This story pulls from every entry in the Legacy timeline, including Uprising and the Flynn Lives ARG. I've fudged a few of the canon dates to help with the story flow, but things should be internally consistent. Any events from non-film entries will be given enough of an explanation that you won't have to have read/played/watched them to understand what's going on, but it might help to be familiar.
Reviews or comments are incredibly appreciated. Please enjoy the ride!

1989

If there was one thing Alan truly hated about his job at ENCOM, it was going over paperwork. He could work at it for hours and still have a mountain of files to review. He drained the last of his coffee and set the mug back on the table with a thunk, then looked at his watch and sighed; a quarter till three. He had to be up in a few hours to head into the office. He would be napping during lunch again, no question. With a small groan, he took his glasses off and rubbed at his face with the heels of his hands. As he contemplated the merits of going to sleep now and trying to finish reviewing everything in the morning, the revving of an engine outside reached his ears. He dropped his hands and looked at the window; a headlight was shining through the curtains. He shook his head and pushed himself up off the couch, heading towards the window. Only one person would have the audacity to ride their motorcycle through Alan's very quiet neighborhood in the middle of the night.

The revving stopped as he pulled back the curtain. By the light from his front door, he could see a familiar silhouette walking up his drive. The figure waved a little as Alan watched. He let the curtain drop back into place and went around to the entryway.

"Hey buddy!" Flynn was already grinning at him when he opened the door. His hair was a mess—no helmet, as usual—and his motorcycle jacket was already slung over his shoulder. "Can I come in?" He stepped inside before Alan could answer and immediately went into the living room from the entryway, leaving Alan to shut the door behind him.

"It's a bit late for house calls, you know," Alan said as he stepped back into the living room. Flynn was sitting on the arm of the couch, his jacket laying in the armchair a few feet away.

"It's what, like one in the morning? That's not that late."

"It's almost three, actually." Alan nudged him as he slid by to take his seat again. "Sit properly, you'll ruin the arm."

"Sorry, sorry." Instead of sitting, Flynn pushed himself to his feet and rounded on Alan with another wide grin. "Anyway, buddy, I—wait, are you working?" he interrupted himself, frowning at the papers spread on the coffee table. "What's all that?"

"The proposed contracts for that shipping company you're interested in. Legal's been trying to iron out the specifics we talked about last week," Alan said. He lifted a stack and held it up so Flynn could see. "They wanted you to look it over, but you haven't been in the office the last two days, so they gave it to me."

"Yeah? Sorry, man. Send me a copy, I'll take a look when I go in tomorrow." Flynn looked apologetic, but didn't make any excuses about his absence. Alan didn't expect him to—he'd long since given up trying to get Flynn to keep a normal work schedule. Flynn tugged the stack out of his hands and started flipping through it quickly. He glanced at the table again. "Is all of that contract stuff?"

Alan sat back with a sigh and took off his glasses, rubbing at his eyes. Coffee or no coffee, he needed to sleep soon. "No, it's from a few other departments—programming sent me a few things to look at, too."

"Ram's new project? How's that going?"

"Pretty well. Roy thinks they'll be finishing on schedule, anyway. I'm just trying to double check a few things before we give them the okay to go into the next stage." He started re-sorting the papers, trying to tame the mess into something slightly more manageable.

Flynn handed him the stack of contracts and watched as he put the papers into piles by department. He crossed his arms, tapping the fingertips of one of his hands against his elbow in apparent restlessness. "You work too much, man," he said.

"One of us has to."

Flynn didn't even bother looking offended. "You're the best guy for the job." He smiled warmly at Alan, who couldn't help but smile back just a little, annoyed and tired as he was. Flynn's smile spread into a grin, but the tapping fingers moved a little faster as he said, "You're a lifesaver, buddy. You been working on this stuff all night?"

"No, I talked to Lora for a while too."

"Yeah? How's she doing?"

"Busy, but fine. Same as usual." Alan glanced up from rearranging the papers. "Which you'd know if you called her more than once every few months, by the way."

Flynn stopped his tapping and frowned. "What? I called her a couple weeks ago!"

"She says it's been almost a month."

