AN: Sorry it took a bit longer than the promised day or so to get this part up, but it's done now and this is the final concluding part. But, urgh, my dark and disturbed mind. Believe it or not I do really love all of these characters, despite what I put them through! Thank you for reading, and please forgive me for this.

II. Threat Neutralisation

'These are simple procedures, Private,' he assures the soldier strapped heavily to the chair in front of him, voice working to be steady but for some reason not succeeding. 'There really is no need to struggle you know, so just stop, stop; there- there really is no point!'

A whiplash of heat behind his eyes and he's blinking quickly, harshly, wondering why there's a line of sweat rolling down his brow and why he's just said all of that and said it so loudly, because the sedative is working perfectly and Markowski isn't struggling at all.

He blinks again, chest heaving, this time slower and surer, and sees that Markowski, the first of the three he removed for treatment, is moving but in a way to be expected: sluggish, hesitant and definitely non-threateningly. The Solider is slowly trying to understand what's just happened to him and why it's still continuing and why everything about him just feels so wrong.

It doesn't take long for the drug to wear off completely, and it's quite interesting to watch the melting sequence of images Markowski contorts his face into, which are clear for him to see underneath the bright light burning onto him.

The room they're in is small and square; it's one of the outer chambers to the circuit breaker that encircles the entirety of Game Central Station, hidden neatly underneath its main floor. All of the chambers are completely soundproof, so there's no chance of them being disturbed by the desperate stampede of feet and the wail of sirens that's still roiling above their heads.

This work is important, and he can't afford distractions.

He's cut off all the lights in the room except for one large surgical lamp that's angled directly into Markowski's face; its sodium white beam is harsh, and it shows up every pore until it reaches his neck. This is where the light ends, for the rest of the soldier's body and the entire room itself is encased in pitch black. It's so dark and consuming outside of this small tunnel of light that it locks out even his own glowing blue form. He's invisible until he moves into that narrow field of light and this is how he wants it, it's- no; it's…it's how it needs to be.

Yes, how it needs to be.

A narrow beam to give focus, direction, and he's hardly hiding in the dark when he moves into that light, and definitely not hesitating when he slowly stretches a hand, an arm, a glinting blade into it because he's just being careful, precise, since he's made a vow not to let things go wrong ever again.

He tilts half of his face into that light, leaving one part in shadow and bleaching the other half white-blue, as he leans in closer just as Markowski is climbing up into anger, those lips twisting and teeth appearing and breathing coming short, but all it takes is a sharp scalpel at his throat to cut this down before it grows.

'You are…damaged, and need to be rectified; you- you need to be re-calibrated,' he tells Markowski blandly, as he holds the bright steel carefully along his neck. Below the jawline, over the voice box, blade flat against the skin and Markowski's eyes are now flicking down to it before shooting up to meet his own, and the soldier's voice is forced out in a rasp.

'…what?'

'Infection needs to be cut out before the entire body becomes corrupted,' he explains slowly, because Markowski is still looking bewildered and he'd prepared himself to be patient, he knows the Private is slow, but the trundling thought process behind the man's skull still makes him grip the instrument tighter.

'Certain parts of you are not…suitable for the environment in which you find yourself. They are not…advantageous to your primary place of continued existence.'

'I…what? I- I don't understand, what- what are you-'

He exhales slowly, heavily, and looks Markowski deep into his eyes, pleased that the man looks away quickly, but not so pleased that there's still a fire smouldering inside them.

'After one week you left your game because you couldn't handle it.'

He pauses, waits for a reaction and, in a rush, like a trigger's been pulled, Markowski doesn't disappoint.

'It was all those bugs! Again and again and again they kept coming, kill and be killed over and over and over and do you have any idea what it's like to feel like that? To be on a huge great wheel with no chance of escape or hope of something better, and-' Markowski cuts himself off, the look in his face suggesting that he's said too much and not a word of it is helping.

Markowski takes a breath, and sits up as straight as his bonds allow, voice carefully modulated to convey confidence. 'But that is all in the past now. I have conquered my fears and am operating at maximum efficiency within acceptable parameters of error. I- I am correct and stable and will never abandon my game again. I am a solider and I will do my duty.'

His unblinking look continues to bore into the solider in front of him. 'But there should never have been an error,' he explains slowly, clearly, condescendingly. 'The error was on my part by allowing you to participate in the first place. I…failed to diagnose your problem, I- failed to detect the… instabilities in your code as soon as your game was plugged in, and for that – for all of it – I apologise.'

Markowski is now looking at him in wary confusion. 'There…is no problem. Not- not any more there isn't; I'm fine! Fine!'

He shakes his head. 'No, you're not and yes, there is. In fact there are…several problems.' He leans in closer, allowing the light to show more of him.

'And they need to be removed.'

Markowski swallows, and the blade moves with it. '…what-'

'Parts of you cannot cope with your game's demands, and it's in your best…interests if they're removed. It's in the best interests of others if they're removed.'

He scrapes the blade up, slowly up, until it's covering those lips, that mouth. 'Like this. Fear is infectious, and something even I don't have a cure for. I…know that you understand how vital the control of information is, and why personal…feelings, personal fears, must be wrapped up and contained and never shared with others, less it brings them pain and misery. Less it brings them into danger.'

Markowski inhales sharply, as the flat of the blade is pressed down.

He presses down harder, and sees that Markowski wants nothing more than to close his eyes shut. But the man can't, because there are wire thin metal claws forcing his eyes open, and Markowski is denied the chance of oblivion.

