What I think Wreck-it-Ralph would've been like set in the real world. Dedicated to xionsghost, a fabulous blog and an even more fabulous person.
The day shifts are probably the hardest on Ralph. Having to look every soon-to-be terminated employee in the eye, knowing they have a wife and child at home that depend on their revenue, is at least sixteen times harder when the sun is shining and the bird are chirping. How can they, when they know what cruel fortune awaits every cut back every big corporation decides to make? They make these decisions callously, and it's Ralph who has to break the news, and hear their desperate inquiries of "What will I do?" over and over again and watch each man and woman try their best not to cry and end up in a puddle of their own tears on the cold tile of his office. The day shifts are the hardest, but that doesn't mean the night shifts are any easier. It's a bit darker with low lighting in his office, so he can't see their pleading faces as well. That's a plus. Not a very big one, but you take it where you can get it when you clock in each day with apprehension and clock out with blood-soaked hands. Everyday feels like a perfect murder.
They know it's him who's killing them, he looks them right in the eye and doesn't dare look away, but he's never caught or punished. Instead he finds a 3,000 dollar check in the mail every first Thursday of the month.
It wouldn't be so bad if his coworkers understood that he was paid to do his job, that it was nothing personal. But nobody would ever dare start up a conversation with a man paid to fire people. Instead there was Ralph's coworker, Felix, who was paid to conduct interviews and ultimately hire someone, the exact opposite of Ralph's, where he has to decide who has the worst records and productivity and could land on their feet without this job, and ultimately fire someone.
He hated his job and the curse of loneliness that came with it.
Once, just once, he wanted to be invited to a break room party, or let in on a joke, or even just be allowed to talk to someone. It's been thirty years and in his entire life, Ralph has not made one friend. His parents were gone, and their deaths severed all ties he had with the rest of his family. He wishes it didn't have to be that way, but his family hated him as much as they did his mother, so he was left with no one.
There was only one way to save himself from the eternal curse of loneliness. He needed a promotion. A promotion meant that he would go on to help Felix (or if position titles meant anything, Felix would help him) decide what branches needed which employees and which ones needed new workers. There would be no firing involved.
There was just one problem.
The job required hours of volunteered service to the community, for whatever reason, the company found it necessary to give their head facilitators a taste of the real world. And for whatever reason, no shelters or charities wanted his help. Not that he really had the time as it was to volunteer, but the fact that they all sent him away struck him as bizarre and undoubtedly frustrating.
But he still wasn't going to give up.
"Vanessa Penelope von Scweirtz, you get down here this instant."
Vanessa Penelope, or as she insists on being called, Vanellope, stops six steps up the stair case to her attic bedroom.
She groans, and with her hands shoved down her pockets, marches indignantly down the stairs.
"Where do you think you're going in such a hurry?"
"To my room. I have a lot of homework."
"Do you have any idea what time it is?"
"It's dark outside, so, yeah. I have an idea."
"Don't you talk back to me, Vanessa Penelope, or I'll have you back in that orphanage before you can blink."
"But Carl —"
"And what did I say about using my first name? I am to be addressed as sir, mister, or Mr. King, do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, sire."
"What was that?"
"Yes, sir. I said sir."
"Now, sit," Mr. King pulls up a salmon-colored chair, "I feel like this talk is going to be a long one."
"Are you sure because I really —"
"Sit." He commands, fire burning in his eyes.
She gives a squeak and sits in the assigned chair.
"Now, I was in your room this afternoon —"
"Hey! That's an invasion of privacy —"
"Not when I own the house. But, yes, I was in your room and I happened to glance over this." He holds up a manual on homemade karts.
"But that was in a locked chest under my bed, there is no way you —"
"Nevertheless, I found it and I can now thoroughly diagnose your problem, Vanessa Penelope —"
"Vanellope, my name is Vanel —"
"Don't interrupt people, it's rude. That's another one of your many flaws," he pinches her cheek unaffectionately and she suppresses an outraged cry, "And, oh, how there are so many. You're lucky I put up with you alone, you're mistaken if you think I'm going to put up with your foolishness on top of everything else. I give you a roof over your head and all the food you can eat, and you, Vanessa Penelope are the most…"
She insisted on being called Vanellope because Vanessa Penelope wasn't a name, it was a curse that followed her around and reminded her of the many things that were wrong with her, it was a malediction Carl King, her somehow-legal guardian, used frequently.
