smiley_anon: (Panicked Sam)
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: 9/11 - Strength
Wordcount: 2426



Sam felt vaguely certain something had gone wrong.

The headache was his first clue. Also the first thing he noticed. Fuck. The only thing he'd be noticing for a while, maybe. Why had he woken up?

It was sharp pain. Head. Neck. Maybe shoulders. Hard to tell. The halfhearted voice of experience (which was even less happy about being awake) told him it was more a "head trauma pain" than a "hangover pain." That was… worse. Yeah. Shit, if he had another concussion… Alan's going to kill me.

He frowned. There was something wrong with that thought. A nagging worry tugged at Sam's mind, and he cautiously tried to open his eyes. Darkness. Fuzzy darkness. Huh. He blinked a few times, winced slightly as he tried to move his head. He was lying on something hard, edged—especially under his skull. The rest might just be rock, or broken concrete, but the sharp edges under the back of his head… had he been sleeping on broken glass?

Where the hell am I?

It was a dark sky. Above him. Clouds, shadows… through glass. Plastic? A helmet. He blinked again, head shifting slightly. This wasn't his motorcycle helmet. That was darker, more fully enclosing, almost black…

Sam froze. A black helmet, staring up at him as the ground rushed towards them both. Blue dashes tilting in tense uncertainty as Sam settled closer. Above, over him, protecting him as the blast hit.

Folding away to a pale face, grey eyes intent, mouth twisted in a determined frown. A reluctant smile.

Tron.

Sam gave a yelp of pain as he struggled to sit up, memory, recognition, and overwhelming dread settling in as he pushed against the rough stone of the Outlands. Tron. Quorra. Shit, shit, shit, Clu! Sam's visor tilted strangely across his vision as he moved, and the hand he brushed against the back of his head came away sticky with blood and shattered fragments. The helmet had broken? Probably shouldn't have tried to look up when it… He shook his head impatiently, helmet retracting to clear his view, then winced at the throbbing ache and dizziness the motion provoked. He gritted his teeth and pulled the world back to focus. No time.

The clifftop was empty. Bleak. A faint glimmer reflected off some of the rocks in the light of his circuits—tiny crystalline slivers, almost fading into the black stone. Sam swallowed shakily, remembering the fragments falling from Quorra's wounds, the shattered heaps spilling across the arena floor. But no—Clu had blown up the fucking lightjet; of course there would be debris. It wasn't clustered the way it would if… No. They were fine. Just not… there.

He turned, staring across the rough ground as it stretched along the clifftop to the right and left. Sam's hands braced against the rock, and he pushed himself up slowly, head craning to look behind.

His eyes caught, inexplicably, on the least visible part of the image. Dark armor blended with dark stone, the crumpled form unmoving. Muted lights flickered a dim blue-white, weak glow almost imperceptible amidst the tiny cracks and faint scoring that glinted across the program's body. Rinzler's helmet—Tron's helmet was slumped, angled against the ground, black surface reflecting the light from above.

Yellow light. Yellow armor. Clu, leaning over, gaze focused downwards. But not at Tron. No. At the floating characters in the air, lines scrolling up from the faintly lit circle below. Red-orange center. Blue-white rim.

Tron's disk.

Sam stopped breathing, stopped thinking, and moved.

The yellow program was intent, focused on the display as a gloved hand came up to touch the image. Momentary distraction, annoyance crossed Clu's face, and his gaze flicked upwards. His eyes widened, and after that Sam had no idea what Clu thought, because he wasn't looking, he was hitting, colliding, ramming into the armored body with a shout of fury as he brought them both down.

They crashed into the ground, Sam's vision swimming from the impact despite landing atop his larger opponent. He didn't stop, though. They were tumbling, rolling across the uneven rocks, and Sam didn't even know which way was up, but he moved, struggled, grabbed at his dad's copy and struck out at whatever he could find. Words spilled out, Sam incoherent with desperate rage as Clu snarled back in frustration.

"Get away from him—"

"You stupid little—"

"You don't get to—you can't—"

"Just stay down and—"

"You fucking bastard!"

Clu laughed.

