CHAPTER 25 — ONCE UPON A TIME, THERE LIVED A GHOST

EARTH – WEEK 3 DAY 3

GIBBS RESIDENCE

The mere portrait of the person in Alan's phone sent shivers down his spine, for the man in question isn't some random guy to have popped up in the jpeg file. Instead, he was the backbone of ENCOM for almost a decade until it fell into the lecherous hands of Dillinger, the cunning fox he is. It is a pity that Dillinger snatched the video game tycoon it was back in the day, pushing the veteran scientist and co-founder of ENCOM backstage, assuming the role of CEO, enjoying the unparalleled power and unquestioned authority that came with the mantle. This was the same enthusiastic scientist who ventured into the mysterious world of digitization, a distant cousin and precursor to modern 3d modeling, and also the wise Jedi-Master behind the scenes who mentored and cultivated the forefathers of the modern gaming industry: Alan, Kevin, Roy, and many more. Kevin's TRON and Space Invaders did to the AAA Gaming Industry what DOTCOM did to the Internet: defining a whole new way for accessing the untapped potential of the digital realm inside the electronic machines. Such a great role model and icon's reputation and respect cannot be taken for granted and tarnished by half-baked allegations of compromising the ENCOMs mainframe, despite it being the older version. After all, why would he try to exploit his own baby after all these years, when he's been compensated for the lost potential of his early second innings due to Dillinger in the form of a hefty pension, independent house in a quiet yet expensive neighborhood and an official retirement function? How did he know about the Grid exactly? And why only now, why not back when Kevin presumably had his first rodeo in '82?

Struggling with many such unending questions arising from his anxious and curious mind, Alan drove his favorite Buick GNX at top speed along Santa Monica Freeway, en route to the airport. Despite the usual hustle and bustle of LA streets, especially the South Hill St. on a routine summer afternoon, when the red-hot sun provides blisters, sunstroke, sweat, and rashes for free, which makes the regular city traffic look like a complicated maze with no entry and exit, Alan had to wait only for less than 10min or so, until the wheels hit the highway earlier than expected, as the Santa, which followed Vermont Avenue, is just 10min away from Downtown, unlike the Harbor Freeway which demanded an hour's patience, given that the traffic is in the ideal condition which is a far-fetched dream in the second largest metropolitan city inside US. As soon as the frustrated wheels of the GNX hit Monica in no time, there is no stopping Alan from pulling the gear stick, kicking the accelerator of the old GNX so hard that it could give the Porsche 911 a run for its money. 20 turned to 40, 40 led to 50, 60, and even higher numbers on the accelerometer, but Alan's zeal for the quest of truth is so large, it's impossible for any device on the earth to gauge the exact level, at least those manufactured up to that point.

Speed in 60s is somewhat acceptable for a normal yet shorter highway like the Santa Monica, but as the number crossed 70, which is way too bigger, even for the likes of one of the oldest freeways in LA, the most calm and serene flyover sweated profusely, fearing what mishaps may occur due to the recklessness of this old beast. Its something if the Buick rather drove straight along the road, avoiding any vehicles in its way for the most part, which wouldn't be a matter of concern at all, but revving its way through all types of automobiles in its path, that too in 70-75 speed on average is a different thing altogether. Its as if the acting CEO has stopped giving a damn about his safety and rather focus on how faster can the wheels drag him till the airport. Bending to his will, the automobiles on the freeway had to save their lives by clearing his path in advance, as the veteran racehorse scared the living daylights out of the clunkers who were sleep-driving on an otherwise unassuming summer afternoon.

Reaching the airport in less than an hour, Alan's Buick was recognized by the FAA executive Dan Hollen from a mile away and rushed towards the car, ready to pick up Alan the moment the car stopped before him. Wasting no time in pleasantries, Dan raised his hand forward and opened the door beside the driving seat right after the Buick parked beside him, as Alan got his hands off the steering wheel and made large strides towards the terminus, as Dan acknowledged the emergency orders he received from the Cabinet Secretary Pete Werner. Unbeknownst to the executive agent who's new to his job, Pete and Alan are golf-mates since the last 10 years or so, and it is his relation with the Minister that helped secure vital contracts which saved the face of ENCOM during his interim years. Alan returned the favor generously by lending support to Pete for the last four General Elections, even going to the length of encouraging all his employees and co-workers to punch in their votes to the right person, not just because of their camaraderie but also due to the good will the future Secretary earned for him rightfully.

