USER WORLD (EARTH)
ARCADE BASEMENT – TWO WEEKS LATER
Days and nights went on into the search party inside the binaries and servers of the GRID. Sam couldn't believe the changes in GRID after C.L.Us de resolution. It proved one thing for sure: C.L.U had his spare keys inside for backup, reaffirming his belief in his Dad's presence. Keeping aside the ins and outs of the GRID, the main catch to this situation is that the location he obtained was just a blip and not a live tracker, which elevated Alan's skepticism of the news being genuine, barring his worries about losing his adopted son. Instead of narrowing it down to minute-to-minute location tracking and breakings heads and peace, Sam also started carving the blueprint of the ever-modifying GRID, color-marking all the checkpoints encountered on the way on his scribbling pad. Greyish-black Outlands paved the way for neon-blue sparkling liquid bodies, some seas, and some rivers, followed by semi-traceable linings of Tier-3 cities' infrastructure decorated the Digital Maps with the best of their information possible.
When Sam was confident that the GRID Map was halfway complete, he then started sketching the INs and OUTs for the cities and the GRID overall. Previous encounters etched in him the dangers of lack of authentication and single way of entry and exit into risky binary lands of the neon-soaked world, springing his determination of laying out multiple portals with proper security and permissions. Hindering this main priority is his limited time in that universe and the absence of a proper knowledgeable guide like his father. Adding to his woes is the fact that teleportation is a two-way ticket, meaning that C.L.Us henchmen could grab them within seconds of their entrance, repeating the previous debacle, for which choosing a random and new spot than the previous location is the only option right now, reducing risk probability to 50%. "This is what I fought for", thought Sam, convincing himself.
GRID – 35 MILLITRONCYCLES LATER
Neon-blue binary argon clouds
Misty Clouds generate uproar in the black void of the sky in this virtual realm. Light Jets leave an orange-red ribbon trail of tyranny and domination, laying footprints for the Carrier Ships to have their conquering ramp walk in pompous galore. Repurposed orangish clones, posing sternly as soldiers, hit their staffs in unison with a mighty thud, causing trouble quakes in the vacuum of silent skies. Unlike the Jets, these ships hover around the city with their mighty silhouettes, foreshadowing past sins onto the once-traumatized land of naïve programs. The irony to be seen is Argon's contribution of both rebels and repurposed C.L.U soldiers at the same period of TronCycles, a tragedy no city dared to replicate. Unlike the last episode, the rebels are nowhere to be seen in the farthest of visions to protect Argon once again.
Basics, basically civilized Programs in the GRID, have their eyeballs and heads slowly turning to the block-shaped clouds formed by overshadowing the real ones. Instead of a swarm of bees observed in User World often, this one is a marching pack of wolves disguised in mechanical flying machines. Although there are no animal species or their visual substitutes in this realm, they will now experience the snarling, vicious and hungry pack of wolves pouncing and grabbing the innocent and helpless deer of Basics in Argon. Helpless screams of help and mercy may not help them, but enslave them for sure, because this time the wolves have a werewolf to lead them, without any internal strife or second thoughts. This werewolf, who used to terrorize the city for a few TronCycles unanimously and with zero accountability in his reign, lost his throne for a simple yet very silly mistake, getting his ego and stature stripped off by those wanky rebels, Two Davids' against one Goliath, mere variables facing stubbornly against a fully developed application. He was perhaps the only commander in the history of GRID to escape deresolution from C.L.U, except that his life source lay dead with his superpower, not the block of code left to pity. As the Sea of Simulation pitied his vain efforts of erasing C.L.U forever since countless cycles in silence, this beast would laugh back, not just at the Sea but also at the thankless basics of Argon who rejoiced his absence, by unleashing the hordes of evil, craving for every bit of voxel they were promised many cycles ago, stomping in a frenzy of maniac laughter as they march towards the land of innocent. Behind them is their leader's chance at getting back his long-lost asset.
This cursed beast's ship was less of a whale and more of a lizard, covering Argon in its infinite but intricately carved shadow, yet still craving something else for its lust-filled black hole of a stomach. A floating mini city, the gears inside ran tirelessly round the clock in futility, after all, they were called into action out of desperation, not affection. The irony is that the sentries are easy to motivate than those rusting mechanical gears. Sentries leading their newbie troops into the New Order, liquid-like power supply throughout the spacecraft, misty smoke emanating from the tailpipes resembling fumes of a dragon, upgraded battalions with light batons, as if they were cousins of the Sith Order in Star Wars. Even a small byte of data could not flow inside this ship, filled to the brim with tension, conflict, chaos, and subjugation to the unknown horror that is the monster hidden in the darkness many cycles ago, to whom they are now submissive. No Basic in his end-to-end programming would tend to test such a case scenario in its lifecycle, let alone an ordinary User.
Amidst all the chaos, the Sentinel Commander approaches the leader, carrying with him the good news his master's ears craved for. This master of his was in a shivering mania, not of fear but by the restless mind. This monster was chained by the neural inks attached to the ship's Byte Chamber. His eyes closed, his mind replayed those horrendous insults as if to fuel his flame of revenge, while those tentacles of arms, if even one calls them arms, crawl their way from his shell of a body, a sign of the deformity he has become. Although visually and cyclically wise and aged, his sharp intellect and fresh wounds of dishonor made him a young brat inside. His elongated frame is enough to send shivers down the spine in anyone's horrific nightmares, let alone lay a finger on him.
- This better be worth it, Commander!
- Argon is right beneath us, Sir. Rest assured; the throne awaits you right away.
- (in a dismissive mood) It's just a seat, boy. Once your ass gets kicked from the throne, it's never a throne again.
- (Agreeing in hesitation) Absolutely sir, although it's sad you couldn't derezz him by yourself. (seeing the now defunct arms in disappointment)
- (bending towards his feet) Last time I crushed someone, he didn't even reach my shoulders, Commander. Let's see if you can reach them.
- (frowning) Pardon me, Sire. The Grid will soon be cast by your shadows, why stress yourself on bygone enemies?
- There are two of those bygone foes remaining, boy. (showing the scar on his face) Their faces would look good with this before their voxels derezz one by one(pausing for a bit) I prefer they die with their masks on, a good example for anyone who sees me straight in the eye.