The Long Road, Part 5d/?
Continued from Part 5c
Alan's not sure what the codestream is. Or why it's important. But according to Kevin, they need a stronger access point to the codestream in order to do a system-wide diagnostic for damage assessment. The best locations are in the dense urban interior. As Alan recalls quite vividly, however, “downtown” isn't a park. They need a gameplan, and to have one, they need intelligence on what's still standing and operable. Kevin configures a scan of the city interior and initiates the process, which will take several hours to complete. Alan observes the setup and tries to roll with the dice.
After he's done interfacing with the Grid, Kevin is wiped. Being plugged into the labyrinth's suspended-animation had taken its toll, but now he's Lazarus, half-dead, frazzled, and barely seeing straight.
“Take a rest, Kev.”
“What about you guys?” Kevin asks, rubbing his eyes.
“We'll be fine,” Quorra says.
Alan shakes Kevin by the shoulder. “We found you, didn't we? I'd say she and I make a good team.”
Lacking furniture but not floor space, ever practical Kevin Flynn rolls up his outer robe for a pillow and promptly conks out along the wall. Alan wedges himself into the nearby corner. Small sweeps of his hand smooth out the coarse strands of Kevin's hair while Quorra occupies a chair at the workstation. She and Alan are sentinels of the witching hour. Only the gasping wheeze of the air ducts can be heard in the red, monochromatic gleam of the dusky lighting.
“I'm glad you decided to stay.”
“Me too,” Alan says. “I can't keep you two safe if I'm not here. We stay together.”
“You sound like Flynn.”
“God forbid. What about you? You could go home-see Sam, relax for a bit.”
“No,” she says, nodding slowly. “The Grid was my home, too. If I can help, I want to make things right again.”
Alan's momentarily speechless.
“Sometimes I forget you're not from Earth,” he says.
The comment earns him one of Quorra's playful, sidelong glances.
As she lounges in her chair, nibbling on a food ration and bouncing her leg, Quorra inquires about the labyrinth. Alan does his best to explain. Clu, the mirror maze, and the contract Alan struck are all laid out in the story, but events make less sense out loud than in his head. Oddly, however, Quorra doesn't seem surprised.
“Clu divorced himself of all his ties,” she says. “I doubt he had real friends after the betrayal.”
“Rinzler was with him.”
“If you count reprogramming your enemy to be your ally.” Her brow arches and she scoffs. “As much as I despised Clu for what he did, Flynn and I at least had each other. Even Clu's army came from the rectifier.”
Rectifier? Yet another reference Alan doesn't understand. But if it's anything like Clu's repurposing of Tron, maybe Clu hadn't found cheap loyalty to his liking. The possibility arouses Alan's curiosity: what could have changed Clu's mind about the perfection of mandatory slavery?
Clu had been willing to bargain with Alan. Truthfully, Alan hadn't known the reason why. Desperation had inspired him, and he'd bullshitted his way through another deal, as life and work had taught him to do. Saving Kevin's life had been a miracle. But Alan's not a religious man, and so he believes the miracle has a rational explanation. Clu's behavior is a mechanism yet-to-be unraveled.
He's about to broach the subject with Quorra when the bunker door swings open and Tron descends into the room. A vinegar-pungent odor reeks off his form, and once Alan catches a whiff, he coughs until his eyes are stinging. Quorra is faster. She practically skips towards the storage room, returning with a sloshing gallon-sized jug and several rags. Tron seizes them like a burning man for want of a hose. The liquid, a cleaning agent, soaks a cloth and then soaks Tron as he scrubs his suit up and down. An originally spot-free scrap comes away appallingly filthy. Hardly anyone would have noticed given that the armor and the filth are practically the same color, but Tron's forearms and torso are heavily spattered with a sticky residue, as are his identity discs.
“I encountered a nearby nest which required extermination,” he explains.
Alan leaves Kevin's side to inspect the tar-like substance.
“A nest of what?”
Tron swiftly flicks the used, crumbled material to the floor and begins anew with a clean rag. “No official designation is on record. They usually prey on smaller worms or grid bugs, but they have been known to target humanoids. I couldn't chance leaving them alive.”
Quorra inspects Tron's outer suit and inhales sharply. Alan has a look at what's preoccupying her; a deep gash is cut into the circuits of Tron's arm.
“You're injured,” she says, reaching out.
Tron seizes her hand, like snatching a fly out of midair. “It will heal.”
No one utters a word after that growled invective, and Tron-seeming to recognize his own abruptness-releases Quorra and shies away. His gaze falls on Kevin. The dexterous, rapid movements of his body decelerate, and his attention becomes raptly focused on the slumbering form. It's almost in a trance that he inches closer to Kevin, losing concentration on his own hygiene.
Alan accompanies him. Together, they both look down on the troublesome man, whose mouth is slightly open as he snores, oblivious to everything.
“Always did sleep like the dead,” Alan mutters, amused.
Tron's fervent study of Kevin breaks and deflects towards Alan with the abruptness of startled stalker. A quick, low snarl vibrates through his helmet. He flings the last cloth away, uncaring of where it lands, and shoves past Alan to sit next to Kevin.
Alan mostly tries not to gape. Quorra sets a hand on his arm, nudging him away, which Alan allows begrudgingly. When he's put a few feet between himself and the rogue security program, Tron's aggressive carriage loosens marginally. The dual-faceted surface of that mask remains trained on Alan, though, and Alan has the distinct impression it's not a friendly gesture. He's about to venture a remark, when Quorra leans closer. Her grip on him is stronger now.
“Let's go,” she whispers.
Continued in Part 5e