PROJECT: THE GRID 1/?
THE GRID
A TRON: LEGACY REBOOT; PG13; 9,015 words; 1/?
a co-production of oxymoronassoc & fated_addiction
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GLITCH MOB animus vox (rerezzed edit) || THE XX intro remix || GLITCH MOB drive it like you stole it || DAFT PUNK son of flynn || CUT COPY future || GLITCH MOB how to be eaten || KNIFE heartbeats || CRYSTAL CASTLES courtship dating || THE BLOC PARTY the prayer remix || DAFT PUNK end of line || BASSNECTAR encore || JUNKIE XL cities in dust || CALLE HANSSON where's your breath at || M83 TEEN ANGST || ELLIE GOULDING lights bassnectar remix || DOWNLOAD.
.000
This is not a story about how technology has failed us nor how we have failed technology. This is an older story. This is a story about gods and monsters and monsters and gods. This is a story about those who have faith and those who have lost it. This is a story about two families, torn apart not by love nor war but by ambition, by perfection. They are all lost. They are all shades. We are all zeroes and ones. And all we want is to believe.
There is something out there bigger than us.
(The Grid.
A digital frontier.
I tried to picture clusters of information as they moved through the computer. What did they look like? Ships? Motorcycles? Were the circuits like freeways? I kept dreaming of a world I thought I'd never see.
And then,
one day,
I got in.)
It's a modern city, built on a grid. There are no winding streets to lose you, just pure uniformity. The buildings are tall, the buildings are small, the buildings are glass and stone and brick and steel. They tower above the people, casting them into shadows along the starkly lit and outlined boulevards, tapering out from the center into a sprawl of lower buildings.
This city has everything you'd expect to find: streets, alleys, roads, boulevards, even highways, buildings--skyscrapers, tenements, apartments, mid-level office blocks, coffee shops, clubs, carparks, sports arenas, police stations, houses, whatever. It's all here, teaming and thriving within the metropolis. It's a wonder of sharp lines, bright lights. It's an oasis of sensation, technology, humanity. Outside the city stretches a wasteland as far as the eye can see. But no one seems to notice that they're trapped on this island, this island of senses, of sight and sound and touch and scent and taste and time and space.
It's a stark, beautiful world, rendered almost exclusively in black and white, like an old movie or a bleached-out circuit board, with hints here and there of icy neon blue and toxic red-orange. It's a perfect world that doesn't know how truly flawed at its core it has become--and always was. It's a world built on lies and bad ideas, absolutes and ideals. It's a world built inside a computer. It's a world of intangibles. It's a world of bytes. It's a world of pixels. They are all pixels. They are all zeroes and ones.
This is a city that has been forsaken by it's god.
.001
Your father leaves when you're five. He tucks you in for the night. You're on the sleeper sofa at Nana and Papa's. You talk about Tron. He gives you a shiny new quarter. You're going to the arcade tomorrow. Your father kisses your forehead, picks up his keys and jacket, says goodnight. He's been working a lot lately, but only when you're asleep so you rarely miss him. You're excited about the arcade, excited to hear more about Tron's adventures, excited to play the game with your dad, just excited in general. Your father was excited before he left and he leaves some of that with you. You close your eyes, you eventually fall asleep, the quarter clutched in your fist. In God We Trust. 1987.
When you wake up, everything has changed and you don't even know it.
Good evening. Our Lead Story: Encom CEO and videogame icon Kevin Flynn has disappeared. He was best know for designing "Tron" and "Space Paranoias", the two best-selling videogames in history. Flynn took ownership of Encom in 1982 as the company skyrocketed to the top of the tech industry. But things changed in 1985 with the unfortunate, untimely death of Flynn's wife, the mother of his young son, Sam. Recently, Encom board members have been troubled by reports of Flynn's erratic, even obsessive behavior. With Flynn missing, the company is now in chaos. This afternoon Encom's board moved to seize control from Flynn's partner Alan Bradley, vowing to return the company to profitability. Loyal to the end, Bradley maintains his belief that Flynn is not missing, and is instead perusing his dream of quote "a digital frontier to reshape the human condition".
"In there is a new world. In there is our future. In there is our destiny."
Even Flynn's most ardent supporters are now acknowledging a difficult truth--Kevin Flynn may have simply run away. And while Flynn's loyalist hope for his imminent return, there is perhaps no one who wouldn't give to have him more than young Sam Flynn, now in the care of his grandparents, heir to an empire in turmoil...What will become of Flynn's legacy and the future of Encom will mostly likely depend on what becomes of this now orphaned little boy.
You grow up. Everyone does. It's hard at first. And then it gets easier. Or that's what people say, anyway. You're not sure if it gets easier or just gets further away, distant, experiences becoming impressions, small moments played over and over again till they're like grooves in a worn record. Not that you own records. Cassettes, maybe as a kid. Then CDs. MP3 players. The world has moved on and you try to, too.
The quarter is always in your pocket.
Everyone always comments on what a quiet child you are, were. Except Alan, never Alan. He's like the dad you never had--not the dad you used to have. Alan is calmer, quieter, more subtle. His wife, Lora, is kind to you, like an aunt. You go to their house, sometimes, and play. Alan is your trustee. He has two children a few years younger than you are--a boy and a girl. They're laughingly called the Miracle Twins. It's not until you're older you really understand why. They're like cousins to you, or what you'd guess cousins would be like. Your father was an only child; your mother's family is and always has been distant.
