Fic: The Devil's Dues [3/10]
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:
Well, I can say I know where I want this to end up, but I'm still trying to figure out exactly how to get there, which is kind of funny, because it's almost the complete opposite with The Sea. Sorry this chapter's short and meanders a bit, but turning the course of a cruise liner might take some time! Nevertheless, we will get to the destination eventually (or so I hope).
I haven't been idle between this, being half-done with another chapter of The Sea, and working madly on a third independent writing project which was actually started long before I started dipping my toes in Tron fandom. It has also been quite, quite eventful between my usual RL and, just as I happen to be visiting NC for the first time after two years, not only an "unseasonable" earthquake but my first hurricane to boot. I'm guessing I may get a lot of excuses to write while hunkering down for the duration. =)
Thank you to everyone who has been reviewing! I'm still woefully behind at responding D: but I will continue to try and peck away at it.
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
A man stood upon the porch with a gun. His eyes were blood-shot and crazed, his hair unkempt, clothes stained and wrinkled. He still had most of his hair - mostly dark - and the un-wrinkled hands spoke of middle age; but the stooped shoulders, palsied shake of hands, and defeated air made him look like an ancient instead.
"Not one step closer!"
Sam looked between the gun and the untidy row of three crosses in the front yard - the suburban lawn overgrown and yellowed in alternating, scabrous patches - before holding up his hands and backing away. "Whatever you want, Sir," he called without argument, and glanced away only long enough to ensure that the shadow of Tron was following him before he continued down the road once more.
"He looked like there is nothing left but the killing blow."
Sam turned that unassuming comment over and over in his mind, trying to divine the motivation behind it. In the early days, he would have simply thought it a part of Tron's natural curiosity; an observation around which a conversation might form, leading toward things that the program did not know enough yet to ask about directly.
These days, when Tron often did not respond verbally at all, much less ask the questions which needed asking, Sam could not help worrying at the little non sequitars, wondering if they were symptoms of something he did not yet know how to diagnose. Should he be concerned that Tron had substituted concepts of killing and death for deresolution so quickly? Did Tron mean to imply that they should have provided the man that final mercy? Was he disappointed in this latest example of the fall of the once revered users?
Or maybe Sam was simply overthinking things. God knew they had way too much time in which to make that mistake these days. "That was probably his family he buried - think it's enough to give the guy his peace. We've enough supplies to last another day or two."
As the third largest country and also the third largest population in the world, it was a difficult prospect to wipe the United States off the map overnight. But someone had certainly given it a good try, and even included quite a few other countries for good measure ... or so hearsay indicated.
Some said it was anarchist hackers, taking over the world's supply of nuclear arms, and sending them across all the developed nations, willy nilly, to reset civilization.
Some said it was some secret society from the days of the Nazis, developing a plague along with sleeper agents that had infiltrated the highest levels of all the nuclear-capable nations over the last half-century.
Some said it was an extraterrestrial social experiment; that the fire had not come from ourselves, but out of the heavens.
There were, of course, also the requisite stable of religious interpretations.
Sam didn't know what people were more terrified by - the fact that civilization as they had known it had ended, or that nobody seemed to know exactly what had happened or why. There were no doubts of nuclear bombardment alongside the usual explosives; there were a few lucky - or unlucky - souls who had survived on the peripheries and lived to wander and tell the tale, bearing the scars of radiation burns. Sickness claimed the swathes of populations in between the missile strikes, and that alone had hosted its own library of theories; everything from a super-bug evolved from careless research labs or the over-application of antibiotics to bioweapons.
Sam had been one of the lucky ones. He had woken, lucid, after four days of delerium, to find Tron's anxious face hovering over him; as frightened as he had ever seen the program.
Tron had never gotten sick at all.
In the end, the only thing anyone had been sure about, was that the country had been reduced overnight into scattered tribes numbering fewer than the Neanderthals in their heydey, and there had not been enough left of the rest of the world to either be willing or able to offer aid.
So Sam had started walking, searching for the largest population centers, and Tron had followed. He didn't even know what he hoped to find along with the people anymore, because it had become increasingly apparent that the people were not even half as familiar as the broken landmarks when survival became about finding water that would not poison you and not about making it into the office by 9 am. All he knew was that he had a former program walking beside him and the skeletal outlines of an alternative civilization tucked away in a thumb drive hanging around his neck, and maybe, just maybe, he could find a way to bring it all back again.
