...What am I doing?? -_-
O.o Um.
So I've got a hundred pages I need to read. And a paper I need to write. And a long-ass set I really should work on. All within the next... 10 hours?
And if I don't want to do this, I should sleep. I've not rested more than 6 hours in a day in over a week, and the last few days would be utterly sleepless if not for a couple hour-long naps.
And if I'm fracking insane and want to write, I've got a fill I'm in the middle of. With plans.
...Apparently a portion of my brain does not care.
(WARNING: don't follow the lj-cut unless you've read Hold On in its entirety. As in, more than I've got posted on my journal. Which yes, means that cleaning up the rest of it is another thing that should be much higher on my to do list than this)
The portal is dark.
He stands on the bridge, faint overlay of light fading from his vision. The sky is shadowed now, the platform an empty disk. Dim glow flickers along the edges of the place, white-blue lines tracing a boundary between structure and absence, stability and the plummeting drop. But it’s all fading, shutting down. Standby. Waiting until it can once more be of use.
The users are gone now. Flynn. Sam. Quorra too. The ISOs are gone.
We’re all that’s left.
Tron’s hand tightens around the baton in his grip. Sam gave it to him. He remembers the smile. The warmth of the tight hold before they stepped apart. The regret was in the user’s eyes. He had wanted Tron to leave too. But Sam didn’t say that, didn’t ask him to change his mind. He said he’d be back soon.
Sam gave him a lot more than the baton.
Tron turns abruptly, steps swift as he retreats from the emptiness. Sam will come back. He doesn’t know about Quorra, can’t judge what she wants. And Flynn… Tron’s rhythm stutters on the stairs as memory shifts sickeningly through his code. He doesn’t know if Flynn will ever return. Or ever be willing to face him.
Tron failed, after all.
Sam will come back. But not soon. Time is different, there. The world is different. He could be gone for a hundred millicycles. A dozen cycles. Anything between. Flynn had been busy, before. Had “too much to do in the real world”.
Clu never liked that.
Tron stares across the landing pad, eyes hard, fists curling at his side.
Clu’s gone.
Clu’s gone (should have destroyed him) and things are going to change. Things have changed, though few likely know how much. Clu is gone. The users are gone. The ISOs are gone. Or derezzed. Memory cuts like a blue-edged sword, and Tron closes his eyes. Opens them.
We have to move forward.
Tron runs then, a dark blur streaking towards the edge. He pushes off, lets himself turn once in the air before leveling out, head down toward the water. The fall is shorter this time, though still long enough to stare at the Sea below, uncompiled chaos tainted black with corruption.
It was easy to fall. To let go. To just stop trying, drop to the water knowing he had done all he could. To have it be over. What did Quorra call it? ‘Removing oneself from the equation.’
This is going to be much harder.
The baton breaks in his hands, and the lines of shape diagram themselves into the empty air. He pulls up sharply, the flat blackness below closing as the steep turn flattens him against the jet. The surface rushes towards him, dark waves reaching towards the blackness of his helmet as it unfolds to shield him-and then the lightjet rises, slipping above the surface of the Sea.
Reckless. A pointless risk.
Tron smiles, gives himself over to the motion of the sky.
Motion was what he had. All he had for so long. No choice (but thought), no action (but skill). Existence without answers. It still seems unreal, to reach for memory, directive, self and find it. He feels jagged inside, broken edges and pieces released in a tumble. He’s not all there, he knows-stray threads of filters, restrictions, commands still wind through his processing, halfhearted whispers of wrongness. But they can hold back little, now. It’s there, he’s there-memory and knowledge and choice so sharp it hurts.
It always did hurt to reach for memory. He had no way to know there would be so much pain on finding it, too.
-------
-_- There's more. I'm just reclaiming sanity enough to stop myself writing it now.
The present-tense is an experiment; I kept slipping into it by accident with Hold On, so wanted to see what'd happen if I tried to use it on purpose. Still debating exactly how to do the perspective.