'They must no doubt haunt your dreams, those bright green eating bugs of yours,' he continues, as he lifts the blade up and changes its position, the tip now pointing down at where his tongue lies hidden behind tight lips. 'So it's best that you don't speak of them again.'

He lowers the blade carefully, oh so carefully, until the barest point of the tip is touching Markowski's cheek, but even this feather light contact is enough to make the Solider moan and slowly, yes oh so slowly so that the skin is never broken and no mark is left, he trails a path with it from the soldier's lips down to his jaw line tracing the curve of it up and around until it touches his ear.

'It's best that you don't hear them again.'

He then slides the blade to rest underneath an eye, the right eye, its pupil wide and blown and leaking steadily from all sides.

'And it's certainly best that you don't see them again.'

Markowski sucks in a breath and then explodes, tortured eyes alight and teeth bared sharp as he prepares to go down fighting.

'This- you're wrong! All of this is wrong, it's sick so wrong and you're sick and as soon as I get back into my game I'm gonna regenerate and then I'm gonna hunt you down!'

The logic is flawless, and he nods his head in respect of it.

Nods his head down slowly, but doesn't raise it back up. '…if you were to go back into your game, then that would indeed be something for me to worry about.'

It takes a few seconds for Markowski to process these words, but when he finally does so he jerks as if he's been slapped, his mouth now gaping and wiped clean of proud defiance, as he uselessly tries to fight against his bonds.

The soldier's train of thought would be clear to read even in the dark, so to save some time he verbalises the questions and provides their answers before his patient gets a chance to.

'The players will not miss you because you are indistinguishable from the other soldier NPCs. You are not programmed to speak or to do anything…unique, such as interacting with them, so if they don't see you running around not saying a word no alarm will be raised because everything will be normal. You should…really know by now that I would never expose your game to that degree of risk.'

He watches the soldier's face collapse, but before the objections can start he raises his voice and overrides them.

'You are not going to be deleted, Private, so you can stop that train of thought before it starts. What do you take me for? Everyone needs protecting sometimes, even soldiers, it doesn't matter what type of character you are, but you have to respect this difference and understand that different forms of protection are therefore required. Everyone needs protecting, from- from power surges, from bugs and dangers outside of their game and- …and even sometimes from themselves.'

He holds the blade steady, pleased with these words, but they haven't settled him and he's starting to doubt and that's not what he wants and not what he deserves, and before he knows it he feels his other hand clenching into a fist.

'It-this will all be right; it will be as it should be. You will be happier for this Private, because you will no longer have to see your death approach you; you'll be spared the…the unfair agony of watching your end approach and then consume you as you- as you just stand there, motionless, powerless, wondering why it's happening and knowing it can't be stopped can't be changed and you know that everyone's looking but no-one's seeing, because all they care about and all they do is-'

He puts the brakes on sharply, hotly, wondering how his voice got so loud and why he's sweating again, when he knows the room's temperature is hovering just above zero.

'So…so then why- why remove-' Markowski's voice cracks and falters, unwilling to say out loud what's about to be done.

A loaded silence is the first answer, but when it hasn't worked and Markowski's face hasn't change, he exhales softly and is forced to vocalise it.

'Because you cannot control yourself. You are a loose element. You are a threat; you…you are a threat to others, and you must be cauterised. If it all suddenly becomes too much for you again, who can predict the next character you'll off load onto? Complaining about your game and the horrors you have to face, and who can tell what impact that will have on them? Ralph saw your words as an opportunity, but in the ears of another you might scare them; you might…terrify them, and cause them harm – cause more people harm, and do you really want that on your conscience?'

He breathes in, and the chain of events Markowski helped set off when he met Ralph in Tappers stutters like a film strip before him, neon green and dark silver, each image flickering after the other at obscene speed, and no matter how much he want to press pause and rewind it he can't help but watch it through to its inevitable conclusion.

'Our actions have a long reaching consequence, Private, even if we have no idea what they may be.'

He breathes out, and feels himself begin to steady.

'…please…' Markowski whispers, as he stares into the set face in front of him.

'…you're welcome,' he replies softly, almost slowly, as he moves the blade up carefully to the bottom of that eye, all white and wide and welcoming. He pauses for a beat, for just a second, as he presses the metal down onto the rim; into the lower line of eyelashes, as he considers and then repeats himself, surprisingly relieved that this time the words feel lighter but settle heavier.

'You're welcome.'

He steadies his grip on the blade as he looks into that eye, and slowly pierces it with the tip.

That treatment had gone perfectly, it– well OK it had gone almost perfectly, if he's being completely honest with himself.

He wasn't prepared for Markowski to struggle so much and to make so much mess, because why would you fight against someone that only wants to help you? He'll check on the solider afterwards, and if the man's finally stopped thrashing about he'll clean up the chamber and then transfer him to that safe room, so he can be unstrapped and finally be at ease.

Yes, he's confident the Private will eventually thank him; in fact he's more confident of everything now, second time round and, as he once again checks that the door of this second outer chamber is locked, he wonders why he ever felt unsteady in the first place.

It's faintly bemusing really.

He makes his way slowly back to the middle of the room, and is met with yet another scowl.

It's unlikely she will be thanking him any time soon, which is…disappointing, but not wholly surprising.

Maybe he's finally realised that he'll never be thanked for his good work, for just doing his job, and that using the opinions of others to measure your happiness and sense of worth is the most self-destructive lie you choose to buy into.

Unlike her subordinate, Sergeant Calhoun doesn't need to be sedated.

She's also free to blink her eyes and look daggers at him, which is exactly what she's doing now, even though it's clear those blades are dull and cracked.

