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Title: Hold On
Fandom: Tron (Legacy)
Rating: T - violence, mindfuckery, mild sexings. Oh, language too.
Disclaimer: I own my laptop and a sleep deficit. It's like owning the Tron franchise, except there's nothing in common.
Summary: There's a crash, a fall, and it's over. Only sometimes not. A different take on the lightjet scene: what if Sam ended up falling, too? AU end of Legacy.
Chapter: 3/11 - Recognition
Wordcount: 2594
Well, this is boring.
Sam leaned back against the cliff and gave a halfhearted glare at the water. The sea was fairly gentle here, washing against the shoreline in soft waves that reminded him more of an overgrown lake than ocean tidal forces. Though if there wasn’t a moon… Right. Ignore logic.
He let his gaze wander from the too-dark water across the rocky shore. Nearly two hundred feet of grey-black stone before the cliffs rose up on either side to match the ‘natural’ wall behind him. It wasn’t sheer by any means, and he’d climbed it—only to find more of the same: broken slabs and barren ground as far as the eye could see. He’d dropped back down.
But the tiny cove was empty. No sound but the water, nothing to see but dark rocks, dark water, dark sky above. He’d paced back and forth, circled standing boulders and peered at the (impenetrable) blackness of the water. There was nothing here, nothing for who-knew-how-far around.
Well, nothing but Rinzler.
Sam glanced at the helmeted form, and his jaw clenched. The program had turned off as soon as their overburdened jet had reached land, emitting a burst of crackling static Sam couldn’t even hope to decipher before half collapsing against a vertical slab and going still and dark. Sam had been confused and wary and more than a little alarmed. But when he looked, the program’s suit still faintly glowed with a muted, flickering light. And the freaky stuttering purr was there, if quieter. He had backed away, uneasy. He’s probably fine. Shut down, or in sleep mode, or… whatever it was programs did. Sam missed a world where the word “unconscious” meant something.
Sam studied the program again—from a distance. He couldn’t see the lights anymore, and though he strained, nothing was audible but the soft movements of the waves. Dead programs were pixels, right? Or… whatever those broken bits were.
Why do you care? He dropped his head back against the cliff wall and stared up at the cloudy sky before peering back at the still-motionless form. Rinzler was Clu’s assassin, his enforcer. Sam would be lucky if he never woke up—the smart move would be to make sure of it, not spend time worrying about a downed enemy while his dad and Quorra could be hurt. He tensed miserably, recalling the state of the broken white craft, Clu’s yellow jet rising through the air unimpeded. The portal had gone dark before they’d even reached the shore, and Sam wasn’t really sure he could find it again—but that didn’t mean he should be doing nothing.
He should at least get out of here. If he didn’t want to kill (derezz?) Rinzler now—and he didn’t; the surge of uneasy guilt was pretty clear on that point, thanks—then he should move. Put some distance between them. Whatever was wrong with the program, there was no reason to think he wouldn’t wake up functionally murderous. He was unarmed; Sam had cautiously removed the baton once Rinzler was out of it, and the program’s disks were apparently missing already. But just because he was the one with the lethal Frisbee didn’t make Sam eager for a rematch.
It wasn’t like he owed Rinzler anything.
“Damn it.” His voice sounded strange in the silence. Sam pushed himself off the stone and irritably went back to pacing. He didn’t owe him, he knew that—the program was just saving himself. Sam had the baton; of course he had to get it from him. And it made sense not to waste time trying to kill Sam, and made sense…
Screw it. He kicked a rock, watched it clatter over the ground and drop into the water. It didn’t make any sense. Because Rinzler hadn’t just saved himself. And he could’ve—he’d grabbed the baton, could’ve kicked off and flown away on his own. Would’ve been easier, Sam admitted, rubbing his sore forehead awkwardly. So maybe his ineffective struggles hadn’t been the best plan he’d come up with all day. Add it to the list.
