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Sam liked Tron. He liked Tron a lot, way more than CLU, but if the Program picked up one more item off the shelf and asked what is was, the young Flynn would punch him in the face.
"Sam, what is -"
"Cereal, Tron. It's all cereal."
The man paused, looked down at the cardboard container in his hand as if seeing it for the first time. "But every box is different."
Teeth brushed Sam’s lip and he managed, "Still all cereal. Just read the description; it’s right there for you."
“Sugary gobs of toasted wheat fun shapes. I don’t know what that means.”
“No one does. Pick the prettiest one.”
Tron scanned the aisle, honing in on the brightest colors and most outlandish mascots. After a great struggle between Fruity Pebbles and Cap’n Crunch, Fred and Barney came out victorious.
“Awesome,” Sam quipped, though he didn’t mean it – at all. He assumed the supermarket would be over-stimulating for the Programs, but not quite to this degree. If they made it home before tomorrow’s breakfast, things would have gone better than expected.
“CLU? You done picking?”
The older man looked up from the box he was molesting, fingers running over the edges and tracing the boldly printed words.
“I have chosen these Bran Flakes.”
“Good choice,” Sam called, then muttered, “you technological dinosaur.” He sent Tron in search of milk, hitting him over the head with directions and descriptions until he was certain the task couldn’t possibly be screwed up. CLU, he decided, would be better off in the company of a User.
The two strolled down the beer aisle as Sam seemingly chose cases at random and plopped them into the cart. They would be needed – were already needed – and Sam intended to down them all.
Wine was next, because hey, sometimes he wanted to feel classy, make a nice dinner for the Programs, really show what delicacies his world had to offer.
He was cooking beef tonight so that was…it was… He scanned the shelves, all the reds and whites and some color in between; large bottles, small bottles, ones from California and ones from France, and realized he had no clue in hell what he was doing.
CLU was also scouring the options, nose upturned at the choices though he had even less a sense of their value than Sam. He grabbed a merlot; inspected the label with a scowl befitting an overly glorified food critic.
He grumbled, “This expired two years ago,” and promptly let it slip from his grip and shatter on the floor.
Sam jumped and turned, half-hoping a shelf was about to fall on the other man and disappointed when that wasn’t the case.
“What are you doing??”
“It’s old,” he hissed, reaching for another. “This one’s expired too. The vendor is trying to cheat you.”
The second hit the floor with a loud crack that seemed to endlessly echo in Sam’s mind. He leapt forward, arms flailing in an attempt to snatch the next bottle from CLU’s grasp, but the Program twisted his body in a game of keep-away.
“Stop it, I have to pay for that! It’s not old, wine is supposed to be aged!”
One by one the Program’s fingers lifted, slowly and painfully as Sam held his breath to prepare for the inevitable. He lunged again and this time CLU let him win, let him have the bottle so the User could feel better about himself – as if he actually accomplished something in life.
Sam grabbed CLU and they moved on, rage too blinding to sit around and wait for a clerk to appear so he could stumble through an apology and explanation, for whether in the Grid or on Earth, CLU just couldn’t be explained.
He grunted, “You can’t destroy things because you don’t like them.”
“Why not, kiddo?” CLU asked, voice light. “I did it all the time on the Grid.”
“And look where that got you.”
Fingers danced over rows of hanging toothbrushes, knocking a majority onto the shelf below. “Yeah, stuck in this shit hole – this pathetic excuse for a civilization.”
Sam’s fist clenched until red turned white, head whipping from side to side, looking for something to throw or hit him with. He snatched a pack of menstrual pads and chucked them into the cart.
“Here,” he barked. “I got these for you, for your period.”
“What are they?”
“You put them in your underwear -”
“And they assist with grammar?”
Sam’s face went lax when he replied, “Yeah.”
The Program put hands on hips as his head bobbed up and down. “An upgrade. How uncharacteristically kind of you, Sam Flynn.”
