Shadsie
Sage of Tales
Posted under "Zelda" because my main/PoV-character is one of the Links.
Disclaimers and Notes: Super Smash Bros. and related characters belong to Nintendo. Some of the other concepts I am borrowing belong to Suzanne Collins. I give many apologies to the owners of both properties. Why am I doing this? Because the world is weird; that’s why. Also, boredom. This story-concept is SSMB in the *style* of The Hunger Games, but not directly a crossover. This is more of a hybrid, focusing on SSMB’s characters. I’ve seen it done before – for good reason, as even before THG was known, fans were treating SSMB as gladiatorial combat, making a cute series of games into something darker. I am striving to make my vision of it unique. Please forgive the ridiculousness of this – unless, of course, the ridiculousness is why you’re reading it.
NATIONAL ANTHEM
Metal sounds rang in my ears, the noise that metal makes when it hits flesh. I saw a sword in my hand dripping with green monster-blood. This was familiar, a piece of my life as it once was. Sword-song morphed into the hollow sound of an arrow cutting the air followed by a dull thump. I pulled the shaft out of my target and watched the red blood of a human body glisten on the point. I knew whose blood it was and refused to look at his face. After that, I saw the gleam of a guillotine-blade and heard the heavy noise of it coming down.
I shot up in bed and pawed my neck. There was thumping at my door.
“Toki! Toki, time to rise and shine!”
I spat an obscure Old Hylian curse and I really meant it even though I knew she couldn’t understand it. Peach really could have all those things done to her by an octorock and I wouldn’t care. I reached for the half-full bottle of Chateau Romani on the dresser by my bed and rolled over sheets and blankets covered in my own sickness.
Ah, yes… I must have passed out last night. There are empty bottles with droplets of red potion in them everywhere, and of course what is left of the fine Chateau I was offered. That year was a good year...
Why, no, I do not have a drinking problem. It’s more like the drinking has a problem with me. If I overindulged last night, it’s because I do at this time every year. If you had my life, you wouldn’t judge me. Some of my fellows do much harder stuff. I stay far away from the “rare candies” because I’m afraid the trip would be like my dreams. “Milk” before bed has the pleasant dulling effect that I seek.
I manage to drag myself up and go to the sink to wash up and shave. I pass by the shelf where a picture sits depicting the two of us – my brother and me. One is a fresh-faced young man; the other is a long-dead child. Both of us died much too young.
I used to be a hero in a bygone age – “The Hero of Time,” they called me. Nowadays, I don’t even go by my own name, half the time. My colleagues have nicknamed me “Toki,” a name meaning “Time” in one of their languages. Officially, I am Link Kokirin. It’s a bit unusual, but not the oddest name I’ve ever heard.
“Toki!” I hear at the door again.
“Keep your crown on, Sweetheart!” I shout as I pull on my dress-tunic. Our lovely liaison, Peach Toadstool. Now that’s a stupid name. She always had fluff for brains, even before the Brawls. She’d been given a place in Smash City and a cushy job, which she did with gusto every year. Too bad her position had cost the woman her soul. I cannot hate her, not really. To be honest, I think Miss Peach is too stupid to ever be truly evil. Oblivious… yeah, that describes her style best.
“If you’re hung-over in there, I’m sending in someone with the wake-up juice!”
I send the door flying open. Peach lets out a short little scream and cowers. Maybe it’s the circles under my eyes that scare her – or the death-glare. I’ve been told that I have a mean death-glare.
“Um,” Peach fidgets, “Are you ready to meet with the other Champions? They’re all waiting in the Viewing Room – and they were on time, I might add, Toki.”
“I ain’t a hero of that element anymore, darlin’,” I reply. “We all ceased to be heroes the moment we let ourselves become slaves.”
“Oh, don’t let our great President hear you say that, Toki!” Peach gasped.
“It’s not like I have much more to lose,” I pointed out as we walked down the halls of the hotel that has been rented out for the Champions. “Besides, is the President going to be joining us this year?”
“No, but you should still watch your tongue!”
