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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: 7/11 - Meetings
Wordcount: 3212
They were maybe forty minutes out when the jet showed up.
The Outlands lacked convenient paths, but the Sea was an obvious enough landmark to follow towards the portal. The surface at the top of the cliffs was bleak and boring, just dark slabs on dark stone stretching off forever. But it was flat, and stable enough. Mostly.
Sam had asked about using the baton, but Tron's reluctance was… pronounced. Sam still wasn't clear, even after the explanation, whether the doubled load just made them a slow and easy target or if it also had good odds of crashing, dropping, or blowing them up. Either way, hiking sounded like a great plan—and Sam made sure to say so, before Tron could go back to thinking he should stay.
The program was quiet as they walked, though he responded easily enough to Sam's questions. Mostly Tron seemed watchful, head tilting as he looked around, scanning the landscape. Sam wasn't sure if it was wary attention or faint wonder, but he seemed to be trying to imprint each moment, commit every sight and sound to memory.
So Tron was the one who saw it coming.
Sam's awareness came when the program stopped abruptly, staring up and slightly to the right, over the sea. Sam turned back, waited. "Tron?" No reaction. Sam gazed out at the water. Sea. Sky. Rocks—some of them hovering, but that wasn't new, just weird.
"Lightjet."
Sam glanced back to Tron, the program's eyes fixed unblinking on the distance, voice calm, certain. He looked again at the darkness. Nothing.
"Are you—" Wait. There. A flicker. Sam strained, trying to make out the small glimmer again, and was rewarded by a small blink of light. His brows knitted in confusion—How can he see that and say 'lightjet'?—but he kept looking, spotted another short burst. If it was a jet, it had to be low to the water. Was it dodging behind the floating slabs? That might account for the flashes. He couldn't make out the color yet, but it was getting slightly bigger; in another second or two—
He fell out of his thoughts with a startled yelp as a hand closed around his arm, Tron dragging him back from the cliff. Sam opened his mouth to protest as he stumbled after, but the program shook his head, face grim as he nodded back towards the edge. "It's coming this way."
Sam swallowed. Looked at Tron, looked at the water. Nodded. He glanced around at the terrain. Flat. Open. No convenient overhangs or clustered heaps of stone. The best they were going to find would be something to hide behind, not underneath.
Tron seemed to come to the same conclusion. After a brief pause, he headed for one of the larger standing slabs, pulling Sam after him. Sam scowled, but didn't argue as the program tugged him behind the rock. Three seconds later, he stuck his head out to look. Nothing again. It could be gone. He snorted at the thought. With his luck? Not so much.
Tron stood close behind him, head peering past the stone, held at an angle as if listening—though if the program could hear anything at this distance, he was a goddamn bat. Despite being more exposed than Sam, he blended eerily well with the background, dark suit against dark rocks, his minimal circuitry a dim glow. Sam wondered if he was doing that on purpose—and if it was something he could learn. Stone on one side, Tron covering the other, and he still stood out like a fucking glowstick, white lines practically surging with light. Was he brighter than usual? Tron's eyes flicked to him, blue reflecting white, then returned to the sea.
Sam hated waiting. "It's still coming?" His whisper was more nervous than he liked. Tron nodded, and he grimaced. "I don't suppose there's anything else in this direction?"
Tron shook his head, voice unnervingly calm. "Not along that path."
Right. Sam stuck his head back out for a better view. He could see it now, a shape as well as a light, edging in and out of sight as it passed the closer monoliths. It was white—no, white-edged blue, and for a moment, confused joy rose up. But it was too small, a single jet rather than the larger plane Dad and Quorra had flown in. It also wasn't missing a tail—although its flight was erratic. Damaged? Still…
"It's blue." Tron turned his head as Sam spoke. "Doesn't that mean…" He gestured vaguely at the program's own lights. "Aren't blue programs on our side?"
Tron glanced away, expression unreadable. Then he shook his head slightly, turning back to Sam. "Mostly. Maybe. Circuit color shows a program's general function or loyalty. It's not a good way to tell immediate intentions."
