We're in the computer. Alan had said it himself, out loud, but he still couldn't quite believe it. This had to be a dream, or a hallucination brought on by a significant lack of sleep over the last two days. It felt real, though-the glowing doorknob in his hand was smooth beneath his skin, and even the air felt different, almost staticky, the same way it felt just before a thunderstorm hit.
A light flashed from farther down the street, and Alan stepped back, pulling the door in front of him. He kept it cracked open, staring through the gap as something big and black drifted closer. He widened the gap another inch, trying to figure out what the shape was, and as the massive shadow drew level with the arcade, his eyes widened, his glasses sliding down his nose as he stared up in utter shock.
"You're kidding..." he breathed. He had seen the shape so many times, too many to count, watched as Flynn destroyed ship after ship with a flick of his wrist: a Recognizer. Larger than he had ever imagined one, the ship hovered past the arcade. It moved with a low humming sound, more like the buzz of an old computer than an engine. The harsh scarlet lights lining the edges of the ship reflected in the rain-soaked street below. Alan watched silently as it passed, too dumbstruck to move. The Recognizer crept farther down the street, and he pushed the door open a little wider to watch as it turned a corner and out of sight.
That settled it. He really was in the computer; he remembered finding similar designs for upgraded Recognizers among Flynn's files after his disappearance, and a ship like that would never function in the real world anyway. As Alan attempted to fully wrap his mind around the idea of actually being digitized, a soft ringing noise sounded across the square, emanating from the enormous tower to his right. Startled, he pulled the door in front of him again, peering through the gap.
Sliding doors set into the building's base opened to reveal what looked like an elevator. A figure—a person—exited the elevator and started across the street. Alan's mind jumped immediately to Flynn, but the person, whoever they were, was too small to be him. Their clothes glowed in places with a light similar to that of the surrounding buildings.
Alan watched uneasily as the person hurried across the square in front of the arcade and entered another towering skyscraper. It was good to know he wasn't alone in this place, but who was that? Some kind of inhabitant of the computer itself? Would they know Flynn? Now that he was here, Alan was sure that this was where Flynn had gone. No one knew about the basement office, let alone the existence of an entire city inside a computer. Flynn had to have been here—this was what he had wanted to show Alan all those years ago, it had to be. Perhaps he was still here, just stuck, somehow. After twenty years, it was a long shot, but even so, now that he had thought it, the idea lodged itself firmly in Alan's brain.
"Don't set yourself up for disappointment, Bradley," he muttered to himself, but he could feel the tiny spark of hope again. If Flynn was here…he shook his head. He didn't know what he would do if he did find Flynn, but either way, he wouldn't find anything if he stayed here. He edged out of the building and shut the door quietly behind him, staring around the streets for any sign of movement. He needed to find someone he could question, but he was in no hurry to run into one of those Recognizers.
He stepped down onto the street, moving cautiously, and looked over his shoulder at the building he'd exited. It was a near replica of the arcade on the outside, too, complete with arches and giant sign, except for its size—like the other buildings, it towered into the sky. Alan knew as he looked at it that the resemblance to the arcade he knew was no coincidence.
The elevator dinged behind him again, and he whirled around. The elevator doors slid open, and two more figures emerged, this time wearing uniforms and helmets that glowed with the same scarlet as the Recognizer. This struck Alan as a bad sign, but it was too late to hide: one of them had already spotted him, and was heading right for him. Before Alan could speak, the man seized his shoulder and forced him to turn.
"Hey—" Alan began, but was ignored. The man turned him back around brusquely.
"Another program without a disc," the man growled to his partner. "And just before a Game, too. A stray."
The other man grunted in agreement and took Alan's arm, dragging him around to face him. The grip tightened painfully as the guard stopped, tugging Alan a little closer. Alan couldn't see the man's eyes through the visor of his helmet, but he knew he was being stared at. The man reached up and, to Alan's confusion, pulled his glasses off his face. Before Alan had a chance to ask what the hell was going on, the man spoke. "This one goes directly to his Excellency."
