(no subject)
Two fics finished in the last two days! Wish I knew what happened so I could make it happen more. :D
This fic: resulted from a snippet Oftaggrivated posted from a program manual. It was mostly written weeks ago, but the beginning was problematic until I figured out how to take Diane Duane's start-as-late-in-the-story-as-possible advice and got the rest finished.
Fandom: Tron (early Uprising era)
Genre: G, gen, drama
Warning: canonical mental health issues, identity loss, GORN IS CREEPY OK
Summary: Able takes a young program to Gorn for disc edits that might shield him from the Occupation.
Title:
Substrate
The text, stored as a text object, needs to be converted to a path object for editing. This process is not reversible and the text will lose its memory of being text.
--Inkscape: Guide to a Vector Drawing Program
Substratum (linguistics): a language that influences but is supplanted by a second language.
The young program hung back, uneasy in the harsh light and chilled, damp air, as Able negotiated with the program they’d come to hire for help. Worse than the Sentries that had eyed him as they passed, worse than the Guards that Able had hidden him from -- this program, the only one who could save him, had looked at him with cold amusement, as though she could take him apart.
“I never thought I’d see the cycle," she drawled, her single eye fixed on Able for the time being. "Letting me into your disc. Of course you understand I could do anything I wanted to your code? And you'd never even know it until it kicked in."
"But you won't, Gorn," sighed Able, "'cos if it ever came out, which it would, you'd lose whatever face you still have in this slaghole. If you don't want to do business, just say so. Enough with the sparring."
"You'd rob an old program of one of the few perks of this 'slaghole' existence?" The disc editor sat back, smiling thinly. "I know you’re not going to walk out. You won't find anyone who can do what I do. There's no one left."
The younger program pulled back as she turned abruptly to face him, the patch over her left eye glimmering with tiny red lights. She waved him forward peremptorily, ignoring Able’s glower.
"You -- come here and let me see you. Do you understand what this would mean to your future?"
The program inched forward, lights low, eyes wide and fearful. Hesitantly, he ventured, "I'll be a mechanic, and they won't make me a Sentry?"
"Why don't you want to be a Sentry?" pressed Gorn. “Would you have come here on your own?”
"Yes -- yes.” His hands moved, wringing together of their own accord, and he looked down at them, spread them apart as though confused to see them empty. “I don't want to fight. I'd never be good at it. I don't want to corral people and -- and take them to the Games."
"You just want to be left alone to carry out your function." The young program nodded hopefully, and Gorn snapped, "Well, you can forget about that. If I make you a mechanic, you won't even remember what it was, much less how to do it."
The program flinched. Gorn waved an airy hand, casual and relentless. "This isn't a simple cosmetic touch-up. Do you understand? You'll be a mechanic, all right, but you’ll end up slow, constantly overclocked; you'll have trouble with simple tasks. And you won't know why. If you had any idea what had happened to you, those precious Sentries you're so unfond of could read it on your disc, so if you go through with this, I won’t be leaving any sign to anyone without my skills that you were ever tampered with. And a lot of safety that’ll buy you, with innocents being plucked off the streets every day."
She sat back again, fingers drumming on her desk, untouched by the terror on the young program’s face.
"I can't keep my function?" he said faintly.
Gorn shook her head. "You're too small. I can tell just watching you stand there. Whatever information you were written to hold must be cycles out of date. What do you do, street-sweeping? Data-pushing? Turn the lights on and off?" She swept a derisive hand at him. "You’d barely make a Sentry at all, after they stripped everything else away. You don't have the capacity for a second function."
The program's lights flickered with embarrassment, but he lifted his chin with a timid sort of false bravery. "You might be surprised--"
"No." Gorn steepled her hands, smiling a narrow smile, and the program could feel Able’s anger radiating through the steadying clasp on his shoulder, fluttering against the too-simple core where his own might have surged had he had the capacity for it. "I really wouldn't. Mind you, the rectification process would strip you of your entire identity, so you don't have much of a choice."
Wavering, the young program looked to Able, the one patch of kindness he’d found since landing in Argon and finding it full of red-lined soldiers.
“It is your choice,” said Able gently. “I can find you a place to hide, but if they’re looking for you, you won’t be safe in any city under Clu’s control.”
"Will I remember who I am?"
