The tires of the lightrunner skidded along the floor as Quorra pulled into the garage. Beside her, the User slumped a little more over the center partition, and she shifted her grip on his shoulder, trying to keep him upright. She parked the vehicle roughly, attempting to do everything one handed, and his head fell heavily on her shoulder as they came to a stop. The doors slid open, and she carefully leaned him against the partition before getting out and hurrying to the passenger side.

She hovered beside the vehicle and stared down at the User, at a loss. Calm. She had to be calm, or she wouldn't be able to help him. A sticky coldness on her neck made her shiver, and when she touched it, red glinted on her gloves. She reached out and gingerly tilted the User's head towards her. A red stain (blood, she remembered, Users bleed) had dripped from just above his left temple to his ear, smeared a little from resting on her shoulder. She carefully let his head fall back to the side, and glanced down; blood glistened as it seeped through the armor of his injured leg, too. How much blood could a User lose before it really hurt them? She wasn't sure, but she remembered Flynn saying that older Users were more fragile. This one seemed as old as Flynn, though 'fragile' was not a word she would use to describe her mentor.

She moved her hand to his shoulder and tapped it with her fingers. The User didn't move. "Hey," she said, gently shaking his shoulder this time, "can you hear me?" Again, there was no response, not even a twitch of the eyelids. She gave up on waking him. Now what? Would moving the User injure him more? She knew he was too heavy for her to lift from how hard it had been to keep him upright as she drove. She lingered for a moment longer, then turned on her heel and strode to the elevator that would take her up to the main floor. She didn't know what to do, but Flynn would.

The elevator rose far too slowly, and she stepped of the platform even before it clicked into place, her boots thumping against the white tile."Flynn," she said, "Flynn, come quick!"

"Quorra?" Flynn was seated in his usual place at the front of the room, meditating. He looked over his shoulder as she approached with a hand outstretched, ready to pull him up. The blood on the fingers of her gloves flashed in the light, and Flynn drew in a short breath. "What happened? You're—" He broke off, and Quorra knew they were thinking the same thing: programs didn't bleed, not even ISOs. He grabbed her wrist and stared at the blood, then looked up at Quorra's face. His eyes flickered to the stain at her neck.

"What happened?" he repeated, allowing her to pull him to his feet.

"I found—well, Clu found him, I had to step in—follow me!" She tugged him along to the platform, the blood on her gloves sticking against his skin. When they reached the center of the platform there was another small click and it began to lower once again.

"Who did you find, Quorra?" Flynn asked, his voice even. The walls rose swiftly as they descended.

"I heard programs talking about it outside the Arena—it was all over the City, they said Clu had found another User and was challenging them to a game, and I had to see if it was true." Her words spilled out quickly, clumsily; she wished she could be as calm as Flynn looked. The platform settled into place in the garage floor, and Quorra pulled him towards the lightrunner parked in the center of the room. "When I got there Clu already had him on the light cycle Grid, and I intervened—" She could see the body slumped over in the passenger seat again; the User hadn't moved. "But I can't get him out of the lightrunner myself, he's too heavy…"

She stopped. Flynn no longer seemed to be listening; he was staring at the User, his eyes wide and riveted to the man's face. His mouth had fallen open slightly in surprise, and he murmured, almost too quietly for her to hear, "Alan…"

He stepped closer to the lightrunner and bent down to rest on one knee. His eyes were still focused intently on the User's face, but the shock that had darkened his features was gone, replaced with its usual calm. Quorra stepped closer, looking between Flynn and the unconscious man in the passenger seat.

"He was talking when I got to him in the arena, but by the time we reached the Outlands he'd fallen asleep," she said. "I couldn't get him to wake up." She hesitated, not wanting to put her fear into words. "Is…is he…?"

Flynn reached out and laid two fingers on the man's neck, just below the jaw. He stayed that way for a moment, then dropped his hand. "He's not dead," he told her, "just unconscious. There's a heartbeat." He held the back of his hand just in front of the User's face, then added, "And he's breathing." He shifted slightly and tilted the User's head to examine the wound.

Quorra crouched down beside him. "They were saying he's Tron's User," she said quietly.

"They were right," Flynn said, gently brushing some of the man's hair out of the way to take a better look at the wound. "This is Alan Bradley."

