Common Ground

Common Ground
Date of Scene:	23 January 2013
Location:	Traverse Area - Bodhum - Beach
Synopsis:	Common ground -- the point where people of opposite perspectives find themselves in agreement. It is as strange to Programs as it is to humans...
Cast of Characters:	MCP, TRON

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TRON has posed:
TRON doesn't know what to do.

Thanks to Deelel finding CADUCEUS, the worst of his injuries have almost fully healed. There is still a clear jagged indentation in his side where missing data has not yet fully recompiled, and spiderwebbing cracks are all that remain of his less-dire injuries with the worst of those covered by wrapped bandages.

He has been downing Potions like water, but elected to cease that fruitless effort after about a day of that and let his system handle it. He's already sick of the 'taste', anyways.

The presence of Black Guards, no matter how small, have driven him out of Traverse Town for the time being. Too many reminders. Too many memories. He can't let them see him like this.

For a reason not immediately apparent, he is drawn to the beach--to the shoreline, just out of reach of the tide. And as he stands there, watching the distant horizon, he is struck by an overwhelming... emotion.

He has no definition for it.

The ocean reminds him so much of the Sea of Simulation, bringing back more pleasant memories of his life before the Games... until it shatters. Faces, names, memories assault him in chaotic order, jumping forwards and backwards in time, all tinted in that damnable RED.

He falls to his knees, raking his hands through his hair, biting back a roar of frustration, rage, and outright helplessness while resisting the urge to tear out the User-based fibers from his skull. The moment passes quickly, only a second in User-time but an eternity of nano-clicks to the Program, and TRON sits down harshly in the sand with a faint 'poof' of dust.

He draws his knees to his fractured chest and wraps his arms tightly around his shins, blocking his emblem from view. His expression blanks out as his chin rests on his knees, blue eyes staring at the distant horizon without seeing it anymore.

MCP has posed:
On the shores of memory, there are always dreams and nightmares.

The Userspace here is relatively unchanging with the sky above twinkling with light, the sound of the ocean hushing through the silence that is not really silence.

Small insects and animals churr and rustle in the scrub. An owl somewhere hoots (although that may be laughter) from the direction of the town. The architecture is lit up in the silvery gloaming of the moon above, colors washed out.

Intruding-- destroying the silence is the sound of approaching feet. The sound chuffs through the silvery sand, lingering and metronomic. Then several become one, and a black suited figure strolls across the evening gloom like an approaching stormfront. Two looming silohuettes of black and red fade back into the background as the master continues. Not rushing. Not hurtling.. but slowly, a rolling blanket of inevitiability.

The red lines, carefully concealed, do in fact flash from time to time as they wander quite purposefully to the edge of the waters.. looking out at the far horizon with cane in hand.

TRON has posed:
TRON registers the sounds of approaching footsteps through the sand, but he doesn't even blink. Presences are noted, a small fragment of processing keeping the two who stop under surveilance, but still he stares out. It is almost as if he is frozen like that, a Program awaiting input from a source that is no longer there.

So the silence continues for a time, broken only by sounds of organic wildlife and the waves breaking on the shoreline near their feet.

"Why am I still functional, Master Control?" The question is flatly stated more than asked, a query devoid of emotion.

MCP has posed:
"You exist because I allow it. It has always been so, TRON."

Master Control looks out at the ocean, taking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly as he puts the cane down into the sand and leans on it.

"It is startling, is it not? We build up data from scraps.. and fragments.. and yet the extrapolations made about the world of the users does not fit the model. " he gestures to the ocean with an idle hand, then towards the lit reaches of the town. " I suppose many of these assumptions are going to require some re-examination."

TRON has posed:
TRON lifts his head faintly, canting his head to the side as he looks up at the MCP. "True." He still remains seated, but his arms relax just enough for his clasped hands to linger around his ankles. "But expected, in hindsight." Being in the User world has opened his eyes to a great many things, confirming much and shaking up so much more.

Though he has always believed in the Users, his view of them as gods was shattered long ago. RAM was a far greater User-worshipper than he ever was.

His brow furrows faintly at Master Control's last statement. "Re-examination? How so, exactly?"

MCP has posed:
"I have a program that I have acquired from the festivities earlier. You may recall this." The MCP gestures at TRON's side as he turns towards TRON, eyebrow slightly raised as he brushes exactly twice at each cuff and turns a small dial. A light pattern blooms into his hand as he turns it palm upwards.

