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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: 5/11 - Corruption
Wordcount: 3156
The silence bothered Sam.
He stared at the program next to him—at Tron. Who stared at… Sam didn’t know. The creepy helmet was angled down, ahead. Towards the water? His half-clenched hands? Was he looking at all, or just remembering? No way to tell.
“Dad used to talk about you.” A momentary stillness, then Tron’s head rose, fixed on him slowly. “Just… stories, mostly. Kid stuff. I don’t know how much…” Sam trailed off, self-conscious, gaze dropping momentarily. He shook his head, eyes flicking back. “He thought you were dead.”
The program flinched, helmet shifting left, away from Sam as it jerked unevenly from side to side. He was tense, silent long enough that Sam was half-convinced the headshake was the answer when Tron finally spoke up.
“No.” The voice was dark with cold fury. “Clu wouldn’t…” He broke off, and the next words were flat. Empty. “He didn’t want me dead.”
Sam watched as the mask tilted, tipping briefly towards him, then lowered, turned away. He frowned, opened his mouth to reply, but stopped as the program continued, voice quietly harsh. “He repurposed me.”
Sam waited, but nothing more came. “Repurposed?”
“Reprogrammed.” Rinzler—Tron seemed to shake with contained aggression, muscles tensing and twitching restlessly as he sat. The agitation was unmistakable, but Sam felt a strange lack of fear. Probably a bad sign as far as my survival instincts are concerned. He almost snorted at the thought.
But Tron wasn’t done. “Clu changed my… code.” The tight hostility filled his voice, speech patterns as well as tone, and though the words were perfectly clear, Sam was reminded of the earlier bursts of broken noise. “Destroyed—corrupted—” The volume decreased, energy bleeding out as something else joined the anger.
“He broke me.” Pain? Fear? Sadness? The black-shelled head twitched as if to look towards him, but dropped back down. “I was ‘his killer’. Worse.” Sam’s own phrase, bitterly repeated.
Sam swallowed, staring at the helmeted program. Guilt.
Tron wouldn’t look at him.
“…What changed?”
A half-shrug answered him. “Nothing. Everything.” The program shook his head, not bothering to lift it. “I saw you. Flynn. I… couldn’t take the shot.” Tron didn’t move, but his circuitry dimmed, flickered momentarily. “Then I remembered why.”
Sam exhaled shortly, gaze shifting between the unmoving program at his side and the dark waters and monoliths in the distance. He shook his own head, mouth twisting as he glanced at the dark sky. “You’d think he’d have seen it coming. After… all that. That you’d remember, attack him—”
“No.” Tron’s fists clenched, voice edged with self-loathing, circuits flickering. “I didn’t attack him. I…” Sam sat up, attention sharpening as a crackling harshness shaded the program’s voice. Something’s… wrong. Tron’s hands came up to his helmet, blue lights guttering, dimming as the program hunched inwards.
“Tron?” The black form shuddered, lights flaring back before darkening, fading in intensity and color, a dark orange glow seeping through in patches. “Tron!” Sam’s breath caught with sudden tightness, urgent panic rising as he scrambled to turn, to move.
He reached out for the program and grabbed hold, hands latching onto shoulders as Tron curled inwards. His grasp was jolted as the form tensed, shook. Short bursts of static came like rasping breaths—and then the helmet jerked up, black reflections staring Sam down.
Sam stared back, firmly overriding the urge to flinch, turn away, sprint madly in the opposite direction. His own white glow played off the glassy surface of the mask in lines, mingling with the reddish orange streaks near the back, faint seeds of blue still visible underneath. Sam was shaking too now, alarm and terror and anxious desperation driving his mind in tiny circles as he held on to the dark shape.
…Who sighed, a distorted, tired hiss through the helmet, and the tension faded. Orange slowly bled out, blue lights pulsed, steadied dimly. And Tron’s hands dropped, head falling back against the rock to gaze upwards as his form unclenched.
Sam didn’t let go.
“Tron?” The helmet tipped slightly. Sam exhaled, wide eyes closing briefly before opening to regard the program. “Are you… okay?” He half-winced, the question incredibly stupid before it even left his mouth. But that didn’t seem to make much difference.
“I’m… myself,” the answer came, and Sam’s eyes narrowed in frustration. That’s not what I meant. But Tron was still talking, and he focused on the tired voice. “Clu… did things. Commands, directives—implanted, layered. I can’t… I remembered myself, but the corruption’s still there.”
