A/N: Basically just using this fic as a dumping ground for drabbles I actually like. It's part of my ongoing attempts to learn to write short things, so they all actually will be 100 words (whatever the site counter may claim :P). Given the shortness, if anyone pokes me with a topic request, they've got pretty good odds of getting it; these don't take long.
When a program first compiled, a lot was slow. Hazy. It took time to adapt to the system, feel your place in it and beyond it—to break past rote function and the simplicity of prewritten tasks to self, identity, choice. For some programs, it was a matter of milis—others would take a full cycle, or more, to fully self-define. Ram always joked that his sense of humor rezzed in before he did.
Tron had been running for just over three hundred milicycles. Not everything felt sure, not everything was certain—but he knew one thing.
He hated Sark.