Late Nights and Early Mornings

"Is that everyone?"

Felix heard the question, but was too lost in his own thoughts to answer. He had watched every last Nicelander evacuate, and some he and Tammy had personally escorted from the disaster zone. Even after assuring everyone's safety, the realization that his game, their game, was broken still had him stunned to silence. Sure, the emergency power had kicked in and no one died, but the screen was blown from the cabinet. That was something even his trusty hammer couldn't fix.

"Yeah, that's everyone," said Ralph. Felix smiled weakly at his friend, who matched it with just as weary of an expression.

The surge protector nodded and scribbled something onto his notepad. His usual apathetic demeanor was replaced with uncharacteristic anxiety. The blue protector appeared beside Felix moments later, gliding past Ralph without a glance of recognition. "How many know about the incident?" he asked.

"Only Ralph, Tammy, and I, sir," said Felix. He wrung his hat like a dish rag between his hands. "And you, of course."

"What about von Schweets from Sugar Rush? She's usually in your little posse."

Ralph lumbered over to the two men and leaned forward, lowering his voice. "Vanellope was there, but we made her evacuate with everyone else. I just told her the screen cracked from the outside just like we told all the Nicelanders." He narrowed his eyes at the surge protector. "And we're going to keep it that way, Bertram."

The surge protector's mouth twitched ever so slightly in annoyance. "I didn't give you authorization to use my first name, Mr. Wreck-it."

"Ralph is right, though," said Felix. He pulled his wrinkled cap over his head and balled his gloved hands into fists with newfound vigor. "After all Miss Vanellope has been through, there's no way she needs to find out about, erm…" He glanced around, though no unwanted ears were listening. "you-know-who still being around. A child her age has enough things to worry about without the horrors she's been though."

"Evening, boys." Tammy strode to the odd group of men, her hips swaying with an intense gait and an equally intense gaze to match. The corners of her lips raised just a fraction and her eyes softened when they met Felix's. "And husband," she added.

The repairman gave a glowing smile, his first genuine smile in hours. He tipped his hat and said, "My lady." His smile faltered moments later. He knew she had bad news.

What little smile Tammy gave was dashed and her eyebrows were knitted together in deep thought. "After some snooping, I found out that one of my men got drunk off his rockets last week and misplaced his hover board as well as a heavy artillery weapon. The mad dog must have been holding onto them until that window of opportunity tonight when all of us were together." She swept her bangs behind her ear. "None of this would have happened if I had done a more thorough perimeter check."

Felix squeezed her hand and rested his head against her arm. "You're being too hard on yourself, Tam."

"He's right." The surge protector tapped his pencil against the edge of his notepad, hands fidgeting the entire time. "If anyone is to blame, it's me."

"Don't say that, sir!" Felix said.

"Don't bother, Mr. Fix it, Jr." he said, "It's my responsibility to patrol Game Central and I've let that slippery sun of a gun slide past me who knows how many times."

"Well, technically it's the first surge protector's fault." Ralph shrugged and scratched his ear. "That guy was kind of the one who didn't catch Turbo after the Road Blasters incident."

"Ralph," Felix snapped.

"What? It's not like if I say his names three times he'll appear in the mirror. We've been using his name for years."

"Shut your pie hole, Wreck it," said Tammy, "This isn't some sort of tight-lipped taboo we're trying to sweep under the rug. In case you haven't noticed, the entire arcade is on edge about what the sam hell happened tonight. It's bad enough that a few civilians actually saw him outside." She closed her eyes and sighed, her hands balled into fists. Felix stepped back, just in case his wife decided to take a swing at Ralph as he knew she was itching to. When she opened her eyes again, her composure had returned and her face was stoic and stony. "These civilians are going to find out eventually that the mad dog is loose on the other side and there's not a darn thing anyone can do about it."

Ralph's thick eyebrows furrowed. "What are you saying, Serge?"

"What I'm saying is this is completely outside of my expertise, Wreck it." Her voice was steady and calm, though the frustration was written across her face. "We've got a dangerous war criminal in the one place where we can't reach him and he can do as much permanent damage to us as he pleases. Game Central and all its ports will fall into chaos once enough people figure this out."

Silence. No one dared argue with the sergeant, especially when they knew she was right. Without a word, the surge protector turned on his heel and walked away from the group and out of the tunnel leading into Fix it Felix, Jr. as quickly as he could, muttering something about having to check on something.

Felix tapped his gloved fingers against the head of his hammer, "I have an idea," he said, "But none of you are going to like it."

There was a window on the living room ceiling.

In all the mess that Turbo's mind wandered into that morning, his thoughts so often returned to question of why someone would choose to have a hole in their roof protected by a thin sheet of glass. And on that thin sheet of glass, half-frozen beads of sleet crumbled and slid off.