You aren't quiet. You're thinking. Always thinking.
When you're twelve, your Nana and Papa die within a year of each other. You try to shrug it off, act like it doesn't matter. You cry at the funeral. The tears are hot and harsh and you feel ashamed and, for the first time since your father left, scared and alone. You're always scared and alone. This is what drives you.
You live with Alan until you finish middle school, and then you move to California, to live with your aunt. It's sudden and unexpected. It throws the family into turmoil, but you are solid in your belief. This is the way to get into Cal Tech. And Alan believes in your earnestness; he recognizes a kindred spirit, so he signs the papers and allows it. And you do it. You go to Cal Tech.
And your Junior year, you finally stop to wonder why, to wonder who exactly you're doing this for, what it will prove. You've never wanted to head your father's company. You're 21. You drop out. You drift. You go back to Central City. Alan comes to confront you, like an angry father, but you have no father. You're brilliant. You're better than this he says and you laugh. You're drunk, maybe, probably. I know you say. I know I'm better than this.
This is when the pranks start.
.002
He's running late for his own meeting. He sighs and he can almost see his breath. It's drizzling. Of course it's drizzling. Shake it off, man, he tells himself silently, shifting gears and passing a car. He's going too fast. He's late. He doesn't care.
The cop lights up behind him and he laughs. His stomach doesn't clench, he doesn't hit the brake with worry. No, he speeds up, weaving faster between cars. It's a game now. It's always been a game. A game he knows he'll always win. Which makes it less fun, but it's still a game. The question now is how far he can go, how long he can last until the time runs out. He switches off his headlight, jumps the bike off a down sloping off-ramp, cruises down onto the side street.
The cop is gone, but so is the thrill.
He pulls up in front of the Starbucks that's on street level of the huge skyscraper. It's late. There are no cars parked along the curb. Probably because of street sweeping in the morning, but he doesn't care. This won't take that long. He leaves the bike out front. He's not sure why. Maybe he hopes someone will notice, will up the game. But no one does, so he goes around back, to the entrance bay for the catering or whatever. Well, not whatever. He knows what goes in and out. He just doesn't care.
He uses the program he wrote earlier on his phone to open the door. It's huge, like a vault. He's momentarily impressed; he usually uses the front door or the service entrance. Whatever's in the plan.
And then he's inside and up the stairs and disabling the camera with a move he's practiced the last three months. Ditto running the stairs. If anyone really kept an eye on him, they'd have known he was up to something as soon as he became overly interested in running stadium stairs. But no one is, not these days.
He reaches the top of the stairs just a little out of breath and shuts the door quietly behind himself. The meeting is already in progress, in that huge glass-walled office, but no one is looking at him. They're too busy looking at him. He'd call him his nemesis, but he doesn't care that much. Or maybe he cares too much and knows this man cares too little. Either way, he's moving forward, towards the huge, air-conditioned room that houses the servers. It's too easy to get in. He's been saying that for years, not that anyone listened or cared. Maybe they will now, but too little too late.
Oh, well, maybe someone cared. Those lasers weren't on the schematics he studied nor mentioned on the tour he forced some exec to give him several months past. He shrugs it off, runs down the aisle, opens the drawer he's memorized the location of. Because
Minutes seem like hours, seconds days, megabytes like the slowest moving particle on the planet. He's cursing his stupid smartphone--how smart is it now?--but suddenly it beeps and it's done and he's racing down the opposite aisle from the overweight security guard that creeps slowly along, shouting for him to freeze.
He never really planned to go back down the stairs. Not really. What would be the thrill in that? He always hopes he'll get caught, in the back of his mind at least. So he goes back into the stairwell but up this time, to the roof. He doesn't expect the security guard to follow. Or to argue with him.
"Why? This is your father's company?" the man asks with disbelief.
He shrugs. "Not any more." And then he jumps.
The wind rips at his face and he can't hear the security guard calling for him over the rush of air. The feeling is amazing and he wants it to last forever or at least longer than it does, but it's time, and he pulls the chute.
He doesn't expect to snag it on a streetlight. Goddamn urban living.
But there's a cab and he jumps on it and expects it to stop, but the guy swerves and--who swerves when someone falls on your car? he thinks for the scant moment he has before he's rolling down the front of the car and sprinting for the police blockade that is assembling. You'd think they'd learn, he thinks as he catapults himself across one of the hoods.
The spotlight of the copter comes on then, and it's game over.
"You got me," he laughs, like something possessed, even as he puts his hands in the air.
.003
It's a garage. The pager sits listlessly in the seat next to her.
"Fuck," she breathes. Amy Bradley slides a hand over her face again, half-leaning into her steering wheel. Her head is spinning. Have to go see Sam, her dad had said. Sam. That Sam.
The collar of her trench is cutting into her throat. She reaches and grabs the pager, throwing her car door open and sliding out. She tries not to think about the real reason she's here - that's changed several times since the drive is over. The point is, and there continues to be that: Kevin, it's Kevin. Sam needs to know. It's Kevin's number.