Turns out, Alan dialed Pete's number enroute to the airport and requested an urgent obligation, emphasizing the importance without divulging the details. Indebted to his old friend, Pete instructed Dan very thoroughly to escort the special guest all the way from the parking to the terminus, brushing away all the protocols and security checks for the working CEO, this one last time. Unable to question his upper authority, Dan had no other option than to concede with the task at hand and bid goodbye to the special guest while Alan boards the private jet located outside the hidden hangar, separated 20 miles away from the apron, with an engine ready to take off the magic carpet to the skies and the fuel tank, where all the gallons filled upto the brim shake vigorously and accelerate at a speed rivalling that of the engine itself. Thanking the young agent hastily who aided him at each step, with no second thought as to whether his gratitude reached the ears of the executive or not, Alan seated himself inside the lavish unicorn as the Gulfstream 550 takes off with its milky-white, fairy tale wings into the burning yellow skies.

Despite the cabin inside being spaced and ventilated enough for a trio, not to mention the exotic lavender fragrance touring the whole room and the state-of-the-art luxuries and facilities served in the vintage model, Alan's mind wanders in the questions it has raised for itself. Solving the whodunit on one hand and travelling faster than light on the other hand is a double-edged sword, for the latter is a matter of daily routine for the corporates but the former though, is a third person task best suited for peaceful minds and sharp intellect, of which Alan could afford none at the moment. His heart would show little signs of relief and relaxation only when the unicorn landed in the open hangar belonging to ENCOM branch, one of the very few sprawling office campuses in the otherwise densely packed concrete jungle of New York City, as the red-orange evening sun greets Alan across the horizon. Not soon after Alan stepped off from the 550, the chauffeur greeted Alan and cordially invited him to board the Bentley Continental, which Alan did so, and the driver didn't waste time in more pleasantries and drove straight to Bedford Hills.

As with all the luxury, top-end cars owned by the higher ups at every ENCOM branch, this one too, flew through the mainland NY with the stylized special nameplate "ENCOM", denoting its rank and status, and most importantly, the wheels demanded that the client reach the location on time and without fail, and no excuses whatsoever shall be entertained, and minor hindrances such as traffic jam is not an issue for such VIP cars as they are handled by the cops on payroll, given that such emergencies are few and far between, and this is one such situation. After an 40min long journey from the jam-packed streets of NY, which is still a better thing compared to the hour-long slog that an average NewYorker faces on a daily basis, the Continental reaches the silent suburbs of NY, making its way into Bedford hills, exactly when the evening sun disappears from the sky in relief, knowing that Alan will sort out everything from here on. For the first time in his life, Alan felt he'd crossed into another continent in a matter of hours, although its just a mere journey between two states of USA.

As soon as the 15th street touched the path of the Bentley, the long four-wheeler slowed down a little bit and brakes were applied at the destination, stopping the luxury car abruptly at the doorstep of the simple construct of the retired genius, attracting a few young and curious eyeballs towards its regal finish. Knocking the door at 30 min past 7 in the dusk, Alan's feet couldn't resist making a few steps here and there, making a small circle repeatedly in front of the door. And yet, 5min past the bell ring and door knock, other than the sound irritating a couple of neighbors nearby, neither any sound of activity nor any human footsteps and chatter seemed to emerge from the inside, giving red flags for the restless student outside.

Not giving two hoots about spoiling the harmony in a silent neighborhood, Alan started banging the door with all the might left in his arms, as the chauffeur seated in his respective seat in front of the steering wheel had no other option than to wait for his client's orders and then drop him off at his reserved suite in Ritz-Carlton. At best, he could alert Alan of any forthcoming danger and try to save his master at the cost of his life. After all, it is a matter of his integrity and professionality at question here.

