Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

One

“Zuse has been around since the earliest days of the gaming grid,” Castor explained, turning away from the User to pour their cocktails. “By necessity, he has to mind all the percentages, all the angles.” As he spoke, as his hands moved through the familiar actions, those percentages and angles whirled through his internal processes.

If he gave the new User, Sam Flynn, to Clu, he would garner Clu’s favour. Castor had made mistakes in the past– Zuse had made mistakes–and Clu’s anger continued to hang over him and the programs who relied on him. And if Clu was grateful enough, perhaps he would renege control of the city to Castor and focus on his own side projects.

However–and it was a big however–Clu had a tendency to respond… illogically… at times. Castor suspected this was because he was not a typical program. He was a copy of a User, giving him a User's penchant for random behaviours, leaps of inspiration, and general chaos. Castor had tried to predict his actions in the past and failed quite miserably. 

So there was no way to say, with any assurance, just how much favour or gratitude Castor would actually get by handing over the Son of Flynn.

Perhaps it was time to put his faith back in the Users. There were two of them now, after all: the gods of the Grid, perhaps strong enough to free the world from Clu’s tyrannical rule.

“So when do I meet him?” Sam asked. His low voice wouldn’t seem strange except for a program of Castor’s age and keen senses. Sam did not have the shivering vibrato of a program; just his voice alone cut smoothly through the noise of the Grid, sending a quiver through Castor’s circuits.

He turned with both cocktails and passed one over, smiling warmly, welcoming and disarming. “You just did,” he admitted.

Sam chuckled, glanced at Gem where she lounged on one of Castor’s couches, and shook his head as he accepted his glass.

“After the purge, I needed to reinvent myself. Self preservation, you understand.” Castor lifted his glass for a toast, pleased when Sam obliged him with a clink . After a long sip to refresh his frantically spinning thoughts, Castor set his glass on the bar and asked, “Now what can I do for you?”

Sam sighed wearily. “I need to get to the portal.”

Ah, of course. The User wasn’t there to save them, he just wanted to escape. 

Castor strode around the bar and collected his cane. He fingered the subtle control panel in its shaft, ready to press the alarm that would signal Clu’s troops to move in. As soon as Clu had detected Flynn’s bike on the Grid, he’d notified his agents to watch for him and summon the Black Guard on sight. Hunger for knowledge had kept Castor from pressing that button, but he could feel his time running out. If he delayed too long, Clu’s favour may be found lacking.

“What will you do when you reach the portal?” he asked. “I admit that I am driven mad with curiosity about the world you come from.”

Sam, turning to follow Castor, gifted him with a faint smile. “I’ll get rid of Clu,” he said flatly. “From my world, it’ll take a few seconds to delete his program.”

“It’s that easy, is it?” Castor breathed, a chill running through him. 

“A push of a button,” Sam said, as though he knew where Castor’s finger rested.

Castor eyed him, considering the strengths he'd demonstrated thus far, and the numbers came up lacking. Sam had survived the Disk Wars, but only barely, and he’d only survived the lightcycle arena because he’d been rescued by an Outlander. He had exhibited none of Kevin Flynn’s abilities and all of his weaknesses, in addition to a general lack of knowledge. Trusting him to succeed would be even more foolish than trusting Clu to show gratitude or favour.

“Well,” he began. “It’s closing quickly, as I'm sure you're aware. Tick-tock, tick-tock. And it's quite the journey.” He pointed with his cane at the window looking out over the city, easily finding the portal's thread of light in the distance. “Beyond the far reaches of the Outlands. Your father didn't want any programs slipping out accidentally, did he?”

“Can you help me?” Sam asked.

Castor turned a wide smile on him. “Of course! But first, as a man who prides himself on staying well informed, I must ask who sent you my way.”

Sam paused, his dark eyes uncertain, before saying, “Her name’s Quorra. Said she met you a long time ago.”

The unexpected name twisted in Castor’s chest, bringing up buried memory files of mass deresolution, hidden programs, desperate attempts to get to safety, the endless terror of detection, the realization that all his percentages and angles could not stop Clu’s rampage. “Indeed she did,” he managed to utter with great difficulty. “Many cycles ago. It was a different time.”

Those times were over. Castor had formed an alliance with Clu, the insurgents were few and dwindling further, and soon enough Castor would have power over the city. He moved his finger to trigger the alarm, his curiosity satiated. 

He made the mistake of glancing up at Sam again, of seeing in him the pleading hope of the ISOs and all the other programs Clu had destroyed for their imperfection. Sam was imperfect. Users were imperfect. But perhaps in that imperfection there was enough random chance that they could beat Clu’s perfect calculations.

Of all the innumerable possibilities…

Oh, what was a program to do?

What he always did: Stall for time and get Sam into a position where he could take advantage of either outcome.

Castor shook off his memories and tapped Sam’s chest. “But we’re not here to relive the past. Let’s see about your future, shall we? I already have the perfect plan ticking away in the old codes.” He touched his temple and then sauntered back toward the bar, idly whirling his cane. “One of Clu’s military ships is scheduled to leave for the portal shortly and he’s asked me to provide entertainment to his loyal troops for the journey.”

The tense lines of Sam’s face relaxed and he scoffed, sounding surprised. “You’re going to smuggle me onto Clu’s ship?”

“That is the idea,” Castor replied modestly. “There will be thousands of programs on board.” He swept out a gloved hand as though gesturing at the crowds. “With a few tweaks to your disk, you’ll fit in easily and he’ll take you right to the portal.” As well as keeping Sam within easy reach should Castor find it beneficial to hand him over.

“It sounds too good to be true,” Sam said. He leaned back against the bar, his gaze becoming distant as he stared out the window at the flickering, churning sky. “Do you really think it’ll work?”

Haha, no.

“That’s up to you, Son of Flynn. If you can keep your wits about you, you’ll manage. And we’ve all seen what you can do.” Castor forced a toothy smile. If Sam managed to beat the numbers and make it off the Grid, Clu would be gone and Castor could step into the power vacuum. If Sam failed, as he expected, Castor would be able to say he’d offered him to Clu like a nicely wrapped surprise.

“Yeah,” Sam said roughly. “Okay. Let’s do it.” He joined Castor back at the bar, his expression grim. “I can pretend to be a soldier for a few hours.”

Castor laughed, startled. “A soldier?” He held up a finger and wagged it back and forth. “Not quite.”

Sam blinked. “What?”

“Gem, my dear, if you would be so kind?” Castor quirked a brow at the siren.

She nodded, stood, and paced to Sam’s side. “You should be used to this,” she murmured as she strode around him, deactivating his armour and setting the pieces on the bar.

“Uh, yeah, it seems to happen a lot.” Sam turned his head, keeping her in sight, a bemused quirk to his mouth. 

Gem unlocked his disk and passed it to Castor. Castor almost cringed at Sam’s lack of concern, as it demonstrated his naivety, his innocence. No program in their right mind would let someone just take their disk. He almost felt guilty for what he was about to do. 

Almost.

While Gem worked, Castor pulled open a hidden drawer in his bar to access his less-than-legal devices. He selected a decryption dock, placed the box-like device on the bar, and set Sam’s disk on top. It lit up, a cheerful, neutral blue-white, and Sam’s complex mess of copied User codes became visible. Castor didn’t even try to interpret them, but instead jumped to the high-level, descriptive metadata and appearance codes. With a few deft touches, he changed Sam’s designation and his status from an unknown gaming program to someone else entirely.

“That should do you,” Castor said, satisfied, once he’d locked in the new codes. He passed the disk back to Gem. “Welcome to your new identity, my dear Syntax."

Gem docked his disk. The moment it clicked into place, a cascade of pixels rushed from the disk down Sam’s body, changing the colour of his body suit from black to white and ivory. Glowing silver lights streaked down his arms and chest, crossed over his narrow hips, and then down his legs. He wobbled and cursed and grabbed the bar as his boots tightened and the heels lifted. 

“What?!” he squawked, staring at himself. “No!” He looked up at Gem, who smiled quietly, and then looked back down at his now matching outfit. His face darkened. “No! I can’t–I can’t go like this!” His furious glare lifted to Castor. “Change me back!” 

Castor shrugged, spreading his arms. “I told you, I was asked to supply the entertainment.”

“Sirens,” Gem clarified. “That’s you now.”

“No! I’ll find another way. I’ll smuggle myself on.”

“Don’t be foolish.” Castor let a sliver of his Zuse show, hardening his tone and letting the smile fall. “Clu has ruled the Grid for a thousand cycles, fighting constant insurgence. The defences on his ships are flawless. There’s no way to get on board if you are not given access. This will give you access. Go with the sirens, serve some drinks, and hide in plain sight. Clu himself will bring you to the portal, where you can just hop off and sashay back to your own world.” He brought back his charming grin. “If you can figure out how to walk in those shoes, darling, you’ll have no problems.”

“I can’t believe this,” Sam muttered, leaning over the bar to rub his face. 

Gem stiffened–a barely perceptible change in her stance and expression. When Castor glanced at her, she flicked her smoky eyes at the window overlooking the club’s main room. Castor followed her gaze and squeezed his cane to keep from reacting to the sight of a cloaked and hooded figure striding through the bar with a female program at its side and a conspicuous glow emanating from its sleeves and hood.

“I know, darling,” he said, placing a conciliatory arm around Sam’s shoulders. “But Clu won’t believe it, either, now will he? No one will. No one would suspect it was even a possibility. They will see you as a siren. You’ll be invisible.” As he spoke, Castor subtly urged Sam to turn away from the club window and toward his private exit.

“I wish I was invisible,” Sam muttered. But he followed Castor’s guidance, taking shaky steps and glaring at his feet. 

“We’ll make cosmetic changes while we wait for transport,” Gem said, looping her arm through Sam’s on his other side.

“Cosmetic changes?” he repeated, his voice pitching higher. 

“Everyone has seen you,” Castor added. He led them to a set of glowing white shelves laden with bright blue bottles of energy. There, he tapped his cane on the floor to trigger the shelves to slide aside, revealing his private elevator. He gestured for them to enter without him. “So we’ll throw them off with a few minor updates to your interface.”

“... Fine. Whatever I need to do to get out of here.”

“Don’t worry. Just do what we say and you’ll be home soon.” Castor nodded to Gem. “You’re in good hands. Farewell, Son of Flynn, and remember Castor, loyal servant to the Users.”

Sam made a kind of sickly half-smile, and then unexpectedly straightened, stepped closer, and clasped Castor’s arm in a strong grip. He loomed tall on his high heels and with his sudden shift in demeanour, Sam radiated a wave of… of… of what, Castor wasn’t sure, but it rushed through his programming, lighting up his arm, sparking sensation through his circuits. 

“Thanks, Castor,” Sam said, his voice rough and his gaze earnest. “Zuse,” he added. He squeezed Castor’s arm. “I won’t forget this.”

When he’d backed away and caught himself on the elevator wall, Gem reached for the control panel and the door slid closed. 

Castor’s frozen smile faded. He rubbed his arm and the tingle of the User’s influence, hoping that he had made the correct decision.

His attention cut to the window down to the club floor and his second unexpected guests. He stroked the length of his cane thoughtfully. How fortunate for him, a hardworking and long-suffering program, to finally have these game pieces fall into his lap. Now to align them in his favour.

Regardless of the outcome, Castor would come out on top.

**

Gem led Sam from the elevator and through a short, surprisingly dull corridor. She kept her arm looped through his, for which he was grateful: his boots had transformed into terrifyingly enormous heels to match hers and he felt like his ankles were about to give out.

"Smaller steps, Syntax," Gem said, smirking up at him. "Shoulders back. Chin up. Bring your core programming into alignment. Roll heel to toe, heel to toe. Walk on a straight line. Bend your knees a bit. Let your hips swing a little."

"I don't have hips to swing," Sam muttered.

She leaned back to check him out. "Oh, yes you do," she purred.

Sam's flush deepened, heat prickling under his skin-tight suit. "Unbelievable." But he clenched his stomach and tried to do what she said, and surprisingly his shaking legs stabilized and he could stop hanging off Gem's surprisingly strong arm. You can do this, he told himself. Just get into the rhythm. It's like 'Stayin' Alive'.

A door slid open at the end of the corridor, spitting them out into a large, echoing stone cavern lit by banks of violet light. Sam scanned the room, startled to see what looked like some kind of glowing yellow ship or airplane humming in the centre of the cavern, its conical nose pointed at huge closed doors. Closer to the corridor entrance, an entire suite of monochrome lounge furniture had been arrayed on patterned rugs, occupied by at least two dozen programs dressed in matching white outfits. Sirens, he assumed. Like him.

Just like when he’d first dropped into the Grid, he wanted to believe this wasn’t happening. But there was no denying the snug embrace of his newest… Bodysuit? Outfit? He was there, entirely exposed in a cavern under Castor’s club. This was happening.

“Your name is Syntax,” Gem reminded him, speaking into his ear as they stepped through the round doorway. “And you have come from another city to work for Castor.”

“Sure,” he replied. That was easy enough to remember.

“Oh, fresh electrons!” exclaimed a female siren, nearly leaping off her couch to approach with easy, swinging steps. “And he’s male . Where did Castor find this one?”

“Looks a little rough around the edges,” commented the one other male siren, arching a brow and brushing back his long blue hair. “Was he a stray caught out in the Outlands?”

“Don’t be like that,” chided another. “He’s got a quaint, foreign charm.”

The sirens flocked around him and Gem, commenting on his appearance, reaching out to lightly touch his head, shoulders, and back. He flinched, unnerved, and sent a desperate glance to Gem, who propped her hands on her hips and met his discomfort with obvious amusement.

“Uh, I go by Syntax,” he tried, the name stuttering off his tongue. “I’m from another city.”

“Which city?” the other male promptly demanded. 

Sam scowled at Gem. Yes, Gem, which city do I come from?

“Does it matter?” Gem countered. “He’s one of us now. And he’s obviously not designed or trained to our standards. We have until that transport takes off to get him ready.”

“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” asked one, clasping her gloved hands. “Are we going to give him a makeover ?”

“ No ,” Sam protested.

“Absolutely,” Gem said. “Have a seat, Syntax." She smirked knowingly. "No one will recognize you when we’re done.”

Sam blew out a long breath. Once again, why did he feel like he was being dumped on? “Fine,” he muttered. He teetered over to a gleaming white divan and collapsed. Several of the sirens drew near, glowing glass cases of what Sam could only assume were Grid cosmetic products in their hands. 

Gem dragged an ornate, black metal chair in front of him and turned it so she could straddle the back and rest her chin on her folded hands. “While my sisters and brother prepare you, I’ll tell you the rules.”

“The rules?” Finally, someone was going to give him some information instead of leaving him to flounder around. 

“Listen closely.” As the other sirens fluttered around him, he tried to focus on Gem’s intense stare and cool, modulated voice. “We are being contracted to entertain the Black Guard officer ranks–Clu’s elite enforcers–on Clu’s ship as it travels to the portal.”

“Let’s give him long hair,” suggested a siren, running a brush-like device over his head.

“No!” Sam immediately protested. The boots were bad enough, if he couldn’t see because of long hair like the other male’s, he would be entirely compromised. “Short hair, please.”

“Short at the front and long at the back?”

“That–that’s a mullet! No. Short hair . Why is Clu taking soldiers to the portal?”

Gem’s tone hardened. “We do not know and we do not care.”

“Understood. How are you–we–supposed to, uh, entertain them?” Sam’s throat tightened as he imagined himself trying to dance in front of a crowd; he’d had nightmares just like that.

“How about green?” murmured the first siren, smoothing his hair back.

“Violet,” countered another, also stroking his head. 

Sam tried to shake them off and keep his attention on Gem. “I don’t want to stand out. Could you just make me like Gem? Blonde?”

“We serve them their drinks,” Gem explained. “We smile. We dance with them. We listen to them talk about their achievements. We flirt and make them feel good.”

“Flirt?” Sam’s head twitched as a white glove poked directly beside his right eye. “What are you doing?” he demanded, frowning up at the siren. 

She leaned in and held a crystalline tube close to his eye. “Your irises are so dull, we need to brighten them up.” 

“My irises?” He could just imagine trying to run for the portal with the Grid equivalent of contact lenses messing with his vision. “No thank–ah!” As he spoke, another siren appeared at his other side and flashed a light in his left eye. He clapped a hand over it, but it was too late. He felt a tingle under the lid and when he blinked it open, the siren grinned at him. 

“Green,” she chirped.

“Blue,” argued the other, flashing his right eye. 

“Stop it!” Sam closed his eyes tightly, stomach turning at the tingling sensation. “You don’t–” You don’t know what this might do to me , he wanted to say, but cut himself off. He was supposed to be a program just like them.

“Leave his eyes alone,” Gem murmured. “His face needs work, though.”

“It definitely does,” hissed one of the sirens. “I’ve never seen anything like it. What strange skin.”

“I don’t really flirt,” Sam said loudly, trying to redirect the conversation from his failings as a program. “Can I just, I don’t know, stay behind the bar? I can pour drinks?”

“Yes, I suppose that might be best. Now, I’m sure you know all of this already, but I would like to remind you of program etiquette in case the protocols are different in your old city.” 

Something brushed over Sam’s cheeks, forehead, nose, ears, and neck, and the itch in his skin made him squirm. “Yes, protocols,” he grimaced.

“Maximum lash length,” someone murmured, pressing something onto his eyelids.

“You may engage in physical contact with the clients, but only on their arms and chests. Do not touch their circuit lights. Because we are sirens–a supporting function–this is an offer to become their subroutine and attach yourself to them for the evening, providing exclusive service.” As she spoke, she firmly gripped his shoulders, biceps, and forearms, conspicuously missing the lights running down their sides, and then the top of his chest. 

Subroutine? Sam’s mind whirled. What did that mean?

“They may not touch yours unless you allow it. They might try it, though. You know how busy programs can become overwhelmed with the need to connect.”

“Uh, yeah, of course.” Of course that was something he knew. “And they’ll become my subroutine?” Whatever that meant.

“Hah!” snickered the siren next to him, and he was glad he couldn’t see her scorn at his ignorance. “Did your codes get scrambled on the way over?”

“Higher functions cannot become subordinate to supporting functions and all of Clu’s officers are higher functions.”

“Right, right.”

“Now, if they do try to connect with your circuits, remind them that Clu contracted us for contactless service and any direct stimulation is extra.” She took his wrist, placed his hand on her arm, and gently peeled his fingers up. “Like this. If you do agree to contact, then just be aware that they won’t leave you alone.”

Sam let his arms drop back into his lap. “Wait,” he began, frowning, only to have a siren tsk and smooth his brows. “If circuits are so touchy, why don’t we just, I don’t know, not have them? Or cover them up?”

Several gasps echoed around him. 

“Where did he come from?” someone muttered. “A cave in the Outlands?”

“Remember,” Gem said firmly, “this is why we’re here. All programs want to make connections and let their data flow, especially with receptive support functions because there is no danger of us overwriting their coding. The sight of so many exposed circuits is exciting. They can’t touch, but they can look.”

“ Oh .” The realization hit like a lightcycle going full speed. The lights on sirens were the equivalent to cleavage and tight pants, advertising a fantasy. “Okay, I got it.” That did make him wonder why his armour for the games had been covered in several large strips and circles of lights, but perhaps the rules were different for gaming programs. That exposure might have been like a challenge, flaunting vulnerability as a form of bravado.

The other sirens, apparently recovering from the shock of his naivety, resumed their chatter and fluttering touches. 

“He wants to look different, yes? We can add some patterns here…” Something scratched his cheekbone and up onto his temple.

“Less shadow here, though.” Something brushed his eyelids.

“No, no, he needs more.” It brushed again. “We gave him reflective eyes, so that’s going to add more drama .”

“Sirens,” Gem said sternly. “Please don’t argue. Everyone knows that more is better.”

“Yes,” they murmured. “Yes, you’re right.”

“Have you served Clu’s enforcers before?” Gem asked.

She obviously knew the answer, but Sam replied anyway, “Uh. No?”

“Is Castor really letting this two-bit program near Clu’s contract?” grumbled the male siren.

“We will be serving Clu’s officers, his elite forces. As I mentioned, they are all higher functions. You can recognize them as their circuits are less exposed and they typically wear full masks. They can be more demanding than lower functions, but they must still follow the rules.”

“Okay.”

“And there is one extremely important rule that you must follow above all others if you want to survive.”

Sam swallowed heavily. “What’s that?”

“ Stay away from Rinzler, ” the sirens chorused.

“Oh. Yeah.” Sam relaxed; that was something he could easily remember. “I don’t want anything to do with that guy.”

“He probably won’t be there, anyway,” added another siren. “Clu keeps him tethered pretty closely.”

“But if he does show up, don’t talk to him, don’t touch him, don’t even look at him unless he asks you for something. He has a nasty habit of forgetting that he’s not in the games or quelling an uprising.”

“Sure.” The last thing Sam wanted was to engage with the deadly program.

“Pink lips?”

“Silver.”

“I really think green is best.”

“You always want green, but green went out of style three cycles ago.”

“They’re already pink, let’s go with silver.” Something smoothed over his lips.

“Oh, I have an idea,” chimed in the male siren’s distinctive voice, drawing closer. “No one will even look at his face if he has one of these.”

“Diode,” sighed one of the others. “Where do you keep getting those? They’re not legal!” 

“But they are fun.” His voice arrived in front of Sam. “Syntax, you like to have fun, don’t you?” 

Confused, Sam blindly tried to face the siren. “I mean, as much as the next guy– aghwabga! ” Something darted into his mouth as he spoke, clicking against his teeth, and stung his tongue. He jolted backward, a hand over his mouth, and finally opened his eyes to scowl at the male siren. “What the hell did you do to me?” he demanded thickly. His tongue felt like he’d burnt it on a hot coffee. 

Diode grinned and straightened from his crouch. “You’ll thank me later,” he said cheerfully, sauntering away. 

Gem, her eyes rolling, assured him, “It will wear off in a millicycle. Try not to talk too much and you’ll be fine.” 

“ What will wear off?!”

“Here, I think we’re done.” A siren sat gracefully beside him and lifted a hand mirror in front of him. “What do you think?”

Sam grabbed it and stared, the blood draining from his face. “I can’t go anywhere like this,” he whispered. 

The person in the mirror was… not him. They stared back at him with huge, brightly reflective eyes–one a neon green and one sapphire–lined in thick black winged eyeliner and long lashes. Their skin had the smooth, shimmering quality of other programs, a few shades darker than Gem’s. A pattern of tendrils covered the cheekbone and temple on one side of their face, looking almost like scarification. Their pale, platinum blond hair had been slicked back, giving them a sleek, almost wet appearance. Their full lips gleamed silver and gaped open with Sam’s shock, revealing something glowing in his mouth.

“What the hell is that?!” he squeaked, that light flashing as he spoke. He stuck out his tongue and found a bright white line bisecting it, terminating in a circle near the tip. 

“It’s a temporary circuit light,” the siren explained, laughter under her voice. “You’ll be very popular if anyone sees it.”

“Can you take it off?” Sam scraped his tongue against his teeth, but nothing happened. 

“We’d have to reformat your interface.”

“And we don’t have time for that,” Gem interjected.

Annoyed altogether by his appearance, Sam shook his head. “Look, thanks for your help, but I can’t go out there. Not like this. I look like–”

“You look like a siren,” Gem again interrupted. Her brow lifted slightly. “That was the objective, was it not?”

“I…” Sam stared at himself again. He could absolutely acknowledge that this program looked nothing like the User who had been thrown into the games.

A low tone sounded through the cavern. As one, the lounging sirens began to stand and stride elegantly toward the yellow transport ship. 

“Time to go,” Gem said, tugging on his arm until he stood unsteadily beside her. 

Sam followed her and the line of chattering sirens, still numb with disbelief at how he’d been transformed and what he was about to do. Each step is a step closer to the portal , he reminded himself. And a step closer to getting Dad out of here. Heel to toe, heel to toe, heel to toe…

***

Ahhhhhh look at this gorgeous art of Siren Sam by Faeymouse. He's so beautiful I could cry 😭

https://www.tumblr.com/faeymouse/718780672916013056/the-person-in-the-mirror-was-not-him-they?source=share

Chapter Text

Two

The transport ship's cabin was as luxurious as the sirens themselves, full of padded furniture and low, throbbing music. Sam stuck close to Gem, watching her and the other sirens carefully, trying to mimic the graceful movements of their arms, the confident lift to their chins, the way they slid their legs together to cross them.

"I'm going to be behind the bar?" he confirmed with Gem after his third failed attempt to cross his legs without adjusting his crotch. The pants were ridiculously tight.

Gem inclined her head slightly.

Relieved, he muttered, "There's no way I'm going to be like you, no matter what you do to my face."

"I know. You should practise walking.”

“Yeah.” With a sigh, Sam left her to pace around the cabin. He lingered near the windows, watching the city pass by below them and taking a moment to allow the world to sink in. Since arriving, he hadn’t had an opportunity to really wrap his head around it. The Grid was a real place within a computer system, full of these entities performing their functions, living their lives. And he was there, somehow, transported into a world so divorced from his own that it felt like magic or madness. 

The ship’s humming engines changed their pitch, bringing his attention to the front of the cabin. A wall blocked the cockpit from view, but when he leaned close to his window he could see them approaching a massive red and black floating fortress. Clu’s ship. It must have been. So large that the true length of it was lost in the mist of the stormy, low-hanging clouds. Long, train-like vessels slid toward it on beams of white light and disappeared inside, carrying some kind of cargo in dozens of containers.

