TRON: Mystery.
CHAPTER ONE.
It took Sherlock less than two minutes to open the lock with a toothpick. John scowled, "I'm not comfortable with this, Sherlock." he said, tightly. Sherlock ignored him as he shoved the door open and pointed the thin beam of light into the dusty room. He took a few steps, sending up eddies of yellow around his feet. John glanced around, clciking his own on, pointing it with his more practical mind. Sherlock touched the top of one of the old machines, sweeping it off, rubbing it between his fingers. "It's been untouched since he left." he breathed. John reached up, and flicked the master switch. Music began to pound out as lights flickered on all through the room. Sherlock looked around, and bent. Pulling a pair of gloves on, he pulled out a tiny little evidence bag, scooping the dust from the floor, sprinkling some inside. It was easily thick enough to do so. Standing once more, he pocketed the bag and shoved the gloves into another as he watched John. He was surprised by the wideness of John's eyes. "I came here." he said, very softly.
Sherlock hadn't been expecting that, either. There was a strange calmness depsite the music of the old arcade games thrumming around them. He held his tongue for once in his life, turning slowly to track John as he moved toward a clunky machine. Lowering the torch, it hung limp in his hand as he reached forward, fingers timidly wiping the screen clear. Sherlock approached slowly, standing just behind John as the ident for TRON played across the screen, slightly disguised by dust. "There's something wrong." John murmured, watching it, "Sherlock, there's no evidence here. Let's go." Sherlock wasn't even looking at John now. His blue eyes had skated down as he felt his foot catch, just a little, on something. He knelt behind John, not feeling the man's glance move down to him as his fingertips ghosted over the floor. He pointed his torch down, and blew, sending dust flurrying away from the air. "Gouges." he murmured, feeling with his fingertips. He jerked upright, and put the torch between his teeth.
John stepped backward, watching as Sherlock felt around the edges of where the TRON game joined the wall, and then pushed. It swung open in a large arc, revealing a dark opening. Sherlock flicked his torch up, and shot John a slightly smug smile. "Yes, alright, go in." John rolled his eyes at that 'I-was-right' expression. Sherlock led the way, flicking the light around, and waving a hand gently in front, trying to clear out any dust from in front of his face. Moving across the room, he leant over what seemed to be an intergrated touch screen.
"Touch screens." he ran a hand over the warm monitor, bringing it to life. John paused and approached him, staring as he sweeped a hand through the dust, command boxes appearing.
"This isn't 1980's technology. No way." he said, softly. Looking around, weilding his torch, John began to investigated the boxes stacked in the room, blowing dust off things. A strange whirr caught his attention and he moved to what looked like an old fashioned film camera, investigating it. Leaving a finger trail in the dust he approached the frowning Sherlock, who had now sat down. "This was used, John. He came here before he left. That door was last locked from the inside." he began to type, nimble fingers dancing on the integrated keypad, the lack of clicking noises somewhat odd. John peered over Sherlock's shoulder, watching as coding scrolled up and seemed to be rejected by other coding.
"What happened to his kid?"
"Major stockholder, somewhat of a rebel. Plays tricks on ENCOM." he murmured, as he worked. John frowned, "Maybe the kid's name is his password?" Sherlock paused, considering this, then frowned. "No." he murmured. "This isn't just passwords, John. The whole system is logged in." he frowned harder, wiped some more dust off the screen. "This is something... else." he glanced up, using his fingers with smooth movements that left more dust on the screen. Then he resumed typing, murmuring just underhis breath as he repeated the codec written above.
Tapping enter, he sat back, watching the screen. "Well, that was anticlimatic." John rolled his eyes as Sherlock stood, frowning. Then there was a low hum. Their eyes met and then heads moved in the same direction as the 'camera' swung it's head up, all four cylinders starting to glow. Then they were blinded.
"SHERLOCK!" John couldn't hear his own voice. It was a fraction of a second. The 'lock' echoed off and he staggered, looking around as the feeling like a thousand sparks against his skin faded. Sherlock was stood next to him, eyes huge. He swung in a circle, coat flaring like a dress, and shoved a hand in his pocket. Then he frowned, checked the other one. "The gun's gone." he breathed. John was staring at the lights all around him. Distant thunder rumbled, but it felt wrong, warped somehow. No - the opposite. Too clean, too strange. He looked up at Sherlock, "Where the hell are we?" he exclaimed, but hushed, low. He was shaking, wishing to god now that he hadn't taken the gun from Sherlock's coat and stashed it somewhere safe, sick of the risks the detective took with the weapons.
