Tron slid unobtrusively into an alleyway as a guard patrol made its way by. He was still several klicks away from the rendezvous point, and the patrols were irritatingly frequent, even during the day rotation. It had never been a problem when he was Rinzler, but of course that was because they had been on the same side and the guards had viewed him with a healthy amount of respect and fear.
But that was then, and Tron preferred the way it was now. He had to dodge three more patrols before reaching his rendezvous, but he felt a thrill of excitement rather than irritation. This was what he had been made for, what he was meant to do. And at last, he could ply his ingrained skills without an oppressive sense of guilt.
Because he was protecting. He was fighting back.
His ultimate goal was to track down and confront Dyson, but Dyson was currently untouchable. There were hundreds, thousands of Red Guards between Tron and his former comrade, as well as ordinary programs who would love to curry favor to the occupation by delivering a rebel into their hands.
Tron could wait. He could be patient. After all, wasn't the pleasure of revenge sweetest when it had been deferred?
"They've upped the guard detail since our last raid," Rex, the team leader, vocalized over the com. There were seventeen rebel soldiers stationed around the Solar Sailer, where the prisoner transfer was currently in progress. A heavy escort of thirty-four guards encircled the group of frightened programs–at least twenty of them–and were keeping a wary eye out for an ambush.
This was Tron's sixteenth mission for the Resistance. Over 200 rotations had passed since Rezz had approved his membership, and since then he'd striven hard to prove his trustworthiness. At first, it had been hard. In any violent encounter with Dyson's soldiers, Tron had been acutely aware of Rinzler's malice hovering just underneath his consciousness. It took every ounce of his self control to keep himself from descending into that monster's gleeful violence. But each time, it got marginally easier until Tron could hardly feel Rinzler's influence at all.
Perhaps Rinzler was finally being flushed from his system, as a side-affect of his reboot, almost a cycle ago.
Whatever the reason for the change, Tron finally felt he could enter battle without having to worry about going berserk.
"Beck," said Rex's voice.
"Sir," he responded.
"Your AOR is the five guards on the left flank. Ten microcycles after I give the signal, I expect the targets in your area to be derezzed. Understood?"
"Understood."
A few millicycles passed, and Tron listened in as Rex finished giving instructions to the other rebels.
Finally…
"On my mark," Rex growled. "3, 2, 1…mark."
Reaching back for his disc, Tron darted out of his hiding place, crossing the open ground in a matter of moments. He was striking down his first enemy before the guard could react, each movement precise and ingrained, like a deadly, graceful dance. Each step calculated subconsciously, each swing of his arm a purposeful motion. Precisely 10 microcycles after Tron had broken cover, the data cubes of five guards were scattered on the ground.
He scanned the area, assessing the situation to see if any of the other rebels needed assistance. But before he moved a single step in any direction, he saw something that would have made his heart sink like a stone–if he'd had one.
A solid wall of guards was closing in on them from all directions; there had to be over a hundred of them. Tron tried to alert his comrades over the com, but found it had gone dead. He muttered an angry, half-despairing curse. Hacked!
Dyson had lured them into a false sense of security; obviously. He'd been sacrificing his guards all this time, waiting for the moment to strike in full force. Stupid, stupid not to have backup!
By now, the other rebels had seen the danger, and–having completely overpowered and derezzed their opponents–turned to face the new enemy.
There was no saving the prisoners now. They, and their would-be rescuers, were completely hemmed in. The only safe place for the programs would have been on the Solar Sailer, but that would only take them to their deaths anyway.
"You'll have to fight," Tron said, turning to the nearest program and slicing off their restraints. "Free the others."
The program, though he looked terror-stricken, nodded and began using his own disc to remove the handcuffs from the other prisoners.
In the few moments that it had taken for this to occur, the guards had broken into a run. Tron put both hands on his disc…and split it. He hadn't fought dual-disc ever since joining the Resistance, for fear that people might notice. But it really didn't matter now; he had to fight with the utmost effectiveness, if they were to survive at all.
"Spread out, don't make it easy for them!" Rex's voice called fiercely.
Then chaos erupted.
The next few millicycles were a blur of flying discs and scattering data. No thought, just fighting. Surviving. Dying.
And they were dying. Out of the corner of his eye, Tron saw Rex go rigid, a scream frozen in his throat and a look of horror fixed on his face. Starting from his head, Rex's body swiftly digitized and crumbled away.
The rebels fought with a desperate determination; they knew that they could not afford to lose. But they were vastly outnumbered, and though they made the enemy pay dearly for each death, they did die.
Tron couldn't grieve. There was no room for grief in the heat of battle. But he did feel the loss, and he couldn't help the growing sense of helplessness in his chest as he watched his comrades, and the programs they had sought to save, fall to the ruthless hands of their aggressors.
I can't save them.
But I CAN save them.
Tron almost screamed when the sudden rush of rage and bloodlust shrieked through every circuit in his body. No. No! Not now!
Let me take over. I've been waiting for this.
No…
But you want it. You want it so bad you can taste it. You want to save them.
The horrible, glee-filled voice of Rinzler was the last thing Tron remembered before blackness clouded his vision and he knew no more.