"Your designation?" Gorn shrugged, indifferent. "Yes. Your processing rate will drop and you won't remember your previous function, but there are plenty of programs with duplicate names. There's no harm in leaving it."
The program hesitated, fighting lockup, panic flooding his circuits, trembling as the cold air reverberated with the pressure of a Recognizer rumbling by overhead.
"I don't want to be a Sentry," he whispered. Then, louder: "I wasn't written to be a Sentry. I'll do it."
He still shuddered when Gorn took the disc from his outstretched hand, as though her very touch was twisting his code already, reconfiguring it into something he might not recognize when it was all over. She weighed the disc on her hands and raised her single eye above its narrow circuit.
"You weren't written to be a mechanic, either. But in a moment, you will be."
.o0o.
He rode home on the back of Able's lightcycle, eyes closed tightly to escape phantom memory links associating him with the sectors they passed through. He wasn't sure he wanted to catch another glimpse of his own reflection, either. Had his skin been a little lighter before, his eyes a little narrower? He couldn't remember.
Keep him on high-grade rations for nine millicycles, a voice had said, though he didn't know whose. He’ll hibernate very deeply for a couple of nights. Let him, if you don’t want to corrupt what little storage capacity he has left. The voice had been cool -- no, cold; he shivered. Tell me what it's like someday, having somebody carrying part of you around in his disc? Personally I’d recycle him. You know, you could throw him back if there are any complications you don’t want to live with. I can always use another assistant. And Able had growled I know what happens to your assistants, or had he? There was no context anymore, and the impressions left by the words were fading as his memory wrote over their paths.
Able shifted, and he realized he must be holding on too tight. But all the old program said was, “You’ll be fine,” and paused at the next light to pat his arm.
The new mechanic loosened his grip and hid his eyes again, replaying the words over and over so he wouldn’t forget.
They slid smoothly into the hangar, the bright lights and loud noises filtering through until the young program raised his head. Bewildering at first, the hectic activity slowly resolved into identifiable parts: workzones, vehicles, teams and individual programs wheeling carts of add-ons or tinkering with glitched hardware.
There were lightjets everywhere.
The newcomer realized his fingers were itching to get into one.
Able’s lightcycle had collapsed back into its baton, its owner taking a few steps out onto the main floor, drawing curious mechanics from around (and in a few cases, under) the vehicles they were repairing.
"Listen up!" Even those who hadn't looked up before snapped to attention. "I’ve brought you a new hand. He’s from Gallium--" Gallium? -- "and he's gonna need to learn how we do things down here, so you're all going to need to pitch in and get him acclimated."
Some of the programs in the back were whispering. His circuits. Do you see that? What's wrong with him? He'd better not be carrying some kind of virus around -- pitch in? I'll pitch in if he -- maybe he's an ISO -- no, Able wouldn't have brought him here if -- but the words didn't seem to carry much meaning.
"But he's not bad with a coding tool," Able went on, silencing them with a stare, "and I'm bringing him in on the strength of that. He'll be on the alpha shift. Treat him nicely."
The crews began to disperse again as Able steered the newcomer toward the lift, pointing out the break room and various repair bays on the way. It all felt a little familiar, as though if one of the tool drawers were opened he would know what was inside and how to use it. But it was all unfamiliar at the same time, and the reasons why kept trickling away.
"I'll get someone to show you around tomorrow. Don't let them give you the last locker on the end," said Able, his voice filtering easily through the noisy hum from out on the floor. "Meantime, this is the elevator to the barracks, where you'll be staying till we assign you a room, and that’s my office, which is where I’ll be while I get your permissions filled out so we can clock you in. See me in the morning before your first shift -- and come in any time if there are any problems. I mean that. But you're gonna do fine."
He strode away, and the new mechanic blinked, watching a couple of the programs who’d been in the front of the crowd. Maybe they were on the alpha shift with him. Maybe, he thought, they'd be friendly.
One of them broke away from the crowd, accompanied by the girl he'd been working with. "Greetings!" he called to the newcomer, striding over and waving a hand expansively. "Welcome to the madhouse. Just like Able, dragging in another stray." He laughed raucously, and his shoulder was immediately whacked by his colleague; she looked annoyed, and maybe a little resigned. But the guy's smile was friendly, and he didn't look like he thought he’d said anything bad. Maybe being kidded like this was part of being included.