"No, no, no," Flynn said, shaking his head, "I called her on the 30th, because you told me on the 28th she had just gotten that fancy award, so I called to congratulate her."

Alan looked at Flynn over the rim of his glasses. "Yeah. That was almost a month ago. Today's the 24th."

Flynn stared. "The 24th?"

"Of July, yes."

"Oh." Flynn ran a hand through his hair, looking sheepish. "Woops. I guess this whole month kinda got away from me."

"All the months get away from you," Alan responded flatly. "You'd better call her soon, she sounded pretty miffed." He finished shuffling the last stack, and sat it on the table. "So," he continued, looking at Flynn, "Is there a reason you decided to barge into my house at nearly three in the morning, or did you just feel like stopping by?"

Flynn grinned again and dropped down next to him on the couch. "I was hoping you'd ask!" He leaned forward, a familiar glint in his blue eyes, and took a deep breath. "Alan," he said, "I cracked it."

Alan waited for clarification, but Flynn just kept grinning at him. "Cracked what?" he asked.

"It,man! Everything!" He took Alan by the shoulder and shook him lightly, still grinning. "I figured it out!"

Alan frowned, still lost. "Is this about that project you refuse to show me?"

"Yes! And I'm not refusing to show you, it's just not ready yet. But it will be, soon."

"Because you cracked it."

"Yeah!"

"I'm still not sure what exactly it is you cracked, Kevin."

Flynn shook him again, a little harder this time. "Everything. Everything! Not just computers and programming, either-we're talking science, medicine, hell, even religion! This could be it, man." His grin was wider than ever, but this close, Alan could see the dark bags like bruises under his blazing eyes. "I could change the world with this." The hand on Alan's shoulder gripped tighter, and Alan realized it was trembling.

"Are you okay?" he asked, watching Flynn closely in concern. "You're shaking."

Flynn's expression darkened, and he dropped his hand. "Man, are you even listening?" he said, almost sullen." I've finally figured everything out!"

"I am listening. I'm glad you figured it out, whatever it is. But when was the last time you slept?"

Flynn sighed loudly. "This morning, mom."

Alan looked at him skeptically. "Oh? How much?"

Flynn pushed himself up off the couch. "I got like, four hours. Happy?"

"Not really."

"Look, it doesn't matter—I'll sleep later, I'm trying to tell you about what I found!" He ran his hands through his hair again, more agitated this time. "It's incredible, Alan. I'm almost outta my element with some of the things I've been looking at, but it's so…" he trailed off, then shook his head. "I don't even know. It's a miracle."

Flynn's reverence for whatever he had found was palpable, but Alan's head was starting to hurt and he could feel his frustration rising again, so all he said in response was, "Is this miracle more or less important than the board meeting you missed two days ago?"

Flynn dropped his hands and gave him a disgruntled look. "C'mon, Alan, don't be like that."

"Answer the question, Flynn."

"It's more—" Flynn began almost heatedly, but after moment he deflated. He glanced guiltily at Alan before turning away. "It's not about importance—you know I care about the company. But like, this is big,man, I can't even explain to you—"

Alan crossed his arms. "Try me."

Flynn stared at him for a long moment, and the expression on his face was more serious than Alan had ever seen him. He took a deep breath, looking like he was about to speak, but then let it out all at once, and sat down again, an apologetic smile on his face. "I can't." He held up placating hands at the look Alan threw him. "I know, I know. But it's too complicated to just start talking about, not here. I have to show you. And I will, soon. Just not yet."

"If you've cracked it, then what's the hold up?"

"There are still a few things I gotta look into." Flynn's voice was casual, but he wasn't looking at Alan as he spoke; instead he was staring a little to one side. There was a tightness around his eyes that gave him an almost hunted look. "Just a couple bugs in the system."

Alan was heavily tempted to demand a full explanation then and there, Flynn's reticence and his own lack of sleep be damned, but Flynn looked so uncharacteristically exhausted, all the fire he'd had minutes before extinguished, that he felt the fight drain out of him. He reached out and touched Flynn's shoulder and said, softly, "It's getting late." He took off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes again, which were starting to burn. "And we both need to sleep."