Still. Why? He couldn’t stop thinking about it. Not that there was much else to do here. It had been Sam’s baton—was the program running on some weird sense of rules? Or maybe Clu would’ve wanted him alive. That made more sense. Sam didn't doubt Rinzler would follow his directives, even at risk to himself. Though the image of Clu’s attack on the smaller program—of Clu stealing his baton, Sam realized—wouldn’t go away. He shrugged. So Clu was a bastard to his people. That doesn’t mean they disobey him. Memories of the Rectifier flashed through his head, the thousands of orange-lit troops stepping in line, and Sam stopped pacing, looking warily at the limp black form. It doesn’t mean they can disobey.
He should leave. He should head back up the cliff, pick a direction, and get some distance. A lot of distance, if he could figure out the baton properly. Why should he care if he left Rinzler to wake up (or die) alone? That just meant less targets in sight, right?
Sam rolled his eyes and stared up at the sky. Right. ‘Targets’.
The lightjets. Watching from the turret seat as the orange craft swept out of nowhere, fired short, accurate, bursts that crippled his ability to shoot back, hovered behind them… and left. Flew away from the fight.
That hadn’t been an accident. And the collision afterwards wasn’t a mistake. Rinzler was clearly messed up somehow—his collapse made that obvious, if his behavior wasn’t sign enough. But after the fall, after the easy—embarrassingly easy—way the program had handled him in midair, Sam couldn’t believe Rinzler was glitching so badly as to mistakenly crash. He’d chosen not to take the shot, chosen to run into Clu. And fuck if I know why.
Sam sat down, glowering at the sea. Of course, the crash had been nearly as bad as continued fire would’ve been. For Sam, obviously, and the others… his throat clenched and he glared at the unresponsive program as he recalled the lurching of the broken craft. And then Clu following after. Rinzler had made that happen, had let that happen. If his dad was hurt, or Quorra…
He looked up at the empty sky, and the flare of anger washed away, leaving a pained tightness in his chest. It was over. And he should go, should find out how it had ended. Find out if he was stuck here for the next twenty years. He flinched as the thought formed, stupid and selfish and useless again, but what’s new? His dad was what mattered, and Quorra, and—
Light flickered at the edge of his vision, and Sam spun, scrambling quickly upright. Rinzler lay still, slumped several yards from Sam against the rock where he’d dropped. But now the cluster of squares below his throat were blinking with a bright glow: on-off, on-off. Sam stared, fascination tempered by fear, hand twitching towards his disk before dropping to his side. Well, something’s finally happening. Last chance to run?
This was probably a mistake.
But hey, hate to break the streak.
The flashing lights surged, and then the program relit, all of his circuits suddenly bright against the black armor. Sam tensed, warily watching.
After a moment, his brow furrowed, and he squinted, head tilting. That was… different.
Why’s he blue?
Sam waited, studying the unmoving program. The brightness of Rinzler’s suit dimmed quickly to a fainter steady glow. Apart from the color, the circuits looked the same—dots and dashes for the most part, skeletal lines tracing part of the hands as they lay to his sides. The helmet, touched with small streaks in the back, hung forward, nearly hitting the clustered squares in the center of the chest. The color was less pure blue and more a blue-shaded white, he decided. Kind of like Quorra.
Sam grimaced, restless, but unwilling to turn away. What did the colors even mean? Clu was yellow, his people orange or orange-red. Quorra, his dad, and most of the friendlier programs he’d met were blue or white. Color-coded morality? He almost groaned aloud. It would probably be a plus for him now, but… still. Cliché, much?
He hesitantly picked his way closer. Rinzler hadn’t stirred, hadn’t made any noise. Was he even awake? Was he paralyzed? Thinking? Waiting for someone dumb enough to get within arm’s reach?
Sam’s gut clenched unpleasantly and he forced himself to take the last few steps. Not running away. Right.
He stood in front of Rinzler’s stillness and frowned down at the hunched-over form. Something else was different. Sam’s brow furrowed in confusion as he identified the change—no, the absence. Rinzler was quiet. Completely so—and before, even when the program was shut down, the rattling had been audible from further than this.
He doesn’t look dead.
