Tempestas Vertexque
Tron was on the move.
At first, Beck had thought it was a trick of his mind; not too long ago, Tron, or the dot that represented his location, had been dormant. As Beck kept switching his attention back and forth between the road in front of him and the constant updating of Tron's location, Beck noticed that the red dot was moving rapidly, sometimes within a small enclosure and sometiems from what seemed to be one side of the city to theother. However, Tron made no advancements toward rgon or away from the Grid's Capital. Anytime he seemed to be, the dot would almost always end up going in a different direction. Almost as if he was wandering aimlessly? Or just too focused on patroling the Capital to return to Argon? Or had it been something more? Beck was now even more determined to get to the bottom of this.
The only sound louder than the lone Light Cycle buzzing across the Outlands was a sudden crack of thunder, preceded by a bright flash of lightning. However, Beck was unfazed, even though the Outlands became that much more treacherous during a storm such as this.
Beck continued on, the corner of his eye consistently monitoring Tron on the readout. The dot was still moving; it hardly stopped to take a rest. Weirder still, Tron still hadn't left the City, even when he was at the very edge of the border. Beck couldn't shake the fact that something was up, but what?
Rain began to pour and pour hard, each drop its own meteor. Though the drops fell violently against the shell of the Light Cycle, Beck's thoughts were far from making minor repairs when he returned. The more pressing matter was if he returned, and in how much danger Tron was right then.
If he was in danger. Or had been. What aggravated Beck the most was that he didn't know. For all he knew, Tron had escaped on his own in one piece and was now trying to find a good way out of the City. It was ideal, and there was a chance that Tron knew CLU enough to play his cards right; Beck hoped this was the case. However, if Beck had ever learned anything while being the Renegade, it was that most things were never that easy. Nothing ended completely happily. Not anymore.
But all the same, Beck had hope. He was aware of the worst case scenario (but he didn't want to think about it) and what that would mean for Tron. For himself. For the Revolution. Beck was aware of this and knew in his very core that Tron would not have let that happen. Tron had a strong will, not easily broken (not even, as was seen in the display with Dyson, by his own friends). There was no way in the entire System that Tron would willingly, fully, and completely succumb to... that.
No way.
"Don't give up, Tron," Beck found himself muttering, which helped to improve his focus and even confidence. "Hang in there. Don't lose hope."
Beck had the option of taking the longer, less risky path to Tron City around the bases of the moutanins, but Beck had no time for longer or less risky. Muttering a silent prayer to the Users that May or May Not Be, Beck revved up his Light Cycle to its maximum speed and performance and took it straight up the mountains, narrowly avoiding and promptly dismissing any terrain deformities that may have been in his way. With every beat of his Energy-pulse, Beck worrried about Tron more and more, and hoped that his mentor was alright trapped in that awful City.
Beck ascended one mountain and descended it, before ascending a steeper climb. Beck didn't care what got in his way, not even the storm that constantly reminded him of its presence. The rain fell harder, blurred his vision more, before all Beck could do was go straight. The lightning illuminated the sky, but it only proved, in the thickness of the rain, that the sky was still there.
Beck rode and rode, high and low, until he found what was his steepest climb yet. He struggled to rev the motors any faster than they were already going, but yet something pulled him closer to the top of the mountain, something Beck couldn't explain.
Soemthing he couldn't comprehend.
Was this where Tron was? Beck checked his map and saw that Tron was, for some odd reason, still at the Grid's Capital. Maybe this was a hint he could use in order to get to Tron faster, or at least understand more what was going on? Beck forced himself to be optimistic...
... As he plunged, nosefirst, into a large crater deeply embedded at the very peak of the mountain.
She entered the abandoned building.
Of course, it had not been abandoned too long ago. Once the patrolling Black Guard of the area began to become slaughtered all at once, everyone else had either fled for fear of becoming involved or had been spooked by the sudden commotion and hid. This female Program was neither one of these. She had heard the rumors, and until now had yet to determine if they were true. She had caught glimpses of white, and that had been a signal to the believer: Tron lived still.
She slowly walked toward the staircase, quietly listening to the chaos from afar. She was brave; she wanted to thank her hero in person, or at least see him in the line of battle from a safe distance. It seemed as though the latter was more likely to happen.
Making sure her feet made no soind, the Program slowly ascended the staircase, step by step. Move feet up, across, down. Up, across, down. Up, across, down. Up, across, down. At the top of the stairs, she found the first myriad of cubes. Orange cubes, from orange-circuited Programs. Black Guard. Tron must have been here.
"Tron?" she called out softly, apprehensively. "Tron? Tron?"
If she listened carefully, she could hear the sounds of struggle coming from a hallway several corridors away. The sound of her footsteps, however muffled, was louder than the distant shatter of cubes. Again. And again. And again. The closer she became, the farther away the fight became. It seemed unreachable.
"Tron?" she insisted, rouding a barren corner littered with cold orange cubes. Her voice echoed in the deserted halls; she heard no response, except for a softer and slightly distorted, "Tron?"
Whoever had exterminated the Black Guard, he had chosen not to acknowledge the Program's question. She could barely hear the sounds of struggle now, but all the same it sounded like he was always around the next corner. Whenever she did round a noisy corner (for the echoes of the various corridors sometimes played tricks on her), around the bend, she would always expect someone to appear... but no one, except a pile of cubes that always grew bigger with every corner she passed.
There!
She had heard the sounds of the struggle... but when she thought she had reached their source, a wall separated her and the commotion. She pressed her ear against it, not knowing what else to do... had that been a growl or a snarl? It sounded like no sound any Program could make...
The louder the noises became, the more inclined she was to ready her Disc, to either assist Tron, should he be there... or ward off the sickening beast whose snarls refused to leave her mind. She quickened her pace, now ignoring the large scattered messes of orange cubes both along the ground and along the walls (the farther into the heart of the building she became, the more visible destruction there had been).
"Tron," the brave damsel had the courage to say louder, as she swore she saw a flash of white darting from hall to hall. There it went again. "Long live the Users. I am a friend."
The corridors now became filled with soft, strange noises that made the Program wonder what was hiding where.
Peered around another corner.
Nothing but cubes.
Another flash of white.
"I appreciate all you're doing for the Grid," she continued softly, taking off after the white-clad Program. "Especially after all this time..."
A Black Guard's scream, and the shatter of cubes. Scampering, slightly disoriented footsteps. The white-clad Program always seemed to turn another corner before she could barely catch sight of him. There was no doubt about it; that was Tron's armor. From what little she had managed to glimpse of it, a plethora of memories returned to her. Tron hadn't been seen since CLU took over. Maybe Tron had returned to get his revenge.
Finally, she managed to see him; Tron had managed to chase an unfortunate Black Guard into a dead end before mercilessly derezzing him, his shriek piercing her very coding. But she didn't dare to speak. Not with what had been revealed in front of her.
This white-clad Program indeed bore Tron's armor. But it couldn't have been him. It couldn't possibly have been him. His limbs were so bulky, seeming to ooze pure strength, that they looked about to burst out of his armor. The Energy pulses through his muscles seemed to take on protruding circuit lines of their own, flickering as that Program was now scratching at the walls hungrily and savagely, as if not knowing what else to do now that there were no more Guards.
This could not have been a Program.
There was no possible way this was a Program.
Let alone Tron.
In her surprise, she hadn't been aware of whether or not she had made any form of noise, but if she had, she immediately regretted it.
"Tron" turned around.
