{This fic takes place within my preferred Legacy/post-Legacy 'verse, which features a rerezzed, rewritten hacker!Ram, who was sent out in the early days of Flynn Lives and lost on the Grid before the events of the film. After Sam comes clean about what happened that night at the arcade, everyone gets involved in trying to restore the Grid, which leads to many back-and-forth trips for both the programs and the Users. Hijinks and occasional angst ensue.}
"Wow. This is… a lot…"
"Yeah, a lot of useless shi- stuff," he corrects quickly. The programs have their own colorful vocabularies; no need to expand them to include User curses.
"And it's all for Flynn Lives?"
"Most of it," Roy nods as he appraises the space. Boxes and papers and all matter of preserved information sit in stacks and piles around the basement. A good portion of it serves no purpose other than as reminders of countless dead ends. And while some of the leads had proven valid, well… they have their answers now. Leaving the evidence is just pushing their luck. Roy moves a couple steps farther into the room and turns to face his guest with upturned palms. "Behold; my life's work."
"How do you ever find anything?"
"It's organized chaos," Roy insists as he drops his hands. He's had the same conversation with Alan more times than he cares to recall. "What counts is that I know where everything is."
"Do you know where everything is?"
"All that matters is that I've never had to confess to Alan that I've lost something in here," he replies with a lopsided grin.
Ram mirrors the expression with almost picture-perfect precision.
"Now c'mon, you," Roy says as he begins thumbing through papers on his desk, "we've got work to do."
As it turns out, the task isn't as daunting as Roy had feared it would be. Having help definitely moves things along, especially when said help was created with a knack for information processing. Ram is a pro at sorting and organizing, despite his insistence that his Grid residence was only marginally more composed than the basement. And all Roy had to do was draw a parallel to protecting confidential insurance information for his program to catch on to the shredding protocol he was following for unneeded paperwork.
They were a good team, unsurprisingly, and they talked and joked like a pair of old friends. Which is why, when conversation tapers off into unexpected silence, Roy's curiosity is piqued.
"What'cha got over there?" he calls questioningly. Ram, who had been investigating something while crouched on the floor, stands and makes his way back to where his User is. An opened shoebox is held securely in his hands, and he's clearly lost in thought. Roy stands, too, dusts his hands off on his jeans, and meets his distracted program halfway just in time to hear him murmur something.
"That's my name."
"Yeah, there's probably a ton of stuff down here with your name on it," Roy agrees carefully, not even bothering to glance down at the box's contents. He's far more concerned with Ram's reaction than the particulars of whatever he unearthed. "The nickname, y'know, it-"
"No, it's… it's my designation. The full one," Ram explains, holding the box out to Roy expectantly. As if it might add importance to his discovery, he adds, "The old one."
"Oh… oh."
Along with a few crumpled up sticky notes and discarded paperclips, the box holds a series of floppy disks, each carefully labeled with a date, an individual number, and a string of characters that spell out the name of the program currently holding them.
"I… I always kept backups," Roy explains, unsure of how best to phrase it in a way that Ram will accept and understand. "Just in case… if the server ever went down, or my computer crashed, or… in case of emergencies, basically. I've probably got copies of most of my programs sitting around somewhere," he adds, then winces at how casual that must sound to one of those aforementioned programs. But Ram is either too fixated on the disks to care, or he takes no offense at the statement.
"So these are… they're… me?"
"Not you you. Technically. I think." He laughs when Ram makes a face. "I haven't touched those things in years, not since… well, since I wrote you the first time around."
His program goes silent, face falling to something utterly unreadable as he settles in the nearby desk chair and pulls his legs up, the shoebox pressed between his knees and his chest. Roy can't think of anything to say. For as much as they share, he hasn't been able to shake the feeling that looking at Ram is oddly like looking at his kid. Sure, they have similar appearances and ideas and personalities, but they've lead completely unique lives, had completely unique existences. And Roy had played the perfect absent father for years without knowing it, completely unaware of the veritable hell his program was going through.
He has a million questions to ask that he can't find the words for, and a million half-formed apologies that feel like poor penance for everything.
"I remember it," Ram says suddenly, snapping Roy out of his contemplative daze. "The microcycle you 'rezzed me, I mean."
