A note: I originally wrote this fic back in 2015 and apparently never got around to posting it. I found it in a folder when I was going through documents on my computer, decided it wasn't half bad, did some editing, and here we are. Sort of an alternate scenario featuring my hacker!Ram that's shown up in other works. Consider this the bad ending.
Losing track of the time is surprisingly easy in the midst of torture. Has it been a millicycle? A full cycle? How long ago had they even apprehended him? The memory files seem too distant to access, the timestamps garbled in his processors. Not that such details really matter, now. Too long. It's been too long – and as time crawls onward the outcomes narrow themselves down. The desirable endings have long since evaporated. Deresolution is still on the table, of course, only now it's starting to feel like the most merciful conclusion he can hope for.
But he remembers the whys even if he can't remember the when. Why he'd been captured, why he hadn't been derezzed on the spot, why he's still (barely) alive. The resistance base had been found, thanks to a "new recruit" who'd been nothing more than a spy for the Administrator. Normally they vetting process was better, more thorough, but desperate times called for desperate measures when you needed all the help you could get. They got sloppy, careless, reckless. No suspicions had been raised until it was too late - and then sentries were swarming through the door, grabbing anything and anyone within their reach. The skirmish was short-lived, and the woefully unprepared rebels were overtaken in what felt like mere nanos. Voxels from both sides littered the floor and crunched under the soldiers' boots as they'd hauled him and a few others towards the waiting Recognizer. His identity was easily ascertained from a scan, and lucky him that someone higher up must've marked him as a program of interest. Most every other survivor was sent off to the Games.
He'd been conscripted for more than his fair share of that, once. Those memories are even more recessed than those concerning this latest imprisonment, but there are times when they still feel fresh. Never in his runtime would he have anticipated wanting to be back there, in the pit cells. At least there you stood a chance. Hone enough skills and the scales of survival might tip marginally in your favor. But if he's learned anything, it was that some chance is preferable to no chance. Here, though, he doesn't even have that hope to cling to. The fun started shortly after they got him off the Recognizer. The Administrator wanted information, especially in relation to his evasive User, and there was very little he wouldn't do to obtain it. His methods were creative, certainly, but they took their toll – and the prisoner has paid in voxels.
As though summoned by the unfortunate reminiscence, gold circuits warm the edges of his clouded vision. Speak of the devil, he thinks – even though he doesn't know what a 'devil' even is. It takes a good portion of his depleted energy reserves to lift his head and glare at the Administrative program, but he manages it. The act of pitiful defiance earns a chuckle in response, but the sound is dry and humorless.
"Ram, man, we really gonna do this again? Look at yourself, you're falling apart," the Administrator scolds, as though he's addressing a freshly-rendered beta. Clu moves forward with all the grace and purpose of a virus circling its next meal, but the smaller program's gaze holds firm.
They've been at this game for a while now. For too long, far too long, and Ram knows that the final move is coming. It won't end in his favor, and he will not emerge the victor. Not this time. He's had too many chances, seconds and thirds and many more, and his luck's finally run out. This isn't the pit cells of old – this isn't even the new and improved Game Grid. There's no clever maneuver, no last minute gambit that will save him this time. He's alone. No Tron, no Flynn. No miraculous escape. But Clu can go frag himself if he thinks he's going to get anything from Ram. He's gone so far as to tell the Administrator that, using those exact words. The remark nearly ended the game right there, but Clu is nothing if not persistent.
He wants, and he will destroy anything that stands in the way of his win.
"Go play in traffic, you sick son of a-"
A gloved hand claps over his mouth before he can get out any profanity, and Clu's expression is practically oozing smugness. He, too, knows that this won't go on for much longer. Ram could barely get the words out, and the effort of talking alone has made him go almost limp against his restraints. The gold-circuited program pats Ram's cheek patronizingly before reaching over his shoulder for the captive program's disc. Ram couldn't resist even if he wanted to.
"Flynn's memories didn't include you having such a mouth," Clu sighs in mock disappointment as he twirls the appropriated disc around in his hands. "Or do you just not like me?"
Ram can only manage another sharp look, despite the even sharper words he's dying to spit out. His eyes track Clu's movements as he circles back around to the table stocked with tools. For a moment Clu's gloved hand skims over the collection of utility items – weapons, as Ram as come into consider them – like he's making a careful selection. His entire body tensing weakly, Ram braces himself for a new round of torture. But the other program merely clears off a spot, turns, and seats himself on the workbench, Ram's disc balanced on one knee.
"Look, I'm gonna level with you," Clu starts, and he still sounds so much like Flynn that Ram feels his core seize at the thought. "I've tried everything. I tried reasoning with you, bribing you, persuading you. And I think we're both getting pretty tired of this, yeah? So I'm here to give you one last chance. You tell me what I want to know, you help me perfect this system, and we come out of this as partners. Friends, even. I'll even let you have some time with Rinzler if that'd make you happy."
He's presented this offer before, and it made Ram feel just as sick then as it does now. The mention of Rinzler is a new and frightening twist of the blade, though. Clu revealed the Enforcer's identity during one of their earlier "meetings," his face bright with satisfaction as he'd practically purred "Even Tron's seen the light, man" like that was supposed to be a testimonial. In reality, it was nearly enough to make Ram give up right then and there. Users only knew why he'd held on after that.
A misguided grab for hope, maybe. Or maybe he was just that bad at knowing when to call it quits.
