Incorrect quotes and AUs from @proto-actual's "Finite States" fic universe. Tags: "#incorrect mirror image" and "#incorrect signal // noise". Feel free to send prompts or requests. :)
"So when I talk about you to new people, what do you want me to say?"
They're sitting on the floor of Henry's bedroom, sorting out all the tapes and records he'd unpacked too fast and thrown on the shelf. Henry looks up from the pile, eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"
"Well, on Sunday, after church, I'm gonna have to introduce you to a bunch of people." Gene shrugs. "So am I saying, 'this is my son, Henry', or am I being nonspecific, like, 'my oldest', or something else?"
"Well, what have you been doing?"
"Hasn't come up yet."
"Oh. Yeah." Henry's eyes dart around the room. All the half-unpacked boxes; the posters they'd carefully taken down from his room in the old house; the new desk. Avoiding the one box in the corner. "I didn't know it was gonna be a big deal."
"It's not." An immediate answer. Suddenly and painfully aware of the sorting Henry and Lucy will be doing later, all the clothes he outgrew last year. Things they're going to keep for Jason, down the line, and things they'll donate to the church, come Sunday afternoon. "Your mom and I just don't want to do it wrong. That's all."
"Uh... I don't know."
"That's okay. You can think about it. We've still got a few days. --When we're done with this, we should probably make sure your dress clothes are unpacked. Probably need to wash them."
"Ugh. I hate those pants."
"You can wear jeans if you want. I am. Just, y'know, something without garage vomit on them."
Henry turns a tape over in his hands, putting it in the pile to his left. So that's where Gene's missing Clash tapes went. "...Is it okay if I change my mind about it, later?"
"Yeah. What's not okay is that you stole my tape. Give it here." Sure enough. "I'll make you a copy of it tonight."
"Sorry, I forgot I had it."
"Yeah, yeah. I knew that box felt light. How many more are we gonna find?"
Henry's grin answers that question on its own.
"But I mean that, y'know. You're not gonna figure everything out in two months. Takes digging. That's not a bad thing."
"It's not?"
"Nah. Nobody figures themselves out in two months. I'm pushing forty and still working on that, are you kidding?"
"Huh." Henry gets that look -- processing, accepting. "--Is it weird? This whole thing, I mean."
Oh. Well.
"It's got a learning curve," Gene admits. "But you don't need to worry about it."
"Well, I just..."
"I know. But that's on me and your mom. Not you. You just keep doing what you're doing." He reaches over and ruffles Henry's hair. Can't make it worse. "You need a haircut. You wanna go do that tomorrow?"
"...Yeah." Not exactly convincing, but he gets points for trying. "It's not that bad."
"You look like an unshaved yak, kid."
"I do not." Henry pauses, blinks. "...Do yaks get shaved?"
"When you're avoiding other things. Like laundry, or calling your grandma..."
He means your mom's parents, and they both know it.
"Have you and Mom told Grandma and Grandpa yet?"
"No. Not until you tell us to."
"Okay." Nods slowly. "How do you think they're gonna take it?"
"I don't know."
Half true, but only in the same sense that he doesn't know exactly where Lucy or Jason or Katie are, right now. Just that they're in the house. No specifics. Just the general vicinity.
And Henry knows that well enough. Trying to keep it off his face, but... well, he's fifteen. It's a work in progress. "At least we're not going to their church."
"Yeah. That's, uh... That's why we're not doing that."
One reason of many.
"Have you told your parents yet?"
"Nope. Not them, either." That, at least, will go a lot better. "Your mom and I aren't telling anybody until you're ready."
"Has that been weird?"
"You get used to it. It's all about context, right?" Gene shrugs. "If I can figure out how to use a text editor, I can figure out how to change how I talk about you when we're not at home. Command mode or insert mode. Son mode or daughter mode. Same thing."
Henry gets that grin -- the one that's a little too big for his face, like he's never quite going to grow into it. "That's so dumb."
"Maybe. But it's true."
"I should probably tell them before Sunday."
"I'll talk to them."
"No, I think I wanna do it."
"Really?" It makes some amount of sense, now that he's said it -- Henry's always been closer to Gene's parents than to Lucy's -- but Gene had been assuming he'd have some "here's what's going on; this is what these words mean" conversations first, just like last time around. "Alright. Well, we're going over there tomorrow night, and I think it's just gonna be us. I'll call and make sure. Let them know we've got good news."
"...Good news?"
"Yeah. Why wouldn't it be?"
After all, this is the happiest Gene's ever seen him. Hell of a lot better than he was doing a year ago.
Gene's on the phone, when Lora storms through the gate. Sitting on the back porch, telephone wire strung through the open screen door. A careful balance of the phone on his shoulder and the papers stacked on his lap.
"...Yeah. --Oh, hang on, Lora's here. Looks pissed. Better go. I'll call you back later. --Uh-huh. Love you." He hangs up. Waves at her, like he hasn't done a damn thing wrong in his whole life. "Hi."
