Heyo, everybody! I apologize FIERCELY for the wait - this chapter took me some time due to a few bad cases of I-Can't-Seem-To-Write-Anything-Good, so... Yeah. But regardless, here is chapter two of Abandoned! I am totally in love with it, so far, and I hope it shows. :)

Okay, so in this chapter, we get to meet Turbo's new rival! Dun dun duuun! I hope his character is satisfactory. Oh, and we'll get a bit out of Tapper, who I really grew to like while writing. :D

Anyway, I don't have much to say other than ENJOY! And if you like it, I always welcome reviews! (Pardon any errors as well)

Remember how I said that I was obviously the most popular guy in the Arcade?

Well, due to my dumpy spirits, I assumed that my all-around admiration would be history now that there was a newbie in our midst. You know how it goes - as soon as there's someone new in the neighborhood, people gravitate towards them and forget everyone else instantly. Knowing that fact, I feared the worst, stepping out into the Station.

However, as soon as I left TurboTime for Game Central, that inclination didn't exist. I couldn't count how many waves and smiles I got from people I knew. My feelings of resentment melted away with the surplus of greetings I got as I walked through the station towards Tapper's outlet.

"Hey, Turbo!" they cheerily stated as they passed. They didn't seem to notice my haggard appearance.

"How's it going, champ?"

"Hey, how was your day?"

"Hi, Turbo!"

I gave my due grins and my waves. I'll admit to my heart fluttering a bit with their love; it certainly felt nicer than the cold treatment those gamers had given me. Really, what had I done to deserve that? I didn't have to ask what I had done to deserve this, because I already knew: my neighbors were appreciative of the greats more than slight-minded gamers.

Still, I endeavored to hide my swollen jaw around my smiles to my fans, turning my head this way and that. I didn't want to give an explanation to everyone I met, since talking still hurt me. Until I got some ice to numb my face down, I probably wasn't going to be saying much.

Weaving in and out of people's legs, I made my way through the Station. Soft, electrical lighting filtered in from the numerous sockets, illuminating the nightlife. The high ceilings resonated with chatter and the sound effects of characters marching along, shooting upward into faint shadow. Now that the work day was over, people had already begun to claim the various benches situated on the motherboard-esque carpets. Many of them looked ready to ease into the night and the following morning.

And me? I was thirsty for a cold, fizzy root beer, and I needed ice, so on toward Tapper's I went.

The shiny floors of the Station made my shoes squeak with each step, blending me into the bustle. When I was halfway through my journey, I stopped and twisted my head around to view the digital displays above each game outlet.

I read the familiar titles of Fix-It Felix Jr., BurgerTime, Pac-Man, Battlezone, Asteroids, Tapper... all of my neighbors. My eyes then continued around, settling themselves on the very last outlet, where RoadBlasters had found its new home. And just like that, my improving mood abruptly fizzled into nothing.

A scowl snuck its way onto my face. The place had attracted a few curious onlookers into watching it for activity. Groups here and there would stare at it to see if anyone was coming out, but it was lifeless in appearance. No one had gone in to visit, as far as I'd seen.

Argh, why would they even WANT to meet that RoadBlasters guy? What was so intriguing about him? I honestly didn't understand their fascination if all he did was blow things up and steal precious players. Yeah. What a welcome addition to this fine Arcade he was.

Casting a glance over my shoulder, I found that RoadBlasters had been plugged into the socket directly across from mine, which only intensified my scowl. My hands rolled into fists again.

Nice one, Litwak, I thought snidely. Thanks for putting that dirtbag smack in the middle of my view. It's bad enough that I can see him perfectly from my screen, but now I have to see him whenever I leave, too?! How many other empty outlets could you have picked from?

In my griping, I didn't understand the subtle significance of this placement, nor did I realize that this would later prove to be the worst action Litwak had ever performed. This action would violently shake the foundations of regulation; the Arcade would suffer greatly from RoadBlasters and TurboTime being face-to-face - in due time, at least.

As of now, though, I had absolutely no clue what atrocities were in store for me, RoadBlasters, and those I interacted with.

Giving a final sneer to the game, I banked a right, my sights set on the golden outlet of Tapper's. While mid-stride, I caught several of my neighbors (six, seven of 'em) with the same idea filing into the joint in front of me. I pressed on to join them.

Tapper's was the usual hangout - aside from BurgerTime - whenever the Arcade closed. Those of us here ate at Peter Pepper's and drank at Tapper's whenever we vegged out. After all, what more could you want at the end of the day than a tall burger and a root beer?

Beneath conversations, I melded my way into the flow, eager to get in there and get some ice for my aching jaw. It was really acting up with all of the noise of the Station, becoming extremely sensitive to even the slightest sounds or heavy movements. As I walked onward, someone behind me knocked into the outlet, their impact sending out a minor electrical surge. Normally they were harmless, but my jaw was touchy. My face contorted after my jaw spiked in pain, bringing with it a headache.

I grunted and rubbed my swelling, spitting in my mind, Stupid Charger - stupid punch! What did he hit me for?! I was only telling the truth. The thick-headed imbecile should have seen that by now! Grr!

