Electricity

Stan Litwak hated nights like this. He couldn't open the windows to hear the crickets because the frost had chased them off and his old radio was only receiving static. All he heard was the clink clink of change being sorted or the skritch-scratching of his pen on his old, leather-bound ledger.

TCH

After hours was his least favorite part of the day. Even on slow days, the arcade was full of life on its own with each machine breathing their own tinny sounds and pixelated characters bouncing within their cabinets. But in here, when the children left with their screaming and laughter, he felt alone.

TCH KRIK

He dropped his pen on the desk and turned towards the door. "What the hay?" Litwak muttered. He leaned against the desk and pushed himself out of the chair.

TCH KRIK...CRACK

He stood still, hunched over the desk, listening.

The unmistakable sound of shattered glass reached his ears just as the lights flickered out. He bolted for the door and grabbed the old wooden bat he hoped he never had to use.

The door swung open and he held the bat in front of him like a club, leaning towards the wall to flip the light switch despite the overhead lights being dead. Even in the darkness, he could see the double front doors still locked from two hours ago with no signs of any disturbances. He rested the bat against his shoulder and peered around in the dark. The only other window was in his office and he knew the sound didn't come from there.

The emergency generator kept the game screens glowing through the outage. The familiar and comforting screens gave Litwak just enough visibility to weave his way through the maze of games with his junior slugger bat gripped in his hands. One familiar screen was dark: Fix-it Felix, Jr. That game, like so few that still stood in his arcade, was an old friend of his and one of the games Litwak had bought with his own money when the arcade first opened thirty years prior. His stomach churned at the sight of the black screen. It looked as though old Felix and the gang couldn't handle whatever caused the power outage. He made a mental note to call the repairman as soon as he found out what else had assumedly broken.

Fear of whatever caused the shatter and outage was shoved to the back of his mind as soon as he stepped closer. His mouth dropped. He thought the game was dark because of the electrical shortage, but now it looked as though the busted screen had exploded right out of the cabinet. Shards of twinkling glass littered the controls and the floor.

"What?" he asked aloud, then noticed his voice sounded way too loud. His skin chilled. Every machine was quiet, though the screens still bathed the dark game room in harsh light. It was as if they were all holding their breath…

Out of the corner he saw a pulse of red that was too bright to belong to any of the game screens. He raised the bat again and tip toed towards the direction of the foreign light. His shoes seemed to squeal with a deafening pitch with every step he took, but he continued on. He rounded the corner and

It was gone.

To his left he spotted the red light moving to the other row of consoles. Heart pounding, he rounded the other way and raised his bat over his head with a mighty yell.

Whatever gave off the light crashed into him and the force stole his breath away. Litwak toppled into the basketball free-throw and he winced at an audible crack the frame produced from the adult's weight.

The person, or whatever it was, wasn't so lucky. It crashed to the floor with a definite "oof". And then it changed. What was a hazy glow of stray pixels solidified into the form of a young man in red and white coveralls and a matching racing helmet.

The stranger sat in a daze as if he just woke up, and then his freakish yellow eyes met Litwak's for only a split second and then roamed the arcade from his spot on the tiled floor before settling with staring at his hands. He stretched his five fingers and examined every inch of his pale skin as if it was the first time he ever saw them. Then his attention snapped back to Litwak and his eyes became wide with feral rage. He sprung to his feet, though he swayed a little from the quick movement. "You." He pointed at the older man. "I know who you are." Even as the stranger tried to seem threatening, his hateful eyes flickered with uncertain fear as he glanced around the arcade once more. "You're Litwak!"

Litwak held the bat again in preparation to swing. His eyes hardened as he looked down at the… well, he looked like a man, but after the light show, Litwak wasn't sure what to call him. "Who are you?"

The man shook with a harsh and halfhearted laugh, but his eyes were still wide like a trapped animal. Litwak took a step back.

"W-Why don't you stop laughing and give me one good reason I shouldn't call the police?" His heart hammered away.

The stranger bared his yellow, stained teeth in a humorless smile. "You really don't recognize me, Litwak?" He jabbed a prideful thumb at himself. "I'm Turbo! I'm the greatest racer in this-"

THUNK- The bat cracked on top of Turbo's helmet and he fell back to the floor with a yelp. The racer tried to stand, but wobbled and toppled with each effort, clutching his helmet in a vain attempt to keep the world from swimming in front of his eyes.

