CW: Aftermath of Torture. The acts themselves aren't depicted, but it's Dyson. Fucker plays with his prey.

Argon was empty.

Well, that wasn't quite true. The streets were empty, all sane programs huddled away in apartment blocks or their workplaces as Clu's army rode around the city like they owned it. Really, Paige thought to herself as she slowly rode her bike through the streets, they probably did. Hundreds of red-lined soldiers walked and rode the roads with her, some from Tesler's contingent but most were new renders and faces, checking every alley and rooftop as if expecting to find anyone still out and about under the current circumstance. As if any programs would be out under a storm of this size or with this many soldiers around.

She had to hand it to Argon: they knew how to stay alive.

Most of them, anyway. Paige's bike carried her past piles of cubes, blue edged voxels a sickly shade of teal-green in the almost red cast the city was under. She didn't know who those had been before—mechanics like Beck? Medics like she had been? Or anyone just caught in the open?—but she'd seen enough by the time her aimless driving led her to the Plaza. She'd been here only once or twice before, the light of Able's garage keeping even the furthest edge lit. Now it was dim, the energy fire having been put out by the storm that had followed. It was empty now, most of the yellow-lined rubble of the unknown craft having been blown into the harbor with the energy blast that had decimated the only building that had called the area home. The only sign of the battle that had taken place here was scorch damage in the code beneath her feet, the tell-tale pattern of a tank blast telling her that whoever had driven it was an absolutely terrible shot.

Probably one of the mechanics, she thought to herself. They'd had a few contracts with the Occcupation forces. It wouldn't have been outlandish for them to have that kind of hardware on the repair bay. Not that it had helped in the end; she stopped when she found a good vantage point to take in the Garage…or what was left of it. Besides the sheer scope and size of the debris pile, there was hardly anything left to tell there had been a garage here. Piles of white and blue code were still falling, trickling down into the tunnels. It looked unstable, unsteady.

She climbed it anyway, picking her way across the remnants of sixty programs lives. She hadn't known all their names, or even all their faces, but she'd known the count. Known how many were just simple mechanics, knew some of their leader's history—Able had survived Tron City and the Coup only to die out here? Talk about unfair—and knew enough about Beck that the place had seemed…safe. Unnoticeable. They did good work.

Or at least, she'd thought as much. Stopping at the top of the mound, Paige turned on her heel and surveyed the area. It would be scrubbed, no doubt. All traces of insubordination wiped clean after the events of the upcycle. Tesler would likely see to it himself, needing to be cautious with Clu and Dyson in town. Soon enough, there would be nothing left. The storms would eventually wash away whatever couldn't be cleaned, sending it into the Sea. Names would be struck from all rosters, all traces of resistance erased until even memory failed. No one would dare to speak the names of those that had once worked and spent their time here. They would be simply…gone.

Even Beck would be gone. Core lurching, Paige swallowed hard. The thought that Beck—sweet, soft cored Beck—was the Renegade still hadn't settled home. How could a program like that, so very awkward, be the Renegade who was so very confident? It was a double life in more than one respect, and the idea that she hadn't been able to tell sent her spinning. Not only for the fact that he'd spent their entire time together lying to her, but for the fact that he'd turned on her. Betrayed her. Damaged her.

…Hadn't he? She frowned, looking at the code below her feet. Tesler had shown her the disk, had shown her the memory, but she knew better than almost anyone that memories could be modified. And that program hadn't been able to even speak for himself, let alone contradict Tesler and Pavel's claims. How easy would it have been to manipulate him as she had been made to look guilty? How easy would it have been to make it seem like the Renegade—Beck—had set everything up?

Too easy, she realized with a sudden jolt of core-stopping clarity. All it took was a little bug and then…no way to contest it. No way to prove your own innocence. She shuddered, chafing her arms against an internal cold. Beck had been right: her own people had turned against her. She'd known that then but stayed, having no place else to go that wouldn't end in her own deresolution.

No. She'd had a place. He'd offered, but she'd turned him down. She'd been unwilling to face facts, unable to seen an existence as anything but a soldier. Without that, after losing her friends and the medical center, fighting had been all that was left. Fighting for a cause she'd believed in to keep programs safe…only now she knew it was anything but that. And Beck had known all along.

If only she'd listened! If only she'd gone with him!

With a sharp half-scream, she dropped into a crouch. If onlys and could haves were going to eat her core like a swarm of grid bugs! If only she could do something without getting herself derezzed, if only she could help him somehow, if only if only if only! But there was nothing she could do about it now. Soon, he'd be the one gone. Argon would be cleansed, purified, and set back into Occupation territory. Tesler would likely be reassigned to another city, Paige and Pavel with him, and life on the Grid would continue as it had for cycles.

