Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s not that Beck has night terrors, but sometimes he thinks he might be walking in someone else’s dreams.

Tonight he finds himself lying flat on his back on the ground beneath a sharp drop, not far from Argon Square, and unsure of how he knows it. His whole body aching, the aftermath of what he can only assume was a very long fall. The empty sky stretches above him, lit only by the lights of the city. Dim and far away.

Tries to stand up, but it’s still too much. He’s been waiting here for a while. Hoping the pain will fade, but not sure it will ever truly leave him. Maybe not the pain of impact, that’s a pain he knows well. This is… unfamiliar to him. Deeper somehow than anything conscious, digging into the lowest parts of his code.

Did he fall, or had he been pushed? Can’t remember. Tron had been there, though. An impossible amount of disappointment and disdain in his eyes. The price of betrayal, steep and bitter as it is, but it’s expected, predictable – this is what he always does, after all – but Beck can’t recall what he’s done to deserve that cold and unforgiving stare.

Since when has he ever thought of the sky as being empty?

Forces himself to try to stand again, manages this time to roll over and blink away dust and rock fragments. His circuits protest as he digs his elbows into the dirt, reaching forward. The ground glows faintly in his wake.

Left hand closing on something sharp.

But it’s gone, when he wakes up. In his own bed – a newly-permanent change, the little room with a door that doesn’t seem to go anywhere now being his. Starting to feel like home now, at least in some vague sense, like the way he’s never surprised to wake up here anymore. To feel familiar, safe, maybe even welcoming, at the end of a long cycle.

Someone else’s dreams, and not for the first time, but some part of Beck rejects the idea of thinking about it too hard.

Brushes past the data chip on the bedside table, the one he hasn’t been able to bring himself to listen to yet. Heavier than expected, when he picks it up; it always is, somehow.

Not now.

“Awake already?” Tron doesn’t look away from the feeds he’s scanning as Beck makes his way downstairs. There must be a dozen of them there; how does he do that?

“Couldn’t sleep.” Not a lie. Not convincing, either. “Weird dreams, that’s all.”

Tron knows better, and they both know it. A suspicious look as he turns around, assessing Beck’s current state, then reaching an unknown conclusion.

“Are you okay?”

The question takes Beck off-guard – his mind’s Tron-behavior-modeling module stalling out for a moment. Processes finally, adds more data. Adjusts.

“I’m fine.” Definitely a lie, this time. Definitely not convincing. But that’s never been an issue before. “It’s nothing. See anything on the feeds?”

“As of right now, no. With any luck, we’ll have a quiet cycle, Users willing.” A pause then – and Beck knows Tron’s doing that thing he does – refusing to let go of a topic, analyzing the best way to approach it. A System Monitor thing, maybe… or is it just him? “Been a while since we’ve had one.”

“Yeah. It’d be nice.”

“You look like you could use the downtime.” That settles it – genuine concern, in that roundabout way, something very distinctly Tron. “It’s still early. Go back to bed, Beck.”

“…Alright.” Prediction patterns adjusting again. Beck nearly smiles. “Just wake me up if anything interesting happens.”

“Mm-hmm.” Meaning he won’t.

Back up the stairs with a glass of energy, and sleep just won’t come, no matter how hard Beck tries.

Standalone data chips are heavier, he remembers. Extra hardware, a power cell.

Deep breath. Turns it over in his hands.

Presses play.

Look at that. You found this recording, which means you made the right decision. You came back here, even though you’re alone. You’ve committed to something, finally.

I knew you would.

But it doesn’t feel like the right decision, does it? You feel guilty; you’re angry, grieving… and you can’t make sense of what happened. This was a test, one you were always going to fail. It didn’t make a difference who you chose – your friends, or our dear teacher – and that was the point.

There was never a possibility for a happy ending, no matter what you told yourself. The moment you took that disc, it was just a question of timing and collateral damage. This is the closest thing you were ever gonna get to a clean break. The fewest loose ends, and the least amount of unnecessary suffering – for you and for them.

It was quick, I promise. Mara and Zed hardly felt a thing.

You’ll understand all of this eventually. It hurts now, I know. It’s supposed to hurt. So you might as well let yourself feel it.

Mind over matter, Beck.

Now, I know you’ve got a million questions, because I know you, better than you think. Maybe I can answer a few of them. Considering that I’ve just turned your life inside out, the least I can do is help you find some closure. I’ve left you a few more of these data chips, scattered around the safehouse, but I wouldn’t go looking for them just yet. Something tells me you’ll find them when you’re ready.

It’ll be a while before we run into each other again. But when we do, we’ll have to talk about it, and about what comes next – for both of us.

Don’t get yourself derezzed in the meantime. I’d hate for all of this to have been for nothing.

See you around.

Maybe I should tell Tron about this.

