The arena was almost empty at this time, most programs either working or conserving energy during this cycle, and the quiet loaned weight to any movement that broke it.
Sam, laboring for breath through one of the more intense workouts he'd had in the last year, found he was subconsciously suppressing his breaths, trying to maintain the hush of the room even as his body betrayed him. "I don't...get it. This isn't real...why do I feel...like it is?"
Tron's hair was the only sign that he'd been doing anything other than standing at the ready as he was now. Otherwise, he looked fine, and his voice was even when he spoke. "Your father thought it had to do with conversion disorder."
The moisture wasn't sweat, Sam recalled, licking his lips as he twisted his disc in his hands, mind touching on and then rejecting strategies. No, he'd already made the mistake of getting close enough to grapple once and he didn't think Tron would let him go so easily if he was that dim again. "Conversion disorder? I think I should be tired and sweaty so I am?"
"That's how Flynn explained it to me, when I asked," Tron murmured.
Sam watched him for a moment but he seemed content enough to wait for Sam to recover from his most recent loss and Sam sighed, rolling his shoulders back in an attempt to increase the blood flow and ease the ache building there. "That explains the blood too, I guess..."
"Are you injured?" Tron stiffened.
Sam blinked. "Just my pride and a few bruises. I was thinking back to the first time we fought." Tron's concern faded under a frown and Sam watched, surprised, as the program docked his disc. "Are we...done?"
Tron nodded, eyes moving over Sam thoughtfully before he crossed the platform and held out his hand. Sam hesitantly handed over his disc and watched Tron call up a basic status report. "Dude, I'm seriously OK..."
Tron's eyes tightened and he dismissed the first report and called up another, more complex. Sam sighed as Tron's eyes scanned the information faster than Sam could read it and decided that he might as well sit down since it didn't seem like his input was needed. He knelt long enough to hook into the steady, solid, somehow flat presence that was the base code for the platform and updated the cosmetics. Then he sat in the new chair and waited for Tron to finish whatever he was doing.
It took several minutes, and Sam had long since distracted himself juggling a few legacy bits that had started coming out of hiding since the Grid had been rebuilt.
Yes yes yes! One screamed on its way up, while Sam caught one crying no no yes?
Tron caught the second mid-descent and the third at the crest and sent them both gently to the side where they hovered tentatively in their negative forms. Sam blinked, letting the last one free to join its brethren, feeling its shift from positive to negative as it left his fingers. "What's up?"
Tron was looking down at him, forehead furrowed in a frown. Sam's brows arched when he reached out and lifted his right wrist, straightening his arm out and gripping his bicep. Right over that cut, Sam realized. "It's all healed up, you know," he said slowly.
Tron's attention shifted from Sam's arm to his face and his hazel eyes bore into Sam with a bright, merciless force. "You bear a mark there."
"Yeah..." Sam said, faintly uncomfortable with the regard. "Only when I'm on the Grid, of course, but...I guess it's that conversion thing. I expect that kind of wound to scar."
"Good. Perhaps you will learn what I could never teach your father," Tron said, grip tightening before he released Sam's shoulder.
Sam flexed his bicep to help remove the lingering ghost of the program's hand. "What was that?"
If you're still taking drabble prompts: Grimm; Monroe reflecting on his relationship with Nick thus far.
Monroe savored his increasingly infrequent quiet evening with a vionyl recording of a '93 Philharmonic Symphony show and a pot of Chamomile tea, but he found himself cocking an ear toward the street, intent to catch the approaching sound of Nick's car.
There was a slight drag in the hum of the engine, and Monroe was no mechanic but he imagined the muffler was about to go out. He kept meaning to tell Nick, but then there was usually some Very Important Grimm Business going on to distract him.
OK, maybe he was holding out and vindictively hoping it went out. There were only so many times a guy could interrupt Pilates before the gloves came off.
I'm not listening for him. I mean, I'm done. The music, Monroe, the music...
...shit. "What is wrong with me?" Monroe wondered aloud, dragging a hand through his hair and sighing down at his cup of tea. "You're so much more trouble than you're worth, Grimm."
So don't let him in next time, logic said. He'll get the message if you enforce it. He's not actually a dick.
Monroe leaned forward, propping his arms up on his knees and rubbing his face. "Oh, that's not going to happen. Damn it!"
Why'd he have to be so...nice? Grimms weren't supposed to be nice! They were bloody warriors of harsh vengeance! Not woebegone detectives with dumb haircuts and...and eyes! They shouldn't have those eyes.
Monroe stood abruptly, needing to move. He cast around the room for something to do and scooped up the tea service he'd set out earlier. He was elbow-deep in soapy water, almost at peace with his inexplicable attachment to a Grimm, of all people, when his ears pricked.
He looked up, not believe it for a second because of all the times --
"Monroe! It's me!"
Unbelievable... Monroe pulled both his hands and the pot he was scrubbing from the water. The cups could rest in there a while, but the patter on the pot could start to fade if he left it.
