Even if Clu still wasn't sure what to make of having a range of colors in the decor again, he could at least admit to himself that softer was a better configuration for most furniture. He still wasn't really used to reclining, except for powering down, but at least the option was available now.
It was still something of a pilot study, but he was also working on proper delegation of less vital initiatives. As it became clear that he could not do everything himself, Clu had focused instead on reassigning priorities to the fistful of programs he trusted--those who had remained in the wake of his worst decisions, who were steadfast despite everything, and who against all odds proved as capable, strong, and tireless as even he could ever wish for. They reached for perfection as hard as he did, and delivered only their best.
This was their largest and newest endeavor. The settlements were a real issue. Helium, Germanium, Astatine: programs had cleared out in the wake of the Purge and surrounding events, returning to the capital, but by and large leaving their superstructures and gear behind. To say nothing of the deafening silence from Purgos and her ilk, the intel vacuum through which poured a steady, endless trickle of strays and rebels and resource hogs who now plagued his beautiful, perfect city.
Clu had left the Argon assignment up for grabs, partly to see who dared volunteer. He'd also done it, somewhat, to put choices among task lists back into their hands. And partly as bait for the User. For the only one who had truly escaped him, vanishing into the wilderness.
When his code-brother volunteered, Clu was fiercely proud--and just as intensely worried. Not so long ago, the settlement had been a trap for Tron himself. The hasty disarray of their, marked departure would have left known and unknown dangers, to say nothing of the hazards inflicted by Tesler's various failed initiatives. Odds suggested the cost of dredging Argon might be very high versus the benefit.
It was not a mission for the faint of heart, but his code-brother had more courage than either of them knew what to do with. And if it galled that he sometimes used that courage to redirect Clu himself, well: maybe it was necessary. Certainly it had increased his efficiency, and lifted the health of the System in turn--data didn't lie.
Meanwhile, Clu's queue had been swamped by a particularly thorny power allocation issue. While it was not an emergency, it was urgent enough to absorb all the rest of his attention. Two shifts had blazed past before he even looked up from his desk.
He was learning better than to make Jarvis fret on purpose. The nervy program had discovered he could set Clu's code-brother on him, and to detract from the Argon mission now might be disastrous. Besides, all that stress nipped into Jarvis' performance in a really irritating way.
Of course this insight did not apply to Clu himself. How could it? He was built strong, coded more densely than even shock troopers, and he didn't frighten easily. He was made to be tough, designed that way, and the problem before him was almost entrancing in its elegant refusal to yield.
...Would they have to build a new plant?
The hope of construction burned, even as his eyes squinted and stung in protest. Three--three and a half? Shifts. Yes. It had been a while.
So he filed a status ticket for Jarvis, all's well, and got halfway into the call-tree to start the area survey when the report he needed arrived:
Not one, but two bad sectors here made work impossible in this area.
He'd snarled some impressive language--half a dictionary file of the things Flynn said when he was angry--and pitched his pad at the wall.
Like that would help. Was trying to break stuff always gonna be his first response? Couldn't he do any better than that.
Clu sighed heavily, scooped it up, and ran the readouts again. He sneered at the totals, considered them with narrowed eyes. Scrapped his ambitious hopes of the last several intervals and instead started marshaling repair-restore-and-defrag teams.
Within the next shift, they had their marching orders, and Clu had a frozen subroutine at the back of his neck so intense that it leached power when he stood up. Everything went sort of--grey--and he fell back into his chair more than he sat, growling.
He lowered his head to the desk, folded on his hands, and tugged his fingers through his hair. His processes gradually swam back into focus.
How much rest could he need? He wasn't even working that hard. He was just, fulfilling his function.
He knew there were ways around this. The deep backfile whispered to him, reminding him just how long he'd spent without any sort of charge, murmuring delightedly about the white, soothing as water.
Surely one couldn't hurt. It'd help him relax. There was plenty of the next shift to go, and nothing else on his schedule; the reports were templates, and already dumped to his terminal. Short of another emergent crisis, things were running perfectly without him for the first time in a long time.
And if that stung, if the his processes coughed up useless from some deep, bitter place, if it was pointless, he hardly noticed.
Clu was not an idiot. He'd never touch the red again. This was different. Might be nice to indulge, for once. What harm could it do?
Except that one gradually trickled into two. The more relaxed he became, the easier it was to pick up another. And that low rumble in the back of the queue grew louder and louder.
He won't show. He never has, and now you're risking your only--Tron was right about you, so you took his--and now all your plans are scrap--Imperfect--
Clu poured out another one and downed it mechanically, like he could physically rinse the static out. Any plan to explain or account for himself went blurred and quiet. His musings spread and vanished into the gauze of white, leaving behind only the certainty that it was his fault. That everything was his fault.
There was nothing to alert him to an authorized entry, even under their enhanced security, and so he was completely unprepared for the halogen vision in his doorway.
He froze. Full lockup.
No one should be there. Least of all--
"Flynn?"
His own voice was small to him, distant, like it had come from somewhere in the bottom of his feet. A memory jangled to the fore of his processes, bright and strange--some User superstition that if you spoke the names of powers, they appeared.
"Flynn."
With growing certainty. He was up from the chair and just as quickly down from it, more than awe buckling his knees, a harsh and profane rush of the white kicking through his systems, core crushed tight and eyes pinched shut. He didn't trust himself to open them again, not least because he usually woke up, right about now.
And it was the only thing holding in a mounting urge to sob.
Where was Rinzler? Their whole shared mission outcome was right there before him, and Clu was almost too overcome to move.
