Notes: Pigs must be flying, because I have an update for SMB; I know, I'm scared too. I was recently roped into going with my parents for an extended weekend 'adventure', and thought to bring my notebook for story writing while away from the computerized world with me. I'd meant to work on this story the last time I took it with me somewhere, but this time I actually managed it –well, that and the premise for a Tron/Star Trek XI crossover, but I don't plan on adding anything else to my list of things to work on, until I've hopefully finished something (I get ideas for crossovers all the time; like earlier today, when I was struck by the potential of a Tron/Who Framed Rodger Rabbit? crossover and yes I'm aware I'm a lunatic – pretty sure I'm the only person on earth that would read it, but oh the possibilities...).

Seeing as Antivirus is set up in my mind to be an utter beast of a thing to finish – it's barely even started, and in the first of... three, I think, main story arcs (my brain apparently likes to be ambitious, especially when I've never managed to finish a story, and before my Tron stories, never managed to post a second chapter) – so, barring the sort of mental block that kept me from updating this since... the end of last June (I feel horrible now), SMB will be the first finished. I'm not sure how many chapters it's got left, depending on how things progress (I should probably plan more; I'm bad at that) and how productive I am in the writing department (asphyxiation advisory: I wouldn't hold your breath; I'm extremely inconsistent), I'll be hoping to finish this... by Halloween, but more realistically expect maybe by New Year's (understanding that I'll still be trying to write for Antivirus, and maybe some Memories). I don't know; the holiday season is bad for me...

This chapter may be a bit disjointed; the second section was actually written first, and the third was hand-written while I was gone. I had an epiphany in the middle of it, and had the good sense to write it down, which turned into the first part when I came back. So Alan's cameo, which before had been unnamed, and about five words long, took on a life of its own, and eventually turned into mysterious!Alan (because everyone else gets to have all the secrets the rest of the time, I guess). The last bit I wrote after transferring my written section, but I'm a bit excited about finally posting something for SMB again, so the work's probably not the best.

Lady1011 – I apologize for the lag for updating this story, but I hope you will enjoy this chapter. After this, things should be – barring a short moment for transition – in-Grid, and Sam meeting the programs won't be far behind. Unfortunately, Tron's... not himself at the moment, so whether the impending meetings are good or not is up to you.

Anyway, suggestions and comments are welcome. If someone knows somewhere I can find more Tron stories to help inspire me (… and maybe feed my need to drool over a certain security program) I'd be grateful to hear about it. Self-betaed, as always.

Sleep Mode Beauty

Chapter 2

Sam had been traveling eastward for almost a week on foot. In all that time, he had expected to run into other travelers; the odds of an encounter, any encounter were good, even just a brief 'Hello' exchanged in passing. There had been no one, though. Behind and before him, the road seemed to stretch endlessly. The surrounding area seemed as empty of life as the road; other than the occasional sweep of wind through the trees, it was silent, almost restful.

It was driving Sam crazy.

His mind was caught in a loop, churning over the isolation of his circumstances, both current, and in the future, upon arriving at the Grid. This led his thoughts to the plight of the programs, and his determination to help them, unfortunately followed by some self-doubt – What did he know about programs and how to save them, anyway? - and contemplation of his potential failure. The cycle completed a revolution by Sam contemplating the loneliness of the programs trapped in their isolated world, and the nature of his current isolation. Emotionally exhausted by the strong, uninterrupted thoughts, he didn't notice the other noises at first. They were coming from behind him.

He almost shouted for joy at the plume of dust kicked up into the air in the distance.

Self-awareness took the opportunity to make several facts known to Sam: firstly, he hadn't had a suitable opportunity to bathe since he left home, and the smell wafting of him was not pleasant, secondly, he was abnormally interested in the presence of another living creature in the area, and was doing a fair impersonation of a crazy person, and thirdly, he didn't know who was approaching him, and that someone – or someones – could actually be a crazy person. After considering the facts a moment, Sam did the more reasonable thing he could think of. There wasn't any foliage big enough nearby to hide behind, and he had probably already been spotted, so he walked about ten feet off the road, and kept walking; he was still close enough to engage the stranger if they were friendly, but far enough away that if they weren't, he'd have a decent head-start for running away. It took a monumental amount of effort to refrain from glancing back over his shoulder, but he managed, walking along with a carefully projected air of nonchalance.

The various sounds of the other's – or others' – grew louder, until they were almost right there with Sam. Then, they stopped altogether.

"I didn't expect to see anyone traveling this way," the stranger observed in place of a greeting, standing halfway between Sam and his transportation. He was an older man, pale haired and well dressed. His expression was guarded, but not hostile, and he took a moment to casually slide his spectacles back into place.

Sam shrugged his backpack up a littler higher on his shoulders. "Yeah? Why not, if you don't mind me asking?"

"There's another road out to the cities this way, it's a fair deal faster. Only sentimentalists and the lost take this road. So, which are you?"