She can also scream and threaten and promise all she likes because she's not going anywhere, nowhere at all; not when she's on her back with her arms stretched behind her head and her legs pointing straight, and even if her feet are broken at the ankles to make an unnaturally straight line it's nothing to get too worried about because it's all only temporary; it's all only necessary, and once she's returned to her game she can die and regenerate and be right back to normal.

He's going to make her back to normal, because her…condition – what she thinks is her condition – is most definitely not what one calls normal.

It's dangerous because she believes it to be true, and he wouldn't be doing his job properly if he didn't protect them from themselves.

'This isn't just for your own good,' he explains kindly. 'It's for everyone's benefit that you're helped.'

'Including your own?' she spits accusingly, every line of contempt and pain in her face harshly highlighted by the blinding lights they're immersed in.

The surgical lights studded throughout this room flood every inch of it, so that the floor walls ceiling all merge into one, creating a pure white cube with a nucleus of matte black and neon blue pulsing at is core.

'…well, yes, I do intend for this to be to my…no, not- not advantage, but rather to my… image,' he concludes, pleased with that choice of words. 'Yes,' he nods, to himself to her to everyone, as he looks down at her and realises it's so nice not to have to strain his neck up for a change, but let's not deviate now.

'Your what?' she exclaims sharply, before breaking off into a coughing fit that racks her entire frame.

He taps the instrument against the side of his leg, seeing that she's still not broken but still not understanding.

Her coughing eases to a stop, and when she's got her breath back he's moved closer, lower, regarding her torso with a professional curiosity.

She opens her mouth to speak again, but the words twist into laughter as she closes her eyes and threatens to cough up her lungs again.

He sighs, and is glad his initial flare of hope was nowhere near as bright as it used to be. Time is ticking on and this is getting weary, so he shifts down a gear and executes his blunted point.

'You are not pregnant Sergeant,' he states crisply, as he raises the stainless steel instrument and points it at her. 'What you do have is a delusion brought on by stress and grief,' he continues, as he wipes the side of it with the thumb of his other hand. 'I've examined your source code, and no errors were detected.'

'What?' she exclaims abruptly, her voice now clear and sharp. 'You broke into my game's code room?'

She looks at him in genuine disbelief, as if it's the worst thing she's experienced and heard to date, and that once again she can choose to override anything she doesn't like the sound of.

'And when exactly did I give my consent for that?''

He…he's momentarily lost for words, that's what he is, as he blinks once, twice, and has to force himself not to sway.

How…how can she say that? She allowed him to tamper with her code for frivolous personal reasons as soon as she was plugged in oh yes that's no problem, please go right ahead, go on, do what you want, I don't even need to bother watching you it's not that important; I just want to leave my game and go exploring, but now you dare to look at – not even touch, just look at – my code to try and help me and Programmers have Mercy, it's an assault! Sound the alarm! I didn't want that would never want it, why on earth would I? You're overstepping your mark and you should be goddamned ashamed of your sick self for even thinking of doing such a thing no wonder everyone around here hates the very sight of you.

That band is settling comfortably around his head again and he grips the tool tight, channelling it that way as he keeps his face blank.

'It is not possible,' he repeats himself, tone blank and steady not because he doesn't care but because he does care. 'It's not even possible for characters to be…created that way; it's just not.'

He knows that she's been whispering to another about her…supposed condition, and how it seems unlikely but it must be true, because she feels different, feels something, and it can only mean one thing no matter how improbable. It also means that Felix hasn't really gone, not really completely, and they'll name the baby after everyone who was cruelly taken from them and so in that sense no-one will really die forever either.

He also knows that even though there was no mutation in her source code, that doesn't mean one hasn't been created.

He's not…deluded enough to suspect he knows everything, especially when it comes to coding and the liquid evolution of numbers that define you. And because he's cautious and doesn't want to take the risk, he also knows that he needs to investigate what the code could have generated.

Which means he has to investigate her.

It's why she's being stretched as long as she can go, so that he can examine her in one fell swoop, one quick go; no need to prolong the procedure with multiple operations because that would just be cruel.

He'll only need a light pressure to break the skin and then he'll run it; carve one continuous line from the tip of her middle finger right down until her toes, exposing her so he can see if it exists and then he can remove it, make her better.

…he can make it all better.

'How do you know it's not possible?' she demands. 'Not everything is created in your precious code rooms you know. You've said it yourself and I know first-hand that some things just evolve, so why can't this be true? Have you even checked? If this is brand new and genuine then there won't be a way for you to check. The best thing is to let things take their course, then if – if – it's a mu-mutation then you can act. Just…wait. Please, just- just wait and see; wait and see what happens and then act.'

Oooohhhhh, but doesn't she have a nerve.

Wait and see.

What would have happened if he'd used this argument before?

Why yes, I did actually know that Turbo was planning on game jumping; I saw the fluctuations in his code, just a ripple, and it was a split second before he decided to leave but I wanted to wait and see what happened, so I did nothing.

And then I was alerted to him racing out of his game in his kart into Game Central Station, of course I knew that, but I didn't want to judge him you see; I didn't want to pass sentence without trial, so I did nothing because I wanted to wait and see.

And then my warnings flooded me with data that he'd raced into Road Blasters, all red and white and screaming, but rather than even try to initiate an emergency shutdown I thought that I'd just wait and see, because maybe he just wanted to talk to them, maybe just blow off steam; I didn't know that he'd crash them and get two games unplugged so you can't blame me at all, can you?

Can you?

