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Fanworks: Tron: Fics:Interrupt Interface
Summary
How did Sark get his Lieutenant?
And what do those neck circuits even mean?
Interrupt Interface
Author's Note:
This is.... one of those fics that started from my brain Making Connections. Basically... my Pattern Recognizer took a random little handful of details from scenes in the 1982 Tron movie, and ran like hell with them.
The details are as follows:
Sark's Lieutenant is a pretty standard villain's-lackey character. His interactions with Sark are the source of some of the mysterious program jargon we see in the movie, including "null unit," which seems to be an insult, and "interrupt interface," which is never explained.
Only thing clearly unusual about him is that he's the only character in the 1982 movie who has any circuit patterns on the "skin" areas of his render.
Like Ram, he's implied to be a program written by a character whom we see only briefly, once. And, like Ram and Tron, the characters of Sark and the Lieutenant have a relationship that somewhat "mirrors" that of their Users.
Although Peter, who seems to be the Lieutenant's creator, seems like more of a general office assistant and errand boy than any sort of professional programmer.
...So.
How did all those things get connected?
And turned into a smut fic, following all my usual headcanons about Tron Pr0n?
...I don't even know.
Ask the Pattern Recognizer.
It can make damn near anything fit together.
Somehow.
Interrupt Interface
This rezzing chamber has not been used in a long while. The circuitry on the walls-- red, cyan, pale lavender-- has all been dimmed to minimum light levels, saving power to be rerouted elsewhere.
Sark peers around the corner of the entryway. Apart from the new arrival and himself, no one is likely to be in here for quite a long time to come.
Ideal. He steps forward, making no sound.
Sark has decided to meet the new program at the entry port. Not because it's expected of him... but because it isn't. He prefers to watch any unfamiliar program for a while unobserved, especially new assistant scripts.
They've assigned him new assistant scripts before. Many of them. One after another.
All, of course, derezzed by now.
And by now, Sark finds it prudent to catch them off guard, to learn how they behave outside standard parameters. In times like these, there is no such thing as too much caution.
"Good morning, Mr. Dillinger."
"Thank you, Peter. Any new memos over the weekend?"
"No, sir. But I spent some time yesterday on a programming task."
Dillinger's eyes linger on Peter for a few extra moments. "I wasn't aware programming was among your skills."
"It wasn't, sir, but I've been learning. And I noticed that your... your command program? The administrative software that... coordinates things throughout our computer system?"
"You're referring to SARK-ES-1117821? Yes, what about it?"
"Well, sir... it occurred to me that it might benefit from some shortcuts, to transmit data more efficiently between it and other programs. I, um, tried writing something to assist with that. Sir."
"Ah." Dillinger shows no particular emotion as he lays his briefcase down on the desk. "Well... you certainly aren't the first to waste time trying that."
The newcomer is standing at the point of arrival, more stiff and formal than most.
Sark watches, calculating. Among the others who've had to be derezzed, in most cases it was simply because Sark found he couldn't trust the way they acted whenever they assumed they weren't being watched.
Best to make such observations early, to head off trouble.
This one stands at parade rest, looking steadily ahead even though there is nothing there to look at. He displays no sign of noticing Sark's stealthy approach.
Most new programs will show some inquisitiveness when compiled into the entry port-- some type of interest in their new surroundings. This one seems content to do absolutely nothing until presented with direct orders.
Maybe a good sign, maybe not.
Could mean unflinching obedience, or simple-mindedness-- or a great deal of internal calculating and planning. The first two would be acceptable, the third would not. And in his assistants thus far, Sark has not yet encountered anything except the third.
"I do appreciate the initiative, Peter... but SARK is just not compatible with other software to that degree."
"Is that so, sir?"
"Regrettably yes. I've installed several assistant scripts written by different programmers, but none have lasted long."
"I see, sir."
"Sooner or later, one of SARK's commands will crash and permanently deactivate the assistant program. Happens every time. I'm afraid the idea is something of a lost cause."