Sam looked at the program, whose head hesitantly lowered to meet his gaze. “But we can fix that, right? Undo whatever’s changed?”
Tron flinched, turning away before shaking his head. “Not without my disks. And even then…” His voice was wary, guarded. “I don’t know. I’m… working through it.”
Sam eyed the program as he sat, gaze averted, painfully rigid under Sam’s grip. He sighed, then shifted, settling again beside Tron, but closer this time, left arm reaching behind to rest on the program’s shoulders. Tron stiffened, head raising, tilting at Sam, who returned the look, eyebrow raised. He wasn’t letting go unless Tron asked him to.
Tron didn’t. He glanced away, facing the sea for nearly a minute before the helmet angled back towards Sam.
“I didn’t attack Clu.” Tone flat. “I… couldn’t.” He shook his head, voice still calm, but laced with bitter hatred. “If I’d just shot him down, if I’d fought for the baton…”
“You did a lot,” Sam interjected. “Saved me for sure.” He thought about it. “…Twice?”
Tron shook his head, though he didn’t speak up. Sam could guess what he’d say anyway. ‘Not enough’. Was he blaming himself for Sam’s falling now? Or just the pursuit? Hell, for all Sam knew, he was going back to the day of Clu’s betrayal. He frowned, eyes narrowing as the program gazed blankly at the sea. He probably is.
Sam wasn’t good at this. The last therapist he’d been sent to had kicked him out in eight minutes (he’d been proud of the new record at the time), and apart from the mess in the arena, he had no idea what Tron had been used for over the last twenty years. Or was it more time in here? Whatever. He didn’t know what to say, what to do—but an anxious desperation welled at the back of his mind, a panicked certainty that if he didn’t do something, Tron would just… keep doing this. Turning inwards. Hiding. Breaking himself.
He swallowed, opened his mouth with no idea what to say, and froze as the black mask swiveled towards him. The lights were blue-white, still clearly Tron, and the way it tilted was patiently questioning, but… Damn, that’s still creepy.
“Do you… need the helmet?” The moment the words popped out, Sam flushed. He wished it was the dumbest thing he’d said all day. He really did.
Tron tensed under Sam’s arm, hand coming up to brush the dark glass. His head dropped, turned to the side, and he froze, rigid for several seconds. Then the hand fell away and the program shook his head, trembling slightly as bitter fury tinged his voice. “I can’t… take it off. Clu didn’t want—” he broke off, frustration obvious.
Sam watched, a question turning uneasily in his mind as Tron’s fist clenched. He didn’t want to push the issue, but… “Could I try?”
Tron stilled, head slowly rising to face Sam. He didn’t answer. Sam’s discomfort grew as he looked back, seconds passing in what was either silent evaluation or one of the most unfair staring contests he’d ever been in. Then the program nodded.
Sam blinked. “You mean—”
“Yes.” The word was terse, Tron’s voice edgy. “Go ahead.”
Sam opened his mouth, thought better of it, and closed it. Right. Tron sat rigidly still, mask tilted downwards, waiting. …How do I do this? He hadn’t quite thought this through. His own helmet had just kind of… folded back. When he wanted it to. Rinz—Tron, damn it! …Tron was obviously having problems with making that work. But there had to be some kind of external release, right? Or Tron wouldn’t… Screw it.
Sam reached out, right hand coming up tentatively to the angled edge of the mask. It was cool to the touch and unsurprisingly hard. Rounded, though, with no obvious seam or trigger. He felt further up the corner, tracing up the program’s jaw. Tron tensed, and Sam hesitated, but the program didn’t speak. He cautiously resumed, bringing his other hand up from Tron’s back to explore the other side. There were faint lines along the surface, but nothing seemed separate. Underneath, the solidity faded to the more flexible material around the neck—but they were joined, not detachable.
He examined it more closely. It was smooth, with little in the way of joints or connections. With Tron’s head lowered, he could see where it overlapped with the armor in back—no obvious crevices or switches. In addition to the four dashes on the sides of the head, there was another line of color on the back—a short vertical stripe Sam hadn’t seen before. Curious, he reached up to touch it.
