Hello, everyone! Yes, I realize that I said I wouldn't be uploading anything until my book was completed, but I never counted on Wreck-It Ralph coming out, so... here I am. Heh, heh... Anyway!

Wreck-It Ralph was AMAZING! I was very impressed with Disney's work – I can't think about anything else, I swear. I absolutely loved its characters, the plot, the artistry of the environments, the music... everything! Wreck-It Ralph was the best movie I've seen and ever will see, I can honestly say. It was an instant favorite. So, if you haven't been fortunate enough to go out and see it, I heartily encourage you to. It was INCREDIBLE.

So incredible was the movie that I just had to write something about it. I couldn't help myself the moment they introduced the villain, Turbo. Oh. My. Gosh. He did SO many things to me all at the same time he made my head spin! He simultaneously terrified me, inspired me, made me giddy, delved me into his thoughts, and awed me on so many levels. Turbo is the greatest villain of all time, no ifs, ands, or buts about it. Believe me!

Regarding that, I decided to write this story about him! Abandoned features Turbo's backstory prior to the movie – kind of an inside look as to what lead to his becoming of character. I understand this has probably been done before up and down the site, but here's my take on it. Hope you enjoy. :)

I researched A LOT so it could be as accurate as it could be, and I tried really hard to capture his attitude as a self-obsessed kind of guy hungering for attention wherever he could get it from. I hope it worked out.

Now, before you read on, let me address that I DO NOT OWN ANY CHARACTERS IN THIS STORY. THEY ALL BELONG TO DISNEY – NO COPYRIGHT INFRINGEMENT IS INTENDED ON MY PART. Also, the artwork I used in the cover belongs to the amazing artists Dezzoi (awesome), Professor Pemzini (awesome), and Disney (awesome), so I own none of it. I just put it together.

I am very proud to present this! So, without further ado, please enjoy chapter one of Abandoned...

Let me set this straight: when it comes to racing, there's nobody better than me.

I'm Turbo! It's in my name! my code! Don't you ever forget that!

But if you by some chance happen to let that fact slip your mind, then I'll give you a reminding... from underneath my tires. After you get a good lick of my rubber, I'd like to see you doubt my name.

So, you wanna race, chump?

Am I goin' too fast for ya? Rightly so. I'm the fastest there is; nobody beats me. But before I utterly lap you, you gotta realize that there was a reason why I had my own game. There was a reason why I was the guy in first place, leaving the other losers to choke on my dust. There was a reason why I had my fingers curled around a golden trophy, and why I never stooped below first on the winners' podium.

This reason amounts to something plain and simple: it's because I'm just that good. Don't you dare forget that, either! 'Cause you'll pay for it!

You understand me? Good! So, now that I assume you won't ever forget that I'm THE BEST, allow me to give you a bit of a background check on yours truly...

When I first came out on the Arcade scene, I was the first of my kind: a kart-racer. I was new. I was fresh and cool. As such, my popularity exploded when Litwak plugged in TurboTime in 1982. Back in the day, gamers would crowd around my console with quarters literally armed for next game. Sure, I wasn't nearly as popular as Pac-Man some days, but I competed neck and neck with Fix-It Felix Jr., and that's certainly something, knowing how long he's been around.

On a typical day at the Arcade, I'd see about eighty races, give or take a few. Impressive, huh? From opening to closing, I was constantly shadowed by the face of a gamer. Boy, those kids couldn't get enough of me, I was so incredibly addictive! Day in and day out, I'd tear across the track, lapping those lousy TurboTwins - whatever their names were - to take the trophy with ease. And each time I crossed the finish line, I'd give the gamer a hardy, "Turbo-Tastic!" with a thumbs-up. I got smiles all around.

I swear it was my catchphrase, but those kids fed the console so many quarters that Litwak saw a dramatic spike in his income just weeks after I was plugged in. We got more and more players with each passing day, and they just kept coming. It was relentless. From my place behind the screen, the Arcade teemed with kids the entire day, swarming my game with change.

But hey, you never saw me complain. 1982 was a sweet, sweet paradise of fame, speed and ambitions for a success like me. I hardly ever got a breather between games and I loved it. I loved the adrenaline of racing, the rush of the road, the sleekness of my trophy so much that it didn't matter that during hours, I was being controlled by a kid. As long as I won (which, I always did), nothing could ruin my perfect hour. And with my surplus of winnings, my face ended up freezing itself into an infectious grin, which made me that much better.

You could say that I was definitely the most popular guy in the Arcade. I mean, how could I not be? Whenever I hung out at Tapper's, I'd find myself surrounded by other Arcade inhabitants - those who had heard of my infamy and had come to see me for themselves. Curious eyes and anxious questions enveloped me like a cloud as I sipped root beer on my barstool, grinning so widely my cheeks wrinkled permanently.

