A/N: For best results, I suggest you load RED's song Faceless and listen to the lyrics before reading this. If you already own the song . . . I hand you my entire chocolate collection (and I guard that thing with my very life).

This is a companion fic to my story Hollow and Faceless, so they're best read together. It isn't necessary to read one in order to understand the other.

Warnings: Character death?
Other notes: Companion fic to Hollow and Faceless; designed to be read as a pair.

Fallen and Faceless

By

Scribe~Of~RED

I once was a Program called Rinzler.

Rinzler. It wasn't so much my name as it was my very identity. Every Program on the Grid, no matter how insignificant their function or how little they cared about anything but their own directives, knew Rinzler. He was CLU's personal guard, his most vicious enforcer, possessing terrible strength and lethal efficiency. Like CLU, Rinzler was to be feared. Rinzler was to be obeyed. Any violation of these directives resulted in errorless deresolution by way of my – no, not my – his . . . his deadly pair of discs.

Or were they our discs?

Sometimes I would receive orders to terminate the insubordinate Programs immediately. If they were already restrained by CLU's masked guards – infuriatingly endless in their numbers, both of them – their deresolution was quick, usually a slash to the throat.

Boring kills. I hated them at a core level. Even the bits of splintered code that occasionally rebelled against my actions loathed such kills. That we hated them for different reasons was of no concern of mine.

Occasionally, I would have to chase a rogue Program down. At least them I had to chase my victim to complete the kill. Prey possessing combat subroutines were even better, for they provided me with something more of a challenge. By the time the young User, Sam Flynn, arrived in the system, I had chased hundreds of Programs over and through every sector in Tron City, even into the Outlands. Each felt the bite of my disc.

But more often than not the Programs were captured, sentenced to eventually fall under the glaring lights and brutal combat of the Game Grid, the massive gladiatorial arena that ran at full capacity for almost one thousand cycles. Its unique liquid design ensured there were no breaks, no waiting between rounds, and those who competed were quick to learn the consequences for refusing to show the respect due to their illustrious leader – the one who saved them from the tyranny of the User – all the while goaded on by a frenzied crowd more drunk on the violence committed before them than they could ever comprehend.

Within those clear walls, I derezzed enough Programs to fill the stands many times over. After resistance to CLU's rule finally dwindled into almost nonexistence and there were very few Programs to chase down, the arena became my second home.

A home I was never comfortable in.

That's not to say I didn't like it. The lethal song of discs flung in pure desperation; the pulsing noise of the crowd as their fervent screams for violence and destruction vibrated the sensitive pixels in my damaged face, despite the constant protection of my helmet; the fear radiating in tangible waves off the caged Programs standing opposite of me, each condemned to death whether they chose to fight or not – each stimulation was like pure energy to my system, an overwhelming intoxicant I experienced nowhere but in combat. Within that glowing amphitheater my abilities thrived, for the Games constantly refreshed and heightened my desire to do better, move faster, react swifter, become stronger, kill better. And I did.

Yet with each exhilarating surge of power that overtook me, I was also subjected to unwanted glitches, prompts that arose from sources that did not exist: a deep pain in my processor when I ended a life; a disapproval in the very center of my core every time I silently rejoiced after a perfectly executed kill; self loathing for the monster I had allowed myself to become; grief and mourning and anguish when fragile pixels rained down around me, scattering across the glistening floor. My discs released them from the confines of solid shape, allowing them to return to the Grid, to transcend into something better than before.

At least, that's what CLU told me the one time – the only time – I was brave enough to voice my questions on my involvement in the Games.

And the internal protests against my actions . . . they would vanish as fast as they arose, retreating back into nonexistent coding, leaving nothing, not a single sign of their existence in their wake. Any attempt to trace the paradox within me back to its original source would end abruptly when the seemingly omnipresent wall of error messages closed in around me, abruptly draining my energy until I was forced to either terminate my search or risk possible deresolution.

I would always terminate, yet I couldn't bring myself to fully believe in those deresolution warnings. My master had saved me once before from the very brink of deresolution. (He had? Then why can't I remember it?) He would never allow me to derezz. (But he did. Once. Or did he?) I wasn't expendable like his other guards; I meant too much to him, I was too deeply involved in his plans – how would the Grid ever reach perfection if I wasn't there by his side, bringing his spoken words into reality? I never used to allow myself to wonder these things.

And now, for the first time ever, Rinzler experiences the pain of betrayal. I can feel his disbelief, his stubborn refusal to acknowledge what his master has done to him, but I also can feel how his undying belief and trust in master is wavering, slowly giving way under Tron's careful direction.

We have been discarded, left to fall down until we reach the cool, deadly embrace of the Sea. My spare baton is gone, stolen by my maste– no, CLU; never master again – so that he may reach the portal and destroy the Users and achieve his ultimate goal of crossing into their world to perfect everything.

I want to be there with him, but I wouldn't know what to do or who I should attack. Everyone? No one? I fear trying to answer that question would shatter my already fragile system.

It doesn't matter now. As I collide with the turbulent Sea, I have enough time to realize my low growl — my only flaw, persisting despite CLU's attempts to rid me of it — is gone.

Maybe I'm finally free.

If this is freedom, it's not what I expected. As the surge tide of raw information pulls me apart, my last wish is for my master to come and save me.

Only there is no one to save. I no longer exist. Rinzler is gone. Tron is gone. There is only the Sea.

I once was a Program called Rinzler. Now I am faceless.

A/N: I've been thinking of writing a threeshot revolving around some of the memories hinted at in these companion fics, but I won't write it unless there's some interest shown. If you want me to write such a thing, please leave a review to let me know. Thanks!