The program flinches just enough, when Sark enters his range of vision, to reveal that he was in fact caught by surprise. But he retains enough composure to suggest a resilient nature, an ability to stay calm under stress.
"State your name and your function, program."
The new arrival hesitates, opening and closing his mouth. Finally, he manages, "I am a lieutenant-command program. My function is to increase efficiency by gathering data for the command program, and by relaying commands from the command program to subordinates."
Circuits flaring orange, Sark reaches over the new-rezz's shoulder and yanks the identity disc right off his back. "My name is Sark. I am the command program. And I ordered you to state your name."
While the program catches his breath, recovering from the rough disc-removal, Sark turns it over in his hands. It's the usual default disc that everyone rezzes in with-- good only for backups and upgrades and ID verification. Not the weaponized disc that game-warriors receive, programmed to alert the MCP if the bearer loses it or fails to follow commands. (At least two others who have sought the lieutenant role have ended up with that disc, and a quick deresolution in the Games.)
Sark scans mercilessly through what he can see of the disc's contents. The programmer has left all permissions open to him... finally, a User who at least shows some of the proper respect for Sark's authority.
If not much skill.
"Your programmer has forgotten to give you a name."
"I... I'm sorry, sir?"
"Your name-field does not exist." Sark reaches back over the lieutenant's shoulder and slides the disc back onto the dock, disdain in his voice. "The metadata indicating how other programs should address you has been left blank. My query for that information returns null."
The new program opens and closes his mouth; swallows nervously. "I ...apologize."
"Your User's failure. He should apologize. He won't, though." Sark steps back. "Do you believe in the Users, null-unit?"
"I... acknowledge that a User wrote me. Are there any more parameters to that query?"
Sark nods. "You are simple, but you have the correct thought process. The existence of Users is not in question. As for whether they should be believed in-- trusted-- venerated-- worshipped? That, for opposite reasons, should also not be a question."
"Understood, sir."
Sark stares levelly at him-- not yet convinced that he does understand. "Vacate entry port, program."
"Sir?"
"Step forward, off the rezzing pad, null-unit. So I can inspect you."
The lieutenant complies. Sark paces slowly around him, taking note of the lean figure, the dark red circuitry, the intricately patterned vest of armor. Parts of him seem pointless, cobbled together from code that the programmer found somewhere and didn't fully understand-- knowing only that the desired function was in it somewhere, not knowing what had to be kept and what should be trimmed out.
"This type of vest usually indicates a financial calculator," Sark observes. "Such as an actuarial or compound interest program. What I could read of your code in that disc confirms it. You're nothing but an accounting creampuff-- or a few of them, plus a few other things, disassembled for parts and pasted together by an amateur."
The program fidgets, clearly uncertain how to respond. "I'm... sorry, sir."
"Again, your User's fault, not yours. And not necessarily unsalvageable." Sark grips the newcomer's helmet, turning his head from side to side for closer inspection. "You're capable of the basic requirements of a lieutenant-command program. But with extra junk-code mixed in. Most of it will probably do nothing. Some might cause glitching."
And then... then his eyes fall on a small cluster of circuitry just below the helmet's back edge.
"...What's this?"
The spots are an asymmetrical scatter, on only one side of the lieutenant's neck. They glow red like the rest of his lights, but with no particular pattern to them-- and on an area where Sark has never before seen a program have any visible circuits.
"I... I don't know," the lieutenant stammers. "It's just... part of me. I don't--"
"Shh." Sark places his hands on each side of the glowing cluster, stretching the skin in an attempt to examine it better. "Of course you wouldn't know, null-unit. Nor does your User, I'm sure. This isn't intelligently designed code. This is a glitch, pure and simple."
"I'm s--"
And then, right in the middle of that attempt at yet another tiresome apology-- it happens.
The neck-circuits, stimulated by absolutely nothing except the increased tension on skin, suddenly flash bright-- a flare of lighter, lighter red, nearly blinding as it turns pink, before it hue-shifts rapidly into magenta and then deep, deep violet.
And the program gasps-- his whole spine curving into the arch of the motion-- his head tossing back, waves of obvious pleasure and frustration shifting through his facial expression as he tries, blatantly, to rub that patch of sensitive circuitry against Sark's hand or anything at all.
