The Long Road, Part 3/?
Title: The Long Road
Author: scowilily
Rating: PG
Pairing: Alan/Kevin
Summary: The love story of Alan Bradley. AU
Author's Note: Hoo-boy. Alan throws himself where angels fear to tread, and so do I. I've rewritten this piece two or three times; I'm still not completely happy with it. But "...we must move forward, not backward, upward not forward, and always twirling, twirling, twirling towards freedom." Yep.
Kevin wants nothing to with Alan. That's the reality Alan confronts after twelve days of un-returned calls.
It frustrates him. It makes him angry. It also confuses the hell out of him when he thinks over Kevin's reaction. Alan's feared rejection, even expected resentment. But to receive only the cold, silent pretense of civility without the dignity of a reply? Kevin's not one to play the coquette. He doesn't do “hard to get.” He flirts shamelessly with the hens and tells the assholes to fuck off (or at least he did twenty years ago). These days Quorra always answers the house phone. The poor girl sounds unhappy to fend off Alan, day after day, with the words, “I'll tell him you called.” She knows Kevin won't bother. After a while, Alan gets the message.
He shows up at the house. The ISO-girl tries to hold him back halfheartedly, but Sam points him upstairs to the loft.
At first, Alan's blinded by the brightness-white walls, white leather furniture, and white florescent lights. The room is shaped like a cathedral, a tall open maw of gaping space with an altar at the back; besides the altar, on either side, are two low chairs. One of them is occupied by a man in a crisp, white robe.
He's sort of staring. “Alan,” Kevin drawls out.
“Mohammed wouldn't come to the mountain. So the mountain got even.” Alan shuts the door and strides toward the front; from there he can see that the altar is actually a Go table with a spectacular game in progress. “You didn't return my calls.”
“I've been busy.”
“Playing Go?”
“Among other things.” Kevin slouches back into his chair-probably so he can frown up at Alan without getting a headache. Alan hopes he has one anyway. “What brings you to this neck of the woods?”
“Don't play dumb.” Alan snaps. “I thought you were dead for twenty years. And you just show up out of the blue-don't write, don't answer the phone, don't say anything. And you think I'm not gonna notice? That I'm, what, just gonna walk away?”
There's dead silence for a brief respite. Then Kevin glares. “Yeah, maybe. You never had a problem with it before.”
Ouch. Alan grimaces hard but he doesn't retreat. He looks Kevin straight in the eye. “Okay, if that's what this is, if you wanna take my mistakes out on my hide-fine, go ahead. But don't do it like I'm some stranger you've never met. Say it to my face.”
Kevin's expression acquires that sour, bitter tinge Alan still recognizes from Kevin's dealings with Dillinger. Combined with the slicked-back, shoulder length hair and square-trim beard-Kevin looks like a mean, shrewd business shark. But Alan's dealt with worse before. Alan is a shark himself on occasion. He's also too old to be cowed by the growls and barks of someone he still trusts (deep down, maybe more than anyone).
He's proven right. After a while, Kevin looks down and rubs his forehead as though he's in pain. “Sit down, man. You're too fucking tall.”
They spend the next minute or two hemming and hawing like an awkward pair of teenagers. Alan perches on the edge of the unoccupied seat. There's a lacquered tea service on the floor, behind the Go table, which Kevin uses to portion out matcha for both of them. Kevin coughs. Alan stares at the porcelain cup. “I hope you washed that,” he says, absent-mindedly remembering Kevin's young, filthy habits.
“Someone's still a clean freak,” Kevin mutters. Then, louder-“So, Alan, how've you been? What've you been doing all this time?”
“Oh not much. Working. Paying the bills. Getting divorced. The usual. You?”
“Practicing my zen. Playing games. Killing new sentient species. Par for the course.”
The glib, sarcastic exchange halts at a dead end. Alan flounders for something to say, but mostly he feels inadequate; there's so much to talk about, but where to start? And Kevin, the bastard, isn't helping. He just radiates silent, dark humor. Underneath, they're both aware that this effort of getting-to-know-you is as ridiculous as it sounds.
“What did you tell Lora?” Alan finally asks.
“I let Sam do most of the talking when she came by.”
“And? She believed your story?”
Kevin does a double-take, as if he hadn't expected Alan's question. “Well, since she's partially responsible for recovering the digitization-Grid AI, yeah, she wasn't exactly surprised.”
Lora had helped Kevin create the Grid? That's news to Alan. “I wasn't aware you two had worked together. When was this?”
“Just before I met Jordan.”
Kevin and Lora-creating something that monumental in secret? And neither of them had told Alan...
“It was a favor to me, alright?” The way Kevin is looking at him, Alan imagines his suspicions must be pretty transparent. “I needed help, and she knew the engineering of that frickin' laser better than anyone. We didn't tell you because we didn't want you to get the wrong idea.” He scrutinizes Alan a little more closely, appearing confused. “And, anyway, why'd you guys split? Pretty stupid of you to let her get away if you're still getting jealous.”
“It's not about her.”
Kevin half-laughs. “What, you're upset about being left out of the coding? Because let me tell you-it was a nightmare.”
“Well, there's that,” Alan admits quietly. “And then there's you.”
Kevin's cup abruptly smacks the table, and he pointedly does not look at Alan. “Oo-okay,” he says. “Listen, I'll call you later. I need to get back to what I was doing, alright? We can have this conversation sometime else.”
Alan doesn't move. He's still processing something about the way Kevin's responding-like he's not shocked or at all new to the idea of being Alan's biggest secret in the 80s. Like Kevin's already aware of what Alan's fumbling has led-was leading-him to disclose. “You knew?”
“Alan, this really isn't the time, man.”
“You did know. Did Lora tell you?”
“No, she didn't tell me! Why are we-”
“And you just let-”
“Oh, don't even, Alan! What was I supposed to do-betray Lora, force you, ruin all of our lives? Jesus Christ. And what does it matter, anyway? This is all in the past. I may look only twenty fucking years older, but it's been a lot longer than that on the Grid. I don't even know you.”
That shuts Alan up. Kevin's right; they don't know each other anymore. It's just-Alan had thought he'd learned everything there was to know about that past, when it'd been just the three of them: Alan, Kevin, Lora. Being so far behind is a shock on top of everything else.
Blinking out of his daze, Alan realizes he's hardly noticed the rest of the room. It's almost barren aside from table and chairs, but there are a few other possessions-shelves, drawers, and speakers built seamlessly into the wall, books, a mat, and a hanging copy of Escher's “Concave and Convex.” It's kind of creepy, actually. The colors are very monochromatic; anything showing is mostly white, with touches of black and silver. The organization and sterility are so unlike what he'd associate with Kevin-that familiar creative anarchy he'd loved-Alan's at a loss. It's all unfamiliar.
“You live here?” Alan asks, hoarsely.
“Most of the time.”
Alan focuses on Kevin, who sighs. “Sometimes I go outside, too.”
“Interesting place. Next time I'll poke around, if you don't mind.”
Kevin doesn't say anything to that.
*
The next week is rough. Kevin still won't touch a telephone or compose email. He allows Alan over, but he's not exactly happy with the visits, either. Alan weathers it. If Kevin wants to take issue with Alan's presence, he can damn well kick out Alan himself. Until then, he's stuck with Alan. Or at least with Alan visiting him upstairs after work.
There's so much to learn about Kevin. The first aspect Alan notices, though, is Kevin's obsession with systematizing and neatness. Young Kevin hadn't had a neat bone in his body. Dirty laundry mixed with the clean clothes, food on the keyboard, grease stains smeared into his jeans-that's the Kevin Alan remembers. About the only form of hygiene Kevin had practiced was clean code (and only if he wasn't messing with Alan). However, older Kevin obsesses. He tries not to show it too much, but Alan eventually catches on. The spines of the books are all exactly aligned; the stones on the Go board are centered precisely at the intersecting points; spilled beverages are quickly wiped; even the garbage is cleanly stowed out-of-sight in a deep wall drawer. And Kevin himself-Kevin's always immaculate. The facial hair is always well-groomed, the robe's always a robe and always black or white. Alan wants to ask, but, really, he's not sure he should. It might be taken the wrong way.
Not that it should be. Kevin looks good. Reasonably fit. He's not in the kind of shape he was in during his late twenties, but he moves now with a practiced fluidity and economy of motion. The mature, limber grace is attractive. And those Atlantic gray-blue eyes-yeah, those still affect Alan despite the lack of surging twenty-something male hormones.
Kevin appears healthy. Which is why Alan's also struck by Kevin's periodic bouts of illness. Usually it's in the form of a cough, sometimes dark bruising under Kevin's eyes. Once, though, Kevin actually has to stop and take a breather.
“You alright?”
“It's nothing,” Kevin offers after a while. His voice is scratchy, and he's squinting like he's in a lot of pain. Probably because Kevin is in pain, Alan thinks. Idiot.
“Seems like more than nothing. Have you been checked out since you got back?”
That puts a little piss back in Kevin's vinegar. “No. Thanks for asking, Mom.”
“I'm driving you to a doctor tomorrow.”
“WOULD YOU-,” Kevin stops, mid shout, and appears to reign-in himself. “Just fucking drop it, dude. I know what's wrong, okay? It's fine.”
“You gonna tell me? Or am I gonna have to guess?”
“You have the patience of a two-year-old. Did anyone ever tell you that?”
“If I was any more patient with you, I'd be dead,” Alan retorts flatly. “Don't try to distract me.”