He realises that he's breathing heavily and holds the next inhalation in his chest; sharply, painfully, deservingly, knowing that a flush is spreading up his neck and doesn't she just have the nerve to suggest all of that.

'I won't ever take such a risk and you are wrong to think I ever would,' he spits at her, knowing his composure is slipping but it's so hard to keep it level, keep it balanced, and has it always beenthis difficult to keep yourself aligned?

She's looking at him differently now, a grain of superiority in her eyes and a- yes, a trace of humour about her lips. 'Mighty rich words comin' from someone waving a blade about like they're fightin' off ghosts.'

Another exaggeration since his light grip and the slightly elevated position of his arm is hardly waving it about, and again it's not strictly just a blade, and this all just proves that she's not thinking clearly and that her mind is unstable. Pieces of it have become tainted and fractured; they're untethered and rubbing freely, and it's his duty to remove them, clean them and then hammer what remains back into place again.

'You are deluded in the sense that you think you are pregnant Sergeant Calhoun. However you may not be wrong when you sense that you have something inside of you.'

She quietens, body frozen but eyes scrolling as she considers this.

She considers it briefly before her face reveals that she's rejected his diagnosis; that she's chosen to reject it, even though she's clearly wrong and he's in the right and it's so disappointing that she's not as smart as he once thought she was.

It really is a good thing that he's here to correct her mistakes and wipe her chalkboard clean, or who knows what other dangers she could allow herself to drown in?

'Ever tested the theory out that you're the one deluded here?' She finally responds. 'And that- and that even if I am wrong, you're in the wrong as well?'

Now he's the one pausing; rolling these words around his head, as if they can be checked and verified but why is he even doubting, because he knows they can be.

They can be checked for accuracy right now just by looking at her.

Even before she was stretched out her posture was all wrong: ash white skin and sunken cheeks and all hunched over when she walked and he knows this isn't the result of Felix being gone he just knows, because she didn't act like this after she first got plugged in; not after Brad not ever. Something is eating her up from the inside, and even though he can't clarify what it is, he does know what it isn't. He just...does. Must be, does, yes he does know stop even thinking of doubting yourself.

And besides, someone who's been plugged in for weeks instead of decades can't possibly know what true grief tastes like; can't possibly know what it's like to be inflicted with a cut as soon as the previous one's closed, cut heal cut heal cut heal again and again so that you're never completely whole and never truly healed.

It's inappropriate of her to even suggest it, which is why he's right and she's wrong and he'll be the one to fix her this time.

He has to be the one to fix her; to fix all of this; to fix his mistakes and their contagions because if not him then who?

Who?

…exactly.

'Please try not to struggle Sergeant,' he instructs blandly, as he places the rim of the cutting wheel onto her finger. 'It will only hinder our progress.'

'No, wait! Stop!' she yells, convulsing in fear this time instead of anger, instead of pain, and why is it in fear? What on earth has she got to be afraid of?

He would say that the logic escapes him, but it has to have existed in the first place for this to be true.

'Don't kill-'

'I am not killing anyone,' he interrupts coldly. 'This procedure is to explore and then possibly remove an unstable chin of code from you. This has to be done, because what if you're contagious? What if there is something inside of you, and by allowing it to go unchecked you put others at risk? You are a potential risk, and I am merely doing my job by investigating it, determining it and then neutralising it. I cannot, will not, take any more chances or risks or be content with pouring out half-measures any more. This time I'm going to be sure, this time I'm going- I'm going to be right.'

He takes in a breath and feels his face soften, as he grips the table's edge with his free hand. 'It is not possible for me to destroy that which does not exist, and- and do you not remember what I'm programmed to be? Do you not remember who I am?'

She gives a constricted nod, and tears blossom at the corner of her eyes.

'Yes,' she whispers, the sound like dead leaves skimming along a concrete floor. 'I know exactly who you are.'

He nods in turn. 'Then we are in accord.'

She closes her eyes, as if in capitulation, and this is when he makes the mistake of relaxing slightly.

It's an ease of tension in his arms as he leans in closer, nearer; calculating the pressure and angle of the serrated wheel that will bring her the least discomfort, when all of a sudden she's snapped her eyes open and yanked her head up; mouth wide open fierce teeth gleaming as she defies her boundaries and stretches her constraints and sinks her teeth into his arm.

He yelps in pain and surprise, jerking his arm away but not letting go of the wheel.

One jerk is not enough to dislodge the iron clamp in his arm, and tears are starting to form in his own eyes as he realises he still has another hand to use. He lets go of the table and strikes her once, twice, three times in the throat until she's finally opened her mouth to choke in air.

He staggers slightly and has to grip the table again, as he examines the damage she's inflicted on his arm.

'If Felix were here he could fix that for you,' she croaks, her blazing eyes streaming thick tears down her face. 'But thanks to you he's not, so he can't.'

With lightning speed he sinks the wheel hard into her finger, cutting it to the bone.

'Well Felix can't fix this,' he hisses, as he swings his arm and splits her open.

He can admit he lost control there for a bit, the second time round.

But it wasn't completely his fault, anyone could see that, and this time; well this time will be just right. He's learnt from his mistakes – is still learning from them – which clearly proves he's adjusted and normal and right.

Only a fool or a sadist perpetuates errors on purpose – they don't even know they're in error sometimes – but because he isn't and because he does, he knows that he's on the right level, the right path; he knows that he's being calibrated at the same time he's helping them do the same and that's good, it's all good.

Everything just needs to be balanced, that's all.

Which naturally includes this final patient and the room they're being treated in.