"What the hell are you doing?"
Gene blinks at her, the very model of confusion. Infuriating. "Checking the kids' math homework. Just about done. Was talking to my mom. Aren't you supposed to be at work?"
"Day off for lab cleaning. But that's not what I mean, and you know it," Lora hisses. She drops down to the porch in front of him. Freshly redone. Still smells like the stain and sealant. "Who gave you the right to give my boyfriend the break her heart and I break your wrists talk?"
"Oh, that's what this is about?" He shrugs. "He took it alright."
"That is not your job."
"Look, if your dad does it, he's gonna go overboard and scare the poor guy. And you don't have any older brothers to do it, so... Oldest cousin. Absolutely is my job."
"Both wrists."
"Well, yeah. He can still play video games if it's his knees. It's gotta have consequences. And anyway, that was, I dunno, how long have you been dating him? Six months ago? So I mean, if you're just finding out about it now..."
"You didn't think maybe that was a little excessive?"
"Not really." He circles something on the last of the papers, sets it aside. "I've heard things about Flynn's track record."
"Unbelievable." Deep breath. He's got a point, about how long it took for her to find out. "Where would you have heard that?"
"We've got some mutual friends. And Lucy knows a couple of his exes. One of 'em in the computer club..."
"Okay, okay, I get it. But we're not even that serious. --Both wrists!"
"I'm nothing if not thorough."
"And a pain in the ass."
"That's me." He grins, collects the papers, stands up. "You want coffee?"
"Yeah. Sure." 5:30 in the afternoon. "So what, your sixth of the day?"
"Fourth. I've only been home for half an hour. Jason's practice ran long." He collects the papers up into two folders, one green and one blue. Picks up the handset, one-handed and precarious. "Kitchen's a mess, but... y'know."
Sure enough. Not an inch of counter space in sight as Lora closes the screen door behind her -- not that there's a whole lot to go around. Unwashed dishes and juice glasses stacked in the sink. The kids have, evidently, been making snacks. Peanut butter and strawberry jam, half a loaf of bread.
"...Hellions. Well, hellion." Gene sets down the phone on its side table, glances around to look for the offender. "Henry, how many times do I gotta tell you to at least tie off the bread when you're done?"
The recliner in the living room creaks; a quiet thud and some giggling. A few seconds later, the culprit appears, book in hand. "Sorry. I forgot."
"Yeah, that's what I thought."
"I did, honest." Henry grins, hastily tying off the bag and scooping up the jars in the opposite arm. "Hi, Lora. What are you doing here?"
"Day off, thought I'd drop by. Got those?"
"Yeah, it's fine." Kid's got this down to a science, apparently -- sliding the bread bag off one elbow into the pull-out drawers. Opens the cabinet, closes it, opens the one beside it for the peanut butter. "It's fine."
"Four years in this house," Gene says solemnly.
"You've never been any better." Lora's watched him mix up left and right more times than she can count. "She comes by it honestly."
"Uh-huh." He pulls down two mugs from the shelf, and then, to Henry-- "Can you take Jason's homework upstairs? I'll make your coffee. Couple things on yours we've gotta look over."
"Alright." Henry picks up the green folder and sprints up the stairs, practically kicking the door open, from the sounds of it. Jason yells something indistinct; she must have tackled him.
Lora watches Gene pour the coffee, squinting at the second mug in amusement. "Since when does Henry drink coffee, anyway?"
"Recent. A month ago, maybe? Helps her concentrate."
"Huh." Lora hasn't been around as much as she'd like, lately. "Fourteen in a couple weeks."
"Yeah, don't remind me." A single scoop of sugar in one, two in the other. About equal amounts of milk. Passes Lora the first mug with a grin as the human tornado returns down the stairs. "Another five years and the kid's gonna take over the world."
"You can't just tell people that, Dad." Henry's glasses immediately go opaque as she takes her mug from the counter. She frowns, wipes them on her shirt. Probably hasn't cleaned her glasses in a week anyway. "It won't work if it's not a secret."
"Y'know, we'll be better off for it when it happens, but you'd better still call once in a while. --Can't tell anyone, huh? Not even Lora? She's got a laser."
Lora rolls her eyes. "It's not that kind of laser."
"But it could be. If you really wanted it to be."
"I don't."
"You've never thought about it? Not once?"
"Oh my God. I am not helping her with her plan for world domination." He's ridiculous. "Sorry, kiddo. Won't get in your way, though."
"That's okay." She follows Lora to the table, taking the chair next to her. "Gotta get through eighth grade first, anyway."
"Now that's a supervillain backstory if I've ever heard one."
(requested by @bowiesinspace from this set of prompts)
[This takes place somewhere prior to Uprising, within the bounds of "Signal to Noise".]
