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Rancis swallows, staring intently into the distance and determined not to cry. His knuckles are white, clenched tightly around his steering wheel, his eyes steely.
“Good luck,” he hears someone call out distantly, but he doesn’t respond. His eyes are glued to the snaking track in front of him, waiting for the race to begin.
Racers, to your marks. . .
Rancis’ jaw clenches tightly, and he leans forward in his kart. His nails dig painfully into his palm.
Get set. . .
The engines of the karts spur to life, and the stands seem to hold their breath in anticipation.
GO!
Rancis blasts off, pulling ahead of quite a few of the others. It startles even himself, but he shakes it off and focuses onto the race.
A blur of red zooms by—Jubileena, the player’s avatar—and Rancis squeezes the steering wheel just a little bit tighter. He makes no move to overtake her, but he does trail extremely close behind her.
“Dude, you’re using the cherry girl?” a voice floats in from the outside world. “I thought you liked the pumpkin guy.”
Rancis’ knuckles begin to strain from how tight he’s gripping his wheel.
“He’s not on the roster today,” answers a second voice. “Kinda weird, he usually is. But, eh, it doesn’t matter. There’s still plenty of other characters.”
“He wasn’t even that good of a racer anyways.” The first voice snorts. “Sure, he’s got good speed, but shit handling. Even that chocolate dude is a better pick.”
“C’mon, he’s not that bad—“
Before he knows it Rancis has dug his foot, hard, onto the gas pedal, zooming forward faster than he’s ever been. His teeth are clenched until the point where his jaw is aching, and he’s certain his palms will bleed from how hard his nails press into his hands. He shoots past Jubileena, clipping the side of her cart and sending her off spinning into the side rails.
“What the hell?!” the first voice hisses. “Was that the chocolate dude?”
“Shut up and let me focus!” Absently, Rancis guesses that means that Jubileena is still in the race, somehow managed to stay on the track. Good for her, he supposes. He can’t find it in himself to really care either way.
Even long after he’s passed Jubileena, his foot still hasn’t relaxed; it’s still pressed firmly onto the gas pedal.
(It’s risky to do this, he knows. One sharp turn or one power up and he’s out.)
(He really, really, really doesn’t care about it, though. He finds the at he doesn’t really care about a lot of things, as of late.)
Rancis focuses intently on the track as he enters Gumball Gorge, the Gumball machines looming overhead. If he loses attention for even a moment, he’ll more than likely be hit by the large colorful candy that rolls down the canyon’s walls—
A scream rips from his throat as he’s blown into the air, his kart flying back and crashing into the ground a good few get back. It skids to a halt, eventually perching on its side against a wall. He glances up just as Candlehead speeds by, quickly followed by Adorabeezle and Minty.
He bangs his hand against the steering wheel furiously as the others speed on ahead. Someone had used a Sweet Seeker, and he’d been hit by one of the missiles, because of course he was. Stupid race, stupid luck, stupid game, stupid, stupid, stupid!
Rancis chokes back a sob as he’s left behind, his hands trembling. He will not cry. The arcade is open, he must follow the code. And crying is not part of the code.
But, still, his breath hitches, and he hiccups, and before he knows it tears are cascading down his cheeks in waterfalls, and no matter how many he wipes away a dozen more take their place.
He leans his head against the steering wheel, closing his eyes and attempting to regain control of his breathing.
. . . . .
He’s out of the race anyways, falling down to last place (or somewhere around there, anyways) and far behind everyone else. He supposes it would be okay to go against coding this time.
His shoulders shake with silent sobs, and his hands tremble even through their iron-clad grip on the steering wheel. The track is silent, save for the sputtering of his kart and the sound of his stifled crying filling the air.
0-0-0-0-0-0
“What the fudge was that?!”
It’s in-between games, and Jubileena has cornered Rancis and confronts him about their last game. Her voice is raw, angry, but it’s also sad and pained and confused.
It makes Rancis want to choke on a cherry.
“I’m—I’m sorry,” he stammers, his voice cracking. “I’m sorry. It’s just—they were—they were talking about—about—“ He chokes up, unable to finish his sentence.
Jubileena’s eyes widen with understanding as she catches on, and it’s like all the anger drains from her face. “Oh.”
