||Fan Fiction by AimMan.EXE
||Awkward Date: Chapter 3 - No Off Days
Tron sat down sighing and supporting her head and with one arm in a very bored and embarrassed state as Glyde went through the very typical dating routine of picking out her dress for her (“Don’t worry, I’m a fashion master!” he told her”). He sifted through row after roll of ridiculous gowns, obviously searching for one to cater to his own particular tastes. She began to laugh out loud at the thought that Glyde could find his fashion so similar to a woman’s as to do such a thing. Glyde cast a quick glance over to her and said, “I think you should try on a few of these.” Handing them to her, he stood outside and waited for her to change. When she started to pull on the undershirt that accompanied the new outfit over her head, she realized that her hair was getting in the way. Normally, she would dress first and then tend to her massive sloping hairstyle, but she had neither the time nor the correct resources to do so presently. However, after much troublesome experimentation, she managed to squeeze her head through the hole, and then promptly grabbed a mirror to view the destruction.
Luckily, Tron’s hair was fine.
After an elongated period of fitting and critiquing, she finally managed to find a dress that at least remotely resembled the one Teasel had bought for her. She figured it couldn’t hurt to slap one of her metallic Bonne family skulls on the front for decoration, so she clipped it on. At least she had managed to salvage a little bit of this outing. She went to the counter to purchase the new dress, and cast a hopeful glance over to Glyde. His eye, barely moving, rested upon hers in about the same way it always had before: cold indifference. “Well, my dear, this might be a good time to explain a condition of our outing that Mr. Loathe arranged. You see, the Gesselshaft Mk.II that your good big brother parades around did not come cheap. The money had to come from somewhere, you see. You don’t honestly believe that the pathetic pirating skills of the Bonnes acquired that much funding, do you?” he explained with the usual contemptible air. It began to dawn on Tron now what transaction had likely actually occurred to purchase the materials. She raised her fist in the air and brought it down hard on the wall next to Glyde’s head. “Teasel, I swear, I can’t believe you! You actually borrowed from these stooges again?!” she yelled, despite the stares from the shoppers wandering around Tailor Chino’s. “Hm hm, that is correct,” Glyde said triumphantly, seeming to completely forget any romantic air he had been trying to put on. “So I’m sure you won’t mind putting a little bit up front by catching the tabs now, will you?” “Why you dirty!” she exclaimed, but then realizing that a confrontation with Glyde was pointless presently, dropped her voice. She reasoned that she’d rather not fight Glyde unless giant, custom-designed robots were involved.
After paying the exorbitant fee directly out of her own pockets, Tron was resolved to at least get something worthwhile with her next purchase; with this in mind, she managed to convince Glyde against going out and shopping to further beautify herself. They headed towards the new café, which proved to be quite large, or at least when held in comparison to the bar which had previously occupied the spot. Tron smiled at the waiters, enjoying the pleasant, cozy atmosphere. Glyde yelled rudely to a figure in the back of the café, a short figure that waddled towards the front desk slavishly. After peaking his head over the counter, the screw in the top of the head and the beak protruding from the front of the face made it abundantly apparent that the waiter was one of Glyde’s henchman: a birdbot. “Oh no, don’t tell me you guys own this property too?” she said, dismayed. “No worries there!” he piped out. A stern look from Glyde persuaded him to rephrase the previous sentence. “Ahem, keh keh, what I meant was, I am afraid not Madame. This is just a side job.” Tron for a moment pondered what the birdbot had said; she had never taken time to consider what the birdbots might do with their near-human AI. Do they act like the Servbots in their spare time? Are they perhaps deployed on recon and chose specifically for missions, each having their own special skill and artillery?
She stopped daydreaming suddenly, as the birdbot grabbed her hand. At least, her first impression was that her hand had been clutched; however, she soon realized that this is impossible with Birdbot’s very limited reach of their three blocky fingers, and found that he really just sort of slapped her hand as an indicator to follow, and that Glyde had then taken her hand once more. After sitting down, the birdbot handed her a copious menu, filled with many elegant sounding foods. She found it interesting also that they had kept many of the very simple foods from when the restaurant had been a bar. She remembered the menu just vaguely from an earlier family outing she had shared with her brothers. It was a little refreshing for her to be reminded that things had not changed so much since the old days. “Ah, let’s see… I believe the ‘flamboyants fromage, oignon, et crabe boules’ sounds like a wise choice,” Glyde said to her, trying to put on the air of a shrewd dater with lots of experience in impressing his girl. “Pfft… That’s one of those $25.00 affairs they put up just to make people waste money by ordering the fanciest thing on the menu,” Tron thought to herself. “And I bet he expects me to cough up for it too!” “Look, the waiter has arrived,” Glyde noted. “I’m ready to order. I’ll have…” As the waiter jotted down Glyde’s extensive order, Tron decided to take in the scenery around her booth. She observed the fine red leather seating, the smooth hardwood table, and the dim, waning lights that would, in another vivid fantasy of hers, have been very romantic. Just then, however, her eyes met with something that stole the color from her face and cause her mouth to fall completely out of her seat. Just above the booth, in an enormous golden frame with cursive engraving, there was a masterfully designed oil painting of a fierce, pitch black Doberman.
