The characters section of the Extra Content in Alice: Madness Returns is an almanac of people and creatures found in the game with commentary by Alice Liddell, showing her thoughts and opinions on the worlds, both London and Wonderland, around her. It also features some creatures and enemies that were unreleased.
The founder of the Houndsditch Home and Refuge for Wayward Youth is my landlord, employer, and therapist. A rising star in the philanthropic community, he serves the East End's vast, deprived juvenile population. His mantra is "I'm winning the war against depravity, misery, and degradation by training my unfortunate patients to forget their pasts." While modesty is not among his attributes, he does important work.
Before being sacked from Rutledge Asylum, she was a night "nurse" on my ward. She mistakenly imagines we're friends on that account. Her addiction to gin has forced her to become a dog's body for a variety of East End practitioners. No errand is too menial or beneath her dignity. Her wages can't support her need to be constantly inebriated. Not sure how she supplements her income; but I'd rather not think about it.
An unnatural and hostile combination of ruined mechanical parts vomits pollution and slashes through the muck it dispenses. A mindless, industrial disease, it oozes grease and organic slime and wields a dangerous weapon. Its unseemly sound and noisome stench completes its menacing aura. An awful head adds to its revolting appearance.
What pass for fauna in the Hatter's Domain resemble winged cross bow bolts. They nest in the now wrecked machinery, of which they're very protective. They become fractious when disturbed, and for dumb "creatures" they're annoyingly resourceful.
The erstwhile guardians of the Domain appear to be armed with outsized versions of Hatter's household cutlery. Hatter was never particularly discriminating in his guest list, but I never imagined he had giants for tea. Like many long-time retainers, their loyalty has outlasted their usefulness and their sense. Still, this "old guard" can be dangerous.
Ruined and repulsive, this reckless waste of protoplasm has as much in common with maggots and leeches as it does with slimy garden slugs. Secretive by nature; surprisingly aggressive when cornered.
These ornately-crafted beasts, once the pride of the Hatter's table, seem destined for scrap. Understandably they're shirty, unsociable, bloody angry – and dangerous. Because the eye is obviously vulnerable, they fire scalding projectiles afar. But they're not cowards.
A more perilous version of the Insidious Ruin. Every vile and depraved feature of the former has evolved to become more loathsome, foul, and hazardous in the latter. Who could have imagined it?
I suppose I could admit that he's my alter-ego – perfectly willing to give voice to the doubts and fears I'm unable to express. He's usually not courageous enough to demand a terribly rash risk – of me. By turns cynical, sarcastic, distant, philosophical, flip and earnest, he can render valuable service, as long as he can keep himself out of harm's way. I know he means to help me. But he is, after all, a cat, and they're not known for altruism.
To say I'd follow this demanding creature anywhere, might be a romantic exaggeration. We have a history, and the list of places he's led me is long and the outcomes have not always been happy. A frantic, harried creature; he's manic and occasionally aggressive.
The Queen of Hearts has an exceptionally unattractive cousin. Well, let's say "ugly" and move on. She once behaved rudely to me, and I had to turn her around, as it were. Now her "caring" assistance feels threatening. I prefer her old-self. Then I knew what I was dealing with.
Once there was always time for tea at the Hatter's place. Wacky they were, all in good fun. Things turned bad when he joined the Queen's service. He received a serious reprimand. Now, his undernourished physique is in parts, and his crafted mechanical obsessions seem hopeless wreckage. Despite his come-uppance, he's still a bit of a blow-hard. But, not evil, I think.
The Hatter's erstwhile tea-time companion has somehow turned the tables on his former host. The Hare is "mad" of course. But he's not a lunatic. At least I don't think so; despite his menacing palaver. He just seems unnaturally fixated on keeping the Hatter down, and making himself a bloody nuisance to me.
Dormy is still sleepy, cynical, and stupid. A martinet to the March Hare; imagine how far down the food-chain a creature must fall before securing that august position. I'd say his new role as trouble-maker had gone to his head—but that would presume he had a brain.