Somehow, the thought didn't make her feel any better. It just made her core lurch even harder. Forcing herself back to her feet—she needed solid ground—and with a shaky sigh, Paige began to pick her way back down the mound of shattered code. Halfway back down, she stopped mid-step. Beneath her feet, something gleamed as lightning flashed overhead, the rain catching the light as it bounced off white code. She crouched down, knees in shattered glass, and picked it up. It was a white baton, scorched and cracked, but somehow still intact. She turned it in her hands, frowning as it pinged her helmet and the contents displayed in a wash across her display. An Encom 786, likely the last of its kind. That it had survived when everything else in the Garage had been destroyed spoke wonders of the durability of old code.

She sighed. Overhead, thunder rumbled. Rain pattered off her helmet. Neither could could hide the sound of a disk revving up, nor the lightning hide the bright flare of a white disk at her neck.

"That's not yours."

Male-designate, tall enough to loom over her, and angry. Paige slowly turned her head to glare at him. His suit was covered in thick black armor, angular helmet pointing down at a blazing white circuit tinged with only the faintest hint of blue. A small "T" formed of four blocks.

The mark of Tron.

Beck? No. Not only was the voice different, Beck was still in custody. That left only one option.

"Tron."

He didn't deny it. He didn't so much as twitch, disk a hot blade at her neck. He probably didn't even blink. She narrowed her eyes but didn't move. He didn't move either, staring her down and holding his disk to her neck. Her hand tightened around the baton. It was a bike, and it would take too long to form if she cracked it open—if it could hold shape at all with how badly it was damaged—to be of any use, and the best she could do with it was throw it at his head and hope he flinched. He kept his gaze on her, badly crackled helmet catching the light of another lightning strike.

"I said, that's not yours." He sounded mad. She almost smirked. "Put it down."

"You want it so badly?" She replied, shifting her weight and her grip. "You can have it!"

And with a single reckless move, Paige threw it. Instinct—he was a fighter; either a soldier or security—had him reaching up to bat the threat away and in that instant she was after him, drawing her disk and charging. The piles of cubes beneath their feet shifted and roiled as their disks clashed, the rain catching on both their helmets as she pushed with all her might. This close, she could see the patched injuries that marred his frame—Grid, he and Beck were a matched set—and see the strain they put on him. She was a medic first, and the size of that gash down his side almost made her grimace.

Almost. The soldier training she'd had kept her stable, kept her standing, and he wavered first. On flat ground, it wouldn't have mattered. On unstable code, it did. He stepped back, put his heel down in the wrong place, and his ankle rolled. She heard him gasp, a tiny sound of shock, and shouldered right into his chest with a sharp cry of rage. They both fell back down the hill, rolling and tumbling across sharp edged cubes that pressed and scraped. Paige impacted the flat ground of the plaza first and bit her lip against the press of her port even as they kept rolling. He finally got his bearings straight and started kicking, kneeing her right in the abdomen. She stumbled back, barely keeping her disk in hand, and he was on her in a nano. She ducked, bobbing and weaving under his strikes until she had to meet him head on in a clash. He was fast. Strong, too. Her arm trembled even with both hands on her disk, trying to hold back his swing. Sparks flew between them, unhindered by the rain, and she narrowed her eyes at him beneath her helmet.

"You fight a lot better than Beck does," She prodded at him, watching the circuit at his throat flare in emotional response. "But you've got to remember something." She shoved with all her might, breaking from the stalemate and ducking under his next swing, "He could never win against me!"

Again, she charged in. This time she came in low, aiming for his jaw, but he leapt aside and came after her again. She stepped back, hopping away from his swings and waiting for an opening. The rain soaked plaza reflected their disks in the light, boots slipping in puddles. Lightning flashed as he chased her, ducking under her disk once more. Even with his broken visor shielding his face, she could still feel the glare he leveled on her.

"He could never beat me, either." He said, and then gave her an almighty shove. She stumbled back with a cry, heel slipping in a puddle until she landed flat on her rear end. Her disk rolled free of her hand; she rolled to get it, narrowly avoiding a disk strike to her dominant arm. She quickly palmed her disk, scrambling back to her feet, and went after him again. Thunder rumbled, the storm high overhead, but she paid it no mind. They were on flat ground again, and she wasn't hurt. He was, and it was starting to show. She charged at him, catching him by the shoulder and sending them both tumbling. To his credit, he got back up and sidestepped around her swing, catching her disk and sending her stumbling with a punch to her jawline. She grunted, caught her footing and raised her disk overhead with a cry—

