For a moment, everything was dull.
He could have been anywhere. Slumped on his couch,
another night of drinking away his regrets committed to
the roster of ever-increasing evenings spent in a similar
fashion. Could have been back at the beginning,
sitting on that chair, hands ghosting over the glass screen
of the computer. But he wasn't.
Dull nothing gave way to realizations, fire, pain; sensations
he wasn't supposed to feel. The fall shouldn't have
damaged him. Hell, the reboot should have fixed him,
if anything–– but he wasn't a program. And there was
no such thing as getting off easy, with his luck.
Everything faded again, & this time, it came as a relief.
He lay there, on that beach, for god knew how long.
Moments turned to minutes, hours, even; before he
noticed the other presence. Blurred vision clearing,
the user hauled his sore limbs off of the pixelated
ground with what strength he could muster.
Belatedly, the face registered. Rather, the helmet did.
Ice blue patterns on the suit returned to their familiar
semblance of the figure on his old shelf; & his body
flinched involuntarily. Most memories he'd labeled
with Tron were no longer pleasant, and it took both
mental & physical conviction to realize that yes, he'd
saved-- well, he'd reverted to his old state.
First order of business as a no-longer incapacitated
man, stop staring at the guy like he was a goddamn
loaded gun. A lungful of oxygen in, shove it back out.
& then, he did the one thing that had gotten him into
this mess. Opened his mouth.
❝ I –– do you remember ––
What's your designation? ❞
