Hi guys. Here's the latest chapter. It has a slightly different format than all the others, so enjoy! Also, this is the point where things are really going to diverge from the movie so keep reading...It only gets more interesting from here on out. R&R all! ~Moore12~
Eighteen
1989
I
What happened? For a micro or two, he just lay there, unable to move or even attempt to begin trying to calculate the answer to his question. When he finally summoned the strength to sit up, he found that he couldn't; he was chained down to a table, in a dark room he didn't recognize…and pain surged through his processors.
This can't be good, he thought bitterly as his CPU scrambled to pull up the memory of what had just happened. User, Tron, what did you get yourself into this time?
And then it all came rushing back to him…walking on the outskirts of the city…expressing his concerns about Ram's disappearance, about Clu in general…Clu appearing out of the darkness, circuitry a menacing yellow—the color of the enemy Ram had always said he was…fighting so many programs…saving Flynn from Clu…
Did Flynn get away? he wondered frantically, well aware of what would happen if he had failed.
"Well, well, well, you're awake," Clu's voice tore him from his painful thoughts and caused him to issue a low growl…which only made the program chuckle.
"What's wrong with you?" he spat, unable to control his fury and—he betrayed all of us, he thought bitterly—remain calm and rational.
Shooting him a scandalized look, Clu said calmly, a smile remarkably still on his face, "Nothing, Tron. I'm just trying to fulfill my directive to the best of my ability. You understand that, don't you?"
"This isn't what Flynn meant!" he yelled, unable to process what Clu meant, why he felt that doing this to them…his friends…was right. "This isn't what he asked you to do! He never wanted you to betray your friends…"
"No, he didn't," Clu replied steadily, a slightly sad look on his face, "he told me to make the perfect system. This is for your own good…"
It was then he realized what was about to happen, and he knew he had failed. He had handed himself to the enemy, had failed to keep fighting when it was so important. Deresolution, he knew, was preferable to what he was about to undergo…and he should have kept fighting so they would have been forced to end him. Flynn, I'm so sorry, he thought miserably. I'm so sorry… "Clu," he said, his voice cracking, "Did Flynn get away?"
"He did," Clu growled, the rage making another appearance in his eyes; seeing that one last time…knowing he had helped Flynn escape…was enough for him, who was well aware that he couldn't fight the inevitable. I'm sorry, Flynn, he thought. It's all up to you now…
II
He tried to hold on, but the memories were fragmenting into unrecognizable pieces, his prompts had stopped ordering him to resist, and he could feel himself breaking apart. His very coding was under attack, being overwritten by new commands and functions, and there was no way to escape what was inevitable. Soon he would no longer be the same program…soon he would have a new function that, knowing Clu, would be terrible.
But, quickly, even those thoughts faded away. The rewrite of his coding nearly complete, he had become a blank slate—entirely unaware of who he was or what he was going there.
And then…one last prompt fired a futile directive…I fight for the Users…
Error.
I fight for Clu.
III
He felt nothing. He felt nothing even as he led the attack on the city, led the slaughter of countless innocent programs. His prompts told him what to do; his functions initiated—it was too simple really. He didn't even need to stop to calculate what he was doing. The programs didn't have a chance against him because he had been designed to fight—to wage his master's war—and they hadn't been. He was his master's "perfect" weapon, and nothing could stand in his way.
When it was over—walking through the crushed pixels of the victims—he stopped for a moment to contemplate if this was right…it this was just…The idea was enough to make his CPU protest.
Error.
This is right. This is my purpose…my sole function.
1993
Where were they? Ever since the enemy had escaped with the ISO, there had been no signs that he even still existed. Growling at the memory of letting the pair escape—that was one memory he couldn't seem to escape, a memory that helped feed his aggression—he stalked over to where a group of programs were talking in hushed whispers…unaware he was watching them.
"I heard Flynn is still alive," the one program was saying in a hopeful tone that was enough to make him cringe. Flynn is the enemy, his CPU told them. If they want him back…they are the enemy. The program, still unaware, continued, "He's still with us, so maybe he'll help us get rid of the tyrant."
That was all he needed to hear; the prompts issued their commands, and his functions—without pause, fueled by his rage at failing his master—executed them precisely. When he was done, not one of the five programs was left alive…and none even knew what had hit them.