A jolt of adrenaline forced him to continue pacing, but he stopped at every window to watch the ship grow larger and larger. He tried to make out its structure, but couldn’t determine much beyond its colossal length and a large, hollow ring-like structure a third of the way from one end with a kind of tower built around it. The thing had the vague appearance of a sword and should have looked ridiculous, but Sam couldn't help but feel a sense of awe just from the size of it. The cargo vessels seemed to be coming and going from some place within its decks, leading him to think there might be a flight deck and the ship was a kind of aircraft carrier hanging in the sky. 

How am I going to get from that monster to the portal when we get there? he wondered. It’s a damned city all by itself. If he ended up on the wrong end of it…

The floor tilted beneath his feet, alerting him that they had begun to land. Sam hurriedly dropped onto the nearest sofa, uncertain if he could remain standing. He watched out the window as their transport slipped through a large archway into an immense space of gleaming obsidian floors, walls panelled in dark grey metal, beams and banks of red light, patterns of blue-white light on the ceiling, parked aircraft, and tiny black figures in endless rows and columns. They descended smoothly, slowed, and dropped into a gentle landing next to a military craft with elegantly folded wings. 

The cabin’s external door opened and a Black Guard wearing a half-mask stepped inside. Her helm turned as she surveyed the cabin, her mouth set in a grim line. Sam resisted the urge to roll behind his couch and out of view, reminding himself that he was unrecognizable after the sirens’ work. He tried to copy the nearest siren, who did nothing more than lean back and regard the Black Guard with a heavy-lidded smirk, and sighed in relief when the soldier's attention passed over him without any reaction.

“You will accompany me,” she commanded once her scan was complete, and backed out the way she’d come.

The sirens glanced at each other, their gazes full of silent conversations, and stood to follow.

Sam lodged himself in the middle of the sirens as they filed out of the transport and strode determinedly as though he’d worn heels for his entire life. Another Black Guard stood just outside the door and scanned their disks with a handheld device as they moved past. Again, Sam fought to hide his trepidation, his speeding heart and adrenaline telling him to either make a break for it or strike first before he was discovered. Castor had done something to his disk, he told himself, and so far Castor’s plan had been executing smoothly. So far.

He stepped down from the transport and gazed at a panel of lights on the far wall of the flight deck, hoping he looked aloof instead of on the brink of throwing hands. The Black Guard, making that faint humming noise of all Clu's soldiers, tapped his scanner over Sam’s disk. It chirped and Sam flinched, but the guard simply motioned him to continue forward. 

The sirens followed the first Black Guard across the flight deck, past several dormant aircraft, quietly rolling vehicles, and what looked like hundreds, thousands of unmoving soldiers standing at attention. Sam eyed their silent, glittering black and red ranks as he passed them, unnerved. Their exposed mouths and jaws didn't move, they didn't react to the sirens. They looked like toy soldiers just waiting for someone to flick a switch and activate them. Waiting for Clu to activate them.

With difficulty, Sam tore his attention from the eerie sight and carefully scanned the rest of the room, hunting for doorways, windows, incoming and outgoing vehicles. Anything that he might use when he made his run for the portal. The aircraft looked likely, though he would have to learn to fly one, or the individual flight packs worn by troops like glowing wings. If he could acquire a pack, he could likely cover a short distance.

Ahead of them and one level down, he saw the cargo ships unloading their containers. They were lifted by immense cranes and deposited onto the deck, where dozens of programs emerged. Under the instructions of Clu’s soldiers, the programs were directed to enter a wide passage, a kind of opening into the ring structure, that glowed an ominous orange. Above that passage, a window into the ring showed what appeared to be platforms of programs bathing in light.

What was Clu doing to them?

Sam lengthened his steps to catch up with Gem. "What is that?" he asked, pitching his voice low.

"The Rectifier," she murmured without looking at either him or the huge machine. "Clu repurposes any program that does not fit into his plans for the system."

"Is that where his soldiers come from?"

She cut a glance at him, a warning in the slant of her brows, and that was answer enough.

Sam chilled, eyeing the dozens of programs lined up to enter that light. Those programs were about to lose their identity, their personality, and their thoughts and join the silent ranks. Monstrous.

"Do we fit in his plans?" 

"So far."

A tone pulsed through the air, followed by an announcement: "Throne ship approaching." Far above them, visible through an opening in the ship’s upper hull, a vessel emerged from the clouds. Sam immediately recognized it from the lightcycle arena: Clu’s ship. It descended to land on the tower-like structure above the rectifier, and Sam realized with a sinking sensation that they were being led straight to it. A set of double doors on the flight deck at the base of the tower glowed in Clu’s signature orange, waiting for them.

Is he up there? Sam wondered, his tension growing as he lifted his gaze to the ship. Is he going to be at this celebration? This is getting worse and worse…

The sirens continued to the tower doors, unhurried but without stopping. They slid open as the sirens neared and four Black Guards stepped out, revealing a boxy chamber behind them–an elevator, Sam guessed. The sirens filed in and arranged themselves loosely. In the dim reflection from the black, mirror-like walls, Sam couldn't distinguish himself from the others, allowing him to relax slightly. 

The four Black Guards followed them in, crowding close to the sirens as the doors slid shut and locked them in. One of them began moving through the group, gripping their shoulders and turning them brusquely to scan their disks again. Sam tensed and reached for his disk, gaze darting and mind racing to come up with a way to defend himself without accidentally taking out the sirens.

Gem touched his arm. "They're being cautious," she murmured. "These are the personal quarters of Clu’s elite."

Reluctantly, Sam let his arm drop. When the Black Guard got to him, he clenched his fists to keep from reacting when the program turned him to access his disk. Again, he flinched at the sound of the beep, and remained on edge even as the Black Guard moved on.

Once all sirens had been scanned, the Black Guard beside the door palmed a switch and Sam’s stomach dropped as the elevator rose. He tried to track their movement, counting slowly in an attempt to determine how high they were going. It was high, maybe ten storeys, placing them directly below the throne ship. There would be no leaping out of a window at this level, not unless he found a parachute.

The elevator doors hissed open, allowing the sirens to pace out into a long, high-ceilinged room that reminded Sam of the banquet halls where ENCOM hosted their charity fundraisers. The glossy black walls and floors and the glowing red panels continued, joined by black pillars twisted about with scarlet snakes of light. Sam scanned for exits, finding two doors in addition to the elevator, both of them guarded by two programs each. Spindly black chairs and tables clustered against the walls, leaving an open space in the centre of the floor–for dancing, Sam suspected, or whatever else programs did for fun. At the far end of the room, shallow steps led up to a raised platform, where three heavy chairs decorated in more red lights–practically thrones–overlooked the room. Where Clu would sit, Sam assumed, and whoever he wanted with him. A bright white cocktail bar caught his eye and Sam began to edge in that direction, determined to get behind it before anyone else could. 

Before he got anywhere, the nearest door opened, admitting Clu’s pale, masked assistant, Jarvis, and a troop of more Black Guard.

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit… Sam stepped behind one of the taller sirens and ducked, averting his face. Had he spotted Sam, recognized him, and come to collect him?! 

"Sirens!" Jarvis shouted, his voice booming from hidden speakers and making him flinch. He hurriedly adjusted something on the device he seemed to constantly carry. "Sorry," he said more quietly. "Sorry about that. Hah… Sirens!" He spread his arms wide. "Welcome to the grandest vessel on the Grid. You are the honoured guests of our illustrious ruler. While his ship carries us all toward a great future, he has asked for your presence to join in the celebration of our impending victory." He paused and smiled. 

The sirens watched him silently.

Victory? Sam’s mind raced. What victory?!

"Uh, yes," Jarvis stuttered, dropping his arms. "Shortly, the most elite and high functioning officers of the Black Guard will assemble for a demi-millicycle of entertainment as the ship travels. Even these advanced programs need to relax and refresh, and I trust you to perform your functions to keep them running smoothly."

"Better than smooth," murmured a siren near the front of the group.

Jarvis burst into a nervous laugh and leered at her. "Yes, yes, I'm sure. I might even get to join in on the festivities as well, though Clu does keep me busy. I'm with him for several millicycles at a time, you know, seeing to the needs of the Grid…"

As he rambled on about his importance, someone touched Sam’s elbow, making him jump. Gem had eased in beside him, her movements silent. 

"He's stressed," she whispered. "Which means his programs will be as well. Enforcers under stress may be irrational, insistent, aggressive. If one of them corners you, make this sign and one of us will help you." She took his hand, pressed his thumb into his palm, and folded his fingers over it. 

"I can take care of myself," he muttered, pulling out of her grip. "But thanks." He was more worried about Clu’s "victory" and getting out of that room; pushy programs were the least of his worries.

Her slight smile quirked. "Just remember, this is an entirely different game from what you're used to."

"I'll adapt."

"We'll see."

Sam didn't have the chance to respond, as rhythmic electronic music suddenly swelled and both doors opened to allow columns of heavily masked Black Guards to march into the room. Still fully armoured, they looked like they were going to war, not to a party, and Sam watched them warily. Then several sirens sashayed forward to meet them, already smiling seductively. Wherever a siren met a Black Guard, the guard deactivated their helmet and mask, revealing their face. Their hard expression and tense posture relaxed, as though the mere presence of the sirens calmed them.

"I guess the system works," Sam muttered under his breath.

While the Black Guard were occupied, Sam hurried to his target location, a circular, waist-height bartop with a glowing white shelving unit in the centre. He slid in through the narrow entry and began to familiarize himself with the supplies, scanning the bottles of blue and turquoise liquid filling the shelves and the racks of glasses–some tall and skinny and some short and squat–beneath the bright bartop.

"A tray of singles," someone said, jerking him up from his examination.

Sam stared blankly at the waiting siren and the unimpressed arch of her brow. In retrospect, mixing drinks in Australia would not have prepared him for bartending in a computer world; there probably wouldn't be much demand for mojitos, margaritas, and beer. "Uh…" he began helplessly. "Singles of…?"

"Singles," she repeated, rolling a hand as though the movement would impart some kind of wisdom onto him. "You know, the short glass? A single shot?"

"Right. Sure. A tray of singles." He dug around under the bar until he found a stack of white trays rimmed in violet light and brought them all up top. He separated one and loaded it with a half dozen of the squat glasses. Then, nervously, he selected both a bottle of blue liquid and a bottle of turquoise. He had no idea what the difference was between the two.

"Good idea," the siren said, surprising him. "Three of each flavour." 

"Yeah, that's what I was going for,” he replied, doing his best to look like he knew what he was doing. He popped open the first bottle and began to pour–

“Don’t forget the ice!” the siren snapped. 

Sam nearly dropped the bottle. “Oh, sure, yeah. In my old city, programs like it room temperature. If you like it cold here, it’s no problem.” He ducked again to hunt in the many cupboards and shelves until he found a bucket of translucent cubes. He also found boxes of little decorations–green umbrellas, little disks designed to slide onto a glass rim, glowing sticks–and brought them up as well. Keeping an eye on the siren’s reactions, he placed two cubes in each glass. When she didn’t snarl at him again, he continued, pouring three glasses of each colour of liquid and then decorating them with random toppers. “There,” he sighed when he’d finished, relieved. 

“Pick up the pace, Syntax,” the siren warned as she accepted the tray. “Gem isn’t here to look after you.”

“Yeah. Sorry. Now that I know where everything is, I’ll be faster.” 

The siren lifted her chin and strode gracefully away toward a group of Black Guards, her tray held at shoulder height. 

Before Sam had a chance to breathe, another siren took her place and briskly rattled off, “Two doubles, high performance, and five singles, two high performance and three low.”

Sam froze. “Uh…”

She sighed, her cool lavender eyes rolling. “High performance,” she said, touching the blue bottle. Her finger moved to the turquoise. “Low performance. I thought you’d done this before?”

“Yeah, sure, I just got a bit scrambled in transport. It’s all coming back to me now.” Sam grinned, trying to convince her with charisma alone. He quickly prepared a tray with glasses, iced them, poured, and added their decorations. “Here you go.”

She nodded and didn’t comment on his speed, so he must have been improving.

He looked around for his next customer and stopped short in surprise. Two Black Guards, their helmets lowered, leaned on the bar top nearby. Both of them met his startled gaze and then let their eyes fall to crawl over his body. 

They won’t recognize you , Sam reminded himself. Uneasily, he edged closer and met their staring with a thin smile. “What can I get for you, Sirs?”

“ Oh ,” breathed the leftmost guard, her attention snapping to focus on his mouth. “I want you.”

Sam nearly burst out laughing, his fears evaporating. Maybe this wouldn’t be so different from tending bar in Australia after all, where the inebriated tourists also had no problems speaking their minds. He set the two bottles in front of himself. “High performance or low?” He dropped his voice to add, “I’m afraid that I won’t fit in a glass, and that’s all I can give you.”

The guard sighed. “A double, high performance, no ice.”

As he prepared her drink, Sam nodded to the other guard. “And for you, Sir?”

“I’ll take a double, half and half on ice.” Though he didn’t say anything untoward, the intensity of this program’s focus made Sam’s skin crawl. 

“You got it.” Sam finished with a flourish, flicked their decorations into place, and slid their glasses over. “Enjoy.”

Both guards reached to touch his hands, forcing him to snatch them back. He smirked and wagged a finger until the programs grudgingly took their drinks and departed.

The rest of his customers were more of the same: sirens getting trays of drinks to circulate around the room, Black Guards coming in pairs or trios–never alone, interestingly. After his first few stumbles, Sam found his groove, quickly preparing orders, diverting heavy-handed solicitation, and even managing to chat up some of the programs. “This is such a big ship,” he would croon. “How do you find your way around? You must have to walk for ages . What area do you work in? The forward battery? Is that far from here?” Unfortunately, the Black Guards either could not or would not let slip the information that he needed: How to get from his little bar to the portal.

Between orders he scanned the room, watching the Black Guards and sirens dancing to the electronic rhythms. Unlike the dance floors in his world, in this one the programs barely touched, and Sam remembered Gem’s warnings about their lights. A scattering of sirens had joined the Black Guards at the tables, though, and these ones did seem to lean in to their clients. 

Mid-sweep, something caught his attention, and it took a moment to figure out why. A nearby siren stood against a pillar with two Black Guards and she was holding up a hand. It looked like she was making a fist, her fingers wrapped around her thumb–

The sign , Sam realized, shocked. He hurriedly glanced around to see if another siren had noticed, but none of them seemed to be looking in her direction. She needs help . As he looked closer, he could see that the Black Guards had her cornered against the pillar, touching her arms, circling her wrists as though they wanted to force her to do the same to them…

“A single, high performance,” someone said.

“Just a minute,” Sam growled. “I’ll be right back.” Without waiting for a response, he heaved himself over the bar, landed on the other side, and strode as quickly as he could toward the three programs. 

“I’d like to remind you,” the siren was saying as Sam approached, her tone icy, “we are contracted for contactless service.”

“Yes, but we all know you can do more if you want to,” said one of the guards, and Sam recognized her as one of his first customers. She palmed the siren’s stomach and Sam’s fury spiked.

He grabbed the guard’s shoulder, careful to avoid the sliver of red light on the front, and dragged her around. “She said it’s outside the contract,” he said firmly. “So step away. Sir.”

The Black Guard’s eyes widened in surprise and the siren gasped a shocked, “Syntax!”

“Maybe it’s in your contract,” suggested the other guard, clasping Sam’s biceps from behind and speaking into his ear.

Sam jerked out of his grip, whirled, and shoved him hard in the chest, making him backpedal. “You couldn’t afford my contract. Look, if you can’t follow the rules you’d better get lost.” He forced himself to release some of his anger; based on what Gem had said, the programs were just on edge. Soothingly, he offered, “How about you come back to the bar for another drink?”

The Black Guard, though, stared at Sam’s mouth, and Sam’s heart sank even before the program spoke. “I don’t want another drink,” he said, his voice low and brows pulling together in a scowl. “But I will take you.” He moved fast, stepping into Sam’s space and grabbing his neck with one hand, his waist with another. “Perform your function, siren,” he breathed into Sam’s face, pulling him closer. 

Grunting in irritation, Sam knocked the Black Guard’s grip off his neck. “I’ll give you one chance to back off, program!”

“Or what?” the guard leered. “You’ll get me a cocktail?”

Okay.

He’d tried to end this peacefully.

Sam cocked back a fist and swung. The punch landed on the Black Guard’s jaw, his head snapped back, and he stumbled against the pillar. The program recovered quickly, though, and Sam bemoaned his heels–he couldn’t get enough power from his legs when he could barely stand. 

“I’ll have you thrown in the games,” the Black Guard hissed, straightening and lashing out with a fist in retaliation. 

Sam raised an arm and readied his stance to block and counter. He leaned in– 

And the hit didn’t come. The Black Guard abruptly pulled back. Sam wobbled, thrown off-balance, and his ankle rolled, pitching him sideways. He threw out his arms to catch his balance and his palm smacked into something hard. 

Eerie silence fell over the room, even the music cutting off.

With his pulse hammering in his ears in the sudden quiet, Sam got his heels back under him and straightened, ready to mess the asshole up. He glared at the Black Guard for long enough to realize that the program was standing at attention and staring at something behind him. The sudden silence and the feeling of something under his hand finally sank in and Sam whirled, blanching.

Rinzler.

Rinzler.

Rinzler stood directly behind him, his glossy helmet reflecting the lights of the room. Sam’s gloved hand stood out starkly where it splayed over his black armour, the fingertips resting on the four square lights at the top of his chest.

Sam tried to jerk away, but Rinzler clapped a hand over his, pinning it in place with irresistible strength. “I accept,” he murmured, low and distorted, and a glimmer of red sped through Sam’s strips of white light. His helmet tilted toward the Black Guard and he made a quiet rasping, clicking noise that sent a shiver down Sam’s spine. “Return to your station,” he added.

The Black Guard trembled, his eyes wide and staring at a point over Rinzler’s shoulder, his lights flickering wildly. “Yes, Sir,” he whimpered. “Enjoy your evening, Sir.” He saluted weakly, spun around, and shoved his way through the crowd.

Rinzler dropped Sam’s hand, took two steps away, and, when Sam didn’t follow, turned to twitch his helmet at him.

Am I supposed to follow him? Sam wondered, adrenaline practically vibrating through his veins. He would throw down with the program right then if he wasn’t surrounded by a hundred of Clu’s henchmen and also wearing heels. What the hell did he accept? He racked his memory, trying to remember what Gem had said about touching a program’s lights, but his mind was still foggy with violence. He just knew he shouldn’t do it. It was either an insult or an invitation. Did Rinzler want a fight now? 

“Come,” Rinzler finally said.

Past him, a flicker of movement in the watching crowd caught his attention. Gem! She held up a bright blue glass and pointed at it.

Sam cleared his throat. “Uh. May I get you a drink? Sir?”

Rinzler stood still for long enough that Sam wondered if he was cataloguing all the ways he wanted to derez him. Then he nodded, a barely perceptible dip of his helmet.

Sam blew out a relieved breath. “Of course, Sir, I’ll be right back.” Stiffly, he spun on his heel and made a break to the bar. Okay, either Rinzler didn’t want to fight him or Sam had at least bought some time to get out of these boots. 

Gem met him at the bar, already behind the counter. “What did you do?!” she hissed under the returning swells of music and conversation. As she spoke, she brought up two glasses from below the bar and reached back for a bottle of the blue high performance flavour.

“I don’t know!” Sam hissed back, clawing at the bright glass top as if he could find an escape route. “What did I do?! He said he accepted something. What did he accept? A challenge? A duel ?!"

Gem's expression blanked. "A duel?" she repeated. Then her full lips curved into a smirk. As she poured, she continued, "I suppose you could call it that… You made contact with his circuit lights. From a siren, that's a–"

"An invitation to become his subroutine and provide exclusive service," Sam groaned, finally recalling what Gem had told him earlier. His face sank into his palms. “What does becoming a subroutine mean?”

“For supportive functions, it means that our directives become subordinate to theirs. Our goal is to fill their needs, to assist in fulfilment of their directives. We also become a part of them, benefiting from their capabilities and protection. For you, I don’t know what this means.”

“Damn it.” He rubbed his eyes, careful to avoid the abnormally long lashes. “I might have just made myself Rinzler’s subordinate? I don’t feel any different, though. I don’t… I don’t want to join his army or anything.”

“You’re not exactly a supportive function, are you?”

“Now what am I supposed to do?"

Gem slid the two full glasses in front of him. "Survive," she advised.

"I hate when you say that." Sam hunched over the bar, bolstered himself with three long breaths, and straightened. Finally, tight with tension, he picked up the glasses and turned to find his new superior.

He immediately spotted Rinzler slouching in the leftmost of the three raised chairs, one leg hooked over the arm, his lean body in a panther-like state of relaxation. Though his mask concealed his face, Sam burned all over from the sensation of being watched as he strode unsteadily across the crowded dance floor. What does he want? Why did he accept?! Does he know it’s me? Is that why? Is he playing with me?! His attention flicked to the guarded doors. How the fuck am I going to get away now? 

In his distraction, he bumped an elbow against a dancing Black Guard and startled back when his own white lights flashed red. An angry crimson symbol appeared in the air over his chest: the four small squares that Rinzler wore on his own armour.

“I’m sorry,” the Black Guard stuttered, hurriedly backpedalling. “I’m sorry, Sir.”

Nearby programs, their attention drawn to the commotion, bled away, leaving a wide space around him and an open path to Rinzler. Sam slowly resumed, groaning inwardly as he became even more of a spectacle. Hide in plain sight, Castor said. You’ll be invisible.  

When I get out of here, I’m going to export Castor into a Tamagotchi.

**

Clu paced his chamber, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, his expression distant and as tumultuous as the boiling sky through which they flew. Since finding Flynn's empty safe house, he'd been more eratic than usual. "Even without his disk, I can get through," he muttered. "My elites can get through." His gaze flicked to Rinzler and then back to the window and the distant glow of the portal. “Your functions should be complex enough to translate.” He paused, clenched and unclenched. “But he will be there. He wouldn’t allow me to get there first. He’ll want to free his son, the favourite among his creations. He will be there.” 

His pacing resumed, carrying him from the windows on one side to the other, passing the door, orbiting his low sofa. “But even without his disk, I can get through…”

Rinzler lowered his gaze to the floor, not needing to see anymore. He stood at attention beside Clu’s door, ready for his next order.

With a subtle chirp, the door slid open and admitted Clu’s assistant program, Jarvis. He strode stiffly into the centre of the room, his adoring gaze on Clu’s face, and flexed a deep bow. “My luminary,” he began. “The sirens have arrived as you commanded and are performing their functions admirably. I made sure of it. Now your best programs are refreshing in preparation for…” He trailed off hopefully. 

Clu didn’t seem to notice him. His pacing continued without interruption for several cycles until he came to a stop in front of Rinzler. “Go join them,” he said, staring hard and unsmiling into Rinzler’s mask. “Refresh. Increase your efficiency. The next stage will be more difficult and more dangerous than anything else we’ve done to create this perfect system.”

Rinzler nodded once in acknowledgement, turned on his heel, and strode out of the room.

“Sir,” Jarvis’ voice floated after him, “may I–”

“Jarvis, I need a list of the Black Guard ranked by complexity.”

“Uh. Yes. Yes, sir. Right away.”

When he reached the external lift outside of Clu’s chambers, Rinzler’s brisk steps dragged to a stop. Instead of touching the control panel to select a destination, he allowed himself a long, long moment to look out over the length of Clu’s ship and the thousands of programs and weapons that had been amassed over the cycles. Ostensibly to examine the troops and their security, with the side benefit of creating a delay. The last thing he wanted was to be around the Black Guard and an assembly of sirens. He would rather refresh with an oblivious dormancy routine.

Go join them , urged Clu’s command, and Rinzler could no longer resist. He triggered the lift to descend. It brought him to the recreational level below the throne ship where, as soon as the door opened into a short corridor, he could hear the staccato thumping of music from the hall deeper within. He grudgingly followed the sound until he came to an open set of double doors. Beyond, he could see the chaos of two hundred and fifty Black Guard leaders and several bright white sirens dancing under the crimson lights.

Go join them.

He stepped through. The two guards posted inside to prevent any sirens from wandering off straightened and saluted. He ignored them. He ignored the dancing, the blue-white beacon of the bar, and the alluring white sparkle of the sirens, and began to make his way along the wall toward the platform at the far end of the room where his chair waited for him.

“Syntax!” 

The cry wasn’t loud, but it was so full of shock and alarm that it cut through the noises battering Rinzler’s keen senses. He sought out the source and found two sirens engaging with two helmetless Black Guards. As he watched, the larger Black Guard grabbed the taller of the two sirens, a blond, from behind and said something into his ear. 

Was this a new kind of siren flirtation?

The siren wrenched away, spun, and shoved the Black Guard with enough force to make him stumble backward.

That didn’t look like flirtation. 

And what kind of siren pushed their clients?!

Sensing the egregious error in this interaction, Rinzler changed direction and stalked toward the four programs, the crowd parting around him. Black Guard did not make unauthorized or uninvited contact with supporting functions.

Before he could reach them, the interaction escalated. The Black Guard lunged, gripping the siren by the neck and waist. Rinzler broke into a jog to intervene, but just as he drew near the siren broke free from the other program’s hold.

“I’ll give you one chance to back off, program!” the siren snarled with startling fury.

“Or what?” the Black Guard jeered. “You’ll get me a cocktail?”

Rinzler arrived behind the siren, ready to snap that the punishment would be another round of rectification, but the siren answered himself with a vicious right hook that knocked the Black Guard against the pillar. The guard got his feet back under himself and swung a fist in retaliation. Surprisingly, instead of dodging or running, the siren raised his own arms and braced himself, obviously prepared for a fight.

Sirens shouldn’t fight.

Rinzler growled in warning, catching the Black Guard’s attention, and the program hurriedly aborted his punch and bolted to attention. The siren, for some reason, went from a ready defensive stance to wheeling his arms and falling over. His hand slapped directly onto Rinzler’s chest as he tried to catch himself, his fingers finding Rinzler’s few circuit lights with disturbing accuracy. 