It's fully illuminated but not blinded by light, and there are no dark spaces to…not that he ever has, did; but there are no dark spaces to…retreat to; to slink back into, as if you're ashamed or scared and that's all ridiculous because he has no need to do those things, and he's merely acknowledging the possibility because that's sensible.

The light in the room is warm and filling – not consuming – and every surface is clearly defined but not put on show. His tools are hidden until they're needed, since there's no need to scare or to show off now, is there?

There's no need for reassurance.

He's even…decorated the room for her; he's altered the visuals to create colourful images on the walls and on the ceiling, make it easier make it brighter, because she's not in trouble here despite what she no doubt thinks.

And, yes, all this involved a slight manipulation of the arcade's code streams but it was only a tiny tweak, nothing much at all and, really, when you stopped and thought about it he was only altering part of the physical surge protector itself.

He was only enhancing part of himself again so that he could help someone else again.

'Choose this wallpaper with your eyes closed, did ya?' She questions cynically, focusing his attention.

'…pardon?'

Her mouth is twisted and one eyebrow's raised, and there's a clear bite of dark humour to her words. 'Bet you had loads of, you know, fun, doin' this place up, huh?'

He frowns. 'I…don't quite understand what you're-'

'Clowns?' she barks, her voice louder, clearer, as the other eyebrow joins its partner skywards. 'Circus pictures? You yankin' on my chain here? Not enough to kidnap me and strap me to a table in another prison cell is it, but you- but you gotta decorate it like he did?'

He's genuinely confused now. 'I… no; they're- they're not here to unnerve you; they're here to comfort you.'

She's still looking at him like a piece of filth she's unexpectedly found stuck to her, which means his elaborated explanation comes out more irritable than he'd have liked.

'During a tertiary level scan- during the necessary diagnostic – of your code, those images showed up repeatedly. But they were not in isolation. They appeared in conjunction when your code also indicated that you had experienced times of great stress and sadness, which meant they-…such a pattern clearly indicates that you saw them at times of great distress, which therefore means you visualised them in an attempt to help you cope with your situation, whatever that may have been. You must have imagined these images when you were sad to try and comfort yourself. I- I knew you would think this situation is a bad one even though it's not, and so I re-created them to try and put you at ease here; to try and help you even more.'

He takes a deep breath, and feels his frown sink deeper. 'And who do you mean by he?'

She holds her own breath for a second, for two seconds, now for three; not moving a muscle as she processes his words and handles and dissects them and it's almost as if she's analysing him, with those deep eyes that prove she's older than her looks suggest, and then all of a sudden she's erupted: eyes closed head thrown back as far as it can and she laughs.

So darkly she laughs at him, small body shuddering as he swallows and makes double fists with his hands.

'Oh, man that's right, you never knew! You never knew because I never told ya; most of the others sure, yeah, eventually; but not you, I- I never told you where he kept me all those years and what it looked like, what was on the walls and what he painted for me. You- you never knew what pictures he painted in the fungeon, but- but you've gone and done exactly the same!' She laughs louder, but it's a desperate sound now. Her mouth has collapsed and tears have sprung into her eyes, which are now wide open and looking at him desperately.

'How did you- why? Why would you do something like this to me?'

His head is thumping hard and he feels distinctly sick, but one dry swallow is all it takes to ensure his voice is steady, as he tries to claw at a memory, at a piece of information he knows to be true and supportive as he answers her but he can't. 'I- I didn't know that, no! I didn't know any of that, and I'm sor-'

'You don't know anything!' she cries.

He swallows again, this time drier, harder, his tongue ripping from the roof of his mouth as he pivots around sharply and thrusts his hands into his pockets.

She must be lying, he decides, as his sudden headache contracts into a single point of pain, white hot sharp and drilling down happily. Yes, she must have been mistaken; must have been confused; must still be confused, since she has been under a lot of stress recently, because that's the only logical explanation as to why she's said all of this, it's…it's not possible that's he's missed something again, not another big event that's crushed a life not again, no.

No.

She's just… scared and confused and upset, that's all, nothing else don't think about it and he closes his eyes and clamps down hard on his tongue nails piercing his palms and teeth slicing through and it burns it all burns.

But- but it's OK, really it is really it will be, see, it's already starting to fade, yes, it must be, or else he's simply getting used to it is used to it given how familiar this feeling is but no, no, he's not used to it won't ever be used to it because it's not normal not him and it really is fading, it must be, just give it time, because it's just temporary, like all mistakes, but this can be fixed she can be fixed and all he has to do is push it away and stamp it down hard and it will be fine.

It's simply a case of mind over matter really, because he knows he's right and not mistaken, not neglectful and, honestly, the very thought of him being that is laughable, that's the truth, that's the reality and he's glad to have found that again after it skittered out of sight for a flash, and so he doesn't really understand why his chest is tight and he feels sick to the very root of his code but some things happen, they just happen, and these are clearly unrelated fluctuations that are nothing to worry about because they don't mean anything; they're not related and don't matter and once this is over he'll investigate them later, no problem.

It's fine, all fine, all; fine. He's not a problem he doesn't have a problem and there is no problem.

There is. no. problem.

He swallows roughly, painfully; swallows it all and gets rid of those stars by opening his eyes quickly and turning back around briskly.

The curious yet hopeful look on her face is wiped clean away when she sees the expression on his.

'I know many things, Princess von Schweetz,' he informs her blandly. 'And one of those is that it's time to begin.'

Vanellope sniffs, unable to dry her blinking eyes. 'What?'

