A/N: I have a new obsession, and that means writing a fic!

I'm not really accustomed to writing OCs interacting with canon characters, but I did my best for someone who either always writes OC-centric stuff or canon-centric stuff.

Hope you enjoy!

There was nobody Skid was happier to be than himself. Even long before newer games entered the arcade to steal TurboTime's show, some considered living the life of a rarely-played palette-swap character to barely be living at all, but Skid didn't mind in the least. Some'd say that blissful ignorance was another thing to pity about the green-dressed racer, but he never pitied himself.

Racing was a luxury to him, not a job. When it happened, he gave it his best, just as eager to come out on top as the others. Victory always seemed to get to the heads of the TurboTime cast, or at least that's what the other arcade characters who'd never raced a day in their life would say.

Jet, Set, and Turbo were all loud and enthusiastic, constantly butting heads even after the arcade closed. Despite everything, Skid couldn't say he was too different from them. He loved the spotlight, too, and was programmed with the same snarky, jerkish nature that all the TurboTime racers shared. It was what drew people to the game, apparently — new players always got a laugh from Turbo shoving his trophy in the other racers' faces and nearly knocking them off the podium. Bickering was in the racers' code, and though Skid was aware of it, there was no undoing one's programming.

What was the need, anyway? The only people who cared were the too-sensitive characters of the other games, and Skid didn't interact with them any more than he had to.

All he knew was that, just like the players, he loved seeing Turbo happy. Really happy — not the mean happy from when he tripped Fix-It Felix in the Game Central Station, but that was great, too. He could almost feel the exhilaration Turbo felt from winning, even after the game was left alone for the night. Some might've called it pathetic, but when Skid's world was barely a racetrack with a few buildings and he only raced once in a blue moon, could anyone fault him for finding entertainment in his dumb friend?

Contrary to what the players saw, there was no real audience in TurboTime . The bleachers behind the racetrack only held formless beige, blue, and gold squares. That was probably why the players meant so much to Turbo and the twins — they were the only validation they got.

Turbo, though, found other ways to get attention. The moment the players stepped off the cabinet, he dashed over to the sidelines where the other racers sat with his trademark wild grin. A gold-clad racer shifted away uncomfortably, but Turbo paid him no mind as he honed in on Skid, excitedly waving his trophy around.

" Woo ! I was awesome up there, wasn't I?!" The protagonist started, bouncing on his heels. The twins lagged behind him, sharing no such enthusiasm. Jet — or was that Set? — was brushing off his helmet, and rolled his eyes when he caught Turbo. Like he'd care — this was his game, not theirs.

"Yeah, you totally were!" Skid agreed, eying the trophy in Turbo's grasp being polished with a sleeve. He grinned, raising a hand for a high-five(four?). "First place!"

Eyes lit up, Turbo returned it, and Skid could see Jet fake-gagging behind him. "'Course! You expect any less of the greatest racer ever?" He jerked a thumb in the twins' direction. "I could beat these losers in my sleep, y'know!"

Set scoffed. "I left you in the dirt round one."

"Okay, third-place-four-games-in-a-row." Skid snickered, and Turbo started full-on cackling next to him.

Set just adjusted his helmet. "Whatever, kiss-up. Like you know a darn thing about racing."

"Certainly knows better'n you, loser!" Turbo continued to laugh, slinging an arm around Skid's shoulder. "See, this guy knows what's up! Game's not called TwinTime , is it? The gamers don't even like you!"

Skid was about to add something when Jet stopped in his tracks, expression dropping as he looked to the sky— past the cabinet's screen, where a bored-looking boy of about eleven stood. "Another player?" Jet groaned. "What, someone's birthday or something?"

Set roughly shoved Turbo and Skid as he took off towards the track, making the trophy in the former's hand clatter to the concrete. "I'll race ya to the start positions!" He called, already halfway there as a bewildered Jet stumbled after him.

"Hey, wait up, y' cheater!"

Skid was surprised to find Turbo not dashing after the two — any race, game or otherwise, he had to win — but upon looking over, he found something else in the lead character's eyes. His usually cocky grin was twisted into a snarl, his expression a hard glare, but it quickly vanished as soon as it came. Skid would've thought it was a glitch if he didn't know any better.

Smile plastered back on, it didn't quite reach Turbo's eyes, but he good-naturedly nudged Skid with an elbow. "Hey, pally, what's you say we knock those two down a peg, huh?"

