“It never gets old, does it?” Quorra says.
Tron’s eyes are still on the sky as he hums. “No. It doesn’t,” he says. The sun is still touching the horizon, giving the clouds floating around it an ethereal pink-orange glow. He’d never expected so much color in the analog world. Nor did he ever think that it would so calming, so beautiful. It almost makes him nostalgic for the old system, the way its colors felt so… alive.
He wraps the blanket tighter around himself and sips his coffee, tastes the bittersweet in the mug. Sam had made some teasing remark about how much sugar and creamer he’d put in it—“You want some coffee with that?” or something—but what did he expect? Tron doesn’t know how Sam and Quorra drink cup after cup of it without even a drop of half and half. The absolute insanity of it. Of them.
“Did you—?” Quorra pauses, and Tron turns to look at her. She’s gazing contemplatively into her mug, her mouth tensed into a thin frown. “Did you ever think you’d be able to see this? The sunrise? Or just—any of it?”
Tron hums again, wraps his hands around the mug. “Well—no,” he says. His voice is still scratchy with sleep, and there’s several things he’s had to get used to. He clears his throat. “I never needed to. There wasn’t a point to thinking about their world. This world. My purpose began and ended with the system.”
Quorra’s quiet. When he looks, he sees her looking back with a question. “Interesting,” is what she finally says. Which is never really a great reply to get. But he looks again and sees a sort of sadness in her eyes. It almost hurts. “My purpose was always out here. That’s what Flynn always said—that I’d do great things for the Users. But I’m here now, and….” She shrugs. “I don’t know. I spent so long just trying to survive. I want to just… enjoy my time here. You know?”
Tron nods. Because he does, in fact, know; when he and Yori took down the MCP all those cycles ago, they’d spent an embarrassing amount of time simply recovering in her flat. And when they’d had to return to their work—had to keep the system running, had to keep themselves busy, had to play cogs in the status quo once more—it had been with the knowledge that that time together could only happen that once.
This is another chance. Even without Yori—this is his chance to live.
… Yori. She would’ve liked it out here.
“I’m sure she would have,” Quorra says with a soft grin. Tron startles; he hadn’t realized he’d said it aloud. He can’t bring himself to regret it, though—Quorra’s smile is one of understanding. Something he hasn’t seen in a long, long time. Then she bumps her shoulder against his. “Hey. We made it, you know?”
He sighs. Out of what, he doesn’t entirely know, but he turns a smile on her. He lifts his mug in the way that Users do. “To mornings.”
Quorra’s grin widens. “To mornings,” she says, and clinks her mug against his.