Lightning struck the sea, close enough that she could feel the heat. With a cry of alarm she threw both arms up, visuals shutting down from the overload of light even as her visor polarized in response. There was no time to react, no time to dodge, as he moved before her visuals could come back online. He crashed into her middle, knocking them both right to the ground. A sightless tumble later and her visuals restored to find the plaza right in her face, her stomach on the ground, and the program with his knees on either side of her abdomen with his disk at her neck once more. She bucked her hips, arched her back but all he did was shift his weight and hold on. A move like that would have dislodged Beck, but he…he clearly was a lot better. Paige swallowed hard, pride stinging, as she realized the only reason she'd even gotten him down here was because he'd stumbled. Either that, a small voice in the back of her processor chimed, or he let her. She wasn't sure what was worse. His disk revved against her neck, the heat activating a warning in her helmet.

"I'm only going to ask you this once," He rasped, and she took some small comfort in knowing she'd at least worn him out, "Where is he?"

She didn't answer, eyes scanning for her disk—ah. There it was. Out of her reach even if she strained for it. With a snarl, she retracted her helmet and glared at him.

"In a cell." She spat, "Where he belongs. Clu and General Dyson had some questions for him, and when they're done, they'll derezz him."

The words were sour on her tongue, catching like bad energy in her throat. She didn't mean them, she realized. It was just another lie. The program's circuits flickered, but whether it was in response to her words or just because of his injuries, she couldn't tell. She kept her glare going but he didn't retreat, disk still at her neck. They were at a stalemate. She narrowed her eyes, watching. If he thought he could wait her out, he had another thing coming. He'd have to derezz her.

Except he wasn't moving his disk. He was staring at her through his cracked visor, the lightning that struck out to sea lighting up the geometric cracks. Slowly, he leaned his weight back.

"Worse. They'll repurpose him." He tilted his head. "Is that what you want?"

Her core lurched. She pressed past it, fisting her hands at her sides. She was a soldier, a loyal soldier in Clu's army. Of course it was what she wanted!

Wasn't it?

"You two corrupt the Grid! All you do is make things worse, just like the ISOs—"

"The ISOs—" he broke in with a yell, "Were created by the Grid. Not Flynn, not another User. The Grid made them, and Clu destroyed them." He shook his head faintly. "There was peace before the Purge. Clu is the one who did all of this—this!" He swept his free hand out, taking in the burning garage and the scorched plaza in a single gesture, the light jets on patrol overhead roaring by as if to punctuate his words. "This is because of him. How is this not corruption?"

Paige opened her mouth…then shut it, teeth audibly clicking. He didn't know Pavel had been the one to order the destruction of the Garage, and yet…the memory came unbidden, a different time and place.

We're free. It's the only reason we're being hunted. Quorra had said. Free to destroy the Grid? Or free to exist in peace, away from Clu's idea of control and perfection? She swallowed hard, turning her face into the puddles on the ground.

"…It doesn't matter." She finally got out, lump in her throat stealing her voice. Beck was going to be gone. She didn't want that. "It's done. He's as good as finished."

"No. He's not."

His weight on her back disappeared. Paige turned quickly, but he was already standing up, picking up the white baton from where it had fallen all the way down here. He turned it over in his hands once, disk still a bright flare against his side, before he cracked it open. The code was damaged, even she could see that, and it flickered as it rezzed. But if there really was one thing to be said about old code, it's that it was steady. Stable. Despite the flickers and the burn damage along the sides of the bike, it held as he lowered himself into the driver's position. Paige rose to her knees, and he looked at her.

"He was willing to risk everything for you once." He said firmly, "I can see now that letting him do that was a mistake."

And then he was gone, taking off to become nothing more than a streak of white light too fast to chase after. Paige stared after his trail, watching as he turned a corner, and then lowered herself back to her knees. Thunder rumbled overhead again, lightning lighting up her reflection in a puddle, the blue energy fire turning her circuits an odd shade of green in the dim light. It was too close to her old medic colors for her comfort, and she closed her eyes. Beck had been willing to risk everything for her? Like what? A two program revolution that was now nothing more than a bad dream? She snorted.

No. No, it was more than that. He'd gone after her, saved her from a lengthy fall. Risked capture and…repurposing. She'd seen soldiers like that, made from the wreckage of other programs. It was a last resort measure, used to save them from virals or damage too extensive to heal, and yet the way he'd said it made it sound like it was destruction, not salvation. Was it? Grid, she just didn't know. She raised both hands to scrub her face, then finally looked up.