Who was this talented money-maker? Who was the ruler of the racetrack? Who was the all-time favorite of gamers statewide? they all asked.

I was the answer, of course.

Needless to say, my world then was golden. For what seemed like ages, I considered myself the most important asset to the Arcade, what with my enormous popularity (both virtual and not) and getting Litwak an extra boost of cash, and all that. He even took the time to pat my console and comment on my success every now and then at closing. He'd polish the game's screen when he got the chance and smiled through the glass like a proud father.

Basking in the glory of the spotlight, I thought my time as Arcade-favorite would never end. I imagined myself at the top of the podium, prosperous, amazing, Turbo-Tastic... forever. My future was an endless spans of victory. Without a blip of doubt, I knew that there wasn't a game on the market that could outshine me - there would never be another game like mine. I was Turbo, the one-of-a-kind racer. Turbo, the fastest thing on wheels. Turbo, the king of Arcade games.

But... I never realized that my glory would only lead to Litwak's wealth.

The splendor of attention I got somewhat blinded me to the amassing money that he was earning. Eventually, after garnering a grand amount of quarters, Litwak had enough money to buy a new game. That game would turn out to downshift the course of my Arcade existence, though, I didn't see it coming. No one in the Arcade did.

By that time, it was the year 1987. I had been the go-to Arcade game for nearly five years by then, and I had no idea that my reign as champ of the Turbo Track would soon screech to a halt.

This is where you jump in.

It was another typical racing day for me in TurboTime. It was three times around the track, avoiding my two "rivals" while shooting for a high speed record. On top of those, we had to avoid obstacles like mud pits or the scraps of walking fur asking to become roadkill.

I already had dozens of races behind me when I zipped across the finish line around nine pm., or so. Closing time was in an hour, and the pair of regulars at the controls had planned on blowing all of their coins playing my game till Litwak called it a night. At the current moment, they were on their last few quarters to burn, which meant that I was in for several more races. When I got home, I'd have to make room for my daily trophy intake.

Now, where can I put those? I wondered.

That had me giddy and my smile only got bigger. After all, the shelves of my home were crammed to the edges with my trophies. They filled the floor, the corners, the tables... everywhere. I could barely walk around, but it was quite a sight.

Unlike the Twins, who had crossed the finish line with barely-suppressed groans of vexation, I was raring to keep on racing to earn more trophies and love from those gamers. I tell you, it was all so satisfying! I often had trouble wrapping my head around the fact that those two disliked racing most days.

But I wouldn't know losing, would I?

Anyway, I had easily won the race. Naturally. It hadn't been difficult at all - it never was with my driving expertise. My ears were still ringing from the ripping of my engine, and my teeth slightly chattering as I slowed the kart. They tend to do that whenever I get really in tune with the race.

Once fully stopped, I stepped out of my kart, waving and passing out winks to the fake, jouncing pixels of the crowd as I approached the winners' podium. Pre-recorded screams blasted into my skin and absorbed through me, rejuvenating me eccentrically.

I was beaming as I adjusted my collar coolly. "Another race, another victory. Heh, heh, nothin' to it. Turbo-Tastic."

The Twins had slammed on their brakes and forced themselves out of their karts. They stalked behind me, grumbling about something I could care less about while dragging their feet. What a pair of sore losers, I thought. You'd think they'd be used to it about now.

Ignoring them, I hopped gleefully up to first place on the podium, with the Twins taking their respective places in second and third. They forced a pair of smiles and slouched irritably, trying to keep their eyes away from me before I was awarded.

Ah, how I loved the award process: all of a sudden and out of nowhere, the golden trophy would magically materialize itself into my awaiting hands, glittering beautifully. It reflected my face when I gazed into it in triumph.

Once I held my prize, the game's victory jingle would ring, some high scores were posted on the screen, and that was it. That was the set-in-stone routine for us in TurboTime. But it never got old to me.

Meanwhile, above, the pair of long-haired teenage boys crammed their faces before the screen as I shoved my trophy in the TurboTwins' scowls. The gamers' cheers were contagious through the glass; I couldn't resist the urge to belt out a, "Turbo-Tastic!" while grinning to the edges of my racing helmet.

It may come as a shock to you, but while I had relived this moment again and again for five solid years, I never ceased to feel like I was intoxicated whenever I won. I loved rubbing my victory in the TurboTwins' gross yellow teeth. It just felt so... good. Gratifying, even. I really can't explain it. The win filled me with a warmth that saturated every bit of my body till I wanted to sing.

I never once saw my job as a grind or rut. My job as a racer, and more importantly as a winner, was my life, my existence, my purpose! I was programmed to win. Nothing and no one could take that away from me. Since day one, I was completely assured of that.

