All the President's Men
Sour Bill was most displeased at having been dragged away from his post in the royal booth where he was keeping an eye out on the races. Wynnchel and Duncan flanked his sides as they strolled towards the vault, Sour Bill slightly ahead of them.
"We're only going in for a moment," the dour second-in-command insisted as they approached the locked doorway. "Only the president has a right to access this room, but under the circumstances, I suppose it's all right for me to open it."
"We just need to check something," Wynnchel assured him; he didn't want to say anything about Turbo just yet. No need spreading around information that he wasn't sure was true, and then start a panic through Sugar Rush. "And I won't touch anything."
"Yeah, don't accidentally turn my icing pink or nothin'," Duncan added with a slight shudder.
Sour Bill sighed in exasperation. "Just hurry up," he said as he began typing in the code that he knew by heart, only because he'd seen Turbo do it so often. "I really should be watching the racers and making sure gameplay stays as normal as possible. For all we know, the kidnapper might thwart the race or kidnap another racer!"
Wynnchel hadn't thought of that. Some detective he was turning out to be. Maybe Sour Bill should be the one heading the investigation while he watched the races.
No. No, being a police officer was in his code, not Sour Bill's. This was his duty, his chance to serve his president in a way he never had before. It was time to owe her for all the years he had helped in tormenting her under King Candy's rule.
"Hmm what is going on?" Sour Bill muttered in confusion as the control panel failed to accept his password. He punched it again and again, the door staying sealed shut every time. "I don't understand."
"Maybe you remember wrong?" Duncan suggested.
"No, I remember it perfectly," the green candy snapped unexpectedly, a side that he had never displayed before. His eyes were narrowed and his frown deepened as he stood in contemplation. "She changed the code."
"What?"
"That's the only reason why the original password would be failing," Sour Bill explained as he turned around to face the two cops. "She didn't trust me with it…"
He seemed downcast about that, that Vanellope wouldn't give a new password to her own advisor. Did she think that perhaps he would betray again like he had before? Did she not trust anyone in Sugar Rush at all?
Could they really blame her?
"It's okay, Billy," Duncan said kindly, patting Sour Bill's head like he were a puppy only to get his hand slapped away.
"No, it's not," Wynnchel protested, angry that his plan had failed. "We need to get in there and check the code! We need to make sure she's even alive!"
Duncan gasped in horror, his hands coming up to his mouth. "Oh no, don't say that!"
"She can't be dead," Sour Bill said as if that was the dumbest thing he'd ever heard. "She'd have to be outside the game for that to happen. The C.L.A.W.S. team is still guarding the exit, are they not? There's no way they'd let anyone slip past them."
Wynnchel sighed heavily and took his sunshades off, rubbing between his eyes. "Okay, fellas, I wasn't going to say anything, but…I was thinking. What if you-know-who is back?"
The other two stared at him, Sour Bill in annoyance and Duncan in confusion. "You-know-who?" Duncan questioned.
"Turbo's dead," Sour Bill answered Wynnchel flatly. "The president and I checked the vault ourselves after she came back into power. We couldn't find a trace of his code anywhere."
Wynnchel wanted to believe him; he had no reason not to. But he'd feel better if he were in the vault checking that fact for himself. "The guy was smart, he could've concocted some way to bring himself back if he ever died," the éclair kept saying. "Besides, who else do we know of who hates President von Schweetz?"
"Ooh maybe someone's a King Candy sympathizer!" Duncan piped up, bouncing slightly like a little kid getting a pony for Christmas. "And they've been pretending to like the president this whole time but really they like the king more and now they kidnapped her out of revenge!"
"Like who exactly?"
"I dunno, Taffyta?" the donut shrugged. "She was the king's favorite, wasn't she?"
Sour Bill scoffed. "Taffyta? You really think a little girl did this?"
"It was just an idea," Duncan frowned, twirling his fingers together nervously.
"Knock it off!" Wynnchel felt like punching a wall except that would damage his delicate hands. "We need to work together if we're going to find Vanellope, she's counting us, men!"
The other two stayed silent, looking down at the floor. The stressful situation was eating away at all them. This couldn't compare to what their poor president must be going through though; Wynnchel didn't want to imagine what horrors she was facing.
Time was ticking away; they needed to find her.
"I say we investigate everyone," Wynnchel stated, taking charge of the room again. "We can use the royal booth for a private room and talk to the racers that are on the roster in between quarter alerts. That way we don't interfere with any gameplay. While the race is going on, we can investigate everyone else."
"Wait, the racers all think she's sick with a virus," Sour Bill suddenly pointed out. "If we start investigating them, they'll get suspicious."
Wynnchel thought for a moment. "Tell them we're screening them for signs of the virus to ensure that it hasn't spread. Bring them in one-by-one and start asking them what they were doing this morning, under the guise of being curious about their morning. If any of them start acting suspicious, separate them from the others."
Sour Bill nodded after thinking it over. So long as gameplay wasn't interrupted, therefore putting the game at risk for being Out of Order, he would agree to the children being investigated.
Vanellope had long completed her meal and was currently lying on her back and staring up at the ceiling. She blew her breath out tiredly, wondering how long she'd been in here. It'd been a while since her kidnapper had visited which was cause for some concern. At least when she was forced to live in solitude during her outcast days, she was able to roam around wherever she wished and had some interaction with others.
Then again, that 'interaction' had involved being chased or hunted down or being bullied. Would she rather have that again compared to this?
The sole door in the room suddenly opened, scaring Vanellope into a sitting position. She barely had time to comprehend the sudden disruption to her time of loneliness when the shrouded kidnapper stormed into her line of sight, no longer limping from when Vanellope had kicked him a long time ago (minor injuries usually always healed within a few hours time), and stopped mere inches from her.