Sark lifts his hands and pulls away.
Slow, not fast-- regulating the speed of his movement with hard-coded control-- because revealing this level of shock, his true response right now, would be an unacceptable admission of weakness.
He must appear calm, imperturbable. Arms slowly folding in front of him, Sark just stands back... watches the lieutenant fight to regain composure.
At least, it seems at first like a fight for composure. But Sark watches closely, and realizes that it is no more than the mechanical result of moving his hands away in time. The color of arousal, just starting to spread from the stimulated glitch-circuits, falters and wavers at their border.... only beginning to tinge the adjacent red of the helmet and collar, an edge that pulses once or twice before it starts receding again.
Circuitry dims and reddens, returning to normal. But the accompanying turmoil on the lieutenant's face is not the struggle to accomplish this. Rather the opposite-- it's a turmoil of frustration-- a struggle to keep this strange and addictive pleasure going--
And then the dismay of failure, at being denied enough continued stimulus to make it happen.
Sark smiles inwardly, watching the lieutenant catch his breath and force himself back into a formal posture, eyes now turned towards his superior in anticipation of any new command.
"Your glitched code is a vulnerability." Sark uncrosses his arms and steps close again. "But it may not disqualify you. Vulnerability can be valuable, in a subordinate who must be controlled."
"U-understood, sir."
"Are you content with that role? Subordinate? Controlled?"
"It... it is my programmed function, commander. I have no other purpose."
"A good answer." And, on a twisted whim, Sark lifts his hand again -- brings it close to the lieutenant's neck, fingers curiously outstretched. "And... what if I were to perform tests on your vulnerability, right now?"
"I... I beg your pardon, sir?"
"Exploit it-- learn its parameters -- use it. Find the fullest extent to which it may be used against you. What would you think of that? Would you trust me, to have such power over you?"
There's a rapidly drawn-in breath, half-repressed arching of spine, and a flash of purple-pink in the red circuits of chest and helmet and most clearly those on the neck. The lieutenant's eyes don't quite focus, but they're directed fully at Sark... who knows very well what sort of look that is.
"I... it ... It is my function. Commander."
"Then... I shall test your function."
Hand still hovering just above the neck-circuits, Sark moves slowly, slowly around behind-- until the whole front of his body almost rests against the lieutenant's back. Close enough to feel the warmth of all that excited circuitry. Not quite close enough to touch. Yet.
"You have never experienced an overload before."
"No, sir. I... have not experienced anything. As far as I can remember. Sir."
Even without any contact yet, Sark is aware of unconscious movement, the subtle rocking of hips in response to arousal too new and sharp to resist. He peers around the lieutenant's shoulder, down at his body, observing how arousal takes shape in this form.
In the pulsing purple of circuitry, of course... and the movement of hips, and of the chest as his breath quickens. But there's also the layout of the lower functions to take note of, and Sark makes sure to get a good look.
Most programs are simple down there-- no more than a bulge between the legs, usually containing the sensitive code designed for I/O-contact, which swells with arousal but does not change much in overall shape.
Sark knows that he, himself, is unusual in that regard.
The lieutenant, though, is entirely ordinary. Sark catalogues the shape of his I/O code, and the pattern of circuitry around it... watches him buck and swell in his growing impatience, and smiles in quiet satisfaction.
"Are you enjoying yourself, null-unit?" he murmurs just close enough for the lieutenant's ear to feel his breath.
"S-sir?"
"I'm going to keep calling you that. Null-unit. Because of your name field, and now this, too. You're a simple creature. Missing so many parts."
"Missing-- what?"
A low chuckle rasps in Sark's throat. "Don't worry. Something most other programs are missing, too. You'll see. Later." He lets his voice drop even lower. "Tell me how you're feeling right now."
