Song Drabbles
These came about from a meme at [singularity_rpg] found here. (They are currently still incomplete. /sob) Some are set there with interaction with characters from the game. Some are not. Either way I don't think knowledge of the game itself is explicitly needed to comprehend most of the drabbles. Anyway, without further ado:
Decopile/Recompile
Between Two Points
He was slowly falling apart.
There was no better way to describe it, he decided after the agonizing pressure continuing to build through his circuits had lasted longer than the usual standard recompile. There was a war going on in his systems and there was nothing he could do about it except sit back and watch as he slowly lost. The other--the part winning--was cold and calculating, harsh and unforgiving. It was slowly destroying him.
And yet it wasn't a complete destruction. Maybe that was the worst part of it all. He could tell that in the end there would be a piece of him left. He could feel the other leaving hints and wisps of his old coding; left them lying dormant and cold to be used for its own purposes later. It couldn't get rid of parts of him that were too important to his makeup to be erased and those too it began to leisurely lock behind walls too thick to escape.
He tried to reason with it, explain why it was wrong for obeying a strict master that tolerated no imperfection. It ignored him. Or maybe it couldn't hear him.
It's presence filled his whole existence. A never-ending static that wouldn't go away, wouldn't silence, wouldn't leave him alone to his own thoughts. The quiet rumbling drove him slowly insane. It was him, screaming a scream that would never be heard.
He lost himself in the white noise. The cries of the crowd washed over him and gave him comfort. The Game filled him with ecstasy. The soft praises made him feel useful, needed, wanted. The hunt kept him focused. The kill was always perfect.
He was falling slowly to his death.
The other had found a foothold when the familiar sight met his hidden eyes. User. The memories flooded over him and he found it hard to stay focused. That was when the other had struck out and knocked him away. His control was lost and the felt it as his dormant counterpart took over.
He struck out at the master. It filled him with regret--and he knew the other would have gloated had the blast not rocked him senseless.
He was falling to his death, for surely the undulating waves of the Sea below would crush him beneath their weight. He could fill the other rising again already. This time, the war would be his to win.
Did We Make It?
Rinzler
"I fight for the Users."
It was the last line he heard from his dear friend before the resounding crash consumed the two programs in pursuit of his stolen craft, the defiant words ringing in his ears long after when they should have disappeared. (Should he have even been able to hear them? Was it his connection to the Grid that made it possible or had Tron wanted him to hear?) It took his son's excited yelling to snap him out of his reverie and even then he was still more lost in thought than listening to the young man that was so much like himself in the beginning. He couldn't help but feel as though his friend had made the ultimate sacrifice for him--all for naught. He turned towards Quorra, a plan already forming even as the grief settled in to stay.
He had to save Sam. His son was the most important thing in the world--both of them--to him. So he focused on saving Sam and Quorra and nothing else as he made the last move available on the board: reintegration.
He wouldn't survive the process. It didn't matter.
When Flynn opened his eyes he was more than a little astonished at the mere fact that he was opening his eyes. He was also a little surprised by the first sight that settled in his field of vision. "Tron." It was good to see his friend's face again. Even damaged as it was the familiarity was comforting, and anything was better than an emotionless helmet. He smiled faintly at his friend and was rewarded with a sympathetic look in return.
"I guess that means we somehow managed to make it again, huh?" Flynn said as he tried to sit up sluggishly.
The security program nodded, his expression dire as he moved to help support the stubborn User.
Flynn couldn't help the next words out of his mouth. "Hooray for our side."
That earned him a genuine smile that made the line completely worth it.
He swung an arm around Tron's shoulder and let the program lift him effortlessly to his feet. He looked around at their bleak surroundings and realized that Tron had sought out his recompiling data even out here in this now lifeless sector of the System. It was a little overwhelming to consider but he kept a straight face as he practiced his Zen. He turned his head to Tron.
"We have a lot of work ahead of us."
And for the first time since he'd heard the defiant words of a desperate warrior program ring out into the sky, his friend finally spoke. "...Yes." It wasn't much but the weighted word brought a sense of peace to the weary Flynn as he considered the tone in which it was spoken.
He wouldn't be alone.
Inquiry
Somewhere a Clock is Ticking
"EDI?"
"Yes, Tron?"
"What is a creampuff?"