The sentries don't bother waiting for curfew anymore. This first wave is on foot, paired perimeter guards, each with light armor and a staff. Simple circuits, the new ones. The dull hum of a passing Recognizer shakes what's left of this hollowed-out building in a back alley. Used to be a recreational center, until a couple of cycles ago.
He'd missed it. He'd been home, having lost some stupid argument with Tron. The details don't matter. He'd arrived just in time to watch the Recognizers land, delivering all those brand-new recruits to General Advan.
Twenty paces. About-face. Repeat for a quarter-cycle. Your mind, should you be lucky enough to still have one, will shut down to preserve what remains of your sanity. This is normal and expected behavior.
The repurposing process in Gallium is different, maybe less heavy-handed. Sometimes Cyrus wonders whether there's more than an empty shell of a program glaring back at him. But they're just as brutal out here, that perfect lock-step as they corner the unsuspecting program who's just trying to get home.
Not happening. Not tonight.
Perimeter sentries never bother to look up, during routine patrols. It's one of those very convenient weak spots in their training.
"You guys are out early."
"Halt, program." They turn their attention to him, standing in standard formation. Under those visors, there's a cold and dead-eyed stare. No anger or pride or fear, just protocols and mindless efficiency.
The program cowering behind the sentries had made no attempt to defend themself. Hadn't even drawn their disc. Not long out of beta, from the looks of their circuits. Inexperienced.
"Going after beta programs now? Is Advan getting desperate? Pathetic."
Of course, that could easily have been him… and probably was. Some scared beta they cornered and turned into a weapon. Sometimes he thinks about it. Wonders whether he'd tried to fight back, whether the others in his pod had tried to protect each other. They could be anywhere by now, interchangeable, stripped of their names and their souls.
The sentries approach him slowly, deliberately, backing him against the opposite wall. Two steps. Just enough room.
Tron would tell him not to let his emotions get the better of him. To channel it into something else. But there's still smoke hanging in the air, the heavy scent of plasma burns and failure.
"Your move. It's only fair."
And they do what they always do -- the only thing they can do. Twin strikes too perfectly synchronized, aimed at a single point. An empty space, by the time they reach it.
Sentries never look down, either.
It doesn't take long. He's done this enough times. But still, there's some part of him that almost feels sorry for them.
Locks eyes with the kid, still frozen in place, like there's still a staff pointed at their chest. Knows that this is going to burn itself into their circuits and resurface with perfect clarity countless times. Finally sees the data chip they're holding in their hands, like it's the most important thing on the Grid.
Because to them, it is.
"Thanks." Their voice is barely even a whisper. "I thought I had more time."
"They're coming out earlier. I think we're starting to scare them." He rezzes up his own data chip, holds it up so they can see it. "You have the location for the next energy drive yet?"
"No."
"Here." Oh, they must be new. He should have the entire network mapped by association, but their public key hasn't been logged. They haven't even chosen a handle yet. "I hear it's gonna be one hell of a party."
Their eyes widen as their chip accepts the data transfer without confirmation -- it's from a recognized key, after all. "…Okay."
"Show up early, make some friends. And pick a name by then -- no wonder your network's empty."
"I will. Promise. --I owe you one."
"Nah." And he shrugs, glances down one last time at the voxels glittering in the dim light, dull orange declaring this to ultimately be an act of mercy. "Just doing my job."
"You're gonna want to cycle your circuits." Signal plugs their not-a-wrench into the data cube Paige had brought with her, waiting for something. "The kids are a little jumpy, startle easy. And most of them, well... They're right to be nervous."
As far as these programs are concerned, after all -- Signal included -- she is the enemy, until proven otherwise.
"I, uh..." She tries to remember how long it's been, since she's seen her real circuits. Realizes she can't remember what color they'd been, when she first rezzed in. Medical green, probably. Or had they been different, under the medics' uniform? It had been a medic who'd changed them, the first time she'd ever seen that uniform in a bright, proud orange. Burning through her, some level deeper than her surface render. "I don't think I can."
"...Right." Something in their eyes softens for a tick; in the uneven and makeshift lighting of the stopover entry, that sharp grey nearly looks blue for just a moment. "When they did that to you... did it hurt?"
It's a vague memory, one she can only think of as necessary. Some part of her, now, wonders if that was intentional. They'd taken her disc then, for just a little while...
No. She can't think about that right now. Focus. This place is strange -- and she still has no idea what this program really wants from her.
She nods.
"I can help, if you'll let me." Second time this cycle. "Just the surface render. Nothing else. I promise."
Paige feels herself shiver, that inside-out feeling returning unbidden. "I... I can't."
They shake their head, just a little, something foreign muttered under their breath -- but not at her, as far as she can tell. "I know. --Here."
From a pocket, they produce something that almost looks like... a filter circuit. The same kind of thing she'd plug into her synth pad, just smaller. About the size of her thumbnail, pressed into her palm with a careful sort of gentleness. Cold, like it's been sitting out on a desk somewhere, not carried on someone's person.
