.

Tron leaves stasis, woken by a discreet ping.

He turns around on the molding surface of his defragmentation pod, and groggily crawls backward to the wall, so that his User can climb on.

The fondness of familiarity crooks his smile as he rises up on his knees, waits for his user to be comfortable. Slowly, savoring the ritual, he toggles off his disk, bring it forth to hold it in his two hands when he presents it to his one and only Creator.

As Alan-One raises a hand to take the storage of his life, his slowly lowers his eyes, and murmurs;

"[Welcome back, maker]".

There is more yet with the ritual and he savors that.

As almost always, Alan-One will humor him. Once his disk has been taken, he slowly touches the bed, first with his hands, then his forehead, showing the thin dotted lights of a raw port open for writing.

He can feel Alan-One's happiness, this time. It buzzes in his touch, as he calmly runs a finger in reading, along the lid of Tron's docking. Always in reading; for writing in the raw opening where only his port belongs seems wrong, and would easily corrupt his session before forcing him to restart.

Still, this show of blind submission in full mindfulness allow him to express his trust and love.

Cycles of heuristics, second hand updates, raw repurposing—movECX,Nevermore;l1:loop thread;loop l1; he has had his lifetime of humoring user protocols. Now, at last, he will fully enjoy his true maker.

"Hello, my Spark," greets the only one who rightfully holds his heart in writing.

Already, the low-key vibrations of Alan-One's gruff voice running along his patterns and along the lines of the room; filling the whole building of his headquarters with registered, trusted authority...his maker's voice is warm and loving even when it's severe.

.