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Able's Garage - Late Cycle

The hydrospanner slips for the third time, and Beck barely catches himself before his knuckles slam into the light cycle's undercarriage. Smooth. Real smooth. He exhales hard through his nose, repositioning his grip on the tool while his other hand braces against the cycle's frame.

"You planning on fixing that thing or just wrestling it?" Zed's voice drifts over from the adjacent work station, tinged with that familiar sarcastic edge.

Beck doesn't look up. "I'm planning on getting it done before Able checks inventory again."

"Right, because the last time you rushed a repair job went so well—"

"The strut held."

"For two cycles."

The hydrospanner finally catches, and Beck torques down on the coupling with more force than strictly necessary. The light cycle's power distribution node clicks into place with a satisfying thunk. Small victories. He wipes the back of his hand across his forehead—a pointless gesture since programs don't sweat, but the motion helps him think.

Above them, Able's office window glows with steady illumination. The old program's silhouette moves behind the glass, probably reviewing work orders or pretending he can't hear Zed's commentary. The garage hums with its usual symphony—diagnostic equipment chirping, tools rezzing and derezzing, the low thrum of idling engines waiting for repairs.

Beck shifts position, his knee protesting the angle. He's been crouched under this cycle for the better part of the shift, and his circuits ache with that particular burn that comes from holding awkward positions too long. Should've grabbed the rolling platform. Too late now—standing up means admitting defeat, and Zed would never let him hear the end of it.

The coupling holds. Finally. Beck slides out from underneath, blinking against the harsh overhead lighting after working in shadow. His gridsuit's picked up a streak of something dark that dulls the white circuitry along his arm—might be hydraulic fluid or might be remnants from yesterday's disaster with the Recognizer part that wasn't quite compatible with civilian tech. The cyan secondary circuits on his chest seem to pulse brighter in contrast. Hard to tell what the stain actually is.

"There." He stands, rolling his shoulders. His dark hair falls forward slightly, and he pushes it back with the heel of his palm. "Distribution node's fixed. Should run clean now."

Mara glances over from her station, eyebrow raised. "Should?"

"Will. Will run clean."

She smirks but doesn't push it. Her own project—something involving a transport's navigation array—spreads across her workbench in organized chaos. Everything has its place in Mara's workspace. Unlike his.

Beck surveys his own station and winces. Tools scattered. Components half-cataloged. A baton lying sideways across diagnostic readouts he definitely should've filed earlier. Yeah, Able's gonna love that.

The garage door chimes—someone entering. Beck's hand moves toward his disc on pure instinct before his brain catches up. Relax. It's a garage. People come here. Still, after everything... after Bodhi... after becoming the Renegade...

Hypervigilance doesn't switch off just because he's wearing a mechanic's gridsuit instead of Tron's helmet.

He forces his hand back down, grabbing a cleaning cloth instead. Makes it look natural. Just a mechanic, cleaning up after a repair job. Nothing to see here.

The visitor's footsteps echo across the garage floor.

0001001 Club - Peak Hours

The bass line hits hard enough that Beck feels it through the floor, reverberating up through his legs and into his chest where his circuits pulse in time with the beat. The club's packed tonight—bodies moving across the dance floor in synchronized chaos, strobing walls shifting through geometric patterns that make his eyes hurt if he stares too long.

"I still don't understand why we're here." Zed has to shout to be heard over the music, leaning across the booth they've claimed near the back. His gangly frame takes up more space than it should, one elbow nearly knocking over Mara's drink.

Mara catches the glass before it tips. "Because you complain every time we work late, and then you complain when we actually go somewhere."

"I complain because the Renegade probably blew something up earlier, which means double the repair orders tomorrow, which means—"

"Zed." Beck cuts in, grabbing his own drink—a tall glass of blue energy that glows faintly against the dark table. "Can we go one night without talking about work?"

"Says the guy who was still covered in hydraulic fluid twenty minutes ago."

Fair point. Beck had barely managed to clean the worst of it off before Mara dragged them both out of the garage. His gridsuit still shows faint stains along the white circuitry if you know where to look, and his hair's probably a mess from running his hands through it all shift. Not that anyone's paying attention to him in here—the crowd's too focused on the dance floor, on their own conversations, on the guards scattered throughout who are technically off-duty but still watching everyone with that same cold assessment.

One of those guards glances their way, and Beck forces himself not to tense. Just a mechanic. Having a drink with friends. Nothing suspicious here.

The guard's attention slides past their booth without interest.