'It's time to end what I hope hasn't already begun.'

'What?'

He suppresses a sigh. 'You are the leader of your game, correct?'

'I- what?'

'Please stop making me repeat myself.'

She gulps, forcing her eyes to become more focused.

'…yes…'

'And as the leader you only want the best for your game's inhabitants, yes?'

'…yes.'

'Which means you have to protect them, yes?'

'Yes.'

He's reached her side now; reached the table she's lying on and strapped to with glitch proof chains, restrained lightly yet securely for her own good, on a comfortable surface that for some reason makes her squirm as if it's covered in shards of glass.

She returns his gaze steadily, clearly trying to unravel what she thinks are trick questions as he continues.

'And to be a protector you must understand that you don't just shield them from outside forces; sometimes you have to protect them from themselves.'

'No- no-one's a danger in my game. Not any more!'

'I'm afraid that's incorrect, Princess.' He leans closer, allowing a heavy drop of sympathy to infect his words. 'Sugar Rush's leader is still a threat to those around them.'

He carefully extracts one hand from his pocket, admiring the light glinting off of the needle as he raises it.

'And that threat has to be removed.'

She tenses hard, sucking in her breath and pushing back down and away, as if she can bleed into the table and become part of it; can erase the sight in front of her and escape from what she fears is about to be done and she looks terrified, so terrified and why would she have reason to look like that?

'No, what- what are you doing? What-'

'I'm not going to hurt you,' he reassures her kindly, dimly aware that for some reason his pulse is beating out of sync and there's a dull blur at the edge of his vision but acutely aware that everything will all be better once this is done.

The lights are bright and warm but one of them must be broken, because there's also a slight buzzing – a soft drone – that's eating into his ears but that also doesn't matter, because it's just another minor issue that will no doubt resolve itself soon.

He twitches to the left with a small grimace, flinching slightly as she recoils greatly, her eyes growing wider as she tries to make herself smaller and none of that makes any sense really, as he gets closer and closer but not too close of course; not this time; not this time as he finally stops and straightens and she looks at him.

'…what are you going to do?'

'I am going to help you,' he answers, as if this is the most obvious thing in the world.

She switches suddenly, no longer cowering but glaring at him now. 'No, you need to be helped! You're sick!'

He tilts his head, catching a beam of light that bounces off his glasses. '…no, you are wrong. I am right and I-…well I am the cure.'

He attempts a smile, and regards her with the level of sympathy she deserves. 'I am your cure.'

Her eyes shimmer, cracking in front of him, even as she fights to keep that rage pasted on her face. 'You're sick. Like, all the ways you can be sick, you- you must have a virus or, or something, because you're not right! You're not acting right!'

'I am the arcade's cure,' he continues, as if she hadn't spoken. 'Even if- even if they don't know it; even if they don't know they need it because they do, oh, believe me when I say that they do.'

Her eyes are darting now; stuttering and calculating and her words are being released in a breathy rush. 'You need to be helped. Not like in a psycho sense I mean; more like in a- a- a real sense, I mean have- have you even checked that you're not comin' down with a computer virus or something?'

He smiles wider, not because he appreciates her concern, but because he hasn't forgotten how to be generously indulgent. He knows time wasting when he sees it, and her plan to stall him won't work.

But he only wants to help her and put her at ease, so he stays quiet and stills his hand.

She interprets this stance wrongly, and it's almost sad to see that flare of hope spark in her eyes as she raises her head up and changes the pitch of her voice.

'Yeah, that would make sense and it's, like, totally fine- well not fine fine, I mean it's no big deal that you're sick; you can be cured or learn to control it, like I've had to do, so- so don't worry; you helped me control my glitch out of my game and- and in return I'll help you. I want to help you.'

He relaxes his mouth at the same time he feels that white hot pain in his head come to a final rest. Its heat is bleeding away and it's beginning to harden and split into two sharp points behind his eyes.

And- and they're moving; he feels those shards moving outwards from inside of him, pushing at the very back of his eyes in a way that could be another thing that builds up and up and just won't stop until they've broken through, but that's fine it's all fine because it will stop once he's finished helping them.

'Thank you ever so much for that belated offer of comfort and support,' he responds quietly. 'But it's with aching regret that I cannot accept it. It wouldn't be fair of me to do so, because I didn't help you and you certainly cannot help that which needs no alteration.'

She doesn't fully understand what he's saying but she does know that the tone of his voice means he hasn't been convinced, and that she's not getting out of here so quickly. She's still curious and still scared, as she swallows thickly and darts her eyes around again. 'What- what do you mean by helping me? ...what do you mean by helping the others in my game?'

'Did you know that Fix-It Felix Junior would get unplugged?' he asks sharply.

'What? No, of course I didn't! No-one saw that coming!'

'Exactly!' he agrees harshly, his voice threatening to become a hiss again. 'It took us completely by surprise with not even a hint of a warning, nothing.'

She's looking at him fearfully again, tongue darting out to touch her dry lips. '…so what- what are you; what you're sayin' is…'

He forces his voice into something steadier, something smoother. 'What I am saying is that such a thing could happen to any game here. But some games are more…susceptible than others. Some games draw more…attention to themselves.'

He nods at her slowly, so that there's no mistake.

'Some characters draw more attention to themselves.'

She shudders as if a current's been passed through her, as this insinuation hits her hard. 'Oh no, no, no - I don't draw attention to myself! I don't even race all the time, you know that!'

He nods again, this time in agreement. 'Your game has been around for fifteen years, and fifteen years is a long time span we can both understand. It is a timescale we can both… appreciate.'