Flynn looked at him for a long moment, until finally he nodded, flashing him a tired little smile. "Yeah, we do," he said. He got to his feet again, padding over to the armchair to retrieve his jacket.

Alan hauled himself up too, holding back a yawn. "There's another board meeting tomorrow about those contracts. Do not miss it." He added, less sternly, "But it's not until four, so get some sleep beforehand, okay? And I don't mean just another four hours."

"Yeah, yeah, okay." Flynn slipped his arms into the sleeves of his jacket and pulled it straight over his torso. He shot Alan another smile, more playful this time. "Make sure you sleep, too. Don't work yourself to death, Bradley."

Alan rolled his eyes as he followed Flynn to the entryway. If anyone was to blame for Alan working himself too hard, it was the man right in front of him. He watched as Flynn pulled the door open and turned to say something, but yawned again instead. Alan shook his head. "You could just stay the night here, if you're too tired to drive."

"Nah, I'll be okay. I told Sam I'd make him pancakes for breakfast, anyway. Apparently mine are better than Gran's since they come with chocolate chips in 'em," Flynn responded with another grin.

Alan smiled at that, but stopped quickly. In the harsher light outside, Flynn looked more exhausted than ever. Alan watched him for a moment, and then asked quietly, "Are you sure you're okay?"

If Flynn understood everything Alan was trying to ask, he didn't give any indication. He just shook his head, still smiling a little. "You worry too much, man." He added, when Alan looked unsatisfied, "Look, do you still have that pager I gave you? Make sure you keep it on you—sleep with the thing if you have to. I'll give you a page when I've got everything ready. It'll be soon. Promise." He reached out and grasped Alan's shoulder again. "Everything's gonna be fine, okay? I've got it all under control." He drew Alan into a quick hug before turning to make his way back down the drive, throwing a wave farewell over his shoulder. The light from the doorway glinted on the shiny leather of his jacket before he slipped away into the dark.

Alan stood in the doorway and watched the Ducati's light flash, the engine roaring back into life. As the bike rumbled off into the night, he wondered just which of them Flynn was really trying to convince.

Flynn showed up to the board meeting half an hour late, which was more than Alan had hoped for. He even stuck around for a few hours after to go over the papers from programming. Despite promising to review the shipping contracts again, he completely avoided the office the day after. Alan wasn't surprised.

Two days later, a phone call from the board woke Alan from his sleep.

The next day, Flynn was officially declared missing.

2010

The tires of Alan's car rolled to a stop as he pulled up to the curb opposite the old arcade. It had been years since he last visited the place, but under the recent layers of graffiti and grime, the building still looked nearly the same as it had decades before. The huge sign above the archway was dark—as it should be, since the power had been turned off for years—but the memory of the sign as it had been, blazing as bright as its namesake, was fresh in Alan's mind. He stared up at the building through the window of his car and almost absently reached into his pocket, closing his fingers around the small plastic form of a pager. Flynn's words were still clear in his mind too: Sleep with the thing if you have to.

"Alan?"

Alan jumped a little, suddenly back in the present. He looked down; his phone was face-up on his lap, the speaker symbol flashing. "Sorry, Roy," he said, "I'm here."

"No problem." Roy's voice crackled a little; the reception in this part of town was dodgy at best. "So Sam just threw the keys at you?"

"He didn't throw them at me," Alan answered, "he threw them to me." Which was true; there had been barely any power behind the throw when Alan caught the keys again, though he had still nearly dropped them in surprise. He hadn't expected Sam to give the keys back after their talk, no matter how unaffected the boy had tried to seem, and even now, hours later, the miscalculation bothered him. The look on Sam's face had been unsettling too—he hadn't looked angry, or even sad, but just plain tired. It reminded Alan a little too much of the expression Flynn had worn when Alan had last seen him. He pushed the memory away and added, "I'm a little surprised Sam didn't want to look for himself, but it doesn't matter. Anyway, I'm at the arcade."

"Yeah? How's it look?"

"Old and abandoned, as usual." He took the keys out of the ignition and pocketed them, exiting the car. "I don't see any signs of a break-in. The power's off, too."

"Just like we thought." Alan could picture Roy's contemplative frown as he spoke. "You sure you don't want me to come with you? I can be there in twenty minutes."

