TRON: Unity

by SiriuslyEmily

When Sam refuses to check out the mysterious page, Alan decides to do some investigation of his own. In the basement of the arcade, Alan discovers the truth behind Flynn's secret project, and is forced into a struggle to save both his friend and himself from the dangers of the Grid. Legacy AU. On hiatus, but will be completed in the future.

6. Chapter 6

When Flynn had promised to tell Alan everything, Alan hadn't really expected him to follow through. He had gone back into the Safehouse expecting more silences, more carefully blank expressions, and any new information only being given with extreme hesitance. Now, though, just a short while and a surprisingly filling meal later, Flynn was talking to him freely, as if there had only been a couple weeks' absence to make up for instead of a couple decades. They sat together at the crystal-white dining room table, sipping from pale mugs what tasted to Alan like a fairly decent cup of coffee, though he still wasn't exactly sure how Flynn had conjured it up. The whole meal had built itself up out of the table with only a touch of Flynn's hand, and while Alan had wanted to ask how the hell he'd done it, the sight of food reminded him just how hungry he was, and all questions were put on the back-burner. After they'd finished, Flynn started recounting the night they'd broken into ENCOM to retrieve his files, passing over the familiar parts to fill Alan in on what had been kept secret.

"So Lora parked me at her terminal and I got to work. The MCP got wind of me pretty quick and tried to keep me out, but I threw him a couple logic puzzles to stall him. He didn't appreciate that. The laser was right next to Lora's workspace, so there was a big flash of light and next thing I knew, I was wearing a glowing suit surrounded by a bunch of weird-looking dudes threatening me and calling me 'program'." As he spoke, Flynn pressed a hand to the table, and within seconds the remains of their food was just…gone, everything down to the plates fading into a grid-like pattern that quickly dissolved out of existence, leaving the table as pristine as it had been before they ate.

Alan was too curious to not interrupt. "How did you do that?"

"What, get digitized? Same way you did."

"No, the food! How did you do that?"

"Oh, this?" Flynn looked down at the table, and shrugged. "Perks of being a User, man."

"But how'd you do it?" Alan persisted. "You barely touched the table, and it just disappeared. Where'd it go? And where did it come from?"

"It's energy. Just programmed to look and taste different." Flynn pointed out to the terrace, indicating the glowing pool set into the floor. "That's what it looks like in its natural state. Tastes pretty good, but let me tell you, drinking that for weeks on end gets incredibly boring. So I started messing around with it. Took me a while to get the hang of it, since I can only compare it to what I remember, but I think it usually turns out okay."

"Alright, but is it just mental? Or are you actively changing the—the coding, or—"

"You wanna talk about the fine details of food programming, or you wanna hear the story?" Flynn asked, sounding exasperated but looking more amused than anything else.

Alan sighed. "Both. But keep going," he said, worried that if he got Flynn off-topic they would never return to it.

Flynn was still half-smiling. "I'll show you how it works later. Anyway, I know you were shocked when you got here—back then, I was just as confused as you were. I thought I was dreaming. Then they threw me on the game grid, and I was too busy trying to stay alive to worry about whether it was real."

"But you made it out."

"Yeah, with some help." Flynn paused, and reached up over his shoulder. "You know what? I can show you."

He tugged the disc off his back, and held it flat in both hands. The air above the disc shimmered faintly like heat radiating off of a road, and then the particles rearranged themselves, forming a three-dimensional shape—a head, one identical to that of its owner. Alan leaned closer, fascinated, but the particles shifted almost immediately, flattening into the image of a face. It took him a moment to realize the face he was looking at was his own, thirty years younger.

"Tron," Flynn said quietly. "I met him on the game grid. That's where the MCP was keeping him, after it acquired him from you."

Alan watched as the image of Tron moved, saying something Alan couldn't quite make out, but he recognized the timber of his own voice. It was a little unsettling. "He helped you escape?"

"Him and another program."

The image shifted again, and formed into another familiar face, smiling widely. Alan nearly dropped his mug in surprise. "Roy!?"

"Close! His program. I didn't know Roy back then, remember? I only met him after I got out, but man—the first time I came down to visit you in your cubicle, I couldn't believe it. Took me ages to stop calling him Ram."

The images continued to shift and transform as Flynn resumed his story, displaying brilliant neon landscapes and old-fashioned lightcycles and quite a few more familiar faces. The sight of Lora's program in particular—her name was Yori, apparently—made his chest tighten. Had Lora's plane landed by now? Would she have come home and found him missing? Was she worried, scared? The thought of her searching for him was too painful to consider for longer than a few seconds, so Alan tried instead to focus on Flynn's voice as he continued talking about all the extraordinary things he and Alan's program had done.

Even hearing about Tron was difficult, though. Alan couldn't help but feel a little swell of pride towards his old creation's endeavors, but he wasn't a fan of having to hear about it almost thirty years after the fact. Still, he continued to listen quietly, worried that an interruption would derail Flynn's newfound eagerness to talk.

Eventually, Flynn replaced his disc on his back, story finished. "And then I was back at Lora's terminal, and you know the rest," he said.

Most of it, anyway, Alan thought. "I still have questions," he said aloud, trying to sound reasonable instead of bitter.

"Go for it, man."

"Well, if you met so many different programs in the ENCOM System, why was Tron the only one you brought to the Grid?"

"He wasn't," Flynn said, as if it were obvious. "I brought over as many as I could, all different kinds of programs. I was even able to recover a few that had been deleted from some old backups." He paused, and stared down at the contents of his mug, expression suddenly withdrawn. "Doesn't really matter now. I doubt Clu let any of them go free for long.

Alan sipped from his mug, a little reluctant to ask his next question. "Including Tron?"

Flynn did not respond immediately. He sat his mug down, and looked back up at Alan. "He's dead."

Alan's hands tightened around his mug. He had figured that was the case—he remembered what Jarvis had said about Clu 'vanquishing' Tron during his speech on the lightcycle grid—but having it confirmed was a bigger blow than he'd thought it would be. It would've been nice, to have met his own program. "You're sure?"

"When Clu came after me, Tron was there. He was supposed to escort me back to the portal." Flynn's voice was soft and full of regret. "He fought for me. He bought me enough time to escape, but I never saw him again after that." He smiled wryly, saying, "Clu wouldn't have let him survive. They didn't get along as well as you and me, man."

Alan nodded wordlessly, uncomfortable. He didn't much like the mental image of their doppelgangers trying to murder each other. Flynn obviously wasn't enjoying the conversation anymore, either, because he cleared his throat and said, "You still hungry?"

"No, I'm okay," Alan said, grateful for the change of subject. "A little tired, I guess."

"You should rest, man. Unless you've still got questions."

"I do," Alan said, "but we can take a break." He said it as much for Flynn as for himself; the dark shadows under Flynn's eyes were more apparent in the bright light of the main room than they had been on the terrace. "You look like you could use a nap."

"Nah, that's just how I look now that I'm ancient," Flynn said, cracking a smile.

"If you're ancient, I must be at death's door."

Flynn chuckled at that. "You turned sixty this year, right? That's not so bad."

"Tell me that when you actually hit sixty, Flynn."

Flynn laughed again, but only said, "We can compare notes when I get there." He stood, pressing his hand to the table once more, and the two empty mugs disappeared. "I'll sleep later. I'm gonna knock on the sky for a bit. Take a nap if you want, I'll wake you when I'm done." With that, Flynn left the table and settled on a pillow at the center of the room.

Alan watched him go, frowning—what the hell was that supposed to mean, knocking on the sky?—but after a few moments, Flynn closed his eyes, and Alan realized, with some surprise, that he was meditating. He laughed quietly under his breath, shaking his head. Flynn had been almost bewilderingly interested in things like meditation and Zen philosophy back before he left, and Alan had never quite figured out why. Flynn had usually been so full of energy that taking time for mindfulness just didn't seem to fit with his image, but Alan remembered walking in on Flynn supposedly meditating in his office a few times over the years, although he was pretty sure that Flynn was actually just napping at least once. That Flynn had apparently kept up the interest after all this time was surprising, but a little relieving, too. At least one thing about him hadn't changed.

Flynn's face and posture relaxed, and the lights in the ceiling and floor panels darkened slowly, leaving the main room comfortably dim. Had Flynn done that consciously, or did the Safehouse automatically respond to his mood? Alan folded his hands in his lap, still watching Flynn, and supposed it amounted to the same thing. The panel beneath Flynn was still lit, dust floating lazily through the air above it—or was that dust? The particles floated upward in uniform strands, and after a moment Alan realized they were strings of code, just small enough to be indiscernible.