Quorra looked back up at the User, a pang of excitement running through her. She had only seen Tron a few times from a distance, back before the Purge, but she knew all about his User. In her first cycles as his apprentice, Flynn had told her of his family, and how he had been close friends with the Users of Tron and Yori and Ram, the brave programs who had saved the old ENCOM System cycles ago. The Users had always sounded just as incredible as the programs they'd created. She'd loved to hear about the outside world, and he would fill the long cycles they spent confined in the hideout with dozens of stories about his old life. But that was a long time ago; the stories had grown less and less frequent, until they stopped being told at all. Flynn hadn't spoken of his family for hundreds of cycles.

But Quorra still remembered them. This was Alan Bradley, Flynn's business partner and one of his best friends, husband to Lora Baines, another close friend whose work had made it possible for Flynn to visit the Grid. According to Flynn, he and Alan had clashed often, but Flynn didn't seem to mind. 'He's stubborn, and kind of a grump,' he used to tell her laughingly, 'but you can't find a guy more dependable than Alan.' She watched silently as Flynn tried to wake his friend, with as little success as she had. Her hands clasped together tightly, the excitement marred. If she had been just a little quicker getting into the arena, he would be awake now.

"Quorra?"

She looked up quickly. Flynn was watching her. "Yes?" she said.

"How did he get hurt, exactly?" he asked, climbing to his feet.

She stood up too. "Clu was making him race on the light cycle grid. I didn't see all of it, but I think his cycle flipped and he landed…badly." She glanced down as his leg again and added, "Clu went after him with his disc, too."

"Hmm." His expression was neutral, but she had been with him long enough to know that he was worried; she could tell by the set of his shoulders. "I'm not too concerned about the leg. The cut isn't deep. But his head…" Flynn sighed through his nose. "That gash isn't deep either, but he probably has a concussion."

"A concussion?" She had never heard the word before, but it didn't sound pleasant.

"If a User hits their head too hard, their brain can bounce against their skull. Sometimes it can cause a lot of damage. But we don't have the equipment to see for sure…we'll just have to wait until he wakes up." He sighed again, and looked at her. "We should move him upstairs. Help me with him, please."

He bent down and hooked his arms beneath Alan's shoulders. Quorra quickly moved to raise his legs, and together they lifted him up and out of the light runner. Something clattered to the floor—a pair of…glasses, that's what they were called. Users sometimes needed them to see, Quorra remembered. The corner of Flynn's mouth twitched, and he carefully set Alan down long enough to retrieve them. He folded them up and hung them off the collar of his robe. Nodding at Quorra, he adjusted his grip and lifted Alan up again, and together they carried him over to the elevator. It immediately began to ascend. They set Alan again down for the short ride upward, Flynn propping him up against his shoulder. Flynn was staring at his friend's face again, his brow slightly furrowed. Quorra couldn't tell what he was feeling now. Even after all their cycles together, Flynn was still, at times, an enigma.

The elevator rose into place, and they lifted the User up again. "The couch," Flynn said, and they hauled him over. Flynn detached the disc from Alan's back before setting him down completely. "Let's get you a change of clothes, man," he said softly, holding the disc flat in one hand as the display shimmered to life.

Quorra watched, fascinated, as he manipulated the interface. She had seen Flynn alter his own disc information before, but every projection was unique, and a User's even more so. He worked quickly, his fingers moving with practiced certainty as the display flashed and morphed. After a few seconds he hoisted Alan up again, supporting him with one hand while re-docking the disc with the other. As he settled his friend back down, Alan's lightsuit changed. The transformation radiated outward from his disc, the material shifting from armor to something more reminiscent of Flynn's usual clothes, the color a light grey.

"There," Flynn said, "he should be more comfortable that way."

"How long will he be asleep?"

"Hard to say. Could be a few minutes, could be…" he trailed off, then sighed. "Longer." He moved away, padding across the room.

Quorra stepped closer to the couch, watching the sleeping User. It was easier to see the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed now. At least he didn't seem to be in pain. She watched him for a few more moments before realizing Flynn hadn't returned. Frowning, she looked around and saw him standing outside at the edge of the terrace, staring out towards the city. Just above the tip of the tallest tower, a small, familiar pinprick of light was shining steadily through the clouds.

Quorra hesitated, then crossed the room to the terrace. She stopped beside Flynn, who glanced at her before turning his gaze back to the light. Quorra's eyes were drawn to it too, almost irresistibly. It had been so long since she, or any other program, had last seen that light. They stood wordlessly as a cloud passed in front of it, partially obscuring its glow, but never completely eclipsing it. As the cloud passed and the light shone again in full force, she found herself wishing more than anything that she could finally see it close.

