Tron All Ones of a Kind

It moves on through the dark of the Grid, taking its time. There is no hurry for it; no need to do _this_, or be _there_. It simply _IS_; it's very runtime an anomaly. Why hurry, when there is nowhere it needs to go? Why involve itself, when there is no one to care about it?

It does not think of itself as lonely. It understands being alone…it is the only one in the Grid's system. It is one of a kind. It is aware of this fact, somehow. _Knows_ it in the sparse code that makes up its being. It used to be part of something larger, more complex, but still alone. Still one of a kind.

There are faint traces in its code that say it was once otherwise, that what it previously belonged to once shared the grid with others of its kind; however, those memory traces rarely occur. They might not occur again during its runtime.

The moth flies onward, fragile wings fluttering, as it searches for something. Energy or interest…either is acceptable. Its energy requirements are surprisingly small; able to be easily fulfilled by something as simple as contact with the code lines of buildings, or the circuits of active programs. Its own circuits are almost invisible; gossamer-thin strands, finer than a hair, running through its wings and tracing along the edge of its legs. The majority of the time, they are lost to sight as the wings beat against the air, well below the clouds that move across the sky.

No, it does not understand lonely.

Most of the time.

There is a light in the distance, bright, the beam spearing up into the distance as though to light the entire Grid; and like its User-world counterparts do with the stars and moon, it turns its attention to the light and begins to fly towards it…_drawn_, although it does not know how or why. It only knows that it wants the brightest light that it sees; that it wishes to be nearer to this new thing. It will take time to reach the light; however, time is in abundance if one does not need it. And the light is interesting in a way it has not experienced before.

There are others there, when the moth arrives. Perhaps they have also been drawn to the beam of light. It has become tired and needs to recharge after traveling the required distance, and wings its way down to the bright lines of circuits below it. There are three of them, the lights of their circuits bright with energy, pale marks against bodies in the dark, small circuits and large, wide and narrow. The three standing a short distance away from the light look resemble the other programs of the Grid; yet the sense that they are not the same is palpable to the moth. The feeling of something existing _in_ the Grid, but not _of _the Grid.

One of the programs, more alert to the moth than the others, holds up a hand; fingers curled slightly so the backs of the fingers create a platform, a place to land. The pale blue lights of its circuits are irresistible to the moth; singing a siren song of rest and energy, a shelter for the moment that the moth enjoys. The small feet dance a grateful shuffle-step as the moth feels the ambient energy of the program's circuits begin to fuel its recharge. The hand is brought lower, until there are two moths; one that moves on a hand, and one that floats reflected in the darkness of a helmet. Despite the scrutiny that it subjects the moth to, there is no feeling of threat from the program.

Instead, there is a feeling of curiosity, of age that reaches past the runtime of the system itself; the feeling of something that exists _in_ the Grid, without being _of_ the Grid. Of something that began elsewhere…of something that is one of a kind, like the moth itself.

The program turns to show the moth to its companions, speaking to one of them as he does so.

"Sam, have you ever seen anything like this before?"

One of the program's companions, not the one that the question had been addressed to, leans closer to get a better look.

"What is it?" she exclaims, the delight apparent on her face as the moth opens and closes its wings slowly, pirouetting on the circuit that it rests as it does so. The program causes odd sensations in the moth, and it devotes most of its function processing to understanding them.

The resulting echo of code from the program is startling to the Grid's smallest denizen, but definite. This program's code is similar to its own. Like the moth, like the program on whose hand it now rests, she is not of the system either.

The final member of the trio crowds in to view the moth, initial confusion on their face giving way to comprehension.

"No way…" he says, his voice incredulous. "It's a moth. I think that Dad made this little guy from some damaged code of yours, Quorra. You know, when you got hurt in the club the first time I came here…."

The energy that radiates from this member of the group is strange, and stronger than anything the moth has ever felt from a program before. The moth trembles a little where it stands, dizzy and slightly delirious from the near overload of energy.

None of these programs read to the moth as belonging to the system, yet their code is not foreign to it; somehow belonging in it, shaping it by their presence, the way stone shapes the ripples in water. The moth can feel the data flow above him, as the programs exchange information; but none of it is in a format the moth can read, and after a moment it ceases trying to access it.

Its wings flutter briefly, lifting it up until only two of the moth's legs graze the gloved hand beneath it, only to settle again. A nanocycle later, energy requirements met, the wings beat harder and stronger, and the moth's wings bear it up into the air. It flies about the small group, its movements seemingly random, then moves on into the darkness, circuits a faint flicker in the sky.

The moth understands one of a kind. It has been so all of its runtime, and does not anticipate this changing. It files the beam and the programs that it has found in its active memory; however, using valuable file storage to do so. It does not understand the beam, or the programs, or why it wants to remember them. In its current form, its code does not have the function processes to do so.

All it is aware of is that the programs that it has encountered this millicycle are like it.

The programs are all, in their own way, alone. And they know that alone does not have to mean lonely. The moth understands something else, as well.

They are all, each of them, one of a kind.


End file.

Tron, Hurt-Comfort