A/N: SORREE. LIFE. SCHOOL. MULTIPLE AP CLASSES. AND DOCTORWHODOCTORWHODOCTORWHO. AND SHERLOCKSHERLOCKSHERLOCK. AND TUMBLR. AND DEAR GOD, HAS ANYONE ELSE SEEN THE LEGEND OF KORRA?
SO, SO SORREE.
HOPE YOU'RE STILL INTERESTED.
Summer's coming up, so in between hunting down scholarship money and applying for all the jobs I can find, I'll be writing! I promise. Srslay, if I don't update soon enough, review and express your hatred. I need you lovely readers to get on my ass when I'm being lazy.
I'm lovin' writing fic for Tron, by the way. So much empty space to fill in with ideas. And the stage is already set; I just have to dump in all my plot bunnies. And mah lovely reviewers, who are so patient and awesome. Thank you all! Responses are at the bottom!
Disclaimer: Ahah, no. If anything, Tron owns me. Do I even need to put this here? I honestly think I'll just put it once, here, and let the creative liberties speak for themselves.
Flashback: Playing Pirates
Two weeks before the Grid, a billionaire pseudo-hipster lay stretched out on Sam's black couch, typing away into a netbook, legs loosely crossed and comfortable by the time Sam was smoothing his bike through the rain and opening garage doors.
Sam had to do a double-take at his unexpected guest. It was just weird because, well, the two only ever played the waiting game when one wanted something, a favor. And the one usually in need of a favor, the one who was usually stuck outside Junior's hotel room until Junior came home after a long day at freaking 3 AM, was Sam. All the times Junior wanted permission for resurrecting and redesigning some old Flynn software, or just any time he was going away and needed a rabbit-sitter, Sam would already be in.
That day was different. Sam stared curiously at Junior, who hadn't flinched at Sam's entrance at all, before tossing his rain-soaked helmet onto a nearby chair. It thudded audibly, the sound echoing through the quiet 'apartment.' Marvin sat up from his little bed near the fridge and scrambled over, barking in greeting. His food bowl was nearly full. Sam's eyebrows rose in pleasant surprise.
Still no response from the intruder, though; not even a break in typing. Sam tried again, his wet face stoically disbelieving. "Oh, sorry, thought this was my apartment."
Junior appeared to be finishing up a line before venturing to look up. "It's a garage," said the programmer, voice a bit croaky from disuse. "Or a doghouse. That thing in the corner wouldn't leave me alone until I fed him."
Sam snickered and collapsed onto a free seat, grabbing a nearby towel and motioning for the excited Boston terrier running about to leap into his lap. "Mm, thanks for that," he said, scratching at Marv's ears with the rough gentleness of a young boy. "But hey," he began, tired but intrigued, "why are you here? Not fair that I have to wait outside your place when you can just walk in mine. Did I ever give you a key?" He paused and thought. "Come to think of it, did I ever have a spare key made?"
"Cut the crap about keys. I know the side door's jammed. I've seen you jimmy it a certain way," Junior mumbled back, slipping back into a digital reverie, fingers skimming over keys like eyes over words. "I can't tell if your key-free security system's genius or just plain stupid. Anyone could get in."
"Hey, not everyone knows how. And Marv'll protect my shit. Woncha, hm?" The terrier barked back in Sam's face, tail whapping every which way. Junior looked up again and halfheartedly wrinkled his nose. "Were you lonely at the office? Because I completely agree, Marv makes great company. With looks and personality, who can compete?"
The programmer sighed. "I cannot work in that building. There's always someone talking or breathing or printing. I swear, Jules from accounting won't stop printing."
Sam snatched a can of yesterday's beer off his table and chugged, finishing it off. "You know, some of your employees call you neurotic, but I'm just not seeing it," he murmured, dodging the ecstatic dog weaving about his ankles. He looked up at the programmer, whose code reflected brightly off of his glasses. Every slight movement he made was orchestrated by whatever music was flowing out of his earbuds, every twitch, tap, wiggle, stretch. With any other person, these would just be inane body movements, but with Junior, it was like he was shifting in a driver's seat, pulling on metaphorical gloves and diving into his element. Sam was about to ask him why he was working here, and not back at his hotel room or at one of those vegan cafés where they grow the coffee beans while you wait or something, when he noticed a bit of movement out of the corner of his eye.