My already-foul mood inevitably worsened by the mere thought of that lousy jerk. As a result, I walked into the Tapper station mildly fuming, advancing up the small flight of steps with my jaw clamped again unwittingly. I quickly had to loosen up before my headache went through the roof as well.

Once at the top, I discovered that seats were quickly filling. The open-air train was preparing to disembark into the tunnel of copper wires shortly, and only a few seats were vacant.

It was crowded tonight, and I wasn't going to wait. I surveyed the others around me, most of which were too busy chatting away or asking about the newest arrival. Impatient and refusing to hear even a breath about that game, I cut my way around a battalion of Space Invaders aliens, skipping ahead of the line that was forming. I didn't care who saw me as I dashed forward.

I leapt up and squeezed into the first place I saw: a tight spot next to a huge guy from Street Fighter with a cocky squint, blue shorts, and ridiculous orange hair. When I forced myself into the space, I found that I was crammed between his thick thigh and the wall of the train car, my elbows pointed uncomfortably into my sides. My sneakers dangled freely from the bench.

Sitting next to this behemoth of a man, I was puny. So puny, in fact, that he merely tilted his head a bit to register that something was there, then resumed his conversation with the person to his right. I realized that asking him to scoot over would have proved fruitless. I was thoroughly stuck.

I tilted my eyes up when the overhead speakers tweeted, "Tapper Transport now leaving Game Central Station. Ladies and gentlemen, please remain seated until the train comes to a complete stop at your destination. We will arrive in a few minutes. Thank you!" It seemed the train had gotten its sufficient passenger load.

I stared into the wires in front of me, so cramped in that I had nothing else to do but listen in on the Street Fighter guy and his pal. The train lurched forward and plunged slowly into the tunnel. We were covered in darkness the moment the train swung in, lit by the occasional blue spark arcing from under us. Ozone-smelling wind whispered across my face as we glided down the tunnel.

The one I couldn't see asked, "Hear we got a new game today, Adon?"

UGH! I frowned and slumped as much as would permit. All this RoadBlasters brouhaha was spreading like a virus around here, and it was starting to grate on my last nerve. My scary fantasies threatened an encore - I attempted tuning them and the Street Fighter guys out as we meandered along the cables, but their voices were so prominent, it was inescapable. I listened against my will while combating my rampant thoughts.

"Yeah, yeah. Some kind of racing one, right?" Adon replied.

"Not just that, though. Ryu told me that the car's rigged with guns and whatnot."

"Whoa! That sounds pretty intense! But, what are the guns for if you're driving?"

My eyes widened. Those were my thoughts exactly!

Adon's friend said, "To shoot stuff in the road, I guess. I dunno, I haven't gotten much detail on the whole thing, yet. We'll start hearing more, I guarantee it. The gamers really hoarded that thing today!"

That was sickeningly true. I wrinkled my nose.

"Ah, yeah. I felt that today around closing."

"So did I..." I croaked out, but I went unheard. Something pierced my soul with sadness at that remark. Truly I wasn't the only one who had been impacted by RoadBlasters. And I wasn't the last, for sure.

Adon's friend continued, "You wanna know what else I felt? That gnarly punch from Joe - he's got some fists on him."

The rest of the ride, their chat transitioned from RoadBlasters and to the retelling of epic duels they had experienced that day. I kind of understood the kinematics of Street Fighter, since you just beat the other guy's lights out, but I got totally lost when they started mentioning "Hadoukens" and things called "HP bars." Luckily, I was saved from the fist-fight mumbo-jumbo when we completed our journey and pulled into the station at Tapper's.

Coming into the light, the train slowed and we were greeted by the overhead speaker voice again, saying, "Tapper Transport now arriving at Tapper. Please disembark quickly and take whatever personal belongings you brought with you. Enjoy a root beer and have a nice night! Thank you!"

I was seriously ready to catch a mug, but I couldn't move - Adon had me jammed in like a sardine between him and the wall. Squeezing myself out wasn't an option; before I could get off the train, I had to legitimately wait a few seconds for the other passengers to get up.

Once Adon and the others on the bench left, I was freed. "Whew!" I wheezed, finally able to breathe normally. Never sitting by him again, I thought.

I hopped off and scooted after the crowd for the stairway to Tapper's doors. As people made their way inside, the doors flapped open, exhaling the nostalgic smell of root beer into the station, and bringing with it more voices and the chirpy tune of "Oh, Susanna."

The fizzy, homey atmosphere pulled me in like an old friend. I pushed my way through and entered Tapper's, my jaw and my thirst taking precedence to my manners.

It took a few moments for my eyes to adjust from the bright terminal to the underlit bar. When they did, I took in the familiar plank floor, the blue saloon-style wallpaper, and the faint orange lanterns above the taps in the walls. Since the place was roofless, the four wooden bars reflected pale light from the screen, highlighting those of us here on one side. The black sky spanned over the talking and the clanking of mugs, the shouts for refills, and the scampering form of Tapper as he fulfilled orders.

This place was... soothing in its own way. I liked it here. It cooled down my emotions to more civil, tolerable levels and subdued the torrents of my mind.