"No, it's fine," Alan said. "I can do it myself." While there was a small, foolish trace of hope rooted inside him that he couldn't ignore, the logical part of himself knew that despite the page he had received the night before, there was an incredibly low chance of finding anything in the arcade. He didn't know if he could deal with hiding his inevitable disappointment from Roy in person, or at least not tonight—it had been a long day. "And anyway," he continued, "you haven't slept since I called you last night, right?"

He knew Roy had immediately gotten to work trying to figure out any and all possible reasons for the page. Their best working theory was that their most recent efforts with the Flynn Lives movement, involving a surprising number of volunteers and a hell of a lot of effort, had caused a power surge at the arcade and triggered the phone line into generating a signal, but the slim possibility that this wasn't just a fluke was too much to ignore, and neither of them was willing to give up that chance, sleep or no sleep. Alan hadn't gotten much rest himself, but that was irrelevant. He wouldn't be able to relax until he knew for sure there was nothing to be found here.

"I got a couple hours earlier," Roy said. Alan snorted softly at the probable lie; he was pretty confident that the man had been fueling himself with far too much caffeine for the last twenty-four hours to allow for any naps. "I feel fine, though," his friend added, as if he wasn't due for a crash any minute now. "Are you sure you're okay doing this alone?"

The concern in Roy's tone made Alan feel a little guilty for refusing his help, but he still wanted to check things out on his own. "I'm sure. Get some rest. I might be a while—I wanna be thorough—but I'll call you if I find anything, okay?"

"All right. Good luck, Tronski."

Alan smiled a little at the old nickname. "Thanks, Ram. Good night." He hung up and put the phone in his pocket, swapping it for the keys to the arcade. He slid his hand into his other pocket, his fingers brushing against the pager for a moment, and crossed the street.

The stale smell of dust met Alan's nose as he pushed open the door to the arcade. Leaves lifted by the wind outside tumbled about his ankles, drifting a little before settling on the old floor-mat beneath his shoes. He stepped inside and closed the door, not bothering to lock it behind him. This section of town was pretty empty, and the alarms hadn't been tripped in years. He peered through the dimness over his glasses. The flickering light from the street-lamps outside did little to alleviate the gloom. He could just make out the silhouettes of the game cabinets lined up in rows, shrouded in plastic tarps to protect them from the damp.

"Kevin?" Alan called. His voice was swallowed up quickly, any possible echo muffled by the layers of dust on the floors and walls. He huffed, embarrassed at himself. As if, after twenty years, Flynn would just come sauntering up the aisle out of the dark, his motorcycle jacket slung over his shoulder as it had been the night Alan had last seen him. He shook his head and looked around, trying to make out something more concrete than shadowy shapes. He vaguely remembered the presence of a breaker box near the door and reached into his pocket for his phone, thinking of the flashlight app he had installed. He had the real thing in the trunk of his car, but the bulb had burned out a while back, and he hadn't yet bothered to replace it.

He switched on the app and blinked at the sudden brightness, every light on his phone blazing at full capacity. Lifting the phone above his head, Alan looked around at the walls near the door and spotted the breaker box, covered in dust, right where he had remembered it. He pried open the cover and, squinting at the row of switches, flipped the top-most one.

A cacophony of beeps and whistles sounded as the game cabinets lit up beneath their tarps; after a few seconds the jukebox came to life, blaring a familiar song—something off one of those Journey albums Flynn was always so fond of. A little disoriented by the sudden overload of noise, Alan blinked and looked around again, able to see much better thanks to the neon strips of lighting on the walls and ceiling. Other than the flashing of the screens and their marquees, he didn't detect any movement. After a moment he held up his phone again, this time taking a picture of the rows of cabinets. He quickly attached the photo to a text message, addressing it to Lora, labeled simply "The Best" in his contact list. 'Went to the arcade. Just like the old days,' he typed, and hit send.