They'd come to a stop. Sam's clearing vision placed them nearly thirty feet to the side of where they'd started—closer to the cliff edge than to Tron. Good. He glared down at the program below him, at Clu's face—Dad's face—twisting from harsh laughter to a cold smile. Sam struck out furiously, fist connecting once, twice, Clu's head turning sideways as the blows landed.

The program raised an eyebrow, face calmly amused. "You're actually angry. For him." The voice was hard, edged, with a faint note underneath that almost sounded like wonder. Clu's eyes narrowed, and when Sam reached out again, a yellow-lit hand caught his fist, grip painfully tight. The program smirked up at him, eyes hard with malice as he spoke. "It's your fault, you know. He took the hit for you. User." The soft tone hissed over the last word, mocking, bitter, vicious.

Sam flinched. He yanked back, trying to pull free, but Clu's empty arm snaked up around, and Sam was grabbed, flipped. The rough stone hit with bruising force, and he gasped for air, choked as a forearm pressed into his throat. His father's face loomed above unsteadily, words cutting through the dull pounding in his ears.

"A true user. Destroying everyone else to save your worthless skin." Sam couldn't speak, couldn't breathe, couldn't see through the explosions of color across his closing eyelids. The pressure let up slightly, and he gasped, drawing what air he could as he blinked up at his dad's impassive face. No. Clu's face.

"He could have run. They both could." A corner of Clu's mouth quirked upwards, and he shook his head. "You've really got a habit of breaking things, kiddo."

Frustration. Rage. Stupid, stupid panic. A sickening, unbearable whisper that Clu was right. But there was something else, something important, and Sam chased the stray thought through the haze of shame and fury.

'Both'…

No.

He tensed, jerked uselessly against the unmoving hold. His voice was a desperate rasp, but he had to know, had to say it, even if it was what the bastard wanted. "Quorra?"

Clu's smile was grimly satisfied. "What do you think?"

No. Clu was a liar. Clu was always a liar. No. Sam coughed, curling inwards as the program's fist drove into his gut, what little breath he had leaving him. He was dimly aware of Clu standing, moving away. Of his own body's feeble twitches, the sputtering gasps as his lungs strained for air. NO. But he kept seeing her. His friend, his father's 'rescue'. Fuck, the sister he'd never known he had. Stepping between him and danger. In the lightrunner. The club. Running across the Rectifier. 'Removing herself from the equation'. Eager, ready, but always too ready to throw herself away.

Her head turning at the humming sound, throwing her disk, moving. But not to run. She could have run.

They both could have.

Sam forced his weak limbs to move, tried to even his ragged breaths as he pushed himself up to sitting. He stared out, gaze fixed on Clu, several yards off. The program faced away from Sam as he leaned down to pick something up. Sam didn't need the glimpse of a curving edge, faint orange glow. He knew what it was. Knew why.

Clu was stronger than him.

Time to improvise.

"Does it piss you off?"

Sam's voice was raw, weaker than he'd like, but he spoke as loudly as he could, and Clu half-turned, though his attention stayed on Tron's disk as it rotated in his hands. Sam kept going. "That they'd die for me?" It bothered him; it bothered him a lot, but that wasn't the point. "No one would ever do that for you."

Clu's chuckle was anything but disturbed. Disturbing, maybe. "Hardly. There are thousands of programs who would derezz themselves for my slightest advantage." He tilted the disk, inspecting it in the bright glow of his circuits. "Rinzler especially."

Sam gritted his teeth. Not what he'd been going for. "Not by choice," he snapped back.

Clu made a soft noise, almost a hum of satisfaction. "Don't be an idiot. Of course they choose to." The blue-white edge lit in his hand, display flickering above. "They just need… fixing, first."

Fuck. He would kill Clu. But he couldn't, not like this, so… something else.

"Dad said you were broken." Sam put as much scorn as he could into the words, and something flickered across Clu's face. "Guess he was right. Not a user, not even a working program. Just a messed-up copy. His 'mistake'."

"Is that what he said." Clu's voice was even, expression disinterested. But he'd stopped.

"Pretty much." Sam kept his own tone level, mind racing for the words. "I mean, you can't create programs, right? Can't make anything of your own? Just ripping off more of his work." Clu was looking at him now, really looking, and Sam felt a tiny burst of triumph as he continued. "Not that he blames you. Just bad coding on his part. It's not like you meant to be a traitorous screwup. You can't help it, right?"