There's a chill in the room, yes -- but their hands are colder. She's seen that with data processors, before -- but only when they're so far into the fragmentation process as to be beyond repair. Cold hands and whispered voices, falling in and out of lucidity and panic as their bodies deteriorate and their minds slip into an infinite loop. Not standing here before her, coherent and calculating.
The filter is marked with a hexadecimal code.
"It only takes a couple of ticks," Signal says gently. "Doesn't plug in; just hold it to your light-lines. It'll reset, in the morning, after you've slept."
Temporary. Okay.
Takes a deep breath, counts to three, bracing for the searing shock -- but it never comes.
Her circuits, slowly and inexorably, drain themselves of their color, even as she drops the filter chip to the floor. And then flush with that now-unfamiliar green.
She feels herself start shaking again. Hates herself for it even more, now.
"How did you know?" she whispers.
"I remember you, Paige." They're smiling, but there's something melancholy in it -- something distant. "I was in the ICU the octet before you took your exam. One of the other processors didn't have anyone coming to see him. You sat there with him the whole time. When he was awake enough, he asked if he could help you study. --I assume you passed. You were better than some of the old hands."
"I did, yeah. But... I remember most of the processors I worked with. I don't remember you."
"There were a lot of us. It's alright if I'm not included in most." Signal winks at her, some levity back in their voice. "Look at that. You're a medic again."
"...Yeah." And she feels herself smiling, just a little.
Makes a decision, then. Pulls her hair down from its tight knot. It's longer now, as unfamiliar as Gallium itself has become.
"We should get you inside, get you settled in," Signal says softly. And after a moment, they seem to come to a decision of their own. "Welcome home, Paige."
There's no way Cyrus is making it back to the safehouse.
Not like this; every voxel protesting even the slightest shift; his thoughts dim and out of focus.
Stay awake. Not much longer.
But it is. No amount of repetition can counteract the millicycles it takes to fly back to that mountain in the Outlands. Maybe halfway now; the lights of Gallium City spread out like a hundred thousand beacons, but blurring together.
The light-jet's controller beeps over the engine's increasingly-panicked hum. He can't make out the warning on the panel.
The shivering's stopped, at least.
Doesn't remember landing; doesn't know how he got to Northbridge, or managed to climb the stairs of the fire escape, or got that window open with unsteady hands and shifting black spots where the lock should be --
All he knows is that the door to his right unlocks, and the waiting bed, neatly-made, has never felt so welcoming.
Dylan, setting up the resin printer: This glitter doesn't seem like it's gonna set. Should we try again? It's pretty bright, it's gonna stand out if we spill it.
Cyrus: It'll be fine. It'll magnetize. Probably.
(one liquid-spaghetti-print mishap later...)
Siv, surveying the neon carnage: Y'know what one of my Users used to tell his students when this stuff happened in *his* lab? There's no I in "team", but there's definitely two U's in "clusterfuck".
Cyrus: "...every time you mention this guy, I like him a little more."
Although this phrase appears from time to time in several cities, the code style in which it always appears is unique. Dynamic and detached, it's proven difficult, if not impossible, to replicate by ordinary means -- very possibly the work of a single program.
Further graffiti in this style, found multiple times in the streets of Argon City. Like the previous example, it appears to be a self-contained unit -- but has proven extremely resistant to code-scrubbing. So far, the only reliable method of cleanup has been to tear down and derez the existing building facade.
Analysis suggests that the work isn't a layer over the wall it inhabits. It seems that the artist has somehow injected it into the base code of the wall itself.
The origin, or possible meaning, of the phrase "ignore alien orders" remains unknown.
[ Previously: Mind Over Matter // Mind Over Matter, Part II ]
"…And that reboot makes five." Cyrus doesn't even bother to look up from the disc in front of him as Beck comes reeling back to himself -- the ground spinning under his feet. "You were out of it for a while that time. I wasn't sure you were coming back. Almost had to use the patch."
He feels it then, before his eyes focus enough to confirm it. Whatever it is, it's not a normal code patch. It covers the circuit block on his chest, tracing its outline around a small silver blob in the center. Sticky, like partially-dried adhesive. The thin wiry circuits extending from the edge glow a bit brighter as he reaches for it.
And then they go sharp, sending a jagged broken-glass pain through his whole body.
"How many times do I have to tell you not to touch that thing?"
"What is it?" Beck should remember that. He knows he should. But the last two cycles are a blur, and even the parts he can vaguely recall still feel like watching someone else's nightmare. "What did you do?"
"Calm down, Beck. Right now, it's the only thing keeping you from falling too far out of sync with your disc."
Beck reaches for his disc then -- and it… isn't. There's something smaller in its place, perfectly flush with his disc port. Just like the patch, it goes sticky under his touch. Which means that the one Cyrus is currently holding is…
"Give it back."