Ah…!

Rinzler jolted at the touch, startled by the intensity of the stimulation. A request purred through his circuits, an invitation to pair himself with this supporting function. 

The music program in charge of the event's music must have noticed the commotion, as the electronic beats abruptly stopped, dousing the room in sudden silence. Every program in the room paused, conversations cutting off. 

In the silence, the siren's movements and harsh breaths were loud as he steadied himself, his glare still focused on the Black Guard, his posture bristling aggressively. Only after a moment did he seem to notice what he'd done, as he spun and stared at Rinzler, revealing his narrow, tan face, silver lips, and startling eyes, one bright green and one blue. Those bizarre eyes widened with shock and he started to pull away.

Rinzler caught his hand before it could go anywhere. Without knowing quite why, except that he didn't want to lose this unexpected connection, he said, "I accept." He pushed a string of master coding through the link the siren had initiated. The siren's white glow flickered red, indicating that it had been received. With their pairing successfully established, Rinzler turned his attention to the quivering Black Guard who had had the audacity to attempt to force a siren to pair with him. Rinzler’s siren. "Return to your station," he growled.

The Black Guard looked like he wanted to derez himself as he squeaked, "Yes, Sir. Enjoy your evening, Sir." Then, practically running in abject and extremely satisfying terror, he demonstrated his one spark of logic and fled toward the nearest exit.

Rinzler returned his focus to his new siren. Even as he wondered what, exactly, he would do with him when he had never paired with nor wanted to pair with a supporting program, Rinzler released the siren's hand and started toward his seat. There, they would find quiet and some measure of solitude to do whatever it was programs did with their sirens. Refresh?

He expected the siren to follow–his own intentions should have translated as instructions to his paired program–but after two strides he felt a little twinge of absence and turned to discover the siren had remained standing in place, just staring with those bicolour eyes, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his fists clenched. Perhaps he was still impacted by the Black Guard’s behaviour. Rinzler nodded toward the platform to provide a visual cue. We go there.

The siren's gaze flicked all over Rinzler as though searching for something. His blond brows pulled together, his expression confused, wary, his posture remaining braced as though he was still in the middle of a fight.

What was so difficult to understand? Was there something wrong with this siren? Had the conflict jarred him so badly that he couldn't detect Rinzler's wishes?

"Come," Rinzler commanded, growing tired of standing in the centre of the frozen dance floor.

The siren looked at something past Rinzler’s shoulder and he suddenly seemed to relax somewhat, straightening and smiling nervously. He cleared his throat and finally addressed Rinzler directly. “Uh. May I get you a drink? Sir?”

He shouldn't have to ask. If Rinzler had wanted a drink, he should have simply known. Though, at the question, Rinzler did feel like a cold glass of energy and something to hold would be good. Perhaps the siren had picked up on it before he did.

He nodded.

The siren sighed, palms pressing to his thighs. “Of course, sir, I’ll be right back.” Then, with neither the elegance of the other sirens or the surprising agility he'd demonstrated during his scuffle, he turned and strode with a stiff, awkward gait to the bar. Rinzler watched him until he arrived and leaned over the bartop to speak with the tending siren. With each movement, Rinzler felt more and more like there was something very off about this program.

With the incident over, the music picked up and the guards and sirens resumed their close dancing. They left a space around him, leaving him alone and separated, completely untouchable.

Almost completely untouchable.

He palmed his chest, where he could still feel the siren's hand. 

Rinzler removed himself to his designated place next to Clu’s chair to wait, relaxing into the wide seat. From his raised vantage, he sought out his siren and watched him closely as he spoke with the bartender, becoming even more bemused as the siren shifted on his feet and leaned heavily on the bar. Sirens were beautiful programs, designed with absolute elegance to support other functions, to inspire, entertain, thrill, encourage, fulfil, relieve…

This siren could barely walk. He certainly looked the part–Rinzler couldn't recall ever seeing such a tall, well-built siren before–but he seemed uncomfortable, shaky. 

And sirens did not get into fights with Black Guards.

Who are you?  

The siren dropped his head into his hands and Rinzler frowned. Was he injured? Rinzler began to rise to go to him, but froze when the siren straightened and accepted two tall glasses from the female siren on the other side of the bar. She smiled at him and said something, he shook his head and turned away, cocktails in hand, only to rock to a halt. His luminous eyes, their two shades so strange and captivating, widened as he stared across the distance at Rinzler. After that brief pause, his expression firmed with determination and he continued. 

Rinzler took advantage of the mask hiding his own face to blatantly watch him, growing more and more curious about the contradictions in the program, even intrigued by the juxtaposition of beauty and decided lack of any grace. The siren seemed distracted, his attention wandering, to the point where he ran into a Black Guard. Rinzler’s protective coding flashed into view, marking the siren with his own distinctive symbol, and the Black Guard stumbled away with gratifying speed. Other programs noticed and backed away from the siren, their fear obvious, and Rinzler experienced a strange rush of pleasure at the sight. He had never claimed a supporting function before, and there was a certain… satisfaction… at having his ownership respected. 

Though this pairing would last for only a short time, Rinzler was surprised to discover that he might actually enjoy it.  

The siren made his slow journey to the platform, his steps seeming to slow the closer he came. At the base of the steps, he stared up at Rinzler and wet his lips as though he didn’t know what to do next. 

Come here , Rinzler thought, wondering if the siren would finally receive the command. 

The siren’s jaw flexed and he began to climb. 

–And his toe caught on a step halfway up, making him stumble. He lurched forward, the drinks held out before him, his other foot twisted, and he fell.

Rinzler lunged down the steps and caught him around the chest before he tumbled. Suddenly finding himself chest-to-chest with the other program, Rinzler shivered at the unexpected intimacy, the press of another’s circuits, the weight in his arms. 

“Shit,” the siren whispered, averting his face. He wobbled as though he wanted to get away, but he couldn’t quite get his legs to stand. “Uh. Thanks. I think I spilled some.”

Rinzler slowly straightened, supporting the siren to stand before releasing him. Then, not quite trusting the unstable program to make it the rest of the way, he took the glass that had the most energy left in it, and held the siren’s arm to guide him up to the top of the platform. There, he settled back into his seat and placed his drink on the waiting side table, and then tugged the siren toward himself. 

The siren edged closer, his arm hard under Rinzler’s hand as though he wanted to pull away, frowning in confusion. “What–”

“Sit,” Rinzler said, leaning back to make it obvious where he wanted the siren to go.

“Oh. Oh. I–” The siren cut himself off with a weak laugh. “I’m not–I mean, I’m not that small. I don’t want to crush your legs.”

The words faded from Rinzler’s mind as he noticed a bright flash in the siren’s mouth when he laughed. Was that… a circuit? On his tongue?! No wonder the Black Guard had wanted him so badly. The sight of it would drive a lesser program to madness. Even Rinzler had to fight the urge to go after that tantalizing promise.  

He shook his head to clear it. “Sit,” he commanded again, adding a growling undertone. He was second in strength only to Clu himself; he could easily support his siren. 

“Okay, okay.” Bracing his free hand on the arm of the chair, the siren slowly lowered himself to perch on Rinzler’s thigh. “... A goddamn Tamagotchi,” he muttered under his breath, so quiet that it obviously wasn’t meant for Rinzler’s ears. 

Rinzler circled his waist to pull him closer, settling him more firmly and turning him to lift his legs over the arm of the chair so Rinzler could see his face more easily. He took a moment to admire the patterns on his cheek, the way the dark shadows around his eyes and his thick lashes enhanced the brilliance of his irises, the unusually sharp angles of his jaw, and the strong arch of his neck. And there was something else about him, something Rinzler couldn’t quite pinpoint. A strange weight or solidity or complexity lacking in other programs. As though there was more to him than just functions and directives and information. 

Although it was the siren who had been falling over, Rinzler felt like he was the one being drawn in, plummeting helplessly toward him. 

The more he stared at the siren’s profile, the more captivated he became. Rinzler forced himself to look away. He retrieved what was left of his drink, deactivated his helmet, and drained the glass in several thirsty gulps. The wash of energy tingled through his circuits, revitalizing his mind, strengthening his focus, making him shiver with power. When he’d finished, he returned his attention to his siren and found the other program staring at him, his silvery lips parted in shock as his gaze raked over Rinzler’s exposed face.

Rinzler stared back. True, he rarely lowered his mask in public, but was his face so startling?

“How…?” the siren whispered. 

“How what?” Rinzler asked, lifting a brow. 

“Holy shit.” The siren visibly tore his gaze away and drained his own drink. “I’m sorry,” he uttered hoarsely when he’d finished. “You just… you look like someone I used to know.”

“Who?”

“An old friend.” He glanced at Rinzler and away again. “Damn.”

“Hm.” Rinzler considered pressing the subject, but at the moment he was less interested in the siren’s old friends and more interested in him. “What’s your designation?”

“Uh, Syntax. It’s Syntax.” 

“Syntax.” Rinzler touched the tips of Syntax's platinum blond hair where they brushed his nape, intrigued by the contrast between the siren's soft, shimmering skin and the strong lines of his neck and shoulders. Beautiful, but it was all on the surface. "You're not a siren," he said quietly. 

Syntax's already stiff form tightened further. His bright, bicoloured gaze shifted from the opposite end of the room and finally flicked to meet Rinzler’s heavy-lidded stare. The jut of his throat bobbed with a swallow. He reached up to his shoulder with his free hand–if he'd been a gaming program, Rinzler might have thought he was about to retrieve his disk. "I… I want to be a siren," he finally replied, his voice constricted. 

Startled, Rinzler snorted in disbelief. "You want to be a siren?" What program would want to hang off of other programs as pretty ornaments, performing the most basic of functions?

Syntax's reaching hand rubbed his neck and he looked away. "Ah, yeah… So, uh, Castor said I could try it out." The tiny circuit light on his tongue flashed behind his teeth as he spoke, sending such an alluringly confusing mix of signals that he could say he was a rubbish deletion program and Rinzler wouldn't mind.

"You're not very good at it." To make his point, Rinzler stroked a thumb down the white circuit light glowing from Syntax's shoulder to his inner elbow, enjoying the tremble of connection, the buzzing energy he could feel under the surface. Any normal, receptive siren would have leaned into the touch, perhaps reciprocated. Instead, Syntax shivered but otherwise didn’t respond.

"Hah," Syntax scoffed. "I was just supposed to pour drinks, not–" He gestured with his glass at the length of his body draped over Rinzler’s lap, and then shifted to slide his legs away. "I should probably go back–"

"No!" Rinzler gripped his thigh and tightened an arm around his waist to hold him in place. "No," he continued, pitching his voice lower. "You'll be fine here. I've already accepted your offer."

"Oh man," Syntax sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. But he relaxed, allowing Rinzler to pull his weight back against his chest. "Yeah, I guess you did."

"What were you before?" It felt strange to ask; programs weren't meant to change their directives unless they were collected and rectified by Clu.

"I was, um… I was a music program."

"A music program." Not what Rinzler would have expected given Syntax's size and vicious right hook.

"Uh, yeah."

Rinzler ran an exploratory fingertip up the circuit light running down Syntax's calf, hungry for the way the siren squirmed, entertained by his flustered fidgeting. "Programs in violation of their function are subject to termination," he murmured into the curve of Syntax's ear. "You'd better sing something for me."

Syntax twitched away, rubbing his cheek and ear, and flashed a nervous smile. "Sing something. Sure. Uh. That is absolutely something I can do. Yeah, okay. So this would be better with the music, but it’s the only thing I can think of.” He cleared his throat. His eyes darted to Rinzler and then away, lifting to the ceiling. He drew in a deep breath. Slowly, his voice low, he began, “Here we stand, worlds apart, hearts broken in two, two, two…” As he went on, his voice strengthened and smoothed into a warm, melodic current lapping at Rinzler’s ears. “Sleepless nights, losing ground, I’m reaching for you, you, you…”

Surprised and entranced, Rinzler sank back into his seat, his attention fixed on Syntax’s face, his distant expression and flashing tongue. 

Someday, love will find you, 

break those chains that bind you, 

one night will remind you 

how we touched and went our separate ways

If he ever hurts you

True love won't desert you

You know I still love you

Though we touched and went our separate ways

Rinzler’s circuits abruptly winced and he squeezed Syntax’s arm and leg to hide the sudden shaking in his hands. The words cut into him, striking deeply buried lines of code and causing a ripple of formless anguish. He had to close his eyes as his vision blurred.

Troubled times

Caught between confusion and pain, pain, pain

Distant eyes–

“Are you okay?” Syntax abruptly cut off to ask. 

Rinzler blinked and found Syntax frowning at him. “I’m fine,” he said, annoyed when his voice wobbled as badly as Syntax’s steps. “Keep going, siren.” 

“Are you sure? You look like I’m hurting you.” He breathed a little chuckle. “I mean, I know I’m not the greatest, but I didn’t think I was that bad–”

“Keep going ” Rinzler snarled, digging in his fingers.

“Okay, okay. I think I know all the words.” He pried at Rinzler’s hands. “You don’t have to hold on so tight, I’m not going anywhere.”

As Rinzler relaxed, Syntax straightened, took a few steady breaths, and continued.

Troubled times

Caught between confusion and pain, pain, pain

Distant eyes

Promises we made were in vain, in vain, in vain

If you must go

I wish you luck

You'll never walk alone

Take care, my love

Miss you, love

The ache in Rinzler’s programming increased, becoming a twisting, throbbing agony. He didn’t know why, couldn’t name this pain, didn’t know where it came from, but Syntax’s voice somehow found it and drew it out of him. He let it come, crashing through his circuits.

Someday love will find you

Break those chains that bind you

One night will remind you

How we touched and went our separate ways

If he ever hurts you

True love won't desert you

You know I still love you

Though we touched and went our separate ways

 

Oh, someday love will find you

Break those chains that bind you

One night will remind you

If he ever hurts you

True love won't desert you

You know I still love you

I still love you, 

I really love you, 

And if he ever hurts you

True love won't desert you

No, no, no…

Syntax’s voice trailed off. He cleared his throat again. “It sounds a lot better with the music and backup vocals.”

For a long moment, Rinzler didn’t open his eyes. He held the siren closely, the warm weight and subtle vibration of connection holding him steady as his core programming spasmed wildly. Gradually, the frantic whirling faded, whatever hidden coding subsiding beneath the surface, and he was able to shake himself back to reality.

Syntax was looking around the room again as though hunting for something, rolling his empty glass between his palms. His attention darted back to Rinzler and he wet his lips. “You want another?” he asked, lifting his glass.

“Not yet.” Rinzler shifted him, bringing his own few circuit lights into contact with Syntax’s body so the humming thrill of sensation could counter the residual sense of loss. He carefully watched Syntax’s face as he continued, “You’re a good music program. Why did you change your function?"

Discomfort passed over Syntax’s features. “Um. I… I needed to. To hide.”

Rinzler went very still. “Hide?”

“I’m from a, uh, different city. There were some programs there that I–Are you sure I can’t get you another drink?” He began sliding away.

“Tell me,” Rinzler growled, possessive codes triggering his voice to distort. “Tell me who you’re hiding from.”

“It’s no one, really,” Syntax demurred. “I’m here, I’m a siren now and I’ll get better at it, it doesn’t matter.”

“You’re my siren now.” He pressed his face to Syntax’s neck, hands wandering down his circuits. “Your enemies are my enemies.”

Syntax laughed, arching away. “Okay, I get it. Thanks. How about I tell you later? I’m supposed to be serving you.”

Reluctantly, Rinzler nodded and loosened his grip, allowing Syntax to drop his boots to the floor and stand. 

The siren shifted in place, tugging on his suit. “I’ll be right back,” he said, flashing a smile, and strode shakily away. 

Rinzler watched him, his circuits suddenly cold, his codes spinning without direction. He’d never been interested in sirens before, and certainly not in accepting one as his own, but he found himself caught and held, stunned by the strength of his own reactions. Perhaps it was the combination of this one’s surprising physical prowess contrasting with his vulnerability, his humour, his song, his lack of fear, the tingle of energy radiating from him, and knowing that he was one of those rare programs who had chosen his function, who wanted to be there, who wanted to be with Rinzler. His interface–his easily accessible circuits and hypnotizing tongue and eyes–merely added to the package.

The mix was intoxicating, more powerful than any spiked energy, and Rinzler had to claw at his armrests to keep from chasing after him. Instead, he watched sharply, memorizing each movement as the siren swung his hips to the bar and leaned over the glowing surface to speak to the tender. His gaze shifted back to Rinzler and he smiled that nervous half-smile and Rinzler nearly melted. 

**ART!!**

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Chapter Text

Three

Sam couldn’t take much more of this.

“Make it a double,” he said to the siren behind the bar. Maybe with enough of the effervescent, vaguely sour energy cocktails he could get Rinzler roaring drunk so the program would pass out. 

Did programs get roaring drunk and pass out?

Damn, he hoped so.

He glanced over his shoulder, met Rinzler’s burning red glare, and shivered, trying to hide it with a smile. Shit. If Rinzler kept pawing at him, murmuring in his ears, and looking at him with his deeply penetrating gaze, Sam wasn’t sure he’d be able to keep his own responses in check. Every time Rinzler stroked the strips of light on his arms and legs, he received a little shock that tingled through his body to his pelvis, and he was definitely beginning to react. 

It didn’t help that he looked so much like a young Alan Bradley that Sam had nearly fallen over when he lowered his mask. Not exactly the same–Rinzler’s eyes gleamed red instead of grey, his hair was a dark brown shot through with silver and pushed back in a mess of spikes and waves instead of mahogany and neat, his skin had the same unnatural smoothness of other programs, and a large silver-blue scar slashed from his left temple to his jaw–but the resemblance was disturbing. He possessed Alan’s long nose, full lips, tall forehead, squared jaw and chin. His voice, once free from the distortion of his helmet, matched Alan’s exactly except for the subtle vibration of all programs. The uncanny similarity should have been disturbing, but a part of Sam found it comforting because he could read Rinzler now, could detect the shifting of his emotions and thoughts.

What was less comforting was that Sam could tell that Rinzler definitely did not want to fight him. And Sam’s desire for a rematch had faded as well, replaced with something else entirely.

It also didn’t help that Rinzler was inexplicably not as big of an asshole as Sam had first thought. He’d scared the Black Guard away, caught Sam before he could fall on his face, seemed moved–maybe even pained–by Sam’s attempt at covering Journey, and acted genuinely interested in Sam’s floundering lies. And as soon as Sam’s mind decided that Rinzler wasn’t so awful, his body had taken this as permission to react to him as it would to any other extremely attractive person. With enthusiasm. And appreciation for Rinzler’s narrow waist, muscular legs, broad shoulders, powerful grip…

He’s the enemy , he reminded himself and his traitorous body sternly.

“Your enemies are my enemies,” countered his memory, flashing Rinzler’s frozen, furious grimace. Rinzler had looked like he was going to leap up and track down the imaginary parties right then and there to permanently remove them from the Grid.

If only that could be true. If only Sam could flutter his irritatingly long eyelashes and admit, “My enemy is your boss, Clu. Could you take care of him for me so I can slip out through the portal?” But the moment he revealed himself, Rinzler’s caresses would turn into Rinzler’s roundhouse kicks to the face.

Focus on the plan , he reiterated as he accepted the two drinks, one much larger than the other. Lay low and wait for a chance to run for the portal. As he teetered back to Rinzler’s fucking throne , though, his heart sank as he felt hundreds of pairs of eyes following him. Sirens and Black Guards alike melted out of his path, their heads tilting together as they spoke in low voices. He couldn’t hear their whispers over the thumping music, but he could see their mouths moving, could feel the slime of their gazes slipping over him. It reminded him so strongly of when he was a kid being followed by the paparazzi that he experienced a jag of nausea. Right. Just lay low.

With Rinzler’s glare heavy on him, making his skin crawl and stomach tighten and tremble with unwanted excitement, Sam had to force himself to walk normally. Chest out, shoulders back, heel to toe, heel to toe… He climbed the dais to Rinzler’s chair, thankfully without tripping this time, and set the drinks on the table beside him. “Anything else?” he asked. “Sir?”

“Only you.” Rinzler didn’t smile–he seemed capable of a cool smirk at most–but a crimson glow lit in his irises as he looked up at Sam and his lips parted. His gloved hands slid over Sam’s hips and pulled him closer, forcing Sam to either yield and straddle him or object and make a scene.

You’re laying low, you’re laying low, you’re laying low , he thought frantically as his body moved automatically to wedge his knees in between Rinzler’s thighs and the arms of the chair, careful of the batons strapped to the program’s legs. And suddenly he was sitting on Rinzler’s lap again. His own suit constricted uncomfortably against his groin, his thighs and butt prickled, hyper-aware of the warm body pressed against him, and all he could do was awkwardly hold Rinzler’s armoured shoulders and try to swallow as the program stared up at him. What do I do now?! Is this what I’m supposed to be doing?! He wanted to scan the room to see what the other sirens were doing, but he was afraid to look away.

After a long, quiet moment, Rinzler snorted. Heat rose in Sam’s neck and face; obviously, Rinzler had expected him to do something more than just sit there. Instead of complaining, though, Rinzler just swept his palms up Sam’s arms, setting off more shocks, and moved down the sides of his chest and the inward curve of his waist. The tingling intensified and Sam shifted in discomfort, only to swallow a groan when he inadvertently rubbed against his suit.

Okay, this has to stop . Vaguely determined to get some control over the situation, Sam stretched his thumbs down to stroke the two small lights above Rinzler’s pectorals, startled when they brightened at the touch and made his thumbs faintly buzz through his gloves. 

Rinzler sucked in a sharp breath and his jaw clenched. His hands flexed on Sam’s waist, but he didn’t object.

Sam did it again, sweeping back and forth, watching them flicker and trying to figure out the vibration in his own thumbs. Not like an electric shock, exactly, and definitely not unpleasant...

Rinzler tilted his head back and his eyelids drooped, so Sam continued. He dragged his fingertips inward from the armour protecting Rinzler’s shoulders. He let them dip into the gap where only thin, black non-fabric protected his skin, discovering that the flesh beneath was nearly as hard as his armour. He followed the curve of Rinzler’s chestplate, splaying out his hands to stroke the ridges and whorls of his suit. Finally, he swept up to the four squares of light in the centre of his chest, thumbing them, fascinated by their brightening and slow fade, by the way they felt.

With each touch, Rinzler released a sigh and kneaded Sam’s waist, and Sam experienced the disconcerting feeling that he was petting an exceptionally attractive and dangerous cat.

And it wasn’t helping. Rinzler had stopped stroking him–his hands had remained on Sam's waist since Sam began touching his lights–but now Sam was trapped watching his hard, Alan-like features relax into an expression of bliss. Every twitch of his brows, every swallow, every peek of tongue to wet his lips made Sam’s temperature rise.

He was so sensitive. Did no one ever touch him like this?

Of course they didn’t, they were terrified of him. And for good reason; he was a vicious killer.

Yes, so vicious , purred from a dark place in Sam’s mind. So vicious that he’s practically begging.

He froze, startled by the thought and where it had come from. Was this part of being a siren?! Was it doing something to him?!

“Don’t stop,” Rinzler commanded throatily, barely a whisper.

“You don’t have many places to touch,” Sam admitted. He hunted over Rinzler’s chest, shoulders, and arms, finding only subtle specks and squares on his forearms.

“It makes me stronger.” Rinzler’s voice shook. "They're mostly on my hands." He lifted his fingertips to Sam’s face and traced the line of his jaw, stroked his bottom lip with the pad of his thumb. “Open your mouth.”

Don’t open your mouth! wailed Sam’s good sense, shivering from the feel of Rinzler’s slick, cool gloves over his lips.

But he couldn’t stop his jaw from loosening and his teeth from parting, or stop Rinzler’s thumb from pressing into his mouth. Sam reflexively pushed against it with his tongue and stiffened when a shock pulsed from his mouth to low in his belly, making him grunt from surprise and the intensity of the sensation. 

He glared at Rinzler, but the sight of his unfocused gaze and parted lips–as if he was completely captivated by Sam’s mouth–made Sam weaken in response, his body throbbing hot and tight. He bit down on the intruding digit, but Rinzler’s eyes only flashed and his lips curved. He rubbed his trapped thumb over Sam’s tongue, triggering so many sparks that Sam was forced to release him. Saliva welled under his tongue, glistening on Rinzler’s thumb as he pulled it out, stroked Sam’s lips, and slid it back in.

“Mmm,” Rinzler hummed softly. As he worked his thumb in and out, his other hand curved over Sam’s nape, pulling him in until their brows pressed together and all Sam could see were Rinzler’s burning eyes, all he could hear was the rasp of their breathing. 

Sam closed his eyes, trying to brace himself on Rinzler’s shoulders, or the chair, or something , but the constant shocks were making him shake and shiver all over. He collapsed, his chest and stomach hard against Rinzler’s and vibrating wherever his light strips glowed. His thighs trembled as he fought the urge to rock his hips. The wet slide of Rinzler’s thumb against his tongue shouldn’t have been so dizzying, but the sirens had done something to his mouth, trapping him in sensations he couldn’t understand, obliterating his awareness of who he was and what he should be doing.

Rinzler made a desperate, hungry noise in his ear–halfway between a growl and a groan–and looped his arm around Sam’s waist to crush their bodies together–

A low, buzzing alarm cut through their building euphoria and Rinzler snatched his hands away. 

“Infiltration detected,” a deep, distorted voice announced. “Rinzler to the throne ship.”

Rinzler’s face lifted toward the glowing red and black panels of the ceiling and he bared his teeth in a snarl, his eyes brightening. When he looked back at Sam, his frustration dimmed into simmering resignation. “Stay here,” he ordered stiffly. “I will return.”