Beck exhales slowly, taking a drink to cover the reaction. The energy tastes like static and copper—sustenance without satisfaction, but enough to keep a program running after a long shift. The club's entire atmosphere operates on that same principle: temporary escape that doesn't quite deliver, bright lights and loud music drowning out the reality of occupation just outside these walls.

"You okay?" Mara's watching him with that look she gets sometimes—the one that sees too much, asks questions he can't answer.

"Fine. Just tired."

"You're always tired lately." She doesn't push it, but the observation hangs there anyway. "When's the last time you actually recharged properly?"

Two cycles ago. Maybe three. Training with Tron runs late. Then there's surveillance footage to review, resistance supply runs to coordinate, and somehow fitting in actual sleep between Renegade operations and garage shifts. The math doesn't work. Something always suffers.

Usually it's the sleep.

"I recharge." Beck says, which isn't technically a lie.

Zed snorts. "Right. And I'm secretly Clu's second-in-command."

The music shifts—something with a faster tempo that makes the crowd on the floor surge with renewed energy. Bodies press closer together, circuits flashing in the strobing light like a constellation of stars gone chaotic. A program near their booth stumbles, catches herself on the edge of their table, laughs too loud, and disappears back into the mass of movement.

Beck watches the crowd, tracking exits out of habit. Three main doors. Emergency derez points along the back wall. Windows that probably don't open but could be smashed if necessary. The guards positioned at intervals—six visible, probably more in the back rooms. None of them look particularly alert. Off-duty means relaxed posture, attention on their own drinks instead of the crowd.

Still. Beck's hand drifts toward where his disc rests against his back, checking the familiar weight.

"Stop it." Mara kicks him under the table.

"Stop what?"

"That thing you do. Where you scan the room like you're expecting a raid."

"I'm not—" Beck catches himself. Am I that obvious? "Just looking around."

"You're being paranoid." Zed reaches across for the large pink bowl in the center of their table—the shared drink they'd ordered because Mara insisted they needed to "actually enjoy themselves for once." He grabs one of the extended straws, takes a long pull, and grimaces. "This tastes like someone liquified a light cycle."

"Then stop drinking it."

"I didn't say I was stopping."

Mara laughs—genuine and bright, the kind of sound that cuts through the music's assault. For a moment, she looks exactly like she used to before the occupation, before everything got complicated. Before Beck started living two lives and lying to everyone he cares about.

The guilt twists in his chest, familiar and sharp.

They deserve to know. They're your friends.

They're safer not knowing.

The argument plays out in his head for the thousandth time, same result as always. Beck takes another drink, lets the energy burn down his throat, and tries to focus on the moment. Just this. Just friends in a club, pretending everything's normal.

A program pushes past their booth—too close, too aggressive. Beck's already halfway to his feet before he registers that it's just someone drunk on movement and music, not a threat. He sits back down slowly, aware of both Mara and Zed staring at him now.

"Seriously." Mara says quietly. "What's going on with you?"

"Nothing. I'm fine."

"You're a terrible liar."

The music swells, saving him from having to respond. The walls cycle through another pattern—sharp angles of cyan and white that make the whole club feel like it's folding in on itself. Beck focuses on that instead of Mara's concerned expression, instead of the weight of secrets pressing down on every interaction.

Just a mechanic. Having a drink with friends.

Nothing more.

Tron's Safehouse - Training Simulator

Beck's shoulder hits the floor hard enough that his circuits flare white for a split second. The holographic guard dissipates above him, orange tracers fading into nothing, and he's already rolling—muscle memory kicking in before his brain fully processes the fall.

Get up. Get up. Get UP.

His disc returns to his palm with a familiar snap, and he's on his feet, breathing hard even though programs don't technically need to breathe. The simulator hums around him, cubic walls glowing with that cold blue light that makes everything feel clinical. Sterile. Like failure under observation.

"Again."

Tron's voice cuts through the space from somewhere beyond the chamber's translucent barrier. Not loud. Doesn't need to be. The single word carries enough weight to make Beck's jaw clench.

"I had him—"

"You didn't."

Beck spins toward where Tron's silhouette stands at the controls, one hand resting on the interface panel. Even through the barrier, the scarring across Tron's face catches the light wrong—necrotic patterns spreading like cracks in damaged code. Still getting worse. The thought surfaces before Beck can stop it, followed immediately by the guilt that always comes with it. Tron's deteriorating, and here Beck is, complaining about training simulations.