Professor Swan's claims concerning incandescent lighting, signal the end of an era for gas lamps and candles. A frightening and insupportable prospect!
Hardly more interesting than a cuckoo in a clock, let alone a Talos or a Pandora. But then, I'm not Hephaestus.
This lovely white feline reminded me of Snowdrop, Dinah's rambunctious kitten. I try not to think about her. She'd be an old lady now – if she's alive.
The degraded Vale was overpopulated with disgusting creatures, so I dismissed this spikey cephalopod. He feeds on his own regurgitated bile.
As if the creature hadn't suffered enough, I imagined the extinct bird kitted out like others in the Hatter's mad and mechanized realm.
His appearance (formal) and intelligence (modest) were not required for this adventure. He's still a good frog.
The Mock Turtle regarded this creature as a threat. He has so little self-confidence. It would have been cruel to bring the bird into the mix.
This benign being was to keep me company in the Vale of Tears, but the changes there would not have been to his liking.
Pigs, humans, and ravenous macaques all contributed to the extinction of the dodo on its native Mauritius. The very strange bird was once considered a myth, but Clarke's reports justified Papa's belief that someone or something slated to "go the way of the dodo" was much more than a rhetorical flourish.
Always a substantial and independent woman, "Nanny" taught French and music to Lizzie and me. Disastrous choices in companionship, penury, and an iron-hard sense of pride have led her to a life of not quite squalid prostitution. From her digs at the Mangled Mermaid, she manages a string of "professional" women on the street. She visited me several times at Rutledge.
A bullying, bad-tempered, congenital criminal. He's built a heinous career on the labor of desperate women. Once Nan Sharpe's procurer and self-appointed protector, he runs his sordid trade out of the Mangled Mermaid.
Sightless eyes do not inhibit this vile predator from ruling the tundra. Living flesh is no less at risk than carrion. While his parts seem mismatched, his antenna provides protection and his teeth are lethally efficient.
Deep Sea Snark
An aquatic version of the Ice Snark haunts the frigid sea. It feeds on creatures akin to Amazonian piranha, and can regurgitate them with the velocity of a Gatling Gun. Their hits have a nasty bite.
Sailors are rightly terrified by sharks. The voracious apex predators are notorious for their unpredictable temperaments and indiscriminate appetites. But only wood, if it could, would fear these creatures. Self-made from ruined privateers, clippers, and ships of the line, they consume wood to keep body and soul together. I wish they'd eat one another!
Expertly crafted figureheads, mute but proud emblems that once graced a great ship's prow, are furious with their sunken fate. Rather than suffer in silence, they wail their own "siren" songs and bring down other ships with the anchors, chains, and other ballast they've collected.
Well-armed, with great size, an impregnable carapace, and a self-declared "honorable" mission, this noble crustacean is a formidable foe. One may only hope it has a soft underbelly.
Poor souls are eternally conflicted. Necessity sent them to the sea. The economy depends on them—but they do not profit; reluctant to sign on to a two-year voyage—they are Shanghaied; complain about anything—they are lashed and put on short rations. They are even discouraged from learning how to swim. They trust none but themselves. Their shades do likewise.
An infinitely more powerful and undeniably more disgusting manifestation of the Menacing Ruin. What was formerly foul and detestable is heinous, even monstrous here. The RUIN seems relentless. It just keeps getting worse.
The former master of the railroad is kind, but self-absorbed. Weepy and fatalistic with a melancholic disposition, he talks too much. He's not clever, but thinks he might be—if he could just summon up the energy to try.
This distinctive, sententious, master of the malaprop, lacks a scintilla of skill in his eponymous trade. Wouldn't know a hammer from a hand-saw. Appears to have appointed himself lord of the theatrical universe. Given his "subjects" I don't suspect there was much resistance.
If observation is a judge, he's not missed a meal in his life. Pigs at a trough have more dignity. A big hungry creature—with nothing on his mind except his outsized appetite and his self-proclaimed reputation as a great thespian.