Stepping a little beyond his line of duty, the chauffeur advised Alan to better call and confirm his friend's location before wasting time breaking the door in vain and gaining nothing but the attention of the whole neighborhood glued to Alan's psyched up schticks, to which Alan replied with simple "No Use" before resuming his job, as only he knew that Dr. Gibbs neither had a phone nor a landline number for contact, and the only way to contact is to reach him by his physical address. The chauffeur then laid back in his seat and watched as finally after nudging 6 times and 10 times of brute kicking, Alan finally busted open the door, as the creaking sound short lived the speed with which the door opened to the outside world.

Unbeknownst to him, a random neighbor living two blocks away from the house and located in the opposite lane dialed 911 in his iPhone 4, oblivious to the fact that already the number has been dialed by a passerby and that the Police Dept., hardly 5min away from the neighborhood, has been shut down from noon, a direct result of Alan's word to the NYPD Police Commissioner, who pressured the sheriff of Bedford into closing down their services for the day abruptly. No matter how many allegations befall the decorated scientist, Alan respected Dr. Gibbs to the core, grasped the sensitivity of the matter at hand, and had to do what he had to do to protect his mentor's reputation at any cost.

As Alan's dumbstruck eyes captured the horrific state of the ruins of the living room, if it can be called that way, his shell-shocked feet struggled to even step on the debris accumulated at each step of the crappy, disheveled abode of the great genius who once ruled the digital industry from behind the curtains. Blood-drenched voxels pricked Alan's feet at every step, acting as fatal shrapnel but in vain, as Alan's feet have already become cold and insensitive, following the cold fever that has engulfed the whole body itself. Broken bulbs, burnt walls, destroyed furniture, blasted kitchen and debris of concrete material decorated what appeared as a natural jungle formed inside a concrete jungle, as the dangling live wires added sparks and all the pipeline connections protruded from the ceiling, acting as the creepers of the concrete jungle. These distractions were pennies compared to what Alan witnessed when he stepped near the inverted broken wooden teapoy at the center of the room.

Walking towards the narrow path created by the broken teapoy, Alan shivered, chilled to the bone as the four lifeless bodies greeted him in a darkly comedic manner. What's worse is that two are headless and the other two appear more like robots rather than humans, as the pair near him oozed pure blood whereas those in front of his eyes oozed a rather thick, maroon-colored blood, followed by the uninterrupted flow of lego-block/pixel-like solid substances along the course of the blood flow. Bending down to observe the governing bodies of the severed heads that lay beside him, Alan got deceived by the wore stylized flower shirts, dark-shade Bermudas, and broken single-eye Rayban Sunglasses that decorated the anonymous duo, fancy enough for a summer vacation in Bedford Hills i.e. until the machine guns in their hands gave away their concealed identities as killers, whose client and contractor are yet to be exposed.

Fighting emerging nausea inside his food pipe that forced itself out of his mouth, Alan controlled his involuntary sensation with great difficulty and took deep breaths. Relaxing his mind and heart through breathing exercises, he then wondered about the missing heads and searched for them. It is not until he found a wig-like disheveled hair at the left end of the main hall, hidden behind a pillar, and a partially visible human skin concealing itself inside the entrance of the kitchen, located at the right end of the dining hall. Unwilling to gather those heads in one place and risk incarceration on the charges of evidence tampering, Alan approached those faces individually and titled the foreheads until he got a clear picture of the poor victims while his phone took snapshots and forwarded them to his buddy in NYPD. His attention then turned to the weird, alien-like bodies which oozed that lego-block blood from the crystal-clear gunshot wound visible on their otherwise black-tinted mask, while the mask of his compatriot showed two cracks and from which, the stone-faced body scared him for a second until he pointed out an interesting observation that the face, although oozing with the same pearl-string like blood like his friend, looked more human rather than a robotic or alien. These observations couldn't afford to stay that long in his brain as they were stored in the form of snaps and again forwarded to the same contact which had already received the severed heads of the mysterious tourist killers.