Kevin just hangs his head for a minute. “It's a side-effect of the Grid.” Then he raises his gaze and glowers at Alan. “I appreciate your concern, but it'll have to work itself out. The doctors here aren't equipped to deal with laser-scrambled molecules. If I start telling them about the Grid, I'm liable to be locked up with the extra special pills. And a complementary jacket.”
There's not much Alan can say to that. Yet. “You always liked free handouts,” he jokes.
“I think I'll pass,” Kevin deadpans dryly. He's smirking at the corner of his mouth, though.
*
On Saturday evening, Sam proposes they play a game of eight-ball on the pool table in the basement. Quorra and Alan are paired against Kevin and Sam.
Alan doesn’t expect much of a challenge, between his own familiarity with the game and Quorra’s geometric accuracy in all things spatial. But Sam and Kevin surprise him. Sam’s a decent shot and daring enough to attempt a few intimidating combinations. Quorra is still a slightly better player, though. (She’s got more good sense than Sam.) So it’s up to Kevin to make up the difference and somehow still beat Alan. Alan watches Kevin closely during the first game, and he’s slightly daunted at Kevin’s studied mastery of the cue stick. Alan and Quorra barely squeak in a win. The rematch, though, shows Alan what he’s really up against. When Kevin finally has control of the table, he sinks six striped balls in one turn. It’s a stunning exhibition of strategy, judgement, and physical control. The game’s over before Alan can take a shot.
“Where’d you learn to play like that?” Alan asks, because he’s competed against Kevin before and he doesn’t remember Kevin being this good.
Kevin smiles a little mysteriously. “You pick up these things over the years.”
“You’re not sore are you, Alan?” Sam quips, ribbing him goodnaturedly. “You’d play like that too if you’d practiced a few hundred years.”
“A few hundred?” Alan snorts and puts down his coffee. “We’re not that old. And by the way, I still compete in regionals every year! So it’s not like I've been a slouch either.”
What jovial camaraderie there is evaporates. Sam winces. Quorra grimaces. Kevin-Kevin just wipes down his cue stick.
“Uh-hh, I think I might have left out one tiny detail about the Grid,” Sam blurts out. “Every minute here is slightly more than an hour there. So the twenty years for us? That was a lot more for Dad.”
The news is broken gently, but Alan’s still a number cruncher. The calculations only require a moment to churn out a result. “That-that,” he stutters, “that’s more than a thousand years.” His voice trails off into a hushed word.
“Didn’t think I’d been gone that long, did you?”
Alan is slightly ill at the amusement in Kevin’s question; isn’t he affected at all?
“No,” Alan says quietly.
Later, Quorra and Sam are inside having an epic first-person shooter showdown on the Xbox. Kevin and Alan are sitting side-by-side on the porch. Kevin's still guzzling his tea. Alan's on his second cup of coffee-decaf this time. It's dark outside. No moon, just stars and crickets.
“So a thousand years, huh? You have a pretty good memory for passing the millennium mark.”
“Difference between human biochemistry and digital technology,” Kevin explains. “The first uses a destructive recall process-or creative, depending on how you view it. The other is designed for preservation of the status quo. It's more permanent. Doesn't change, doesn't evolve.”
Alan tries to parse that. “So, to you, it all happened yesterday?”
“Something like that.”
“Must be bizarre.”
Kevin frowns into his cup. “It has it's perks. And it's drawbacks.”
Alan would like to know what perks, but he's sure whatever it is-it's not what Alan's thinking. Alan's the one who mourned Kevin for a good five or ten years. Apropos of that self-pitying thought, he blurts out the first thing on his mind. “I missed you, Flynn.”
For the first time since they've met, Kevin reaches out. He pats Alan on the thigh. It's only a friendly gesture of comfort, but Alan uses the opportunity to swipe Kevin's hand. He grasps it and holds on. After an eternity, Kevin squeezes back and relaxes his arm. Alan relaxes too. He keeps that hand where it is though.
“You sure have gotten demanding in your old age,” Kevin murmurs. “You were supposed to be the wise, forbearing one.”
“If that's supposed to imply a switch, I'll have to edit 'wise' and 'forbearing' to 'lazy' and 'too smart for your own damn good.' And as for being 'old'-speak for yourself. I'm alive for at least another two decades.”
“Planning on something?”
“Maybe,” Alan wagers. “What about you? You seem pretty comfortable here. I thought by now you'd have gone stir-crazy. You coming back to ENCOM anytime soon?”
That earns him a look of incredulity. “And do what-earn more money? Build an empire of greed, power, and dominion over the Earth? I had my fill of megalomania on the Grid. Sam's the one who wants to change the world, not me. I'll just stick to enjoying the view.”
“Ri-ight.” He nudges Kevin with his leg and pins him with a knowing look. “You just let me know when 'enjoying' becomes 'building.'”
Kevin grimaces, and Alan's pretty sure he just crossed some invisible line in the sand that says, “DO NOT PASS.” He wonders what about it upsets Kevin. Drive has always been a part of Kevin's modus operandi. It's charming and infuriating in turns, but Alan really can't imagine Kevin sitting on his ass for the rest of his life. The zen thing only goes so far. And yet Kevin looks like someone just pissed on his carpet.
So Alan says, “Kevin, just don't keep any more secret projects like the last one, okay? We-let's just say it didn't go so well for us on our own.”
“You and Sam? You guys are doing alright.”
“Yeah,” Alan chokes. “You didn't see the first ten years or so. Lora scraped me off the floor. And your son-well, I really messed up on that one. Did you see his garage?”
Kevin's staring at him, and it's starting to unnerve Alan a little. He's always been way too transparent to someone as brilliant as Kevin can be. “Alan,” he says, “Sam's fine. Maybe a little young, but he'll manage. And you: you sound great, man. Okay, maybe you're a workaholic... and you spend too much time here... but you seem pretty happy. I'm not wrong, am I?”
Alan doesn't respond. He peers out into the night, away from that probing gaze. How could he explain to Kevin-anchorless vagabond, explorer, never held in one place too long by any one thing-what it's like to lose half yourself? Alan's kept going because that's what life demanded of him. He didn't want it; didn't want the loss, didn't want to move on. But the only other choice had been oblivion, and Alan's too stubborn to just lie down like an euthanized animal. He's a survivor. He dug for what happiness he could.
So having Kevin back, in any form, after achieving that-it's a cruel miracle.
“Just don't disappear again,” is all Alan says.
*
The next month is like a dream. Except it's an incredibly real dream, because Kevin doesn't simply repeat the lines in Alan's memories, doesn't wear the same expressions, doesn't react in a way Alan can always predict. Kevin doesn't even always like Alan. (Kevin's a pain in the ass sometimes too, so it all works out.) But the main part-the part Alan likes best-is that it's not just his imagination at work. Kevin's here. Kevin's at least half the effort again, creating this space and time with Alan in the same way they used to write code together. It's better than poetry or music. It's a conflagration of words, touch, images, motion, smell-and it's more than the sum of each of those components, though Alan can't really explain. He just knows it's more than the empty grave he had before.
Mostly they stay indoors, but sometimes they venture outside. Kevin likes to re-rake his sand garden every now and then for reasons beyond Alan's comprehension. They read. They see movies. They visit the Computer History Museum (newly renovated). One afternoon, Alan drives them down to the zoo with Quorra; that's ultimately how he discovers more about the Grid.
They tour the park systematically and at an even pace. At noon, there’s a brief twenty minute talk in which personnel walk various animals up and down platforms, running them through a gamut of tricks for the audience’s amusement. Quorra finds the diversion somewhat upsetting. The Grid apparently has no domesticated pets or circuses. When Alan mentions Sam’s dog, Quorra refuses to see the resemblance to the zoo’s show animals. Sam’s dog is merely a helpful companion which they’ve befriended, not a public spectacle. “He’s like a bit,” is her strange remark.
Alan frowns and opens his mouth, but Kevin places a restraining hand on Alan’s arm.
When Quorra finally becomes distracted again, Kevin explains himself in a hushed murmur. “Best let that alone. You’ll just freak her out.”
“Why’s that?” Alan asks. He's still stuck on the 'bit' comment.
Kevin is grim, as he often is when mentioning the ISO's past. “Many of Quorra’s captured friends were treated like animals and slaves. They were put in the Games for the entertainment of the crowd-where they died for sport.”
That statement raises a few questions Alan can’t ask because Quorra demands their attention again. He ponders the information, though, as they walk past rows of cages and plastic barriers. He wonders if it wasn’t careless of them to bring Quorra here. But she seems fine-elated, even, at the opportunity to view all these different organisms she’s read about and never observed in person. Alan is relieved. The experience could be taken very differently by someone more cynical. These creatures might be considered prisoners, if one weren’t to consider the dubious freedom of living with limited food supplies and fierce competition, of occupying shrinking ecosystems being changed or destroyed.
Alan buys them lunch at the zoo. Quorra is introduced to the erudite mysteries of funnel cake and Nutella. Alan, habitual person that he is, chooses a sandwich. Kevin snacks lightly on water and nuts. Before they leave the food court, though, Alan purchases an apple and hands the red, shiny fruit to Kevin without asking. Kevin holds it away from him like it’s poison from the Garden of Eden.
“You didn’t eat very much,” Alan explains, trying hard not to laugh.
“Not big on apples. But thanks.”
Kevin is calm and serene throughout the day. People regard his black robes with varying degrees of aversion, but Kevin just wanders on unconcerned. Usually Alan can’t glean more than a passing interest in the zoo’s displays. But occasionally there's a small sign: Kevin’s stride is smaller through the aviary and his eyes are more patient in the niches devoted to entomological diversity. He becomes absolutely still, though, in front of an exhibit housing a monstrous snake with a hypnotizing pattern of pale yellow and white scales.