"Not until we know what they did to you back there. Whatever it is, it can't get a chance to stick."
"…You think they repurposed me?" Still fuzzy, but the memory is there. The blaring alarms declaring that something had gone wrong. The feeling of being shaken from sleep. The shattered glass under his feet. "But I feel… fine. Mostly."
"I think they tried. I think there's probably some very angry little code fragments trying to find something to burrow into. And I don't think they care what they do to you in the process."
"So why do you care?"
"From what I've seen on your disc, I don't think you're in any position to question it. --Are you putting enough together to remember why you were in that Recognizer?"
"I've already told you what I remember. Tron was looking for someone. He didn't tell me who."
"And you didn't ask."
It's not a question, but Beck nods anyway.
"…You got set up -- Tron got set up. And you were dumb enough to walk right into it with him." Cyrus zooms in on a chunk of code. It looks wrong, somehow, in a way Beck can't explain to himself. "Think I heard the same rumors he did, more or less, and I wasn't anywhere near Argon at the time. And if you had to guess who Tron would go chasing after without any evidence…?"
"…So Yori was out there?"
"No. I mean, yes, that's who he was looking for. But it was all fabricated."
"How do you know?"
"Yori's been in Gallium City the whole time. Well, General Advan, anyway."
"And you didn't tell him?"
"There's not any undoing what Clu did to her, Beck. Smarter programs than I have tried. And you'd be in the same boat, if I hadn't gotten to you in time."
He says it like he did Beck a favor. For all Beck knows, maybe he did. But he could be lying. This patch -- whatever it is -- could be planting false memories, or…
"Look. Whatever game you're setting up, I'm not playing. I'm done. If you want something from us, just tell us what it is."
"Us, huh? Looks like our new friend's finally come out to say hello."
Beck's circuits run cold at the realization. "I… I don't know why I said that."
"Because it's not just you in there." Cyrus pulls up another interface on the disc -- looking for something. "And every time you reboot, we get a little closer to finding out what it is."
"How many times did you say we've done this? Five? --How long before I start…?"
"Glitching? You already are. But it won't take you down quite as far as it did when you lost your disc. Won't kill you, won't break the connection. But by the time I'm done with it, that thing in your code will wish it would. And then, you and I can finally get to the fun part."
"Whatever you want from me, you're not getting it."
"…Just did. For now." Cyrus glances at the disc, moves a few things around on the interface. "Think I've finally found where you end and the rectification code starts. Extraction's gonna be messy, but you'll be in stasis most of the time anyway."
"How can you tell what parts are mine and what they've put in?"
"Easy. You are User-written code… mostly. Rectification is all brute-forced from what's there."
"How can you tell the difference between User code and… everything else?"
"It looks completely different. And no, before you ask, I'm not showing you. Sounds like they've gotten a little more subtle with how reprogramming shows up. Harder to tell what's running the show. So until I know it's you…"
For a moment, Beck thinks about Cutler. Wonders whether there was anything he could have done different. Wonders if that's how he'll end up -- and hates that right now, his best chance at that not happening is trusting Cyrus, of all people. "…Yeah. I've seen it."
"Mm-hmm. Saw that when I was looking through your disc, making sure everything was still intact. Seems like that's what they were trying to do to Tron."
He'd been acting strange, after all of it was over. Beck tries not to think about it. "…What happened to him? Did he--"
"I don't know. I was kind of busy. --Six now, by the way."
"…And you just left him."
"Like I said, I was busy. It was him or you. You're welcome." He studies Beck for a long time in silence. Looking for something, but Beck doesn't know what it is. "Sit down. This next reboot isn't going to be clean."
----
It takes longer to come back online, without Beck to speed up the process. Circuits shivering in some grotesque parody of a program's boot sequence, flaring orange just to rub it in.
At least the code patch is still holding, not that Cyrus is inclined to doubt it.
"…There you are. I was wondering whether we were ever going to get to meet."
"I don't know what you're talking about." It doesn't do a good job of imitating Beck. It would be funny, if it wasn't so pathetic. So incorrect. "We were just talking a few ticks ago, weren't we?"
"Sure you don't. Wasn't a terrible impression of Beck, before. But he was still running then -- what did you do, hijack his runtime? Probably didn't even feel it. But I knocked him offline, and he's gonna stay that way for a while. Took the database down, too. So now it's just you… whatever you are."
"Y'know, if anything, you should be glad I'm here. I could be more help to you than he would be, alone." It taps the force barrier, shifts its weight just a bit -- settling into itself now, having been found out. "I am Beck, though. Just a little different. A little… better."
"By whose definition? Clu's? No thanks."
"By yours, I think. Because let me think this through for a tick. He's impulsive, he's irrational, he has too many attachments, and tries too hard to hold onto a double life he can't possibly keep up while focusing on the end goal that actually matters. Right?" There's something bright in its eyes for a moment then, fading too quickly to be genuine. "You said it yourself, I don't work without a runtime. I'm not here to replace him. I'm here to improve him."