She doesn't know whether or not to knock on the door or just walk in. Part of her holds onto the reasoning that this is Sam; she expects a parade of girls though, clad in button-downs and blushes - all things that come along with that awkward poetry from being the boy genius and heir.
Amy knocks.
There is no response from the other side. She yanks the garage door open, letting it push back. When she steps inside, she greeted by the odd sight of a drab clutter of parts and papers, a motorcycle and few random beers on an odd worktable. There is a t-shirt pinned to a cork board. A box of tools is opened off to the side. She doesn't know how to react, not instantly, but it is very plain, very unlike the picture of Sam she drove over having.
She hears him first. "Sam?" she calls out.
The dog comes first, charging her legs with an excited yelp. Amy tenses and then laughs softly, watching as he scrapes against her legs. She leans forward and brushes her fingers against the crown of his head.
"The prodigal daughter returns."
Amy tenses. The dog loses interest quickly. She hears the sound of a bottle cap hitting the floor and Sam comes into view, moving straight to his couch instead of greeting her.
"Ass -" she starts but stops herself. She remembers the pager, taking a deep breath. "It's been awhile," she mutters. But he doesn't answer. For a brief moment, she regrets getting involved.
She fixes her gaze on Sam.
"Your place is ridiculous," she says finally. Her hands slide into her jacket. Her fingers curl around the pager. "I figured you'd at least have the sort of girlfriend walking around in a button-down that you never wear - only because you've never been the collared shirt kind of guy."
He shrugs. His mouth twitches. "Disappointed?"
"Seriously."
She rocks lightly on her heels, turning away and looking to the window. The city grows right in front of her; it's an odd picture, not like home, not like her parents who choose to live on the outskirts, in a straight and narrow neighborhood with gardens and children on bikes and the occasional party.
Her hand tightens around the pager. "Dad was going to come," she murmurs. "Something came up. Dad says he likes to check up on you."
"Kinda his thing," Sam says dryly.
Her eyes close. This isn't about pointing fingers, she tells herself.
"I came instead, Sam."
"It's been awhile anyway," Sam agrees, and her eyes open, catching him in the reflection of the window. He's leaning back in the chair, his fingers curled around the neck of a beer. It dangles briefly. He then pulls it to his mouth, his eyes never leaving where she stands. "You look good, you know," he tells her too. His voice catches and she watches him swallow. "Saw the occasional picture when you were in college - Alan said you weren't big on visiting."
She tenses. "Did he tell you why?"
Sam snorts.
They're quiet. Amy pushes herself away from the window. She's wasting time, she thinks. She pulls the pager out of her jacket and then sets it onto the coffee table. She doesn't meet Sam's gaze.
"Seriously?" he asks, and she ignores him, moving back, behind the couch. The motorcycle stands, unfamiliar against the stark, almost normal mess of Sam's apartment. It's beautiful, she almost says. It's a Ducati. There was one in the garage when they were kids. She used ride behind Sam, wide-eyed and impressed. He'd go fast, then faster when they were out of sight, away from the neighborhood with her parents unable to watch. It was a strange kind of freedom; for whatever reason, she was happy to share it with Sam.
"Amy."
She blinks, looking up. Sam's holding the pager, staring at her.
"What the hell?" he says, holding it up. "This isn't the eighties."
She rolls her eyes.
"It's my dad's," she says tiredly. Her hand brushes over the motorcycle seat. She hesitates. "I took it from him," she tells him. "He was on his way here to talk to you, but we just got some news -"
His mouth opens. Then closes. There's very little to say; he isn't around anymore, and she's made herself absent for a reason, something her parents seem to continue to hide and hold to themselves. He's watching her curiously.
"Mom's sick," she finishes. "Cancer. I'm home indefinitely."
"Jesus," Sam mutters. His hand rubs over his eyes, his fingers closing tightly over the pager. "Jesus, kid. I'm so sorry."
"I'm not a kid," she says absently.
Sam flushes. He stands, finishing off his beer. "Sorry," he mutters. "But your - your mom? I didn't know."
"If you called more -"
"Because you've been home a lot." His eyes narrow. Sam talks to dad, she remembers. Or rather, dad talks to Sam. It shouldn't surprise her. But Sam softens too, stepping around to join her at his bike. He tries to hand her the pager. "I don't want to fight. Sorry, it's just -" he swallows. "You look good."
She ignores the compliment. It's almost half-hearted, anyway, and she manages to finally pull her jacket off. She folds it neatly over her arm and then tosses it to the couch, considering, for the moment, how she should really approach this. There is the memory of her dad in the kitchen, sitting with his scotch, the pager, and the telephone - her dad never hid defeated well. The argument is still familiar.
"I have to tell you something."
Her fingers press into the leather of the seat. The pager is still in his hand.
"You're in trouble?" he asks, and his mouth twists. There's an old joke here. Something about miracles babies and the greater good; she hasn't forgotten. She's locked it up like the rest of them, angry - it doesn't make her any better, the worst of the worst.
"I'm not in trouble," she murmurs.
His hand drops on the motorcycle seat with hers. He doesn't take it.
"I don't understand."
Amy's lips purse. "It's your dad's number, Sam."
When she looks up, Sam's eyes are already wide, already too blue. He jumps back, and practically throws the pager onto the couch, like it's burned him. He's muttering and whirls around, stalking to the fridge. She watches as he throws back the door and Marvin jolts out of his bed, rushing at his legs.
