It's Only Programmed - 1

Turbo had an accurate idea of when to expect the glitch now. Every few minutes, he'd get the warning dizziness before the pain took over. It was like screwdrivers driving into his body for just a mile second, or however long the glitch lasted.

Turbo faintly wondered if Vanellope ever experienced any pain during her glitches. Certainly having your body briefly distort and spark couldn't be a painless experience. Yet, when Turbo saw her, especially now, there was no look of pain etched across her face. Plus, she willingly glitched now. Perhaps it took a while for the pain to go away.

There was light trickling through his heavily barred windows. Vanellope had opened the shaft of the jail doors as well, in a small act of kindness. He sneered. Did she really think that would make him feel better? Teasing him with the rays of sunlight, knowing he'd never be able to be out in it? Cruel child.

The slants of white light became blinding and filled the jail cell as the door was suddenly open. Turbo winced as the rays stung his eyes. His wince became a hiss of pain as his body flickered blue again.

The little pixie wasn't in her royal attire this time, for which Turbo was grateful. If he had to see her at all he didn't want it to be in a royal outfit that was meant for him. He almost laughed when he realized what he just thought.

"Did you enjoy the cinnamon bread?"

"It was stale," Turbo snapped. Really, if he was going to be honest with himself, it had been delicious and tender, but as if he was going to thank the brat for anything.

A frivolous pout crossed the nine year old's face, childish and almost cute (to anyone but him). "I made it, it shouldn't be! I added a special ingredient."

"You what?!" How could he be so stupid? Why didn't it cross his mind that the little pipsqueak might have whipped up the concoction herself? Poison could be racking his code this very second right now! Perhaps that had been the pain he was feeling (that or his utterly massacred codes).

The pixie stared blankly at him, her chocolate, brown eyes wide and confused as the strange man flipped out and muttered a string of words Felix and Calhoun had told her she'd be in trouble if she ever said.

"It was ginger."

"What?"

"The special ingredient," Vanellope blinked. "It said to add brown sugar, but I thought you'd like ginger instead. Sour Bill said you used to have a hidden jar in your room, where you kept a stash of ginger cookies."

That damn little sour puss! That's where half the heads of his gingerbread men had gone! Turbo fumed over this realization for a few more seconds, muttering things like shoving a bunch of cookies down Sour bill's throat-up until he realized Vanellope was giggling. He flashed a murderous glare at the little pixie, but she only giggled more. It was no use. He didn't scare the the little brat anymore.

There was a horrendous screeching noise, and Turbo's cell opened and closed as the child stepped into the cold cubicle. She was carrying a paper bag. Turbo grew wary, especially as the child strayed closer to him with the bag between her tiny, pink finger tips.

The bag rustled as Vanellope dumped the contents out in front of him. It was more food.

Turbo could feel the pixie's eyes on him, and he gritted his teeth. He knew Vanellope was waiting for him to eat the food. Refusing to give the little titch satisfaction in knowing how hungry he was, Turbo was content to stay turned away from the brat and just let that food spoil.

And then his stomach growled.

The former racer's eyes slid shut, especially when he heard the pixie giggle. He cursed his stomach for betraying him and snatched a morsel of food to quickly satisfy it. There was another moment of silence, save for his chewing. A ripple of pain shook his form and the dim cell flashed a brief, blue hue as the glitch took over again.

The spasm of agony lasted only for a second, but left Turbo coughing and wincing, and bending forward in his chains.

"It's like that for the first bit."

"What?" Turbo demanded sharply, shooting the impudent brat a glare.

"The glitch," Vanellope continued. "You'll feel pain for a while, because your code isn't used to having a flaw. I had pain for almost a week from mine, but my programming got used to everything, and then when I flickered I didn't really feel anything."

The former racer's body twitched and distorted again, and Turbo shut his eyes through the next wave of pain. This one lasted a little longer, and Vanellope watched him through the entire thing.

"It helps to hold onto something and grip it tight. Kind of like how they say you should do that when you get a needle. It makes you think about something else other than the pain."

Turbo tried to drown the brat out with his own venomous thoughts, such as what he'd do to this game, and more importantly, what he'd do to her once he manged to free himself from this cell, this nightmare, and this glitch.

His body dissolved again into blue fragments, and he dimly heard his snarls of pain over the sounds of the static hissing. Through the pins and needles, and burning, Turbo briefly felt something soft slip into his hand. He glanced sharply at his hand, but found his vision obscured by pixels and strange hues.

When the sharp daggers gradually faded into a dull ache, Vanellope's hand was already back at her side. She examined it curiously, and touched the center of her palm with little fingers.

Turbo was tired, but weak. He feared if he shut his eyes, it may be likely that they wouldn't open again. He honestly wasn't sure how he managed to survive the night. Chilly as it had been outside, the temperatures felt as if they had dropped to sub zero in the jail cell.

The glitch in his body hurt worse in the cold, like any injury. Programmed characters were still codes, but they were built with everything a human had. Whether they could resurrect or not, they could still feel the effects of climate change.

Turbo was drifting off into another troubled sleep, and he was almost grateful when Vanellope's annoying voice spoke to keep him awake.

"Tell me about Turbo Time."

