have to decide if you’d rather die trying to protect others now, or just yourselves after Clu’s found a new project.

            “It’s up to you.”

            They stare at him for a speechless moment, then Zuse shook himself. “Well,” he said, “In that case, I suppose our first step is to get you somewhere safe, then find you a way to the Portal –”

            “’m not leaving,” Alan told him, “Not without Flynn.”

            He meant Sam, but he wasn’t about to give that tidbit of clarification to anyone who was staying in the City . . . . Too many might know already.

            The Other within him howled at the thought, even as it agreed with him: if Clu had the slightest suspicion that his greatest rival for Flynn’s attention and affection had appeared on the Grid . . .

            Nothing would be left.

            I won’t abandon you, he promised.

            But Samflynn must come first.

            “Then to the Resistance you will go,” Zuse said with a nod, “though getting you there might prove a little . . . tricky. Gem, do you think –”

            Alan tuned out their discussion. Keeping his back firmly pressed against the wall, he closed his eyes again and let his consciousness sink into the Grid, seeking out inconsistencies, anomalies in the surrounding area. . . .

            (Something rubbed him a little funny about Zuse – a deviousness not quite on par with how Clu had tried to play Flynn at the Disk Wars arena – though whether it was due to inexperience with trickery, or a better grasp of subtlety, Alan didn’t have the interest or energy to pin down.

            Gem, on the other hand, had made her decision the moment Alan had made the choice clear: she would help Alan in any and every way she could, then focus on saving her people.

            If things stayed as they were, she will probably die within the next few cycles – die or be repurposed, which wasn’t all that different from death.)

            The three of them were the only living things within a two-block radius of the arcade, even though the area was the most stable, anchoring part of the Grid. It seemed alien to have this place so quiet, when you could barely hear yourself think before –

            Alan cut off the thought and pushed his senses further, noting the path Sam and the others took through the tunnels and into the Outlands; trying to minimize his presence on the off chance another program was running a similar scan on the area, searching for – there!

            “You should return to your posts,” Alan said, opening his eyes as he returned to himself. “There’s an energy storm coming in from the Outlands, potentially damaging. No one should get caught in it.”

            “You’re not coming with us,” Gem asked.

            “Do you know the penalty for aiding and abetting a rogue User?” Alan countered, cutting off Zuse’s protest.

            Zuse closed his mouth, words dying on his lips as he processed the question.

            “Yeah, me neither. And I’d rather not find out, if I can help it.” Alan pulled away from the wall, letting himself fall into an at ease stance. “Go home. Warn the others, if you can: things will only get uglier for the next little while.”

            “But what of you?” Zuse asked, his voice gone small. “You have little knowledge and even fewer resources, even your protector from the Arena has disappeared –”

            “I’ll muddle through,” Alan said, reaching down to grasp his lightcycle baton through his coat, “find my own way, as I’ve been doing since I got here.” He looked to Gem as he added, “I don’t want any more Programs dying on my account. You might wanna tell ‘em to steer clear, if they see me.”

            Gem’s eyes narrowed at him, but she nodded. She might not agree with the message, but she would pass it on.

            He started to herd them downstairs, but paused when his foot hit something under the blanket. A quick search produced Sam’s flashlight, which he tucked under his arm as they descended to the lower level. He played up his surprise at learning that they had taken the tunnels to get to the arcade, not the surface route. He had no real explanation for why – honest confusion? a provision of plausible deniability if they were caught and interrogated? – beyond not wanting anyone to suspect how much information he’d gained in the last quarter-cycle.

            Not to mention how he’d gotten it.

            Alan waited until he could no longer hear the Isos’ lightcycles before closing the door. The he sat down on the steps, flicked on Sam’s flashlight, and lost himself in debugging his weapons of viruses and trackers.

            Rumbling thunder pulled him from the haze of streamlining his lightcycle about an hour later. Alan had to blink a few times to reset his focus. Then he stood up, closed the lightcycle’s coding, and reached for –

            Huh.

            The lights lining the stairwell weren’t flickering anymore – in fact, when Alan turned off Sam’s flashlight, the whole damn room glowed like a full moon was shining down into it. He dimmed his own circuits (no change) then flicked the light back on and passed a hand through the beam.

            Yep. Now that he was paying attention, he could feel the slight power surge.

            An idea bubbled up in his backbrain; it merged with a memory from the Other as thunder rolled again overhead.

            “You forget how good the power feels,” the Other had once said, “until you reach a pure source.”

1. The only “pure” source of energy on the Grid came in the storms. Most Programs couldn’t handle the jolt to their systems, so Flynn had created a series of bars – for lack of a better term – where Programs could replenish themselves as needed in a variety of flavors.
2. Clu had control of most of the bars, and a stranglehold on the few he didn’t have. Hell, he might’ve just slipped a few bits of his virus into the distilling process so every sip would build increasingly corrupted loyalty. It would explain why so many Programs at the Games were already so anti-User.
3. The arcade’s structure was already compromised; why not convert it – and the abandoned area around it – into something all Programs would have a use for?

            With that thought in mind, he left Sam’s flashlight sitting on and upright in the basement, and raced up – up – up – stairs to the rooftop, where the storm winds threatened to snatch him away. He pushed his way to the center of the roof, and allowed himself two selfish minutes to soak in all the storm’s energy he could stand, powering up everything on his person to its utter maximum. Then he anchored himself deep into the building’s code – so deep he could feel the echoes of power from Sam’s flashlight in the basement – and raised his linked Disks to the sky.

            (If any Programs happened to look in the right direction at that moment, they would’ve witnessed the first ever in-City lightning strike. And probably been terrified.)

            Energy coursed through him, into the building, and out into the surrounding blocks. When everything started to crackle, he broke the connection and raced for the nearest edge, flinging himself off the building seconds before it imploded and collapsed. After a long moment of freefall, he pulled and activated his lightcycle baton, and his panicking heart started to settle as it rezzed into a lightjet around him.

            (The Other within him, on the other hand, shrieked with excitement while he circled the area, watching for gridbugs as it reconfigured into its new setting. How did I created such a daredevil? he teased.

            The Other shrugged, then threw up the memory of the moment when he agreed to help Flynn break into Encom.

            Alan couldn’t help but chuckle. Touché, jackass.

            He could feel the Other wiggle and snigger right back at him.)

            Satisfied with the forming lake, Alan minimized all markers of his lightjet, and turned to follow Sam’s path through the Outlands.

*  *  *  *  *

            The long, mostly-silent flight provided excellent space for Alan and the Other to get themselves situated in his head once the storm passed. He got a summary of the Other’s experiences from the moment of his creation (much of which amounted to the TRON game) to when they met on Clu’s ship. (He tried to apologize for the pain his anger had inadvertently caused, only to be thanked for the shot of energy that helped the Other recover some of his internal autonomy.)

The Other, however, was inundated with new words [sunlight, book, speeding ticket, birth], situations [board meeting, grief, illness, growing up], and a more-complete understanding of things Flynn had mentioned in passing before Clu’s coup [Sam, digital frontier, tacos, Vietnam], as well as a few things since [Shara, different, acrophobia, choice].

They struck a balance just before the lightcycle tracks began to jerk and distort on the land below – a forcefield, it had to be, to help protect the Programs and User leading the Resistance. Alan let the Other take control so they landed safely, then gently formed a semi-porous wall around and between them to minimize damage before stepping through the barrier. He let the outer shell drop; the Other poked the inner one questioningly.