He leaned back in his chair, and wondered if that was another User perk, or just a Flynn perk. Quorra had called him the Creator. Perhaps this was a side effect. He watched the strings of code idly for a while, and eventually considered going back to his room for a nap—he really was getting tired, his head aching a little—but found he didn't want to leave the main room. Here, Flynn was just in his line of sight, exactly where Alan could keep an eye on him. It was silly, but he couldn't quite shake the feeling that if he turned his back for even a moment, Flynn might vanish into thin air.

Alan shook his head, annoyed at himself—where could he go? Flynn was clearly not willing to do anything that might put his disc in jeopardy. He couldn't leave if he wanted to. Alan supposed that should have been another relief, but it only reminded him of his own lack of freedom. They were both stuck, and there was nothing either of them could do about it.

He sighed, trying to empty his head of troubling thoughts. It wasn't difficult—the stillness was making him sleepier, and he hid a yawn behind his hand. Besides, the chair was fairly comfortable, and Alan had perfected the art of dozing sitting up during long days at the office, so he let his eyes close, and eventually drifted off.

He didn't sleep for long, or at least it hadn't felt like it, but the stiffness in his neck and back when he awoke sometime later told him otherwise. Maybe the chair hadn't been such a good choice after all. He sat up straighter, stretching a little, and took his glasses off to rub the tiredness away from his eyes. The lights around the room brightened, and he blinked a few times, disoriented.

"Sorry," said Flynn's quiet voice from across the room. A dark shape that Alan assumed was Flynn moved slightly, and the lights dimmed again. "You know, there's a perfectly serviceable bed right down the hall, man."

"Yeah, well, I didn't feel like getting up," Alan said, slipping his glasses back on. "How long was I asleep?"

"Couple hours. Not long." Flynn was on his feet again, facing the terrace, and while his voice was even, there was something in the set of his shoulders that spoke of worry.

Alan got to his feet, stretching again. "Something wrong?"

"Quorra's not back yet." He glanced over as Alan joined him. "She doesn't usually take so long."

"Could we see her coming back from here?"

"Maybe."

Flynn passed through the floating lights suspended in the space between the main room and the terrace, walking to the stone's edge, and Alan followed. The city was still glittering in the distance, though not as brightly as before—dark clouds hung low between the skyscrapers, obscuring some of the buildings.

They stood together without speaking, and it reminded Alan uncomfortably of the silence before their big talk just a couple hours past. He resisted the urge to cross his arms, and glanced at Flynn. The other man was staring out at the view with surprising intensity, eyes flickering back and forth, and Alan realized he was watching small pinpricks of scarlet drifting away from the city towards the mountainous horizon.

"Are those ships?" Alan asked.

"Yes. They usually just go in circuits around the city," Flynn said, still watching the view, "but more have been heading out into the Grid. A few were pretty close by, about an hour ago."

"Looking for us?"

"Probably. They've been patrolling farther and farther since the portal closed."

Alan's hand twitched at the mention of the portal. "You said you could see it close from here?"

"Yeah. It's to the east, past the City and the Sea of Simulation. When it's open, you can see a light shining—just about there," Flynn said, lifting a hand to indicate a point above the tallest skyscraper.

"And you're sure it's closed, now?"

Flynn dropped his hand. "I watched the light until it went out again," he said shortly.

Alan did cross his arms then, wrapping them around himself, wishing for home. "You should've woken me. Maybe we could've made it before it closed."

"We tried, Alan. You were out like a light." Flynn glanced at him, his gaze flickering up to the bandage on Alan's temple. "I'm worried about that. I didn't think you'd sleep so long, and you're obviously still tired."

"I wasn't asleep the whole time. Just most of it." Still, Alan had to admit that a day and a half, nearly two, was pushing it, and he DID still feel a little out of it. Maybe his concussion was worse than he'd thought. Or maybe he'd just been plain tired—he hadn't slept much the night before; he was too focused on the page to rest. Flynn was still watching him, and Alan looked away, uncomfortable.

"It's not like I can go visit a hospital," he said. "Besides, with the portal closed, what does it matter how long I slept? I could've stayed in bed for a week, and outside it only would've been a few…hours…" He trailed off as his words registered. "Flynn?"

"Yeah?"

"How long has it been outside since I left?"

"Outside? Probably a little over an hour."

"An hour." Just a single hour. "Flynn, if you've been here for almost twenty-one years," Alan said slowly, "how long has it seemed to you?"

Flynn looked at him a moment, then smiled crookedly. "I know you can do the math, man."

Alan could, but the result was just too much. Way too much. He did the mental calculations again, then again, increasingly uncomfortable with the answer. "If an hour there is about two days here, then a year would have to be…that's almost fifty years. In just one year outside."

"That's right."

"But-but that means you…no. No, no," Alan said, shaking his head emphatically. "Flynn, you've been gone for over two decades, and that would be…that's over a thousand years."

"One thousand and…almost forty-eight, I think?" Flynn shrugged. "I could be a little off. Sometimes I lose track." Flynn's smile broadened as Alan continued to stare at him, but in the dim light on the terrace, it just made him look even older. "It's cool. Don't worry about it."

"Don't—don't worry?" Alan spluttered. "Are you—you can't just tell me not to—" He grabbed Flynn by the shoulder, still trying to fathom last twenty years of his life had felt, at times, like an eternity. To experience an actual eternity, almost completely alone, sounded to Alan like hell on earth. "Kevin," he said, "are you okay?"

To his frustration, Flynn laughed. "Am I okay? Alan, I'm fine."

"You can't be fine. There's no way you're fine," Alan said. He knew his grip on Flynn's shoulder must be almost painful by now, but he couldn't bring himself to let go. Flynn just kept smiling, which only made Alan feel worse. "This isn't funny. I'm serious."

"So am I. I mean," Flynn said, nodding his head as if conceding a point, "some of it's been rough. But after the first couple centuries, you get used to it. Mostly, anyway." He reached up and patted Alan's hand. "It's okay, man. I think I've held it together pretty well. It's not like I was on my own. I have Quorra. She's good company."

"That's not the point, Kevin," Alan said, but he could tell that was all Flynn was going to say on the matter, at least for now. He let go of Flynn's shoulder, still trying to wrap his brain around it all, and decided to just stop trying, for now—it was making his head hurt again. "No wonder you're so…"

"So what?"

"Different."

"Oh," Flynn said. His smile faded a little. "I guess I am. Time has a way of moving you past all the things you used to be."

"I guess so." Alan supposed a twenty years was enough to change anyone, let alone a thousand. "I don't think I'm exactly the same, either, if it makes you feel better."

"I don't know about that. You've still got a hell of a temper, man. I didn't expect you to yell so much."

"Yeah, well, who's fault is that?"

"Mine?"

"Damn straight." Alan tried to sound stern, but Flynn just laughed at him. Even now, despite everything else, it was nice to hear that laugh again. Alan looked away to hide a smile—unsuccessfully, he knew, but it was the principal of the thing. "You're still a pain in the neck."

"And you're still grumpy as hell. Although," Flynn said, "you did start calling me Kevin again. That mean you're not mad at me anymore?"

"Nice try. You're not getting out of it that easy."

"Worth a shot." Flynn smirked at him, and Alan shook his head. They lapsed into another silence, but it was more comfortable than the one that had preceded it. There was a low rumbling in the stone beneath them, and Alan looked up. Dark, roiling clouds had gathered in the sky, stretching from above their mountain to the lights in the distant city. As he watched, jagged lines of lightning streaked down to the ground, throwing the rocky terrain of the Outlands into sharp relief. A few moments later a sheet of rain swept down from the clouds, pattering against the rock and blowing in the wind, though none of the rain seemed to reach the terrace itself. Lightning flashed again through the rain. With the city in the distance, framed by the dark clouds, the scene was, in its own way, strangely beautiful.

"This really is a hell of a view," Alan said softly. "Sam would like it."

Flynn stirred suddenly at the name. "How is he?"

"He's fine," Alan reassured him. "I saw him before I went to the arcade, actually."

"Yeah? He's okay?"

"Well, I went to see him because he jumped off the roof of ENCOM Tower."

"He what!?"

"Don't worry, he had a parachute. It was a bit of a rough landing, but he's had worse."

Flynn shook his head, incredulous. "Man. Why'd he jump off the roof?"

"It's just what he does. He likes playing pranks on the board around this time of year. It's about the only time he actually shows interest in the company."

"He's not working with you?"