“I’m sorry,” he says again, blinking back tears. “I’m really sorry about that.”
“It’s. . . Okay.” Jubileena swallows, flashing a rather pathetic excuse of a smile. “Just—I dunno, try to control yourself better? It’s—it’s hard. I know.” Her voice trails off, cracks, and she clears her throat. “But—but nobody needs the game to be, uh, unplugged on top of things.”
He winces. He hadn’t thought of that, too caught up in his emotions. “Sorry.”
“I—I understand.” All the anger in her is gone, and her shoulders slump in a rather miserable way. “I get it. It’s hard.” She turns her head up to face him, her watery smile not quite reaching her eyes. “But—but we’re in this together, right? We can—we can get through this.”
Rancis nods, not trusting himself to speak, lest he break down again. The arcade is still open, after all, and the gamers don’t need to know what an ugly crier he is.
. . .
0-0-0-0-0-0
“What are you doing?”
The boy freezes, turning rather stiffly to face Felix. A glass bottle is raised in his hand, ready to throw, and he blinks owlishly.
“N—nothing,” he says, dropping his arm. “I’m, uh, I’m not doing anything.”
Felix raises an eyebrow, and the boy turns his gaze down, shuffling his feet uncomfortably.
Upon realizing he won’t get an answer, Felix sighs, picking his way over the mounds of bricks that litter the place. He stops before the boy; he’d had his suspicions, but, now that he’s closer, it’s evident that this boy is from Sugar Rush. And suddenly everything makes sense. More than it had a moment ago, at any rate.
Felix observes the boy for a moment longer, before gathering him up in his arms. The boy stiffens for a moment, and then he melts into the embrace, wrapping his arms around the older’s middle.
“Shhh,” Felix soothes gently as the boy sniffles into his shirt. He runs a hand through his green locks. “Shhh, it’s okay. I’ve got you.”
And before he knows it the boy is wailing, his tiny body shaking and his hands fisting into Felix’s shirt. The older man has to blink away his own tears, one hand rubbing circles onto the boy’s back and the other ruffling his hair.
“I never—I never got to say good—goodbye.” He hiccups, his breathing heavy. “Gloyd—“ he sucks in a labored breath — “he’s—he’s g-gone, and I never—never got to say goodbye.” His voice cracks, and he buries his face into Felix’s midriff again.
“. . . He was my best friend.” The boy hiccups again. “And now I’ll—I’ll never get to see him again.”
And Felix can’t keep the tears at bay anymore, and they dribble down his cheeks slowly, like raindrops. They land quietly on the kid’s head, but he says nothing about it.
They stay like this for who knows how long, with Felix holding the boy tightly, comfortingly, and the boy sobbing heartbreakingly in his arms, grieving deeply.
“There are better ways to vent,” the older man murmurs softly after a very long moment of silence, “than smashing glass bottles.” His voice is raw with emotion and unshed tears.
The boy curls his hands into his shirt again, and Felix can’t help the weak chuckle that escapes his lips at the childish act.
“You know,” he continues gently, humming, “if you ever need someone to talk to or a place to crash, you can always come here. I’ll always be here for you.”
“T—thanks.” The boy pulls away, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. His eyes are rimmed red, and his cheeks glisten. “I, uh, I should get going now. Before the arcade opens.” He hiccups.
“Well, goodbye then. . . ?”
“Swizzle Malarkey.” The boy flashes a strained grin that Felix supposes would be a bright, shining thing had it been under different circumstances.
“Well, Swizzle,” the older man returns a small, warm smile, “you and your friends are always welcome here.”
“Thanks, Mr.” Swizzle nods, the grin fading off his face into something softer, sadder. “See you.” And with that, he turns on his heel and climbs over the mounds of bricks. Felix watches after him as he travels to the train. Watches as he climbs aboard, as the train hisses and pulls out and into the tunnel leading to Game Central.
He exhales lightly, turning back to the mess of shattered glass scattered among the bricks. With a grimace, he hefts his golden hammer.
Felix supposes he should clean up the glass before Ralph returns, lest he accidentally lay on it and hurt himself.
0-0-0-0-0-0
“How long have you been out here?”