"Don't mind him. I'm Mara," the girl said, smiling, "and this jerk here is Zed. We're on alpha with you. What's your name?"
The program looked down, abashed, and glimpsed a grey secondary circuit on his own chest.
That's not right. It should be... it should be....
He couldn't remember. It was grey now.
But he didn't have to dig far for the answer to Mara’s question, and smiled back as he dredged it up: the right answer, the one that felt like even after whatever had happened, it still belonged.
"My name? My name's Link."
_____
This fic: resulted from a prompt for a give-me-a-fic-sentence-and-I'll-give-you-the-next-five meme. evillordzog's prompt, which is the fic's first sentence, involved a situation whose resolution we never canonically got, and as these things do, it expanded.
Fandom: Tron (post-Uprising)
Genre: PG, gen, aaaaaangst
Warning: major character death (in the prompt)
Prompt: Paige and Rinzler looked at each other across the empty space of the control room as the remains of General Tesler and the Renegade mingled together and faded into nothingness.
Title:
Aftershock
Paige and Rinzler looked at each other across the empty space of the control room as the remains of General Tesler and the Renegade mingled together and faded into nothingness.
The enforcer, discs flaring like flames, seemed to fade in and out as Paige’s taxed systems finally rebelled, her sight flickering with a replay of the Renegade’s terrified face - unmasked at last before the end came. Rinzler had seemed to pause, just for a moment, before striking; or perhaps she’d imagined it.
Awash with heat and pain, she barely felt her palms hit the floor.
The glitching rattle grew louder. He would kill her now, and justly; the penalty for murdering a superior could be nothing else, and she could hardly resist with a fractured shoulder and the aftershocks from Tesler’s hands still stabbing through her. Shaking with the pain of another flare, she laid her disc flat on the floor, unwilling to spend her last moments syncing with its memory of flight and death.
The hum of Rinzler’s discs drew closer, and their light rippled over the cracks the swift, ugly battle had left in the tiles.
But nothing happened.
Slowly her circuits cooled, her vision focused; Rinzler’s boots were just in sight, beside Tesler’s discarded disc. The pain in Paige’s shoulder got worse, or maybe she’d recovered enough to really feel it, but she didn’t look up; she’d looked up to too many programs and found nothing but betrayal and pain, and it was enough-
Rinzler’s glove closed over her disc.
Her hand shot out instinctively, clapping it to the ground, and her head whipped up to glare at the glossy black helmet, her own warped reflection telling her nothing. Ridiculous - he wasn’t going to derezz her with her own disc, not when he had two of his own.
Something had crunched in her shoulder, and another shudder ran through her, impossible to repress, her hand trembling on the disc. She couldn’t have held it down if he’d exerted the slightest effort; she wasn’t sure why she’d tried, except that not trying would have been unthinkable.
He didn’t wrench it away. Instead, his low incessant growl spiked a bit higher: a warning.
A choice.
She let go, and painfully, shakily, stood.
Rinzler rose fluidly, disc in hand, no scar on his perfect armor. Paige’s damaged shell creaked ominously, but she forced herself to stand straight, to face him. It didn’t matter. Her eyes blurred again, stinging, mercifully blotting the images as the enforcer flicked through her memories: the trap Tesler had set, the evidence the Renegade had brought to suborn her, the change in Tesler’s face when he understood that the truth was out at last, beyond explanation or recall.
"If he’d denied it," she whispered bitterly, "if he’d said anything else, I would have listened. But he laughed-"
Laughed, and then tried to kill her. Somehow, the laughter had been worse.
Gradually she realized that the blur of memory had blinked out, leaving the red ring of her disc and beyond it the four small red squares of Rinzler’s mark, the last cruel reminder of what he had once been. She raised her head, watched him watching her for any sign of regret, her face, light-streaked, as closed as Outlands stone.
Only one of her arms worked when he finally extended the disc for her to take. She’d have to repair herself one-handed, but it didn’t matter; she’d done that before.
"You have a lot of work to do, General," he rumbled, and left, soft echoes trailing him out the other end of the wide empty room.
The disc hung stiffly at her side, and she closed her eyes and let the last tears fall.
_____
(And then Winzler drew art for it!!!<3 GO LOOK IT'S BEAUTIFUL.)
