Outer Limits
Chapter Fourteen
By Nan00k

Sorry for the delay! School has yet again started for me. My studies demand my attention foremost, but I will do my best to write as much as I can! :) We still have nine chapters to go, so I will NOT be abandoning this story, so just be patient.

Oh, hey, Alan, sorry for not including you for like fourteen chapters. My bad. And sorry Tronzler. D: You are not done your drama quota for this story. Not by a long shot.

I want to thank everyone who has been reviewing! I never expected this much attention for this story (which makes me feel kind of bad because I didn't really intend for it to be that good compared to my other stuff D:). I definitely wouldn't have gotten this far this fast without you guys!

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Warnings: descriptive violence, mild language, alternative coupling, original characters, dark themes, SPOILERS for Tron: Legacy.
Disclaimer: Tron © Disney. I only write this mess.

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The room was too narrow.

His observational skills were diminished by the loss of most of his visual functions; he could only rely on direct line of sight information now. The light overhead flickered and it cast shadows everywhere. This world was very dark. The room was too small.

…Where had Amy and Tom gone?

He remembered them being there—but then they were gone. He didn't remember any of them shutting the white door on the far side of the room where they had entered.

He tried to recall the details to their faces. It had been a blur then, but surely, he could just summon up the files and have a more solid glance at the two Users. He saw black hair, lighter at the top, for Amy Talbot, and a skinnier frame for the male, Tom Devlin, but—

His files were inaccessible. Tron tried to steady himself as he realized he couldn't feel the rest of his body anymore. The entire frame felt wrong. It was too small and confined. Why couldn't he feel the rest of his environment? Why wasn't he on the Grid?

Because he had followed Sam Flynn—and Tom. Out into the forbidden land, the realm of the Users. Reality. Flynn called it reality.

This didn't feel real, though. It felt nothing like a real place. He was numb to it all.

He stood up. The floor moved beneath him, but he got to the other side of the room. It was lined with gray boxes, indistinguishable until he got closers. Knobs, buttons, unlit glass lights—machines. They resembled nothing in the Grid, physical shape excluded.

In the cloudy screens, Rinzler caught his reflection.

Abhorrent.

He didn't notice the movement first; he noticed the pain. He pulled back, his hand suddenly clenched and searing in pain. The screen wasn't whole anymore; he had hit it. He had broken clean through it. Why, he wasn't sure.

But it felt strangely… good.

He hit the second screen with intention that time. The pain was worse in his right hand, but it was satisfying to watch the glass shatter. He tore out the wires he could see inside the glass cover. Something sparked, but he was just getting started.

Slamming his fist into the control panel, he relished each and every dent. He felt the scraping of metal under his unnatural nails and the crunch of glass beneath his feet. He tore at every wire he could find, ripping into the metal and feeble coverings with everything he could muster—

The door opened to his prison and Rinzler didn't have to look up to know who was there.

"Rinzler—what the hell are you doing—no, Quorra, wait!"

Hands grabbed at his neck. Rinzler fumbled to grab back at his attacker, who was very strong. A limb slammed into his stomach and he couldn't breath. Falling back away from her—yes, it was the ISO—Rinzler tried to keep his balance. Sam Flynn was shouting louder, trying to stop the ISO, but Rinzler didn't want her to stop. He wanted a fight. He tried to grab a hold of her, but she was quicker, more used to her alien frame. A fist slammed into his face and he couldn't see for a moment. All he could hear was yelling—

And then footsteps outside. "Sam, what's all the noise? Why are you down here anywa—?" someone beyond shouted. "Dear God!"

Snarling, Rinzler turned to face the door. He saw another man staring out at him from the door, behind Sam Flynn. He was older, paler, taller, dressed in black—

Rinzler knew this User.

Alan-1.

Tron stared and then felt the floor shift, this time because he lost connection with his limbs. Alan-1's face blurred out of existence, but he kept hearing the loud voices overhead. The burning continued.

"—What on EARTH is this, Sam? !" he heard his maker shout.

"Alan, Alan, wait a second—!"

"What is tha—? !"

"Alan," he said. He wasn't sure if he had actually said it. The face of the User blurred out of existence and Tron heard crashing.

It only occurred to him after a suddenly system shut-down that he had been the sourcing the crashing as he lost all control and collided with the floor.