There was nothing she could do for Beck. She knew that. To help him escape, even if she could, would be treason. There would be no explaining it away this time, and the entire might of the army would crack down on her like a disk on a gridbug. She'd be destroyed, he'd be destroyed, and it would be over. No, there was nothing she could do to help him this time.

But Argon? She could try to salvage the city. She had to. For the programs that still called it home, and maybe for the ideal Beck had started with, she had to try.

With a steadying breath, Paige pushed herself to her feet.

"No," She said quietly, as if the program was still there to hear her, "It wasn't."

Deep in the bowels of Tesler's ship, the only sign of the storm was the occasional ground-rattling boom of thunder. They were so far down that it was more of a feeling than a sound, rattling through Beck's frame.

Or at least, what was left of him. Every inhale was agony, his systems screaming for cool-down and for sleep with every passing second. Dyson, crouched by his head, smiled faintly.

"Is that all?" He reached down, tilting Beck's head up with two fingers on his chin. Beck groaned softly as the movement pulled on wounds, on the burns the saw had left behind. Dyson had toyed with him, saying that he would make him a mirror of Tron, but in the end had clearly thought differently.

"No," He'd said finally, when all Beck could do was gasp for air, face aching, "I want you to be able to see when we win."

That had been now. This was then. Beck glared through blurry visuals as Dyson tutted, uncaring that he was crouching in a pile of darkened blue cubes.

"Really," He said, "I thought that Tron's apprentice would be stronger than that." He dropped Beck's head back to the ground, ignoring the young program's gasp of pain as he stood up, leaving him curling in on himself with his hands still tied behind his back. "But then, you're certainly no Tron."

Around a mouthful of sour energy and internal coding, Beck hissed through his teeth. He couldn't get words out, couldn't stop heaving for air, but Dyson laughed as if he'd said something funny anyway. The Occupation program stood with his hands behind his back, the very image of calm and controlled.

And why wouldn't he be? It was obvious he'd won, Beck thought to himself. Circuits were dark from cuts slicing across them, and his leg tingled with the limited energy it received from a cut mobility circuit. His hands had gone numb, trapped behind his back, and his shoulders ached. Everything hurt, really. His chest worst of all, where Dyson had almost seemed to try and carve Tron's emblem off of him.

That had been personal. This whole thing had been personal. No wonder the null-unit was so smug. Dyson's scoff echoed through the room.

"And really, you were just fooling yourself if you thought you could be." Dyson bent over, meeting Beck's eyes as the young program managed to tilt his head back and glare, just a little. "The only thing you'll share with him is a fate. Deresolution."

Beck didn't have the energy to retort. Dyson's sneer of a smirk returned, and he stepped away.

"Do try and get some rest," He said, heading for the door. His voice was a mockery of kindness, echoing around the small room just as Beck's screams had before. "You need to be at your best for our…old friend."

And then he was gone, the door whooshing shut and locking behind him. With another groan, Beck closed his eyes. He was alone, finally. Mercifully, quietly, alone.

Alone to derezz in peace.

The thought was quiet, brought on by the pain in his frame. It wasn't entirely inaccurate. Even behind his closed eyes, dozens of warnings continued to pop up, one after the other after the other, faster than he could shut them down. His frame was about ready to just collapse, what energy he had left flickering feebly in his circuits. They threatened to turn off at any second, at any twitch of movement, and his processor was spinning faster than he'd ever heard it.

He was an utter disaster, and he was alone. No back-up, no help, no escape.

Grid. He really was going to derezz here.

…no. No, he couldn't. He wouldn't. Not after everything he'd been through. He couldn't put Mara and Zed through losing another friend, not like they'd lost Bodhi.

He couldn't put Tron through that.

With a pained hiss, Beck rolled his head and opened his eyes. The deep red floor was stable, sturdy, hidden behind warnings but for slivers of color. He closed his eyes again, painfully pushing himself to his knees. His chest pulsed with white hot agony, echoed by his leg and everything else, and all he wanted to do was lay back down and fall into sleep mode, but he couldn't. He needed to get out of here.

The only question was, how? He opened his eyes, staring at the room past all his warnings. It was too much, too many things needing attention that he could do nothing about.

Well. He could do one thing.

He did the stupid thing: he shut it off. The last of his warnings faded out as he turned his internal alarms off, and with them the warning circuitry of pain. It was a dumb move; any program that did what he had just done would miss every warning, working themselves to deresolution or simply falling apart when their frame could no longer handle it. Still, it made it easier to breathe, to think, and Beck let his head drop for a moment. He had to get out of here, but how? Even if he could stand now, the cord his hands were attached to didn't give with tugging. He didn't have his disk, which was floating just out of his reach, and the tool shelf…Beck looked up at it, frowning. Maybe that would work. Dyson had left all his tools behind, including…yes. There it was.