A hand touched her arm, and she looked up. Flynn was watching her. After a moment he smiled, and she wondered if he knew what she was thinking. He usually did.

"Come on," he said, "we should get him cleaned up." He turned and stepped back inside, moving back to the couch. He glanced in Quorra's direction before bending down to check on his friend, and she knew he was looking not at her, but past her. Quorra glanced back one last time over the Outlands, taking in the sight of the light blazing unwaveringly above the city, before turning away.

Alan awoke slowly, his senses returning to him in staggered bits and pieces. He was first aware of the softness of his bed, and then a gentle light shining through his eyelids. He kept them closed, wanting to drift back to the peaceful shadows of sleep, but a dull ache in his temple pulled him further out of his lethargy. He must have had another restless night, but he didn't remember falling asleep. He didn't remember much of anything.

His eyes opened blearily, and it took him a few seconds to realize that he was not in his own bedroom. His bedsheets weren't black, for one, and he was pretty sure his floor didn't glow. Where the hell was he? Maybe he was dreaming. He rubbed a hand over his face and froze as the tips of his fingers brushed his forehead. Was that a bandage? Why would he need-

All at once, memories surged into his brain. The arcade, the impossible digital city, Clu, the light cycle grid-he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to make sense of the rush of images. He could just remember the helmeted driver coming to his apparent rescue, but after that…a blank. Well, at least he wasn't dead. He rolled over to his side; a sudden sharp pain in his calf made him grit his teeth. Now that he was fully awake, everything was starting to hurt. He ignored the pain and tried to figure out where, exactly, his rescuer had brought him. His vision was blurred—he prayed he hadn't lost his glasses—but he could see enough to know he wasn't alone in the room.

The slightly fuzzy silhouette of a woman was standing at a long window cut out of one of the black, rocky walls. Lines glowing a soft white were set into her clothing, stretching down her sides and arms all the way to the knuckles of her gloved fingers. One of her hands was resting on the sill of the window, the other balled into a fist at her side. Her shoulders were hunched beneath her short black hair. She looked strangely familiar, but Alan couldn't place her. She was facing away from him; she seemed to be watching something outside.

He sat up, but his temple throbbed at the movement, and he made a pained noise through gritted teeth. The woman turned, startled. As she faced him, he realized where he had seen her—this was the driver who had rescued him, now helmetless. She quickly crossed to his bedside.

"You're awake!" she said, leaning over him. He squinted up at her, trying to bring her face into focus. She frowned for a moment before giving a small "oh!" of remembrance and reached for something on a table beside the bed. She held something out to him. "Here," she said. "You need these to see, right?"

He took the proffered object and was relieved to feel his hand close over his glasses. He quickly slipped them on, blinking as the room came into focus. Someone had cleaned the lenses. He looked up at the girl, who was still hovering by his bedside, smiling expectantly.

"Is that better?" she asked.

"…Yes," he said, "Thank you." He paused warily, hoping she would say more, but she just kept smiling at him. "Uh…I'm sorry, but who are you?"

"Oh—I'm Quorra," she said, and she held out her hand again. It was a moment before he realized she wanted him to shake it. He did so, bemused, and realized his hands were bare—the lightsuit was gone, replaced with soft clothes that felt vaguely like pajamas. At least they were more comfortable than the suit.

"Well, Quorra, I—" he started to say, moving to get up, but the motion made his head spin. The room tilted as he fell to the side; Quorra caught him by the shoulders before he could tumble out of the bed.

"Don't try to get up," she said, holding him steady as the world righted itself, "we don't know how bad your…concussion is." She said the word like it fit strangely in her mouth.

A concussion? He touched the bandage on his head again. Just what he needed. No wonder he was so tired, though his less than stellar sleep schedule had no doubt contributed, too…wait.

"We?" Alan asked, looking up at her. "Who's 'we'?"

She let him go, but kept her hands up cautiously in case he tried to get out of the bed again. "Just stay here," she said. "I'll be right back." She straightened up, waiting a moment to see if he would try to follow her. Part of him wanted to do just that, but the rest of him that was all dizziness and aching bones won out, and he settled in the bed, nodding reluctantly. She gave him another little smile and left the room, shutting the door behind her.