"Sam."
He doesn't turn. "This is a fucking joke," he growls. She sees him grab a beer. Her arms cross in front of her waist, her fingers digging into her skin. She bites her lip, waiting. "A fucking joke," he growls again, "should've - there's no need to drag this bullshit up."
Her eyes narrow. "Why would I lie to you?"
He laughs. The sound is sharp. She watches as he downs his beer. The bottle slams into the kitchen counter.
"I don't know. Apparently no one knows what you do anymore."
She flinches. "Don't." Her fingers pinch the bridge of her nose. She remembers her dad again. "I'm not trying to start anything," she says slowly. Her mouth twists. "You know, my mom and all. There's dad too, at home, probably passed out - I don't know. I don't have to explain myself to you even if I deserved that. But Jesus, Sam. Look at the pager. It's your dad's number."
He doesn't say anything. He opens the fridge again. He grabs another beer. She hears the cap fall this time - somewhere at his feet. Marvin scurries away from his legs, going back to hide in his bed.
There's another memory that surfaces; this time she's just a kid, and there's her brother, of course, and Sam, the three of them during a lazy summer talking, not talk about plans. It's Jamie and Sam that she remembers the most, heads bowed over some stupid notes - theirs not hers, never hers. They were laughing but it was a wonderful feeling. It was home. Then, back, then, it was home.
"Can't do shit with glass," he says finally.
"Sam -"
He drinks slowly this time. "I bought these on sale. The girl at the counter thought it was the greatest thing - should've told her you can't do shit with glass."
Amy steps away from the bike.
"Did you hear me?" she presses.
"I heard you," he says.
She feels awkward now. She didn't come here with a plan. She figured she'd go and say sam, your dad and like everyone else, he'd wake up and they'd talk about this, whatever this is supposed to mean.
She moves into the kitchen though, pressing against the counter next to him. Sam's head drops, and he's studying the tiles. His fingers curl around the bottle and he slides it back and forth, curling his wrist to force the motion into a circle. Her throat tightens and she just feels tired.
"You should probably go."
Amy snorts. "Fuck you."
His lips curl a little. "There's nothing to talk about."
"I'm not going anywhere," she says.
He pushes the beer across the counter. She doesn't take it. She shakes her head and Sam rolls his eyes.
"It doesn't bite."
"I remember the last time I drank with you," she mutters. Her nails click against the the tiles. Sam laughs awkwardly. "Idiot," she says.
"You remember that?" he says, and leave it to Sam, she thinks; he's trying to take the subject change and she wonders if she should just let him, then bring it back to the problem at hand. Her lips quirk but she catches herself before she smiles too. She shakes her head.
"I mean- " he starts.
She reaches for the beer. The bottle presses against her mouth. She bites a sigh and then drinks.
"We made out in my mom's kitchen. And you were drunk. And I was - we're not talking about this."
Sam smirks. Her mouth is warm and she flushes, looking away. He leans over the counter though, stealing the beer back, his fingers hovering over hers. She remembers, she thinks. She remembers that stupid, hot and sticky summer where they weren't really talking about anything but a congratulations. She remembers his hands on her hips, and the way she sunk back into the kitchen counter; it was the whiskey that she swallowed, his mouth murmuring into hers, her fingers in his hair trying to pull him closer, surprised that this was sam.
"The pager," she murmurs.
"It was hot as hell," he ignores her. The bottle hits the counter. "Your mom sent me inside to go and get you and -"
"Sam."
Her hands drop against the counter.
"You brought it up, kid," he says.
She narrows her eyes. Her throat is tight. "I came here to talk to you, asshole," she murmurs. She can feel it start to build in her. "Not do - " she waves her hand between them. "I don't know - Pick up the goddamn pager."
"Did Alan tell you? That it was dad's number? Is this some stupid thing you're doing to get back at me?"
Her eyes widen. "Are you making this about kissing you? Are you really that stupid, Sam? Are you really making this about kissing?" her voice catches and this is just stupid, she thinks, this is just so stupid and such a bad idea. Maybe she came here to talk. Maybe not. There's feeling in the pit of her stomach, curling, twisting and she hasn't felt like this in years.
"You're an asshole," she breathes. "You're such an asshole."
She marches back to the couch, grabbing the pager. Marvin follows her too, half-growling, half-whimpering in excitement. She ignores the dog and grabs her coat, gripping it into her fist.
When she turns, Sam's moving to sit on his counter. His legs dangle off the side, swinging lightly as he finishes off his beer. She catches herself, her eyes burning. This was a terrible idea, she thinks again.
"I came for my dad," she tries. "I came because -" her mouth opens and closes. She sighs. "It was the right thing to do."
"Not interested," he shrugs, and his nonchalance is almost lazy. "Sorry you wasted a trip up here."
Amy hurls the pager at him, too furious to watch him stumble back against the counter as he catches it. It's happening, again, that anger that crawls, that still lives inside of her; there's no curbing it and looking at Sam, she sees her dad, she sees Jamie, and all the years that have just exhausted her. He used to be the person she thought would get it.
His eyes are huge and she growls again, trying to regain some kind of control. But she's starting to shake too, her nails digging into her jacket. There are more insults, too many even, and it's her disappointment that hurts the most. She doesn't know what she was expecting from him. Like everyone else.