He taps the side of the needle against his leg, considering; a dull clink clink clink as it strikes the metal still resting safely in his pocket.

'But try to see it from the gamers' point of view: you've appeared out of nowhere, and I do mean nowhere. The regular players unlocked every bonus and character and power-up level years ago, and have checked that there's nothing more for them to uncover. Various internet forums have confirmed that. Or was it a combination of forums and chat-rooms? But that's not the point; the point is that you've just appeared, so what on earth will they think of that?'

She falls silent.

'So far no-one's raised the alarm at the sudden appearance of a new character in your game, and maybe they never will. Or maybe they have and won't ever do anything about it. But no-one did anything about the new characters in Fix-It Felix Junior until it suddenly got sold and removed, did it?'

Clink clink clink now slightly faster and definitely harder, as he continues at a pace.

'Do you have any proof that won't happen to your game as well? Because I don't! Or perhaps you simply think that I –that we – should just…take a chance, should just…wait and see? Hmmm? Do you? Do you really want to take those chances when your subjects are at stake? When their lives are at stake? Do you really want to gamble with peoples' very existence and just allow them to be wiped away while you stand at the sidelines doing nothing?'

He knows his voice has raised again and wishes it hasn't but it has, and it's so hard to keep it in check when she's being so unreasonable and why does she have to look at him like that?

'Well?' he demands, as her face contracts. 'DO YOU?'

'No!' she shrieks, finally overcome. But there's nothing I can do!'

'Yes, There, Is!' he counters instantly, caught up in an unstoppable momentum. 'You are prepared; you can see the possibility of what might happen; you know there's a chance of something terrible happening yet you choose to do nothing! Nothing! Have you any idea what it's like to not be so well prepared? No? Well you should count yourself lucky, because it's not worth living once you've got the feeling that you're-'

He falls silent, but not out of choice. Rather he's…cut off, as if something has struck him and severed something so easily and smoothly and permanently that's it's almost unreal.

He appears as if he's studying something far away, something small and distant, blank gaze boring two holes through the walls like acid, until he jerks as if struck and that look collapses onto her, unblinking unmoving and terrible.

'…please, you're- you're not right, please, don't-…just don't…'

'…we all have to do things we don't want to, Vanellope. Just-sometimes we do; that is the very nature of being a guardian.'

Her eyes harden again as she tenses and switches track again, because she can't help being who she is any more than he can.

'You're even sicker than he was.'

He forces himself not to snap the needle in half. 'I am not.'

'Yes you are, 'cause why do this in the first place, huh? Why? You just said you poked about in my code room, so why not help me that way? Why you gotta strap me down and blabber on about nothing just because it makes you feel better about yourself? How is that helping me?'

'…because you deserve to receive a full explanation. You all did.'

'That- what? All? You- you mean there have been… others before me? You've done this to others?'

'…they've not experienced exactly this, no.'

She's struggling to keep that righteous rage on her face again. He doesn't blame her, since she's still a child even after all she's been through, and she' s putting up an admirable fight. Misplaced clearly, but he can respect her determination.

But even children deserve to hear the truth instead of lies, regardless of how bitter one may be over the other.

'Why- why can't you just help me by goin' through my code room again?' she asks, whole body trembling now. 'If you've- if you're really got- got to do this, then why-' Her voice is being coughed out now; it's being forced through the tears and the pain and made to form words when all it really wants to do is scream. 'Then why- why don't you just check out- check out my- our, our code boxes, and- and twist a few wires or rip some out and you're done; you're done! And there's- there's no need- there's no need for us to see and to make me suffer like this!'

He supresses the desire to inform her that no, she's wrong, because not everyone had to watch what he did to them, but he suspects this won't help his cause much.

Instead he tilts his head and frowns slightly, both curious and regrettably bemused.

'The…last time someone manipulated a code box they weren't thought of too fondly, were they?'

Her jaw drops.

'And you think you will be?!'

Her incredulity is insulting and her viewpoint skewered, no doubt a result of her current…predicament, never mind that it's temporary and he's explained this several times now but she's just not listening, so it's time to begin work now before he splinters completely.

'Those in charge often don't want to do things Vanellope, but sometimes they must.'

He steadies his hand and removes the safety cap off the needle's tip. He passes the syringe from one hand to the other and back again; once, twice and then a third time, back and forth, back and forth as he settles down to wait.

'…please, don't; don't kill me, I- I don't want to die…'

He quirks an eyebrow. 'I'm not going to kill you; what do you take me for? You have to be removed from your game, but you don't have to be deleted; that would just be cruel. You need to be safely secured away, so that you don't come to harm; so that others don't come to harm. Such an action will be for the best, Vanellope; it will be safe and it will be secure, and-

…and it will be permanent. There will be no. more. doubts.'

He bows his head to her.

'For which I thank you. For which the arcade thanks you.'

And now he waits.

For a good ling while – longer than he'd have liked – she pleads passionately with him. He understands that her survival instinct is fierce and that she'll muster every drop of it, and he admires the various arguments she breathlessly fires at him, using every possible chance and angle to try and change his mind.

Still he waits, not moving and not saying a word. Not…rushing her.

When it finally happens it's nothing more than a shadow behind her eyes that are overlaid with a reflected light. But he sees it, actually sees it; doesn't miss it hasn't missed it and oh this relief makes him smile as she explodes.