Alan snatched his glasses out of the man's hand. "Excuse me," he snapped, "but what the hell are you—"
"Quiet, program. You are being detained," the first man said. The second stayed silent, but looked up, staring at something above Alan's head. Alan turned and saw another Recognizer descending down onto the street a few feet behind him. Without a word, both guards took him by the arm and half-marched, half-dragged him to the ship. Alan put up a token resistance, but not too much; he was pretty sure either of them could break him in half.
The middle platform of the ship dropped down to ground level as it landed, and another man in a guard uniform stepped onto the street. The second guard holding Alan let go of him long enough to step forward and exchange quiet words with the new one. Alan replaced his glasses on his face and strained to listen. Their voices were low, but one word was distinct enough for Alan to hear: "…Tron…"
Tron? The video game? His old security program? What did either of them have to do with any of this? The guards fell silent, and both of them turned their heads to look at Alan for a moment before the third guard nodded. The man—program?-still digging his gloved fingers into Alan's arm pressed him forward, forcing Alan onto the empty platform. The platform began to slide upward again, and something clamped over Alan's shoes, locking him in place. He looked down to see what was holding him and immediately regretted it—the surface of the platform was transparent, and the ship was already rising. His stomach twisted as the street dropped away, and soon the ship was level with the top of the arcade skyscraper.
As they rose above the height of the buildings, Alan let out a breath in awe. The city was colossal in every sense of the word, stretching outward in all directions, and every street and structure shone with strange blue-white light. The ship drifted through a misty cloud-bank, and a small, ridiculous part of him wondered how clouds could form inside a computer. He didn't have much time to contemplate; the ship quickly began to descend, aiming for what looked like a massive stadium near the edge of the city. Beyond the limits of the city lay an enormous mesa. Black mountains dominated the distant horizon, barely visible against the dark sky, but the stadium blocked the view as the Recognizer drew close to a docking bay set into the nearest wall.
The locks on his shoes released, and Alan barely had enough time to take a breath before the guards had him by the arms again. They steered him off the ship and down one long hallway, then turned him down another. More identically dressed programs lined the walls at intervals or marched past as his escort hurried him forward. Most of them continued to stare straight ahead as they passed, but others followed their advance with a slight shift of their helmets.
Finally, they reached the entrance of a large room. The opposite wall was a window that stretched from floor to ceiling, and the inside of the stadium was visible beyond the glass. Framed by the window was a program in sweeping robes and dark helmet, looking out at the bright arena while lounging on a low seat. The lights set into the robe and helmet glowed a deep yellow, and so did the disc set into his back. Beside the seat stood a pale, bald man in another strange outfit, his light lines orange. He held what looked like a tablet in his hands, surveying it with a worried expression through a transparent visor set into his scalp, but he looked up as the guards deposited Alan inside the room. The man's brow rose a fraction behind his visor, and he leaned forward to murmur something to the robed program, keeping his gaze fixed on Alan.
The program looked up at the visored man, then got to their feet and turned to face Alan. They said nothing, though something about the way the helmet tilted told Alan they were surprised.
Alan waited, but when the program stayed silent, he squared his shoulders and said, "Are you in charge here?"
The man in the visor frowned at him. "Speak when you're spoken to, User."
"User?" Alan asked. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"You are the User of the Tron program, correct?"
Alan stared at him, nonplussed. "I…well, I wrote a security program called Tron years ago, yes. What does that have to do with anything? It's been ages since I even looked at the coding for it." He looked at the helmeted figure, hoping for some kind of explanation, but they only continued to watch him silently. Alan clenched his jaw for a moment, quelling his frustration, before continuing, "Look, my name is Alan Bradley. I don't know what's going on or what you want with me, but I'm not here to cause trouble. All I want is to find someone who might have been in this city a long time ago. His name is Kevin Flynn."
That did get a reaction, but not from the helmeted program. Instead the man in the visor flinched, and glanced at his commander. The program ignored him, continuing to survey Alan for a moment more. Then, with a twitch of their head, the opaque glass of the helmet suddenly shifted, receding into segments that slid backwards until they disappeared into the collar of the robe. The face that had been hidden by the helmet looked at Alan, and smiled.
