THE GRID - FIRST TRONCYCLE
SOMEWHERE ALONG THE OUTLANDS
As Sam and Quorra fled from Purgos, the criminal underbelly of Grid, they didn't even have time to even divert their eyesight toward the city they fled with their lives intact. Even Quorra knew that Purgos became the place that it is now, but the gravity of the ground situation is what she didn't get to experience until now. Sam could've helped so much with her knowledge of this dreaded hellhole, but one cannot benefit from knowing the problem whose solution lies on a massive scale implementation. A simple briefing of the complex solution for people like Sam would be the overhaul of the present administration with an efficient one, which is a far-fetched idea.
Barely showing any signs of injury passing through the wildfire of Purgos, their escape was no easy feat tho. On the contrary, surviving numerous gangs of thugs and murderers with each one sprouting out every seven square miles from the back alleys, sneaking into one shop after another for cover, hiding from authorities by mingling with crowds, and finally, scouring the whole junkie land for a single Light Runner, all these in under just 137 mTC nearly killed the survivors. According to User World, they performed all these shenanigans for just one day, but the Grid Time Zone made it feel like days for these newbies. Claustrophobia and lack of trust in any Program in the vicinity seem to have petrified Quorra more than Sam, as he has already grown amongst such mongrels, although he got bailed each and every time.
Racing against time, the Light Cycle drove faster than the light in the Grid, with the rabid fear of the General's Sentries, bloodthirsty biker gangs, and famished scavengers all chasing for its flamboyance. Leaving the care of its looks and design all in the air, the Light Cycle dashed away from the Outlands as if this is its last MTC. Unlike the Cycles of the Grid, this one couldn't generate Light Wall to its defense. Those comforts are reserved only for the civilized Basics of Argon and Tron City, even though only a select few mastered the art of weaponizing a simple construct such as this. Barring all the distractions from their minds, the Light Cycle thought of giving it a break, supposedly halting at an anonymous yet assumingly safe camping spot. Gasping from their thin escape, Sam and Quorra fell down on the mountainous, rock-solid barren ground, waiting for the fresh air to make them home. Heaving a huge sigh of relief post a few visual, audio, and sensory confirmations of zero threats, Sam and Quorra couldn't help but feel their anxieties and fears vaporize into uncontrollable laughter of narrow escape amidst an unending cat-and-mouse chase for survival:
- Jeez, still couldn't get the hang of that psycho's silent and fast derezz. Never seen such a nasty and creepy Program before.
- The looks of his face were enough, Quorra. Why did you even close your eyes? We agreed to be alert and follow each other, didn't we?
- I couldn't, Sam! What would you do if someone started licking your face and enjoy every bit of it?
- (sarcastically) Boy or a girl?
- (impatient) Girl obviously! Answer!
- I'd say "Go for the tongue, babe."
- (hitting playfully and laughing) Let's see how you'll escape me then. You asked for it.
Rolling on each other in the ground, the tired lovers had joy for some time followed by a short nap of 5.7mTC. As Sam woke up Quorra, preparing them both for the journey ahead, he descended the Light Cycle from the cliff carefully and then revved it up to eleven, racing for several long miles. The journey became eerily silent and bought time for their refreshment, filling the remaining gaps with small banters here and then. The topic then shifted to their main agenda:
- Sam, you do know that the Grid remorphed itself, do you?
- Yes, I do. Why?
- Where are we driving to, then?
- Some place with no criminals, no thugs, no policemen and most certainly, no creepy shitheads. To figure out what the hell is going on here!
- And where do you think it is?
- Be my guest, honey. Tell me one.
- I grew up in a single, coherent, and static Grid, Sam. This one is a convoluted, chaotic mess. Wish I could forget my past life than to suffer with its memories.
- That innocent girl with 'memories' called Quorra almost sacrificed herself for me and my dad. I made her my fiancée along with her 'memories'. Now, where are we heading to?
- It could be any city, Bostrum Colony, Tron City, Argon, Purgos …. anything.
- I am new to Grid, but not blind enough to drive into the same hell again and again!
- We may bump in again, Sam. The Grid itself is clueless as to what it has become.
- (Sighing and grunting) Let's just hope no one points missiles and guns at us. It's time for spidey sense.
A few miles of smooth ride later, thundering sounds emerge from the dark black skies of the Outlands, gradually making its presence known to Sam. Albeit having his spidey senses tingling, he couldn't afford to stop and have a look at it, unless it's something serious enough to. After all, they have a safe place to search for and no time to waste on unnecessary things. But these sounds proved a looming threat as they approached even closer. Finally, these sounds revealed their origin as two gigantic Recognizers descended the skies and hovered shy of a few hundred feet from the ground. Maintaining their level of flight, these Recognizers blocked the way for the survivors of the criminal junkyard.