—

Turbo was smarter than the others gave him credit for. He'd waited two races to pull this off, and timed it perfectly — Skid would set out pipes from one of the garages onto the track at Turbo's cue, tripping Jet and throwing him off his rhythm just long enough to fall into last place. Skid watched the race with excitement — it was going directly in line with the plan.

At Turbo's cue, he tossed out the obstacles. The other palette-swap racers at the sidelines noticed, but said nothing. At times Skid felt out of place, being the only of his rank to not resent the main cast, but it didn't matter. Turbo was better a friend to him than Zipper, Blitz, and… whoever the third one was, that it didn't matter. At least they weren't snitches.

Jet wasn't watching the road when he hit the pipes, nearly being slung out of his seat as his eyes went wide with panic. Barely recovering from the scare, he was suddenly rammed from behind by Set's vehicle, screeching in pain Skid had never heard before as both racers jumped the rail, collapsing in a heap of metal against the bleachers.

Jet's helmet looked to be cracked, and some of its blue paint was coming off in scratches with the force he was thrown into the stands at. Set and his race car had landed directly on top of him, effectively crushing him between their weight and his own splintered car.

Thankfully, as soon as the daze wore off, Set scrambled out of his smoking vehicle to assist his brother. His hand was bent oddly, but that didn't deter him from trying to pull the wreckage away, apparently not caring about the race at this point. Jet moaned in pain, managing to stumble out onto the grass as he blearily looked onto the racetrack. Pipes from the trap were scattered about, dispersed in different spots of the road by the blow.

Everyone was frozen in shock. Watching it, the world seemed to come to a standstill for Skid — Turbo didn't mean for that to happen, did he? What did that look like to the gamers? Would it be a glitch?

Skid was about to call out to the injured twins when Turbo, having completed another lap, expertly swerved around the litter of pipes as if nothing was wrong. Skid had a feeling it wasn't the person behind the cabinet pressing the command to taunt when Turbo stuck his thumb out with a manic grin, laughing at his fellow racers' pain.

" Turbo-Tastic !"

"Freakin' lunatic !" Set spat as Turbo whirred by, about to make a gesture not at all appropriate for the game's target audience when Jet slumped against him. Set lightly shook his shoulders, a gesture that made them both wince slightly. "Hey, c'mon, let's get back into it. No hunk o' junk'll stop the Twins, right?"

This felt wrong. This wasn't supposed to happen. Skid expected an inconvenience at worst, but the pained scream he'd heard from Jet and the wreckage of the two's race cars showed otherwise. He didn't even know this kind of injury was possible here beyond the slapstick comedy of being smacked around and shoved a bit. That was what they did. They were jerks to each other, but it was all in good fun, not…

"Can y' at least walk to the podium?" "Yeah, yeah, stop holding my hand, y' weirdo— ow… !"

…this.

After the race, Turbo was as braggy at his first-place podium as ever, with yet another golden trophy to show it. Hopping down as the imaginary applause died down, Set confronted him before Skid could, jabbing a finger into the smaller racer's chest.

"What was that all about, Turbo?"

The white-clad racer just raised an eyebrow as he held his trophy closer to his chest, before the usual amused grin reappeared on his face. "Hey, not my fault your bro's clumsy." He laughed as Set fumed. "Shoulda watched where he was drivin', maybe?"

Skid watched uneasily from the sidelines as Jet limped off his podium with a grunt. His brother looked just about to turn Turbo into roadkill when he interrupted, "hey, let's hop off 'n' clean all that up, alright?". The other twin didn't look quite convinced, but after that stunt, angering Turbo probably wasn't a wise choice.

Skid didn't think he was malicious — or, at least, didn't intend for anything more serious than being bumped behind in the race a bit — but Turbo's flippant demeanor wasn't helping his case. He swallowed back the doubt. Injuries like this were unheard of in Skid's memory, and expecting any of them to know how to deal with it was ridiculous. Turbo wasn't a caring type, he was a winning type, but still…

"Y'alright, Turbo?"

"Hm?" He looked up as Skid approached. "Better'n alright!" He smiled, hugging his trophy close with a goofy laugh that almost made Skid forget what he'd seen.

Almost.

"I mean… hurtin' Jet like that wasn't part of the plan, was it?" Skid adjusted his helmet. He didn't have much use for it, rarely racing, but he didn't have much use for removing it, either.