And then Beck remembers the weight of the mirrored glass, its cold and jagged edge digging into his palm – and thinks better of it.

Chapter Text

Tonight the dream is Beck’s own – dropped into a commandeered helicopter, that feels familiar enough. But everything else is strange – not least of all, the program at the controls. He doesn’t know her name – although he should, that feels important – but he knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that he can trust her.

So it’s one of those dreams. Only one way to figure out what’s happening, then.

“Where are we going?”

“Argon City,” she answers. “We have a friend there who can keep you safe.” The controls flicker for just a tick – not a good sign. “It’s not staying up… Can you fix it?”

“Yeah. I think so.”

The console isn’t entirely unfamiliar, maybe a little older than what he’s used to. But as he pulls the interface together, Beck notices that his hands are shaking – like this is new, like he’s afraid…

It’s not working. The pieces won’t fit, but they should–

He’s done this before, several times. He knows how this should work. So why can’t he do it?

“Here.” She takes his wrist gently, turning it a few degrees inward – and everything locks into place. “Just like I showed you, remember?”

He doesn’t. (Should he?) He nods anyway. “But what are you gonna do, once we get there?”

“Come back here. Find Tron. Get help. Fight back.”

“Then I want to help,” he says – and he barely recognizes his own voice. Earnest, eager, but… inexperienced. “I have to. It’s my job, right?”

“No, it isn’t.” Something about the intensity of her gaze stops any rebuttal dead in its tracks, with no hope of appeal. “Not yet.”

“But…”

“Don’t worry about me, Beck. I’ll be fine.” Her smile should be reassuring, should make him feel safe. “Here… take this with you, okay?”

His gaze falls to the data cube as she presses it into his hands, flipping it over reflexively, trying to alleviate some vague anxiety he can’t place. Is it for this program – whoever she is? For someone else? Or for the entire Grid, on the edge of collapse? Maybe it’s all of it at once.

Flips it over again, a pyramid projecting itself into his palm.

“What is it?” he asks.

But he never gets an answer – a sudden shock passing through him and throwing him forward, too sharp to brace himself on the console –

– and he wakes up shivering in the dark to the sound of the external power units switching on. Third time in as many cycles.

Her face is one he’s only seen in pictures; her name, only in passing, or brief recollections.

…Yori.

“Tell me about her.”

Tron knows who Beck means. It’s not the first time he’s asked, and Tron never says much, when he does. This time won’t be any different.

Beck’s long since accepted that.

“She’s one of the most brilliant programs I know.” And as usual, Tron seems unwilling to speak of her too loudly. “I’ve told you about her puzzles before, haven’t I?”

“No. I don’t think so.”

“She builds these.” He pulls down a data cube from a shelf. “Puzzle boxes. Able found this one in his office, a while back.”

It’s heavier than it looks, the surface inscribed with soft blue circuits. “Huh.”

“Neither or us could ever get it to open.” And then something happens that Beck’s seen few enough times to count on one hand – Tron smiles. “Maybe you’ll have an easier time with it.”

“If you’re lucky, it might even keep me out of trouble for a bit.”

“For what, half a cycle?”

“Three quarters, promise.”

And it does, for most of the cycle, until finally the light from the window in his room catches on the circuits. Revealing parts that might move or open… and then, a barely-visible pyramid projection.

Yori was – no, is – a simulations program, he remembers. Maybe the moving parts are only here under certain conditions. Maybe that’s the puzzle.

He turns it slowly on the pyramid’s axis, then flips the box into his hand as it opens… and the triumphant surge of energy through his circuits slowly turns to ice.

A data chip. Practically identical to the one he found in his room a dozen cycles ago. The one he still hasn’t mentioned to Tron. Self-powered.

But this time, he doesn’t put it off.

What’s the point in being afraid of a ghost?

Two down. Not bad.

You shouldn’t be able to open that box, y’know. Neither should I, by all accounts. We’re just a mechanic and a sentry, after all… right?

Yeah… it’s a little more complicated than that. Suffice it to say, for the time being, that the two of us are full of surprises, unexpected talents.

Stubbornness, strength of will, curiosity, creativity… Tron told you those things made you special, didn’t he? But knowing you, it was only a matter of time before you pushed back too hard, or stepped too far out of line… and then, they would have made you dangerous. He’d never admit it to himself, but he was afraid of you, Beck. And I think he was right to be.

But I’m not. I know you’ve got potential you were never given a chance to reach, so I’m gonna help you get there.

And I know he kept a lot of secrets from you… like, for example, what’s behind that door in your room. It’s unlocked now, and I think you should have a look around. There’s a decompiler that’s gonna put your debugging wrench to shame, once you learn how to use it. Plenty of things to keep you busy for a while, I hope.

