That said, wanted to post something. So, drabbles. Figured I'd do one for each of the characters in decreasing order of people-I-like/want-to-write, stopping when I got bored. Might add to them later.
...aaaand, I think... I like these. O.o Huh. Probably posting them elsewhere. Though I'd have to format them and title them...
Yeah, not so hard.
Title(s): Keystone, Waiting Game, Turnaround, Look Forward
Fandom: Tron (Legacy and original)
Rating: T - violence
Disclaimer: I own my (dying :P) laptop and an erratic sleep schedule. It's like owning the Tron fandom, except there's nothing in common.
Summary: ...They're drabbles? See above if you want my rant.
Wordcount: 100 words! Four times!
Author's note: Tron-Quorra-Sam-Yori. Though turns out they all at least mention Tronzler. Oops. Nope, no favorite characters here.
When a program first compiled, a lot was slow. Hazy. It took time to adapt to the system, feel your place in it and beyond it—to break past rote function and the simplicity of prewritten tasks to self, identity, choice. For some programs, it was a matter of milis—others would take a full cycle, or more, to fully self-define. Ram always joked that his sense of humor rezzed in before he did.
Tron had been running for just over three hundred milicycles. Not everything felt sure, not everything was certain—but he knew one thing.
He hated Sark.
Her disk rebounded off the walls, scoring a bright line across the blackness before slamming back to her grip in a blue-white arc.
Quorra stared blankly at the walls of her training room, hissed a burst of furious static as her processing flared with fury, grief, loss.
They were all gone.
She threw her disk again, replacing the target in her sights with Clu, Rinzler, the Black Guard—any of her people's murderers. Or those who stood by while it happened. She’d been to the city, seen the fireworks, celebratory Games—slaughter to celebrate slaughter.
She’d stood by then, too.
The world upended, dashing Sam’s fragile hopes as quickly as it flipped his insides.
He slammed against the ceiling—floor?—let out a groan of pain as he scrambled to stand. The program was already launching towards him—he crashed his disk down, watched with a sinking heart as his opponent tucked, turned, and landed astride the gap.
I’m not going to win this.
He’d felt confident enough, going in. It was like Dad’s stories—the exciting ones, of combat and escape. Adventure. Seriously, if his dad could do this, Sam knew he could manage.
He hadn’t counted on Rinzler.
“Well, man? What do you think?”
Yori repressed a smile as Tron hesitated. Flynn’s new system was a flat black expanse, empty of programs, with no structure beyond the bare essentials. It wasn’t entirely uninteresting—she itched to explore that new Portal interface, for one—but the downsides were beautifully clear in her counterpart’s expression as he stared uncertainly around.
He glanced to her, and she returned the look, mouth curving up. Sorry, program. He asked you. Users, Flynn—there was a reason most systems were finished before programs rezzed in.
Tron smiled back, turned to Flynn. “It’s something new.”
(edit) As per comment notes, this seems to have expanded; more drabbles exist and will be added here.