Originally posted on Dreamwidth. There are
comments there so far.
This fic: resulted from a snippet Oftaggrivated posted from a program manual. It was mostly written weeks ago, but the beginning was problematic until I figured out how to take Diane Duane's start-as-late-in-the-story-as-possible advice and got the rest finished.
Fandom: Tron (early Uprising era)
Genre: G, gen, drama
Warning: canonical mental health issues, identity loss, GORN IS CREEPY OK
Summary: Able takes a young program to Gorn for disc edits that might shield him from the Occupation.
Title:
Substrate
The text, stored as a text object, needs to be converted to a path object for editing. This process is not reversible and the text will lose its memory of being text.
--Inkscape: Guide to a Vector Drawing Program
Substratum (linguistics): a language that influences but is supplanted by a second language.
The young program hung back, uneasy in the harsh light and chilled, damp air, as Able negotiated with the program they’d come to hire for help. Worse than the Sentries that had eyed him as they passed, worse than the Guards that Able had hidden him from -- this program, the only one who could save him, had looked at him with cold amusement, as though she could take him apart.
“I never thought I’d see the cycle," she drawled, her single eye fixed on Able for the time being. "Letting me into your disc. Of course you understand I could do anything I wanted to your code? And you'd never even know it until it kicked in."
"But you won't, Gorn," sighed Able, "'cos if it ever came out, which it would, you'd lose whatever face you still have in this slaghole. If you don't want to do business, just say so. Enough with the sparring."
"You'd rob an old program of one of the few perks of this 'slaghole' existence?" The disc editor sat back, smiling thinly. "I know you’re not going to walk out. You won't find anyone who can do what I do. There's no one left."
The younger program pulled back as she turned abruptly to face him, the patch over her left eye glimmering with tiny red lights. She waved him forward peremptorily, ignoring Able’s glower.
"You -- come here and let me see you. Do you understand what this would mean to your future?"
The program inched forward, lights low, eyes wide and fearful. Hesitantly, he ventured, "I'll be a mechanic, and they won't make me a Sentry?"
"Why don't you want to be a Sentry?" pressed Gorn. “Would you have come here on your own?”
"Yes -- yes.” His hands moved, wringing together of their own accord, and he looked down at them, spread them apart as though confused to see them empty. “I don't want to fight. I'd never be good at it. I don't want to corral people and -- and take them to the Games."
"You just want to be left alone to carry out your function." The young program nodded hopefully, and Gorn snapped, "Well, you can forget about that. If I make you a mechanic, you won't even remember what it was, much less how to do it."
The program flinched. Gorn waved an airy hand, casual and relentless. "This isn't a simple cosmetic touch-up. Do you understand? You'll be a mechanic, all right, but you’ll end up slow, constantly overclocked; you'll have trouble with simple tasks. And you won't know why. If you had any idea what had happened to you, those precious Sentries you're so unfond of could read it on your disc, so if you go through with this, I won’t be leaving any sign to anyone without my skills that you were ever tampered with. And a lot of safety that’ll buy you, with innocents being plucked off the streets every day."
She sat back again, fingers drumming on her desk, untouched by the terror on the young program’s face.
"I can't keep my function?" he said faintly.
Gorn shook her head. "You're too small. I can tell just watching you stand there. Whatever information you were written to hold must be cycles out of date. What do you do, street-sweeping? Data-pushing? Turn the lights on and off?" She swept a derisive hand at him. "You’d barely make a Sentry at all, after they stripped everything else away. You don't have the capacity for a second function."
The program's lights flickered with embarrassment, but he lifted his chin with a timid sort of false bravery. "You might be surprised--"
"No." Gorn steepled her hands, smiling a narrow smile, and the program could feel Able’s anger radiating through the steadying clasp on his shoulder, fluttering against the too-simple core where his own might have surged had he had the capacity for it. "I really wouldn't. Mind you, the rectification process would strip you of your entire identity, so you don't have much of a choice."
Wavering, the young program looked to Able, the one patch of kindness he’d found since landing in Argon and finding it full of red-lined soldiers.
“It is your choice,” said Able gently. “I can find you a place to hide, but if they’re looking for you, you won’t be safe in any city under Clu’s control.”
"Will I remember who I am?"