Turbo frowned for a second, saying nothing at first. Skid's heart pounded, and the guilt he felt for fearing his friend only made the fear worse. Finally, Turbo smiled — not his winning smile, more of a real one. "Don't worry about it, buddy. We poke fun, but Jet 'n' Set are tough as nails. They'll walk it off." He shook his head. "Wouldn't do anythin' t' seriously hurt my friends. They're like brothers to me."

Leaning forward, he affectionately smacked Skid's shoulder.

"'n' you're my partner in crime! I'm the greatest racer ever — know what I'm doing, trust me."

—

Despite their popularity with players, TurboTime was a laughing stock to the rest of the arcade. From the characters' crass and cruel attitudes to their uncanny appearances, they were an uncomfortable sight. Back when the arcade was populated with made-up creatures, they were acceptable approximations of human beings. Now, though, with characters like those in Fix-It Felix Jr. , the TurboTime cast's deformities were glaringly obvious — with gray skin, skeletal limbs on pudgy bodies, yellow eyes and teeth with hollowed facial features, they appeared more ghostly than human.

Like he always did, though, Turbo managed to put a positive spin on it. Positive for him, anyway — less so for the rest of the arcade, who he took to scaring when they passed in Game Central. Skid found it hilarious at first, but his laughter turned uneasy when Turbo would grab, grapple, shake, and slam his unsuspecting victims to the floor. Skid was sure to remind him that if someone died outside of their game, they wouldn't regenerate, to which Turbo laughed and asked what kind of character couldn't handle some roughhousing?

Today, though, the two weren't out for fun. As soon as the arcade closed, the still reeling Jet and Set wanted Turbo out. He brought Skid along, which the other didn't mind, feeling he deserved the same punishment. Despite his friend's insistence they'd be fine, the image of the twins in real pain hadn't left Skid's head. He felt it was affecting Turbo, too, though he showed no visible signs of it.

Though they couldn't drink, Tappers was a favorite hangout spot of the two's after hours. They were free to sit and talk without the prying eyes of fellow racers, though the topic was often Turbo's winnings anyway. Skid drummed the table with one hand, twirling the plastic straw of his milkshake in the other. He hated to doubt his friend, he really did, but…

"'m worried 'bout the twins." He admitted, nervously twirling faster.

Thankfully, Turbo didn't notice his anxiety, stretching in his bar stool. "They'll be fine. Can't make an omelet without crackin' a few eggs, right?"

Skid blinked. He didn't venture outside of their game often. "What's an omelet?"

Turbo laughed for a while at that. "I mean—" It took a moment for him to catch his breath, "I mean, ya don't win by playin' nice, y'know? It's a racing game, stuff happens."

"'s just…" Skid hesitated. "They're not hurt or anything, are they?"

Waving a hand dismissively, Turbo shook his head. "Nah. Jet went t'pick it all up himself, remember? They'll ache a bit, but they'll be good as golden 'n' ready to eat our dust when the arcade opens in the morning!" He smiled. "You're a good guy, Skiddo, but everythin's fine."

Skid could feel his face warm up, and quickly took a sip from his milkshake to hide it — ow, brainfreeze. He didn't think he'd ever heard Turbo say anything nice about someone that wasn't backhanded. He complimented Jet on his racing once, but then proceeded to threaten to shove him into a trash compactor if he ever scratched Turbo's race car again.

Turbo caught his flustered reaction and cackled, smacking Skid hard on the back and nearly making him choke on his straw. "Freakin' sap. I mean it, 'n' I don't say this kinda thing lightly."

" Thanks— " Skid wheezed. "Just, means a lot, comin' from you."

"Of course it does! You're th' second coolest guy around!" Turbo finally pulled his hand away to let Skid drink without danger of asphyxiation. "Being at top all the time gets lonely, y'know? Twins think I'm just some selfish brat, which…" There was a beat. "I am, o' course, 'n' rightly so! But I 'on' really have a friend like you or anythin'. Trophies're shiny, but not the best company."

…was that why? Skid nearly lost his composure again. It made sense, though — he'd never seen Turbo really hanging out with anybody else. Every conversation with the other racers (or, heck, any other characters in the arcade) was always started by him. They rarely spoke a word to Turbo until he forcibly inserted himself into the conversation.

"Well…" Skid began. Turbo thrived on attention, and there was only so much of it gamers he would never even be able to speak to could give him. "...y' don't need them, right? Like you said. I'll be here for ya."