Alan reads the information on the placard titled ‘Albino Reticulated Python.’
As a captured specimen, this female snake is prized among her peers for surviving natural selection’s inherent bias against albino snakes. What makes her completely unique, however, is her size. At 29 ft, she’s the largest python of her kind ever recorded.
Kevin tells Quorra to go on ahead. He needs a moment to rest. Alan joins him on a nearby bench, watching Kevin carefully for the telltale signs of sickness. These moments of weakness aren't going away-if anything, they're increasing in frequency. Alan's worried.
“Your symptoms are getting worse.”
He's ignored for once. Kevin's still scrutinizing the snake. “You remember what Sam said about Clu?”
“Don't change the subject.”
“Just humor me.”
Alan sighs. “Yeah. He said something about having to defeat Clu before you could leave the Grid.”
“Defeat isn't quite the right word. More like 'reabsorb.'”
“What does this have to do with-”
“The reason I'm sick is because of Clu. The integration was successful on the Grid, but a human body isn't really designed to house the results.”
“The results? You make it sound like some kind of experiment.”
That momentarily jolts Kevin out of his fascination with the python. He doesn't look any happier for it, though-just morbidly bemused and contemplative. “Maybe because that's what it was. The grand experiment of one.” Espying Alan's darkening countenance, he amends. “Not that this is what I intended or anything. But Clu was half the incentive for the Grid in the first place. I mean, I had enough wealth in the real world. I could've built anything-cities, transports, armor, homes-just as easily here as there. But Clu? He had no analogue.”
Alan's starting to get a bit fed up. “You're talking about a genocidal maniac who's apparently overloading your fragile human makeup. I'll be more impressed when you tell me what the solution is. How do we fix you?”
“I know what the solution is,” Kevin says quietly. “I-” He falters, which is uncharacteristic enough that Alan's almost afraid of what he's going to say.
But Kevin just finishes with these words, his eyes lingering strangely on Alan:
“I need more time.”
*
Alan's exhausted by the end of the week. He may spend most of his free time with Kevin, but he's also engaged in a full-time job babying investors, reviewing budgets, and preparing product demos. He's not the guy with the pocket protector anymore. Being an exec in an international public market has rough hours, and it's taken a lot of effort to make time elsewhere. Today he's not so fortunate. Sam lets him into Kevin's house at about 11pm. Alan's just finished hobnobbing with a group of bigwigs at a fancy dinner, but he's hoping Kevin is still up. It's almost Saturday and by God, he's earned a break.
To be fair, his worn state is also partially Kevin's fault. During the lulls in the day, when Alan's alone in his office or rinsing his hands at the public sink, a shadow gnaws at his edges. It's those words: I need more time. Time for what? Kevin won't say. No matter how much Alan pushes, there's still something Kevin's not telling him, some other secret to uncover. Alan's had his fill of secrets and sphinx games. What he wants is much, much simpler. Or it should be. But lately he's not sure how to get from point A to point B, and the idea of time hanging over his head isn't helping.
It's a relief to find Kevin on the living room couch, watching a replay of the Sharks game. Alan drags over a bottle of scotch and two shot glasses. Kevin raises his brow.
“Haven't seen you touch alcohol since you've come by.”
The room is silent as Alan pours. He's not about to recount his past flirtations with alcohol poisoning and drunken-disorderly citations. Instead, one dose is slid in Kevin's direction; the other, he shoots back fast. Kevin observes him warily before sipping his own shot. Alan's already pouring his next.
“Rough day?”
“What gave it away?” Alan retorts. The sarcasm must be too strong, though, because Kevin goes silent. Alan's about to apologize when a hand digs into the bundle of nerves between his shoulder and neck and kneads.
“Ow-www, fuck.” He can't decide whether to lean in or pull back. It hurts like a motherfucker, but it's also sucking the pain into a vortex. Slowly.
Kevin stops and nudges him toward the floor. “Sit down there. I can reach it easier.”
They don't talk for a while. It's just the TV, the scotch, and those blessed hands acting like a godsend. Eventually, Alan removes his glasses, tie and jacket, undoing the buttons of his long sleeve shirt so Kevin can grip the skin at the base of his neck. Minutes and sobriety dwindle away with the contents of the bottle. He feels so relaxed afterwards, he just pillows himself against Kevin's leg. The hand at his neck pauses. Then it combs gently through his hair. “S'good,” Alan croons.
“You need to get out more. Don't you have, you know, friends?”
“Says you.”
“C'mon. I've been stuck in a computer-”
Alan grins against Kevin's leg. “Like that'd stop you. Didja think I hadn't noticed? Mr. Kevin Flynn, always the center of someone's crowd... stayin' at home.”
Kevin ruffles his hair affectionately. “And you, Mr. Bradley, are very drunk. You wanna crash?”
“No movin'.” Alan's pretty sure moving would be very, very bad right now. “An' s'not like I don' have people around. There's David n' Mike. Alice. Lora. Sam-not that Sam, 'nother Sam-”
“So go see them! Don't get me wrong, alright? I like having you around, but you're out of your zone. You need to get back to your life.”
Alan closes his eyes and inhales against the fabric covering Kevin's knee. “Don't be stupid, Kev.”
“I'm not shitting you, man. You're worrying me.”
“Good. Maybe then it works both ways.”
The hand in his short locks hesitates and then, slowly, centimeter by centimeter trails down his temple, edging along the exposed lobe of his ear. Alan stretches his neck into the caress. It feels so good-does Kevin even know what he's doing to Alan? Kevin's always been so casually tactile, or at least he had been a long time ago. This touch is giving Alan ideas. He breathes sharply through his nose again, smelling the scent of Kevin so near.
“There's so much you don't know,” Kevin mutters. “You trust too easily.”
“Know everything I need to know.”
“Rinzler thought so too.”
Alan tilts his head to peer up at Kevin, whose face is eerily cold compared to the warmth of his touch. “Who's Rinzler?”
“It's nothing.” Kevin places a hand over Alan's eyes. His fingers massage the tension out of Alan's brows and the sensitive flesh where the nosepads of his glasses usually rest. “Rest. We'll go somewhere this weekend-somewhere we can relax, have a good day together.”
“S'always good when we're together,” Alan mumbles.
*
Alan recovers from his indiscretions on Saturday. But on Sunday, the four of them-Kevin, Alan, Sam, and Quorra-pack their bags for a trip to the beaches of Monte Reyes peninsula. Sam drives. Quorra sits up front with him, and together the kids control the radio dial. They play a mixture of old band tunes, classic rock, and alternative. The selection inspires a spirited discussion on the relative merits of modern musicians against their new counterparts. Folk and early rock are still Kevin's favorites. (He's perversely happy to hear Sam's kept his Bob Dylan vinyl collection.) But he's also acquired a taste for jazz and classical, so he's able to broaden the scope of the conversation.
Quorra offhandedly mentions Kevin’s proficiency with the piano. Alan can’t let that pass.
“The piano?”
“Wha-t?” Kevin draws the question out until it’s practically a whine. “Don’t look at me like that Alan! You used to play.”
“I still do,” Alan admits. “But weren’t you always about the guitar? I remember you wouldn’t let anyone near yours. Always said guitar was the soul of a man.”
“Don’t be jealous,” is Kevin’s dubious consolation. “The guitar is still cool. I’ve just got more soul than one instrument can handle.”
The beach is sparsely populated given that it’s late-winter, early-spring. Alan throws on a jacket as everyone grabs their share of belongings. They stake a spot in the sand, lather sunscreen onto exposed skin, and remove their shoes. Sam pulls Quorra out to play while Kevin rummages through a bag, picking out and tossing the contents haphazardly aside. Alan soaks up the scene.
“She’s really good with a frisbee,” he remarks, observing Sam and Quorra’s attempts to outdo each other.
Kevin’s “yup” is distracted. By now there’s a chaotic storm strewn all about him as he fusses with tupperware and empties their contents, unmindful of the mess. What the hell?
“Here, you take these.”
Alan receives a stack consisting of cylindrical and square plastic. Kevin tucks another pile under his left arm, and with his right hand on Alan’s back herds them away from camp.
“I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what we’re doing,” Alan says.
“Haven't you ever built a sand castle?”
*
The ‘castle’ transforms into a monolith five feet high with a broad courtyard at its base and a circular perimeter molded by imposing walls and sweeping turrets. The center is actually several central spires, twisting up like a Salvador Dali rendition of the Kremlin towers. Alan can’t remember ever toiling over anything this frivolous before. And with Kevin, it’s a challenge. He’s constantly modifying their plans, adding stairs, shaving the ground to slope up asymmetrically toward the spires, tearing down one turret and adjusting the curve of the wall. Ordinarily, Alan would be frustrated with the setbacks in their progress. But a distant part of him recalls a time when Kevin was exactly like this-maddening, furiously impatient, and bursting with creativity. Alan still gets a high thinking about it. So he throws himself into the process alongside Kevin and doesn’t grouse (well, not much anyway) when Kevin decides to redo the bridge Alan just finished.
Sam is in awe when they complete the project. So is Alan, truth be told; he’s hasn’t shed this much personal sweat over anything since he donned the corporate suit in the 90s. Quorra smiles serenely like it’s all expected. They have a passerby take a picture of the four of them with the fortress in the backdrop.
When the tide gradually begins to rise, Alan throws his back into expanding the moat. Kevin speaks up. “Let it go,” he says.
Alan’s not about to let several hours of labor be destroyed in ten minutes. So he and Sam keep digging while Quorra and Kevin stroll further down the coast, leaving in evidence a trail of fading, smudged footprints in the sand.