Rinzler’s head snapped up, and Sam flinched back despite himself. The black helmet tilted, fixed on him for a long moment, then turned away as the program seemed to look around, assessing.
Sam watched, limbs rigid as he suppressed the panicked urge to arm himself that had joined his latest adrenaline surge. Why did this seem like a good idea? The lack of murder attempts (so far) was excellent, but now what? Rinzler didn’t even talk, not really, so—
“User.”
Right. The program was staring at him again, a look Sam returned edgily. How could he have forgotten that wonderful conversation. The word was clear, if slightly distorted in tone. Sam blamed the helmet. It was creepy, a black void where a face should be, faint reflections warped across its surface as it angled towards him, waiting… oh. Okay, then.
“…Program?” Yep, eloquence all around. What was he supposed to say?
A faint hissing crackle came from the program, like the noise you got if you exhaled into a microphone. Sam’s brows rose in fascination. Was that a sigh?
“Why are you here, Sam Flynn?”
His eyes widened. …What?
“Wait—you talk?!” The question came out in a startled burst and he flushed slightly as the helmet angled in response. “I mean… yeah. Okay. But you sounded… different before.” He shut up. It’s true, though. The wind had stolen most of the volume, but during the fall, Rinzler’s speech had been a cracking broken noise, static and buzzing and raw painful sound. And before that, if he had done anything but growl creepily, Sam had missed it. Except the once.
But the growl was gone, and the voice was quieter now, no longer forced or crackling. Rough, tired, almost hesitant—with disuse?—but in the end, just words, backed with a faint electronic hiss. “There was… damage.”
“Damage.” Tone flat, eyebrows raised. This felt weird as fuck, like walking up to a tiger and arguing with it—outside the zoo. But his day had left the realm of remotely sane about halfway down Encom Tower. He was getting a better explanation than that.
Rinzler’s fists clenched, and Sam eyed him warily, but the program’s motions were slow and unthreatening as he pushed himself up to a sitting position, back against the slab. Tension lined his body, and Sam half-expected to hear the menacing rumble restart, but the silence was broken by speech, not stuttering.
“My code was damaged.” The slight distortion of the helmet did nothing to hide the fury in the words. “Corrupted,” Rinzler spat.
Sam stared, uncertain if he should be readying a hug or a headstart. “But… you’re fixed now?”
The program was silent. His head dipped slightly, and although the helmet still roughly faced Sam, he had a feeling Rinzler’s gaze was directed anywhere but. The program’s hand came up slowly, circuited fingers touching the dark helmet, which twisted the blue lines in reflection. He froze. Stiffened. Then a shudder passed through the program’s form as the hand dropped back down, curling again into a fist. His head shook slightly.
“No, Sam Flynn. But now I know I’m broken.”
Sam gazed down at Rinzler for a long moment, then crouched abruptly, firmly ignoring the spike of unease as he settled beside the program. The helmet followed his movements slowly, as if uncertain of his intent. Yeah, well, Sam wasn’t really sure either.
“Sam Flynn—”
“It’s Sam,” he interrupted, then looked away, feeling foolish. “Just… just Sam, alright?”
The program studied him for a moment, head tipping fractionally to the left. “Sam. Why are you here?” Softer, hesitantly, “Where’s Flynn?”
The first question confused Sam, the second hit him like a blow. His jaw clenched, and he turned away from Rinzler to glower at the sea. “He didn’t fall. If that’s what you mean.” The plane, falling, rising again in halting bursts. Clu following. Sam closed his eyes, shook his head, gazed back up at the black and empty sky. “I don’t know.”
The faceless attention was fixed on him. “Then why—”
“Why do you care?!” Bitter anger bubbled up as he glared at the dark-armored program. “You’re Clu’s—” pet, servant, monster—“Clu’s killer! You were hunting us!” Sam’s hands moved in twitching gestures of frustration as he vented. “Why does it matter to you if my dad’s safe?” Or is he just seeing what’s left to take care of?
