--I'll never get used to this place.
Place.
As if it was all one horrid singularity plagued with foreign oddities.
Where storms and impossible phenomenons alike occurred out of order, defying the actuality of what The Grid could control. And as cerulean luminescence radiated within the grim under-tones of splintered terrain, the individual began to wonder of what was in store for him.
[I want to meet him. I need him on my side. And--he sounds like fun.]
It wasn't in the average to acquire a message from your mentor that someone wanted to meet you. And for that certain someone to be an ISO was even more astounding. Tron warned him of how she was, how over-zealous she could become in the affairs of rebellion and messing with CLU's system. 'Quorra' was a fanatic, according to him. But if he was attempting to sway him from meeting her--
--He had carried out a rather horrid job.
Fanatics of the same virtue possibly meeting one another? How could he resist?
It was nearly half a cycle's journey into the terrain known as The Outlands--finally arriving under the mountain-side that she would supposedly be at. In her message, she described that it looked like a decaying helmet owned by one of the DJ's in CLU's city. Which, frankly, didn't help him in the slightest--but he could at least assume the mountain would look weird enough at least.
The hum of the engine was settled, baton clasped back together whilst he stood to his feet. Silence beckoned him to wander further, to relieve the eerie tension that seemed to flow throughout this place. But instead he stayed put, a glance thrown over his shoulder--beige optics flickered high and low; lo and between.
"...Hello? ...Um--I'm here. ...Quorra?"
--If this is another trap, I'm just going to send Tron from now on.