The expression was so achingly familiar that Alan felt his lungs empty as if he'd been punched in the gut. He took a small, shaky step forward. "Kevin?" he asked.
Kevin Flynn's smile widened, a perfect copy of the one he had worn the last time Alan had seen him. He looked just as he had then, his face smooth other than the ever-present laugh lines, his hair the same shade of brown with no gray in sight. Flynn swept around the seat, the hem of his robe flaring over the tops of his boots. He was still smiling.
"Alan!" he said, "Man, what a surprise!" His voice was the same too, warm and expressive. He stopped in front of Alan, hands folded behind his back, and added, "Never thought I'd see your face again."
Alan stared at Flynn. His voice didn't seem to be working, which was just as well, because his thoughts were barely coherent enough for words. Flynn was alive. He was here. Here, right in front of him. Alan had spent so long clinging to the hope that he might someday hear Flynn's voice, see his smile again, that it had almost become more of a habit than a belief. Now that day was here, and Alan didn't know what to say.
Flynn was watching him, still smiling. "You okay, buddy?" he asked.
Alan blinked rapidly, ignoring the prickling at the corners of his eyes, and tried to speak. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm…" His voice died away, and then to his surprise a shaky laugh bubbled out of his mouth. He reached out and touched Flynn's shoulder, laughing louder out of sheer relief. Alan could touch him, he was real, not a memory or a dream.
Flynn glanced at the hand on his shoulder and grinned, the corners of his eyes crinkling a little. "I take it you're happy to see me," he said.
Alan shook his head, still laughing a little. "You have no idea," he answered, his voice cracking. He wanted to say more, but couldn't find the words. Instead he pulled Flynn close and hugged him, hoping it would be enough. His glasses dug into his cheekbone as he held his friend tight, locking his arms around Flynn's torso. Flynn slipped an arm around him and patted his back, chuckling lightly. Alan let out another quiet laugh, but the heat building in his cheeks told him he was close to crying. He continued the hug a few extra seconds, trying to pull himself together, before finally letting go. He didn't quite meet Flynn's gaze as he stepped back, a little embarrassed, but Flynn squeezed his shoulder.
"Better?" he asked, grinning again.
Alan smiled shakily. "Yeah. Better."
The grin widened. "Good." Flynn gestured at the two guards still standing behind Alan, who moved to stand against the wall. "I was pretty shocked when Jarvis told me they'd found someone with your description downtown, Alan," he continued, nodding at the visored program still standing off to the side. "Wasn't sure you'd ever find this place."
"I got your page," Alan told him. "Last night. I called Lora and Roy about it, but we weren't sure it would really mean anything… "
"My page? Huh. That's cool." Flynn looked contemplative. "Are they here with you?"
"No, it's just me. I thought Sam should check out the arcade first, but he didn't want to—it was late, and he was tired-so I did it myself." Alan shook his head again. "Like I said, I didn't think we'd find anything. Have you been here this whole time?" He didn't give Flynn time to answer. Now that he'd had a moment to collect himself, there was only one question he really wanted to ask. "Why didn't you come home?"
Flynn patted him on shoulder. "Long story, man. I'll tell you all about it soon, but first, I've got a Game to watch." He flashed Alan another smile, and then he stepped away, sweeping back up to the—there was no other word for it—throne positioned in front of the wide window. "Come up here, Alan," he called, settling languidly on the throne. "I want you to see."
Alan blinked, a little bemused. He'd been gone for twenty years and he wanted to show Alan a game? Well, maybe that wasn't so surprising after all. Alan followed him to the window. It really was a stadium they were overlooking, more massive than any Alan had ever seen before. A huge crowd filled the stands, roaring so loud that Alan could hear them, standing this close to the glass. A strange mechanism floated above the floor of the stadium—a series of interconnected stages, holding small figures standing on either end of each stage. A flashing marquee hovered above the stage, showing what were apparently names, with a large number flashing next to each one.
"A competition?" he asked, glancing at Flynn.
"Disc Wars," Flynn replied. He settled back, resting a boot on the edge of the throne. "It's starting."