The program sets the box aside, though he keeps hold of one of the disks and worries his thumb across the labeled strip of masking tape. He looks expectantly up at his User, and Roy takes it as an invitation to seat himself on the edge of his desk. Ram smiles, faintly, and the warm expression stays in place even as he returns his attention to the piece of plastic in his hands.
Roy can remember it, too.
Waiting for code to compile, crossing his fingers, hoping that this time everything would work as intended. A drained coffee mug next to his keyboard, the half inch of liquid at the bottom having gone cold hours ago. Tapping impatiently on the arm of his chair, an uneven staccato rhythm, rubbing at tired eyes to fight off the sleep-deprived bleariness. Waiting, waiting, waiting.
"It was dark, at first. Really dark. I couldn't see or hear anything, and I couldn't move. And then there was a little bit of light, so faint I didn't notice it right away. Then there was a lot of light everywhere. And a voice," he murmurs, glancing up at Roy, smile broader now. "Yours. I knew who you were right away. Your name was Roy_K, and you were a User. My User."
Laughing, relieved and exhausted and just a little unhinged. Leaning around to Alan's cubicle to share the news of success. Finally working, can you believe it? One stubborn little program, huh?
"And you told me… you told me who I was, and what my function was. A few nanos old, and I thought that was the happiest I could ever be, just hearing you talk to me."
Watching his screen, already planning ahead to the testing phases, no consideration for what it was like on the other side. No consideration for the fact that mere minutes before clocking out for the night, Roy Kleinberg had, for all intents and purposes, just created life.
"I think that's what I missed the most," Ram continues softly, clearly caught up in his recollections. "Even before the MCP, when I was at the insurance company, I… I talked to Users a lot, but it wasn't the same. The hacking was a little better, 'cause at least we got to talk when I'd have something to report on. And on the Grid, I…"
He bites his lip, and Roy knows that worried thoughtfulness anywhere, has worn the same nervous countenance far too many times for it to be unfamiliar.
"I wanted to find Flynn. More than anything, I wanted to have good news for whenever you found me. But sometimes, I just… It was the same thing, back in the pit cells. I just wanted to hear you again. Even once. Even if you were gonna tell me that I'd failed, I needed… something. Anything."
The Users, as a whole, have only a basic understanding of how program society operates. As much as they would like for it to, not every concept translates easily between their worlds. But it hasn't been hard to figure out just how important functions are, and how highly programs regard their ordained purposes. Their functions are their lives, in every sense of the word, and the importance of all other factors pale in comparison to achieving what they were written to do.
And though he might not be familiar with all the ins and outs, Roy knows that this is coming as a heavily weighted confession.
"I'm sorry," Ram says quickly, wiping at his eyes with the back of his sleeve as he stands and makes to move away, the box sitting forgotten on the chair. "I shouldn't have-"
"Hey."
He catches his program's hand before he can slip past. Ram doesn't protest even as Roy straightens up and takes him by the shoulders, turning him slightly so that they're facing each other.
"You were allowed to want that. You were allowed to feel whatever you felt, okay? You were – hell, you're still allowed to think I'm the worst User on the face of the planet. It's okay."
Roy isn't exactly sure what he's expecting. After seeing Sam and Jet struggle through their turbulent teenage years, he knows what resentment looks like. Ram might not be exhibiting the usual signs of it, but Roy can read between the lines.
I only wanted you to be there.
"Why would I think that?"
"Because you have every right to," Roy says regretfully. "Because I wasn't there for you when you needed me, and I let you – and I still haven't apologized for any of it."
Ram looks completely and utterly confused, as though the notion of blaming his creator had never crossed his mind. Processors. Whatever term the programs used. And Roy just stands there, ready and willing to accept whatever retribution is coming his way.
But Ram, more loving and compassionate and human than he'll ever know, simply offers a deep frown in response.
"How could I think that?"
It's Roy's turn to be perplexed.
"Pretty easily, if-"
"But you're… you're my User," he states matter-of-factly, as though that alone should be enough to resolve the issue.
Roy frowns.