Sam nodded, still mildly optimistic as he moved to take another look. Then Tron continued. "It can also be masked or imitated." He rolled his eyes. Great.
Sam didn't need to look now—he could hear the faint sound, a roar of wind and motion as the craft approached. Light built on the other side of the stone, and he stilled, hoping faintly that if he stayed behind the rock, it would keep going. Only that wouldn't work; once it passed, Sam would be about as subtle as a roadside flare, no matter how close Tron pressed to cover him—
The roar built to a screeching scream, and a crash of impact shattered his thoughts. It was close, too close, too loud, a slamming crunch mixed with a sliding, grinding noise that set Sam's teeth on edge. He ducked back further, any urge to see what was happening vastly overwhelmed by his desire to not get hit by two exploding jets in one day.
The glassy breaking noise stopped, and everything seemed still. Sam waited, trying to muffle the sound of his breath as adrenaline pounded through his veins. Nothing. He glanced up at Tron, who had held position, just far enough out to catch a glimpse. The program tilted his head, an uncertain look crossing his features. His eyes flicked to Sam, and he motioned toward the cliff, pulling back to offer a better view.
Sam shifted over to look, and his eyes widened. The blue-white craft hadn't blown up, but… that was about all Sam could say for it. The wings had scraped low across the cliff—the tip of one had shattered off entirely, and the other looked about ready to snap at its base. The entire underside had eroded, catching roughly against the rocks like sandpaper, leaving splintered crystals and larger fragments spread across the ground in a line of debris. If that weren't enough, there seemed to be shattered holes and burned streaks through the jet's rear and top, still trailing broken wisps of light.
A groan came from the slumped over pilot.
Sam's mouth opened partway. How the fuck is he… The head rose, and Sam's breath caught. A large helmet, scored but intact, two blue-white lines curving in from the sides to meet a third that rose up partway in the middle. Below it, bare shoulders next to glowing circles and lines tracing downwards. Blue-white against the dark suit.
And Sam was scrambling out from behind the slab, running forward across the broken ground with an unintelligible yell of joy as the program—she, not he—struggled to her feet, helmet sectioning away to reveal dark hair, pale blue eyes that met his own straight away, and a wide grin of pure elation.
"Quorra!"
Sam stopped just short of touching her, his expression faltering as he got closer. The ISO did not look good. What looked like a burned streak crossed her right jawline, tiny crystals darkened and cracking away. A limp in her motion drew his eyes down—she was lined with hairline fractures from the waist down, and her left leg seemed half-crushed at one point. From the crash? He couldn't tell if the wound to her torso was worst or best off: a faint line that traced down from collarbone to solar plexus—thin, but sparking angry red along the broken edges.
But she was standing, and smiling, and here, and Sam couldn't help but smile back, even through the worry. He opened his mouth, but she beat him to it, catching his concerned gaze with her amused one.
"I know. Better than the arm, though, right?" If she was in pain (and how the fuck could she not be?), it didn't show in her speech, or the wry laugh that accompanied it.
"On a case by case basis, sure." He shook his head, eyes drawn to the tiny black fragments falling away as her mouth moved. "How are you even here? Where's Dad?" He hadn't meant to ask the second question, Quorra was what mattered at the moment, but…
"He's fine." A knot in Sam's chest released, and he breathed again. Funny. He hadn't known he'd stopped. Quorra's look softened, far too understanding as she continued. "Better than fine. He made it out, Sam."
Sam's eyes closed, the restrained fear and constant worry dropping away so fast he felt lightheaded. He was so damn relieved, and things were okay, were alright like they hadn't been since he'd first fallen, first seen the broken craft struggling through the sky. He opened his eyelids to see Quorra peering at him anxiously. Ha, 'cause she should be worried about me right now. He forced a shaky grin. "Oh man, you have no idea how glad I am to hear that."
She smiled again, content. Then her lips twitched, and he could hear the humor in her voice. "As for me…"
She reached out, and Sam hesitated, uncertain. If she wanted support, he was there for her, but a panicky fear lingered in his mind that he could grab and have her shatter. It was stupid, he knew—she was standing, mobile, clearly strong enough. But he couldn't draw his eyes away from the cracks and scoring lines across her body now, the memories of programs shattering on impact—of Quorra breaking under the guard's baton, falling limp and still.
