He said grab your things son || Tandem writing // PSL

[amirrorbrightly]

By the end of his second centicycle of solid maximal output, Clu was officially reaching his limits. His processing speed had slipped 4 percent, and was steadily dropping as he neared the Tower, and though there was still so much to do between cancelling great swathes of Flynn’s “pet projects” so that resources could shift primary focus onto the needs of the desperately overtaxed System, and a stack of requests in his inbox, Clu gave notification that he was in need of a little downtime.

True, he wasn’t yet to the point of needing to do a full reboot, and defrag, but…downtime. A little bit of quiet, long enough to let his self repair functions run. To that end, he allowed only three programs accompany him on board the Recognizer, and quietly pilot it back to the Tower’s landing platform. Two were sentries ( Ourin and Jay, part of Clu’s newly appointed Black Guard ) and the last…was still listed as [undefined] on his System tag.

It was true, though. Tron couldn’t exactly be called ‘Tron’ anymore, because the program standing silently beside Clu as the Recognizer circled once, then touched down with a groan of locking mechanism simply had too many new variables, and functions to be called the same ‘Tron’ that was installed with the Grid when it was new. The ‘Tron’ of Clu’s earliest memory files was even more different; he at least attempted some form of output above simple automation. But with time, and the surgical, soulless genius of Bradley paring away at the program, Tron became little more than the User’s pet hunter. He stopped speaking, stopped interacting, and the only output he gave back at all was little better than broadcast, and only a succinct response to a request.

As Clu considered the quiet program that had been his shadow for the last centicycle, he thought he could see something in the program’s eyes. Something…well…alive, for lack of a better term. This program did not hunch down as much, did not have the dead stare of a half-compiled automaton. His eyes looked around, seemed to see, and be aware of much more. Recently he had even started speaking without the need for a verbal prompt, too. But most important of all? This program had displayed none of the tagged warning signs that Tron had in the millicycle after his capture.
As Clu exited the docked Recognizer, he did note that Ourin, and Jay fell in behind this silent [undefined] still with a watchful air, but…less fear. Clu couldn’t help feeling a sense of hopeful satisfaction at it – but promptly squashed the sensation before it could fully process. Too much was too uncertain, and he couldn’t afford to get reckless just because he felt ragged with frustration.

After simply closing his office after his shadow, Clu left instructions with Jarvis to give him until next shift for downtime ( which the taskmanager seemed strangely relieved about ) and circled around the edge of his desk with a flask of negating calibration script he’d tweaked himself. It mixed nicely with a tall glass of undiluted energy, and to be perfectly honest? Clu felt he had earned himself the stiff drink.

“…Want some?” he asked, and absently pushed a second glass of the exact same thing toward the quiet program. He didn’t wait for a response ( the program would take it, or he wouldn’t ) only sat in his desk chair with a long sigh, and sipped at his drink.
Obviously, Clu did intend to make good use of this break, but in his own way. Still, the surprise he had stored safely away could wait another micro, or two.

Comments

[amirrorbrightly]

Clu blinked once, posture, and expression as closed, and carefully neutral as ever. Clu had practiced many expressions, many ways of training his voice, and his mannerisms not to betray his thoughts in the first cycle of his existence, purely to survive dealing with Flynn's volatile temper.

But this sort of shock? Less practiced, and for a moment, Clu was flustered. What was the correct response? What were the words, or scripts that would convey what he needed to in order to communicate the core of his meaning? He wasn't sure, couldn't decide, and while his expression was perfectly mastered, the faint tremor in his fingers, then the curling, and uncurling of his hands into fists gave away his unease.

"Go back?" Repetition, restate to buy time while his processing furiously caught up.

"It doesn't go back. There is no going back, and even the System doesn't register you as the same program anymore. You were the User's enforcer.

Now you are simply yourself."

That wasn't right. It lacked clarity, and likely did nothing to put the program at ease, so Clu's lips tightened into a thin line, and he narrowed his eyes in irritation - mostly at himself - as he tried again to expand the parameters of his response.

"It's simple, really. I mean to reclaim the Grid. To build a perfect System out of the remains of partitioning, and code damage that the Users left behind. How can I prove to programs - to anyone that I am as capable a programmer as Flynn ever was? How can I possibly hope to rebuild the Grid if I can't rebuild a single, severely damaged program?"

It sounded a far sight better, in Clu's opinion, than admitting to the small, frightened part of him deep down inside that was terrified of being all alone with this same chaos. That he was not sure he could do this by himself.