The program froze, rigid and unmoving for several moments. Then a tremble passed through his frame, and the helmet lowered, slowly jerking from side to side as he shook. Without moving substantially, he seemed smaller somehow, shoulders hunched in as his hands clenched, loosened, came up, dropped down again.
Sam stared, resentment bleeding out to faint regret and alarm. He leaned cautiously forward. “Rinzler?”
The program stiffened, circuitry flickering visibly. “No.” The whisper was harsh. Desperate.
Sam paused, then shook his head. “Look… why do you care? You helped us, I get that. You saved my ass, that’s for sure.” His hand went up, fingers brushing his forehead as he spoke. “Thanks. I guess.” He continued awkwardly, “I just… why? You helped me, you crashed into Clu…”
“That was all I could do.” Bitterness, but not at Sam. Shame?
He tried again. “But why did you? Don’t think I’m not grateful, ‘cause really, man… I am.” He wanted to laugh, but it didn’t seem that funny. “But I thought you were Clu’s… program. Isn’t that what you’re designed for? To fight for Clu?”
The helmet stilled, shook slowly, then jerked in sharp denial as Rinzler raised his head and straightened, mask fixed on Sam. “No.” Louder, firmer this time, though with the same painful undertones.
“I fight for the users.”
…Bullshit.
It had to be. But somehow… faint whispers crept at Sam’s mind, understanding tugging him along. His dad’s voice, sketching out the Grid with toys and stories only a child could believe. Older, tone dark as he described Clu’s takeover, his own escape. And then a word, a name whispered in quiet horror. In loss. Sam hadn’t listened. Hadn’t cared—not when Quorra was being dragged off by Clu’s faceless assassin.
But now his dad was gone, Quorra was gone, and Sam stared back at the empty mask as the program looked at him. ‘Broken.’ His eyes flicked down, stopping at the clustered lights that traced a familiar outline in blue-edged white. No. No way. But the echoes faded, leaving empty knowledge behind, and by the time he shaped the words, it was hardly a question.
“…You’re really Tron?”
A tired voice responded. “I was.”
Fandom: Tron (Legacy)
Rating: T - violence, mindfuckery, mild sexings. Oh, language too.
Disclaimer: I own my laptop and a sleep deficit. It's like owning the Tron franchise, except there's nothing in common.
Summary: There's a crash, a fall, and it's over. Only sometimes not. A different take on the lightjet scene: what if Sam ended up falling, too? AU end of Legacy.
Chapter: 3/11 - Recognition
Wordcount: 2594
Well, this is boring.
Sam leaned back against the cliff and gave a halfhearted glare at the water. The sea was fairly gentle here, washing against the shoreline in soft waves that reminded him more of an overgrown lake than ocean tidal forces. Though if there wasn’t a moon… Right. Ignore logic.
He let his gaze wander from the too-dark water across the rocky shore. Nearly two hundred feet of grey-black stone before the cliffs rose up on either side to match the ‘natural’ wall behind him. It wasn’t sheer by any means, and he’d climbed it—only to find more of the same: broken slabs and barren ground as far as the eye could see. He’d dropped back down.
But the tiny cove was empty. No sound but the water, nothing to see but dark rocks, dark water, dark sky above. He’d paced back and forth, circled standing boulders and peered at the (impenetrable) blackness of the water. There was nothing here, nothing for who-knew-how-far around.
Well, nothing but Rinzler.
Sam glanced at the helmeted form, and his jaw clenched. The program had turned off as soon as their overburdened jet had reached land, emitting a burst of crackling static Sam couldn’t even hope to decipher before half collapsing against a vertical slab and going still and dark. Sam had been confused and wary and more than a little alarmed. But when he looked, the program’s suit still faintly glowed with a muted, flickering light. And the freaky stuttering purr was there, if quieter. He had backed away, uneasy. He’s probably fine. Shut down, or in sleep mode, or… whatever it was programs did. Sam missed a world where the word “unconscious” meant something.
Sam studied the program again—from a distance. He couldn’t see the lights anymore, and though he strained, nothing was audible but the soft movements of the waves. Dead programs were pixels, right? Or… whatever those broken bits were.