But her movement was quick and deft, hand reaching out to brush the side of his chest. No, he realized, to brush the armor. The slight overlap between the material had been the closest he could find to a pocket, and he'd used it for… the sector map Quorra now held up between them.
"I helped make this." Her voice was satisfied, a flicker of pride running through it. "It's easy enough to trace something that's mine. That I've worked on." The map disappeared into a pocket of her own, and she leaned back against the lightjet, brushing away some shattered edges.
He shook his head, staring at the crazy, amazing program in front of him. "Seriously. What happened to you? How did you get…" he waved at her injuries as she cocked her head. "…like that!"
"Well, for a start, I crashed a lightjet…"
Sam groaned, shook his head and opened his mouth to reply when another voice spoke.
"That's a disk cut."
Sam tensed, spinning around before recognition calmed him. It was Tron (of course it was Tron), though how and when he'd silently appeared a few paces behind Sam was a complete unknown. The program's face was unreadable, eyes focused on the jagged break down Quorra's front, though they flickered to Sam as he turned.
Quorra blinked, shifted slightly, apparently less taken aback than Sam. Her gaze rested on him briefly, question obvious, before meeting Tron's look. "Yes." She tilted her head to include Sam, though her eyes didn't leave the new arrival.
"Clu showed up at the Portal. Flynn made it out, but Clu… had the advantage." Her voice tightened, eyes glittering with cold fury as they continued inspecting Tron. She half-smirked as she continued, though her tone was more distracted than pleased. "He knocked me over the edge without realizing he was missing something." Her head jerked back to the wrecked lightjet as she casually stood.
Sam smiled faintly, but his attention was halfhearted. He'd seen the flinch as Quorra mentioned Clu's return, the tension lining Tron's profile. It was disturbing how little motion it took for the program's shape to change so dramatically—half-clenched hands, head dipped lower, shoulders hunched. Sam frowned, frustrated and overwhelmed with the painful need for Tron to stop doing this to himself. But he'd only half-listened before, and now—
Tron's circuits darkened, flickered.
Shit.
Sam stepped towards him, panic rising desperately fast as his throat went dry. Tron's gaze was fixed downwards, form rigid, head shaking slightly as the blue glow dimmed unevenly. He should've—
"Sam."
Something about Quorra's voice cut through his urgency, and Sam froze in place as he turned. Her tone was light, even… and about as friendly as her stance. Or her unmoving eyes, staring past him. Friendly like a blade.
Oh, wait. She already had that covered.
"Quorra, hold on a—"
"Sam." Her tone was cold with fury. With intent.
"Look, just—"
"Sam, move." Voice sharp. Sam's irritation flared, then faltered as he caught something else beneath her anger. Fear.
For him.
Any other time, Q. But not now, not with Quorra shifting forward, beam katana blazing blue. Attention fixed beyond Sam, to Tron, whose own focus was entirely elsewhere. The program tensed, curling inwards as he backed away, circuitry flaring and darkening in patches. …Shit. Sam needed to go to him, needed to be there now, but he stepped left instead, blocking Quorra as she tried to get past.
Her gaze flickered, meeting his eyes in frustration, and he returned look and feeling both. His hands had come up in agitated gestures as he'd tried to cut in, to make her listen, and he held them out now in a motion he hoped was calming. "Listen, Quorra, he's not a threat. Just let me—"
Orange flashed at the edge of his vision, and Sam spun around and ran. Rapid steps behind him turned to a crash of impact, a hissing breath of pain, and Sam glanced back briefly to see Quorra on the ground, trying to push herself up on the right as her left leg refused to support her. Sam grimaced, worried and scared and sorry, but there wasn't time.
Tron had retreated nearly to the slab by the time Sam reached him. His head snapped up, jerking sideways in desperate refusal as his panicked gaze met Sam's. But it was Tron's gaze, Tron's eyes touched by alarm and distant rage as the program stared back—and the knot in Sam's chest loosened. Tron exhaled harshly, faint orange glow already fading against the blue, and Sam gave a faint smile as he reached out. The program flinched at the touch, but didn't pull away. Sam leaned closer as Tron shook, face strained and twisted with effort as he slowly unclenched. Blue-white light flickered, stabilized, and Tron's head dropped to Sam's shoulder with a tired sigh.