Scouring the whole house for his mentor, Alan was at crossroads and was almost about to call it a day and resume the next dawn, until he observed a secret door on the floor, located near the backdoor leading to the lawn. Following the secret door, which is the single entrance to the basement underneath, turns on the torchlights in his iPhone and followed the path to the darkness. Not long after a couple of steps, he spotted the door open to his left, housing the secret study room of the secretive senior citizen. Entering the disheveled room, he couldn't believe his eyes when he saw Dr. Gibbs crying in a corner, folding himself like a snail in its shell to protect himself from the evils that have traumatized him for the past six hours. It is indeed surprising that the most deadly, robotic alien killers spared the old man and went for the heads of the deceiving mercenaries in disguise. These aliens do have a soft spot for senior citizens and unarmed people, Alan thought for a second.

But what hurt him the most is his mentor, the ever-smiling, optimistic, and positive person ever in ENCOM, who lay crying to his death in anonymity. The same person who used to entertain his disciples on a regular basis and maintain an upbeat personality is now devoid of any hope in life and hoped that instead he would be gifted with a quick merciful death. These nihilistic thoughts even went to the extent where Walter begged Alan to rid him of all the suffering, he has faced for the past two weeks, instead of having to live with the trauma for the rest of his life. Alan, himself at a loss of words and devoid of any reaction firsthand, had to set all those aside and instead console his teacher like a caring mother. Although difficult to do, he has no other choice than to save the precious life who in the past defined his life once and for all.

Bringing his career guide to his senses after several efforts, Alan tried to make sense of the mayhem that happened outside and how Gibbs landed here, to which Gibbs broke out into uncontrolled tears of sorrow and spoke gibberish. Alan tried to figure out some useful and comprehensible info from the story, but for the life of Alan, he couldn't at all believe the ridiculously insane, batshit-crazy incidents his ears have been grabbing along the way. Unable to deduce what the hell went inside the house, the sudden blinking of the otherwise black screen of the computer grabbed Alan's distraught eyeballs and the picture that popped in front of him shocked him to the core.

"Unbelievable. This can't be true."

"He is..…."

THE GRID – THIRD TRONCYCLE

ON THE SHORE OF THE SEA OF SIMULATION

"TRON!!!!"

The Renegade exclaimed in surprise, as Sam and Quorra turned to face the assassin in question. Sam got bewildered, his mind rewinding back to the flashes of memories when his father narrated the story of TRON, in pieces, both during inside and outside the Grid. The last time he remembers is when Kevin acknowledges that TRON sacrificed himself to save them from C.L.U, merging himself into the Grid forever, as they thought so. On the other hand, Quorra couldn't believe her eyes that the protector of the Grid came back to life, only as the scarred and morphed shell of the respected warrior that he was. Her beliefs shook to the core, as it is a miracle that a living being in the Grid, except for the Users, be it ISO, Program, or even C.L.U, never rose back from their imminent deresolution, especially when dissolved into the binaries of the Grid once and for all. It is possible though that this may be the clone or a random Program or Sentry, whose face got morphed into fake TRON, a possible attempt to dishonor TRON's name and legacy.

Standing apart from the couple and stuck in the sparring position, the Renegade stared agape at the scarred face of TRON, unable to make sense of the miracle that has unfolded right in front of him. Revelation of TRON's survival is a hard pill to swallow even for the most stone-hearted of warriors like him, who block their minds and hearts to any and even the minor, negligible conspiracies floated around in the Grid. If anything, the same person standing in front of him and his rebellion experience as well taught him one thing: LOSERS WAIT FOR MIRACLES. WINNERS BECOME THE MIRACLES. But now, seeing the same person who propagated the very same principle to him miraculously appear, after several Cycles, challenged his beliefs for the second time, the first one being when he grew into a warrior from the meek, ignorant Program he was. Even the Disc in his hands refused to scar the savior of the Grid anymore, despite the Renegade remaining doubtful about the miracle standing right in front of him.