Alan-1…

0000

The intense ringing of their phone woke Tom abruptly from a beautifully dreamless sleep. It was just pure rest, after what seemed like a week of intense life changing events (albeit, Tom knew it had only been a few hours that fit that category.) Rolling over, he grabbed the phone, intent on telling whatever heartless sod was on the other end to shove it when—

"Get the hell back here."

Tom stared out at the darkness of his bedroom, mind trying to catch up. "Whoa…" he said, trying to focus. "Flynn?" Why was he boss calling him so early in the morning, sounding like he was ready to murder someone?

"I need you, back at ENCOM, right now," Sam Flynn seethed. He sounded terribly loud, his voice echoing strangely, probably underground somewhere, or in a big room.

"It's like five A.M.," Tom mumbled, trying to get his body to catch up with his brain. Neither were moving very fast as he rolled over to stare at the opposite side of the room. "What's goin' on?"

"Rinzler just set fire to laser lab, that's what!" Sam said harshly, his words cutting through the haze.

Tom stared at the wall for a good two seconds before the entirety of last night's drama hit him full force.

The Grid.

Rinzler.

Fixing the Grid.

OhshitRINZLER.

"Oh, God, is everyone—is he okay? !" Tom exclaimed, sitting straight up. He scrambled to untangle himself from the sheets, heart racing as a million worries flashed by his mind.

Sam wasted no time getting to the point. "Just get over here, before Quorra does something crazy and kills him!" he snapped. The undertone of sheer panic did not escape Tom's notice. "She doesn't exactly get the concept of 'just subdue' very well, at least not with this guy."

Adrenaline was never supposed to surge at five o'clock in the morning, but Tom knew it was a bit unavoidable. Lightheaded, he fumbled to find his clothing on the floor. He knew he had just kicked his pants somewhere in his exhaustion last night.

"Oh, Goddamn it—Amy! Get up!" he said loudly. His hands found his rumpled pants by the corner of the bed. "We have to go!"

The bed creaked as Amy turned to look at him in the darkness. "Go where… oh, for crying out loud, what time is it?" she groaned.

"It's Rinzler!" he replied, pulling his pants on, even though he could barely see anything in the darkness. "Sam, we'll be right over," he said to the phone.

"Hurry up!" Sam ordered sharply before hanging up. Tom chucked the phone onto the table, scrambling to turn the bedroom lights on.

Staring up at him blearily in confusion, Amy was struggling to get up as Tom yanked on a shirt. "What's going on?" she asked, her concern growing.

Tom turned back, knowing he looked panicked. "We'll find out when we get there," he said. That was all he really knew for sure.

He was beginning to regret dreaming for an adventurous life.

0000

This was becoming a habit, racing down to a secret laboratory at strange hours to confront a living computer program and the morons who brought him to life, although this time, at least Amy knew what to expect as she and Tom raced to back over to ENCOM. The janitor gave them both a strange look, considering it was way too early for workers to start showing up, but Sam greeted them at the doors, ushering them in anyway.

"What happened?" Tom demanded immediately as they got to the elevator. "Where—?"

"He's in the storage closet," Sam replied automatically, punching the button to get them down to the laser labs.

"You put him in a closest? !" Amy sputtered, sending the CEO a wild look. "JESUS, Flynn!" The social worker inside her wanted to punch the inconsiderate brat in the face—and yes, he was brat, age difference be damned.

Sam wouldn't back down on that decision, however. "It was either that or let him continue to smash the shit out of everything he could get his hands on inside that lab!" he shot back. Amy had to give it to the guy; he would stand by his decisions until the very end. "He started an electrical fire, for crying out loud!"

Tom sighed heavily and just leaned against the elevator wall, not getting involved. Amy glared at Sam, who was pointedly ignoring the both of them. However, as the elevator descended, Amy noticed that the usually uptight CEO was looking, dare she think, a bit more exhausted than normal. She had thought Rinzler would be okay if they had left him alone in that room and gotten some sleep elsewhere, but Sam looked as though he had been up anyway regardless.

Had he stayed at the lab the whole night?

"…Have you slept at all?" Amy asked suddenly.

Flinching, Sam glanced at her. "Yeah, why?" he demanded, defensive. He sounded like Tom did whenever Tom pulled an all-nighter for work and wouldn't tell her. Men. Always the same bullshit.

"You look like shit, no offense," she replied, arching an eyebrow as they marched out of the elevator and out onto the catwalk. "Did you even go home?"