The group from the train-ride dissipated to their own barstools, meeting with other patrons while calling Tapper over for mugs. The tender's saucer-like, green eyes lit up at their requests. "Comin' right up!" he gruffly hollered, taking off.

Man, you should've seen Tapper go up close. It was incredible! His hands blurred as he grabbed a good eight or nine root beer mugs, filled them to the brim with soda, then flung them across the tabletops. They slid without difficulty right into his customers' awaiting hands at ludicrous speeds, and even with the swift movements, not a single drop of root beer was spilled. It was quite an impressive phenomenon to watch.

His performance earned him cheers from his customers. He gave a jerky bow, his thick mustache curling with his smile while he chuckled. Straightening, he made sure everyone seated was satisfied with their drinks, then proceeded to take up an empty mug and swab it down with his washcloth.

I stepped further into the bar, immediately catching Tapper's attention; with my white racing attire and my colorless skin, I reflected the light from the Arcade rather brightly. Tapper looked about to welcome me in, but his eyebrows hit his hairline once he took in my appearance.

"Turbo?!" he spluttered.

No amount of effort on my part would hide my swollen jaw in this light, so I knew I looked pretty bad. I was dirty, my clothes shredded, my helmet lopsided, and on top of those, I was tired. When I could feel my exhaustion - and I mean really feel it - my eyes sunk and developed purple rings beneath them. I didn't need a mirror to see that I was looking my worst, tonight.

My shoulders slumped in resignation and I stared at him pathetically, standing in front of the doorway. Tapper put down his glass and shuffled to me, his expression awed, his eyes boring into my jaw. He bombarded me with questions. "What happened to your face? Did you hit your steering wheel or somethin'? Did you crash, or what?"

"Mm-mm," I denied with a shake of my head. "Fight," was all I could manage without my jaw cracking again. I quickly clamped my mouth shut after it pinched.

He inspected my face more. "Who with? It's all bruised..."

His remark jolted me, and my head shot up. Wait, Charger bruised me?! That selfish jerk left a mark on me?! I suddenly burst with angry shock, rapidly forgetting my jaw problem. I regretted that just as fast. "What?! Ow..." Holding the lump, I hunched over, clenching my hands through the pain of my reckless cry. "Bruise...? Nrgh..."

Tapper laid one of his hands on my shoulder. "Yup, and it's gonna stay awhile. Here, come and sit down. I'll get ya some ice for that, champ."

He lead me by the shoulder over to the nearest barstool, where he let me hop up. When I sat, he darted away and promptly filled an empty mug with ice cubes, returning and handing it to me. I took it and held it gingerly against my jaw.

"Aah..." The glass' touch was biting at first, but I dealt with it long enough that the ice assuaged the pain wonderfully. I leaned over the counter with sheer joy. Before long, I couldn't feel the majority of my face as all feeling vanished from it, numbness taking its place. I grinned stupidly as my teeth chattered, though I didn't feel a thing.

"There... Feel better?" Tapper said at my side.

"Yeah. It's Turbo-Tastic," I replied. Now that my pain had been eliminated, I could afford to talk. My words sounded a little funny, though - they would until my swelling came down all the way. "Thanks a lot, Tapper."

He raised his blocky hands. "Hey, anything for you, Turbo."

I couldn't help but look at him. Tapper was a real nice guy - he knew how to handle people. I think that - besides being our local supplier of root beer - was one of the main reasons why he was well-loved. He connected with people and helped them out.

I wasn't one to count my blessings, but I was grateful for his hospitality when everything today seemed to be conspiring against me. RoadBlasters, Charger, those gamers...

My day had really gone wrong.

"So, champ," Tapper proposed, taking me out of my reveries.

"Hm?"

"What happened? Who gave you that thing?" He whistled. "He must've had one wicked swing. He from Street Fighter?"

I didn't want to talk about this, but I guessed it was inevitable, seeing as I owed him an explanation for my predicament. I spat it out plainly, "Nah. It was another racer from my game."

"Who, the tall one?"

"One of 'em. There're two."

"Oh. Right." Tapper took his chin back, puzzled. "Well, what'd he do it for?"

I wasn't gonna sit here all night whining about the reasons leading up to the incident, so instead of retelling it all, I, uh, watered it down a little bit. "Ah, I dunno... We started arguing about that new racing game... RoadBlasters, or whatever... Then it got ugly..."

Tapper tilted his head and made a face. "Hold up. We have a new game? When did this happen?"

I was taken aback to hear that he hadn't heard about it, yet. I mean, I had assumed the whole Arcade knew about our new neighbor. "Shortly before closing time. He's right across from me." Pausing, I furrowed my brows at him. "You don't know about this? The whole Arcade's talkin' about it - it's practically viral!"

He shrugged. "Must be somewhere I can't see him at. Eh, I hardly ever get to look up from these mugs when I'm working." With a gesture around him to his customers, he continued with a wry grin, "Hey, I never stop working!"

A giant hot dog man a few barstools away - who had been listening to us - raised his foaming mug to the air and hollered, "And may you never have to!"

