The Pilots & Poison ’verse, by shirozora (R overall)
Fandom: TRON
Pairing: Sam/Tron
Length: Currently one 15-chapter novella and several related short stories
Author on LJ: shirozora
Author Website: http://shirozora.dreamwidth.org/profile
Warnings: Spoilers for Legacy. Violence against Users and Programs. Circuit sex.
Why this must be read:
Legacy left its audience with a lot of questions, chiefly, what next? What has become of the Grid? How will Sam realize Kevin’s vision? We may get some canonical answers from a third film as early as 2013; in the meantime, there’s this burgeoning epic (34 entries and counting under the ’verse tag in the author’s journal). In “whoami”, a Program navigates a system succumbing to chaos while searching for his identity, only to find another quest waiting at the end of his path. That story dovetails with “We Are Pilots”, in which Sam, distracted from his responsibilities at ENCOM by the rest of his father’s bequest, returns to the Grid; hoping to learn exactly how Kevin planned to reshape the human condition, he finds a whole new set of problems ... and opportunities.
shirozora originally posted “whoami” and “We Are Pilots” in response to a tronkinkmeme prompt. She is currently revising the chapters and posting them in her journal and the Archive of Our Own, a process that involves frequent repetitions of the question, “What the hell am I doing?!?” Well, the answer is making magic. She has envisioned a post-Clu Grid populated by a cast of vivid characters (some familiar, many new) fighting for survival, power, or the restoration of the system envisioned by the Creator. And when I say fighting, I mean fighting - “whoami” and “Pilots” are packed with crisp, gripping action scenes.
There are also quieter moments in which our heroes grapple with past hurts, present dangers, and fear of what’s to come. Sam in particular has a lot of cope with, floundering under an onslaught of new abilities and new sensations even as his relationship with Tron rapidly evolves from Program/User and Childhood Idol/Fan to something more complicated.
The MP3s are creating and mixing with crowd-pleasing fervor, heads bobbing in sync with the beat and each other. While Sam watches one of them looks up and straight at him, then elbows its companion; the other program turns its cracked helmet to Sam as well, and then they nod as one. Abruptly the beat changes, becomes louder and heavier until it pulses in the air and the spaces between bodies. It drums in his head like a second heartbeat, throbs under his skin and makes loud the presence of the hand on his elbow. It disorients him, makes his circuits pulse hotly while something in his chest both expands and contracts, and Sam thinks distantly that something is really off about the music. The hold on his elbow tightens and he looks at Tron; the program is tense and his circuits are starting to intensify, as are those on the programs around them.
Crystal is handing a program a green cocktail while reading what looks like a data pad. One glance and she's putting the data pad away in some space under the counter and moving towards them. Sam leans heavily against the counter, swallowing hard and trying to bring his heart under control. He closes his eyes against the lights but it only magnifies the beat in his ears and in his head.
"Well," Crystal says loudly, "you look ready to crash."
He nods once and presses his forehead to the cool panel. The music flows hotly through the lines of his circuitry while the drumming in the back of his mind grows louder and louder.
"Sam?" Tron asks. His voice sounds strained.
"I'm fine," he mumbles. "I'm fine. Shit."
Crystal makes a frustrated sound and it sounds like a bullhorn. "I swear...they're experimenting again, and this time they left me out of the equation. It most likely won't suit you, and you're about to go into standby anyway. Take the room at the back; it's soundproof and you need the rest."
Experimenting? He slowly lifts his head and looks over his shoulder at the MP3s, who are clearly enjoying what they've done to him, Tron, and the other programs in the establishment. Not that the other clubbers are complaining; they're all on the dance floor in front of the MP3s' platform, a mass of writhing silhouettes and pulsing light. It's hypnotizing. He can't look away.
"Did you hear me? Sam?"
Crystal touches his arm to get his attention and he flinches, jerks away; the contact ripples violently through his body, leaving him breathless and shell-shocked. It felt wrong and it still feels wrong, and he shuts his eyes, shakes his head, tries to shrug it off. He looks up at Crystal, who's as stunned as he feels, hand trembling in mid-air, and then her face hardens and her eyes flash as she turns to the MP3s. He stares at her profile, then loses his breath again when a warm hand rests tentatively on the small of his back, steadying him.
He gives Tron a weak smile, grateful for the small gesture, and catches his breath. "I'm fi-"
"They're just asking to be derezzed," Crystal says, "or at least thrown out. Go on. I'll deal with them."
"I'll wait here for-"
"Mmm, no," Crystal says, cutting Tron off. "With a recompilation like that you need more than just an instant recharge."
When Tron opens his mouth to protest she leans on the counter and looks him in the eye. "Don't pretend you don't. You need yourself to be in top form, more than we need you to be. We were doing fine before you came."