*
They all arrive back home with sand stuck in uncomfortable places, but the mood is festive. There’s burgers and beer. There's several hours of monopoly and poker. Kevin dominates the winnings in the latter, but Quorra and Sam double-team them in monopoly. Towards the end of the evening, there's even live music. Sam and Kevin haul out their guitars and play to each other-sometimes competing, but mostly trading and twisting fragments into new melodies. The performance fascinates Quorra. So Sam offers to play a few discs for her, and they depart, leaving Kevin and Alan outside on the plastic lawn chairs.
Kevin starts strumming something familiar.
“That Scarborough Fair?”
“Close. Girl from the North Country.”
“Don't know if I've heard it before.”
“You did,” Kevin insists, “Although Lora was asleep and you weren't that far behind.”
Alan frowns, but he's curious too, and so he nods in the direction of the guitar. “Think you could sing it?” Maybe hearing the song will trigger the memory.
Kevin actually looks down at his strings. It's the first time Alan's seen him self-conscious and hesitant all day, maybe more. He's almost sure Kevin's going to crack some joke and demure, but the tune picks up. Kevin's gentle, rambling voice wends its way into the silence.
If you're travelin' in the north country fair
Where the winds hit heavy on the borderline
Remember me to the one who lives there
She once was a true love of mine.
If you go when the snowflakes storm
When the rivers freeze and summer ends
Please see if she's wearin' a coat so warm
To keep her from the howlin' winds.
Please see for me if her hair's hangin' long
If it rolls and flows all down her breast
Please see for me if her hair's hangin' long
For that's the way I remember her best.
I'm a-wonderin' if she remembers me at all
Many times I've often prayed
In the darkness of my night
In the brightness of my day.
So if you're travelin' in the north country fair
Where the winds hit heavy on the borderline
Remember me to the one who lives there
For she once was a true love of mine.
A vague image does come to mind as Alan listens. It's so hazy, though, he can barely believe Kevin remembers it. Must have been the night after Kevin had met Jordan; Alan and Lora had invited Kevin over, and they'd all gotten soused-not for any real reason, but just because they'd been feeling good about the prospect of the new ENCOM building. Lora had passed out on the couch in Alan's arms. Alan had practically goaded Kevin into playing something... but now that Alan's older and conscious enough to comprehend the lyrics, he wonders who was meant to hear it.
Kevin isn't saying much now. He's unclipped the guitar strap and is squatting over the case.
“Did you sing that for Lora?” Alan asks.
Kevin's back is turned to Alan, but he sort of chuckles as he lowers the guitar into its housing. “I don't know if it was just to any one person in particular-to her, to you, to me. It was a goodbye song.”
“Goodbye?”
The lid snaps shut. Kevin snaps the locks closed. “Three's a crowd” is all he says. Then he picks up the case by its handle and pats his stomach with a gamely smile-it's one stretched too tight to be completely genuine, but Kevin wears it like a well weathered hat. “I'm done. Night, Alan.”
*
Alan can't sleep. In all the reflecting he's done about the past, he's never had much insight into Kevin's feelings. Kevin's always played those cards close to his breast. It's always been easier to assume Kevin wasn't attached (even if Alan knows it's not strictly true). Because what else do you think of guy who plays constantly? Kevin's either fighting like he's going for the high score, or he's dancing through the crowds like life is one long party. Well, that's the way it had been once upon a time, at least. Kevin: the embodiment of joie de vivre.
Alan's always assumed himself to be the victim in that scenario-just another admirer with enough dumb luck to be close to Kevin. Asking Kevin for more would have been ridiculous, bordering on pathetic. Kevin couldn't understand, couldn't reciprocate. That lack of faith, combined with Alan's own fears about himself, had always formed his resentment towards Kevin.
He'd never once considered what it must have been like-to be a third wheel, standing on the outside looking in while Lora and Alan formed their own cocoon of intimacy. It must have been lonely. But Kevin hadn't spoken a word, and Alan hadn't bothered to look further. He'd never asked. He hadn't even believed it necessary. Kevin, lonely? Kevin, charming, golden-boy Kevin, alone?
*
“Alan?”
The opening is barely a crack before he's pushing his way inside. It's dark in the loft-the first time Alan's been here when the lights are off. He presses the door shut behind him. Then he surges forward and kisses Kevin.
The skin under his own is chapped, but Alan swipes and suckles the bottom lip until there's nothing but wet, delicious pressure. Kevin's groan vibrates between them . Then without losing contact, he leans Alan back against the door with his hands on Alan's hips. They push against each other-the rims of Alan's glasses pressing into their cheekbones, Kevin's beard scraping against Alan's chin-and it's not perfect but it's beautiful and crazy. The friction between them is an addiction. He wraps his hands on either side of Kevin's head and pulls, tonguing that mouth and moaning loudly at the explosion of taste. It's a drug overload. Kevin disengages, only to return in light, teasing nips. Alan tries to pull him deeper in, but the nips simply descend down Alan's neck until they hit the junction of his collarbone. Then the touches cease entirely. Alan and Kevin are both breathing hard; Kevin's warm exhalations against Alan's skin cause him to shiver.
“Kevin.” It's a plea and a question.
Kevin pushes off abruptly. Alan can't see very well-the only light in the room is a meditation candle-but the shadows etch out deep lines of frigid displeasure in Kevin's face. He smooths back his hair, which had been in disarray from Alan's hands, and glares at the door.
“That was incredibly foolish,” Kevin snipes. “On both our parts.”
Alan's still in shock when Kevin shows Alan his back.
“So that's it? That's all you're gonna say?” Sharp, indignant incredulity doesn't even cover half of what Alan's feeling right now, but it's what comes out first. He dogs Kevin's steps back to his meditation mat. When he doesn't receive a reply, he grabs Kevin's arm and jerks him around. “Face me, damnit.”
“Go home.” Kevin is grim, but resolved. He still won't even look at Alan.
“Tell me why. At least do that much, Flynn,” Alan hisses.
It's briefly silent, but Kevin's gaze drifts to his eyes-and Alan can tell he's already lost by the steely, pitiless look in them. “Not everything can be about what you want, Alan. I've had more than my fair share of heartache over you, and I left that behind in the past. Until you can accept that, don't bother coming back.”
*
During the drive, he's numb. Unlocking the door to his condo, he's starting to get angry. By the time he enters the kitchen, he's furious and crying at the same time. He ends up sitting on the floor tiles, knees bent and head in his hands. He can't even be arsed to get up for the liquor cabinet. No amount of alcohol is going to drown out what he's feeling right now. Is it possible for hate and love to copulate like beasts? Because it's all the same, writhing miasma of pain to Alan: hate for Alan's own blind selfishness, hate for Kevin's implacable resentment, love that's been as irrepressible and powerful as entropy and time.
The next 45 hours are a blur. He works long shifts. He goes home once, just to crash on the couch. He hardly eats. Being an automaton is something he's gotten good at over the years. The reasons for waking up don't matter as much as the fact that he does. He keeps going.
On Tuesday, he receives a late call from Sam in his office.
Kevin is missing.
*
Quorra knows where to find Kevin. But unlike the rest of them, she's convinced it might be best to let him alone. Sam nearly explodes.
“I can't believe what I'm hearing! We risked our lives to bring him back, and you want to leave him there?!”
They're all seated around the dining table at Alan's condo. But Sam's pushed out his chair, and now he's leaping up to pace.
Quorra tries earnestly to make him understand. “His body wasn't capable of handling the reintegration. If we bring him back, he could die, Sam. And even if he's healthy, there's a chance he won't be himself. The fact that he's gone back to the Grid is a bad sign.”
“A bad sign how?” Alan asks.
“Clu was originally a shard of Flynn, a segment Flynn split off and enhanced. Over the time of their separation, Clu grew strong enough to be his own entity, and Flynn evolved. They became very different people. The reintegration was a crude attempt to glue them back together... If Flynn's gone back to the Grid, it means the 'glue' is coming undone. He's probably trying to hold himself together by modifying his own code.”
Sam stops moving but his face has an all-too-familiar stubborn set. “I didn't get my Dad back just to lose him again. We'll figure something out. But we need to talk to him.”
Quorra's own expression hardens. “Then I must go. I know the Grid better than either of you, and my combat skills are only second to Tron's. We will probably need to fight our way, given the state of the Grid when we left.”
“I'm going with you,” Sam says.
“Not this time.”
Sam frowns at Alan. “We can't send Quorra by herself. She'll need someone else-if only to convince Dad he's nuts to fix this on his own.”
“You'll stay here,” Alan insists. “Monitor events topside and keep the portal open for us. I'll go with Quorra.”
*
All of Kevin's previous words are wheeling around in Alan's head and echoing against the sky like stars greedy for their own constellation.
Build an empire of greed, power, and dominion over the Earth? I had my fill of megalomania on the Grid.
I’ve just got more soul than one instrument can handle.
Clu was half the incentive for the Grid in the first place. I mean, I had enough wealth in the real world. I could've built anything-cities, transports, armor, homes-just as easily here as there. But Clu? He had no analogue.
There's so much you don't know. You trust too easily.
And then there's that song. The goodbye song. Kevin had sung it again that night.
Sam had described Clu as a computer wearing Kevin's face. But if Quorra's right, the truth is much more complicated. Clu and Kevin are two sides of the same coin, reunited again after centuries of war. One is the murderer, the dictator, the betrayer from Quorra's nightmares; the other is the father, the creationist, the peacemaker who'd rescued her. And somewhere between them lies Kevin, the man Alan loves-the same man who's now fighting for his life somewhere on the Grid.