His finger contacted the circuit, and it blazed blue with a jolting surge. Tron gave a strangled intake of breath, and the helmet jerked up to stare at him as Sam yanked his hand away. All of the program’s lights had flared, brightened, and now fluctuated with blue-white intensity as Tron looked at him, head tilted nearly sideways with what had to be incredulity.
Sam flushed, swallowing as he stumbled over his own words. “I—uh—sorry. I didn’t…” The program’s gaze rose up to the sky, and Sam shut up as Tron shook his head slowly. He rubbed his fingers uneasily against his palm—they still tingled slightly from the contact. Tron’s circuits dimmed gradually to a steady glow, and the program turned to regard Sam before dropping his head and resuming the motionless position. Right. Try again. Only with less… whatever. It didn’t seem to have hurt Tron, just…
He focused on the helmet. Frustratingly solid. Black. Keeping him from seeing whatever facial expression Tron had just made. Probably for the best on that last one. His fingers traced the edge, tested the connection with the bodysuit. No breaks, no asymmetry. Tron shivered slightly as Sam traced a finger down his neck, but the program didn’t move or protest. Not that it helped. Sam was half-wondering exactly how his father’s in-Grid coding had worked (and half-concluding that Tron was not a good choice for experimentation) when his hand caught on something under the edge at the back. He reached further and pressed, carefully avoiding the line of light above—and the helmet fractured, pieces collapsing and folding back.
Tron gave a shuddering sigh, and Sam pulled back reluctantly, giving the program space. Brown hair. That and shaky, quick breaths now clearly audible, though quieting. Sam watched, fascinated at what little he could see as Tron sat, head bowed, hand jerkily coming up to his forehead. It lowered, fingers ghosting across his features, then dropped as Tron haltingly raised his head towards Sam.
His face was pale, an almost ghostly white that Sam felt sure wasn’t normal. Tron’s gaze fixed on Sam’s own, but also flickered to the sky, the sea, the rocks, taking in the world around him as if for the first time. Eyes wide, almost wondering… but haunted, too. His mouth was a determined line.
Sam blinked. Tired blue eyes, straight nose, even the shape of the jaw and face… the word fell startled from Sam’s open mouth as his brow furrowed. “Alan?”
Tron stopped, stared back at Sam, stared past him, eyes distant as a faint and disbelieving smile twitched across his lips. “…The name of my user,” he responded, voice an echo of something Sam didn’t know. It didn’t matter.
Sam grinned back, just so glad to see Tron smiling.
They sat like that for a while, Sam watching Tron watching the world. Looking at the world, visibly breathing it in. Idle questions flickered through Sam’s thoughts—how dark was it in there, do programs need air—but he was content with sitting in silence, just viewing the relief and intensity washing across Tron’s face. Sam was still half-marveling that he had a face—and it might have been Alan’s, but the shadings of time and expression made it distinctly Tron’s as well.
“Sam.” Now the voice might really be Alan’s. Sam had no idea how he’d missed it before. He blinked, met the program’s gaze, eyes piercingly direct and mouth set in the serious line Sam was already beginning to think of as Tron’s default expression.
“Thank you.”
Sam swallowed and nodded awkwardly. He hadn’t done anything, not really, and a joke ran through his head somewhere about the exchange rate between rescue and clothing removal, but none of that seemed to hold up to the clear unwavering acknowledgement in Tron’s tone and features. He wanted to argue. But more than that, he wanted to earn the trust and gratitude Tron had offered so unflinchingly—or not unflinchingly. Effortfully. Despite everything he’d been through. The program’s eyes shifted out to the sea, gaze distant. Bleak.
Sam would settle for just seeing him smile again.
Tron’s attention flicked back to him, and the program hesitated before speaking again. “Why are you here? I… you’ve helped me. More than I…” His fists clenched slightly and his head dipped, gaze dropping from Sam as he continued. “But I didn’t expect to come back online with you still here. What about Flynn? And… the ISO. Don’t you need to find them?”
Sam noted the vague wording of Tron’s ‘expectations’, grimaced at the unpleasant but fair implications. He had thought of it. As for the questions… Sam sighed, stared up at the black sky before dragging his focus back to the waiting program.
“I don’t know.” He jerked his head upwards. “The portal’s closed early. That means someone made it through, right?” Tron gave a half-shrug, not disagreeing. “So either it was Dad and Quorra, in which case it’ll all be fine… or it was Clu. Which would mean…” he trailed off, throat tight. “Yeah. I should go.”