He didn't expect Lora to respond; she would be on a plane around now, taking the red-eye from DC to Los Angeles. She'd been intending to fly out in a few days anyway, but after hearing about the page, she'd switched to the earliest flight she could get. Alan had told her not to worry, but he couldn't deny that he'd be glad for the extra time with her. She always liked to come back around the anniversary. They both always swore to each other they were fine, but Alan at least was grateful to be able to spend the days surrounding it with her. They had been long-distance for longer than Flynn had been gone, and while he would never want Lora to choose him over her job—actually, her work in DC made him proud beyond words—he missed her every single day. They spoke often over the phone and via his laptop, but it just wasn't the same as having her physically close. He sometimes wondered if he should just quit ENCOM altogether and go to live with her in DC, but he rarely considered the idea for long. Someone had to look after the company for Sam, in case he ever did decide to get involved, and it may as well be Alan—no one else was going to do it.

Still looking around, his eyes drifted up to the loft apartment above the corner of the arcade floor, and he found himself moving towards the door to the stairwell, humming along to the familiar tune from the jukebox. Other than the tarps that were here, too, draped over all the furniture, the loft apartment looked much the same as Alan remembered it. He shined his phone light in the corners, not expecting much—a thick layer of dust covered the tarps and carpet. It was clear that no one had been here in years. He lingered in the doorway, remembering the first time he had ever sat on that low couch near the windows that overlooked the arcade floor. Sometime he still couldn't believe that he had actually broken into a building two decades ago, much less his place of work. His free hand drifted to his coat pocket, fingers wrapping around the hard plastic of the pager. He took one last look around, shining a light in every corner of the room, but even as he looked he knew that he would find no answers about who had sent him the message.

He stepped back down the stairs to the main floor. He continued his search, moving up and down the few aisles methodically, searching for any sign that someone other than himself had visited recently. Anyone who had used the arcade's line to send a page would have left some sign behind—a scraping footprint in the dusty floor, disheveled tarps, something—but the place was pristine, or as pristine as a building could be after two decades of neglect.

Alan sighed, lowering his phone. Despite the tiny hope he had tried to ignore, he hadn't truly expected to find anything here. After Flynn's disappearance, investigators had been over the arcade from floor to ceiling, looking for any hint regarding his whereabouts. Alan himself had visited multiple times in the weeks after, sometimes bringing Roy or Lora along, clinging to the absurd hope that Flynn had merely taken a sudden private vacation and would surely return soon. Neither they nor the police had ever been able to find anything useful.

Finally, there was only one more section of the arcade floor to check. Alan moved to the back, towards a lone cabinet set away from its siblings in a place of honor against the far wall. It too was covered in a dusty plastic tarp, but Alan didn't need to see the cabinet to know which game it was thanks to the bombastic sign hanging above it proclaiming its title for all to see: TRON, the original. Alan had saved this area for last more out of a vague sense of embarrassment than anything; even beneath the tarp he could just make out an all-too familiar silhouette on the cabinet's side. He sighed through his nose, and reluctantly reached up and pull the tarp away, letting it fall to the ground in a heap.

Flynn had, of course, asked to use his likeness for the cabinet's design ("It's gotta be you, man!" he'd said, emphatically gesturing in Alan's direction, "You're as close to the real Tron as we'll ever get out here!" Alan had refrained from mentioning that the real Tron was just a string of code, not wanting to put a damper on Flynn's excitement), but the sight of his likeness in that ridiculous outfit plastered on the side-panel always made him turn a little pink. Even so, a smile twitched at the corner of his mouth when his gaze fell on the figure in red beside his look-a-like. What had been the villain's name? Spark? Sark, that was it. He had never discussed it with Flynn or even Lora, but Alan had always thought Sark looked a hell of a lot like a certain former senior executive VP. He doubted Flynn had ever bothered asking permission for his likeness.

He leaned a little closer to the game's screen, his eyes drawn by the bright trails of light left by the tiny digital bikes zooming around in the darkness. Alan had never been very good at this game, which had for some reason amused Flynn to no end, though he had once come very close to beating Flynn's high score on the Matrix Blaster machine. Flynn hadn't been quite so amused by that, and he'd been even less amused when Lora actually did beat it on her next turn. Alan smiled at the memory of Flynn's dumbfounded face, then stopped when he found himself reaching automatically into his pocket for change. He hesitated, feeling a little silly, before shrugging and pulling out a couple of quarters. Heck, he was in an arcade. He might as well have some fun, and even if he was a little rusty, no one was around to see him lose. He slid a quarter into the slot, his other hand already gripping the joystick in anticipation, but with a scrape and a clink, the quarter came rolling back out of the change slot and bounced to the floor. Sighing again, he bent down to pick it up, then froze, still half-crouching.