"Get out!" Litwak yelled.

Turbo's face twisted in pain and disgust as he glared at the arcade owner. He grabbed hold of the front of an old skee ball game and tried and failed to hoist himself off the ground. "You really don't know who I am," Turbo mumbled. He let out a groan and snapped his eyes shut. "Good grief, was that thing made of cement?!"

"I said get out!" He jabbed the head of the bat forward like a spear and the racer skirted back, one hand still gripping his throbbing head.

"Easy with that!"

There was a silent standoff between the two. Turbo made no move to stand for fear of the bat looming close to his skull and chose instead to glare at the old man, who glared back with only half the ferocity as the deranged racer. Finally, Litwak sighed and took another step back, leaning the bat against his shoulder. "I'm not going to press any charges if you leave now," he said, "But, please: Get out." His eyes narrowed at the man who still had not budged from the floor. "Now."

Turbo waited another moment, though the bat didn't move from the old man's shoulder. He scoffed and stood, straightening his helmet and sending one last glowering stare at the old man to mask how disoriented he was. "If you had any idea who I was you wouldn't dare to treat me like this," he slurred.

Litwak walked to the door and pulled a key from his belt and tried to hide his shaking hands from the intruder. He took a step back once more as the man pushed the door with a jingle and walked into the brisk night with his head held high (and his knees trembling). Oh, he knew exactly what this kid was: some coo-coo dressed as the main character from that old Turbo Time game. Litwak had no idea what the light show was about. Maybe the kid had some of those fancy LED lights on him. As for the eyes? Theater contacts. Or alcoholism. At the very least, Litwak had to admit the kid was thorough with his little show.

He locked the door and gave it a firm push, just to make sure. The intruder had his arms wrapped tightly around himself as he stormed off aimlessly, tittering slightly and tripping over his shoes more than once. Jeeze, it was just a baseball bat. The kid was even wearing a helmet. Litwak leaned against the door so close his breath fogged up the glass. He fumbled with the keys and they slipped from his fingers, clattering onto the floor in the unnaturally silent arcade. Litwak knelt down and ignored the pop in his left knee when he stood again and clipped the key ring back onto his belt. He glanced back at the man in his parking lot.

He was gone.

Behind him static rumbled like a TV on an empty station. Litwak spun around in time to see the same man in his white coveralls staring wide eyed at the door as the remaining stray red pixels readjusted themselves onto his form. The older man pressed himself against the wall in an unconscious reaction, his empty hand clutching his chest. Turbo shivered as another crackle of red pixels overtook his body. His deathly pale complexion seemed to have grown whiter and he swayed once again, both hands now gripping his abused head.

Was this kid a ghost or something? Litwak held the bat forward like a spear, though his defensive stance faltered when Turbo toppled backwards and crashed onto the tiled floor with a THUD.

"Goodness, kid." Litwak stepped forward, the bat dragging at his side. "Do you have a concussion?"

"Don't you dare call me kid, you old man. I am Turbo!" the man screeched and his voice distorted into 8-bit and static. He raised his head as much as he dared (a strained effort) and glared as menacingly as his muddled, fading eyes would allow him. "I was the most popular game until '87 when you,"- he pointed to Litwak- "decided I just wasn't good enough anymore. I needed to be replaced. There was something wrong with me-

"Stop." Litwak pushed a hand through his hair and leaned against the wall once more. "Just stop right there." Stan Litwak was known for being a child at heart. He willingly humored his younger customers with stories of aliens and magic and the unknown, understanding how feeding the imagination bred creativity. He played along when children ran up to him with eyes as wide as saucers and chatted away about how their favorite characters had talked to them and helped them win (in which Litwak would laugh and say "no, you helped them win!").

"Are you afraid of the truth, old man? You better get used to it." Turbo managed to push himself into an upright position. His glowing eyes were still heavy and in danger of closing, but the sincerity of his sharp words still cut deep.