Sam held him, tense and grateful and so damn desperate with relief, and it took longer than he thought it should to make his mouth form words. "You're getting better at that."
Tron made a frustrated noise, straightening to look at Sam with bitter disbelief. "If by 'that' you mean losing control, endangering—"
"I mean getting it back," Sam cut in quietly. Not letting you do this. "You snapped out of it much faster. And it took you a lot longer to lose it." Sam didn't even think he had lost it, not really.
Tron shook his head, gaze dropping, voice soft and wearily hopeless. "That doesn't make—"
"Sam."
…Right.
Sam let go of Tron and turned, taking a few steps back to face Quorra. The ISO stood rigid, the threat of her sword far outclassed by the fury in her expression. Sam glanced down in concern, but if she was worse off than before, her stance didn't show it. He raised his hands placatingly and she stared at him with flat disbelief.
"That's Rinzler."
"Not—"
It wasn't a question. "Sam, get out of my way."
"No." He could do curt, too. Not helpful. He sighed, tried again. "Quorra—"
"Sam, he's Clu's murderer! Clu's monster, Clu's glitching pet!" She spat out the words as she glared past Sam, unblinking. "He derezzed—killed… so many of us. Cleaning the 'errors' in Clu's perfect system." The flare of hatred grew soft, cold, as her eyes flicked back to him. "Move, Sam. Now."
He shook his head. Glanced back at Tron—he was still, expression hollow, gaze fixed on Quorra, or maybe past her—then again at the ISO. Her face was tight with rage, stance a painful readiness.
"It's not Rinzler." Her mouth opened, eyes flashing in poisonous denial, and Sam hurried on before she could cut in. "Not anymore. He's Tron."
She stopped. Looked at him. Her lips flattened in a line as her head tilted slightly, gaze settling past Sam for several seconds before returning to meet his own.
"That's what Flynn meant." Sam stared, uncomprehending. "On the lightjet." …Nope, no idea. He nodded anyway. She hesitated, eyes flickering down, then shook her head, expression troubled but set.
"I'm sorry, Sam. That doesn't change things." It was her turn to speak quickly as Sam tried to interrupt. "Whoever he was before, he's been Rinzler for a thousand cycles. That's hundreds and hundreds of your years serving Clu—killing. Torturing." Her eyes went dark, anger welling again. "Hunting dissenting programs—and users." Her gaze flicked to Sam's shoulder, the faint line in his suit. "He hurt you—"
"He saved me! Fuck, he saved all of us!" Sam glared, infuriated. "You think he was 'serving Clu' with that collision?"
She returned his look, equally defiant. "I don't know. We can't trust him. He—"
"Yes, we can."
"Sam." There was an edge of tension to Quorra's voice, but her features were unnervingly calm as she regarded him steadily. "Even if you're right. Even if he's not 'really' Rinzler anymore, if he isn't a—" she broke off, words edged, then started again. "If he's not lying to you. Even then. Clu still…" Her mouth twitched unhappily. "…he's still rectified. You can't know, Sam. He can't know."
She met his eyes, and he flinched. It's true. But he didn't have to know, it didn't matter if he knew. He wasn't leaving Tron—and he definitely wasn't letting Quorra at him. He didn't have an answer, and she knew it, but he opened his mouth anyways—
"Sam." He turned at the quiet word, glanced up uneasily to Tron. The program's hands were clenched, face closed, reluctant. He opened his mouth, and Sam's eyes widened at the painful hesitation that flickered over his features.
Oh no you don't…
"She's right."
Sam expected the words. But it wasn't Tron who spoke them.
Tron froze. There was a hissing inhalation from behind Sam, a click and hum of an activating disk. And he stared past, unable to fucking breathe as Tron paled, jerked around and stopped… everything.
Clu leaned against the rock and 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: 7/11 - Meetings
Wordcount: 3212
They were maybe forty minutes out when the jet showed up.
