The Games are not overly strenuous for a program like him, but it's a trying ordeal in other ways. The sheer frustration of the entire situation rests heavily on his shoulders, and he can't help but feel like he should be doing more. Tron the warrior, the security monitor, the great and mighty hero whose name has become a monosyllabic prayer. It's as flattering as it is terrifying. While the admiration breathes fire into his circuits and gives him all the more reason to fight, the disappointment from the newly conscripted once they realize what's become of their champion is almost too much to bear.

In his experience, there has only been one program to treat him not like some untouchable paragon, but as a genuine friend. Tron turns the last corner before his cell, the ever-attentive guards flanking him on all sides. Real, honest happiness is just about nonexistent in the pit cells. The conversations and camaraderie he shares with a certain actuarial program come awfully close, though.

He's surprised to see that his neighbor's cell is uninhabited.

He rounds on the guards without thinking, suddenly and unquestionably prepared to charge right back to the Game Grid to see if something's gone wrong. The staff-wielding sentries are prepared, though, and the electric snap of their weapons flirt dangerously close to his person.

Never, ever, in the few dozen rounds of competition he's been through, has Ram not been back first. His presence has become a constant in the short amount of time since Tron's capture.

Anticipating a squabble, the Memory Guards box him in and begin shuffling back towards the opening of the cell. It isn't as if putting up a fight would do much good, but there's something in him saying not Ram not Ram not Ram, as if denying the worst case scenario will also prevent it. At the threshold of his prison, fists clenching and eyes searching for the quickest exit, he hears it.

"Hey, watch where you're sticking that staff. You're gonna take someone's eye out with that thing, and then-"

The comment trails into silence when Ram arrives on the scene, and even the pair of guards escorting him take pause. In the moment of distraction that follows, Tron is maneuvered back into his cell. His friend is returned to his own space not a nanosecond later.

"What was that all about?" Ram asks as he plunks himself down beside their shared partition. Tron hesitates, considers how to phrase the response so as to avoid any upset.

"I thought you..."

For as strong and unshakable as he supposedly is, he can't bring himself to say the words. He risks a glance back at Ram, entirely unsure of what to expect, but all he's met with is a smile that's sympathetic and understanding and warm.

"Relax, I'm not going anywhere. Promise."

"Flynn, you're alive!"

In his shock, he almost fails to save the other conscript. Almost. Tron catches him by the wrist and pulls him aboard the Solar Sailer with ease, and watches with silent fascination as blue bleeds back into Flynn's circuits. He claps him fondly on the shoulders, mood bolstered by a pleasant wave of relief.

There's still a component missing.

"Where's Ram?"

Because surely it stands to reason that they made it this far together.

The brief contortion of Flynn's face accompanied by the flash of pained recollection in his eyes say it all just a moment before he speaks.

"He... didn't make it."

The simple words, the verbal confirmation of one of Tron's worst fears... It's a deep and unexpected cut. His jaw tightens as he draws in a sharp breath to steady himself. Some naive part of him is expecting it to be a joke, but his better instincts know that there is no punchline.

So he straightens up, nods once, and packages his grief into a tight little ball in the core of his chest. Ram would tell him to soldier on.

A thought passes through his processors, gone as quickly as it rears its head, and he feels immediate guilt for considering it. But even as he tries to shake it, it won't leave. The ghost of it settles within him, cold and dim even as he puts his arm around Yori and feigns the best smile he can muster up.

He tries to ignore it, but that singular thought holds fast.

Ram lied.

Yori's sparkling crystalline laugh, Dumont's steady and reassuring murmurs, the swell of pride in Tron's code as a dying system is reborn. Everything is right, falling into place.

Only that isn't entirely true.

He mistakenly tries, in the thrill of victory, to send a congratulatory ping to a program who won't - can't - receive it. The responding error message is a jarring reminder of recent events, and his earlier despair unfurls itself just slightly. Their victory suddenly feels hollow.

The Tower Guardian is pointing out beams of light and trails of color, and assigning each of them a name and a purpose. Yori listens with rapt attention, nodding eagerly at what it all means for their future. Tron only half listens. He's focused on the tower signals, too, but he finds himself thinking about the Users on the other ends of them. Is Ram's User out there right now, anticipating a transmission from his missing program? Is he trying to contact the actuary-turned-gladiator, the plucky fighter with bright eyes and an infectious laugh?

Yori's grip tightens around his hand when she picks up on his wandering attentions. He hasn't had the time to tell her everything about his imprisonment, but she knows him well enough that she doesn't need details. She looks up at him with a questioning gaze, and he shakes his head and tries to focus.

[I'm sorry.] Sent not to Yori, not to Dumont, but to a program who should be by his side. To a User who deserves a truth he will likely never hear.

Unanswerable pings and calls reverberate in empty space.

"Well? What do you guys think?"