His head spinning, Sam could only nod. “Yeah, sure.” With great difficulty, he freed his legs and staggered upright, clutching the arm of the neighbouring chair. He throbbed with pent up need from his neck to his ankles, making it even harder to stand. 

Rinzler stood and his mask and helmet rose with him, forming around his head until he was once again faceless. He stalked smoothly down the dais steps. At the bottom, he paused to tilt his mask up toward Sam, stared for long enough that a throb travelled through Sam’s veins, before he continued away, cutting a path across the dance floor to the nearest door. 

When Rinzler’s lean black figure had vanished, Sam released a shuddering breath and dropped to sit on the top step next to a puddle of faintly glowing energy. He touched his tingling mouth. What the hell had he been doing?! 

“Syntax,” came Gem’s voice, and he startled back when he discovered she had somehow appeared beside him without him noticing. She leaned artfully across the shallow steps, one long leg crossed over the other, her expression worried as she looked him over. “Are you all right? You look like you’re about to malfunction. I know this can be… overwhelming… the first time–”

“ What did you do to me?! ” Sam hissed, clutching his own shins so he wouldn’t grab her. “I was all over him! I was ready to… to…” He clawed at the air, groping for words, his face so hot that his Grid makeup was probably going to melt away. “Was that some kind of siren programming?!”

She shook her head. “We gave you the identity and the interface, but everything we did was cosmetic. Surface level codes. All of that–” She pointed at Rinzler’s empty chair. “That came from your base programming.”

“I don’t have–!” Sam cut himself off and scrubbed his hot face. He didn’t have base programming and even if he did it wouldn’t tell him to writhe around on Rinzler’s lap. “Fine,” he groaned, “then it was that, uh, subordinate function thing. I need to turn that off.”

“He had to give you verbal commands. You’re not a subordinate function.” 

“ Argh. ” That couldn’t have been him. He didn’t walk into this room hoping to be mouth-fucked by Rinzler’s thumb until he came in his tight siren pants. 

“Making circuit connections is intense,” Gem explained soothingly. “That’s why we don’t typically allow it. And with a high-level program like Rinzler…” Her voice dropped with concern. “A program like him could overwrite a lesser function. But then… you’re not exactly a lesser function, are you? He might have been as overwhelmed as you were.”

The thought of Rinzler being swept away by Sam’s unwitting influence did not help the continued pulsing of his arousal. He kept seeing Rinzler’s tense face in his mind’s eye, hearing his breathless groans, and wondered if he’d been as trapped as Sam had been.

Damn it, I have to stop thinking about this. I’m here for a reason. Sam pressed the heels of his hands into his closed eyes, trying to force Rinzler out of his head. Someone’s infiltrated the ship and I’d bet it’s not an ordinary rebel or insurgent. I have to get out of here. 

“It’s almost funny,” Gem continued to herself. “A program laying claim to a, well, you know.”

Rinzler claimed me. The thought struck like lightning and, instead of disturbing him, it cut through his bewildered fog and gave him an idea.

“Touch me,” Sam blurted, holding out a hand. 

Gem’s brows lifted. She glanced at the offered hand and back up to Sam. “No. I don’t want to risk a transgression against Rinzler.” 

Sam grinned. “I was hoping you’d say that.” Still flush with confused desire, but with a possible path revealing itself, he steeled himself to once again climb to his feet and move forward. “Thanks for all your help,” he said, meeting Gem’s enigmatic stare with a half-smile. “I gotta go. And, uh, if you hear any alarms or anything, maybe you and the others should get out of here.”

She nodded her sleek head. “Until we meet again.”

Carefully, he stepped down to the floor and headed toward the door Rinzler had taken. “I’m coming, Dad,” he muttered under his breath. He forced himself to a casual pace as much as he wanted to run, both to keep from drawing attention and because he didn't think he could actually run. But urgency hurried his steps. If Rinzler or Clu found his father, he knew there was no hope for him. Sam had to stay close so he could intervene. With two on one, Kevin and Sam might have a chance. Then, as long as one of them got out through the portal, they could eliminate Clu from the outside.

Could he fight Rinzler again? 

The thought made him pause, dismay roiling in his gut. After what he knew now of Rinzler’s protectiveness, his hunger for simple touch? After what they’d done together? 

He would, he told himself determinedly. He would if he had to.

The dancing programs moved aside to let him pass, allowing him to quickly reach the side door and its two guards. A siren sat with a Black Guard at a nearby table and Sam tried to copy her posture, her lifted chin and lowered eyes and easy, sultry confidence. For a moment, it seemed he could walk right past, unopposed, but an instant before he stepped past them, the guards crossed their glowing spears in front of him. 

“This area is restricted to authorized programs only,” barked one of them. 

“Rinzler ordered me to follow him,” Sam lied. “I move a little slow and he was in a hurry, so I have to catch up.”

The guards glanced at each other. Though their eyes were hidden, Sam could see the nervous twist in their mouths.

Shrugging inwardly–he might as well turn this situation to his advantage–Sam added, “I’m his siren.” He folded his arms and lifted an imperious brow. “You can check, if you want.” Thrusting out a hip, he leaned a shoulder toward them. “Go ahead and touch me.”

They edged backward. 

“One of you could escort me?” Sam offered. He shifted his weight and smoothed his hands down over the lights on his hips, now knowing how appealing they were to programs. 

They looked at each other again. “I… I’ll take you to him,” offered the first speaker. As one, they straightened their spears. The speaker gave a short nod and turned to lead Sam through the door.

I can’t believe that worked. Forcing his face to remain in its confident smirk, Sam followed.

The Black Guard brought him through a quiet corridor running alongside the main room to another door. When it slid open, it led out onto the external lift that Sam had seen from outside. 

A wave of noise crashed over them–shouting, screams, the crackle of weapons clashing, distant shattering. Sam peered over the edge and shock drenched any remaining heat in his blood. “Holy shit.” Below them, the deck of Clu’s ship had transformed from a well-organized demonstration of military power into a full on riot. From that distance, it looked like an angry ant hill as hundreds, maybe thousands, of programs fought all over the deck. “What’s going on?” he asked his escort. That’s not just an infiltration.

The program stepped onto the lift and motioned for Sam to join him. “I don’t know,” he said as he touched a control panel. 

The lift ascended a short distance, bringing them to a door into the rear of Clu’s ship. There, the guard triggered the door to open and led Sam into a long room of steel-grey walls and glowing orange lights. A raised floor to either side held four sunken computer consoles at which four programs worked steadily, not looking up as Sam and the guard entered. Sam followed the guard down the length of the room to a short corridor that terminated at a closed door. Clu’s command room, Sam guessed. As they approached, Sam pulled his disk, ready to attack as soon as he saw his father. Even if they were cornered by both Rinzler and Clu, they would fight and one of them would get away.

“Disk,” the guard said when they reached the door, turning to face Sam.

Sam tensed, startled. 

“You’re not rectified and must surrender your disk when you enter the command room,” the guard elucidated, holding out a hand.

“Oh.” Sam breathed. “Uh. Yeah. Okay.” Uneasily, he passed it over, cursing inwardly. But he would be fine. He could take the program down and get it back easily enough–

His thoughts cut off when the door slid open and he found himself face to face with Clu, Jarvis, and Clu’s half-dozen faceless bodyguards, with no Kevin Flynn or Rinzler in sight.

Where’s Dad?!  

Clu, busily typing into a kind of transparent Grid tablet, glanced up and frowned. His pale brown eyes flicked from the guard, to Sam, and back to the guard. “Greetings, programs,” he said slowly, his voice so eerily similar to his father’s, so artificially warm, that it made Sam’s skin crawl. “Why did you bring a siren here? I didn’t ask for one.”

He doesn’t recognize me. Sam swallowed hard. “Rinzler told me to follow him,” he said. 

“Rinzler?” Clu’s brows twitched and his attention sharpened. He passed his tablet to Jarvis and approached, a little smirk in the corner of his mouth. 

As Clu neared, Sam lifted his chin and lowered his eyelids and channelled his inner Gem to give what he hoped was a superior smile. Inside he wanted to leap on Clu and beat the shit out of him for everything he’d done, but he knew that he wouldn’t stand a chance alone against Clu and Clu’s men, and he still needed to find his father. 

Clu circled him and Sam fought to hold still. When Clu returned to his front, the program stepped closer, so close that Sam could feel the warmth of his body and the brush of air from his movements, so close that Sam shook from the need to move away. He reached out to run the backs of his gloved fingers down Sam’s arm. The moment he touched Sam’s white bodysuit, Sam’s lights flashed red and Rinzler’s symbol once again hovered angrily over his chest. Clu pulled away and Sam silently thanked whatever Rinzler had done to him.

“Oh,” Clu breathed. “Now that’s very interesting. I have to go quell an uprising, but when I’m done I think I’d like to find out what kind of program caught Rinzler’s attention.” He stepped back and nodded toward the curved window at the front of the ship. “Wait here, siren. You can watch.”

“Uh.” Sam wet his dry lips and uttered, “Where’s Rinzler?” And where’s my father?

Clu’s stare darted to Sam’s mouth and darkened. "I think I can see something of your appeal, siren," he murmured. "That's wild."

Sam’s stomach sank and he bit his tongue. This damned light!

To his relief, though, Clu didn’t push it. “Well," he continued, "I suppose it’s in your programming to be concerned for him. I sent him on a very important mission. You may have noticed the pandemonium below us, yes? A User has come to destroy our perfect world by spreading lies and enslaving basic programs to his will. Rinzler is going to find him and bring him to me so I can finally be rid of him.”

“A User,” Sam gasped, widening his eyes. “He’s not here is he?”

“Somewhere out there, I imagine,” Clu said. “You’ll be perfectly safe here, siren.” His uncanny gaze shifted to Sam’s Black Guard escort. “Make sure he stays here. We don’t want anything to happen to him while I’m gone. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He retrieved his tablet from Jarvis, nodded at Sam, and swept past him toward the lift, his bodyguards falling into formation behind him. Before he stepped outside, Sam heard him speak into his tablet, “All complex programs muster on deck.”

A deep, distorted version of the command rolled out over the ship’s speaker system. “All complex programs muster on deck.”

Then the door slid shut, leaving Sam with the Black Guard and Jarvis. 

He needed to get out of there and go after Rinzler. He could probably overpower one or the other of the two programs, but the other one would undoubtedly sound an alarm. He looked at the Black Guard, who stiffened to attention, and then to Jarvis.

The pale program smiled weakly. “Would you like me to order a couch for you to make yourself comfortable, siren?”

“I’m pretty comfortable already,” Sam retorted, folding his arms. How am I going to get rid of this guy?

“Um.” Jarvis fidgeted with the hem of his coat. “And, ah, how is existence as a siren? Do you enjoy your function?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “If I wasn’t a siren, I wouldn’t have to–” He cut himself off. Wait. The sirens. “I… I wouldn’t have to meet such incredible, complex programs,” he hurriedly corrected himself. “I can’t believe I was invited here. But I am very worried about the others.” With as much sincerity as he could manage, he looked deeply into Jarvis’ shielded eyes and said, “Jarvis, the sirens need you.”

Jarvis blinked rapidly. “Uh. Me? They need me?”

“Yes. You. Rinzler is hunting for the User, the complex programs are moving out, and our, uh, luminary, is busy as well. Who is protecting the sirens? What if something happens to them?”

Jarvis drew in a shocked breath. “You’re right,” he murmured. “They’ll be alone.”

“Yes!” Sam pointed at the lift. “Go. Tell them that Syntax sent you. They need you!”

“They need me!” Jarvis jolted and hurried toward the door, pausing only to clasp the Black Guard on the arm. “They need me,” he repeated to the guard, and then continued at a run.

Sam watched him go until the doors shut behind him.

That left him with the guard.

To test his reactions, Sam moved to walk out of the room. The guard promptly side-stepped to block him. “Look, man,” Sam sighed, raising his hands. “Could you just let me go? I don’t want to hurt you.”

The guard’s head tilted as though he was confused. However, when Sam tried to get past him, he blocked again. This time, Sam shoved him, ignoring the way his own body flickered a warning at the contact.

The guard back-pedalled, but didn’t go far. “Lord Clu has ordered that you are to remain here,” he said. He leaned his lightspear against the wall, pulled a kind of tool from his belt, and unravelled a length of glowing red rope. 

“I didn't want to do this,” Sam muttered. Taking full advantage of his non-combative appearance, Sam snatched up the guard’s spear, whirled it around, and smoothly stabbed it through his body. The guard barely had a chance to cry out as his body disintegrated into tiny red cubes.

Sam tossed the spear aside, knelt to retrieve his disk, and quickly backtracked past the oblivious, working programs to the lift.

When the door opened, he looked out over a sea of utter chaos. Programs with red lights fought programs with blue or white, hand to hand or with flashing disks. More faceless Black Guard commanders joined the battle as they disgorged from the elevator at the base of the tower; how many of them had Sam served and flirted with? Clu, easily identifiable by his burning orange hue, and several of his soldiers cut through the masses on lightcycles, erecting walls of light to herd and isolate small groups of programs. The previously glossy obsidian floors were stained blue and red as more and more programs shattered. 

“Damn,” Sam whispered. They had to stop this. They had to get to the portal and stop this.

And to do that he needed to find his father. 

Sam crouched and scanned the melee, hunting for anyone dressed like a hippy. Instead, his eye was drawn to a strangely clear space in the crowd. For a moment he assumed something had happened to push the combatants away, and then he noticed a single shining black figure in the middle of it stalking toward the tower.

Sam jerked away from the edge, his stomach swimming with sudden nerves.

Rinzler. 

After a moment, he tentatively peered over.

Rinzler hadn’t seen him. He looked entirely focused as he neared the tower and dropped to one knee. Seeming unconcerned by the fighting around him, he pressed a hand to the deck. 

What is he doing?

Rinzler must have found something, as he traced a shape on the floor and then lifted his head to the elevator doors. He rose and hurried toward them, forcing the flood of Black Guards exiting the elevator to flow around him.

Okay, if he’s looking for Dad, then he must have found a trail. So he’s here! Sam chuckled to himself at the absurdity. Of course he’s right under me. He straightened, backed to the control panel, and commanded it down to the tower’s top floor. He would search every level if he had to.

But he didn’t have to. As the lift door opened on the top floor, a scream echoed down the corridor from the main room. 

“USER!”

**

Rinzler strode swiftly down the side corridor to the external lift, his tingling hands clenching and releasing, frustration hot in his circuits. He could still feel Syntax against him, the weight of him on his thighs and against his chest, the sparking flow of energy wherever their circuit lights pressed together, the conduit of intoxicating sensation that charged from the circuits in his thumb through his body. What was this program?! Rinzler had lost awareness of everything except his siren and a driving need to get closer to him, as though he was the desperate supporting function enthralled by a master program. 

And then Clu’s command sliced through him, dragging him back to reality.

What infiltration? he steamed as he triggered the door to the lift. Clu’s ship cannot be–

The thought cut off when the door opened and revealed a surging riot on the main deck. It took a moment for Rinzler to make sense of what had happened, but it looked like the collected programs had gotten free from stasis and were fighting the Black Guards; they were able to get the upper hand as the Black Guards were prohibited from derezzing any of the programs intended to fill Clu’s army. Flashes of blue made him frown and realize in surprise that several Black Guard soldiers shone the blue circuit lights of User supporters.

The Users.

The Users were here.

Rinzler slammed the lift’s control panel, triggering it to rise to the throne ship.

He found Clu in his command room, typing rapidly into a control pad, already wearing his armour and his bodyguards in position. Jarvis stood nearby, his hands wringing together anxiously.

“Flynn is on board,” Clu said when Rinzler entered, his voice quivering with excitement. “Finally. Find him. Bring him to me.”

Rinzler nodded shortly, spun on his heel, and stalked back the way he’d come. 

Back on the lift, he glared down at the battle. Flynn was down there somewhere. As soon as Rinzler found him, he could return to Syntax.

Halfway down the second lift that would take him to the deck, he focused his attention on the nearest Black Guard shining the blue of the Users. Without waiting for the lift to descend completely, he flipped off of it, hit the deck in a controlled roll, and sprinted toward that distant speck of blue. He shoved programs and Black Guards alike out of his way, deflecting spears and disks when needed, too impatient to engage with any of them. 

“It’s Rinzler!” someone shouted, and the mob of fighting began to part in front of him. A trail of Black Guards tried to form in his wake, perhaps believing he was there to fight alongside them, but they scattered when he ignored them.

When he reached the User-supporting Black Guard, she was grappling with another guard, both of them diskless. Rinzler stepped up behind the red-glowing program, grabbed him by the back of his armour, and tossed him aside. The User supporter had a moment to gape open-mouthed and take a step backward before Rinzler’s hand clamped around her throat. He lifted her into the air.

“Where is Flynn?” he demanded.

“I won’t tell you!” she choked, struggling to pry his fingers away, her weak kicks landing harmlessly on his hip and chest. 

Rinzler undocked one of his disks with his free hand, activated it, and brought its searing edge to her helmet. The highly concentrated energy sliced through the flimsy protection, revealing her wide-eyed terror.

“Where is Flynn?” he repeated.

“Never!” she shouted. 

Irritated, Rinzler stroked his disk across her cheek, cutting into the skin to reveal her inner circuitry. She gurgled and her struggles increased, but still she did not answer. 

“You will be terminated,” he warned her, lowering his disk to hover over her chest.

“I don’t care. He’s going to fix everything, he’s going to make it better.”

Rinzler did not have time for a theological argument. “ Where did he go to fix everything?” he growled. 

Her violet eyes quivered and flicked so quickly toward the ship’s tower that he would have missed it if he hadn’t been closely watching. 

Rinzler threw the program away and spun to scowl at the tower he had just come from. Was Flynn going after Clu? It couldn’t be that easy, could it? Flynn would be doing Rinzler’s job, in that case. 

Though he had gone in the wrong direction; Clu wasn’t in his throne ship anymore. Clu, his distinctive orange energy signature marking him apart from his vanguard, had taken to the field himself. He and his team rode their lightcycles through the mob, trapping programs inside walls of light and running down any who refused to get out of their way. 

A faint scuffing noise caught his attention. Without turning, Rinzler raised his disk, catching the Black Guard in the abdomen as she charged at him. She shattered into a cloud of bits. He docked his disk, brushed a few errant blue cubes off his shoulder, and stalked back toward the tower. With every step, every deflection, and every leap over a wall of light, his annoyance flared hotter. He felt like he was running in circles, when every moment away from Syntax was a deepening wound.

Outside the tower, he dropped into a crouch and placed a palm on the deck. Concentrating, he shifted his awareness to pick up faint energy signatures. In moments, he was able to detect the pale glow of footprints leading to the elevator door. User footprints. 

Then he paused, startled to realize there were two sets of prints. Both Users had come aboard. Though one of the sets was fainter, older. Had they not come together?

Rinzler touched the edge of one of the older prints. The shape, too, seemed strange. Narrow. 

The User Sam Flynn had been wearing the interface of a gaming program, with boots. So perhaps Kevin Flynn had these strangely narrow feet? 

It didn’t matter. Whatever the Users had on their feet, Rinzler would find them. 

He stood, followed their steps into the elevator, and waited for it to descend. The doors opened and a flood of Black Guards poured out to join the battle. When it had emptied, Rinzler strode in and selected the first level above him. With no other way to determine where they’d gone, he would check each floor for their trail.

***Art!***

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

Look at this beautiful masterpiece by https://www.tumblr.com/im-yotsu and weep with me 😭😭😭 I can't even. I can't stop looking at them, they're so amazing. 

Chapter Text

Four

The End of Line's owner ushered them quickly up to his personal lounge, waving for two of the club’s bright white bouncers to fall in behind them as they ascended his floating steps. "Forgive me for not immediately trusting you," he said when they'd entered the solitude of the lounge. "A program hears rumors, you know, of what a User can do, how a User can change one."

Flynn pushed back his glowing hood and smiled at the subtly nervous program, who, despite his grins and flamboyant gestures, nearly vibrated with anxiety. Conflicts and fear, Flynn recognized. The program's self-protection codes must have been going haywire under his smooth surface programming.

"I'm not going to change you, Zuse," Flynn assured him. "You already redefined yourself and that's a beautiful thing, man. A beautiful thing." 

Zuse's pale, blue-toned face went slack, his eyes widening. Had he really thought he could hide himself?

Flynn clapped Zuse's arm and gently squeezed, hoping to ease his panic. "Creating a system where programs can decide who they're going to be… that was the dream." The dream that had become a nightmare, a trap of his own design…

Zuse drew in a shuddering breath and pulled away. He smiled shakily, began to speak, stopped, and tried again. "A–and to what do I owe the honour of your visit?"

"We're looking for Sam," Quorra interjected. "I sent him to you. Did he make it?"

Zuse's gaze shifted to Quorra, his face spasmed, and he quickly switched back to Flynn. His long fingers fiddled with his cane. "Yes," he finally said, his voice losing its buoyant lift. "Yes, he said you sent him, my dear. Very wise. Very wise, indeed, to send him to a friend. He came to me quite some time ago and I smuggled him onto Clu’s ship."

"Clu’s ship?!" Kevin squawked, his heart dropping. "No!"

Zuse lifted a placating hand. "He's very well concealed, I assure you. And Clu is heading to the portal himself."

Of course he was. Kevin winced. He didn't know the exact details of Clu’s plan, but even if only Clu managed to wiggle out of the system through the portal, the damage he could cause was phenomenal. 

"If the Users get through first, they can stop Clu!" Quorra declared excitedly. "We need to end this. We need to end Clu! Sam can't do this alone. Please help us get to him."

Zuse wrung his cane. He strode slowly across his lounge to the window and gazed down at the blur of city lights far below. Kevin could sense more of his turmoil, the conflicts between what he wanted and what he feared. 

Quorra opened her mouth and drew a breath to speak. Kevin touched her arm and shook his head when she glanced at him. Now was not the time to rush. Zuse needed to process his thoughts in his own time.

Zuse rewarded their patience by pointing his cane at something below them. "The only way to get to Clu’s ship now is on a program transport. The solar sails." He turned to regard them, clarity and purpose returning to his eyes. "Those will take you there, but after that I can’t help you." 

"We understand," Kevin said. "We'll be careful. Thank you for your help, Zuse."

**

Kevin hadn't been completely certain that they could trust Zuse's information, not when Zuse had so many threads of fear, doubt, and ambition running through his programming, so he was pleasantly surprised when the solar sail brought them in toward Clu’s ship without incident.

Well. "Pleasantly" may not have been the correct term. Perhaps "horrified" was more accurate, as Kevin got his first look at what Clu had been building. 

The ship itself–a massive leviathan ruling the sky–was incredible, even awe-inspiring in a terrible way. Kevin experienced a pained jab when they approached as the marvel of construction and Grid technology reminded him of Clu’s awesome potential, his capabilities, and how he'd used them. Guilt, regret, fear, and anger knotted in his stomach; he closed his eyes, let himself feel them, breathed them out.

But as the solar sail pulled into the body of the ship and the lights within the cargo containers brightened, his calm vanished, replaced by cold dread. Each of the containers held dozens of programs in stasis. 

“What is this?” Quorra stared through the glass into one of the containers, her voice a shocked whisper. 

“Clu can’t create programs,” Kevin explained numbly. He forced himself to move, to lead them down the length of the solar sail and to an exit between two containers. “He can only destroy or repurpose them.”

“Repurpose them for what?” 

They reached the exit and peered out at the ship, and Kevin’s dread deepened as he got a closer look at what Clu had built. The huge ring bisecting the ship must have been Clu’s Rectifier. Programs were being shuttled to the ship on the solar sails, off loaded, and herded into one side of the machine like so much cattle. On the other side, ranks of Clu’s soldiers emerged and joined columns of unmoving figures. Clu must have recently gone on a campaign to harvest as many programs as he could in a recent period, for there were stacks and stacks of the solar sail containers waiting with their frozen cargo. The constant hum of engines, machinery, and distant commands filled the air, frequently interrupted by discordant, pleasant announcements. 

“Throne ship is approaching,” announced that gentle voice.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way . Kevin swallowed hard at the sight of them, the backs of his eyes stinging. What have you done? What have I done? For as much as he wanted to blame Clu, he knew that his younger self would have seen beauty in this strict, mathematical precision the way he’d seen beauty in perfectly executed codes.

“He’s building an army,” Quorra breathed.

“Let’s go,” Kevin murmured, turning in the other direction, away from the Rectifier.

They emerged onto a set of stairs that led them down to the deck. Quorra held Kevin back for a long moment as she searched the space beyond. Seeing only a distant pair of Black Guards already walking away from them, she motioned for Kevin to follow her. They hurried across the open space to the far wall and didn’t stop until they reached an alcove shielded from view by a tall, sloping bulkhead supporting the outer hull. Quorra urged Kevin in behind her and stood in an alert half-crouch, her shadowed eyes roving, watchful. 

"This place is huge," she whispered. "How are we going to find Sam?"

Kevin leaned against the curved wall and scratched his chin thoughtfully. That part, at least, should be easy. "I need to knock on the sky."

"You'll be able to hear him?"

Kevin nodded. "Yeah. He should be close enough. Are we safe here?" 

“Yes, I think so. I’ll watch you.”

Kevin managed a faint smile and knelt on the floor, grunting at the stiffness in his knees. Was he actually ageing? Or was it the Grid responding to the age of his mind, which seemed to have doubled since Sam fell into the system? Did he just feel old? His own form was a mystery to him, who could see every code and every bit within the Grid.