Sherlock frowned. He read the panic, turned in a half circle. "We've been transported." he murmured, brain thundering through the possibilities. "We're somewhere... other. This is no place on earth, John." excitement sparked his tone. A grin twitched his lips. "That wasn't a drug. It was a teleporter, but... " he looked around. "Light. Black. Metals, leather..." he turned in a half circle, watching as the ground began to fall away. His head snapped up and he watched the approach of the huge machine, flying through the air. John backed into him, shaking, "Sherlock, the floor's going." he whispered, voice cracking.
"We're on a hex." he murmured.
"A what?" John frowned, a hand clinging to Sherlock's coat, thinking he meant magic.
"A hexidecimal, John. We're inside the computer."
John didn't have time to fight with this stupid, crazy, terrifying conclusion before the machine had landed. He whirled to stand side by side with Sherlock, who had widened his stance slightly at the two approaching bicycle couriers, apparently, although their outfits glowed a startling, rich papaya orange. John was too confused, more afraid than he'd been in any war, to deal with this. Sherlock spoke, in his commanding voice, "What is the name of this place?" he asked. Then he and John were both grabbed.
"You have no disks. You will be reassigned."
There was something wrong in their movements. Robotic.
"Programmes." Sherlock breathed, and moved with them. John was shaking, trying to fight. "John, stop!" he ordered, sharply, seeing his friend's terrified eyes, "Stay with me. We need to know what they can do - so we can leave." he found himself shoved into place. Someone jabbered, strapped in further down the line, and he frowned, listening -
"Not the games not the games not the games not the games-"
John trembled as they took off, trying to breathe steady. He looked at the person next to him, confused by the evident calm, then back at Sherlock. "Where the hell are we?" he hissed, squirming at his bonds. Sherlock frowned.
"Honestly, John, do you never listen? We're inside the computer system. Kevin Flynn was a genius, you could tell by his products. He created this world. These are programmes." he murmured, fast and low, only half of it being received. John latched onto one thought.
"So the case..."
"Yes. I've solved it." he murmured, looking around. "Kevin Flynn has been trapped inside a computer system for twenty years."
Silence had fallen except for the rumble of the machine as it flew through the air. Sherlock was focused, as close to relaxed as he could get with excitement zinging through him like an electric current. He kept glancing at John, glad to see the Soldier's face in place, that John would be strong now, determined. Maybe it was worse because he was older - but the difference was barely six years. He frowned slightly, then resumed his focus. "John. We're landing." he murmured, and it was true. It settled so smoothly, Sherlock was surprised, and then they were lowered. He tensed slightly, "Keep silent." he murmured to John as three more bicycle couriers approached. He watched with bright eyes as it moved along, the words clicking through the Sherlock's head. Programmes, being repaired, being retrained? Made for what? A computer system with no more external output, if they're recycling programmes -
then, "Games."
The babbling creature from before had huge eyes. Sherlock ignored his shouts, kept his head up, staring at the glowing helmet, seeing no eyes.
"Games."
Then on to John.
"Games."
He swallowed hard, looked at John. "Ready to play?" he breathed. John nodded smartly back. But then there was a commotion. Both turned to watch, Sherlock focused, John concerned. The wild programme had broken free. The guards in pursuit as he ran over a massive glowing ring. They couldn't see but they both heard the screams of "ERASE ME!" echoing. The guards slid to a stop, looking down the hole, and there was a noise that made every programme on the rack tremble slightly. A shattering noise, like sugar glass.
John gave Sherlock a questioning look. But then his friend was being pulled away, eyes widening. "Don't fight them!" he called to John, as he was positioned. There was an electric current in his legs and another glow. Forcing his breathing to stay even, Sherlock slowly rotated out of sight. Then the floor sealed over again. John fought the urge to resist, to fight, feeling the pure strength in these ... creatures. He jerked as his legs were sealed and down he spiralled. Watching cautiously as the world resolved itself into a dark area, huge, hall-like. The glow faded from his legs.
"Hello?"
There was a rumble. He froze and swallowed hard. Then there was a soft, mechanical swoosh, and all around him, doors swung open, revealing stunning young women, all dressed in pure white, high heels, feminine and yet something... wrong about them. Latex bodysuits, it looked like, with glowing lights attached. They surrounded him, inspecting with eyes that put him in mind of carnivorous birds. He stiffened his spine. "My name is John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. I order you to tell me where we are." he forced out, proud of how even his voice was. He swallowed sharply as they held up a nail, revealing a diamond tip that glowed. Panic set in. It looked like a scalpel, and he thought - games? Science? But before he could think to move hands were sliding smoothly over his body.