So my emotions won’t hurt you again, Alan told him, (and I expect to get very angry soon).

With a mildly irritated huff, the Other subsided, mollified.

            After a moment’s hesitation and systems check, Alan clicked his lightcycle baton back onto his leg and started walking. He didn’t know how much longer the journey would be, but he figured appearing as least-threatening as possible – and giving the Resistance a chance to see and respond to his advance – would only help his cause.

            Besides, he needed the time to figure out how to handle Flynn, especially if Sam was present. Satisfying as it had been to punch Clu when Alan thought he was Flynn, Sam really shouldn’t witness that kind of violence. And Alan wasn’t sure he’d stop at just one punch this time. Not after what he’d learned.

            The lightcycles’ tracks were leading him straight toward a mountain when Alan caught the rumble of engines through the Outlands’ humming silence. Seconds later, he was surrounded by lightcycles and even a couple lightrunners. Most of the Programs running them looked suspicious, even scared, but one –

            Someone grabbed at his Disk, and Alan had them slammed to their knees, arm sharply twisted against her back before he processed the action.

            Her yelp brought him back to his senses pretty quick, though. “Apologies,” he said, dropping the lady’s arm and stepping back. He pushed his glasses back in place. “Clu’s already screwed with my Disk once today; guess I’m a little paranoid about it, now.”

            Someone snorted as a male Program [Shaddox, architect] asked, “Oh, is that all?”

            But when Alan turned back to answer him, the other one caught his eye again. The Other within him buzzed happily as he approached a face he knew he could trust. “You must be Ram,” he said, offering his hand. “I’m Alan Bradley – just call me Alan.”

            Ram’s circuits glowed brightly as he uncurled his arms from his chest. “Greetings,” he murmured, reciprocating the handshake. Their hands pumped up and down a couple uneasy times before Ram huffed. “Is this as weird for you as it is for me?”

            Alan grinned through a multitude of memories flooding his mind. “Prob’ly weirder.”

            Movement behind Ram’s shoulder caught Alan’s attention, and he knelt to meet another familiar face. “Hello, again,” he greeted, then hesitated. “I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name, last time we met.”

            The girl [child Iso; probably the last] crowded into his space and wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her face in his shoulder. “Quorra,” she whispered.

            It took a moment for Alan to return the hug, he was so surprised. [Not the usual protocol. Where had she learned it?] But not returning it wasn’t an option, not even with the Other humming uneasily at how close she was to their joined Disks.

            He was very near to picking her up when someone said, “We need to head back inside. The shield won’t be able to block out this much power –”

            “We’re not moving until he’s cleared of trackers,” Shaddox refuted, glaring Alan down. “I’m not going to risk the entire Resistance on a new User being ‘a little paranoid’.”

            Alan nodded at the Program and pulled Quorra off him. “Don’t touch the Disk, and we’ll be fine,” he said, unfastening his coat and letting it fall to the ground.

            Apparently, they’d expected more of an argument, because no one moved at first. Then Alan raised his hands – much like he had for the guards at the Arena – and they dove in. He couldn’t help stiffening when he felt all the hands groping him, unwelcome memories rising as they took all but his most basic weapon for examination.

            He swayed a little, feeling ill, and finally sat down after they left, the Other’s instinctive panic nearly overwhelming him as he struggled for deep breaths and pressed his head into his palms. (Should’ve thought that through more.) Had he made a mistake, coming here?

            “You didn’t arm yourself, did you,” Ram asked, kneeling in front of Alan. Quorra cuddled up next to him, and the tightness in Alan’s chest eased.

            “No, he –” a slightly different pressure rose in Alan’s throat, forcing him to pause as his gaze darted around the group surrounding them. “They – called him Rinzler,” he said instead, “I don’t know why he was so protective of me.”

            Ram tilted his head a little, like he could tell Alan wasn’t being completely honest, but let it slide.

            “Where is Rinzler now? Why didn’t he come with you?” Shaddox asked.

            “I don’t know,” Alan countered – again, not exactly a lie. “I hope he took my advice and ran, but I didn’t see him leave.”

            “How did you know where to find us?” someone asked.

            Alan hesitated, looked Ram straight in the eye. “He . . . showed me how to trace your path. I just followed it.”

            Quorra went stiff next to him as everyone else froze and stared at him. “If you could track me,” Ram said, “then Clu can, too.” He stood up and challenged Shaddox. “We need to get moving.”

            “Not ‘til he’s –”

            “He’s clear,” someone [Garrett, profiler] answered, and proffered Alan’s lightcycle baton to him. Alan reached for it – hesitated as –

            “So clear Flynn should take notes,” another added, offering his coat.

            Alan waited until Shaddox heaved an annoyed sigh. “Fine. Let’s go.”

            Alan took back his things and rearmed quickly, but he was still shrugging back into his coat when Shaddox, Quorra, and the others took off, leaving Ram and him behind.

            “I’m getting the sense he doesn’t like me much,” Alan said, sliding the pouch of power sticks back into place (was it lighter than before?).

            “Flynn can be . . . trying, when he’s on the Grid for long periods,” Ram hedged, still holding the pouch of necklaces; he held onto it when Alan reached to take it. “And I think Shaddox was hoping you’d be Tron.”

            Had Alan been anyone else, he probably wouldn’t make the connection between the two thoughts; as it was, he understood perfectly. “Tron has a reverence for Users that I have no use for,” he said, mouth pulling into a smirk. “I’ll get Flynn straightened out.”

            Tension eased out of Ram’s shoulders even as he let go of the pouch and side-eyed Alan again. “Should there be witnesses?” he asked.

            “Why? You wanna watch?” Alan asked, putting the pouch back on his hip as they started walking.

            “Maybe,” Ram said, then shrugged. “Getting a few pointers probably couldn’t hurt. . . . But I was actually thinking about Sam.”

            Alan stopped in his tracks and took a deep breath. “Sam.” He looked up, half-expecting to see stars, and had to close his eyes against the empty blackness above. “Is he okay – he’s not causing any trouble, is he?”

            “Eh, perhaps a bit of trouble at first,” Ram said as they got back to walking, “but he’s more than made up for the damage he caused.”

            “Really? How? What damage?”

            It was Ram’s turn to pause; he gave Alan another once-over. “What really happened? After the Arena,” he asked instead.

            It threw Alan for about half a second. “You’re still testing me,” he realized.

            Ram shrugged a shoulder, but didn’t answer otherwise.

            Good, Alan thought. “He wasn’t thrilled about going back for the kids, but he wasn’t going to leave me on my own, either.” He reached back for his Disks and partially separated them to show Ram as he added, “Not without giving me a crash-course in everything Grid, at least.”

            Ram swallowed, his circuits going blindingly bright as he closed his eyes.

            “I think he used himself as a distraction for Clu while I was getting sorted out. Not sure in what capacity, though,” Alan said, putting the Disks back together. “I destroyed the arcade when I left, so anyone looking will have a harder time following you here.” He returned the Disks to his dock. “Your turn.”

            Ram needed a couple extra seconds to process, but they started walking again. “No one knew what to do withSaim, once he’d been identified,” he finally said. “We set him in a corner next to a data processor, where he . . . became sad.”

            Alan chuckled, realizing where this was going. “How much did he break?”

            “Nothing. I was able to intervene and distract him before he fell through the structure he was sitting on. Then he –” They were feet away from the mountain’s wall when Ram paused again. “You know who’s Disk you’re holding,” he said instead.

            Alan nodded. “I do.”

            “And you know what he means for us.”