And if I was programmed to win, then I was gonna enjoy every second of it.

I honestly did, until that day in 1987.

Now that the game was over, the teenagers scrounged their pockets for another round of quarters and switched players. As they did so, the world of TurboTime went black to allow us to reset our positions. The eyes of the game's inhabitants glowed in the darkness, bobbing around like fireflies as we scuttled.

"Positions! Positions, everybody!" I called out, for what, the hundredth time today?

"WE KNOW!" someone on the podium replied.

Normally I would've questioned their tone, but my ecstasy at the race was driving my feet. I jumped off the podium and jogged excitedly back to my kart, which lay in the middle of the track. My shoes crunched on the dirt, producing a few giggles from me. Hugging my new prize close, I tried to restrain the bubbling sensation in my chest.

"Another race, another victory," I repeated with a smile.

Once I made it to my faster-than-lightning kart, I leapt over the side and into my seat, laying down the trophy in my lap. I quickly buckled up and laid my feet on the pedals, stroking the steering wheel with pleasure. "Let's finish this shift up right, baby. Let's race!"

After hitting the ignition, my kart thundered to life, ready to speed off. I floored it in reverse, shooting backward till I made my abrupt stop in front of the starting line with a shriek of the brakes. My beloved kart and I were ready to shine once again.

Just then my competition pulled up on either side of me. I couldn't tell much from the faint glow their eyes cast on their faces, but I knew that one of them was shooting me a glare.

We exchanged a long glance from across our driver's seats. He then revved his engine loudly, the sound echoing along the walls, tempting me. I grinned back at his gesture, and with a phony salute, crooned at him, "See ya at the finish line."

He shook his head. "I'll beat you today, Turbo! I can feel it. You just watch."

Well, that didn't faze me in the slightest. I couldn't help myself and laughed out loud, "Yeah, right!"

Before he could reply, the clicking of a quarter rolling inside the slot then caught our attentions. Without warning, the Track lights came on, brightly illuminating the raceway and the trio of racers upon it. The darkness lifted just in time for the game's theme song to begin tooting in its 8-bit majesty.

I shifted in my seat and focused forward, listening for the starting signal. It took a little while to chime, so I glanced up to the screen. Watching us, I saw the gamers, but I noticed someone else, too.

Litwak caught my eye as he hobbled by behind the gamers' shoulders. From the looks of it, he was pushing a shiny game console into the open spot on the floor across from my game, and it looked heavy.

The moment he set it down, the boys turned their heads, their eyes alight. Without a moment's hesitation they immediately abandoned the steering wheel and flew over to the game right as Litwak plugged it in to Game Central, crying, "Wow! New game!"

It all happened so fast, the starting signal went completely ignored.

The TurboTime theme shut off in an instant, casting heavy silence upon the racetrack. None of us moved.

Suffice to say, this had never happened before. No one had ever just... up and ran from the beginning of a new game.

I froze in my seat and gawped at the boys. Focused on the other screen, their faces were lit up by the glow of a fancily-pixelated race car swerving across an infinitely-winding road. One of them handled the steering while the other one blasted cars in the roadway to smithereens. I noticed with a start that the car had a huge gun mounted to its roof. Litwak supervised the whole affair, commenting facts about the game to them. I watched with disturbed intensity.

Reading the console's name, RoadBlasters, quickly shot my pulse with ice.

I didn't know it then, but I know now. Yes, the bane of my career had reared its spotlight-snatching-first-person-shooter/racer head, and in nothing but a half-second, it had knocked me into the shadows of those boys' minds.

I waited there, watching, numb.

How...? What? My brain flustered wildly at a million miles an hour.

The race that was supposed to be commencing never happened, and the racetrack was deathly quiet. Only the putting of our engines and the noise of RoadBlasters dared to interfere with the silence.

My eyes were so wide they were drying out. I couldn't stop staring at those boys. I had gotten so used to seeing faces over the years that seeing someone's back instead was a horrifyingly foreign sight to me. They were engrossed with the game - consumed by it. They never once looked back at my screen, or at my face as it reduced itself to an empty gape.

Moments dragged on as they forgot me and became absorbed by explosions and the asphalt-blurring speed of the car. They laughed and joked, fiercely jerking the wheel and hitting buttons, excited by the new toy in front of them.

Hey... What about me?

Blinking hard, I unbuckled my seat belt and rose from my kart onto the track. "What just happened...?" I wondered aloud, my voice a breath. Walking forward aimlessly, my fingers uncurled around the trophy. It thudded heavily to the ground.

It had only been minutes, and they still had their backs to me. They weren't holding my steering wheel. They weren't giving me any form of attention. Not one glance.