"I... it feels like... like glitching. Down there, and, and here--" he tilts his head, baring his neck as if begging--"and, and spreading, all over. Like... warnings?... Error messages? Need something-- want--"
Sark leans forward, again forcedly slow-- a show of deliberateness, hiding how much on impulse he's acting, deep down. No, no, he won't even admit that to himself. He is simply putting his test into action, as promised. Studying the vulnerability of his new subordinate. No need to analyze how it makes him feel.
"...This," he whispers, now staying just out of range for his breath to be felt.
His finger makes contact with the fevered speckling of the neck-circuits. One finger, one single stimulus. A mere brush, nothing more.
Just enough.
The contact is a shock, a spark of energy grounding in Sark's fingertip, cold and hot and almost painful, and he resists the urge to gasp.
It's barely a warning of what comes next.
With a pathetically high-pitched, soulful cry, the poor program's whole render jolts and flickers-- glitching as he shoves his hips forward and tosses his head back, gasps, circuits bright violet, and falls against Sark's chest as-- from just that one brush of contact-- he succumbs to a shuddering, quaking overload.
It's instinctive, to grab and hold him there. Sark can't quite help it, but it's a perfectly rational reflex when someone falls against you, and...
And so Sark just keeps gripping him, firm, hard, around his heaving chest, as his body spasms in uncontrollable waves of pleasure.
A rainbow of response, now coursing hot across the whole circuit array, with hot spots flaring on the chest and the still-jerking hips and the still-pulsating bulge of his groin-- but the warmest colors of the spectrum radiate from that scatter of spots on his neck, clearly his most exquisitely sensitive place, still bared by the begging curve of his neck and head arching back in ecstasy.
Sark is tempted, he has to admit.
Those circuits are just in reach of his tongue... and the colors shifting within them would taste intriguing, he's sure. And oh, it would be satisfying, to feel the lieutenant respond just a bit more-- another frantic little bout of thrashing, before he loses consciousness to reboot.
Sark can't deny that would feel nice. Some friction against the growing arousal of his own body, his own swollen I/O functions, his own purple-tinged circuitry-- already allowing itself to respond, just a little, to all that motion and energy-release that's already wrapped up in his arms.
He's not quite sure what holds him back. He shuts down the question before it gets close to conscious thought. Feels as though perhaps it might be something just a bit more vulnerable than he wants to ask himself.
So he just holds on, still and strong-- keeps his arms wrapped around the lieutenant's shaking render, and his lips tightly shut as he feels that render disintegrate into the little-deresolution of restart.
This lieutenant may be an uncommonly simple, messily coded program when compiled... but his afterglow-cloud feels the same as anyone else's. Sark's arms relax, when the body becomes too incorporeal to hold, and then he just stands there for the nanocycles it takes to rest and swirl around him.
A post-overload energy-cloud has no thoughts, only feelings. And the clearest of the feelings-- palpable to anyone in contact with the cloud-- is always the desire to merge. To lure you into the same form; to join together, sharing those moments of afterglow as one.
Sark, of course, will not allow it that.
He has never permitted anyone else the advantage of seeing him in that vulnerable state, and he is not going to begin now. Sark stays solid, and pushes gently back against these lazy, flowing attempts at seduction-- all that the half-rezzed lieutenant is now capable of.
Pathetic. Maybe, in a way, somewhat sadly endearing, but... Yes. Pathetic.
Sark allows the energy-glow to settle slowly downward, while he himself stays standing. When the lieutenant finally rerezzes, coming back online with a jolt of disorientation, he's sprawled across the floor at Sark's feet-- looking up; being looked down upon.
Sark sneers. "Had enough?"
"I..." The lieutenant blinks; opens and closes his mouth in confusion. "I don't... know. I've never had that before, but it was... wonderful." And he struggles to his feet, unsteady but smiling. "I'm not sure I could do it any more, though. I... I don't think I have the energy right now."
Sark steels his face-- hardens it against betrayal of any surprise he feels at this too-easy response.
"You may be surprised," he answers, monotone. "High energy levels aren't as necessary to an overload as you might suppose. Excess energy is only one way to be overloaded. Most of the time it happens from a combination of factors. But you seem particularly susceptible to crashing from excess data."