Why do you care? He dropped his head back against the cliff wall and stared up at the cloudy sky before peering back at the still-motionless form. Rinzler was Clu’s assassin, his enforcer. Sam would be lucky if he never woke up—the smart move would be to make sure of it, not spend time worrying about a downed enemy while his dad and Quorra could be hurt. He tensed miserably, recalling the state of the broken white craft, Clu’s yellow jet rising through the air unimpeded. The portal had gone dark before they’d even reached the shore, and Sam wasn’t really sure he could find it again—but that didn’t mean he should be doing nothing.
He should at least get out of here. If he didn’t want to kill (derezz?) Rinzler now—and he didn’t; the surge of uneasy guilt was pretty clear on that point, thanks—then he should move. Put some distance between them. Whatever was wrong with the program, there was no reason to think he wouldn’t wake up functionally murderous. He was unarmed; Sam had cautiously removed the baton once Rinzler was out of it, and the program’s disks were apparently missing already. But just because he was the one with the lethal Frisbee didn’t make Sam eager for a rematch.
It wasn’t like he owed Rinzler anything.
“Damn it.” His voice sounded strange in the silence. Sam pushed himself off the stone and irritably went back to pacing. He didn’t owe him, he knew that—the program was just saving himself. Sam had the baton; of course he had to get it from him. And it made sense not to waste time trying to kill Sam, and made sense…
Screw it. He kicked a rock, watched it clatter over the ground and drop into the water. It didn’t make any sense. Because Rinzler hadn’t just saved himself. And he could’ve—he’d grabbed the baton, could’ve kicked off and flown away on his own. Would’ve been easier, Sam admitted, rubbing his sore forehead awkwardly. So maybe his ineffective struggles hadn’t been the best plan he’d come up with all day. Add it to the list.
Still. Why? He couldn’t stop thinking about it. Not that there was much else to do here. It had been Sam’s baton—was the program running on some weird sense of rules? Or maybe Clu would’ve wanted him alive. That made more sense. Sam didn't doubt Rinzler would follow his directives, even at risk to himself. Though the image of Clu’s attack on the smaller program—of Clu stealing his baton, Sam realized—wouldn’t go away. He shrugged. So Clu was a bastard to his people. That doesn’t mean they disobey him. Memories of the Rectifier flashed through his head, the thousands of orange-lit troops stepping in line, and Sam stopped pacing, looking warily at the limp black form. It doesn’t mean they can disobey.
He should leave. He should head back up the cliff, pick a direction, and get some distance. A lot of distance, if he could figure out the baton properly. Why should he care if he left Rinzler to wake up (or die) alone? That just meant less targets in sight, right?
Sam rolled his eyes and stared up at the sky. Right. ‘Targets’.
The lightjets. Watching from the turret seat as the orange craft swept out of nowhere, fired short, accurate, bursts that crippled his ability to shoot back, hovered behind them… and left. Flew away from the fight.
That hadn’t been an accident. And the collision afterwards wasn’t a mistake. Rinzler was clearly messed up somehow—his collapse made that obvious, if his behavior wasn’t sign enough. But after the fall, after the easy—embarrassingly easy—way the program had handled him in midair, Sam couldn’t believe Rinzler was glitching so badly as to mistakenly crash. He’d chosen not to take the shot, chosen to run into Clu. And fuck if I know why.
Sam sat down, glowering at the sea. Of course, the crash had been nearly as bad as continued fire would’ve been. For Sam, obviously, and the others… his throat clenched and he glared at the unresponsive program as he recalled the lurching of the broken craft. And then Clu following after. Rinzler had made that happen, had let that happen. If his dad was hurt, or Quorra…
He looked up at the empty sky, and the flare of anger washed away, leaving a pained tightness in his chest. It was over. And he should go, should find out how it had ended. Find out if he was stuck here for the next twenty years. He flinched as the thought formed, stupid and selfish and useless again, but what’s new? His dad was what mattered, and Quorra, and—
Light flickered at the edge of his vision, and Sam spun, scrambling quickly upright. Rinzler lay still, slumped several yards from Sam against the rock where he’d dropped. But now the cluster of squares below his throat were blinking with a bright glow: on-off, on-off. Sam stared, fascination tempered by fear, hand twitching towards his disk before dropping to his side. Well, something’s finally happening. Last chance to run?
