A/N-1) This work is inspired by Hack Generation's 'From the Producers of TRON & ENCOM Presents: Beast Battles!' and makes reference to 'Following User Protocals' sushi-flavored cake.
2) This work is posted for all to read and is not meant to specifically communicate with anyone.
3)Happy Birthday to Kevin Flynn and Kohai. I know it's late. Deal.
The programs slipped quietly from room to room, making their way through the house unnoticed. While they had been in the User world for almost a year, none of them had lost the ability to move almost silently when they wished to do so.
As they drew closer to their collective goal, they could hear the voices of their programmers (well, except for in the case of Quorra, who had not been programmed) raised in good-natured argument. Since such squabbles were normal in the Flynn household, most of them were simply ignored. Right now, however, it was the perfect distraction and the programs planned to take full advantage of that fact. If Kevin Flynn and Alan Bradley were arguing—it didn't matter what the argument was about—a seemingly innocent question posed to one or the other about why the opposing viewpoint was incorrect could keep the two programmers intent on the argument to the exclusion of almost everything else around them.
Tron had been worried the first few times he observed this; seeing his friend and his User moving around a host of potentially dangerous items and pitfalls—in other words, a household with all of the usual appliances and access to stairs and yards—while neither one of them seemed to be paying any attention to their surroundings at all was not something likely to induce calm in the system monitor and security program. He kept trying to stay ahead of them, to protect them from possible harm and generally driving Alan, Kevin and Sam crazy as they would turn around and practically trip over Tron.
Sam had finally realized that it was one of the ways that the program was trying to 'fight for the Users' while in the User world. Sam had taken Tron aside and gently explained that this was something Alan and his father had done all the time before Kevin had been trapped on the Grid, and that while it appeared that they would easily walk off a cliff if left unwatched (a statement that caused Tron to panic that there might be cliffs nearby that he was unaware of), the two older programmers were actually in no danger of anything more serious than bruised egos caused by having to admit that the other might be right.
The programs had completed the most of their mission; they only needed the distraction of the on-going argument to complete the remainder.
Flynn's run-time anniversary this solar cycle was going to be more memorable than any other one he had before.
They snuck forward a bit more and followed the voices to where the two men were still arguing; ending up peering into the kitchen to see what was happening.
"C'mon, man," Flynn was saying, a trace of a whine in his voice. "It's my birthday after all."
"Then you should be old enough to know better, Kevin," Alan retorted, pouring more coffee into his mug. "The answer is still 'no'."
At their feet, tiny hooves clicking on the linoleum floor, a petite lap giraffe was letting out small bleats and rubbing its head against Alan's leg occasionally. Pete, as they had named the petite lap giraffe, was the only thing remaining from the first and last team Beast Battles game that Kevin had programmed the year before. Declaring that it was potentially too dangerous to be released as an Encom game or even kept as a personal game for the Flynn household, Alan had wiped the game program from the database and destroyed the back-up copy. The only things from the game that still existed were the simulation room (Alan had added safeguards to prevent another instance of something being created by accident) and Pete. Now, eyes focused on the plate of waffles on the counter near Alan's elbow, Pete was insistently begging for treats.
"Not now, Pete," Alan said, glancing down at the the small giraffe. "You've already had a bite."
When begging from Alan proved to be fruitless, Pete turned his attention to Kevin. He began bleating up at Kevin and pawing at his leg with a forelimb.
"Aw, I'll take care of you, buddy," Kevin said with a goofy smile on his face as he looked at the petite lap giraffe. "Got you a waffle of your own right here..." He placed a small plate with a plain waffle on it on a small stool so that Pete could reach it easier. The small giraffe gave a little bleat of happiness and eagerly began eating the waffle as quickly as he could.
Alan frowned at his friend. "You shouldn't feed him that," he said. "It's not very good for him. Why don't you give him a piece of fruit instead?"
"Says the man who gave Pete pancake and got him hooked on it in the first place," Kevin responded, teasingly. "It could be argued that this is your fault."
It was undeniable; ever since eating his first bite of pancake the tiny giraffe had been besotted with anything sweet and bread-like: pancakes, waffles, cake, muffins, cupcakes, brownies (which Alan protested on the grounds that it was "twice as bad for Pete..." as the aforementioned items) all were deemed to be foods far superior to Pete's normal diet of dried and fresh plant material. At least, they were superior as far as Pete's opinion went. The Flynn household now hosted a small bonsai forest, with five different types of trees in several pots and planters located all over the house to ensure Pete had plenty of fresh food to eat whenever he wanted to graze. Dinnertime included various kinds of hay, as well as small amounts of grain, fruit and more greens.
All of which were being ignored in favor of the waffle, which was disappearing with almost alarming speed.
The three programs decided to make their move. The two programmers were obviously too involved in their argument at this point to wonder where the programs had been or what they had been doing recently.
"That was one bite of pancake, and today was only one bite of waffle—not an entire waffle of his own! Kevin, you know what the vet said about Pete's weight!" Alan's voice had taken on the frustrated tone of someone who knew they were right and that it would make no difference in the end.
"What did the vet say?" Quorra was always the most curious about User interactions of the three, willing to ask questions about everything she saw or heard.
