Fic: The Sea Like the Stars [3/?]
Fandom(s): Tron: Legacy
Characters: Kevin Flynn, Sam Flynn, Tron/Rinzler, Clu, Quorra, Alan Bradley
Rating: T
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.
Summary:
In one story, a program named Rinzler remembered he was once named Tron for the microseconds necessary to ram his lightjet into Clu's.
In one story, he fell, and Clu went on to harry the users and the Iso upon the I/O port's very threshold.
In one story, he drifted into the deeps of the Sea of Simulation, limp and flickering, as Kevin Flynn drew Clu into himself and Sam and Quorra escaped into the user's world.
This is not that story.
Note: Sorry, the chapters will probably remain short for a while! I just don't have the time between work and another writing project to make this go any faster. I'm also jumping quite a bit between POVs and action in these first few chapters, but everyone will get a chance to catch their breath soon; promise. =)
Previous chapters:
[ Chapter 1: Another End, Another Beginning ]
[ Chapter 2: Forever Young ]
Chapter 3: The Old and the New
"Hello? Sam?"
When he had passed on the pager's message, Alan had thought to give Sam some time to explore on his own, first. After all, the arcade must have been as cluttered with memories as dust and cobwebs for the young man ... they were certainly thick enough to choke him right now, as he ventured through the unlocked entrance and closed the door gently behind him.
As well meaning as his gesture had been, though, he had not been about to let his godson simply wander off alone to explore an abandoned building after receiving a cryptic page from a disconnected number. Heavens knew that Sam had never needed help to find trouble, and so here Alan was, following the breadcrumb trail of Sam's passage in the middle of the night; led on by the Ducati parked in front and the festive jingles and blistering lights now filling the seemingly empty arcade.
For all the aural and visual pollution, though, he had yet to see any other evidence of a human presence.
"Sam, it's Alan!" he called again, feeling a little foolish doing so, but finding it less disconcerting to pretend that Sam was merely confused or being obstinate than unable to respond. Besides, who could really hear anything clearly over all the ruckus of the games and jukebox going at full volume? Had it always been this loud, back when Flynn's Arcade had been their second home? Surely speakers only degraded with time, instead of becoming more piercing ... or, he had to admit ruefully, I'm just old now. Looking around with a tight feeling in his chest, he had to admit that nothing else could have changed within the arcade except for himself.
Kevin, what happened to you? You've missed out on so many things ...we've missed you ...
But, thankfully, he was not forced to linger on the whens and wherefores as he heard the scrape of something heavy moving in the back. "Sam!" This time, the name was punctuated with equal parts irritation and relief as he gratefully stepped into the next aisle, striding rapidly toward the source. "Did you really have to turn everything on all at once? Can barely string two thoughts together in here ... "
... and was suddenly bowled head over teakettle by something - someone - that had seemed almost more animal than human, all sleek black limbs with odd yellow accents, tearing toward the entrance. While Alan wheezed and struggled to figure out whether it was the floor or the ceiling he was blinking at, there was a snarl and a knee dug painfully into his leg as whoever it was fought to disentangle themselves. "Hey, buddy, ease up a little, will you," he growled, or tried to. He wasn't too proud to admit that it came out more as a croak, particularly when there was half a grown man's weight flopped across his diaphragm.
"You."
Belatedly, concern began to crawl up his abused spine. Black clothing - neon stripes notwithstanding - a stranger who didn't belong, running for the exit, and still no Sam in sight? Wasn't this hinting at the very scenario that he had hoped to avert? Except even caution had to take a backseat to simple incomprehension as his partner in collision finally levered himself up enough that they came face to face - and even with his glasses askew, Alan saw enough to make his whole body go numb.
It was like looking into the visage of a ghost. A ghost from twenty-one years ago, except ... except that Alan had never seen his friend so wild, so vengeful, even when he had voiced his frustrations over Dillinger's underhanded tactics.
"Why are you always in my way?!"
But that bitterness was familiar, if heavier than he had ever heard it, and Alan just couldn't manage to kick himself out of his simple gape as the specter raised an arm back with something clenched in his fist ...
"Quorra!"
Alan tilted his head back sharply at the - finally - sound of his godson's voice, and even shock could not quite hold back a small stab of relief upon seeing Sam. Except, there was someone else in between them, wearing the same black on black as his attacker but with strips of icy blue and a pale, pale face, and they were sprinting full-tilt down the aisle. An accomplice? "Sam, go!" was all he managed to bark out as he braced himself, reflexively closing his eyes against a blow ... only to have the breath whoosh back into him as the pinning weight across his middle was abruptly removed.
There was a fierce sounding cry - a woman? - and the thud of bodies next to him as he tried to push his glasses back up his nose with a shaking hand and untangle his legs from the tail of his own coat. "Sam, get back!" he gasped as something clashed and sparks lit before a kick separated the two shadows.
"Alan? Oh jesus, what're you doing here - wait, wait, why're you - "
"Get back!" Alan growled, this time putting as much authority as he could muster into his voice as he finally regained his feet and took a hold of the young man's arm, bodily shoving him back the way he had come. The woman had something like a slender shortsword in hand while the man was clutching - was that some weird modern reconception of a frisbee? Except that it was solid enough to turn away her next strike with a shriek of metal, and when he swung at her she arched her back to dodge as if it constituted just as much of a threat as the blade which she retaliated with.
"No, I can't just leave Quorra - !"
"She looks like she can take care of herself, our job's to stay out of her way and call the police!" He knew it was the wrong tone to take - commanding, as if Sam were still seven years old and he played more of a role than just the occasional cliche dispenser - knew it even before he could feel the man tensing indignantly, but couldn't find it in him to care as adrenaline gave his aging bones that extra boost needed to temporarily overtake youthful strength. He would happily take the full brunt of Sam's rebellious angst later if they managed to get through this unscathed.