We enter the Viewing Room – a grand ballroom with huge video screens set up on one wall and a banquet table in the center. The selection of the next crop of fighters had not yet begun. I make my way to the table, straight for some bread and jam as well as a shot of Goron Firewhiskey. Yeah, the caterers knew I was coming. I clap Mario on the back. He and I go way back. A good drinking-buddy, though the poison mushrooms are his mind-fogger of choice. They’re mighty potent, but he keeps them under better control than I do my addictions.
“How’s my favorite turd-herder?” I say.
“How’s my favorite fairy-boy?” he laughs.
Friendly insults are our way. Mario used to be a plumber before he came into the fighting life. I used to have a fairy as a friend as a child back in my own world, so his banter isn’t really an insult and, even as a jab at sexuality, that kind of thing isn’t even an issue among our group. In fact, given the situation of the world, most of us are not interested in romance at all. We all know, through bitter experience, to keep our attachments to a minimum.
I spy Marth over in a corner, leaning up against a wall. He and I sometimes talk about swords…
All of us are gathered here for a special reason. We are veteran fighters. The survivors.
The Tournaments used to be a happy affair. The various worlds that each of us is from used to be loosely connected and we used to gather here, in Smash City, to fight for glory and honor and above all… fun. It’s hard to believe now that years ago, we used to actually fight for fun. Back then, the Tournaments were run by a pair of mysterious giant hands, with Master Hand overseeing it all. They were wonderful fights, really – matches of two to four of us at a time, and amazingly silly. We were given magically-enhanced food for quick energy and a variety of bizarre weapons. There were safety systems on the arenas, so none of us were ever seriously hurt and if any of us took a “fatal” wound, we would be frozen into the form of a trophy, which Master Hand could bring back to life at a touch. There were many protections and all who had lost a match would be there to congratulate the winner – or to pout… whatever we felt more inclined to do.
All that changed when Ganondorf took over.
Sometime after the grand Melee’ Tournament, my adversary had used strange and powerful sorceries to seal away the Hands and to sunder our worlds. They were all under his sway now, with a few areas even being divided. There were two Hyrules, for instance, New Hyrule and Old Hyrule, neither of them the Hyrule which was home to me.
Ganondorf, who called himself the President of this nation of Ninten, reformed in his image, entertained himself and the roaring crowds of Smash City with a new kind of fighting Tournament – one of death. He called these tournaments the Brawls of Honor. All of the safety systems were turned off. Instead of a series of small fights that built up to determine fighters’ places on the roster, all the chosen fighters were put into one arena and left for weeks to survive it out and to fight until one remained alive.
We tried to rebel… at first… those of us who were there in the beginning… the Melee-veterans. Our worlds were broken for it. We were broken. The people we’d loved were broken. My world was destroyed. These served as an example of Ganondorf’s power. Somewhere along the line, even the “best” of us, if you can call us that, decided that the Brawls were a better sacrifice than the alternatives.
Fighters for any new Brawl were chosen at random from the populations of our various worlds. Sometimes, two or three fighters were chosen from a given world, sometimes, only one. The demographics were apparently kept that way to make it interesting. One year, two from this world, and one from that, with no restrictions upon the random draw. The Brawls were made up of adult warriors – veterans of the “story” of their world (for each of our worlds was loosely connected to a greater story, a world outside of the one of our current Ninten that we all knew about and were promised we might return to someday). Just as easily and as often, children were forced to join the fray - even sapient animals.
I see Pikachu sitting on a chair, wearing a paper party hat ironically. He was the victor from the land of Kanto in the region populated by creatures known as pokemon. He’d been dismissed by everyone watching his Brawl, and, even today, other Champions didn’t think much of him, but I knew him well. He was a tactical genius and an expert on electricity. He talked in poke-speak, but if one was patient enough to learn a little bit of it, one could discover his formidable mind. He’d become a Champion by utilizing the features of the arena he’d been placed in. A simple spool of wire that had been left in the area by the prep-team by mistake had become his clever trap. His opponents had thought that he was scurrying around in a panic, a dumb mouse fleeing their traps when he’d been, in fact, laying one of his own. I admired his intelligence, although I didn’t like to think what had happened to his fellow fighters. Their deaths had been horrible.