"With me? Definitely not. I tried to get him interested in the company—maybe too much, I guess. He says he doesn't think he'd be a good fit." Alan sighed. "He might have a point. I think I pushed him too hard in that direction, and now he doesn't want much to do with it. But he'd probably do a better job than the crowd running it right now."

"What crowd? You're not running the place?"

"Nope," Alan said. "I was CEO for one year after you left. I tried to run the company the way I thought you would want me to. But the Board was scared—profits were falling, and the shareholders were getting nervous. So they fired a bunch of the old crowd to bring in new blood."

Flynn's mouth fell open. "They fired you?"

"No, no. I mean, I'm sure they tried," Alan said, with a steely smile, "but my contract is pretty air-tight. No, they just fired about half the programming team, including Roy."

"What!? He was the best programmer we had!"

"That's what I told them. They didn't care. They ransacked your office, too, since none of 'em had half an original idea between them. I got so mad I nearly quit the whole damn company, but Roy and Lora convinced me to stay. They said if I left, there would be no one to make sure the company was still around when Sam grew up, and they weren't exactly wrong." He shrugged. "So I just resigned as CEO, and stuck around. They kicked me off the Board, too, but they couldn't get rid of me, so they shuffled me off to Resource Management." Alan laughed at the look on Flynn's face, and said, "I know. That's where they thought I could do the least damage, I guess. It wasn't too bad—I got to work on the environmental projects you were so fixed on. Took me ages to get back on the Board, though. I don't think they like me very much."

"You serious?"

"Oh, definitely. I'm, uh," Alan said, trying to decide how to phrase it, "not very popular with the company these days. Not with the executive crowd, anyway. I've been told I muddy the waters. I think it's code for 'talks about Flynn too much'."

"Yeah?" Flynn was wearing that same warm, half-awed smile he'd had when Alan had told him about the pager situation. "How much do you talk about me, Bradley?"

Alan's face flushed slightly, but there was no point denying the truth. "As often as I can," he said, only a little embarrassed. "I'm not about to let them forget you—they threw you under the bus after you left, and it really steams me up the way some of them talk about you. Sometimes I bring you up just so I can tell Lora and Roy about the board's reactions after the meeting, though. They get a kick out of it."

"I'll bet they do," Flynn said, chuckling. "They doing okay, too?"

"Yeah, they're both fine," Alan said. He paused, trying to figure out exactly what to say, but realized that maybe there was an easier way. "Could I just show you? Like you showed me?"

"On your disc? Yeah, you should be able to."

Alan nodded and reached over his shoulder before realizing the disc was not there—he had left it in his room, on the bedside table. "Hold on," he said sheepishly, and hurried to his room to retrieve it.

"You really should keep that on you," Flynn said as Alan returned to the terrace, disc in hand.

"I couldn't sleep with it on."

"You get used to it after a while."

Alan supposed you could get used to anything in a few centuries. He held the disc out in front of him as Flynn had done to his own. It hummed quietly in his hands, and the air above it shimmered until he was looking at an approximation of his own face. "How do I, uh," he said, holding the disc gingerly, "do what you did?"

Flynn shrugged. "Just think about it, man. It just happens."

"How helpful," Alan muttered, but he tried to concentrate on Lora anyway. He had barely thought her name before the display shimmered once more, distorting into a familiar image—Lora, beautiful Lora, sitting on the couch in their living room, her feet tucked under her with a laptop balanced on her knees. Flynn's shoulder brushed Alan's as he leaned closer, staring intently at the flickering memory. The image of Lora looked up, saying something too quiet to catch, and laughed. Flynn let out a breath, half a laugh and half a sigh.

"That's recent?" he murmured, still staring at the image.

"Last time she came to visit," Alan said quietly.

"She's barely changed at all." They watched as Lora put the laptop on the coffee table and stretched, still speaking too low to hear. "She still live in DC?"

"Yeah. She visits a lot, though. It's not so bad. This was just last month." It was a good memory. The visit had been very short, just a weekend trip while Lora was in town for a conference in the city, but they'd still managed to get dinner with Roy before she left again. As he remembered, the image warped for a moment before solidifying, and there was Roy, cleaning his glasses with the hem of his shirt as a waitress's hand set a drink in front of him. The image of Roy looked up at her and smiled, mouthing an inaudible thanks.

Flynn laughed again, breaking into a grin as he watched. "Oh, man," he said, "he hasn't changed either. He did okay, after they fired him?"

"He does pretty well for himself. I've helped him out a few times over the years, but lately he's been running an arcade machine restoration service. They're getting pretty popular again, so he's got quite a few clients."

"Yeah? That's awesome."

"Uh-huh. He was working on a Space Paranoids cabinet a couple weeks back."

With that, the display changed again. They stood together and watched a dozen different memories: dinners, movie nights, holidays, some of them recent, some older. They were laughing quietly at a scene from a couple winters back, when Lora and Alan had bought Roy the ugliest Hanukkah sweater they could find (and Roy had promptly pulled it on over another equally hideous sweater), when the display shifted to Christmas dinner a few nights after that, as Alan remembered that Sam had actually taken them up on their invitation that year.

Suddenly, there Sam was, sitting on the arm of Alan's couch in his usual leather jacket, taking a neatly wrapped package from Lora. Alan heard Flynn suck in a breath, leaning even closer to stare wide-eyed at the display. Alan tried to think of something to say, but couldn't. He stood silently as Flynn watched his son hand out a few clumsily wrapped packages and laugh at his own lack of gift-wrapping finesse. Flynn brought a hand to his mouth, another half-laugh escaping him.

"He's so big," he said, his voice as shaky as his smile.

"As tall as you," Alan said quietly. Flynn nodded, but didn't say anything else. They spent the rest of the memory in silence, and watched together as, at last, Sam sped away into the night on his motorcycle, Lora and Roy looking on from the doorway. As the image dissolved into static, Alan lowered the disc and held it at his side to hide his trembling hands.

"Thanks," Flynn said after a moment, voice still not quite steady. "For showing me."

"Sure," Alan choked out. It was suddenly difficult to speak. The edge of his disc dug into his palm. "I—need to sit down." Without waiting for a response, Alan went back inside and settled heavily into one of the crystal-white chairs, dropping his disc with a thunk onto the table. Flynn didn't follow him immediately, and Alan was grateful for the extra time to compose himself. He stared at his disc, trying to take steadying breaths. Finally, Flynn joined him at the table, sitting down quietly. He folded his hands in front of him, and looked at Alan as if waiting for him to speak.

Alan had a feeling about how this conversation would play out, but he needed to have it anyway. "Kevin?"

"Yeah, man."

"You said there's no way to activate the portal home from inside the computer."

"That's right."

"You're sure, absolutely, that there's no way to—"

"Alan, if I could have done something, I would have done it by now," Flynn said tiredly. "There's no way just isn't. I didn't give myself a back door. I never thought I would need it."

"Okay. Fine. There's nothing you can do about the portal. But Clu was able to send a message outside—"

"I don't know how he did that. If I did, I would have done it myself."

"But if he could do it—"

"Alan, he has resources I don't! I have no idea how he took advantage of your efforts to contact me—it could have been a fluke, for all we know. But there's nothing we can do. We can't get outside, but neither can he. That's going to have to be good enough."

"To hell with that," Alan said harshly. "It's not good enough. So we can't turn the portal back on, I get that—but you're telling me there's no way, at all, to do—anything?" Flynn shook his head, but it just made Alan angrier. "I don't buy it! What about your desktop? Lora or Roy will come looking for me, and this time they'll find your lab. They know I went to the arcade. You're telling me there's no way to at least send a message up top, let them know where we are?"

"No, man, there's—" Flynn began, and then he stopped. He was still facing Alan, but his eyes were distant, his brows drawn together in a frown that was more contemplative than upset. His gaze drifted down to the table, settling on Alan's disc. He looked for a moment as if he was about to speak, but his expression darkened, and he shook his head.

Alan stared at him. "What?"

"Nothing."

"Don't give me that. What? What is it?"

"It's—it's nothing. It wouldn't work. I guarantee it."

"What wouldn't work, Flynn?"

Flynn held his stare, then looked away. "It's…there might have been a way. To put a message on the desktop. But it won't work now."

"How? How do you know? What is it?" Alan clutched the edge of the table, fingernails scraping against the glass. "You can't say that and not tell me."

Flynn shook his head. "You never know when to give up on something, do you?"

"No, I don't. Tell me."