Whether it was the world he had known or the Grid - he tried very hard not to think about that particular question in their copious free time.
Sam received his first hint that it was more than just a power outtage when he tried to tap the satellite link and it returned the deceptively innocuous message of: No connection.
As much of a daredevil as he was, he had learned the valuable lesson of having back-up plans in place when possible - particularly after his father's historic example - and so he had set up an external communications line for when they were both on the Grid together. Cell reception around the arcade was sometimes chancy with all the old, solid brick and steel architecture surrounding it, and so when some techie friends had been looking to off-load a used satellite handset, he had thought it would be the perfect solution. With an antenna extended to the roof where it had unobstructed access to the sky, he did not need to depend on local cell towers, reception, or for cellular rush-hour traffic to clear.
Except that there was no satellite link. Had something happened to the handset or antenna at the same time as the power?
Shut-down procedures had started before they reached the I/O tower, but the wave which overtook the city slowed measurably when it hit the outlands; as if the simple vector definitions of the sleek buildings were easier to stow away than the ordered chaos beyond city limits. So Sam and Tron had time to stand upon the I/O platform and watch as the world packed itself away in four-dimensional origami folds; voxels collapsing into each other in dizzying cascades, tucked safely into some pocket dimension which defied focus no matter how much Sam squinted at the advancing boundary.
"What will happen to you?" he abruptly thought to ask as the Sea of Simulation began succumbing to the void; the half digitized interpretation of The Great Wave of Kanagawa rendered before their very eyes.
Tron did not move, his gaze riveted upon that yawning darkness swallowing his world. "I do not know. I think - I imagine that it would be like entering a downcycle. I will probably never know it, until the next time I was back online."
Sam tried to visualize that. Tried to imagine Quorra and thousands of other programs going to sleep, not knowing when the next time they would wake will be. For an exhilarating, terrifying moment, his imagination ran away with him, and he thought of never waking ... of the millions of hard drives scattered around the world with programs stored away, collecting dust in bins and on shelves and in old rusting computer cases which would never be turned on again, would possibly even be recycled ...
And, on a whim, blurted, "Want to come with me?"
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:
Well, I can say I know where I want this to end up, but I'm still trying to figure out exactly how to get there, which is kind of funny, because it's almost the complete opposite with The Sea. Sorry this chapter's short and meanders a bit, but turning the course of a cruise liner might take some time! Nevertheless, we will get to the destination eventually (or so I hope).
I haven't been idle between this, being half-done with another chapter of The Sea, and working madly on a third independent writing project which was actually started long before I started dipping my toes in Tron fandom. It has also been quite, quite eventful between my usual RL and, just as I happen to be visiting NC for the first time after two years, not only an "unseasonable" earthquake but my first hurricane to boot. I'm guessing I may get a lot of excuses to write while hunkering down for the duration. =)
Thank you to everyone who has been reviewing! I'm still woefully behind at responding D: but I will continue to try and peck away at it.
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
A man stood upon the porch with a gun. His eyes were blood-shot and crazed, his hair unkempt, clothes stained and wrinkled. He still had most of his hair - mostly dark - and the un-wrinkled hands spoke of middle age; but the stooped shoulders, palsied shake of hands, and defeated air made him look like an ancient instead.
"Not one step closer!"
Sam looked between the gun and the untidy row of three crosses in the front yard - the suburban lawn overgrown and yellowed in alternating, scabrous patches - before holding up his hands and backing away. "Whatever you want, Sir," he called without argument, and glanced away only long enough to ensure that the shadow of Tron was following him before he continued down the road once more.
"He looked like there is nothing left but the killing blow."
Sam turned that unassuming comment over and over in his mind, trying to divine the motivation behind it. In the early days, he would have simply thought it a part of Tron's natural curiosity; an observation around which a conversation might form, leading toward things that the program did not know enough yet to ask about directly.
These days, when Tron often did not respond verbally at all, much less ask the questions which needed asking, Sam could not help worrying at the little non sequitars, wondering if they were symptoms of something he did not yet know how to diagnose. Should he be concerned that Tron had substituted concepts of killing and death for deresolution so quickly? Did Tron mean to imply that they should have provided the man that final mercy? Was he disappointed in this latest example of the fall of the once revered users?