The landscape is bleak and barren, cold and unforgiving. If he squints, he can just make out a cluster of lights in the distance, and he assumes, based on the squiggled lines running around and through it, that it must be a settlement. Vast blackness extends in all directions.

"It feels like... possibilities," Yori offers. This place is better suited to her tastes. It is free and untouched, a playground of opportunity for the enthusiastic simulations program. She isn't scanning for security risks, isn't balking at the size of the system that will soon be hers to protect. At times, Tron wishes he had her sight, and could envision planes and shapes and growth where there is nothing.

Flynn seems pleased by the response, and he sweeps a surveying gaze over his fledgling domain.

"Doesn't look like much right now, but once we hit our stride, it should be more impressive," he assures, hands on his hips. He indicates the pinpoint city across the system. "That's Tron City right there, man. The cultural center of the Grid. Well, that's what it's gonna be, at least. Only a handful of programs live there right now, which'll change pretty soon, and then we can really get to work."

Tron quirks a brow at the mention of the name, something that doesn't go unnoticed by the User.

"Aw, c'mon, man, least I can do is dedicate a city in your honor. Besides, my name's on the arcade; I thought naming the whole place after myself might look a little tacky."

The security program snorts, but offers no further argument. Trying to reason with Flynn is like trying to break a Bit out of its binary. He follows along after the User as he picks his way down the rocky incline before them, his hand intertwined with Yori's as they move.

"The other programs, are they all yours?" he asks, contemplating the idea of having to keep order against Flynn's personality multiplied a hundred fold.

"Nah, not all of 'em," the User tosses over his shoulder. "I snagged a couple copies of Encom software, made some negotiations with coworkers. And the MCP displaced plenty of people, so there's lots of programs who need a place to go."

It's funny, almost, how any mention of the Master Control Program vaults him right back to the events surrounding Flynn's arrival in their lives. And while he's caught up in those thoughts, a question escapes his mouth before he has a chance to pin it down.

"Can you bring programs back?"

At the bottom of the slope, Flynn stops. It isn't an unreasonable query, and it's been simmering in the back of Tron's processors for quite some time. Although they aren't as god-like as Tron had once believed, the Users still have more power than the anything else in a given system. He's seen Flynn mold and bend the world to suit his needs, so why shouldn't that apply to programs, too?

"Look, Tron, I... I asked about him..." Flynn sighs, now studying his shoes to avoid meeting Tron's eyes. "Roy said there might be a backup sitting around, but it - he... wouldn't be the same. Without the same memory files, he-"

"...He wouldn't be our Ram," Tron finishes softly.

Flynn nods slowly, gaze still trained on the ground, and Tron is reminded of how acutely the loss affected him, too.

"Yeah."

Yori rubs his arm soothingly. There are still things to fight for, to love, to protect, and he must not lose sight of that. It's a distinctly Ram-like thought, and he finds some solace in that. The gaping absence knits itself together by a small increment. In some ways, Ram is still very much with him.

He touches Flynn's shoulder and draws him back to the present. Neither one of them should have to manage alone.

"Let's go see this Grid of yours."

The three of them move off together, with a space between them left for a would-be (should-be) fourth.

They come with Sam, after he's sure that everything is stable.

Tron is anxious as he waits by the faux arcade's doors. It's a feeling he hasn't experienced in cycles, and it reminds him of all the times Flynn tried some risky stunt without consulting him first. Under CLU's leadership, Rinzler hadn't felt anything comparable to nerves. There was no need to.

Not now, he has to remind himself, because if there was ever an inopportune moment to lose his composure, this would be it. The signal atop the building is lit, the Grid murmurs softly, and Tron squares his shoulders and does his best to look the part of a dedicated security monitor.

Sam is the first one through the doors, the grin on his face much like the wondering eagerness frequently seen in newly rezzed betas. The ISO follows closely behind him, a tense alertness clinging to her frame, though the bubbling excitement beneath it is hard to miss. She, too, looks at her surroundings with wide-eyed enthusiasm, but hers is an expression that says I am finally home.

"Welcome to the Grid," Flynn's son says with a gesture of his arm as three other Users exit the arcade.

Alan-One catches his attention immediately, and his awe must pale in comparison to Tron's own. Never in his existence had he expected to be able to communicate with his User face to face. Appearing just as stunned, Alan-One shakes his hand as Sam makes a brief introduction, not that it is required. Tron wishes he were more eloquent, but he's pleased that he can manage a polite "It's an honor to meet you" without getting too weak in the knees. And then Alan-One is being gently nudged aside by another countenance Tron knows well. Her hair isn't the exact shade he is accustomed to, and the lines around her twinkling eyes and upturned mouth are proof of that foreign concept called aging. But the laugh is hers, as is the soft "Wow" that slips out of her mouth.

"Sam wasn't lying when he told us how uncanny it is," Yori's User says as she takes his hand in both of hers. "Nice to meet you, Tron."

Her gentleness relaxes him.