Alan cautiously sat up straighter, looking around the room. It was small and sparsely furnished—apart from the bed and the nightstands on either side of it, there was only a bookshelf embedded in the wall with a few books (would programs read books?), a silver globe, and what looked like a very old-fashioned camera on its shelves. The floor really was glowing, too, the same white as the circuitry in Quorra's clothes.

His temple pulsed, and he let his eyes shut. The lack of light helped with the pain somewhat. How long had he been asleep? He felt as if only a few minutes had passed since he climbed into that vehicle, but something about Quorra's reaction to his awakening told him it might have been longer. Long enough to change his clothes and clean him up, anyway.

Low voices outside his door made him open his eyes again. He couldn't discern the words, but one voice was definitely Quorra's. As for the other—for a horrible moment he thought it was Clu, and the hem of the bedsheet bunched up beneath his fingers as his fists clenched instinctively. But while the similarity was strong, this voice was deeper, a bit slower, and just plain older.

The voices continued for a few more moments, then fell silent. The door opened, and Quorra entered the room, smiling at Alan as she moved to the foot of his bed. Behind her, a man stood in the doorway. His clothing lacked the lights so common to the rest of the computer's inhabitants, and where every program Alan had met so far seemed to prefer black, the robes were as white as the hair pushed back from the man's bearded face. His brows were drawn together in a frown, and the dark circles beneath his eyes hinted that he hadn't slept in a while, but his expression lightened as he met Alan's eyes.

Alan stared at him. There was no mistaking who it was, but he thought there had been no mistaking Clu before, either. As Alan continued to stare, the man stepped inside. After a moment, he smiled at Alan tiredly. Even with the beard and the years etched into that familiar face, the expression was one Alan had replayed in his memory hundreds of times, and it made his breath catch in his throat to see it again. He clenched his jaw, breathing in deliberately through his nose. This could be another trick. He couldn't let himself be fooled a second time. But…

"...Kevin?" he asked.

The smile widened just a touch. "Hey, Bradley," Flynn said.

Alan swallowed, his throat tight. There was only one person who ever called him that so casually. He didn't say a word; he didn't trust himself to. Flynn crossed to his bedside and, after a moment's hesitation, reached out to touch Alan's shoulder. Alan leaned away before he could stop himself—how could he be sure this was really him? Flynn made to withdraw his hand, but Alan caught his sleeve, and he went still, watching Alan cautiously.

"Sorry," Alan said, "It's just…it's really you, isn't it? This time?"

Flynn nodded. "Quorra told me you met Clu." He sat down on the edge of the bed and looked at Alan steadily. "It's really me. Promise."

Alan met his gaze, staring at the familiar, warm blue of his friend's eyes, and his grip on Flynn's sleeve tightened. He looked down, nodding, and clenched his jaw again. He knew, without quite knowing how to rationalize it, that this really was Flynn. He swallowed again, trying to ignore the lump growing once more in his throat. His emotions were such a mess that he could barely tell what he was feeling. He took a breath to speak, but his voice failed him, and he pressed his lips together tightly.

"Alan," Flynn said quietly, but Alan refused to look up, staring resolutely at his lap. His vision was blurring again, and he took off his glasses, huffing in embarrassment. Flynn shifted closer. "C'mere," he said, and drew Alan into a hug.

Alan didn't resist; he leaned forward and rested his forehead against Flynn's shoulder. Flynn pulled him close, warm and solid, a hand curling at the nape of Alan's neck. Alan took in a breath as the exhaustion of the last few hours lessened somewhat. He rested a hand on Flynn's back, exhaling slowly, and made a noise almost too shaky to be called a laugh.

Flynn patted his back. "Keep it together, man," he said, but his own voice sounded thick.

"Speak for yourself," Alan shot back, a little muffled.

Flynn laughed softly at that, and Alan did too. Flynn let him go, and both of them carefully avoided each other's eyes for a few moments. Alan straightened his back, his head still bowed, and scrubbed at his eyes with the heel of his palm. Flynn clasped his hands and cleared his throat quietly, looking up at the ceiling as Alan took his time replacing his glasses. When he finally lifted his head, Flynn was looking at him sidelong, a crooked smile on his face.

"Miss me?" he asked.

