Notes: He had forgotten himself, lost in the beauty of code. Except that he wasn't behind a screen and Tron just tried to tone down a moan. (Draft. Short and camp.)
Very loosely inspired by Salvage What You Can (on ao3), but they are otherwise unrelated.

The tone of this chapter is very different from the first two. This would happens much, much later than the previous chapter. I'm not satisfied with the theme of consent and how it translates in Creator/Creation relationship, or inherent Master/Servant related species. It needs to be developed more and polished, so consider this a draft for now.

Collaterally inspired from Signature _In Writing (ao3), Of Users and Drives (ao3) and Two Nuances of the Call (ao3), which are also part of these series, anyway.

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Strategies

Tron hunched over Alan's shoulder, close to his ear, and whispered something. He straightened and waited, expectant, calculations swirling in his eyes...

"But we have work, Able has just finished decrypting the new plans, and—"

Tron hunched himself again, and said something else.

Slowly, Alan smirked, looking at his program with mock-reproach but shown no resistance.
With a very familiar fascination, and still like a question, Tron softly pressed the patterns of his chest against the circuits on his User's arm. Getting no resistance, he drew Alan's hand into his with slow reverence, tracing the palm in pursuit of secret remnant static...

"Oh!" Alan briefly tusked, peeved. "I'm sorry Tron, Sam is alone on the main Grid. And he still needs protection."

Knowing only too well how things would end if they both returned there, Tron frowned.

(He almost hesitated, almost)
In the next nanosecond, Tron was on his feet.

Alan took a step toward the inter-drive portal, but when he turned, waiting for Tron, his program chafed, balancing himself from one leg to another.

"[I can wait for you to return with him.]"

Raising his brows, Alan blinked. He entertained the idea for a few more nanos without really considering it.

Even if Sam and Quorra returned on this empty drive, and were completely safe on it, it wouldn't offer much privacy for them all if...

Still, it was true that they could easily and quickly build things. Buildings. Directories with temporary protection...: it wouldn't take much time to distract Sam and get him to sit there for a few hours...

"No," he murmured softly, and jaw set, looked around to avoid Tron's expression. The gaze of a sentient and almost conscious program was troubling, he decided with a drop of resigned homor at his self-derisive generalization. (Especially when the program pouted).

"This smaller Grid is really dangerous for you, my Spark. More than you imagine. We have played around with it...I can't leave you here alone here even for an hour.

"Actually; don't ever come here when you are alone, no matter what.

"Coming to thing of it; no program, basic or not, should stay on this Grid without a user. Ever."

Tron tilted his head on the side.

"[In that case, I will bring Sam here.]"

"Sam is having fun with Beck. You really think that you can bring him somewhere without his consent?" taking a couple steps around to hide a snort, Alan smiled politely. "I don't think your quarantine cells are able to hold a User yet."

But Tron shook his head, nonplussed.

"[I will bring Quorra here and show her the new building you made.]"

"Oh?" Alan crossed his arms.

"[When she will start asking question, trying to learn everything at once, she is eventually going to mention wishing Sam was present so she could ask if he knows these things, to teach some to her, or just to share the moment with him.]

"Then, [I'm going to return to the main Grid—or mainframe, if you want" he smirked "and tell Sam that Quorra is somewhere far away and has asked for him,]" Tron lazily stepped up to stand before Alan.

"[That is how I would return with Sam.]"

Alan frowned through his program's strategizing.
When Tron was done, he put an elbow on a hand and touched his upper lip with the other, raising his brows.

"You are frightening. Very frightening. Are you sure I wrote you?"

Having been near his user long enough to understand what Alan said between the lines, Tron puffed out his chest, shrugged off the praise and grinned.

"[Some threats requires more cunning than other.]

[Getting some of my scripts in check, too...]"

Alan puffed approvingly.

After a moment, more serious, the program balanced on his feet. "Maybe I didn't use these functions very often, so..."

Alan shook his head and took his program's shoulder, broadcasting affection and pride in the touch, unable to stop his own grin.

"You made me curious now. I wouldn't mind watching you put your plan in motion. Under one condition: if in the process you cause worry to Sam, you will owe him a favor."

"[What favor?]"

"That will be for him to choose. ...And for you to decide if you find his choice acceptable or not."

Alan stopped, the silence thrumming with the gears that had started turning in his head.

"Coming to think of it, don't accept anything you wouldn't accept from another program.

"Coming to think of it, don't accept anything that I wouldn't accept from Sam."

"[Alan-One?]

The program grounded himself and put his fists on his hips.

"First, [I feel insulted by your lack of faith in my internal security. Which you wrote.]
"And second, [Sam is still alone on the main Grid—]"

"Yes! Yes, fine. Go then."

