"I was picked up by Shaddox and Radi soon after I escaped. I'd learned to mask my circuits in neutral white, but they recognized the pattern. They had seen my somewhat infamous round of disc wars, and had remembered me for it despite the passage of time. All told, I'd spent nearly a quarter cycle in Clu's service.

"At first, I'd wanted them both to leave me alone," Radi comes close to smiling as I mention this, "but then Shaddox brought up Tron. He said he knew who I was, and why Rinzler had spared me, calling me 'Tron's Yori.' I tried to deck him for it, largely because that was the kind of temper my experiences had left me with, but he caught my hand. While I glared at him, he explained, finally, who he was. I recognized the name; Shaddox had been one of Tron's few truly close friends.

"Obviosly, they convinced me eventually. I've been constructing all manner of deceptive accessories ever since. Well, until very recently. Since Clu fell, I've essentially done whatever's been needed of me. Who knew," I almost laughed, "that I could be so diverse?"

They all smile at this, but the room is becoming pleasantly quiet. After awhile, a voice breaks it.

"Is that the end, then?" asks Ti. I nod.

"For the moment."

She nods, but looks sad, her chin ducking down to her chest.

"What about Tron?" she murmurs.

I can't answer her right way.

Nobody realized, while I was describing what occurred between Rinzler and I, that the way I was shaking was not from old emotions. Nobody noticed how I had fixated on the stranger at the bar. Nobody else has grasped what I have been denying since I'd sat down.

I don't think he had realized he was doing it. I think, for the moment, he had simply been as lost in the memory as I was. But he gave himself away, and really, that's all that matters.

He had done it as I spoke. Just before I told them how I had kissed Rinzler's hand, h had lifted his own up from his lap, and stared at its profoundly, impossibly, familiar circuits.

He remembered.

It was him.

It had always been, and could only be him. The stranger with the blinding circuits . . . is Tron.

We both know now that I know who he is. I can feel it in the air between us. He knew as soon as I reacted. He knew from the way my voice came to a choking halt, the way I froze in place and couldn't form words. He knew from the way my fist had clenched shut, as if I could still feel his hand beneath my fingers.

He knew also because of how I had tried to hide my reaction from the others. He could see that I understood: He needs to stay a secret. He has to, because he can't afford to disappoint them or hurt them again, and he has no back up. No way to preserve the change he's undergone. He doesn't have his disc . . .

"What about him?" I reply finally, yanking my gaze back to her face and tucking my hands under the table so she can't see the way that the excitement, joy, terror, and tears struggling inside of me are making them shake.

Another voice speaks. It stops her answer, gliding through the room to meet me.

"Could you forgive him?"

His voice is so much like how I remember, but tired now. Worn. It's still low, and rough, but more broken now with age. And yet, it retains its warmth and its intensity, and I am filled with impossible joy upon hearing it. It retains that same, familiar Tron tone: quick, efficient, nearly severe. I can read the conflict in it, too; the yearning, the shame, the relief, the trepidation, the memory of everything that he has done, and the determination to know once and for all what is going to happen to us.

"It's not that simple," I say gently. My voice is soft, meant only for him. He waits.

"But," I continue, looking into the shadow under his hood that hides his eyes, "if you're asking me if I would still love him," the tension between us is almost painful, and I have to fight to keep my voice from breaking, to keep the tears from falling. The faces in the room flick confusedly from me to him, most of them seeming to just now be realizing that there's someone sitting there. They're confused. They can feel the tension, but can't understand the reason for the rawness in the air.

Then, he raises his head just a little, and I can finally see his eyes, and suddenly I can speak. the words are effortless.

"The answer is yes," I promise him.

"The answer will always be yes."

The tension evaporates. Whatever complications now lay ahead of us mean nothing. Our time apart has ended, finally, with that single statement, and now, all I can see is him. It's as if he's the only other person in the room. I hardly notice as the others say their goodbyes, as they file out in groups of twos and threes. They go away, but I'll be seeing them again, and it is right that they should go.

Their part of this story is over.