Chapter Twenty-Two
Your World Is Obsolete
By the time Mr. Ainsworth had carried her out of Sugar Rush, Vanellope's pallor was whitening. The laceration on her side was still bleeding; the hoodie was badly stained around the area where the bowie knife had struck. She winced as Mr. Ainsworth set her down roughly a few feet away from a podium in the midst of Game Central Station. Beside the podium, two figures stood. One, a short, green, many-eyed alien, was busily hooking a microphone-like device to the top of the podium. The other, a girl about two years older than Vanellope and wearing a purple and scarlet suit with a black kepi, was watching the alien intently. At the sound of Mr. Ainsworth's arrival, the girl turned.
"She's wounded," said the girl, glancing at Vanellope. "Stitch her up. I don't want her bleeding her life out before I've even started."
"I know that," said Mr. Ainsworth. "I dealt the laceration."
"And you know how to sew it shut," said the girl. "Pray do so."
Mr. Ainsworth drew the necessary tools from his satchel and knelt down beside Vanellope. Roughly, without regard for her comfort, he unzipped the hoodie and pulled it from her body, exposing the violet-colored tee-shirt beneath. This he raised just high enough to expose the wound.
"I've done this to myself before," said Mr. Ainsworth. "Hurts like blazes."
Quickly and deftly, he sewed the wound shut, and then pulled the shirt down once more. Vanellope looked up at him with a mixture of curiosity and fear.
"I'm not apologizing, if that's what you're wondering. I'm not through with you, not by a long shot." He gave Vanellope's wounded side a sharp jab with his fingers. With a cry, she glitched backwards, only to experience the same excruciating pain she'd felt before.
"Careful dearie," said Mr. Ainsworth. "You might reopen the wound that way."
The girl in the suit had turned to observe the alien. At the sound of Vanellope's scream, she turned back once more. A look of what seemed like concern briefly flitted across her features, but was quickly replaced by her former stern expression.
"Vanellope von Schweetz?" she asked, her voice dripping with contempt.
"Yeah," said Vanellope. "Who're you?"
The little green alien stepped away from the podium. "You're on the air," he said.
"Thank you, Carl," said the girl. Ignoring Vanellope's question, she stepped behind the podium. She had to use a small stool to reach the microphone, which she looked at with apparent satisfaction.
"You won't answer?" said Vanellope. "Not very friendly are you?"
Mr. Ainsworth dragged Vanellope to her feet by her hair and held a pistol against the back of her head. "Listen," he said.
And then the girl in the suit began to speak, her voice reaching every game in the arcade, where every character, guarded by members of SANG, was gathered around a portable device that would transmit her words.
"Good Morning to you all," said the girl. "You don't know me yet, but I'm here to remedy that.'
'My name is Portia, and I am the president of the organization known as the Society for the Advancement of New Games- SANG, for short. We hail from the wondrous world of the internet- the future of gaming, and whose interests we live to promote.'
'We have been watching you carefully for some time now, and your arcade is flourishing. This is a curious phenomenon to us. For though you may not be aware of it, arcades are a dying breed. Your counterparts across this country, and across the globe, are closing down, being unplugged, receding into the annals of history to which you belong. Gamers now seldom approach your kind, except among niche demographics. And when those gamers die, few of like minds will replace them. You will lose your fans…or will you?'
'Much to our bafflement, Litwak's Arcade remains a hub of gamer traffic among all generations. This is an affront to progress, and cannot be tolerated. The world is no place for your pitifully outdated coding and clunky cabinets. So we are here to set all at rights. We will remain until we have ensured the unplugging of every game in this arcade. Our methods will vary, depending on the game, but rest assured that you will not be allowed to play your roles when the arcade next opens, and that we will prevent you by force if necessary.'
'You are free to move between games or converse amongst yourselves, but we are watching closely. One false move, one sign of trouble, and those involved will be severely punished, by whatever means we deem fit.'
'Now, you may well be wondering: will you yourselves die when the games are unplugged? The answer is: it depends. When we closed down arcades in the past, we slew all of the characters. But that is not our plan for your arcade. We believe your longevity may be due in part to some unusual qualities of yours which may prove useful, should you wish to adapt yourselves to the future and come to the internet when we return there. The exception to this offer is Sugar Rush, which I have left at the disposal of Mr. Ainsworth. Any pleas for mercy which that game's characters have, they can make of him- if he's in the mood to listen.'
'And now, I suggest you resign yourselves to the new state of affairs. Your world is obsolete, and the sooner you accept that, the easier this will be."
During the entirety of the speech, Vanellope had been listening, her eyes growing wider as it went on. At the news that her game had been left to the not so tender mercies of the psychopathic mercenary, she blanched. Mr. Ainsworth noticed this at once.
"Turning coward already?"
"I'm not a coward," Vanellope replied, her voice shaky.
"Oh, misplaced confidence," said Mr. Ainsworth. He lifted Vanellope into the air by the back of her shirt, keeping his pistol trained on her head.
"Go ahead and shoot, then," said Vanellope, half shouting and half crying. "I'm waiting. Shoot!"
"Death asked you out to a dance," Mr. Ainsworth replied. "I already told him you said no." He thrust the pistol back into his belt. With his free hand, he retrieved Vanellope's turquoise hoodie from the floor. "This'll make a nice souvenir," he remarked.
"Give that back!" Vanellope cried.
"You didn't say please," said Mr. Ainsworth.
"Please?"
"Hah! No."
With that, Mr. Ainsworth headed back to Sugar Rush, hoodie in one hand and Vanellope grasped firmly in the other. Looking back, Vanellope saw Portia watching her. The girl's expression was haughty, and her eyes seemed to burn with a fiery hatred.
She's not much older than me Vanellope realized.
Somehow, that fact made Portia seem even more frightening.