I feel it more than I hear it.
It happens as I am deliberating over my latest prize, my only finding in the course of my patrol of the hanger so far. The obvious thing to do with the captive at my feet -white on black, high contrast thing that she is- would be to kill her. Kill her and not waste my time.
But there is the chance they will come for her.
Their naïve little girl.
Use her as bait.
That she meant to provide a diversion with her flight, with her swift but mediocre way of fighting, was obvious. Pathetically so. It stands to reason that they are near.
There is a feeling in the air, a presence, which supports this assumption.
It feels familiar, yet foreign, impressive, but weak. Old. Young.
. . . Different.
WARNING—memory filters destabilizing—attempting redirect
I push my captive to the ground with my foot as she tries to rise.
Stay down.
I think I will kill her anyway.
Killing is better. Better to have nothing to think about but them. To be able to give my focus to this change in the room, to the nagging sensation that I am missing something so vital it might just tear me apart. To think only of the users. The users and not this creature on the floor.
Yes. I will kill her. One less thing to think on, one less factor to consider, one less variable to process. I will kill her.
Hold still.
It'll be quicker that way.
One disc to her back.. One to the base of her neck. That is how I will do it. It will be over in an instant.
. . . But it isn't.
Because then it happens.
I think I hear something.
I hear a voice… feel a voice in the quiet hanger. Feel a voice too far away to really be heard and too close to ignore. That complicated presence in the room seems to swell, a recognizable flare. Something in the air has changed, and suddenly I am useless.
I can't do it.
My hands tighten on my discs but I can't do it.
I can't make myself keep looking at her, can't keep my gaze from wandering away across the floor. The empty hanger bay does not feel empty. It is full to bursting, and I feel the compulsion to look up, to search for the others in the room.
FOCUS…
I should let my discs fall. I should watch her shatter, smell the smoking pixels, all the broken pieces, see the sparks fizzling to nothing.
Butthatvoice….
But I can't.
What did you call me. . . ?
WARNING:OVERLOAD IMPENDING
There is something so familiar about this sensation. About the impression left on the air.
Like a voice I know, calling.
Like a rush forward and a sudden stop.
Like a name long forgotten, spoken on lips which have long been silent.
ERROR—
-systems failure: redirect aborted—memory redaction failed- reclassifying file-
. . . Like someone calling me by the wrong name.
That is exactly what it feels like.
Memory file (previous 10 nanocyles) reclassified: restricted access
I am almost certain I heard someone speak . . . but that's impossible. There is no audio file to support this. Just a lingering suspicion and a jolting sensation in my chest, a mind full of opening and closing files and so many warnings, and that feeling. As if someone has just called me.
I am so sure someone called me . . .
But when I look there is no one there.
Search query: directive (initializing search…)
The voice, if there was a voice, came from somewhere up ahead. But it is a voice that doesn't want to be found. It's a voice that can't be argued with. It's a voice that both pleads and commands, and its owner is invisible. I see nothing. The voice is still hiding . . .
ERRORERRORERR- This is all in your head….
Yes. My head.
It must be in my head.
Emotional and memory filters compromised—system destabilizing—emergency shutdown recommended—NO.
NO.
I'm fine.
I have to be fine . . .
Maybe it's nothing. Nothing to hear. Nothing to listen to. Just a feeling. Nothing more. Just an echo, just a ghost, just a memory.
You know that's not true.
ERROR—
Yes it is.
It's nothing. I'm sure it's nothing.
. . . But I still can't kill my captive. The name, the voice, the . . . thing I heard but didn't hear, has changed my mind. I will take her to Clu instead. He will know what to do with, with . . .
WARNING—CLASSIFIED FILE BREACH—FILE TYPE: 'RECENT MEMORY'
-SYSTEM FAILURE-
File keyword search unlocked: keyword (identification) from (corrupted) audio input over previous (ten) nanocycles: Keyword : TRON
WARNING—INITIALIZING REDACTION- PROCESSING-
. . . . . .
. . . . .
. . .
Tron. That is what the voice said.
Tron.
WhywouldyoucallmeTron- ERROR.
EMERGENCY FUNCTIONS ENGAGED— vital functions for service of Clu program only—redirecting-
Clu. Of course. He will know the meaning of that word I felt. . . heard . . . invented.
He'll fix it. Just as soon as I've done my job.
Which is fine.
I have all the time in the world . . .
Don't I?
Author's note: All my thanks to ScribeOfRED for editing the new and improved version of this chapter, and to Jax Solo for pointing out the scene in Legacy which possessed me to write it in the first place.
Also, with the 2012 Olympics now open, I want to wish the best of luck to your respective countries and favorite athletes. :) Go world, as they say!
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