When Clu had finally chosen to use Kevin Flynn's communicator connected to the outside, he had hoped that Alan Bradley would come. The user that created Tron would surely have had much to offer (or at least much that to give, once given the correct motivation.) His arrival could even have drawn out Flynn himself, giving Clu the opportunity he needed to secure the creator's disc.
Unfortunately, it hadn't been Alan_One who emerged from the facsimile of Flynn's arcade. Instead, another user had found his way into the Grid onto the Arena. 'Dad', they had called hm when he derezzed his helmet. That and a quick scan of the user's disc had confirmed what he suspected: Sam Flynn answered his call.
A happy accident, the Admin had soon decided.
He had removed the user from the Games, instead confining him to a cell . . . without his disc. After all, there was so much data Clu had needed to review on it. And what a treasure trove that one disc had been. Seeing the user world through Sam's eyes had been fascinating. It had actually taken a while to go through the whole thing. And during that time, Clu had observed a curious effect.
Programs, when parted from their identity discs, will glitch and lose memory fairly quickly until at last they are an empty slate or non-functional. Flynn, for obvious reasons, wouldn't be parted from his disc -- it was, after all, his master key. So it hadn't been known until Sam was without his disc for a while that users would suffer as well.
It had started much more slowly, but Sam had begun showing signs of confusion and illness, becoming feverish and delirious for a mili before seeming to forget entirely where he was and how he had arrived. Half a decicycle later, and the user had another episode, coming out of it even more confused and suggestible. This pattern had repeated and presented a unique opportunity.
Armed with the knowledge of Sam's life, Clu had begun . . . a new kind of rectification process. One that took less work with code and more finesse in manipulating emotions. The work was slow, but after five decicycles, the Luminary's efforts had borne fruit. The user had become a blank slate, ready for his new life, his new name, his new purpose.
That was what brought Clu to the door of his pet project's room, in the rectification labs deep under the CPU. The door slid open for him, closing behind once he entered.
What a pitiful wretch this boy was. How fortunate, that the Luminary had found a use for him.
"User." His voice was always cold, forbidding when he said the word. With his helmet up, he crooked his finger. "Come here."