            A flash of embarrassed pride slipped from the Other, making Alan smile. “I do. And that’s one of the reasons I’m going to get him back.”

            Ram’s circuits brightened again, and he heaved a relieved sigh. “Thank you.” He stepped over and pushed a button that began raising a portion of the mountain’s wall.

            Alan clapped his shoulder and said, “I could use some help, though, if you’re up for it.”

            “Help with what?”

            Alan looked towards the glow of the Portal, Ram following his gaze. It will close in just over two hours, and Alan had more than just Flynn and the kids to fight for, now.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

            He sits back, blankly staring towards the area of that bizarre lightning strike as the energy storm pours from above and music pounds up from his club below.

            The new User’s sudden appearance – and his subsequent confusion with the lost Tron – could not have come at a worse time for Zuse. He had gone from highly trusted underground Resistance fighter (and potential ally of Clu) to virtually useless for both parties. Clu’s scheduled raid on the club, which should’ve brought this war to a head by drawing Flynn out of his mountain, not only had left Clu empty-handed and suspicious of Zuse, but had made Zuse’s contacts within the Resistance leery of communicating with him, even when he was the one asking for information.

            Add to that the User’s odd behavior at the Arcade, Gem’s subsequent abandonment, and Rinzler’s very public rejection of Clu at the Arena earlier, and Zuse simply could not calculate the odds into his favor.

            How can he end this war with the fewest number of his people dying? How much longer will it have to take?

            How can he make the Users and Programs do what he wants?

Chapter Text

Chapter 9

Everyone ignored Sam again once the intruder alarms went off. Ram and Shadow-guy leaped into action, telling everyone to start packing up, while Daddy just dropped to the floor. Strange little lights started dancing around him, and Quorra pulled Sam away before he could ask Daddy what he was doing.

Eventually, when the stranger didn’t do anything bad, Ram and Shadow-guy decided to take a group to go outside and meet him. Sam had wanted to go, but Ram picked Quorra instead, leaving Sam to take care of the two new programs he n Quorra had somehow made just before the storm earlier.

He tried not to pout – he really did – but he was beginning to wonder if being a grown-up was really all that fun.

Jet and . . . whatever Quorra had named the other one, were bigger than Sam n Quorra (so they should be older, right?), but they were following Sam around and asking him questions like they were little kids and Sam was the boss. It should’ve been pretty cool, but it had gotten kinda annoying really fast.

Daddy hadn’t been much help, either, when the little lights left him alone. In the two seconds Sam had his attention, he looked like he was gonna laugh at Sam. Then someone else called Daddy away, and he muttered something about “figure it out later,” as he left Sam alone again.

And to top it off, Jet and . . . Not-Jet had disappeared while Sam tried to talk to Daddy, and now Sam had to go looking for them.

Ugh. Maybe he didn’t want any siblings after all – especially not younger ones.

He got caught in a wave of people leaving the command center – because nobody on the Grid seemed to know how to watch out for people who were littler than them – and ended up riding the elevator up and down a bunch of levels a couple times until he jumped off at one he finally recognized.

The garage was just as busy as the other levels, but with one big difference.

“Jet! Jet, where have you been? You shouldn’t wander off like that –” Sam ducked as Jet lifted and swung another box onto a tank’s wheel. “Where’s the other one?”

“We were conscripted to help with the evacuation,” Jet said as he grabbed and swung another box around. He pointed somewhere further down the line. “I think Beck’s helping someone fix a lightrunner over there.”

Sam huffed with irritation, annoyed that nobody thought he was big enough to do anything useful. But, since he had nothing better to do, he went the way Jet had pointed. Watching something get fixed had to be more interesting than watching Jet grab boxes from one place to take to another, anyway.

The noise of the garage faded quickly into the background as Sam wandered further in . . . the lights got spotty, too, making Sam a little (no, not scared, but) uneasy. From what he could see, there were a bunch of random parts of things scattered around, not even with glowing lines like the tanks and lightcycles and light cars (lightrunners?) that had been in the area Jet was working in. Maybe Jet had just pointed in some random direction to get rid of Sam for a little while, like most bigger kids would . . . .

Something clanked to the ground a couple aisles over, making Sam jump, then he followed the sound when voices rose behind it.

“You’re going too fast, Bodhi. Just because you know what you’re doing doesn’t mean he does,” a girl with swoopy bright blue-green hair said. “Here, you should show him with packets of information, not all at onc- –”

“Did Able tell you to teach him? ‘Cause I distinctly remember him telling me to do it –”

“Guys, there’s no need to fight –”

Meanwhile, Sam watched as Beck pulled his hand out of his mouth, squinted into the lightcycle he was sitting in front of, then reach in and fiddle with something that made the lightcycle roar.

“Think I got it,” Beck said blandly, then tilted he head as he kept staring into the engine. “Looks like the carburetor’s about to go out, though. How do we fix that?”

The girl and the first guy grinned at each other, argument forgotten, as the other guy crossed his arms and scowled. Sam edged closer, eager to see the inside –

- a bright light splashed in his face –

- a roar, like a lion or a dinosaur –

- and something wrapped around his belly and yanked him away as a whole ‘nother lightcycle raced through where he’d just been. Suddenly Sam was a lot taller than usual, and someone’s breath was ruffling his hair.

“I know you know road rules, Sammy –”

*  *  *  *  *

“Alan!”

Only years of practice kept Alan’s nose from getting bashed in or his glasses thrown askew as Sam twisted around in his arms for a hug. He buried a grin in Sam’s neck as the boy settled –

A Disk activated, making the Other within him go still as it sought out the threat.

“Unhand him,” a young voice demanded.

Alan’s grip tightened instead as he looked up at the teenager glaring him down. [New Program. Designation: Unkno-]

“Stand down, Beck,” Ram said, stepping out from behind Alan’s shoulder.

The unknown Program scowled harder. “Unhand –”

“Your Creator cannot be any safer on this Grid than he is right now. Stand. Down.” Ram’s Light Disk activated, emphasizing his point.

The teenager wilted a little under Ram’s tone, but a glance at Sam put a mulish set into his jaw.

“Uh, you . . . might be overstating my abilities there, Ram –” Alan’s mouth ran off on him.

“You mean I didn’t watch you leap over three piles of junk code to pull Sam away from a rogue lightcycle just now?” Ram asked not-quite-playfully, though he never looked away from the teenager. “Is that what you’re saying?”

Alan blushed, but didn’t say anything. (Three piles? Really? He could barely remember one.)

Sam wiggled his way onto Alan’s hip – another move they’d mastered together – then turned to add his own glare at the Program. “Knock it off, Beck. Uncle Alan doesn’t even pinch my cheeks. He won’t hurt me.”

“How many times have you told me you hate that?” Alan asked.

“How many times’ve I told Aunt Lora and she still does it?” Sam countered, adding a little pout to his glare.

Alan bit back a smile. “Point.”

The new Program’s Disk deactivated, closely followed by Ram’s as everyone breathed easier. “You are . . . Uncle Alan-Tron?” he asked.

“Eh, close enough,” Alan said with a shrug, and offered his hand. “And you’re . . . Beck, was it?”

“Yes,” Beck said, eyeing Alan’s hand.

“It’s a standard greeting between Users meeting for the first time –” Beck took hold of his hand and executed the perfect handshake. “Wow, that’s good! Who taught –” then something belatedly clicked. “Wait – Sam, you made Beck?”

“Um, yeah . . . sorta? See, me n Quorra –”

“Who?”