"Here, here!" his buddies (a pickle and an egg) chorused. I then watched with disgust as they all proceeded to chug down their soda and engage themselves in a belching contest. Rolling my eyes, I scooted on my stool, leaning over the table and into my cold mug. I figured they must've been those weirdo NPCs from BurgerTime.

Tapper waved to them over my helmet, laughing. "Thanks, fellas!" The burping continued, mixing with laughter. When they finally crowned a winner of their contest, Tapper turned back to me, resting an elbow on the counter and his knuckles on his chin. New curiosity glittered in his eyes. "Hm... We haven't seen some new faces around here in a while. What's the new game like? RoadBlasters, was it?"

My mood took a nose dive again in a heartbeat, fatally plummeting me into another bad-tempered splurge. I clenched the handle of my mug and snarled into the table. "Who cares? I don't."

My abrupt change startled Tapper enough to transform his expression into shock. He looked into my face deeply, searching through it. "Hey, what's the matter? Don't like fresh blood? They're a good change every now and then-"

"No," I snapped, my voice as sharp as a knife. "I hate fresh blood, and I hate RoadBlasters. End of story." In my rage, my tone had deepened to a growl, causing Tapper to back off a bit. The curiosity in his eyes was now fear; his tension was tangible as he stood there, unsure of what to do or say. Meanwhile, my temper bubbled beneath the surface, my mind broiling with the images of explosions and that annoying ruby-red car.

Our conversation fell flat to the buzz of voices. The silence between us was so powerful, I could distinctly hear my breathing and the rush of my head. It was quite a few runs of "Oh, Susanna" later before the tender got the courage to disregard my loathing.

"Can I get you anything, Turbo?" Tapper asked me reverently.

The stiffness of shoulders slackened at his voice. I sighed and hung my head; my cheek stuck to the glass. I realized that I felt a little bad for jumping down his throat like that. "A root beer would be nice," I said.

"...Comin' right up."

Tapper left for the soda taps to my right and topped off a glass, which he slid smoothly down the counter till it gently bumped into my arm. I cast a peripheral glance at it before leaning back to reach into my pocket for cash.

But Tapper stopped me mid-reach. "No, no, this one's on the house. Enjoy it." I gaped at him, blinking, for he had utterly baffled me. It was very rare that Tapper gave out free drinks to anyone. Why had he chosen me?

The gruff-voiced tender bore a sympathetic look as he retreated and gave me a respectful nod. "Take it easy, champ." And before I had the chance to say anything, he departed, attending to his other patrons, leaving me with two free mugs.

My throat had gone as dry as dirt. I couldn't believe he had just... been so nice. Now, I'm not a real sensitive guy, but I will say that Tapper's generosity touched me. He was one of the few people in my life that had treated me like that, and one of the few who would ever treat me in the same way. I suddenly realized that he was one of the rarities that were truthfully kind to me.

Looking from his back and to my tall, frothy root beer, I relented to my thirst and grabbed its handle with my free hand. I proposed a quiet toast. "To the pleasant things." I lifted the mug to my lips and took a swig.

Oh, man, Tapper's root beer was the best. It was the perfect marriage of mouth-tantalizing creaminess and that old-fashioned root beer flavor that never ceased to please the pallet, no matter how many glasses you downed. Bubbles zipped down my throat playfully, and the foam left behind a mustache on my lip, lightening my leaden spirits. I managed a small giggle of pleasure.

I didn't hesitate to dive into my drink. "Ah... Turbo-Tastic..." I mused between gulps. "Turbo-Tastic... Yes..." I gotta tell you, that mug of soda was a mug of Heaven for me over the next several minutes. It sounds like I'm overemphasizing this, but I guarantee that you haven't known bliss until you've tasted Tapper's root beer. Barely pausing to breathe, I slurped and I slurped, careless as to whoever heard my rude noises - I didn't care in the slightest.

But sadly, it's true that good times never last; it seemed only coincidence that when I ran out of the stuff, my bliss ran out as well.

At that moment when I downed the last mouthful, another train pulled in from the station, bringing with it a second crowd. As they strode into the joint, I could hear from their many feet that this group was much larger than the one I had been in. They thunked in noisily all over the wooden planks, talking obnoxiously loud, drowning out the noise that already lingered in the bar.

I caught the ending snippets of a conversation as the first of the group came in. "...You've gotta have a pint of this stuff, Brody, it's like nothin' you've ever tasted!"

"Really?"

"Oh, yeah. Tapper's brews are the best. Hands down."

The root beer on my tongue soured. I recognized those voices.

Twisting around, I found myself face-to-face with a large group of Arcade characters. At their head were Boost and Charger, and behind them I saw Paperboy, some Dig Dug guys, more Street Fighters, Sonic, Princess Peach, and a whole other slew of familiar faces.

There was only one guy I didn't recognize, who was placed dead center, right between Boost and Charger.

I didn't recognize him, but I knew who he was on the spot. It was Mr. RoadBlasters.

The soda in my stomach stirred. Oh, I did not like this.