He didn't want to wake up. He would have gladly chosen to stay asleep and never wake up, or to just shut his eyes and when he opened them again time would have turned backwards just for him.

His pity party was cut short when Litwak stumbled out of his room and turned on all the lights to find his way to the kitchen that was six steps away from his bedroom. And, of course, the couch Turbo slept on was caught in the crossfire of the old man's pathetic attempt to meander his way towards the promise of coffee. At one point he rammed himself into the couch, in which Turbo wished him a good morning in the most colorful language he could think of. The old man laughed and dismissively apologized, though he made no attempt to lower his voice.

And then he got to the kitchen. The man hummed and whistled as he clattered around the pots and pans in search of who knows what. Cabinet doors squealed when opened and slammed when closed. Coffee hissed and gurgled. Floors squeaked. Everything was loud.

A platter of scrambled eggs still steaming from the stove was tossed onto the low table next to Turbo's signature helmet. The man who had climbed to the top of Turbo's most wanted dead list within an hour stood with his hands on his hips beside the couch.

"Good morning," said Litwak.

Turbo stared at the elder man, narrowed his eyes, and then threw the blanket back over his head.

Litwak sighed, though through his smile the sound came out as a hiss of a laugh. "At least eat your breakfast." His footsteps were muffled on the old rug but when Turbo heard the bedroom door close again, he knew it was safe to pull the blanket away from his face. The eggs were growing colder and though Turbo would gladly never accept anything that old fool offered him, his stomach was much more open to the act of generosity. He snatched up the silver fork beside his plate and shoveled the food into his mouth.

His head felt like a jackhammer and a hangover cornered him in an alleyway. Even with the old man back in his room and making considerably less noise than before (and he was still convinced most of it was on purpose), a dull ache spread from the base of his neck up to the top of his head. Last night was a mash up of what he knew to be real memories and what he was now sure were false ones created by his horrifically lucid dreams to fill in the gaps. Regardless, the only important thing he needed to remember now was that he was stuck with Litwak. The small, electrical jumps in his chest were enough of a reminder. If only he knew a way to undo this "binding". The only thing that gave him hope was the knowledge that it that little electric heart generator (or whatever it was) in Litwak's chest that was the issue and not the man himself.

The door opened again and Litwak arrived once again beside the couch, though this time instead of a food offering in his hands, he had a bundle of clothing. He tossed them to Turbo's feet. "They won't fit," said Litwak, "But it's the closest I have. We'll get you something proper after work."

"After work? What is that supposed to mean?" Turbo picked up the clothing as if they were dirty rags. It was a tee shirt that had been run through the wash enough times for the cotton to be see through and a pair of khaki shorts made to reach above the knees but on him would slide down to his shins.

"It's Saturday. The arcade opens at nine and right now…" He raised his arm and glanced at the watch around his wrist. "It is a few minutes after eight. Get dressed."

"I'm not going to that place," said Turbo. He pushed away the empty platter of eggs and crossed his arms, his yellow eyes set in finality.

Any semblance of patience Litwak had mustered dissipated and underneath his thick glasses, his eyes darkened. "Look here, kiddo," he said, "This morning I couldn't even walk to my mailbox without feeling like I got punched in the chest, and I am trying my best to stay calm and optimistic." He gave a gruff sigh and pushed back his hair." Last night you made it perfectly clear that none of this… mess was intentional but don't you dare act like it isn't your fault. I am not the one who broke the laws of all things natural by crawling out of a gosh darned game screen!" He snatched up the plate from the table. With stiff shoulders, he walked to the kitchen where the plate was dropped into the sink with a loud clatter and the faucet was running.

"You don't know anything," Turbo muttered. So the old man thought he was at his wit's ends? Did he have any idea who he was talking to? Did he have any idea just what Turbo had gone through?

"And another thing!" Litwak stormed towards the couch. "Litwak's Arcade and Family Fun Center has never been closed on a Saturday. Ever. And I don't plan on breaking that streak just because you decided to wake up with a bad attitude." He knelt down (his knee popped, though he tried to ignore it) and grabbed the handful of clothing that Turbo had pushed to the floor. "We are leaving in ten minutes," he said. The wad of clothing struck Turbo square in the face. "Get dressed, Mr. Sass."

Even with the heat blasting, Turbo's teeth were chattering and he had his arms wrapped around his chest. The arcade was only a few minutes away, but between waiting for the ice to defrost off the windshield and the obnoxiously slow driving Litwak did, it felt like an hour.

Turbo didn't remember getting in the car last night, but he did remember leaning his face against the window and the cold biting at his cheek. He remembered babbling nonsense, most of which was about Sugar Rush and all of which he was sure Litwak was ignoring (he was too busy on the phone asking about concussion treatment). If he had it his way, he would never step into that dinky arcade again. But of course nothing had been going his way ever since that halitosis-ridden warthog stumbled into his game and destroyed his life.

