Once upon a time, on the Grid, sprang up a problem that required a User's intervention.

The security leader of the system used the contact group that he had been given for emergencies in order to contact Alan, Sam, and Roy.

The crisis was nothing out of control compared to what they were used to solve; so the users decided that only one of them would come down to solve it.

As always, from the inside, the system looked worse than on a screen where Alan Bradley could be in total control, without ethical dilemmas and sentient casualty looking back at him.

The security notification that crowded his visor even from far away sector cracking at the seams made him second guess his choice of coming alone, but hen his security program showed up unscratched and with a vehicle to escort him, he felt better. But when the program himself turned into a jet... Alan understood that something was not completely normal.

When they entered Tron's Tower, from a protocol vehicle, the program turned back into his normal user-like interface, and, as they reached the floor of the control center, Alan understood that it wasn't his program who had accompanied him: the floor was populated with dozen of busy programs very focused on their work.

And they all shared his face.

What first came up in the user's mind was: "how could I not have not understood sooner; the tower is so large and has so many stations".

But the second thing was: "why does some look female". After that, his thoughts became a little blurry.

Maybe the most striking fact was that every one of these... scripts? Functions? Protocols behaved slightly differently.

Two of them left their post to walk up to him as soon as he stepped out of the lift. A male and a female one (was it rather masculine and feminine? he doubted that the difference was only cosmetic; it wasn't in his style to waste resources; if it was there then it might have run deeper that looks) came up first with...will, eh, well, with lewd expressions; he could not describe any other way and didn't got the time to process it before they grabbed and clung to him, predatory and wanton.

Another couple followed; a male who moved with a very haughty gait and a severe expression. The female one was radiant; her face seemed to cast light as her sight set on him. The masculine took his aspect in, then approached and adjusted his coat (did he put his clothes off? was it even possible on a digital system), while the feminine went down on her knees and trembling took one of s hand in hers.

Before Alan's brain could catch up with everything that was happening around of him, on him, and inside of him, two more script reached him; the masculine with a suspicious expression, and a threatening gait as he walked, the feminine with a seductive and sensuous flair, her face a blank mask. Alan resisted an instinct to step back when those approached.

The last script who came, rose from his seat on the high chair that controlled the whole Tower and every security outpost that Torn had depolyed on the system. He stepped down from the platform where his seat was fixed and sighed at the sight of the six functions crowding his User.

"[Alan-One was expected and is clear.]" The two suspecting protocols left Alan (but the male one finished his last scan first, he noted).

"[Back to your posts. You have work.]" The two protocols who crowded him with grabby hands detached themselves with mournful, agonizing expressions; the masculine one, turned and took a sucker kiss on Alan's neck. The last script lifted a hand to cover his eyes in embarrassment, and the two last took the borrowed time to assault his user with questions and by rubbing his hands all over their face and chest.

"[Don't even think to debate now, you two; the other need your advice.]"

"[That includes you, master,]" the masculine protocol that wore priest robes remarked sternly, raising a brow.
"[You can't ask this of us,]" the feminine one chanted, eyes glazed over "[let me rather end. We all need to bask in Alan-One's light!]"

"[Or, I can reintegrate you.] [Both of you.]"

The feminine devout protocol turned a heart-torn but determined face to her master-script. The later sighed, and a dismissive gesture toward them. "[Hands off.]" And to the masculine: [Not a word to our User. And I mean ever.]"

"[Empty frame, who do you think you-]" The leader (their...frame?) rose a hand and the script seemed to vanish away, sucked into him. He cast a warning look at the feminine version and pressed his lips together, shaking his head in apology.

"I am sorry, Alan. We... needed to spare time, so I dispatched them. I should have warned you."

Alan takes the frame's seat at the comment center, get the situation under control and, when the system's status confirms it is stable enough to re enable more functions, the script that — "Who?" "It doesn't really matter. We share the same Spark, they exist through me..."— lead the others extended his arms and all those remaining left their stations and cape to face it; the dots along their spins blinked fast four times, then they entered him? vanishing from sight.

All in front of a disoriented Alan.

Tron stays there a little while longer, as light ran across some lines of his chest. When he was done processing all of the feedback from his functions, he beamed up at his User and handed him a minidisc.

"Here is the data you requested."

Then he stood at the ready with a command prompt and a little happy-go-lucky smile.

Alan blinked. The event finally parsing. All of these scripts were sharing their frame's Spark among them all; all linked to him, but slightly unsynchronized as they worked.

They had to sync before they dispatched to attend to different tasks at once in the program's Tower; each of them a part of a program's code and personality, apparently... and, clearly, some parts of his program's personality were... a little more colorful than what Tron let appear from the outside.

Ok. Nothing uncanny at all. He snorted; it turned into a warm chuckle.

"Well... hello, Tron. "Eventful cycle, I take."

He savored the mortified expression of his monitor for a second, then took duck steps stepped toward him and engulfed him in his arms. Tron snorted in turn, and, as the past micros' tension caught up to him, he sagged a little in his User's hold.

He considered retorting different things, then remembered the event and felt advised to shut up. He preferred to lower his face in Alan-One's neck; acknowledging a certain background process.
(Admittedly, some nagging self-righteous unstuck portable version of a tower guardian sometimes was of good advice as well.)