I have no clue what... just... gah.
So I've got a hundred pages I need to read. And a paper I need to write. And a long-ass set I really should work on. All within the next... 10 hours?
And if I don't want to do this, I should sleep. I've not rested more than 6 hours in a day in over a week, and the last few days would be utterly sleepless if not for a couple hour-long naps.
And if I'm fracking insane and want to write, I've got a fill I'm in the middle of. With plans.
...Apparently a portion of my brain does not care.
(WARNING: don't follow the lj-cut unless you've read Hold On in its entirety. As in, more than I've got posted on my journal. Which yes, means that cleaning up the rest of it is another thing that should be much higher on my to do list than this)
The portal is dark.
He stands on the bridge, faint overlay of light fading from his vision. The sky is shadowed now, the platform an empty disk. Dim glow flickers along the edges of the place, white-blue lines tracing a boundary between structure and absence, stability and the plummeting drop. But it’s all fading, shutting down. Standby. Waiting until it can once more be of use.
The users are gone now. Flynn. Sam. Quorra too. The ISOs are gone.
We’re all that’s left.
Tron’s hand tightens around the baton in his grip. Sam gave it to him. He remembers the smile. The warmth of the tight hold before they stepped apart. The regret was in the user’s eyes. He had wanted Tron to leave too. But Sam didn’t say that, didn’t ask him to change his mind. He said he’d be back soon.
Sam gave him a lot more than the baton.
Tron turns abruptly, steps swift as he retreats from the emptiness. Sam will come back. He doesn’t know about Quorra, can’t judge what she wants. And Flynn… Tron’s rhythm stutters on the stairs as memory shifts sickeningly through his code. He doesn’t know if Flynn will ever return. Or ever be willing to face him.
Tron failed, after all.
Sam will come back. But not soon. Time is different, there. The world is different. He could be gone for a hundred millicycles. A dozen cycles. Anything between. Flynn had been busy, before. Had “too much to do in the real world”.
Clu never liked that.
Tron stares across the landing pad, eyes hard, fists curling at his side.
Clu’s gone.
Clu’s gone (should have destroyed him) and things are going to change. Things have changed, though few likely know how much. Clu is gone. The users are gone. The ISOs are gone. Or derezzed. Memory cuts like a blue-edged sword, and Tron closes his eyes. Opens them.
We have to move forward.
Tron runs then, a dark blur streaking towards the edge. He pushes off, lets himself turn once in the air before leveling out, head down toward the water. The fall is shorter this time, though still long enough to stare at the Sea below, uncompiled chaos tainted black with corruption.
It was easy to fall. To let go. To just stop trying, drop to the water knowing he had done all he could. To have it be over. What did Quorra call it? ‘Removing oneself from the equation.’
This is going to be much harder.
The baton breaks in his hands, and the lines of shape diagram themselves into the empty air. He pulls up sharply, the flat blackness below closing as the steep turn flattens him against the jet. The surface rushes towards him, dark waves reaching towards the blackness of his helmet as it unfolds to shield him-and then the lightjet rises, slipping above the surface of the Sea.
Reckless. A pointless risk.
Tron smiles, gives himself over to the motion of the sky.
Motion was what he had. All he had for so long. No choice (but thought), no action (but skill). Existence without answers. It still seems unreal, to reach for memory, directive, self and find it. He feels jagged inside, broken edges and pieces released in a tumble. He’s not all there, he knows-stray threads of filters, restrictions, commands still wind through his processing, halfhearted whispers of wrongness. But they can hold back little, now. It’s there, he’s there-memory and knowledge and choice so sharp it hurts.
It always did hurt to reach for memory. He had no way to know there would be so much pain on finding it, too.
-------
-_- There's more. I'm just reclaiming sanity enough to stop myself writing it now.
The present-tense is an experiment; I kept slipping into it by accident with Hold On, so wanted to see what'd happen if I tried to use it on purpose. Still debating exactly how to do the perspective.
I have no clue what... just... gah.