The saw. Innocuous now, turned off as it was, but he knew just how sharp that blade was. His face was tight even without the pain sensors on, and he lurched back to his feet. Cubes—his code—crunched beneath his feet. It didn't hurt, but he could tell that his leg was about ready to cave in and collapse under him. Hopefully it wouldn't just collapse into cubes like it wanted to. Not until he could get out of here, at least.

With slow steps, Beck tugged on the energy cord as far as it would let him go. It strained, glowing brighter, bright enough that if he hadn't turned off his pain sensors, he knew he would feel his wrists burning. But just because he couldn't feel it didn't mean it wasn't happening, and he quickly turned, looking over his shoulder at the tools. His fingers were numb, clumsy, and it took three tries to grab the saw, a core-wrenching half-micro before he could get it on.

The sound of the blade would remain with him for the rest of his runtime. He inhaled hard, the air catching in his throat. His face pulsed, remembering pain that wasn't there anymore, and he turned the blade on the energy cord. He had to look away as sparks flew, energy against energy, bright in the dim light.

For a moment, he wasn't sure this was going to work. He wasn't sure that the cord would snap before it would burn through his wrists-

The cord snapped. The piece around his wrists dropped, the cuffs falling away as their energy supply dropped to nothing. The rest of the cord retracted with a snap, sparking energy on its way, knocking tools off the shelf. Beck quickly leaned back, dropping the saw as he fell to his side. Another rumble of thunder shook the ship, and for a moment he lay still.

"Well," he said quietly to himself, just to fill the silence a moment later "that didn't go so bad."

Even if he still sounded like he'd been gargling raw energy for a milli. All the screaming had done a number on him, but it felt good to no longer be tied to the column. Slowly, he pushed himself to his feet. Sure, he was still trapped in the room, but now he could defend himself again.

Well. Mostly.

With a quiet sigh, he took his disk from the hovering energy, turning it over in his hands. He stared at the white half for a long moment, brow furrowed, before he brought up his patching protocols. The display practically screamed at him, red with damage and warnings. Leg was nearly out of commission, chest was ready to cave in on itself, wrists were burnt in a way that he didn't want to see, let alone touch…

He was a mess. With a soft snort, Beck patched what he could, blue overtaking the black render of the Renegade's suit even as he docked his disk with a soft click. There was that handled, for the moment, and now he could fight back. That left only the lingering problem of escaping this situation.

He just had to get out of here somehow…but how? There were guards just outside the door, and patches or no patches, he knew he was in no shape to really fight them. Running a hand through his hair—the only thing that wasn't damaged—Beck frowned to himself.

What would Tron do in a situation like this, he wondered. No answer came, and he shook his head. Tron wouldn't be in this situation to begin with. He was more experienced than Beck; he wouldn't have allowed himself to be caught all. Beck's core lurched, shame heating his face. All that training, and he hadn't even been able to fend off Dyson. One program. He'd let his guard down and been captured. Tron never would have let that happen.

If he'd still be Tron to act like himself, the traitorous thought was loud, louder than the thunder. Beck frowned to himself, core lurching. He hadn't been able to think before, but now…his processor spun up, going over every nano of his time in the mobile repurposer. Had he made in time? Hadn't he? Tron had recognized him, had called him his own target, had fought alongside him…he had to be okay.

But then, Cutler had seemed just fine until he'd turned, too. Had known who Beck was, had sought him out and led him right into a trap. It wasn't a leap of logic to think about how programs could keep their memory past a repurposing. It was a terrifying reality, and just the thought of Tron being a sleeper agent against the Uprising made Beck's core lurch. Not just because it had been Tron's worst nightmare, but the idea of fighting his friend sent shivers down Beck's frame. Tron was healed, and had all his combat prowess. They hadn't finished Beck's training.

It was clear to Beck that, if Tron really had been repurposed, the Uprising was finished.

If there were even any of them left to begin with. Grid, that hurt to think about, too. But as much as he hated it, he had to face the facts: more likely than Tron being repurposed, he and the entire crew of the Garage, every last one of his friends, were gone. Derezzed. Nothing more than cubes buried in the rubble of what had once been their home. It hurt to even think about. He had gotten them into this, and now they were gone. Just like Able. If only he'd been able to keep them out, keep it a secret, they would still be around. They'd be safe.