Litwak never verbalized it, but he did believe there was something special about his arcade. He took care of his machines and only removed one of them if he knew for sure it was beyond working standards. A friend of his even took on most of the half "living" machines for refurbishing. Litwak respected the arcade games like they were his employees, but never thought much else of them. For thirty years he ignored the soft, tinny voices that didn't fit any of the game's scripts and how he more than once caught a character in a game they didn't belong to. "I'm more worried about the little light show you put on, you little freak."

Turbo shrugged, the light in his eyes dimming as he struggled to keep awake. "All I asked for was to destroy my enemies," he slurred, "I didn't ask for this. I didn't ask for you."

"What's that supposed to mean."

Turbo rubbed his face. "S'not important right now," he said, "Did you know I was a king?" And with that he collapsed again onto the floor. A raspy giggle escaped his throat. "And now I am nothing more than a slave to the crippled old man who aligned my life onto this track to hell. Hoo hoo!"

"You're talking nonsense." Litwak inched his way towards the fallen character and knelt beside him, placing his trusty wooden bat within reaching distance. "You might want to remove that helmet, kiddo. I need to check out that place where I whacked you."

Turbo made no motions or effort to move. He stared at the ceiling, his eyelids dropping. A weak smile graced his lips. "I'd rather be dead."

The helmet slid off revealing a mop of tangled, black hair. With much hesitation (he wasn't surprised to find the racer's hair an oily mess), Litwak patted along the character's head until he reached the top of his skull and Turbo hissed in pain. "Oh, gosh," muttered Litwak, "Stay awake, ok? I'm… I'm calling 911. Can you hear me?"

"I'm fine, you crippled fool. Just let me rest."

Litwak furrowed his brow. "Stop calling me crippled. I'm not even that old. Or crippled."

Turbo's shoulders shook with muffled laughter. With some difficulty, he raised his arm and poked Litwak in the chest, right over his heart. "You think I can't feel that artificial electricity? It's been humming in my chest since this form created itself."

A surge of soft, buzzing electricity trickled from the spot Turbo touched, right atop Litwak's pacemaker. Litwak reeled back and slapped away the intruder's hand. "Wait just a minute-"

"How do you think I'm outside, Litwak?" Turbo spat the man's name like an insult. "It's just a guess, you know. But I'm all tied up, and I don't mean to the building." He gave a dramatic sigh. "Now leave me. I'm too weak to stand and too distraught to think anymore."

"You… you can't be serious." Litwak was dizzy and his heart hammered in his chest and he gripped onto his shirt as if the cotton between his fingers would calm him. "This doesn't make a lick of sense! Hey!" He grabbed the front of Turbo's track suit and shook his sleeping form.

Turbo's eyes fluttered open and in the darkness his eyes gave off a dim glow. He gave a halfhearted grin and a feeble thumbs-up and said, "Not a lollipop's lick of sense," before succumbing once again to the fatigue of his rattled brain.

Litwak dropped Turbo back onto the floor. The tinny, chipper sounds of the arcade roared in his ears, though most of the cabinets were still much quieter than what he remembered. He side glanced at the form of the sleeping former racer and then let his eyes wander around his arcade in a silent plead. "What am I going to do?" he asked aloud.

But no one answered him. And perhaps it was best that way. Litwak didn't think he could handle any more surprises that night. He stood, albeit slowly, and paused for a moment to listen to the racer's breathing, which was heavy and continuous. Nothing out of the ordinary. Litwak made his way to Fix-it Felix, Jr. and brushed the larger shards of glass off of the cabinet. He gave a labored sigh and stared into the black depths of the empty machine. "First thing tomorrow," he said, though he didn't know quite who he was addressing, "The repairman will install a new pane of glass and things will be fit as a fiddle."

He frowned and glanced over his shoulder once again at Turbo. The retro racer grunted and twitched, but was still very much asleep and too far gone to be a threat. In such a state, with his inhuman eyes closed and his trademark helmet removed, he looked like any other young adult. Litwak knelt once again beside the boy and hoisted the sleeping character by his underarms and began dragging him to the door, all the while trying to ignore the slow ache in his back. "What have I gotten myself into?" he muttered.

AN: Thank you, Rory the Best Beta Reader Ever, for putting up with my incessant nagging and disregard for proper semicolon use. I'm sorry Turbo wasn't smacked with the bat as much as you wanted him to be. Maybe next chapter.