The Outlands lacked convenient paths, but the Sea was an obvious enough landmark to follow towards the portal. The surface at the top of the cliffs was bleak and boring, just dark slabs on dark stone stretching off forever. But it was flat, and stable enough. Mostly.
Sam had asked about using the baton, but Tron's reluctance was… pronounced. Sam still wasn't clear, even after the explanation, whether the doubled load just made them a slow and easy target or if it also had good odds of crashing, dropping, or blowing them up. Either way, hiking sounded like a great plan—and Sam made sure to say so, before Tron could go back to thinking he should stay.
The program was quiet as they walked, though he responded easily enough to Sam's questions. Mostly Tron seemed watchful, head tilting as he looked around, scanning the landscape. Sam wasn't sure if it was wary attention or faint wonder, but he seemed to be trying to imprint each moment, commit every sight and sound to memory.
So Tron was the one who saw it coming.
Sam's awareness came when the program stopped abruptly, staring up and slightly to the right, over the sea. Sam turned back, waited. "Tron?" No reaction. Sam gazed out at the water. Sea. Sky. Rocks—some of them hovering, but that wasn't new, just weird.
"Lightjet."
Sam glanced back to Tron, the program's eyes fixed unblinking on the distance, voice calm, certain. He looked again at the darkness. Nothing.
"Are you—" Wait. There. A flicker. Sam strained, trying to make out the small glimmer again, and was rewarded by a small blink of light. His brows knitted in confusion—How can he see that and say 'lightjet'?—but he kept looking, spotted another short burst. If it was a jet, it had to be low to the water. Was it dodging behind the floating slabs? That might account for the flashes. He couldn't make out the color yet, but it was getting slightly bigger; in another second or two—
He fell out of his thoughts with a startled yelp as a hand closed around his arm, Tron dragging him back from the cliff. Sam opened his mouth to protest as he stumbled after, but the program shook his head, face grim as he nodded back towards the edge. "It's coming this way."
Sam swallowed. Looked at Tron, looked at the water. Nodded. He glanced around at the terrain. Flat. Open. No convenient overhangs or clustered heaps of stone. The best they were going to find would be something to hide behind, not underneath.
Tron seemed to come to the same conclusion. After a brief pause, he headed for one of the larger standing slabs, pulling Sam after him. Sam scowled, but didn't argue as the program tugged him behind the rock. Three seconds later, he stuck his head out to look. Nothing again. It could be gone. He snorted at the thought. With his luck? Not so much.
Tron stood close behind him, head peering past the stone, held at an angle as if listening—though if the program could hear anything at this distance, he was a goddamn bat. Despite being more exposed than Sam, he blended eerily well with the background, dark suit against dark rocks, his minimal circuitry a dim glow. Sam wondered if he was doing that on purpose—and if it was something he could learn. Stone on one side, Tron covering the other, and he still stood out like a fucking glowstick, white lines practically surging with light. Was he brighter than usual? Tron's eyes flicked to him, blue reflecting white, then returned to the sea.
Sam hated waiting. "It's still coming?" His whisper was more nervous than he liked. Tron nodded, and he grimaced. "I don't suppose there's anything else in this direction?"
Tron shook his head, voice unnervingly calm. "Not along that path."
Right. Sam stuck his head back out for a better view. He could see it now, a shape as well as a light, edging in and out of sight as it passed the closer monoliths. It was white—no, white-edged blue, and for a moment, confused joy rose up. But it was too small, a single jet rather than the larger plane Dad and Quorra had flown in. It also wasn't missing a tail—although its flight was erratic. Damaged? Still…
"It's blue." Tron turned his head as Sam spoke. "Doesn't that mean…" He gestured vaguely at the program's own lights. "Aren't blue programs on our side?"
Tron glanced away, expression unreadable. Then he shook his head slightly, turning back to Sam. "Mostly. Maybe. Circuit color shows a program's general function or loyalty. It's not a good way to tell immediate intentions."
Sam nodded, still mildly optimistic as he moved to take another look. Then Tron continued. "It can also be masked or imitated." He rolled his eyes. Great.