He steps close, once again fully within the lieutenant's personal space-- and feels maybe a little too unsettled at how the lieutenant doesn't back off; stays standing right there, as if basking in Sark's close presence.
But still he pushes, further, as far as he dares right now. Hand on the program's shoulder, not touching that vulnerable cluster of neck-circuits-- but close enough to make it clear he could.
"Your processing," he explains, "seems to crumble beneath too great a load of tactile input. I believe that even at low power levels, sensory overload would still be a distinct vulnerability of yours."
"...Is that so? Sir?" And the lieutenant doesn't back away, not by a pixel.
Sark's eyes narrow. "Indeed."
And he backs away, now, removing his hand from that shoulder, and his whole body from that personal space-- because it's becoming clear now that the lieutenant is enjoying the proximity too much, and Sark needs to exert some control.
At arm's length, now, he makes eye contact to ensure he has his subordinate's full attention.
And then-- oh, then Sark slides a hand down, down his stomach and over his belt, and finally across his own growing bulge-- allowing the outer layer of his render to shimmer away, to derezz into pixels in that area, revealing the new texture and shape of what lies beneath.
Opening. Letting his own arousal spring free.
Watching the lieutenant's wide-eyed response, with the satisfied feeling of one showing off a rare, awe-inspiring power.
Not many programs can open their outer shell to uncover hidden functions down there between the legs. And not many have Sark's level of complexity in those functions. Changing shape and size and length, with the increasing excitement.
Releasing the pent-up energy in liquid form, a few glowing drops already, through a small and finely specialized output port at the tip.
Sark does not know why he was made so differently.
The design seems to have no discernable purpose here-- which has always suggested to him that it is an echo of something he does not have the context to understand. Something out there in the realm of the Invisible, the world of the Users.
Through his association with the MCP, Sark knows just enough about Users to know they do not deserve the reverence they get from their blue-circuited believers. Not that Sark himself can quite suppress every trace of reverence in his own thoughts of them... they are, after all, still powerful beyond his comprehension, and mysterious beyond his imagination, and his feelings about that are rather inevitably going to include some awe.
But at least he knows that they are comprehensible-- they are imaginable-- to someone, if not to him.
And he likes to believe that he has the anatomy of a User, even though it serves no clear purpose for a program. It makes the Users' power feel, somehow... closer to being attainable.
Especially when he is in a position like this. Inspiring awe for himself. Demonstrating his power. Using someone.
"Turn around."
The lieutenant visibly struggles to avert his eyes from Sark's body-- but he nods, sliding his tongue across his lips, and turns his back towards Sark in a few efficient steps, until he's facing one of the rez-in consoles.
"Bend over."
And now he obeys almost too readily -- with a flash of lavender through his whole circuit array, as he leans down, breathing heavy, head bowed. Both hands braced on the sides of the console; legs in a wide stance, parted as if he knows full well what's coming.
Sark is actually impressed, but hides it behind a derisive smirk. "Open-source backend. You do this so eagerly for everyone?"
"No, sir." His head stays down. "Only you. Sir."
"Because you've never met anyone else yet?"
And the lieutenant's head, still lowered, shakes once from side to side. "Because my function is to serve you, Command Program." And his legs shift, opening just a little wider.
Sark isn't quite prepared for how fast that sends heat and purple rushing through all his circuits -- converging in the now-painful erection that pulses between his thighs, standing out from that partially bared area.
He takes himself in hand, fingers connecting with shaft-circuitry as he leans forward to position himself, energy pulsing through his lightlines like a deep bass rhythm.
His own skin there is a duller base color, more gray than the white he has derezzed from the area-- but with more intense circuit-lines delineating the shaft and head. Brighter and thicker than any of the lights on the surrounding whiteness of his outer shell, and glowing a much more scandalous shade of violet. They almost sting, hot and charged against his palm. The energy beading at the tip is almost too electric to touch-- he shivers in an excess of sensation as he spreads it slowly over himself.
Sark's other hand steadies itself on the lieutenant's hip, as he moves forward.