Huffing out a brief laugh, Sam hesitated over his reply. "... A little bit of both, I suppose. And you?"

The stranger's somewhat chilly demeanor thawed a bit. "Me? I'm definitely a sentimentalist. Not particularly lost, though; I've been traveling this road for almost thirty years now. I've got a lot of memories tied to this place, some good, others... not so much." He removed his spectacles, absently wiping their lenses clean as he came to a decision. "Did you need a ride?" Out from behind the glass and metal momentarily, the man's eyes seemed softer somehow, almost nostalgic; once the frames were resettled, though, the expression disappeared into ambivalence.

Sam assessed the man and, reasonably sure he could defend himself easily enough if things got out of hand, shrugged and started walking over. "Sure, why not? I'm Sam, by the way."

The man shook Sam's hand when he was close enough, "Alan." He didn't say any more until they were both settled and underway again. "So what brings you out this way, Sam?"

Sam hesitated over his reply, trying to figure out some version of the truth that wouldn't leave the man, Alan, doubting his sanity; he'd been faced with that doubt many times during his life back home, and frankly, he was sick of it. "My father used to come out this way when I was little. His last trip left a whole mess of unfinished business behind, so I'm going to go take care of it, if I can."

Alan nodded thoughtfully. "Interesting. I take it from the lack of details that it's a rather, um... personal matter?" He paused, and when Sam nodded in confirmation, continued, "I thought so. I guess I can understand the reasoning, some, at least. Leaving something unfinished never sits well with me. An old friend of mine, Kevin, used to say that I had an instinctive need for everything to be secure and at peace; I guess unresolved issues fall into that category." His mouth quirked in a brief, half-smile, before sobering with a small cough. "Sorry. My thoughts tend toward better days when I go this way."

Sam waved the apology off. "Don't worry about it; everyone gets nostalgic now and – wait... Would this 'Kevin' you mentioned be Kevin Flynn, by any chance?" The odds were astronomical, but Sam found himself hoping.

Alan looked confused, but nodded anyway. "Yeah; he used to come this way all the time, and I'd give him rides, as long as we were headed the same direction. I haven't seen him in... about twenty years, though. Why?" A small trace of suspicion crept back into the older man's face.

Sam huffed out a weak laugh. "He's my father; I'm Sam Flynn. Did he... ever tell you about where he was going?" The thought of Kevin Flynn sharing stories of the Grid with random strangers left Sam somewhat uncomfortable – conveniently forgetting the fact that he shared some of the stories himself for the moment – so he was rather unprepared for the wistful sigh and faraway gaze that was Alan's initial reply.

It was several moments before Alan expanded on his answer. "He used to tell these stories, sometimes... A glowing city in a land of eternal night, impossible beings engaging in vast contests of skill, flying archways... not to mention the older stories, with him and – … I always wondered where his inspiration spot was for thinking up these stories, I even tried to find one of his books, but I guess he never got them printed?" He glanced over at Sam, expression guarded again and somewhat... secretive? "I know it's crazy, but a part of me always kind of wished his stories were true, to be able to see his 'Grid' in person. But that's impossible." He ended there with a firm shake of his head, as if convincing himself just as much as declaring the impossibility.

Sam let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Alan had clearly heard some of the stories, but hadn't quite made the connection to their realism; only Sam had done that, and the possibility that he'd heard a more thorough version, or shared some sort of special connection with the place through his father left Sam feeling warm at more at peace than he'd expected moments before. "I know what you mean." A thought drifted through his head, then, deceptively innocuous. "'Older stories?'"

Alan almost seemed to flinch, before waving dismissively. "Just more stories; I'm sure you've heard all of them dozens of times." His gazed flitted over their surroundings quickly, before he gestured toward the sky. "Did you see that bird just now? I wonder what kind it was; most animals avoid this place, birds especially. How strange..."

Almost against his will, the distraction worked on Sam thoroughly. "They avoid it? Why?"

His companion shrugged, and nodded his head up toward the sky. "No one's ever figured out why, but the birds tend to just... drop out of the sky, and break their necks. You would think that this would just mean more predators in this area, but all the other animals slowly migrated away, or starved to death; I once saw a bear near here; it very nearly frightened me to death, until I noticed it was sleeping. That bear should have been eating to store up energy for winter, but it was just as thin as I imagine it was in early spring. I used to see all sorts of napping critters, until they all left."

A vague, and rather terrifying thought was trying to come into existence in Sam's brain, but he shoved it aside; if that thought turned out to be what he had a feeling it might be, he really couldn't deal with it yet. Instead, he tried to think of something else to talk about. They eventually settled into light conversation about where they were both from, how Alan had met his wife – a, by the admittedly biased account of her husband, lovely woman by the name of Lora – , what the weather might be like tomorrow, and the like.

When they finally parted ways almost a day later, Sam completely missed the thoughtful look Alan aimed at his back, secretive and worried. But hopeful.

So hopeful.

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It was some time later before a rather important thought re-occurred to Sam; the sudden epiphany nearly caused him to trip and fall flat on his face onto the road.