Sam didn't need to look now—he could hear the faint sound, a roar of wind and motion as the craft approached. Light built on the other side of the stone, and he stilled, hoping faintly that if he stayed behind the rock, it would keep going. Only that wouldn't work; once it passed, Sam would be about as subtle as a roadside flare, no matter how close Tron pressed to cover him—
The roar built to a screeching scream, and a crash of impact shattered his thoughts. It was close, too close, too loud, a slamming crunch mixed with a sliding, grinding noise that set Sam's teeth on edge. He ducked back further, any urge to see what was happening vastly overwhelmed by his desire to not get hit by two exploding jets in one day.
The glassy breaking noise stopped, and everything seemed still. Sam waited, trying to muffle the sound of his breath as adrenaline pounded through his veins. Nothing. He glanced up at Tron, who had held position, just far enough out to catch a glimpse. The program tilted his head, an uncertain look crossing his features. His eyes flicked to Sam, and he motioned toward the cliff, pulling back to offer a better view.
Sam shifted over to look, and his eyes widened. The blue-white craft hadn't blown up, but… that was about all Sam could say for it. The wings had scraped low across the cliff—the tip of one had shattered off entirely, and the other looked about ready to snap at its base. The entire underside had eroded, catching roughly against the rocks like sandpaper, leaving splintered crystals and larger fragments spread across the ground in a line of debris. If that weren't enough, there seemed to be shattered holes and burned streaks through the jet's rear and top, still trailing broken wisps of light.
A groan came from the slumped over pilot.
Sam's mouth opened partway. How the fuck is he… The head rose, and Sam's breath caught. A large helmet, scored but intact, two blue-white lines curving in from the sides to meet a third that rose up partway in the middle. Below it, bare shoulders next to glowing circles and lines tracing downwards. Blue-white against the dark suit.
And Sam was scrambling out from behind the slab, running forward across the broken ground with an unintelligible yell of joy as the program—she, not he—struggled to her feet, helmet sectioning away to reveal dark hair, pale blue eyes that met his own straight away, and a wide grin of pure elation.
"Quorra!"
Sam stopped just short of touching her, his expression faltering as he got closer. The ISO did not look good. What looked like a burned streak crossed her right jawline, tiny crystals darkened and cracking away. A limp in her motion drew his eyes down—she was lined with hairline fractures from the waist down, and her left leg seemed half-crushed at one point. From the crash? He couldn't tell if the wound to her torso was worst or best off: a faint line that traced down from collarbone to solar plexus—thin, but sparking angry red along the broken edges.
But she was standing, and smiling, and here, and Sam couldn't help but smile back, even through the worry. He opened his mouth, but she beat him to it, catching his concerned gaze with her amused one.
"I know. Better than the arm, though, right?" If she was in pain (and how the fuck could she not be?), it didn't show in her speech, or the wry laugh that accompanied it.
"On a case by case basis, sure." He shook his head, eyes drawn to the tiny black fragments falling away as her mouth moved. "How are you even here? Where's Dad?" He hadn't meant to ask the second question, Quorra was what mattered at the moment, but…
"He's fine." A knot in Sam's chest released, and he breathed again. Funny. He hadn't known he'd stopped. Quorra's look softened, far too understanding as she continued. "Better than fine. He made it out, Sam."
Sam's eyes closed, the restrained fear and constant worry dropping away so fast he felt lightheaded. He was so damn relieved, and things were okay, were alright like they hadn't been since he'd first fallen, first seen the broken craft struggling through the sky. He opened his eyelids to see Quorra peering at him anxiously. Ha, 'cause she should be worried about me right now. He forced a shaky grin. "Oh man, you have no idea how glad I am to hear that."
She smiled again, content. Then her lips twitched, and he could hear the humor in her voice. "As for me…"
She reached out, and Sam hesitated, uncertain. If she wanted support, he was there for her, but a panicky fear lingered in his mind that he could grab and have her shatter. It was stupid, he knew—she was standing, mobile, clearly strong enough. But he couldn't draw his eyes away from the cracks and scoring lines across her body now, the memories of programs shattering on impact—of Quorra breaking under the guard's baton, falling limp and still.