"Either that, or there's a round of Repurposing scheduled for the start of the next cycle. I'll extract everything I need right from your disc, and then you'll end up seeing things my way regardless of the fight you attempt to put up. I just want this to be easy for you, man. Painless. But it's your choice."
Ram only now realizes that Clu has a few command windows opened on the disc in his lap. Ram's disc. It's hard to make out the prompts, but he doesn't need to read them to understand what's going to happen. Forcible data removal is never pleasant. This particular scenario, however, will be even less so – not that the Administrator knows that just yet.
"Well?"
From Clu's tone, he believes that he's already won.
Ram licks his lips, weighs the possibilities. Crunches numbers and calculates probabilities like a good little actuary. Considers it all before he responds, thoughtfully, "go interface with a Bit."
It's answer enough for the Administrator. With a deep scowl that betrays his frustration, he begins working away at the disc. Even though it's undocked, Ram can feel the intrusion in his code, and the unexpected pain of it makes him hiss. Clu, unsurprisingly, doesn't care. He's smirking now, clearly under the impression that victory is close at hand, and Ram sends one last prayer to the Users because this is the end. Everything he's learned, everything he's found, everything that he is, all of it is about to be-
There's silence, and then Clu growls.
"That isn't possible. It was all right there, it-"
"You really thought I wouldn't… wouldn't have security measures in place? I'm a hacker an'—and I knew Tron."
Ram laughs, breathless, and Clu stands, advancing towards the upright operating table with heated ferocity. Clu undocks his own disc, golden and glowing and humming in his hand like a live wire.
"Talk," he spits, pressing the disc's cutting edge against Ram's exposed throat. A few wayward voxels break free and clink against the otherwise pristine floor, and the searing pain is only countered by the grim satisfaction at seeing the Administrator's distress.
"Failsafe," Ram manages to reply, vocal processors straining as the weapon's edge digs in farther. "It's all gone."
He's managed to keep it a secret up until now, one last wildcard held close to his chest. ZackAttack - one of the best hackers in the world, in Ram's humble opinion - wouldn't have allowed the wealth of intel gathered for Flynn Lives fall into the wrong hands. Deep in Ram's code lies a simple string of binary that, if the wrong person tried to pry, would wipe everything. Every memory file, every acquired piece of knowledge, every scrap of data that related to the movement he'd fought so hard for. The very information Clu hungers for, lost in a series of wayward keystrokes.
And no amount of threatening or torturing can ever make Ram remember.
The hacking program is both smug and terrified at the development. Clu won't find Flynn any time soon, but there probably won't be much left of Ram, either. He doesn't know how much was wiped by that failsafe - if it's just what he's done for Flynn Lives, or if he'll crash and derezz immediately to take everything with him.
As loathe as he is to admit it, the second option sounds preferable at the moment.
Clu pulls his arm back with a disgruntled snarl, disc burning with anticipation, and Ram closes his eyes. The death blow is coming, whirring in the Administrator's hand. The only thoughts in Ram's processors are of just how sorry he is, how much he regrets failing at the task his User had sent him to.
All that is visible must extend beyond itself into the realm of the invisible. And may Tron and Flynn and Roy_K and Alan-One forgive me-
The hit doesn't come. Instead, Clu laughs dryly. Ram's eyes hesitantly open, only to see that the gold-ringed disc is once again docked safely home between Clu's shoulder blades. But there's still a buzz in the air, the unmistakable hum of an activated weapon. His gaze trails down to the hand at Clu's side, and Ram sees his own disc now lit with life.
"That's a pretty good trick, I'll admit. 'Fraid it isn't going to end very nicely for you, though."
Ram knows the truth, knows that Clu's been beaten at his own game. If the disc is allowed to sync again, the prisoner will forget everything. But if he's separated from his disc for too long during another round of torture, the glitching will start, and then he'll forget all on his own. There is no way for Clu to win. He can spin it however he likes, snatch some small self-designed accomplishment from this failure, but it won't be the same. It won't be what he really wants.
For Ram, it's a hollow victory, but a victory nonetheless. There's hardly even a flinch as the hacker's disc is now angled where the Administrator's had been a moment before, searing at Ram's throat. The furious glint in CLU's eyes in unmistakable, but there's undeniable irony in the knowledge that Ram will once again derezz looking at that face. A face that holds nothing of the friend he'd once known besides the resemblance.
"Any last words, program?"
Oh, he's had plenty of time to think up some witty final remark. A last insult to fling in the face of the Administrator and his entire regime. But really, there's only one thing to say. Ram's lips quirk up into a half grimace, half smile, his teeth already grit in the anticipation of pain. Yet in spite of the cold fear clawing at his circuits, the words fall forth in a serene, accepting sigh.
"Flynn lives."
The disc screeches as it's driven forward, and even if Ram wanted to scream he couldn't. The last vestiges of his throat join the voxels already on the floor, and the world goes blessedly, blissfully black.
...
The program assumes his place at his assigned desk. So far he's the only one getting to work, but he doesn't mind. It pleases the Luminary to see diligent programs. And the Luminary's will is to be held above all else. Not that he could argue, anyway. No sound has come from him since he was Repurposed. Since he was perfected. There are no scars, no trace of what he'd undergone before the process – only the pain lingers at the edges of his circuits, a dull reminder of a lifetime that he doesn't remember or care to remember.
He types away, aware of nothing but the task before him.