Hello, world.
In the midst of some dead and forgotten sector, a small and painfully insignificant fraction of the Grid's immense and streamlined surface flickers to life - a faint, fleeting outburst of an old memory remnant; a flash of some archaic and complex circuity, hot and unruly with change and progression.
Slowly, an electric haze forms above the decrepit, flickering partition - its vague shape only lasting for a mere few moments before it is overshadowed by the formation of a sharp, precise, and complex grid within its unnatural mists.
As the maze of scarlet below the ghostly visage finally begins to shine consistently, it just as soon begins to burn with a white-hot ferocity; its ancient channels feeding molten data into the fragile wire-frame - and in sharp, calculated bursts, the wire-frame gradually begins to burn into existence, and solidify.
And as the floor quietly fades back to a sleek, lifeless, and uniform black, Sark's body seizes violently in spite of the abandoned tranquility that surrounds it. His back arching in absolute unbearable agony, and his mouth agape in a silent scream, a single fragmented fact blares through his corrupted mind; Tron had overcome him, on that mesa.
Tron had destroyed his disk. Tron had split him in two. Tron had split his head in two, and his code was spilling - his senses were spilling - his existence was spilling - his power had spilt and the MCP---
And Sark 'breathes.' His framework still trembling, and broken remnant coding spilling from his lips as to better accompany the metallic whirring that he exhales, it occurs to him that there are the most curious of lights within this darkness of death, and that he can see them. And that he can process the complex sensations they give to him. And that he can hear faint echos--
Willing himself as still as he can manage, he forces his body to move according to his desires. Maneuvering his decimated form into utilizing a near-by wall, Sark sits against it, and slides himself up; his back pressed firmly against the smooth, reflective surface. He had no disk.
His frame still twitching and jerking erratically in uncontrollable spats and his eyes still fluttering in arbitrary directions, managing to stand with the entirety of his weight supported by the wall is no victory to him; but Sark moves on from his jumbled feelings to giving his dim, bizarre, and unfamiliar surroundings the best assessment he can muster in his exhausted state - a lackadaisical skim.
And almost as if to ask the the ethereal polished blacks and heavenly whites and blues in his broken and garbled desperation, he wheezes out another horrific, metallic rattle.
"W͘-hh͟h̡hhh-à-̷a-͞a͞-a̵-̨t̴-̀--
Wh̵͖̝̠̟̠̦̠h̬̩͎̙͞h͚̭̪͕̝̞͘ͅ-̯̭̳͡a̴-̹̖a̬̭̻͎-̤
[OOC: hello first post how are you today. you're looking kind of purple and schmaltzy and- OH THE RUN-ON SENTENCES AND THE NIGHTMARE FUEL WHAT KIND OF FIRST POST IS THIS AHHHHHHH
Err, also, I truly have no idea what I am doing, so please feel more then free to jump on any face-palm worthy characterization like a starving tiger. :V
Edit: Also, I recommend viewing this with Firefox. Because I just realized the dialogue garble I've opted to use doesn't show up in Internet Explorer, and it not being there makes everything. Sort of wacky. Hurk.]