"And make him perfect. Yeah, I know the drill."
"Well, probably not now." It makes an attempt at a smile. Too rigid, even as its voice sounds uncannily like Beck. Standing straight, eyes fixed on something just behind him. "No offense, but you're kind of a bad influence."
"Flattery won't get you anywhere." Cyrus pulls up Beck's core code again with the decompiler -- or tries to. Nothing works right anymore; little bastard's changed all of his defaults. Given the damn thing training wheels. "Maybe you will be helpful, though. I was hoping to get to see their new reprogramming methods up close -- that's what I was doing out in Tron City, y'know. Looks like I'll get to pick it apart. Haven't gotten to do that in a while. That's going to be fun."
"Alright, so you kill me, tear my code apart… and then what?" It's thinking, trying to pull information from what's left of Beck's database. Watching him adjust the settings on the decompiler, like it's jogging something into place. That data-seek pulsing pattern in the circuits is something Cyrus hasn't seen in macrocycles, but doesn't seem to have changed much. "Take it back to Gallium, just like old times? Signal would probably be happy to see you. Somebody has to be, I guess."
"Nice try, but… no. They're dead, for one thing." And it is, in some semi-direct sense, his fault. He keeps telling himself he's made peace with it. Someday he might even believe it. "Have been for a long time."
"Yeah?" It produces a data chip from one of the storage cells in Beck's suit. "You sure?"
The chip won't open if Beck is offline, of course… if it's really Beck's, and not one of the myriad blanks that must be upstairs in the workshop. But the ID will still come up with an admin key.
>>> renegade!0xCD141
And this thing that is not Beck, this unholy abomination of mangled code, laughs at him.
----
// Connected to SIGNAL//NOISE //
// Data chip was set inactive by signal!0x00 on 1994-10-13.
==============================
/goto signal!0x00
==============================
// noise!0x01 >> signal!0x00 //
// signal is offline (last seen 62 microcycles ago)
// Because you have admin permissions, you can use '/notify' to send an out-of-band alert.
60. 🧸 - Most prized possession? for any character(s) of your choice!
let's just go down the list 😂
Siv: a vacuum tube, digitized onto the Encom system around the same time he was compiled
Dylan: their multitool
Julia: a plant grown from a cutting taken from the forest that used to border Gallium City
Wolfram: a traditional data processor's hood, given to him by Siv -- it's fallen out of fashion with contemporary processors, but was used for deep meditation on the Encom system.
[thank you @mousesketches for letting me borrow y00clid for this :)]
cyrus@atelier >> siv@proto-actual [online]
siv:
> So let me get this straight.
> You want me to cover for you instead of just telling Tron why you're actually coming out here tonight?
cyrus:
> No
> Well, kind of.
> I'm still gonna help with the stuff you asked about
siv:
> But then you want me to tell him that you were here all night.
> Even though you and I both know you're not gonna be.
cyrus:
> Only if he asks. He probably won't
> It'll be fine
siv:
> You really should just tell him what you're up to
cyrus:
> Yeah. Because that's gonna go great.
> At best he'll say it's a waste of time. At worst, a liability.
> You know how he is
siv:
> point taken
> Just promise you're not gonna do anything stupid.
> Like, for fuck's sake, don't tell this boy your real name.
cyrus:
> Me? Do something stupid? Never
> I'll be there in ~50. See you soon
/logout
---------
// Connected to SIGNAL//NOISE //
// tera!0x4C >> noise!0x01 // online //
noise:
> Ping
tera:
> pong
noise:
> Are you back yet?
tera:
> yeah
> were you getting worried or something? that's cute
> went straight to SPARC though. setting up for the show
> didn't even have time to go home
noise:
> Damn.
> Main floor or basement tonight?
tera:
> basement
> finally
> I hate playing the main floor
> it's so weird when I can't see everybody
> but it's not like they were gonna let y00clid play the basement
noise:
> Not yet.
> You've gotta talk them into subversive messaging.
> Make them the entry ramp. /s
tera:
> AHAHAHA. yeah. they'd actually be really good at it I bet
> sometimes it feels like we're mostly playing to the programs who already know what's up
> OH I FORGOT TO TELL YOU.
> Meg got us banned from ANOTHER place
> Thinking Machines are no longer welcome at the 0001001 club
noise:
> What?
> How the fuck does she keep doing that
> Nevermind. Rhetorical question
> But seriously. Is there even anywhere you can play now?
tera:
> more of the mainstream clubs are starting to ask for records and that kind of thing
> we can't do that, for obvious reasons
> and even if we could, we wouldn't
> she just gets really mad when they ask, and this guy was a jerk about it
noise:
> At least it wasn't anything obnoxious this time, I guess
> Nothing set on fire or whatever.
tera:
> yeah. remind me to never leave you two in the same room unsupervised.