Sam huffed. “Quorra and I were playing Goonies out back when Quorra got scared of the thunderstorm n made us go back in. Then a lightning bolt hit where we were playing – so, y’know, prob’ly a good idea we went in – and when the flash went away, Jet n Beck were just lyin’ out there asleep, ‘til I poked ‘em. Quorra named Beck, and I named Jet ‘cause he has an airplane on his chest!”

“An excellent choice of names,” Alan agreed, sharing an amused glance with Ram before releasing Beck’s hand and resettling Sam’s weight on his hip. “Well, then, would you mind coming along and introducing me to your twin, Beck?”

“They’re not twins, Uncle Alan, they look nothing alike!”

“They were made together on the same day at the same place. Sounds like twins to me,” Alan argued back. “Now, would you rather walk, or be carried?”

Sam opened his mouth, only to shut it again. “Huh, okay . . . I’ll walk.”

Meeting Jet might’ve been even more bizarre than meeting Beck was – though for a very different reason. Where Beck had fit both in his skin and his surroundings, Jet was more . . . Bambi-like, all wide-eyed innocence and awkward teenager posturing, when Alan introduced himself.

It was easy to tell which kid had “birthed” which teen, though Alan was hesitant to predict which one would cause the most trouble on down the line . . . if they managed to survive this mess to begin with.

Quorra found them again while they talked and, with no further excuses for stalling, Alan quickly caught the kids and teens up on what he and Ram had planned before heading upstairs to tackle their first problem.

“Bradley!”

He flinched back as Flynn came closer, his grip tightening on Sam as he resisted the urge to shove the boy behind him. “I can’t talk to you right now,” he said, not even looking at Flynn.

Flynn stopped in his tracks and dropped his arms. “You’re mad,” he said (at least he got that much right). “And you have every right to be. I know I screwed up – I should’ve brought you in from the very beginning, or at least when the Isos showed up. I just wanted the place to look good –”

“You stole my program.”

“What? No, I di- –”

“Borrow does not mean copy, Kevin,” Alan growled, circuits getting brighter as he glared at Flynn. “You pulled him out of where he was meant to be, dropped him in a place he didn’t belong, then threw him under the bus every time your own little MCP had a question or tantrum you couldn’t be bothered with!”

Sam whimpered, cutting off the argument.

Alan immediately took a deep breath, calming his circuits as he knelt to look at Sam. “I’m sorry, Sammy. You okay? Did I hurt you?”

Sam shook his head, hiding his face. Unsatisfied, Alan tilted his chin up with a finger, and discovered teary eyes. “Sam?”

“Is Daddy a bad guy, too?” Sam whispered.

“No, honey,” Alan said, sighing as he brushed Sam’s hair from his eyes. “Daddy’s just being his impulsive-dumbass self, as usual.”

Sam giggled. “Bad word.”

Alan smiled back. “A quarter in the swear jar for me,” he agreed, and stood up again, the smile falling from his face as he saw Flynn’s wounded-puppy eyes.

“I’ve already given Ram and the kids their instructions. You will finish evacuation procedures, shut down the Resistance –” he raised a hand as Flynn tried to protest “You will do as they tell you, and you will leave the Grid the hell alone!” He let his command settle in the air for a moment before adding, “Understood?”

Flynn spluttered and flailed his arms, looking a little too much like Clu about to throw a hissy fit for the Other’s comfort.

Alan grit his teeth against the building fear. “Do you underst- –”

“What th’hell d’you think you’re gonna do, huh?” Flynn burst out. “You think you can just waltz in here and fix everything? Not even Tron could –”

“YOU LEFT TRON FOR DEAD!” Several people yelped as their consoles sparked and shorted out. Alan closed his eyes and tried to calm his voice one more time, though he knew it was a lost cause when he added, “And not twenty minutes ago, one of your own Resistance fighters was corrupted enough to try and make Sam into a pancake in your own damn garage.

“Where were you?” he asked, struggling not to glare Flynn down.

Silence reigned as Flynn did an impression of a fish.

And Alan had had enough. “I can’t talk to you right now,” he reiterated, and walked away as Ram took over dismantling the Resistance.

*  *  *  *  *

He pushed his way outside, probably to the same plateau where the kids created the teens a couple hours ago. He plopped down on the first possibly-comfortable rock he found and took off his glasses to rub at his eyes with hands that shook from the adrenaline making his heart pound.

Had he popped Flynn’s bubble in there, or sparked a vendetta inferno? Should he have stuck to his guns and refused to talk to his friend until he could speak calmly, or had he said what Flynn needed to hear?

Was he only making things worse by being here?

Maybe he should’ve just gone home from the arcade, not tried to give Sam and the elder Flynns a break from –

The Other howled within him and slammed a multitude of images before his mind’s eye: Jet and Beck never existing; Ram and Yori dead; the Programs of the Resistance slowly corrupted and reprogrammed to fight for Clu; Flynn and Quorra both either dead or so tortured that they’d wish for a death that would never come . . . .

Tron as little more than an attack dog, released only for Clu’s amusement.

[And Sam?]

Feeling abandoned by both parents, Sam would grow up bouncing between bouts of extreme clinginess and bitter rebellion, just waiting for Alan and Roy and the elder Flynns to reject and abandon him, too. Which time would eventually confirm, unless Sam got himself killed first.

Alan closed his eyes against the thought.

[And when Sam found his way here (somehow, eventually), what would Clu do to him?]

Alan shuddered, his stomach roiling as his imagination reeled under what ifs –

Gravel crunched softly behind him. Alan went still, even his breath caught in his throat, until the new presence settled behind him and pressed warmth against his back.

Flynn.

“I really fucked up this time, didn’t I.”

Alan snorted, feeling drained. “Don’t lie, Flynn. You never learned to do anything little, screw-ups included.”

He felt Flynn chuckle faintly, but didn’t turn to face him. He just wasn’t ready for that, yet.

Flynn huffed out a breath about a minute later. “Man, I just – I can’t figure out what went wrong,” he said, shifting his weight. “I’ve wracked my brain I-don’t-know-how-many times, and I still don’t know when it all screwed up –”

“From the beginning,” Alan answered, though he didn’t feel like he was the one speaking. “The moment you stepped onto the Grid, the bit of virus the MCP infected you with found a new home. Clu and the others were already infected when you pulled them out. I – Tron’s only lasted this long because he was able to cleanse you of it on the Solar Sailer, once he recognized you. He already had some immunity . . .” A new thought surfaced as he felt Flynn turn toward him.

“How can you possible know any of –”

“The Isos. They’re antibodies.” Alan got up, seeing the Grid in a whole new light. “You’ve slept and bled and played enough here that the Grid has developed an ability to mimic some of our basic mechanics. It created the Isos to counteract the virus, but Clu’s vague directive and inability to change has destroyed the cure he’s been looking for. The cure he claims he’s looking for . . . .”

“Alan,” Flynn said, his voice shaky, “What th’hell are you talking about?”

A throat cleared before Alan could respond. Both men turned to find Jet trying not to show his nerves, and failing miserably. “Uh, th-the evacuation’s almost complete,” he said, shifting his weight on his feet. “Beck’s group is finished with the light cruiser, though Ram isn’t thrilled about having to sacrifice the weapons for space, and the group leaders are waiting for final orders. Sir.”

“Thanks, Jet,” Alan said before Flynn could answer. “Tell them we’ll be there in a moment, please.”

Jet nodded and darted back inside.