“More like a fail-safe, but sure.” Sam added a couple sticks of men’s deodorant and one vanilla-scented women’s, because though CLU acted like he deserved baby powder, Sam was never a fan.
When he turned, there was CLU, so close their chests almost touched, with head leaning forward towards his ear.
He whispered gruffly, “I have to urinate,” in the same tone Sam recognized from porn when things were about to get dirty.
“No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I must.”
The inner workings of the Programs were still a mystery to Sam, who knew nothing better than to treat them as human beings. They needed energy and so they were fed; needed warmth and so they were clothed, and it seemed to be working out all right and so he kept doing what he was doing.
He huffed, “Fine,” though didn’t care to leave the cart unattended and didn’t care to leave CLU alone in a public restroom. He walked with him, would shove him into a stall and hope for the best.
But CLU didn’t like stalls. He didn’t like being confined to small spaces with his senses hindered, and so insisted on a urinal and insisted Sam turn his back and keep watch while he was in his most vulnerable state.
Mid-stream he halted and commanded, “Stop looking at me.”
Sam snapped defensively, “I’m not looking at you,” ironically turning to regard CLU to make sure his words carried. Behind, the restroom door swung open as another customer walked inside.
CLU caught Sam’s eyes, roared, “Stop looking at my penis!” loudly enough to give the unidentified man pause before deciding to retreat back to the supermarket.
Sam’s cheeks flared red and he subconsciously pulled his chin down into the collar of his jacket to hide himself. His father’s Program zipped up, calm and collected as if nothing happened, and in spite of everything, Sam had to encourage, “Wash your hands.”
CLU wet them, pushed the soap dispenser several times before he learned to keep his hand steady underneath in order to collect the gel, leaving a mess on the floor for the janitor or a death sentence for anyone walking fast – a bit too anxious to relieve themselves.
Sam pointed to the air dryer and CLU begrudgingly placed hands underneath it, obviously disgusted by its uninspired design. Hot air came out in a violent whirl, room filled with the unholy sound of a thousand vacuum cleaners. CLU jumped backwards, drawing arms to his chest, nearly falling over his own feet.
He screeched, “The Kraken!” eyes wide and color absent from his face – the same look he wore when he experienced a toaster for the first time.
“What?”
“The Kraken!”
“I don’t think you know what that means.”
“A monster.”
“It’s just a hand dryer. Stop being a pussy.”
CLU scowled in response and rubbed wet hands over Sam’s leather jacket. The young Flynn took it, though was very close to sticking his head under the fucking Kraken to watch him yell and squirm when he thought his skin was being burned off by a giant underwater sea monster.
Instead, he settled on a terse, “Let’s find Tron,” and lead the way back to the cart.
__________
The Security Program stood obediently near the refrigerator, stepping back every time a costumer came to open the door then falling into place again. Sam watched Tron repeat this action three times before he and CLU got near.
“I got the milk, Sam.”
“Great, Tron. I knew I could count on you.”
He smiled bashfully, reminded, “You can trust me with greater missions. I’m skilled in combat and death.”
CLU snorted. Sam patted him on the back in a motion that was both strong enough to be encouraging and awkward enough to negate whatever was said next. “When a life needs to be ended, I will come to you.”
They carried on, past the meat counter and to the fish, a large dimly lit tank catching Tron’s attention. Lobsters were piled inside, crawling over each other and half-climbing up the walls, and the Program was entranced by the cage that seemed better suited for a zoo.
“Look, that one likes you.” Sam chuckled to himself but Tron stared quizzically, eyes narrowing as he studied the creatures.
He observed for a while before deciding, “I like him too.”
“We’ll get one. It’s not enough to feed three people but you can learn how to cook it.”
Sam beckoned the butcher and picked out a feisty new friend. CLU made a guttural noise that Sam could only assume was disapproval. The lobster was plopped in the front basket like a small child while Sam went to collect processed meats in vacuum sealed packages.