> actually
> you're still out of town, right?
noise:
> I'll be in later, actually.
> Probably not making it there in time, but I'll catch you afterward
tera:
> yeah
> after the set
> when I'm gross and tired and no fun
noise:
> You're always fun.
> Categorically, even.
tera:
> stop it
> this is absurd and you are a MENACE
> I am STANDING IN A PUBLIC PLACE
noise:
> Not my fault you're easy to embarrass.
> Besides, if I didn't, you'd think I didn't like you anymore
> How did the rest of them take that, though? The "getting banned from the club" thing
tera:
> fine, I guess. it's not like anyone's gonna ban y00clid just because we're opening for them
> but yeah, they were pretty cool about it actually. a-qte called it principled or whatever
noise:
> Hold on
> They're actually decent?
> Good to know, we can add 'em to the list
tera:
> I mean they were willing to let us open for them, and it's not like we're subtle
> and they didn't ask us to tone it down or whatever.
> so at minimum, they're not worried about our whole… everything ruining their optics
> ugh. soundcheck and stuff
> be back later probably
noise:
> Have fun
> See you tonight
tera:
> :)
/logout
---------
Cyrus, as usual, is a dirty fucking liar.
"You've been here the whole time, haven't you?"
"Maybe." He grins and leans against one of the speaker cabinets. "Welcome home."
"Thanks." Tera fiddles with the tuner for a few ticks, until it's not perfect, but the way it should be -- as much a necessity as it is a buffer. He really wasn't expecting this. "Missed you."
"Like we weren't talking every cycle while you were gone."
"That's not the same thing." A small string of shows is one thing, but sometimes Tera isn't sure he's built for these kinds of long-haul stretches. Makes him twitchy and nervous. Like he's going to come home and everything will be… different. "Usually you're the one wandering around the Grid like a stray cat."
But he does always come back to Gallium. Maybe it is where he's from. Tera's given up trying to get an answer out of him.
"…Yeah, I missed you, too." His eyes scan the room for a moment, that thing that tells Tera he must have been a security processor at some point, as programs start to filter in. "Looks like a full house tonight. Go fuck 'em up."
It's still too early, when an acute sense of danger shakes Wolfram out of sleep. Misplaced, as usual. Some noise in the pipes, maybe, although he could swear that had finally been fixed, a few cycles back. The broadcast station is always in some minor state of ill repair, perpetually unfinished…
It's one of the things that makes this place feel like home.
No. That is a Recognizer, flying overhead. Too close. One hand closing on the baton on the nightstand, the other reaching for that damned armband, bracing himself for what he knows he'll have to do, the next few micros.
…Fuck. Not tonight.
His circuits flood orange and reconfigure themselves, a little too well. Less a safe disguise, something closer to a threat. But nothing on this Grid could make him go back there now.
And then the Recognizer turns off in the distance. Too fast to have been looking for anyone in the warehouse district.
A pale violet cast floods the room as Signal shifts, that web of processor-scars flaring in time with their grumbling -- as displeased as they are mostly-unconscious. ::The hell was that?::
::Nothing, thankfully.::
::Then what are you doing?::
::Precautions.:: He pauses. ::Gonna go check on the kids. If you heard it, so did they.::
Signal pulls themself upright, a single blink bringing them up to wakefulness. ::You just said it was nothing.::
::Recognizer, but it's gone. Wasn't looking for us, at least. --I'll be right back.::
Down the first flight of stairs before they can argue, to a silent apartment, the emergency lights painting dull shadows on the walls. And then the next, to look over the landing at the sleeping programs in their bunks. Six of them, tonight. One new face, gaunt and energy-starved. It'll be a few cycles before she recovers, but she seems to be settling in well enough.
::…All clear? Or do you need to do a perimeter check, just in case?::
::Not a bad idea.:: But then Wolfram catches the teasing edge to the ping, something he's still learning to pick up on. ::…You've really gotta work on being clearer with your sarcasm.::
::Wouldn't be as much fun, then. --Did it make you feel better, at least?::
A little. Not enough. He nods anyway.
::Good.:: Their laugh is a distant echo of the program Wolfram had loved -- still does. ::False alarm, everyone's safe. Now come back to bed.::
They reach for his hand, detaching the armband in one practiced motion. Pulling him down as the color drains from his circuits -- the last remnants of his willpower and better sense lost to freefall.
Thel glances at a datapad, scrolling through the entries -- an identifier assigned to each of the occupied data rigs. "B-71. Should be….. right over there, actually. Second quadrant."
Advan follows the line of his sweeping gesture, her gaze landing on a row of glass tubes, entirely too much like…. what does Dyson call them? Repurposing chambers. Like so much of this, it feels wrong in a way she can't quite articulate.