"Your designation?" Gorn shrugged, indifferent. "Yes. Your processing rate will drop and you won't remember your previous function, but there are plenty of programs with duplicate names. There's no harm in leaving it."
The program hesitated, fighting lockup, panic flooding his circuits, trembling as the cold air reverberated with the pressure of a Recognizer rumbling by overhead.
"I don't want to be a Sentry," he whispered. Then, louder: "I wasn't written to be a Sentry. I'll do it."
He still shuddered when Gorn took the disc from his outstretched hand, as though her very touch was twisting his code already, reconfiguring it into something he might not recognize when it was all over. She weighed the disc on her hands and raised her single eye above its narrow circuit.
"You weren't written to be a mechanic, either. But in a moment, you will be."
.o0o.
He rode home on the back of Able's lightcycle, eyes closed tightly to escape phantom memory links associating him with the sectors they passed through. He wasn't sure he wanted to catch another glimpse of his own reflection, either. Had his skin been a little lighter before, his eyes a little narrower? He couldn't remember.
Keep him on high-grade rations for nine millicycles, a voice had said, though he didn't know whose. He’ll hibernate very deeply for a couple of nights. Let him, if you don’t want to corrupt what little storage capacity he has left. The voice had been cool -- no, cold; he shivered. Tell me what it's like someday, having somebody carrying part of you around in his disc? Personally I’d recycle him. You know, you could throw him back if there are any complications you don’t want to live with. I can always use another assistant. And Able had growled I know what happens to your assistants, or had he? There was no context anymore, and the impressions left by the words were fading as his memory wrote over their paths.
Able shifted, and he realized he must be holding on too tight. But all the old program said was, “You’ll be fine,” and paused at the next light to pat his arm.
The new mechanic loosened his grip and hid his eyes again, replaying the words over and over so he wouldn’t forget.
They slid smoothly into the hangar, the bright lights and loud noises filtering through until the young program raised his head. Bewildering at first, the hectic activity slowly resolved into identifiable parts: workzones, vehicles, teams and individual programs wheeling carts of add-ons or tinkering with glitched hardware.
There were lightjets everywhere.
The newcomer realized his fingers were itching to get into one.
Able’s lightcycle had collapsed back into its baton, its owner taking a few steps out onto the main floor, drawing curious mechanics from around (and in a few cases, under) the vehicles they were repairing.
"Listen up!" Even those who hadn't looked up before snapped to attention. "I’ve brought you a new hand. He’s from Gallium--" Gallium? -- "and he's gonna need to learn how we do things down here, so you're all going to need to pitch in and get him acclimated."
Some of the programs in the back were whispering. His circuits. Do you see that? What's wrong with him? He'd better not be carrying some kind of virus around -- pitch in? I'll pitch in if he -- maybe he's an ISO -- no, Able wouldn't have brought him here if -- but the words didn't seem to carry much meaning.
"But he's not bad with a coding tool," Able went on, silencing them with a stare, "and I'm bringing him in on the strength of that. He'll be on the alpha shift. Treat him nicely."
The crews began to disperse again as Able steered the newcomer toward the lift, pointing out the break room and various repair bays on the way. It all felt a little familiar, as though if one of the tool drawers were opened he would know what was inside and how to use it. But it was all unfamiliar at the same time, and the reasons why kept trickling away.
"I'll get someone to show you around tomorrow. Don't let them give you the last locker on the end," said Able, his voice filtering easily through the noisy hum from out on the floor. "Meantime, this is the elevator to the barracks, where you'll be staying till we assign you a room, and that’s my office, which is where I’ll be while I get your permissions filled out so we can clock you in. See me in the morning before your first shift -- and come in any time if there are any problems. I mean that. But you're gonna do fine."
He strode away, and the new mechanic blinked, watching a couple of the programs who’d been in the front of the crowd. Maybe they were on the alpha shift with him. Maybe, he thought, they'd be friendly.
One of them broke away from the crowd, accompanied by the girl he'd been working with. "Greetings!" he called to the newcomer, striding over and waving a hand expansively. "Welcome to the madhouse. Just like Able, dragging in another stray." He laughed raucously, and his shoulder was immediately whacked by his colleague; she looked annoyed, and maybe a little resigned. But the guy's smile was friendly, and he didn't look like he thought he’d said anything bad. Maybe being kidded like this was part of being included.