“Not for long.” Crumbelina’s gaze is blank, focused intently on the track in front of her. She slows to a stop near the finish line, where Snowanna Rainbeau waits, leaning against her own kart, the Fro Cone. She raises an incredulous eyebrow at the brunette, her hands on her hips.
“Since the arcade closed,” she admits after a long moment, her grip on the steering wheel tightening. She wills herself to not burst into tears, staring into the distance until her eyes hurt.
“You can’t keep doing this.” Snowanna moves closer, until she’s right next to the kart, and she reaches a gentle hand out to squeeze the brunette’s shoulder. Her violet eyes are soft and sweet and grief-stricken and sympathetic, and a lump forms in Crumbelina’s throat. “You can’t keep running from your emotions forever. You’re—you’re allowed to mourn too, y’know?”
Crumbelina remains silent, her hands becoming shaky. Her eyesight has begun to become blurred from her lack of blinking, and they begin to water.
“You don’t need to be strong anymore,” Snowanna says in an oh so soft voice, and something inside of Crumbelina breaks, and soon she’s gasping for breath and fat tears roll down her cheeks in waves and she’s shaking uncontrollably and the storm of emotions that had long been brewing inside of her bursts out, raging in the empty air.
Instantly, Snowanna pulls her close, and Crumbelina buries her head in her friend’s shoulder, squeezing her eyes shut as she bites back a sob.
“I miss him too.” Snowanna’s voice cracks, and Crumbelina can feel her hands clench into the back of her jacket. “I miss him so much. I’ll—I’ll miss everything about him. From his stupid smile and stupid laugh and his stupid pranks and his stupid pumpkin hat.” She inhales shakily. “And—and I know you do too. And I need you to know that you’re not alone. We’re here. We’re all here for you—for each other.”
“I know.” Crumbelina’s breath hitches, and another wave of tears stream down her face. “I k—know. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” She hiccups. “I’m so—sorry.”
They stay like this, for a while: Crumbelina leaning half out of her kart and Snowanna supporting her from the ground, their arms wrapped tightly around each other and their heads buried in each other’s shoulders.
“I can’t believe he’s gone,” the brunette rasps, her voice raw with grief and tears. “I don’t want it to be real.”
“None of us do. But there’s—there’s nothing we can do.” Snowanna hiccups; Crumbelina’s shoulder has long since become soaked with her tears. “All we can do is move on, and—and honor his memory.”
And for the first time since Vanellope had crossed the finish line, Crumbelina allows her walls to break, mourning a friend who was never meant to exist and regretting all the things she had said to him and will never say. Her kart sputters to a stop, almost as if it were mourning too.
0-0-0-0-0-0
The palace bursts with life, streamers strung up proudly and confetti floating airily through the halls. Characters from all the arcade games mingle and group together in the spacious ballroom, celebrating the one year anniversary of Turbo’s defeat.
Despite this, there is a heaviness on their shoulders and an empty feeling in the air. The laughter that should have been loud and bright is subdued and quiet, and the few people that dance across the floor with graceful movements clearly don’t have their hearts in it.
Swizzle mills by the drink table, an untouched glass of fruit punch in his hands. He gazes blankly at the crowds, unusually still and collected.
(He supposes he should be celebrating; it’s supposed to be a happy occasion after all, but he can’t seem to find it in himself to care.)
He’s neatened up for the celebration, his green hair brushed back and his beanie gone. He’s traded his worn jacket for a suit, polished and prim and proper, and it feels stifling, trapping. What he wouldn’t give to be outside, in his kart, speeding down Candy Corn fields and side by side with Rancis and—and—
Swizzle swallows, his throat suddenly dry, and his grip on his glass tightens. The fruit punch in it trembles in his shaky hand.
“You good?”
The green-haired boy startles at the sudden voice, snapping his head around to face it.
Sonic the Hedgehog, dressed in a rather crisp looking suit, leans against the table. He flashes a soft smile at the boy. “You seem kinda overwhelmed.”
Swizzle simply shrugs, not quite sure how to answer. He pointedly avoids the blue blur’s gaze, instead focusing intently on the crowd on the other side of the room.