"You shouldn't, be, here." He shuddered, reached out with a trembling hand, drew it back again. "It's dangerous for you here."
problem drinker; and related content; step light
It was still something of a pilot study, but he was also working on proper delegation of less vital initiatives. As it became clear that he could not do everything himself, Clu had focused instead on reassigning priorities to the fistful of programs he trusted--those who had remained in the wake of his worst decisions, who were steadfast despite everything, and who against all odds proved as capable, strong, and tireless as even he could ever wish for. They reached for perfection as hard as he did, and delivered only their best.
This was their largest and newest endeavor. The settlements were a real issue. Helium, Germanium, Astatine: programs had cleared out in the wake of the Purge and surrounding events, returning to the capital, but by and large leaving their superstructures and gear behind. To say nothing of the deafening silence from Purgos and her ilk, the intel vacuum through which poured a steady, endless trickle of strays and rebels and resource hogs who now plagued his beautiful, perfect city.
Clu had left the Argon assignment up for grabs, partly to see who dared volunteer. He'd also done it, somewhat, to put choices among task lists back into their hands. And partly as bait for the User. For the only one who had truly escaped him, vanishing into the wilderness.
When his code-brother volunteered, Clu was fiercely proud--and just as intensely worried. Not so long ago, the settlement had been a trap for Tron himself. The hasty disarray of their, marked departure would have left known and unknown dangers, to say nothing of the hazards inflicted by Tesler's various failed initiatives. Odds suggested the cost of dredging Argon might be very high versus the benefit.
It was not a mission for the faint of heart, but his code-brother had more courage than either of them knew what to do with. And if it galled that he sometimes used that courage to redirect Clu himself, well: maybe it was necessary. Certainly it had increased his efficiency, and lifted the health of the System in turn--data didn't lie.
Meanwhile, Clu's queue had been swamped by a particularly thorny power allocation issue. While it was not an emergency, it was urgent enough to absorb all the rest of his attention. Two shifts had blazed past before he even looked up from his desk.
He was learning better than to make Jarvis fret on purpose. The nervy program had discovered he could set Clu's code-brother on him, and to detract from the Argon mission now might be disastrous. Besides, all that stress nipped into Jarvis' performance in a really irritating way.
Of course this insight did not apply to Clu himself. How could it? He was built strong, coded more densely than even shock troopers, and he didn't frighten easily. He was made to be tough, designed that way, and the problem before him was almost entrancing in its elegant refusal to yield.
...Would they have to build a new plant?
The hope of construction burned, even as his eyes squinted and stung in protest. Three--three and a half? Shifts. Yes. It had been a while.
So he filed a status ticket for Jarvis, all's well, and got halfway into the call-tree to start the area survey when the report he needed arrived:
Not one, but two bad sectors here made work impossible in this area.
He'd snarled some impressive language--half a dictionary file of the things Flynn said when he was angry--and pitched his pad at the wall.
Like that would help. Was trying to break stuff always gonna be his first response? Couldn't he do any better than that.
Clu sighed heavily, scooped it up, and ran the readouts again. He sneered at the totals, considered them with narrowed eyes. Scrapped his ambitious hopes of the last several intervals and instead started marshaling repair-restore-and-defrag teams.
Within the next shift, they had their marching orders, and Clu had a frozen subroutine at the back of his neck so intense that it leached power when he stood up. Everything went sort of--grey--and he fell back into his chair more than he sat, growling.
He lowered his head to the desk, folded on his hands, and tugged his fingers through his hair. His processes gradually swam back into focus.
How much rest could he need? He wasn't even working that hard. He was just, fulfilling his function.
He knew there were ways around this. The deep backfile whispered to him, reminding him just how long he'd spent without any sort of charge, murmuring delightedly about the white, soothing as water.
Surely one couldn't hurt. It'd help him relax. There was plenty of the next shift to go, and nothing else on his schedule; the reports were templates, and already dumped to his terminal. Short of another emergent crisis, things were running perfectly without him for the first time in a long time.
And if that stung, if the his processes coughed up useless from some deep, bitter place, if it was pointless, he hardly noticed.
Clu was not an idiot. He'd never touch the red again. This was different. Might be nice to indulge, for once. What harm could it do?
Except that one gradually trickled into two. The more relaxed he became, the easier it was to pick up another. And that low rumble in the back of the queue grew louder and louder.
He won't show. He never has, and now you're risking your only--Tron was right about you, so you took his--and now all your plans are scrap--Imperfect--
Clu poured out another one and downed it mechanically, like he could physically rinse the static out. Any plan to explain or account for himself went blurred and quiet. His musings spread and vanished into the gauze of white, leaving behind only the certainty that it was his fault. That everything was his fault.
There was nothing to alert him to an authorized entry, even under their enhanced security, and so he was completely unprepared for the halogen vision in his doorway.
He froze. Full lockup.
No one should be there. Least of all--
"Flynn?"
His own voice was small to him, distant, like it had come from somewhere in the bottom of his feet. A memory jangled to the fore of his processes, bright and strange--some User superstition that if you spoke the names of powers, they appeared.
"Flynn."
With growing certainty. He was up from the chair and just as quickly down from it, more than awe buckling his knees, a harsh and profane rush of the white kicking through his systems, core crushed tight and eyes pinched shut. He didn't trust himself to open them again, not least because he usually woke up, right about now.
And it was the only thing holding in a mounting urge to sob.
Where was Rinzler? Their whole shared mission outcome was right there before him, and Clu was almost too overcome to move.
"You shouldn't, be, here." He shuddered, reached out with a trembling hand, drew it back again. "It's dangerous for you here."
After all, he'd broken it so thoroughly.