A glance down confirms that this... anatomical null-state... persists in both back and front. Simple. Minimalist. The white skin of the lieutenant's outer shell is not removable like Sark's own, and there is no port for him to penetrate...
But there is still the smooth texture of thighs and buttocks, tingling with aroused circuitry in a spectrum from indigo to magenta-- warm and open for him, welcoming, absolutely quivering with desire--
--and yes, oh yes-- this will be quite sufficient.
It is so easy to push in between, now, sliding along the silken groove of the backside until his tip presses against the lieutenant's aroused I/O bulge from behind. Setting off such a powerful jolt of sensation that Sark himself only barely manages to stifle his cry down to a low breathy growl-- making his own voice a backdrop for the high, wanton moans that go completely unsuppressed beneath him.
His hands both grip hard now on the lieutenant's hips. He'd been expecting he would have to shove them inwards to tighten the way for himself-- but the lieutenant manages to surprise him again, pressing his own thighs tight together with no encouragement needed at all.
And, for just a moment, Sark hardly even cares whether the lieutenant is doing this in service to his superior, or merely for his own pleasure-- because either way it just feels so, so blissfully good--
So good that for just that moment, he lets himself forget the delicateness of this body, its already-proven vulnerability to crashing. He speeds up too fast, too hard, as he gives in to the urge and the pleasure-- thrusts and pulls and ravenously claims what's offered him--
--and lets go of the concern that forcing this new-rezzed body into another fast overload might not only harm its function in the long term, but in the more immediate term might prove inconvenient, frustrating-- might force Sark to go unsatisfied through another interlude of waiting, for energy-cloud afterglow to rerezz back into useable flesh--
And yet, once more, Sark finds himself surprised... impressed.
Because, by the time he realizes why he should perhaps be more cautious, the subordinate whom he had assumed so delicate, so vulnerable, is now responding eagerly. Taking his thrusts with much more resilience than prior experience would have predicted. Groaning underneath him in wild abandon, shoving back wanton and willing-- but with no threat of overload yet in sight.
....It startles Sark nearly into a climax of his own. And he stills, gasping as he just barely manages to hold himself back--
--and, without having to be ordered or restrained, his lieutenant stills beneath him. Obediently allowing Sark the moment to recover-- although the sweet whimpers of pleasure take on a frustrated urgency in that moment, and he quivers as if desperate for permission to begin moving again.
And Sark, once he regains control of himself, gives that permission with the movement of his own body. Arching in glorious sensation as he plunges back into the tight channel of his lieutenant's pressed-together thighs-- every circuit along the way dragging deliciously against his own energy-slicked flesh, connecting with his own circuitry to share sparks of power and data composed of nothing but purest pleasure.
Oh, they are building a rhythm together and it's beautiful. It's been a long, long time since Sark took someone who could match him so responsively -- slow when he needs to go slow, fast when he's craving fast-- and seems capable of going on like this indefinitely, as long as Sark wants, and not a picocycle less.
After the lieutenant's initial premature crash, Sark most certainly was not expecting this.
But oh, the surprise is welcome indeed. When he gets his way, Sark likes to take his time, alternating quick and slow thrusts and wringing enjoyment from every moment, but not reaching a climax of his own until he's good and ready for it.
And he's getting his way right now, and it's so, so good. He snarls and digs his fingers into the lieutenant's hips as he rocks against him harder, faster, closer and closer to the point where he will have had enough to be well and truly satisfied--
And under him, beneath his hips and between his clutching hands and tight around the aching pleasure of his arousal, the lieutenant is now shaking all over, in the most urgent desire. His circuits burn with electric buildup, the purple color vivid enough to be a sensation of its own-- his thighs clench around Sark, in pounding rhythm with the pulsation of the bulge that Sark can feel each time his thrusts shove him up hard against the back of it.
Oh, the sounds spilling from the lieutenant's throat are pure lust, and every pixel of his flesh is hot and vibrating with need, begging for release with absolutely everything at its disposal except words.