How was he going to find the Grid?

He knew it was somewhere to the east; his father's moments of painful longing had all been consistent in that respect, at least. Where was it exactly, though? It had to be at least partially hidden, somehow, or random travelers would have stumbled across it right after it was founded. So, how was he going to find it?

It wasn't until the next day after he'd parted ways with Alan, that he heard the 'tink' of shifting metal in his backpack, and remembered his father's words.

"... it can help you along the way, and when you get there."

He pulled the silvery cylinder out of his backpack, and examined it, searching its surface for some hint, or hidden piece of advice.

Thin, delicate lines were etched into its surface, so smooth and precise that if one wasn't looking right at them, looking for them, they would be near impossible to notice. No matter what angle he observed them from, however, Sam could not discern any sort of language or pattern to their placement; they weren't maps, or directions, or anything more than artful decoration to his untrained eye. Other than those decorations, though, he couldn't figure anything out about the mysterious metal 'tool'.

Clenching the cylinder in one hand, Sam half turned to look back, unhappily considering the two-week-long trip to ask his father about it and come back, and the cylinder grew heavy in his hand.

Very heavy.

The device fell from fingers that hadn't been anticipating the sudden increase in weight in a usually negligibly light object, bounced once, and rolled a short distance on the dusty road. It was simply impossible, the nature of that roll; the cylinder, instead of rolling straight, curved like it was actually a cone in disguise, until the main length of its body was facing slightly north of east, whereupon it decided it really was a cylinder, and used up the remainder of its forward momentum, which was far more than seemed realistic for the nature of its accidental introduction to movement, rolling perfectly straight on the uneven ground as if it were glass. As if moving in that direction was the easiest of tasks.

As if it was being pulled that way.

Sam stared at the device for several long moments.

"So that's what he meant," he mumbled to the empty road, and scooped the rod up.

He swung the hand holding it in a slow, smooth arc, taking note of its shifting weight, the almost reluctance with which it faced any direction but the one it had aimed for, and the near weightlessness of it when it faced that particular direction, to the one place it wanted to go.

To the one place where it belonged.

Sam was okay with that.

Holding the somewhat dusty metal cylinder out in front of him rather like a divining rod, Sam resumed his journey.

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If he hadn't been holding the device in his hands at the time, Sam was positive he would have missed it.

For a total of ten days he had been traveling now, and the rod had been nearly vibrating for the last seven or so hours. His hands were stiff and cramped into claw-like curls from holding onto the same thing for days, and several times he'd been forced to put the thing away and hope he stayed on course with no road to guide him anymore, or run the risk of suddenly dropping and losing the cylinder, and possibly not even notice for a long time.

Thoughts about his dwindling supplies had been dominating his thoughts recently, so it had come as a rather understandable surprise when the cylinder almost jerked in his hand, to the left, toward an overgrown rock formation.

He had nearly walked right past it.

It was mostly unremarkable, other than the fact that this mound of jutting up rocks – a feature common to the area – was made of an entirely different sort of rock. The stone – almost more like crystal – was glossy and black, prone to cracking and shearing in long, straight, rather geometric lines. Grasses, creepers, and other vegetation had taken root in the angles and crevices where airborne dirt had accumulated, expanding and growing to almost completely shroud the strange rocks from view. The plant life, with its messy, disorganized approach to life contrasted with the cold, striking, out of place stone, but together they hid the entrance well.

Even knowing where to look – and the device was amazingly helpful in that regard – it took Sam half an hour to find it; obscured from above by hanging foliage, and amongst many a mirage reflecting in the long, smooth facets of the stone, was a cave opening just big enough to squeeze through, depending on the size of one's breakfast, and opinion about physical exercise.

Sam looked at himself, then at the hole, and felt confidence rise. He squared his shoulders, mentally preparing for what promised to be the most claustrophobic moment of his life.

His backpack shifted. Sam winced, and scrubbed a hand over his face.

"I forgot about that..."

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With a final yank, Sam fell down, free from the rock his first attempt had seen fit to wedge him between. He stood up slowly, hands rubbing abused body parts – either by the journey here, or his recent attempt to become one with the earth – and set his backpack on the ground. His face shifted into a frown as he slowly paced around the pack, reluctant to leave it behind in order to continue – totally without supplies other than what he could carry in his hands while navigating an unknown cave – but at a loss for how to bring it with him – he would need his hands at least mostly free to feel his way through the dark, and the backpack was too big to accommodate that need. On one of his passes around the backpack, his foot caught in one of the shoulder straps, and he stumbled, the backpack dragging along behind him.

… He could work with that.

After several long moments spent rearranging the contents of the backpack and practicing without the added challenges of darkness and tight spaces, Sam stood at the mouth of the cave, one hand on the rock, the other holding the rod, and one leg threaded through one of the backpack's shoulder straps. He gave a last glance at his eerily still surroundings, before turning to the uncertain darkness, and squeezed in.