A grin spread across his face and he felt his heart flutter a little. In all the confusion last night, he forgot about the motley crew and the state he left them in. Perhaps fate had been kinder to him lately than he gave it credit.

Litwak pulled into a parking spot much further away from the door than Turbo would have asked for. Knees shaking from the impending cold, Turbo hopped out of the car and followed closely behind the man that held the keys.

In front of the double doors of the arcade was an old truck with a rattling engine that set Turbo's teeth on edge. A man with heavy eyes and a handlebar mustache sat in the car entertaining himself with his cellphone.

"Mike!" Litwak tapped on the door of the truck with an embarrassed grin. "How long have you been here?"

The engine died and Mike slid out of the truck, expression just as bored. Around his belt was an assortment of tools. "Maybe five minutes."

"Sorry for the wait, buddy," Litwak gave him a harsh pat on the shoulder. "Come on in. I appreciate you coming in on a Saturday."

"Hm." Mike shrugged and allowed the older man to usher him into the heated arcade, followed by Turbo. The two men exchanged glances once, though Mike stiffened at the site of the shorter man's eyes. Turbo grinned at the acknowledgement, showing off his equally yellow teeth. Mike side stepped away and followed close to Litwak like a dog with its tail between its legs.

"Here's old Felix," said Litwak. He patted the cabinet and a few stray shards of glass slid off the control panel.

Turbo watched the two of them, his eyes fluttering back and forth at the pointless banter (most all of it coming from Litwak while the maintenance man nodded and grunted). Litwak wanted to replace the screen as if there was no damage done to the internal mechanics of the game. The fluttering in Turbo's chest had long since fallen away and in its place was a heavy sense of dread in the pit of his stomach. His hands were balled at his sides and, before he knew it, he was shaking.

He watched with cold, silent rage as the new screen was fitted and the machine was turned on and began to breathe its tinny sounds just like the rest of the games. Though the music played, the screen stayed frozen in place and Turbo's breath hitched, a smile twitching at his lips.

And then there was Fix it and Wreck it in their respective roles, piddling around as if nothing had happened. Mike and Litwak had their backs turned, facing the game and discussing what needed to be replaced in the old relic. Before he knew it, Turbo had his hands in the air in a silent scream and his teeth grinding as he forced his jaw to stay clamped to keep back the string of colorful words he was ready to release upon the arcade and the heavens above. When that wasn't enough, he turned to the nearest machine and reeled his arm to swing.

Sugar Rush.

His fist was inches away from the screen. Any other game and he his hand would have been a mess of blood and glass. The rage didn't dissipate, but he felt as though someone pressed the pause button and he then felt nothing. The screen reeled through the list of characters, each one a face he recognized immediately. Nostalgia washed over him and finally the rage seemed to dissipate. Was this regret he was feeling? Compassion, maybe?

The screen reeled to Vanellope von Schweets and those foreign emotions flittered away. He sneered at the girl, so sure she could see him. Even with the natural ability to hide unscripted emotions while under the spotlight, Turbo could still see the girl fidget and her chocolate eyes widen at the sight of him.

He grinned and leaned closer to the screen, his voice no louder than a harsh whisper. "What is it, little glitch? Surely you didn't think you were rid of me just yet."

"What are you doing over there, kiddo?"

Turbo spun around to see Litwak and Mike the maintenance guy staring at him. Litwak raised his eyebrows, though Mike stared at Turbo as if the retro racer had two heads.

"Who did you say he was?" asked Mike.

"He's my, uh, nephew." Litwak glanced at Turbo with eyes that spelt his doom if he so much as opened his mouth to retaliate.

"Hm." Mike fidgeted with a lined sheet of paper in his hands and ran his fingers over the creases before handing it to Litwak. "Let's just round it to a hundred."

Litwak took the paper and shoved it into his pocket without glancing at it. "When do you need it by?"

But Mike was already walking towards the door, stifling a yawn. "I'll call you. We can make some sort of arrangement."

"Thanks, Mike."

"See you around, Mr. Litwak. And, uh…"

Turbo grimaced. After decades of his name being infamous, his anonymity in this place was already getting under his skin. "Turbo," he said.

Mike opened his mouth, but snapped it closed and settled with giving the racer another look of confusion and discomfort. The door opened with a jingle and a stiff breeze entered the arcade as the maintenance man left.

His truck started up and, although the sound was muffled by the glass double doors, Turbo could hear the incessant rattling from under its hood. "Loose heat shield," he muttered.

"Did you say something, kiddo?"

Turbo grounded his teeth, not so apt to hold his tongue now that the stranger was gone. "Stop with this kid nonsense," he snapped, "I am an adult you dense fool."

"Hey, I'll stop with the name calling when you stop."