Sark growls and speeds up further, panting words of his own in between thrusts. "I'm ready, program. Now. And I'd better feel you overload when I do. Now--"
...Which Sark has his reasons for, beyond just liking the feel of it, and beyond even the display of power over a partner's vulnerability. He won't let himself come until he knows for certain that the one underneath him is releasing just ahead of him.
And so--
And so he roars in frustration, when the lieutenant jerks and sobs, arching up beneath him, clenching frantically around him, twitching and tightening against his tip, flashing every shade of achingly deep violet and still, still, somehow, doesn't reach a climax. The moans of need are more and more anguished every picocycle, like the lieutenant is absolutely desperate to come, and yet can't, even with Sark ordering him to--
"You need to overload now." Sark's voice becomes a dangerous rasp, his chest pressed against the other's back now, face close to his ear as his thrusts become viciously hard.
"Yes," the lieutenant sobs. "Yes, I need to, I need it so much, sir, please--"
"And why can't you? Tell me what you need, you glitching null-unit!"
"I -- oh, please, commander, I need it so bad, so bad I'll do anything, sir, please, just--" And as Sark's hands start to grip so hard they corrupt the code of his hips, leaving bruises that'll take microcycles to self-debug, the lieutenant finally groans out something like an answer. "Please, commander, please, touch me there--"
"Say it! Say exactly what you mean, null-unit! Right now!"
"My-- ah!!-- my glitch! My imperfection. Please, sir, please, I can't -- I need-- oh, commander, please -- touch it, exploit my-- my vulnerability, my failure point, make me crash, I want it, I'm ready, can't take any more, I want it so bad--"
And Sark replies with nothing but a low rumble of victory, as he leans his head down-- mouth open, teeth bared and tongue curling toward the fiery scatter of circuitry that now glows like a hot-purple brand on the lieutenant's neck.
It's indescribable, the taste. It's agonizing pain and ecstatic pleasure and it's hot enough to burn and it's the most refreshing icy wave-- and the swipe of Sark's tongue and the bite of his teeth on it sets off the lieutenant into an energy-explosion so volatile that it spreads to Sark almost in the same instant.
"Ah, ah, ah-- yes, yes, yes oh yes--"
Screaming, coming, burning up in near-unison. Conflagration, electrical storm-- almost too fast to even be sure that the lieutenant's release is safely ahead of his own.
But it is. And the spike of panic melts into exhilaration, as Sark rides the wave right into his own-- a shove of hips and a rough shout, and a flare of fierce, hot purple-red, shuddering with orgasmic pleasure.
Just in time to claim that wave of all the surplus energy that still remained to burst free from the lieutenant's body-- claim it and draw it greedily into himself as it bursts-- Sark's own render glowing strong and powerful and only gaining more power--
--as the rest of the lieutenant's weak little body just shivers and surrenders the last of its excess charge and falls apart again, into glitter and light and blissful afterglow.
Sark has learned some selfish things about the sharing of power, over the cycles. He knows how to take his chosen share of the energy that's released against him in a partner's overload-- and use it to keep himself online, even after his own most satisfying release.
To stave off the vulnerability of falling into a crash and reboot alone with someone else-- even a program that he's just allowed as far as anyone gets into the inner sanctum of his intimacy. Because that intimacy does not go as far as sharing the unconscious cloud of afterglow.
Not ever, not with anyone. Sark does not trust like that.
The body that rerezzes at Sark's feet is predictably weak this time, so very energy-depleted that the eyes seem dizzy staring up at him.
"Here." And Sark leans down, hand on the lieutenant's shoulder-- transmitting just enough of his own abundance of power to send a burst of brightness back into those dim circuits.
The lieutenant's eyes clear up and focus somewhat, though they're still a bit hazy with the aftermath of pleasure, and he even gives a small, cautious smile, as he clambers to his feet.
And the two of them face each other for a moment in the empty rezzing-chamber... the lieutenant looking up at Sark with just enough alertness to show he's ready for any command, but not so much as to overstep what his station allows.
"You'll do," Sark says at last.
"Sir?"
