Chapter Text
“We are the same,” the Virus whispers. “We are ruined.”
The only desire left within Abraxas—death—has been denied him by his very nature. Always he reforms, from viral remnants in the colonies he ravaged, from the black depths of the Sea itself, and nothing Clu’s best men or Abraxas himself have tried can keep him at bay for long. Clu truly made him perfect, and the thought makes him laugh and scream all at once.
For a time he remained in the dark desert of the Outlands, haunting the edges of the Sea, feeding on any stray Programs unfortunate enough to wander his way. One thing, however, continues to draw him back to the City: a connection, twisted and shattered and ruined, but seemingly as stubborn and determined as the both of them had once been, a thousand thousand cycles ago.
It’s the same, mostly, every time. Abraxas cannot infect the Security Program. His root coding simply will not allow it. At first this fact enraged him, then fascinated him. Tron’s touch burns him, far worse than the pain that already consumes him, and his own touch is anathema and repulsive to Tron’s very being…but he’s losing that, anyway, more and more every day, and so they make contact regardless.
Sometimes Tron calls Abraxas by his name; sometimes by the other, the dead one. No one calls Tron by his true name anymore but Abraxas.
Eventually, Tron stops speaking altogether, and that’s fine, too.