"Oh, excuse me." Turbo rolled his eyes, glaring with his venom-filled yellow gaze. He gave a flourishing wave of his hand. "What would you prefer? Perhaps Uncle? Uncle, uh…"

"Stanley."

"Uncle Stanley!" he said. His face puckered at the words. "Ugh, it's like bitter chocolate on my tongue." He grinned at the old man and his souring expression. "Uncle Stanley, I'm hungry."

"You ate breakfast less than an hour ago."

"I want food."

Just as they did the night before, the two men faced off in staring down each other (though this time Turbo sported a grin in an effort to further grate at the old man's nerves). Litwak broke away first and dug through his pockets before producing a handful of quarters. "The vending machine is in the back by the restrooms," he said, "Grab something and then go straight to my office. I'm meeting with one other person before opening shop."

"Why can't I stay out here?"

"Because." He grabbed Turbo's hand and slapped the change into his palm. "I am positive she might recognize you."

Litwak had supervised as Turbo walked to the back and obediently purchased a bag of cheese puffs and retreated to the office without destroying anything. It had been only a few minutes, though Litwak couldn't shake the gut feeling that the character had managed to break something already.

He busied himself while waiting for his guest. He swept the floor and gave special attention to Fix it Felix, Jr. so as to pick up any stray shards of glass. It was five minutes to nine and though he was hopeful that she would arrive on time, he wasn't the least bit surprised by her tardiness.

"Er, excuse me."

The voice Litwak heard was not female, nor was it Turbo's (it was far too polite). But it did come from within the arcade and Litwak was positive he had not heard anyone enter.

Litwak spun around to see the newest game in his arcade: Hero's Duty. Its screen was alive just as the other games' were, but what it showed was not the usual action-packed preview of acid green bugs and space marines. Instead, square in the middle of the screen, standing somewhere in a much safer part of the gameplay, was Fix it Felix, Jr.

Felix gave a shy wave and an uncomfortable smile. "You must be Litwak the arcade owner," he said, "I'm sure you know who I am, though I can tell you're surprised to see me outside of my game."

"Sweet Jesus, you've got to be kidding me." Litwak stumbled backwards until he bumped into the Pac Man cabinet across from Hero's Duty, and then he clung on for dear life so as not to slide to the ground in defeat as he so desperately wanted to.

"No kidding around here, sir," said Felix, "though I'm sorry to give you such a fright. I'm not supposed to be doing this, but this is an emergency. It's kind of a taboo of Game Central. Oh, if the surge protector found out-"

"You're not pixels."

"No, sir, I am not." He smiled with pride. "Is Turbo nearby?"

"Oh, um, yeah." Litwak jabbed a finger in the direction of the office. "He's eating cheese puffs or something. I told him not to come out."

Felix made an affirmative sound, though his high-definition eyes grew distant. He snatched the hat off his head and grappled with the adjusting strap. "Sir, there are a few things you need to know about Turbo…"

A few things turned out to be an extensive criminal record. At one point, Litwak gave up on keeping his knees locked and just slid to the floor in exhaustion.

Felix told him about the eighties and about Road Blasters. He told him about Sugar Rush and Vanellope von Schweets and the cybugs from Hero's Duty. And, finally, he told Litwak about last night. He told him about how Felix witnessed the villain's attempt to kill off the entire Fix-it Felix, Jr. cast as well as Sergeant Calhoun and Vanellope by destroying the retro game's screen from the inside.

"I thought we were done for," said Felix, "After the first crack, Tammy and I ushered Vanellope and the Nicelanders out of there. They didn't see what was happening, but the rest of us did. Ralph was ready to climb up to Turbo and rip him apart before the screen finally shattered." Felix sighed, his cheeks red from speaking so quickly. "All that we ask is that you keep him away from us, sir. You're the only one who can stop him."

Before Litwak could answer, there was a knock at the front door. Felix jumped and looked in the direction where Litwak looked, though from his angle he couldn't see a thing. Litwak sprung to his feet and looked at Felix, then back at the door where his tardy friend stood waving with an apologetic smile.

By the time Litwak looked back at the screen, Felix had disappeared and the game showed nothing more than the metal and pipe hallway where he stood just seconds ago. A moment later and the preview video of the game reappeared and the scripted music began to play.

Without another thought, Litwak reached for the keys at his belt and walked to the double glass doors. "I'm getting too old for this," he muttered.

AN: WOW HAHA LOOK I FINALLY UPDATED. Rory took the blame for this because holy wow I actually had the draft done for this over a week ago. In our defense, this is a longer chapter than the last one and I had to completely rewrite my original draft. And then I got all these fabulous reviews from these fabulous people and I just want everyone to know that I really appreciate all the feedback I've gotten I mean oh my gosh. You guys give me the honey glows something awful *V*

I also noticed that the line breaks didn't work last chapter even though they did in the preview, so here's hoping for correct formatting. Cheers!