This was probably a mistake.
But hey, hate to break the streak.
The flashing lights surged, and then the program relit, all of his circuits suddenly bright against the black armor. Sam tensed, warily watching.
After a moment, his brow furrowed, and he squinted, head tilting. That was… different.
Why’s he blue?
Sam waited, studying the unmoving program. The brightness of Rinzler’s suit dimmed quickly to a fainter steady glow. Apart from the color, the circuits looked the same—dots and dashes for the most part, skeletal lines tracing part of the hands as they lay to his sides. The helmet, touched with small streaks in the back, hung forward, nearly hitting the clustered squares in the center of the chest. The color was less pure blue and more a blue-shaded white, he decided. Kind of like Quorra.
Sam grimaced, restless, but unwilling to turn away. What did the colors even mean? Clu was yellow, his people orange or orange-red. Quorra, his dad, and most of the friendlier programs he’d met were blue or white. Color-coded morality? He almost groaned aloud. It would probably be a plus for him now, but… still. Cliché, much?
He hesitantly picked his way closer. Rinzler hadn’t stirred, hadn’t made any noise. Was he even awake? Was he paralyzed? Thinking? Waiting for someone dumb enough to get within arm’s reach?
Sam’s gut clenched unpleasantly and he forced himself to take the last few steps. Not running away. Right.
He stood in front of Rinzler’s stillness and frowned down at the hunched-over form. Something else was different. Sam’s brow furrowed in confusion as he identified the change—no, the absence. Rinzler was quiet. Completely so—and before, even when the program was shut down, the rattling had been audible from further than this.
He doesn’t look dead.
Rinzler’s head snapped up, and Sam flinched back despite himself. The black helmet tilted, fixed on him for a long moment, then turned away as the program seemed to look around, assessing.
Sam watched, limbs rigid as he suppressed the panicked urge to arm himself that had joined his latest adrenaline surge. Why did this seem like a good idea? The lack of murder attempts (so far) was excellent, but now what? Rinzler didn’t even talk, not really, so—
“User.”
Right. The program was staring at him again, a look Sam returned edgily. How could he have forgotten that wonderful conversation. The word was clear, if slightly distorted in tone. Sam blamed the helmet. It was creepy, a black void where a face should be, faint reflections warped across its surface as it angled towards him, waiting… oh. Okay, then.
“…Program?” Yep, eloquence all around. What was he supposed to say?
A faint hissing crackle came from the program, like the noise you got if you exhaled into a microphone. Sam’s brows rose in fascination. Was that a sigh?
“Why are you here, Sam Flynn?”
His eyes widened. …What?
“Wait—you talk?!” The question came out in a startled burst and he flushed slightly as the helmet angled in response. “I mean… yeah. Okay. But you sounded… different before.” He shut up. It’s true, though. The wind had stolen most of the volume, but during the fall, Rinzler’s speech had been a cracking broken noise, static and buzzing and raw painful sound. And before that, if he had done anything but growl creepily, Sam had missed it. Except the once.
But the growl was gone, and the voice was quieter now, no longer forced or crackling. Rough, tired, almost hesitant—with disuse?—but in the end, just words, backed with a faint electronic hiss. “There was… damage.”
“Damage.” Tone flat, eyebrows raised. This felt weird as fuck, like walking up to a tiger and arguing with it—outside the zoo. But his day had left the realm of remotely sane about halfway down Encom Tower. He was getting a better explanation than that.
Rinzler’s fists clenched, and Sam eyed him warily, but the program’s motions were slow and unthreatening as he pushed himself up to a sitting position, back against the slab. Tension lined his body, and Sam half-expected to hear the menacing rumble restart, but the silence was broken by speech, not stuttering.
