"But, but," softly, "I'm this color, and it's, my, room?"
Clu was aware that he was--touchy--and intensely vain, but something in the hacker's explanation pinged to related ideas, echoed somehow down into his own most private suspicions: that maybe not everything in Clu's own life needed to be a utilitarian monument to his conquests?
And, that, was intriguing.
"Hmm," rumbled Clu, drawn out long through a squint, ending in a puff of air through his nose. Not yes or no, but-- "I mean, it's worth a try."
And at the mention of a readme, at the chance for new data, Clu grinned sharp. The two of them with their heads bent together over a datapad, solving the same problem and cuddling on the same couch, was an abrupt, bright concept that burned warm in his overtuned circuits.
"Yeah, man! If you want, I'd," the thought went slippery, and he finished, "that'd be great."
"You must have seen so many interesting things," with a soft wistfulness he never would've let escape otherwise. Clu caught himself spending far too long wondering what outside was like, how Flynn's world must be, as it was. Tron had looked askance at him for that, asking if he wanted to be like the User--or if he wanted to be him. A ridiculous impossibility and foul sacrilege.
Like most things with Clu, the truth was more direct and much more dangerous: he was curious.
That same curiosity was focused now on the hacker in front of him, his mercurial forked sibling who insisted that he felt fear, all right--and that he felt the joy of facing that fear while achieving his objectives, and that tantalized Clu.
"Oh," gruff, sing-song, "I dunno. You're," how would he have put it in a gloating mood, "wrapped up in my lair, pretty good."
He was sure bull must be some class of monster, a crafty one that always lied. There was a vague concept tag of a tiny man waving something red, and that factored into Clu's hypothesis. The bull itself made no sense, but the useage was clear: any flatly untrue data, often given in an attempt to impress.
But his code-brother was only more impressive for admitting his own fear.
"Oh, I'd like that." To see the whole Grid bloom in the promise of more, a diversity of options he hadn't contemplated. He blinked. "I think."
"Reskinning wouldn't take that long to start," thoughtful, gently letting the idea grow between them out loud, skyscrapers shining in a waterfall of colors sparkling in his processes. "Although it'd choke stuff at scale. Let's--" oh, just maybe--"Let's start with our apartment, huh?"
Ours. It was a hope gently delivered, but unmistakable. He could always plead out, c'mon, I was cooked when I said it: an exit for both of them, no harm done. Clu might be the only one interested in more, and he knew he was--he knew--
It was difficult to hang on to any one specific thought for long. Anyway, he didn't want to chase off such a strong talent, and his code-brother would be staying awhile either way.
The answering laugh had him grinning a bit. His vision was finally straightening out, but his equilibrium was just, gone, and everything felt like it was, sort of hovering. He really was entirely fragged.
Tomorrow would hurt. But that was tomorrow.
Clu sat up a little, swaying, craning his neck for the way the hacker neatly settled his boots by the table, arranging them when he could have dismissed them: it felt like being let in on a secret. And his disc fit the charger elegantly. Clu hadn't quite planned it--that was the charger that came with the table template--but it made for such a nice symmetry.
His code-brother took his time, turning slowly and giving an almost languid tap of dismissal above his collarbone. The template dissolved down his frame in a bright band of disappearance, inch by gleaming inch, betraying geometry only in glimpses. His signature matched his template only so far as the shoulders, and rapidly spread in algebraic intricacy. He grew almost in affine fractals, spiked in complex branches that put Clu in mind of feathers: something intricate and fragile, turned with inifinite precision by an unseen hand. Those magnificent circuits curled up his wrists,, and where Clu himself terminated in the fingers, broad and hot as fangs--his code-brother's lattices ended there, in his palms, in cupped traces so delicate that they seemed to disappear on their edge--
Clu had bright ideas of silk, of web, of lightning, a wash of concepts in User reference that rolled through him in sheer awe.
An entirely different and no less complex feeling boiled through him for the understanding that some of these were scars, one or two thick as rope above dimmed interconnected circuits. Each was a lesson, an act of desperation or bravery knit into his brother's code and worn vivid on his skin.
(What was a net? What was a cobra?)
"Man," low, slow, gone ponderous with heavy regard and the weight of his own tongue. He coughed, once, tried again, trying to sit, straightened. "Man, look at you," But of course he couldn't; Clu did not allow mirrors, not at all, not in his own private space--except--
"You are really something else, you know that?" Bright and forthright. "Classic lines, perfect tuning," grinning, "You are, you're beautiful, and I--I mean," at least 1024 things jammed the queue at once and what escaped was, "Do they hurt?"
Soft concern, with a quiet huff for how it sounded, how it wasn't quite what he'd planned.