A cool voice issued throughout the stadium. "All combatants, prepare for Disc Wars." The crowd roared its approval, and all of the figures on the stages started moving at once. Flashes of light shot from a number of them, sparking and glinting . The topmost stage was visible from the window. The program on the left—someone named "Aurora", judging by the marquee—leapt to catch the light speeding towards her, and Alan realized it was a disc, the same as the one on Flynn's back. Apparently they could be used as weapons. Aurora whirled and flung her disc again, sending it spinning through the air. It struck not her opponent but the floor of the stage, shattering a section before rebounding back to Aurora.
Her opponent—"Perlis"—threw his disc too, but Aurora rolled out of the way, flinging her disc as she found her footing again. The disc hit its mark this time. Alan flinched, imagining how much the impact would hurt—and then he sucked in a breath in shock. Perlis didn't just fall over—he disintegrated, shattering into hundreds of cubes that littered the glass floor of the stage. A few of them fell through the missing section of the floor, bouncing off the ceiling of the stage below.
Alan looked at Flynn, who was observing the matches with an air of casual interest. Flynn glanced at Alan and nodded back at the view. "She's fast," he said.
"She…" Alan's mouth was dry. "Did she kill him?"
Flynn shrugged. "Every game has a loser." He looked back at the stadium. The stages were rearranging, leveling out for new match-ups. There were fewer programs now. A greasy, heavy weight settled in the pit of Alan's stomach.
"You call this a game?" he asked, watching as Aurora sent her disc whirring after a new opponent. "They're murdering each other, Kevin."
Flynn kept his eyes on the arena. "They're conscripts. This is their sentence."
Aurora's disc ricocheted off another section of the stage floor as she dodged her new opponent's attack. The opponent slipped as she tried to leap over the gap to catch her disc, and she slammed against the edge of the gap before tumbling down to the stage below. She too burst on impact, sending cubes spraying into the air.
Alan tore his gaze away to stare at Flynn, the skin of his neck growing hot beneath his collar. He struggled to keep his voice level as he said, "This is what you've been doing here this whole time? Watching people kill each other for fun?" His hands were shaking, and he clenched them into fists. "This is horrific, Flynn."
Flynn looked at him now, just watching him for a moment. Then he smiled again. It was a particular kind of smile, almost a smirk—one Alan had seen hundreds of times before, at board meetings, in interviews, award ceremonies, even private dinners with just him and Lora and Flynn. It was the smile that meant Flynn was one, two, a dozen steps a head of you, and he knew it, and he loved it. He was winning whatever game he thought you were playing, and he couldn't wait for you to realize it.
But this smile was different. There was always a warmth in the Flynn he remembered. When Flynn smiled at you like that, he knew he was winning the game, but it wasn't out of malice, or a desire to watch you lose. If you were playing a game, it was one you were playing together. The Flynn before him now was smiling like he knew that winning was an absolute certainty, because he would crush anything that denied him his victory.
A cheer rose up from the crowd, audible through the glass of the window. Flynn turned away from Alan once more, his gaze directed at the stage. Alan opened his mouth to argue, but another voice drowned out his own—the announcer was speaking again.
"Initiate final round," said the smooth voice. Alan couldn't help it; he turned to watch, clenching his jaw.
Aurora was standing on one end of a single massive stage, holding her disc out in front of her defensively. Opposite her, a new program stood, his lightsuit and helmet almost entirely black save a few glints of red.
The announcer spoke again. "Combatant 12 versus Rinzler."
The opponent—Rinzler—reached behind his back and lifted his disc, bringing it forward to hold it with both hands. With a twist, Rinzler's disc split in two, and he lifted the twin discs in the air to the roaring approval of the crowd.
"That's not—" Alan started, appalled, but Flynn interrupted him.
"Fair?" Flynn chuckled, glancing up at him. "Where's your sense of competition? I like to think of it as...taking advantage of a unique skill-set. Oh, shh, it's starting."