"No." Sam pointedly didn't look at her. He focused on the familiar figure reappearing out of the apparent Rinzler-keeping-closet on the other side of the lab. "Quorra, they're here."

Quorra, eyes alight and cheeks flushed, gave both Tom and Amy a strangely desperate look as the group reassembled. "Good," she said. "Manage him. I cannot do it without harming him."

Tom made a soft sound. "Good job catching the Amazonian, Flynn," he said tiredly. Sam scowled and Amy smirked, but they were all quickly distracted by Tom entering the closet, calling out, "Rinzler?"

Amy wasn't going to lie; it was beyond scary trying to inch her way around the corner to reach the open doorway after Tom. There was no telling what she was going to find in there. Rinzler wasn't making any noise, but she could still smell smoke. When she finally did peer in, she saw Tom kneeling next to Rinzler on the ground.

The program looked as though he had decided to go head to head with his own reflection in a mirror and attacked the glass. There were dozens of tiny, but bloody cuts on his face and his hands, which were both still gloveless. Part of his one sleeve looked burned and when Amy looked closer, half of his left hand was bright red. Rinzler just sat there, hands at his side, looking… strangely empty.

"Oh… God." Amy looked at his hands and then back up at Sam, exasperated. "Can you at least go get a first aid kit? ! His hands are bleeding!" She hoped the burns weren't serious either.

Sam vanished from the door with a flustered look on his face, but Amy didn't care what he thought. They never should have just left the poor program by himself.

"It—it looks pretty shallow," Tom said, kneeling down in front of Rinzler. He had more medical training than Amy did, but he didn't look sure of himself. "Christ, it's been ages since I've done anything first aid."

"Well, I doubt we could call your mom to patch him up," Amy replied dryly. Tom's mother was a nurse, but unfortunately lived back on the East coast. As if they'd bring her into this mess, Amy thought darkly. "We'll just clean the cuts then. Or maybe take him to a hospital."

"No hospitals," Sam ordered, reappearing at the door. He handed Tom the first-aid kit that looked far too old for a company like ENCOM to have. Amy wouldn't be surprised in the band-aids were expired. "Not unless he's hemorrhaging."

"Lovely. You're such a merciful leader," Amy snapped. She tried to focus on the matter at hand, namely, the catatonic patient. She crouched and tried to get Rinzler's attention, waving her hand warily at him. "Hey, Rinzler. Rinzler?"

For a moment, she thought the program looked at her, but his cold gray eyes just stayed fixed on the ground, or rather, no where in particular. He was just staring out into the air, not seeing anything.

"…Rinzler?" she asked, trying and failing to shake that coldness from her gut. She did not like that empty look, not one bit. "T-Tron? Hello?"

He just sat there, staring out at nothing. The only way Amy knew he was still alive was because she could hear him breathing faintly. Looking over at her, Tom looked terribly worried. "…Why isn't he responding?" he asked quietly. Amy shook her head, unsure of that herself.

Behind them, a new, unfamiliar voice said, "I believe that's because of me."

Amy turned around from her spot on the floor, ready to yell at Sam for bringing someone else down here, but as she looked up at the closet entrance—

Part of her mind stumbled graceless on its ass and refused to get up.

In the doorway was Rinzler.

In a business suit.

And had white hair.

And was definitely, totally and irrevocably not Rinzler.

"Who—HOLY SHIT!" Tom yelled, startled, falling over the Rinzler on the floor, gazing up at the new not-Rinzler with about as much calmness as Amy was feeling.

HOLY SHIT indeed.

"Wh-who—? !" she sputtered, trying to stand up. The man in the door just stared at her, lips drawn tightly together in a grimace, hands in his pockets. Sam stood beside him, frowning deeply.

"This is Alan Bradley," Sam explained slowly and reluctantly. He looked rather ill now himself. "He…"

Sam looked about as prepared for this as Amy felt. She knew, sort of, who Alan Bradley was. He had been a big name in the 80s and 90s for ENCOM and programming, but she thought he had moved up the ranks to some executive branch or something. This man in front of her looked like a businessman, aside from the weary and dark look he was giving her.

"…wrote Tron," Alan Bradley offered. He sounded hoarse, but he managed to smile politely at both Amy and Tom, even if the gesture didn't quite meet his eyes. "You must be the hackers. Sam's enlightened me to the situation."