And of course, I’ve left you another one of these, somewhere up there. They’re gonna get a little harder to find from here on out, but hey, that’s the fun part.

See you soon.

Chapter Text

"…Whoa."

Barely above a whisper, but it echoes through the vastness of the room, the lights of the city streaming in through a wall of windows -- plural, different from the training room, with its single holographic display and the ability to show anything at will. More often than not, it's a projection, something Tron can (and often does) change. But this is nothing but solid glass, laid in a pattern of rectangular frames.

Why hasn't he been in here before? Sure, Tron had told him there was nothing back here, but… he'd never even thought to look.

He turns back to his room for a moment, reaching for a flashlight, not trusting himself to navigate through by the light of his circuits. The wide beam sweeps the room, right to left, and lands first on an old systems console. There's one of these in the garage, in Able's office -- no, Mara's office -- not that Beck's ever so much as touched it. Now that he thinks about it, he's only seen Able use it once.

A light on the console pulses, faint but insistent. Residual power from the last time it was used? A diagnostic indicator? In either case, maybe he should check it out. Whatever this thing controls, as long as he doesn't touch anything… it can't hurt to look.

It chirps when he reaches for it -- an alarmingly neutral sound, nothing in pitch or speed to indicate its tone.

atelier.wks.local

login: beck
password: ************

A greeting, then.

"Hi. So… you obviously know who I am. But how?"

atelier.wks.local

1) Set environment variables
2) Scripts
3) Monitoring
4) Exit to shell
5) Logout

"This feels like a bad idea." It's definitely Beck's voice -- but he's not sure he recognizes the thoughts behind it. He's grateful for the foresight, wherever it's coming from. "Who knows what this thing does."

> 5


atelier.wks.local

login:

What is this place?

He backs away from the console, shoulder brushing an unseen switch -- and the room comes to life. First the windows, the tinted panes glowing softly around their edges; they stretch higher than he'd thought, turning to triangles that reach for an impossibly-high ceiling. A desk around the systems console, mostly empty, minus a datapad and a headset; four empty workbenches; two drafting tables in front of the windows… A platform lift, not unlike the ones in the garage.

No, three empty workbenches. There's something on the one closest to him -- a baton, gleaming white. And a debugging wrench, although different from the ones he's used to. Heavier.

He turns the baton over in his hands, looking for anything to identify it, and finding nothing. The identifier interface won't even come up when he taps it. Almost nothing, anyway -- judging by the emblem on the side, it's one of Tron's… whatever it is.

Maybe it's locked. Can he do that? But it should still activate, and there's easily enough space in here for a lightjet, if that's what it happens to be.

And sure enough, it rezzes up over the platform -- a lightbike. An old lightbike. Has to be; he can tell just by the shape of it. Old enough to not be from this Grid, even.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Beck can almost hear Mara's excited gasp at the sight of it; the way she would circle it and point at the components as she'd go into detail about what makes this bike so special. But right now, he can't remember what any of those things are -- and, as much as he hates to admit it, he may never get the chance to ask her.

He rezzes up the wrench to get a closer look -- "the acceleration on these things is killer, there's nothing faster on the Grid" --

Something like lightning through his circuits as the wrench makes contact, cold and sharp, and the lightcycle in front of him is suddenly in pieces.

"…Great." From the other side of the room, blurry in the dusty glass, his reflection sighs. "Nice going, Beck."

"I can fix it," he protests -- and almost laughs at his own defensiveness. Who is he trying to convince? It's not like anyone's been up here recently.

But why not? And why did Tron not tell him about it? All this space, all these tools…

I could have used this.

His gaze falls on the quietly-pulsing circuits of a data chip, hidden among the bike's components.

"…Of course. Well, that's one way to get my attention." And a more effective one than Cyrus' previous methods, if Beck's being perfectly honest with himself. "Fine. You've got me up here. I'm playing along. So what's it all for?"

Not that he's expecting anything helpful from this recording, but…. something approaching an answer would be nice.

It's more than Tron's ever given him, anyway.

Three out of three. What do you think, Beck?

Curious and clever, and no impulse control. No wonder Tron didn't want you in here. But all of this should have been yours from the beginning.

So now it is.

Everything in here is fair game, but I think you'll find the most interesting things on the workbenches. The decompiler you've probably already found, for example. Like I said before, it's not too different from that wrench you've got, just lower-level. You'll have to be more careful with it. Takes some time to get used to, having that much power over what's around you.

But you won't break anything with it, I promise. Nothing I can't show you how to fix.

I'll see you later. In the meantime… have fun.

"…I think I shouldn't be in here."

The room itself seems to agree. The echo that comes from everywhere and nowhere. The unfinished sketch pinned to the drafting table; something strange, winged, mid-flight.

But he is in here -- and that lightbike isn't going to fix itself.