Vanellope was laying belly down on the icy concrete. Her hands propped under her chin like a child waiting for a bedtime story. Her chocolate, brown eyes were doleful and curious in the dark; still holding their innocence despite all he had put her through.

"Tell me why it was so popular. Tell me why you decided to abandon it for another game. Tell me what made it so different than Road Blasters."

Ah, so it seemed that infuriating handyman had told her everything. As if he cared if she knew who he was. To him it would seem that would make her fear him more, but that didn't seem to be the case.

The racer's cat-yellow eyes darkened more to a look of utter hate at the remembrance of his past. Being rejected and abandoned by those selfish humans, having his game unplugged, and being scorned by everyone else for abandoning his own game. They were memories he didn't care to think about.

"What did you love most about Turbo Time?" Vanellope questioned honestly.

It didn't seem like Turbo was going to answer her. He glitched again and moaned before he spoke. "Winning."

And that was true. The honor, the glory of being viewed as the greatest racer of all time—there was nothing like it. At the time, his was the only racing game, and it should have stayed that way. He'd never understand the need to update to a new, and 'higher graphic' game.

"If you loved winning in Turbo Time so much, then why would you abandon it for another game? Why did you leave when it risked a danger for your game? Didn't you realize what a dumb move it was?"

Oh, how lucky the pixie was that he was chained where he couldn't hurt her. And what torture that was; she was so close to him that he could feel her hoodie rubbing against his leg.

Hatred overflowed like an angry fountain as he whipped to face her. He didn't care how painfully the cuffs chafed his skin or how he may have possibly given himself whiplash. All that mattered was the brat saw the look on his face.

"You have no idea what it's like!" he shrieked at the girl. He was too far into the realm of rage to take pleasure in how wide and fearful Vanellope's eyes had become. "You don't know what it's like to be rejected and utterly alone! After so much time, so many years of being in the spot light, and they leave me—just like that!"

The soft, pitying look in those chocolate flecks darkened immediately as Vanellope matched Turbo's glare. Hers was laced with turmoil and regret, while Turbo's was filled with utter, black hatred.

"You're wrong, Turbo," the child mumbled. A hint of tears shone in her sugar-soaked eyes. "I spent my entire life being alone and rejected, because there was something wrong with me. "

"I had to deal with no one understanding me, because you made it that way. I had to deal with being on my own without the companionship of a friend. I always wondered, every day, why I was even alive. Being an outcast that no one wanted, I always wondered why you hadn't just killed me."

The simmering anger had died in those yellow eyes, and Turbo relaxed against his chains in emotional and physical exhaustion. "I tried to," he growled softly. "I tried to delete you in the beginning, when I programmed the game."

"You never tried after that."

The pale racer glared at the ground, and shifted his feet against the concrete. "Killing you wasn't my main objective. All that mattered was keeping you from crossing that finish line. Now that I think of it, I should have tried to kill you when I had the chance. You ruined my life."

He wasn't sugar coating anything. Vanellope fizzed a giggle into her hand from the way she worded that in her head. Catching the way Turbo's yellow eyes glowered at her, she wiped off the trembling smile and repressed any further laughter.

"So you hated being alone," Vanellope mused softly. She gazed curiously up at Turbo and tilted her large head. "But why did you leave your game then, so the rest of your colleagues could suffer the same thing? You left them by themselves, even though that's what happened to you."

How the damn pixie went from being a snarky half-pint to someone so honest with words that cut so deep was way beyond him.

There was a fleeting moment of humanity when his mind wandered back to his colleagues, but hatred once again consumed any hope of light in his black heart. His lip pulled back as he snarled and glared at the child. "I don't need a psychiatrist." What he really needed was a key to get out, or perhaps a new code entirely.

"Did you ever talk to anyone?" Vanellope wondered honestly.

The former racer was quiet. Then he sneered. "As King Candy, I had it all. Medicare around the clock, and anyone to talk to whenever I felt like it. I never did." He hesitated. "Once or twice, maybe."

"Did Turbo have anyone to talk to?" Vanellope asked.

"What?"

"I said did Turbo ever have anyone to talk to?"

A strange look crossed the deranged racer's eyes, almost hazy and melancholy. He looked away, to where he was able to see the sunlight. "No," he finally said. The look on Turbo's face was different, Vanellope realized. There was a new type of anger in his eyes. One Vanellope couldn't place.

"Where did the other Turbo Time racers go?"

The second, true stab of real pain irrelevant to just his failure to take over the arcade, struck into his black heart as he remembered seeing their faces for a final time; before the screen from what was once his game, his home, faded to a lifeless black.

"They died," he muttered.

Turbo didn't look at Vanellope for a second as he just kept concentrating on the window. He didn't want to see the stupid look of sympathy in the brat's eyes that would just make him want to tear her face off even more.

After another few minutes of heavy, foreboding silence, Vanellope stood up and stood in front of him. Turbo looked at her.

Suddenly, something attacked him. Turbo snarled and thrashed against the large mass on him that was darkening his vision. After a few moments, he snapped out of his wild rage and felt his attacker being pushed off his head, draping over his shoulders.

A blanket.

Vanellope wrapped the blanket around him like a shawl, pulling it tightly over him so he would be comfortable. The blanket shielded him from the icy fingers of the cold and instantly warmed his shivering form. He glared curiously at the pixie, but she had already left the jail.