Tron tilts his head down ever so slightly while raising an eyebrow and the expression reminds Sam very strongly of his godfather, especially when the expression's turned on him in the wake of one of the many stupid things he'd done.
"Mostly fine, then." The Siren jabs a thumb over her shoulder in the general direction of the backroom. "My bar, my rules. Go. Now."
His hand slides along the edge of the counter as they head for the back. They pass programs sitting on the couches, in booths, and around small tables toward the back of the club; the programs are completely entranced, bodies swaying to the music while their circuits brighten and dim with the rhythm. They seem to be handling its effects better than he is, though that might have something to do with the cocktails they're clutching in their hands. And that they're programs while he's a User.
He thinks about making a crack about getting drunk to cope with the beat when something changes. The music remains the same but the tense atmosphere lets up; the buzzing under his skin and the skittish anxiety fades. He can still feel the press of the Siren's fingers on his arm, though, and the ghost of the touch on his lower back. He can still hear the pounding in his head.
He sways a little too close to the wall at some point and Tron pulls him back with a hand on his upper arm, guides him away from it and towards the sliding door several feet ahead. The drumming in his head becomes deafening.
"Thanks," he says around a thick tongue, and only breathes when Tron lets him go. He briefly touches his arm, feeling the prickle of pressure and the form of the warm hand against it.
The transparent wall keeps out everything but a faint impression of the beat. In here the club scene looks picturesque, almost like an art form. If not for the drowsiness shrouding his mind and the suddenly difficulty keeping his eyes open he can sit on the couch and watch for hours on end. He goes to the couch anyways, sprawls all over it and lays his head back. His eyes track Tron's movements, follows his path to the transparent wall where he stands with his hands behind his back, watching and waiting like always. Against the lights of the club he's a silhouette marked sparsely with blue circuits; Sam traces the glow of his disk, the circuits up on the back of his neck, on his shoulder blades, and right under the disk dock, and down even lower to the circular nodes on his hips.
It takes several slow seconds for him to realize that, for all intents and purposes, he's staring at Tron's ass. Flushing, even though nobody's around to see it, he covers his face and slumps down on the couch, pretends that his heart isn't racing a mile a minute.
Well, that's new. Fuck.
The Pilots & Poison ’verse:
Pairing: Sam/Tron
Length: Currently one 15-chapter novella and several related short stories
Author on LJ: shirozora
Author Website: http://shirozora.dreamwidth.org/profile
Warnings: Spoilers for Legacy. Violence against Users and Programs. Circuit sex.
Why this must be read:
Legacy left its audience with a lot of questions, chiefly, what next? What has become of the Grid? How will Sam realize Kevin’s vision? We may get some canonical answers from a third film as early as 2013; in the meantime, there’s this burgeoning epic (34 entries and counting under the ’verse tag in the author’s journal). In “whoami”, a Program navigates a system succumbing to chaos while searching for his identity, only to find another quest waiting at the end of his path. That story dovetails with “We Are Pilots”, in which Sam, distracted from his responsibilities at ENCOM by the rest of his father’s bequest, returns to the Grid; hoping to learn exactly how Kevin planned to reshape the human condition, he finds a whole new set of problems ... and opportunities.
shirozora originally posted “whoami” and “We Are Pilots” in response to a tronkinkmeme prompt. She is currently revising the chapters and posting them in her journal and the Archive of Our Own, a process that involves frequent repetitions of the question, “What the hell am I doing?!?” Well, the answer is making magic. She has envisioned a post-Clu Grid populated by a cast of vivid characters (some familiar, many new) fighting for survival, power, or the restoration of the system envisioned by the Creator. And when I say fighting, I mean fighting - “whoami” and “Pilots” are packed with crisp, gripping action scenes.
There are also quieter moments in which our heroes grapple with past hurts, present dangers, and fear of what’s to come. Sam in particular has a lot of cope with, floundering under an onslaught of new abilities and new sensations even as his relationship with Tron rapidly evolves from Program/User and Childhood Idol/Fan to something more complicated.
The MP3s are creating and mixing with crowd-pleasing fervor, heads bobbing in sync with the beat and each other. While Sam watches one of them looks up and straight at him, then elbows its companion; the other program turns its cracked helmet to Sam as well, and then they nod as one. Abruptly the beat changes, becomes louder and heavier until it pulses in the air and the spaces between bodies. It drums in his head like a second heartbeat, throbs under his skin and makes loud the presence of the hand on his elbow. It disorients him, makes his circuits pulse hotly while something in his chest both expands and contracts, and Sam thinks distantly that something is really off about the music. The hold on his elbow tightens and he looks at Tron; the program is tense and his circuits are starting to intensify, as are those on the programs around them.