"Monroe!"
"Impatient much?" Monroe muttered, snagging a dish towel and wiping off the sudsy water so he could open the door. Nick, looking as determined as ever, and thankfully without new bruises or the scent of old blood. Before he could open his mouth and demand Monroe's help for what would surely turn out to be a very good reason, Monroe held up a finger. "You are definitely more trouble than you're worth."
Summary: Possibly trapped in a Grid that has somehow reset twenty years, Sam Flynn finds himself risking his life beside two people he's known less than a day, one of whom has already tried to kill him. Sam begins to fully grasp his situation.
Sam realized they had another fight on their hands. He scanned the street quickly for help, finding the few programs who'd been out had retreated. The three of them and the other group – Sam did a quick head count and came up with 15 programs – were the only ones left.
Rinzler had obviously reached the same conclusion as Sam had – there was no escaping this battle – and came to a stop, leaning to the left and looking back at them. “The Hub is that building to the left, with the curved roof rising over the other buildings. Your beacons should lead you there.”
Sam's eyebrows arched sharply and he turned to Quorra long enough to get a quick idea of her response there before turning back to Rinzler. “We're not leaving you to fight 15 programs on your own.”
Rinzler's jaw tightened. “Sam–”
Sam kicked off and leaned forward, gunning it. He had just enough time between their position and the line the other programs had drawn to draw his disc. Not gonna happen.
Pain radiated out along his back like a bright star, driving all other considerations briefly from his head. The platform was almost quiet without the harsh pants of his own breath.
At least he wasn't nauseous anymore.
Strong fingers gripped his arm abruptly and tugged him over onto his stomach, something in the motion forcing Sam's lungs to expand again, and painfully. Weight settled against the small of his back -- a knee, maybe -- and his other arm had been trapped under him at an awkward angle, twinging painfully when he tried to work up enough force to dislodge the program.
Throat dry and choking on air, Sam still tried to twist his arm free and roll out, but found Rinzler had locked him down too tightly to break the hold so quickly.
"Be still. You could have damaged your port."
Sam stilled, muscles remaining tense but no longer actively trying to work up enough traction to buck Rinzler off. "I thought we didn't stop until blood or surrender?"
"Sparring is not meant to do permanent damage," Rinzler muttered, squeezing Sam's shoulder. "No one here knows how to repair a damaged User."
Sam swallowed and turned his head to lay flat along the floor. "Fine."
The feel of something foreign probing his port was oddly strange, considering the port itself was something he'd only had for about a week and a half. Or the Grid equivalent. He'd only just recently started getting used to the shift it required in his balance.
Now he could feel Rinzler's fingers brushing over the new almost-limb he'd acquired as he felt for hairline fractures, and the odd feeling only increased. Finally, the hand slid back to the rim of his disc-dock.
"Can I get up n--hey!"
Rinzler finished rising, taking Sam up with him by the grip he still had on his arm before releasing him. "You seem to be intact. Inform me of changes."
Sam rubbed his arm and considered asking if that included the bruises he was going to have from his attempt at trauma doctoring, but ultimately decided his pride couldn't handle another beating. "...sure."
OMG! I forgot my prompt :O ummmm, Flynn trying to teach Clu2 how to use a PC in the real world with all its awkward peripherals and failing XD (can include any other characters you want)
(Sorry about that, having formatting difficulties for some reason...)
"The screen. Is blue. Again."
Flynn winced. "Ahhh..."
"This is entirely illogical, and worse: inefficient."
Flynn patted his shoulder. "Hey, come on, you just need to get used to it. It's just...different."
The sound of plastic creaking under an amount of pressure it hadn't been designed for. "It was a simple function, Flynn. There should have been no lag, let alone this...this travesty of laziness and poor programming! The system should be derezzed on the spot!"
"Hey!" Flynn frowned. "It's not the programs' fault they can't perform up to your standards."
Clu was silent for a minute before his shoulders slowly relaxed. "You're right," he murmured. "I should seek their creator."
"I knew we should've started with Linux..." Flynn muttered, dragging a hand through his hair.
I'm so bad with thinking up prompts, but I always really like funny stories. So maybe something lighthearted with Legacy characters? Sorry it's not more specific. D:
Sam forced a smile. "Tangles are a part of the material world. I didn't know you didn't...uh..."
"I didn't realize I had to manually adjust my patch now," Quorra mumbled.
Sam snorted. "It's, uh. Brushing."
Quorra wrinkled her nose. "Right."
Sam sighed, sectioning off another small part of Quorra's hair. "Just...hang tight while I try to get these knots out." It's not even that long...how did this happen?
Quorra watched him in the mirror, frowning. "Flynn didn't mention this."
Sam shrugged, eyes narrow as he tried to work the fine teeth of the comb through the nearly matted hair. "What have you been doing?"
"I don't know! Nothing! I was just playing with Marv."