Come on, you viral, he thought as he walked away, not even considered with what he had done anymore. Come out and face me…
1999
"Ram?" The name caught in his throat; his functions protested initiating the commands of prompts urging him to finish off the now helpless conscript. His CPU straining—grasping at the fragmented memories locked away somewhere inside him—he stared down at the face that was so agonizingly familiar and tried to remember. Piecing together the fragmented memories with what he had seen—the conscript was better than most…and far more talkative…and had called him "Tron"—he saw a shimmering pool of pure…
"Finish him!" his master's voice roared over the loud speaker, and the memory was lost, replaced with a single, simple message he encountered too frequently for comfort.
Error.
The program squirmed underneath him—a futile motion, why he was even bothering to attempt to escape, he didn't know—and it felt…right…to see his fear. Or did it? And who was Tron?
Error – initiate command.
His functions acted on the command, and all of his misgivings were washed away…bringing the identity disc down on the program's face, he followed orders…the memory slipping away once more.
2001
He had to admit, the new conscript was good. Too good for comfort. And there was something about his fighting style that felt vaguely familiar even though he was fairly certain he had never faced him before. Despite being much smaller than almost all of his opponents—which was, he knew, normally a deresolution sentence—he was quick, precise and…ruthless. Blinking behind his black tinted face shield, a memory that had been lost for so long tore through him…causing his CPU to protest…
He was in a system he didn't recognize—in a cell for reasons he couldn't explain. A face—a face that was blurred…not clearly in focus—was looking at him through some kind of force field. "Ya know what?" the program snickered; he could just make out the smirk on his gaunt face. "I told 'im to go frag himself."
And then the memory was gone, and he returned his attention to the game…to the one conscript in particular. He knew him. He knew who he was…he was the program in the memory…he was…a…a…friend.
Ram.
Error.
His name is Ram. It isn't Rez. And…and I know him, he thought, his CPU burning. He tried to grasp at the memory again, tried to remember the face, remember what he looked like…
Error.
"Rinzler," his master called, allowing him to escape from the seemingly omnipresent "error" message. "You won't be facing the winner this time. I want him alive."
Nodding to acknowledge his master—all the while watching as the smaller conscript de-rezzed his last opponent, only to stare at the ground…hardly triumphant—he tried to process what he had remembered. Before he got very far, his master tore him from it: "And, Rinzler, there's been a report of activity in the Outlands that I want you to check out."
With a mission—an objective he needed to complete—the memory slipped away again…and he was once more without any doubts of who he was and where he came from…
2009
It wasn't exactly difficult to find them, not when they hadn't even left the End of Line Club yet. What was it that his master always said about Users? That they weren't exactly the most efficient creatures? Watching the trio intently—they were clearly arguing about something—Rinzler tried to calculate when it would be best to make his move. Turning the light jet around to get in position—slightly amazed they hadn't noticed him—his prompts urged him to attack. It's time, he reasoned. Bring the User in alive, secure the enemy's disc, de-rezz the others.
Without another calculation, he de-rezzed the light jet, sending himself crashing through the already partially broken window and into the club. Landing on his feet, he quickly unhooked his identity discs and quickly surveyed the scene. The User was the kid—and it might be harder to get him to come than he had thought initially—de-rezzing the female program would be easy…but the other program…He would be a challenge. He clearly wasn't one to go down without a fight.
"Go!" that program yelled, and, in one fluid motion, he unhooked the disc from his back and hurled it right at him. "Get out of here!"
Rinzler hadn't expected the program to move so fast, and he actually had to do a near backbend to avoid having his head taken off. The disc ricocheted off the back wall and right back to the program that didn't waste any time launching it again. Growling with rage—well aware the program was trying to distract him, was essentially giving himself up to save the others—he blocked the disc with one of his own…and, prompts urging him to attack the female, he did. It made complete sense…the User and the female were about to escape on the elevator, after all.
Before he reached the female and the User—who were, he almost laughed, now frantically pressing the button for the elevator—the smaller program lunged at him, his identity disc a deadly blur. Not wanting to be bothered, Rinzler easily swatted the program away, sending him crashing to the floor in a heap, his disc skittering away. I'll finish him next, he vowed…
Error – initiate command now.
Glancing over at the pair—the female had turned, rezzing a sword, to face him, the User was still pounding on the control pad for the elevator—he couldn't compute why finishing off the little program was so important. He was struggling to get up and clearly wasn't a threat…
"Tron, don't do this." The program's weak voice came from behind him, distracting him for a moment. Blinking warily behind his face shield, trying to focus on the female who had advanced three cautious steps towards him, he tried to calculate where he had heard that name before.
Error – Tron program terminated.
