Beck stumbled as he stepped on a rather large rock, almost falling face first into the snow,. He couldn't stop, if he stopped he would never get back up. He was close, he could see the ravine ahead of him.

The cold was seeping into him, stalling his processors, numbing his ears, hands, and feet. He could see his breath in front of him. His legs creaking as he slugged through the bitter snow, it's coldness freezing his ankles.

The amount of snow lessened as he neared the edge of the rocky gorge, the small rocks and pebbles pressing themselves into the bottom of his feet.

He always felt a connection with gorge, it always seemed to embody what he was feeling, whether it be joy, sorrow, exhilaration, grief, anger, frustration. This cycle was no exception desolate, empty, motionless, soundless, cold.

The twilight of the grids light lit up the outlands, though it wasn't bright, it was still brighter than the dimmer than healthy blue and white circuits on the young program standing on edge of the gorge. The program stared down into the dark abyss for a long while before slowly lowering himself down so that his legs dangled off the edge.

The program's messy, dark brown hair was lined with blue code and fell along the man's gaunt, ashen features. The man's neck was swollen, and covered in purple bruises in the shape of someone's hands. His dull brown eyes were hopeless, distraught. One swollen over, and both covered in different hues of black and bluish purple. His nose bent at an angle that it was never supposed to be and covered in white energy. His face was absent of any sign of his signature, not quite arrogant, smile. Rather there was a tight, slight frown, almost a grimace.

The man reached up and gently brushed his fingertips against a bleeding wound on his left cheek with a confused look in his eyes, as if pondering how it got there. Pulling his hand away he stared at the whitish blue energy that coated his fingers with a distant look. He bowed his head, with sunken shoulders, as if the entire grid was against him, and in a way, it was. Even the people he used to rely on, he mused.

Mara, Zed and some of the other mechanics at Abel's garage, his friends, hated him. It wasn't so bad at first, but as the cycles progressed, the fights got worse and worse. Sometimes if he was lucky there wouldn't be any fights at all; it didn't happen much, only when Abel was around. But Abel couldn't be around all the time, just like he wasn't this time. Today's was the worst yet, and it would be the last.

His white armour clashed with the darkness of the room as he stalked up to the window which hid a system that revealed itself at the snap of his fingers. The program had perfectly combed back brown hair, with an accompanying furrowed brow, and he bared one-of-a-kind steel blue eyes that absorbed the information provided by the system.

If anyone saw Tron now, they would think he was furious. Which he was not; he was however annoyed, and a little worried, though if anyone confronted him on the latter Tron would profusely deny it. He had not seen his apprentice at all this or last cycle, which was very irregular for him. He used to be late almost every time, but after Dyson, Beck was always on time and followed his orders to the letter; he even stopped with the sarcastic comments. Which Tron somewhat missed, but the obedience was nice even if it was a little strange; he'd been meaning to speak to Beck about it. So for the mechanic program to completely skip two training sessions…

Something had to be wrong.

Tron had the feeling something had been bothering Beck the last couple cycles; the younger program had been acting very strange, even more so than usual.

It was a mutual understanding between himself and Beck that they would never actually say the word 'goodbye' unless they weren't going to make it out of something alive. Beck had only said it once before and the only reason he survived was because Tron was able to grab him before Tesler's guards derezzed him. That was too close for Tron's liking. They both understood this; when they left it would always be something like "see you later". Even with this knowledge Beck had still departed with goodbye, leaving Tron on edge.

He checked the occupation's data banks to see if they had the younger program in custody or if he was currently fighting their soldiers. When that drew up blank he checked the cameras placed at Abel's garage, they also came up with nothing. Where else would he be? Tron thought, maybe the outlands, he spends a lot of time at the gorge.

Deciding to follow up that thought he scanned the outlands for any signs of a Beck.

He had immediate success, Program: Beck, Directive: Mechanic; System monitor, Location Identified: Outlands, Gorge/Rift. Danger level: High. Identified threat: N/A.

The results left Tron more confused than before, how could the danger level be high, but have no identified threat?

Grabbing his baton he sped towards Beck's location, mulling over the past couple cycles.
_

Earlier that cycle

"BECK!" He not so subtly flinched as Mara yelled for him, flanked by Zed, Hopper and Bartik. Each wearing similar expressions of anger and disgust. He'd gotten used to these daily occurrences; some days weren't as bad as others; but judging from Mara's tone, today's was going to be dreadful. It'd been happening for a while now, not too long after Bodhi died. By now he'd determined that no one would defend him; it had gotten physical the last couple hilocyces, but at least it hadn't gotten to the point where he could no longer create a glamour to hide his injuries. Beck was hoping to get out of a beating this time as he was still recuperating from the last one and not to mention the injury he got from the last mission the renegade went on. As he unwound himself from the bike he was working on, Hopper thought it would be funny to send an electrical jolt through the bike, undoing any work he'd done previously and shocking him as well.

"Was that really necessary?" he spat in between pants, looking like it was going to get physical as well today. Just. His. Luck. He could fight back, but he would never raise a hand against his friends no matter what they did to him. They didn't deserve that. Hopper and Bartik, however, were not his friends. Never had been, never would be.

