I'm not sure at first what's woken me, and for that matter, I'm not sure I'm awake at all. I'm too lost in the dark comfort of cushions to open my eyes and find out.

A sound drifts through me, interrupting my reverie, in the form consistent, liquid pattering, and a sigh. It's the type of sigh that's more in the nose than the mouth, more a breath than a true sound.

. . . Tron's sigh.

I open my eyes.

I am curled on my side, facing the window. Outside of it, silver rain is pelting down upon the half-abandoned streets, dripping along the pain in long, sad, and haphazard vertical ribbons which blur the entire outside view together into a single, soft, darkening patch of gray. Tron is standing before it, staring into the downpour. He appears as a silhouette, the circle of white on his disc like a staring eye in the gloom.

I don't speak to him, because I can't think of anything to say. I can only imagine what he's seeing in the ever-changing patterns of rain on the window, on the empty roads outside. Our little corner of the system has yet to be either reclaimed or re-inhabited. None besides us and a few purposeless wanders seem to like the proximity of the arcade, quite possibly because most programs aren't certain a user can be trusted. Not anymore. Not after the propaganda Clu fed them.

Tron is never going to forgive himself for being a part of that regime. It doesn't matter if Rinzler was a completely different entity, a creature with no reservations and an utterly reversed sense of right and wrong. Tron will still blame himself . . . for living,

I squeeze my eyes shut again; chasing away the image of him standing in front of that window and thinking, I'm sure, about the coup and the moment in which Clu so nearly destroyed him.

Tron . . .

He's only ever told me one thing about that event, and it's not a comment I like to reflect on. Thinking about it makes me feel as if I'm being ripped open from the inside, like I've been kicked in the stomach.

". . . I should've died when I had the chance."

That's what he said to me. I shudder at the thought.

Opening my eyes again, I see that Tron is still looking out at the inclement weather. It's raining even harder now, energy pouring down from the sky as if our very system is trying to cleanse itself of everything we have put it through. The way Tron is watching it, I wonder if he isn't wishing something could do the same for him.

Suddenly, Tron doubles over, his fingers digging into the windowsill. His shoulders stiffening like those of a program who's been subjected to electric shock. It pains me to watch.

I want so badly to go to him, but something holds me back. This isn't a display anyone was meant to see. I'm forced to watch, and listen, in silence.

I can hear his breath hissing from between his teeth, and although he is facing away from me, I know that his expression has torn itself into a terrible grimace. He's so angry with so much right now, so tired of this way of half-living. No Users. No Flynn. No guidance. No purpose beyond a desperate fight for redemption, one he is certain he is beginning to lose. He can only do so much when he's hidden like a wraith in the shadows.

Of course, there aren't many other options. Everyone thinks he's dead. And then, even if they were prepared for the fact that he isn't, precious few know about Rinzler . . . and when people do make that connection, well, it's never an easy process. I would know.

My thoughts are interrupted by a soft sound. A whisper is slipping out from Tron's lips, almost lost beneath the tut-tut patter of the rain and my own quiet cycling.

"All that is visible. . ."

It's the beginning of an old prayer, one I have not heard in far, far too long. I finish it for him, silently mouthing the words. The room is perfectly quiet.

Tron raises his head again, looking back out the window. He seems, somehow, as if he's making an agreement with the rain. I know that's a strange thought, but from behind, that really is how it seems.

He straightens himself then, and begins to turn around. My eyes snap shut. I'd rather he not know, at least just yet, that I saw.

In the dark, but still awake, I can interpret him crossing the room, the rustle of a cloak's fabric, and the clicking into place of two batons. He's going out.

In this weather?

I have to prevent my supposedly-in-standby lips from pressing themselves into a revealing frown. I don't like this. Not one bit.

The whisper of footsteps' approaching weight alerts me to him once again. I am still feigning sleep, so I cannot be entirely certain, but I think he's come over to the bed. I can feel him standing over me. His partial weight on the cushions, probably that of one supporting palm, confirms this a moment later.

The sleeve of his cloak brushes my cheek, and I can feel the freezing hot of his circuits near my skin as he tucks a strand of hair away behind my ear, and then the weight disappears. His footsteps retreat towards the doorway.

Tron, wait.

The words are ready on my tongue when I am rebutted by the door hissing open. It shuts again before I can pretend to wake.

I sit up in a rush, but I am met only with the loneliness of an empty room, a dark sea of unforgiving rain pounding against my window. Tron has disappeared.