thisavrou | video; cw for character death

[ Five days ago, the demon stalking Avagi's dark corridors and hiding beneath your bed upped the ante, and murdered Kevin Flynn.

The same Flynn who looks noticeably alive when he shows up on the network just today. He's in a pleasant mood, in one lab or another to judge by the backdrop, without so much as a hair turned to suggest there's anything out of the ordinary.

What the fuck. ]

Hey folks. Got a couple things for you all this morning.

The A.C.E. Team has some upcoming software updates in the pipeline. You might notice a brief network hiccup or two while your device completes the downloads.

If you have any questions or issues, give us a heads up. [ handy-dandy link to the network admin list is a go. ]

Second thing. [ All right, business is over, now he looks gently chuffed. ]

Some of you have expressed interest in learning how to meditate. I'd like to extend an invite to everyone, to join me in the greenery this afternoon for a little Q & A and a zazen demo. You'll want to wear something comfy, and bring a cushion to sit on, if you're creaky like me.

Hope to see you all there.

[ Yep, even some of you sourpusses. There's no escape from Flynn's easygoing serenity.

Even though he should still be dead and, point of fact, his cooling corpse is still in their makeshift morgue. ]

((ooc: yep. feel free to pm or pp me for questions! ))

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[ Hours feel like the passing of days--his had started well, hadn't it, when he didn't know he'd lost nearly two weeks?--and Flynn feels every bit of his age. Older, a thousand and two hundred cycles pressed into a frame meant to carry so much less, steeped into the very marrow of his bones. Humans don't shatter when they die, their code doesn't unzip around all the atoms holding them together, shaking the splintered remnants of their very spirit across the floor. Bones break. Skin tears. They bleed, their bodies fail, the flame of their light gutters and winks out and they leave shells behind for their loved ones to find.

He should be resting. Should, but isn't, of course. There's a memory that is and isn't his running a loop in his mind, analog tape rewinding with a static-laden shiver: night-blooming flowers in a gloved hand, companionable quiet under a sunset, commingled gold and white light; a strong grip around his wrist, a face--the man--he's known for centuries. Clu. It's the best one.

His old haunts are empty, and Flynn hasn't the energy to search all of Avagi. He has Sam to find, too, and no wish to make network calls, to add to anymore distance. Outside the Greenery, Flynn stops to lean against the wall, breathing slow against the deep ache of his throat.

Long ago, seeking out his SysAdmin was an easy task, always a ping away, across a landscape built for such convenience. Who needed phones or walkie-talkies? Not them. Here, in the User world, something of that connection remains, atrophied from disuse but still there, familiar and certain- and he follows it like a slowly winding gold thread.

Under the perpetual storm, there Clu is. Of course. It's where every Flynn seems to flee to, and don't think he doesn't see the symmetry of finding him here. This time, though, there aren't sneers or biting disbelief, or the angry hum of discs ready for violence. Flynn walks the length of the room, making his footfalls heard, and comes to Clu with a touch to his shoulder (such a calculated risk), and a message spoken in silence: a white flower in the palm of his hand.

I remember. ]

Edited 2017-12-25 03:05 (UTC)

[Time out here was slow, a ponderous and heavy thing that moved in staggering increments.

He still had not been to see the body. He knew it violated certain expectations or conventions, that he should simply swallow his misgivings and make himself look.

But Flynn himself was not there. It was only--

A low wet gurgle like filth up out of a drainpipe and an ear-splitting shriek when it couldn't grab hold, scrabbling, too many limbs closing scabrous clutching hands vise tight on Flynn's hair, clothes, throat and Clu could not move as fast as he dared, had to allow for skin and bone and the wide, wild reactions possible in User terror, and all that not with his disc hand--

It was just a body. He'd lost his grip.

He'd failed and Flynn had paid for it.

...He should at least have the guts to visit.

But he doesn't. This place has shown him that again and again and again, fit to choke on it.

It's just easier to look outside.

Is every star a sun? Some of them are worlds. Not everything is what it ought to be.

The least of pings is loud and clear in this dead place--but this is something else, the tentative shiver of a plucked string, a resonance almost forgotten but never gone. The hall gathers the sound of a familiar tread, softened by acoustics, by habit, by time, underscoring the sensation.

Flynn is here, now, and trajectory data are still incoming when a hand graces his shoulder, delicate with calculation and reasonable fear.]

Wh--

[Turn slowly. Show him there's nothing wrong.

A small white flower rests in his open hand.]

You kept it why, we thought you were gone, I thought--

[The correct thing to do is run a status check.

So of course, instead, what he does is wrap both arms around his Maker and imperil Flynn's ribs under the strength of his embrace.

That poor flower is in mortal danger.]

[ Flynn freezes. The air escapes his lungs in an exhale that scrapes his aching throat on the way out.

This.

This is unexpected. Unprecedented. Reality, as ever, is more painful and more joyous than any desperate dream.

He can't say I'm here or It's all right or, most important and right on the tip of his tongue: I'm sorry. They're bits of broken sound, a soft, near-wheeze tight against Clu's ear, and the way, at last, Flynn's warm hands lift and press so surely against his back. ]

video; cw for character death

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