“Never been too big on crowds myself.” Sonic follows Swizzle’s gaze, humming quietly. “Too loud. Too busy. Too restricting.”
“Mhmm.” Though being overwhelmed isn’t the reason why Swizzle is so. . . Well, Not-Swizzle, he can’t help but agree. Big fancy parties aren’t really his thing. They’re too stuffy and too fancy and too ugh.
The pair lapse into silence, and Swizzle shuffles his feet uncomfortably, pretends to take a sip of his punch. The starts of sentences build up behind his lips, but they never leave. He’s not sure how to continue the conversation, or if there is even a way at all.
“Well,” Sonic says at last, and Swizzle turns to face him, “I should get going before Amy comes looking for me.” He chuckles. “See ya around, kid.” And then he’s gone, disappearing into the crowd.
Swizzle stares after him, even long after the blue blur has merged within the crowd. Despite being surrounded by so many friendly faces, he can’t help but feel alone; a tiny speck in a big, big world.
0-0-0-0-0-0
“Your highness, you don’t have to do this.”
Vanellope swallows, the distant sound of quiet laughter and soft conversations floating in from the ballroom downstairs filling her ears. It anchors her, in a way, and reminds her just why she’s doing this. She knows she doesn’t have to, but she wants to do this. She needs to.
“It’s okay, Sour Bill.” She cranes her head to face him, flashing him a strained grin. “I want to do this.”
He sighs tiredly, finally—finally!—accepting the fact that she won’t change her mind. “Be careful.”
“I’m always careful!” And then at his most (and rightfully) incredulous look, “I’m usually careful.”
At Sour Bill’s nod, Vanellope turns back to face the code room, takes a deep breath,
And jumps in.
0-0-0-0-0-0
“Where’s Vanellope?”
Rancis shrugs, absently tapping his fingers against his glass. His suit is a warm chocolate brown, his tie a beautiful golden color. He’s kept his hat on; it fits in pretty well with his fancy attire, and his hair is relatively the same too, just a bit neater than what he usually would have.
Ralph nods, absently pulling at the collar of his suit. The ends of his pants are tattered, torn, and he’s barefoot, as always.
“Why?” Rancis asks him.
The taller man shrugs. “I dunno. I just thought she’d be here by now.”
“Maybe she’s still getting ready,” Adorabeezle offers. “After all, she’s the ruler of Sugar Rush. Gotta keep good connections with everyone, especially after. . .” She trails off, but the others are able to fill in the gaps easily enough. Rancis’ grip on his glass tightens.
Jubileena fixes her gaze onto the floor, fiddling with one of her pigtails. Adorabeezle observes the nearby table with a faux curiosity. Rancis takes a sip of his punch.
“Well.” Ralph clears his throat, turning away. “I, uh, I’m gonna go find Felix. See you.”
“Bye,” Rancis says blankly, staring after the taller man’s retreating form. The three Racers are left in a rather uncomfortable silence, none of them quite sure what to say or what to do.
“Minty’s been helping me on the other tracks,” Adorabeezle speaks up after a moment. “Y’know, because I struggle with tracks outside of the Frosty Rally. It’s been nice.”
Jubileena hums, tapping a finger on her chin thoughtfully. “That’s not a bad idea, helping each other with tracks we struggle with. Maybe, like, when we’re all free or something we can do something like that.”
“Maybe,” Rancis agrees. Though he himself manages just fine on the tracks, there are a couple of bumpy spots he hasn’t quite mastered. And, hey, it certainly sounds fun. “Where is Minty, anyways?” He hasn’t seen her since the roster race, which was. . . Ahh, a couple of hours ago?
The red-haired girl shrugs. “Last I saw she was wrangling Sticky and Torvald into behaving. They’re somewhere around here, I’m sure.”
“Probably trying to cause trouble, knowing Torvald,” Adorabeezle quips, and the blond can’t help but snort at that, poorly hiding it under the rim of his glass as he pretends to take another drink.
Jubileena opens her mouth to say something, but is interrupted as a lone trumpet resounds through the air.
The effect is immediate. What few conversations that had managed to continue fall silent, and all the guests turn their attention to the grand staircase in the center of the room. Sour Bill stands to the side of it, his expression ever deadpan and straight. He holds a trumpet in one of his hands.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announces, sounding thoroughly unamused (Rancis knows he can’t help it; the way he’s coded makes it so). “Now presenting President Vanellope von Schweetz.”