Author: scowilily
Rating: PG
Pairing: Alan/Kevin
Summary: The love story of Alan Bradley. AU
Author's Note: Hoo-boy. Alan throws himself where angels fear to tread, and so do I. I've rewritten this piece two or three times; I'm still not completely happy with it. But "...we must move forward, not backward, upward not forward, and always twirling, twirling, twirling towards freedom." Yep.
Kevin wants nothing to with Alan. That's the reality Alan confronts after twelve days of un-returned calls.
It frustrates him. It makes him angry. It also confuses the hell out of him when he thinks over Kevin's reaction. Alan's feared rejection, even expected resentment. But to receive only the cold, silent pretense of civility without the dignity of a reply? Kevin's not one to play the coquette. He doesn't do “hard to get.” He flirts shamelessly with the hens and tells the assholes to fuck off (or at least he did twenty years ago). These days Quorra always answers the house phone. The poor girl sounds unhappy to fend off Alan, day after day, with the words, “I'll tell him you called.” She knows Kevin won't bother. After a while, Alan gets the message.
He shows up at the house. The ISO-girl tries to hold him back halfheartedly, but Sam points him upstairs to the loft.
At first, Alan's blinded by the brightness-white walls, white leather furniture, and white florescent lights. The room is shaped like a cathedral, a tall open maw of gaping space with an altar at the back; besides the altar, on either side, are two low chairs. One of them is occupied by a man in a crisp, white robe.
He's sort of staring. “Alan,” Kevin drawls out.
“Mohammed wouldn't come to the mountain. So the mountain got even.” Alan shuts the door and strides toward the front; from there he can see that the altar is actually a Go table with a spectacular game in progress. “You didn't return my calls.”
“I've been busy.”
“Playing Go?”
“Among other things.” Kevin slouches back into his chair-probably so he can frown up at Alan without getting a headache. Alan hopes he has one anyway. “What brings you to this neck of the woods?”
“Don't play dumb.” Alan snaps. “I thought you were dead for twenty years. And you just show up out of the blue-don't write, don't answer the phone, don't say anything. And you think I'm not gonna notice? That I'm, what, just gonna walk away?”
There's dead silence for a brief respite. Then Kevin glares. “Yeah, maybe. You never had a problem with it before.”
Ouch. Alan grimaces hard but he doesn't retreat. He looks Kevin straight in the eye. “Okay, if that's what this is, if you wanna take my mistakes out on my hide-fine, go ahead. But don't do it like I'm some stranger you've never met. Say it to my face.”
Kevin's expression acquires that sour, bitter tinge Alan still recognizes from Kevin's dealings with Dillinger. Combined with the slicked-back, shoulder length hair and square-trim beard-Kevin looks like a mean, shrewd business shark. But Alan's dealt with worse before. Alan is a shark himself on occasion. He's also too old to be cowed by the growls and barks of someone he still trusts (deep down, maybe more than anyone).
He's proven right. After a while, Kevin looks down and rubs his forehead as though he's in pain. “Sit down, man. You're too fucking tall.”
They spend the next minute or two hemming and hawing like an awkward pair of teenagers. Alan perches on the edge of the unoccupied seat. There's a lacquered tea service on the floor, behind the Go table, which Kevin uses to portion out matcha for both of them. Kevin coughs. Alan stares at the porcelain cup. “I hope you washed that,” he says, absent-mindedly remembering Kevin's young, filthy habits.
“Someone's still a clean freak,” Kevin mutters. Then, louder-“So, Alan, how've you been? What've you been doing all this time?”
“Oh not much. Working. Paying the bills. Getting divorced. The usual. You?”
“Practicing my zen. Playing games. Killing new sentient species. Par for the course.”
The glib, sarcastic exchange halts at a dead end. Alan flounders for something to say, but mostly he feels inadequate; there's so much to talk about, but where to start? And Kevin, the bastard, isn't helping. He just radiates silent, dark humor. Underneath, they're both aware that this effort of getting-to-know-you is as ridiculous as it sounds.
“What did you tell Lora?” Alan finally asks.
“I let Sam do most of the talking when she came by.”
“And? She believed your story?”
Kevin does a double-take, as if he hadn't expected Alan's question. “Well, since she's partially responsible for recovering the digitization-Grid AI, yeah, she wasn't exactly surprised.”
Lora had helped Kevin create the Grid? That's news to Alan. “I wasn't aware you two had worked together. When was this?”
“Just before I met Jordan.”
Kevin and Lora-creating something that monumental in secret? And neither of them had told Alan...
“It was a favor to me, alright?” The way Kevin is looking at him, Alan imagines his suspicions must be pretty transparent. “I needed help, and she knew the engineering of that frickin' laser better than anyone. We didn't tell you because we didn't want you to get the wrong idea.” He scrutinizes Alan a little more closely, appearing confused. “And, anyway, why'd you guys split? Pretty stupid of you to let her get away if you're still getting jealous.”
“It's not about her.”
Kevin half-laughs. “What, you're upset about being left out of the coding? Because let me tell you-it was a nightmare.”
“Well, there's that,” Alan admits quietly. “And then there's you.”
Kevin's cup abruptly smacks the table, and he pointedly does not look at Alan. “Oo-okay,” he says. “Listen, I'll call you later. I need to get back to what I was doing, alright? We can have this conversation sometime else.”
Alan doesn't move. He's still processing something about the way Kevin's responding-like he's not shocked or at all new to the idea of being Alan's biggest secret in the 80s. Like Kevin's already aware of what Alan's fumbling has led-was leading-him to disclose. “You knew?”
“Alan, this really isn't the time, man.”
“You did know. Did Lora tell you?”
“No, she didn't tell me! Why are we-”
“And you just let-”
“Oh, don't even, Alan! What was I supposed to do-betray Lora, force you, ruin all of our lives? Jesus Christ. And what does it matter, anyway? This is all in the past. I may look only twenty fucking years older, but it's been a lot longer than that on the Grid. I don't even know you.”
That shuts Alan up. Kevin's right; they don't know each other anymore. It's just-Alan had thought he'd learned everything there was to know about that past, when it'd been just the three of them: Alan, Kevin, Lora. Being so far behind is a shock on top of everything else.
Blinking out of his daze, Alan realizes he's hardly noticed the rest of the room. It's almost barren aside from table and chairs, but there are a few other possessions-shelves, drawers, and speakers built seamlessly into the wall, books, a mat, and a hanging copy of Escher's “Concave and Convex.” It's kind of creepy, actually. The colors are very monochromatic; anything showing is mostly white, with touches of black and silver. The organization and sterility are so unlike what he'd associate with Kevin-that familiar creative anarchy he'd loved-Alan's at a loss. It's all unfamiliar.
“You live here?” Alan asks, hoarsely.
“Most of the time.”
Alan focuses on Kevin, who sighs. “Sometimes I go outside, too.”
“Interesting place. Next time I'll poke around, if you don't mind.”
Kevin doesn't say anything to that.
*
The next week is rough. Kevin still won't touch a telephone or compose email. He allows Alan over, but he's not exactly happy with the visits, either. Alan weathers it. If Kevin wants to take issue with Alan's presence, he can damn well kick out Alan himself. Until then, he's stuck with Alan. Or at least with Alan visiting him upstairs after work.
There's so much to learn about Kevin. The first aspect Alan notices, though, is Kevin's obsession with systematizing and neatness. Young Kevin hadn't had a neat bone in his body. Dirty laundry mixed with the clean clothes, food on the keyboard, grease stains smeared into his jeans-that's the Kevin Alan remembers. About the only form of hygiene Kevin had practiced was clean code (and only if he wasn't messing with Alan). However, older Kevin obsesses. He tries not to show it too much, but Alan eventually catches on. The spines of the books are all exactly aligned; the stones on the Go board are centered precisely at the intersecting points; spilled beverages are quickly wiped; even the garbage is cleanly stowed out-of-sight in a deep wall drawer. And Kevin himself-Kevin's always immaculate. The facial hair is always well-groomed, the robe's always a robe and always black or white. Alan wants to ask, but, really, he's not sure he should. It might be taken the wrong way.
Not that it should be. Kevin looks good. Reasonably fit. He's not in the kind of shape he was in during his late twenties, but he moves now with a practiced fluidity and economy of motion. The mature, limber grace is attractive. And those Atlantic gray-blue eyes-yeah, those still affect Alan despite the lack of surging twenty-something male hormones.
Kevin appears healthy. Which is why Alan's also struck by Kevin's periodic bouts of illness. Usually it's in the form of a cough, sometimes dark bruising under Kevin's eyes. Once, though, Kevin actually has to stop and take a breather.
“You alright?”
“It's nothing,” Kevin offers after a while. His voice is scratchy, and he's squinting like he's in a lot of pain. Probably because Kevin is in pain, Alan thinks. Idiot.
“Seems like more than nothing. Have you been checked out since you got back?”
That puts a little piss back in Kevin's vinegar. “No. Thanks for asking, Mom.”
“I'm driving you to a doctor tomorrow.”
“WOULD YOU-,” Kevin stops, mid shout, and appears to reign-in himself. “Just fucking drop it, dude. I know what's wrong, okay? It's fine.”
“You gonna tell me? Or am I gonna have to guess?”
“You have the patience of a two-year-old. Did anyone ever tell you that?”
“If I was any more patient with you, I'd be dead,” Alan retorts flatly. “Don't try to distract me.”
Kevin just hangs his head for a minute. “It's a side-effect of the Grid.” Then he raises his gaze and glowers at Alan. “I appreciate your concern, but it'll have to work itself out. The doctors here aren't equipped to deal with laser-scrambled molecules. If I start telling them about the Grid, I'm liable to be locked up with the extra special pills. And a complementary jacket.”
