Disclaimer: "Wreck-It Ralph" and all characters related to the movie belong to The Walt Disney Company, and/or their respective gaming companies. Wreck-It Ralph was created by Rich Moore, Phil Johnston, and Jim Reardon. The Hunchback of Notre Dame (Notre Dame de Paris) belongs to the Victor Hugo, and redistributed by the Walt Disney Company. Our Lady of Paris, and any characters not associated in their own respective franchise belong to Berserkeroo. All rights reserved.
(A/N: Warning, this fic contains humor, dark moments, character death, and religion. If you find any of this offensive or can't take a joke, then I don't think this fanfic is for you. For the sake of all other Jawbreaker and/or Hero's Cuties fans, please exit the fanfic. Your exit can be found in the address bar, the previous webpage button, the exit window button, or the exit tab button. Thank you for flying Berserkeroo Airlines! XD
Now that I've had my fun, here's the other A/N: This all started when I thought, is it me or does WIR sound familiar? Then I concluded it was similar to the Hunchback of Notre Dame. I was talking to one of my friends on the site and she kind of agreed with me. We talked it out for a bit and it convinced me to write a WIR/HBND parody crossover thing. :P I've been leisurely writing this for a while, and would have started posting after Level Up! was complete, but since she said that there didn't seem to be enough Jawbreaker around here, I decided to remedy that and start posting it. It's not a long series and since I'm back in school, I'll probably limit it to one update every Saturday. Without further ado, here's the fic and as always enjoy. :3)
The chorus of kindred voices carries over throughout the beautiful French city. Bells soon mingle in with the melodic voices, giving it a refined sound. A middle-age male gypsy with receding hair was setting up his caravan in the town square of Paris; the town was vivacious and in full bloom. Years of honed skill came in handy as he avoids the cork that was once upon a wine bottle. He spots the curious eyes of children in the distance. With a final tug he finished his preparations and entered his nomadic abode. The quartet gathered around the colorful convey. Just in time, the bells in the distant cathedral rang with great gusto. A small chuckle came from the back of his throat, as he knew the reason behind it all.
"Ode to joy on this glorious day. I have a most magnificent tale of those wondrous bells," the gypsy said as he takes his eyes off the bell tower. "Well what's so special about Notre Dame? The whole town can go there," a young boy asks with a confused look at the tower. "What's so special about Notre Dame? Only the most exciting tale in my arsenal! It is a tale of a mysterious man, a beautiful gypsy girl, and a monster most vile. Listen if you will, and spot out who's who, in the tale of Our Lady of Paris..."
Saturated in the eerie darkness, the gentle patter of a disturbed water surface enriches the crisp, silent air. Taciturn and perilous, a destination was sought in the monotonously shrouded city of Paris. A thin pole gently prods the still waters once more. Black cloth drapes over the pole, revealing the concealed, cloaked male steers the boat through the dank waterways of the town. Silent rejoice soon shone forth when the docks were in sight. A red haired woman caresses her child hidden behind a pale sheet. "Soon my little one we will be through the city and reach the Court," she promises in a whisper. In sync with the glee radiating off of his mother, the child responds in kind with a few excited gurgles of his own.
Two males and a woman hush the mother-son pair as they disembark from the boat. "Mon cher if we are to make it to our friends safely, you'll have to keep him quiet or we might run into-" Cursed were the words of the man who spoke them, for in their shortcoming the loud whines of a Friesian stallion trailed from a nearby alleyway. Fear stricken, the men try to quench their drying throats while the women subtly backtrack away from the impending onslaught. Accusation and glares were cast at the rower who was just as equally shocked. "I had no hand in this I swear!" he whispers. In the cool awaiting air, the haunting trots of the horse grew louder and louder. Silently, the troop tries to return to the vessel, but the rower was already traveling down the watery route; lest he be caught. "Coward! Come back!" the leader of the group hissed.
Looming with the menace as if he himself was composed of a thousand men, the diminutive man makes his appearance from the grim shadows. Though not as threatening in size, the man himself had one thing that they all feared; political power. Two armored males rode upon dark brown Clydesdales alongside the impending terror of the gypsies. "Minister of Justice Turbo..." one of them simpers. Radiating against the pale moonlight, a row of yellow teeth pull into the subtlest of sadistic pleasure of their fear. He spat in the direction of the band of nomads. "Disgusting vermin!" he scoffs with despise and bigotry, "Don't worry, you'll be handled soon enough. Come along quietly and I will… attempt to make my punishment swift. No promises though."
