#in programming;

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?"

Clear and audible inflection circulated throughout the mind of the hero that leaped across roof-tops, laying waste to his own foot-falls that would make far too much noise upon the ground. Individuals donned in rich crimson trekked the streets, the indomitable heap known as Purgos now over-taken by CLU and his minions. The entirety of this deprived burg wasn't much before they had arrived, though Beck preferred to take down a group of thugs rather than a squad of centurions.

Even worse when they were lead by her.

Yet again, the advice bestowed by his mentor would drawl forth in the recesses of barreling cognition--

[General Ariel. Ten times more ruthless than Tesler and double the tactical genius that Dyson was.]

It was almost amusing of how scared Tron seemed--of how genuinely concerned he appeared to be for his pupil's life.

Such a reaction would not birth from a lack of trust, but of known intelligence. Tron had explained further to the mechanic that these leaders--these monstrosities created by CLU were not to be trifled with. Tesler, despite how ruthless he was, remained to be a program of his own virtue. 

Ariel wasn't.

She had been created by the malevolent tyrant. Specifically coded to ensure the destruction of rebellion, to decimate any glint of hope within any sector of The Grid. Responsible for over thousands of casualties in the ISO War, her name invokes the most deepest of fear within the ordinary program--and even in most heroes.

And even The Renegade himself had to admit--

I'm a little shaky...

But fear would not become the barrier that blocked him from glory. Courage would be his weapon in this matter, burning ferocity wielded as he neared the tower burnished in blinding ruby. His goal was simple--find the strike plans for where she, and others, intended to attack. Key-points lined all along-side the outskirts of Purgos. Tron knew how little this small garbage dump meant in the grand scheme of things. Even most of Argon wouldn't acknowledge its' presence anymore, only chipping away further at its value.

But the lives mattered.

And if CLU ordered it--

She'll wipe the whole sector out.

“…Planet?”

—Strange.

It was a familiar codex, yet the knowledge wouldn’t arise freely. As if he wasn’t supposed to know about what this was. Intricate syntax flickered in agitation, briefly sputtering in what could only be described as an error whilst the program attempted to seek answers.

…Oh!

Right—Tron mentioned something about this.

Realization erupts across colorless visage, small simper conjured from the victory gained in acquiring lost knowledge. “Right it’s—it’s supposed to be… the place outside of this place, right? The world outside The Grid? …Well—”

Shoulders were squared away, indifference hastily doing away with the cheer that attempted to lay its foundation upon the mechanic’s demeanor.