That he wanted - needed....help.

"Did you think yourself to be so easily replaced?"

Redirect. It was a deflection, because Clu could see this would start edging into dangerous territory otherwise. After all, he knew what his functions, and longterm goals were. He was System Administrator, and as the sysadmin, he was looking for something more solid from this program than the continuing [undefined]

Then, in a moment of insight, Clu tilted his head to the side, and studied the program with that same calculating, curious gaze that he had leveled on 'Tron' the first time they ever met. And, while it may have been a gamble, Clu's processing finally caught up with a better way to redirect.

"If all I wanted from you were your functions, I would not have bothered rebuilding higher processing, nevermind vocal functions at all.

But the true test here? Is what do you want for yourself?"

[unrectified]

Tron had learned how to hide his reactions, too. Learned and then forgot, when there was nothing left worth hiding. But even if he had kept all Tron's caution for his programmer? The program had already gone too far for it to make much difference here.

Simply yourself. He shook his head. Didn't look up, stare lingering on the undocked disk clenched desperately in hand. Vocals were shot—he'd spoken more in the last 'clarification' than at any point in the last cycle and a half of careful edits. He'd still have laughed, if he didn't hate the way it would come out. He'd been the user's enforcer, yes. But he knew his own tag now, and [undefined] didn't read as any sort of self. Just a blank value, waiting to be locked down. Fixed, past the need for cells or guards. And until they finished? He was anything but simple.

No reason to leave variables. But then the admin gave a reason, and the program stilled as the solution mapped into place, line by line. How can I prove to programs that I am as capable? He was more than an experiment. He was the proof. A demonstration, for the system. The program didn't move, didn't react. Just a faint, sharp line of tension as his jaw clenched shut. It made sense. Even if he didn't want to be shown. Even if it left the question of what would happen after the admin's point was made.

He missed the deflection. Didn't look up enough to catch the frustration or the curious examination. Just audio, and the next phrase almost startled out a laugh regardless. Replaced? No. Another fractional shake of the head, a quiet whisper slipping out in correction. "Reused."

The last query didn't have an answer. It had too many, and he didn't know which were valid, and which were his, and which were even safe to process. Half a micro's fractured silence before he output a shrug.

[amirrorbrightly]

No, that was the opposite of the reaction Clu had hoped for. This was getting ridiculous, and the [undefined] was not making it easy to figure out what the correct response should be.

Clu's frustration was starting to slip around the edges.

"Stop that. Stop assuming I am like the Users - like him."

Hands shaking outright, despite being curled into tight fists, Clu straightened, and stepped closer, purposefully invading 'Tron's' space with an almost challenging look.

"20% of your new integrated disk is tidy, and all of that inherited from Bradley; the rest needs work. It needs a lot of work. But before any of that can happen, you must tell me what your desired function is.

It would be a waste, but you could go join an outer relay in one of the colonies, become a signals encoder, live with Yori, and put the infamy of Tron behind you. And I would help you to do it, because I am not Flynn. It is not my desires that the System is here to serve, it is I who serve the System.

Do you understand, yet? To become a fully compiled, self-aware program you still need work. But this is the point in which function, designation, and assignment are given."

The frustration cracked a bit further to show a flicker of desperation in Clu's blue eyes. You have to understand this, you must, or no one will. He wasn't Flynn, he would not take, and take, and push the Grid to breaking without so much as a second thought. Clu was better than that!

"I don't want to 'reuse' you. I am going to reclaim you."

[unrectified]

The snapped command got a flinch, stance hunching in tighter. But the program's stare dragged upwards as presence and proximity closed in, and if expression was still locked and wary, he didn't back away. Back down.

Desired function. Features twisted, distrust becoming incredulity without stopping on the way for shock. It was impossible, and it was a lie, and he was one glitched half-process from flagging it that way aloud, never mind the admin's anger. He didn't get to have those kinds of choices.

And maybe it wasn't the probability of a lie that scared him most.

Clu wasn't Flynn. But Flynn had never owned his code. Not Alan-one, then. But the admin didn't have to be a User to use or reuse, and Tron was a threat to the system. A tool, a weapon—barely a program, at least in any full sense of the word. 'Better', his user had called him. Clu's reference had been 'broken'. Too many definitions, and he wanted to break the stare, step back, run and keep running or delete them all. The strangling pressure of directive surged back, and of course it was this that made him realize he was standing half a pace from his captor with a weaponizable disk in hand.