"You telegraphed the throw." Tron continues, adjusting something on the panel. "Guard saw it coming three moves ahead. In a real fight—"

"I know what happens in a real fight." The words come out sharper than Beck intends. He catches himself, forces his tone down. "I've been in real fights."

Tron's expression doesn't change. "Then stop fighting like you're trying to prove something."

The simulator rezzes another scenario before Beck can respond. The chamber shifts, geometry reconfiguring into what looks like—great—Argon Square. Complete with civilian programs scattered throughout, their holographic forms frozen mid-stride. Waiting. Four guards materialize at the perimeter, marked by that minimal orange circuitry that makes them look almost skeletal in the low light.

Beck's grip tightens on his disc. Four. Okay. I can work with four.

"Hostage situation." Tron says. "Three civilians. Guards are authorized to derez on sight. You have thirty seconds before reinforcements arrive."

"That's not enough time to—"

The scenario activates. Guards move. Civilians scatter. A timer appears in Beck's peripheral vision, already counting down: 0:29... 0:28...

Okay. OKAY. Think.

He launches forward, angling toward the nearest guard while his mind races through possibilities. Can't go loud—civilians everywhere. Can't go slow—timer's already at twenty-three seconds. The guard raises a weapon, and Beck slides under the shot, disc already leaving his hand in a trajectory that should—

The disc ricochets off the guard's shoulder armor instead of his neck joint.

Damn it.

Beck catches the return, pivots, throws again. This time it connects, and the guard dissolves into fragments of light. One down. Three to go. Civilians screaming—simulated panic that sounds too real, hits too close to actual memories of Argon Square when things go sideways.

0:17.

Second guard coming in fast. Beck feints left, goes right, and—there—catches the guard's disc arm mid-swing. Momentum carries them both into a spin that ends with Beck's elbow driving into the guard's face. Not elegant. Definitely not Tron's style. But effective.

The guard derezzes.

0:11.

Two guards left. Both converging. And Beck's in the middle of the square with nowhere to—

A civilian moves. Wrong timing. Wrong position. The guard's disc leaves its hand, and Beck's body makes the decision before his brain catches up. He throws himself between the disc and the civilian, his own disc coming up in a desperate block that sends shockwaves up his arm.

The civilian survives.

The timer hits zero.

Reinforcements rez into existence. Six more guards. The scenario locks—failure state achieved.

Everything dissolves.

Beck stands alone in the empty simulator chamber, chest heaving, circuits still burning from the blocked throw. His arm aches where he caught the impact. The silence feels louder than the simulated chaos.

"You prioritized the civilian." Tron's voice. Still even. Still measured.

"Yeah." Beck doesn't turn around. "I did."

"The mission parameters—"

"I don't care about the mission parameters." Now he turns, meeting Tron's gaze through the barrier. "If saving people means failing your test, then I'll fail the test."

For a long moment, Tron says nothing. The scarring on his face seems more pronounced in the simulator's harsh lighting, spreading like frost across damaged circuitry. His expression remains unreadable—that mask of control he wears like armor.

Then, impossibly, something shifts at the corner of Tron's mouth. Not quite a smile. But close.

"Good." Tron says quietly.

The simulator hums, already preparing the next scenario.

Tesler's Command Ship - Cargo Bay

The ventilation shaft is narrower than the schematics suggested.

Beck inches forward on his elbows, white armor scraping against metal with sounds that seem deafening in the confined space. Below him, through the grate, he can make out the cargo bay's expanse—sleek black surfaces reflecting minimal orange circuitry that runs along the walls like veins of molten light. Crates stamped with Clu's insignia stack in organized rows, and guards patrol in pairs with the kind of mechanical precision that means they're actually paying attention.

Twelve visible. Probably more in the adjacent corridors.

Tron's voice echoes in his memory: In. Retrieve the manifest. Out. Don't engage unless absolutely necessary.

Right. Because Beck's track record with "don't engage" is so stellar.

He shifts his weight, and the shaft groans. The sound cuts through the cargo bay's ambient hum—engine thrum, equipment cycling, boots on metal—and one of the guards below looks up.

Beck freezes. Every muscle locked. Barely breathing even though the helmet's ventilation system doesn't care whether he does or not. The guard's gaze sweeps across the ceiling, pausing at the ventilation grate directly above Beck's position.

Don't move. Don't even think about moving.

Five seconds. Ten. The guard's hand drifts toward his disc.