"…All right." Flynn leaned back in his chair, staring at his folded hands. "Back before I figured out how this place worked, when I was still learning the ropes, determining the limits of what Users can do, sometimes I had to build things the old-fashioned way. Writing code, or even making something here and tweaking the code when I got back out, messing with the results, seeing how it effected things both inside and outside. It took me a while to figure out how certain things translated. To do that, I rigged up a way to send myself build notes and lines of code from the inside so I could take a look as soon as I got outside, without having to dig through a bunch of files and folders to find what I was looking for. That's what the arcade copy on this side is for—it's an I/O tower. I'm the input, the stuff I sent up top was the output."

"Okay…" Alan said, fairly certain he was following along. "So, you can send a message using the terminal in here to the actual terminal outside?"

"I could, back then. I just had to activate the digital terminal with my disc. Pretty easy stuff. I didn't use it very much-things got moving pretty quick, and I was able to learn most of it on the fly. I ended up just using the digital arcade as an entry-point, and placed the exit far enough over the Sea that no program would wander into it accidentally. Eventually, I stopped using the digital terminal. There wasn't really any point to it after that."

"Would it still work, though? Did you disable it?" Alan asked, trying to sound calm, and barely succeeded.

"No, I didn't. Frankly, I forgot about it. I only used it for a couple of weeks." Flynn locked eyes with Alan, and said firmly, "I know what you're thinking, but there's no way, Alan. There's no guarantee it would even work, and to try we'd have to go to the city center. It's too dangerous. If I go, Clu could find me, and I can't risk that."

"Some things are worth the risk." Alan leaned forward, adamant. "And if you're not willing to risk it, I am. Does Clu know about the terminal?"

"No. I created him later, way after I stopped using it. But—"

"Okay," Alan kept on. "So would my disc work? On the terminal?"

"Alan, I'm not gonna let you—"

"Would it work, Flynn?"

"…Maybe." Flynn sighed. "Probably. You're a User. You'd have the right permissions. But—Alan, I shouldn't have even told you about it. We don't know if the digital terminal is still active, and the city is a hotbed right now. Quorra hasn't come back yet, and you don't understand how worrying that is. She never takes this long. That means that she was held up, and that means that things are even worse than I thought. You wouldn't stand a chance."

"I don't care! This is the only chance we've got!"

"You're too caught up in this, Alan! You need to take yourself out of the equation."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It means that your emotions are clouding your judgment. You want to go home so bad that you're not thinking straight. This is not a good plan, man."

"My judgment is clouded? What about you? You're too scared to leave, fine, but I'm not!"

"Alan, you—!" Flynn's voice was louder than it had been during any of their previous conversations. It wasn't quite a shout, but it was getting there. He paused, looking surprised at himself. Alan braced himself, ready for a fight, practically wanting it, but Flynn only took a breath, and then another, and eventually said, at a much lower volume, "You don't understand. You have no idea what Clu can do, what he's already done. He's willing to do anything to get the results he wants. If you go, and he finds you, he'll find the Safehouse, on your disc, and then he'll get my disc, and then he'll just have to wait for an opportunity to leave."

Alan opened his mouth to argue, but Flynn cut him off. "Tell me something," he said. "Did Quorra tell you what Clu did to the ISOs? Did she tell you everything?"

"She told me he killed them all, but—"

"That's not all. Alan, he didn't just kill them. He made it impossible for any ISO to form ever again. They came out of the Sea of Simulation, and do you know what he did? He created a virus, and he poisoned the Sea. There are no more ISOs, and there never will be." Flynn's mouth was a grim line. "He can't tolerate imperfection. He'll do whatever it takes to eradicate it. What's more imperfect than our world, Alan? I can't give him even the slightest opportunity to leave. I won't."

"I…" Alan tried to process that, the instinct to fight flickering away. "I didn't know." The tips of his fingers were numb. He relaxed his grip on the table's edge at last. "Kevin," he said, attempting to sound as rational as possible, "I'm sorry. I know…I know that you're just trying to do what you think is best. But I still think that trying to send a message is worth a shot. I want to go home. "

"I know you do," Flynn said tiredly. "I don't want you to be stuck here with me any more than you do, believe me. But I just can't let you go back there, Alan. Clu will be waiting for you."

A noise from the far end of the room cut off any potential response. Both men turned to look at the platform that, according to Flynn, led down to the garage. It had slid out of sight, leaving a yawning gap in the floor in front of the bookshelves. Flynn rose with an eagerness that Alan blamed on a desire for their discussion to end, but the pang of resentment fled as the platform rose up and clicked into place. Quorra was standing at the center of the platform, but not for long—she stumbled forward, clutching her left shoulder, and landed with a thud on one knee. A few dark cubes rolled across the floor. Alan's stomach turned as he realized they had fallen from a gash sliced into her arm.

"Quorra!" Flynn was at her side in seconds, steadying her as she swayed. Alan followed quickly, alarmed but unsure of how to help.

Quorra looked up at both of them and tried to smile. "I ran into the some trouble downtown."

"Blackguards?" Flynn asked.

"No, rebel programs. I don't think they followed me. I didn't see anyone on the way back." She touched Flynn's sleeve, and added, worried, "But the Lightrunner was damaged and I was trying to keep it from falling apart, I might have missed something—"

"I doubt you did," Flynn said firmly. "I trust your instincts. Let's deal with that arm first, okay?" He took her uninjured arm and looped it over his shoulder, encircling his own around her waist, and lifted her back to her feet. Quorra took a step forward, unsteadily, and a couple more cubes clinked gently against the tile as they toppled from her arm to the floor.

"Here—" Alan grabbed a chair from beside the table and dragged it over. Quorra gave him a grateful look as she lowered herself carefully onto it. Flynn began to inspect her injury, and Alan couldn't help but stare at the wound. An uneven mass of tiny cubes was visible beneath the fabric of her gloves, light glinting off of the angles of each remnant as she moved. Individual sections ground against each other in flashes of blue and white. It looked very painful.

Quorra noticed him looking and said, a little shakily, "I've had worse. It's really not as bad as it looks."

"I don't think I want to know what worse looks like," Alan replied.

"Hopefully you won't have to," Flynn said. "One sec." He reached behind Quorra, and undocked her disc. He held it out to Alan and asked, "Can you give me a hand?"

"Me?" Alan took the disc uncertainly. "What do I do?"

"Just hold it for me."

Alan did as he was told, holding it flat in his hands. Just as his own had done, Quorra's disc lit up with a faint hum, generating a construction of her face. Flynn reached out and tapped the display, and her face was replaced by a spherical matrix, certain sections flashing as the display rotated. Alan thought he could see bits of coding language, almost comprehensible, in the matrices, but they flashed by too quickly to discern them. The light from the display gleamed on the metal surfaces in the room; some of it refracted disturbingly off the edges of Quorra's injury. From this angle, it was clear that the gash's depth almost reached to the underside of her arm.

"Is that fixable?" Alan asked uneasily.

"Should be," Flynn murmured, tapping repeatedly on the display; with each touch the display flashed and warped into a new matrix. A particular section of the matrix enlarged with a glide of his fingers. "I have to identify the damaged code." He glanced at Quorra, who was watching them through hooded eyes. "Stay with me, kiddo."

"I will," she said quietly, and sat up straighter in the chair. "I'm just a little tired."

"What happened?" Alan asked, hoping that talking would keep her awake.

"I tried to get to the city center, but there were too many guards," she said. "Not as many as there were before, but they've kept up the increased patrols. I had to circle back around, and I was spotted by a couple of Blackguards, but they couldn't catch me. I hid, until the rebel programs showed up—they derezzed the guards before they could alert anyone else, but they found me and chased me to the edge of the city."

"Are they the ones that damaged the Lightrunner?" Flynn asked, still focused on the display.

"Yes," Quorra said. Maybe it was Alan's nerves, but her voice sounded a little softer now. "They stopped pursuit at the city edge, but threw a few light grenades after me."

"They're getting bolder," Flynn said. He tapped the display again, and the matrix warped once more, forming into a twisting spiral; a section of the spiral glowed a sickening scarlet. Alan watched, fascinated despite himself, as Flynn reached into the matrix and plucked the glowing section out of the spiral, gently tugging it away from the display. The segment flickered, trapped between Flynn's fingertips, and Flynn's mouth twitched when he saw Alan's stare. "Pretty radical, huh?"

He relaxed his fingers, and the segment drifted into the air, fluttering like a moth towards the terrace window. Flynn leaned forward and blew gently on the disc display. Sections of the spiraling matrix detached and rearranged themselves, settling back into the space left behind by the damaged segment.

"Is that it?" Alan asked.