Turbo smirked, but Skid could tell he didn't fully believe him. He couldn't blame him — one person could only be so responsible for someone else's happiness, but that wouldn't stop Skid. He was the only person Turbo would listen to.

"Sure thing."

—

Whenever he won, Set had switched the hands he'd used for holding out his trophy and sticking his thumb up. His left arm was crooked from the wreck, and grasping objects would only make it more noticeable. He wasn't in any pain, at least, which was… good, right?

Sympathizing with the twins had been harder for Skid ever since Turbo confided in him about his loneliness. Turbo's anger was just as infectious as his happiness, and Skid found himself being the one he went to complain to more and more. They were all supposed to be friends, and yet Jet and Set only kept to themselves, regarding the character who was supposed to be their leader with nothing but disdain. It was frustrating — couldn't they see he was hurting?

They were attached at the hip, and their knowing looks and inside jokes grew to frustrate Skid just as much as they did Turbo.

At least the injury gave everyone a way to tell them apart.

—

Turbo was doing better, it seemed. It was nothing winning couldn't fix, and the influx of players helped. Regardless of what everyone else thought, TurboTime was one of the most popular games in the arcade. It even gave Skid a chance to race, which he hadn't done in… a while. It was in his code, though, and it was thrilling . He only got second place, but Turbo's cheering that "first is the worst and second is the best!", which he'd never applied in his life unless he came in second, made him feel like a winner.

The other racers looked a little uncomfortable at the two's sudden friendship, and he even heard Jet mumble that Turbo was just using him for attention, but Skid did what he could to ignore that. They were just doing what they could to get by in life, and if helping someone so hated feel a little less so was such a crime, then Skid was happy to be a criminal.

It became routine for him to cheer Turbo on as everyone else scoffed. "You don't have to do that every time, ya know," one of the other palette-swap characters had leaned over to mumble to him, tipping their head in Turbo's direction, where he was accepting the applause like it was his first race in years. "Don't inflate his ego. The players do that enough."

Skid couldn't explain how he felt — not like they'd ever understand, anyway — so he simply ignored them and kept cheering.

—

When RoadBlasters was plugged in, everything got worse. Skid could feel the anger radiating off of Turbo everywhere he went, and he worried for a while that he'd damage the race track with all his pacing. Even his trademark smile had gone, replaced with the scowl Skid only saw when he lost a race. Stomping up and down the length of the road, Turbo was grumbling incoherently to himself.

"Aw, boo-hoo, y' not the center of attention anymore." Jet had called from his spot lying across his race car, absentmindedly tossing a ball of rubber bands up and down - wherever he got that from. He sat up to address Turbo. "Sure sucks t' only be the second best racing game in the arcade, huh?"

"You don't get it! " Turbo exploded, and Skid was used to his temper but couldn't help flinching. "We used t' be the only racing game in the arcade! Now that they've got some hunk o' junk with colors 'n' fancy-pants graphics, nobody's gonna be playin' us anymore! You wanna get unplugged 'cause of that thing?!"

Despite his outburst, the twins looked unfazed as ever. "Y'know, for the 'greatest racer ever', you're actin' real insecure right about now." Set added, getting a snicker from his brother.

"What's Litwak Arcade without TurboTime ?" Jet shrugged. "Sure, the kids'll all be goin' crazy over the new game for 'bout a week, but they'll come crawlin' back. 'Sides, when's anybody ever gotten unplugged for unpopularity? Haven't seen anyone touch Tappers in, like, a month."

"Parents're boycotting it 'cause of the alcohol."

"No kiddin'?"

"Who cares about stupid Tappers ?!" Turbo shouted with a stomp against the concrete, cutting off the start of Set's explanation. "We've been replaced! Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

"I mean—" Skid started, not even realizing the words came out of his mouth until Turbo snapped to attention. He sank further into the large tire he'd been sitting on. This wasn't what he wanted to hear, but… "—had a good run at least, yeah? I—I mean—"

There was no salvaging his sentence as a loud thwack! reverberated throughout the area. Turbo's helmet was roughly thrown off his head, hitting the road and bouncing once. The racer was quaking with anger, and his frazzled black hair only added to his disheveled appearance. " FINE !" He shouted, and not even his adversaries could say anything. "If that's what y' want! If that's all this game means t' you, then you can rot in here forever!"

He grabbed his helmet and shoved it back on, turning to dash off without looking at any of his fellow players. Not even Skid, and that hurt more than the idea of being unplugged.