There was a note of hesitance in EDI's response and Tron looked over at her hologram as she responded. "Creampuff; noun. a hollow pastry made with cream puff paste and filled with custard sauce or whipped cream. It is a type of food that 'users' consume." She managed to refrain from asking why he was inquiring about pastries. Just barely.
Tron shifted awkwardly and frowned. EDI recognized this as a sign that her answer didn't seem to fit with what Tron had expected so she went out on a limb and recited another definition.
"Alternatively, a 'creampuff' can also refer to a weak or timid person in the same context as calling someone a 'sissy'."
"...Oh."
"Does this suffice with the nature of your inquiry?"
"Affirmative. Thank you as always, EDI."
"Logging you out, Tron."
And also as always she was formal as she retreated back to her inner processors and clicked off the holographic interface module. But Tron could have sworn he heard the faintest hints of a 'you're welcome' in her synthesized tone and he smiled faintly as he turned away.
Seeing Red (Till the End)
Made Out of Nothing (All That I Am)
The brightness of the sun hurt his eyes even when he elevated the tint on his visor, but it was nothing compared to the burning behind his eyes whenever he thought about what CLU had done to him. Again.
He couldn't look at Flynn. The User had known all along and only ever tried to make things easy on him. Even as the abomination that he was. Still was.
But an instinct within him, some unyielding subroutine refused to allow him to ask for help. He wasn't sure what to call it--pride? stubbornness? ...stupidity? Was it an undying loyalty to someone who had only ever hurt him? Or was it fear that he'd hurt the one person that meant nothing but true kindness to him?
He could never be certain.
He kept away from all of them. His own imperfection drove him slowly insane--the constant rumbling white noise, the dual colored discs, the warring code that never quit fighting itself from the inside out. He couldn't see straight anymore. Everything was outlined in red. It reminded him of the liquid substance the User leaked the one time...
Rinzler couldn't remember the last time he'd had a peaceful moment. Even alone he was a hopeless pile of pixelated conflict, one battle after another, constant strife bottled into one form. He wanted it to end.
He would never be the same again. He didn't want what he was now. He wanted it to end.
He went to see them one last time. All he could focus on was the conflict. All he could see was red. He wanted it to end.
He attacked without preamble. He made sure it was obvious there was only one way to stop the fighting. He didn't hold back.
He waited for it to end in a shatter of black and red pixels.
Decopile/Recompile
Between Two Points
He was slowly falling apart.
There was no better way to describe it, he decided after the agonizing pressure continuing to build through his circuits had lasted longer than the usual standard recompile. There was a war going on in his systems and there was nothing he could do about it except sit back and watch as he slowly lost. The other--the part winning--was cold and calculating, harsh and unforgiving. It was slowly destroying him.
And yet it wasn't a complete destruction. Maybe that was the worst part of it all. He could tell that in the end there would be a piece of him left. He could feel the other leaving hints and wisps of his old coding; left them lying dormant and cold to be used for its own purposes later. It couldn't get rid of parts of him that were too important to his makeup to be erased and those too it began to leisurely lock behind walls too thick to escape.
He tried to reason with it, explain why it was wrong for obeying a strict master that tolerated no imperfection. It ignored him. Or maybe it couldn't hear him.
It's presence filled his whole existence. A never-ending static that wouldn't go away, wouldn't silence, wouldn't leave him alone to his own thoughts. The quiet rumbling drove him slowly insane. It was him, screaming a scream that would never be heard.
He lost himself in the white noise. The cries of the crowd washed over him and gave him comfort. The Game filled him with ecstasy. The soft praises made him feel useful, needed, wanted. The hunt kept him focused. The kill was always perfect.
He was falling slowly to his death.
The other had found a foothold when the familiar sight met his hidden eyes. User. The memories flooded over him and he found it hard to stay focused. That was when the other had struck out and knocked him away. His control was lost and the felt it as his dormant counterpart took over.
He struck out at the master. It filled him with regret--and he knew the other would have gloated had the blast not rocked him senseless.
He was falling to his death, for surely the undulating waves of the Sea below would crush him beneath their weight. He could fill the other rising again already. This time, the war would be his to win.
Did We Make It?
Rinzler
"I fight for the Users."
