Fic: The Devil's Dues [2/10]
The Devil's Dues
Fandom(s): Tron: Legacy
Characters: Sam Flynn, Tron/Rinzler
Rating: T
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.
Summary:
It wasn't so much that hope died, but that Sam realized it had only been wishful thinking all along.
For Winzler, and the prompt (misinterpreted):
The world ends. Nuclear wasteland, Mad Max style, etc. One day Sam comes out of the computer and everything is gone. The power will run out soon/the arcade is in danger/etc so Sam hurriedly brings a recovering Tron(zler) out to save him.
Tron is OK at first but slowly reverts to Rinzler under the stress of survival - and Sam eventually begins to lose it as well. In the end we’re left with 2 bugfuck crazy survivalist murdermachines roaming the wasteland together.
Notes:
People have been so great and understanding! Now I wish I could write fic for you all, all day long. =(
Instead, I'm throwing something quick out and then abandoning you all for several days. >.>
Sorry if I abstracted the action quite a bit - I'm just as eager for detailed pwnage as the next fan, but this style was more in line with the flavor I'm trying to keep for this piece. I'll try to make up for it in The Sea. =)
Part 1
Part 2
Sam was careful to work the rusty red grime from around the edges of Rinzler's fingernails, trying to ignore that steady, empty stare fixed upon the top of his bowed head. He was using more of their water than he really should - even with his careful soaking of the cloth's corners so that not a drop was wasted on the parched ground - but with the inclusion of the would-be thieves' supplies with their own, he figured he was justified in at least ensuring that Tron would not have to see user blood on his hands.
Tron would never have risked Sam like that, but Sam was equally unwilling to risk his companion. And so, when the men had advanced on a Tron bound as surely by a hostage as by steel chains, he had unleashed Rinzler, and watched as emotion drained from that familiar, trusted face.
He examined his handiwork one last time and, finally satisfied, he folded the rag over - hiding the stains inside the folds - before stepping back. Eyeing the somber figure before him, he took a deep breath, and then stated quietly, the words bittersweet on his tongue, "We made it, Tron."
Rinzler moved so quickly that the weight upon Sam's back started, and the smooth nose of the gun that had been pressed to his neck disappeared. I'm going to live, Sam realized with pounding heart, throat so dry he nearly choked on the air. In that split second, everything could have ended with a bullet in the back of the head, but instead, Rinzler had lunged right past the two men as if they didn't even exist, the gun jerked up out of sheer reflex, and the gunman lost his chance. He would not get another.
A blink, two, and with awareness came confusion. When Tron glanced down at his hands and feet before the bemusement had even fully faded, Sam had to turn away, jaw clenched.
Once upon a time, the program had looked to his surroundings first to ground himself after a switch. Now, before he had even fully loaded, he looked for evidence of what he had done.
The man managed a single shot, the bullet going wide, before a shadow leaped over them and his weight toppled off of Sam with a wet gurgle. The two that remained standing might have run if given the chance, eyes wide and staring - disbelieving, terrified - hands and makeshift weapons still half-raised from when they had thought their prey trapped. But Rinzler had twisted about with feline grace to pin them with that dead look, and one of them broke with a wavering cry that galvanized the both of them into stumbling forward, swinging; and so, sealed their fate.
"Don't look," he said quickly when Tron was about to turn, then cleared his throat roughly before forcing a grin that felt awkward even to himself. "We've already wasted enough time here and my feet are killing me. I think a sign said there would be a gas station in a mile or two. We should try to get there before the sun sets."
As any good programmer knew, before modifying anything, make sure you had a backup. Possibly even a backup of the backup, placed in a separate location, depending on how paranoid you were. Segregate before you deleted something permanently, and if you had the time, wait a few weeks to see if you would miss it.
Going through someone else's programs - particularly when it involved several coding styles and had even worse commenting conventions than Encom's interns - was never an easy proposition. Rather than attempt to modify it all in one marathon run while at the same time taking over the reigns of his father's company, Sam had decided to take a shortcut: Mark all that was Rinzler. Shove it to one corner. Fill in what gaps there were with what copies and backups he could find of the Tron program from its first instantiation upon the grid, before the advent of Clu 2.0.
Of course, this also meant that Tron would lose access to all those memories which Rinzler had produced. Sure, there would be shadows left over - Tron had, after all, managed to win through his conditioning in little fits and spurts - but those foggy impressions which were untouched by that error-red luminance of something gone wrong, Sam left alone. More or less, he was the original Tron, in character if not in appearance, with just enough experience to manage a fully developed Grid 2.0.
Sam would have been happy to simply chuck everything in that box labeled "Rinzler" into the recycle bin and then hit "empty", but when a month had passed after the segregation and it was apparent that Tron was running just fine, the security program stopped him before he hit the proverbial button.
"I wish to at least integrate the memories."
Sam had stared outright. "What?"
Tron's jaw tightened, circuits flickering with apprehension, but then squared his shoulders and looked every inch the hero that had once decorated a younger Sam's shelves. "Because they are a part of me. That is who I was for over a thousand cycles. I deserve to retain them."
Sam tried to keep the bewildered exasperation from his voice as he asked, "But it wasn't you. Do you think you deserve them because you want them, or that you deserve them because they're your just desserts? C'mon - no one blames you for what happened now that they know what really happened ... well, okay, most of them don't, and the rest are coming around now that they're remembering the old Tron again. Just give it some time and - "
Tron exhaled; a put-upon huff that was purely cosmetic from a program that had never required air. Sam tried to imagine his father doing that enough times for a program to pick up the habit, and then resolutely tucked the thought away for later contemplation. Hopefully with a bottle or two of beer at hand. "Regardless, from a purely practical standpoint, my memories would be a thousand cycles out of sync with the history of the Grid. How will I patrol - "
"I can upload maps straight into your core - "
" - who do I know I can trust - "
" - I'm working on some filters top-side that can probably weed out the - "
" - are reliable - "
" - it shouldn't take that long to shake down a new system - I mean, c'mon! I'm going through the exact same thing with Encom right now and lemme tell you, it's no sweat if you've got the right - "
"Sam."
He stuttered to a stop, momentarily at a loss. "It's not going to be all rainbows and unicorns," he warned with desperate bluntness, "this isn't the sort of stuff that goes into Aunt Mathilda's family albums."
Tron looked perplexed for a moment, but then bravely forged ahead. "I know. Which is why it's all the more critical that I do this."
Sam released his own exasperated sigh. "Then, why? The real why. It's going to be a lot of work, and ... and I've got no clue how it'll all end up - how you'll end up."
"I know. I didn't want to ask it of you, except - " Tron hesitated, head bowing, before he finished quietly, "It's because, even with all the miserable things I became under Clu's reign, not one of them was a coward. Please, Sam Flynn ... I do not want to become one now."