A tiny black-and-white blob in a cage was shifting about atop his mini fridge. "Dr. Dre is on top of my refrigerator," he mumbled to himself, as Junior glanced up for a split second to glare at Sam. "What? I'm sorry for giving your rabbit the awesomest name in existence." (Sam hadn't officially named the bunny; he'd just called her 'Dr. Dre' so often that everyone, even Junior, had forgotten her original name. Was it Boo boo? Fluffbuckets? No one will ever know. To compensate, Sam let Junior name Marvin, though whose ass that name came out of is also a mystery.)
"I need you to watch her for a few weeks while I'm in the UK and France," Junior told him, ignoring Sam's quip. He stopped typing for a moment stretch his fingers and massage his wrists.
Sam blinked. "Happy to help, but…"
"But?" Junior looked up, looking perplexed and vaguely worried.
Sam shook his head, holding up his hands. "I didn't say I wouldn't," he assented, knowing that he was one of the few people Junior trusted with his pet. "But I thought you were opening at that meeting, the one for the new OS. You ditching?"
The programmer shook his head. "I need to look at some glitches that've been going on at ENCOM UK headquarters. I'll be back before the presentation."
Sam stood up, walking towards Dr. Dre, who was munching on some hay. "And in France?"
"Two weeks' vacation."
"Gonna get your audio-book on?" he grinned, dumping some bits of iceberg lettuce into her food bowl, which she dove for immediately. Junior's expression softened a bit at the peace offering.
"That stuff has no nutritional value," Junior told Sam as he sat back down. Sam's eyebrow rose, silently asking 'So?' Junior mouth-shrugged. "Just don't give her too much of it."
Sam nodded and looked away, towards the river outside. It was black and sparkling in the night, moving steadily but not going anywhere.
Earlier that day, Sam had spent the gray afternoon watching the clouds roll in from the top of a twenty-story lawyer firm; he'd kicked his feet out one at a time as the rain pummeled the city smog to the ground. After the sun set, he drove in circles around the city with his helmet open, trying his best to oxidate his insides, to inhale some sort of idea as to what he was going to do to for this year's big ENCOM prank.
It was going to be the tenth anniversary of the first prank, back in 2000, which had been a virus that did nothing but embed meaningless code into the code that was already there. Well, meaningless to the system; to the programmers (and later, to their bosses), the new code read like demanding rhetorical questions, bordering on religious, but entirely well-meaning, and in all CAPS. ($folder/encom3/DID YOU KNOW THAT ALL SINNERS GO TO HELL? AND BY SINNERS, WE MEAN THOSE WHO AREN'T BRAND LOYALISTS. AND BY HELL, WE MEAN CROWDED APPLE STORES WITH NO LEFTOVER CHARGER PLUGS. HAVE A NICE NIGHT _wrtn…) In order to get their systems back, practically everyone in the building with an account had to delete (and read) every message left by the seventeen-year-old, all the rantings of a fallen boy king. It was Sam's first juvie charge, too, and he cherished the obscurity.
But no, he thought as he'd taken off his helmet and sprayed the garage door with the rainfall that had collected in his hair; I need to do something that won't piss off everyone. The employees are fine. It's the clueless higher-ups that need to be targeted. Think smart and pinpoint; don't wildfire this like before. Do something that'll drain the bosses' paychecks and give the workers something to chortle heartily about before bed.
And then Junior had materialized in his apartment.
Sam sort-of smiled, got up, and took his towel; he then tossed it over his head and proceeded to play ghost, blindly feeling his way through his living space simply for the hell of it.
Quick and clean, quick and clean, quick and clean. Simplicity is best. Don't overdo what's meant to be a big joke. But what could I do that I haven't already done?
By the time Sam found the refrigerator, poked at Dr. Dre's nose, snapped open a fresh light beer, and made it back to his chair, Junior had finally stopped typing.
"This whole thing" he said slowly, "is a piece of well-authorized, hyped-up shit." It was said in the same tone of voice used for conversational fillers and easy, observable facts about the weather and the time of day.
"…not that I don't wholeheartedly agree," came ghost-Sam's muffled reply, "but could you take the time to explain to me why I agree?"
Sam's muted senses perceived only a quiet sigh from Junior's general direction. "I could. But I'd be treading through deep, existential waters to get to the answer, which I already know equates to shit, I just told you."