Releasing that thought, Kevin rested his palms on his thighs, closed his eyes, and cleared his mind. With the ease of practice, he pulled away from himself, freed his awareness, and raised it to the sky: the Grid itself. The system spilled outward before his mind's eye like an unfathomably complex circuit diagram: orderly lines and dots of light, streaks of information, pulses of data, the busy whirl of programs performing their functions. Bright and beautiful, constantly astounding, awe-inspiring… and terrifying. 

Kevin breathed through the tumult of emotions until they settled and he could focus.

His son. A User.

There.

The Grid groaned with the weight of him, the denseness of his copied organic coding, the energy that had been transformed from his matter. He shone like a star in Kevin’s awareness, radiating light somewhere above them.

Kevin shot up an arm to point. "He's there."

When he opened his eyes, he followed the line of his finger and wanted to curse. Above the monstrous Rectifier loomed a tower supporting Clu’s personal transport, his “throne ship”. Sam had apparently found himself directly beneath it, somewhere in the top floor of the tower. 

Quorra shook her head, her angular hair swaying with the motion. “How did he get there? Why?” she asked, her expression troubled.

“I have no idea,” Kevin sighed, dropping his arm. “What the hell is he thinking? Quorra, I love that kid, but he is really messing with my Zen thing.”

She snickered. “From what you’ve told me, isn’t that the point of children? To shake things up, test your limits, change the world?”

“That’s not–” Kevin pinched the bridge of his nose. “Okay, yes, I did say that, but I did not mean running off, sneaking onto an enemy ship, and getting as close as possible to a program who wants him dead.”

Quorra shrugged. “He certainly is shaking things up and testing your limits. And he might change the world.” 

“Okay, just.” Kevin held up a hand to stop her aggravatingly logical arguments and perfect memory. “Give me a break, man.”

Half-smiling, Quorra stepped to his side and slid down to sit cross-legged. She leaned into him, so small but he could feel the weight of her complexity and capability. “We’ll find him,” she said quietly. “He’s a User, just like you. He’ll be okay.”

Kevin tried to nod, if only to reassure her, but his head felt too incredibly heavy. If he was as powerful as she thought, why couldn’t he have stopped Clu? Why was Quorra the last of her people? “I wish you hadn’t come,” he said, his voice thick. “You and Sam, you’re…”

“I know.” Her gloved hands wrapped around his. 

“But I’m glad you’re here,” he admitted, squeezing her strong fingers. 

“Me too.” She leaned forward to catch his eye. “At least we know Clu won’t be prepared for this strategy.”

“Yeah, because it’s a stupid strategy. What made Sam think this was a good plan?”

“Zuse,” Quorra promptly replied. 

“Ugh, I take back anything good I ever said about that program.”

“He did get us here. Now we have hope. So let’s go get him.” He barely had a chance to agree before she had smoothly stood and dragged him up beside her. “How are we going to get up there?” she asked. Her eyes narrowed and small jaw firmed as she scanned the little that could be seen on the other side of the ship. Unlike their current location, that side seemed more heavily guarded, patrolled by pairs of Black Guards. And if there were any doors into the tower, Kevin could only imagine they would be covered as well. “I can take a few soldiers down,” Quorra continued, “but it won’t be quiet.”

"I don't think a frontal assault is the name of the game here," Kevin replied slowly. He peeked out from behind their bulkhead, spotted the pair of Black Guards returning in their direction, and retreated, his mind racing. “What we need is a distraction." His gaze shifted to the stacks of cargo containers of programs in stasis. “And I think I know who can help us.”

They waited for the pair of Black Guards to walk by and lunged into movement. While Quorra restrained one from behind, her hand clamped over his mouth, Kevin quickly accessed the codes of the other, finding and triggering stasis. The program stiffened and ceased moving in mid-step. Kevin moved to the other and did the same, freezing him.

Then, as Kevin kept watch, Quorra dragged them one after the other into the protection of the bulkhead and laid them on the floor. Kevin knelt beside the first, angling her body away so he could access her programming. Finding her overwritten coding was simplicity in itself once he had a moment to look for it; Clu’s rectification was effective, but not pretty. Kevin isolated his commands and meticulously deleted them. He did not, however, update the program’s interface, so she could retain the visual likeness of one of Clu’s soldiers.

Satisfied, Kevin sat back on his heels and activated her. She startled awake, shoving herself to hands and knees, and her mouth gaped in shock when she looked up at Kevin.

“Greetings, program,” he said, smiling warmly.

“User,” she gasped, scrambling backward. 

“It’s okay,” Quorra said, dropping to one knee and wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “It’s okay. He’s here to stop Clu.”

The former Black Guard’s helm turned to her and then back to Kevin. “You… you freed me,” she whispered. “I was condemned to rectification and then… and then I was nothing.”

“What’s your name?” Kevin asked.

“Uh.” Her lips pressed together and she shook her head. “I… I don’t–”

Sympathetic, Kevin touched her arm and pushed a subtle shot of energy into her circuits. 

She immediately brightened and straightened. “Ascii! It’s Ascii. I’m a graphics translator.”

“I need your help, Ascii,” Kevin said. “I can’t correct all of you, not from here. But the portal is open. If I can get through, or if my son can get through, we will stop Clu and undo what he’s done. I just need to get there. And they,” he pointed at the white glow of the cargo containers, “they can help us if they’re given a chance.”

Ascii followed Kevin’s pointing finger and then turned back. She started to speak, then shook her head. “But I… I’m just a basic program.”

Kevin scoffed. “Ascii, I've never written a basic program in my life.”

Slowly, her lips curved. “What do you need me to do?”

“Bring me more Black Guards to correct,” Kevin said. “Once there are enough of you, you’re going to raise hell.”

She nodded eagerly, then paused. “Raise what?”

Kevin swallowed a sigh. “I just mean make a lot of noise.”

**

Kevin and Quorra, with the help of their gradually increasing team of de-rectified Black Guards, crossed to the other side of the ship over the suspended walkways high above the deck. There, they worked their way up the side of the ship toward the tower and Rectifier. When they reached the last sheltered location close to their target, Kevin motioned to Ascii. She immediately knelt beside him, setting her spear on the floor. 

“What’s in the tower?” he asked. “And how do we get in?”

“It’s where the high-level programs are maintained,” she explained. “The commanders. Where they cycle through dormancy, house their belongings, and gather.”

Why is Sam in there? “Have you heard any reports of a User being captured?”

“No.” 

“We know he’s near the top,” Quorra said, as though picking up on Kevin’s confusion. “How about we start there and work our way down?”

“How do we get up there?” 

“There’s a lift that only goes to the top floor or to the throne ship.” Ascii pointed at a vertical beam of light bisecting the round opening of the Rectifier and leading up to where the tower loomed over the monstrous machine. At the top, Kevin could barely make out a platform sitting stationary at what he assumed was the entrance to Clu’s ship. 

“That’s too exposed,” Quorra warned. 

“There’s also an elevator.” Ascii’s pointing finger lowered to a set of double doors at the base of the tower. Not surprisingly, a pair of heavily armed and armoured Black Guards stood in front of it. Unlike many of the other guards, these ones couldn’t be taken from behind. Past the doors, several Black Guards watched over the programs being led to the Rectifier, so any disturbance would be noticed.

“And how are we going to get back out?” Kevin asked, looking to Quorra. “If we find Sam–”

“ When we find Sam,” Quorra corrected. “You’ll figure it out.”

Kevin took a deep, steadying breath. Long ago, so long that he could barely contemplate the vast amount of time, he’d had to creep around the Grid in the ENCOM system. Death had been a very real possibility, but he hadn’t been afraid. He’d been charged, envigorated, amazed, and determined, but he hadn’t felt a moment of fear, not even when he threw himself down onto the Master Control Program. But now… Now he could barely move for his terror. His hands were wet on his knees, his mouth and throat were dry, his breaths came shallow in his tight chest. If he did this wrong, then Sam and Quorra would suffer for his failures. 

But if he continued to do nothing, there was no possibility of winning this game.

If he acted, at least there was a chance.

“Okay,” he finally managed. “We need to get those guards away from the doors. It’s time.”

“To raise hell?” Ascii asked.

Kevin chuckled. “Yeah, exactly. You got it.”

She clenched her jaw and fisted her hands. With a hum of increasing energy, the red lights on her armour flickered and flared blue. When she picked up her spear, her new circuit colour travelled from her hand up the length of the weapon. She looked down at it as though admiring the colour, and then nodded at Kevin. "Thank you," she whispered. She stood, spun crisply on her heel, and strode briskly away to spread the message down the line of waiting de-rectified. 

“User be with you,” Quorra murmured.

Then they waited. While Quorra shifted restlessly beside him, Kevin settled his breathing, his heart, and his mind, trying to prepare himself for what was to come. He listened to the rhythms of the Grid, the rumble of the ship, and his own pulse.

When the moment came, he was ready.

A tremendous crack! shattered the low, humming din of the busy ship, and the area around the waiting cargo containers lit up with violent flashes of light. Programs began shouting, there was a sound of shattering code. Black Guards, now glowing blue, charged the crowd around the Rectifier, followed by a mob of programs from the cargo containers. The orderly queues of programs scattered and red Black Guards met their blue counterparts in a sparking clash.

"For the Users!" someone shouted over the rising din, thin and barely audible until the cry was taken up by dozens and then hundreds of other voices.

Kevin winced. “This should be for themselves,” he muttered. “Not for me.”

“Look,” Quorra whispered, nodding at the two Black Guards trotting away from the elevator door. “It worked.” She glanced around, ensuring that all the other nearby guards were also leaving. “Come on,” she said, rising to standing and activating her bright lightsword. 

Kevin followed her more slowly. With a last, regretful glance at the battle behind them, he followed Quorra to the elevator and they slipped inside the surprisingly large car. 

Quorra commanded the elevator to rise to the top floor and they waited against the walls to either side of the door, Quorra with her disk and lightsword ready and Kevin with his hands free, prepared to drain energy or access enemy codes. However, when the doors opened, a sudden flood of music and the chatter of happy programs filled the elevator, making them flinch and glance at each other.

A party?

They leaned out to peer into the red-tinged darkness past the elevator lights and Kevin’s surprise ratcheted higher. Inside a long, high-ceilinged room, Clu’s complex Black Guard commanders drank bright blue spirits, danced with a handful of glowing white sirens, relaxed at tables around the edges of the room, and generally seemed to be having a good time. After the horrors of Clu’s ship and the riot below, it felt jarringly incongruous. 

My old man had to track me down to house parties, but it was nothing like this , he thought ruefully, watching the nearest Black Guards sway and throw their arms in the air. Where are you, Sam? He probed the darkness, but couldn't see much past the crowded dance floor and glowing pillars except for a startlingly bright bar in the centre, two guarded exits, and what might have been a raised level at one end of the room.

Quorra waved, catching his eye, and pointed at some empty tables and chairs just outside Kevin’s side of the elevator. He nodded in acknowledgement. It looked like it was the only cover they could get, though it didn't seem to matter much; the Black Guards were completely occupied.

Kevin quickly darted out and crouched behind the tables, folding his arms to conceal the light that he couldn’t keep from leaking out his sleeves. Quorra deactivated her weapons and followed. The elevator closed behind them, throwing them into deeper shadow.

"Do you think he's in here?" Quorra shouted over the thumping, electronic music.

Kevin shook his head. "I don't know!"

Quorra grabbed his arm. "Zuse owns a club!"

"What?" Kevin shook his head again, he must have misheard her; of course he knew Zuse owned a club. 

"Zuse owns a club!" she exclaimed again, her huge eyes wide and insistent. "So he must have sent the drinks and the sirens. And if he smuggled Sam on board…"

"Then he's in a keg of energy!" Kevin finished excitedly.

"What?" Quorra blinked. "No, I was going to say that the sirens might know something. But if you think he'd fit in a keg..."

"No, no." Kevin hurriedly patted her hand. "No, your idea makes more sense."

A low tone vibrated through the noise of the party and Kevin ducked lower. That sounded like an alarm, had they been spotted?

“Infiltration detected,” a deep, distorted voice announced. “Rinzler to the throne ship.”

"Rinzler," Quorra hissed worriedly near Kevin’s ear, almost inaudible under the din. “Is he here?!”

Kevin could only shake his head. He’d heard of Clu’s most fearsome Enforcer, but had never seen him. He hoped not, though; if Rinzler was half as dangerous as he was reputed to be, Kevin and Quorra did not want to run into him. He squinted over the table and saw a disturbance among the programs on the dance floor, perhaps as something moved through them, and then it passed.

“If he was here, he isn’t anymore,” Kevin murmured. “Now, how do we get out there and talk with the sirens? They look busy.” For every siren seemed to have a small crowd of fawning Black Guards around them.

“How about that one?” Quorra asked, pointing with her chin at the side of the room near the other exits, where a siren sat in intimate conversation with a Black Guard. They leaned closely together, making Kevin wonder if she’d chosen the program as a temporary master control. “You could shut the guard down temporarily?”

“Yeah,” Kevin said slowly. “Yeah, that should work. Let’s do it.”

They crept around the edge of the room, keeping within the relative safety of the tables and chairs. Thankfully, the vast majority of the Black Guards mingled on the dance floor or at the bar, and those who didn’t sat close to the dancers. When they reached their target programs, they crouched out of view behind them while a particularly tall, blond siren strode past the table, headed to one of the room’s guarded doors. He briefly spoke with the guards and followed one of them out of the room. Once he’d gone, a trio of Black Guards moved in too close, chatting over glasses of energy. After them, it was a siren and her four admirers. 

Finally, after what felt like hours, the area around the table cleared. Quorra glanced around and nodded at Kevin. Kevin stealthily accessed the Black Guard’s codes and triggered her stasis mode. She froze, her mouth open mid-word.

“Hey, are you all right?” the siren asked, sliding a gloved hand over the Black Guard’s chestplate. She smiled. “Are you speechless?”

“Not quite,” Quorra murmured, rising onto her knees to speak close to the siren’s ear. “Don’t be afraid, we’re not going to hurt you. Your companion will be back to normal in a moment. We just need to ask some questions.”

“Who…?” The siren remained remarkably calm, her dark brows barely arching as she twisted to look down at Kevin and Quorra. “Who are you?”

"No one important," Quorra hedged. “We’re looking for someone. A man. He might have been sent with you? From Zu–uh, Castor?”

Her pale gold eyes narrowed as she thought, and then she shook her head. "No, only us sirens were sent here. There was no one else. You could try asking the others, but I'd like to get back to my conversation…?" She nodded pointedly at the stunned Black Guard.

Before Kevin could respond, another announcement rolled over the room. “All complex programs muster on deck.”

The music immediately stopped and ringing silence took its place. The Black Guards froze and lifted their heads to look at the ceiling and the voice of their master. As one, they set aside their glowing energy cocktails and began to move toward the elevator, their black helmets and masks rising to cover their heads.

Kevin hurriedly reactivated the stunned guard and shrank deeper into the shadows behind the tables. The siren stared at them for a long, considering moment before turning to speak with her Black Guard. The Black Guard touched her forehead, appearing confused, but stood to join the other programs queuing to leave.

Despite the Black Guards' orderly precision, progress was slow to get so many bodies out through the single elevator. Kevin, his thighs cramping from holding his crouch, shook his head inwardly. And I thought the arcade was a death trap.

"Look," Quorra whispered. "We'll be able to talk to them."

Kevin followed her gaze and nodded. The sirens had begun to collect around the glowing, blue-white bar in the centre of the room. They sipped their drinks and watched the commotion, their elegance out of place amongst the flow of military personnel. All Kevin and Quorra had to do was wait, and then they would get a chance to find out if any of them had seen Sam. 

"What would you call a group of sirens?" Kevin asked Quorra in an undertone. "Maybe a refreshment? Or an enchantment? An enchantment of sirens?"

Quorra stared at him for a long, long moment, but was saved from having to answer by the sound of hurried footsteps.

A hairless, pale blue assistant program burst into the room from one of the two guarded doorways, his head swivelling. His attention immediately caught on the sirens and he jogged toward them. "Sirens," he called. "I’m here to help you. Syntax sent me."

Quorra grabbed Kevin’s wrist. "Clu’s personal assistant! I recognize him from the lightcycle arena."

A female siren with her hair up in a sleek blonde bun answered coolly, "What's happening, Jarvis?" She didn’t move from where she leaned against the bartop, seemingly unaffected by the commotion.

“Our lord Clu is defending us against an incursion. You’ll be safe here, but I’ve come to ensure your well-being.” 

The siren glanced at her companions before returning her attention to Jarvis. “Can you bring us to our transport? We should return to Castor.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible; the flight deck is crawling with rebels.” Jarvis smiled nervously. “But, as I said, you’ll be safe here. With me. This location is the most heavily guarded on the ship and Clu himself is suppressing this little rebellion.”

Kevin shifted anxiously, uneasy with the thought of Clu laying waste to the hapless programs below. He needed to find Sam and get to the portal as soon as possible if he was going to finally free the system from Clu’s tyranny. 

He shared an urgent look with Quorra.

“I’ll distract him,” she murmured. “You talk with the sirens. The Black Guards are too busy to notice.”

He didn’t like it, he didn’t like having to make so many hurried decisions, but he couldn’t see a better option. They needed information. They needed it now . And she was right. The remaining Black Guards, perhaps fifty in all, were waiting in front of the elevator as they’d been ordered, their heads facing forward, their attention on the battle waging below and not the room behind them. The three guarding the other doors hadn’t moved at all, leading Kevin to believe that their prime directive of preventing access to those doors prohibited them from responding to unrelated stimuli. So long as he and Quorra were quiet, they could move freely. 

So he nodded. “Be careful.”

Quorra ran in a half-crouch between the tables into a position behind Jarvis. She stood, brushed herself down, and strode to his side. “Are you Jarvis?” she exclaimed, touching his arm. 

Jarvis startled and whirled around. “Uh, yes?” he replied. Then, looking her over, he continued with greater confidence, “Yes, I am.”

“Our luminary’s closest program?” Quorra went on, leaning closer to him. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Ah, yes, of course. It’s my greatest honour to work closely with Clu to both perfect and protect the Grid.”

“Can you tell me more about what you do?”

“Gladly, my dear, gladly…”

As the assistant program began describing the intimate details of his work, Kevin crept around the tables. After a last glance at the Black Guards to ensure they still weren’t watching, he emerged out of Jarvis’ sight, straightened, and hurried to the central bar and its small crowd of sirens. The trio nearest to the end watched with mild interest as he approached. 

“Did Castor send a strange program with you?” he asked them, low-voiced. 

They shook their heads. “Only sirens,” said one, and the other two nodded.

He moved up the line, asking the same question over and over, keeping an eye on the dwindling queue at the elevator. He received the same answer each time. Only sirens.

Only when he reached the blonde siren wearing a bun did he get something new. Her relaxed posture stiffened when she saw him and her eyes flickered faintly with recognition. 

“Did Castor send a strange program with you?” he asked.

“I know who you’re looking for,” she murmured in her program vibrato. “He’s–”

“And my greatest duty is to care for the Grid’s finest citizens,” Jarvis declared loudly, drowning out the siren’s voice. “Like yourselves!” He whirled around, his arms outstretched as though to embrace the sirens, and froze. His gaze landed on Kevin and his pale, masked face blanked with shock. Quorra lunged to clap a hand over his mouth from behind, but not before he shrieked in terror. “ USER! ” 

The rest of his cries were muffled by Quorra’s palm, but the damage was done. The remaining Black Guards–perhaps twenty of them–turned at Jarvis’ shout. The low hum of their idle processing sharpened as they caught sight of Kevin and Quorra. They immediately drew their batons and began activating their weapons, crackling red lightswords and double-ended staves.

“Get out of here!” Kevin shouted at the sirens as he dove behind the bar, followed quickly by Quorra.

“With me,” Jarvis cried. “You’ll be safe in the throne ship!” 

The sirens’ pristine poise finally shattered and they fled.

The Black Guards charged the bar, their heavy footsteps shaking the glasses and bottles on the shelves, the ominous hum of their energy weapons making the air shiver. Quorra drew her disk and sword and stood to face them as Kevin pressed his fingertips to the glossy black floor panels and prepared to draw in enough energy to slow them down. 

As the Black Guards reached the edge of the dance floor, a figure in white broke away from the fleeing sirens, stumbled in front of the bar, fell into a roll, and somehow made it up to one knee in a smooth motion. He drew his disk and held up his free hand, palm out as though to ward off the tide of Black Guards. 

Kevin winced, expecting to see the siren shattered into a thousand beautiful cubes, but the Black Guards inexplicably staggered to a halt before reaching him, so quickly that the ones in the back ran into the programs in front. 

“Move aside,” one of the Black Guards ordered. And then, almost plaintively, “Please.”

“Can’t do that,” the siren replied, his voice startlingly familiar. He rose unsteadily. “How about we all just have a drink and get to know each other?” he suggested, swinging out an arm toward the bar. “I know he’s a bit much, but the man’s all right once you get to know him.”

“Sam?!” Kevin blurted. It couldn’t be. The siren wore a skin-tight white suit and tall, heeled boots, and had bright blond hair, a program’s smooth skin, and ornamental patterning on his cheek. But the voice and the attitude were unmistakable.

Sam glanced over his shoulder and smirked, his heavily shadowed and lashed eyes gleaming green and blue. “Hey.”

“Sam!” Quorra exclaimed. “That is a good look for you.”

Sam’s confidence floundered. “Uh, thanks. What are you guys doing here?”

Brightly, Quorra explained, “We’re here to rescue you.”

Chuckling, Sam shook his head. “Yeah, I can see that. It’s going well.”

“ Move aside !” the Black Guard commanded again, sharply. “Lord Clu has ordered the capture of the User Flynn. Rinzler’s favour won’t protect you.”

Scowling, all humour dropping from his mannerisms, Sam backed away toward the bar and activated his shining white disk. “I don’t need protection,” he snapped. Then, in an undertone to Quorra, “I do need to know how to fight in heels, though.”

“Practice,” Quorra suggested. She jumped smoothly over the bar to join him, raising her lightsword and disk. “I’ll show you.”

“Great,” Sam muttered. “Practice. I think I’m about to get a lot of that.”

The Black Guards, apparently deciding that they would wait no longer, rallied and continued their charge. 

Kevin dropped back to kneeling and drained power from the floor and the surrounding area, dimming the room’s lights and slowing the oncoming Black Guards. An eerie quiet fell over the room; despite the number of programs, they didn’t speak, didn’t shout. The only sounds were the muffled thudding of their steps and the crackle of their weapons. Sam’s harsh, human breathing and grunts of effort sounded loud as he attacked. 

He struck first, throwing his disk into the approaching mob. His disk was deflected, but he easily caught it and threw it back into the crowd, cutting a few of the guards off at the knees.

Kevin couldn’t help the warmth of pride as his son leapt into battle seemingly without fear; Kevin would be afraid for the both of them. He watched over the edge of the bartop, peering through the gloom, cringing at the sight of Sam and Quorra fending off the many, many soldiers. They fought well together, deflecting blows and sliding past defences to shatter program after program. He knew Quorra was one of the best, trained in war and strategy, but Sam held his own despite the boots limiting his mobility; he fought like he’d taken some kind of martial arts training, his arms up defensively, his attacks quick and targeted at openings in his opponents’ defences. For some reason his white lights flashed red whenever he met a Black Guard’s attack, but whatever the cause of it, it didn’t seem to bother him. 

Kevin knew they couldn’t keep this up forever, though, even with the Black Guards slowed by his constant drain. They were Clu’s elite soldiers for a reason.

Two Black Guards managed to get past Quorra’s disk and sword, tackling her so hard that she slammed back against the bar, shattering the bartop. They caught her arms and a third guard moved in to bring his lightstaff down on her shoulder. Kevin, his heart in his throat, jumped up and engaged his own disk to slice into the body of one of the guards, allowing Quorra to slip free and deflect the lightstaff with her sword. 

A sharp cry brought Kevin’s head up to see Sam collapse to the floor, his legs swept out from under him, his disk bouncing out of his hand. He raised an arm to defend himself and Kevin was shocked to see a line of dark crimson blood splattering from wrist to elbow. Four Black Guards, no longer slowed by Kevin’s drain, stood over him, their weapons driving down at his defenceless form. 

“ SAM! ” Kevin lunged over the bar, no other thought in his mind than to get between those descending lights and his son–

Two bright red blurs ricocheted off nearby pillars and struck the Black Guards from either side, shearing through the four of them before looping back to their owner, leaving Sam in a pile of glowing bits. Kevin followed the blurs back and watched in confusion as a faceless black program caught them in mid-sprint across the room from the elevator. The moment the program had his disks back in hand, he leapt into a twisting somersault that brought him down behind the Black Guards. Without a word, without pausing, he proceeded to mow them down.

It can’t be , Kevin thought, cold with shock . The program moved through the remaining Black Guards like they weren’t even there, slashing them apart with such ruthless efficiency that Kevin didn’t want to believe it. No. No it can’t be him. But no other program wore the little T of circuit lights on his chest. No other program fought with two disks. No other program could fight like this . 

Within seconds, the Black Guards were reduced to nothing but cubes and the program stood in the middle of the dance floor, his chest rising and falling with his slow, even cycles as though he’d barely exerted himself. He docked his disks. His shining helmet tilted toward Sam where he’d gotten to his feet with Quorra’s help and he started toward him.

And stopped.

Sam clasped his injured forearm, blood oozing over his glove and dribbling down his arm, shockingly dark against the white. The program’s helmet lowered as though he was watching the steady drip from Sam’s elbow to the floor. Then it lifted again to Sam’s face and his shoulders sank. “User,” he uttered, his voice a low, broken moan.

Sam made a little gasping huff of noise. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

For a long, long moment, neither of them moved. Then the program reached for his disks. 