—

Skid was terrified of Turbo, but he was his responsibility. He saw his tantrums and pacing and kicking that only got worse for every day that passed where they weren't being played, and it was clear nobody was going to console him. Skid had to be the one to support him, but this was an infinitely harder fix than just cheering for him after a win or stroking his ego after a loss.

"I'm not gonna die here, Skid." He stated with rare conviction as Skid approached him in his garage. "I did not spend all these years bein' th' best game in the arcade t' get upstaged by that glitchy road wreck."

At a loss for words, Skid felt as if he was walking on glass. He agreed with Jet, but voicing that would make Turbo hate him, no doubt. His hands were clammy at his side. "It'll…" He began, hesitantly. What did supporting Turbo mean? Putting more thoughts about death into his head? "…all work out, 'm sure."

Feeling Turbo's gaze bore into him, he was almost scared the other would start swinging, but he only sighed. Defeat was something Skid never heard in his voice, and yet… "I dunno why I expected you to understand." Turbo frowned, gesturing to Skid. "Y' just some palette-swap racer, 's not even playable. You gotta life outside of racing. But what would the gamers think if I skipped a buncha rounds to go chill out in a tire like you do?" His hand fell limply to his lap.

This conversation hurt to have. There was no easy answer. What did someone like him know about the fear Turbo was going through? "I could always help you, y'know?" He started, voice unsure. "Give you somethin' else to do…" Skid rubbed the back of his head beneath the helmet, hoping it wasn't visible how cut he was by the words.

The other was silent for a while, before finally shaking his head. "Doesn't work like that." He didn't elaborate, glaring off into a point in the wall. The only sound in the garage was the two's breathing — for once, there were none of the distant sounds of cars whirring around the tracks, nor the clanging and laughter of whatever Jet and Set did in their free time.

Skid averted his eyes from Turbo, looking down at the floor. He felt like he failed him — couldn't he do something to make his friend be less miserable? Anything? This was the one thing he prided himself on doing, even more than racing, and yet all he could do was stand there feeling useless as Turbo glowered.

He noticed the other's bony gray hands ball into fists, and he wished he knew what was going through Turbo's head — what he needed — so he could give it to him. But the truth was that he wasn't a mind reader. He was barely a blip in Turbo's code, functionally. Another faceless racer to beat to bring himself to the top. He could never hope to understand what Turbo went through, and yet he was the only one around who wanted to.

Finally, Turbo rose his head and broke the silence. It wasn't something Skid wanted to hear, but after failing his friend time after time again, he couldn't even consider refusing.

"You're gonna help me game-jump."

—

"Uh."

"Hm."

"He vanished."

"Vanished without a trace."

" Finally , some peace and quiet."

Turbo's absence was glaringly obvious, and Skid's heart was hammering in his chest. He could play dumb just fine, pretend he was asleep last night instead of watching Turbo sneak past security in Game Central, but his mind was still racing. Was he okay out there? What did the inside of RoadBlasters even look like — would it even support his character?

The twins, seeing his nervousness, poked fun at him for separation anxiety, but the truth was far bigger than that. He only hoped, for once, that nobody would play TurboTime and notice the missing main character. If not being played wouldn't get them unplugged, then that major of a glitch certainly would.

As they got closer, the line where Turbo ended and Skid began grew blurrier and blurrier, but Skid never had the same enthusiasm for racing. He enjoyed it, as he should've, but he could never fully comprehend why it meant so much to Turbo, pushing him to this extreme. Maybe it was a main character thing, because try as Skid might've to understand his friend, there were clear fundamental differences in how they thought.

Regardless of that, though, Skid knew he wouldn't be the same person without Turbo.

He didn't race for recreation often, but the only thing Skid could do to keep his fears at bay was drive. Rounding the track, making one, two, three laps in quick succession, for each round there was no sign of Turbo, his anxieties got worse. He wished he asked more about the plan, but he didn't want to seem like he was flaking out. He cursed himself for being such a doormat — what if Turbo made a mistake? What if something happened to him in RoadBlasters and he couldn't regenerate? What if —

"You seriously look like you're about to throw up right now."

World spinning, Skid managed to screech to a halt at the sound of the voice. The blur before him was blue-and-white, disappointingly, and reached a crooked hand forward to set on Skid's shoulder. He certainly felt like he was about to throw up, whether because of the motion sickness or the agitation, and his attempt to push Set's hand away was nothing more than an awkward swing of his arm.