Protocols

Someone coughed behind him. Twice.
Thrice.

"[Alan.]"

"What?" he replied every bit as exasperated as the voice that he couldn't quite place at the moment.

"We are not alone."

Sam.

That tone, discreet, whispered through teeth, made him pause at least, his hand stilling on his program's tight; right where his last loop had just been formed.

He touched the circuit with a palm, burning the code—vaguely registering his program's gasp / not in the mood of acknowledging the desire that colored it—and straightened from his hunched position over the program's shoulder to look around at the newcomers.

There were others programs.
Impressionable programs that didn't have an unconditional trust in him.

And Sam was there too.

...
He had gotten carried away, immersed in code.

This time, here, that was no little misstep.

No one—human, or Ai—could decently continue to use programs like brainless tools, when there was confusion about their sentience—no one his heart insisted.

Well. Every one could tell that Tron was sentient...
(He resisted the urge to hide his eyes in his hand.)

But the way he had been handling his program for the last half-hour; how it probably could look out of context... might not exactly help making this ethical point go through every one's head.

There was intimacy, there was worship, and there was passion.

Said program had been the one to teach him about the Grid, in most of its intricate protocols.
Tension? The thrill of anticipation preluding exploration was at the core of Tron's security functions, and they didn't need to really on heuristics for long. In all honestly, Alan didn't know how he had managed to put up such a marvelous product. The cohesiveness of this code seemed to have built on itself over time; beyond the exploits and the brute-forcing that he had undergone by a user and an AI... Maybe he had made the first move on accident (it was difficult to keep your hands and your insanely curious mind tranquil while one of your most praised works paraded, lively in front of you days after days and without mentioning many details) but he had explained his intentions.
(In a context of precision, definitions exposed, questioned, it was Tron, who have made the calls. The drive, desire, and yet not that; different from the sense humans gave this concept—manifested itself frenetic (more so than Alan had been ready for) and ye enraptured beyond measure, humbled to the point of dread. Tron code had tackled it as an option to explore. Then resorted it, letting its important grow until it became a vital use; and Alan had watched (felt) the process evolve and unravel under and around of his fingers; guiding low-level data with , in its most travelled paths, loops, requests; spilling burnt energy leaving context and returning to the System, like saturated blood flowing out of a different kind of heart. It had left a mark on Alan's psyche. A psyche that proved slightly weaker than he imagined (but, again, he didn't imagine that this world could surprise him with such a things as sentient programs).
Love was universal. Yet passion defined a lot of different tensions, and the frontiers between what was sane and what was self-destructive, what was useful and what was whimsical, what was welcomed and what was incurred, had to be completely defined in this different world.

Said program had only reluctantly and painfully understood that his worship had to be quieted, and hidden, if he didn't want his User to run away spooked forever—there was limits to what Alan could acknowledge, even in almost pure selfless love; responsibility felt oppressing, rousing an overwhelming sense of imposture. (But it was there: adoration. In the dynamic that converted fear into courage, loyalty into devotion; the impossible cement between stubbornness and blind obedience, between a firm rebuttal when a protocol wasn't compatible and the unconditional promises shining in a sentient smile.)

Said program was his; and this in a deeper sense of intimacy than a mere endearment would imply; that Tron had been written, and consistently updated in a manner that announced proprietary on every other command line; that his code itself left no question about Tron's consent for intimacy.
(Well, as much as a program could decide to refuse themselves—especially to their programmer—but there was such things as protocols, credentials, and functionality. The only pleasure Alan had taken in this crazy and wonderful thing that looked like passion was in giving—more and more still, of his own spirit; enhancing a glorious spark of sentience—toward stable bliss if not toward perfection...)

There was a lot of things passing between a User and their program; programmer and application.
...Before he could forgot, he filled a note about Tron's state. He would have to provide some well-earned relief later; either that, or send him to his tower to run one of the functions that he had written him for that purpose.

There were a lot of notions; most that were reinterpreted into little more than details from the outside.
Alan couldn't expect Kevin's programs to understand, and certainly not after Clu. (And about showing example to other users... Alan mentally filled a note that he had to discuss some things with Sam at some point.)

With tight lips, he took a glance at his program.
That wouldn't do. Nope.

And yet that was too late.

But now was not too early to start the damage control.
Fight a drive to sight desperately, he turned to Tron—who was almost done catching his breath, his face alit with pride and bliss—and whispered something down his ear.

The program went forth, and lifted arms to greet the newcomers; confidence and empowerment resounding in each step.

"Greetings, programs." He nodded, a powerful smile slowly curving on his face.

"Is there anything that we can do for you?"