Amy's voice is soft, and too calm. "You can go to hell, Sam. It's your life. I'm done living in it."
Her mouth snaps shut. She turns around, her boots scuffing into his floor. She doesn't give him a chance to answer. She rips herself back into her jacket, stalking to the garage door and pushing it up. She pushes too hard and it hurts her palm. Her fingers are shaking.
It's colder outside and she half-expects to see Sam standing, watching her with some amusement before she gets to the safety of her car - even calling some half-hearted insult out because they were kids once. He is the only other person who can make her feel seventeen again, just like her father, and go back to that day where everything changed. This is why she came, she thinks. Always falling back into bad habits.
Jamie was the good twin. She'll never forget that.
In the car, she nearly drops her keys. Her eyes are wet and tired and she turns the car on, the heavy rumbling startling her to look up. Sam's at the garage door, gripping the handle and staring at her curiously, waiting for her to go.
It's easy to throw the car back into reverse.
He cuts his lights first.
The house is nothing like he remembers: a little bit smaller, a little bit warm, and two cars in the driveway. Sam hasn't been back at Alan's house since the graduation party; he likes the anonymity of the city and Alan respects his privacy and somehow that puts together the silent agreement they've had for the last couple of years. Alan can try. Sam can pretend it doesn't get to him.
But he can't help giving into some kind of grin, rueful as he slides off his bike. He shoves his hands into his jacket and quietly finds the path to the back of the house. The grass is stick against his boots, sideswiping the heels and staining them with mud and dew. He can't remember if his old bedroom was on this side or that side of the house, but Amy's is just over the kitchen, the single window opening over the backyard. The light is on, the window is open, and he's relieved - he shouldn't be because he was kind of an ass and she was kind of bitchy and admitting that he was wrong isn't something he can just go ahead and do.
Sam still searches for something to throw. His eyes darting around the yard; he sees a few stones, too big, too awkward, and too easy to attract everybody else. She'd kill him, he thinks.
"Damn it," he mutters, and grabs a fistful of dirt, a few pebbles catching against his palm. He eyes the window again and starts throwing them, one, two, and three, frowning as they tap the side frame. Nothing happens. He clears his throat. "Amy," he whispers loudly, half-calling. His hands cup his mouth and he sputters, coughing dirt away from his skin. "Fuck - Amy."
He pauses. This is stupid, he thinks. This is so stupid. He's sorry for Alan and Lora and the list of things that he just can't fix or react to; it's years and years unfolding, there and then, in this small, soft backyard that he used to catch himself watching the road even though he knew that his dad wasn't coming back. It's your dad's number, Sam.
The phone in his pocket starts to vibrate.
Sam curses. His fingers pull it out, ignoring the pager as he answers the damn phone. There's a dry laugh.
"What are you, twelve?"
His eyes narrow. "Fuck you." He's blushing too. "Are you gonna let me up?"
He can hear something rustle. He turns his gaze up to the window, catching the shadow as Amy materializes in front of him. She looks tired, he thinks. He feels guilty too, shuffling in the grass.
"You were an ass," she says.
"I'm terrible with girls."
Amy snorts.
"Look," he starts awkwardly. "I - let me up? I want to talk," he fumbles. He wants company, really. He doesn't want to walk into the arcade alone; he isn't a kid and sitting with the memories now is different. "I'll be quiet," he adds.
She's quiet. He's gripping the phone, waiting. He can't see her that well. He just keeps imagining her, back at his place, her eyes too wide and too goddamn bright. He never remembers her like this as a kid. It makes him uncomfortable. All of this makes him uncomfortable.
"You're an ass," she says, and he listens to her sigh, her arm dangling out of the window. The light catches her bracelet. "And it's too late to have this conversation," she says, "the very same conversation that I wanted to have back at your place."
"Seriously though," he tries to ignore her. He doesn't remember if the key's in the back or the front, under one of those faux rocks that Lora loved mix in with the gardening. He had a key too - has one, but it's been lost for years to his work desk.
"Go home, Sam."
Amy's voice is steady. "I told you I'm done."
"Your dad's a light sleeper still?"
"You would know better than I do," she says. There's something else, something more. She sighs loudly. "Go home."
He throws his hands up. "I'm ignoring you," he says.
"You always have."
He can't tell if she's just amused or annoyed or a little bit of both. But he's frustrated and he can't talk to her like this. He forces himself closer to the house, eyeing the side curiously. There's a long plank of fencing, braided and frayed into the house. He cracks his knuckles.
"Sam -" He hangs up the phone, pocketing it. He moves closer to the fence, hooking his fingers into the wood. He pulls hard but nothing moves. Steady enough, he thinks. Sam grins.
He climbs easily, hoisting himself against the fencing without thinking; he's careful, measuring his balance, catching his shifts in weight, which parts of the wood are too old or weather damage. His hands grasp the window ledge and Amy darts back, rolling her eyes. He pushes himself over the ledge, grunting hard and then dropping himself into her room.
"Jesus," Amy breathes. "You'll wake up the house."
He snorts. "I'm okay, really."
