The first sensation I had was simultaneously a feeling as well as an image, one generated internally by my aching code in place of a warning message. There wasn't enough of me functional for even that, so my systems were improvising in a somewhat abstract manner.
At first the image was of an innocuous thing, a slippery yellow line twisting and jerking and twining in and out of the patterns of my code, just glowing in the solid blackness that was all I could see. It ducked and leaped over the statutes of my programming, making hypnotizing progress through me.
The sliver of yellow burrowed deeper and deeper, seeping into the cracks of broken code, leaving them whole again, but pulsating and sickly with yellow glow. I could feel it moving, slick and deceitful, dogged and determined.
Find and repair defaults began to activate, and the broken code hissed as a blue light, quick and warm and radiating, closed in on the yellow patchwork.
Diagnostics began to run. Red and green, schematics of my own pixels and code, they all broke through as solid images. The yellow streak continued its patterns, sliding around functional operations, hiding behind them.
Suddenly, things all began to open at once. Files exploded wide, programs executed and ceased function repeatedly, streams of data and binary command flew through it all like intersecting roadways, and I realized that I was simply undergoing the most grueling reboot of my life.
The yellow line moved faster. Its sliminess was palpable, even internally. True warning systems began to operate and I was alerted to the alien nature of this particular projection. Yellow was unhealthy. Yellow was a warning alert. Yellow was Abraxas. Yellow was infection . . .
The hot little line suddenly disappeared from my internal projections as my head began to focus solely on reality once again; but in its wake I was aware of something horrible and new. The line was, in reality, a foreign force, and now it was trying to change me. . .
Everything suddenly rushed back. Yellow was Clu.
A progress bar flashed in front of me, gone in an instant as the reboot was forcefully rushed to completion and my eyes opened to blinding light. Everything was blurry and too bright, but my sense of equilibrium spoke to my being on my side, somebody's hands at my back, running commands into my disk.
I shrieked and jerked myself upright, swinging around and forcing the soles of my feet into the chest or stomach of the blur of yellow and black that was invading me. I couldn't tell specifically where I'd kicked him, but I didn't care.
In that same moment, I was greeted by the sound of my own scream of agony, and I collapsed back to my side on whatever surface I was lying on, eyes shut tight and limbs curling inward as I fought the pain. My back felt like it was being ripped to shreds, derezzed pixel by pixel by something about as delicate and dexterous as a hunk of outland rock.
A dark chuckle cut through the pain, yet somehow added to my agony.
"Well now. You are a tough little program, aren't you?" said a voice, and I grimaced back at it, emitting only an incomprehensible snarl through my clenched teeth that was as much screaming as it was an attempt at words.
The condescending and threatening voice sounded just like Flynn's, but without the levity, the carelessness, or the roughness of exhaustion. I knew exactly who was scoffing at me, even if the pain prevented me from opening my eyes to his hardened face.
Clu laughed at me again. I forced myself to open my eyes, to look into his face, which was slowly becoming clearer.
He looked exactly how I remembered; just a version of Flynn, slightly aged from the one that I'd met for the first time in the old system. The resemblance was uncanny, but true. All of the familiar features were there: His chin, square and strong, his prominent nose, his eyes of pale and ( actually) impressive blue that didn't match his personality. His hair, stuck somewhere between light brown and blonde, was slicked back on his head. Flynn had never worn his in such a restrained fashion. Before Clu started to change, it was one of the only ways anyone could tell them apart sometimes.
I moved my arm to prop myself up, but he stopped me.
"Ah ah ah," he said, pulling a hand out from where they were folded behind his back to wave a finger at me, "you don't want to do that, Yori."
I wondered if he remembered me from the one time we had met, or if he just knew my name from digging around in my programming. Glaring, I decided to follow his advice, and instead reached the mobile arm behind me. I felt that there was a massive patch on my back, warm with energy. I had to admit, I was impressed by it. I had suffered no trivial amount of damage, but it was clearly working to heal me anyway. I hoped for the sake of dignity that it wasn't something Clu had designed, although I knew logically that it must have been. I also knew that he'd been doing some internal patching too, whether I welcomed his interference or not, before I'd rejected him . . . A lot of work, actually. My escape attempt must have impressed him.
Still, a diagnostic now told me that my personal firewall was up. No matter how helpful he was feeling, he would not be touching me again. I opened up a few security protocols too, reinforcing my defenses, hopefully, even for standby mode.
The pain had subsided enough that I was able to say something to him at last. It wasn't in the least bit nice, either.
I was pleased by what may have actually been surprise at my language in his eyes, but his sadistic closed lip smile silenced my moment of pride.
"You just get better and better," he said, and ran his eyes over the length of my body. If I could have moved up to even a sitting position, I would have smacked him. Instead, I resorted to crossing my arms over my chest defensively.
"You're a monster and a murderer," I said. He simply shook his head.
"No," he said, "no no. I'm a savior, Yori. A true and proper leader for this system. I'm going to make it perfect, you know."
Oh, how I wished I could move. Instead, I collected some power sludge in the back of my mouth and spat it up into his face.
"You're a glitch in this system," I hissed at him.
His gaze turned murderous.
"Fine," he said, "maybe you're going to be too much trouble after all. Rinz-" he began to call to one of his lackeys, probably to incarcerate or derezz me, but I cut him off.
"Going to rectify me, Clu? Like you did to Tron?" I snapped. By Rectify, of course, I meant kill.
I had to wonder where that nice program I had been was now. There was nothing left I could feel but raging pain, grief, and smoldering, white hot hatred. Nothing nice was left. Not for him. Not in that moment, anyway.
Deep within my code, however, I did understand something about Clu: that he was misguided and frustrated. He felt betrayed by his friend, his user, and all that he had faith in. He believed he'd been traded out by Flynn for the ISOs, and plenty of the other programs he worked for felt the same way. (Of course, most programs hadn't committed genocide to deal with that particular, glitchy emotion.)
I also knew that Clu had been given too much power, with too little guidance. He was relentless and capable, but he wanted a user. He wanted Flynn's presence, his guidance, his approval. He was a lost program, lashing out with everything he had. Everything for Clu, however, was also everything in the grid itself.
Somehow though, remembering Tron, knowing as I looked into Clu's eyes that he had been the one who betrayed him, the one who struck him down, I hated him even for those things that I knew I pitied him for. . . and even the things I sympathized with.
Tron's name, however, seemed to have given him as much of a pause as it had given me. Something very, very wild crossed over his face.
"You're Tron's Yori," he said, his voice too quiet, sinister and twisting in delight, "of course."
I glared at him, but I knew that there was probably that little crease of worry and confusion between my eyebrows, and that my lips had closed tight.
He threw his head back then, and laughed boisterously. It was a corrupted sound. Nothing about it was healthy.
He continued this for some time, and then leaned over me, his face inches from mine. I tried to push him away, but I had no strength. I shied my face way. His arm reached around me, and I cringed.
"Get away from me," I commanded, but my voice too high and tense to have any authority in it. His fingertips ran up my back, starting just above the patch. I shuddered.
"You slime," I said, and he chuckled. His hand moved for my disk. I tried to flop over onto my back, even knowing it would hurt, to keep him away, but I couldn't. I sent all my reserve power to my firewall.
Still, a strong and singular command of "off" flew across my eyes, and I collapsed into darkness again.
Before everything ceased to process, I thought I heard a strange, repetitive, thrumming sound in the distance, and Clu's voice in my ear. He said one word.
"Games."