Something in the pit of my gut began churning.

Behind me, two pairs of feet hit the ground and crackled upon the dirt. I didn't need to glance back to know that the Twins had their faces craned toward the empty screen of TurboTime, just like me.

"What's that new game?" one of them asked. His voice was strangely calm, despite the circumstances. "RoadBlasters...?"

Sheer astonishment hit me upside the head when he said, "Those graphics look great." The guy seemed generally impressed, and maybe, even a little awed - as if anyone could ever be impressed by an attention-stealing jumble of ones and zeroes.

The other, who had revved his engine, droned, "Yeah... A little too great... I feel kinda pixelated, now..." He paused for a sigh. "Man, but look at all those colors! I've never seen so many in one place!"

"They've really amped up the gameplay since we were plugged in, haven't they? Amazing what five years can do," the respectful one said.

An awful noise sliced through their conversation briefly as the RoadBlasters car drifted expertly through a sharp turn. It barely slowed down and continued blowing anything in its way into oblivion.

Whereas they were amazed, I was broiling with jealousy inside. I was the only one I knew who could drift that well. "Did you see that?! He's got some nice moves!" the Twin on my right marveled.

"Ohh...! I wonder if he would teach me a few pointers after hours?" the other said wistfully. He then added in an undertone, though I heard it regardless, "Maybe then I could finally get out of second and get my hands on a trophy for once..."

"We're definitely asking him over to Tapper's once the Arcade closes."

"Deal."

The Twins exchanged this entire conversation without acknowledging my presence once. I stayed silent. As much as it hurt to admit, RoadBlasters had much more color, much more intensity and enhancements than me. Nausea began to creep its way in as the boys' free trial from Litwak ended. They promptly searched their pockets for extra quarters. Once found, they shoved them eagerly into the coin slot and resumed play.

And no, I had not forgotten that those quarters were originally meant for me.

My fists bunched up at my sides. I was starting to despise those meaningless explosions and the immediate adoration that that game had received.

How could they do this to me? How was this possible?!

"What's so great about RoadBlasters, anyway?!" I growled through my teeth. "Racing was never meant to involve blowing things up! How could they think that that game is better than ME?!"

The calmer Twin piped up, finally noticing I was there. "Whoa, Turbo. Calm down. Don't jump to any conclusions, yet." I turned my burning gaze up at him when he stepped next to me. It took me a moment to realize that the guy was several pixels taller than I was. I guess I never noticed, since I was always two steps above him on the podium.

Quite a gangly thing, he towered over me (I'm a little on the short side), clad from head to toe in cobalt blue racing gear. He was adorned with white stripes here and there, and just like the rest of us in TurboTime, he had milky skin, large, yellow eyes, and crooked, yellowing teeth. Despite his unpleasant appearance, this one was considerably decent in his manners. He managed to sneak out half-hearted congratulations to me whenever I won.

He was okay, I guess. But even after five years, I hadn't ever remembered his name. He told me it once, but I've since forgotten it. Didn't matter to me. However, because he consistently finished dead last, we'll start calling him Third.

Anyway, Third continued, "Just because Litwak brought in another game that doesn't mean we're obsolete," he reassured me. "You know how they are. Those kids get excited about the new stuff, that's all. Soon the new-game flair will wear off."

"Always does," his brother added.

I turned to him. Third's brother looked exactly the same, so it was like looking in a mirror whenever you talked to them. Same clothes, same face, same crappy racing skills. But this guy's voice bore an edge to it - one that his brother lacked. He had a bit of an attitude as well, since he was fond of bashing my kart whenever we sped off from the starting line. We weren't anything alike racing-wise, but we did have a bit of an... anger problem occasionally.

I stood in awe at their incredulous expressions. "Are-are you joking?!" In defiance, I stabbed an open palm at RoadBlasters. "Did you see how quickly they left me?! What if it doesn't wear off?! What if they never play me again?! What if... What if they forget about me?!" I whispered the last lines in sheer horror. Clawing at my helmet, I stared at my shoes, stuttering, "I can't be forgotten... I can't be left behind! I have to be played! I WILL be played!"

Those thoughts of abandonment had my mind tripping. I shuddered to imagine never being played again, never driving under the gaze of a praise-paying gamer or holding another trophy in my hands...

If that happened, I would lose everything - everything that defined a winner. Everything that defined me. I gulped.

The meaner Twin's pale eyelids tightened (let's call him Second, since that's what he always took), his mouth wrinkling in distaste. "Hey, this game's not just about you, you know. You can't exclude us, Turbo, we're a part of TurboTime as much as you are."

My lip twitched and I snorted. Did he have the nerve to bring this up now? With the tragedy of RoadBlasters so prominent? I was so not in the mood.