Chapter Text

Five

The Black Guards charged and, almost immediately, some force muffled the thunder of their boots; Sam felt the pull of it like the movement of a deep, powerful current just past his toes. The programs slowed and their lights and weapons dimmed as though they were being drained. He couldn't look behind him to confirm, but that power could only come from one person.

Dad.

But the Black Guards didn't stop.

Sam braced himself in front of the bar and didn't wait for them to reach him; he hurled his disk. The first Black Guard deflected it sluggishly with his staff, knocking it back at him. Sam caught it, spun, and threw again, this time aiming at the guards' legs. It sliced through several shins, shattering them and sending their owners to the floor. 

By then, the first line had reached him. He ducked a lightstaff, blocked its wielder’s backswing with a forearm to the wrist, caught his returning disk in his other hand, and punched it through the program's helmet. The guard disintegrated and two more moved in to take his place.

Adrenaline and muscle memory took over. Sam kept his back to the bar, reflexively blocking strikes and awkwardly dodging, attacking when he could but unable to effectively shift to an offensive position. Beside him, Quorra moved fluidly, her disk and sword-like light weapon striking with unerring speed and accuracy.

For a moment, it seemed they might hold their own.

Then a pair of Black Guards charged Quorra and tackled her against the bar. Sam tried to twist to help her, but another two lunged at him. He stumbled sideways, deflected one of their staffs, tried to kick one of them in the knee, and slipped on his heel. He was able to catch himself in a crouch and spring upward, finally getting some power in his legs. It was enough to shove one of the guards back and get a lucky swing at the second’s hip, taking a glittering chunk out of it.

Abruptly, the force that had been slowing the Black Guards stopped and they all returned to full speed. Sam desperately blocked a flash of red from his right and choked on a startled cry when another guard struck from the side, slicing into his forearm. Icy-hot pain crackled up his arm, making him recoil and drop his disk, throwing him off balance, and he couldn’t avoid the sweeping leg of a crouching guard aimed at his feet. 

His legs went out from under him, the world tilted, and he slammed into the floor, breathless and groaning. Four dark, silent guards loomed over him, their glowing red weapons poised to strike. 

“ Sam! ” Kevin screamed.

Sam rolled, curling into a ball, an arm up to instinctively protect his head, expecting to feel those humming weapons sink into his body–

And they never came.

The distinctive, shattering crash of a disk slicing through programs sounded and a deluge of program cubes dumped all over him. 

After a shaky breath and confused realization that he was still alive, Sam shoved himself upright. And froze, a chill washing from his head to his feet.

The remaining Black Guards had turned to face a new enemy, but they had no chance of fighting him off. Rinzler, silent and deadly, cut through them with none of the flashy flips, twists, or spins that he had shown during the Disk Wars. He simply wove around the stunned Black Guards, overpowering their defences, deflecting any counterattacks, and derezzing them with brutal efficiency.

“Sam,” Quorra whispered, going to one knee beside him and urging him to his feet. “Let’s go.”

Sam couldn’t move as he saw now why, exactly, all programs but Clu were terrified of this program.

Quorra tugged on his good arm, making his white lights flash red. “Come on!”

The sight of Rinzler’s symbol on his own chest jolted Sam into motion. He jerked his arm out of Quorra’s grasp, struck by the unreasonable fear that if Rinzler saw her touching him, he would shatter her with the same ruthlessness, despite knowing that Rinzler would probably go after her, anyway, regardless of whether she was touching him or not. He got to his shaky feet, wincing as the change in position made his arm throb. The slice wasn’t too bad, perhaps only a few inches across his forearm, but it was deep enough to bleed freely. He clasped it tightly, hoping to slow the flow until he could find something to bandage it, but the blood simply oozed out of the tear in his suit, through his fingers, and dripped down his arm and off his elbow.

By the time he made it upright, Rinzler had finished his gruesome task. He stood in the centre of the dance floor, tilted his head as though looking around at the ankle-high carnage of sparkling bits, and docked his disks. His attention lifted to Sam and Sam’s skin shivered at the sensation of Rinzler’s hidden stare finding him. He took a step through the bits, making them chime and rattle, and then stopped. His head tilted again, lowering to Sam’s arm, and then to the blood pooling on the floor at Sam’s feet.

His posture… shrank. His shoulders slumped and his hands fisted at his sides. He looked up at Sam again and Sam could imagine his probing, scarlet gaze. “User,” he sighed raggedly, almost a moan.

Sam struggled to swallow around a lump of regret and fear and something he couldn’t name. “I… I’m sorry,” he managed in a whisper. I didn’t mean to deceive you.

Rinzler stood unmoving and Sam just waited, paralyzed, caught in his glare.

Then he blurred into motion, reaching for his disks even as he charged forward. 

Kevin drained the room again, dimming the lights, but if it had an impact on Rinzler’s speed, Sam couldn’t tell. 

Quorra stepped in front of him and met Rinzler’s attack, falling back from his brute force but managing to deflect his disks. “Run," she grunted as her feet skipped across the floor. “Sam, run!” 

Sam dove for his own disk, snatched it up, and spun on his knee in time to block an underhanded strike aimed at Quorra’s leg. “No!” he growled, straining to keep the sparking disk from reaching her thigh. “I. Can’t. Run. In. These. Shoes.”

Together, they forced Rinzler back a pace. He whirled, throwing one of his disks away into the darkness of the room, and launched into a somersault that brought him down on top of Quorra, his other disk grinding up the length of her sword to strike her hand, his boot driving down at the wrist of the hand holding her disk, his free hand fisting in her hair. His thrown disk ricocheted around the pillars and sped back toward them, toward Sam , distracting him from helping Quorra so he could deflect it. It sparked off his disk and sailed back into the darkness. 

Quorra collapsed, rolling backward and kicking Rinzler off of her. He was flung upward, but stopped in a handstand and reversed the motion, driving his knees into her stomach. She gasped, dropping her weapons. Rinzler brought his disk down to stab into her chest and Sam grabbed his arm to stop its descent, hooking his elbow around Rinzler’s wrist. It was like trying to stop a machine; Rinzler’s arm was steel, powered by some infernal engine.

Rinzler’s helm tilted to look at him and Sam could see his own panicked expression and glowing eyes in the mask, could see the edge of his own disk where he clutched it in his hand. It burned, white and recriminating; he should have used it to derez Rinzler, not just caught his arm. 

Rinzler’s other disk returned in a flash. Rinzler caught it in his free hand and sliced into Quorra’s thigh, shattering the leg.

Sam roared, swinging his disk up, and caught the edge of Rinzler’s helmet. It shore away a chunk of it and the rest retracted, revealing Rinzler’s face and enraged expression. He gracelessly tackled Sam, snarling, slamming Sam onto the floor, pinning his legs and raising his disks over Sam’s head.

“Tron, no!” Kevin cried.

Rinzler paused, his red eyes darting up, his teeth bared in a frozen mask of rage.

Sam could feel the humming energy of his own disk in his palm, ready for him to swing at Rinzler’s exposed head. 

But that look. That look . Sam had seen that look so many times on the covers of newspapers and tabloids when he was a kid. That was Alan’s fury when he lost control of ENCOM, when the board turned against him and the memory of Kevin and Sam himself. It wasn’t anger, it was betrayal and pain, it was grief and loss. 

Dropping his disk, Sam sat up, grabbed Rinzler’s head and mashed his mouth to that furious grimace. 

Their teeth clashed together, pinching Sam’s lip, but he barely noticed. Rinzler’s lips trembled against his own, incongruously soft and warm compared to the rest of him. He flinched, recoiling, but Sam cupped the back of his head, holding him steady. He gently licked at his mouth, intentionally letting the tongue light drag across his lips. He kissed with all the pent up emotion and desperate need from the rest of that insane day, digging in his fingertips and sucking on Rinzler’s lips and lapping at him until he relented and allowed Sam entry. 

Rinzler released a weak breath and shuddered, dropping his disks to the floor. He palmed Sam’s waist, his hands shaking. 

Sam plunged into Rinzler’s mouth, finding it wet and tangy with energy. He swept over his teeth and found his tongue and drew it out insistently, hungry for it. When Rinzler began to respond, moving his lips and applying faint suction, Sam couldn’t stop himself from groaning. 

The sound of his own guttural voice startled him and he remembered where they were and what they were doing. 

Reluctantly, without releasing Rinzler’s head, he pulled back enough to meet his dazed red gaze. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “I didn’t mean to… I mean, I was never supposed to… I’m not a real siren, but I didn’t mean to hurt you.” 

Awareness snapped back into Rinzler’s eyes and he squeezed Sam’s waist hard enough to bruise. “User,” he growled, his scowl returning. 

“Yeah.” Sam tried to think of some way to defend himself, some way to get back to the moment when their tongues and lips were sliding together, but all he could do was examine the hard lines and angles of Rinzler’s face, silently begging him to understand. 

Slow, quiet footsteps padded through the scattered bits, making them both turn. “Tron,” Kevin murmured. “What did they do to you?” He knelt beside them, frowning sadly as he stared at Rinzler.

“Tron?” Sam repeated incredulously.

Rinzler’s face blanked and his jaw began to shake. "N-no," he choked. "Flynn." He hunched over, arms around his abdomen, knocking his brow against Sam’s shoulder. 

Sam reflexively embraced him, confused and increasingly worried as Rinzler’s body heaved; he looked like he was about to vomit. "Rinzler–?"

His low voice grated, "I… I must bring Flynn… to Clu…" He curled in on himself so forcefully that he headbutted Sam in the chest. " No !" he cried raggedly into his hands . " I… I fight for the Users. " He flung his head up, just narrowly missing Sam’s chin, his eyes open and unseeing. He gurgled deep in his throat and fell backward in violent convulsions.

“What’s happening?” Sam shouted over the cacophony of rattling bits, scrambling out of the way as Rinzler’s powerful legs kicked. 

“I don’t know! Hold his head.” Kevin lifted Rinzler’s head and Sam slid a leg under so it wouldn’t bang against the floor, grimacing when, instead, it slammed into his thigh. “I can’t check his codes when he’s thrashing around like this.” 

Sam cupped Rinzler’s cheeks, his stomach sinking at the sight of Rinzler’s open mouth and his eyes rolling back. 

Then, just as quickly as it had started, it stopped. Rinzler sagged and all the lights on his suit went dark. 

In the sudden silence, Sam held his heavy head and watched him carefully, waiting for him to start moving again. 

He didn’t.

Sam swallowed a surge of fear. “Is he–?”

Kevin reached for his shoulder. “I don’t–” Rinzler’s few lights flickered a faint blue and Kevin snatched his hand back. “He did it,” Kevin whispered. He flashed a trembling smile and Sam was stunned to see moisture in his father’s eyes. “He rewrote himself.”

**

Tron’s processes came back online slowly, leaving him in a haze of sensory input with no access to his memory files and no capacity to execute his functions. 

“This is Tron?” someone said.

“The one and only,” said another.

“That’s why he's such a beast.”

“Heh. Yeah.”

"And he looks like Alan because Alan created him?"

"Right again. Best program he ever wrote; if there's such a thing as a soul, he put a piece of his own into Tron. That's why I copied him and brought him over. Wait, Sam, your arm. That's a lot of blood."

"It's fine, I think it's mostly stopped."

There was a tearing sound. "I'll wrap it," said the second voice over the shush of fabric sliding on fabric. "Then we need to get out of here. I don’t know how long the programs are going to last against Clu.”

“We’re going to bring him with us, right?”

“Yes, of course, but we can’t carry him. He needs energy to reboot faster.”

“Okay, there’re bottles of energy here.”

“No, if he can’t move then he can’t drink. You need to give it to him directly.”

“...What?”

“You’re a User. Users can manipulate energy on the Grid. Just put your hand on him and shove some in.”

“What? Why don’t you?”

“It’s a good skill to have, Sam. You need to take care of your programs.”

Something white moved across the black and red fog of his vision and a spot on his chest warmed. 

“Now what?”

“I don’t know, I’ve never had to describe it before. You know how the Grid is always kind of vibrating or feels like it’s almost shocking you? That’s energy. Take that and put it into him.”

“Oh, okay. Sure. Simple.”

“Yeah, simple. I’m going to check on Quorra, so just keep at it.”

"Is she going to be okay?"

"Well, she's mostly in one piece, so I… I hope so. Worry about Tron for now. We need to get out of here if we're going to help her."

The first voice muttered over Tron’s head and the heat on his chest increased. For a long time, Tron floated. Then crackling awareness flooded his circuits and slammed his functions back into place. 

He came to himself crouched in a sea of bits, on a glossy obsidian floor, in a long room of black walls and coiling red pillars. His arms were outstretched offensively, but his hands were empty. Was he in a game?! Where were his disks?! 

He looked up and met the startled stare of a beautiful, green and blue-eyed siren program sitting cross-legged on the floor, a strip of black fabric knotted around his forearm. Beside him, a bearded, robed program knelt over an offline program missing a leg, squinting at Tron with concern. 

No. They weren’t all programs.

“Users,” he whispered, recognizing the weight of their presence. Then, as his memory files booted back online, “ Flynn! ” He scrambled forward and grabbed Flynn by the shoulders, searched his creased, familiar-but-unfamiliar face, and brought him in for a tight hug, every circuit humming with joy at contact with his divine friend.

“Tron,” Flynn coughed, patting Tron’s back urgently. “Tron, you’re crushing me!”

Hurriedly, Tron released him. He laughed and clapped Flynn’s bowed shoulders. “You weren’t this fragile before,” he observed, examining the way his skin sagged loose and he seemed to sink into his bones, his beard, the threads of grey in what had once been brown hair.

“Users age,” Flynn retorted. “Comes with the territory.” He quickly sobered. “Tron, how are you feeling? You seem to have undone whatever Clu did to you. Are you functional? Fully functional?”

Tron opened his mouth to answer in the affirmative, but as he turned his attention inward he found snarls and knots of code and memories so dark that they made him flinch. His voice died. He reached up to touch his head; the hard ridge of partially repaired circuitry on his temple made him drop his hand. “Functional enough to get you out of here,” he finally said grimly. He turned to the second User and added, “Both of you, Sam.”

Sam stared at him, those kohl-lined, bicoloured eyes wide and searching, and laughed weakly, shaking his head. “I can’t believe this,” he said. “You’re Tron.” 

“And you are the Son of Flynn." Tron gave himself a moment to soak in the sight of him, the shimmer of his lips, the intricate pattern on the side of his face, the combination of elegance and strength wrapped in a siren's revealing interface. But it was more than his appearance that drew Tron: it was the vitality that he radiated, the way that the Grid warped around him, the way he moved and spoke and simply existed. The audacity of him. Everything that had pulled Rinzler helplessly in, that he only recognized now as Tron. 

Had he cared for Rinzler? 

Tron could still feel the agony of seeing Sam’s User blood and realizing that any joy to be found with Syntax was nothing more than an illusion snatched away, another piece of himself gone. But Sam had… had done that thing with his mouth that stole Rinzler’s rage. He'd apologized so sweetly, so earnestly, disarming Rinzler completely, reviving his hope and the connection that had formed between them. So he must have experienced some measure of fondness for Rinzler.

And if he cared for Rinzler, could he care for Tron–

Even as the thoughts flashed through his programming, Tron shook his head roughly. That wasn't important.

He forced himself to continue warmly, "And you are neither a siren nor a music program.” Sam’s half-smile dropped into shock and Tron smirked; flustering Sam was as much fun now as it had been before. “We were both hiding something.” 

“So, uh, you remember–”

“Everything,” Tron finished.

Sam wet his lips. “Oh.”

Tron followed the motion of Sam’s glowing tongue and experienced an almost overwhelming urge to jump at him, touch him, find and contact every circuit, press their mouths together again. Codes– Rinzler codes , warped versions of the programming gifted to him by Alan01–screamed at him to possess that which belonged to him, and red briefly fuzzed his vision. He ducked his head, clenching his jaw and squeezing his hands together to keep himself in check until the urge passed. 

Not now.

When he’d regained control of himself, he looked up at Flynn. “Flynn, your son’s a good–”

“I don’t want to know!” Flynn snapped.

“Singer,” Tron finished. “He’s a good singer.”

“We should go,” Sam declared loudly. 

“Go where?” Flynn grumbled. “We need a ship to get to the portal, but all of them are on deck and it's a warzone.”

“Not all of the ships are on deck,” Tron said. When Flynn and Sam looked at him, he rolled his eyes toward the ceiling.

**

Tron.

The Tron.

Figure of myth and gaming legend. An absolute monster in a fight and protector of his system and the programs within it. Sam’s hero when he was a kid. 

I kissed Tron.

Sam followed numbly behind Tron and Kevin toward the lift to the throne ship, his mind still reeling. One minute he’d been in battle and Quorra had been knocked out, the next he’d been about to die, then he’d been kissing Rinzler, then Rinzler turned into Tron, then Sam had to figure out how to take some ephemeral energy from the Grid and give it to him, and then the program had woken up as a magnetic, charismatic force who exuded power and confidence. Like Rinzler, but without the constant threat of death.

Just like Rinzler, Sam mulled, his gaze crawling from Tron's punk hair, across his broad shoulders, down his back to his waist, his hips, his ass, his legs. He still wore his tight black armour, but now he walked with his head up, his shoulders back, his stride swinging, carrying Quorra in his arms as though she weighed nothing. Why did Alan write such a hot program?!

A pale gleam caught Sam's attention and he jerked his eyes up when he realized Tron was looking over his shoulder. Tron's blue eye curved with a smirk and he turned away, leaving Sam hot and confused.

Because Tron remembered . He remembered what they had done when he was Rinzler. And he didn't seem to mind.

The opposite of minding; for at times Sam felt like Rinzler was still there, still watching with heat in his red eyes.

Sam didn’t know what to think about this.

So he pushed it away until he had time to get his thoughts in order.

At the lift door, Tron paused to let Kevin take the lead. Kevin moved ahead and opened it, allowing noise to wash in on a gust of wind. Shouts still carried on the air, but the tone had changed and there was no more crackling clash of weapons. When they stepped out onto the lift, Sam saw why: the entire deck had transformed into a neat grid of light, with each square containing a number of programs. Troops of Black Guards moved along the grid, opening the squares and collecting the programs inside. Once subdued by fists, boots, or the butts of weapons, the programs were led toward the Rectifier. 

What had started as a riot had become a massacre.

"Kevin Flynn!" Clu’s voice boomed out over the ship’s speakers.

Kevin flinched and Tron sidestepped to place himself between the Users and the rest of the ship, ushering them backward toward the wall where they dropped to one knee to stay out of sight.

"Where are you now?!" Clu roared.

"There," Sam muttered, nodding toward a platform hovering at the far end of the ship, past the grid of light and the slow movement of recaptured programs. He couldn’t see much of the tiny figure standing on the platform, but the huge panels of orange light floating around it were so ostentatious that he could be only one program.

"You sent your slaves to fight me, but why won't you face me yourself? I'm waiting!" After a pause, Clu laughed and continued, "See? The Users are nothing more than false deities, subjugating basic programs to do their bidding, destroying the perfection that we have created. We will free these misguided programs, correct them, rectify them. And then we will find Flynn and claim the key to our destiny."

His army roared in appreciation and Clu continued ranting, but Sam had heard enough. He palmed the lift’s controls to carry them up to the throne ship. 

Inside, sirens filled the first room–seated against the walls and murmuring amongst themselves or sitting on the edges of the sunken consoles investigating the hairless, working programs. They added a bright sparkle of glamour to the dull steel and ominous orange. When Tron stepped in, they looked up, their expressions registering subdued surprise and flickers of worry. 

Tron nodded shortly, offered a warm “Greetings, programs,” and strode past them to the front of the ship, Kevin at his side. 

Sam tripped after them. “Hey, guys,” he said as he passed the other sirens and met their confused frowns. He forced a smile. “How’s it going? Good to see you again. Thanks for all your help back there.”

In the cockpit, Jarvis and Gem stood in the foremost control console, leaning over a display as Jarvis quietly explained something about the ship. Their heads jerked up when Tron’s heavy steps thudded into the room.

“Rinzler,” Jarvis exclaimed, sighing in relief. “You captured the… the User…” He trailed off and his mouth pinched with worry as his gaze darted to Kevin, Sam, and Quorra, and then swept over Tron as though finally seeing him. “Um.”

“Yes,” Tron replied, laughter under his voice. “I brought Flynn, per Clu’s orders. It’s too bad Clu isn’t here. We’ll just have to leave without him.”

“Leave?” Jarvis repeated shakily.

“ Tron ,” Gem breathed, and for the first time Sam saw her face display something other than cool, controlled emotion. She lifted a hand to her mouth and her eyes glimmered with moisture. 

“Tron!” Jarvis echoed, backpedalling to the edge of the console, his voice choked with horror.

“Tron?” whispered the sirens in the other room, appearing in the corridor to stare. “Is it really him? Tron?”

Tron, a wry half-smile on his face, nodded. “Yes. Jarvis, fly the ship to the portal. We need to get these Users out of here.”

“User s ? Both of them?” Jarvis looked from Kevin to Sam and his eyes lit with recognition. “You?!”

Sam shrugged, folded his arms, and widened his stance. “Yeah.”

“Syntax is a User!” gasped the sirens to each other. “No! Really? I knew there was something off about him.”

“Was this Castor’s doing?” Jarvis demanded. “When Clu finds out, he’ll be terminated for this.”

“He won’t find out.” Tron moved to an open space and set Quorra gently on the floor. Then, his hands free, he sank to one knee at the edge of the console and leaned forward to stare hard at Jarvis. “Fly the ship to the portal. When the Users are out, Clu won’t be a problem anymore.” He paused and his few blue lights flickered red. Quietly, he added, “If you don’t fly the ship, then I will be your problem.”

“Right,” Jarvis uttered, dropping into the console chair. “Yes. It will be my pleasure. Long live the Users.”

Kevin knelt beside Quorra, catching Sam’s attention. Seeing that Tron– the Tron –had everything under control, Sam joined his father.

Kevin rolled Quorra onto her side and unlocked the disk from her shoulders. He let her roll onto her back and held her disk flat, about two feet above her chest. “Hold this,” he said, glancing up at Sam.

Sam knelt across from his father and carefully obeyed. As he accepted her disk, the throne ship shuddered and Sam’s stomach sank as they lifted off. He held on more tightly. 

Kevin did something to the edge of her disk and it brightened. A translucent, geodesic sphere appeared in the air, projected by the disk itself in shimmering, blue-white particles. Kevin curved his hands around it, making it rotate, his brows lowered in concentration as he hunted for something. When he found it, he tapped the sphere. Another sphere expanded from within to take its place and he hunted again.

Sam looked down at Quorra’s blank face and open eyes. His jaw worked. In the frenzy of the last few minutes, he hadn’t had a moment to stop and think about what she had done for him, the sacrifice she had made. “Is she going to make it?” he asked roughly.

“I don’t know,” Kevin murmured as he hunted through more spheres, more geometric lines of light. “I’ve got to identify the damaged code. The sequencing is just enormously complex.”

“But didn’t you write it?”

Kevin chuckled. “Some of it. The rest of it is just–” He tapped on a section of coding and the holograph shifted into a swirling helix like a strand of DNA, with several bars of code glowing orange. “Beyond me,” Kevin finished.

“She’s an ISO,” Sam realized.

“Yeah." Kevin met Sam’s disbelieving stare with a bittersweet half-smile. "The last ISO.”

“All this time, you were just protecting her.” He hadn't been hiding, he hadn't been afraid; he'd been sheltering her .

“She’s the miracle, man. Everything I ever worked for. A digital frontier to reshape the human condition.” 

Sam had heard that sound byte more times than he could count, and this was the first time he actually believed it. “I always thought that was just a plug line.”

“In our world, she could change everything.” 

“Yeah.” 

Kevin pinched the orange coding and tugged it out of the hologram, leaving the rest of her codes intact. It followed his fingers, a glowing tangle of light. Laughing, he held it out to Sam. “Check that out.”

Amazed–amazed by this side of the Grid, the wonder of creation, the beauty of seeing his father’s true work–Sam echoed his laugh. 

Kevin released the broken code and it fluttered away, shifting into something like a bright blue butterfly. It flitted around Tron, Gem, and Jarvis, and vanished into the rear of the ship. Tron grinned as he watched it, Jarvis shrank away from it with a little shriek, and Gem watched with her usual calm poise. 

“She risked herself for me,” Sam murmured, sobering. If he had been willing to listen to his father, if he hadn’t gone along with Castor’s insane plan, if he hadn’t run into Rinzler, if he hadn’t succumbed to whatever power Rinzler had held over him… then she wouldn’t have had to fight his battles. 

“Some things are worth the risk,” Kevin said softly. The warmth in his gaze spoke of forgiveness, easing the tight guilt in Sam’s chest.

Kevin reclaimed Quorra’s disk and the hologram faded. Sam rolled Quorra onto her side, allowing Kevin to dock it. As soon as it was locked into place, the jagged stump of her thigh began to glow and rebuild, pixel by pixel.

“Look at this,” Kevin murmured, sounding as awed as Sam felt. “Now that is impressive if I do say so myself, huh?” He grinned and moved stiffly away from her. “Come on, it’s going to take a while for her system to reboot. Now I want to take a closer look at your arm.”

Sam, having nearly forgotten about the shallow wound, shrugged but followed Kevin and sat next to him. He allowed Kevin to unwrap the strip of black fabric wrapped around his forearm, smirking wryly when, with every touch, his white lights rippled with blue and Tron’s four square lights hovered over his chest; it seemed that his accidental "subordinate function" connection had continued despite Tron’s reversion. Beneath the bandage, his white suit was torn and stained in blotchy shades of red. His gloves, too, were stained bright crimson. Disliking the idea of leaving bloody handprints everywhere, Sam pulled his disk and used its sharp edge to shear away his sleeves and the attached gloves, leaving his hands and forearms bare.