"Like a toothache," Alan answered, rolling his eyes. Flynn laughed again, and Alan tried in vain to keep a smile from spreading over his face. It was strangely nice to know the man could still annoy him, even now. He glanced at Quorra, who was still standing at the foot of his bed, watching them with an almost fascinated expression. When she saw him looking, she smiled slightly.

"Quorra told me you'd woken up," Flynn said. Alan looked back at him. The playfulness had faded, and he looked tired again. "I would've been here, but I…had a couple things to check on." He hesitated for a moment, then asked, "Alan, don't get me wrong, I'm happy to see you, but…how did you get here?"

"Oh, I…I got your page," Alan said, only a little sheepish at admitting he'd kept a twenty year old pager, "from your number at the phone's been disconnected for years, so I decided to check it out. " That seemed like ages ago, now. He added, sternly, "Thanks for telling me about your secret basement lab, by the way."

Flynn didn't respond to that. He was looking at Quorra, a small frown on his face. She didn't seem much happier. Both of their gazes flickered to the window in the opposite wall. Alan looked between them, confused. "Kevin?"

Flynn looked back to him then, and flashed him a quick smile. "Never mind. It's not important." He glanced up at the bandage on Alan's temple. "How're you feeling, by the way, buddy?"

Alan blinked at the change of subject. "Well…like I got hit by a car. Not that far off, I guess," he answered, reminded of his injury. The pain had faded somewhat, and he resisted the urge to rub his head again. "How long was I out?"

Flynn shifted a little. "Uh…about seven hours."

"What?" Seven hours? Lora's plane would've landed by now, she would see he hadn't come home. She would be worried. He threw the covers off his legs, intent on getting up. "Lora will miss me—why didn't you wake me—?"

"Whoa, whoa—hey, don't get up!" Flynn grabbed at his arm. Alan shook him off and pushed himself up, but the sudden elevation made the room spin again, and he settled heavily on the bed. The landing jarred his leg, and he hissed in pain.

Flynn gave him a sympathetic look. "See? Bad idea." He paused and ran a hand through his hair, then said, "Look, it hasn't really been seven hours. Not outside."

Alan rubbed at his calf; there was another bandage beneath the fabric of his pants. "Outside?"

"Yeah. Our world. Time…moves a little differently here. Hours on the Grid are only a few minutes outside. It's only been about fifteen minutes since you left."

Alan stopped. "You can't be serious."

"Probably less," Flynn said. "Closer to twelve."

Alan wondered if that was supposed to make him feel better. "Why would time move faster here?"

Flynn shook his head, saying, "It's not that time is faster, exactly, it's just that your perception of it is different. The same amount of time has passed, but since the Grid is within a computer, motion is only limited by how fast an electron can move through a circuit board."

"So you're saying we're very small and move very fast?" Alan said, raising an eyebrow skeptically.

"Kinda. We're not really small…" He lifted a corner of his mouth when Alan just frowned deeper. "It's complicated. Try not to think about it too much."

"Right…" Only twelve minutes. He rubbed at his forehead again; it was starting to pound.

"Are you okay?" Both men turned to look at Quorra, who was watching Alan with concern. She stepped closer, asking, "Does your head still hurt?"

"Oh—no, I'm alright," Alan told her. It was mostly true, anyway—he felt as okay as he could be after having his head slammed directly into the floor. "I mean, it does hurt," he conceded, "but it's not too bad."

"It might hurt for a while," Flynn said. "Clu gave you a real beating."

"I'll say." Alan didn't want to think about that coldly grinning face, but his curiosity won out. "Who is he? He looks just like you—like you did, anyway." He worked his jaw, trying not to think too much about what had happened at the arena. "I thought he was you, at first."

"I don't blame you. You couldn't have known the truth until he wanted you to." Flynn stood up suddenly and added, "And he looks like me because I wrote him."

"You wrote him?"

Flynn nodded. "Yeah. All programs look like the person who wrote them. I wrote Clu in the 80s, so he looks like I did back then. Programs don't age."

"Lucky them," Alan muttered, but he didn't put much thought into the response—things were finally starting to make sense. "So you're saying a program looks like the person who wrote their code? Any program?"

"That's right."

"So the Tron program I wrote back in '82," Alan said slowly, "would look like me."

"Like you did when you wrote him, yes," Flynn said. "Why?"

"They knew who I was—the guards who found me when I first got here. They kept mentioning Tron. I didn't understand it at the time, but…" he paused, thinking. "I remember you asked to use the Tron program for your projects." That was right after Flynn had made become CEO at ENCOM. "So you're saying they recognized me because of it—him?"