Flynn’s shoulders sagged. “Well. Guess that means you’re the boss, now,” he tried to joke, then headed inside –

“Don’t think all’s forgiven, Flynn,” Alan’s chilly voice cut the air between them, freezing Flynn mid-step. “You’ve used, abused, and nearly killed my kid,” he said, stalking up to finally face the other man. “My son, Flynn.” He leaned in, forcing Flynn to look him in the eye. “Don’t expect a mere ‘Oops! Sorry!’ to make us hunky-dory again.”

Flynn swallowed and nodded, looking almost scared for some reason. But he went inside without argument.

Not very Flynn-like at all.

Downright odd, even.

Alan shrugged it off as unimportant and checked in with the Other instead . . . who was feeling rather warm and fuzzy, at the moment.

[Son?]

(Yeah, well, a Program equivalent, at least, since you don’t even bleed . . . Did I overstep?)

[No! Not at all . . . I don’t think Flynn understood what you were getting at, though.]

(Not surprised. It might click later, if he’s being oblivious. Or he’ll get angry and make elaborate excuses if he’s being stubborn. Either way, we won’t have to deal with him much longer.)

[Should I feel guilty about being relieved to hear that?]

(After what you’ve been through? Hell, no!)

Alan allowed himself one last look at the Portal’s glow, then took a deep breath before heading inside again.

(Time to get this party started.)

~  ~  ~  ~  ~

            The Portal hasn’t shut down, which means no User has gone through it.

            Why?

            It’s possible that Flynn is unaware and too distracted by their war to realize the way out has been opened again . . . .

            But Alan1 clearly knows enough – in spite of Flynn’s claims of obliviousness – to destroy the Arcade and prevent any further attempts to keep the Portal open longer. Not to mention that destroying the Arcade has also kept anyone from following his trail, even with the trackers buried within every weapon used in the Games and even the Games suits themselves.

            Something’s not adding up, and Clu doesn’t like it.

            Alan1 returning to the Arcade to add more time in-Grid so he can search for Flynn made reasonable sense . . . but what caused the fight that left Rinzler struggling to recompile on the ground floor? What had the User done to create that lightning strike long after he left that cratered the building and several blocks around it?

            Why would he do it? Had that not been his intent? Was he preparing to spawn more Isos?

            Where had Alan1 gone? Where was Flynn?

            The Portal pulses – its one-hour warning – and Clu comes to a decision.

            “RINZLER!”

Chapter Text

Chapter 10

A soft thump behind them makes him glance back, only to see both children have dozed off curled around each other. Then Ram looks up, eyes straining to see the barely-visible indigo of the Twins’ lightjets guarding the sky above them.

He can’t see them, but that may be the pillars of rock blocking his view –

“Ram, turn!”

With a quick glance back down to the surface, Ram nudges their boat around the pillar on a collision course with them, and adds a mild, “You don’t need to yell, Flynn. You’ll wake the children.”

Flynn mutters grouchily.

“Why aren’t you happier about this?” Ram asks. “Your son is safe, Tron is alive, and you’re about to escape the Grid with the last child-Iso in tow. Seems to me you should be relieved – even excited – that Alan1’s taking over –”

“That wasn’t Alan.”

Ram’s breath catches, and he sends a sharp look at his friend. “What?”

Flynn worries at his lip for a moment. “Whoever, whatever, that thing was, it knew shit that Alan Bradley wouldn’t know anything about,” he finally says. Then he sits up, warming to his subject. “And the way it was talkin’ – ‘bout Tron bein’ his son, and the Grid bein’ some kind of, uh . . . artificial intelligence?” he waves an arm around, emphasizing his point. “That kinda shit would’ve sent me to the loony bin – and I have a track record for bein’ wacky!”

“So, you . . . think Alan1’s insane?”

“No, I don’t think that was Alan.” Flynn sits back, shaking his head. “And whatever plan it’s supposedly cooked up for us is bound to be a trap.”

Ram forces himself to mull that over while they continue to cross the Sea of Simulation.

It appears that Alan1 hasn’t told or even shown Flynn that Tron’s Disk – and thus, Tron himself – is in his possession. Wondering why reminds Ram of the ‘straightening out’ Alan1 gave Flynn at the command center – of how angry and protective Alan1 had been about Tron – which in turn spawns a recollection of Yori telling him of how she first met Flynn.

Of how it took Tron stepping between them for Flynn to stop advancing on her.

There’s a connection here, and it feels important, though Ram can’t figure out why.

He eventually decides that Flynn’s theory is possible – not very likely, but possible – especially if Flynn doesn’t know what Ram does, as he runs their cruiser-turned-boat aground at the base of the pillar the Portal’s attached to. He looks to the sky again for the Twins, and again he finds nothing.

Is this the plan, or the trap? Ram wonders, then shakes it off.

In the meantime, Flynn jumps out of the boat and starts coding up a staircase to the top of the pillar. Ram waits until they’re mostly formed before turning to wake the children.

Quorra’s groggy eyes are already blinking at him by the time he reaches them; Sam, however, just grunts and mutters at Ram’s gentle nudging. After a third round without a greater response, Ram just picks him up like he saw Alan1 do at the garage, and clambers after Quorra onto the pillar’s ‘beach’.

Quorra immediately scampers up several steps, but Ram grabs the arm of Flynn’s garment before he can follow. “I may not know Alan1 very well,” he informs Flynn, “but I do know Tron, and this is exactly the kind of plan he would come up with.”

Flynn’s shoulders droop and he scowls, clearly disappointed in Ram’s declaration. But he doesn’t argue; doesn’t question. He doesn’t say anything at all. Not even a goodbye as Ram passes Sam over to Flynn’s shoulder before they part ways at the bridge.

Quorra, at least, gives him a hug and a thank you before she shoots across the bridge ahead of Flynn.

The light and noise of the Portal forces Sam awake about halfway across. Something eases in Ram’s chest, and he grins as he sends Sam a personal wave goodbye.

Sam’s answering wave is small at first, then he rubs at one eye as he sits up against his father’s shoulder –

His eyes go wide the same moment Ram notices an odd grinding sound behind him.

Ram ducks and rolls just before something swooshes in the air where he’d been. He kicks out, sending the other Program onto its back several feet away. He takes a precious nanosecond to check their surroundings for allies; for enemies.

Nothing. He repositions himself across their end of the bridge, going down to one knee and flexing his hands out to either side, like he’s trying to keep his balance.

“TRO-ON!” Sam screams, his voice cracking over the name.

“SAM, GO!” Ram yells back, praying the boy can hear him over the Portal’s roar.

The Program before him pauses mid-step, its focus shifting to linger on the Users across the bridge.

“I’m not your enemy,” Ram says, pulling the Program’s attention back to him. Sensing movement, he dares one last glance around and behind the Program as the Program hesitates. “Please don’t make me one . . . . Don’t leave me here alone.”

The Portal pulses; goes dark as they stare at each other.

He’s alone.

~  *  ~  *  ~  *  ~  *  ~  *

“– the plan!” Quorra yelled in the suddenly quiet darkness. They stumble a little in opposite directions as the scattering sensation pulled away, blinking against the gloom.

They’re back in Daddy’s office, Sam realized. The one under the arcade –

Daddy shoved his way between them, pulling a chair upright as he sat down in front of the computer.

“You gonna help Ram fight Tron, Daddy?” Sam asked, rubbing at the ache in his throat as he followed Daddy to the computer. “Help Tron get better?”