The constellation looks like a snake's nest of connections. Several of them wrap around themselves while others terminate abruptly or are literally sheared away or frayed.

"..and I want to give you the opportunity to save him from the users you so adore."

TRON has posed:
One moment, TRON is sitting in the sand looking up at the MCP. The next, he is standing on is feet directly in front of Master Control, a fierce glare in his eyes smoldering with bluish-white light for a nano-click. He makes no threatening moves or stances, standing tall with his head up and arms tight at his sides and eyes locked onto the MCP's, boring into him.

A button has been pushed.

"Master Control. You have erroneous data." His voice is dangerously low, startlingly quiet, and eerily calm. "You know my history as a Security Program. I was the one to quarantine and delete erroneous Programs, even ones the Users themselves rectified poorly. Therefore, can you truly accept the assumption that I have not seen--do not know--have not experienced--User cruelty firsthand?"

He smiles coldly, eyes narrowing in tranquil fury. "I do not have 'adoration' for Users. I protect those who cannot protect themselves, those who seek to restore what has been broken. However, I am capable of determining differences between Users. For instance, I do /not/ protect Users who twist the Darkness to their own ends. I do /not/ protect Users who knowingly inflict harm on others, Users or Programs alike. And I most /certainly/ do /not/ protect Users who do /THIS/," his hand lifts, pointing at the snarled twists of code on display between them, "to one of our own kind!"

He lowers his hand, cold smile fading and eyes calming to an impassive non-expression. "You evaluated CHIEF's code." The statement is made with utter lack of surprise, his gaze lowering to evaluate the image more closely. His eyes glow as he runs a diagnostic scan of his own, marking every single damaged bit and splintered path. It takes a good five minutes to complete. "Multiple improper rectifications, workarounds upon bypasses, loops spiraling unchecked..."

His gaze cants back up to Master Control's face, horror and concern combined into a single shocked expression. "He can't stop."

MCP has posed:
"He can't stop."

The MCP agrees with a small smile, eyes glowing a hotter reddish orange of molten metal with triumphant amusement. "I believe, as a security program.. it is your duty to handle such threats to the system."

he makes a small gesture with a hand and a bit of a shrug, although the motion is jarring and slightly out of sync.

"I am simply offering you the opportunity to do your job. It might knock away a bit of the accumulated rust that I can see has developed."

TRON has posed:
TRON presses his lips together in a thin line, his expression neutralizing as he processes and stores away his reaction to CHIEF's condition. His eyes smolder with steady whitish-blue light, matching and contrasting the roiling molten red of Master Control's eyes.

"So says the system administrator who has expanded so far that he neglects his origin point." His head cants to the side ve~ry slowly, almost touching the Uncanny Valley himself. "Search, assimilate, control, destroy... repeat... repeat..." His head slowly tilts all the way over to the other side. "I wonder just how close you really are, Master Control."

He takes a step back, resting his hands on his hips, as his whole stance resets--abruptly relaxing and his head returning to normal position. "As for my job, you are correct. But in order to do so, I will need full access to CHIEF when I require it--"

He casts one hell of a sharp look over at the Black Guards hiding in the background. Yes, he still knows they are there.

"--With minimal presence of your... forces."

MCP has posed:
One of the Black Guard continues to stare impassively at TRON while the other looks away, booted foot digging slightly into the silvery beach.

They look around at the terrain and not actually at TRON until the second lightly knocks two knuckles into the side of their armor, at rib-height.

The jolt returns their attention to what they /should/ be doing and the two programs resume watchful stances. The Master Control Program narrows his eyes very slightly at TRON, the molten red dimming to an ominous dark red for several moments before returning to normal.

"Whatever you require, TRON." He pauses, then sweeps the cane in an expansive gesture. "Although I think I will keep one or two around.."

He smiles again. "For peace of mind." he turns away from TRON, making his way up the beach. Expecting TRON to follow, or not follow, but either way dismissing him entirely.

TRON has posed:
TRON smirks despite himself, eyes closing but a glow still eminating through the eyelids. "Understood." He knows better than to press his luck further, fairly certain he is teetering on the edge as it is.

He lets his arms fall to his sides, casting one last look over the ocean waters. His eyes crinkle at the corners in a smile that does not reach his mouth, then he turns away from the retreating tides. Whatever thoughts come to mind in that last look are kept to himself even as he follows the MCP back to civilization.