He was too busy admiring the aesthetics of the place to notice that I was sizing him up from my stool. The RoadBlasters guy looked like a cross between a beach bum and a soldier in his khaki shorts, dull green sleeveless shirt, and combat boots. Despite the peace, he was well-armed: long ammunition belts were strapped across his chest, and he had a pistol fastened to his calf. His golden hair was neatly cropped, his jaw firm and powerful, and his body nothing but muscle; he had amiable brown eyes and a smile that would swoon a woman easy. I thought that Charger and Boost were tall, but this guy eclipsed everyone in sight, making even them look short.

Once I finished, I squinted at him. So, this was the guy, huh? The guy who had stolen my fans? my mojo? Mr. I-Can-Shoot-Junk-In-the-Road? Honestly, I hadn't pictured him like this at all; so sporty, so fit, tall, and dare I say... cool.

I hadn't said two words to the guy, but I despised him nonetheless.

My gut wrenched; it was utterly impossible not to notice how much adoration he was getting from the people at his feet. The air simply vibrated with it. They had their starry-eyed faces perpetually tilted up at him, and had all wedged themselves as close as they could without physically touching him. It seemed terribly claustrophobic. Only thing was, he didn't seem to mind the overcrowding. In fact, it looked to be that he was comfortable in it.

The rest of the bar had turned their heads to get a look at him. He raised his hand to someone across the counters, smiling some more. Ugh, I couldn't look at that blinding thing! Averting my eyes from it, I caught stares with Charger, who raised a brow and smirked in my direction. His eyes glowed with amusement.

Then and there, I wanted so badly to leap up and punch him in his kisser, but the RoadBlasters guy's size had (shamefully) frightened me out of it. I stayed put, clutching my glass to my jaw.

Charger elbowed the RoadBlasters guy's pocket and raised his voice. "Yo, Brody!"

So that was bullet-brain's name. Huh. Mine was better. "Yeah?" Brody responded, looking down. "What's up, dude?"

I started to dislike the situation even more when Charger gestured his fingers to me. "We want you to meet somebody. C'mon over here." He pressed forward, Brody and Boost at his ankles, while the crowd of fans behind him all moved as one body. It was kind of creepy, how they moved in sync with each other.

I found myself scooting my back into the bar as if they were virus-ridden when they approached. Now up close to Brody, I felt even smaller than I did with the Twins, which really beat up my ego. On my barstool, I only came up to the middle of Brody's pants, and without it, I barely reached his knee.

Why had he been programmed to be so tall? It wasn't fair that a great racer such as me was so short.

Charger laid on a smile - was that smugness I detected? - and thrust his arm out, showcasing me for introductions. "Brody, this is Turbo. He's the other guy from our game."

I looked up to Brody as he loomed above me, showering me in the light of his dashing white teeth. My face twitched at them, but the guy was so jovial, he didn't even blink at my obvious disgust. I was starting to hate his physical features and his happy perfection almost as much as I hated the mechanics of his stupid, explosion-riddled game.

When he spoke, his voice was youthful and spunky; a fun-loving personality infused with that of a daredevil. "So, you're Turbo! Hey there, pal. I've heard so much about you from the Twins. I'm Brody, from RoadBlasters, as you probably already know. Nice to finally meet ya!" He held out his hand, ready to start a friendship that I would never let happen.

My gaze unmoving from his face, I kept my free hand in my lap. My fingers curled in on themselves into a loose fist. "Yeah, real nice," I muttered, my voice as flat as a pancake. "Welcome, welcome, pal."

Ohh, you should have seen the looks I got from the people in front of me. They were incredible. They ranged from either horror to sheer hatred at my conduct, some of them blank while others were caustic. Charger's was one of the caustic ones - his could have blown a hole in my head if he wanted it to; Boost's white skin flushed whiter, and he looked sick; Brody, on the other hand, was perturbed at my attitude, while looking hurt at the same time. I had totally crushed him.

He slowly lowered his hand into his side, his dark eyes troubled with confusion. "Oh. Er, thanks, Turbo."

"Huh. Don't you mention it." I scowled into anyone who dared meet my eyes, growing tired of my company already. I nearly screamed at them to scram, but I found that I didn't have the energy to. Any energy I had had lost its potency in the presence of Brody. He wasn't worth my time.

I leaned casually into the counter, one elbow on it to balance my ice-mug against my face. Instead of flying off my handle, as hard to resist as it was, I took the dignified approach, saying, "Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to get back to my evening, thank you very much."

Swiveling on my stool, I turned my back on them. I hunkered over the tabletop, refusing to talk to any of them, those traitors. After all, more than half of the group had been my fans before friendly-fire here swept them off their feet. Those petty, two-faced cretins. They were just as bad as those gamers.

I felt their presence linger behind me for several moments before someone piped up, "C'mon, guys, let's go get a root beer." A sequence of approvals sounded from others, and they all scooted off as a group again, headed towards an empty bar far away from mine. From the corner of my eye, I took note that they were at least fifteen-people strong, all cluttered around Brody like a group of puppies.

Those idiots. What do they see in him?

When they were gone, I went to take another drink from my glass, but remembered with a grumble that it was empty. While blankly peering into it, I suddenly took notice that something was bothering me: there was one person who had remained, who I could feel standing mutely at my back.

