#useralan

[in reference to x]

He’d been in stasis for a thousand cycles. His mind had never slept.

What did I do wrong? What made him take me offline? Am I expendable?

He’d woken up in a completely new System, the structure and Programs vastly different than when he’d been pulled. Everyone he had ever known was probably long dead. Even Yori, which made his core heavy at the thought; before, he had thought he would never be able to live without her. Now, there was probably a heavily upgraded version of her--or a replacement--who most likely wouldn't even know who he was.

No, he knew for a fact there was.

No one had paid much attention to the disoriented legacy Program wandering around. They probably thought it was normal, maybe a System hiccup that temporarily restored Programs to older versions. Tron didn't know if that actually happened or not in the new System, but he was grateful for the lack of attention. That, combined with his hand in implementing security features back in the original System, let him easily bypass many of the new security features, allowing him to explore more thoroughly.

He'd stumbled upon some unusual System archives, ones Tron discovered were filled with User-to-User communications. That was new. He'd succumbed to his curiosity and looked through a few. And then a few more. Most of the information he couldn't understand, but when he found his own User's designation on one of the files, he was further tempted to investigate.

He started reading.

Not only were there details about the circumstances of Tron's stasis and Alan One's other projects (what was MA1A?), but there were also details about who his User was, other than an unseen entity. Tron knew at this point that this was information he wasn't supposed to know, that it would be sacrilege to continue, but what the Users would have called Pandora's Box had already been opened.

He had a life as well, Out There. The files contained his words and those of others speaking of or to him. His worries, his concerns, his achievements, they were all there. Often, he spoke of another entity, one Tron couldn't grasp the meaning of right away.

He called it a "son".

Alan One put a lot of time into developing the "son" project, but there seemed to be constant malfunction--disobedience, even. And he talked about it as if it was really there with him, and not just in some other System. They coexisted Out There, but why? According to the ancient beliefs, only the most faithful, loyal and devout could see the User's face and ascend to the ethereal plane. What had that spaghetti code done to deserve it?

A new sensation filled his entire being, one he hadn't felt since the rise of the MCP: hatred.

Alan One didn't deserve to be tormented, pushed around and otherwise burdened by some corrupted garbage, and that garbage didn't deserve the honor of sitting by his User's side. That was all there was to it. But how would he set things right?

“You may be my creator, but I am your master!”

 It had been months since he had spoken those words, and Victor Frankenstein had begun work on the being who was to be his creature’s salvation.  By living up in the mountains, the reanimated man could avoid any further encounters with the mad brutes who sought to destroy him, but at night, he came to watch Victor.  

Paige was tired. Exhausted. But there was still work to be done. 

The city was still in shambles after the explosion. She needed to go out and see if there were any more programs among the rubble. Beck usually helped her...but he had taken a team on a scouting mission for more energy, since their supply was running low again. Sighing, she got to her feet an left the makeshift hospital.

The city was quiet. The fires were gone, but it still felt like the city was burning. Hopefully, if she found anyone, they wouldn’t be majorly injured. Hopefully, a couple cycles rest on a makeshift bed would work.....

“Hello, my name is Paige. What seems to be the problem?”

The young medic program sat down in front of him. Her face was kind, and already searching for any issue with the stranger, but trying to listen to whatever he had to say. That’s why she had the datapad in her hands; for notes.