"Probably. Let's see." Flynn took the disc back, and gestured to Quorra, who leaned forward. Flynn snapped the disc back into place, and as Alan watched, the cubes making up the center of Quorra's arm glowed a hot white. Out of the white, a translucent layer of cubes appeared, slowly filling in the gaps, the new material turning opaque as they settled into place. The edges of the fabric of her glove glowed too, a small grid pattern overlaying the wound, before it too went opaque, and then it was like the gash had never been there at all. Quorra settled back in her chair, still tired but clearly in less pain, and Alan let out a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding.

Flynn glanced at Alan. "Told you it was fixable. How's it feel, Quorra?"

She ran a careful hand over what had been a mess of grinding cubes just moments before. "Good as new."

"Cool. Let me get you something to drink." Flynn got to his feet and crossed the room. Alan stayed put, watching Quorra closely as he tried to shake off the remnants of worry. She seemed alright, for now, but there were still a few cubes lying dormant near her feet, cubes that had just moments before been a part of her arm. The idea of Quorra shattering into a cascade of cubes, just as those programs in the disc arena had done, made him shiver.

"You okay, man?" Flynn had returned, holding a glass of shimmering blue liquid. He passed it to Quorra, who took it gratefully and gulped some of it down.

"I guess," Alan said. "I don't know how either of you handled that so calmly."

"She really has had worse." Flynn looked at Quorra, frowning slightly. "But not by much. I hope you gave 'em a run for their money, kiddo."

"Well, they did have to chase me for a while," Quorra said, lowering the glass, "but I didn't want to draw any more attention. They had to turn back at the city's edge, since they couldn't follow me in the Outlands, but not before damaging the Lightrunner."

"How banged up is it?" Flynn asked.

"It's…bad," Quorra said guiltily. "The frame was coming apart when I made it to the garage."

"I'm just glad it got you back in one piece," Flynn said, putting a hand on her shoulder. "I'll go take a look. Stay up here, and make sure you drink all of that." He turned and headed for the elevator platform. "Alan, if you come with me, I can show you some of those User perks you're so curious about," he said over his shoulder.

That sounded intriguing, though part of Alan wondered if Flynn was hoping to distract him from their interrupted conversation, and he was still concerned about Quorra. "Should we leave her alone?" he asked.

Quorra waved at him with her newly repaired arm. "It's fine. See? I'll be alright."

"Well," Alan said, "if you're sure." She nodded, taking another sip of her glass, and Alan nodded back reluctantly before following Flynn to the platform. As soon as he stepped up beside Flynn, the platform disengaged from the floor and lowered silently, a dark wall quickly overtaking their view of the main room.

After a few moments of nothing but grey-black rock, the passage opened up once more, revealing a spacious tunnel, an exit just visible at the far end. The vehicle was parked on a platform nearby, but only because being parked was about the only thing it looked capable of doing. The frame itself wasn't just damaged, but almost totally disintegrated on the left side, with blueish lines jutting out where the edges of the vehicle would be. It looked more like a half-finished model for a video game than something substantial, which made the cubes dropping with quiet clinks from the frame to the metal floor below seem all the more surreal.

"Huh. Worse than I thought," Flynn said as they approached the vehicle. "This isn't going to be an easy fix."

As Flynn did a quick walk-around of the Lightrunner, expression intent, Alan took a closer look at the fading frame. A long scar of damage spread from the windshield to the nose, with sections apparently having broken off in large chunks, judging by the piles of cubes below the frame. The front left tire was connected to the body by only a few half-faded inches of metal. Curious, Alan stooped to touch the axle, and nearly jumped a foot in the air—a shock sparked against his skin, like static but a dozen times stronger, as his fingers made contact with the metal. He tried to pull his hand back, but they stuck to the axle like a magnet. Heat flooded down his arm into his fingers, and the axle suddenly glowed a burning white-blue, new cubes forming up to recreate the lost sections. Panicking, Alan wrenched his hand away, stumbling backwards.

"Careful!" Flynn caught him by the shoulder, barely. "You alright?"

"What the hell was that?" Alan asked shakily, clutching his hand against his chest. His fingers were freezing, a chill spreading up his hand to just past his wrist.

"User stuff," Flynn said. He took Alan's hand, inspecting it as he had the vehicle, and said, "Everything around here runs on energy, and Users can hold a lot more of it than programs. You just gotta learn how to control it."

"How do I do that?"

"You just feel it. Go with the flow, man."

"That's a lot less helpful than you think it is."

Flynn laughed, and let go of Alan's hand. "Well, I'm not sure how else to explain it. It'll make more sense with time." He knelt down beside the vehicle. "Just keep your hands to yourself for a sec. I don't want you getting exhausted again."

Alan crossed his arms, tucking his hand beneath his elbow in an effort to warm it back up. Flynn pressed a single finger to the edge of the scar. For a moment, nothing happened, and then, slowly, the edge of the scar glowed just as Quorra's wound had, and a small section began to knit itself back together. Flynn frowned, and pressed the full weight of his hand against the frame. The glowing section grew slightly, a few more cubes solidifying, but the majority of the damage was unaffected. Flynn hummed quietly, and took his hand away. The glow faded, and after a few seconds there was a scraping noise as part of the frame buckled. Alan watched the remains of the axle turn translucent before fading entirely, and the frame collapsed with a thud as the axle severed from the wheel. The tire rolled a few feet away before toppling over and disintegrating into cubes.

"Well," Flynn said, "that wasn't supposed to happen." He made another noise, sounding displeased. "The code's been blasted to bits. It's going to take more than some energy to get this back up and running again."

"But you can fix it?"

"Maybe. If not, I'll build a new one. Either way, it'll take a few days."

"Inside or outside?" Alan asked automatically.

Flynn laughed quietly, turning back to the platform. "Inside. Still a long time for us."

Alan followed with gritted teeth. It hadn't really been a joke, but he was too tired to say so—he felt suddenly like he'd sprinted a couple hundred feet, and his hand was only just started to warm back up again.

Back upstairs, they found Quorra on her feet, still drinking from her glass, but looking much more like her normal self. She turned to them as the platform settled into place.

"How is it?" she asked.

"Not good," Flynn said, stepping off the platform. "It'll take a while to repair. The light grenades really did a number on it. Honestly, I'm still surprised they went after you in the first place."

"I think they recognized me from the lightcycle arena," Quorra said, with a glance at Alan. "I overheard them talking about that."

"Which means they recognized the Lightrunner, too," Flynn said. "Did you overhear anything else?"

"Not much. They were unhappy about the Blackguards, but that's not unusual." She went to take another sip from her glass, and added, "They said Clu left the city, too. He's looking for us, but we already knew that."

Alan, who had been lingering near the platform, still trying to get some feeling back into his fingers, snapped his head up to look at her. "He left? Clu left the city?"

Quorra nodded, surprised at his sudden interest. "That's what they said," she told him, concerned. "Why?"

Alan opened his mouth to tell her about the digital terminal, but Flynn interrupted before he could even take a breath.

"Alan, that doesn't mean anything," he said firmly.

"If he's left—"

"If he's gone to another part of the Grid, there will still be dozens of programs searching for you. It won't be any safer, man, trust me."

"Why would you want to go back?" Quorra asked, looking between them uncertainly. "You're safe here."

"There might be a way to send a message outside," Alan began, but Flynn cut him off once more.

"Alan, I told you, there's no guarantee the arcade terminal will even work anymore! You need to drop it. I'm not letting you go back out there."

"But you'll let Quorra go?" Alan asked heatedly.

"I can't stop her, man, I told you that too."

"You can't stop me either."

"Alan, come on," Flynn said, louder now, "you can't be serious about this."

"I am serious," Alan said, louder too. The anger had sparked back up, burning hot. "If we can't figure out a way to let someone know what's happening in here, everything could go to hell in a million ways! What if Lora finds your lab and gets herself digitized?"

"Lora knows how the laser works, she wouldn't make that mistake."

"Roy, then—he doesn't know anything about it, since you never bothered to bring it up," Alan said scathingly. "If one of them ends up here, Clu or his guards will find them, and we'll be back at square one. Or are you saying you'd just let them stay hostages while we wait things out here?"

Flynn shook his head adamantly. "Of course not, man, but—"

"But nothing. I'm not going to sit here and wait for something like that to happen."

"Yeah? What are you going to do, Alan? You have no idea where the arcade is, you don't know anything about the layout of the city-you don't even know how to protect yourself!"

"I could go with him."

Once again, both men turned to look at Quorra. She had drained her glass, and was watching them both with determination in her eyes. "I could," she repeated. "I know the city, and I know what sector we'd need to reach."

"No," Flynn said immediately. "Sorry, kiddo. Not happening."