Data processors, after all, are inherently gregarious, social amongst themselves. They don't say much to each other, but the energy in a processor matrix should more than make up for that, strange and lively and vibrant.
The silence, and stillness, in this room is suffocating.
"I've never seen an enclosed processing rig before," she says instead. "I didn't realize it was an option -- let alone that we had a whole matrix of them."
"New process, from what I hear. Something about lack of distractions." Thel pauses then, tilting his head. "Pardon my curiosity, General, but…"
"…Why this one?" She smiles a little. "Because we need a processor -- and one of them saw what we didn't."
She approaches the chamber with some amount of caution. The glass isn't opaque, but it is darkened -- the stillness and steady breathing of a data processor in that thing they call convergence. Conscious, but unaware, disconnected from his immediate surroundings. Must be the primary processor in the array, then. Not necessarily the fastest of them, or even the best -- but one with the skill and patience to keep them working cohesively.
"Bring him up. Slowly."
Thel doesn't listen, of course. Careless. The poor thing nearly falls out of the processing rig, held there only by the restraints. Must be from this Grid, with that external regulator hardware. It's… uncanny, unnatural -- like the distorted cry that escapes him as the pins retract from the input jacks laid across his shoulders. Shaking and ragged, his circuits clearly flooded from the feedback loop.
"Welcome back." She watches the processor emerge from the fog, dark eyes slowly coming to focus in the bright light. "I'd apologize for waking you, but it looks like they don't have you doing anything particularly important this cycle."
He doesn't respond to that. Either he's still recalibrating, or he's already decided not to cooperate.
"My name is Advan. We spoke about eight cycles ago -- but I'd think you don't remember that."
"No, I remember you, General." His voice is surprisingly clear, although he doesn't make eye contact. "Have you come to tell me I was wrong?"
"Not at all. I came to thank you, actually -- you were right. And your warning is the only reason I'm still alive." A chill spreads through her circuits at the idea of it; she holds it down as best as she can. "Not even two cycles later, one of my officers turned on me. It took me quite a while to find you -- I didn't have anything but an identification number to go on."
Some of them, she remembers, don't have anything else. But maybe he's older than she first expected; his arms twitch under the restraints, as though he's expecting them to come loose just for the thought. In a first-gen rig, they would.
"That's not the only reason you're here, is it?" It's not really a question, that strange certainty that seems to come from nothing in particular. "Gratitude isn't really in your people's emotional vocabulary. I've learned that much."
"My people? Should I have a conversation with some of my officers about their behavior?"
"System-separated -- no, there's a word you'd use for them, some of the programs in orange -- I've heard it before. I think you'd say they're…. repurposed."
"You're right about one thing, I didn't come here without motive. I've received a new assignment, out in Gallium City. I'll need a data processor to come along."
"There's a hundred in this matrix alone."
"And I owe quite a lot to one of them in particular." She feels a smile tug at her lips. She already likes him. "How many others are in your array? I understand we'll need to bring at least a few of them with us."
"I'm starting to think that this isn't a request." But he doesn't show any real apprehensiveness or hesitation, when she reaches over to loosen the restraints, freed from the cold mirrored glass. Still focused on something in the distance, in the way they all seem to wander. "There are five of us, total. Or… there were, when I was put into isolation. Eight cycles ago, I guess, if that's the last time you were here. They said I needed to recalibrate. Starting to imagine things. But the System doesn't lie to us, and... she must have brought you here. Because I know what I saw, General -- who I saw."
From behind her, Thel barks a sharp laugh. "Clever thing, aren't you?"
Advan turns around to admonish him -- now is not the time -- and realizes, with no small amount of unease, that her trajectory follows the processor's line of sight. He's been watching Thel, this whole time.
A rush of air as she steps back, one swift and silent motion, and shattered voxels on the floor.
"What's your name?" she asks quietly. And she knows, then, in the pervasive silence, that her earlier question about the array is a moot point. They're all long gone by now -- probably funneled into Demeter's new project. She can't help but wonder what saved him from the same fate.
"Wolfram."
His hands are shaking, as he replaces his disc. She almost feels sorry for him. Processors, after all, aren't really built for violence.
But they are quite good at it, once they've acquired the taste.
Signal: "Okay. That's it. You're done. You're staying here until I know you won't go throw yourself off a cliff for a stray Gridbug."
Ark: "I said I wanted to fight!"
Signal: "Look, kid. Don't take this the wrong way, but... you are too fucking stupid to fight."
Ark: "That's never stopped me before????"
Advan: "We need to talk about the way you're treating my officers when I send them to the prototyping lab. Karel filed a formal complaint about you last cycle."
Siv: "You're getting the data cubes you asked for. I'm holding up my end of the deal. I don't see the problem here."
Advan: "...You cannot keep calling him Lieutenant Douchecanoe."
Siv: "If he wasn't such a dick every time he came in, maybe I wouldn't have to."