There were small black grooves dug into the concrete floor in front of the game cabinet. Alan stared at them, then up at the game cabinet, and back to the grooves. He leaned slightly to one side, eyes then fixed on the brick wall behind the cabinet.

There was no way.

Was there?

Alan shot to his feet and pressed his shoulder to the cabinet's side panel. He pushed hard, bracing his feet on the floor, and nearly stumbled when the cabinet swung quite easily to the side as if on a hinge. There, embedded in the wall that had been covered by the cabinet, was a rusty metal door. Alan slowly reached out and grasped the handle, pushing the door open gently. It swung in with a creak to reveal a dark passage. Had there been a basement on the arcade's floor plan? He couldn't remember. He quickly retrieved his phone from his jacket pocket and turned on the flashlight app again, holding it high to illuminate a hallway. He could just make out what looked like the top of a staircase at the far end.

He ducked through the doorway, his footsteps scraping quietly on the concrete. He was dimly aware that the door had swung shut behind him because the now-pulsing beat of the music was muffled, but blood was starting to pound in his ears in anticipation, and he paid it no mind. He shined his light on the stairs before quickly making his way down. At the bottom, he found himself at a landing with a door labeled "Electrical Room"; the keys were still in the lock. Taking a breath to steady himself, he turned the keys and pushed the door open.

Alan's eyes widened as he took in the room beyond. "You sneaky son of a…" he breathed, staring around at not an electrical room, but what could only be described as a secret lab. Light from the street-lamps outside shined dimly through a grated window on the wall to his right, illuminating what looked like a desk covered in a thick layer of dust. Near the desk were roll-away shelves holding a number of electronic gadgets attached to wires that extended down to the floors and disappeared behind the desk. In one corner a couch with a dusty old blanket and what looked like an old Coleco handheld game on one of the cushions sat beneath a cluttered corkboard. The light didn't quite reach the wall opposite the desk; Alan lifted his phone again to illuminate it. The beam fell on a complicated machine that looked rather familiar. He moved a little closer and frowned. It was, in fact, very familiar.

"Lora's laser…?" he murmured to himself, bending down a little to examine the machine. On closer inspection, it did seem a bit different from the laser he remembered—this one, while undoubtedly based on the SHIVA laser Lora had developed when she still worked at ENCOM, was slightly newer, the machinery a bit more advanced. Alan's frown deepened. Lora had continued working with the laser until she left the company in '85, and Alan vaguely remembered Flynn asking about her research in digitization once in a while, but he definitely didn't remember anything about Flynn actually borrowing the laser, or any schematics.

He straightened up, still frowning at the machine. Was this part of Flynn's special project? He turned the flashlight app off and snapped a photo of the laser, then turned and took another of the rest of the room, attaching them to a text. 'Kevin was sneakier than even we knew, apparently. Found this room under the arcade. That laser sure looks familiar,' he added before sending those off to Lora, too. He quickly sent a copy of the photos and message to Roy as well. After a second his phone beeped—there was no signal down here. He would have to resend the photos when he went back upstairs.

He turned and flipped on the flashlight app once again, shining the light towards the desk. Above it was a corkboard covered in a mish-mash of papers. One of the corners had a few old photographs of a much younger Sam, some of which Alan recognized from the copies on the mantle in his own house. A few smaller papers looked like scribbles of maps, one of which appeared to be of the section of the city the arcade was housed in. In the center of it all was another map, much bigger than any of the others, spread out over the majority of the board. It was titled "THE GRID," in a familiar scrawl. Parts of the map were labeled with smaller scribbles, but before Alan could take a closer look, a blinking light below the corkboard caught his eye. He glanced down at the desk and had to adjust his grip on his phone to keep it from slipping out of his hand.