Unable to handle the thought, Beck buried his face in his hands and shoved it into a low priority queue. He couldn't think like that. Not yet. He had to get out of here. That was priority one. With a steadying breath, he lowered his hands and looked back to Dyson's shelf of tools. His core lurched at the thought of using them, but he needed every advantage he could get. If he could just get out of here, get back into Argon, he knew he could find somewhere to hide. The storm would be cover enough, loud as it was. This kind of storm would keep everyone indoors rather than risk over-charging, so there wouldn't be any casualties. Another rumble of thunder rattled the ship, sending tremors through the floor beneath Beck's feet.

Hard tremors. Harder than before. The entire ship seemed to tremble, rocking for a moment and sending Beck to his hands and knees with a cry.

That wasn't thunder! That was an—

[Attention all programs,] The Grid suddenly broke in as the lights flickered once, twice, and then went out. An alarm began to ring, echoing down the halls. [There has been an explosion in the Fuel Containment Unit. Please proceed to your stations and await further instruction.]

An explosion? Beck frowned, pushing himself back to his feet. His leg trembled, threatening to cave beneath him, but he forced himself to take steps towards the door. Underneath the alarm, he could hear footsteps and voices, just outside the doorway. Soldiers, modulated voices clicking in the way that all of the soldiers did, were ordering the guards away from here, to leave the prisoner and report to evacuation. He'd derezz anyway, one soldier shouted, they may as well save their own disks.

Clunking footsteps proved that the guards were in agreement. They quickly faded away, the Grid's message repeating as Beck took a steadying breath and raised a hand to the door. The emergency procedure had unlocked it, and it whooshed open quietly. Beck held his breath, waiting for a guard or soldier to shout…but the only sound was the klaxon overhead and the Grid repeating herself over and over.

If this was luck, he'd take it. Quickly peering down the hall—no red anywhere, and only the emergency lights to see by—Beck slipped out of the cell and moved as fast as his legs would carry him. Tesler's ship was a maze of corridors and doors, and he hadn't been awake to remember the way they'd taken him after his capture, but the hanger was above which meant he had to go up.

He had to go after the soldiers. Wasn't that ironic? Beck made a wry sound to himself, leaning heavily on a staircase railing as he made his way further up, the rain beginning to sound like a roar the closer he got to the surface. Thunder continued to rumble, slowly outpacing the volume of the siren, and he could just make out the flashes of lightning ahead. The storm was massive, wind howling and rain puddling into the hanger through the half open bay doors.

Not that it could do anything about the fire, quickly spreading through the back of the ship. Leaning on a railing, Beck stared. Energy blue flames were licking up the wall, high enough to reach the ceiling of the multi-tiered room, and showed no signs of stopping. Smaller blasts were rattling off as the flames reached grenade stores, programs running to and fro to salvage what they could, moving tanks, sending Recognizers out into the storm rather than have the flames claim, and trying to contain the fire.

Their efforts weren't working. The ship must have been full of fuel for the fire to rage so bright, so hot. He was honestly amazed the whole thing hadn't blown up yet.

But there was no time to waste. Pulling himself away from the sight, Beck turned to the stairs. If he was lucky, he could get out before anyone noticed he was there. It was dark enough that even being in his whites wouldn't really matter. If he was careful and took it slow, planned his route instead of running on ahead, he could make it.

No. He would make it. He just had to—

"Going somewhere?"

Beck whirled around, eyes wide. Dyson strode into sight from the shadows of the corridor Beck had just come down, face cast in odd contrast from the fire and the emergency lights. Beck could still make out his smile. "It's not nice," he said, "for guests to leave without saying goodbye."

"I think," Beck coughed, twitching as another explosion rattled the lower levels. That had sounded bigger than a crate of grenades… "I've overstayed my welcome."

"Nonsense," Dyson replied with another step forward, "We love having you here." He had his hands behind his back again, and a flash of lightning lit his entire face up. That was definitely a sneer, audible in his voice as he said, "You can stay. In fact…" He lowered his hands, tipping his head forward. "I insist."

Beck looked at him, then flicked his eyes to the hangar doors. If he could just make it there—

"Really, Beck." Dyson said, "Stay."

Beck turned back, glaring with every ounce of pain and annoyance he could muster.

"Sorry, but I'm going to be late for curfew."

Spinning on his heel, Beck leapt over the railing and to the level below. It was dumb, reckless, stupid—Tron would have had his disk for making a move like that on a leg that was so badly damaged already, but there was no other option. Another blast rattled the ship as he landed, sending Beck to his hands and knees. He struggled to get up.

"After him!" Dyson shouted from above. Programs spun around from their tasks, and then ran at him, disks kicking to life.

"Seriously!?" Beck groaned to himself, leg barely able to take his weight anymore as he forced himself to his feet. Didn't they have better things to deal with?!