But her movement was quick and deft, hand reaching out to brush the side of his chest. No, he realized, to brush the armor. The slight overlap between the material had been the closest he could find to a pocket, and he'd used it for… the sector map Quorra now held up between them.
"I helped make this." Her voice was satisfied, a flicker of pride running through it. "It's easy enough to trace something that's mine. That I've worked on." The map disappeared into a pocket of her own, and she leaned back against the lightjet, brushing away some shattered edges.
He shook his head, staring at the crazy, amazing program in front of him. "Seriously. What happened to you? How did you get…" he waved at her injuries as she cocked her head. "…like that!"
"Well, for a start, I crashed a lightjet…"
Sam groaned, shook his head and opened his mouth to reply when another voice spoke.
"That's a disk cut."
Sam tensed, spinning around before recognition calmed him. It was Tron (of course it was Tron), though how and when he'd silently appeared a few paces behind Sam was a complete unknown. The program's face was unreadable, eyes focused on the jagged break down Quorra's front, though they flickered to Sam as he turned.
Quorra blinked, shifted slightly, apparently less taken aback than Sam. Her gaze rested on him briefly, question obvious, before meeting Tron's look. "Yes." She tilted her head to include Sam, though her eyes didn't leave the new arrival.
"Clu showed up at the Portal. Flynn made it out, but Clu… had the advantage." Her voice tightened, eyes glittering with cold fury as they continued inspecting Tron. She half-smirked as she continued, though her tone was more distracted than pleased. "He knocked me over the edge without realizing he was missing something." Her head jerked back to the wrecked lightjet as she casually stood.
Sam smiled faintly, but his attention was halfhearted. He'd seen the flinch as Quorra mentioned Clu's return, the tension lining Tron's profile. It was disturbing how little motion it took for the program's shape to change so dramatically—half-clenched hands, head dipped lower, shoulders hunched. Sam frowned, frustrated and overwhelmed with the painful need for Tron to stop doing this to himself. But he'd only half-listened before, and now—
Tron's circuits darkened, flickered.
Shit.
Sam stepped towards him, panic rising desperately fast as his throat went dry. Tron's gaze was fixed downwards, form rigid, head shaking slightly as the blue glow dimmed unevenly. He should've—
"Sam."
Something about Quorra's voice cut through his urgency, and Sam froze in place as he turned. Her tone was light, even… and about as friendly as her stance. Or her unmoving eyes, staring past him. Friendly like a blade.
Oh, wait. She already had that covered.
"Quorra, hold on a—"
"Sam." Her tone was cold with fury. With intent.
"Look, just—"
"Sam, move." Voice sharp. Sam's irritation flared, then faltered as he caught something else beneath her anger. Fear.
For him.
Any other time, Q. But not now, not with Quorra shifting forward, beam katana blazing blue. Attention fixed beyond Sam, to Tron, whose own focus was entirely elsewhere. The program tensed, curling inwards as he backed away, circuitry flaring and darkening in patches. …Shit. Sam needed to go to him, needed to be there now, but he stepped left instead, blocking Quorra as she tried to get past.
Her gaze flickered, meeting his eyes in frustration, and he returned look and feeling both. His hands had come up in agitated gestures as he'd tried to cut in, to make her listen, and he held them out now in a motion he hoped was calming. "Listen, Quorra, he's not a threat. Just let me—"
Orange flashed at the edge of his vision, and Sam spun around and ran. Rapid steps behind him turned to a crash of impact, a hissing breath of pain, and Sam glanced back briefly to see Quorra on the ground, trying to push herself up on the right as her left leg refused to support her. Sam grimaced, worried and scared and sorry, but there wasn't time.
Tron had retreated nearly to the slab by the time Sam reached him. His head snapped up, jerking sideways in desperate refusal as his panicked gaze met Sam's. But it was Tron's gaze, Tron's eyes touched by alarm and distant rage as the program stared back—and the knot in Sam's chest loosened. Tron exhaled harshly, faint orange glow already fading against the blue, and Sam gave a faint smile as he reached out. The program flinched at the touch, but didn't pull away. Sam leaned closer as Tron shook, face strained and twisted with effort as he slowly unclenched. Blue-white light flickered, stabilized, and Tron's head dropped to Sam's shoulder with a tired sigh.