Kirby… ugh. Seeing him across the room immediately sends me the other way. I’m not the only one creeped out by the little pink puffball. He has a deceptively cute, soft look, but he isn’t known to us as The Cannibal for nothing. I still have nightmares from the time we watched his Brawl. He’d engulf the other combatants in his gaping maw. I’ve heard that he’d once used his appetite for heroic purposes. I remember in the innocent Melee tournament how he used to suck someone into his mouth only to spit them back out, taking only certain skills as a copy-move. In his “Brawl of Honor,” he’d suck in a person only to keep them inside, digesting them. They’d digest quickly, too. In an instant, someone would become a meal for Kirby, inflating him to a huge size. He’d resembled a python that had eaten a pig – just a huge lump in his belly – and within a few minutes, he’d deflate, that person gone. He’d spat up one fighter, partially digested… gray and burned and twitching.
My bread and jam almost came back up.
Cranky Kong rocks in a rocking chair. He’s one of the old timers – he used to be known as Donkey Kong before passing the name on to succeeding generations. There’s Falco, last year’s winner, a new Champion. His victory was something of a foregone conclusion, due to his having been a military-man. Or bird. He was an anthropomorphic bird of prey – and a space-fighter-pilot.
Sauntering about the room like silk was the one we all call “The Princess,” or, more specifically, the “Princess of Darkness.” She’d won the year before last – the Champion of Old Hyrule. Tall, mysterious, and draped in long robes, she was Midna – a sorceress from the Twilight Realm, a portion of Old Hyrule that was magically cut off from its mainland. She kept to herself and was known to us to be very fierce. I wasn’t as reluctant to share space with her as I was with Kirby, as she seemed to have some honor. What had spurred her to win her Brawl was the death of an ally she had made in the great ruined castle that had been her arena. Red was a rare human chosen from Kanto – Pikachu’s world. I’d been watching with Mario in one of Smash City’s bars as she and the boy had bonded over animal-training, a shared interest. It was only after he’d killed that she’d shown her ruthless side, systematically tracking down and slaughtering those that had killed him. Her final opponent, Zant – a man from her very same world, hard borne the brunt of her rage. She’d caused a sort of explosive reaction in his body after storing up her magic. It was the strangest death I’d ever seen, and that’s saying something because I’ve killed some very bizarre monsters in my time that did not go quietly.
I suppose I knew more about Midna, fact-wise, than most of my fellow champions. I knew Mario pretty well, as a personal friend, but as far as the rest went, I never registered too much information about them. Their worlds were strange to me. Midna, however, was of the Old Hyrule, which, supposedly – in its “story,” at least, was a land descended from my lost home. It was rumored that she’d fallen in love with a person who was my successor in that world, or who was supposed to be. He’d taken up my clothing-style and my sword-techniques. I was supposed to have a successor in New Hyrule, as well; a young one who’d played his story-mode in honor of mine.
The story-worlds… yes. It was said that once the denizens of Smash City were entertained to the full that we had a chance to return to our true homelands. As it was, we all felt the “stories” in our bones, even as we were unable to live them. I’d lived a few of my stories. Mario had lived a few of his. It seemed like us old-timers were lucky. Some had not lived their stories yet – but lived with the ache that they existed for them to return to. They were worlds that lived in the best of our dreams. Smash City was like a nightmare that we were all trying desperately to wake up from.
The national anthem plays and we turn our attentions to the great screens.
“Ah, it looks like they’re a’ doing my world first this year,” Mario comments from his place beside me. We see an aerial shot of a great plaza… Delfino, I think it was, where many people in mushroom-hats and various odd creatures mill about. Announcer Lakitu putts about on his cloud. He’d been in charge of selections from the Mushroom Kingdom last year. He pulls a random slip of paper from his cloud.
My friend has gone white from anticipation. He holds his hat in his hands, wadding it up, wringing it like a towel. Mario was desperately afraid that one of these Tournaments would see a drawing up of his younger brother. Luigi was a capable fighter, but something of a gentle soul. Ever since the Tournaments had turned deadly, Mario had developed a protective big-brother instinct that bordered on paranoia.
I cannot say I blame him. I lost my own brother. It leaves a hole in you.
The name of the latest victim of Ganondorf’s games was read.
“Bowser Miyahon.”