“Tron’s dead, Sam. Ram probably is too, by now,” Daddy said, not even slowing his typing. “I’m gonna have to restore everything from backup – after I clean the slate and wipe out that thing wearing your Uncle Alan’s face –”

CRACK!

Daddy yelped and slumped against the desk, revealing a wide-eyed Quorra brandishing the heavy grown-up flashlight Uncle Alan must’ve dropped before they went into the Grid . . . forever ago.

She looked as scared as Sam felt, but she swallowed as she looked back up at him. “Remember the plan, Sam,” she reminded him again. “Go call Uncle Roy.”

Daddy groaned and twitched between them, like he was waking up.

“Can you –”

“I’ve got him,” Quorra said, taking a deep breath before nodding. “Go.”

And Sam went. He raced upstairs, he leapt over the stool propping TRON open, he lunged down the hallway until he reached the littlest payphone, where he slapped down a handful of quarters just so he could pick one up to put into the machine. He hit the buttons so fast he wasn’t sure it would dial.

Oooogh . . . oooogh . . . oooogh . . .

Sam took a deep breath and squeezed his eyes shut as panic started catching up with him.

“Hi! You’ve reached the bachelor pad of Roy Kleinberg –”

He bit his lip. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. It’s the answering machine – don’t cry.

Beeeep.

“Uncle Roy! Uncle Roy, please pick up –”

“Sam? Sam-I-am, I’m here. You okay – what’s wrong? Where are you?”

And Sam burst into sobs. “Uncle Alan n I came to the arcade, n found where Daddy’s been trapped n got ‘im out, but now he’s tryin’ to kill Uncle Alan!”

“What –? No, nevermind. You’re at the arcade – you’re safe?”

Sam nodded, gasping an “uh-huh” down the line.

“Okay, stay right where you are, Sammy, I’m on my way.”

They hung up, but Sam didn’t stay by the phones. He went back into the arcade proper – back to the stool behind TRON, where he sat down to catch his breath. This way, he figured, Uncle Roy would still be able to find him quickly, and he would be able to help Quorra if Daddy went . . . bad. Again.

He leaned his forehead against the back of TRON, feeling a little sick and so, so tired for a seven-year-old. But hopefully, once Uncle Roy got here, the worst of it’ll be over.

Sam patted at his jacket pocket . . . then patted the other side when he didn’t get the expected sensation. Then he sat up to search in earnest.

He’d given Uncle Alan all the extra batteries for the flashlights before they parted ways, but his pockets shouldn’t be empty –

But nothing came up.

TRON was gone.

*  *  *  *  *

He found Clu mid-speech at a public execution. He settled down on top of a billboard to observe, since the crowd wasn’t howling for blood yet. A gathering of fifteen to twenty Programs – most of them adult-sized Isos – were cowering on their knees, their hands either tied or handcuffed behind their backs in the center of the lightcycle Arena while Jarvis sauntered around them, describing their so-called crimes (of existence) in detail.

[No sign of Rinzler.]

“Hmm.” (Clu’s hanging back, too.)

A pause. [Are you sure about this? You’re basically trading yourself for Flynn, and if Ram doesn’t make it, or the transfer doesn’t take –]

“I’m not losing you,” Alan interrupted. “And I’m not about to leave you like this.”

The Other went silent with a tumultuous mix of emotions, at a loss for how to respond, and together they watched as Jarvis slowly whipped the crowd into a frenzy of ‘Derezz! Derezz!’ before Clu stepped out to deliver the verdict . . . which he took his sweet time doing, reveling in the spotlight over every prisoner.

Something about it all made Alan think of the gladiator games of ancient Rome. He vaguely remembered that the games would have a prelude of convict executions or fights between men and various exotic animals, before the fighters would even appear on the grounds.

Some of the gladiators were even successful enough to earn their freedom, if he recalled correctly.

What are you up to, Clu, Alan wondered.

[He would’ve either corrupted me into killing all his potential enemies, or dangled the chance of freedom over me until I had destroyed all possible allies] the Other realized with a shiver of horror.

“Toh-may-toe, toh-mah-toe,” Alan replied with a sympathizing nod, then smirked. “How unfortunate I showed up and stole you away.”

The Other chuckled humorlessly. [Indeed.]

A moment later the Grid gave a subtle lurch, and Alan’s eyes jerked from the scene below them to search a darkened patch of the horizon beyond.

[The Portal’s closed. They’re gone . . . and with twenty minutes to spare.]

Alan took a deep breath and stood, considering his next move.

[Clu knows it, too.]

A glance down became a long stare. Clu had frozen in place with one arm hovering over a female Iso towards the middle of the group, seemingly lost in thought as a snarl grew on his features. The female, perhaps sensing his hesitation, looked up at him . . . and then slowly began to straighten her spine with growing defiance.

The crowd went silent – and Alan dove off their billboard, his ‘chute flickering to indigo life – as she stood up, face to face with Clu, and asked, “Are you malfunctioning?”

Clu’s answer was a backhanded slap that sent her tumbling to the ground again as he turned away and declared, “This is a waste of time. Destroy them all.”

A second later, Alan landed on one knee and blacked out the lights, instantly terrifying the crowd and stalling the guards’ approach. “We are in midst of a cold war – a civil war – between fear . . . and change,” he intoned, voice rumbling over the intercom as he let the lighting flicker back to a dimmer version of its normal setting. He rose to his feet, the wings of his ‘chute closing as he continued, “Life Before had its risks and dangers, but they were mostly familiar. Predictable.” He strode toward the group on the Arena floor with easy, unthreatening steps as the lights continued to brighten – before pausing.

“But then They came, and suddenly ‘familiar’ and ‘predictable’ became alien and unknowable.” He began walking again with smaller, more hesitant steps, and pin-balled between guards, giving each one he touched an unnoticeable zap of energy that didn’t seem to have any effect before wandering away. “And suddenly you’re wondering, is this the right path? Do you have to do this? What’s around the next turn? Did you leave the light on?” (The Other snorted as) He rolled over a guard’s back and landed on one knee inside the circle, facing Clu across the patch of prisoners.

“Your leadership initially claimed curiosity and welcome, and many of the adult Isos quickly settled into place within the System. No one seemed to know what to do with the children, but Flynn and Tron weren’t worried, so why should you?” He cocked his head as he rose to his feet. Then he locked gazes with Clu, and turned to circle around the prisoners.

His voice took on a dark tinge as he closed in on the Program. “Then Tron disappeared. The Portal closed as rumors of rebellion started to grow. And suddenly the Isos – especially the child Isos – were dangerous enemies of the state, and anyone seen not killing them on sight were branded as traitors –”

“For a User who doesn’t know anything, you’re awfully well-informed,” Clu said.

[Yes, it’s amazing the things you can learn when you listen for the answers to your questions.]

Alan just raised an eyebrow at him as he stopped a couple feet out of Clu’s reach. The Program instinctively skittered a few steps back, then lifted his chin, trying to pretend he hadn’t moved when Alan didn’t come any closer.

Out the corner of his eye, Alan saw an assistant grab Jarvis’ attention and whisper something in his ear. The Program perked up and immediately approached Clu as Alan continued. “I fell in here by chance and was immediately treated as a prisoner of war. A war I knew nothing about, a war in which I had no part to play – except one.”

“Luminary,” Jarvis said, “A leader of the rebellious Programs has been apprehended attempting to damage the Portal. What shall we do with him?”