Fight for the users, came the perpetual whisper, and it never let him think and he wanted it to shut up.

Eyes lowered again to the weapon. Identity disk. Disks. Hand angled slightly, and he stared at the clean white circle, watched the light refract and merge with his own blue-white glow. He could feel his function, and it hurt. He could feel the blank, too—still docked, still a empty, itching null blocking out sync.

Vocals were rough and small and halting when he looked up. "...don't—I—I don't want to be Tron."

[amirrorbrightly]

Clu's frustration was not appeased in the least, but ruling out at least one vector was better than nothing at all. Without further comment, he reached over the program's shoulder, eyes refusing to drop from watching this [undefined]'s expression, and with a soft 'click', he removed the blank.

"Then don't be."

Whatever decision he does come to, it must be his choice alone. Clu understood that, though the urge to simply snatch the merged disk out of 'Tron's' hand, and snap it into sync was strong, Clu mastered it.
Instead, he turned away, tossing the blank carelessly onto the edge of his desk, and with a pointed rattle it came to rest there.

"When you've sorted through your processing load, make your decision." He all but snapped, and left the program standing in the middle of his office.

Clu had to turn away. He couldn't let any more of his true reactions show; it was too dangerous. Instead, he paced in silence around the edge of his desk, and took up a position that allowed him to watch the city's lights through the expansive, glassine field. His reflection left a ghostly double-set of yellow circuits hovering next to him as Clu clasped his hands at the small of his back.

And waited.

[unrectified]

A freeze at the reach. Expression flickered with brief conflict, but the program stayed still, felt the blank come free with a click that registered more sharply internally than with audio or tactile. A half-dizzy shift—disorienting, but quick and clean, like clearing a processing glitch from cache. Or a hex of glitches. He really did hate that blank.

And then Clu tossed it aside, and turned, and left, and the program didn't need visuals to track the steps. He listened to the distance grow, heard the admin stop. And wait.

Make your decision.

A micro's stillness, and the disk came up. Disks. The program stared for a moment, then brought his left hand back to grip the ring, felt for the distinction, and gave an experimental tug. They split. One neutral-white, barely a fraction of the code. The other blue. His. He could sync that, instead. No change, no edit—and he'd have his weapon back. Plus a spare.

(Tron's weapon.)

Attention shifted to the second disk, a fraction's hesitation before he triggered a command. The program blinked, visuals refreshing in surprise when it responded, light scrolling up in open readouts of stored code. Full access privileges. But the contents were fragmented, disjoint—a fraction the code, and with even less meaning. Designed to support, not replace.

He closed the output. Put them back together.

A moment's lag. A moment, or a micro, or something that felt like another glitching cycle, as logged memory fed him the sequence in reverse. Edits and tests, containment and talks, and Tron's stunned, utter confusion when he rebooted with a voice. Being caged. Being left. Commands he still couldn't flush, and the constant, constant need to serve the users' will.

The program reached back and snapped the merged disk into place.

Sync. Processing blanked, cache dumped, and sensory data vanished entirely under the sudden stream of data. Of rewrite. Input/output, but no matter how long since his last sync, there was far more being written to his mind. A flinch as already-fragmented processes terminated, restarted, were blocked as lines of code cut off from access or effect. He was losing parts, and desperate focus scrambled after. Because he didn't want to forget and he didn't want to be empty again, and it took a long, panicked search to realize that he wasn't.

Externals were far past processing. No attempt at motion, but he still staggered, motor functions activating just fast enough to catch himself before he hit the ground. Circuitry flickered, air drew in with a blade-sharp breath, and he stalled in place as the download continued. A thousand normal edits couldn't have prepared him for this sensation, two distinct and separate disk codes meshing together to restructure his whole.

And just as suddenly, the process finished. Sync complete, disks integrated and linked. The changelog made no sense, but it was still in access. Realization followed response—he knew, because he'd tried. Because he still wanted to know.

He was still there.
('He'.)

Something else wasn't. That realization came even slower. Dim circuitry flickered, then restabilized, efforts faltering, because he had to know. It was there, always there, and he didn't understand the quiet, empty absence, and he needed...

No. He didn't need.

The program opened his eyes, and stared at his own white lights, and tried to process the partitions where compulsion should have been.

[amirrorbrightly]

Clu listened to the silence ringing through his office as he watched, unseeing, the merging, and separating strands of light across the city. Don't interfere, don't interfere, don't--

The soft click of disks being separated made his fingers tense, the old scripts relating the promises he'd made to many unbidden in his processing; If he becomes a hazard, I will derezz Tron, myself.
Then they fused.