"I mean, do they, bother you, will it bother you if I--" red made his tongue fearless even as it slowed him down, "do more than look?"
no subject
Clu was aware that he was--touchy--and intensely vain, but something in the hacker's explanation pinged to related ideas, echoed somehow down into his own most private suspicions: that maybe not everything in Clu's own life needed to be a utilitarian monument to his conquests?
And, that, was intriguing.
"Hmm," rumbled Clu, drawn out long through a squint, ending in a puff of air through his nose. Not yes or no, but-- "I mean, it's worth a try."
And at the mention of a readme, at the chance for new data, Clu grinned sharp. The two of them with their heads bent together over a datapad, solving the same problem and cuddling on the same couch, was an abrupt, bright concept that burned warm in his overtuned circuits.
"Yeah, man! If you want, I'd," the thought went slippery, and he finished, "that'd be great."
"You must have seen so many interesting things," with a soft wistfulness he never would've let escape otherwise. Clu caught himself spending far too long wondering what outside was like, how Flynn's world must be, as it was. Tron had looked askance at him for that, asking if he wanted to be like the User--or if he wanted to be him. A ridiculous impossibility and foul sacrilege.
Like most things with Clu, the truth was more direct and much more dangerous: he was curious.
That same curiosity was focused now on the hacker in front of him, his mercurial forked sibling who insisted that he felt fear, all right--and that he felt the joy of facing that fear while achieving his objectives, and that tantalized Clu.
"Oh," gruff, sing-song, "I dunno. You're," how would he have put it in a gloating mood, "wrapped up in my lair, pretty good."
He was sure bull must be some class of monster, a crafty one that always lied. There was a vague concept tag of a tiny man waving something red, and that factored into Clu's hypothesis. The bull itself made no sense, but the useage was clear: any flatly untrue data, often given in an attempt to impress.
But his code-brother was only more impressive for admitting his own fear.
"Oh, I'd like that." To see the whole Grid bloom in the promise of more, a diversity of options he hadn't contemplated. He blinked. "I think."
"Reskinning wouldn't take that long to start," thoughtful, gently letting the idea grow between them out loud, skyscrapers shining in a waterfall of colors sparkling in his processes. "Although it'd choke stuff at scale. Let's--" oh, just maybe--"Let's start with our apartment, huh?"
Ours. It was a hope gently delivered, but unmistakable. He could always plead out, c'mon, I was cooked when I said it: an exit for both of them, no harm done. Clu might be the only one interested in more, and he knew he was--he knew--
It was difficult to hang on to any one specific thought for long. Anyway, he didn't want to chase off such a strong talent, and his code-brother would be staying awhile either way.
The answering laugh had him grinning a bit. His vision was finally straightening out, but his equilibrium was just, gone, and everything felt like it was, sort of hovering. He really was entirely fragged.
Tomorrow would hurt. But that was tomorrow.
Clu sat up a little, swaying, craning his neck for the way the hacker neatly settled his boots by the table, arranging them when he could have dismissed them: it felt like being let in on a secret. And his disc fit the charger elegantly. Clu hadn't quite planned it--that was the charger that came with the table template--but it made for such a nice symmetry.
His code-brother took his time, turning slowly and giving an almost languid tap of dismissal above his collarbone. The template dissolved down his frame in a bright band of disappearance, inch by gleaming inch, betraying geometry only in glimpses. His signature matched his template only so far as the shoulders, and rapidly spread in algebraic intricacy. He grew almost in affine fractals, spiked in complex branches that put Clu in mind of feathers: something intricate and fragile, turned with inifinite precision by an unseen hand. Those magnificent circuits curled up his wrists,, and where Clu himself terminated in the fingers, broad and hot as fangs--his code-brother's lattices ended there, in his palms, in cupped traces so delicate that they seemed to disappear on their edge--
Clu had bright ideas of silk, of web, of lightning, a wash of concepts in User reference that rolled through him in sheer awe.
An entirely different and no less complex feeling boiled through him for the understanding that some of these were scars, one or two thick as rope above dimmed interconnected circuits. Each was a lesson, an act of desperation or bravery knit into his brother's code and worn vivid on his skin.
(What was a net? What was a cobra?)
"Man," low, slow, gone ponderous with heavy regard and the weight of his own tongue. He coughed, once, tried again, trying to sit, straightened. "Man, look at you," But of course he couldn't; Clu did not allow mirrors, not at all, not in his own private space--except--
"You are really something else, you know that?" Bright and forthright. "Classic lines, perfect tuning," grinning, "You are, you're beautiful, and I--I mean," at least 1024 things jammed the queue at once and what escaped was, "Do they hurt?"
Soft concern, with a quiet huff for how it sounded, how it wasn't quite what he'd planned.
"I mean, do they, bother you, will it bother you if I--" red made his tongue fearless even as it slowed him down, "do more than look?"