"Finished?"
"Huh?"
"With your meal," the kidnapper clarified with a tilt of his head towards the makeshift place setting.
"Oh. Yeah, I'm done."
"You sure?"
Vanellope stared at him, an uneasy feeling washing over her. "Yeah, I'm pretty sure," she said slowly, her brows coming together as she puzzled over what he was getting at. "What else am I supposed to be doing with it?"
The person under the cloak let out a raspy sigh. "Thought you'd be smarter than that," he mumbled almost inaudibly as he gathered the plate, cup, and fork that was used for her meal in his arms.
Vanellope blinked, not sure what to make of that. Had she done something wrong?
The kidnapper never expanded on his earlier statement, though he did sit cross-legged on the floor about four feet in front of her. Vanellope's hair rose on the back of her neck, not sure if she liked him being getting comfortable like that around her.
"Uh…so the pie was good," she said to him, thinking he wanted her to say something. "Seems like I've had it before, but I can't really remember ever eating it."
"I've never made it before," the stranger admitted. "I didn't even have a recipe on hand. Somehow it seemed right to make it for you though."
This particular visit was getting more bizarre by the second. "All right, I want some answers. Why are you going through all this trouble for me? Why feed me or throw a mattress in here for me?" Vanellope asked as she patted the cushioned wafer she was still sitting on. "Am I supposed to know who you are? Do you even want to be part of this crazy scheme? Why are you being nice?"
Her barrage of questions was met with silence. A drop of sweat rolled down the young president's face, the mystery becoming unbearable to her.
"What is the password for the code vault?"
She blinked at the question, not having expected that. Several questions ran through her head. First, had he ever known the original password? Second, if he had known it, did he figure out that she had in fact changed it, meaning he had already tried accessing it? The only other people who had known it were Sour Bill and Turbo. This guy couldn't be Sour Bill since he was much too tall and didn't have the right body shape; the person talking to her was more human in appearance from what she could tell from his silhouette.
Maybe he really was Turbo and he'd lied to her when he said he wasn't him. But why would Turbo keep his identity hidden from her, especially now that she was in his clutches? He seemed the type that would boast and brag in her face that he had successfully abducted her, not hide behind a handmade cloak. He also certainly wouldn't fool with making her comfortable.
On the other hand, maybe he had never known the original password in the first place. In that case, she could simply lie and give him that one in order to waste his time. Sure, that meant risking him getting angry enough to punish her, but it was still better than giving him the real code.
"Why do you need to know it?" Vanellope first asked him.
"You're not in a position to argue or compromise."
"Listen, bub, I'm still ruler of this game, and I think you owe me an explanation for why you need to get into the game's code."
"I…I cannot discuss that with you."
He sounded nervous now. Vanellope grew a bit bolder, thinking she could push him into giving her what she wanted.
"Why not? It's not like I can spill any secrets to anyone while chained up," she pointed out while rattling her manacles. "You scared that whoever you're working with will find out and punish you or something?"
He bristled under his robe, his fists clenching up. "Just tell me the code. It's for the best."
"If you think I'm gonna freely hand it over, you're bonkers."
Standing up now, the stranger towered over her, his body shaking visibly. "I'm not in the mood for the games," he growled through the voice-changing mask he wore.
"Too bad; you live in one," Vanellope quipped smartly. "If ya don't like games, then you picked the wrong-"
Her head flew to the side as her kidnapper's palm connected with her cheek, her bangs swishing in her eyes. A shocked whimper escaped her, and she involuntarily pressed the coolness of her own hand to her hot, reddened cheek, the chains rustling when she moved her arm. Vanellope's tearful eyes glanced up at the cloaked stranger warily, inching back away from him the most she could given her shackles' limitations.
The tension grew thick between them, the young president nearly choking from it. The kidnapper did nothing, only stood there with his hand curled up in mid-air as if he'd paused after slapping her. Suddenly he drew his hand back, his posture slumping over as he started backing away from her, looking back at her and the door in the process.
"Sorry, oh my goodness, sorry," he muttered over and over until he finally reached the door and quickly escaped. He slammed the door behind him and locked it, leaving the girl behind once more.
Vanellope's fear subsided as confusion replaced it. He was apologizing? The guy who had abducted her, slapped a glitch-proof chain around her, knocked her out with a mini-jawbreaker, and then forced her to stay in this dungeon was apologizing for having slapped her? It seemed more than a little odd that slapping her would be the one thing he felt sorry about.
"Well you're definitely not Turbo," she mumbled as she curled up on the mattress, her chains making it nearly impossible for her to get comfortable. "Who are you?"
As soon as he slammed the cell door, the man pressed his back against it to steady himself, his hands curled together as he shook. He'd slapped her, the least of his crimes, yet he'd been overwhelmed with such guilt upon doing it. Why?
He removed the cloak and the voice-changing device he wore over his face as he usually did when out of the president's line of sight, breathing easier now. He wiped at his face with a trembling, clammy hand.
It was those dreams, those strange, unfinished flashes of scenes almost like clips from a home movie that played in his mind without warning. His mind couldn't process why he was having them, and the scenes never played out to their full extent before they vanished. All of them involved Vanellope though, that was the one key element that united the visions.
But why? They had no relationship with each other, they barely conversed, much less saw each other.
He was having these dreams for a reason though, he felt. It felt...wrong somehow to deal with her harshly. Against his code even.
But she was the enemy, and he had a job to do. Once everything was set in place, he'd be done with her.
Why did that make him so sad?