His eyes dart around the room. It's still the same; the large, opaque walls housing a few posters. There's Nirvana framing the spot over her bed, the iconic image of the baby and the fishing line fading into the background. There are others - the hot genie girl, the band that she dragged both him and her brother off to see instead of heading to the movies like they promised her parents. He knows where she keeps the CDs, the ones that she'll never admit to listening to, the ones that he'd catch her, every once in awhile, humming to. It's fascinating the way the memories come back too. The dresser in the corner houses several photos, photos that he doesn't remember but knows that they're supposed to be there. He catches Alan smiling back, his wife; there are babies pictures and then one of him and Amy on her graduation, side by side and smiling in amusement. He doesn't remember that.
But it's the suitcase in the corner, large, imposing, that catches him off-guard, that doesn't belong. There are clothes inside still. The hint of silk draped over the side. He doesn't know why it bothers him, but it does.
"The room hasn't changed," he says finally, breathless. He rubs his eyes. He turns back to her. His hands shove into his pockets. "Doesn't that, like, weird you out or something?"
She shrugs.
He tries again. "You said I was wasting time."
"I said I came to talk to you," she murmurs, and sits on the bed, curling her legs underneath her. They're longer. Her skin is softer, pale. Her long blonde hair is unraveling at the nape of her neck and his eyes dart to her mouth. Shit, he thinks. "Obviously, you didn't listen."
"Had a few beers," he says.
Amy scoffs.
"Look," he mutters. He waves his hands around. "I'm not good at this. Get dressed. Come to the arcade with me. I just - I don't know how -" to do this, he doesn't finish. Sam doesn't talk about feelings. Sam talks about impulses and mechanics. Sam talks about how things work.
He doesn't know how to start again either. He looks at her helplessly, watching as her gaze ducks down, drops to her lap. She's staring at her hands. He watches her swallow. It's your dad's number, Sam. You just don't leave after that. She is supposed to get that.
"Sit down," she says finally.
He blinks. She pats the side next to her, her fingers hovering over the blankets. He's hesitant, but drops down anyway. He sinks into the bed. She exhales and he can't help himself, nudging her shoulder.
"Just apologize," she mutters but her mouth is twitching and he can't help but feel some kind of thrill. He flashes another smile, warmer, and she lets out a laugh. He reaches forward too, pushing her hair away from her face, just so that he can see her. "Sam," she warns.
"Sorry." He doesn't pull his hand away. "I'm sorry."
Her mouth opens but she says nothing. They both listen as the stairs outside her door begin to moan. Amy's eyes widen. Sam catches himself in a half-grin, bringing his fingers to her mouth. He can't help it. She tries to smack his hand away but he shakes his head.
"Don't want your dad to hear you," he teases. His voice is low and he shifts into her space. He forgets - it's just a moment, it's just so easy to let himself forget because she's here and he likes this kind of distraction. Her hair loops around his fingers and he watches as her eyes widen.
He could say something but he doesn't. For once, Sam stays quiet and they listen - or rather Amy listens. Sam just takes her in. It's selfish, the whole thing is so stupid because by now, if he hadn't stopped, just to see, he'd be halfway there and into checking what your dad's number means.
"Sam," she breathes, and he leans over her, his mouth sliding against hers. He ignores the sound that she makes, or the fact that her hand frames his face in return, that he likes the way her fingers sort of spread against his jaw. She pulls herself closer to him and her teeth catch the bottom of his lip, just as she drags her tongue along it.
He pulls her back too, leaning into the bed. But he falls back, then laughs into her mouth when she swings a leg over his lap, pinning him and straddling him into her bed. She pulls back slightly, her mouth hovering over his. He growls and she smirks. His eyes are half-lidded and he feels her fingers curl around his wrists, pinning them back by his head.
"I'm going to get dressed," she murmurs. This is ridiculous, he thinks. He can't even think of Amy as that almost kid sister because that just never happened. There are no excuses. But when she smirks, almost heavy-handed, he finds himself closing his eyes to her mouth against his jaw and that stupid laugh that he keeps forgetting.
"Amy -"
"No," she cuts him off. "I'm going to get dress. Then I'm going to come back. Then you're going to ask me for help. Then I'm going to say yes and you're going to stop trying to do this."
He chuckles. "You're the one on top."
She pulls back, drawing herself off of him and there's a flush spreading against her cheeks. He stays lying back, tucking his arms under his head and watching her in amusement. He holds onto that amusement, clearing his head.
"I missed you too," he drawls.
Amy opens her bedroom door and flips him the finger.
They let themselves laugh climbing out of her bedroom window; it's like they're kids again, and she's flushed, ignoring his help when she jumps down into the grass. She does catch his hand and he lets her, taking the time to fix and fidget with the collar on her jacket.
"Grass," he lies awkwardly.
She steps around him with a shrug. He waits for a moment and then shoves his hands into his pockets, his fingers curling back around the pager tightly. His eyes close too. Dad, he thinks. For fuck's sake. He doesn't know what he's walking into. There's this strange sense of uneasiness that lingers; it's been there for most of the night, after she came, after he sat there and stared at the damn pager, rolling the quarter back and forth over his fingers.
He blinks. When Sam catches up, Amy is leaning against his bike. Her gaze is glued to a row of windows in the front. Her mouth sets into a frown and for a moment, it's shit and Alan. He's not really ready for that kind of conversation.