Tron came to examine the lobster closer, decided he was suffocating and claustrophobic, ripped open the bag and placed him gently back in his seat. It remained unmoving, tiny legs hanging through the metal grate.
“Tron,” Sam called, waltzing back. “Why is the lobster out of the bag?”
“He couldn’t breathe.”
“He’s gonna be fine until we get home. You can’t have a loose lobster.” A pile of meat fell into the cart and CLU watched, trying to imagine what kind of round and square animals they came from.
“Why not? He doesn’t move very fast. His claws are bound.”
Sam pursed his lips, had no real argument other than it was weird to have a live animal in the cart with no real indication it was food and not an exotic pet.
“I named him Gary.”
“Nooo.” Hands waved in Tron’s face. “You shouldn’t name him.”
“Why not?”
“We’re going to eat him. Don’t get attached.”
Eyes fell and chin followed as Tron regarded his new best friend. He looked back at Sam with an innocence befitting a child. “Eat him? He’s alive.”
“He’ll be dead soon enough.”
The Program’s brow stitched and mouth fell open.
“Meat comes from animals, you know that.” Tron stared, horror stricken, and Sam felt his stomach slowly sink. “It’s just how the world works. Animals eat other animals – there’s nothing wrong with it.”
CLU chimed in with, “His adorable little body looks succulent,” earning him a dirty look from his User’s son.
“You can’t eat Gary.”
“We have to eat Gary, I already paid for him.”
“I don’t want you to kill Gary, Sam. I love him.”
“You don’t love him. You don’t even know what that means.” There was a deep sigh before the younger man continued. “We have to put him out of his misery now because he can’t survive out of water.”
“I’ll fill the bath.” Tron stepped closer until Sam fully expected him to grab his shirt and fall to his knees in a blubbering mess. “Sam, I will fill the bath.”
“Tron…I’m sorry. Gary is for eating. That’s his purpose. You understand that, right?”
“It’s in his code?”
“Yeah…”
“Who coded him to die?”
The other’s lip twisted and he answered slowly, “…God.”
“Typical.” CLU folded arms against his chest, stared directly at Sam until he was forced to look away.
“Look, Tron, why don’t you find something special you’d like to eat? Each of you pick out one thing in the store you want to try.”
CLU cocked his head, fingers running over his lips as he asked, “Does sugar count as one or 8 million?”
“I’ll count that as one, but you can’t eat just sugar.”
“You said I could pick whatever I wanted,” he accused, then his voice deepened and quivered when he said, “You broke your promise,” in a tone hauntingly familiar - the same tone he’d used with Flynn.
There was a moment’s hesitation before Sam agreed, “You can eat the sugar.”
__________
CLU got his sugar – one pound of it – an endless supply of misery where Sam was concerned. Tron was less decisive, head popping in and out of aisles but always looking lost.
“How about Jello or Hamburger Helper?”
The Program replied distantly, “No,” though Sam was certain he didn’t know what either of them were. He finally disappeared down the cereal aisle and came trotting back with a red box in hand.
“You already got Fruity Pebbles, Tron.”
“Yes, but this box seems heavier; there’s variation, they are inconsistent.”
“You want to exchange it?”
Tron flipped the box in his hand, a single eyebrow dipping. “No, I wish to compare them.”
“They’re going to taste the same.”
The Program regarded him silently with a look judgmental. The User gave in, sighed, “Alright,” as a hand crawled into his pocket and pulled out his phone.
“It’s 9:00. I’m not cooking tonight.” His eyes scanned to Gary and knew that wasn’t entirely true. “Let’s pick something up at the salad bar before we leave.”
The buffet table was like Wonderland, or Narnia, or the Matrix, or any of the fantasy worlds Tron learned about while being with Sam. It was foreign and fascinating and full of treats.