“Damage the Portal?” Clu echoed, eyeing Alan for a reaction. “Intriguing. Have him brought here.” He shrugged and resettled his feet, clearly feeling more confident. “So sorry to interrupt, but we really must finish our work here –”

“Where’s Tron, Clu?” Alan interjected.

“What –?”

“Tron. You know, the Security Program?” Alan made his voice friendlier as he sidled a few steps closer. “’Bout yea tall; apparently looks a helluvah lot like me.” (A guard he’d zapped twitched and shifted in place, but didn’t move again.) Then he dropped the casual tone and brought the darkness back. “Where’s Tron.”

A red-lined Recognizer roared into the Arena before Clu could answer, landing elegantly on the Arena floor as they watched. (If anyone else saw the twin spots of indigo following the Recognizer diverge slightly from their course to disappear on opposite billboards, they didn’t speak up.) The cargo hold descended and two Programs stepped out, one dragging the other behind him.

Restlessness – and possibly some anger – set the crowd to murmuring as recognition settled in.

Ram was almost tripping on his own feet, barely able to keep up with Rinzler’s larger stride. Rinzler didn’t seem to care about his prisoner’s troubles; even went so far as to yank his arm a couple times when the smaller Program slowed a little too much.

[He’s still cuffed. Did the codes not work –]

(Easier to appear helpless and vulnerable if you’re still tied up. He’s okay.)

Rinzler shoved Ram to the ground at Clu’s feet as he passed the SysAdmin, then turned around and cocked his head as he registered Alan’s presence.

Clu grinned and opened his mouth to gloat.

“Ram?” Alan asked.

“They got out before I was captured,” Ram assured him, struggling into a kneeling position. “Clu can’t reach ‘em now.”

“’They’ who –” Clu tried to butt in.

“I felt their departure,” Alan said. “I was asking about you.”

“Oh, uh,” Ram gave Rinzler a look, assessing. “We’re . . . okay. I think.”

(So far, so good . . . . Ready?) [Ready.]

Alan suppressed a smile. “Still not what I was asking,” he said, squeezing Ram’s shoulder, giving him a small healing boost as he passed by. He pulled his Disks apart and put his original back (he heard Clu splutter; didn’t bother to look) as he approached Rinzler, “But close enough.”

It took Rinzler a minute to come out of his curious head tilt and react to Alan as a threat, but even with activating his Disk, the Program couldn’t seem to decide how to – or even if he should – warn Alan off.

Do you remember me? Alan wondered.

. . . (The lack of response was almost unnerving, even though he expected it.)

Alan stopped just short of arms-length away, with barely an inch of air separating his chest from the Disk’s whirring blade. “Thank you for loaning me this,” he said, presenting Tron’s Disk back to Rinzler. “It couldn’t’ve been an easy choice, after what you’ve already been through.”

Rinzler seemed to eye him for a moment, then took the Disk hesitantly with his other hand, activating it when Alan pulled his own hands away. (Ram slid over to the Isos while Alan kept Clu and Rinzler – and everyone else – distracted. He whispered something to the first one, though Alan couldn’t hear what it was.)

“I killed the virus; probably filled in the worst of the gaps,” Alan reported (covering him). “I don’t think I changed anything –”

“You don’t think –” Clu mocked.

“Didn’t seem right to look,” Alan overrode him, never looking away from Rinzler. “Not without getting your ‘okay’, first,” he added in a murmur.

Rinzler . . . nodded.

And Alan stepped away. Back into distracting and challenging Clu with the story he’d been building, while Ram worked on freeing the Isos. He tried to keep a surreptitious eye on both Rinzler and Ram’s progress, but Clu’s flouncing interruptions forced him to circle around – better, perhaps, Alan thought, to put himself between the dictator and his hostages.

He heard the faint snick of Disks coming together and felt his mouth twitch, which only riled Clu further. He briefly wished he could watch the Disks sync up to each other; watch as the Program holding them reached up to regain himself again. But he couldn’t dare risk drawing Clu’s attention away from himself.

Not when they were so close –

A screeeech of something going wrong pulled everyone’s focus a second later, anyway. Alan surged past Clu and dove to catch Rinzler as he fell.

“Woah, easy – easy, I’ve got you. I’ve got you,” Alan thought out loud, though it probably didn’t do anyone any good as the Program began to seize. “I know it sucks, but try not to fight it, it’ll only hurt more –”

“See – you see the treachery of Users! Even a Program doing its job –”

“Can it, Clu,” Alan growled.

Rinzler went still, his circuits pulsing faintly as the seizure eased. Alan laid his hand over the emblem on the Program’s chest, an energy boost tingling in his fingertips as he waited for clearance.

He almost didn’t see the circuits start to dim and fade. But he did catch the cracks of de-resolution starting to form.

“No. Nononono, that is not an option.” Acting on instinct, Alan streaked the power down the Program’s chest, pulling the pieces back together before pressing a fresh jolt through the emblem. “I’m not losing you.”

Circuits flickered, then dimmed, seemingly unable to even choose a color as they steadied out to barely visible.

Alan gave the Program another jolt.

“Why would the User fight for our tormentor?” he heard a male Iso ask. “Does he not know –”

“Because he’s mine,” Alan snarled. “Not Clu’s henchman, not Flynn’s guinea pig, he’s mine!”

Another jolt, and the circuits briefly brightened to a dull pink . . . but nothing else changed.

Alan breathed hard; felt like he’d been running for his life as he hummed, “C’mon, buddy, you can do it, just wake up –”

“Call him, Alan,” Ram said, and all eyes turned to him. “He’ll hear you. Call him back.”

Alan had to look away from the intensity in Ram’s gaze, his mind (feels so empty now) scrambling to understand –

Then an old benediction rose out of their shared memory: All that is visible must grow beyond itself, and extend into the realm of the invisible . . . .

Taking a deep, calming breath, Alan pulled the Program’s body into his lap, then closed his eyes and settled into the Grid’s network, starting within the Arena. “Tron-ja thirty-seventy-twenty, Location Query: Confirm,” he murmured, pressing his cheek against the helmet.

. . . Nothing.

He pushed out a little further, a little higher, a little deeper, and called a little louder. “Tron-ja thirty-seventy-twenty, Location Query: Confirm.”

A faint spark of recognition. He narrowed his focus and gentled the power, enticing it closer.

“Tron-ja thirty-seventy-twenty, Location Query: Confirm.” He could hear his voice echo in the silent Arena; couldn’t make himself care enough about all the strangers witnessing this private moment.

The spark flickered and . . .

became a distant candle flame

    - a firefly

       - a lightbulb

              - a lightning strike –

                      a forest fire –

                                rolling thunder –

                                               ocean waves –

                                                          HURRICANE –

                                                                      BLAZING SUN –

“TRON-JA THIRTY-SEVENTY-TWENTY, LOCATION QUERY: CONF- –”

The Program wrenched itself out of Alan’s arms and onto all fours, heaving like a cat hacking up a hairball as its circuits relit; pulsed from red-orange through purple to blue to WHITE. Its helmet disengaged just before it spewed shards of broken code out onto the floor, where they burned and melted.

“Conf-firm, Alan1,” Tron answered, followed by a gruff groaning, “Oo-oooww.”

Grinning, Alan surged up onto his knees and wrapped his arms around his son for the first time –

“TRAITOR!” Clu screamed.

 – Something clanked high above Alan’s back, and was still throwing sparks as the pair belatedly reacted.

One of the guards – one Alan had zapped earlier? – had interposed its staff between the User and Clu’s Disk. It shoved Clu’s Disk up and away, breaking contact as they watched, then moved to stand between them.