And the president walks slowly, gracefully down the steps. She’s dressed in a formal dress, much simpler than the one she’d been wearing after she crossed the finish line. It falls just above her knees in flowing rose pink, covered by a layer of a soft chocolate brown. The high collar is gone, and her crown is nestled firmly on her head.
She looks better this way, more her. And something blooms in Rancis’ chest, something warm and happy and yet sad and longing. He wonders how things would have changed had Turbo not taken over their game.
(Memories of warm, bright laughter and a familiar devious grin fills his mind, and he shoves them back, a pang of grief striking his heart. It’s supposed to be a happy occasion. He could—he could reminisce about the past later, when there aren’t so many people around.)
She stops when she’s in the middle of the stairs, where everyone can see her easily. She surveys the room, briefly making eye contact with Ralph, who nods encouragingly, and sucks in a sharp breath.
“Well.” She laughs, though it sounds shy and uptight. “If any one of you had told me a year ago I’d be standing before you all, as president of Sugar Rush, I would’ve laughed and said you were crazy.” This earns her a few chuckles, and she presses on. “Honestly? This past year.” She pauses, swallows. “It’s—it’s been one of the best years of my life. Even after—after everything.” This time there is no reaction from the room, and something heavy settles on their shoulders.
By now the tale of how Turbo had attempted (and succeeded for 15 years) to take over Sugar Rush had spread around. Everything, from how he’d attempted to delete Vanellope and how he’d banned her from racing, ever, and resetting the game. Even how he had fashioned Gloyd after he accidentally split Vanellope’s code. . .
Rancis shakes his head slightly, forcing himself to focus on the president’s words.
“Yeah, sure, Turbo might’ve—well, gone Turbo and tried to take over everything and fudged stuff up. But we got through it. Me and the citizens and the Racers.” She smiles softly. “We always bounce back, no matter what gets thrown at us. We’re family—“ at this she gestures for them to come forward, and Rancis reluctantly obliges. He muscles his way through the crowd, stepping to the base of the stairs.
Swizzle is already there; he’d probably been standing near the front of the crowd, and next to him is Candlehead, looking politely baffled, if that were possible. The others quickly join their sides.
“We’re family,” Vanellope repeats again, once all the Racers have gathered at the bottom of the stairs. “Even if we. . . Ah, didn't get along for 15 years.” She chuckles weakly, and the Racers do too. It’s still too fresh, too painful for it to be truly funny to any of them. “And family sticks together through thick and thin.”
“Ain’t that the truth.” Sonic nods in agreement, wrapping an arm around the shoulder of a young kit. The blue blur flashes a grin, and Mario snorts, shaking his head in amusement.
“As you all know,” Vanellope continues after a moment, the smile on her face fading into something softer, sweeter, “the defeat of Turbo had come at a price of one of our own. Gloyd Orangeboar.”
The room is filled with a thick, suffocating silence at her words, and Rancis grabs at the hand closest to him, which happens to be Swizzle’s, who squeezes it gently, comfortingly, in response.
Vanellope sucks in a rattling breath, closes her eyes. “He is—was—“ Rancis tilts his head at her words; what an odd mistake, referring to someone who’s been gone for a year in the present tense, “—was. He was a bright soul. He came to be when—when Turbo tried to delete me and accidentally split my code in the process. No one knew what had happened until I crossed the finish line and his code merged with mine, making me whole again.” She sucks in another breath. “Today marks a year since—since we lost him.”
“I’m still here!”
Rancis freezes at the very distant, nearly nonexistent voice, and his grip on Swizzle’s hand tightening subconsciously. That—that can’t be Gloyd. He must be hearing things, is all. The palace is packed, and maybe someone accidentally said something.
Rancis nods to himself. Yes, that had to be it. There isn’t any other explanation. He ignores Adorabeezle’s baffled look and the sharp, quiet inhale that Crumbelina makes, instead focusing intently on the president.