He was right—Rinzler wasted no time, launching both of his discs at Aurora, who deflected one and spun out of the way of the other before hurling her own disc. Rinzler dodged it, leaping into the air with a graceful twist as the disc passed beneath him. He landed lightly as Aurora's disc bounced off the wall behind him. The disc went whirling back towards Rinzler, and Alan thought it would catch him on the back of the head, but Rinzler ducked almost lazily. The disc flew over him and back to Aurora as the crowd cheered.
Rinzler rose to his feet, tensing to throw his discs again, but then he stopped and spun, now sprinting towards the wall. Aurora hesitated a moment before heading towards a platform on her left, away from her opponent. She took a running leap towards it—and kept rising, higher and higher until she slammed into the ceiling of the stage.
Gravity reversal? Alan frowned in confusion and glanced at Flynn, who was still watching the match. Flynn was holding two spheres in his hand, slowly rotating them in his palm. Alan looked at the stage, where Aurora was currently rolling away from another disc attack, and then back at the spheres. As he watched, Flynn reversed the direction of the spheres, and a shout rose up from the stadium. Alan turned in time to see Aurora fall to the floor of the stage, slipping as her boot hit the edge of a platform.
He looked back at Flynn, who was smirking as he watched Aurora struggle to her feet. Alan stepped towards him. "Are you doing that?"
Flynn turned his smirk to Alan. "Yep. Makes things a little more interesting, don't you think?"
"More what? Flynn, stop it!" Alan made to snatch the spheres away from Flynn, but before he could move any closer, his arms were wrenched behind his back and he was forced onto his knees. He looked up to see a guard on either side of him, holding him in place. Flynn stood up, glancing at Alan before looking back once again to the arena.
On the stage, Rinzler was bearing down on Aurora, pinning her to a wall. She threw herself to the side, dodging a disc, and rolled back to her feet, but Rinzler was on her instantly—he swept her legs out from under her with a kick and pinned her to the floor, a disc glowing at her throat.
The crowd was louder than ever, and now Alan could hear them chanting. Derezz! Derezz! He tried to wrench his arms free, but the guards' grips were like stone. The chanting continued, reaching a crescendo, and on the stage, Rinzler looked up towards their window, still holding his disc to Aurora's throat, and waited.
Standing at the window, Flynn made a contemplative noise, gazing down at Rinzler thoughtfully. Alan looked between them, and knew what was about to happen.
"Don't," he said, staring up at Flynn in sheer disbelief. Kevin Flynn would never purposefully choose to execute someone. "Kevin, don't."
Flynn looked at him for a moment with those familiar blue eyes, then turned back to face the arena. "Finish the game," he said. His voice echoed throughout the stadium, so loud it reverberated in the walls.
Below, Rinzler inclined his head momentarily before lifting his disc and punching it into Aurora's chest. The woman shattered, cubes rolling outward from the impact. Rinzler climbed to his feet, replacing his discs on his back, and looked up at Flynn again to thunderous applause. His helmet shifted slightly, and Alan knew the program was looking at him. He saw Rinzler tilt his head a little, but then the stage was hidden from view—Flynn was looming above him, smiling again.
The guards jerked Alan to his feet. Alan's breathing was ragged, and when he spoke, his voice was rough with rage. "Who are you?" he growled, glaring at Flynn. "You're not Kevin Flynn. He would never do something like this."
Flynn's grin widened, showing his teeth. "Finally," he said. "Took you long enough." He leaned closer, his gaze boring into Alan's. "Name's Clu. I'm not your friend, Alan, but I am very, very happy to see you." He stepped back and gave a nod to the guards. "Take him to the lightcycle grid."
The guards redoubled their grip on Alan's arms and started steering him toward the door. Alan dug his heels into the floor, but they carried him along easily, implacable. "Where is Kevin?" Alan yelled over his shoulder as they reached the threshold. "What did you do to him!?" The guards pushed him through the doorway, but he could still hear Clu's answer before the doors slid shut.
"The same thing I'm going to do to you…User."