Readjusting my helmet, I asked them, "What do you want?"

Without a word, the person came forward and sat themselves neatly in the barstool to my left. They had cobalt blue sleeves and a pair of white racing gloves on, which they wrung together nervously. For a moment I thought it was Charger, but before I could shoot up to clobber him, he spoke.

His voice was soft. "How's your jaw?" Boost asked.

I snorted. "What's it to you, huh?"

When I twisted my head to him, I found his gaze on me to be paralyzing, and he held me firm in it. "What's it to me?" he repeated. "Contrary to what you might think, Turbo, I don't agree with Charger sometimes." Boost focused on his brother across the bar, who was ordering a drink for Brody. It seemed that Charger had asserted himself as newbie's best friend.

Boost's eyes held something similar to disapproval. "We clash; he can be a bit of a hothead. He shouldn't have acted the way he did, tonight."

I replied, with sarcasm gushing from my tone, "Really? Is that a fact? Well, what made him think that punching me was a good idea?!"

Boost rapped his fingertips on the tabletop, his face shadowed. "Charger was upset... He wasn't thinking straight and let things get out of control. And it wasn't just on the track, either, he was acting strange all day long... I have no idea why..." He paused and blinked back his thoughts, turning his eyes on my jaw. "He shouldn't have hit you, and I'm sorry about that. Really, I am. But, you weren't helping his cause with what you said, either." His voice faltered a bit. "Some of it was pretty hurtful."

In a flare of defiance, I poised to speak, but he cut me off and kept going. "I can see it in your face: you're angry with him, and RoadBlasters, and the sudden change with the fans and everything. It's hard, I get it. I've felt... off, too, ever since closing time, but-"

"What's your point?" I spat, trying to get a read on him.

He visibly struggled for words, picking them carefully before saying them aloud. He thought for a few moments before he finally remarked, "Look, none of this is working out for any of us. All this tension... All I'm saying is you can't go blaming this whole chain of events on my brother or Brody."

My face contorted. Was he pointing fingers at ME? What in the world did I do wrong? I was only telling the truth, and they should have accepted that without protest. Forget what he said earlier. None of this - my job, my jaw, stupid Brody, that jerk Charger - would have gone wrong if everyone had known their place in the Arcade and stuck with it.

Was I impeding on someone else's job? No! Had I gone crazy with jealousy and lashed out? Don't you think for one second that I did! Why was he giving me the talking-to when the real people who needed it were Brody and Charger?

I was nothing but a victim to it all. Why didn't he see that? Why didn't anyone see that? It was maddening, how oblivious they all were.

"Do you get it?" Boost continued. His gaze was earnest. "Do you understand what I'm trying to tell you?"

He waited for me to reply, but I didn't answer his question. I knew he wouldn't accept the truth, just like his good-for-nothing sibling. Instead, I proposed, "You tell me something, Boost. Is this all you came over here for? To get me to realize the 'error' of my ways and play nice with the kids?" His nostrils flared. "'Cause if that's all, you might as well join RoadBozo's fan club-"

Without warning, Boost slammed his fists onto the tabletop and shouted, "DANG IT, TURBO, I'M WORRIED ABOUT YOU!"

I jumped so hard, I dropped my mug, where it shattered on the floor in a thousand pieces. Dozens of sets of eyes snapped toward the noise, spotlighting Boost and me - the former buried his eyes in his hand in frustration. The crash was magnificent - it stopped all conversation and Tapper went as quiet as a morgue. Even the music stopped.

The following silence was quite stifling. I guess it had to be stifling in a game where one broken glass cost you a life.

Aw, man... Thanks to Boost, I had just smashed a once-in-a-lifetime free glass from Tapper. As a swell of humiliation fell over me, the tender appeared in a flash. Literally, he just sort of came into being there at Boost's shoulder.

Looking over him, Tapper winced. He gave a downcast sigh, frowning into the remains of the glass jug and the ice. "Now that's a shame," he mourned, playing with the rag in his hands. "I really liked that mug."

Tapper had been so nice before, and now that I had repaid him by breaking his free offer, I wanted to streak out of the place and never come back again. I clutched my shredded collar, my face burning under the bar's heavy gazes as I said tinily, "Sorry, Tapper..."

"'Was my fault," Boost added, his face still hidden.

Tapper pursed his lips, wiping his hand along his waistcoat as if making sure he was actually there. His voice was surprisingly light. "Eh, don't fret over it too much, boys. It'll regenerate in the morning... like that extra life... Just uh, watch your step until that degenerates, okay?" He then left us, not bothering to ask if I wanted a replacement.

It took several minutes for the rest of the bar to return to their own conversations and leave us be. I was one to like attention, but that was pushing it a little.

I looked to Boost. I hadn't expected him to flare up like that. In all the years I had worked with the guy, I had seen him annoyed and sad, but there were two emotions I had never seen on him before: happiness and rage. I got my first look into Boost's anger the moment his shout jolted my heart.

"Y-you're what?" I said.