“AGH! IT’S A D-D-DOG!” she screamed at the top of her lungs. Almost by instinct, she looked for the nearest lamppost to scale for safety. Seeing none, she darted for the closest nearby asylum, and found it in one of the waiters. She grabbed onto his broad shoulders, and started to hoist herself onto his back. For a moment, the large waiter found this playfully attractive; however, that feeling lasted for only a split second as he began to totter, trying to balance the large dish of plates and martinis. She continued to climb him madly, tearing with her gloved hands and lifting one leg up over his right shoulder. He was losing his balance, and tried desperately to cling onto it with his remaining sense of posture. Suddenly, Tron’s stiff, solid hair smacked his face like a hammer, knocking him out cold. He toppled over, with Tron now at his underbelly, holding the dish high above his head. Dishes and glasses scattered, seeming to fly straight for the receiving party of the beverages. However, by the same horrible fate she had been cursed with thus far, the plates instead hit Tron square in the face as she recovered from her fall. Shaking her head to regain her consciousness, she was met by a volley of stray martini glasses, which wholly shattered as they collided with her hair, drenching her hair with both glass and beverage. Dismayed, Tron pulled out her pocket mirror to find that it looked like a damp pincushion, filled with glass and sopping wet. Amazingly though…
Tron’s hair still held.
She picked a few pieces of glass out of it and looked angrily at Glyde, growling, “I’ll be just a minute.” “Alright, alright, just go on! You’re making a scene out of all of this!” he responded testily. She stomped off to the bathroom and scowled into the mirror, picking out glass and straightening out a few loose locks. It took a deplorably long time to straighten everything out; Tron usually prepared her hair specially with about an hour of styling. She proceeded back to her seat, but then noticed that the waiter was gone. “Um, Glyde, is the waiter coming back for my order?” she asked dejectedly, already knowing the imminent answer. “Ha ha, no dear, I ordered for you,” he said, chuckling. He then added knowingly, “But don’t worry, I made sure to get you something suited to your limited budget.” She smiled crookedly, thinking to herself, “Well, whatever it is, it surely can’t be as bad as some flaming cheese balls…” Just then, the birdbot who was waiting on the table returned with their meals. His annoying, squawking voice spoke, in typical birdbot speech, “Here’s the good gentleman’s meal for the day!” as he handed Glyde his fancy cheese, onion, and crab balls. “Splendid. And for the girl?” Glyde asked, smiling at the corner of his mouth. “Uh oh,” Tron thought suddenly. “It’s another enemy move by Glyde. Can’t he get off of that?” “And for the Madame, keh keh,” the birdbot squawked, “… a hot dog.” “UGH, I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU!” she shouted at Glyde, standing up in her seat. “I don’t like dogs, you know I don’t like dogs! Why are you doing this!?” “Ho ho, I guess some old habits die hard, Tron,” he replied victoriously. “Now sit down and eat your meal. You’re making a scene!” he laughed victoriously. “Oh, I’m gonna make a scene all right!” she yelled, swinging her fist. The elegant gloved hand, clenched into a ferocious fist of rage, collided with Glyde’s cheek intensely, sending him flying into the broad-shouldered waiter and causing the waiter to once again drop his load.
Tron breathed deeply and furiously, in complete shock of Glyde’s stupidity. “Ho ho.. Ho…” he chuckled, brushing himself off and coughing. “You caught me off guard that time, but you’d be a fool to think I’ll let you do it again!” he said, running at her with surprisingly fleet of foot. His fist caught her in the stomach, and he grabbed her painfully by the hair, slinging her into the portrait above the booth. She hit it headfirst, but…
Her hair was still perfectly in place.
The pain was very surprising to Tron, who suddenly realized Glyde’s strength as a full-grown man. As she clutched her side and coughed, she thought back to the ridiculousness of the entire date, starting from Glyde’s entrance in the tacky limousine. Then all of a sudden it hit her, and she asked him, “How did you get that thing in there anyway? Glyde’s one visible eye opened a little more widely for a second. He cleared his throat and said, “I flew it in, of course.” “Yeah,” said Tron, seeing she was on to something, “but how did it actually get through Ruminoa defenses? For that matter, how did it even fit through the gates without damaging anything?” “Well, er…” Glyde said, pondering upon the fact himself. Suddenly, he snapped and put his finger to his forehead, saying, “Ah, that’s right! I just remembered the reason I built that thing. It’s actually a case for a bomb.” Tron blanked out for a second. “A bomb? Are… are you serious?” she muttered in disbelief. “That’s right, a bomb, powerful enough to wipe out every layer of defense remaining in those Nino Ruins. We built it earlier, and it just so happened we were able to modify the case for it enough to pass for a limousine for my grand entrance. I believe the bomb itself has probably been started by now, and the whole thing should explode in, hmmm, 12 minutes or so.” Tron sat back down in her seat for a moment, dazed and confused, however, she soon sprung back to her feet. “12 minutes!? If that thing goes off, it won’t just wipe out your silly ruins!” she yelled, bearing down on Glyde. He shrunk back into his seat, stuttering, “I-it won’t?” “No stupid!” Tron shouted back, “it’ll destroy this whole tower, starting with the base! We’ve got to stop that thing!” “Now please,” Glyde said, dusting himself off and rising back up to his former cocky stature, “we’ve planned this out a little too well to just ‘stop this thing.’ We anticipated that the authorities might have a plan to stop our excursion, so we made removed the controls from the bomb. There’s no way to stop it whatsoever. Trust me on this one.” All at once, they realized the danger of the situation. Sensing that he had realized too, Tron smiled and asked Glyde hopefully, “So, will you help me stop it?” Glyde smiled suavely, reached in his pocket, and pressed a button on a small remote. He then, wordlessly, sprinted for the door, grabbed the birdbot waiter, and ran for the nearest docking gate. “Rrrgh! He makes me crazy!” Tron growled with her face in her hands. “I guess I’ll have to stop it myself.”