The kids at the orphanage didn't like her, and they called her Vanessa Penelope. The kids at school don't like her, and they call her Vanessa Penelope. Mr. King hates her, and he calls her Vanessa Penelope more than any other person she's ever had the misfortune of living with.
She had always thought it was their voices that she hated hearing, but recently she's realized it's her own name that really makes her cringe.
Vanessa Penelope.
It was the worst thing anyone could say to her, and here she was, bombarded with its excessive use by a man she despised. He's evil, she tells herself. But she's been telling herself everyone else is evil for so long, she starts to wonder if maybe she's the one mistaken.
After all, Mr. King is heir to the Betty Crocker corporation, a man of great wealth and social standing. You don't get a happy ending like that by being evil.
Girls like Daphne and boys like Francis aren't surrounded by friends because they're evil.
The kids at the orphanage weren't adopted by nice, loving families because they're evil.
And here was Vanellope, Vanessa Penelope, without a friend in the world. Maybe they were right. Maybe she was a mistake.
"Oh, it's you, Ralph. I told you, I can't let you —"
"Please," the corpulent man pleaded with the orphanage's receptionist, "I just want to read some books to the children, anything that I can do, I want to do it. I just want to help, why am I never allowed to?"
"Because our society is one of order. You come to an orphanage to adopt children, not to babysit them."
"I know, but I —"
"Is that an AA pin on your shirt, Ralph?"
"Yeah, they were giving them out at the meeti — Okay, look, I realize I'm not the best role model, but that's not what I'm trying to accomplish here. I just want to do some volunteering and everyone else —"
"Please leave, Ralph." She says exasperatedly, "There's no place for you here."
His hands shoved in his pockets, he walks out the door and turns into one of the alleys. He throws punches at a dumpster and not even the hollow, metallic noises they make can satisfy his sudden rage.
"Are you a hobo?"
He jumps at the voice, but his surprise quickly adjusts back to anger when he sees the onyx-haired girl.
"No."
"Are you dumpster diving?"
"No. Trust me, there's nothing in there that I want."
"Then what are you doing here?"
"Nothing. I was just heading back to my apartment."
"Then why were you in the orphanage?"
"I was trying to volunteer to help some of the kids, but that witch of a receptionist won't let me," he huffed, "So, what are you doing here, Nosy?"
"Avoiding King Carl."
"Um, what?"
"Avoiding Carl King. What did I say? Uh, never mind, don't answer that. Why didn't they let you? Is it because you're a hobo?"
"I am not a hobo, for the last time, I have an apartment and a job that makes more than yours ever will."
"I doubt it. When I grow up, I'm going to be a NASCAR driver and make millions more than you!"
"If that's what you want to believe," he shrugged, "But have you ever driven before?"
"Well, no…But I'm going to soon! Because I'm — Wait," she looks down the alley back and forth, as if preparing to cross the street, "Can you keep a secret?" she whispers, her large eyes wide with excitement.
"I've got no one to tell."
"I'm building a kart," she whisper-giggles, as if it's the most wonderful secret ever shared, "It's going to be fast like all the other karts. See there are kids at my school who think they're better at racing than me just because their parents can afford really expensive karts, but I'm going to show them!"
"Can your parents not afford a kart?"
"Yeah, I guess you could say they can't afford much of anything these days."
"Why's that?"
"Well, look who's Nosy now! If it's really that important to you, they can't because they're dead."
"Oh."
"Yeah," she scratches the back of her neck, "You can go back to your apartment and million-dollar job now, non-hobo. Sorry if I upset you." She turns back into the dark alley, but he grabs her by the elbow at the last second.
"Hey, wait. If you don't have parents, don't you need someone to help you build your kart?"
She turns around, her enormous eyes somehow growing in magnitude.
"You would do that for a complete stranger?"
"Why not?"
In a flash, her small arms are around his waist in a lung-crushing hug.
Little did he know, this was just the beginning.