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Right, so this is crazy unorganized, but I'm trying to restart this journal, and hopefully my fic-writing endeavors, and that means putting stuff on here. I failed hard enough the last few times I promised to post more that I'm not making any promises... but I am creating an AO3 account, and should be uploading things here and there. Old things first, new things hopefully after.

ANYWAYS. This is one of likely a few plurk-meme results I'll be copy-pasting to this account.

Meme: Give me two characters and an AU setting, receive a 3-sentence ficlet. (Also known as me failing at sentence limits, despite the overwhelming amount of run-on sentences I managed to produce. >.> )

Oh. And for the record? If anyone wants to post new prompts in the comments or whatever, I'm leaving this meme indefinitely open. A couple sentences is much easier for me to manage than actual fics... which I need to restart anyways.

Titles: Champion, Invisible, Backup, Match
Fandom: Tron
Warnings: Violence, death, usual Tronverse trauma
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Wordcounts: 152, 130, 95, 162
Author's note: Prompts listed with the drabbles. Also sentence counts, since that was theoretically the point of the meme.

Prompt: "Tron and Quorra, Tron never got rectified, but Clu still took over." For [personal profile] crystalshard, 5 sentences.

She was low on power and limping from a bright-edged fracture that ran from knee to hip when they caught up to her—three of the Black Guard, the strongest enforcers Clu’s new ‘perfection’ had to offer. Disk in one hand, baton in the other, she ducked one red-orange disk, parried another, and flinched away from the next blow before a hand interposed to grab the weapon mid-strike.

Quorra stared as the disk wrenched free of its wielder and sliced in tandem to a second blue-white arc, dispatching the opponents in less than a micro; her expression twisted with shock and pain and something that edged between gratitude and accusation as her rescuer’s black helmet derezzed, circuits relighting to mark identity with more than a scarred and damaged face.

“You promised to protect us all.”

A tired grimace in response, short words unsteady from repair or disuse as Tron answered, “I failed.”

Prompt: "Rinzler and Alan; Alan went instead of Sam." For [personal profile] drunk_scraplet, 4 sentences.

The user was presence and signature and source (source) and Rinzler could map every trace of his passage through system and space, every twitch of skepticism and wary disbelief as he glanced at the walls, out the window, towards the unbending lock of Clu’s shape ahead. There was a war going on, his own quiet ticking the invisible backdrop, as the shapes flared on scans he hadn’t performed: bright white against yellow, power facing power in this narrow space, cold and distrusting and impossibly close, impossibly warm—he couldn’t be here, he couldn’t exist.

Attention stayed forward (don’t meet Clu’s gaze), expression flat (that face was wrong, not permitted), but no, it had to stay there, the user couldn’t look back, the user couldn’t see him.

(Don’t look at me.)

Prompt: "Gibson and Rinzler. Partners in crime." For [personal profile] wist, 5 sentences.

Security had a better response time in this sector than he’d given them credit for—or at least the monitor on the high-clearance archives did. Gibson was through his usual litany of excuses and halfway into a whole new streak (ISOs could improvise just fine, thank you) when he heard the low rumble from above the lift he was being hauled onto.

One distraction, one drop, and one roughly handled disk dock later, and it was a much more familiar helmet staring him down in silent threat.

“Yeah, yeah, I’d miss me too. Come on.”

Prompt: "Rinzler and Vint: they've done this dance before." For [personal profile] infiniteviking, 4 sentences. Worth noting: this applies the premise of loop while answer, which if you haven't read, you should.

It was a pattern now, enough that Vint could map the opening nano-by-nano—turn, reach, a slide to low readiness as burning weapons split to two blades of bright-edged derezz.

He knew the disks too well, not in content, but in edge and slice and red-orange arcs that locked him in, the same motions again and again, the same dance of perfection and punishment and Games for the hungry swarms outside the cage that called for screams and breaks and a prewritten ending. He tried not to give it to them, but he was tired—he always was when he made it this far—and it was the same low sweep that dropped him as he turned out from the blow, the same steady growl and tilt of the dark mask as he stared up, desperate and disarmed and grimly knowing.

As the disks crashed down through core to dock, Vint wondered, just for a moment, what Rinzler made of all this.
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May 2013


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