With an awkward twist, Beck snatched his disk from his back as he turned, catching a guard in a stand-off. Dyson leapt down from above as Beck shoved the guard back, quickly throwing himself aside as three of them threw their disks at him in the same moment. If he didn't get out of here soon, he was really going to be derezzed!

Gritting his teeth, Beck grabbed at the railing and threw himself to the ground level, feet slipping in rainwater. He ran forward, heading for the hanger doors, only to skid to a halt as lightning flashed, backlighting a program who stood calmly in the chaos.

Clu was standing in the doorway, between Beck and freedom. He was smiling.

"Oh," Beck hissed, "that's not good."

He turned on his heel, processor spinning a kilometer a second as he tried to think, tried to plan—if he could get a Lightjet he could fly over Clu's head, fly into the city and get away—but before he could even take another step Dyson was there, fist flying right into Beck's face.

The young program cried out as the impact sent him reeling, slipping across a large puddle until he could no longer keep his feet and collapsed, dripping wet. He'd managed to keep his disk in hand, but it did no good. Dyson was too fast, too strong, and in moments he wrenched both of Beck's arms back behind him, holding him down.

"Did you really think," Dyson sneered, his breath hot on Beck's neck, "That we'd just let you walk out of here? That you'd escape?"

Beck grit his teeth, anger spinning in his core. He'd been so close! He could still see the blue of Argon in the distance, the city backlit by lightning flashing over the sea. The storm was leaving. Another blast rose behind him, but it was smaller, a crate of forgotten grenades rather than a Recognizer or tank. They were getting the fire under control.

Everything was under control. Even him. Ahead, Clu strode closer. Dyson reached up, yanking on Beck's hair until the young program was looking up at Clu, who crouched down and tilted his head.

"I can see why Tron chose you," He said, voice a mockery of kindness and sympathy, "But you see, you were never meant for this kind of thing, Beck." He reached down, patting Beck's surely bruised cheek. "You're not a fighter. You're just a mechanic."

Beck snarled. "Are you trying to convince me or yourself?" He spat out, no longer bothering to hold back his temper. A flash of lightning threw Clu's face into shadow, but he pulled his hand back and stood up.

"Dyson," He said, "Take our friend back to his room. Make sure he's…comfortable, this time."

"Of course, sir. Should I—"

Whatever Dyson was going to suggest died in his throat as Clu suddenly whirled around, yellow-lined robes whipping around his feet as he quickly sidestepped a disk that had been thrown at his head. Dyson leapt to his feet, grabbing at his disk as his leader stumbled back, staring with wide eyes at the hangar doors. Beck raised his head, looking up. Backlit by lightning, a single program stood in the entrance, hand extended to catch his disk as it returned. He didn't say a word, didn't even move, but everyone could make out his circuits in the darkness, what few of them there were. Blue-white in color, spread across heavy armor meant for combat. The only circuit of note burnt in the hollow of the program's throat.

A single, familiar emblem, made from four blue-white blocks. The mark of Tron.

"Tron…" Clu breathed, all control gone from his voice. Tron took a step forward. Clu took a step back.

Beck latched onto the chance with all he had, core spinning up fast with hope returning. Quick as he could, Beck rolled onto his back, slashing at Dyson's legs. The General yelled, stumbling backwards in pain before he fell over. Tron's single step turned into a run, his bright disk carving a path, forcing Clu back. Dozens of soldiers began to press forward, towards Beck and Tron at Clu's yelled order.

Tron was faster, hands under Beck's shoulders as he pulled him up.

"Run!" He shouted, pulling like he wasn't going to wait for Beck to make up his mind about staying or leaving. Not that there was much of a choice to make; with the last of his strength, Beck turned on his heel and ran after his mentor, out the hangar door and into the storm. As they skidded down the ramp, Beck chanced a look over his shoulder. Dozens of red-lined programs were pouring from the ship in hot pursuit, Clu a barely visible speck of gold in their midst. Beck turned back around.

"Tell me you've got a plan!" He shouted on ahead, only to have to scramble to catch a red-lined baton. It turned blue in his grip, and his core screeched to a halt as it registered a lightjet, two-seater and armed to the teeth. As plans went it was a good one, but—Tron slowed down, falling in behind Beck, right in the spot to take the gunner controls when the Lightjet rezzed.

Well, he'd already done a bunch of dumb things this milli. What was one more?

He cracked the baton, watching as the code spilled out around them. Wireframe became solid, the two-seater lifting off the hill and sending them flying out into the city as Tron peppered the ground behind them with shots, buying them time. Beck peered over his shoulder.

"How did you know where to find me?"

"You can thank Paige for that. She told me you'd been captured." Was Tron's reply as his helmet folded in to reveal his frown. "Though she didn't mention you were this badly hurt."

