Not today Justin
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@rebellisxvir
Perhaps she had gotten a little carried away on the way to the designated meeting location. In recent cycles, she was barely able to go out and see anything for herself. Most times she stayed isolated; well secluded from other programs. For good reason, at least. ISOs weren’t exactly welcome by most programs on The Grid. Yet, she couldn’t help but enjoy the different types of scenery that stretched across The Outlands. But most of all, she enjoyed the rain. She would often take the liberty of removing her own helmet to indulge in the peculiar sensation of water droplets pelting her face. For some reason unknown to her, it brought nostalgia. Or, at least that’s what Flynn called it. It was an emotion more commonly experienced by users, so she was told.
The little cell of the storm she had encountered made her loose track of time. She was running late, and she most certainly did not wish to be. Gloved hands revved the engine of the lightcycle, allowing the bike to accelerate significantly. Though she was fairly close already, with a few maneuvers around some pointy rocks she would be there.
Then, the odd helmet-shaped mountain came within her view. Much to her surprise, he had not yet arrived. Fancy that. After she slowed her bike to a stop, she took a moment to collapse her baton and gently place it back on to the latch on her boot. Well, then she would opt to keep herself somewhat hidden from view for just a while longer. Just on the off chance that some Recognizer decided to show up where it shouldn’t. Only moments later did she hear the faint hum of an engine coming to rest just on the other side of the mountain.
"Ah—that must be him." Azure irises peeked around the corner to examine the newcomer. Donned in all white, of course, with a luminous ‘T’ emblem displayed across his chest.
So this is The Renegade…he’s taller than I expected.
Taking a few steps forward, she gave a small wave to signal her presence. "That would be me. It’s nice to finally meet you, Renegade." She offered one of her hands, casually waiting for him to shake.
--...Whoa.
You'll have to excuse him--
--He was blinded by alluring imagery, for a moment.
It seemed his mentor hadn't explained how captivating she was, though he began to conclude that Tron would never do so in any moment ever. Stiffened form remained pertinent for a moment, head inclined over shoulder towards the program who offered her hand.
...Right--Okay. Should probably shake that.
"Uh---Yeah."
Right arm was thrust forward, digits clasped with the other and customary greeting executed--sheepish simper tugging away at dingy tiers. "Real name is Beck. ...Kinda' keep that under-wraps though." Already he had bestowed a certain amount of trust unto her, considering the lack of a helmet--and he wasn't so certain as to why. Perhaps it was the fact that she was an ISO. And while he held no reservations about them, challenging cognition indirectly shoved a challenge onto her--
--If ISOs were the miracle that Kevin Flynn had fore-told them to be, as Tron had said--then she would keep his secret.
Above all else.
Never the less he soon withdrew his limb from her after seconds, brown optics scanned along her form. She didn't appear so different from other programs--aside from the achromatic lines instead of cerulean. And the fact that her gloves and boots seemed separate from the entirety of the suit. Was that even allowed? Do-able even? They were suits after all, what was the point in making them into pieces?
Odd.
But no matter.
"...So you wanted to... meet me?"
--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.
Have some dumb over-analyzed TRON: Uprising headcanons about (sometimes sexy) physical contact.
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“—Good thing m’not a program then, ey?”
"...Right. Uh--I dunno' if you lost your disc or just hit your head but--all of us are programs on The Grid. Did you forget that, mister...?"
Quorra by Laura-Bas
[Steel your focus. Don't be careless. And do NOT underestimate her.]
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.
...I won't let it happen.
final versions of casual program wear for the Uprising leads
“…Oh my god he actually did it.”
"...Staring is considered rude y'know--even among us programs."
Pavel and the Cockblockade.
{ ‘ Sorry, did you say something? ’
"Ah--No. Nothing of importance. ...Nice attire."
--I'd say she could be on of Tesler's men, but...
Red doesn't necessarily mean evil.
"...Strange looking programs around these parts--"
listen, boy
Background source (x)
WHERE WOULD YOU MOST LIKE TO VISIT ON YOUR PLANET?
“…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.
“Dunno’. I like it here. …For the most part.”