Keeping children amused is a priority of indulgent parents the world over. Lucky children! But these two have more on their minds than the family's entertainment. They're at odds in their opinions of the Carpenter, his character, his creation, and his role in protecting them from corruption. I suppose I'll have to test their credibility.
The Carpenter sent me to collect a script from this Glaswegian lush. He's angry about something, but not nasty. Over-fond of his own opinion—but a decent sense of play, with some outstanding physical skills, I suspect, if he's ever sober.
Divas from Covent Garden to La Scala have jitters before a performance. Expressed as vital un-satisfiable needs, they pre-emptively excuse things going badly. By such, the talent tries to isolate itself from failure, which is much more often imagined than real. No excuse, however, will deflect the condemnation deserved by this tone-deaf, talentless, time-serving performer.
Without a script, this pearl-less theatrical dunce must rely on mangled cliches as a substitute for sensible speech. Actors seem to often forget how to speak spontaneously—in their own voices.
Losing a glove, or a key, or even a 5-pound note, is a trivial matter. Material things may be found, or replaced. Life goes on. But some losses are irreplaceable, and often too great to bear. Their absence leaves a jagged rip in the loser's soul. A crew, a family, a past—these are losses of a different order, which this captain understands.
Like many discredited or discarded politicians, the Mayor seems sufficiently deluded that he refuses to accept rejection as a sign of rejection. I know that denial is a dangerous thing. I don't always behave as if I know.
Sometimes the treasures you seek are just out of reach, evading your grasp as if they have a mind of their own.
Despite grand and self-serving claims to being the embodiment of unrestrained brutality, mystery, and fear, this poor fellow never even rose to the level of abominable.
Papa's copy of Henry Bate's Amazon adventures was dog-eared when I found it. The illustrations were thrilling. A school of voracious man-eaters! Imagine.
Formerly an Oxford magistrate and my father's solicitor, he is the executor of our family's estate—most of which he claims was consumed by my treatment at Rutledge Asylum. An awkward, confirmed bachelor. Radcliffe's parents after Foreign Office postings in Tokyo, Shanghai, perished in the Sepoy Rebellion. He keeps mementos of their lives in the Orient. He's fussy and secretive, but I have little idea what he might be trying to conceal.
This Mute had a sufficiently melancholic face and disposition to suit any funeral—but his profession pointed in me in unproductive directions, and I needed to ignore him.
Ravagers, despoilers, and murderers, these self-proclaimed Samurai have corrupted the blameless and defenseless Origami Ants way of life. It's a cruel lie. They've violated the philosophy of that noble warrior class: "Bushido" They're merely expert killers who have expropriated the weapons of their namesake—sword, shield, and long-bow. Unlike true Samurai, they protect nothing, are loyal to nothing, and have no honor.
While not terribly clever, strong, or dangerous, there's a seemingly endless supply of soldiers available to support the Samurai's mayhem. They remind me of the Grubs. They're unpleasantly alike.
Though nearly immobile, I'd argue that this creature's signature maneuver is quite enough to terrify a hardened pyromaniac. He uses a healthy fear of fire as an additional weapon.
Though each of the Samurai Wasps appear to act on their own authority, some fraction of them seem to be of higher rank. More skill with their weapons may give them higher standing in their diseased society. They may give orders to the others. They are, of course, equally reprehensible. Perhaps more so.
Another arrow in this abomination's bulging quiver of mayhem. It moves faster, it's bigger, and it can fly! What's next? Impregnability? Immortality? Who dreamed this up?
Despite his questionable habits, his uncongenial advice, his stern, prickly manner, and an aura of portentous mystery, this wise creature is my personal, directly communicative Delphic Oracle. It's not always easy to guess what he means.
They share labor and prize communication. They are socially sophisticated, resourceful, and industrious. But their society's health, its very existence is dependent on the kindness of strangers. Their soldier class is virtually useless against hostile strangers. The impotent must make terrible bargains.
Knowledge gathered from experience is often insufficient to forestall tragic consequences. These Elders seem to know what must be done to avert disaster . . .but they are unable to do it.
Few societies properly value their contemplative, artistic, or spiritual members. Action—of nearly any description, with nearly any outcome—is disproportionately valued, even by them.