Tron had visibly withdrawn at Clu’s name, shoulders drawing in as his hands clenched, features blank. Sam’s conclusion provoked a small nod, and the program tensed, struggle visible on his face before his head dropped further, quiet words coming out shakily miserable. “I’m sorry.”
Okay… no. Sam looked at the program, clenched his jaw, and counted to ten as an impressive number of profanities scrolled through his mind. Then he reached out and grabbed Tron by the shoulders, half-yanking him out of the hunched in position. The program stiffened, pulling back, but Sam didn’t let go, waiting until Tron’s head came up in confusion to meet his look.
“You do not get to be sorry.” Sam closed his eyes, opened them, stared at the uncertainty crossing the program’s face, guilt painfully clear beneath. “Damn it, Tron—you didn’t do anything! Clu turned on Dad, attacked us, screwed over the Grid! You worst, from what I can tell.” Tron flinched, opened his mouth to reply, but Sam wasn’t letting him argue. “You saved us. And if you want to blame yourself for what he made you do..." Sam shook his head, wordless. "The moment you got a chance, you helped! You’re helping now!” His face tightened with agitation, embarrassment, urgent need for Tron to listen.
Tron was quiet as Sam searched his features. The program’s eyes dropped, reluctantly came back up. His face was mostly still, a slight unhappy twist to his mouth as he faced Sam. Then his head shook faintly, and the look receded, Tron’s expression controlled and even as he raised an eyebrow at Sam.
“All I’m doing now is delaying you.” Tone calm, not without a flicker of humor, but nothing else. “You should go. Whether or not he made it out, Flynn will be worried.”
Sam stared back, frustration welling, then exhaled slowly. “You’re right.” He let go of the program and pushed himself awkwardly from the ground, stretching stiff muscles. Tron watched him, unmoving, a flicker crossing his eyes. Sam looked across the sea and pointed in a vaguely leftwards direction. “The portal’s over there?”
“About 12 degrees left of that.” Sam nodded at the program’s assessment, squinted out at the empty sea. Nope, no difference he could make out.
He turned back, regarded Tron as he looked up, dim blue glow reflecting dully on the rocks. The program cocked his head, waiting, and Sam raised an eyebrow in response. “You getting up or what?”
Tron’s face blanked. His head tipped further sideways, calm dissolving to a startled confusion that made Sam grin. So much better without the helmet. “What?”
“Come on. You’re right, Dad’s gonna worry.”
“But I—”
“If you’re injured or something, I can maybe carry you. Not ideal, I know, but you don’t look much heavier than Quorra.”
Tron stared at him, bewilderment fading to an exasperated look. “Sam. There’s no—”
Sam leaned over to whisper, face close to Tron’s irritated glare. He could hear the smirk in his own voice. “Not leaving without you.” He straightened, hand out to help the program rise.
Tron looked up at Sam. Amusement, regret, uncertainty wavered through his features. Sam looked back, his own appreciation of the sight checked by a thread of desperate anxiety that seemed to tighten in his chest as the program’s head dropped, shaking slightly. Then Tron reached out and took his offered hand, and Sam’s grin widened idiotically as he gripped and pulled the program up.
Tron stood, unsteadiness giving way quickly to even balance. He glanced at Sam in wry resignation, shaking his head again at Sam’s expression. Tron’s circuits flared slightly, and Sam glanced down, realizing he still hadn’t let go of the program’s hand. Right. Sam hesitated, eyes tracing the white-blue lines along the fingers, then abruptly pressed the grip to a faint shock before dropping Tron’s hand. He turned his head, acutely embarrassed even as his gaze flickered back. Tron’s eyes had widened, reflecting the sudden surge of light. He stared at Sam, glanced down at his hand, up again as he bit back some response. Confused? Cautious? Sam couldn’t tell. He didn’t seem to be offended, but…
Sam stepped back, looking around as he tried to redirect his focus from the growing discomfort. Sky. Sea. Rocks. Tron. Right, the fascinating landscape again. He sighed, turning back to look up at Tron as he opened his mouth awkwardly.
Wait.
“Wait.” Sam cocked his head, provoking a similarly confused response. He stared at the program. The ground. The program.
“Since when are you taller than me?”
Tron smiled.