There's not much Alan can say to that. Yet. “You always liked free handouts,” he jokes.
“I think I'll pass,” Kevin deadpans dryly. He's smirking at the corner of his mouth, though.
*
On Saturday evening, Sam proposes they play a game of eight-ball on the pool table in the basement. Quorra and Alan are paired against Kevin and Sam.
Alan doesn’t expect much of a challenge, between his own familiarity with the game and Quorra’s geometric accuracy in all things spatial. But Sam and Kevin surprise him. Sam’s a decent shot and daring enough to attempt a few intimidating combinations. Quorra is still a slightly better player, though. (She’s got more good sense than Sam.) So it’s up to Kevin to make up the difference and somehow still beat Alan. Alan watches Kevin closely during the first game, and he’s slightly daunted at Kevin’s studied mastery of the cue stick. Alan and Quorra barely squeak in a win. The rematch, though, shows Alan what he’s really up against. When Kevin finally has control of the table, he sinks six striped balls in one turn. It’s a stunning exhibition of strategy, judgement, and physical control. The game’s over before Alan can take a shot.
“Where’d you learn to play like that?” Alan asks, because he’s competed against Kevin before and he doesn’t remember Kevin being this good.
Kevin smiles a little mysteriously. “You pick up these things over the years.”
“You’re not sore are you, Alan?” Sam quips, ribbing him goodnaturedly. “You’d play like that too if you’d practiced a few hundred years.”
“A few hundred?” Alan snorts and puts down his coffee. “We’re not that old. And by the way, I still compete in regionals every year! So it’s not like I've been a slouch either.”
What jovial camaraderie there is evaporates. Sam winces. Quorra grimaces. Kevin-Kevin just wipes down his cue stick.
“Uh-hh, I think I might have left out one tiny detail about the Grid,” Sam blurts out. “Every minute here is slightly more than an hour there. So the twenty years for us? That was a lot more for Dad.”
The news is broken gently, but Alan’s still a number cruncher. The calculations only require a moment to churn out a result. “That-that,” he stutters, “that’s more than a thousand years.” His voice trails off into a hushed word.
“Didn’t think I’d been gone that long, did you?”
Alan is slightly ill at the amusement in Kevin’s question; isn’t he affected at all?
“No,” Alan says quietly.
Later, Quorra and Sam are inside having an epic first-person shooter showdown on the Xbox. Kevin and Alan are sitting side-by-side on the porch. Kevin's still guzzling his tea. Alan's on his second cup of coffee-decaf this time. It's dark outside. No moon, just stars and crickets.
“So a thousand years, huh? You have a pretty good memory for passing the millennium mark.”
“Difference between human biochemistry and digital technology,” Kevin explains. “The first uses a destructive recall process-or creative, depending on how you view it. The other is designed for preservation of the status quo. It's more permanent. Doesn't change, doesn't evolve.”
Alan tries to parse that. “So, to you, it all happened yesterday?”
“Something like that.”
“Must be bizarre.”
Kevin frowns into his cup. “It has it's perks. And it's drawbacks.”
Alan would like to know what perks, but he's sure whatever it is-it's not what Alan's thinking. Alan's the one who mourned Kevin for a good five or ten years. Apropos of that self-pitying thought, he blurts out the first thing on his mind. “I missed you, Flynn.”
For the first time since they've met, Kevin reaches out. He pats Alan on the thigh. It's only a friendly gesture of comfort, but Alan uses the opportunity to swipe Kevin's hand. He grasps it and holds on. After an eternity, Kevin squeezes back and relaxes his arm. Alan relaxes too. He keeps that hand where it is though.
“You sure have gotten demanding in your old age,” Kevin murmurs. “You were supposed to be the wise, forbearing one.”
“If that's supposed to imply a switch, I'll have to edit 'wise' and 'forbearing' to 'lazy' and 'too smart for your own damn good.' And as for being 'old'-speak for yourself. I'm alive for at least another two decades.”
“Planning on something?”
“Maybe,” Alan wagers. “What about you? You seem pretty comfortable here. I thought by now you'd have gone stir-crazy. You coming back to ENCOM anytime soon?”
That earns him a look of incredulity. “And do what-earn more money? Build an empire of greed, power, and dominion over the Earth? I had my fill of megalomania on the Grid. Sam's the one who wants to change the world, not me. I'll just stick to enjoying the view.”
“Ri-ight.” He nudges Kevin with his leg and pins him with a knowing look. “You just let me know when 'enjoying' becomes 'building.'”
Kevin grimaces, and Alan's pretty sure he just crossed some invisible line in the sand that says, “DO NOT PASS.” He wonders what about it upsets Kevin. Drive has always been a part of Kevin's modus operandi. It's charming and infuriating in turns, but Alan really can't imagine Kevin sitting on his ass for the rest of his life. The zen thing only goes so far. And yet Kevin looks like someone just pissed on his carpet.
So Alan says, “Kevin, just don't keep any more secret projects like the last one, okay? We-let's just say it didn't go so well for us on our own.”
“You and Sam? You guys are doing alright.”
“Yeah,” Alan chokes. “You didn't see the first ten years or so. Lora scraped me off the floor. And your son-well, I really messed up on that one. Did you see his garage?”
Kevin's staring at him, and it's starting to unnerve Alan a little. He's always been way too transparent to someone as brilliant as Kevin can be. “Alan,” he says, “Sam's fine. Maybe a little young, but he'll manage. And you: you sound great, man. Okay, maybe you're a workaholic... and you spend too much time here... but you seem pretty happy. I'm not wrong, am I?”
Alan doesn't respond. He peers out into the night, away from that probing gaze. How could he explain to Kevin-anchorless vagabond, explorer, never held in one place too long by any one thing-what it's like to lose half yourself? Alan's kept going because that's what life demanded of him. He didn't want it; didn't want the loss, didn't want to move on. But the only other choice had been oblivion, and Alan's too stubborn to just lie down like an euthanized animal. He's a survivor. He dug for what happiness he could.
So having Kevin back, in any form, after achieving that-it's a cruel miracle.
“Just don't disappear again,” is all Alan says.
*
The next month is like a dream. Except it's an incredibly real dream, because Kevin doesn't simply repeat the lines in Alan's memories, doesn't wear the same expressions, doesn't react in a way Alan can always predict. Kevin doesn't even always like Alan. (Kevin's a pain in the ass sometimes too, so it all works out.) But the main part-the part Alan likes best-is that it's not just his imagination at work. Kevin's here. Kevin's at least half the effort again, creating this space and time with Alan in the same way they used to write code together. It's better than poetry or music. It's a conflagration of words, touch, images, motion, smell-and it's more than the sum of each of those components, though Alan can't really explain. He just knows it's more than the empty grave he had before.
Mostly they stay indoors, but sometimes they venture outside. Kevin likes to re-rake his sand garden every now and then for reasons beyond Alan's comprehension. They read. They see movies. They visit the Computer History Museum (newly renovated). One afternoon, Alan drives them down to the zoo with Quorra; that's ultimately how he discovers more about the Grid.
They tour the park systematically and at an even pace. At noon, there’s a brief twenty minute talk in which personnel walk various animals up and down platforms, running them through a gamut of tricks for the audience’s amusement. Quorra finds the diversion somewhat upsetting. The Grid apparently has no domesticated pets or circuses. When Alan mentions Sam’s dog, Quorra refuses to see the resemblance to the zoo’s show animals. Sam’s dog is merely a helpful companion which they’ve befriended, not a public spectacle. “He’s like a bit,” is her strange remark.
Alan frowns and opens his mouth, but Kevin places a restraining hand on Alan’s arm.
When Quorra finally becomes distracted again, Kevin explains himself in a hushed murmur. “Best let that alone. You’ll just freak her out.”
“Why’s that?” Alan asks. He's still stuck on the 'bit' comment.
Kevin is grim, as he often is when mentioning the ISO's past. “Many of Quorra’s captured friends were treated like animals and slaves. They were put in the Games for the entertainment of the crowd-where they died for sport.”
That statement raises a few questions Alan can’t ask because Quorra demands their attention again. He ponders the information, though, as they walk past rows of cages and plastic barriers. He wonders if it wasn’t careless of them to bring Quorra here. But she seems fine-elated, even, at the opportunity to view all these different organisms she’s read about and never observed in person. Alan is relieved. The experience could be taken very differently by someone more cynical. These creatures might be considered prisoners, if one weren’t to consider the dubious freedom of living with limited food supplies and fierce competition, of occupying shrinking ecosystems being changed or destroyed.
Alan buys them lunch at the zoo. Quorra is introduced to the erudite mysteries of funnel cake and Nutella. Alan, habitual person that he is, chooses a sandwich. Kevin snacks lightly on water and nuts. Before they leave the food court, though, Alan purchases an apple and hands the red, shiny fruit to Kevin without asking. Kevin holds it away from him like it’s poison from the Garden of Eden.
“You didn’t eat very much,” Alan explains, trying hard not to laugh.
“Not big on apples. But thanks.”
Kevin is calm and serene throughout the day. People regard his black robes with varying degrees of aversion, but Kevin just wanders on unconcerned. Usually Alan can’t glean more than a passing interest in the zoo’s displays. But occasionally there's a small sign: Kevin’s stride is smaller through the aviary and his eyes are more patient in the niches devoted to entomological diversity. He becomes absolutely still, though, in front of an exhibit housing a monstrous snake with a hypnotizing pattern of pale yellow and white scales.