"She didn't see it." Beck swallowed hard, oddly grateful that Paige hadn't had to watch. He couldn't blame her for not coming to his aid. She'd have been stuck with him if she had, and that…he shook his head, turning his eyes back to the city. "Dyson didn't start until after they'd left."

"Dyson did that to you, then?"

Tron's voice could have frozen an energy fire. Beck shivered. It wasn't easy to forget what Tron had almost done to Dyson. Now...well. The longer he could keep those details a secret, the better. He opened his mouth to reply, only to stop as two blurs of red shot past him. The soldiers had found lightjets of their own and were still in pursuit. Beck shook his head, jackknifing towards the tallest towers of Argon.

"Long story," he said quickly, "I'll tell you when we're not about to get shot down!"

Tron's reply was a hail of gunfire launched at their pursuers, and more than one frame rattling explosion followed. One thing had to be said about Tron: he was a good shot. Chancing a look behind him, Beck grit his teeth. Three smoke clouds hovered in the airspace behind them, but at least a dozen more lightjets were still in pursuit despite Tron continuing his assault from the turret. Streaks of light whizzed past them as the soldiers fired in return, and Beck dove to avoid a long stream of the shots as they came too close to taking out the wings. The soldiers kept on them even as he doubled back to the city, Argon's familiar landscape a haven despite their chase. They lost two more jets in the highrises, and another three to Tron's steady shooting, but seven still chased.

It stood to reason one of them would get lucky. Beck yelped as a shot hit the windscreen just above his head, followed by two more to shatter the glass and shower them both with shards. Tron cursed and quickly retaliated, but it was clear they were outnumbered and were soon to be outmaneuvered. Beck looked both ways, saw two jets flanking on either side, and looked forward. If they didn't lose them now, they would—wait.

"How well could they know the area?" Beck called, the wind nearly ripping his words away.

"Not as well as a local!" Tron shouted back, turning his once again helmeted head to peer at Beck. "Why?"

"Trust me!"

He dove, closer to street level. With the soldiers everywhere, Argon was empty of civilians. The tight streets left him putting them nearly vertical, but there was no one to hit. He knew these streets like the back of his hand, and though he grit his teeth in concentration, focusing on nothing but the flight path ahead, he didn't hit anything.

The soldiers still chasing weren't quite as lucky. Two went down in fireballs as they dove too quickly. Another paid for his reluctance by eating laser fire. The remaining four tried to follow from above, tried to wait Beck and Tron out, but they were the targets the moment that Tron had a clear shot.

When Beck brought the jet back up, the skies were once again clear. He sighed, shoulders slumping.

"That's all of them," he said, slowing their speed. Behind him, Tron's frown was audible.

"For now. We need to land and find shelter before they—"

His words were lost as a sudden blast rattled the very air they flew in. Beck jerked his head around to look, watching with wide eyes as Tesler's ship went up into a blast of blue fire, dozens of smaller blasts shaking the hills around it. What had just—oh, no.

"Look out!" Tron shouted, just a moment ahead of the blast wave. Beck clung to the controls with all his wavering strength, trying to keep them upright, but it was no use. The shockwave hit with all the force of the blast itself. Alarms started going off, screens flaring with bright red light and no doubt sending off alarms that Beck just couldn't hear anymore. His frame was rattled, pain echoing down every limb as the jet began to spin. He grit his teeth, trying to wrench control back from the wild force that had sent them spinning, but it was no use.

Low as they were, so close to the city's industrial sector, impact came sharp and swift into the roof of a manufacturing plant.

Shutdown, at last, was mercifully swift.

Awareness returned with a distant bang, and cold rain on his face. Everything hurt, from his head to his toes, but Tron slowly opened his eyes. He stared at the storm clouds, still hovering above Argon. Rain. That would put out the fires. The fuel fire from the explosion, caused by the grenades he'd planted as a distraction.

Well. Thank Flynn that at least his plans still worked. With a soft groan, the old program forced himself up to his hands and knees, cubes crunching beneath them. The code was a mix of the building they'd crashed into and the lightjet they'd been flying, with no trace of program code. Obviously, he'd survived, but…where was Beck? Had he been thrown from the craft upon impact? Or had he…

"Beck!" He called out, coughing a moment later. His frame protested, loudly, but he pressed onwards. "Beck, can you hear me?!"

No response. His core went still. Had Beck not made it through? No. No, that couldn't have happened—he looked around wildly, searching for any hint of white—there! Still, unmoving, Beck lay in a heap in the corner. His lines were flickering feebly, patches torn and ragged. Tron's core restarted with a kick to his chest.

"Beck!"