The blue-dressed boy looked uncharacteristically pensive, with a concerned frown on his face. "How 'bout we take a break, huh? Don't want you puking on us."

Skid blinked, taking a moment to process the words amidst the adrenaline still coursing through his veins. Taking a deep breath and putting a hand to his helmet to steady himself, he shook his head. "Uh… yeah, sorry, jus'... antsy."

"I getcha. We're worried about Turbo too…" Set admitted with a forced, nervous laugh. "...he's our friend too, y'know?" Skid doubted that, but said nothing. "He'll come back for us, wouldn't abandon a race without good reason."

Skid knew the reason full well, and continued to regret not asking for more information. Turbo would go to RoadBlasters , then… what? Skid went along with it, because he loved Turbo and wanted to do anything he could to make his suffering ease, but was now starting to question what the other's intentions were. Thinking on it any longer than he had brought up possibilities he really didn't like.

Either Turbo meant to glitch up RoadBlasters and bring its audience back to TurboTime , giving the characters there a piece of his mind, or…

Abandon his game altogether.

Skid felt a growing ache in his throat. Turbo wasn't coming back. Times were changing — nobody had touched TurboTime in a week, and with RoadBlasters around, nobody ever would. Skid remembered Turbo's words the day he snapped — it that's all this game means to you, then you can rot in here forever.

TurboTime had outlived its usefulness, as had all of its racers. Skid saw Set standing in front of him, waiting for a reply, but took in none of it. All they were to Turbo was a means to an end — Set's twisted arm was a clear sign of that. Nothing would stop him from winning, not even his friends and home.

Turbo was going to kill them, and even then Skid hated nobody in this equation more than himself. He had the power to talk Turbo out of this, to help him, why didn't he ? How could he have failed him so badly to not see when he was hurting and fix it?

"...I—I—"

Skid stood wide-eyed, stammering for a moment as he willed himself to move. His mind was going a mile a minute, but his body was frozen in place. He did this. Jet and Set and all of the other racers were going to die and it was all because he couldn't will himself to actually help Turbo instead of just providing empty support.

Set said something and took an uneasy step back, but Skid didn't comprehend it as he forced himself to his feet, nearly stumbling and falling as everything still spun around him. He narrowly managed to avoid face planting into the grass as he staggered his way to Game Central, ignoring the confused shouts of the twins behind him.

They deserve what's coming, they did this to him , Skid told himself for a second — they didn't, they didn't and he knew that, but it was what he'd been telling himself for all this time, because he could never stand to admit that Turbo was wrong.

Turbo was wrong, but he could fix him. He'd give him the support he needed and help him become better and give him the chances the other characters never did and everything would be okay . It was all Skid thought as he ran through Game Central, earning more than a few confused looks from the homeless characters and security guards, doubling over and heaving as he looked around for RoadBlasters .

He didn't know where it was, but the only entranceway in the arcade to be blocked off, with an empty black sign where the title would be, gave him a pretty good idea. RoadBlasters was gone, and then it hit Skid that his friend was gone with it.

Legs failing, Skid felt like he was going to be sick. He dropped to the ground, the pain of the hard floor against his knees barely registering as hot tears pressed against his eyes and threatened to smear his eyeshade. His hands shook, and he didn't even notice the other characters beginning to swarm him and ask what the problem was.

"That's one of the TurboTime kids, right?"

"Hey, care to explain what your buddy was doing game-jumping?"

"He's probably evacuating before Litwak pulls the plug. Their game's unplayable without Turbo."

Skid shuddered, scrambling to pull off his helmet. It had never felt so suffocating before, tears stinging his eyes, the pain only bringing more of them. All he could look at was the entrance to RoadBlasters , hoping against hope that Turbo would barge out and proudly announce that everything was fine. He didn't even know what would happen from there, but another chance to make this right was all he needed.

It would never come, he knew deep down, but hope was all he had to keep him from breaking completely. Turbo was gone, and never cared about the racers that would've been collateral in his plan. He sent all of them to their deaths, and Skid enabled it.

There was another burst of static from across the massive station, the direction he came from. A gasp from someone standing over his shoulder. The sound lasted only a second, but there was endless dread in it.

Skid was truly alone now.