"I'm worried about you!" he repeated, peeking at me from between his fingers. "Your behavior today was completely uncalled for, and I'm worried that you don't understand what's at stake for us. I mean, racing used to be fun and games, but now it's a BATTLEFIELD between you and Charger! A-and with Brody now involved?" Boost's body shuddered at whatever was playing in his head, his breath shaking. "Man... If things around here continue the way they are now, we're all going under."

I tried make sense of what he was saying. I had never in my wildest dreams seen the possibility of Litwak unplugging TurboTime. I was too popular for that! I had gotten him too much money for that! How could he even consider doing such a thing to his star game?

The concept of unplugging my game was profoundly impossible and surreal to me - it couldn't be done. My face drew itself blank at the concept. "Wait... Under... as in... unplugged?" I nearly gagged on the word. "Wha...? How could you...?"

Boost's grave expression was enough to signify that he believed the impossible could become possible: that RoadBlasters would take over my role as Arcade-favorite and boot me out of the spotlight. That thought was nothing short of cataclysmic, and my stomach dropped a good couple of feet.

Uncontrollable fear consumed me. I desperately pushed the thoughts away as they attempted to creep in. "That's never gonna happen, Boost," I hurriedly said, my voice taking on some vibrato. "RoadBlasters can't replace me - it never WILL replace me! I'll always be the best, and that's that! Brody can't match me!"

As I stuttered on, I had a feeling, far back in my mind, that I was reassuring myself, instead of him. He was unfazed.

Boost's focus on me was so intense, I got goosebumps, and I shuddered to my core. His large, yellow eyes remained unblinking. "You sure?" he thrummed, his voice haunting. "'Cause now that your reputation's been bruised, I'm starting to have my doubts."

His words should have made me mad, but I found myself terrified. My hand flew to the chilled, blackened skin of my jaw, covering the mark from view. I watched him, disturbed, choking down the world-shattering notions of unplugging that were gnawing at my sanity.

My brain was jamming itself into desolation. TurboTime... out of order? RoadBlasters... taking my fame? Those gamers... not playing my game? No more trophies, no more finish lines, no more fans, no more admiration... no more Turbo.

"No. No, no, no," I rambled, my eyes widening, my heart beginning to sprint. "Litwak - Charger - unh, Brody-?" I had no idea what nonsense I was spewing as I my newly-sprung horrors infested my thoughts, encircling me, preventing me from thinking of anything else. I couldn't escape. My darkest fears became living nightmares before me in such ghastly-high definition they were freakishly real.

And I say freakishly as profoundly as possible. As my imaginations played out, they were so real to me in fact, that my throat tightened till breathing became difficult and I got severely lightheaded; I swayed on my stool. My palms were in all reality pumping out sweat while my blood shot through my veins like lightning, and my stomach heaved till I was on the verge of vomiting.

It was bad. It was really bad. And it all came without warning, too - like a flash flood. I almost drowned in it all, myself, nearly succumbing to the possible future.

You think you're ready for this? I certainly wasn't. I'd buckle up, if I were you.

Man, I can retell it as vividly as if I were still on my stool next to Boost... The bar in front of me blurred away to make room for my nightmares, which immediately began to roll like a horror film.

I suddenly found myself standing in a corner, staring blankly ahead into darkness. It was so dark, I hardly recognized where I was at first, but after my eyes adjusted, I realized that I was standing in Litwak's. But it was a different place: a heavy sense of stagnancy drooped the air, and the windows leading to the parking lot beyond were dim. The place was unnervingly quiet and still - not a single thing made noise or moved in the slightest way, which was unnatural for a usually-lively Arcade. The stillness had my skin itching beneath my clothes.

Forcing myself to dismiss it, I reverted my attention from the dreary atmosphere and to the room itself. The lights were all off, the place smelled musty, and the carpet was threadbare in some spots. After briefly identifying the boxy silhouettes surrounding me, I discovered that for some reason, all of the game consoles had been pushed up against the walls, and that they, too, were lifeless and silent. Looking around further, I also noticed, with a slash of disturbance, that each of the black screens were facing a single console in the heart of the room... as if they were watching it.

Squinting around the odd arrangement, a shiver sped through every inch of my body. I clutched at my collar with an audible gulp, which disrupted the crushing silence.

Everything about this was wrong.

What was going on? Where was everybody? Why were all of the consoles placed like that? And which console was in the middle, exactly? I tried to make it out from my place, but it was nothing but a grey splotch against the black.

As a random, cold breeze whispered over my neck, I backed a few steps away from the eerie console. Due to my focus on it, I hadn't expected anything but the wall to be behind me - I about leapt out of my jumpsuit the moment my back hit something freezing. I let out a panicked gasp before whirling around in a single jump, hopping face-to-face with the thing I had hit. Peering through the thick shadows, I gazed up into the figure looming above me.

Fear spiked inside of me, as I had anticipated some evil creature to be prowling my back, but to my slight relief, it was just another console. However, it wasn't just any console: this console bore a familiar steering wheel beneath its screen, singling it out from the others equipped with joysticks. For a moment, I thought I was facing stupid RoadBlasters, but as the lights of the Arcade subtly brightened, I saw the console in better detail.