"Don't mind him. I'm Mara," the girl said, smiling, "and this jerk here is Zed. We're on alpha with you. What's your name?"
The program looked down, abashed, and glimpsed a grey secondary circuit on his own chest.
That's not right. It should be... it should be....
He couldn't remember. It was grey now.
But he didn't have to dig far for the answer to Mara’s question, and smiled back as he dredged it up: the right answer, the one that felt like even after whatever had happened, it still belonged.
"My name? My name's Link."
_____
This fic: resulted from a prompt for a give-me-a-fic-sentence-and-I'll-give-you-the-next-five meme. evillordzog's prompt, which is the fic's first sentence, involved a situation whose resolution we never canonically got, and as these things do, it expanded.
Fandom: Tron (post-Uprising)
Genre: PG, gen, aaaaaangst
Warning: major character death (in the prompt)
Prompt: Paige and Rinzler looked at each other across the empty space of the control room as the remains of General Tesler and the Renegade mingled together and faded into nothingness.
Title:
Aftershock
Paige and Rinzler looked at each other across the empty space of the control room as the remains of General Tesler and the Renegade mingled together and faded into nothingness.
The enforcer, discs flaring like flames, seemed to fade in and out as Paige’s taxed systems finally rebelled, her sight flickering with a replay of the Renegade’s terrified face - unmasked at last before the end came. Rinzler had seemed to pause, just for a moment, before striking; or perhaps she’d imagined it.
Awash with heat and pain, she barely felt her palms hit the floor.
The glitching rattle grew louder. He would kill her now, and justly; the penalty for murdering a superior could be nothing else, and she could hardly resist with a fractured shoulder and the aftershocks from Tesler’s hands still stabbing through her. Shaking with the pain of another flare, she laid her disc flat on the floor, unwilling to spend her last moments syncing with its memory of flight and death.
The hum of Rinzler’s discs drew closer, and their light rippled over the cracks the swift, ugly battle had left in the tiles.
But nothing happened.
Slowly her circuits cooled, her vision focused; Rinzler’s boots were just in sight, beside Tesler’s discarded disc. The pain in Paige’s shoulder got worse, or maybe she’d recovered enough to really feel it, but she didn’t look up; she’d looked up to too many programs and found nothing but betrayal and pain, and it was enough-
Rinzler’s glove closed over her disc.
Her hand shot out instinctively, clapping it to the ground, and her head whipped up to glare at the glossy black helmet, her own warped reflection telling her nothing. Ridiculous - he wasn’t going to derezz her with her own disc, not when he had two of his own.
Something had crunched in her shoulder, and another shudder ran through her, impossible to repress, her hand trembling on the disc. She couldn’t have held it down if he’d exerted the slightest effort; she wasn’t sure why she’d tried, except that not trying would have been unthinkable.
He didn’t wrench it away. Instead, his low incessant growl spiked a bit higher: a warning.
A choice.
She let go, and painfully, shakily, stood.
Rinzler rose fluidly, disc in hand, no scar on his perfect armor. Paige’s damaged shell creaked ominously, but she forced herself to stand straight, to face him. It didn’t matter. Her eyes blurred again, stinging, mercifully blotting the images as the enforcer flicked through her memories: the trap Tesler had set, the evidence the Renegade had brought to suborn her, the change in Tesler’s face when he understood that the truth was out at last, beyond explanation or recall.
"If he’d denied it," she whispered bitterly, "if he’d said anything else, I would have listened. But he laughed-"
Laughed, and then tried to kill her. Somehow, the laughter had been worse.
Gradually she realized that the blur of memory had blinked out, leaving the red ring of her disc and beyond it the four small red squares of Rinzler’s mark, the last cruel reminder of what he had once been. She raised her head, watched him watching her for any sign of regret, her face, light-streaked, as closed as Outlands stone.
Only one of her arms worked when he finally extended the disc for her to take. She’d have to repair herself one-handed, but it didn’t matter; she’d done that before.
"You have a lot of work to do, General," he rumbled, and left, soft echoes trailing him out the other end of the wide empty room.
The disc hung stiffly at her side, and she closed her eyes and let the last tears fall.
_____
(And then Winzler drew art for it!!!<3 GO LOOK IT'S BEAUTIFUL.)
Originally posted on Dreamwidth. There are
comments there so far.