He could only imagine the looks on Jet and Set's faces as their world fell apart around them. Did they understand what was happening? Were they in pain? A sick part of him wanted to be grateful they were dying, for Turbo, but he couldn't. He couldn't hate them like he did. He could never bear to cause anyone pain, and yet, he was no different from Turbo. Just because he wanted his validation and not the players' didn't mean anything. He'd still killed for attention.

What had he done ?

—

TurboTime had been the center of Skid's life. Jet, Set, and Turbo were the most important people to him, regardless of his ever-changing feelings as he tried to unwrap the differences between Turbo's opinions and his, and yet the world continued to turn without them. People asked about the game-jumping incident whenever they saw Skid wander through Game Central Station (where else did he have to go? Entering other games, the residents would just see him as another Turbo, there to ruin their lives for the thrill.) to the point where he was tired of trying to defend his friend, knowing it just made him look worse. Turbo wouldn't have liked that, but it wasn't like he could do anything about it anymore.

He lingered by the entrance to his old game, even when new cabinet after new cabinet took its place. The arcade was ever-changing, though some games, like Fix-It Felix Jr ., retained their popularity. He saw Fix-It Felix and his neighbors emerge from their game from time to time, and all he could think about was what it would be like if it was the TurboTime cast instead. What they'd be doing now, if they lived. Maybe after twenty-five years, they'd put aside their differences. Maybe they wouldn't.

Whether it was Jet and Set's bickering with Turbo or the rare occasions when they supported each other, Skid missed it more than anything. The closest thing he had to a friend now was the Surge Protector, who wasn't that bad of company, but Skid accepted that he would be longing for his old game-mates until the day his code vanished for good.

Everything was an empty blur. Skid never really understood misery - he understood annoyance, and the bummed feeling of losing a race, but his first taste of true misery was when his game was unplugged, and he'd been living in it ever since. Forced to stew in his thoughts for the rest of his unnatural life.

He didn't make an effort to understand the other characters in the arcade, just as they never did him, but as time went on, TurboTime faded from the collective memory. He still heard murmurs of the cautionary tale against ' going Turbo ', but he received less unnerved looks and misinformed NPCs begging him not to ruin their game. That was a good thing, maybe? He didn't want to forget, and the less people knew of Turbo, the more lies that could be spread, but maybe it was finally a chance to put all of this behind him.

Even considering that filled him with guilt, before he reminded himself that he'd spent more than enough time self-condemning. He'd been wandering alone for half of his life now — what more was there to say? He'd mentally apologized to his game-mates countless times, and stewed over what he could've done better even more. Most of the time, he thought about Turbo — that damaged, lonely person who just needed someone to keep him chained to reality — but the more he thought about Turbo, the less true that felt.

Maybe it was the old wives' tales about the infamous racer getting into his head, but he thought about the twins, too. The wreck Turbo made him stage replayed in his head constantly, even over two decades later. No matter what angle he looked at it from, he couldn't justify that. There was no real motivation behind it — nothing but Turbo injuring two of his friends because they scratched his trophy and bruised his ego. Skid tried to shake that thought away, but to no avail.

Turbo was vicious and power-hungry, and wouldn't have even looked back for Skid in the name of his glory-seeking. It wasn't that he didn't care about Skid that hurt him, though that was a part of it. It was that Skid had to think these things about a person he so genuinely loved and admired — and after all of this, he still found himself making excuses for Turbo.

And he asked himself, could he stand to make excuses for Turbo to the two entire groups of people he'd killed? Would he be able to look Jet and Set in the eyes and say that he forgave the person who made their last living moments so miserable?

Could he tell that to himself ?

After much deliberation, he decided he couldn't. There was no denying Turbo was a lonely person, and that Skid could've handled everything better, but it wasn't his responsibility. He tried his best, he tried to reassure himself every day, but ultimately, Turbo was the most stubborn person he knew. There wasn't anything he could have done. Turbo would have done what he did even without Skid's influence.

Something about that was comforting, in a dark way.

It wasn't his fault, and even if it was, he'd had more than enough time to atone. It was unfortunate and horrible, but there was no changing the past. Skid didn't have to hate himself anymore, and as he tried to put on a smile even when he had no one to show it to, he vowed that he wouldn't.

A/N: First WIR fic, yay! I'm so late to this movie, but I adored it and immediately had an idea for an OC. So, Skid was born!

A lot of this fic is me projecting my own feelings and experience with unhealthy relationships, and I understand if that turns people off by being cheesy or something, but this was healing to write, and I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I did making it!

Thank you for reading!