"That doesn't mean I can't be at fault," he reminds Ram gently. There's certainly been enough proof over the years to put the 'infallible Users' belief to rest, but the programs still lapse into occasional bouts of reverence. Which, although it's understandable, is a habit they're all trying to work on. "I could've handled a lot of things better, and I… I'm sorry that I didn't. That I didn't know what was going on, that I wasn't there to help you."
"But you did help me," Ram insists, obviously frustrated by the fact that he's struggling to give voice to his thoughts. "You gave me a purpose, and then you brought me back and gave me another one. And you cared enough about me to keep those around," he adds, indicating the box of floppy disks. "Everything else was… You didn't know. I can't blame you for that. But you cared – or you care now, anyway. How could I hate you for that?"
It kills him that programs are satisfied with so little, that the tiniest scraps of User input and assistance are considered borderline acts of divinity. Meanwhile, a vast majority of said divine beings have no understanding of the scale the consequences of those actions are on. It'd be like finding out the universe was just an elaborate game of The Sims, and the powers that be had no idea that pulling ladders out of pools was a life or death situation for real, living beings. And Ram, who lived and struggled and died for his belief in the Users is standing here, now, angry only with himself for having wanted a little reassurance from the god with his hands on the keyboard.
"I still don't think I'll ever be able to make it up to you," he says weakly.
"Pretty sure you already have," Ram replies thoughtfully as he touches Roy's arm. He's tactile by nature, as are the others of his kind, but the gesture is welcome and understood even without the coordinated energy flow that would usually back it up. "I'm alive, I'm in one piece, I'm here… You've made up for more than enough."
For as many behaviors and ideas there are that don't hold the same meaning on both sides of the screen, there are a fair few that do. The solace and comfort found in touch falls in the latter category. Roy pulls his program closer and puts his arms around him, and although Ram draws a shaky breath at first, he relaxes into the embrace and returns it almost immediately.
"I'm so sorry, Ram. For everything."
"I know. I know, but… it's okay. I forgave you a long time ago."
And Roy can only be silently determined to be more like that, more like the forgiving little actuarial program he wrote over thirty years ago, instead of the world-weary person he is now. If anything, it'd probably make his a life a hell of a lot easier.
He holds Ram there for a minute longer, though his digital alternate doesn't seem in much of a rush to break the hug, either. When he does pull away, he refrains from making any comments when he catches Ram wiping away tears again. It would be extremely hypocritical, considering Roy has to push his glasses up and do the same thing just a second later.
It's not even worth blaming it on the dust in the room.
"How'd you get so good at knowing just what to say, anyway?" he asks with a small laugh as he rubs his eyes and readjusts his glasses.
"Plenty of practice," Ram replies with a half smile. "Who do you think's been talking Tron out of his moods since he was just out of beta?"
Roy laughs again, with a measure more certainty, but takes on a more serious air in the moments after.
"You're a good person, Ram. And… thanks."
Ram beams at that, and it eases some of Roy's guilt, even if only by a fraction. It's a small thing, barely a drop in the bucket compared to all the unfairness his program's been dealt, but it's still something. He'll strive to make Ram smile every single day, if that's what it takes just to start making up for history.
Taking that as a cue to move on, Ram returns his attention to the old shoebox. He picks it up carefully and places the lid on top, then turns back to Roy with a questioning look.
"So, what d'you want to do with this? Keep or throw out?"
"Keep," Roy states as he takes the box with a fond smile, and sets it atop the pile of things to be moved out to his car. "For old time's sake."
There's an unmistakably pleased look on Ram's face at that answer, but neither one of them add anything else to the matter. The sorting and cleaning continues much the same as before, albeit with conversations that are a touch more subdued, more thoughtful. More personal.
When the task is, at last, complete, and not a trace of ZackAttack's underground movement remains, he looks around the now empty basement and feels an odd sense of loss settle in his chest. It's Ram's hand on his shoulder that draws him from his recollections and up and out onto the dusk-lit street.
When the door closes and locks behind them, Roy doesn't look back.
It's only later, when they're moving everything from his car into his apartment, that Roy glances at the shoebox and remembers the boxes of baby pictures that were once shoved under his mother's bed, and he has to stop himself before he laughs out loud.
Some things are best left to be explained another day.