Alan reads the information on the placard titled ‘Albino Reticulated Python.’
As a captured specimen, this female snake is prized among her peers for surviving natural selection’s inherent bias against albino snakes. What makes her completely unique, however, is her size. At 29 ft, she’s the largest python of her kind ever recorded.
Kevin tells Quorra to go on ahead. He needs a moment to rest. Alan joins him on a nearby bench, watching Kevin carefully for the telltale signs of sickness. These moments of weakness aren't going away-if anything, they're increasing in frequency. Alan's worried.
“Your symptoms are getting worse.”
He's ignored for once. Kevin's still scrutinizing the snake. “You remember what Sam said about Clu?”
“Don't change the subject.”
“Just humor me.”
Alan sighs. “Yeah. He said something about having to defeat Clu before you could leave the Grid.”
“Defeat isn't quite the right word. More like 'reabsorb.'”
“What does this have to do with-”
“The reason I'm sick is because of Clu. The integration was successful on the Grid, but a human body isn't really designed to house the results.”
“The results? You make it sound like some kind of experiment.”
That momentarily jolts Kevin out of his fascination with the python. He doesn't look any happier for it, though-just morbidly bemused and contemplative. “Maybe because that's what it was. The grand experiment of one.” Espying Alan's darkening countenance, he amends. “Not that this is what I intended or anything. But Clu was half the incentive for the Grid in the first place. I mean, I had enough wealth in the real world. I could've built anything-cities, transports, armor, homes-just as easily here as there. But Clu? He had no analogue.”
Alan's starting to get a bit fed up. “You're talking about a genocidal maniac who's apparently overloading your fragile human makeup. I'll be more impressed when you tell me what the solution is. How do we fix you?”
“I know what the solution is,” Kevin says quietly. “I-” He falters, which is uncharacteristic enough that Alan's almost afraid of what he's going to say.
But Kevin just finishes with these words, his eyes lingering strangely on Alan:
“I need more time.”
*
Alan's exhausted by the end of the week. He may spend most of his free time with Kevin, but he's also engaged in a full-time job babying investors, reviewing budgets, and preparing product demos. He's not the guy with the pocket protector anymore. Being an exec in an international public market has rough hours, and it's taken a lot of effort to make time elsewhere. Today he's not so fortunate. Sam lets him into Kevin's house at about 11pm. Alan's just finished hobnobbing with a group of bigwigs at a fancy dinner, but he's hoping Kevin is still up. It's almost Saturday and by God, he's earned a break.
To be fair, his worn state is also partially Kevin's fault. During the lulls in the day, when Alan's alone in his office or rinsing his hands at the public sink, a shadow gnaws at his edges. It's those words: I need more time. Time for what? Kevin won't say. No matter how much Alan pushes, there's still something Kevin's not telling him, some other secret to uncover. Alan's had his fill of secrets and sphinx games. What he wants is much, much simpler. Or it should be. But lately he's not sure how to get from point A to point B, and the idea of time hanging over his head isn't helping.
It's a relief to find Kevin on the living room couch, watching a replay of the Sharks game. Alan drags over a bottle of scotch and two shot glasses. Kevin raises his brow.
“Haven't seen you touch alcohol since you've come by.”
The room is silent as Alan pours. He's not about to recount his past flirtations with alcohol poisoning and drunken-disorderly citations. Instead, one dose is slid in Kevin's direction; the other, he shoots back fast. Kevin observes him warily before sipping his own shot. Alan's already pouring his next.
“Rough day?”
“What gave it away?” Alan retorts. The sarcasm must be too strong, though, because Kevin goes silent. Alan's about to apologize when a hand digs into the bundle of nerves between his shoulder and neck and kneads.
“Ow-www, fuck.” He can't decide whether to lean in or pull back. It hurts like a motherfucker, but it's also sucking the pain into a vortex. Slowly.
Kevin stops and nudges him toward the floor. “Sit down there. I can reach it easier.”
They don't talk for a while. It's just the TV, the scotch, and those blessed hands acting like a godsend. Eventually, Alan removes his glasses, tie and jacket, undoing the buttons of his long sleeve shirt so Kevin can grip the skin at the base of his neck. Minutes and sobriety dwindle away with the contents of the bottle. He feels so relaxed afterwards, he just pillows himself against Kevin's leg. The hand at his neck pauses. Then it combs gently through his hair. “S'good,” Alan croons.
“You need to get out more. Don't you have, you know, friends?”
“Says you.”
“C'mon. I've been stuck in a computer-”
Alan grins against Kevin's leg. “Like that'd stop you. Didja think I hadn't noticed? Mr. Kevin Flynn, always the center of someone's crowd... stayin' at home.”
Kevin ruffles his hair affectionately. “And you, Mr. Bradley, are very drunk. You wanna crash?”
“No movin'.” Alan's pretty sure moving would be very, very bad right now. “An' s'not like I don' have people around. There's David n' Mike. Alice. Lora. Sam-not that Sam, 'nother Sam-”
“So go see them! Don't get me wrong, alright? I like having you around, but you're out of your zone. You need to get back to your life.”
Alan closes his eyes and inhales against the fabric covering Kevin's knee. “Don't be stupid, Kev.”
“I'm not shitting you, man. You're worrying me.”
“Good. Maybe then it works both ways.”
The hand in his short locks hesitates and then, slowly, centimeter by centimeter trails down his temple, edging along the exposed lobe of his ear. Alan stretches his neck into the caress. It feels so good-does Kevin even know what he's doing to Alan? Kevin's always been so casually tactile, or at least he had been a long time ago. This touch is giving Alan ideas. He breathes sharply through his nose again, smelling the scent of Kevin so near.
“There's so much you don't know,” Kevin mutters. “You trust too easily.”
“Know everything I need to know.”
“Rinzler thought so too.”
Alan tilts his head to peer up at Kevin, whose face is eerily cold compared to the warmth of his touch. “Who's Rinzler?”
“It's nothing.” Kevin places a hand over Alan's eyes. His fingers massage the tension out of Alan's brows and the sensitive flesh where the nosepads of his glasses usually rest. “Rest. We'll go somewhere this weekend-somewhere we can relax, have a good day together.”
“S'always good when we're together,” Alan mumbles.
*
Alan recovers from his indiscretions on Saturday. But on Sunday, the four of them-Kevin, Alan, Sam, and Quorra-pack their bags for a trip to the beaches of Monte Reyes peninsula. Sam drives. Quorra sits up front with him, and together the kids control the radio dial. They play a mixture of old band tunes, classic rock, and alternative. The selection inspires a spirited discussion on the relative merits of modern musicians against their new counterparts. Folk and early rock are still Kevin's favorites. (He's perversely happy to hear Sam's kept his Bob Dylan vinyl collection.) But he's also acquired a taste for jazz and classical, so he's able to broaden the scope of the conversation.
Quorra offhandedly mentions Kevin’s proficiency with the piano. Alan can’t let that pass.
“The piano?”
“Wha-t?” Kevin draws the question out until it’s practically a whine. “Don’t look at me like that Alan! You used to play.”
“I still do,” Alan admits. “But weren’t you always about the guitar? I remember you wouldn’t let anyone near yours. Always said guitar was the soul of a man.”
“Don’t be jealous,” is Kevin’s dubious consolation. “The guitar is still cool. I’ve just got more soul than one instrument can handle.”
The beach is sparsely populated given that it’s late-winter, early-spring. Alan throws on a jacket as everyone grabs their share of belongings. They stake a spot in the sand, lather sunscreen onto exposed skin, and remove their shoes. Sam pulls Quorra out to play while Kevin rummages through a bag, picking out and tossing the contents haphazardly aside. Alan soaks up the scene.
“She’s really good with a frisbee,” he remarks, observing Sam and Quorra’s attempts to outdo each other.
Kevin’s “yup” is distracted. By now there’s a chaotic storm strewn all about him as he fusses with tupperware and empties their contents, unmindful of the mess. What the hell?
“Here, you take these.”
Alan receives a stack consisting of cylindrical and square plastic. Kevin tucks another pile under his left arm, and with his right hand on Alan’s back herds them away from camp.
“I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what we’re doing,” Alan says.
“Haven't you ever built a sand castle?”
*
The ‘castle’ transforms into a monolith five feet high with a broad courtyard at its base and a circular perimeter molded by imposing walls and sweeping turrets. The center is actually several central spires, twisting up like a Salvador Dali rendition of the Kremlin towers. Alan can’t remember ever toiling over anything this frivolous before. And with Kevin, it’s a challenge. He’s constantly modifying their plans, adding stairs, shaving the ground to slope up asymmetrically toward the spires, tearing down one turret and adjusting the curve of the wall. Ordinarily, Alan would be frustrated with the setbacks in their progress. But a distant part of him recalls a time when Kevin was exactly like this-maddening, furiously impatient, and bursting with creativity. Alan still gets a high thinking about it. So he throws himself into the process alongside Kevin and doesn’t grouse (well, not much anyway) when Kevin decides to redo the bridge Alan just finished.
Sam is in awe when they complete the project. So is Alan, truth be told; he’s hasn’t shed this much personal sweat over anything since he donned the corporate suit in the 90s. Quorra smiles serenely like it’s all expected. They have a passerby take a picture of the four of them with the fortress in the backdrop.
When the tide gradually begins to rise, Alan throws his back into expanding the moat. Kevin speaks up. “Let it go,” he says.
Alan’s not about to let several hours of labor be destroyed in ten minutes. So he and Sam keep digging while Quorra and Kevin stroll further down the coast, leaving in evidence a trail of fading, smudged footprints in the sand.