"Tron," the little program's still weak voice came again, wavering even more, "Tron, don't hurt them…You'll regret it as long as you live."
Why does he keep calling me Tron? Rinzler wondered, hardly aware that the female program was edging closer still, that the elevator was only a few floors below now. Am I Tron?
Error – you are Rinzler. You fight for Clu.
That was when the female attacked—tearing him instantly from the error message—and he blocked her move effortlessly. Without a second thought about the mystery of the name "Tron," he went on the offensive, slashing at the female with both discs…quickly, he had her backpedaling…That's right, he almost laughed. It's all over for you.
He had her backed into a corner—the User was yelling to her to get out of there, that the elevator was there—and his prompts were urging him his functions to de-rezz her, end the game when he heard that same voice call in a mocking tone, "Hey, Rinzler, how 'bout ya pick on someone who can actually fight for a change!"
Rinzler wasn't about to let the annoyingly talkative program distract him again; instead, he knocked the sword from the female's hand, rendering her completely helpless, and was about to end her pitiful little life—that'll teach her to side with the enemies, he thought—when the program yelled "Tron" again and he remembered a memory that had been hidden for so long…
Instead of the black haired female he was about to de-rezz, he saw a face so agonizingly familiar, it made him gasp in pain. It was the face of the one he had loved more than any other, the face of the one he had lost so long ago. He wanted to cry, wanted to kiss her even though he knew deep down inside she wasn't really there was just a vision…a mere…
"Yori," he breathed, hardly aware of where he was anymore…still seeing her face…still wanting to kiss her more than anything in the world…
Error.
His functions initiated almost of their own accord, his hand reaching out to grasp the program's neck…squeezing it…Still, he was hardly aware of what was happening; he still saw Yori, and he fought the urge to de-rezz the program who he thought was her…
Error – initiate command, terminate program.
Before he could act on the command, Rinzler was tackled to the ground by the little program who had, to his surprise, de-rezzed his face shield…leaving him to stare at an all too familiar face he couldn't quite place. The program pinned his arms to the floor—he couldn't reach either of his discs, and he knew what that meant—but didn't seem at all inclined to de-rezz him. "Get outta here, Quorra!" he yelled, and Rinzler could only watch as both the User and the program he had failed to de-rezz got in the elevator…and escaped.
Mission – failed.
Deresolution – imminent.
To his surprise, the little program just smiled a crooked smile at him and said softly, "Do ya remember me?"
And…almost instantly…he was transported to the place he didn't recognize, and the blurred face from before was defined…the program in the cell next to him…his old friend…former co-administrator…was the program sitting on top of him…was…Ram.
Error.
Go frag yourself, he almost snarled at the error message. Because he remembered…the memories were pouring back to him…allowing him to disregard the error messages and push them away for the first time in cycles…
Yori…
Alan-One…
The games…rezzing up Sark with his actuarial buddy…
Ram…
Flynn…the User on the Grid…
Taking down the MCP…
His first cycle in the new system…
Clu…
The coup…
Being repurposed…
"Ram," Rinzler whispered, ignoring the error message, combating his own programming for the first time in ages because he remembered who he really was…that he was Tron and not Rinzler... "Ram, I'm so sorry…"
"Always knew you were still in there, Tron," Ram offered him a weak smile, the sadness in his eyes all too apparent. "Figured it out back when you couldn't de-rezz me back in the games…"
Sighing deeply—with a pang, Tron realized that his old friend clearly didn't trust him fully—Ram got off of him and warily stalked a few steps away, his disc still at the ready. Collecting his own discs—despite his realization, he was still fighting his prompts that were urging him to de-rezz Ram while he was distracted—Tron replied softly, "You better get out of here…just in case…"
Before he could finish his thought, he saw out of the corner of his eyes red-circuited figures hurdling through the sky…They're here because I've taken so long…they think I need help, he realized. He was about to yell at Ram to get out of there—go protect the User…keep Flynn's disc safe—but he was too late…the members of the guard landed in the club and instantly focused all their attention on Ram.
"Ram, go!" Tron yelled, hurling one of his identity discs—which fortunately de-rezzed one of the unsuspecting programs—before pushing the baton for his light jet into his hand. "Get the User to the portal!"
"Tron, I can help!" Ram protested, and Tron had to grab him to keep him from attacking the guards. And then, he seemed to remember what his function was, and he just nodded, offering him a sad smile. With that, he rezzed the light jet and shot over the guards and through the window…
And, as he turned to face down the programs, he was happy that not all memories could be washed away…that he could fight for the Users once more…