“My code was damaged.” The slight distortion of the helmet did nothing to hide the fury in the words. “Corrupted,” Rinzler spat.
Sam stared, uncertain if he should be readying a hug or a headstart. “But… you’re fixed now?”
The program was silent. His head dipped slightly, and although the helmet still roughly faced Sam, he had a feeling Rinzler’s gaze was directed anywhere but. The program’s hand came up slowly, circuited fingers touching the dark helmet, which twisted the blue lines in reflection. He froze. Stiffened. Then a shudder passed through the program’s form as the hand dropped back down, curling again into a fist. His head shook slightly.
“No, Sam Flynn. But now I know I’m broken.”
Sam gazed down at Rinzler for a long moment, then crouched abruptly, firmly ignoring the spike of unease as he settled beside the program. The helmet followed his movements slowly, as if uncertain of his intent. Yeah, well, Sam wasn’t really sure either.
“Sam Flynn—”
“It’s Sam,” he interrupted, then looked away, feeling foolish. “Just… just Sam, alright?”
The program studied him for a moment, head tipping fractionally to the left. “Sam. Why are you here?” Softer, hesitantly, “Where’s Flynn?”
The first question confused Sam, the second hit him like a blow. His jaw clenched, and he turned away from Rinzler to glower at the sea. “He didn’t fall. If that’s what you mean.” The plane, falling, rising again in halting bursts. Clu following. Sam closed his eyes, shook his head, gazed back up at the black and empty sky. “I don’t know.”
The faceless attention was fixed on him. “Then why—”
“Why do you care?!” Bitter anger bubbled up as he glared at the dark-armored program. “You’re Clu’s—” pet, servant, monster—“Clu’s killer! You were hunting us!” Sam’s hands moved in twitching gestures of frustration as he vented. “Why does it matter to you if my dad’s safe?” Or is he just seeing what’s left to take care of?
The program froze, rigid and unmoving for several moments. Then a tremble passed through his frame, and the helmet lowered, slowly jerking from side to side as he shook. Without moving substantially, he seemed smaller somehow, shoulders hunched in as his hands clenched, loosened, came up, dropped down again.
Sam stared, resentment bleeding out to faint regret and alarm. He leaned cautiously forward. “Rinzler?”
The program stiffened, circuitry flickering visibly. “No.” The whisper was harsh. Desperate.
Sam paused, then shook his head. “Look… why do you care? You helped us, I get that. You saved my ass, that’s for sure.” His hand went up, fingers brushing his forehead as he spoke. “Thanks. I guess.” He continued awkwardly, “I just… why? You helped me, you crashed into Clu…”
“That was all I could do.” Bitterness, but not at Sam. Shame?
He tried again. “But why did you? Don’t think I’m not grateful, ‘cause really, man… I am.” He wanted to laugh, but it didn’t seem that funny. “But I thought you were Clu’s… program. Isn’t that what you’re designed for? To fight for Clu?”
The helmet stilled, shook slowly, then jerked in sharp denial as Rinzler raised his head and straightened, mask fixed on Sam. “No.” Louder, firmer this time, though with the same painful undertones.
“I fight for the users.”
…Bullshit.
It had to be. But somehow… faint whispers crept at Sam’s mind, understanding tugging him along. His dad’s voice, sketching out the Grid with toys and stories only a child could believe. Older, tone dark as he described Clu’s takeover, his own escape. And then a word, a name whispered in quiet horror. In loss. Sam hadn’t listened. Hadn’t cared—not when Quorra was being dragged off by Clu’s faceless assassin.
But now his dad was gone, Quorra was gone, and Sam stared back at the empty mask as the program looked at him. ‘Broken.’ His eyes flicked down, stopping at the clustered lights that traced a familiar outline in blue-edged white. No. No way. But the echoes faded, leaving empty knowledge behind, and by the time he shaped the words, it was hardly a question.
“…You’re really Tron?”
A tired voice responded. “I was.”