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: 5/11 - Corruption
Wordcount: 3156
The silence bothered Sam.
He stared at the program next to him—at Tron. Who stared at… Sam didn’t know. The creepy helmet was angled down, ahead. Towards the water? His half-clenched hands? Was he looking at all, or just remembering? No way to tell.
“Dad used to talk about you.” A momentary stillness, then Tron’s head rose, fixed on him slowly. “Just… stories, mostly. Kid stuff. I don’t know how much…” Sam trailed off, self-conscious, gaze dropping momentarily. He shook his head, eyes flicking back. “He thought you were dead.”
The program flinched, helmet shifting left, away from Sam as it jerked unevenly from side to side. He was tense, silent long enough that Sam was half-convinced the headshake was the answer when Tron finally spoke up.
“No.” The voice was dark with cold fury. “Clu wouldn’t…” He broke off, and the next words were flat. Empty. “He didn’t want me dead.”
Sam watched as the mask tilted, tipping briefly towards him, then lowered, turned away. He frowned, opened his mouth to reply, but stopped as the program continued, voice quietly harsh. “He repurposed me.”
Sam waited, but nothing more came. “Repurposed?”
“Reprogrammed.” Rinzler—Tron seemed to shake with contained aggression, muscles tensing and twitching restlessly as he sat. The agitation was unmistakable, but Sam felt a strange lack of fear. Probably a bad sign as far as my survival instincts are concerned. He almost snorted at the thought.
But Tron wasn’t done. “Clu changed my… code.” The tight hostility filled his voice, speech patterns as well as tone, and though the words were perfectly clear, Sam was reminded of the earlier bursts of broken noise. “Destroyed—corrupted—” The volume decreased, energy bleeding out as something else joined the anger.
“He broke me.” Pain? Fear? Sadness? The black-shelled head twitched as if to look towards him, but dropped back down. “I was ‘his killer’. Worse.” Sam’s own phrase, bitterly repeated.
Sam swallowed, staring at the helmeted program. Guilt.
Tron wouldn’t look at him.
“…What changed?”
A half-shrug answered him. “Nothing. Everything.” The program shook his head, not bothering to lift it. “I saw you. Flynn. I… couldn’t take the shot.” Tron didn’t move, but his circuitry dimmed, flickered momentarily. “Then I remembered why.”
Sam exhaled shortly, gaze shifting between the unmoving program at his side and the dark waters and monoliths in the distance. He shook his own head, mouth twisting as he glanced at the dark sky. “You’d think he’d have seen it coming. After… all that. That you’d remember, attack him—”
“No.” Tron’s fists clenched, voice edged with self-loathing, circuits flickering. “I didn’t attack him. I…” Sam sat up, attention sharpening as a crackling harshness shaded the program’s voice. Something’s… wrong. Tron’s hands came up to his helmet, blue lights guttering, dimming as the program hunched inwards.
“Tron?” The black form shuddered, lights flaring back before darkening, fading in intensity and color, a dark orange glow seeping through in patches. “Tron!” Sam’s breath caught with sudden tightness, urgent panic rising as he scrambled to turn, to move.
He reached out for the program and grabbed hold, hands latching onto shoulders as Tron curled inwards. His grasp was jolted as the form tensed, shook. Short bursts of static came like rasping breaths—and then the helmet jerked up, black reflections staring Sam down.
Sam stared back, firmly overriding the urge to flinch, turn away, sprint madly in the opposite direction. His own white glow played off the glassy surface of the mask in lines, mingling with the reddish orange streaks near the back, faint seeds of blue still visible underneath. Sam was shaking too now, alarm and terror and anxious desperation driving his mind in tiny circles as he held on to the dark shape.
…Who sighed, a distorted, tired hiss through the helmet, and the tension faded. Orange slowly bled out, blue lights pulsed, steadied dimly. And Tron’s hands dropped, head falling back against the rock to gaze upwards as his form unclenched.
Sam didn’t let go.
“Tron?” The helmet tipped slightly. Sam exhaled, wide eyes closing briefly before opening to regard the program. “Are you… okay?” He half-winced, the question incredibly stupid before it even left his mouth. But that didn’t seem to make much difference.
“I’m… myself,” the answer came, and Sam’s eyes narrowed in frustration. That’s not what I meant. But Tron was still talking, and he focused on the tired voice. “Clu… did things. Commands, directives—implanted, layered. I can’t… I remembered myself, but the corruption’s still there.”
