Kevin Flynn hadn't realised that a Program could feel pain.

Sure, the coding was all his work, his and Alan's, but he'd never considered... This. Tron, lying on the sofa, curled up into a ball that was far too... Human for comfort. Tron, his helmet down, one arm slung across his gut, so very, very still. So still, that Flynn might have thought Alan's creation was dead were it not that Tron didn't breathe, didn't breathe, couldn't just stop breathing like a human (in Tron's words a User) might. But it came close to that, like the 1s and 0s of his binary were desperately trying to repair the damage Clu's reckless strike had done. His system had started to slowly reboot and for better or worse, Tron looked to be in a coma, or a deep, deep sleep. The self-proclaimed warrior of the Users looked like a child for the first time that Flynn could ever remember. It stung as much as it would had he seen his four year old son Sam lying on that white and blue glowing sofa, lifeless. After all, Tron's injuries – as Flynn saw them – were all the Grid's creator's fault.

He supposed he was an uncle really. Alan – Tron's User – was the real father of the Program. So if Flynn was Tron's metaphorical uncle, in a word Clu was his metaphorical cousin. Flynn's metaphorical son. By all laws, Flynn should have kept a better eye on his son, and what was going on, because the Game was far more than just that. It was exhilarating, it was dangerous, and it was exactly what two fathers should never have allowed their children to partake in – or even created in the first place – but it was the closest thing to an addiction that the Programs had in the Grid. They had no other hobbies (but he and Alan were working on introducing that, to occupy the Programs when the potential new users were away) and so the Game was... A way of life. Or a lifeline. But if Flynn had his way, Clu and Tron would never play again. After all, one misplaced identity disk – swung as a weapon – had said everything that Flynn's mind had pushed aside as simple paranoia.

Tron could have been derezzed; Clu could have killed him.

"I'm sorry."

"No... It's not your fault." The words came straight away, Flynn forgiving Clu without a moment's hesitation. Alan would have argued, if he weren't busy on the other side of the Portal, perfecting the Game, trying to fix holes in the programming that would make sure no one was hurt this bad again. He would open it again later, let Flynn back through once Tron was on his legs again. Alan would be a hell of a lot more angry than Flynn was, but Flynn couldn't find it in himself to shout. Clu wasn't lying. Not that Clu understood regret, or remorse; he only understood that in making Tron defective, he had created imperfection. He was like a child who knew – in the look in their parent's eyes – that they had done something bad but hadn't lived long enough to understand what. Just like none of them were yet to understand how very real the Grid was. "None of us knew this would happen. We're all learning."

"But I made a mistake."

"To err is human." Clu paused, holding back a flinch, and Flynn rubbed his temples. Maybe that hadn't been his best choice of words. He reached out and squeezed Clu's shoulder, awkwardly, the whole scenario uncomfortably new even after all the years. "Look, man, don't sweat it. Chill." Flynn's face broke into a calm, almost drugged smile, and Clu took an unconscious step backwards, his eyes narrowed in suspicion to the sudden hippy change. Flynn didn't seem to notice and rolled his gloves over the sleek surface of the room, the disk on his back catching the light and dragging Clu back into his thoughts. Flynn smiled again, and let go of his creation's shoulder. "He'll be alright when he wakes up."

"Next time, I swear, I'll make it perfect."

"Of course man."

"I mean it."

Clu's determination would have been frightening were Flynn's thoughts not elsewhere. Dismissed – and almost willingly – by a flick of Flynn's wrist the Program cast one more glance at the prone form of Tron before crossing the room forgetting to slide the door shut behind his exit. Flynn's infallible smile started to fade and he rested his hand on Tron's shoulder again, stroking in small concentric circles until he could swear he felt the Program move a little, stir, respond to the physical touch. He sighed and glanced over at the drawing – the work of a younger Sam – that was magnetised to the wall before bending at the knees and slowly lifting Tron into his arms, careful not to jar any of the damaged coding. The warrior seemed so fragile and helpless, just like when he'd held his baby son, his wife watching him with her beautiful smile and the laughing in her eyes as he struggled to remember how to support the child's head. Flynn tapped his fingers over Tron's free-floating disk clumsily until the menu flashed up, spinning slowly.

LOADING PROGRAM...

program/ tron [TR001];

PROCEED? Y;

invert/ rinzler [RZ002];

ACTIVATE? N;

Program_status/ inactive;

PROCEED? Y;

ACTION: system_reboot;

PROCEED? Y.

Flynn wiped his thumb across Tron's cheek as though he was wiping away sleep and carried him into the bedroom, laying him down gently on the bed. Across the room and unobserved, Clu finally slammed the door shut behind him and disappeared into the Grid.