Or maybe Sam was simply overthinking things. God knew they had way too much time in which to make that mistake these days. "That was probably his family he buried - think it's enough to give the guy his peace. We've enough supplies to last another day or two."
As the third largest country and also the third largest population in the world, it was a difficult prospect to wipe the United States off the map overnight. But someone had certainly given it a good try, and even included quite a few other countries for good measure ... or so hearsay indicated.
Some said it was anarchist hackers, taking over the world's supply of nuclear arms, and sending them across all the developed nations, willy nilly, to reset civilization.
Some said it was some secret society from the days of the Nazis, developing a plague along with sleeper agents that had infiltrated the highest levels of all the nuclear-capable nations over the last half-century.
Some said it was an extraterrestrial social experiment; that the fire had not come from ourselves, but out of the heavens.
There were, of course, also the requisite stable of religious interpretations.
Sam didn't know what people were more terrified by - the fact that civilization as they had known it had ended, or that nobody seemed to know exactly what had happened or why. There were no doubts of nuclear bombardment alongside the usual explosives; there were a few lucky - or unlucky - souls who had survived on the peripheries and lived to wander and tell the tale, bearing the scars of radiation burns. Sickness claimed the swathes of populations in between the missile strikes, and that alone had hosted its own library of theories; everything from a super-bug evolved from careless research labs or the over-application of antibiotics to bioweapons.
Sam had been one of the lucky ones. He had woken, lucid, after four days of delerium, to find Tron's anxious face hovering over him; as frightened as he had ever seen the program.
Tron had never gotten sick at all.
In the end, the only thing anyone had been sure about, was that the country had been reduced overnight into scattered tribes numbering fewer than the Neanderthals in their heydey, and there had not been enough left of the rest of the world to either be willing or able to offer aid.
So Sam had started walking, searching for the largest population centers, and Tron had followed. He didn't even know what he hoped to find along with the people anymore, because it had become increasingly apparent that the people were not even half as familiar as the broken landmarks when survival became about finding water that would not poison you and not about making it into the office by 9 am. All he knew was that he had a former program walking beside him and the skeletal outlines of an alternative civilization tucked away in a thumb drive hanging around his neck, and maybe, just maybe, he could find a way to bring it all back again.
Whether it was the world he had known or the Grid - he tried very hard not to think about that particular question in their copious free time.
Sam received his first hint that it was more than just a power outtage when he tried to tap the satellite link and it returned the deceptively innocuous message of: No connection.
As much of a daredevil as he was, he had learned the valuable lesson of having back-up plans in place when possible - particularly after his father's historic example - and so he had set up an external communications line for when they were both on the Grid together. Cell reception around the arcade was sometimes chancy with all the old, solid brick and steel architecture surrounding it, and so when some techie friends had been looking to off-load a used satellite handset, he had thought it would be the perfect solution. With an antenna extended to the roof where it had unobstructed access to the sky, he did not need to depend on local cell towers, reception, or for cellular rush-hour traffic to clear.
Except that there was no satellite link. Had something happened to the handset or antenna at the same time as the power?
Shut-down procedures had started before they reached the I/O tower, but the wave which overtook the city slowed measurably when it hit the outlands; as if the simple vector definitions of the sleek buildings were easier to stow away than the ordered chaos beyond city limits. So Sam and Tron had time to stand upon the I/O platform and watch as the world packed itself away in four-dimensional origami folds; voxels collapsing into each other in dizzying cascades, tucked safely into some pocket dimension which defied focus no matter how much Sam squinted at the advancing boundary.
"What will happen to you?" he abruptly thought to ask as the Sea of Simulation began succumbing to the void; the half digitized interpretation of The Great Wave of Kanagawa rendered before their very eyes.
Tron did not move, his gaze riveted upon that yawning darkness swallowing his world. "I do not know. I think - I imagine that it would be like entering a downcycle. I will probably never know it, until the next time I was back online."
Sam tried to visualize that. Tried to imagine Quorra and thousands of other programs going to sleep, not knowing when the next time they would wake will be. For an exhilarating, terrifying moment, his imagination ran away with him, and he thought of never waking ... of the millions of hard drives scattered around the world with programs stored away, collecting dust in bins and on shelves and in old rusting computer cases which would never be turned on again, would possibly even be recycled ...
And, on a whim, blurted, "Want to come with me?"