Crystal is handing a program a green cocktail while reading what looks like a data pad. One glance and she's putting the data pad away in some space under the counter and moving towards them. Sam leans heavily against the counter, swallowing hard and trying to bring his heart under control. He closes his eyes against the lights but it only magnifies the beat in his ears and in his head.
"Well," Crystal says loudly, "you look ready to crash."
He nods once and presses his forehead to the cool panel. The music flows hotly through the lines of his circuitry while the drumming in the back of his mind grows louder and louder.
"Sam?" Tron asks. His voice sounds strained.
"I'm fine," he mumbles. "I'm fine. Shit."
Crystal makes a frustrated sound and it sounds like a bullhorn. "I swear...they're experimenting again, and this time they left me out of the equation. It most likely won't suit you, and you're about to go into standby anyway. Take the room at the back; it's soundproof and you need the rest."
Experimenting? He slowly lifts his head and looks over his shoulder at the MP3s, who are clearly enjoying what they've done to him, Tron, and the other programs in the establishment. Not that the other clubbers are complaining; they're all on the dance floor in front of the MP3s' platform, a mass of writhing silhouettes and pulsing light. It's hypnotizing. He can't look away.
"Did you hear me? Sam?"
Crystal touches his arm to get his attention and he flinches, jerks away; the contact ripples violently through his body, leaving him breathless and shell-shocked. It felt wrong and it still feels wrong, and he shuts his eyes, shakes his head, tries to shrug it off. He looks up at Crystal, who's as stunned as he feels, hand trembling in mid-air, and then her face hardens and her eyes flash as she turns to the MP3s. He stares at her profile, then loses his breath again when a warm hand rests tentatively on the small of his back, steadying him.
He gives Tron a weak smile, grateful for the small gesture, and catches his breath. "I'm fi-"
"They're just asking to be derezzed," Crystal says, "or at least thrown out. Go on. I'll deal with them."
"I'll wait here for-"
"Mmm, no," Crystal says, cutting Tron off. "With a recompilation like that you need more than just an instant recharge."
When Tron opens his mouth to protest she leans on the counter and looks him in the eye. "Don't pretend you don't. You need yourself to be in top form, more than we need you to be. We were doing fine before you came."
Tron tilts his head down ever so slightly while raising an eyebrow and the expression reminds Sam very strongly of his godfather, especially when the expression's turned on him in the wake of one of the many stupid things he'd done.
"Mostly fine, then." The Siren jabs a thumb over her shoulder in the general direction of the backroom. "My bar, my rules. Go. Now."
His hand slides along the edge of the counter as they head for the back. They pass programs sitting on the couches, in booths, and around small tables toward the back of the club; the programs are completely entranced, bodies swaying to the music while their circuits brighten and dim with the rhythm. They seem to be handling its effects better than he is, though that might have something to do with the cocktails they're clutching in their hands. And that they're programs while he's a User.
He thinks about making a crack about getting drunk to cope with the beat when something changes. The music remains the same but the tense atmosphere lets up; the buzzing under his skin and the skittish anxiety fades. He can still feel the press of the Siren's fingers on his arm, though, and the ghost of the touch on his lower back. He can still hear the pounding in his head.
He sways a little too close to the wall at some point and Tron pulls him back with a hand on his upper arm, guides him away from it and towards the sliding door several feet ahead. The drumming in his head becomes deafening.
"Thanks," he says around a thick tongue, and only breathes when Tron lets him go. He briefly touches his arm, feeling the prickle of pressure and the form of the warm hand against it.
The transparent wall keeps out everything but a faint impression of the beat. In here the club scene looks picturesque, almost like an art form. If not for the drowsiness shrouding his mind and the suddenly difficulty keeping his eyes open he can sit on the couch and watch for hours on end. He goes to the couch anyways, sprawls all over it and lays his head back. His eyes track Tron's movements, follows his path to the transparent wall where he stands with his hands behind his back, watching and waiting like always. Against the lights of the club he's a silhouette marked sparsely with blue circuits; Sam traces the glow of his disk, the circuits up on the back of his neck, on his shoulder blades, and right under the disk dock, and down even lower to the circular nodes on his hips.
It takes several slow seconds for him to realize that, for all intents and purposes, he's staring at Tron's ass. Flushing, even though nobody's around to see it, he covers his face and slumps down on the couch, pretends that his heart isn't racing a mile a minute.
Well, that's new. Fuck.
The Pilots & Poison ’verse:
- “whoami” on Livejournal and AO3
- “We Are Pilots”
- As posted on tronkinkmeme
- On the author’s journal (click the link for “1” to continue reading)
- On AO3
- As posted on tronkinkmeme