The console in front of me... was TurboTime.

Only, it wasn't TurboTime the way that I knew it. No, the TurboTime before me wasn't triumphant with success and fans - it was gloomy with loneliness and dejection. A thick layer of dust coated each one of its surfaces, and its screen was blank, cracked, and marked by a hideous orange OUT OF ORDER slip. My eyes stung as the color seared its way into my retinas.

For some illogical reason, my console had been shoved into the furthest corner of the Arcade, where it sat alone and unloved behind the others. As I ran up and down its battered metal frame with my eyes, I noticed a long, grey cable coiling along the dingy carpet, which had been out of its socket for much too long.

My mouth gaped open like a pit as I stared at the abandoned console, frozen from shock. What? What... happened to me...? I rasped, my breathing shallow from my constricted throat. What happened? WHAT HAPPENED?! My game... My home... UNPLUGGED!? What...?!

I could hardly stand to look at my failed legacy, since the sight had my rapidly-sickening stomach in a frenzy. I tried to pull my eyes away, but I found with an onslaught of dismay that I couldn't - the dead screen and the OUT OF ORDER slip were holding me in a grip as tight as a hairpin turn, and they were not about to let me go. The ruined game seemed to grow in size, threatening to swallow me whole.

This can't be happening! No! I struggled against it and my oncoming queasiness as much as I could, but this wasn't the end of it. No, this was only the beginning of worse things to come - things that would have me cowering like a child from their vividness and potential.

As I stood there, sick and trembling before my ruined TurboTime, I was blinded by the Arcade lights when they suddenly beamed, flushing out everything in a kaleidoscope of brilliantly-painful colors. I pinched my eyes shut and threw my hands onto my face, grunting against the searing flash. ARGH! The sudden illumination somehow freed my limbs from their numbness - I stumbled back from my game without a clue as to where I was going in the multi-colored void.

The lights were so intense that they literally burned my skin for several moments. But before I could comprehend the situation, the lights inexplicably cooled, fading to bearable levels just as quickly as they came on.

My skin was tingling in the aftermath, with my mind running in circles trying to figure out what had just happened. Had something gone off? Was there a power surge? But the moment I tried to think, my ears strained to hear that the silence that had dominated the Arcade prior had mysteriously gone.

The air around me was now humid and buzzing with voices - whispers and murmurs crackled excitedly through the atmosphere. As I listened while my eyes recovered, I found that I couldn't understand anything that was being said - it was all a bunch of senseless gibberish. Puzzled, I lowered my hands and slowly parted my eyelids to investigate.

When I did so, I was greeted by an astonishing sight: there were people everywhere. Scratch that, there were kids everywhere - the Arcade was positively teeming with them. They had come out of nowhere, and were crammed together into the joint as closely as possible, rubbing elbows, stepping on toes, their chins practically on each others' shoulders. Even though I was about their size, the vast majority of them towered above my helmet. They had inadvertently imprisoned me between them with their arrival, barring me between their pant legs.

I fidgeted around, elbowing their knees and shouting, but any attention I tried to gain from them went unnoticed. Craning my head up with a huff, I watched the kids closest to me, only then noticing that their faces were lit up pale blue on one side, their eyes glassy, their smiles faint.

...Huh? With some additional search, I found with a crinkling of my brows that most of them had their backs toward me. I briefly wondered what they were looking at before I heard the 8-bit humming of an engine and the spotty gunfire beneath their noise.

My heart slowed to a dying crawl, my blood stalling; cold fangs sunk into my skin, frosting my muscles. My lungs crippled and fatally stifled my breathing; icy sweat spilled from my helmet and down my face.

Then I knew it.

I knew it even before the crowd lazily parted a clear line of sight for me, opening an aisle straight to the heart of the Arcade. I knew it even before I was washed with pallid blue light, and before I was head-to-head with the only console in the room that was functioning.

I knew it even before I watched the console consume change by the dollar from its mob of desperate fans, who were lining up beyond the Arcade and into the parking lot outside. And I knew it even before the meaningless words of the kids warped into whispers of RoadBlasters, RoadBlasters, RoadBlasters that scorched their way into my brain like hot coals.

Oh, boy, did I know it. And knowing it utterly impaled me clean through.

My throne of popular superiority had been usurped by an upgraded pretender, snatched a souped up thief, assumed by a high-score temptation. Boost had guessed it, Charger had mentioned it, and Brody had fulfilled it.

RoadBlasters had taken my place, and Turbo, the racing giant, was no more.

And I could barely breathe.

And... CUT! Hoo, boy! What'd you think?

Oh, Turbo! I love him and I hate him. That awesome little jerk!

I had some fun with his hallucination scene; I kinda wanted to freak you guys out. Did it work? I'll add more to it next chapter, so, stay tuned! :D

Well, I'm not very chatty tonight, so feel free to shoot me a review! I love reading those, and they're good fuel to keep me writing. Once again, I have Disney to thank for such an awesome movie as Wreck-It Ralph! It's my total obsession. Yay!

Stay Turbo-Tastic, my friends!