Enlightened? Enlightened? As in, told him the whole damn story? "…Oh, boy…" Tom was saying quietly. He smiled nervously, glancing between Rinzler and Alan. "He really does look like…"

Saying it out loud would have been too wrong. Amy couldn't help the sudden appearance of goosebumps on her arms. This was so… so… wrong.

Alan looked down at Rinzler and seemed to be looking at something else besides the sick program. "…Yeah. He does," he admitted after a moment. He made a wistful sound that wasn't quite a laugh. "I thought… Flynn had been joking this whole time." He looked up at the ceiling with shining eyes. "My God."

He shook his head and suddenly pushed away from the door. Amy hadn't even noticed he had been leaning against it, probably to keep himself from falling over. All of them could understand that feeling. Sam looked out at his father's friend left their line of sight, grim. He looked back at Amy and Tom.

"Help him, please," he said, before walking off after Alan.

Normally, she would have been irritated to be dumped with a task without much thanks or recognition, but nothing in this situation was normal. Tom was already back in front of Rinzler with the first aid kit, looking through it for anything useable.

Questions and explanations could wait, she reasoned. Now, they had a job to do.

Reaching down, Amy picked up Rinzler's hand in her own. His eyes, and only his eyes, flickered toward her. Amy smiled, knowing it was about as much as anyone could really offer him.

Then, she started to pull the pieces of glass and metal from his broken skin.

0000

Not many coherent things had gone through his mind in the initial hour of watching Sam, his girlfriend, and then two more engineers, run around like lunatics, taking care of a man Alan was rather certain had stolen his face. Given the time (and coffee) to recuperate as the chaos subsided and an uneasy silence fell over the lab, Alan was left standing alone, nursing a burgeoning headache and the realization of something far larger and more terrifying than he had ever imagined possible.

Flynn… what have you done?

This wasn't science. This was playing God. This was… it wasn't… right.

Alan fought the urge for a cigarette. He hadn't had one in ten years, and now, it was all he wanted. He wanted to just forget about this entire morning, this entire incident. He had thought that Sam's sudden interest in the company had been because of some emotional revelation he had had in Flynn's Arcade. That's why he had gone after the young CEO after he hadn't answered his calls all night and his secretary was complaining about "secret hours" down in the old laser lab.

This wasn't a revelation of the emotional kind, however. This had been a physical one—a smack to the face, a shotgun blast to the chest.

So many things made sense, in completely insane ways. Flynn had been gone for twenty-years because he had been inside a computer he had created, thanks to technology Dr. Gibbs had been making right under their noses. That night he, Lora and Flynn had hacked into ENCOM, Flynn had discovered it. He had turned it into something… else. Something he could manipulate. The Grid.

Flynn hadn't told him a damn thing. Alan wanted to feel angry over that, but it was pointless now. Flynn was dead, from Sam's confirmation. All that was left of Alan's long-time friend was his son, a broken network and a woman Sam called an Isomorphic organism—whatever the hell that was.

All that was left of Alan's involvement, as meager as it seemed, was… Tron.

That name meant little to Alan now. It had been his finest security program achievement he had built from necessity. He had no idea why Flynn had insisted on taking the alias and using it for his video game series. Alan hadn't dabbled in security programming since he had risen to the board of directors for ENCOM, but whenever he thought of his previous jobs, he always thought fondly of the program he had used to outmaneuver ENCOM's MCP.

But now, Tron was a bit more than just a fond memory of achievement. He wasn't inside a computer now. He was sitting less than fifty feet away from him.

"Here. Rinzler, sweetie, have some water. I know you hated the coffee, but you need to drink," one of the new programmers was saying, awkwardly trying to get the motionless man on the closet floor to respond. He didn't move, even when she pressed the cup of water into his hand. It was like watching someone dealing with a coma patient. There was no recognition in those vacant eyes.

…Alan's eyes.

Sam had explained in a rush that programs took on the likeness of their Users. Tron was Alan's shadow in the computer world, built to do the necessary functions Alan needed to do inside the machine. Programmers put parts of themselves into their programs, not matter how insignificant. Tron had been Alan's pride and joy, so of course he had put more of himself into him than the average protocol.

If Flynn wasn't already dead, Alan would have killed him—at least made him realize just how much trouble he had dumped post-mortem on his son and friends.

As for now, there wasn't much they could do while trying to figure out where to put the damaged program. Alan wasn't sure what he could have done to help, but… Tron was his, wasn't he? If anything, Alan had written him into being. If that didn't place a decent amount of responsibility on Alan's shoulders to at least try to help, he didn't know what would.