The thundering of the crowd was tumultuous as the guards marched Alan into the arena from the carrier ship. He stumbled a little, his new boots feeling unnatural as the guards propelled him forward; they had forced him into a lightsuits on the way into the stadium. Judging by the armor covering the suit, it wasn't designed for anything pleasant. As they approached the center, the roar grew louder. Alan still couldn't believe the sheer size of the stadium—it seemed to tower forever into the sky, every last seat filled with screaming programs. He almost regretted that he had rescued his glasses—they made it too easy to see the hundreds of faces jeering down at him.
His escort halted in the center of the arena, and Jarvis stepped forward. "Greetings, programs!" he called, holding his arms out to the roars of the crowd. Alan flinched at the familiar phrase. How many times had he heard Flynn say that? Jarvis continued, his voice echoing above the tumult, "Oh, what an occasion we have here before us! Our great leader has uncovered the presence of a vile interloper here in our city. Yes, programs, we have here in our midst…a User!"
The crowd's roar turned to jeers. Jarvis nodded, pointing at Alan with a gloved hand. "A User." Alan met his disgusted gaze with a flat stare of his own. Jarvis turned back to the crowd, holding out his arms once again. "And not just any User, oh no—this User claims to be the creator of the infamous, the nefarious, the notorious…Tron."
Tron again? Why was the Tron program so important? Alan still didn't understand, but the crowd apparently did—they shouted their disapproval. Jarvis nodded gravely. "But no matter—that abhorrent program was vanquished by our great leader cycles ago. So, what to do? What does this User deserve? Might I suggest," he asked, smirking, "the challenge of the Grid?" A roar of approval met his words as he continued, "And who best to battle this singular opponent than the program who freed us all from the treachery of this repugnant User's creation?"
The roar grew to mountainous heights as across from Alan, a mechanism caused a spiral staircase to descend, amber fireworks exploding across the sky above the stadium as it reached the ground. Jarvis's narration continued as Clu descended the stairs, his armor accented with goldenrod circuitry. Even from his place in the center of the arena, Alan could hear the confident thump of Clu's boots on the steps. Golden fireworks burst above the crowd as he approached. Jarvis's narration was reaching a climax, the crowd almost beside itself in excitement, but Alan ignored them. Though he couldn't see the program's eyes through his helmet, he knew Clu was watching him, and he refused to look scared in front of this imposter, who or whatever he was.
Clu paused just in front of Alan and leaned toward him a few inches, as if sharing a secret. "I've been waiting a long time for this," he murmured, his voice slightly distorted by the pitch black helmet.
Alan looked up at the spectacle of the crowd, lit by the deep yellow flashes of fireworks still exploding in the air above the stadiums, then back at Clu, eyebrows raised. "A bit over the top, don't you think?" he replied, and to his relief, his voice didn't shake. Clu stepped back after a moment's pause, and Alan balled his hands into fists to hide that they were trembling.
Jarvis held out a box to Clu, and exchanged quiet words with him—the crowd's cheering was too loud for Alan to hear, but Jarvis looked a little cowed as he turned and held out the box to Alan, leaning away as if worried Alan might infect him with something. In the box was some kind of baton, with four buttons on the side. The ends of the baton flared with light when Alan lifted it from the box. Behind him, four blue-circuited programs were escorted to the arena floor, wearing lightsuits identical to his.
Without a word, Clu turned and began to run towards one end of the stadium, gaining momentum with every step. He leapt into the air, bringing the baton in front of him to grasp it with both hands, and then in a brilliant display of light, a shape akin to a motorcycle formed in midair, solidifying beneath Clu just as its wheels hit the ground. The gold of its circuits flashed as Clu turned sharply, a group of programs on red lightcycles forming up behind him. One of the programs behind Alan yanked him out of the way as the pack of red-circuited racers sped right towards them, missing the programs by inches. The slipstream was so strong that it sent Alan stumbling backwards.
The announcer's cool voice sounded over the stadium once more. "Grid is live. Initiate lightcycle battle."
The conscripted programs quickly materialized their bikes and set off in the opposite direction of the red racers. The program who had pulled Alan aside let go of his arm. "You've got no chance, User," he said as he lifted his own baton. "Their bikes are faster than ours—use the levels." And with that he took off, following his teammates.