"Flynn—"

"Quorra, no. You just got back from a trip there, and it nearly cost you an arm." Flynn turned to Alan, and said, "And the last time you were in the city you nearly died. And don't tell me you're fine, because you look dead on your feet. It's not safe. For either of you."

"I don't give a damn!" Alan said hotly. "I'm not going to wait for something horrible to happen if we can prevent it."

Flynn threw up his hands, at a loss. "Since when are you so willing to commit to something you aren't even sure is going to work?"

"If you've got any other ideas, I'd be happy to hear them! Maybe you're willing to sit around another thousand years waiting for things to change, but I'm not!"

Alan could tell he struck a nerve, because Flynn went completely silent. Quorra looked between them uneasily, looking as if she was anticipating another fight. Alan ducked his head guiltily—his temper was getting the better of him.

"Look," he said, much quieter now, "I'm sorry. I know you're trying to keep your disc safe. I understand that you can't leave. But I can. I can go, and I can see if the terminal still works, and if it does, I can send a message and come back here, and we can wait to see what happens together. This could be the only chance we have, and I'm not going to pass it up. I can't, Kevin. I have a life to get back to." He placed a hand on Flynn's shoulder, giving it a small shake. "And so do you."

Flynn looked at the hand on his shoulder, and then at Alan. Alan wished he could know, just for one second, what the other man was thinking. Flynn let out a breath, and murmured, "You'd go even if I begged you stay, wouldn't you?"

"If there's even a chance we can get out and go home? Yes."

The corner of Flynn's mouth lifted in a tired smile."You really haven't changed at all, you know. You're still so damn stubborn." He fell silent, frowning again, and then he leveled his gaze at Quorra. "And you'd help him even if I told you not to, huh?"

Quorra at least had the decency to look apologetic. "Well…"

Flynn shook his head. "I don't even know why I asked." He folded his hands and looked up at the ceiling, his expression slowly fading into the almost blank look that was starting to grow familiar. "Will you at least wait a little longer? Quorra needs to rest before she goes back out, and so do you."

"I feel fine," Alan said. It was a lie—his head was hurting again, and he didn't know if it was the arguing or giving up some energy to the Lightrunner, but he could have definitely used some quiet time alone.

Flynn gave him a knowing look. "Uh-huh. Well, I would still feel better if you waited. Just a little longer, alright? Even another millicycle would only equal about ten more minutes up top, and you said it would take them at least a few hours to find the basement. Quorra can make sure she's feeling alright, you can rest, and I can see if the Lightrunner's totally bitten the dust or not. And we can come up with a plan. You like plans."

Alan snorted, but he had to admit that he would feel a little more secure in his conviction to leave if he knew exactly what he needed to do. "Fine," he said. "We'll wait. But I'm not going to let you stall me too long, Kevin."

"Yeah," Flynn said. "I know you won't."

The next few hours passed without incident, though much too slowly for Alan's taste. Quorra retired to her room, saying she would only need a little rest before she was ready to go, but Flynn threw Alan a look, and Alan gave him a short nod—as eager as he was to get going, he agreed that leaving immediately after such a recent injury was not a good idea. Even Flynn conceded to the need for sleep shortly after, retreating to the bed in the far corner of the main room, dimming the lights behind him and leaving Alan alone to pass the time.

He returned to his room, thinking of taking another nap, but the prospect of going into the city was nerve-wracking, despite how fervent he had been about doing so. He found himself pacing again, anxious—would this plan work? Would he be able to get a message to Lora or Roy, somehow? Would they really find the basement lab in the first place? He sat down on the bed with a sigh, trying to reassure himself. They knew he had gone to the arcade, they both knew that, and he'd yanked the tarp off of the Tron cabinet. That would be enough for them to notice, and find the hidden door. Wouldn't it?
Worrying isn't going to solve anything, murmured the voice in his head that reminded him of Lora. He hummed in annoyance—he knew that, but it wasn't going to stop him from worrying. Casting about for something to distract him while he waited, his eyes fell on the books that Quorra had left him. They were as good a distraction as anything else, he supposed, and rose to retrieve them.

"Journey Without Goal, huh?" he muttered to himself, studying the cover of the topmost book. "And Les…Les Voyages Extraordinaires?" He was grateful no one was around to hear his terrible French, and set that one aside, making a mental note to let Quorra know he was sometimes shaky with English, let alone another language. He flipped through a couple pages of the first volume, and was simultaneously surprised and strangely amused to find it was a collection of Buddhist meditations. He skimmed a few lines before wincing—reading made his head twinge. He set the books down, giving up, and went back to the bed with a sigh. After what felt like a long while, still worrying and eager in turns, Alan slipped into a fitful sleep.

He awoke to the sound of conversation echoing down the hall to his room through the cracked door. He pushed himself up, looking around blearily, his glasses laying crooked on his nose. He took them off to clean them with his sleeve, rubbing at his eyes, when the conversation grew suddenly louder. He frowned at the door that he had neglected to shut, listening hard, but the voices had quieted again to almost inaudible levels. Eyes narrowing suspiciously, he got to his feet and left the room as quietly as he could, slipping his glasses back on as he entered the corridor.

In the hall, their voices were a little louder, suddenly decipherable. "…not sure this is a good idea, Flynn," he heard Quorra say.

"It's not up for debate, kiddo."

Alan moved quickly down the hallway. Whatever they were discussing, he didn't like the sound of it. As he turned the corner of the corridor, Quorra spoke again.

"You know Alan's going to get upset about this," she said, her voice low. "He won't like it either."

Alan took that as his cue, and stepped into the room. "What won't I like?"

The two turned to face him, both looking like they'd been caught breaking a were near the fireplace, Quorra sitting with a disc resting on her lap, and Flynn standing above her, leaning against the mantle. Alan glanced down at the disc in Quorra's lap, then back up; they were both wearing theirs. "Is that mine?"

"Yeah," Flynn said. "You left it out here, so I took the liberty of modifying it a bit." He took the disc from Quorra, and held it out. "Here. Put it it on."

"What did you do?" Alan asked, taking the disc gingerly.

"Nothing major. Just put it on, man."

"Alright, alright." Alan reached over his shoulder and attached the disc to its dock, a little clumsily. As it clicked into place, a shiver ran through his spine, and he rolled his shoulders, trying to counteract the sensation. A flash of black at his shoulder caught his eye, and he made a surprised noise as the black spread down his sleeves and over his torso. The texture of the cloth was suddenly rougher and thicker than the grey clothing he had been wearing moments before. In seconds, the previously soft shirt lengthened into something that vaguely reminded him of the coat he had been wearing when he had visited the arcade a few days—a few hours?-before, just longer. His pants changed too, and his bare feet were suddenly clad in boots that glowed in white slashes at the ankles. The hems of his sleeves and collar glowed too, similar to the light-lines in the outfits he had seen on programs, in a simple pattern. Alan looked up, bewildered, to see that Flynn was smiling, apparently very pleased with himself.

"Lookin' good, buddy," he said, giving Alan a thumbs up.

"I'll take your word for it," Alan replied, eyeing his new outfit self-consciously. "Do I really have to wear this?"

"You can't go running around in your pajamas, man."

"I look ridiculous."

"Yeah, so you'll fit right in." Flynn clapped him on the shoulder. "Seriously, this is for the best. If you really don't like it, we could always throw you back in the body-suit."

"This'll be fine," Alan said quickly.

"Knew I'd convince you." Flynn reached behind Alan's shoulders and flipped something up and over his head—a hood, one that hung past Alan's face, leaving it shrouded in shadow. Flynn chuckled again as Alan tugged the hood back down, disgruntled. "It'd be bad news if anyone recognized you," he said, " but wearing your helmet would be a dead giveaway that you're up to something, so you might wanna use that."

"I'll keep it in mind," Alan muttered. "If this is what you thought I wouldn't like, you weren't off track."

"Oh. No, that's…something else." Flynn glanced at Quorra, who met his eyes for a moment before looking down at her lap, hands clasped tightly together. Flynn cleared his throat, and said, "I added a couple other things, too."

"Like?"

"Like…things that might make it a bit easier for you to defend yourself, if you have to." Flynn held out his hand for the disc, saying, "I can show you—"

"Don't bother." Alan took a step back, out of Flynn's reach. "I'm not hurting anyone, Kevin."

"Alan, you might not have a choice."

"Of course there's a choice." He crossed his arms tightly, staring stonily at Flynn. "And my choice is to get in and get out without hurting anyone."

"Alan—" Flynn started, and then he stopped, and sighed. "I've never known you to be this naive, man."

