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“What is truth? Hm? Memories? Belief?” Stringent syllables interlace with a meaning far more sinister than Flynn could ever imagine and yet, the evidence, the sheer evidence-
It makes him want to be sick.
Clu, twisted and benevolent leader, circuits gleaming gold, only smiles; a vile mirror image that taunts, that parades before him, acrimonious villain. And yet, they’re the same being, aren’t they? The same hopes and dreams and failures, all wrapped up into two neat little opposing packages. How poetic.
“You see,” Clu continues, and he touches the face of the maker with a reverence that is akin to Judas, caustic, crossing a fine line into baseless intimacy, “he was never real, Flynn. He was a construct, my perfect little program. A tweak here, a tweak there, and you thought him real. Gave him life.”
Sam rests upon Clu’s opulent throne lined in royal red, leashed and languid and utterly fraudulent. A lie. Rinzler purrs in smug satisfaction against Sam’s throat, praetorian hedonist.
Flynn grimaces, the cancerous taste of dashed hopes on his tongue. That such a thing was even capable... “A son. You gave me a son.”
“He was never yours, User.”
“No. I suppose he wasn’t.”