All eyes were on the advancing judicial figure, knowing well enough that the promise was hollow and their fate would resign as cruel and merciless as their brethren before them. The burly gypsy male glances back at his consort with a look she knew too well. Survival was a must for their bundle of joy so with a bereft sigh; the women took to different directions. Turbo hisses at the fleeing women. "After them!" he orders, but their devote mates tackle the guards off of their horses. "Fools! Those two better be in shackles when I return. I'll get those gypsies myself — particularly the little thief," he grits his teeth. The horse whines with a haunting fervor as it goes in pursuit of the escaping woman.
The bitter winter winds bit at the exposed skin of the fleeing gypsy; even crueler, the fierce gale strained the airflow to her abused lungs. Her heart was pounding mercilessly in her chest, which grew more sporadic, the instance the echoes from the black's equine cry drew near. "Kyrie Eleison. Kyrie Eleison," she silently prayed as she nears the church. She bangs vehemently against the large oak doors of the cathedral. "Sanctuary. Please give us sanctuary," she pleads as the black contours of the horse come into view.
As if they were the heart of the chilling tempest winds, Turbo and his massive steed were upon her. "Give that to me you vile woman!" he demands as he goes into a tugging skirmish between the mother and her child. Seeing that she wasn't going to let go nor was his strength superior to the protective drive of the mother's love, he kicks his horse in its ribs, causing him to buck about uncontrollably. The stallion's sharp, black hooves kick the gypsy in the head, shattering her skull it in one blow. The viscous liquid of life seeps profusely from her concave cranial wound.
Turbo laughs in victory at the claim of his success. His laughter is halted once the cry of an infant comes from within the sheets. Pure, unadulterated disbelief terminates his triumph. "A baby?" his black eyes fall upon the baby. He couldn't justify the murder of the woman — even if she was a gypsy — to the Palace of Justice. He would lose his job. "You deceptive little... Oh well, I'll just have to get rid of it and fabricate something," he hisses as he places the child onto the ground. He pulls at the reins of his horse, rearing the creature up in the process.
Just as the killing blow was about to be dealt, the voice of the mournful archdeacon scares the stallion; making him miss the child completely. His hands visibly shake at the sight of the wounded woman on the holy ground of Notre Dame. Speech left him once he confirmed that she was dead. Slowly, he covers his eyes so that he didn't have to see her any longer, but that didn't negate the heartless words of the Minister of Justice. "I am doing the work of the Lord. This demon spawn must be exterminated. Now get out my way Archdeacon Fix-It." Turbo grits his teeth at the brunette male lifts the child out of the cold.
The archdeacon violently shakes his head protest and disappointment. "You've just murdered an innocent woman who claimed sanctuary… yet you've killed her anyways. You've attempted to murder a defenseless infant, and now you tell me to stand down so you can fulfill the deed?" Felix Sr. asks in shock. "She ran away. Had she not tried to elude justice, she would still be here. I did nothing wrong and you can't prove it!" the pale man defends. "Lie to yourself as much as you desire, but the eyes of Heaven cannot be deceived! The reach of your power can only go so far, and the blood of an innocent is on your hands!" the holy man chastised.
Turbo gazes up at the cloudy starless night. He gulps as he looks around the church in distress. He couldn't risk getting rid of an archdeacon; too many people would notice. "All right, all right, all right... What do I do?" he glances over his shoulders to assure that they were alone. "Une vie pour une vie. A life for a life. Take care of him in the stead of the mother you took from him," the archdeacon instructs with a look of some relief that Turbo owned up to his actions.
On the outside Turbo's expression was placid and stoic, but internally he was seething with rage. Just as frigid as the atramentous night, a collection of soothing breaths escape his chapped lips, but reluctantly he responds, "Fine, but I have no place in my home for him. Let him live here," he offers with a glance towards the boy. "In Notre Dame? But where?"
A pair of discolored yellow eyes went to the dark bell tower. "Up there will do. The poor child would be ridiculed if he were to live a normal life in sight. He is gypsy-born after all. I'm just looking out for his best interest." The lie slithered off his tongue like satin. Felix Sr. didn't want to be the first to admit that realistically, Turbo had a point since his department made the laws of the land, but agrees nonetheless. "What will you call the boy?"
Turbo quirks a brow at the question, but rolls his eyes. "I'll call him Wreck-It Ralph," he smirks wryly. "Heaven knows how he just ruined my life and my plans!" The archdeacon pinches the bridge of his nose, but knew that this is the best he would get from the judge for the time being. Gently as if the child was his own son, he folds the covers over the child and hands him to his new father. He takes the deceased gypsy inside to lay her body to rest, while the court justice took the newly dubbed child up to the bell tower, where he would assuredly be spending the rest of his life.
(A/N: So yeah... That happened. Uhm, just making a note to those who are reading Level Up!, the chapters are far shorter since I'm working with a source material. Level Up! chapters usually range from 7-11 pages, Our Lady of Paris will probably be around 4-7 pages at the best. Hope you guys have enjoyed the chapter and I'll see you guys next Saturday. ;3)