Before, he would have fought back or said something against the verbal abuse, and he had the first couple times. But after a while he started to believe them. He was lazy, stupid, arrogant, worthless. He deserved this, he knew it and they knew it too.

"Look who it is, our favorite play toy," Bartik sang. "Ohh Becky poo."

Work used to be a safe haven, a home; now it was just a place he feared. When he didn't turn around to face them, Hopper shoved him to the ground.

"Hey, we're talking to you, you worthless program!"

"Even someone like you knows you look at people when they speak to you." Of course Bartik had to add in his two cents.

"Your so stupid, Beck. How were we ever friends with you?" His old friend sneered.

"You won't believe what we've realized today, Beck." Mara's taunting voice rang in his ears.

"Bodhi's death was your fault! You should have held him back! He was your best friend and you let him die! So you deserved to be punished…."

He didn't flinch when the first hit came. Beck learned by now that any reaction at all would only make it worse, but it also may have been from shock. If what they said was true. That it was his fault that his best friend was dead. Could he even call Bodhi his friend, let alone best, if he let him die? If he let him run to his death. So he didn't try to stop them. He deserved this. He deserved it for not being the friend that he should have been. The program he should have been. The apprentice he should have been.

The hits were never ending. They took turns, two of them would hold him down and the other would beat him. A punch to the face. A kick to his chest. The twisting of a leg, adding more and more weight to the point that it almost snapped. "ARGH!" Beck's scrunched eyes flew open; his back arched as he tried to muffle his scream from the red hot pulsing pain flaming from his wrist.

He looked into the eyes of his assailant. It was Zed. His longtime friend had done this to him. Not Hopper or Bartik. His old friend met his gaze; he thought he saw regret flash in them, but it was gone the next moment.

It was blurry after that. Hands grabbed his neck and slammed his head down onto the metal below leaving small dents where his head hit. Darkness was clouding his vision, he didn't know why. What was happening? He couldn't breathe. He frantically clawed at the hands on his neck, but to no avail. He couldn't last for long like this, but he could do nothing. His attempts slowly died down, his hands hanging from the man's relentless grip on Beck's neck.

He blacked out at some point, but that didn't make a difference. He woke with someone slapping his cheek hard. He wanted to go back to the blackness. It was a sanctuary away from the pain. Beck tried to tuck his head into his shoulder, but stopped when he felt something slam down on his chest. Hard. His breathing contracted as he fell into a coughing fit. He started coughing up energy, but was shoved back down before he could spit it out. His mouth was filled up the revolting liquid, but was emptying on the side of his cheek.

They let up at some point. They never did stay behind long after the deed was done. They probably couldn't stomach looking at him.

Beck tried to get an estimate of how bad of shape he was in by using his hand to prop himself up. "Gli-!" He'd attempted to curse when he saw the shape of his right wrist, but it only came out as a wheeze and a series of coughs. It was frayed at the edges and bent at a weird angle; blue pixels flowed out of it as he took in the state of the rest of his body.

He was a mess; there were gashes all over his body. His sides were littered with blue and white energy draining from his wounds.

Beck tried to take deep breath to calm himself, but it only did the opposite. His throat felt like it was on fire; the wheezing didn't help matters either. It would take cycles to heal his throat if he didn't get some energy quick. Having his throat like this could not happen. Tron would find out.

He had been able to hide it from his mentor so far. Tron didn't need to know he couldn't handle a few mechanics, he would think him weak. He would think he didn't deserve to be his successor, and Tron was right. He knew he was being selfish, but he just wanted to hold on to the one thing that granted him respite. And besides, he'd been able to hide it from him this long. What else was new?
_

Beck seized his right wrist with his left hand and squeezed. Letting out a grunt of pain, he squeezed harder. Effectively drawing himself out of the memory.

He lowered his head into his hands, his hands gripping the sides of his head. Trying to fight off the demons within. He couldn't do it anymore. He couldn't take the abuse from his friends anymore, even though he knew he deserved it. "COWARD!" his mind cried. He felt tears stream down his face. He failed them all. He failed the programs of Argon. He failed his friends. He failed Bodhi.

Beck blindly groped for his baton, gripping it with a shaking hand he threw it as hard as he could at the other side of the gorge. He let out an agonizing scream as he threw the baton. "It's all my fault!"

As the baton hit the opposing side he had a moment of clarity. A way to fix everything he did.

If he died he could fix it all. His death would harm no one.

Everyone would be better off without him; Abel could get a better mechanic to take his place, one that showed up on time for his shifts; Mara, Zed and the other mechanics wouldn't have to worry about picking up his slack and Tron…

Tron could find a better renegade, one that wasn't a failure. One who could be the next Tron.

He was going to make up for his failures, once and for all. It was the least he could do after all he'd done. He could make everyone happy.

With his mind clear, he disengaged his disk from the dock and took off Tron's half. His replacement would need it.

He was going to make it quick; all Beck had to do was push and it would be over. He felt oddly peaceful at the thought of being gone.

Beck closed his eyes as he braced his arms on the edge of the gorge and pushed.