Well, he did sit on a wall. And he fell off, etc. Fancied himself a kind of authority figure. But acted more like security guard at market stall. And in fact, couldn't secure his belt.
She who must be obeyed! And continuously fed, evidently. All these so-called Samurai in service and sacrificed so she can dine sumptuously. Royalty shares some common traits, irrespective of species.
Quite possibly the largest frog I've ever seen, although maybe that was because I was shrunk by the Caterpillar's smoke. Solving his indigestion nearly gave me an upset stomach as well.
An obvious source of the RUIN — but, unfortunately, not the sole source; and not the cause of the corruption. That's no reason not to turn the vicious thing into junk.
Typical "bobby" By the book "what's all this then?" nonsense. Not vicious; not cruel; just not very imaginative or sympathetic. I suppose I don't encourage much.
Without weapons, the Queen's reckless guards aren't much more than "fodder," in a fight. They were never really good with their hands; but this current bout of clawing demands caution. There are so many of them! And they're eager to give up their lives. Even dead, their corpora delecti and remnants can cause a problem.
The wicked staff they carry makes them dangerous, but ponderous. Still, were their weapon to hit its target, they wouldn't need speed to deliver the coup de grace.
With less intelligence and imagination than a wind-up toy, this brute does the bidding of the Queen. Her creature, its orders out of date, is certain to fall hard—when he falls. But until then, he's so much more than a heartache.
Amiable, courageous, a bit befuddled, a bit pedantic, loyal; not especially competent. Reminds me of papa.
After numerous challenges and defeats, she still shows an ungovernable passion — a blind and aimless fury. She's still a "force" in Wonderland, even though her desires for unquestioned authority and adherence to her rules have been defeated. She is still power-mad, irrational, and irresponsible hypocrite. But she's part of me, too, and not destructible for cause.
Papa's chessmen were nearly friends to a solitary child. Mr. Radcliffe's outsized, angry, and servile pieces poisoned that pleasant memory.
Had a reputation as a capable and innovative physician. But to me, his questions always seemed intrusive; his prodding ill-conceived, his practices dubious at best. I don't think he meant me harm. I was a great disappointment to him.
A feeble-minded, mean-spirited toady, like many of her ilk, barely suited for emptying bed-pans and mopping up vomit. She was no friend to me.
The Superintendent's repulsive nephews are cruel by disposition and training. Like all bullies, they're potentially dangerous. Fortunately they're dumb as rocks.
The female of the species, so to speak, is equally objectionable. Their depraved maker played no favorites. Her voluminous clothing appears to conceal more than her body would demand.
To construct a flying, vomiting, killing machine in the guise of four-legged female infant is certainly the proof of a diseased mind—if more proof were needed!
This heinous criminal assumed the benign title of a decent craftsman to deceive the world—and perhaps, himself. The lie must be exposed. The truth will out. Or I will perish.
Once the hapless tools of my nemesis, these mistreated, insulted, and long-suffering juveniles have lost sight and all hope of returning to "normal." I know them better than I'd like—and not as well as I should.
If the metaphor has it right, that in the kingdom of the blind, the one-eyed are kings, there's certainly an analog among the Insane Children. Though whether their "king" has assumed her role by virtue of being less insane is debatable.
It's hardly surprising this fellow couldn't pass muster. He showed himself a timid warrior and unfit for any duty more exacting than watching smoke rise.
Not surprisingly, this jerry-built, nailed-together malevolent automaton masquerading as a child violates every mother's wise admonition. Her injunction "Don't play with scissors!" would fall on deaf ears—if he had any. He cares nothing for sense. He doesn't have any of that, either. I wish I had a hammer!
This grotesque aberration of nature seemed to have already been incapacitated before I arrived. Perhaps turned on and made a mockery of by its fellow abominations? A tragedy that such lovely ears should be wasted on such a pitiful face.
- The Turtle Chest was originally going to have a larger role for Alice to chase after it, but the role was cut and it can only be seen for a brief moment in the game.