The desk wasn't just a desk. It was a screen. A sequence of numbers was visible beneath the layer of dust coating the glass, slowly ticking upwards. Alan stared at it for a moment before realizing it was a timer—one that had been counting for nearly twenty one years. He quickly wiped his sleeve over the glass, trying to clear the dust, but the timer disappeared as the screen lit up, replaced by a series of windows and a keyboard set into the screen. In the corner of the display flashed the old ENCOM logo.

"This is Dillinger's old desk," Alan muttered, resting his phone on what he now realized was an old-fashioned computer server as he sat down. "Couldn't settle for just his job, huh? I guess he stole that from you first, though…" He felt a little silly saying it out loud, but it also made him feel better to think Flynn was in the room. "So just what were you doing down here, Kevin?"

The front-most window was a command prompt. Alan leaned over the keyboard and entered a simple identity request.

"FLYNN," the prompt responded.

No surprises there. He typed another command, this time a login request with a password he had seen Flynn use years ago: 'reindeer flotilla'. The password was denied. "Worth a shot," Alan murmured. He contemplated entering a few more passwords—Sam's birthday, Flynn's anniversary with his wife Jordan—but he didn't want to risk the computer locking up on him. He settled for trying the backdoor. The command prompt responded to that, and Alan edged the chair closer to the desk, taking a deep breathe. "Let's see what you were doing with all this equipment, huh?"

He opened the computer's history bin, intending to view the files Flynn had opened when he last accessed the computer, but suddenly a long list of actions flashed into the command prompt window. Alan read them quickly, his eyes flickering over the commands. One of them he read with a pang—'last will and testament'. Well, at least Flynn had been prepared.

He frowned as he read the most recent file name. "Laser control?" He glanced over his shoulder at the laser, then looked back at the screen. He accessed the file bin for the laser control, and then another window popped up on the screen. "APERTURE CLEAR?" it asked simply, a small beeping noise sounding in time with the blink of the cursor. Alan looked over his shoulder at the laser again. The lights lining the edges of some of the rods were still dark, and it looked as dead as it had seemed when he first stepped into the room. He doubted it would still work, but he was a little curious. He selected yes, and hit the enter key.

For a moment Alan was nowhere at all. There were no sensations except the blinding, brilliant light searing into his vision, filling his entire being, burning up his very body. Then he was sitting in the chair again, in the dim basement of the arcade. He clutched the edge of the desk, confused at the sudden return of his sight. He shook himself a little and blinked, trying to force the world back into a sensible shape. His eyes focused on the patch of light shining on the desk surface. It took him a moment to realize that the light shining from the grating was not the warm yellow of the streetlamps but a cold, bluish white.

The other differences registered all at once. Gone was the rolling shelf, the books, the couch, clutter of computer parts, the laser—even the layer of dust and grit. The room looked as if 'dust' was an alien phrase never once uttered in its vicinity. Alan stared around, dumbfounded, before a roaring noise made him jump, and light flared through the grating above him. The roar continued, and he pushed himself out of the chair, stumbling out of the room and hurrying up to the main floor.

It was pitch black on the game floor, and though Alan couldn't see much from the cold light filtering in from the windows, he knew that arcade cabinets were gone. The roaring noise was louder now. He crossed the floor to the front door and pulled it open. His breath caught in his throat as he stared outside.

This was not Mead Street. This wasn't even Los Angeles—Los Angeles's streets were never this clean, not in this part of town—and the buildings were just too tall. The street glistened as if from rain, but there had been no clouds in the sky when he'd pulled up, and a strange hexagonal pattern was visible in the concrete as lights flashed from a building nearby.

That was another thing—the light was so wrong, cold and blue-white and emanating from the very buildings and streets themselves. Alan realized that even the doorknob he was gripping so tightly was incandescent, the light shining through the skin of his fingers. He took a shuddering breath, hardly daring to even consider the possibility running through his mind, but what other explanation could there be? The laser had been part of the digitization project...

"You digitized yourself," he rasped, his mouth dry. "This is what you found. We're in the computer."

Chapter soundtrack:

"Somethin' to Hide" - Journey
"Gimme Sympathy" - Metric
"Separate Ways" - Journey