I finally rolled my eyes at his blatant stupidity, barking out, "Yeah, for one lousy reason! All you do is fill up the second and third places on the podium! Nothing else!"

Third blinked and stammered, "E-excuse me?"

How thick were these guys? My voice gradually escalated in volume till I was shouting as loudly as I could. "Ugh, don't you get it? That's all you were created for, because you always lose, and I always win! I was created to be the best, the most popular, the one and only! That's why it's called TURBOTIME, and why I'm THE FAVORITE!"

Second's eyebrows skyrocketed into his blue helmet, nearly knocking it off his head. Third also reacted: he stiffened and clenched his jaw, looking uncomfortable.

More silence hung for some time. No one spoke. After a while, Second's breath came out in angry bursts through his nostrils. I could tell I had cut him deep with my words.

"You've got a lot of nerve, talkin' like that, Turbo," he hissed, glaring down his nose at me. "But you've never said that before. Why are you suddenly being so honest, huh?" With a critical smirk, he aimed a thumb back at RoadBlasters. "Does it have anything to do with the new guy stealin' your thunder?"

In no time at all, both his eyes and mine were glowing with malice, but that's not what got me frothed up. No, he hit me home with RoadBlasters.

I didn't need an minute to realize that I hated that game with every bit of my being. I hated its "updated" graphics and gameplay, it's "exciting" features, and its crazy appeal to gamers. The explosions drove me insane. But what I hated the most was how its mechanics were a total copy of mine. I was supposed to be the only racer, done and done. Another game like that shouldn't have existed.

I locked an enraged glower with Second. "HA! That guy's a jackleg! He doesn't deserve to be in my Arcade! He doesn't deserve the gamers' attention or quarters or anything!"

He crossed his arms and shifted his feet, his eyebrows low and his smile smooth. "YOUR Arcade? Oh, I get it. This whole fit you're pitching is over the fact that you might not be the best, anymore-"

"I AM THE BEST!" I screamed, finally losing it. Second recoiled at my outburst, while Third looked plain worried. I stabbed a finger at the former, my body and my voice physically shaking. "DON'T YOU EVER SAY THAT AGAIN, SECOND! I know I'm the best! And I won't have some moronic amateur like RoadBlasters put me in the shade!"

The guy stood still, and by the look in his eyes, he was milling over what I had just said. His jaw ground. He cocked his head to the side, making a face. "...Did you just call me Second?" he grunted slowly.

"Yeah, ya blue beanpole. Why shouldn't I if that's the only place you take?! Seemed appropriate enough for me." I sneered into his face. Hidden lines in his skin suddenly became more jutting. "Last time I checked, second always came behind first!"

I had struck his core with professional precision and seriously made him mad. He bore his ugly yellow teeth and took a step forward. Third tensed for an ensuing fight behind him, murmuring, "Charger..."

Second paid no heed to his name and growled out, "Why, I oughta-"

I took my stance and stood my ground, even though he soared over me. I wasn't afraid of this loser. What was the worst he could do? "Oughta what, hm? What are you gonna do, Second? We can't settle this over a race - all you'll achieve is eating up my dust and taking second place as usual! And you wanna know why?" I paused for effect.

Second (or Charger) looked like he was about to explode, he was holding back so much fury. I'd only seen his aggression this bad on the racetrack, where he'd try everything from foul-mouthing to ramming to try and surpass me. Now that I think on it, he was the most ill-tempered cuss whenever I won, or when he shot me blacks looks from another table at Tapper's.

I realized that the guy seriously wanted to win, but since I was there in front of him, he never got his chance, and that drove him crazy.

His eyes were like furnaces, riveted on me with hatred; his fists, at his sides, tightened till his knuckles cracked. Standing in his shadow, I had a feeling he was about to send one of those right into my mouth.

Despite that, I finished off my statement, "Because you were created to be the loser, and I was created to be the winner, Turbo-Tastic!"

That was the day I found out that the truth hurts. A lot.

"THAT'S IT!" Second screamed. Before I had the chance to consider getting out of his way, he threw out his arms and surged forward, where he took up a fistful of my collar. "ARGH!" With a yank, he hauled me clear off the ground and at his mercy, dangling me like a set of car keys.

I howled and started flailing my legs, where I succeeded in landing a few kicks to his gut. He was so close to me, I felt his hot breath breeze over my face with each hit. I tried to escape, but in that position, there wasn't much else I could do but thrash. "Let me down, you idiot!" I cried.

He ignored me and snarled. "SHUT UP! I've had it up to HERE with you-"

Second cut off as Third raced to us in a heartbeat, knocking into his shoulder to disturb his balance. His brother merely shifted his stance and continued trying to strangle me, growling like a hound.