Alan stood frozen in the center of the stadium, at a loss. He'd ridden a motorbike before, but that was decades ago—Flynn had practically begged him to take a spin on his Ducati, and Alan had eventually relented. It hadn't been that bad, but it definitely wasn't his favorite method of transportation. Still, he didn't see that he had any other choice, and he didn't want to know what it would feel like having one of those bikes run him over. Feeling a little silly, he took a running start and twisted the baton as he leapt, copying what he'd seen.
Light flashed, and the shape of the bike formed around him. The landing jarred his bones as the wheels of his lightcycle hit the floor of the arena. A helmet formed around his head, too, which he was extremely grateful for. He gripped the handles of the bike tightly, afraid he might crash, but the handling of the bike was surprisingly smooth as he sped up to join the pack of blue racers speeding towards the opposite end of the arena.
The pack split up just as he drew level with them, and he turned to follow one of them, still unsure what exactly he was meant to do. As they peeled off again down the center of the arena, a jet of light issued from the back of the cycle ahead of him. Alan swerved to avoid the jet, and moments later a similar ribbon issued from his own bike.
A voice sounded in his ears, coming from inside his helmet; it was the same program who had pulled him out of the way. "You have to run them into your light ribbon, User," he said. "It's the only way to win."
"Won't that hurt them?" Alan thought he knew the answer, but these programs seemed so fragile, and while he was pretty sure they meant to hurt him, he didn't want to be responsible for killing one of them. The memory of all those programs in the disc arena disintegrating into cubes made him clench the handles of his cycle tighter.
Incredulous laughter echoed in his helmet. "That's the point," the program responded. "They're not gonna show us any—look out, here they come." A red cycle was speeding towards them up ahead, a light ribbon trailing behind it. "Don't follow me, User," the blue program told him, and veered suddenly to the right, hurtling away.
"Thanks for the help," Alan muttered. He glanced behind him; the red racer was ignoring the blue program, instead aiming straight for Alan. Alan leaned to his left and dipped down a ramp to the lower level of the arena, heading for a section free of cycles. The red racer followed, and Alan leaned forward, hoping to gain some speed, but the blue cycles really did seem slower—the red cycle followed him with ease, drawing closer every second. It was almost on top of him now. Alan swerved up another ramp, intending to head for one of the arena walls, but as he reached the top another red cycle pulled in front of him, blocking the way with its light ribbon.
"Go right!" someone yelled in his ear, and Alan obeyed instinctively; he twisted his cycle to the right, and the red racer following just behind him smashed into the light ribbon as Alan sped away. Alan could see the shower of cubes from the corner of his eye. He gritted his teeth and drove on.
The blue program pulled up beside him, laughing triumphantly. "Just like that," he said. "Come on, let's take care of the next one. Follow me." He raced off, and Alan followed close behind, ignoring the shiver through him as he realized the blue program intended to kill another racer. The second red cycle was just ahead of them. They pulled up on either side of the racer, boxing him in.
"Speed up, User!" the blue program yelled. Alan leaned forward, gaining momentum. His newfound partner did the same, catching the red racer between them. The wheels of the red cycle skidded on the arena floor. The front wheel caught on Alan's, and the cycle tumbled, sending its racer crashing to the ground. The blue program shouted something, but Alan didn't hear—the red program landed directly in front of his wheel, and Alan's bike flipped over. He lost his grip on the handle; the bike collapsed back into the baton, and Alan plummeted downward.
His head slammed against the floor of the arena with a crack. A starbust of pain flashed behind his eyes, and everything blurred as he rolled to a stop. He laid there, motionless and winded, staring up at the dark sky visible past the highest stands of the arena. He blinked slowly, only vaguely aware of a distant voice telling him to hold on. His limbs felt almost transparent as he sluggishly sat up. He shook his head, trying to clear it, but the motion only made it hurt more.
Something was speeding his way. The blue program was heading for him, holding Alan's baton in one hand. Alan pushed himself up, trying to focus, and held out a hand to take the baton, but with a flash of gold, a new light cycle darted in front of him. Something sharp slashed into Alan's leg as it passed, and he heard a vicious laugh as he fell to his knees. Clu streaked away, still laughing, his gold disc spattered with red as he dragged the edge along the floor of the arena.
