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“I think,” Beck began, slowly and carefully, “...that we should talk.”
Tron, silhouetted against the bright light from the screen he’d been tapping away on, hummed in acknowledgement and cast a sidelong glance in his direction, silently granting him permission to continue. Though now that he had his attention, Beck really wasn’t sure he wanted to.
He swallowed against the knot in his throat, awkwardly scratching at the back of his head. His fingers itched for something, anything to do. He stood in the center of the massive room, its sheer vast emptiness making him feel even more out of place. Vulnerable. As with any other conversation on the whole Grid that began with the words we need to talk , this one, too, was a veritable minefield of unknowable proportions.
“We need to talk about Dyson,” he finished, finally.
Tron turned to face him fully now, all tensed shoulders and narrowed eyes. Suddenly, Beck found it even harder to pull in air to cool his circuits.
“Do we?” His tone rivalled the icy coldness of the Outlands outside the door, and sent a shiver down Beck’s spine.
For millicycles he had laid awake at night, knowing this conversation had to happen at some point. But now that it was here, his tongue was tied, paralyzed under the system monitor’s stare. He had fought Pavel, Paige, even Tesler , not to mention the dozens upon dozens of nameless Blackguards stupid enough to follow CLU’s regime, and yet, he would rather fight a thousand more than stand here right now. He would rather fight CLU himself.
Luckily, Tron was merciful enough to break the silence first. “There’s a lot of things you don’t understand about Dyson, Beck.”
“Then explain. Help me understand,” he replied, and dug deep to find the bravery to meet his mentor’s gaze, to square his shoulders and lift his chin. “I thought we were better than them . Better than running around trying to derez programs, especially out of revenge .”
“I didn’t derez him,” Tron said simply, and crossed his arms.
Which, to his credit, is true.
“Yeah, but you wanted to.” The sentence sounded stupid. Petulant, even to Beck’s own ears. Before Tron could respond he was quick to add, “And you were willing to hurt me for it.”
And there it was, the crux of what had been bothering Beck most. He’d replayed that cycle over and over in his head, seeing the white-hot fury in the eyes of the program who had once been, and still was, hailed as the protector of the Grid. Feeling the pain raining down on him from blow after blow, feeling the nauseating fear when he’d dangled off the edge of precarious situations - twice - teetering on the brink of deresolution. He’d stood in the way of a storm and stared it down, in the delusion that he could somehow stop it.
It wasn’t like he’d never fought Tron before, but each time had been in the context of training, of improvement. And though it had been frequently unforgiving, even painful, the intentions were always positive. He’d never had to face the system monitor like that. And he never wanted to again.
Flynn only knew what Dyson had done to incur that wrath.
The silence stretched on, stubborn and heavy. “Why were you so hellbent on derezzing this one program?” he asked, unable to stop an angry edge from bleeding into his voice.
Tron’s expression darkened. With a scoff, he turned to glare out at the mountains. “This is not a game, Beck. It’s war. Some programs must be derezzed, or they become an even bigger problem later on. The time for pacifism is long past.”
“You can’t tell me it was just pragmatism . Don’t lie to me. We both know it was revenge. And you were willing to let me die for it.”
He shrugged, strikingly nonchalant. “You were willing to die for your moral high horse. There was no point in that cycle in which you were in any danger that you didn’t put yourself into.”
“You would have let me fall off that cliff-”
“But you didn’t.”
“- I could have been derezzed when those energy tanks exploded.”
“But you didn’t.”
“That’s not the point!”
“Remind me again who followed me? Who challenged me again and again, no matter how clear I made the boundaries and the consequences?” Tron sneered, “I do not need to be patronized , much less by you . You are free to leave at any time if you deem my methods to be unsavory. ”
"You brought me into it!"
"And then I told you to stay out of it. Your involvement was over. I made that very clear, anything that came after that was your own fault."
The volume of their conversation had reached a crescendo, but the brief silence following it felt even louder.
“I just want to know why,” Beck said, all of his indignation giving way to a sinking feeling of defeat.
Tron ignored him, turning his back to him completely and stalking off in the opposite direction. The conversation was over. And somehow, that set off a spark in Beck’s chest; a potent mixture of anger and spite surged through his circuits once again, pushing him forward before he knew what he was doing.
“We’re supposed to be a team ,” he said, jogging to keep up with his mentor’s long, determined strides. “I thought we were friends .”
Tron rounded on him in an instant, leaving him to stagger to a sudden clumsy halt, reeling against his own momentum to avoid being knocked off his feet.
“There is no such thing as honor in war, and it’s about time you learned that, Renegade ,” Tron snarled.
Regaining his balance, Beck was quick to retort “Then what makes us better than them?”
Tron laughed; a sharp, humorless noise. “Where do I start? Perhaps that we don’t reprogram innocent programs? That we don’t derez civilians in the open street? That we didn’t commit a genocide? It all seems very simple to me.”
“But-”
“But nothing. Killing Dyson would have meant one less vile creature on the Grid to perpetuate CLU’s reign of terror.”
It made sense. It did. Even if it upset Beck’s sense of morality at first glance. Still, it was a statement that held true for almost every program he’d fought thus far. It was true for Paige , he realized, and his heart twisted just a bit further. And yet, when speaking about them or engaging with them, Tron didn’t get that look in his eye; it was a look that could and would kill in a nanocycle, if given a chance. A look of pure fury, quite unlike anything Beck had ever witnessed in his entire runtime. No, Dyson was special, and he’d known it from the very start, when they’d first seen him from up on that ledge. He must have done something particularly awful for Tron to be like that. Something more personal than even CLU’s coup.
"You didn't do it though," Beck said quietly.
Tron breathed a heavy sigh, the anger seeping from his frame as he did so. "No. I didn't."
Silence fell between them, heavy and dark, but lacking the tension from earlier. An unexpected development, and one Beck didn't entirely know what to do with. He searched his mentor's face, seeking answers in the furrow of his brow, the frown at the corners of his lips, the darkness in his eyes. Well, eye, singular. His other eye had gone a empty, hazy white.
And that was when it dawned on him.
“He’s why you have those scars, isn’t he?” he asked, gesturing vaguely toward the ever-deepening furrow of deadened pixels creeping along the side of his face. They were getting worse, no doubt. Such was the nature of a virus, though the rapid decline was most likely due in no small part to Tron's alarmingly conservative use of the healing chamber in recent cycles. The pieces slowly fell into place.
Tron didn’t immediately reply, instead curling his lip and casting a glance toward the floor. A confirmation. At long last, Beck had finally caught him. He had his answer. But rather than victory, he only felt sickening guilt, writhing in his stomach like code worms.
The damage to Tron’s code was immeasurable, irreparable, inflicted with more deliberate malice than the young Beta could possibly hope to understand. More than he could ever want to understand.
“You know, Beck,” Tron began with a spiteful smile, interrupting his train of thought, “I chose you for your persistence, and in any other context I might have even commended you for it.” He took a deep breath, wandering toward the great window once more. The snow outside flashed like static against the darkness of the Outlands. For a while, he remained there, frozen in place with a look that told of nothing but misery. “But for once, I wish you would let sleeping dogs lie.”
“Dogs?”
He waved a hand dismissively, seeming almost flustered for a moment, “Users keep them as pets," he supplied, before continuing, "What I mean is, some things just are not for you to know.”
“I understand.” And he did.
He didn't ask again. Except about dogs. He'd definitely have to ask about dogs.