"You okay?" he still asks, and Amy doesn't answer. He follows her gaze and they both watch the lights in the front of the house turn on. Sam tenses, ready to move but Amy stays settled by his bike.
It unfolds slowly, the curtain peeling back as they both catch Alan at the window. Sam swallows and looks to Amy watching as she grows both sad and serious. He waits for her to say something because there is nothing, nothing he could say in this. What's between him and Alan is something he can't give to her.
He can only give Alan a slight nod. The other man raises his hand in greeting and Amy makes a soft, unintelligible sound.
"Don't worry," she says softly. "He's not going to come out."
Sam grows uncomfortable. His hands go back to his pockets. "Should we go?"
Amy grabs the helmet off the back of his bike, stepping away. He watches her fingers flex against it and when she turns her back to the window, she looks up at him. Her expression is full of grim determination.
"This has gone on far enough," she says.
Sam slides onto the bike first. He won't tell her but he gets it.
.004
The arcade sits as silent as it always has. He's driven by it a few times a year. Someone, paid by his trust, or more accurately, tasked by Alan, checks the place a few times a year to make sure it hasn't been vandalized. Not that anyone would really dare to malign this haunted landmark, the last remnant of this city's golden son. The tower downtown doesn't count; that came later. Once a year, people lay flowers at the alcove doorway, like some homage to the dead. But Sam knows better. Even if he was dead, he didn't deserve these flowers. Probably in Costa Rica somewhere.
He remembers the place from when he was a kid. It wasn't new even then. Flynn's Arcade sits in an old brick industrial center, far enough from the gentrified Old Town to still be scummy, even 30 years later. It's a silent neighborhood, without the lofts you might expect in the neighboring buildings. This is, in part, Sam's fault. He found out, several years earlier, he owns most of the surrounding blocks, bought by his father on a whim before he was even born.
The brick arches shade the doorways, even when it's light out. Tonight, they seem gloomier than ever. His key turns in the lock, heavily, awkwardly.
"Hurry up," Amy breaths behind him, shooting nervous looks.
"Scared?" he asks as he twists his wrist to the left.
"This is fucking creepy, alright?" she replies, hands stuffed in the pockets of her leather jacket. He can feel her breath on his neck.
"It's not like we're breaking and entering. Ahh," he exhales heavily as the door gives suddenly and his hand smashes down on the handle. It creaks and he steps inside the gloomy depths, lit a post-apocalyptic orange from the streetlight on the corner.
"Gross," Amy murmurs in reaction to the dust that hangs heavily in the air, though truly she is fascinated. Row after row of silent, ghostly, plastic-shrouded arcade games stretch out before them. She has this vague, nagging memory that is nothing more than a blur of lights and sounds--voices shouting and music and most of all the midi tones of the games. She shakes it off. She can't remember ever being here, though she's so sure she has, as a toddler she guesses. Not since then. She's known of its existence, through her father, but she was never curious enough to bother. No--that isn't true. There was never a reason. Not until now. Until now, it was just some silent relic Sam dragged around with him, refusing developers' offers, like his own personal ghost.
"Where's the breaker box?" she asks after a beat, mashing a thumb into her smartphone, holding it up like a flashlight in the dusty orange gloom.
"Uhh," he says, sounding stupid, which pleases her somehow. He thinks he's so smart...
"Right of the door, I think. Dumb place to put it. Anyone could touch that."
"Old building," he snaps defensively, prying back the grey metal cover.
Amy holds her phone high over his shoulder and he scans the worn white reliefs Dynamo punch labels on the stickers next to each breaker before shrugging and jamming his thumb hard enough to turn white and then pink again to each one--except the one clearly marked for the neon sign above the door outside ("Flynn's" it reads. Above it still towers a now vintage billboard for Space Paranoias that ambitious hip photographers climb the fire escape in the alley behind to access for photoshoots.).
The overhead lights don't come on but everything else does. They seem to be the only things truly shut off, as if someone had come into the arcade as soon as it was sure Flynn was never coming back and had just thrown the switch rather than shutting down the machines. Logically, Amy knows that can't be what happened, that they surge of electricity sparked the games back to life, even the jukebox that comes to life loudly blasting an old Journey hit single.
"Creepy," Sam murmurs, moving to the jukebox, pressing his hands into the plastic cover to force it taunt enough to see the song displayed there.
"Separate Ways, cute," Amy drawls. She isn't sure where to look, her eyes dragging from clear shrouded machine to clear shrouded machine, each screaming its 8-bit theme song into the stagnant air. There is one in particular, however, that draws her, draws them both, like a nagging sensation of childhood they can't quite put their fingers on.
The machine is set up between two doorways. One presumably leads upwards into the ghostly lit office that presides over the arcade. The other, who knows. Concessions? It's the least of their questions in this moment. They both hesitate at the end of the black and white checkered aisle and then move towards it like two souls possessed. TRON it screams in brilliant blue neon lights, a half-arc over it to the right, below it to the left. Sam yanks the plastic off the machine in a violent tug and they stare at it for what feels like an eternity, watching the blue and yellow pixilated racers make square turns over and over across the black grid. The groaning noise of the racers roars in both their ears, drowning out even the music that blares behind them.