Sark lets out a patient breath. "I'll instate you as my lieutenant, effective immediately. You'll have the standard lodging-- officer's quarters, five hundred and twelve kilobytes of hard-drive space and sixty-four of RAM allotted to you. Your disc will be kept in your quarters and you may sync with it once after each work shift for backup; you are not permitted to carry it in public. If you prove disloyal at any time, you will be subject to immediate deresolution."
"...Understood. Sir." The lieutenant's mouth barely moves as he speaks -- his eyes still look dazed, lost in a glow of feeling.
And that, Sark can tell-- that look in the eyes, that timbre in the voice--
Oh yes. He hasn't seen it before, but, still, he can recognize it.
That is unwavering loyalty.
"A script like that would help with efficiency. If we could get it to work."
There's a resigned regret in Dillinger's voice, as he takes his seat behind the desk. "The only program that's had any success coordinating anything with SARK is the MCP.... but then, the MCP's really the only ideal software for coordinating our system in general."
He turns his chair away to face the window, still speaking, almost as if to himself. "Someday it'll take over pretty much all functions. But we're doomed to some inefficiency in the meantime, I'm afraid."
"Ah." Peter fidgets, nodding acknowledgement. "Well, my script's been running since late last night-- about six hours-- and it increased efficiency by a modest amount, but, um... Thanks for telling me."
Dillinger whirls the chair around. "You installed it without consulting me?" And yet there's a surprising lack of anger in his voice-- all drowned out by plain astonishment.
"I... well, I wanted to get any potential improvements in efficiency going as soon as possible. That is what you've instructed me to do, as a rule." Peter's eyes don't quite meet Dillinger's, but his voice gathers some strength nonetheless. "And I was confident that all the well-designed measures you already have in place would prevent any serious problems. Which seems to have been correct."
"Hmm!" Dillinger regards Peter in curious silence for a few seconds, then releases a sharp breath.
Even in that small sound, Peter can detect a note of something new. Perhaps... a new respect for him.
The breath trails into silence, finally broken with crisp words. "Well. Thank you for the attempt. Keep it running for now, just in case by some miracle it does work. But don't get confident yet. Be sure to watch for crashes."
"It... Um, unfortunately, it did crash already."
"Oh..." A near-imperceptible sigh. "I see. Ah, well. Too bad, I guess. Six hours is longer than most have lasted, though. You might have some promise as a programmer."
"No I'm... I'm really not much of one." Peter blushes, hanging his head. "It's.... it's actually crashed twice."
And Dillinger's head jumps back up. "Twice?!"
"Yes," Peter squeaks, his blush deepening. "I... really screwed up, didn't I."
"No, no, you misunderstand!" Dillinger leans forward, with the closest thing to enthusiasm that Peter's ever seen on his face. "Every other script that's tried to integrate with SARK crashed once. Because it was completely destroyed. You're saying... you're saying yours came back online afterwards?"
"Well, yes, but... but then it crashed again though! And that was right at the beginning. The six hours it's been running are since then, but--"
"It's still going?" And Dillinger actually smiles then-- actually allows himself a very small laugh. "It crashed and came back online twice and it's still going? Oh, that's... that's remarkable, Peter! I'm frankly impressed!"
"But it's... It's crashed twice! We can't be sure it won't again."
"And? If it increases efficiency, and can come back online after a crash.... that's still more help than anything else we've had so far. Yes, yes, of course we can't be sure how long it'll last-- but any boost in efficiency is better than nothing, don't you think?"
He turns the chair slowly back around toward the window, continuing to speak as his uncommonly pleased face recedes from view. "We'll just see how it goes. I mean... it only has to last until the MCP gets more thoroughly integrated, anyway. After that, of course, SARK itself will become the assistant script, and eventually that'll be phased out too, with the MCP taking over everything. But... perhaps this will help smooth that transition. Well done, Peter."
And Peter nods, letting a small portion of the tension in his body recede. Letting the grimace of embarrassment morph halfway to a smile of his own. Maybe this job isn't going to be a hundred percent dysfunctional, all the time.
"...Yes, sir."
END OF LINE
Fanworks: Tron: Fics: Interrupt Interface
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