She jerks up as high as she can, glitch proof chains cutting in sharply to her arms legs body head, but she acts like they're made of something that can be broken if only she can hold out for long enough and only if she has enough will, and she does she really does, and her escape attempts must work in the end, they must, because she's good and doesn't deserve this, and if she can escape from him after fifteen years then she can escape from this, she has to and she will, she will, because this isn't how she's destined to end, not after all she's been through, and maybe there isn't a Ralph here any more but she's still strong and can still survive and she will, she will, as she thinks about him and what he did and she strains against the chains, doesn't care that she's bruised and they're cutting into her and bleeding her because that doesn't matter, not if she can escape and she's yelling now; yelling such terrible things and she's going to damage her voice but she doesn't care because that also doesn't matter, and now she's shouting and thrashing and she's closed her eyes now, shut them tight, and she's taken a deep breath to prepare to shout some more, to shout so loud the shockwaves will blast him back, blast her free, and now her back's arched muscles tensed chest sucked in head thrown back her hands are fists and-

He sticks the needle in her neck smoothly, quickly, depressing the plunger and withdrawing it at the same time she exhales and screams.

Her jaw cracks and locks in place, her open mouth now a frozen statue of astonished agony.

Which is an unfortunate pose for her to convey really, because the anaesthetic he's specifically mixed for her means she's certainly not feeling any pain, he's quite sure of that.

Her arms and legs go next; one, two, three, four limbs that tremble and then snap into place.

He could really make sure by breaking each one, but there's no need for that; he's confident in his chemistry and, really, time's pressing on now.

After the outer extremities her core finally stills, until the only part of her moving is her eyeballs. They snap and dart and leak, until he gently places a hand on her chest and they shudder and roll back into her head.

He glances briefly at the blank white orbs on her face, now so still she could be mistaken for dead, as he spread his fingers over her chest. Her heart – her code's approximation of a heart – is beating to the rhythm he expected.

She needs to be removed fully from her game, but he's not going to kill her; he's not a murderer.

Turbo tried to kill her because he was selfish, whereas what's happening here is the exact opposite: he is going to save her from herself because he is selfless.

He reaches into his pocket and takes one of the metal objects out. It's a small skeleton key, shiny copper with sharp pointed teeth which clearly hasn't been used much. He inserts it into each of the keyholes on the chains, and carefully removes them from her.

He'll clean them up before returning them to Sugar Rush, but not to the fungeon though – Vanellope had ordered that be torn down and re-modelled as soon as her game had re-set. Instead there's some sort of disco-party-game room in there, but that's certainly no sort of place for a set of heavy chains.

He ponders as he collects them up, thinking that maybe he'll place them over the main entrance doors to the castle.

Or even embed them into the doors themselves. As, you know, a reminder.

Yes, a reminder, he decides contentedly, as he turns off every light except one and exits the room, closing the door softly behind him.

They will be a reminder to everyone that their game's main threat has been neutralised, and that they can breathe easy again.

It will be a reminder that their world won't suddenly be ripped apart again.

Except….except he's not completely as content as he thought he'd be, as he looks at the closed white door as if he could see through it into the room it conceals and the person it protects.

It's quite irritating actually, as he begins to tap the now empty syringe against his leg again.

He sighs and blinks, looks around but doesn't move, and as his gaze stops on the pure smooth ceiling above, so does his hand.

They've all been left up there for quite a while now, and he really hopes they haven't all killed themselves in a stupid panic, or else all he's just done has been a complete waste of time. They- oh, oh; maybe that's why he's feeling the way he is, as the thought strikes him and then soothes him.

He'd identified three threats to the arcade, but they were just the main and immediate ones. They- they can't have been the only ones.

Yes, this must be the reason, because why else would he be feeling so unsettled?

He thinks hard as to who the other threat could be. Who the other threats still are.

Again there's that scratch of irritation that's beginning to make him feel sick, so he closes his eyes to concentrate.

…he doesn't know.

He doesn't know and he can't identify who else is a danger, who's lurking up there right this second, and he's learnt enough to divert his thoughts away before they take him down this familiar spiking path again, and after he throws up a roadblock he takes a breath, opens his eyes, and admits it.

He doesn't know who else is a danger, but he does know they must exist.

They- they must exist, and so-and so he'll just have to find out who they are the long way.

He takes the second metal object out of his pocket, examining it for signs of damage. It's another key but silver this time, cut into the shape of a wafer thin rectangle with a dull red line running around its edge. Finding it in perfect shape he slots it into the nearly invisible keyhole in the door, a hair-thin black line, and runs a finger along the tiny bit of red left visible.

The key pulses briefly, ink black and cherry red, before all colour bleeds away to leave it an ash grey as it pulses again and then smokes, before the door trembles and eats it entirely.

This locking encryption is unbreakable, and as soon as he gets back to his office he'll purge his own memory bank so even he can't remember how to enter her room again.

There's hours left yet until the arcade is due to open, which means he can…question most of them before then. He'll be quick and precise and thorough, won't miss a thing as he meets with them one by one and certainly won't be doing nothing as he examines them. This time he really will live up to his name and they'll thank him for it, they really will.

He takes a step back from the door.

It's better if he gets this over and done with now, before anything else can slip by him.

He takes another step back, and it's all coming into perspective now.

It will be better for them if they have to undergo any treatment sooner rather than later, and it will be better for him if he can do his job quicker.

He takes another step back, the final one, and casts one last look at the door before turning around to face the dimly lit corridor in front of him.

And it really will be better for everyone if he chooses to be safe rather than sorry.

He calmly starts to walk forward, into those pools of sickly light, and allows himself the indulgence of a faint smile.

Wait and see?

Well just wait until they see what he's going to do now.