Flynn nodded again. "Bingo. You still look similar enough that most programs would notice." He looked away, his voice quieter. "He was pretty famous here."

He fell silent. Alan waited, but Flynn wasn't looking at him anymore; he was staring at something Alan couldn't see, his eyes more tired than ever. Alan couldn't imagine what would make the vibrant, lively man he remembered look so completely run down.

"Kevin," he said quietly. Flynn lifted his gaze again. Alan hesitated, then asked, "What happened?"

Flynn looked at him for a long moment, then sighed. "It's a long story, man. Complicated."

"We've apparently got plenty of time," Alan said. "And I can handle complicated. Try me."

To his surprise, Flynn smiled, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "That's exactly what you said the last time you asked me about it." He took a deep breath, and let it out slowly before speaking. "Alright. You've probably guessed that this was the big project I was working on all those times I wasn't in the office. I wanted to create a system of my own design, one I could experiment with without anyone looking over my shoulder, so I took one of the servers from the old ENCOM offices and moved it to the arcade."

"And Lora's laser," Alan added. "Don't think I didn't notice that in your lab."

Flynn at least had the decency to look contrite as he said, "It wasn't exactly her laser—I just borrowed the schematics and made my own. The one she and Walter were working with stayed where it was until she left the company, you know that." He paused. "How is she, by the way?"

"She's fine," Alan said shortly. He could catch Flynn up on how their family was doing after he had been given a full explanation. "And so is Sam, and Roy. Everyone is fine. Don't change the subject, Flynn. Why did you need her laser?"

"Human digitization, man," Flynn said, as if it was obvious.

"You already knew it was possible?" Alan frowned at him. That didn't make any sense. "But you were working on your project for years before you found your 'miracle'."

"My miracle?" Flynn looked puzzled for a moment before realization spread over his face. "Oh—no, buddy, the miracle was…something else…" He trailed off at the look on Alan's face. "Alan?"

Alan didn't understand. Flynn couldn't actually be saying what he thought he was saying. "You—you knew about human digitization before—you were already using the laser for…" His head was starting to hurt again. "How long had you…no. How did you even know it would work? Lora and Gibbs never moved past digitizing non-sentient matter before she took her work to D.C." Surely Lora would've told him if they'd started working with sentient life. "So how could you have known?"

Flynn couldn't quite meet his gaze. "…Because I'd already done it to myself."

It took Alan a moment to process the words. "You what?"

"Look, Alan-"

"How? I don't-" Alan started, then stopped, peering at Flynn suspiciously over his glasses. "When did you discover this, exactly?"

Flynn's shoulders dropped a few inches, his expression beseeching. "Alan, don't be like this."

Alan narrowed his eyes. He'd heard that one before. "Answer the question, Flynn."

"I…" Flynn hesitated. "Look, I didn't think you would believe me—"

"When, Flynn?"

There was a long pause, and then Flynn sighed, resigned. "1982. The night we broke into ENCOM to get my files back."

Silence fell in the room again. Flynn was watching him without a word as if waiting for his reaction. Quorra looked between them uneasily, her eyes wide and wary as they shifted from Alan to Flynn. Alan didn't notice. He felt almost like he wasn't truly present in his body. When he spoke, his words came to him sluggishly as if from a long distance. "Are you telling me," he said slowly, "that you digitized yourself in 1982?"

Flynn hesitated. "I…yeah, man."

"That's how you got the proof you needed."

"Yes…"

"And after that," Alan spoke over him, struggling to keep his voice even now, "you just…didn't tell us. You got your job back, and they made you CEO, and you set up your own special little room in the basement of your arcade, and you built a laser and connected it to a server."

"Look, I wasn't trying to—"

"Because you already knew it would work, you already knew you could just—just digitize yourself and run around inside the server andexperiment—"

"Alan—"

"What the hell is wrong with you?" His voice was so fierce that Flynn recoiled like Alan had hit him. Alan didn't care. He was definitely present in his body now—his face was burning, his head starting to pound. His fingers dug into his thighs as he tried to keep himself from shaking. "You knew all of that in 1982? You never told me about any of this!"

Flynn's eyes were wide with alarm. "Alan, I didn't—"

Alan cut him off, his voice growing louder with very word. "You kept all of this from me—from Lora, that's her work, Flynn, and I know you didn't tell her about any this because she would've told me—you kept this from us for seven years?"

