Timestamp: September 22, 1981
Location: Encom mainframe, Game Grid, Ping Ball Arena 1
"I'm just a Compound Interest program. I work in savings & loans. I was horrible during the training, can't you see? I can't play these video games. Please!"
Crom is shoved onto the platform leading to the Ping Ball game arena. He stumbles and falls to his knees. He quickly crawls toward the door, but it shuts with a snap right in front of his face. Crom wimpers quietly. "Oh, Users…" He moans outloud, reaching a hand to grip the wall and force himself onto his feet.
He breathes hard. It's a nervous tick. No program needs to breathe. The air in this world is not even 'real', after all. Crom shakes his head. "Get it together, program!" he whispers to himself fiercely. "What did that Ram guy advise? Confidence is half the battle? Or the appearance of it, anyways." Crom straightens his posture and crosses his arms. Back at his home sector, he led several other programs in their day to day duties- a perk of directly answering to the Full Branch Manager. He knows what confidence feels like, when in his own element. If he can replicate the appearance of that confidence here…
"Talking to yourself, program?" Crom jumps and glances around wildly. "How droll." Crom narrows the voice down to a viewing port far above his head. "Conscripts don't start that until they've been through the ringer at least a few times. This is your first match, and you haven't even started."
"Commander Sark," Crom acknowledges and swallows thickly.
"Another symptom of your hysterical user beliefs, no doubt." The condescending air is unbearable.
Crom manages to feel a flicker of annoyance, even through his near fear induced short-circuiting. "There is nothing hysterical about my belief in the Users," Crom comments wearily.
"You are blind." Sark scoffs over the loudspeaker.
Crom shakes his head slowly. "I tried to tell you this. I deal in cold hard facts every microcycle. I am the impartial bearer of good and bad data to programs and Users alike. I inform them of their savings, their loans and their debts. Unlike other programs, my 'belief' as you call it isn't an act of faith, community or feel-good routine. It just is, for better or worse." He shrugs helplessly.
"Nonsense, you-"
Crom's annoyance wins out for a brief nano. He interrupts. "Commander Sark, ask yourself this. If you don't have a User, then who wrote you? I believe you know the truth, even if you won't admit it." A stunned silence follows on both of their accounts, or at least for Crom himself. Stupid, so stupid! Why did I interrupt him? He can derez me whenever he wants. So stupid!
Sark never responds. The door slides open and Crom starts. In marches a taller blue-lit program, who turns his head to smile cheekily down at Crom. Crom narrows his optics. He looks so confident, Crom processes queasily. I have to turn this around. Crom strides purposefully toward his end of the arena. Upon reaching the middle of his ringed playing area, he whirls around and salutes his opponent with the Ping Ball catcher. His opponent is at least cordial enough to return the salute.
The ping ball falls down on his side of the court. An advantage. Perfect. Time for another one. "You think you're gonna wipe me right out, don't ya?" Crom points and challenges with confidence ringing in his audio.
"No, I-"
Before Crom can think too much on what he's doing, he throws the ball aggressively. First try and he scores a hit! Crom laughs in exhilaration. Mr. Henderson would be proud.
Back and forth. Back and forth. It's easy at first, not to process anything but the rhythm of the game. But then, his opponent lands hits of his own. He's learning. Not many programs are blessed with the capability to learn new skills. For most, you either have a talent or you don't. For those few who do have the learning capability, never can they do it so quickly!
The game continues.
"Hey, nice shot!" the other program compliments after Crom squeezes in one more score. There's no malice or fear in the conscript's tone, Crom notices. His opponent cajoles him on, and his cheerful demeanor is infectious. Crom feels a sense of warmth at the gentle encouragement, dispelling the earlier nervousness. Crom begins to enjoy the game, despite himself. It doesn't feel like his opponent is playing to win. It doesn't feel like his opponent is playing to derez him.
His bubble of safety soon comes literally falling down after what his opponent labels as an 'easy' throw. Crom now hangs on to the edge of his arena, the last shot having destroyed the ring he stood on. There is a dangerous whirring in the processor as fear takes over and disrupts every subroutine. All he can do is hang on for his very existence.
In the background, the program screams in defiance at Commander Sark. The program, breathing hard, looks back down to Crom. Their eyes meet.
Crom deals in cold hard facts. He has processed the data, and come to a fact. He won't survive these games, not without the capability to learn. Save yourself. Crom opens his mouth, but the words never leave his processor thread. Crom falls.
END OF LINE