“Gloyd.” Vanellope shakes her head fondly. “I wasn’t as close to him as the others were, but I can tell from his memories—“ she gestures vaguely to her head, “—that the others cared for him deeply. They loved him for who he was. And—and he felt the same way. He loved you all,” she says to the Racers. “He really did. Even if he didn’t show it.”
Swizzle inhales deeply, and Rancis taps his fingers on the back of his hand gently, reminding him that he’s not alone, that they’ll get through this together. The green-haired boy hesitates, before craning his head and giving the blond a small, genuine smile. Rancis readily returns it.
“Sometimes,” Vanellope gazes over the crowd, seemingly attempting to suppress a smile, “I can still hear his voice.”
“Quit telling everyone I’m dead!”
And then he appears, suddenly, on the upper floor. He’s dressed in his regular clothing—orange track jacket, obnoxious pumpkin hat, everything— though only this time, a black tie is hanging loosely around his neck. He grins down at them, leaning heavily on the railing.
And time seems to freeze as they all gawk at him. Rancis feels as though his breath has been snatched, and his grip on Swizzle’s hand tightens.
He must be dreaming, he’s sure of it. Because there’s no way Gloyd is here, now, standing above them. Because he’s—he's gone, he’s gone. And the only possible reason that he is here is that Rancis must somehow be asleep and dreaming.
He startles out of his thoughts when Vanellope throws her head back and laughs. It’s a freeing sound, and it reminds him of the wind blowing his hair as he speeds down the track.
Gloyd joins in, cackling madly, and it’s loud and bright and genuine and so Gloyd.
And suddenly everything sharpens, and the world around Rancis fades into a hazy blur as he fixes his eyes on the brunet and everything feels too real and yet too dreamlike.
This is reality, he realizes. This is all real, and the thought settles on him like a cloud; fuzzy and yet heavy all at the same time, and he can’t fudging believe it.
“Holy fudge,” Minty breathes. Her mouth hangs ajar as she stares at the boy on the upper floor, her deep brown eyes comically wide.
“I—bu—wha—“ Jubileena flails, at a loss for words. “H—how?”
“When I realized that Gloyd was made up of half my code,” Vanellope explains softly, swallowing back another bout of laughter, “I thought maybe I could—I could bring him back. Make him a permanent character. I, uh, wanted to do it after—as soon as possible, but I needed to, uh, to research first. To see if it would work. That’s why it took so long.”
“And what better time for me to come back than on the anniversary of Turbo’s defeat?” Gloyd has made it to the center of the stairs, right next to Vanellope, and he grins cheekily at them. Swizzle barks a laugh, shaking his head fondly, and it startled Rancis a bit. And then he cracks a smile at his friends’ antics, a small snicker escaping him.
(Oh, how he’s missed this. Laughing with Swizzle and Gloyd without a care in the world.)
“Hey, why the long faces?” Gloyd raises an eyebrow, hands on his hips, and continues, “I thought we were, y’know, celebrating?”
“You heard him! Let’s get this party started!” Vanellope laughs again, slinging an arm around Gloyd’s shoulder, and it’s like a bomb goes off, because the whole room erupts in cheers that shake the palace walls, and people are converging into the center of the room, which is turned into the dance floor. Conversations start up again, but this time it seems livelier, happier.
Rancis has just comprehended this when he’s suddenly whirled into the center of the dance floor. He yelps, regaining his bearings as Swizzle Malarkey grins at him.
“Dance,” he says, beginning to spin around, slowly and gradually becoming faster.
Rancis wriggles in a weak attempt to get away. He glances over his shoulder, towards the staircase. “But—“
“Ah ah ah!” Swizzle wags a finger in his face, and they stumble from the sudden lack of support. “We can do that later. Right now we need to celebrate.”
“But—!”
“Dance!”
The blond sighs, caving in. “Alright, fine. I’ll dance with you.”
“That’s the spirit!”
Rancis rolls his eyes as his companion laughs, but the smile creeping onto his face betrays him, and before he knows it his head is thrown back with loud laughter, his cheeks aching from his large smile and his heart becoming wild.
They’ll need to talk with the others once this is all over. He knows this. But for now he can let his worries slip away, here, surrounded by his friends and family as they sway and sing and laugh.
They’ll get through this, together. They always have.