"But it's your system," Sam replied, halfheartedly nursing from his beer. "Technically. I mean, you designed it. And the one before that, and so on. And how, m'dear, can anything that's made from your fingers be shit?" The dirty blond had learned, early on, that the best way to communicate with Junior was to act like he was at a gentlemen's club: with flattery, occasional arrogance, a low voice, and a loud laugh. The programmer never responded well to anything outside that criterion; he'd handle outrageous insults/complements/death threats/sexual passes as if he was trying to calm someone down (someone who spoke a language he didn't speak) with the universal gesture of peace: two passive hands held up to chest-level. Mood and response were measured and weighed by perceived decibel-count. Sam smiled an unseen charmer's grin as he made believe his beer to be fanciful scotch.
"It's the Mona Lisa, of course, but. I've painted it with shit. They keep giving me a crystal core, asking me to chip and shape. But I can't, it's just fine as is. Flynn OS 4 from freaking 1999 was fine as it was, even today. So I pile on all these little bits that make it easier. The shit. I'm starting to hate it."
And now the word 'shit' sounds funny, thought Sam under his towel. "If by 'fine,' you mean required excessive patience and the mind of a computer genius to understand, then yeah, I guess it was fine." He could feel Junior's glare through his cloth shield. "Are you really looking for something new now? What? If you wanna get all big-picture on me, I'll tell you what we have. We've got tech in graphics, programs for organizing and outreach, and loads of other entertaining crap that is perpetually fueling social anxiety disorders and e-waste dumps in Africa. That is what we have. To be honest, everyone's just building on top of what's already fine. The era of random inventions popping up all over the globe is over and dead. And though you are pretty awesome personally, what you're doing right now, and I mean right fucking now, typing, here, on my couch, now, amounts to not very much. Your life, your work is pretty much equal to my life, and my work. Or lack thereof."
Junior stared at the towel-draped, faceless Sam Flynn, who stared right back in his direction. The programmer shivered.
"…sorry 'bout that. Too much?"
The programmer shook himself at Sam's new, hesitant tone and attempted a sneer. "Take that stupid towel off your ridiculous head."
Sam obeyed, revealing his sheepish face. Junior's hurt, though visible, was being masked by weak anger. "Don't feel too bad. I mean, millions of others are in this industry. Doing the same things. Um. So. I didn't mean just you. I meant me, too." Sam scrambled for more words. More words that actually had a bit of worth, not just pampering phrases like 'It's gonna be okay.' More words that applied to the situation at hand and targeted the lost spiraling downfall of the new millennium's tech industry, instead of words you would say after the death of a grandparent.
Words that would take away Junior's constant weariness.
If anyone else was there with them to bear witness, he'd tell Junior to suck it up and settle into his posh, billionaire life. But they were alone, together, and Sam knew, under those fancy clothes, that Junior meant well. He just applied his skills to the wrong things. And like Sam could talk. He never applied his skills to anything. Fulfillment was in an unknown direction to the both of them.
He cleared his throat and tried again. "So, hey. Um. Wanna help with this year's prank? Not, not directly. Just help me brainstorm? I've been thinking all day and the deadline's approaching."
Junior looked like he'd been thrown a curveball. "Are y-, wh-…you're serious," he half-asked, just as Marv was becoming restless in Sam's hold. He slipped out of the dirty blond's hands and began barking obliviously, filling up the silence with noise.
Sam just nodded and smiled. "It doesn't have to be as big as, y'know, '06. I don't think I could beat that if I tried. I just need to make my mark."
Junior frowned. "I thought your stunts were for fun. Pastimes. Whatever."
"Well, yeah," Sam agreed, "But they're also reminders. That my dad existed once. That I still exist. And that nothing's been accomplished since who-knows-when."
"And you're not going to conduct us towards the path of righteousness?" It wasn't the first time Junior had inquired about Sam's voluntary absence from the company.
"Hey, I'm a liberator, not an inventor. That's your job. Or aspiration. Whichever."
"Right," Junior mumbled distractedly, noticing Marvin sniffing at Dr. Dre from the corner of his eye. He got up. "Here, take it," he said, handing his netbook over to Sam before making his way over to the overexcited dog harassing his poor bunny. "All right, all right, calm the fuck down," he told the dog, "I'm serious…"
Sam smirked at the image of a pissed Junior surrounded by anxious animals before turning towards the netbook's screen. There were so many lines of code typed up already that the scrollbar on the side was hardly visible. His eyes passed over them and he wondered how Junior did this nearly every day. "So, are you gonna help? Before you leave, anyway. When's your flight? I could drive you. More time to brainstorm."