Then a door at the far end of the bay slides open with a pneumatic hiss, and General Tesler strides through like he owns every molecule of air in the room. Which, technically, he does. The guards snap to attention immediately, and the one who'd been staring at the ceiling pivots toward his commander with the kind of speed that comes from knowing what happens when you're caught slacking.

Beck exhales slowly. Too close.

Tesler moves through the cargo bay with that casual arrogance he wears like a second skin, his red and orange circuitry pulsing brighter than anyone else's. The specialized gauntlets on his hands glow faintly even in standby mode—ready to activate, to extend into those energy weapons that Beck's seen tear through programs like they're nothing.

Behind Tesler, Paige follows at a precise two steps back. Full military bearing. Black gridsuit with orange circuits marking her rank. Her expression carries that professional neutrality she always maintains, but something in the set of her shoulders reads tense.

"Status report." Tesler snaps his fingers at the nearest guard, not bothering to look at him directly.

"Sir. All cargo accounted for. Manifest confirms—"

"I didn't ask for confirmation. I asked for status."

The guard hesitates. Fatal mistake. Tesler's gauntlet flares bright orange, and the energy construct extends in a blur of motion that catches the guard by the throat. The program makes a strangled sound, circuits flickering as Tesler lifts him off the ground with casual strength.

"When I ask for status," Tesler says conversationally, "I expect information I don't already have. Do you understand?"

The guard manages a choked noise that might be affirmative.

Beck's hand moves to his disc on pure instinct. Don't. Don't don't don't. Mission parameters. In and out. Don't—

Tesler releases the guard, who crumples to the deck gasping. The energy construct retracts, and Tesler turns to Paige like nothing happened. "The Renegade was spotted in Sector Seven approximately one cycle ago. I want double patrols on all transport routes. He's planning something."

"Yes, sir." Paige's voice remains level. Professional. But her gaze flicks to the guard still struggling to his feet, and something crosses her face too quickly to identify. "I'll coordinate with the garrison commanders."

"See that you do. And Paige?"

She meets his eyes. "Sir?"

"If your soldiers can't handle a single insurgent in a stolen helmet, perhaps I need to reconsider your position."

The threat hangs in the air, sharp and cold. Paige's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "That won't be necessary, General. We'll find him."

"You'd better."

Tesler moves deeper into the cargo bay, inspecting crates with the kind of attention that suggests he's looking for excuses to derez someone else. The remaining guards give him a wide berth, suddenly very focused on appearing busy.

Beck watches from above, calculating distances. The manifest terminal sits against the far wall—twenty meters from his current position, behind two guard patrols and directly in Tesler's line of sight if he turns around. Getting to it means dropping from the ventilation shaft, crossing open floor, and accessing the system while surrounded by hostiles.

Tron's going to love this.

Below, Paige moves to inspect something near the terminal—too close, she's too close. Beck needs her to move, needs Tesler to take his paranoid inspection somewhere else, needs literally any opportunity that doesn't involve fighting his way through an entire cargo bay.

Tesler's voice cuts through again, sharp with irritation. "These munitions were supposed to arrive last cycle. Where's the delay?"

A different guard scrambles to check a datapad. "Sir, the transport encountered resistance in the Outlands. Renegade sympathizers disrupted—"

"Sympathizers." Tesler's laugh sounds like breaking glass. "You mean incompetent programs who can't secure a simple supply route."

The gauntlet flares again.

Beck's fingers tighten on his disc. Stay focused. Mission first. You can't help anyone if you're derezzed.

But watching Tesler operate—watching him treat programs like disposable components, like nothing more than obstacles or tools—makes something hot and furious coil in Beck's chest. This is why he puts on the helmet. Why he risks everything. Because programs like Tesler need to understand that fear works both ways.

Paige shifts position, moving toward the bay's exit. "General, if you don't need me here, I should coordinate those patrol adjustments."

"Go." Tesler waves her off without looking. "And Paige? When you find the Renegade, I want him brought to me conscious. I have questions."

"Understood, sir."

She leaves through the same door they'd entered, posture rigid, not looking back. The door slides shut behind her with a finality that somehow makes the cargo bay feel smaller. More dangerous.

Tesler continues his inspection, and the guards continue their patrols, and Beck remains frozen in a ventilation shaft that's getting more uncomfortable by the second, trying to figure out how to complete this mission without starting a firefight he can't win.

The terminal blinks invitingly against the far wall. Twenty meters. Twelve guards. One extremely violent general with a hair trigger.

Tron's definitely going to love this.