"It's not naivete. I'm not doing it, okay? End of discussion. We'll go to the arcade, send a message if we can, and come back. We'll be careful and we'll go slow. It's going to be fine." In the back of his head, Alan knew he sounded ridiculous, but the mere thought of having to reduce a program, even one of those guards, to a pile of dull cubes beneath his feet made him feel sick to his stomach. "So just…drop it, alright? We'll be fine."

Flynn looked at him for a long moment. Alan clutched his arms a little tighter around himself, not wanting to fight again but determined to stand his ground on this. Flynn shook his head, incredulous. "I guess you were right, Quorra," he said, and then looked back to Alan contemplatively. "Since when are you the one going around telling people everything'll be fine, man?"

"Since when are you the one acting like everything's going to go wrong?"

Flynn shrugged."Touche." He looked to Quorra and nodded. She got to her feet, shoulders set, hands in resolute fists at her sides, as Flynn continued, "If we're going to do this, you should get going now. Ships have been leaving the city at a pretty steady pace, as far as I can tell—Clu might be seriously considering the idea of us being much farther away than we are. It would be best if this got done before any of those ships start coming back. "

He lead the way to the elevator platform, the other two following him. He turned to look at them both as they reached the platform. "Once you get to the arcade, all you need to do is hold your disc over the terminal. It'll be pretty obvious how to proceed. Oh, and one more thing, Alan." Flynn reached into his robe and pulled out a white baton. "I know you're not a fan of lightcycles, but you'll be needing wheels, and I didn't have enough time to fix up the Lightrunner or make you a bike of your own, so you'll have to use mine."

"What about Quorra?"

"I have my own," Quorra said. She bent down and detached a black baton from its place on her boot. "The Outlands can be treacherous, so you'll need to stay close."

"I'll do my best," Alan said, turning the baton over in his hands uneasily.

"Stick with Quorra," Flynn said. "She knows her way around." He looked at both of them seriously. "Stay together, and don't rush. There's no point to any of this if you get caught. When you get to the arcade, send a message if the terminal works, but leave as quickly as you can. Try to keep out of sight."

"I was planning on being as conspicuous as possible, actually," Alan said dryly.

"I'm not kidding, Alan. You need to be careful."

"We'll be as careful as we can," Alan assured him. He wanted to seem optimistic, for himself as much as for Flynn, though optimism had never come to him easily. Flynn was still staring at him with sober intensity, and it wasn't doing anything to help his nerves. "We'll be back soon," he said, trying to sound confident. "It'll be fine."

Flynn continued to stare. For a moment, Alan thought he was going to reach out and hug him, but instead Flynn just nodded, and stepped back from the platform. "Good luck. Both of you. Be careful," he said quietly.

"We will," Quorra said, and stepped onto the platform. Alan followed, and with a soft click it began to descend. Flynn still looked solemn, eyes tight with worry, and Alan wished he would smile.

"See you soon," he said, hoping it was true.

Flynn nodded, and after a moment he did smile, just a small one, but at least it was there. He raised his hand in a wave, but before he could say another word, the dark rock overtook them, and Alan could no longer see Flynn at all.

---

Maybe it was just his own paranoia, but the dark streets of the city didn't seem any more welcoming to Alan now than they had when he had first arrived. The eerily glowing buildings, stretching up into the dark clouds far above their heads, loomed unnaturally over the wide streets. The perpetual night didn't help, either. Alan had done his fair share of walking around city streets in the dark, but knowing this city had never seen daylight, never had its gloomy corners illuminated by the sun, was unnerving. As they traversed deeper into the city, he wasn't sure which was better—the empty outer sectors or the crowded inner ones. Quorra led the way through the streets, Alan following close behind, avoiding the gaze of any program they passed.

"Couldn't we stick to the empty streets?" he whispered to Quorra.

She shook her head once. "No," she murmured back, "It's less suspicious to use the more common routes."

"If you say so." Alan found himself longing for the comparative safety of the lightcycles they had rode through the Outlands on. He still wasn't fond of them, but least no one would be able to see them through the darkened glass. Quorra had quickly ditched his baton, however. ("Flynn's lightcycle is too iconic," she'd said as she took the baton from him to hide it near the edge of the city. "If anyone sees us using it, we'll be recognized instantly.") Maybe that was true, but it didn't make Alan feel any more secure. He lowered his head as they passed a trio of programs chatting by a building entrance, a tall program in armor glancing his way, and hoped it was only his mounting nerves that made him feel as if they were watching him. Why had he thought this was a good idea? Flynn was right: he had no idea what he was doing here, no way to defend himself or help Quorra if they were recognized. He had the horrible feeling that Quorra would fight to keep him alive no matter what, and hated it.

They kept onward, Quorra moving quickly as Alan hurried to keep up, occasionally cutting through an alley to avoid an upcoming patrol, but sticking mostly to the wide roads of the main sectors. They passed another pair of programs, and Alan had to force himself to not do a double-take. Hadn't he just seen that program a few streets back? The tall one? He clenched his hands at his sides, but stayed silent. He hadn't gotten a good look at either of them, and didn't want to seem jumpy.

The third time he saw the tall program, Alan knew it wasn't a mistake of nerves. He sped up to walk at Quorra's side, and muttered, "I think we're being followed.

Quorra kept walking, and Alan wondered if she had heard him, but then she gave a short, almost imperceptible nod. "I know," she said, before turning sharply into an alley.

Alan followed hot on her heels as she sped down the alley. Rain started to fall in patches, blocked by outcroppings of the buildings on either side of them. "Are those the ones that followed you before?"

Quorra glanced back at him, but didn't answer. Instead she led him farther into the alley, moving quickly. They took a turn, cut through an empty street, and then another. They veered into another, narrower alley when a voice called out behind them.

"Hey, you! Program!"

Quorra's footsteps didn't falter; instead she picked up the pace, and Alan followed close behind, hands balled into rain was falling harder now, their boots splashing through shallow puddles at they neared the end of the alley—and then a large silhouette blocked the way. It was the same program Alan had seen before, tall and broad with dark skin and short-cropped hair. A pixellated scar was slashed across one half of his face, cutting into his right eye, which flashed an icy grey.

Quorra stopped so suddenly that Alan almost crashed into her. There were footsteps behind them, splashing through the alley, and Alan turned. A shorter, paler program, similarly armored, was coming up behind them, looking triumphant.

"See? Told you," he said to the taller program. He gestured past Alan at Quorra. "Same circuits."

"I heard you the first time, Hopper." The taller program glanced at Quorra for a moment, then resumed starting at Alan. Alan forced himself not to flinch back, jaw clenched. The program narrowed his eyes. "Then this might be…"

He lifted a hand, reaching for Alan's hood, but Quorra knocked his arm back, drawing her disc immediately with a fierce glare. The program glanced at her, seeming almost amused. "That's unnecessary," he said.

Quorra didn't respond, but her disc did lower a fraction of an inch as she frowned in confusion. Alan looked between them cautiously, wondering what the hell he was supposed to do if they started fighting, but then his hood was yanked back off his head, and the shorter program—Hopper—edged around to get a look at his face.

"Whoa." Hopper stared at him openly as Alan backed away. He turned to his partner. "Definitely him, right, Bartik?"

"Definitely." He gave Alan a long stare as if sizing him up, and then nodded to himself. He stepped to the side, and looked at them expectantly. "Walk."

Alan and Quorra exchanged a glance. There didn't seem to be much of a choice. She started to walk, Bartik keeping pace beside her, and Alan followed, heart hammering in his chest. Hopper reached up and tugged Alan's hood back over his head as they left the alley and entered another wide road. They followed muttered directions from Bartik as they traveled the streets. Alan wasn't sure, but he thought they were getting closer to the center of the city. That was slightly encouraging—the arcade was at the center, he knew—but not by much. These two programs didn't seem immediately hostile, but they had still attacked Quorra on her last visit, hadn't they? What did they want with them? Questions raced through his head as they walked. At one point, as they paused in a dark alley waiting for an enormous scarlet-lined tank to pass by, Quorra reached out and touched his hand, just for a second, and gave what he thought was supposed to be an assuring nod. He nodded back, heart in his throat.

Finally, Bartik murmured for them to stop, halting them in a sidestreet. A long staircase at the edge of a building lead to a small outer landing above them. Bartik paused, and then looked at Hopper, who had leaned casually against a wall, still staring openly at Alan.

"It's your turn," Bartik said.

Hopper scoffed. "What? Come on!"

"I went up first last time."

"Yeah, and she told both of us to get lost!"

"She told us not to come back without a good reason. This is the best reason we could have." Bartik crossed his arms, and looked at Hopper expectantly. Hopper pulled a face, but started up the stairs anyway. Bartik watched him reach the landing and turn the corner, and, gaze still focused upward, said quietly, "I wouldn't do that."