Gathering his courage, Alan walked back over to the closet area. The two programmers had left to talk with Sam in hurried whispers, most likely about what to do next with Rinzler. Alan could sympathize with Sam and his decision to keep it within ENCOM. This would be more than a bombshell to drop on the world; this was more complicated than just some secret project Flynn had hidden from the world.

This was… something else entirely.

The door to the closet was open but Alan didn't immediately walk in. Rinzler was sitting silently and unmoved toward the back, staring out at nothing. Alan swallowed mechanically, urging himself forward into the enclosed space.

Here goes nothing.

He silently sat down on the cement floor, ignoring the dirt. Rinzler's stare was interrupted by his presence and was suddenly fixed on Alan's face instead. Alan did all he could to keep himself sitting there, staring back; it was like the man in front of him was staring into his soul rather than just his face.

"Tron," Alan began, though it came out sounding more like a question than anything else. He cleared his throat. "That's… your name, right?" He knew the others called him Rinzler, but wasn't Tron supposed to be his real name?

Tron stared at Alan, before slowly tilting his head to the side, just slightly. "…Alan-1," the program replied. His voice sounded horribly hoarse. "User."

Alan nodded, wrapping his arms around his knees. "Yes."

Tron held his gaze for a moment before looking away. The lines around his eyes and the dark circles beneath them remained. Alan wasn't sure exactly what he was supposed to do, if there was anything he could do.

"…Tron?" he ventured at last, trying to get a look at the program's face. Tron didn't look up at him, but he did seem to draw further in on himself.

"I am sorry," Tron said. It was more like a mutter, spoken to the floor.

Alan frowned at what he had said, however. "What? For what, I mean?" he asked, both curious and apprehensive.

Reluctantly, Tron looked up at his maker. Those eyes… were terrifyingly piercing. They were the only thing that reminded Alan he wasn't looking into a mirror. "I failed," the program said, blunt.

"…I'm sorry," Alan tried to say, more than uneasy. "I, uh, I don't follow." He didn't know this man, not personally. Sure he might have created him (and that was difficult to accept in and of itself), but he really had no connection to him. At least not recently.

Tron, apparently, didn't feel the same. "I failed you. My creator, my User," he replied. Alan was astonished the program was talking as much as he was, after being silent for so long, but Tron kept going. He sounded… desperate. "I failed my purpose."

Something about this was beginning to feel strange not right. "I don't think—," Alan began, trying to cut the program off before he got more upset.

"I was created to protect the Users," Tron interrupted. His eyes, intense and bright, never left Alan's. "I did not. I led the Grid to its destruction, I helped to kill thousands, I—"

Tron drew back and gave Alan a pained expression. "I let Flynn die," he said, so simply, it was like a slap to the face.

So… this was guilt. Alan watched his creation flounder there, struggling to keep up with that feeling of doubt and self-accusation, too surprised to say much of anything. Tron might have been a computer program, but he felt. He had guilt over what had happened.

This would have been fascinating if the situation weren't already terrifying to contemplate. Alan might not have been there in the beginning, but he was still involved with this. He was still… connected to this.

"…Sam was telling me what happened," Alan began, catching Tron's attention. "It wasn't your fault, Tron. Not from what I heard." What he had heard amounted to torture and brainwashing, to say the least. He never would have thought that was applicable to computer programs, but when he really considered it, that made a decent amount of sense. It was disturbing, nonetheless.

"It is my fault," Tron said quietly.

Alan sighed heavily, leaning back against the wall. "That… C.L.U. fellow… he… he made you do it, didn't it?" he asked, trying to grab hold of something so he could keep up with the conversation. He felt like he should at least try to cheer the program up.

"Regardless," Tron replied. He spoke firmly, as if there wasn't room for an opposing viewpoint. "I am responsible for my actions. Flynn… had been counting on me. Like you and the other Users had when confronting… MCP." Suddenly, Tron winced, his eyes narrowing. "My head… hurts. I cannot process data without pain now."

"I'd wager you'd have a pretty nasty headache from all of this," Alan replied, shaking his head. This was giving Alan a headache, if anything. "You're sick, Tron. I-I have no idea where to begin, contemplating program-to-human biology or physics, but, if you had a virus once, it has to be a problem now."

Tron looked at the ground, unmoving. "Deserve it."

