a_perfect_end (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
a_perfect_end) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thisavrou2016-06-07 08:53 pm
a_perfect_end) wrote in thisavrou2016-06-07 08:53 pm
video; public/unencrypted; now let's go! just gimme the signal (backdated)
Greetings!
[There's a reverence to that, the quiet, thunderous tenor certainty of a TV preacher about to go on a tear. He faces the camera squarely, like he can nail it in place by staring at it hard enough, and there's a manic glint to the way he smiles.]
I am Clu.
Now I don't know you, citizens of the good ship Moira, but, man, would I like to! There are so many of us here, from so many different worlds. Or, most of you are. Some of us seem to be arriving in groups--anyway!
[If he waggles his eyebrows any harder, they will pop right off his face.]
I know I'm not the only one aboard who runs parallel processes for a living. Seriously, if you dream in ASCII, or especially in C#? Call me. [Hands spread wide, animated, making big broad gestures as he begins to pace.]
And even if you don't dream of electric sheep, well. It sure sounds like some of you know me, too. Or you think you do. Speaking of: have you seen this guy? Around lately? Kinda looks like everyone's grandpa?
Well, he isn't.
Alan Bradley hurts Programs. Thinks nothing at all of doing it! Doesn't even think we're really, well, real. And I have proof, oh yes. [Only, the ugly smug grin makes that statement into something less than the moral high ground.]
So, if you want to trust everything that some sixty year-old code pusher you met yesterday says, go ahead! Believe the heavenly proclamations of the almighty User who was never even there. Just take his word for it!
[The grin melts into a sneer and hardens, shifts again into something tense and bizarrely earnest. Every word is punctuated with the jolt of his arm, pointing so hard he'd poke the camera if it wasn't attached to his wrist.]
But keep this in mind, my fellow synthetics! My inorganic brothers from another motherboard, listen up: you are of no more value to Mr. Alan Bradley--or indeed to any of his kind--than a very fancy pocket calculator.
When they get tired of you--and they will--you will be the one who will be sorry, I can promise you that.
[He looks away; he bares his teeth. Between them there's quiet venom:]
You wanna know the truth about me? About what happened to the Grid? You wanna know where your precious Kevin Flynn is.
Y'coulda tried asking me, man.
[That is certainly enough of that. Cut.]
[There's a reverence to that, the quiet, thunderous tenor certainty of a TV preacher about to go on a tear. He faces the camera squarely, like he can nail it in place by staring at it hard enough, and there's a manic glint to the way he smiles.]
I am Clu.
Now I don't know you, citizens of the good ship Moira, but, man, would I like to! There are so many of us here, from so many different worlds. Or, most of you are. Some of us seem to be arriving in groups--anyway!
[If he waggles his eyebrows any harder, they will pop right off his face.]
I know I'm not the only one aboard who runs parallel processes for a living. Seriously, if you dream in ASCII, or especially in C#? Call me. [Hands spread wide, animated, making big broad gestures as he begins to pace.]
And even if you don't dream of electric sheep, well. It sure sounds like some of you know me, too. Or you think you do. Speaking of: have you seen this guy? Around lately? Kinda looks like everyone's grandpa?
Well, he isn't.
Alan Bradley hurts Programs. Thinks nothing at all of doing it! Doesn't even think we're really, well, real. And I have proof, oh yes. [Only, the ugly smug grin makes that statement into something less than the moral high ground.]
So, if you want to trust everything that some sixty year-old code pusher you met yesterday says, go ahead! Believe the heavenly proclamations of the almighty User who was never even there. Just take his word for it!
[The grin melts into a sneer and hardens, shifts again into something tense and bizarrely earnest. Every word is punctuated with the jolt of his arm, pointing so hard he'd poke the camera if it wasn't attached to his wrist.]
But keep this in mind, my fellow synthetics! My inorganic brothers from another motherboard, listen up: you are of no more value to Mr. Alan Bradley--or indeed to any of his kind--than a very fancy pocket calculator.
When they get tired of you--and they will--you will be the one who will be sorry, I can promise you that.
[He looks away; he bares his teeth. Between them there's quiet venom:]
You wanna know the truth about me? About what happened to the Grid? You wanna know where your precious Kevin Flynn is.
Y'coulda tried asking me, man.
[That is certainly enough of that. Cut.]
video;
You didn’t want Tron back, you wanted someone to serve you. You wrote it into every line of his code. You didn’t even let him keep his name. [Alan has to curl his hands into fists to keep them from shaking, sick with an anger and revulsion he isn’t used to feeling. It’s not just that Clu would twist the narrative to make himself into the victim after everything he’s done -- it’s that he actually seems to believe it.]
You made an army of programs like Rinzler. Programs you rectified. [It’s the same word Tron had used to describe the process, spoken here with disgust.] It doesn’t matter how much you lie to the people here or to yourself -- you’re not some liberator or savior. Everything you did was for your own benefit.
You didn’t save anyone.