Sam held him, tense and grateful and so damn desperate with relief, and it took longer than he thought it should to make his mouth form words. "You're getting better at that."
Tron made a frustrated noise, straightening to look at Sam with bitter disbelief. "If by 'that' you mean losing control, endangering—"
"I mean getting it back," Sam cut in quietly. Not letting you do this. "You snapped out of it much faster. And it took you a lot longer to lose it." Sam didn't even think he had lost it, not really.
Tron shook his head, gaze dropping, voice soft and wearily hopeless. "That doesn't make—"
"Sam."
…Right.
Sam let go of Tron and turned, taking a few steps back to face Quorra. The ISO stood rigid, the threat of her sword far outclassed by the fury in her expression. Sam glanced down in concern, but if she was worse off than before, her stance didn't show it. He raised his hands placatingly and she stared at him with flat disbelief.
"That's Rinzler."
"Not—"
It wasn't a question. "Sam, get out of my way."
"No." He could do curt, too. Not helpful. He sighed, tried again. "Quorra—"
"Sam, he's Clu's murderer! Clu's monster, Clu's glitching pet!" She spat out the words as she glared past Sam, unblinking. "He derezzed—killed… so many of us. Cleaning the 'errors' in Clu's perfect system." The flare of hatred grew soft, cold, as her eyes flicked back to him. "Move, Sam. Now."
He shook his head. Glanced back at Tron—he was still, expression hollow, gaze fixed on Quorra, or maybe past her—then again at the ISO. Her face was tight with rage, stance a painful readiness.
"It's not Rinzler." Her mouth opened, eyes flashing in poisonous denial, and Sam hurried on before she could cut in. "Not anymore. He's Tron."
She stopped. Looked at him. Her lips flattened in a line as her head tilted slightly, gaze settling past Sam for several seconds before returning to meet his own.
"That's what Flynn meant." Sam stared, uncomprehending. "On the lightjet." …Nope, no idea. He nodded anyway. She hesitated, eyes flickering down, then shook her head, expression troubled but set.
"I'm sorry, Sam. That doesn't change things." It was her turn to speak quickly as Sam tried to interrupt. "Whoever he was before, he's been Rinzler for a thousand cycles. That's hundreds and hundreds of your years serving Clu—killing. Torturing." Her eyes went dark, anger welling again. "Hunting dissenting programs—and users." Her gaze flicked to Sam's shoulder, the faint line in his suit. "He hurt you—"
"He saved me! Fuck, he saved all of us!" Sam glared, infuriated. "You think he was 'serving Clu' with that collision?"
She returned his look, equally defiant. "I don't know. We can't trust him. He—"
"Yes, we can."
"Sam." There was an edge of tension to Quorra's voice, but her features were unnervingly calm as she regarded him steadily. "Even if you're right. Even if he's not 'really' Rinzler anymore, if he isn't a—" she broke off, words edged, then started again. "If he's not lying to you. Even then. Clu still…" Her mouth twitched unhappily. "…he's still rectified. You can't know, Sam. He can't know."
She met his eyes, and he flinched. It's true. But he didn't have to know, it didn't matter if he knew. He wasn't leaving Tron—and he definitely wasn't letting Quorra at him. He didn't have an answer, and she knew it, but he opened his mouth anyways—
"Sam." He turned at the quiet word, glanced up uneasily to Tron. The program's hands were clenched, face closed, reluctant. He opened his mouth, and Sam's eyes widened at the painful hesitation that flickered over his features.
Oh no you don't…
"She's right."
Sam expected the words. But it wasn't Tron who spoke them.
Tron froze. There was a hissing inhalation from behind Sam, a click and hum of an activating disk. And he stared past, unable to fucking breathe as Tron paled, jerked around and stopped… everything.
Clu leaned against the rock and smiled.
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no subject
Date: 2011-05-06 06:34 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2011-05-07 12:13 pm (UTC)From::) but it's pretty much cliffhangers from here to the end.