"The vet said that if Pete gained too much weight, it will strain all of his joints and muscles. His body wasn't meant to carry to much weight, especially his legs," Alan said, with an irritated sigh as he looked at the tiny giraffe eating the last few bites of waffle. Alan was so focused on the small animal in front of him that he seemed to take the sudden appearance of the programs as matter of fact, almost as if they had been there the entire time.
CLU was scrutinizing the petite lap giraffe, his brow furrowed in concentration. He spoke up, saying, "The giraffe's legs do not appear to have experienced much weight gain. Visual inspection shows them to be approximately the same size as when first created, although I would prefer some form of measuring device to be more accurate."
Kevin tried to use CLU's observation to seize the advantage in the argument. "See, even CLU thinks Pete's fine! He just said Pete looks the same as when we got him, so there's nothing to worry about."
Alan closed his eyes, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose lightly, as though that would stop the headache caused by arguing with a Flynn from manifesting. "Not his legs, Pete's legs aren't gaining weight...but almost everything else on him is..."
Everyone in the room, programmers and programs alike, looked at the tiny giraffe. Pete looked back at them and bleated happily, his tongue swiping at the edges of his mouth to lick any remaining crumbs. When no one else seemed likely to supply another waffle, the petite lap giraffe turned and trotted out of the room, giving the remaining occupants of the room an excellent rear view of him as he did so.
Alan was correct about many things. The simulation room needed safeguards. Kevin Flynn should never be given access to an army of 'war petite-lap-giraffes', even if they would be good for fighting smurfs. CLU and Feral should never be left alone with BBC's Sherlock on, as the resulting fights were loud enough to cause complaints from the neighbors and necessitate the purchase of a new couch. Sam's annual company prank required bail money to be on hand.
And Pete was getting fat.
While Pete's legs were still the slender little pipe-stems of their original size, the same could not be said of much else on the tiny animal. He was beginning to resemble a large, hairy, spotted cantaloupe with pretzel stick legs and a neck that was much thicker than when he first arrived. Quorra had remarked less than a week before on how 'tight' Pete's skin felt, asking if that was just something that happened to everything in the User world with time. She had wondered if it was similar to the tightness of skin on the faces of some older User females she had seen.
Somehow, in the conversation that followed, explaining what a face lift was and why some Users would choose to have such a procedure performed on them, the fact that Pete was almost too fat for his skin had been overlooked. Now, however, it was a fact that was impossible to overlook and it sparked off another round of arguments between the two Users.
Unnoticed by the arguing programmers, the three programs exchanged satisfied glances. With the Users sufficiently distracted by their latest argument, keeping the cake hidden until Sam and Feral joined them with the rest of the items for Flynn's run-time anniversary party would be easy.
The argument continued for several minutes, ranging from the topic of Pete's weight, to Flynn's lack of self-control in desiring more petite-lap giraffes. No doubt the argument would have gone on for much longer, if not for Tron's question...
"Does anyone know where Pete is?"
Everyone in the room, programmers and programs alike, stopped arguing and looked around. The tiny giraffe was nowhere in sight.
"He won't have gone far," Flynn said, confidently. "Pete stays close by when we're in the kitchen unless there is some other treat nearby."
At those words, CLU went pale. "Treats...nearby?" he asked.
"Oh, no," Quorra breathed, suddenly horrified by what that likely meant.
Tron was already bolting from the room, followed shortly by the other programs and two baffled-looking Users.
The actual dining room in the Flynn household was rarely used. Meals were more often a casual affair, taking place around the table in the kitchen's breakfast nook. Sometimes, it would be a large group of Users and programs sharing pizza straight from the boxes on the Flynn-hosted movie nights. The fact that it was used so infrequently had made it the perfect spot to hide the cake from Kevin Flynn.
However, it did nothing to hide a cake from a determined giraffe, no matter how small.
"What's going on in here?" Alan was asking as he and Kevin Flynn stumbled into the dining room after the programs, only to bump into Quorra's back as the programs came to a sudden, shocked halt. One look at the sight in front of them explained the shocked silence.
On the dining room table, buried up to his knees in cake and frosting, stood Pete. The petite-lap giraffe looked up from the cake, chewing frantically on the bite in his mouth, and burped loudly. Then the tiny head dove back down to the cake, globs of buttercream frosting clinging to his horns as Pete's paintbrush-like tail wagged quickly.
"Happy run-time anniversary, Flynn," CLU said, miserably.
"It was going to be a surprise," Tron added faintly.
"Oh, believe me, it is..." Kevin replied, still looking at the cake carnage taking place on the table in front of them. "Um, what flavor is—was—it?"
CLU couldn't seem to look away from the spectacle of Pete in a cake. "The bakery said that they couldn't make a sushi-flavored cake; however, Feral said it would be okay if we substituted a chocolate marble cake instead."
Kevin nodded his head, "Yeah, marble cake's good, too..."
The dull thud of a door closing somewhere in the house behind the group was heard, along with Sam's voice calling out, "We got the last few things from the sto—oh, cake."
Pete's head came up, a blob of buttercream icing rolling slowly down the side of his face and neck before plopping onto the floor. What looked like buttercream shells clung to the top of his head like an extra eyebrow.
"Happy birthday, Kevin," Alan said, clapping a hand on his friend's shoulder. "It looks unforgettable."
Knee-deep in the cake on the table, Pete bleated in agreement.