*
They all arrive back home with sand stuck in uncomfortable places, but the mood is festive. There’s burgers and beer. There's several hours of monopoly and poker. Kevin dominates the winnings in the latter, but Quorra and Sam double-team them in monopoly. Towards the end of the evening, there's even live music. Sam and Kevin haul out their guitars and play to each other-sometimes competing, but mostly trading and twisting fragments into new melodies. The performance fascinates Quorra. So Sam offers to play a few discs for her, and they depart, leaving Kevin and Alan outside on the plastic lawn chairs.
Kevin starts strumming something familiar.
“That Scarborough Fair?”
“Close. Girl from the North Country.”
“Don't know if I've heard it before.”
“You did,” Kevin insists, “Although Lora was asleep and you weren't that far behind.”
Alan frowns, but he's curious too, and so he nods in the direction of the guitar. “Think you could sing it?” Maybe hearing the song will trigger the memory.
Kevin actually looks down at his strings. It's the first time Alan's seen him self-conscious and hesitant all day, maybe more. He's almost sure Kevin's going to crack some joke and demure, but the tune picks up. Kevin's gentle, rambling voice wends its way into the silence.
If you're travelin' in the north country fair
Where the winds hit heavy on the borderline
Remember me to the one who lives there
She once was a true love of mine.
If you go when the snowflakes storm
When the rivers freeze and summer ends
Please see if she's wearin' a coat so warm
To keep her from the howlin' winds.
Please see for me if her hair's hangin' long
If it rolls and flows all down her breast
Please see for me if her hair's hangin' long
For that's the way I remember her best.
I'm a-wonderin' if she remembers me at all
Many times I've often prayed
In the darkness of my night
In the brightness of my day.
So if you're travelin' in the north country fair
Where the winds hit heavy on the borderline
Remember me to the one who lives there
For she once was a true love of mine.
A vague image does come to mind as Alan listens. It's so hazy, though, he can barely believe Kevin remembers it. Must have been the night after Kevin had met Jordan; Alan and Lora had invited Kevin over, and they'd all gotten soused-not for any real reason, but just because they'd been feeling good about the prospect of the new ENCOM building. Lora had passed out on the couch in Alan's arms. Alan had practically goaded Kevin into playing something... but now that Alan's older and conscious enough to comprehend the lyrics, he wonders who was meant to hear it.
Kevin isn't saying much now. He's unclipped the guitar strap and is squatting over the case.
“Did you sing that for Lora?” Alan asks.
Kevin's back is turned to Alan, but he sort of chuckles as he lowers the guitar into its housing. “I don't know if it was just to any one person in particular-to her, to you, to me. It was a goodbye song.”
“Goodbye?”
The lid snaps shut. Kevin snaps the locks closed. “Three's a crowd” is all he says. Then he picks up the case by its handle and pats his stomach with a gamely smile-it's one stretched too tight to be completely genuine, but Kevin wears it like a well weathered hat. “I'm done. Night, Alan.”
*
Alan can't sleep. In all the reflecting he's done about the past, he's never had much insight into Kevin's feelings. Kevin's always played those cards close to his breast. It's always been easier to assume Kevin wasn't attached (even if Alan knows it's not strictly true). Because what else do you think of guy who plays constantly? Kevin's either fighting like he's going for the high score, or he's dancing through the crowds like life is one long party. Well, that's the way it had been once upon a time, at least. Kevin: the embodiment of joie de vivre.
Alan's always assumed himself to be the victim in that scenario-just another admirer with enough dumb luck to be close to Kevin. Asking Kevin for more would have been ridiculous, bordering on pathetic. Kevin couldn't understand, couldn't reciprocate. That lack of faith, combined with Alan's own fears about himself, had always formed his resentment towards Kevin.
He'd never once considered what it must have been like-to be a third wheel, standing on the outside looking in while Lora and Alan formed their own cocoon of intimacy. It must have been lonely. But Kevin hadn't spoken a word, and Alan hadn't bothered to look further. He'd never asked. He hadn't even believed it necessary. Kevin, lonely? Kevin, charming, golden-boy Kevin, alone?
*
“Alan?”
The opening is barely a crack before he's pushing his way inside. It's dark in the loft-the first time Alan's been here when the lights are off. He presses the door shut behind him. Then he surges forward and kisses Kevin.
The skin under his own is chapped, but Alan swipes and suckles the bottom lip until there's nothing but wet, delicious pressure. Kevin's groan vibrates between them . Then without losing contact, he leans Alan back against the door with his hands on Alan's hips. They push against each other-the rims of Alan's glasses pressing into their cheekbones, Kevin's beard scraping against Alan's chin-and it's not perfect but it's beautiful and crazy. The friction between them is an addiction. He wraps his hands on either side of Kevin's head and pulls, tonguing that mouth and moaning loudly at the explosion of taste. It's a drug overload. Kevin disengages, only to return in light, teasing nips. Alan tries to pull him deeper in, but the nips simply descend down Alan's neck until they hit the junction of his collarbone. Then the touches cease entirely. Alan and Kevin are both breathing hard; Kevin's warm exhalations against Alan's skin cause him to shiver.
“Kevin.” It's a plea and a question.
Kevin pushes off abruptly. Alan can't see very well-the only light in the room is a meditation candle-but the shadows etch out deep lines of frigid displeasure in Kevin's face. He smooths back his hair, which had been in disarray from Alan's hands, and glares at the door.
“That was incredibly foolish,” Kevin snipes. “On both our parts.”
Alan's still in shock when Kevin shows Alan his back.
“So that's it? That's all you're gonna say?” Sharp, indignant incredulity doesn't even cover half of what Alan's feeling right now, but it's what comes out first. He dogs Kevin's steps back to his meditation mat. When he doesn't receive a reply, he grabs Kevin's arm and jerks him around. “Face me, damnit.”
“Go home.” Kevin is grim, but resolved. He still won't even look at Alan.
“Tell me why. At least do that much, Flynn,” Alan hisses.
It's briefly silent, but Kevin's gaze drifts to his eyes-and Alan can tell he's already lost by the steely, pitiless look in them. “Not everything can be about what you want, Alan. I've had more than my fair share of heartache over you, and I left that behind in the past. Until you can accept that, don't bother coming back.”
*
During the drive, he's numb. Unlocking the door to his condo, he's starting to get angry. By the time he enters the kitchen, he's furious and crying at the same time. He ends up sitting on the floor tiles, knees bent and head in his hands. He can't even be arsed to get up for the liquor cabinet. No amount of alcohol is going to drown out what he's feeling right now. Is it possible for hate and love to copulate like beasts? Because it's all the same, writhing miasma of pain to Alan: hate for Alan's own blind selfishness, hate for Kevin's implacable resentment, love that's been as irrepressible and powerful as entropy and time.
The next 45 hours are a blur. He works long shifts. He goes home once, just to crash on the couch. He hardly eats. Being an automaton is something he's gotten good at over the years. The reasons for waking up don't matter as much as the fact that he does. He keeps going.
On Tuesday, he receives a late call from Sam in his office.
Kevin is missing.
*
Quorra knows where to find Kevin. But unlike the rest of them, she's convinced it might be best to let him alone. Sam nearly explodes.
“I can't believe what I'm hearing! We risked our lives to bring him back, and you want to leave him there?!”
They're all seated around the dining table at Alan's condo. But Sam's pushed out his chair, and now he's leaping up to pace.
Quorra tries earnestly to make him understand. “His body wasn't capable of handling the reintegration. If we bring him back, he could die, Sam. And even if he's healthy, there's a chance he won't be himself. The fact that he's gone back to the Grid is a bad sign.”
“A bad sign how?” Alan asks.
“Clu was originally a shard of Flynn, a segment Flynn split off and enhanced. Over the time of their separation, Clu grew strong enough to be his own entity, and Flynn evolved. They became very different people. The reintegration was a crude attempt to glue them back together... If Flynn's gone back to the Grid, it means the 'glue' is coming undone. He's probably trying to hold himself together by modifying his own code.”
Sam stops moving but his face has an all-too-familiar stubborn set. “I didn't get my Dad back just to lose him again. We'll figure something out. But we need to talk to him.”
Quorra's own expression hardens. “Then I must go. I know the Grid better than either of you, and my combat skills are only second to Tron's. We will probably need to fight our way, given the state of the Grid when we left.”
“I'm going with you,” Sam says.
“Not this time.”
Sam frowns at Alan. “We can't send Quorra by herself. She'll need someone else-if only to convince Dad he's nuts to fix this on his own.”
“You'll stay here,” Alan insists. “Monitor events topside and keep the portal open for us. I'll go with Quorra.”
*
All of Kevin's previous words are wheeling around in Alan's head and echoing against the sky like stars greedy for their own constellation.
Build an empire of greed, power, and dominion over the Earth? I had my fill of megalomania on the Grid.
I’ve just got more soul than one instrument can handle.
Clu was half the incentive for the Grid in the first place. I mean, I had enough wealth in the real world. I could've built anything-cities, transports, armor, homes-just as easily here as there. But Clu? He had no analogue.
There's so much you don't know. You trust too easily.
And then there's that song. The goodbye song. Kevin had sung it again that night.
Sam had described Clu as a computer wearing Kevin's face. But if Quorra's right, the truth is much more complicated. Clu and Kevin are two sides of the same coin, reunited again after centuries of war. One is the murderer, the dictator, the betrayer from Quorra's nightmares; the other is the father, the creationist, the peacemaker who'd rescued her. And somewhere between them lies Kevin, the man Alan loves-the same man who's now fighting for his life somewhere on the Grid.