"Yori sends her apologies for missing your arrival. Her supervision was required for a few simulation tests, but she assures me that she'll catch up with us later."

Lora returns to Alan-One's side, and they share a silent gaze that somehow manages to be both joyous and sorrowful at the same time. It must be overwhelming, Tron figures, to be here for the first time. Not wanting to pry on a private moment, the monitor glances away. He has no choice, now, but to address the remaining User, though he still hesitates to speak.

"We always wondered why Flynn was so insistent with those nicknames."

Tron can't help but freeze up at the words. The tone and inflection stir old memories, press against a grief he'd assumed to be well healed. It had been so long, so unbelievably long, since he'd last heard that voice. Since he'd last seen the messy curls, the faint grin cast against the contemplative and understanding eyes.

Underneath the glasses and the age and the knowledge that it is impossible, he sees Ram.

"Your program, he would've-" The words catch in his throat.

Do you know how often he spoke of you? How highly he regarded you? He would have loved to show you around, would have been beside himself at the opportunity. He was smart and caring and the bravest program I've ever known, and you should be proud of him.

"Ram would have wanted to be here."

Ram should be here.

He doesn't know how forthcoming Flynn was about his time on the Encom system. Tron is torn between telling Roy everything about his absent program and keeping quiet, but the decision must wait as Sam starts guiding the group down the street.

Besides, he isn't sure how to explain himself properly.

While Sam takes the lead, Tron brings up the rear of the little procession, and after a minor internal debate, he changes his pace so that he's walking alongside Roy.

"Thank you," he says, just barely above a whisper, because at least it's a start.

"What for?"

For the first time in a long time, Tron allows himself to think back to that other existence with a small measure of fondness. From between match chats to meaningful conversations, from a friendly introduction to a bond he could never forget. If there is anyone who deserves to hear Ram's story, it's Roy.

"How much do you know about the old system?"

Just because things are going well doesn't mean that breaks aren't beneficial. While they talk of User things that are beyond his grasp, the Grid still calls for his vigilance.

He patrols the area casually, not expecting conflict, but not unprepared for it, either. Security breaches are rare, much like they had been in the earliest cycles of the system. It's like watching the place develop all over again, although this time the sense of team unity is helping to keep some of his worries at bay. No one wants a repeat of old mistakes.

The structure up ahead was once used for archival data storage, though it stands uninhabited now. He can't remember if CLU decommissioned it, or if it had fallen to pieces in the post-reintegration chaos. Its soft curves and arcing lines are alien in its angular surroundings, and he vaguely recalls Flynn pouring over the blueprints while explaining that it was one of his counterpart's - wife's - best designs. Tron can't deny that it has a strange sort of beauty to it, even now. He sets himself a reminder to inquire about the plans for it when he returns to base.

A skittering sound alerts him to another presence, and immediately he's on high alert. Using a pile of rubble for cover, he assesses the area and spots a program moving along the base of the old building. The figure halts near what must be an entrance point and starts tampering with whatever flimsy security measures are still in place.

"Identify, program," Tron calls as he steps into view.

A pause and a quick turn, and the tool he'd been using slips from the stranger's hands. Cool colored circuits indicate that he isn't an immediate threat. Unlike Tron, the other program is concealed behind a darkly tinted helmet. He doesn't draw his disc or make a move to run. The monitor is holding off on pulling his own weapon, but he almost reaches for it when the mystery program takes a step forward.

"Identify yourself," he repeats, this time with added force.

"It's... Tron, it's me."

It doesn't register at first. The helmet adds vocal distortion, and he doesn't think to check the identifying mark on the program's chest.

Then the helmet folds away.

He regrets losing that fraction of a moment to his own confusion.

The gap between them is bridged in an instant. Tron can't tell who's shaking, and frankly, he doesn't care. He draws the program close, rests his cheek against the top of his head, and thanks every User he can think to name. Impossible occurs to him, but he kicks it away before it has a chance to plant its doubts. This is real. This is happening. Ram is safe and warm and in his arms. There is nothing, no force in this world or any other, that will make him believe otherwise.

"How did you-?"

"'S kinda a long story," the smaller program says weakly. It's accompanied by a faint sniffle, a short noise of giddy disbelief. Tron pulls away just enough to allow Ram to tilt his head back so that he can re-memorize every feature he'd missed, every nuance of expression that had gone missing from his data banks.

"I have plenty of time."

The response is something closer to a giggle than a laugh, and Tron cracks a broad grin despite himself.

"The Users, they - they're all... We should..." Tron takes a breath, composes himself. Tries again. "Come with me?"

Ram presses himself back into Tron's embrace like it's the only place he cares to be. Truthfully, Tron is equally as reluctant to break the contact. Aching grief lessens as he holds him tightly, the cycles of loss shifting into the past tense as they cling to one another.

"Sign me up, Tron."

He closes his eyes, and all is finally as it should be.

"Good to have you back, Ram."