"Hey, hey, Charger! Break it up! Stop it!" Third hollered, inserting his hands between us in an attempt to separate the fight, but Second just shook him off. He really meant business, tonight.

Second still had me strung up by my clothes when he took a fist back and spat, "Turbo-Tastic this, you little tightwad!" I was helpless. He drove his fist straight into my jaw at the speed of a bullet; his knuckles collided with a sickening crunch that sent sharp pain up and down my face. My jaw popped slightly out of its socket and my teeth rattled.

A yelp escaped from my throat, but Second refused to drop me. In fact, he pulled his fist back again, ready for another round. This time, though, Third intervened.

Instead of trying to divide us, Third tackled Second full-force and sent the three of us tumbling to the dirt. Second's grip on my collar was so tight that when we were forced apart, he took half of my collar with him. They landed in a struggling pile of cobalt blue next to me. I hit the ground hard enough that my helmet rang like a bell.

I laid there, sprawled, gazing up at the dark sky of TurboTime. Man, Second had really nailed me - the pain in my jaw was excruciating. I pinched my eyes closed and cupped it, trying to settle the pounding of my head. My moans went unheard beneath the irate screams of Second as he writhed underneath his brother, who was holding him down by his shoulders.

"GET OFF ME, BOOST!" Second roared. "I'LL TOTAL THAT EGOCENTRIC FREAK!"

Third roared right back in his face, "No you won't! Calm down and think for a bit, Charger! Is this really solving anything?"

His brother stopped twisting. "...H-huh?"

"All this fighting, all this arguing? Jealousy? Hatred? Where - if anywhere - will this lead us? Let it go, Charger." He shook his head, hesitating before saying, "It's really not worth it."

"But did you hear what he said?!"

"I heard it just fine, but do you see me trying to kill the little guy over it? It's not right."

Charger laid still, thinking it over for a while. There was a bit of anger still lingering in his eyes, but he had simmered down enough at his brother's words. "Mm..." he said under his breath. "Yeah, I guess." As he started to sit up, his brother eased off him and knelt at his side, where they linked glances for several moments.

I propped myself on-elbow, my palm covering my aching jaw. Finally, Charger's brother (Boost, as I now realize) swiveled his head towards me. "We can't let this new game tear us apart, no matter how popular it gets. Now, I know we haven't ever been... stepped up like this... but we need to accept that we have a new neighbor, and maybe some friendly competition."

My skin crawled at that. I had no competition whatsoever.

"So let's have some fun with this, all right, you two? After all, it is a family fun center we're in. Let's not make waves with each other." Boost continued in a grimmer tone, looking to his brother, "Charger, can you handle toning it down? easing it up?"

He nodded, his eyelids low over his incandescent eyes. "Yeah."

Boost then looked to me. "And Turbo, would it really kill you to let us win at closing time every now and then?" My eyebrows rose. "I know it's not been in your repertoire for the past five years, but none of this would have happened if things were more fair. And I speak for both of us when I say that coming up losing all the time doesn't feel that great." Charger agreed with a somber nod.

I remained where I was, expressionless. When he noted my reaction, Boost finished, "Look, I'm not asking you to stop winning altogether, 'cause you're one great racer, Turbo. You go ahead and keep on winning for the gamers." He then surprised me when he gave me a genuine smile. "But I think we'd all be much happier if we evened out the odds across the three of us. Just at closing time, and that's all." Inspecting my face, he proposed kindly, "Do we have a deal?"

Now, under normal circumstances, I would have been appalled at the idea of letting someone else win. Don't get me wrong, I was feeling sick to my stomach throughout his speech, but because my jaw hurt so badly, I wasn't able to voice my opinion on the whole thing. My opinion involved a strict, Even out the odds? No way! It's not MY fault you guys suck at racing!, but they didn't hear it.

I shifted my eyes to the ground as means of reply to Boost. He firmed his lips with disappointment, probably getting the picture that I wasn't going to say anything. Not because I didn't want to, but because I couldn't.

"Okay, then," he said reverently. "That about settles it. Well..." Boost raised his head towards TurboTime's screen, which was still empty. He sighed. "With RoadBlasters in, I don't think we'll be getting much more play time, tonight. Might as well turn in early. It's been a long day."

Getting to his feet, he brushed the dirt off his shins and held out a hand to Charger, who took it and rose as well. They both stared down at me as I sat, irresolute, watching them in silence.

"We're headed home. What are you going to do till closing time, Turbo?" Boost asked me in a caring manner, as if he were generally interested in my decision. He had ever spoken to me like that, before; I marveled at it, however briefly.

