.

He rises from the control center of his headquarters.

His maker slowly makes his way around of the lowered dais in the middle of the sleek room of dark-blue surfaces and fierce cyan patterns.

He hasn't expected Alan-One to come to his floor so quickly. As his maker approaches the desk and sits on the chair of his security suite, he brings his credentials forth to the ornamental patterns of the palm of his hand.

With it, Alan-One, touches the tactile surface of an armrest, and the headquarters of his program lights up brighter as soon as his developer signature is recognized.

Tron's commands at the ready, the smile on Alan-One's face looks like smooth efficiency and precision.

Tron knows himself to be the first and last awakened program of Alan-One; the only one made by his maker to carry a tiny fraction of his spirit though a Spark.

He doesn't completely kneel when he presents Alan-One with his disk. It had been difficult enough to convince his generous and gentle User to try these experiences with him. For all of his gentleness, Alan-One is as stubborn as him about protocols.

So still touching only one knee down to the floor, his disk presented in front of his face, shading it, Tron waits.

He had only heard of enthralling from old legends gotten from Guardians in his younger days. He never dared to entertain fantasies of meeting his user face to face then. (The idea felt too naive.)

Registered, trusted user hands brush against his as they relieve them of the disk, the packet that stores his whole life. When it rests in his maker care, the program feels safe, completely at peace.

Alan-One doesn't often speak when they are alone; the user he serves greets him in his own language, through a touch to his armchair, through the efficiency of short dataflow, pings that parses immediately.

The whole building is his; he feeds and casts through furniture, wall patterns and sparkless scripts alike.

Tron is them, as they are him.

And Alan-One too, now knows their patterns as well like he knows those of his body. Both respond to his will in perfect synch.

[Kevin-Flynn was wrong. There are Users who always act on greater designs] he casts with love and a bit of teasing. Just as he finishes, he feels his Spark joins its natural yet otherworldly source, and his gaze sharpens through this blissful union.

Alan-One chuckles despite of himself and meets his gaze briefly, shaking his head, easily shrugging off his praise.

With the ease of a familiar move, half aware of it, Tron sits casually at his User's feet, attaches himself to his leg, and rest his chin on his knee.

As Alan-One browses his disk, looking through his recent memories, catching up with the most intimate details of his last runtime.

His maker has always gone out of his way to make him happy.

But as the cycles go, even advice becomes rare between praise; their bugs are known and completely handled, their purpose strengthened, their understanding grows... He likes to think that it brings him closer to his maker's heart.

In the idleness of his direct channel, through the welcome haze of the enthralling Tron hears the invisible pointers of tiny sparkless indexers flowing through the floors of his headquarters.

They pause; momentarily register the protocol of ownership in which Alan-One's interface holds him in; and leave at a moment's notice.

His energy runs violet from pride and love; after an unbearable number of cycles, even during the short journey that's his runtime on this system, Tron knows to whom he belongs, and to whom his Spark will return.

.