They travel through the Outlands, and it takes a while. Quorra’s in no state to drive a lightcycle and neither of them is willing to let her simply lie down and wait for deresolution. But they get there, slowly, eventually, and Flynn lets out a long-awaited sigh of relief as he brings Quorra inside.
It’s stark white in here. And bright, once the lights activate. So unlike the gray of the Outlands, the black of Tron City, the eternal storm in the sky. Quorra’s almost overwhelmed by the sudden input, but she keeps her grip around Flynn’s shoulders tight, keeps herself grounded, and lets him lead her farther in.
“It should be safe in here,” Flynn says. “Clu doesn’t know about this place, as far as I remember.”
Quorra wonders, a little deliriously, if he’d somehow predicted Clu’s descent into fascism. If he’d built a place like this just in case. But she’s heard enough about him. It seems unlikely.
She wanders out of Flynn’s hold to look around. Her eyes are growing accustomed to the brightness. The soles of her boots click against the floor. There’s a table and chairs. Some sort of shallow opening embedded in the wall. A lightcycle, vintage, and if she were in any other mood she’d take it out for a joyride. And a massive opening at the far wall, partitioned by a transparent field. She approaches it, looks out. Tron City looks so small from here. So empty.
She turns back to Flynn, maybe to say something, and pauses at the look he gives her: deep concern.
“Hey, uh,” he says. “You should get some rest. You look exhausted.”
She is exhausted. She hears herself ask, “What do you mean?” And she’s not sure what, exactly, she’s asking.
Flynn regards her patiently, though, his grin soft. But now, in the harsh light of this place, she can see just how tired he looks. Worn down. He slowly moves to a small, circular platform toward the corner, and she watches as he retracts the top of it. It’s some sort of hole filled with bubbling water. She looks at him questioningly.
“Go ahead,” he says.
And she says, “What?”
“Get in the hot tub. Just—relax. It’ll help.” He glances away, his gaze growing distant. “I’ll, uh. Be in the other room. I think we could both use some time alone.”
He leaves, and she turns to the “hot tub.” She walks a long arc around it, examines it. Places an experimental hand in the water. And decides that she has little else to lose.
She moves into the hot tub and lets the water absorb her. It’s warm—warmer than the Grid has ever been—and it surrounds her like an indescribable emotion. And now that she’s here, she realizes that it’s been a long, long while since she’s been alone.
Flynn’s safehouse is quiet. The water bubbles around her, but the silence beyond the tub is palpable. There is, for once, nothing to distract her. No journey. No running. The entire time she’d been in the Outlands with Flynn—hiding in the cities—fleeing as far and as quickly as she could—she hadn’t let herself think beyond the next step, beyond her own survival. She can’t escape it now.
The loss. Her grief. She almost can’t comprehend it, but it’s everywhere, and it’s too deep and too heavy for her to bear on her own. But who is else is there to help her? Flynn doesn’t understand. Can’t understand. And Ada is—Radia is—everyone is—
Quorra is, completely and utterly, alone.
She was borne from water. And now she sinks.