Sam looked at the program, whose head hesitantly lowered to meet his gaze. “But we can fix that, right? Undo whatever’s changed?”
Tron flinched, turning away before shaking his head. “Not without my disks. And even then…” His voice was wary, guarded. “I don’t know. I’m… working through it.”
Sam eyed the program as he sat, gaze averted, painfully rigid under Sam’s grip. He sighed, then shifted, settling again beside Tron, but closer this time, left arm reaching behind to rest on the program’s shoulders. Tron stiffened, head raising, tilting at Sam, who returned the look, eyebrow raised. He wasn’t letting go unless Tron asked him to.
Tron didn’t. He glanced away, facing the sea for nearly a minute before the helmet angled back towards Sam.
“I didn’t attack Clu.” Tone flat. “I… couldn’t.” He shook his head, voice still calm, but laced with bitter hatred. “If I’d just shot him down, if I’d fought for the baton…”
“You did a lot,” Sam interjected. “Saved me for sure.” He thought about it. “…Twice?”
Tron shook his head, though he didn’t speak up. Sam could guess what he’d say anyway. ‘Not enough’. Was he blaming himself for Sam’s falling now? Or just the pursuit? Hell, for all Sam knew, he was going back to the day of Clu’s betrayal. He frowned, eyes narrowing as the program gazed blankly at the sea. He probably is.
Sam wasn’t good at this. The last therapist he’d been sent to had kicked him out in eight minutes (he’d been proud of the new record at the time), and apart from the mess in the arena, he had no idea what Tron had been used for over the last twenty years. Or was it more time in here? Whatever. He didn’t know what to say, what to do—but an anxious desperation welled at the back of his mind, a panicked certainty that if he didn’t do something, Tron would just… keep doing this. Turning inwards. Hiding. Breaking himself.
He swallowed, opened his mouth with no idea what to say, and froze as the black mask swiveled towards him. The lights were blue-white, still clearly Tron, and the way it tilted was patiently questioning, but… Damn, that’s still creepy.
“Do you… need the helmet?” The moment the words popped out, Sam flushed. He wished it was the dumbest thing he’d said all day. He really did.
Tron tensed under Sam’s arm, hand coming up to brush the dark glass. His head dropped, turned to the side, and he froze, rigid for several seconds. Then the hand fell away and the program shook his head, trembling slightly as bitter fury tinged his voice. “I can’t… take it off. Clu didn’t want—” he broke off, frustration obvious.
Sam watched, a question turning uneasily in his mind as Tron’s fist clenched. He didn’t want to push the issue, but… “Could I try?”
Tron stilled, head slowly rising to face Sam. He didn’t answer. Sam’s discomfort grew as he looked back, seconds passing in what was either silent evaluation or one of the most unfair staring contests he’d ever been in. Then the program nodded.
Sam blinked. “You mean—”
“Yes.” The word was terse, Tron’s voice edgy. “Go ahead.”
Sam opened his mouth, thought better of it, and closed it. Right. Tron sat rigidly still, mask tilted downwards, waiting. …How do I do this? He hadn’t quite thought this through. His own helmet had just kind of… folded back. When he wanted it to. Rinz—Tron, damn it! …Tron was obviously having problems with making that work. But there had to be some kind of external release, right? Or Tron wouldn’t… Screw it.
Sam reached out, right hand coming up tentatively to the angled edge of the mask. It was cool to the touch and unsurprisingly hard. Rounded, though, with no obvious seam or trigger. He felt further up the corner, tracing up the program’s jaw. Tron tensed, and Sam hesitated, but the program didn’t speak. He cautiously resumed, bringing his other hand up from Tron’s back to explore the other side. There were faint lines along the surface, but nothing seemed separate. Underneath, the solidity faded to the more flexible material around the neck—but they were joined, not detachable.
He examined it more closely. It was smooth, with little in the way of joints or connections. With Tron’s head lowered, he could see where it overlapped with the armor in back—no obvious crevices or switches. In addition to the four dashes on the sides of the head, there was another line of color on the back—a short vertical stripe Sam hadn’t seen before. Curious, he reached up to touch it.