Alan frowned. "I don't think you do." He didn't know the man well enough to judge him that way, and even if he did know him… no one deserved something like this.

The program shuddered, the first moment he had really made other than turning his head. "You… are my creator. Flynn, my friend." Tron clenched his eyes shut. "I am sorry, Alan-1. I am sorry."

The sheer honest remorse in Tron's voice and eyes told Alan more than the halting and choppy words did. Whatever had happened, Tron knew about and regretted everything. Alan knew, because it reminded him all too much of himself. Tron couldn't lie to him.

"I am too," Alan replied quietly, meaning it. "I wish Flynn had told me… about you. About the Grid." He laughed, the gesture aimed at himself. "I should have been there." What he could have done differently… he didn't know. Maybe Flynn still would have been alive. Maybe Tron… wouldn't have become this.

Tron's eyes opened, even though one of them twitched. "…You have no reason to apologize," he said, struggling to speak, either because of his emotions or his physical problems.

"I have every reason to feel bad about this," Alan replied shortly. He didn't know why he did, but damn it, he was there now, wasn't it? "I'm… just as involved, even if this is the first time I've heard of it." Looking up at the ceiling, Alan shook his head, jaw clenched. "God… Flynn, you sure left us with one hell of a mess."

He wondered what Flynn would have said to that accusation. He was always proud of his creations. There was no doubt in Alan's mind

"Flynn did what he could," Tron said quietly. Alan was amazed at how pale his double was.

Alan nodded. "As did you," he said. He hadn't been there to see it, but he knew Tron had been the best program he could have been under Alan's directives. With Flynn, he knew Tron would have flourished even more.

Immediately, Tron broke eye contact, shoulders hunching up more. "…I did nothing," the program replied. There was almost no self-confidence in this creature. From Alan's point of view, that didn't seem right.

Outside the room, Alan saw Quorra walk by, flashing the two in the closet a quick look. They were expecting Tron to snap. Alan didn't think that was possible, considering the program in front of him looked ready to pass out more than he was ready to fight.

Alan sighed quietly, resting his chin on his hand, observing his creation. "No… I believe you did everything you could. That's the way I designed you. I didn't build the perfect warrior, I built one that would go as far as he could." Tron looked up at Alan and the programmer smiled gently. "And you did. I'm proud of you, Tron."

The look of pure awe mixed with disbelief on Tron's face was heartbreaking. It didn't last for long. The expression flickered and died, leaving Tron blank-faced. He turned away from Alan, eyes heavy-lidded. He stared out at nothing, or so it seemed.

"…I feel ill," he admitted hoarsely. That had to be an understatement, but it was an improvement for the program from his catatonic episode earlier.

Alan nodded, clasping his hands together. His fingers were ice-cold to the touch. Tron's must have been even worse. "I'll talk to Sam into getting you some help," Alan said, trying to be reassuring. "It's not right to leave a man in pain."

Tron's eyes lifted once again and those empty eyes met Alan's weakly. "I am just a program," he said simply. "I do not deserve your mercy."

What sort of evils could make a person reach that self-depreciating conclusion?

"All men deserve mercy, Tron," Alan replied, smiling sadly. "And you're a man if I can shake your hand like one."

Reaching out, Alan offered his hand to his creation. Tron looked down at the extended hand, unexpressive, but slowly, he reached back and grasped the hand. It was an unnatural realization, Alan thought, as he took hold of his own computer program. It was like shaking hands with his own soul. Tron's hands were just as cold as Alan's were. They felt the same, although the program's felt smaller and weaker under Alan's grip.

Tron retreated, dropping Alan's hand first. He tucked both of his pale white and bruised hands under his sides, hiding them. "…Thank you, Alan-1," he said. His voice was far too quiet to really fit the rest of his frame.

Alan could only smile reassuringly. "Just… Alan will do," he replied. He stood up carefully, gesturing at the door. "Come on. Let's get you some better clothes."

Tron didn't stand up. His eyes followed his creator upward, however. "Why are you doing this?" he asked, surprising Alan.

If he kept asking questions like that, Alan would feel more like a philosopher than a programmer. "Like I said, everyone deserves kindness, Tron," Alan replied, inclining his head. Tron's insistent downplay of his own worth was beginning to seem more than just

Then, abruptly, those sad eyes on Tron's face changed. Cold eyes changed to icy-sharp, dangerous ones. "I am not Tron," the program said. Everything about him spontaneously became sharp—his posture, his defensiveness, his voice. "I do not deserve that name."