That did it. A small smile, a real smile, twitched across Sam's face as Tron's disk darkened, Clu placing it back on the ground before rising, turning. The program's steps were slow, unhurried as he moved closer. Sam looked up at him, unable to control the slight tremor in his still-drained limbs. Or the stupid, stupid words that bubbled out in reckless defiance.

"Is that why you left me alone? 'Cause of Dad?" He thought of Quorra, and for a moment, he meant the vicious edge. "Because he'll kill you, delete you like—"

Clu moved in a blurring strike, and for the second time in as many minutes, Sam felt the air leave his lungs, a fist driving into his stomach, twisting savagely in the soft organs. He retched, tried to curl in as his body spasmed weakly around the blow. But a foot hit his side, then another, and he rolled over the sharp-edged rocks, unable to fight, to move, to control the faint whining gasps as he strained for breath.

The jarring motion stopped, and Sam stared, dazed at the sideways landscape, clouds next to sea next to cliff. Must be close to the edge. Then he stopped thinking, stopped caring as a boot stomped down on his ribs. A sharp sound, bright fire in his side, and he screamed, grabbed desperately, kicked, squirmed as Clu pressed down, pressure grinding sharply where it hurt to breathe.

"Yes, Sam." The voice was soft, close. Too close, and he flailed up, reaching uselessly towards the face that hovered above. "It is 'because of Flynn'." The program leaned forward, and Sam jerked back, bit his lip and tasted blood as he tried to stop from crying out.

"I told you before. Flynn can't delete me. Can't find me. Not without wrecking the Grid, without tearing through the system code. Destroying everything." It wasn't his dad's face anymore, Sam knew that, and he was almost grateful for the cold hard eyes that gazed down in constant reminder. "And he won't do that, Sam. Not with you in here."

The weight lifted off his ribs, and Sam gasped raggedly in relief, wincing at the sharp pain as he inhaled. But then a jerking pull dragged him up, lifted him, and he blinked lightheaded at Clu's face as it swam back into view. There was something important he had to say. Right.

"Go fuck—"

The phrase cut off as Clu shook him, the jarring motion bringing bright agony back to his ribs, his head. He lost his train of thought.

"I could drop you now." The whisper was dark, tempted, and Sam blinked down at the darkness, realization dawning as he saw the water below. He flailed in earnest now—dropping seemed great, the sea only twenty feet or so below—but Clu's grip stayed firm, unbothered by his efforts as the program continued. "But users are so fragile. A program might be lost, trapped in the fragmented currents forever. You? You'd drown. In minutes." A disparaging noise interrupted the words. "In your current state, my virus might even derezz you." Sam felt the grip shift, the program turning, pulling him back above the rocks.

"I can't let you die, Sam. Not without consequences." Hatred flared in the voice. "You're Flynn's son, after all."

"But I can hurt you."

Sam yelled as he was thrown, shoved, and when his head cracked against the rock… he didn't know what noise he made. Vision whited out, his ears roared, and he couldn't focus, couldn't find himself, find anything, make anything work. Dizziness, dazed confusion, ten times worse than when he woke. He grasped desperately at the ground, trying to focus, to see something through the haze, waiting tensely, useless fury running against nausea and fear as he blinked back nothingness, points of light, color swimming randomly. And he still couldn't breathe right.

Hearing came back first. "Sam." The voice was in front of him, angry. Rough. He flinched, jerked back. Or tried to. He couldn't seem to move right.

"Sam!" Louder, sharper. Urgent? He didn't understand. But maybe it didn't matter, since he couldn't do anything. The clustered lights darkened in his vision, gaining focus, clarity. Shape.

Clu was facing away, which didn't make any sense. No, he was further away, but facing towards Sam, yellow lines unmistakable in the gloom. But there was light in front of Sam too, small dots and circles and dashes. Facing away, looking back. Two larger circles, to the front—sides—he couldn't tell.

Blue circles. Red inside.

Oh.

Sam's head fell back softly against the stone, thoughts numb. That's good, then. Tron was there, disks up and ready, standing in front of Sam as he looked back. Asking something. Sam needed to answer, to tell Tron how glad he was that he was here, was okay. But speaking was difficult, and Clu was still there.

Later, then.


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