Then the quiet click of both - thankfully both - snapping into place, and Clu allowed himself a small, hidden smile.

He also risked a glance back as the [undefined] staggered, knees buckling, and finally sat down a little too hard to be casual right there in the floor. The smile grew.
Stubborn code, indeed.

But as upgrades, and edits were processing, Clu pushed down his own stung pride, and moved the two paces back to his desk to press a command in. Quick, and neat, a platform rezzed itself into being underneath the half-collapsed program, salving dignity, and adding a measure of comfort at the same time. No disruption to the examination occurring, and no comment until Clu returned to the middle of his office, and eased himself down to sit beside his silent shadow.

"See? All of that fuss, and it didn't even hurt."

The smug smirk was the correct response here, and Clu held out a small vial of moderately processed energy.

"Here. No negating script this time. Should be enough to recalibrate your energy management."

Leaning back onto one hand, Clu looked the newly updated program over, noting the reshuffling from User-loyal tags, to neutral. That was also expected, and seeing as how the decision had been made, the relevant questions could move back to the fore of priority queue.

"Alright, then. You can't stay as an undetermined, now. Your code is still intended for combat, and your subroutines still read as Security. But...it's your decision.

In the meantime, since you've made it clear you don't want to be Tron, you'll need a new designation."

[unrectified]

Focus stayed internal for a while. Sorting through his own functions, running (and rerunning) diagnostics. A half-suspicious scan checked memory, and he could almost believe the normal output. Mostly, though, he felt the silence. No whispers, no crushing, solid press of root command. No nauseating conflict, no pain for failing to obey. So much more than he was allowed to be, and he wasn't sure he'd ever process the absence of the source-coded need to be less.

The platform registered peripherally as it rezzed into place beneath him, but it wasn't until the admin approached that he paused analysis. He looked over as Clu sat down beside—and remaining wariness dropped in favor of a glower at the comment. Expression didn't help. Less smug, Clu.

Still, the program took the vial, only a moment's lag before uncapping it. Recharge was straightforward enough. But he had a feeling a lot of him would need recalibrating now. He wasn't sure he liked the thought.

Wait. He was sure. He didn't.

Two swallows, and the vial emptied, white circuits brightening faintly. He stared at the glow, hands turning slightly as he remapped the change in color. That would take a while to get used to. It took a moment to drag attention back to Clu's words. Stare fixed carefully, but he didn't respond to the first part. Whatever the result, he wasn't volunteering for any large-scale repurpose in the next millicycle. If it was 'his decision'. Shouldn't trust that. Utterly improbable. But maybe...

He could hope.

The last words were unexpected. But it made sense. However much a lie it was before, he wasn't Tron, now. And he didn't want to go back. The program shifted, lingering tension in the shrug, but no disagreement. Head angled in silent question.

[amirrorbrightly]

Clu's frown returned. He really was starting to despise that shrugging. It was worse than nothing but [y/n?] output, mostly because it was no response at all.

"Alright, then a new name. Form should follow function, though, and this would be easier if I knew what you planned to do."

Codified Likeness Utility, after all, was more a description than a name, but truth be told, Clu hadn't put much thought into his own name, before. What about something else for Tron?

Hm. Maybe a shrug wasn't too far off by way of reaction.

"...I could always give you a new one?"

Clu felt a spark of interest he couldn't quite scrub out of his voice, entirely. Usually that was a User's prerogative, and without function to narrow possibilities, Clu had no idea where to start. But he was quite sure his facility for something so simple as an identifying tag was not lacking. How hard could it be? Something interesting, though. Unique.

Clu grinned a little at the thought.

[unrectified]

The program was entirely fine with Clu choosing a designation. It was what he meant by the questioning headtilt, why he hadn't bothered with more statement than a shrug. Not as if he had any real database to work from.

And then the admin suggested it... and grinned. A stare, in return. The expression was bad enough, but the speculative interest in Clu's tone didn't help. Suddenly this read as a really good time for the program to test the boundaries of his supposed decisions.

None of which, of course, gave him anything useful to actually output. Instinct said to scan through logged memory, but the task aborted after just nanos. Plenty of designations. No longer in use, even. But he wasn't going to be Tron, and identifying as one of his user-tasked kills didn't seem like much better of a break from pattern. Something new.