"I…" Flynn just looked at him almost helplessly. "Would you have believed me if I told you?

"You don't get to ask me that when you had proof, Flynn!" Alan's voice was starting to shake too. "Is this where you were every time I had to make excuses to the board for you missing another meeting? When you would stay away from the office for days at a time? When your parents would call me asking if I knew where you'd gone—when Sam would ask me why he hadn't seen you that day?"

Flynn flinched at that. "I—Alan, please, I wasn't—"

"This isn't just keeping something to yourself, this is—I asked you so many times what you were doing, Flynn! You had every opportunity to say something and you didn't!" The ache in his head only intensified as he yelled, but he couldn't stop himself. "You lied to everyone while the rest of us ran around trying to pick up the slack, and meanwhile, all you were actually doing was chasing some insane dream of a digital utopia and playing games! And don't bother trying to deny that, I've seen your notes-"

The pain in his temple flared sharply, and he broke off, clutching at his head as he choked back a grunt of pain. Both Flynn and Quorra stepped closer, but he jerked away. His breathing was so ragged he was almost gasping. "Everyone," he said, "everyone kept saying there was something going on, but I didn't care. I knew if it was important you would tell me." He hated how small he sounded now. "I trusted you to tell me."

"Alan…" Flynn's voice was low, imploring. Alan didn't answer. The pain seemed to take an age to fade. He kept his head in his hands, not wanting to see whatever sadness or regret that might be in Flynn's eyes, hear his explanations or excuses. None of it mattered. When his shoulders had finally stopped shaking, Alan took a long, slow breath, and spoke.

"I want to go home."

His words were engulfed by the ensuing silence. He sat, his head still resting on his palms, and waited for a response. There was none. He raised his head at last. Flynn wasn't looking at him; instead he stared at the floor, his face a mask. His eyes flashed almost imperceptibly to the window opposite him. Alan watched him, waiting for Flynn to say something, anything, but the silence stretched. He took another breath and said, "I want to—"

"You can't."

Both men turned. Quorra was still standing near the foot of the bed, her hands clenched stiffly at her sides. She seemed surprised at herself for speaking. Alan had nearly forgotten she was there.

"Quorra…" Flynn said softly. It was almost a warning, but when Alan glanced at him, he seemed resigned. He and Quorra shared a long look, one Alan couldn't decipher, and Quorra took a step closer.

"To leave the Grid," she said hesitantly, "a User has to exit through the code stream portal. But the portal is closed now." She paused, waiting for Alan to interject, but he only stared at her. She continued, "When you arrived here, the portal opened, but…"

"It uses massive power," Flynn said. Alan turned to him. He was watching Alan now, but his face was still strangely blank. "It's only open as long as the laser is activated, and that can't stay on for long. After a time it shuts itself off to save energy. And it can only be activated from the outside. There's nothing we can do." His voice was so even it was almost cold. "You can't go home, Alan."

The air had frozen in Alan's lungs. He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound escaped him. He didn't understand. He couldn't stay here. Lora was coming home tonight. She would miss him.

Quorra and Flynn exchanged a glance. Quorra took another step forward, toward Alan, but Flynn spoke first.

"You should…rest," he said. "You've had a long day." He paused as if he might say something more, but then he looked away, and moved past Quorra to the door, pulling it open.

"Don't—" Alan started. Flynn stopped and looked at him over his shoulder. Alan looked back, numb. Don't you leave, he wanted to say. Don't you just say all of that and tell me I can't go home and then just leave. Instead, he said nothing, and after a long moment, looked down. There was no point. Alan knew he would leave anyway.

Flynn lingered in the doorway. "Get some rest, man," he said softly, and he left the room.

Alan didn't move. He continued to stare at his lap. There was a small noise, and a gloved hand timidly reached for his shoulder.

"Don't," he said. Quorra froze, her hand in midair. Alan didn't look at her as he spoke. "Please just…leave."

"Are…are you sure—?"

"Yes. Just go."

He brought one hand up and leaned his head against it. It was hurting again. He closed his eyes. There was another small noise, and then the quiet shuffle of footsteps. After a long pause, the door scraped against the floor again, and clicked quietly into the frame as Quorra shut the door behind her.

Chapter Soundtrack:
"Paradise" - Coldplay
"Waves" - Metric
"That's All" - Genesis