Whispers tickled the edge of his awareness. He glanced up, met the stares of several sirens leaning in the doorway, and waved. They quickly retreated.

"It's not bad," Kevin said, turning Sam’s arm to get a better look. Some blood continued to slowly well between the edges of sliced skin, but otherwise it had stopped. "Clean."

"Disks do cut clean," Sam agreed, remembering Rinzler’s slash in the Disk Wars.

"What is that?" Gem asked. "That red liquid?"

"Blood," Tron answered. He rose from where he'd been looming over Jarvis and crossed the room to gracefully seat himself on Sam’s other side. His knee pressed to Sam's and, whether it was intentional or not, Sam's entire leg prickled at the contact. He picked up one of Sam’s discarded gloves and examined it. "If I remember correctly, it's to Users what energy is to programs?"

"So you drink it?" Gem's lip curled in faint disgust.

"Ah, not exactly," Sam laughed. "But it is used to transfer energy within our bodies, you could say." 

"That's why we like to keep it on the inside." As he spoke, Kevin tore another strip off his sleeve and wrapped it around Sam’s arm. "I’ve never gotten an infection or sickness in here, so at least you don’t need to worry about that."

"Great."

Kevin tied off the makeshift bandage and let Sam take his arm back. "Why do you keep changing colour, Sam?" he asked, brows furrowing.

"Uh." Sam worked his jaw side to side as he tried to figure out what to say.

"Sam was masquerading as a supporting function," Tron explained, still toying with Sam’s glove. "With certain of the identifiers and surface level coding. He paired himself with Rinzler, but instead of becoming a subroutine, he just received the benefits of Rinzler’s protection." He looked up, side-eying Sam, his expression quiet and unreadable. "Now he–I mean, that link–it's mine. So he exhibits the colour and designation of his master program when anyone attempts contact, without actually being subordinate to a master program."

Kevin’s frown deepened as he stared at Sam. "Why would…? Sam, are you–" Before he had finished the question, he lifted a hand to forestall any answer. "You know what? It doesn't matter. You're safe and we're getting out of here." Turning his attention back to Tron, he asked, "How long do you think we have until Clu notices we're gone?” 

Tron shrugged. “I can’t say. It depends on how distracted he is with the revolt. We won’t be able to outrun him, but the throne ship is equipped with automated defensive weaponry and an armoury of lightjets. If he follows– when he follows–we won't be helpless."

"Good, good," Kevin murmured. "I'll keep a look out for his approach.” He groaned up to his feet and patted Sam on the shoulder, triggering another blue flare. “She’s rebooting,” he said, nodding at Quorra. “Here. Give her this.” He dipped into the front of the black, knee-length robe he wore under his coat, retrieved a slim black vial, and passed it to Sam. “Your old man’s going to go knock on the sky,” he finished. He strode to the furthest edge of the cockpit and knelt in front of the window. 

Sam shuffled to Quorra’s side, wondering what Kevin had seen that made him think she was about to wake up; she continued to lay still, blankly staring. He didn’t get long to wonder, though, as she abruptly gasped and bolted upright.

Sam caught her shoulders. “Hey,” he said gently, meeting her wide-eyed panic with what he hoped was reassuring confidence. “It’s okay. We’re safe for now. We’re heading east toward the portal.” He turned to look through the window at the steadily growing tower of light beaming through the clouds.

Quorra drew a shuddering breath. “I couldn’t protect you,” she shivered, searching Sam’s face as though she couldn't quite believe he was there. “I couldn’t fight him. I wasn’t strong enough.”

“It’s okay. I wasn’t either.” 

“What?” 

Sam twisted to reveal Tron sitting behind him. For a moment, Tron’s face resembled Rinzler’s, hard and dangerous, his head lowered and his stare burning at Sam. Then he blinked rapidly, shook his head, and gave a brief half-smile. “Quorra,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry about your leg.”

“ What? ” Quorra repeated. She shrank in on herself, her gaze darting around the cockpit as she finally seemed to piece together where they were. “What happened?”

“Uh, here, maybe you should drink this first.” Sam handed her the vial. 

She accepted it, still breathing rapidly. “Who is he?” she whispered as she uncapped it.

Sam watched her, waiting for her to drink its contents before he said, “Tron.”

He expected her to gasp in awe or cry in relief, but instead her shaking hands fisted around the vial. "Tron? Tron?! " She glared at him with quivering rage. “Where were you?” she rasped. “Where were you when we needed you? When we needed your protection?!”

Tron went very still and dropped his gaze to the floor. 

Sam clasped Quorra’s hands in his own, trying to soothe their fury. “It’s not his fault. Dad thought Clu killed him, but he didn't. Clu did something to him, turning him into Rinzler. He broke out of it when, uh…” He trailed off, face heating at the memory of desperately kissing Rinzler just as he was about to deal a fatal strike. “When my dad intervened. And now he’s back.”

Quorra stared down at their joined hands and released another shivering sigh. "For a long time we hoped that he would come," she whispered. "He never did."

"He couldn't. But he's here now. He's going to get us to the portal so we can end this." He tugged on her hand and moved closer to the window, encouraging her to sit beside him. "Come on."

Slowly, she relaxed next to him, sitting cross-legged and staring out at the brilliance of the portal.

"Hell of a view," Sam commented, hoping to break into her grim introspection.

"It used to let us know that Flynn was here," she said softly, her pale green eyes reflecting that distant light. "It became the symbol of something bigger, something better than this world." She sighed, but her voice lost the heavy weight of dark memories. "I’ve never been this close before," she continued. "It’s how I imagine a sunrise to be. 

Sam nearly laughed. A white light shining behind a cloud? It was like comparing a stadium light to the sun. "Ah, trust me. There’s no comparison."

Quorra snorted and finally looked at him. She searched his face. "What’s it like?"

"The sun?"

"Yeah."

"Man…" Sam let out a breath. How could he capture in words something so ever present, something so critical to life itself? "I’ve never had to describe it before. Warm. Radiant. Beautiful."

"Like you."

Sam startled as Tron appeared beside him, stretching out his long legs and again sitting so closely that their thighs touched. Heat crept from that line of contact and rushed through the rest of his body. When he glanced over and saw Tron’s profile, he shivered at the reminder of just how attractive Alan had made him. 

Quorra snickered. "I told you that was a good look for you, Sam."

"Yeah, uh, thanks," Sam stuttered. "The sirens did it. I don't usually look like this." He wasn't sure why he said it, maybe so he didn't accidentally mislead Tron. Again.

"Your interface doesn't matter," Tron said, his stare never leaving the portal. "It's what's under the surface."

Sam didn't know what to say to that, so he chuckled awkwardly. 

Tron leaned forward to look past Sam toward Quorra. "I am sorry," he said. "That I wasn't there for you when you needed me. Never again will I allow such a thing to happen."

Quorra pressed her lips together and gave a quick shake of her head. "No," she said. "No. It… it wasn't your fault. We all tried to fight Clu and we all failed. I'm glad you're back."

Tron’s solemn expression eased. He nodded and returned to gazing out the window. "For me, when the portal used to open, it was the best and the worst feeling," he said, the corner of his mouth curling. "It meant Flynn was here to give us more directives and more purpose. But it also meant that I had to begin a countdown so I could get him to the portal in time. He became so engrossed in his work that he forgot how much time had passed, so I'd have to pick him up to get him to leave."

"You had to pick him up?" Quorra asked, disbelieving. 

"And carry him to the solar sailer," Tron affirmed.

"The Creator," Sam laughed. "Nothing more than a bag of sand."

"Stop telling stories," Kevin called. "They are greatly exaggerated."

Tron, smirking at Sam and Quorra, mimed swinging something up onto his shoulder.

"And Clu is approaching," Kevin finished.

All humour dropped from Tron's expression. "How many?" he demanded.

"Eight lightjets, six small and two large."

“Clu will try to force a landing," Tron said grimly, rising to his feet. "If he destroys this ship, he’ll have to spend hundreds, maybe thousands, of cycles combing the Sea of Simulation for your disk, Flynn, so he’ll want to disable it instead. The ship’s defences will help protect you, but I’ll get out there to hold them off as well.” He strode to the corridor and opened a cabinet in the wall, revealing a rack of black batons. He plucked two off the rack, shoving one into the strap around his thigh and hanging on to the other.

“ We’ll get out there,” Sam corrected. He climbed to his feet and joined Tron to take one for himself. 

Tron caught his wrist. "Can you fly in those heels?" he asked.

Sam glared at him, startled. "I can kick your ass in these heels."

Tron's expression turned thoughtful and he looked Sam over. "I might just let you," he murmured, and then flashed a sharp smile. "In those heels."

Heat rushed to Sam’s face and neck. What? Is he flirting with me?

Tron’s amusement faded. “Stay on the ship, Sam,” he said. “Stay where I can protect you.”

“I don’t need protection,” Sam countered. He shook Tron’s hand off his arm, relieved when the powerful program released him because he didn’t think he could actually force him to let go. “You're not doing this alone.” 

“I’m not alone. The Users are with me. Which is a problem, because the Users should be somewhere safe and not under attack.”

“Well, this User is with you. I’m not going to stay behind and watch you fight our battles.” 

Tron’s stare hardened and Sam shivered as he recognized a glint of Rinzler’s glare lurking in his eyes. He loomed closer, forcing Sam to either retreat or end up pressed against him. 

Concerned by the shift and flustered by the proximity, Sam backed away until his disk met the wall. Unwilling to cede the point, though, he reached up and snagged a baton. “I’m going to get in some shots of my own,” he finished firmly. 

Tron’s gaze flicked to Sam’s mouth and that was all the warning he got before Tron closed the dwindling space between them, cupped his face, and pressed their lips together. 

Stunned by the sudden intimacy and the dry pressure, Sam froze. He still wants this?

After a moment, Tron pulled back, his expression confused. He stroked gentle thumbs over Sam’s cheeks and stared into his eyes, frowning. "How…?" he asked.

“Like this,” Sam rasped. He leaned in, tilted his head, let his nose brush Tron’s cheek and their lips hover so closely together that he could feel the quiver in his breath. 

Tron’s blue eyes brightened, but he held himself so still that Sam worried that he didn't like it. But he didn't pull away, so Sam closed the last millimetre between them, taking his time to learn the smoothness of Tron’s skin. He chased Tron’s mouth, parting his lips and gently sucking, pushing, pleading for Tron to let him in. When he yielded to Sam on a shuddering exhale, Sam licked at him, tasted him, found his moisture, his slick tongue, his teeth. Sam retreated and Tron followed; Sam drew him in, met him with gentle nips and teasing flicks.

Groaning, Tron pushed him back against the wall, dropping a hand to his hip to hold him steady, kneading the flesh, shocking the lights under his thumb. Sam looped his arms around his shoulders–not usually the clinging type, he found it almost impossible to stand, almost impossible to breathe as his heart beat frantically and blood pulsed through his veins and he tingled all over. The throne ship faded away, leaving Sam lost and floating in sensation. Everywhere Tron touched throbbed with need and Sam wanted to push against the pressure of his hips, but he was trapped between Tron’s weight and the wall behind him. 

“Back for less than an hour and you’re already making out with my son,” Kevin called, annoyed. “Don’t you have some bogeys to fight?”

Tron pulled away reluctantly and turned his head to glare at Kevin. “I can't help it,” he said roughly. “He paired himself with me.” His intense gaze returned to Sam and his voice gentled to something sad, almost plaintive. “And you’re going to be gone soon.” 

Sam had to swallow a few times before he could speak. “Don’t think you can distract me,” he said shakily. “I’m coming with you.”

“I’ll come, too,” Quorra chimed in, appearing beside them. “I’ll keep an eye on him.”

Tron sighed heavily. He pressed his brow to Sam’s before stepping back. “Fine. Take two, in case your first is damaged.” Without looking away from Sam, he retrieved a handful of batons and passed two to Quorra and another to Sam. “Be careful.” He glanced at Quorra. “Both of you.”

Sam nodded and slid his extra baton into his boot. With a parting salute to Kevin, he and Quorra followed Tron to the rear of the ship, past the quietly watching sirens. 

“How’d that temporary circuit work out for you?” Diode called from where he sat on the edge of one of the sunken consoles. 

“Real well,” Tron answered, grinning.

Rolling his eyes, Sam muttered, “I’m definitely ready to shoot someone.”

Still smirking, Tron opened the ship’s rear door. Sam braced himself for some kind of change in air pressure, but other than the loud whoosh of the passing wind and a faint breeze ruffling their hair, the cabin was unaffected. Against the stormy grey sky, Clu’s glowering red ship could still be seen in the distance. Closer to the throne ship, several bright red dots and two winged vessels grew steadily larger. 

“It’s like driving a lightcycle,” Tron shouted over the wind, holding up a baton. “But you’re flying.”

“Yeah,” Sam shouted back. “I figured.” 

Tron stared at him for a long moment, his jaw twitching. Finally, he closed his eyes, turned, and leapt out of the ship. His dark form disappeared almost immediately against the backdrop of the Sea of Simulation, and then blue light flared as his lightjet formed one strut and panel at a time. An instant later, he sped off toward the incoming jets.

“Good luck, Sam Flynn,” Quorra said, her eyes bright with excitement.

“You too,” Sam responded automatically.

She jumped, twisting like a gymnast. Her blue-white lightjet built quickly and she followed Tron.

Sam looked out at the Sea, the pillars of light, and the floating rocks, struck by how, instead of feeling out of place in this strange world, he felt like he was exactly where he belonged. His breaths came slow and even, his heart throbbed steadily, and he knew what to do.

He dove.

The wind tore at his hair, buffeted him side to side, tossed him up and then dropped him into a tumbling plummet. He allowed himself to freefall, arms outstretched, letting the rush of cool air blast all superfluous thoughts and worries from his mind, leaving him clear-headed and envigorated. After several seconds, he gripped his baton and pulled it apart to activate its programming. His pure white jet constructed itself between his thighs and under and around his body. It caught his weight and he pulled up an instant before he hit the Sea’s surging black waves, kicking up a frothy wake behind him.

“ Sam! ” Tron snapped through the jet’s receiver. “ You could have crashed .” 

Sam, surprised that the jets even had radios, laughed breathlessly. “Damn, this is fun.”

The radio spat out a frustrated gurgling noise and Quorra’s laughter joined his own.

“So what’s our game plan?” Sam asked, changing the subject. He tested the way his jet banked this way and that when he shifted his weight and the way it accelerated when he flexed his feet. He rolled it experimentally and squeezed the triggers that had appeared on the baton, firing off a few shots into a pillar of stone. When he twisted the baton, his jet shuddered and brightened; looking back, he saw that he’d begun to trail a ribbon of white light. It vanished when he reversed the twist. 

“Just don’t get shot,” Tron said after a long moment of silence. “ Please .”

“I won’t,” Sam assured him, sobering at the desperation in his tone. He glanced out through the cockpit's tinted canopy, surprised to find Tron’s bright blue craft just behind and above his own. "Don't worry about me. I've been playing flight simulators since I was a kid. I've got this."

Tron made a pained noise and peeled upward. 

Chapter Text

Six

He shouldn’t have expected any differently. After all, the first time he saw Sam, Sam was trying to escape the Disk Wars by climbing on the outside of the floating arena and nearly falling to his termination. If he–no, if Rinzler –hadn’t recognized him as a User, he probably would have expired through lack of fear alone. Just look at where he’d ended up: On Clu’s ship, directly under Clu himself, protected by nothing more than flimsy siren surface codes and an updated interface!

Knowledge of Sam’s penchant for poor decisions and wild stunts didn’t stop Tron from cringing with dismay whenever Sam’s crazed laughter echoed across the jets’ synched transmitters. I shouldn’t have let him come. I should have tied him to Jarvis.

Awareness of Clu’s approach tugged his attention away from Sam’s terrifying stunts and back toward his enemies. The best thing he could do for Sam was to obliterate anyone who wished him harm.

"I'm going to come at them from below and break their formation," he told the other two, easing into a dive that would bring him down to the sea's surface and into position for an upward charge. "If you can, pick off the small jets. I'll focus on the 3-program jets. They have a longer range and are more dangerous to the throne ship."

"Sam, do you know of the Karatsuba algorithm?" Quorra asked. 

"The Karatsuba algorithm?" Sam repeated, sounding perplexed. "Isn't that a type of divide and conquer algorithm…" He trailed off and chuckled. "Okay, I see what you're getting at. The math was boring, but I have a feeling this version will be way more interesting."

"It's a good strategy for an aerial battle when you're outnumbered," Quorra explained. "Target the furthest outlier. One person lures them out while the second sets up to ambush them. We'll take turns drawing them out and taking them down."

"Understood." Sam’s voice lowered. "This is going to be fun ."

Tron squeezed his controls, accidentally firing a round of laser blasts. Sam’s bravado caused staggering conflicts in his processors, triggering admiration as well as his protective and possessive codes in a bad way. He fought to keep flying forward instead of wheeling around, grabbing the User, and carrying him off somewhere else. 

The bleak, shimmering waves of the Sea of Simulation leapt up toward him, focusing his attention. He pulled up, targeted the location where the incoming formation was going to be, activated his light ribbon, and accelerated as quickly as his jet could carry him.

They saw him coming and their ribbons brightened into existence, slowing down the formation as a whole. Three of the six small, more agile single-program jets broke from the rest, descending into a defensive pattern, weaving their ribbons together and firing as he approached. 

Sam’s bright white jet skimmed past, hurtling around the stone pillars at a ridiculous speed as his latent energy levels powered his vehicle. One of the three who had broken formation peeled away to follow him, firing uselessly at Sam’s trail.

Again, Tron struggled inwardly not to also follow; every shot taken at Sam set off a burst of rage in his processes. How dare they attack his User–

"Coming in on your left, Sam," Quorra said, her quiet confidence soothing his fury.

Tron dragged his focus back to his own course, twisting and sliding between gaps in the light ribbons, and firing mercilessly at the underbellies of the remaining jets. They scattered to avoid him. The second set of three small jets initiated another defensive pattern and the larger 3-program jets simply veered and fired from their rear turrets as he passed; their target was the throne ship and the throne ship only.

Tron’s attention caught on one of the 3-program jets. Its lights glowed the lurid orange of Clu’s personal energy signature and he felt the shaky, fizzling tremor of broken obedience codes triggering and aborting. Rinzler would have fallen into line on Clu’s flank, ready for orders. Tron was going to rip Clu’s ship out of the sky. 

With enemy jets in close pursuit, Tron couldn’t pause to engage. He blasted through and soared upward, trailed by four of them, spinning and zig-zagging to protect his rear with his ribbon, and looped backward in a sharp arc. In his periphery, he caught a red explosion and shuddered with relief; Sam and Quorra had brought one of them down.

"Hah!" Sam crowed. "Good shot, Quorra."

"I'll lead the next one," Quorra said, her blue-white jet already streaking inward toward the jets on Tron’s tail. 

"I'll be ready."

Their voices continued, a reassuring murmur on the edge of Tron’s awareness.

That left four units following Tron. 

He should have retreated. He should have executed an evasive manoeuvre around the floating stone pillars to shake them, to backtrack on them, to get into a superior position.

But.

He couldn’t force his arms and hands to move the way he wanted on his controls. Instead, he bore down, his scowl fixed on Clu’s orange vessel, his lips pulling back from his teeth, rage making his lights flicker. Clu was there , right below him, vulnerable. Destroying him would end this battle in a moment, would end the horror of his regime, would end the twisting, uncontrollable hatred seething in his own codes, would protect Sam, Flynn, and Quorra.

He couldn’t retreat. He had to bear down and destroy .

Tron plummeted steeply at Clu’s ship. His four pursuers followed, continuing to lay an offensive barrage. Clu’s ship dove, bringing its rear turrets into range and firing up at him as the second 3-program jet adjusted its trajectory as well. Tron spun wildly, quickly realized he wouldn't be able to fly through that maelstrom, and snapped into another strategy.

He pulled back, halting his mad descent. When one of his pursuers drew even with him, he banked sharply, clipping their wing. His jet shuddered violently at the impact, alarms blared, and the struts and chassis shattered. Tron ejected himself into the open air just as energy flared outward in a blue explosion. The force of it hit him in the back, sending him hurtling toward the sea. The other jet exploded shortly after, staining the dark waves and rock columns red.

Tron angled his body and spread his arms and legs to control and slow his descent. Essentially invisible and no longer under attack, he fell toward Clu’s jet. Just before he hit, he grabbed his disks and activated their resolution-interrupting edges. He slammed into the jet's wing and rolled hard, the impact causing surface damage across his shoulders and hip. Even as he tumbled, he knew he’d missed his mark; he was moving too fast, was too driven, too reckless, and had lost control of himself. 

He dug in his disks an instant before he dropped off the jet, scoring superficial tears into the hull. Momentum flung him back into the open air, twisting and tumbling. He caught sight of the other 3-program jet glowing red only a short distance away, pulled his last jet baton, and activated it. The struts formed quickly, boosting and lifting him toward his next goal. Before it had completed its construction, he deactivated it and leapt at the wing of the red 3-program.

He caught the edge with desperate fingers and dangled for a moment, cycling quickly to allow his processor to catch up. Then he dragged himself up onto the wing.

The jet immediately spun to shake him off; Tron punched his disk through the wing to anchor himself. Once stabilized, he moved one disk at a time, stabbing them into the jet’s chassis to crawl to the cockpit. There, he cut his way inside.

The three Enforcers within tried to defend themselves, but Tron's Rinzler codes had come alive and these programs, like so many others, could not resist him.

The final Enforcer must have had a "last program standing" protocol built into her programming. As Tron brought up his disk to slice through her abdomen, she twisted and slashed the control panel, tearing it apart. The moment that she disintegrated around his disk, the jet’s lights flickered and went out. It slanted sideways and Tron’s soles lifted from the floor as they fell.

He leapt for the opening he'd shorn into the hull. As the jet entered a nose dive, he grabbed the lip of the hole, hauled himself out, and kicked away from the falling jet. He pulled out his lightjet baton and activated it again moments before the 3-program jet hit the sea with a huge splash. Water showered him as his jet formed, obscuring his vision.

Something orange flashed and a violent impact ripped his half-formed lightjet apart. Before he could react, he was thrown into the air and slammed into the water hard enough to knock his processes offline.

**

"Tron!" Sam shouted as Tron’s blue jet vanished in an explosion of white light. " Shit! "

He'd already thought Tron had died when his first jet crashed into another, only to realize the program had probably done it intentionally in order to infiltrate the large red jet when it went dark and fell out of the sky. 

This time, though, he didn't think Tron meant for this to happen.

The large, orange jet that had shot Tron down circled the burning white wreckage sinking into the sea, like some kind of slow-moving vulture. After a moment, it straightened out and climbed rapidly to follow the throne ship, the last remaining small jet on its flank.

"I'm going to look for him," Sam said, already driving his jet into a steep dive. "He might have gotten out."

"Sam!" Quorra called. "Your father. The portal!"

"Look after him," Sam pleaded. "As long as he gets out, we'll be fine. But I'm not going to leave Tron down there if he needs help. He's been on his own for long enough."

After a pause, Quorra sighed, "All right. Be careful."

Sam skimmed over the surface of the sea toward the tail of the large jet where it jutted from the waves like a huge dorsal fin. "Ah, how do I turn off my jet?" he asked when he realized he had no idea how to land.

"Push the baton back together," Quorra said, a smile under her voice. 

Sam forcefully squeezed his hands together, just as he heard Quorra add, "Slowly." But it was too late; his jet vanished and he hit the water like a skipping stone, bouncing twice with bruising force and then plunging under the surface.

In the real world, shock from hitting ocean water would have left Sam gasping and struggling. On the Grid, the water felt cool but not freezing and his siren bodysuit was surprisingly insulating. Sam shook off the brief stiffness from the temperature change, righted himself, and surged up toward the faint, rippling light. When his head broke the surface, he drew in a hungry breath, snorted water out of his nose, and churned his arms and legs, keeping himself afloat on the bobbing waves without too much trouble. The boots restricted the flexibility in his ankles, but at least they didn't weigh him down. 

He slid his baton into his boot cuff and then spun in place, hunting for any speck of blue. Nearby, the large jet bobbed, thrumming with the sound of the waves hitting its dead hull, but Sam couldn't see any dark figures floating or lights glimmering.

"Tron!" he shouted, cupping a hand around his mouth. " Tron! "

Only the lapping of the water answered him.

"Come on," Sam uttered breathlessly, his chest tight. "Come on. Where are you?" He spun again, started toward the jet in a sidestroke, stopped, spun. Was he even around here? Had he been derezzed? Could programs drown? Would Sam know, since they were linked? 

The link. He's my master program. That's gotta be worth something.

With nothing better to go on, Sam shut his eyes and tried to concentrate. 

Tron, Tron, Tron, Tron, Tron, Tron…

Is this how this works? Do I just think about him?

Master program, master program…

He remembered the tingling, overpowering force whenever Rinzler or Tron touched him, the intensity of their stares, the way nothing else mattered when he was with them. Was that his subordinate functioning? 

Where are you?!

Some kind of awareness or knowledge pulsed below him, behind him, and to his left. The awareness had no basis in reality, no physical sensation to go with it, but Sam followed it, anyway, because nothing on the Grid made sense and he had nothing better to go on. He sucked in a breath and dove toward it.

He squinted his eyes open and followed that vague, sourceless knowledge. His own white lights illuminated the water, which was so clear that he felt like he was swimming in a pool. He swam down into the darkness, heavy feet struggling to push against the water, the wound on his arm stinging with the vigorous movement. His lungs began to feel tight and he only wondered, then, if he could drown on the Grid.

It would be a shitty way to go, to come this far only to drown.

Was I wrong? Did I imagine sensing him? 

