Wishful Thinking
| Wishful Thinking | |
|---|---|
| Date of Cutscene: | 12 February 2013 |
| Location: | VALKYRI HQ - Basement |
| Synopsis: | While seeking information, TRON has a close encounter with old friends. Or does he? |
| Cast of Characters: | TRON |
'DB-77 of an unknown military server an indeterminate time ago.' It's not enough data.
TRON sits slouched over the keyboard, his expression twisted in a mix of exasperation and aggravation as he stares at the computer screen. He's buried himself in the VALKYRI HQ basement, trying to follow a lead given to him weeks ago, but all to no avail. The entire computer lab is very dark, light originating from the various computer monitors in front of him as well as the circuitry lines of his 'white suit', but both create stark contrasts of shadow in the room.
Why can't User names ever be the same for Programs as they are in Userspace? So typical... there is never any recourse for Programs when it comes to Users.
He leans back in the high-backed chair with a huff, pulling his silver Disc free from his back and twirling the Frisbee-like object in his fingers. He glares at the screen, as if he could somehow project the answers he seeks, and his Disc-twirling turns less aggressive and more fluid as time passes. More akin to sleights of hand manipulating the Disc, much as a User might twirl a writing implement when deep in thought.
“You're getting better.”
TRON nearly drops the Disc right then and there, eyes snapping over to the staircase leading to the main floor. There stands a man, silver with intricate blue lines throughout his form, twirling his Disc between his fingers with far more practiced skill. That open face, wide eyes, warmly boyish grin... “...RAM...?” TRON blinks once, twice. He didn't drift off to sleep mode while staring at the computer, did he? “...How...?”
RAM just smiles. “You haven't forgotten. I'm glad.” He turns his helmeted head upwards, staring up the stairs. “I envy you, though. You're with the Users.” The innocent awe of a User-worshiper is almost painful to hear now. “What are they like? What do they even look like?”
“Oh, come on, RAM. We'll be here all day if you keep that up.” Another male voice, this one coming from a figure leaning against the back wall.
TRON sees another man similar to RAM, only heavier-built and wearing a silver sash over one shoulder. The Security Program slumps back in his chair, numb surprise layering over the initial shock. “CROM?”
Both of the silver 'men' exchange a knowing glance between each other. “Long klick no ping, Program.” CROM smirks. “You're looking good, all things considered. That what all Programs look like out there?” A bracer-encircled hand indicates TRON's appearance. “I'd probably end up with some crescent hairdo from ear to ear or something.”
TRON looks down at himself, blinking once or twice as he processes the query. “More or less. I seem to be the only white one, though.” He shifts forward in his seat eagerly. “It's been so long... What of the Grid? The Resistance? The MCP is--”
“There's no time left.” RAM catches his Disc in mid-maneuver and holds it in front of his nose, bisecting his grim expression. He rubs one hand in a single circular motion over the surface of the weapon, the glowing rings dying to inactivity. “I'm sorry.”
TRON's brow furrows, at once understanding but not. “No time? What--?”
“It's just as RAM said.” A soft female voice murmurs next to him as a soft hand rests on his forearm. He snaps his head over to see a female kneeling next to him, just as silver as the two males but wearing a skullcap instead of a full helm. “You still have work to do. Comrades to fight alongside. You will never move forwards if you keep looking back.”
“Yori...” TRON's core feels like it is about to shatter, his own circuitry lines flickering from the excessive overclocking. But wait, she never met RAM or CROM... so how could she know them here and now?
A heavy hand rests on the center of TRON's docked white Disc. TRON freezes, a sense of deep familiarity sending an automatic stop command through his core. “TRON.” That voice... so much like his own, but it isn't... his... is it?
“Alan-One!” The Security Program's cry of almost childish desperation surprises even himself, ripped straight from some place deeper than the core.
He snaps up and out of his chair to his feet and whirls around, catching sight of a human male out of the corner of his vision. A business jacket with slacks, a face was obscured by shadow, and a reflective gleam of glasses. He seems to be mouthing something even as the image fades, but there are no spoken words with it. As TRON looks around wildly, everyone else has disappeared in that singular moment as if they had never been there to begin with.
Once again, he is alone.
Chi-chi-chi, chi-chi-chi. The Bit spirals down the staircase, bouncing in the air uncertainly at the bottommost step before drifting over to the Security Program. TRON catches the back of the chair, a perturbed look on his face as he stares down at the floor for a long few moments. “Bit...” He will regret this question, but he has to know. “...Was there ever anyone else down here?”
The Bit chitters for a moment, then it compresses and expands into a mass of red spikes. “>NO.<”
TRON almost collapses into his chair, a heavily cold numbness spreading through his body. He'd thought so, but to hear confirmation... “I see...” He slowly turns back towards the screens, still showing nothing of use. His elbows rest on the tabletop's surface and he buries his head in his hands, a heavy knot in his chest threatening to overwhelm him as his circuitry lines dim to a slate gray. “...So... it was nothing but wishful thinking after all...”
He never heard the Bit's response.