Sam met her eyes in the mirror and then looked over her head to where Marv was sleeping the sleep of one deeply tired canine. "Wait...is that why he's covered in oil?"
So I just got home and I'm happily participating in Tronsday! (30th anniversary!) I'll tag stuff Tronsday for anyone who wants to know.
Now, the important part: I want to write fic for Tronsday!
For anyone who started following me recently, that may come as a shock. I know. But it's true! I've started working on my longer fics again, but I want to contribute to Tronsday if I can.
I'd like to keep it limited to characters from Tron (1982) or Tron: Legacy, but I'd love it if people would drop some prompts in my ask!
jordanissmiling asked: Moulin Rouge Destiel Supernatural style. It is something to consider.
I had this mostly finished yesterday and my laptop spazzed and ate it. ;_;
It was cacophony and color. Thin frabrics of every color designed to catch and reflect teh soft lights from the bulbs attached to the wall trailed behind women and men and some indetermined genders, beauty in every flavor in excess.
"This is what I'm talking about," Dean muttered, eyes roaming the open room.
Sam rolled his eyes and grabbed his shoulder. "Come on, there's a booth."
Dean let himself be tugged forward. With Sam steering them through the crowd, his attention was free to roam to more important things. One of the girls -- maybe? -- across the way dipped her head at him, mouth quirking in an interesting grin. The feathered bustier she wore disguised the full nature of her chest, but her shoulders were broad, if she was actually a woman. Dean smiled slowly in response.
"Do you think the--Dean!"
Sam's jaw tightened and his eyes narrowed in a solid #6 and Dean felt his own shoulders tense in instinctive defensive response as his brother hustled him into the booth with a combination of shoving and crowding, dropping in quickly behind him like he was worried Dean was going to try and dive back out.
Dean casually slid around the half circle in a slightly awkward scoot, pointedly stopping at the very edge of the other side.
Sam rolled his eyes. "Can't you keep your mind out of your pants for ten minutes? I mean, really Dean, remember...you know, the harpy?"
Dean rolled his eyes. "I remember, Sam." He was glad Sam was feeling better but that didn't mean he had to take his unwarranted bitching. "I know how to keep my eyes open. Which one of us is still shaking off two years of rust, huh?"
This was an easy job, not one they'd been driven to by Sam's head-splitting vision dreams, and even if it wasn't, Sam had no right to get angry over Dean appreciating the eye-candy in an adult-circuis, for God's sake. Just then, the lights dimmed a little further, and two spotlights came on, angled up. The room quieted at the queue.
"That means you don't make mistakes?" Sam hissed, voice dropping in response to the change in volume. "Bullshit, man. I've seen you after them. Hell, I've stitched you up after a few."
Dean glared, but his attention was pulled up at the sound of gears. There was a false top to the roof that was rolling open now, lowering someone on a giant swing.
"It's him!" One of the men whispered in the booth beside them. "Thurday's Sapphire!"
Dean stared as the man was lowered closer, the fine structure of his features becoming easier to make out in the dim light. His chin was cleffed, the fine arch of his mouth just generous enough to be interesting without overwhelming. The blue of his eyes was so intense that Dean could feel the intensity when they passed over him briefly.
"You need a minute?" Sam asked, tearing Dean's attention from the descending form.
"Huh?"
Sam narrowed his eyes and Dean exhaled forecefully. "Harpy, 2 o'clock."
Sam blinked, automatically looking that way. Dean knew what he was seeing: the girl was pretty, but not pretty enough to get a front spot in any of the shows. She was fit enough, but not so much that she might be tapped for one of the acrobatic numbers. Nothing exceptional that would put her in the spot light at all. Nothing except the faint white lines the spilled just a bit over her shoulder and continued, from Dean's quick perusal, down her back.
Those lines could raise in a heartbeat, becoming nearly invisible and razor sharp wings, according to the lore they had.
"Good work," Sam muttered, ducking his head in a silent apology. Dean shrugged and Sam continued with a lopsided, sheepish smile. "We'll find her tonight, I guess."
"Less potential casualties," Dean murmured, eyes straying back up to the showrunner to find himself pinned by those deep blue eyes before they slid away as he stepped from the platform to the ground.
"The lights are on but you're not home," the man sang, drawing out the words with a teasing carress. Dean swallowed as the rough tremble of his voice slipped into his ears and down his spine with a warm shiver. The heat only grew as the man continued. "Your mind is not your own...your body sweats, your body shakes...another kiss is all it takes."
The dude -- he was NOT calling him Thursday's Saphire, fuck that -- turned back towards Dean's side of the room and this time, when his eyes drifted toward the booth, they lingered deliberately. Dean lost a moment caught in those eyes and watching his mouth shape the words of the song. Eyelids fell incrementally, somehow translating as a smirk, and Dean blinked, breaking the spell.
"You're gonna have to face it, you're addicted to love."