The fear Alan should have had never surfaced. He just stared down at his creation, torn between wanting to understand and just finding an end to this whole mess. "Who are you, then?" he asked gently.

The program on the floor drew backwards into the wall. "I am Rinzler. I am…" A strange look flickered across his face, one of pain. Tron—Rinzler sank back to the ground, clutching at his head. "Hurts…" he hissed, sounding on the verge of tears.

Alan could only stand there, helpless. "We'll help you, Tron…" he said, before stopping himself. He amended with, "Rinzler."

Tron—Rinzler—just clenched his eyes shut tighter, gritting his teeth. "I don't deserve the name you gave me," he kept saying, sounding the very definition of miserable. "I have failed. I have failed you all."

Whether or not it was true, Alan knew they had to snap the program out of that line of thinking. He was out of control, but they could help him. "I don't see it that way," Alan tried to say. He held out a hand that was ignored. "Come on. You need medical attention."

"I deserve deactivation," Rinzler whispered. He was staring back at the floor, not seeing Alan anymore.

"Tron," Alan tried. He tried not to sound too desperate. "Come with me." Rinzler only drew further in on himself.

There was a long silence, punctuated only by the few sounds coming from outside the closet. Rinzler didn't unfold from the hunched circle, but Alan could hear his breathing even out, slowly.

"C.L.U. was wrong," Rinzler suddenly said. He sounded calmer. When he looked up from under his arms, Alan could see his eyes were still sharp, but less wild. "Users are gods."

That wasn't a comment Alan was used to hearing. In fact, it very much disturbed him. He wasn't a god and neither was Flynn, no matter what sort of world he managed to create in the Grid.

Outwardly, Alan forced himself to smile, chuckling at the idea, even if it made him feel sick. "I sure hope we're not like gods. Gods aren't really reliable," he said. He kept his hand out toward Rinzler. "Come on."

It was a fool's goal, really. Rinzler wouldn't acknowledge him after that. Alan withdrew his hand, frowning deeply. He wasn't prepared to deal with something like this, no matter how much he wanted to help.

Outside the room, Alan found Sam waiting for him, Quorra not too far away. Both waited expectantly for his view on the matter. He was going to give it to them.

"You are going to help him," Alan said directly to Sam. There was no argument in his voice. If nothing was done, Alan would see that it was.

Sam, being the young man Alan knew all too well, only nodded. "We'll do our best," he agreed. He wasn't cruel or unfeeling; Alan knew that, even if their new programmer friends didn't. Alan did not envy Sam's position in this, however.

"I'll help when I can, too," Alan replied, withholding a heavy sigh. "What can I do?"

"Something tells me we'll just need you around," Sam said, crossing his arms nervously.

Across the room, Alan saw the two programmers from earlier—Amy and Tom, if he recalled correctly—standing by nervously. "Do you think we can trust those kids?" Alan asked, turning back to Sam.

Quorra didn't look too happy, but Sam seemed to think they could. "He trusts them," he said, looking back at where Rinzler was sitting.

"Then that's enough for me," Alan said, knowing that they would need as much trust coming to and from Rinzler as they could muster. Gazing lingering on said-creation, Alan shook his head. "He is supposed to be me, isn't it?"

It was so surreal to even think possible. That didn't change the fact that it was real and in front of them.

"I'm sorry, Alan," Sam said, grim. "For bringing you into this."

Alan shook his head firmly. "No, Sam. I'd be more upset if you hadn't," he said, glancing between his godson and Rinzler. "Flynn probably meant well by not including me, but… we're all that's left for Tron now. I should have been there."

"You are now," Sam insisted.

"Yes," Quorra suddenly spoke up. She inclined her head toward the closet, severe. "Now is a time for change… for all of us."

Alan laughed, the sound empty of any real amusement. "Yeah," he agreed. "Here's to hoping it'll be for the better."

Rinzler stayed on the floor and Alan stayed where he was, watching, taking the situation in as the severity of it all trickled in second by second. Sam made plans and Quorra followed silently, the warrior in her not giving an inch. Amy and Tom doted on Alan's creation, who barely gave them any recognition at all.

So… they had options to consider.

The first step: fixing an emotionally and psychologically damaged computer program.

This was not going to be easy.

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End Chapter Fourteen.

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D: Poor dude.

Next, Quorra is not a happy-camper and Rinzler becomes a hot potato.