Sam shoves his hand into the pocket of his jeans suddenly, fetching out a quarter, which he flips in a practiced move before shoving unceremoniously into the machine.
"It's not gonna--" Amy starts, feeling a sudden surge of pity for him even as the coin pops out and crashes with a tiny, recognizable sound to the floor.
"Move," Sam snarls, and she steps back as he crouches, bending to retrieve the coin. "Shit," he says suddenly, low enough she thinks she mishears the tone.
"I have another quarter," she says but that isn't it. He's running his finger along the floor. "What?" she demands angrily.
He ignores her, staring up at the console before rising to his feet and yanking suddenly, violently at the console.
"Sam--" she begins but it's cut off as the game swings away from the wall, revealing a small metal door in the brick wall. "Son of a bitch," she mutters, following him as he drags it opens and crawls through. The door swings shut behind them, but neither seems to notice.
"You know," she says conversationally as they move along the passage. Another 80s hit starts up behind them. Sweet dreams are made of the... "If this was a horror movie, your dad, now an axe murderer, waiting for us some 30 years, would leap out now." She laughs weakly. It isn't funny. Sam seems to not have heard her. He's holding his own phone up now like a flashlight. Who even owns a flashlight anymore except in a earthquake kit? Amy wonders to herself as she trips down the steps behind him in the gloom, one hand on the rough brick wall. There has to be a light switch somewhere, she's thinking and then he's stopped and she runs into his back, inhaling the scent of his leather jacket and him, Sam. She takes a quick step back and to the side, looking around him at the door to the utilities main.
It isn't locked. Or rather, the key sits there, plain as day, untouched, in the lock. Sam frowns hard, turns the handle, and they step inside.
It's anything but a utilities main.
It's a second office, one that rivals the one above. Or rather, surpasses it. This isn't a place to entertain clients and lounge about, lord of the tiny arcade empire. This is a place of work. Several strange contraptions litter the room. Below a small window-vent sits a console, a chair, lit orange by the streetlight outside. The lights, like upstairs, have not come on down here.
Sam doesn't seem to notice. "Son of a bitch," he murmurs as he drags the light of his phone around the small room. This place, just as dust-encrusted as upstairs, is somehow creepier, more personal. On a tack board, moth eaten and fly blown, are pictures of Sam as a baby, of Kevin, of Alan--her dad--of all of them. A hand-held console to a game sits abandoned on a couch. Metal file cabinets still hang half-open.
He ignores the shelves, the instruments, the dust-covered whatevers, and makes his way to the leather and chrome oh-so-80s chair tilted just so away from the desk. Only it isn't a desk, she realizes after a moment, feeling stupid. She's seen touch console computers her whole life, even if she does most of her work on a laptop or a hand-held tablet that fits in her purse.
Sam sits down at it and wipes away two decades worth of dust. He grimaces and flails a hand and the dust finally lets go, settles on the floor like a rejected pet. The music beats a time in her backbone, faster than her elevated pulse.
Nothing happens for what feels like an extraordinarily long time. The console remains blank, dead, and then suddenly it stirs, chirping to life with the distinctive green-black display of her early childhood. But then a number appears, running a tally that keeps increasing as they watch. 28:11:20:16:22:16:34...
Sam taps his fingers again on the clean spot he created on the console and it chirps again, displaying three overlapping windows with a on-screen keyboard. He wipes his hand again across the screen, sits down. The top window is a prompt and Sam types as furiously as one can into a keyboard with zero feedback. It's some sort of DOS prompt, but not DOS. The light of the console reflects up into his face and he looks worried, concerned, confused even. This is not what he expected to find, but perhaps it was.
$ whoami
flynn
$
"Flynn," he murmurs in an offhand tone, like he's forgotten she's there. She bites her lower lip, ignores him, reads the screen.
$ uname -a
SolarOS 4.0.1 Generic_50203-02 sun4m i386
Unknown.Unknown
$ login -n root
Login incorrect
login:
"Let's try the backdoor," he says to himself as his fingers shift and slide quickly across the keys.
login: backdoor
No home directory specified in password file!
Logging with home=/
#
He looks annoyed and his fingers hesitate over the keys.
"Just look at the history," Amy says impatiently, her fingers itching to take control.
#bin/history
488 cd/opt/LLL/controller/laser/
489 vLLSDLasterControLc
490 make
491 make Install
492 ./sanitv_check
493 ./configure -o test.cfg
494 vil test.cfg
495 vi ~/last_will_and_testament.txt
496 cat/proc/meminfo
497 ps -a -x- u
498 kill -9 2207
499 kill 2208
500 rs pa -x -u
501 touch/ep/LLL/run/ok
502 LLSDLaserControl -ok1
#
His fingers hover above the keys as he tries to read the file and make sense of it.
"Run the last file," she murmurs and he nods his agreement.
#bin/LLSDLaserControl -ok 1
APATURE CLEAR?
Amy glances around. Nothing has moved. Nothing has turned on. "Yeah," she murmurs.
Sam looks back over his shoulder at her, shrugs, hits Y.
The room suddenly grows brighter, too bright, not like the lights have suddenly decided to come on but like they are burning, but they're not burning they're falling. There is a triple sounding of a beep, like a digital camera about to go off, and then---blank, nothing. Falling, but not to the floor. Just nothing. Falling.