No memory-logged tag. No function, either. And he needed something now—by the admin's look, he'd already started calculating. The program pulled a string at random, discarded the first try. He wasn't even sure how to vocalize the second. A randomized sequence next, parameters cutting down the output, resulting list scanned and assessed for usability...

"Rinzler."

Eyes flicked to Clu, tone stubborn, and hopefully more certain than he actually was. But the name wasn't on his records. New. And at the very least? It had to be better than whatever Clu would generate.

[amirrorbrightly]

It does a marvelous job of stopping Clu's calculations in their tracks, actually. Pity, he was rather interested in the idea of naming his very first, newly reclaimed program.
Frowning a little at the choice, Clu repeated it back, testing for vocal rhythm.

"Rinzler? Hm. Well, it is certainly new."

And totally unlike anything Clu had heard of, before. Not the shorter, more efficient designations assigned to most Basics, nor the mixtures of User-program sounds, and numbers the ISO's favored, either. Fitting, really.

"Alright. It's your name, and your choice."

Clu's smile dimmed, and his eyes took the faraway look they always did when he was remotely hooked into System feeds. He could do it from his desk, and commit his processing to multiple tasks that way, but...more personal this way. And it would help him level out, making use of this needed downtime.

[Rinzler070203] [BFos.3] [Reclamation Stamp: 91990_0228]

The System dutifully recorded the designation, checksum, serial number, and reclamation stamp. When Clu blinked after a half a micro's quiet lag, he raised his free hand and held it out to receive Rinzler's new disks.

"Done. I can add it all to your ID now, and after the next full System sweep, your new permissions will be in effect."

Whether or not Clu, personally, was given the chance to choose a name, it was far better to have a known ( if still unstable ) program sitting next to him, now. That code-deep itch to have all known variables tallied, and solved no less a compulsion that set heavily on Clu's processes than the User's hooks had been set into Tron - into Rinzler's

"Is there significance to it? Rinzler?"

[unrectified]

That interest was most of the reason for the quick generation. The program's own response was minimal, but he watched, quiet and uncertain, as the admin tested the name. His own wariness surprised him. Just a dozen micros ago, he would have cared so much less. But there was less to care about (less to fear losing) when he was only ever just waiting for an end.

(Hope was terrifying.)

So he watched the admin. Cautiously. Verbal confirm/deny was one thing, but it was the distant look of system access that shaded his processing with faint relief. Processing was still more, and strange, attention in parallel to observation and analysis, his own ongoing diagnostic and the meaning in—

Gesture parsed simultaneous to the vocal string, and the program froze as the demand mapped. Stupid, really. Clu had kept his disk for over a cycle's worth of edits, well before asking would produce results. Now was hardly the time to balk at so minor an update. He broke the lockup, head ducking in a nod as he reached back to pull the disk from dock. He held it in both hands, a moment's uncertain strain before he offered it out. Unfamiliar white identifier, strange merged design. Clu's creation. That didn't stop a stubborn new process insistently flagging mine, in a way Tron was never able to. Eyes flicked from disk to programmer, his own silent demand behind the small frown and unblinking stare.

Give it back.

Permissions tripped a hex of desperate queries, but he held them back for now, glance tracking the disk. Head shook slightly in answer to Clu's own. No significance to the name. Just that he wanted it, too.

Wanting was almost as bad as hope.

[amirrorbrightly]

Clu's smirk couldn't be entirely wiped out, not now. He was too pleased with the results of his 'reclamation' project. Permissions were a default set, but it would let Rinzler have as much autonomy as the simplest of civilian programs on the Grid. A calculated risk that, but Clu was confident that a little more time of letting Rinzler choose to come, and go from a few specific areas in the city would do this new ( renewed ) program good.
And there was always more field trips shadowing Clu to consider.

The disk in hand was easily opened, and Clu didn't bother to hide anything anymore, there was no need. Rinzler seemed suddenly nervous about letting it go, but Clu only added the new designation, checksum, serial, and reclamation stamp into the appropriate fields. The reclamation stamp showed up just after the original Tron log displayed the recent sync, and Clu smiled as he tagged this date as the first of Rinzler's newly functioning runtime.

Closing the interface, he handed the disk back, and then? stretched, and leaned back until only his legs dangled off the side of the platform.

"Well. One out of two isn't bad. I'll keep your temp listing as 'repairing' logged, so when you've settled on a function there won't be too much need for re-prioritizing."

Laid out on his back, Clu tucked his hands behind his head, all in all looking very satisfied with himself.

"Welcome to the Grid."