Making their fears come true, a loud voice emerged from one of the Recognizers:
- IDENTIFY YOURSELF, PROGRAMS.
- Alex and Nancy.
- WHAT IS YOUR SOURCE POINT?
- What?
- WHERE DO YOU COME FROM?
- (Pondering for a moment) Come on, Sam. Say something. (Addressing the authorities) Bostrum.
- Bostrum Colony is a radioactive restricted zone. Display your Permit Access to Bostrum.
- (Stuttering) Actually, umm…. we got lost in Bostrum a few weeks back. We escaped somehow and now we're right in front of you. (Quorra pinches and whispers him in ear)
§ Sam! Its TronCycles, not weeks!
§ Cycles? Dad's a Star Trek Fan?
§ No one here knows what is a day or a week, let alone hours and minutes. We count it as TronCycles.
§ Okay enough with the Timezone Lecture. Let me deal this my way.
- WHAT IS THE PURPOSE OF VISIT TO ARGON?
- (Whispering to Quorra) Argon? Is this another Purgos or Tron City?
§ It's just another normal city. I guess C.L.Us men conquered this one as well.
(Turning to Recognizers) Yeah, well….we have a few relatives over
there….I mean, Argon.
- IDENTITIES?
- Uhh…. Tango and Charlie?
- (Pausing for a while) Negative. Identify Yourself, Programs.
- (Turning to Quorra) Hang on tight, we're going to have a rough ride.
§ Oh, come on, Sam! Not again! You should've let me talk to them!
§ Do you have a better reason for them? No right? Now strap in.
- (ELEVATED DECIBEL LEVEL) IDENTIFY YOURSELF, PROGRAMS.
- (Revving up Light Cycle) On the count of three. 3…
- THIS IS YOUR FINAL WARNING….
- 2….
- IDENTIFY YOURSELF, PROGRAMS.
- 1
The Recognizers failed to comprehend the situation as the Light Cycle entered into a state of accelerated motion, frantically escaping its interrogators with blazing speed. Adding insult to injury, the Light Cycle ran its way exactly in between one of the Recognizer's legs, as a sign of 'fuck you' to those hovering mammoths in the air. This sign of mischief started an intense cat-and-mouse chase.
Sam drove the Cycle as if he was in a MotoGP race, albeit with the professionality of the racers. His quick maneuvers and turns, however, would be judged by the gargantuan circular blasts fired by the Recognizers instead of the twists and turns in a conventional race track. These blasts ranged a thousand miles each and a millimeter portion of the exposure is well-designed to derezz an ordinary Program of its existence. Quorra clung onto Sam harder than normal, as if her life was all inside him. It wasn't her old times of survival where she would just run away from the sentries and the machines for her survival towards uncharted waters. Now, she has a sense of belonging, a relationship. An unspoken, emotional and physical bond with Sam, a User, son of Kevin Flynn, the creator of Grid and one who treated her like his daughter under his fortress of solitude. She couldn't help but wonder this mysterious bond with Sam, that of a sense of belonging. She somehow felt like the heroines of a Jules Verne novel, her hero, the alpha male being her fiancé Sam. Increasing her grip on Sam, she not only rested her head on his back but also rested her life on him.
After an intense dogfight with sharp maneuvers and near-miss collisions, the Recognizers united in their efforts and fired their blasts upon the fleeing couple in unison. This time, their decision proved to be right as the LightCycle took a direct hit at the rear end, starting to derezz tragically, not before Sam and Quorra made their final jump towards a hope for survival. Bad news for them is that they jumped off from the tallest of their cliffs in a fatal speed towards the dead end of the steady structure. Good news is that Sam was quick enough to react and he covered Quorra in his arms, protecting her inside his indestructible User's body inside the Grid. Despite being immune to deresolution, Sam could still endure physical injuries, owing to his past adventures in the Game Arena, and yet he sought to protect Quorra, risking himself recklessly. Luckily for both, they landed on one of the wave cut platforms of the cliff, hiding rightly under the cliff's shadow, a perfect camouflage for the prey hiding from its predator. The Recognizers couldn't witness the exact deresolution of the Programs and had to convince themselves with the deresolution of Light Cycle as their sole proof, before leaving the cliff in a partially-satisfied mood.
Sam, confirming himself that they had a successful landing, released Quorra from his protective hold and closed his eyes into unconsciousness, accompanying Quorra into the dark sleep of unconscious rest. His face had deep cuts of blood oozing mercilessly from his handsome face, as the rest of his body with his bones shattered to hell, unlike Quorra who slipped into a blissful sleep, probably being subconsciously aware that Sam protected them both with his life.