It was the last line he heard from his dear friend before the resounding crash consumed the two programs in pursuit of his stolen craft, the defiant words ringing in his ears long after when they should have disappeared. (Should he have even been able to hear them? Was it his connection to the Grid that made it possible or had Tron wanted him to hear?) It took his son's excited yelling to snap him out of his reverie and even then he was still more lost in thought than listening to the young man that was so much like himself in the beginning. He couldn't help but feel as though his friend had made the ultimate sacrifice for him--all for naught. He turned towards Quorra, a plan already forming even as the grief settled in to stay.
He had to save Sam. His son was the most important thing in the world--both of them--to him. So he focused on saving Sam and Quorra and nothing else as he made the last move available on the board: reintegration.
He wouldn't survive the process. It didn't matter.
When Flynn opened his eyes he was more than a little astonished at the mere fact that he was opening his eyes. He was also a little surprised by the first sight that settled in his field of vision. "Tron." It was good to see his friend's face again. Even damaged as it was the familiarity was comforting, and anything was better than an emotionless helmet. He smiled faintly at his friend and was rewarded with a sympathetic look in return.
"I guess that means we somehow managed to make it again, huh?" Flynn said as he tried to sit up sluggishly.
The security program nodded, his expression dire as he moved to help support the stubborn User.
Flynn couldn't help the next words out of his mouth. "Hooray for our side."
That earned him a genuine smile that made the line completely worth it.
He swung an arm around Tron's shoulder and let the program lift him effortlessly to his feet. He looked around at their bleak surroundings and realized that Tron had sought out his recompiling data even out here in this now lifeless sector of the System. It was a little overwhelming to consider but he kept a straight face as he practiced his Zen. He turned his head to Tron.
"We have a lot of work ahead of us."
And for the first time since he'd heard the defiant words of a desperate warrior program ring out into the sky, his friend finally spoke. "...Yes." It wasn't much but the weighted word brought a sense of peace to the weary Flynn as he considered the tone in which it was spoken.
He wouldn't be alone.
Inquiry
Somewhere a Clock is Ticking
"EDI?"
"Yes, Tron?"
"What is a creampuff?"
There was a note of hesitance in EDI's response and Tron looked over at her hologram as she responded. "Creampuff; noun. a hollow pastry made with cream puff paste and filled with custard sauce or whipped cream. It is a type of food that 'users' consume." She managed to refrain from asking why he was inquiring about pastries. Just barely.
Tron shifted awkwardly and frowned. EDI recognized this as a sign that her answer didn't seem to fit with what Tron had expected so she went out on a limb and recited another definition.
"Alternatively, a 'creampuff' can also refer to a weak or timid person in the same context as calling someone a 'sissy'."
"...Oh."
"Does this suffice with the nature of your inquiry?"
"Affirmative. Thank you as always, EDI."
"Logging you out, Tron."
And also as always she was formal as she retreated back to her inner processors and clicked off the holographic interface module. But Tron could have sworn he heard the faintest hints of a 'you're welcome' in her synthesized tone and he smiled faintly as he turned away.
Seeing Red (Till the End)
Made Out of Nothing (All That I Am)
The brightness of the sun hurt his eyes even when he elevated the tint on his visor, but it was nothing compared to the burning behind his eyes whenever he thought about what CLU had done to him. Again.
He couldn't look at Flynn. The User had known all along and only ever tried to make things easy on him. Even as the abomination that he was. Still was.
But an instinct within him, some unyielding subroutine refused to allow him to ask for help. He wasn't sure what to call it--pride? stubbornness? ...stupidity? Was it an undying loyalty to someone who had only ever hurt him? Or was it fear that he'd hurt the one person that meant nothing but true kindness to him?
He could never be certain.
He kept away from all of them. His own imperfection drove him slowly insane--the constant rumbling white noise, the dual colored discs, the warring code that never quit fighting itself from the inside out. He couldn't see straight anymore. Everything was outlined in red. It reminded him of the liquid substance the User leaked the one time...
Rinzler couldn't remember the last time he'd had a peaceful moment. Even alone he was a hopeless pile of pixelated conflict, one battle after another, constant strife bottled into one form. He wanted it to end.
He would never be the same again. He didn't want what he was now. He wanted it to end.
He went to see them one last time. All he could focus on was the conflict. All he could see was red. He wanted it to end.
He attacked without preamble. He made sure it was obvious there was only one way to stop the fighting. He didn't hold back.
He waited for it to end in a shatter of black and red pixels.