Alan could still see the blue program hurtling towards him through the transparent golden ribbon. The program turned sharply, trying to avoid the crash, but it was too late. The blue cycle smashed into the ribbon and exploded with the force of the impact. The program derezzed instantly, sending blue cubes shattering against the light ribbon. The baton he'd held moments before spun away.
There was a shout from the crowd, and Alan looked around wildly, panicking. Clu's circuits were a yellow blur as he rocketed back around toward Alan, gathering speed with every second. Alan struggled to his feet again, swaying unsteadily as the slash in his leg burned with pain. He fumbled for the disc on his back, not exactly sure what he was planning on doing with it, but he refused to go down with out at least trying to fight. Clu was almost on him now, just feet away, and Alan braced for the impact.
The sound of a motor revving reached him over the noise of the crowd. As his brain registered the noise, a black vehicle bigger than a light cycle shot in front of him, barring Clu's way. The vehicle's light ribbon was too big and too close for Clu to avoid; the front of his light cycle smashed into it, disintegrating into cubes, and Clu was sent flying as the momentum carried him onward. He fell heavily to the floor of the arena as the new vehicle pulled up directly beside Alan, who watched uncomprehendingly as a hatch on the car—tank—whatever it was-lifted up. A helmeted figure sat at the wheel, their circuits bright white.
"Get in!" the program called. The door of the passenger side slid open. Alan stumbled forward a little, wanting to immediately climb into the safety of the vehicle, but something held him back. How did he know this person wouldn't try to kill him too?
"Get in!" the program yelled again. Alan hesitated a second more before dragging himself into the passenger seat. Better to let this tank driver kill him than die at the hands of someone who looked like too much Flynn. The hatch lowered over him as the driver gunned the engine. Sweat was dripping into his eyes; he tore off his glasses—how had they not broken?-and wiped the sweat away clumsily with his fingers. When he lowered his hand, a scarlet stain was coating the fabric of his glove. He stared at it blankly. Whose blood was that?
"Are you okay?"
He looked to his left. The driver was looking at him. He tried to think of a response—his mind was moving so slowly—as the figure jerked the wheel of the car. The rear of the vehicle slammed into something, jostling Alan in his seat and sending a white-hot pain bolting through his leg.
"Hold on!" the driver yelled, and they slammed a button on the console next to the wheel.
"Who are you?" Alan asked, or tried to—his voice was slurred and too soft. His tongue felt heavy, his mouth dry. The pain in his leg was almost unbearable, and his head was pounding. He felt the vehicle shudder as something rumbled behind them. Was that an explosion? Somehow, he didn't really care. His head was too heavy to hold up; he leaned over the partition separating him from the driver, trying to steady himself. The driver pressed another button, and something—his vision was too unfocused to see what—rose up from the hood of the vehicle.
A moment later another explosion rocked the ground beneath their wheels. The wall of the stadium looming ahead of them blew apart. Had they done that? A gray film was eating at the edges of his vision. He felt a sudden sensation of weightlessness as the vehicle launched into the open air, and then another bolt of pain snaked through his leg as their wheels slammed to the ground again. Bile rose in his throat and he choked it back, swallowing hard, but the nausea didn't abate.
He dropped his head onto the partition's edge. He was distantly aware of a hand on his back, shaking him. He thought he could hear a voice above him somewhere, but it was muffled and indistinct. Wanting to answer, he swallowed again and pushed himself off of the partition, but the motion made his stomach turn, and he slumped over. He was suddenly too warm, like he'd stuck his head in a furnace. The hand was on his left shoulder now, holding him upright. Alan turned his head, trying to focus on the driver, but everything was too blurred. He felt his head thud back onto the partition. As his vision dissolved to black, Alan wondered if Flynn had ever felt this scared.
Chapter soundtrack:
"Yes" - Coldplay
"Rinzler" - Daft Punk
"Stadium Love" - Metric