And in darkness all that I can see
The frightened and the weak
Are forced to cling to mistakes they know nothing of
At mercy are the meek
It used to be, in the earliest cycles of Clu's reign, that the nights when the Games were held were actually something of a relief. For the Programs unlucky enough to have been conscripted, it meant that at least things could get no worse—no more running or hiding or going about one's life in fear, constantly looking over your shoulder and wondering if you were going to be the next to be swept up. For the Programs in attendance or in the smouldering (but not quite extinguished) Resistance or simply living everyday lives in the city, it meant that you were safe for the night, that as horrifying as the Games were to contemplate, at least it wasn't you in the Arena.
Also, it meant that Rinzler was busy.
Now, though, a new shadow haunts Tron City and the Outlands beyond, and there is no relief on Game nights, not anymore.
Resistance fighters and the last remnants of the ISOs have long learned to fear the low, grinding flicker of noise that accompanies the Administrator's top enforcer. The new assassin is small and slim and utterly silent, and no one sees or senses her coming until she is on them, her sword slicing through her targets with a savagery entirely unlike Rinzler's cold precision. Her circuits are never seen until her weapon finds its mark, the long strips of bloody neon red the last thing her victims see as they crumble into nothing.
She still bears her ISO mark, and does not hide it. Once, not long after Clu had claimed her, she'd tried to carve it away with her own blade, but Clu had stopped her. He likes it, he says, and tells her she should wear it proudly as a sign to all who see her.
Anyone, everything can be perfected, in the end.