Sam said to pick out dinner and so CLU did, stuffing strawberries dipped in cottage cheese into his mouth and crunching a fistful of croutons over coleslaw.
“Oh, no, CLU - you can’t just stick that in your mouth.”
The other hummed, “I could say the same of you, Sam Flynn.”
Sam’s head cocked as if he didn’t quite get it, then CLU grunted, “Whore,” as unsubtly as possible. He dug his hand into the shredded carrots and sprinkled his tongue with the cool, sweet vegetable. “It’s the same concept as grapes.”
“You’re not supposed to eat those either unless you pay for them.”
“I ate an entire bunch and no one said anything. The cherries were good too.”
Sam’s face straightened and he attempted to give the Program his best displeased look.
“The bananas were okay.”
“Stop touching everything and make yourself a salad. Get some soup, mac & cheese, tuna, whatever, but stop touching things.”
Tron had already begun filling his box. He loved User food; loved the colors and the smells and the imperfections. It was like a game, finding out what you’d get; waiting to see if you made the right decisions inspecting a cantaloupe.
“Tron, buddy. That is a lot of olives.”
The Program looked up, ranch dressing in his hand still trickling over his round, green pile.
“It’s a salad.”
“No…I mean, maybe? But not in the traditional sense. Most people use lettuce.”
A quiet, “Oh,” left his mouth as he disappointedly looked around for the item to which Sam was referring. He grabbed a handful of leaves and dotted them on top.
“Yeah, that looks good.” Sam noticed CLU taking a cue and adding lettuce to his box, then reaching for the broccoli cheese soup and pouring it on top.
“Let’s check out. Help me put everything on the belt.”
Tron eagerly obeyed, stacking the items precisely and efficiently like Tetris. CLU watched them work; shoved soggy leaves into his mouth and made a face.
Sam hesitated to swipe his card, the total being astronomical compared to the beer and ramen he used to stock up on. He repeated a mantra in his mind, “I’m a billionaire and I can afford Jello pudding snacks,” and ran the card through the machine in one satisfying woosh.
Back at the car, Tron was excited to assist again with loading the groceries while CLU continued torturing himself with hot, wilted lettuce. The last bag had been nestled safely, but Sam still jerked his head, looking for something he couldn’t find.
“Where’s the lobster? I know it was in the cart.”
There was silence, Tron standing at attention with a blank stare and CLU, spitting a gross green and yellow wad of food back into his take-home box.
Sam approached the Security Program, looked him straight in the eyes when he asked, “Tron…where did you hide Gary?”
“He escaped.”
“That is literally not possible.”
The other’s lips stitched shut and Sam didn’t press it. He scanned the concrete, got down on one knee to look under the car. As soon as his back turned his attention was grabbed by the unmistakable clattering of a cart flying haphazardly through the parking lot. Sam bolted up in time to see his shopping cart fly down the row of cars with a dark red blob in the basket.
Tron yelled, “Run away!” arms still hanging in the air.
The younger man sprinted like a demon, less worried about the lobster and more about the insurance he could not call upon when the cart smashed into someone else’s vehicle.
He caught it by the handle and ripped Gary from the seat, kicking the cart into the collection aisle before storming back. Begrudgingly he gave the animal to Tron to sit on his lap, for at this point, Sam no longer wished to be responsible.
“I told you Gary can’t live in a place like this. He would have died more slowly stuck in that cart.”
A hand ran gently down the lobster’s shell as Tron spoke in that righteous tone Sam hated in times like these. “He should at least be awarded the chance to survive. It’s only right.”
CLU rolled his eyes, an action Sam caught through his rearview mirror.
“Alright, I’ll put Gary in a pan when we get home. If he crawls out, he can live. If he stays put, then it’s his wish to end his own life. Deal?”
It took little time for Tron to consider this because it seemed too easy. He agreed, “Deal,” in full confidence Gary wanted to live, for he had so much to live for.