The tightness in his lungs became a painful, outward pressure. Bubbles escaped his nose. Fear weakened his arms and legs and fluttered at the edges of his vision. His diaphragm spasmed, trying desperately to expel the stale air from his lungs and draw in new, and he had to clamp his jaw shut.

Keep going. Keepgoingkeepgoingkeepgoingkeepgoing.

He screwed his eyes shut and strained to kick, clawed at the water, fought himself and his instincts to survive–

Instincts won.

He curled around and swept upward, exhaling a stream of bubbles.

And his foot kicked something.

His eyes popped open and he saw a shadowy body suspended in the water, floating motionless, pale face raised to Sam’s lights, eyes open but unreactive. Tron . He hooked Tron's limp arm and kicked frantically toward the surface.

When they broke out of the water, Sam gulped ragged lungfuls of air. He lay on his back, an arm around Tron’s chest, grateful for the buoyancy of the Grid’s sea as he tried to catch his breath. When he could move again, he towed Tron to the wrecked jet. He shoved the unresponsive program up onto one of the wings and scrambled up beside him.

"Tron," he called urgently, patting his cheeks. The program didn't move. His lights were dark and his smooth skin felt cold, but that could have meant anything. He wasn't a thousand cubes sinking into the sea, so Sam assumed he was still alive–or whatever passed for life in programs. "Tron!" Did he need CPR? 

Sam pressed his fingertips to Tron's throat before reminding himself: Programs didn't have blood, so they wouldn't have a heart or a pulse. All he knew for sure was that they ran on energy. Did Tron need a boost?

Kevin’s voice floated back to him. "You need to take care of your programs."

"All I do is feed you," Sam whispered under his breath. He rested a palm on Tron’s armoured chest and felt for that formless, inexplicable force that his father had described so unhelpfully. The buzzing, staticky vibrations that Users could somehow manipulate. Once he'd captured the sensation, he pushed a small amount in, trying to avoid the accidental shock he'd given Tron last time.

Tron stiffened. His lights flickered and then glowed their steady blue. He drew in a breath, blinked rapidly, and sat up, holding his head. "Ugh, Sam?" he groaned, turning to find him with wide, disbelieving eyes. With his hair slicked back and dripping, he looked younger, vulnerable.

"Yeah, I'm here." Sam gripped his shoulders and searched his face, chuckling with relief to see the brightness of his irises. "I thought you drowned. You feeling okay?"

"I was only stunned. I'm fine." He scanned the sky and frowned. "Where's the throne ship? Where's your father? Sam, what happened?"

"They’re still headed to the portal," Sam explained in a rush. “There are two jets left on their tail, but Quorra’s on it.” He flashed a pleased grin. "I came back for you."

Instead of responding with any kind of gratitude, Tron shook his head. "No! No, Sam, you should have gone on without me. You need to go!"

Confused by the terse response, Sam waved at the wreckage and waves. "Both of your jets exploded. I couldn't leave you stranded out here!"

"I would have made it back to shore eventually." Tron gathered himself, stood, and pulled Sam up beside him. Squeezing Sam’s arms, almost shaking him, he growled, " Never come back for me."

What's his problem?! Confusion sharpened to anger and Sam shook him off. "I told you. I'm not going to let you fight our battles. Not alone."

"This is what I was written for. This is all that I am."

"That's not true!" Sam nearly jabbed a finger into Tron’s chest, aborting the motion only when he remembered that he would probably only hurt himself. "You're more than this," he finished, matching Tron’s glare with his own.

Tron grimaced and turned away, but not before Sam saw a brief flicker of red in his lights. "There's no time for this," he muttered. Without warning, he dropped into a crouch and leaned in close, as though about to hug Sam around the hips.

Sam froze.

Tron’s palms slid up his calves, leaving a warm tingle in their wake, and then he stood, the jet batons in his hands and his gaze averted. “Here,” he said gruffly, passing one to Sam. “You go first. You need to get high enough so your jet can activate before you hit the water.” As he spoke, he went to one knee and laced his fingers together to form a stirrup. “I’ll throw you.”

“I can get high enough on my own–”

“Stop arguing with me, Sam!” Tron snapped, finally raising his glare. Instead of angry, he looked… desperate. “ Please .”

“Okay, okay.” Mollified though uneasy about treating Tron like a stepstool, Sam braced himself on the program’s broad shoulder with one hand, readied his baton in the other, and set a foot into Tron’s cupped hands. “I’m ready.”

“Put your weight on it,” Tron instructed. “Or I’m just going to flip you over.”

Sam leaned forward, shifting more of his weight into Tron’s hands, unnerved by the way he held firm. Just how strong had Alan made him? “Okay, I’m not used to–”

Tron’s shoulder flexed and that was the only warning Sam got before he was catapulted up into the air over his head.

He must have been thrown about twenty feet. As he began to fall, he hurriedly split  his baton. His jet built quickly and he accelerated, sputtered across the water, and finally lifted off. 

Within moments, Tron’s blue jet drew into position just above and behind Sam’s. “Whatever happens,” Tron began, low and grim. “You must get out. Don’t look back.”

Sam pressed his lips together, realizing that arguing the point would be futile. Was he programmed for self-sacrifice , he wondered. Or is this something that Clu did to him? Or is it his own guilt? Or is it something I did to him?

Without enemy jets to slow them, they arrived at the portal surprisingly quickly. A large, gleaming runway led to a set of broad stairs seemingly carved from rock. The throne ship lay at an unnatural angle on the runway, its lights dead, jagged holes in its hull revealing inactive circuitry. Next to it glowed the orange lightjet, its wings folded neatly upward. Between the two vessels sheltered a clump of programs: sparkling white sirens, the darkly dressed and hairless crew of the ship, and the masked Jarvis. No Kevin and no Quorra.

Dread pitted Sam’s stomach. No.

He came in to land, deactivating his jet slowly enough that he could essentially drop onto his feet. Tron did the same next to him, already running as the lights of his blue jet faded around him. Together, they hurried up the wide stairs. Sam’s dread deepened at the sight of program bits scattered across the steps. Please. Quorra. Dad. Be okay.

At the top of the stairs, they paused just inside a round, immensely tall chamber of raw rock and sleek metal. Dominating the space, a stream of light reached from a platform in the centre of the chamber up through an opening in the ceiling, reaching to the sky and beyond. The intense brightness from both the portal and the surrounding strips of white light gleaming off the metallic floors nearly blinded Sam, making him blink rapidly to adjust. 

“...and we have only to wait,” Clu’s voice reverberated around the chamber. “My army will bring perfection to your world. The ISO will be my key to creating new programs. Soon I will rule everything .”

Sam’s vision cleared. Clu stood before a bridge to the portal’s platform, a disk in his hand, orating to the column of light. Kevin lay on the floor close to the stairs, crumpled under his coat, but moving slightly–alive. Quorra stood between three Black Guards further inside, her arms bound behind her.

“I’ve seen what Users are capable of, Clu!” Quorra shouted. “You don’t belong with them.”

That seemed like the appropriate opening.

Sam grabbed his disk and flung it at Clu, aiming for his head. It hit Kevin’s disk instead, knocking it out of his hand.

“Shit!” Sam cursed as he watched the disk tumble down into the vast space below the portal’s hovering platform.

Tron darted forward and shot a blue grappling hook, snatching the disk out of the air and yanking it toward himself. 

“ YOU! ” Clu roared, his face contorting with rage.

The three Black Guards charged, one of them tripping as Quorra dropped, kicked his legs out, and slammed a knee into his back. The other two came at Sam and Tron, their light staves swinging. 

Tron shoved Kevin’s disk at Sam and whirled into battle, his movements a blur as he grabbed his disks, contorted past their attacks, and struck them from behind.

Sam scrambled to Kevin’s side. “Dad!” he called urgently, rolling him over.

“Sam,” Kevin said faintly, his dazed eyes finding Sam’s face slowly. “Why are you all wet?” Blood trickled and smeared from a gash on the side of his forehead and the skin on one edge of his jaw was purple with bruising under his beard. 

“Come on, we gotta get you out of here.” Sam slid an arm around his back, hooked Kevin’s elbow over his own neck, and lifted. “Can you sit?”

“I… I think so.”

“ NO! ” Clu leapt at them from the bridge, his fiery orange disk in hand.

Tron met him and the sound of the impact rang from the rock walls. Tron, even with two disks, even with all the power Alan had imbued in him, staggered and fell to one knee as Clu slammed into him.

"I took you out before, slave to the Users,” Clu spat down at him.

"Not like this." Tron’s blue lights flickered into an enraged crimson. "You made improvements, Clu,” he said in Rinzler’s deep rasp. A low, electronic clicking sounded as he got his feet under him and shoved Clu back. 

“Clu rectified himself first,” Kevin wheezed. “Tron can’t fight him.”

“We’ll get him from the outside.” With some sliding and fumbling, Sam managed to stand and drag Kevin with him. He had to hunch over to support his father, but at least they could shuffle forward.

Quorra, having freed her hands at some point, appeared on Kevin’s other side. She took some of his weight, her narrow chin set with determination.

Rinzler rolled out from under Clu’s attack. Clu made to follow, glanced up at Kevin, Sam, and Quorra, bared his teeth, and took a step toward them. Rinzler drove at him from behind, forcing him to whirl around and block the attack. Quorra threw her own disk at Clu’s exposed back, making him duck and leaving him open to Rinzler. He finally dodged sideways, freeing a route to the bridge and to the portal. 

“Come on!” Sam urged, hurrying their pace to take advantage of the cleared path. “We’re close. Just a few more steps. Come on.”

Roaring, Clu tried to cut them off again, but Rinzler intervened bodily, taking the brunt of Clu’s forceful attack. “You could have been mine!” Clu snarled, pressing his raving face close to Rinzler’s sneer over the sparking fury of their disks. “We would have ruled this system together. We would have ruled the world!”

“I fight,” Rinzler uttered hoarsely, his voice strained. “I fight… for my User.”

Sam and Quorra dragged Kevin across the bridge and into the light of the portal. It shimmered around them, tickling over Sam’s skin like feathers, like a caress. Moving on instinct, Sam lifted his father’s disk to the sky.

**

Clu’s scream echoed around them as the portal light faded, taking the Users and the ISO with it. He whirled on Rinzler, his eyes and lights glowing such a heated orange that he warped the air around him. 

Rinzler smirked. “You failed.”

“And you will be terminated!” Clu roared.

Rinzler fought back reflexively, automatically, his mind already elsewhere. Sam had made it out. He was safe in his own world. Rinzler was alone again, but the price was worth knowing Sam would live. 

Clu hammered at him, his overclocked speed and strength too great for Rinzler to effectively counter on his own. He retreated, flipping backward, and fell into a tumble when Clu’s disk blurred past his head, derezzing a chunk of his damp hair. He kept moving from his tumble, dodging several more throws, and hit the edge of the chasm. He fell into the open air, twisted, got his grappling hook, and shot at the rock wall high above him. It caught his weight, allowing him to swing out and around to the other side of the room. He came at Clu, both boots lifted to kick him in the head. 

Clu raised his disk, obviously ready to slice Rinzler in half. 

Rinzler let go of his grappling hook at the last moment, dropping into a slide that took Clu out at the ankles and made him drop his disk. They fell into a tangle of arms and legs, grappling and kicking.

With his superior strength, Clu pinned Rinzler and punched him across the face so hard that the impact made his processes stutter and briefly go offline. The next punch distorted his senses and knocked out his mobility functions. He watched from a hazy distance as Clu hit him again and again.

He’s going to derez me with his bare hands.

A dark figure loomed up behind Clu, a disk in its hands.

Sam?

Clu reared back to throw another punch and gurgled as the disk connected with his upper arm. 

“My luminary!” The figure resolved into Jarvis, wide-eyed horror on his face. He dropped Clu’s disk and lifted his hands to his mouth. “I–I just wanted to bring you your disk–”

Clu, his arm dangling and oozing orange pixels, twisted to snatch up his disk with his good arm and slash it at Jarvis. As his disk hit Jarvis’ black coat, though, it… crumbled. It disintegrated in Clu’s hand like dust and drifted away in a cloud of sparkles. 

“What?” Jarvis breathed, stumbling backward and patting himself down. 

“No,” Clu moaned, staring at his gloved fingers as, knuckle by knuckle, they disintegrated and blew away. “No, father. I did what you asked. I did everything you asked.” He bowed forward on Rinzler’s chest, hiding his face, weeping as his body shrivelled and turned to dust.

When there was nothing left but a sheen of glitter on his armour, Rinzler let himself simply lay on the floor, cycling and reassembling his battered codes and processes and empty, meaningless directives. 

Who am I now? Without Users. Without Clu.

He flexed a hand and watched his red circuit lights fade to blue.

Tron. There’s still a system to protect. If it will have me.

Tron pushed himself to sitting and shook off Clu’s glittery remains. The Users had been thorough, not even risking leaving bits behind.

When he made it up to his unsteady feet, he regarded Jarvis, who still looked stunned.

“I think I’m invincible,” the PA program said excitedly, spreading his arms. “Hit me!”

Tron moved close, looked him up and down, and slung an arm around his shoulders. “No.” He urged Jarvis toward the stairs. “Come on. I need you to fly us home.”

Chapter Text

Epilogue

“De-rectification is on schedule,” Jarvis reported, scanning his information pad. “Votes for the city representative elections have been collected and are being compiled, and the End of Line profits are up by 2397%.” He stopped and smiled. “Everything is going well, my lum–ah, my, uh…”

“Jarvis, darling, I told you. Just Zuse is fine.” Zuse smoothed his platinum hair and peered at his reflection in an empty glass. “I’ve been thinking green. It was so chic a few cycles ago. Do you think I can bring it back?”

“I think you can bring anything back, my, uh, my Zuse,” Jarvis replied fervently, clasping his pad to the lapels of his new white coat.

Zuse glanced at Gem where she lounged on one of his low couches. “Why aren’t you this nice to me?” he asked, twitching an amused eyebrow. “You’re my siren, but he’s the one saying these lovely things to me.”

Gem uncrossed and recrossed her legs and stared coolly. “Because you don’t want nice .” 

Zuse visibly shivered and let his fingers fall to his throat. “Oh, you’re so right about that.”

“Zuse,” Tron interrupted, annoyed. He shifted his weight and folded his arms pointedly. “Why did you invite me here?”

“Ah, my apologies, my sweet. I got a little carried away, as one does when there are just so many marvellous possibilities and opportunities.” As he spoke, Zuse set down the glass, wandered to his window, and looked out over the city. “I want to offer you an opportunity,” he continued, smiling over his shoulder. “Work with me.”

Tron opened his mouth to refuse and Zuse lifted a hand to cut him off.

“Working with me will be working for the city,” he clarified, flourishing his long fingers out at the orderly lights and busy streets. “Working for the programs who call this city home. I want to protect them as much as you do.” His smile turned sly. “And I know these past millicycles have been… difficult for you. Difficult for all of us, really. Our leader gone. Our Users gone. We’re left to our own plans, our own purposes, with no one to tell us what those purposes are. Work with me, Tron. With your support, I will ease our transition to a new era on the Grid.”

“No,” Tron said flatly. “I won’t be your enforcement. I have no objection to you having authority in this city when you already run many of the industries, but I will not back any one leader. I will, however, be watching you.” He stared hard at Zuse until the program’s smile weakened and edged with worry. “All of you. I won’t allow what happened with Clu to happen again.” He had made a promise.

Zuse swallowed and chuckled lightly. “Yes. Yes, of course. Wise choice. Protective programs are going to do what protective programs do. In all of this User-less chaos, especially–”

A flash of white light cut him off. They turned, startled, to see the portal spear through the sky and flare brilliantly. The sight of it carved a line through Tron, tearing him up with unruly excitement, hope, and fear. Excitement and hope that he might see Sam again, and fear that it was someone else, or that transferring to the outer world and back again had obliterated the fragile, overwhelming link that had formed between them. 

“Well,” Zuse murmured. “Perhaps I am mistaken.” He plucked up his cane. “Shall we go see who has decided to pay us a visit?”

**

Tron agreed to ride in Zuse’s limousine only because the need to see the incoming User was shredding his codes. He sat anxiously in the luxurious, green-tinted shadows facing Zuse, hands fisted in his lap to keep them from fidgeting. 

As the limo approached Flynn’s Arcade, it slowed to a crawl where the street had filled with excited and curious programs. Finally, when he couldn't bear the excruciatingly slow pace, Tron opened the door, allowing the riot of noise to fill the vehicle. He gently pushed a program aside, stepped out, and began to walk instead. Around him, startled programs pressed away from him, their expressions flickering from excitement to fear. Most of them recognized his scarred face and distinctive symbol and remembered what he had done, the utter destruction and ruthlessness of which he was still capable. 

For the first time since Clu had been defeated, Tron didn’t mind their fear. It allowed him to advance up the street.

Clustered around the arcade’s entrance, the mob thickened until even Tron couldn’t pass through. He came to a halt only one building away and shifted from foot to foot in an agony of need. Who had come?!

Finally, he spotted a glowing fuschia windowsill on the building next to him, took two running steps, and leapt to catch hold of it. He pulled himself up and perched on the narrow ledge, gripping it so hard that the material cracked in his hands.

He searched the milling mob eagerly, hungrily, for anyone without a program’s circuit lights, for the weight of a User. 

And there he was.

Sam.

For a rare moment, all of Tron’s conflicting codes went perfectly still.

He stared at Sam’s easy smile as he listened to the programs around him, touched their arms and shoulders, spoke to them. Like his father had been so many cycles ago, he seemed bemused by the attention, a curl of disbelief at the edge of his mouth. He had reverted to his original appearance: tufted, light brown hair, shady User skin tone, pale blue eyes. He wore a black jacket and his disk had returned with him, sitting on his shoulders and silently recording his existence on the Grid. Although his appearance was unrefined compared to his smooth and glittering siren interface, Tron felt he had never seen anyone so beautiful.

Sam.

Tron’s codes revved back up to speed, all of them clamouring for attention. He’d half expected to see Sam and feel only the protective directive and perhaps the deep friendship he’d felt for Flynn, but no… no, this was different. He ached to touch him, to hold him, to fluster him, to catch him, to listen to his voice and conjure expressions to his face, to just… just exist next to him. He wanted him . He shook with that ache so badly that he lost his grip on the windowsill and dropped to the hex pavement below, scattering a few unlucky programs.

With his line of sight broken, Tron shook his head and palmed his face. 

I have to get out of here. If he got close to Sam like this, he’d lose control. His ruthless Rinzler codes were already snapping their teeth, demanding that he slash his way through the crowd to take possession of the User who belonged to him. He couldn’t risk leaping on Sam only to discover that Sam’s previous interest had been based solely on his siren programming. He couldn’t risk damaging whatever friendship could still remain between them. He had to get away until he could calm down.

Still fighting himself, Tron turned and stalked away. He tried to hurry, desperate to flee, but the crowd had become more and more tightly packed as the entire city thronged the street to see who had come. 

“Out of the way,” he muttered, trying to shove through. “I said move! Go!” One program, his eyes wide and oblivious, just stood directly in front of Tron as though stunned. Tron waved at him, swinging out an arm to make it clear what he wanted the program to do.

His hand struck something behind him. 

Something soft but firm. Warm. Vibrating with power.

Tron whirled, his circuits electrified with horror. He stared at his gloved hand, splayed on the black garment under Sam’s coat. He lifted his gaze to Sam’s face and couldn’t speak.

The edge of Sam’s mouth lifted. He laid a hand over Tron’s shivering fingers. “I accept,” he said, huffing a laugh. 

“I–” Tron started, but his voice died. 

Sam’s grin widened and he released Tron’s hand. “I know,” he said. “It’s not the same when you do it.” He stepped closer and clasped Tron’s arm, his gaze darting over Tron’s face. “Tron. Rinzler. You’re okay. I… I wasn’t sure what I would find.” 

“I’m okay,” Tron echoed numbly.

The amusement faded from Sam’s expression, replaced by worry. "I know you said not to come after you," he admitted, "but I needed to know–"

"No," Tron choked. His hands twitched at his hips, trying to reach but unable to, the fingers on one of them still tingling with Sam’s power. "No, I'm glad you're here."

"Me too." The smile returned, soft and wondering. Then Sam glanced around at the crowd pressing in on them. “Is this going to happen every time I come back?”

He’s going to come back. And keep coming back.

The joy in that thought weakened him. “They… they’ll get used to it," he managed hoarsely. “There were always crowds when your father came, but not quite like this.”

“Can we go somewhere quieter?”

“Yoo-hoo! Son of Flynn!” Zuse called over the din. His fluorescent green limo edged closer, pushing the mob out of the way, and the program himself sat on the edge of a window, practically falling out. “May I offer you a personal suite in the End of Line's building for your stay on the Grid?”

Sam smirked and raised his voice. “I don’t need to dress up to go in, do I?”

“Oh, no, darling, it’s an interface optional establishment.”

Laughing, Sam looked at Tron and nodded. “Then yes, I’ll take you up on that.”

**

After an excruciatingly slow limp back to Zuse’s building in the limo and a hasty celebratory drink at the bar, Tron and Sam finally pried themselves out of Zuse’s grip and retreated to Sam’s suite in the penthouse just below the club itself. 

When the door shut behind him, Sam leaned against it and laughed, shaking his head. “I didn’t think there would be a crowd,” he admitted, looking up and finding Tron in the low light.

Tron, increasingly on edge in the suite’s dim lounge, where low, soft furniture invited program and User bodies to sink and explore and connect with each other, backed away to the glass doors leading to the suite’s balcony. He stepped out and nodded at the portal. “As soon as they see that, they know you’re here. And now the city is de-rectified and they are free to welcome you.”

Sam followed him, his humour fading. His gaze on the portal and the city, he asked, “Can you show me the Grid?”

Surprised, Tron answered bluntly, “You’re looking at it.”

Sam scoffed. “I mean… more of it. My dad used to tell me stories about you, about what you showed him. I want to know that part of the Grid. All I’ve seen is the mess Clu made of it. And maybe…” He shrugged uncomfortably. “Maybe I could even… be a part of it.”

Tron’s circuits had been trembling since Sam stepped foot on the Grid, but now they felt like they’d fall apart. “You want me to take you places?” he asked shakily. “You want to… be here?” With me?

“Yeah.” Sam smiled softly. “As much as I can, anyway. This world is strange, but, you know, kind of beautiful.”

Like you.

“Unless you’re busy,” Sam added. “I shouldn’t assume you’d just drop everything to take me on a tour.”

“No, I’m not busy. Forgive me, I just… I didn’t think you’d come back.” Tron tried to smile, but even he knew he sounded desperate. 

“I wanted to get back sooner, but after so long in the system, my dad's body collapsed when he was de-digitized."

Concern spiked in Tron’s processes. "Is he–"

"He'll be all right,” Sam quickly assured him. “But we had to get him to the hospital. Then we had to wait for Alan to come and fill him in on what happened. I took Quorra to my place–she and Marv are best friends now–and then I came back to the arcade." He took a deep breath and let it out in a rush. He looked over at Tron and self-consciously tugged on the edges of his jacket. "I haven't… I haven't actually slept or showered yet, so you should probably keep your distance."

The mere thought of it made Tron’s Rinzler codes shift with displeasure. Before he could stop himself, he'd stepped closer and reached for Sam’s arms. Just before touching his sleeves, he flinched and pulled back. "I… I can't," he admitted tightly. "I can't keep my distance from you."

"Oh." Sam didn't move away, but he turned toward the city, leaned his forearms on the balcony rail, and clasped his bare hands together. "Is it because I'm a User?" he asked the glowing cityscape. 

"I don't know." Tron echoed his posture, but had to clutch the rail to keep himself from reaching out again. "I was written to fight for the Users, but I was never drawn to your father like this. I never wanted to…" He trailed off and dared to glance over. Sam met his gaze and Tron let his stare drop pointedly to Sam’s wry smile.

Sam wet his lips; even without the temporary circuit, the movement of his pink tongue was captivating. "Is it because I accidentally tried to become your supporting function?" He smirked as he spoke, but it was without humour.

"I don't know," Tron said again. "There's a lot I don't know, Sam. But I want to find out."

Sam’s eyes darkened and a red shade tinged his face and neck. "I just…" He blew out another sigh. "I don't want to take advantage of you."

"Take advantage of me?"

"Make you think you want something that you don't actually want. You spent long enough with someone else controlling you."

Tron bristled. "I know what that feels like," he said roughly. "This is not that. You're not controlling me." To demonstrate, he finally allowed himself to touch him, grabbing his arm and forcing him to turn. He slid his other hand into the small of his back, tugging him close so he could finally, finally make contact with the small circuits on his abdomen and chest. Even without circuits of his own, Sam radiated energy, making Tron shiver and crush him closer, savouring the feel of his slightly shorter body, his density. "I'm doing this because I want to," he murmured against Sam’s cheek. "Not because you do." Experimentally, he pressed his lips to the corner of Sam’s jaw, marvelling at the rough texture of his skin. "I just hope that you do, too."

Sam laughed shakily and angled his head away, leading Tron down the line of his throat. His tentative hands found Tron’s hips. "Well," he rumbled. "I do want you to, so I'm not sure your reasoning is conclusive."

"I'm not going to wonder why." Tron kissed the skin above Sam's collar. "It's enough that I want you. It's enough that you're here. I'm going to enjoy you while I have you."

Sam’s uncomfortable chuckle came again. "How am I supposed to argue against that?" he asked plaintively. "Come on, man, I'm trying to be a good User."

"I don't want a good User," Tron growled, Rinzler’s demanding rasp threading his voice. "I want my User." 

"Oh, damn," Sam groaned, his grip tightening.

Tron nudged him back inside. “I’ll show you anything you want, Sam.”