I stared at him blankly and gathered my voice, coping with the stiffness of my jaw as I opened it and said, "Wait-" As I made the syllable, my jawbone popped stridently, paining me. I cringed.

Boost seemed a bit sad, but he didn't prod me. Vaguely, I wondered why. "Suit yourself. Well, enjoy your night, Turbo. Come and get us if anyone comes by." He then waved me goodbye and turned on his heel towards the small set of houses beyond the stands, stooping his head as he strode away. He left his kart behind the finish line.

Meanwhile, Charger didn't follow immediately. He waited for some time till his twin was out of earshot, wringing the shreds of my collar between his fingers. A tinge of his prior hostility hinted his eyes and tone when he said lowly, "One more crack like that, Turbo, and I'll make sure you can't crack that stupid smile ever again."

And with that threat, he threw the remains of my collar into my lap and swiveled himself around, following after Boost. I watched him walk away and shrink into the distance, my gaze smoldering on his back.

When the windows of the Twins' home lit up, I swallowed the bitter saliva in my mouth hard and scooted myself towards TurboTime's screen, curling into a ball. Alone and feeling hollow, I wrapped my arms around my shins and hugged them, rested my chin gently on my knees, and stared up at the Arcade.

And so I waited.

No one came by.

"C'mon..." I plead. "C'mon, please... I have to race... Anybody... Please..."

I sat inert for so long, my entire body went numb. As the time staggered on, my pulse heightened and my jawbone throbbed more painfully than before. My stomach twisted into several knots that I knew wouldn't untie themselves as a chill inside of me spread.

After half an hour of absolutely nothing, I shivered under the warm lights of the track.

Wow, I thought. I didn't plan for any of that.

My mind exhausted itself imagining that not an hour ago, I was content with my life. I was content with my trophies, my fame, my popularity and my uniqueness.

I never once complained, did I? I never asked for RoadBlasters to barge in on my career. I never asked to have my racing supremacy questioned, and I never asked for the idiocy of Charger. I didn't even ask for that punch he gave me.

I rubbed my jaw. Why was this happening to me?

It wasn't fair.

Why did the giants have to fall?

I didn't deserve this. No, I didn't!

And why did it have to be me? Why not Pac-Man? or Felix? Or why not the RoadBlasters guy? I would kill to see that.

Hm... Could that ever happen?

I boiled over these facts longer than I realized, for before I knew it, I had been sitting below the screen desperately for more than an hour. Still, not a soul came by, and closing time was on its approach. The end of my day was looking pretty sour.

I shifted uncomfortably on the ground. Blinking against the light from the Arcade - which strained my tiring eyes - my glance zeroed in RoadBlasters, which was still as popular as ever. I realized that no one had come by TurboTime since the boys from before had recruited other gamers into checking out the game.

Game after game was played, and car after car was demolished with missiles - it was an endless nightmare, watching it play out. Entranced by RoadBlasters, the gamers gathered around the console as a mob of adoring fans...

...fans that used to adore me.

My brows knit together in a glare at that thought, and my attitude shifted dramatically. "How dare they?" I spat at their backs. "How dare they?" The words gave rise to a sudden rush of anger inside of me. My fingers curled into the material of my jumpsuit, digging into my legs.

While frowning through the screen, my thoughts began to flit faster than my kart. How dare they leave me behind? How dare they cast me aside for some pointless new game? I mean, where was the satisfaction in blowing stuff up? You never crossed a finish line. Where was the joy in driving until you ran out of gas? Those miles were meaningless! How was weaponry such a big deal to those kids?!

How could they forget the magnificence of a freshly-polished trophy, or the thrill of standing at the podium? RoadBlasters would NEVER amount to that level of achievement.

I had been their Arcade companion for five consecutive years, while RoadBlasters had only been here what, a few hours? I knew them better than that poser did. What did he have to offer them that I couldn't offer BETTER? How did fiery destruction compare to glorious winning? How did his lame, 8-bit engine noises compare to my uplifting theme? How did those badly-recorded voices compare to my catchy Turbo-Tastics?!

I failed to comprehend any of those questions that had blossomed in the humid confines of my mind. The reasoning behind them confounded me.

Stuck there, without answers, I hated it. I hated all of it. And the more I thought about it, while growing rigid in the dirt, I hated the whole thing even more. Rage bled through me up from my stomach, seething into my veins and igniting them voraciously. My breath spurted from my nose, and my palms were sweaty, dampening my jumpsuit. My eyes stung horribly from their sheer wideness and their lack of moisture; I hadn't blinked, yet.

The longer I thought about my hatred for RoadBlasters, my teeth unconsciously gritted themselves - I only noticed it once my jaw pinched in pain. But I didn't focus on my pain. Instead, my thoughts delved into wild fantasies - dark, wild fantasies - that had crawled out from the blackest corners of my head.