His finger contacted the circuit, and it blazed blue with a jolting surge. Tron gave a strangled intake of breath, and the helmet jerked up to stare at him as Sam yanked his hand away. All of the program’s lights had flared, brightened, and now fluctuated with blue-white intensity as Tron looked at him, head tilted nearly sideways with what had to be incredulity.
Sam flushed, swallowing as he stumbled over his own words. “I—uh—sorry. I didn’t…” The program’s gaze rose up to the sky, and Sam shut up as Tron shook his head slowly. He rubbed his fingers uneasily against his palm—they still tingled slightly from the contact. Tron’s circuits dimmed gradually to a steady glow, and the program turned to regard Sam before dropping his head and resuming the motionless position. Right. Try again. Only with less… whatever. It didn’t seem to have hurt Tron, just…
He focused on the helmet. Frustratingly solid. Black. Keeping him from seeing whatever facial expression Tron had just made. Probably for the best on that last one. His fingers traced the edge, tested the connection with the bodysuit. No breaks, no asymmetry. Tron shivered slightly as Sam traced a finger down his neck, but the program didn’t move or protest. Not that it helped. Sam was half-wondering exactly how his father’s in-Grid coding had worked (and half-concluding that Tron was not a good choice for experimentation) when his hand caught on something under the edge at the back. He reached further and pressed, carefully avoiding the line of light above—and the helmet fractured, pieces collapsing and folding back.
Tron gave a shuddering sigh, and Sam pulled back reluctantly, giving the program space. Brown hair. That and shaky, quick breaths now clearly audible, though quieting. Sam watched, fascinated at what little he could see as Tron sat, head bowed, hand jerkily coming up to his forehead. It lowered, fingers ghosting across his features, then dropped as Tron haltingly raised his head towards Sam.
His face was pale, an almost ghostly white that Sam felt sure wasn’t normal. Tron’s gaze fixed on Sam’s own, but also flickered to the sky, the sea, the rocks, taking in the world around him as if for the first time. Eyes wide, almost wondering… but haunted, too. His mouth was a determined line.
Sam blinked. Tired blue eyes, straight nose, even the shape of the jaw and face… the word fell startled from Sam’s open mouth as his brow furrowed. “Alan?”
Tron stopped, stared back at Sam, stared past him, eyes distant as a faint and disbelieving smile twitched across his lips. “…The name of my user,” he responded, voice an echo of something Sam didn’t know. It didn’t matter.
Sam grinned back, just so glad to see Tron smiling.
They sat like that for a while, Sam watching Tron watching the world. Looking at the world, visibly breathing it in. Idle questions flickered through Sam’s thoughts—how dark was it in there, do programs need air—but he was content with sitting in silence, just viewing the relief and intensity washing across Tron’s face. Sam was still half-marveling that he had a face—and it might have been Alan’s, but the shadings of time and expression made it distinctly Tron’s as well.
“Sam.” Now the voice might really be Alan’s. Sam had no idea how he’d missed it before. He blinked, met the program’s gaze, eyes piercingly direct and mouth set in the serious line Sam was already beginning to think of as Tron’s default expression.
“Thank you.”
Sam swallowed and nodded awkwardly. He hadn’t done anything, not really, and a joke ran through his head somewhere about the exchange rate between rescue and clothing removal, but none of that seemed to hold up to the clear unwavering acknowledgement in Tron’s tone and features. He wanted to argue. But more than that, he wanted to earn the trust and gratitude Tron had offered so unflinchingly—or not unflinchingly. Effortfully. Despite everything he’d been through. The program’s eyes shifted out to the sea, gaze distant. Bleak.
Sam would settle for just seeing him smile again.
Tron’s attention flicked back to him, and the program hesitated before speaking again. “Why are you here? I… you’ve helped me. More than I…” His fists clenched slightly and his head dipped, gaze dropping from Sam as he continued. “But I didn’t expect to come back online with you still here. What about Flynn? And… the ISO. Don’t you need to find them?”
Sam noted the vague wording of Tron’s ‘expectations’, grimaced at the unpleasant but fair implications. He had thought of it. As for the questions… Sam sighed, stared up at the black sky before dragging his focus back to the waiting program.
“I don’t know.” He jerked his head upwards. “The portal’s closed early. That means someone made it through, right?” Tron gave a half-shrug, not disagreeing. “So either it was Dad and Quorra, in which case it’ll all be fine… or it was Clu. Which would mean…” he trailed off, throat tight. “Yeah. I should go.”
