See You Again
Wreck-It Ralph: 50 Themes
06. Kings, Queens, and Jokers
Sometimes Sour Bill hated his job.
Actually, make that most times.
There was nothing appealing of being a henchman, the manual labor that came with such a title being less than pleasant. But it wasn't the work that bothered Bill—not really. He was little more than a butler at times, or chauffer, which wasn't much to complain about. No, what made him abhor his job was not what it entailed—it was who he worked for.
Now, everyone knew King Candy was half crazed—it was who he was, and the gamers and the citizens of Sugar Rush had accepted that—but all they got to see was the theatricality the monarch put on, the purposeful craziness and deluded way of speaking.
But Sour Bill was the only one who saw the real thing.
It had been several years ago when Bill witnessed it for the first time. He had been sent by the Donut Police give the king a report on their last patrol, and after wandering through the castle for some time had come to the ruler's bedroom. He stopped just outside the door, however when he heard voices. Or, one voice.
"Hm…yes. I'm King Candy. King Candy. Always was."
Sour Bill had carefully peered around the partially open door and found King Candy talking to his reflection.
"King Candy's my name. Who's Turbo? Well I don't know, but I am certainly not him. How did I get so good at racing you ask? Oh, it's just something I picked up. I am king after all—a king must be the best… Turbo? No, I don't have the slightest idea."
Bill never revealed what he saw that day—he had quickly crept away from the doorway, and King Candy was none the wiser. The news was overpowering—everything anyone had ever thought of King Candy was a lie, and who knew what other memories the monarch had locked away. Although, the only thing that occupied his mind was that he was working for an actual sociopath now, and how awful his duties would be.
Sometimes Sour Bill really hated his job.
Ralph stealthily scaled the candy-coated hillock, making a face as a piece of chocolate stuck itself to his hands, and found the racers he had been chasing in a clearing below him—the junkyard.
And there, standing in the middle of them was the brat that had taken his medal.
As the wrecker stewed in his own rage, he watched detachedly as the racers haughtily surrounded the little girl, poking at her pitiful kart.
"What did she do, build it herself?" he said aloud, wincing as she showed it off. The racers seemed to snicker, and one in a too-pink outfit climbed into the handmade kart herself, smiling all too sweetly before she tore a piece off and lobbed it at the small, raven-haired girl.
And then all chaos broke loose.
Ralph watched in mounting horror as the other racers, up until then having been only observing, followed suite; kicking, tearing, and roughly dismantling the little girl's kart. She tried to stop them but there were too many and the racer in too much pink, who Ralph deemed as leader, came apart from the group, glaring fiercely at the outcast.
From so far away, Ralph couldn't hear what she said—but he certainly saw the pain in the little girl's eyes, just before she was pushed into the mud(—Always the mud, day after day—did no one know how it felt? To be treated like dirt, less than dirt, too unimportant for even an apology or backwards glance….no cake, no pies to be welcomed too…just the mud and the bricks). In that instant—despite the fact that he should hate that little girl, hate her for taking his chance of proving, once and for all, that he could be good— Ralph saw red.
Because no one should know what it was like to be thrown in the mud.
08. Freedom isn't Free
She was gone. Sugar Rush was gone. Unplugged. Destroyed. Nonexistent.
Ralph hadn't felt himself be pulled away. Had it been Felix? Had Calhoun helped? He didn't know. Didn't care. He couldn't feel his limbs. He only saw her—saw her big, soulful hazel eyes as her code was destroyed—he didn't look away for a second. The look in her eyes had been heartrending—she had forgiven him. Forgiven him for abandoning her. For leaving her to die.
He would have stayed with her if he could. He would have. But what was stopping him?
There was no one behind him. No guiding hands. Something else was pulling him away from her—from Vanellope. But he saw only darkness, a darkness which engulfed the girl and then him.
Ralph awoke with a start, choking, gasping for air. He fiercely blinked the spots from his eyes, groping through the gloom until he became accustomed to the darkness. It took him some time, but he eventually realized that he was still in Vanellope's garage beneath the palace.
He rose to his feet, heart hammering in his chest at the impossibility, the utter improbability of his nightmare—she was fine, she always was, there were no cy-bugs, no King Candy or Turbo or anything else that could take her away from him—but he needed to make certain. He had to.
Peering into the interior of the sloppy kart they had made, Ralph found Vanellope curled in the driver's seat, sound asleep.
She was safe.
09. New Love
Sergeant Tamora Jean Calhoun was accustomed to having nothing. Less than nothing, in fact.
She had her platoons respect and loyalty. That was all. With no material possessions to speak of and her hope almost gone—she couldn't rid the world of those damned cy-bugs when the first-person shooter could barely get past the fifteenth level. She had no home. A home was where one felt safe, loved…. She hadn't had something like that for a long time.
And then here was Felix, recanting to her about his positively wonderful life.
He had it well-off in his game, Tamora had decided as she listened to him talk. Parties, ice sculptures, pies, and medals—Felix never had anything disastrous happen to him in his entire existence, sans Ralph's game-jumping fiasco. And aside from that, Felix's life had been darn near perfect.
A small seed of bitter jealousy sprouted deep in her gut—some she was instantly ashamed of—but here was someone who had never seen comrades die around him, never been grinded down by enemy cy-bugs, and never had to watch the gamer eaten and torn apart.
But the she would look into his bright, pitifully naïve blue eyes, and Tamora would realize that she would never force her life on anyone else.
Once he had finished, Tamora had smirked and teasingly said, "Is there anything you didn't have, Fix-It?"
To her surprise, Felix answered with his familiar too-wide, adorable smile and blush. "Well…you."
Ralph never understood why he had been made the Bad Guy.
He could be good. A Good Guy like Felix. He could fix things…if he really tried. He could be liked. Loved, even. He didn't need to go to some Bad-Anon meeting. He didn't need to vent. Vent about what?
He could be a Good Guy. If they would just let him, he could prove everyone wrong. Bad Guys could change. They had to be capable of change.
It didn't help, though, that they tried so very hard to make him bad.
Name-calling would get to him eventually. Teasing. Silent glares as other characters walked past him in Game Central Station. Acting as if he didn't exist.
But the worst was the fear.
He would see it everywhere. Under the derision there would be terror. The glares would be used to mask horror. Ignoring him was better than looking him in the eye and flinching at his sheer size, the power he held, what he was capable of doing. He hated being feared.
But then, there was this little girl who wasn't afraid of him.
Oh, he'd given her plenty of chances to be. He was more than four times her height and a hundred her weight, looming over her. He had chased her when covered in taffy and all other sorts of candy, looking like some malformed beast, and she had laughed once the cupcake had rendered incapable of moving.
Those racers had been terrified of him when he'd chased them off. Huffing and puffing, his temper at its peak, he could have pulverized the girl. But she had barely looked at him until he released his fury on the landscape.
She didn't flinch when he walked beside her. She didn't shrink back when he picked her up.
She trusted him.
And then he had to go and destroy that trust.
Ralph had felt her pleading gaze on him even when he smashed her kart, her desperate shrieks somehow louder than the crunch of candy as his fists made short work of their pride and joy. It was flabbergasting how easily he could destroy something.
But it was done.
He was splattered in chocolate and other kinds of sweets from the ruined kart, staining his hands and the medal she had made for him, and she only looked at him, hate and terror and pain in her eyes.
"You really are a bad guy…."
She had trusted him.
Ralph understood why he had been made the Bad Guy.