"Drive me with what, your bike?" he shouted over Marvin's excited whoops. "I have luggage!"
Scrolling through Junior's work, Sam hid his smile. It always pleased him, for whatever reason, that Junior could never say 'no' to him outright. He could brush off just about anyone with the indifference of a third party, but never Sam. He had to fight for that ability. Maybe it was just how long they'd known each other.
"Company car!" Sam called back absentmindedly. His eyes and mind were transfixed by so much data that was on such a small screen. Sam was primarily a hacker. He tinkered more often than he wrote, trying to find back entrances to programs, just ways to move around that weren't always 'permitted.' He'd rearrange, add in, graffiti up what was already there. But Junior, just goddamn. Junior could build buildings from the ground up, with just minimal foundation. Metaphorically, of course. And Sam would always just see him working silently, or they'd bounce ideas off each other, just building. Sam would only catch glances off the whole from the parts that made it. He rarely got to witness the skeleton of the finished product.
"Here," Junior had said. "Take it." He'd just handed it over.
Perfect.
By the time Junior made it back to the couch, cradling his rabbit (who was peeking over his owner's shoulder, glaring at the dog following them), Sam's scheme was very much alive.
"I guess. But we're either going to have to take her along or get someone else to watch her. I'm not leaving her alone with your dog." Marvin, being mentioned and therefore summoned, jumped up on the couch beside Junior, who promptly shoved him back off with his socked foot. "On second thought, I'll feel better if you just drive her there and back. A moving car on the highway is more predictable than Marvin."
"Okay," Sam replied simply, and then, "hey. Okay. So. I have an idea."
"Listening," Junior told him, still holding back the dog. "Trying very hard to listen," he corrected. Eventually, the programmer got a foot under the dog's belly and was able to slide Marvin away, like a hockey puck. The dog tripped, almost drunkenly, into his bed, where he remained for a while, thoroughly pooped. "All right. What?" Junior inquired, once recovered from the fiasco.
Sam licked his lips, just like he did preceding every stupid, dangerous thing he'd ever done. "Can I have this?"
Junior put Dr. Dre down beside him, wrinkling his nose. "My netbook? What, did you spend all your yearly funds on, on—"
"No, not that. Can I have ENCOM OS 12?"
Impish green met incredulous blue. Junior blinked. And stared. And slowly began to realize that Sam was not kidding. Sam, on the other hand, took a moment of Junior's stupor to memorize his expressions, like he did sometimes, when he was bored and Junior was the only interesting thing in the room.
"You… want the OS."
Sam nodded, going along with it. "Very well-thought-out answer. Yeah. I mean, you're nearly finished, right? It won't be in stores until February. Up for download, strictly. You'd have enough time to submit it to the team."
"What are you going to do to it," looking from Sam's eyes to the screen, back to Sam's eyes.
Sam's face brightened with a quick laugh. Again, he'd only ever heard Junior say 'no' directly to other people.
"Nothing. I'm just going to take it."
"And do what."
"Nothing!" Sam assured. "I'll just release it to the world."
Junior's eyes narrowed. "Free?"
Sam mimed crossing his heart. "Not a penny."
Junior nodded, playing along. "M-hm," he replied, trying to be calm, scratching at Dr. Dre's head. "And just how much is getting cut from the company? Moneywise? Or did you neglect that area purposefully."
The dirty blond scoffed. "Yeah, I'm sure the company will suffer. And I'm sure you can't handle this blow, financially. Of course I neglected it. There's nothing to neglect." Sam promptly scooped up Dr. Dre, holding her up to Junior's face. "And could you refuse dis face? Could you? I'd think not."
The programmer outright frowned, and then smiled, and then let out a small laugh. Their faces were just a foot apart, with a big fuzzball in between. Sam filed another smile away in his memory.
"Don't use her as a bargaining chip. And you really can't get your way this time, I'm finishing it up still. It won't be completely done until I get back, the day of the presentation. Sorry," Junior mouth-shrugged and took back the curiously-named rabbit, careful fingers brushing past Sam's. "You'll just have to think up something else," he murmured, tired eyes meeting Sam's again, halfheartedly challenging.
Sam had to sit in this moment of calm smiles and light touches; it was all he could do. It'd been a long day. The company, he had to admit, was pretty nice so far. Quiet, fun, and positively adorable. And Junior wasn't too bad, either.