Alan frowned, confused. He hadn't moved, and wasn't planning to if he could help it—and then he realized that Bartik had been speaking to had one hand frozen in mid-air, and Alan guessed she had been trying to reach surreptitiously for her disc. She did not lower her hand, face pensive as she stared at Bartik, as if trying to determine which of them could move faster.

Bartik lowered his gaze to her, and the corner of his mouth twitched. "You might be able to take me, but I don't know if you'd be so lucky with them," he said, with a nod upwards.

Alan and Quorra both looked up, following his gesture. Two programs lurked at the edge of the nearest rooftop, barely visible as they peaked over the edge. As they watched, another three made themselves visible on the opposite roof, looking down at the trio on the ground. A few of them leaned over to get better looks at Alan and Quorra, seeming more curious than hostile, but every single one had their discs drawn and armed, glowing faintly at their sides.

"Six against two," Bartik said. He looked at Alan contemplatively, and said, "Or maybe just one. Not good odds."

Quorra's hand clenched into a fist, but she slowly straightened back up, eyes blazing as she glared at Bartik, who nodded once at her approvingly and resumed watching the landing. Above, the programs on the rooftops continued to observe them silently. Alan gritted his teeth, but Bartik was right. He hadn't let Flynn show him how to protect himself, clinging to some bizarre sense of decency, but now he knew that had been a mistake.

Faint voices echoed down from the landing. One was Hopper's, but the other was unfamiliar—it was a woman's voice, low and rather irritated. Their words became more intelligible as they approached the landing.

"I know you said to stay away from your place, but I really think you should see this, Commander," Hopper said.

"I thought I told you to stop calling me that, Hopper," said the woman. At the sound of her voice, Quorra looked up suddenly, staring towards the landing with a confused frown. Alan frowned at her, about to ask if she was alright, but then Hopper rounded the corner, a new program following behind him.

"Sorry, sorry. Old habits. Anyway, take a look." Hopper paused at the top of the stairs and gestured down at them, moving aside so the woman could see.

"This had better be good—" the woman began, but as she looked down at their group, she froze. Beside Alan, Quorra let out a quiet gasp. The woman, long-legged with sharp features half-hidden by flowing hair, stared down at them, her one visible eye fixed not on Alan, as he had expected, but on Quorra. The woman was as unfamiliar to Alan as any program, but Quorra's own eyes were wide with shocked recognition.

Alan saw Bartik frown, glancing at Quorra before looking back up to the two on the landing. Hopper met his gaze with an uncomfortable shrug, and shifted uncertainly. "Well?" he asked, looking at the woman. "You wanted a good reason. The User's the best we got."

The woman's gaze shifted to Alan at last, and a wave of recognition passed over her face, replaced by a contemplative frown. Alan didn't know what that look meant, but he didn't like it. There was a noise beside him as Quorra moved towards the stairs, still wide-eyed, and stood a little in front of Alan, blocking the woman's view of him.

"…Paige?" Quorra asked softly. Her voice shook with what sounded like fear.

Bartik and Hopper exchanged another, more bewildered look, and Bartik uncrossed his arms, glancing at Quorra with obvious unease. He took a step towards the stairs and said, "What should we do with them?"

The woman—Paige?—looked at him, and then at Hopper, before turning away. "Bring them inside," she said, and left the landing.

Hopper watched her go, looking puzzled, before shrugging and heading back down the stairs. "C'mon," he said, reaching for Quorra. "You heard her."

Quorra jerked away, throwing an arm in front of Alan in protection, but Hopper grabbed her roughly by the shoulder and started pulling her up the stairs. She struggled in his grasp, looking back at Alan; the worry in her face scared him. He wanted to say something, ask her what the hell was going on, but there was no time—Bartik took him by the arm, and together the two rebels hustled them up the stairs, around the corner, and out of sight.

---

A short while later, somewhere over a distant sector of the Grid, Clu stood in the central room of his ship, studying the scene visible through the wide window in front of his throne. Below, a fleet of Recognizers advanced in squads toward a small settlement—Palladium, it was called. The fleet descended, individual squads splintering off in orderly, precise patterns, to land in the streets of the city below. Already, troops of Blackguards were gathering the residents of Palladium for inspection and interrogation, small dark figures glinting blue or red as they marched through the streets. Above, Clu surveyed it all, and found it satisfying.

This was the first stop on a course for every major settlement in the surrounding area, spiraling outward from the main city, in a systematic every sector on the Grid had eventually submitted to Clu's enforcers since the fall of Argon cycles ago, there were still occasional reports of dissident activity in certain areas, of which the distant Gallium was the main hub. Perhaps the programs who resided away from the central sectors thought themselves safe, far as they were from the Clu's direct presence. Until now, Clu had been content to send additional disciplinary forces to mitigate these rebels, aware that even in his own city there were those who opposed his rule, though that opposition had rarely amounted to more than short altercations which were quickly brought under control by his Blackguards. Now, however, he was embarking on a tour of the Grid.

He had been hesitant to leave the city, if only because leaving would mean having to allocate more personnel to manage it until his return, but it had been necessary. His initial plan to capture Flynn and acquire his disc had been unsuccessful. Alan Bradley's rescue by that helmeted program was unforeseen, but not unwelcome; Clu was certain he knew the program's identity—she had never been as subtle as she thought, and periodic sightings indicated that she most likely was never far from the city. He had assumed Flynn would not leave his last precious miracle to survive on her own, and that Flynn must therefore be nearby, out of sight. He had thought that Flynn would still attempt to escape the system, his old friend and his pet in tow, but the portal's light had disappeared without a sign of the Creator. It was a deep disappointment, almost infuriating, but not catastrophic. He could wait a little longer. He had done so for cycles now. He would simply have to alter his plan, and search Flynn out himself.

Still, the displeasure lingered. Alan Bradley had been such a disappointment. After all of the stories Flynn had told them, after everything his own program had done, Clu had expected more from the great User of Tron. He grimaced slightly, remembering his encounter with the User in this very room. He had seemed so impassioned, full of anger and revulsion—misplaced as it was—that Clu had underestimated how fragile he might be. Perhaps the lightcyle arena had been too much for him to handle. It was possible he had yet to recover from his injuries, making it unlikely that Flynn or the girl would leave his side. Clu knew that despite their considerable power, Users were much more delicate than many programs assumed. How often had he seen Flynn injure himself out of carelessness, catching a stray disc incorrectly or stumbling on uneven terrain? An older User would be even more prone to hurting themselves, and Alan Bradley was undoubtedly old.

Programs aged, of course, though the effects of time manifested differently in Users. The sight of that unpleasantly familiar face so marred by the passage of time, wrinkled and thin, had been almost amusing. Would Flynn look similar, grey and frail? Clu couldn't wait to find out.

Behind him, at the opposite end of the main room, the door slid open with a whisper of noise. Clu turned, frowning. An interruption was unexpected. Jarvis strode inside, looking harried but oddly pleased. A shadow followed his steps: Rinzler, silent as usual, the faint hum of his processors the only noise that accompanied his movements.

"Sir," Jarvis said, pausing for a moment to salute before hurrying to Clu's side. "We just received an alert from the main city—it's top priority." He held out his tablet, a small light flashing in the top corner of the screen.

Clu took it, gloved hands sliding deftly over the display. He opened the information packet, read the short transmission, and read it again. His fingers pressed into the surface of the tablet, the pressure warping the glass, but Clu was far from angry. He hadn't felt this satisfied in hundred of cycles. His plan had been flawless after all. He looked up; his two programs were both watching him, awaiting his reaction. Jarvis stood at attention, hands folded behind his back, but his eyes were alight with anticipation.

"Perfect timing." Clu returned the tablet to Jarvis. "Alert the fleet. They will continue carrying out their orders, but we're leaving immediately. Reverse course, and head for those coordinates."

Jarvis nodded eagerly and left the room. Rinzler remained, waiting expectantly, but Clu had no orders for him. Not yet. Clu surveyed his best enforcer, gratified as he always was by the impeccable results of rectification. Rinzler simply stood silently, ready to fulfill Clu's every command with emotionless obedience, expression hidden from view as always. He hadn't removed the helmet in dozens of cycles now, but the face beneath the black glass was as clear in Clu's memory as it had ever been.

Clu smiled. It was a face he would soon be seeing again.

---

Chapter soundtrack:

"Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want" - The Smiths
"Take Me Home" - Phil Collins
"Exo-politics" - Muse
"Too Bad, So Sad" - Metric