When they stepped onto the stage as inspiration, I was shocked. Some of the stuff I thought of frightened me. I had never been to the places that they came from. They were much too risky, much too extravagant and nefarious. Some of them were on the brink of impossible, even.

I tried to shake them away, clamping my eyes shut. "No, no, that's bad, Turbo," I breathed to myself, holding them back. It was difficult, though, since some of my fantasies were extremely tempting. "You can't mess with the program or nothin'. You're the star of your own game, and that's that."

Then Boost's words appeared in my head: Let it go. It's really not worth it. Applying that to my malevolent thoughts, I tried to believe him. Really, I did, but the moment I opened my eyes again, I immediately saw RoadBlasters, and my efforts were in vain.

...Would performing some of my thoughts be worth it? The outcomes were desirable, but... also very damaging in the long run. I was beside myself.

My wonderings were cut short by a voice radiating through the Arcade. It was Litwak, calling, "All right, kids! Last game - it's closing time!" He was followed by a chorus of moans from the bummed-out gamers, most of which were crammed around RoadBlasters, unsurprisingly.

Boy, they had really increased in number in the past hour; those boys must have gathered every kid in the Arcade, because the group was huge. Each pair of eyes was fixated on the screen as the girl behind the wheel disintegrated her last few cars, ultimately running out of gas.

Once she saw her score, she gave the boys high-fives and walked away with them, blathering on about how awesome the game was. They quickly joined in, exchanging stories, filing out with the crowd, while the others followed behind them. As the enormous collection of kids departed for the door, their voices all bore the same tone of delight, their expressions still on the winding road of RoadBlasters.

When the gamers left, the Arcade quieted, all but for the chimes of the consoles and Litwak's whistling while he swept the floors. Now that our dayshifts were over, the populace at Litwak's waited for him to finish sweeping, because, once he was done, we were off work.

Any other day, I was sad to see closing arrive, but since I was still pretty moody over those awful gamers, I was glad for once. Boost was right. It had been a long day... especially near the end, and I was tired. As angry as I was about RoadBlasters, I was looking forward to a break; some me time; a chance to keep my thoughts off those twisted things that had revealed themselves to me.

I still doubted the benefits behind some of those plots of mine. They loomed in the back of my mind, dangerously alluring, purring my name. A shiver darted under my skin as one of the worst ones breezed through my mind fleetingly.

"It's not worth it," I murmured against the images. I clutched at my helmet, pressing my fingertips into its sleek surface. "It's not worth it..."

Even I knew that I was lying to myself.

I sighed. Anyway, my regular after-hours agenda involved taking my kart to the garage to wax it and give it a good spoiling. After the events of the day, however, my plans had changed.

I watched Litwak bustle about through the screen, my ears tuned into his actions: from the patting of his feet, to the swishing of his broom, to the tune he was whistling. Finally, after sweeping the place clean and gathering his belongings, Litwak shut off the lights and left the building, his keys clicking in the door as he locked it behind him.

After a thirteen hour day, Litwak's had closed for the night.

Once he was gone, I slowly uncurled from my little ball, my joints sighing as I did so. I was stiff all over the place, and my rear end was awkwardly numb after sitting for so long. TurboTime had fallen under dim light, leaving me in semi-darkness, my eyes glowing solitary on the deserted track. Getting to my feet, I brushed myself off and reached up to my sore jaw, where my palm was met with a large, swollen lump.

I was stunned. As skinny as he was, Charger had one heck of a swing to give me a lump this gigantic - it nearly spanned from my chin to my ear. Something other than his thirst for winning had driven his fist, tonight. I groaned, both inward and outward - there was no way I was going to be able to hide this thing. How long was this goose egg gonna linger on my face, anyway? My helmet didn't fit right because of it. I needed ice.

Turning to the exit of TurboTime, I fingered the lump, huffing, my enmity for Charger only rising.

"Ugh. I need a soda."

So what'd you think? How'd I do? I was really excited to get it out there on the site. If you liked it, shoot me a review. I'd love to hear some feedback!

Anyway, the two racers in TurboTime were never named in-movie, so I named them myself, trying to match the flair of Turbo's name. I gotta say, I really like Boost; he's a super nice guy. Charger needs a little love, but then again, so does Turbo, so... we'll see where this turn of events carries our trio of racers.

Aw... Turbo got punched. (But he kinda deserved it.)

In closing, I'd like to thank Disney for creating such a wonderfully-inspiring movie and having the perseverance and vision to make it a reality! THANK YOU, DISNEY!

Thanks for reading, my Turbo-Tastic peeps! Look for the next chapter!

See ya!

S. A. Morley.