He watched as his clothes fell away, leaving him nude. He covered himself up, with a soft exclamation, but they were already stepping away from him. Then a strange, warm tingle spread over him. He moved his hands away, watching the spray form to his body, revealing muscles that had slightly lost their army firmness, the hint of pudge normally hidden under thick jumpers, but still well toned for a man in his fourties. He exhaled hard, holding his arms out as it formed to him, like a flexible second skin, protecting his form. He briefly considered how he'd go to toilet, but shook off the thought. Maybe computers didn't eat? Oh, jesus this was insane. The women turned and he followed their eyeline to a metal slab.
"Programme. You will now recieve a disc." the voice was masculine, smooth, but with a strange metallic zing below. "This disc will record all you experience. If you lose your disc, you will be automatically submitted for deresolution." one of the women was approaching him with what looked like a frisbee. He held still as she locked it to his back. For a moment he seemed to see a ghost echo of his life - a fraction of a flash, childhood, school, army, Sherlock, then he was back in the moment.
"Where am I going?" he asked the women as they backed away, watching him.
"To the games." a blonde one spoke.
"What do I have to do?" he replied, taking a panicked half step. She smiled.
"Survive."
Jesus christ, where was Sherlock?
He'd been in that hall, watching the women be folded away into goddamned pods in the wall, like robots - oh jesus they were robots, weren't they? If they were computers. It was so confusing - and then he found himself stood on a platform like glowing glass, surrounded by thousands of - people? He hoped they were people. But then again this was supposed to be a computer simulation, wasn't it? He didn't know.
The voice echoed around him. The chants. Disc wars! It echoed in his head. He took a fighting stance, grasping his frisbee and holding it in his hand. The box he was in was moving, matching up. A female voice echoed around his ears, and he tightened his grip on the disc from his back. So he was fighting with his life, then. Oddly metaphoric. He licked his dry lips. There was now a box in that orange in line with him now, a bicycle courier in there, he assumed looking at him, also holding a disc. He chanced a glance and saw there were dozens of matched pods floating into place. He didn't have time to look for Sherlock.
"Combatants nine and eleven." he heard the echo, knew that meant him and the bicycle courier. "Begin."
He barely hit the floor in time. The disc bounced above him, returned to the hand of the cour- of Nine, who had dropped into a battle crouch. "Bit not good." John jerked to his feet and threw it. Alongside rugby, he'd quite liked the discus, but his lack of practice showed. Nine snapped up his disc, the electric edge bouncing his own back, and he caught it with surprising ease, facing the enemy. His heart was pounding, adreneline fuelled his body. Just like treating a patient in the rattle of gunfire, he felt his brain hone to a razor edge. He dropped, flung it, jerked up and somehow jumped, ducking again to avoid it on the way back.
Nine wasn't so clever.
John got to see what deresolution was. His disc flew through and there was no blood, or gore, no fighting on. The other just shattered, cubes - pixels? - flying everywhere, scattering. He breathed hard, looking around again, and now his pod was moving again.
"Combatant Eleven. Victor. Combatant Ten. Victor." his heart thundered again. Ten. Sherlock had gone before him. And if he was eleven... Ten.
He watched the colour of his pod shimmer to orange and found a blue pod coming in line with his. His mouth was dry. In front of him, in another skintight black suit, blue lights gleaming, stood Sherlock. He was breathing hard, and he clutched a disc, his own eyes burning bright, reflecting the blue light. His eyes widened at the sight of John, who couldn't help but be slight envious about Sherlock's physique, before he caught himself. He moved to the edge of the pod and looked down, seeing one below him. Sherlock approached, too, and stood the few feet away. John felt slightly concerned about the energy in Sherlock's body, but relaxed when he put his disc away. John did, too, barely hearing the words from the woman. "Ready to jump?" Sherlock whispered. John grinned. "Oh god, yes."
They leapt at the same time. Sherlock landed lighter, bounding to his feet, as the pod echoed like glass. The combatants inside looked up.
"Combatant Ten. Violation. Combatant Eleven. Violation."
They ran, jumped again, but this time were cut short. "Delivery to the left!" John swerved as he called, but they were surrounded, grabbed. A smooth male voice emerged over the airwaves, as they were held, the crowd baying. This never happened.
"
"Identify yourselves, programmes." Sherlock glanced at John. John swallowed hard. The voice spoke again, more impatiently. "Identify yourselves, programmes!"
John took a deep breath, then shouted out, forcing his voice into the empty space.
"WE'RE NOT PROGRAMMES!"
And the crowd fell silent.
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