Moments later, Quorra opened her weak and blurry eyes to dizzy visions of being transported in a Light Roadster covered in neon-red ribbons with an unconscious Sam beside him. Lacking clarity in her vision, all she could see was that they both were being carried into unknown territory with a possibly female Program riding the vehicle seamlessly. From what she could decipher, this Program's appearance is unclear but her neon-green ribbons and a tiny ponytail are the distinct features sufficient enough for Quorra to make a mental note as she passes yet again into her unconscious state of sleep.
EARTH – WEEK 1 DAY 2
SCORCHING NOON
The creaking door of the old man's house procrastinated to do its job, as the old door opened for its owner only two times a day: one for the early morning walk and the other for the evening stroll down the quiet lane of the friendly neighborhood. Adding to its woes are the uninvited guests poking its nose and disturbing its peaceful sleep, which is the privilege of every household in Bedford Hills. Opening up one inch per minute, the door had its fair share of payback, having pleasure unto itself by irritating the anonymous duo of hefty men, complementing the sunny street with a pair of flowered shirts and khaki shorts. Concealing their boiling impatience and alarming frustration inside, being the professionals they are, they waited for the door to reach its fatigue. Hailing from a secret agency accessible open to the elite clubs, narrowing that marginal demographic to mere hundreds due to the illegal access required for contact rather than the pricing, these people fulfilled the requirements of their clients, ranging from ransom to murder. The agency made a note to warn its clients about the two fundamental and mutual rules of hired guns: respect and payment. The former depends on the client-mercenary relation whereas the latter is the trouble of the customer.
As the senior citizen made himself visible to the knockers, their professional selves started their job at hand:
- Who bothered you in this silent suburb, gentlemen?
- Is Dr. Gibbs inside?
- I don't need the prefix now. What's the matter?
- Full name, please?
- Walter Gibbs. You didn't answer my question yet.
The two muscles for hire had a brief look at each other, exchanging nods of acknowledgment and agreement on the target and mission at hand. The Italian muscle takes out the mugshot of the person and verifies it successfully with the old man. He then turns to his partner, giving another sharp nod as they both barge inside the delicate and simple shelter of the smiling, naïve former scientist, much to his dismay and disappointment. Little did he know that his past in science and the foundation of ENCOM doesn't matter to these cold-blooded beasts whose first and last priority is mission and respect. As the former scientist-turned-entrepreneur Gibbs fell down the floor unable to control his frail body and eroding self-respect.
After a few minutes of recovery, much to Walter's surprise, the mercs lifted him up and seated him comfortably and respectfully on the three-seater sofa located in the east corner of the living hall. Adjusting the fallen spectacles rightfully belonging to his face, both able-bodied men apologized to Walter for their reckless act and spouted the typical phrase "No Hard Feelings". While Walter tried to make sense of the disheveled mess his house has been made in a matter of few minutes and was about to question the brutality, the other Ohio muscle slipped out his iPad from his left pocket in his shorts, turned it on, and established a video call to his client as per his instructions and turned the device towards the former ENCOM founder:
- Hello there, Dr. …. (checking his stick note in his iPhone) Walter…Gibbs. Sorry for the bad memory.
- Who are you, son? What is all this?
- First of all, please forgive my boys for the mess. You know, Chevarro has the best fighters but the worst humans on this planet. This is my last deal with them, I promise.
- What do you want, Mr…
- Ed….Edward.
- (sighing)I don't remember seeing your face anytime, son. What have I done to get thrown down like a ragdoll, eh?
- Nothing personal here, Gibbs. I bet you know the name Dillinger, right?
- (Pondering for a moment) Yes Dillinger, how can I not know him? That cunning, ruthless scumbag. Always stole respect from those who earned it rightfully.
- Does he even need to steal something? Never seen my dad run after something.
- Dad? Ed I…I didn't mean to…
- Cut some slack, old man. Did he say anything to you before he…...left off?
- Nothing I remember, son. Your old man never left any secrets with anyone.
- (muttering to himself) This old man never helps me, does he? Did he have to die along with his secrets, seriously? (Turning to Walter) Anyways, Doc. Do you know something called MCP?
- MCP. Oh yes. It was my Program, the first automated, versatile machine code of that time. Dillinger stole it from me, that coward son of a …
- Very well. Does the name GRID ring a bell to you?
- Grid, Grid…...yeah. It is the world designed for TRON, Flynn's baby. Quite a revolution back in the day.
- TRON? Sounds more like a cyberpunk world. Do you have the program with you?
- Sorry I don't. It's a relic of the past. Buried along with parlors.
- Make it from scratch, then.
- I can create a new game for you, just give me some time.
- TRON. Build TRON for me
- Sorry son I can't. I think I can build MCP Program again. I can repeat the code anytime in my sleep. But you asked for TRON, didn't you?
- (Pausing for a minute) DO IT.
- What?
- MCP.