Tron had visibly withdrawn at Clu’s name, shoulders drawing in as his hands clenched, features blank. Sam’s conclusion provoked a small nod, and the program tensed, struggle visible on his face before his head dropped further, quiet words coming out shakily miserable. “I’m sorry.”
Okay… no. Sam looked at the program, clenched his jaw, and counted to ten as an impressive number of profanities scrolled through his mind. Then he reached out and grabbed Tron by the shoulders, half-yanking him out of the hunched in position. The program stiffened, pulling back, but Sam didn’t let go, waiting until Tron’s head came up in confusion to meet his look.
“You do not get to be sorry.” Sam closed his eyes, opened them, stared at the uncertainty crossing the program’s face, guilt painfully clear beneath. “Damn it, Tron—you didn’t do anything! Clu turned on Dad, attacked us, screwed over the Grid! You worst, from what I can tell.” Tron flinched, opened his mouth to reply, but Sam wasn’t letting him argue. “You saved us. And if you want to blame yourself for what he made you do..." Sam shook his head, wordless. "The moment you got a chance, you helped! You’re helping now!” His face tightened with agitation, embarrassment, urgent need for Tron to listen.
Tron was quiet as Sam searched his features. The program’s eyes dropped, reluctantly came back up. His face was mostly still, a slight unhappy twist to his mouth as he faced Sam. Then his head shook faintly, and the look receded, Tron’s expression controlled and even as he raised an eyebrow at Sam.
“All I’m doing now is delaying you.” Tone calm, not without a flicker of humor, but nothing else. “You should go. Whether or not he made it out, Flynn will be worried.”
Sam stared back, frustration welling, then exhaled slowly. “You’re right.” He let go of the program and pushed himself awkwardly from the ground, stretching stiff muscles. Tron watched him, unmoving, a flicker crossing his eyes. Sam looked across the sea and pointed in a vaguely leftwards direction. “The portal’s over there?”
“About 12 degrees left of that.” Sam nodded at the program’s assessment, squinted out at the empty sea. Nope, no difference he could make out.
He turned back, regarded Tron as he looked up, dim blue glow reflecting dully on the rocks. The program cocked his head, waiting, and Sam raised an eyebrow in response. “You getting up or what?”
Tron’s face blanked. His head tipped further sideways, calm dissolving to a startled confusion that made Sam grin. So much better without the helmet. “What?”
“Come on. You’re right, Dad’s gonna worry.”
“But I—”
“If you’re injured or something, I can maybe carry you. Not ideal, I know, but you don’t look much heavier than Quorra.”
Tron stared at him, bewilderment fading to an exasperated look. “Sam. There’s no—”
Sam leaned over to whisper, face close to Tron’s irritated glare. He could hear the smirk in his own voice. “Not leaving without you.” He straightened, hand out to help the program rise.
Tron looked up at Sam. Amusement, regret, uncertainty wavered through his features. Sam looked back, his own appreciation of the sight checked by a thread of desperate anxiety that seemed to tighten in his chest as the program’s head dropped, shaking slightly. Then Tron reached out and took his offered hand, and Sam’s grin widened idiotically as he gripped and pulled the program up.
Tron stood, unsteadiness giving way quickly to even balance. He glanced at Sam in wry resignation, shaking his head again at Sam’s expression. Tron’s circuits flared slightly, and Sam glanced down, realizing he still hadn’t let go of the program’s hand. Right. Sam hesitated, eyes tracing the white-blue lines along the fingers, then abruptly pressed the grip to a faint shock before dropping Tron’s hand. He turned his head, acutely embarrassed even as his gaze flickered back. Tron’s eyes had widened, reflecting the sudden surge of light. He stared at Sam, glanced down at his hand, up again as he bit back some response. Confused? Cautious? Sam couldn’t tell. He didn’t seem to be offended, but…
Sam stepped back, looking around as he tried to redirect his focus from the growing discomfort. Sky. Sea. Rocks. Tron. Right, the fascinating landscape again. He sighed, turning back to look up at Tron as he opened his mouth awkwardly.
Wait.
“Wait.” Sam cocked his head, provoking a similarly confused response. He stared at the program. The ground. The program.
“Since when are you taller than me?”
Tron smiled.