“You don’t – touch them,” it said as its helmet broke down to reveal Jarrex – Green Leader – of Team Delta.

Alan heard more gasps and murmurings from the crowd as several more guards let down their masks, their circuits flickering from red to a variety of colors; a couple armors even started bleaching to a pale grey, indicating that they had started out as Isos themselves.

Alan and Tron stood to face Clu in sync, Tron only wobbling slightly as he glared at his former friend and tormentor.

“Clu Flynn,” Alan declared, “You are charged with genocide, torture, and willful corruption. Your System Administrator powers are hereby revoked” – a slight tug through the Grid and Clu tumbled to his hands and knees with a gasp, the gold of his circuitry already fading back to white – “until you are judged by a jury of your peers.”

On cue, the Twins started their bombing run, dropping Sam’s super-charged batteries loaded with a counter-virus into the crowd and among the guards, inciting chaos.

“Now! Go! To the Recognizer!” Alan heard Ram yell. He took a few steps to follow the freed and retreating Programs, but paused when his companions continued to linger.

“Tron?” he called.

Tron’s clenched fists loosened at his sides as he stood over Clu, his circuits still flickering with red. He took a deep breath as the other Program cringed from him. “Like father, like son,” he mused, then abruptly turned away, deciding, “I’ll deal with you when I’m calmer” as he stalked toward Alan.

After a moment, Jarrex began to follow, watching their six as the crowd and enemy guards continued to panic under the Twins’ bombardment.

They were only about halfway to the Recognizer when the last refugee loaded up and the Twins dropped their fourth – or was it fifth? – bomb. “Hey Jarrex, race ya!” Alan shouted, and he and Tron immediately took off.

They hopped onto the cargo hold as it began to rise; Jarrex two steps-turned-jump behind them. Alan raised a shield over the entire Recognizer in case anyone out there got smart enough to shoot in, though he doubted he needed to bother.

“Tron!” someone shouted, and after a moment’s shuffling among refugees, Ram appeared and hugged his best friend.

“Ram,” Tron breathed, hugging back, then pulled away. “I’m sorry about –”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Ram rebutted, brushing Tron’s hand away from his face as the cargo hold docked. “Warriors to weapons stations,” he called. “Tron, I’d like you to spot me – still not too confident with flying these things in combat.” Tron nodded. “Alan, the sooner you debug the extra batons and make us disappear, the better.”

“Yes, Sir,” Alan agreed, nodding.

“Programs, move!”

“Careful, Ram,” Alan heard Tron tease as the Programs headed for the controls, “you’re going to sound like me if you keep that up.”

“Who better to emulate?” Ram teased back, taking the controls as the first volley of enemy fire hit Alan’s shield with a jolt.

*  *  *  *  *

“You need rest,” Tron’s voice echoed in an empty hallway of the command center a little over three hours later.

“Look who’s talkin’,” Alan rebutted tiredly, looking up at him. “Everyone situated?”

Tron leaned back against the opposite wall and slid down to the floor. “For now.”

They sat together in silence for the next few minutes, the air growing heavy with exhaustion . . . and something else.

“What’s troubling you?” Alan asked . . . then waited some more.

“You didn’t cleanse him,” Tron finally said. “Why? I could see the corruption in his code –”

“Do to him what he did to you?” Alan asked. Tron’s jaw clenched, and he bowed his head. “Couple reasons. One, because he doesn’t want it right now. Forcing him to change when he’s unable to choose will only create resentment and havoc on down the line, good intent be damned.” He took off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes. “Two . . . is a little more complicated.”

Tron nodded.

Alan tried to think it through, then sighed and just started talking. “I don’t know what Clu’s original programming was – what he was meant to be – and he was born with the virus already enmeshed in his systems. Even if I could destroy the virus without destroying him along with it, he probably wouldn’t be viable without massive rewrites –”

“And you’re still pissed with Flynn.”

“Yeah,” Alan nodded. “Nevermind the hypocrisy. It’s all way too close to me right now. I’d probably inflict my anger with the father onto the son without realizing it. And the first person who’d normally notice and say anything against it wouldn’t bother – you’d just see it as justice.”

Tron thought about it, then nodded and leaned his head back, mirroring Alan. “So the fight continues.”

Chapter Text

Epilogue

            It’s been almost twenty years since he n Uncle Alan fell into the Grid after Dad.

            Twenty years since Sam gained a sister . . .

            Twenty years since Uncle Alan didn’t follow them back out and they lost contact with him, in spite of keeping the arcade’s phone line active; in spite of the laser being programmed to flash on for thirty seconds every three hours and fourteen minutes.

            Part of Sam may never forgive his Dad for the argument over making some kind of consistent escape hatch for Alan to jump through. How the man could give up on his best friend – the guy who created Tron, for crying out loud – a mere three days after his own rescue, still boggles Sam’s mind with fury when he thinks on it for long.

            It’s part of why he n Quorra both have refused to take over the company, yet. Q’s slightly subtler about it – she works there, but drags her heels on every possible promotion until she’s earned it at least two or three times over.

            (It forced Dad to hire his mortal enemy’s kid a couple years back. None of them can decide if that’ll bite ‘em in the ass eventually, or if it’ll prove to be a brilliant strategy on down the line, but Eddie Dillinger hasn’t managed to do more than get the occasional wonky line of coding between Q on this side of the screen and Tron Senior on the other, so Sam doesn’t share Dad’s worry over it . . . much.)

            Sam, on the other hand, went into the military as soon as he aged into it. And spent most of his service behind a computer desk because most of the programs seemed to have a weird reverence for the name of Flynn, and would do practically anything he asked in the barest of keystrokes . . . which almost got him kicked out when he cracked a joke with a program that almost started a war.

            Some days he likes being called Sergeant WAR GAMES; most days it’s kinda embarrassing.

            There’s nothing particularly different about this day, he thinks as he pushes down his kickstand long enough to unlock the front of the arcade before rolling his motorcycle inside. He relocks the doors and flips the breaker, absorbing the ambiance of the room for a minute before heading straight to the TRON game hiding the stairwell to Dad’s old secret office.

            There’s nothing different, but there’s a strange prickling under Sam’s skin that’s left him increasingly restless over the last few days. He has no plans to do anything different from his periodic check-in and maintenance of the Grid computer. He has no expectation – not even a hope, really – that maybe Alan will be in the office when Sam walks in, and yet . . . something in his gut tells him he’s on the cusp of change.

            He refreshes the flashlight, adds his latest note to the diary of Welcome Back letters he began a couple years after Dad gave up, then sits down at the desk to see what, if anything, has happened since the last diagnostic he ran.

            Though he doesn’t really need to – it’s been, what, three, maybe four months since he was last here? – Sam blows, then wipes the touchscreen free of dust with one arm, waking the computer from its doze.

            02:03 min to Aperture Clearance, the computer reads.

            Huh. Lucky bit of timing, that . . .

            The prickling under his skin becomes a shiver of excitement as he watches the countdown, a crazy idea coming to the forefront of his mind. He could . . .

            01:15 min to Aperture Clearance.

            Not letting himself think it through too much, Sam yanks his phone out and shoots a warning text to Quorra, Roy, and Lora – and, after a brief hesitation, adds Dad to the list, too.

            00:30 seconds.

            He hits SEND, sets the phone aside, and braces himself against the desk with a deep breath as he hears the laser power up behind him.

            5

            4

            3

            Here goes noth-