"You don't understand, Alan! Look, there's no time to explain, just let me get through to - hey, no, wait, you can't go down there - "
It was a strange and inexplicable turnaround, but Alan had not been the programmer he was and the senior board member he was now without knowing how to set a goal and reach it. With barely a thought, he used Sam's odd reluctance against him; letting his godson go so that he may push past and down the stairs, the young man now trailing after him instead, sputtering like a pot on the stove with a misaligned lid. "You have that fancy phone of yours on you, Sam? See if you get any reception down here and call emergency ... don't know if there will be a working land line, it looks like a storage basement ... " Strange enough that it was here at all. He racked his brain, but couldn't think of a single hint that this level should exist in all the years that he had visited the arcade.
"Wait - just, just hold on a moment, give me a moment to explain - don't go down there - !"
Alan paid little thought to why Sam was protesting so vehemently. There might have been the slightest curl of unease at the base of his stomach just before he took that last step, but all in all, he had other concerns occupying his full attention and he could say in complete truthfulness that he was completely, absolutely, and utterly unprepared for what finally met his gaze in the hidden basement.
What looked to be a makeshift workspace, cluttered with years of references and work - ransacked.
What looked to be the prototype of his wife's old research project - half-shattered.
What looked to be yet one more of the strangely attired thieves or kidnappers or murderers or what-have-you stretched out upon the floor - unconscious? Dead?
And most baffling of all, what looked to be yet another incarnation of his best friend from two decades past, except this one was old like he should be, like Alan was, and instead of unreasoning fury, his eyes were filled with the weight of years and a burgeoning dread.
"What the devil is going on here?!"
All of his sensors were glitching. They were not completely offline, because he was still receiving reports, feedback, data ... but they were all wrong, subtly skewed.
The air - air, he was breathing air, in the users' world! - had been unbelievably cool and sweet when his helmet had broken; almost like liquid energy, only it had rasped in his throat even as his body had sipped greedily at it. Sounds were strange, both echoed and muffled, bouncing weirdly within the helmet's confines. The light ... the light was odd, dim but warm - not quite the yellow of Clu's circuits - and bright through that crack in the helmet over his left eye.
Sensations were a weird mix of too sharp and not enough - there were minute prickles all over his skin whenever he moved, reports of the material he was clad in, unfamiliar and, thus, unignorable. But he no longer possessed that sixth sense of the immediate space around him, that indefinable knowledge of the system itself which helped him in combat, which helped him diagnose errors, or maybe it was just different like everything else ... because when reflex made him flinch, he caught a glimpse of a shadow jerking back out of his peripheral vision, and a man's voice rumbled, "Easy, easy there, Tron ... "
Something lurched in his chest at the sound of that voice, the sound of that name. Kevin Flynn's voice was rough but still recognizable, and after a shamefully long moment's struggle to review the last few microcycles of memory, he belatedly realized that there had been voices around him for a while now; voices sharp and heated in discussion, accusation and strain and fear bouncing back and forth like a disc in an arena chamber.
" ... not going to just leave it at that are ... !"
" ... course not! But look at ... "
" ... want to. Creepy as hell, seeing ... "
"Please, Alan, help him ... "
Tron felt his breath catch again in his throat, even though the burning ache in his chest had long subsided by now. Alan? Dear user, it couldn't be ...
" ... crazy, Flynn, always with your harebrained - fine. Fine, all right, but don't think we're done with just that half-baked ... "
No. No, Alan-one was here, seeing him like - he could not let his creator see him like this, it would be unbearable.
"Whoa, whoa, easy there, buddy! Hold on, Alan's just trying to help ... "
"Tron - god, Flynn, you don't know how weird it is, calling him that - okay, Tron, just relax, all right? I hear you took a pretty nasty knock to the head, just let me take that helmet off to get a better look, all right?"
The helmet? No, the helmet will not come off. The helmet was Rinzler, that was what Clu made him into, but it was also his shield, his mask - he could not show his face, others should not see him like this, and oh user, dear creator, especially not Alan-one ...
"Jesus - Tron! Stop!"
He was panting even though the air had not gone hot and thick again, and he had to blink - was that liquid energy running from his eyes? Why was he leaking? - and those sounds, there were sounds coming from his throat ... soft, ragged. Broken.
"Is he ... ?"
"Relax, Kevin, he's still conscious. He's just ... look, just don't let go yet, all right? In case he acts up again. He was pretty responsive there a moment ago, so I wouldn't worry about that knock too much, and it looks like his breathing's calmed. But ... christ, how did he get this thing on, anyway? Do you see any seams from your angle? It's like it was just molded right over his head."
The laugh that came sounded so wrong that, for a moment, he thought it had been him; just another symptom of malfunction. But even more than his own fear and shame, the realization that it was Kevin Flynn who had made the sound had his gut clenching even tighter on itself.
"How in the world am I supposed to know, man? I mean, does that laser know anything about fashion design? Look at the suit ... can't even find a damned zipper on the thing."
"All right, all right, just give me a moment. You've got a toolbox around, right? Let me see if it's got anything that I can take that off with ... looks like we'll have to do this the hard way."
Alan-one went away. Kevin Flynn sighed. And then a finger, dry and rough, brushed gently at the corner of his exposed eye, pulling away the moisture. He closed it - closed them both. Squeezed them shut and tried to will himself into suspension ... standby ... hibernation ... only to feel his chest fill with fresh, familiar despair when all the commands failed.
"Oh, Tron. I hope you can understand when I say how sorry I am."