The programmer in question looked up expectantly, breaking Sam out of his blank reverie.
"No problem," Sam grinned lazily. "You just have a nice trip, and get back safe, and input your code before the meeting. While I break in and steal it."
"Fuck off, Sam Flynn," Junior replied, petting Dr. Dre and resembling an evil mastermind, complete with cat and sharp attire.
"I'm not hearing a 'no.'" The grin persisted.
"Why even ask if I can't do anything about it?"
"It's your baby."
"Not entirely."
"It's ninety percent your baby," Sam corrected.
Junior opened his mouth to retort, but was cut off by his phone alarm chiming in his pocket. 1 AM. The programmer turned it off with a simple thumbprint scan. "I have to go now, if I'm going to get any sleep before the flight. You should go to bed, too, since you're driving, apparently. Flight's at nine."
The dirty blond was still smiling. "Still not hearing a 'no,'" he singsonged as Junior packed up everything.
"Do what you want, I don't care." A phrase usually used to hint 'Actually, I do care, I care quite a lot.' But with Junior, Sam knew it maintained its original meaning. 'Do with my OS what you will, Sam Flynn. I've already admitted that it's very articulate shit. I just wanna leave behind your mess and go to France.' Or something along those lines.
Sam met him at the apartment's side door, just as Junior was leaving. "You have a ride?"
"Company car's on its way. Scheduled for it to come get me now."
"Want some coffee in the meantime?"
"No."
"'kay."
"I need some sleep before the flight, anyway."
"Sleep in the car on the way there."
"And that'd amount to about two hours, tops."
"Stay up with me on the phone and tell me ghost stories," Sam murmured, droopy-eyed, beer in one hand, Dr. Dre in the other.
Junior let out a laugh that was more motion than sound, shaking off Sam's teasing. "I mean it, Sam. Don't get my rabbit killed."
The car fumbled its way around tight corners more meant for motorcycles. It honked twice. Sam watched Junior climb in.
"Pff, yeah, goodbye to you, too." He looked down at Dr. Dre, who peeked up at him. "Rude."
A/N: Well. I think it's safe to say that I like animals.
Wow, um, the end really just trailed off into nothing. It was like, homg, SO MUCH DESCRIPTION in the beginning, then ending with tiny snippets of dialogue. Eh. What the hell. I think all of the chapters may end up like that, to be honest.
This story, I've just decided, is going to weave in and out, between future and past, as I feel my way through. It's just good for people to see why such and such interactions take place, why certain characters behave in certain ways. And by certain characters, I mean Sam and Junior. That means childhood and teenage flashbacks, yay!
So um, like I said before. Slow-building. Sorry if there's any disappointment about this chapter. It takes place just before the movie, so you already know what happens in the short term. Like I said before, it's just to paint a picture of their current relationship. Nothing plotwise, really. So now you know, they're sort-of reluctant friends that the universe (i.e. me) has pushed together!
PLEASE READ AND REVIEW AND TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK. EVEN IF IT'S JUST TO YELL AT ME FOR BEING SO SLOW. HOPE YOU ENJOYED. MAY EDIT LATER, WHEN I'M LESS EXHAUSTED.
SkyeWriter: Thank you so much. :) I'm actually pretty overly critical of my writing. Glad you like my descriptiveness, heh.
ArtisticIllusions: It is actually going somewhere, I promise. xD I have it all planned out on paper; just gotta give it meat and substance and emotion and such. Thanks, glad you like!
shoeychocolatXD: Oh dear, I was worried that'd happen. :B And again, sorry 'bout the wait.
BreeilnaBane: Thanks. And I mean, he's about as appreciated as a minor uncredited character usually is. xD But Disney can't just bring freaking Cillian Murphy in for two minutes and expect us to overlook him. And I just know they're gonna make him the main villain in the sequel. DISAPPOINT, haha. But don't worry, he'll make it to the Grid in my story. :)
CatnipSoup: Oh my. Oh wow. Um, thank you. Um. Hug through the internet? Just seriously, thank you. I'm touched.
Ad Absurdum: Thanks. :D Don't worry, it's goin' places, covering pretty much all the genres excluding 'Western.' :P
Vithian: Thank you; I love that line, too. :D Makes the reader go, "Wait, wut?" Ahah, thanks, and you're super awesome for reviewing!