The scarred TRON, though, scratched his helmet, as his enemies stood watching him like fools rather than making a move. As TRON removed the cracked hull of his mask and threw the useless shell away, displaying his stone-eyed, emotionless face in full pride, Sam and Quorra observed that the color of his eyes fluctuated in color, shifting abruptly from neon-blue to neon-orange in the blink of an eye. Even the scars on his face followed suit, playing with the rhythm, indicating something wrong with TRON. The couple tried to warn the Renegade regarding their observation, which is when they got attacked by TRON's Disc and fell down. As they tried to get up and run towards the Renegade, TRON appeared in front of them like a ghost and vigorously flashed his Disc towards the couple like a sword. Sam deflected the attacks with his Disc, saving Quorra with his life, and tried to counter the attacks, but in vain. TRON moved like a lightning strike and by the time his Disc came closer to Sam's body, Sam couldn't even decide how to react to the attack, let alone parry and attack in reverse.

The sequence of events went on and on, as TRON landed blow after blow, and Sam's defenses weakened gradually, draining all his strength and resolve. Fed up with this childish bullshit, TRON kicked Sam in the face, as Sam landed on one of the shores of the Sea of Simulation. TRON then locked Sam's hands with one hand and brought his Disc toward Sam's face with another. Coming in contact with Sam's skin, the Disc drew a big line on Sam's cheek, and spilled his User Blood on the Sea of Simulation, as the drops sailed through the Sea like a pair of boats, traveling far away until they couldn't be spotted anymore.

When TRON finally decided to decapitate the foolish User, who surrendered himself in false bravado, his trophy got out of his hands as he got attacked from the back and fell off a few feet away. It is not until the Renegade pulled up Sam with his hands that Sam realized that the Renegade kicked TRON with such immense power that freed Sam from TRON's iron grip. As Sam went to protect Quorra instead on the orders of the Renegade, the duel between the former savior of the Grid and the present rebel of the Grid started off with a bang.

The Renegade couldn't bring himself up to attack TRON, the very same person who made him what he is now, while TRON thought nothing as such because, in all probability, he is not the same TRON that saved the Grid before. On one hand, the Renegade tried to bring TRON back to his sense, but on the other hand, TRON turned deaf ear to the pleas of his counterpart and continued the fight. The duel went on and on, as TRON fought his enemy to the deresolution. Only one has to emerge as the winner at last: him or his white enemy. The Renegade got scarred many more times, even getting his voxels dropping out, although in single digits. Unbeknownst to Sam and Quorra, and also even TRON, Renegade vowed to bring back the old TRON that he admired his whole life, at the cost of his own life.

At one unlucky and ignorant moment, the Renegade got disarmed, as his Disc got flung far away from his reach, and got himself pinned down by TRON. Ready to get derezzed happily at the hands of the revered messiah, he closed his eyes and put on his last smile. But it seems like the Grid has more work with him, and thought of giving him a second chance. As TRON raised his Disc to fall off his opponent in a single swoop, his internal programming got malfunctioned as the color of his eyes fluctuated abruptly. Shaking his head involuntarily as a result of the short circuitry that occurred inside his program, TRON stuck in his position for quite a long time, until he fell on the ground and his eyes closed.

As Sam and Quorra approached cautiously the fighters in stalemate, the Renegade checked in on TRON, trying to diagnose the unconscious warrior, Sam, and Quorra spoke to the Renegade in turns:

- Is he gone, again?

- NO. HIS VITAL SIGNS ARE STILL FUNCTIONING. HE'S BASICALLY A STATIC VARIABLE RIGHT NOW.

- You mean, coma?

- WHATEVER MAKES SENSE TO YOU, USER.

- Is he really TRON? This has never happened in the history of Grid.

- HISTORY IS MADE BY THE GRID, NOT THE OTHER WAY AROUND.

- What happened after the Purge? What happened between you and TRON? How did he become evil?

- ONCE UPON A TIME....THERE LIVED A GHOST. THAT'S NOT A MYTH ANYMORE.