Title: Walk the Line Summary: Sam thought that the programs really should learn better than to make bets against him. He'd do whatever it was just to prove them wrong. Drunk or not. Especially drunk.
Music while writing... Everywhere I Go, Hollywood Undead

Sam wobbled, vision slightly... off. Snickers of a number of programs had him brandishing the baton he held at them, and slurring, "Oh, shut up you guys. Conscripts. Whatever. I got this." He blinked, squinting as the glowing lines of circuitry wavered. Frankly, the flashy neon look was making him faintly nauseous, no matter how awesome it tended to look. Ugh.

Honestly, he had probably had way too much to drink, but when friendly programs kept shoving more glasses in his hands just as soon as the glass that he had finished off became empty... It was kind of a hazard when they took it as a challenge to "Get the User totally fritzed." Fun, but a hazard all the same.

He squinted at the baton, making sure he was holding it right. He had once seen some poor program rezz one of these things backwards and nearly get flattened when it appeared practically on top of him. He would have been, if it hadn't been for some quick moves by one of his friends. Sam snickered and took a step, coordinating his feet taking far too much effort, before he took a leap and rezzed the lightcycle beneath him. He fishtailed the bike around and let out a whoop at the programs who had dared him to try.

The cheered drunkenly, but a shadow landing just in front of them silenced them immediately. They stared with wide eyes before-

"It's Rinzler! Flee!"

At that most eloquent, utterly belated utterance, the crowd scattered, most of them stumbling in their haste to get away, practically tripping over one another.

Sam scowled behind the automatically rezzed helmet. "Tronzler..." he said tried to say warningly, and failed, "Why do you always have to spoil my fun?" He winced as it came out like something a whiny snot-nosed brat would say.

"Tronzler?" the program said slowly, as though disbelievingly. A moment passed before he spoke again, and there wasn't any question in it.

"You're overcharged."

Sam derezzed the bike back into baton form while still sitting on it and just barely managed to not topple over as his seat vanished. "What of it?" he asked, disgruntled. If this kept happening, he wouldn't have any more drinking partners to find on the Grid left. That sucked.

"Flynn sent me to find you," Tron said, a faint echo of the growl in his voice left over from his repurposing. "And here you are..." he spread his hands, "drinking your time away. Again."

"And?"

Tron sighed, his helmet filtering the soft sound into a harsher dissonance, "I don't see how you manage to be so overcharged and get around Flynn's built in anti-overcharged driving. You have to be able to walk in a straight line to get on a bike..." He trailed off, obviously contemplating it, trying to figure out how the User managed it.

Sam laughed raucously at Tron's obvious (and if he did say so himself, adorable) bafflement. He walked, in a, relatively, straight line, toward Tron and placed his hands on the program's shoulders, "That, comes from lots and lots of practice." He circled to the side and slung his arm around Tron's shoulders.

Maybe he could corrupt the program in a... different sort of way.

That would be soooo fun.

"You, Tronzler, my friend," Sam said rather too cheefully, "need a drink."