It was announced that he was the only denizen of the former Mushroom Kingdom that was to be chosen for this Brawl of Honor. Mario breathes a sigh of relief.
“He’s strong,” I say, “He’ll have a good shot of making it through.”
“I only care if I can get him to fight with some honor,” my friend states, putting his hat back on. “I don’ta know with that one.”
“You’ll know a feeling I have not… having someone you mentored win.”
“You have many strong people in your kingdom,” Mario tries to assure me. “The people of the sea and the people of the rails.”
“I think I’ll just tell mine to run and hide,” I sigh.
“Not fitting for the avatar of courage,” Mario remarks. What he says is true, but I don’t let it sting. I’d seen too many of “mine” bite it. Either they were underfed, or out of luck, or carried too much honor and ended up dying stupidly rather than do what they thought was wrong. High-falutin’ morals don’t carry you very far in a Brawl. Last year was probably the worst. I’d taught a strong young lady pirate by the name of Aviel how to get food down out of trees by rolling into them. She’d employed this to great effect until she’d hit a tree with a bee’s nest. By the time she was retrieved, she looked more like a pile of potatoes than the Gerudo she’d once been. The year before that, I’d lucked into a pair of Sages – Fado and Laruto. Instead of listening to my advice, they’d just made a suicide pact and killed each other as soon as they’d hit the arena because they’d decided to die together than be forced to murder people. The scared connections and holy magic of Sages mean nothing when they’re pacifists.
Another screen, another world and a different announcer… this time a cold, robotic voice…
“Samus Aran.”
And another…
A decidedly reptilian hiss…
“Donkey and Diddy of the Kong Clan…”
I watch Midna sitting on the edge of her chair when the screen for Old Hyrule comes up. She nurses a glass of wine. Her attention is rapt.
“Link d’ Ordon!”
Midna’s head sinks and she closes her eyes. A single tear falls like a diamond. I can’t help but feel sorry for her. She’s devastated. I take a long look at the young man on the screen. He’s dressed very much like me, save that the color of his tunic and hat are duller, a more subdued green to my Kelly-hue. His eyes are striking… even a bit disturbing. He looks absolutely fierce. He stands in the shadows until he is brought before the camera. He looks like a darker and less hung-over version of what I saw in the mirror every morning. The young man strikes me as rather beast-like… like he’d torn out a few throats in his day.
“Shiek Nohansen!”
Ah, so he’s getting a partner. I feel… nostalgic. This “Shiek” person is a bit different than another I had known by that name. This one hadn’t been able to bind her chest nearly as well; then again, I do not know if androgyny was the look this one was going for.
Everyone startles when the glass in Midna’s hand shatters. With a swish of her robes, she gets up and runs out of the room, back toward the hotel suites.
“Wait! Miss Midna! This isn’t protocol!” Peach shouts after her, chasing her down.
More names were read. Don’t ask me to keep track of them all. My head’s swimming with the last shot of whiskey I took.
Lemme see… “Pit Icarus,” I think that’s one of the kids… “Bulbasaur,” one of the pokemon… “Charizard,” another pokemon… I think someone named “Meta Knight” from Kirby’s world was called… Falco is getting his old friend Fox to train…
The last screen was trained on New Hyrule. People involved in the cull were gathered at island called Windfall. It’s not actually too far from the place I’m allowed to live in during the off-season, Papachuia Village.
After I hear the name that was called and see the camera trained on whom it belongs to, I just can’t believe it. I’ve always wanted to rip Ganondorf’s spine out, but at that moment, more than ever. His sleazy announcer, Mr. Ghirahim even mocks her in a sing-song voice.
“Aryll Outsetter.”
A little girl. A tiny little girl. She can’t be more than eight years old!
Before I toss my glass at the screen in frustration, a little boy wearing green with a wooden sword on his belt comes running up, panting and puffing.
“Don’t take my sister!” the child cries. He can’t be more than twelve years old. He puts himself between the announcer and his sister and raises his little sword. “You aren’t taking her!”
“So… a little hero,” Ghirahim drawls, “Do you mean to take her place? It is the only way.”
“Yes! Yes I will!” the kid shouts for all to hear.
“Noooo!” little Aryll cries. “No, Big-Brother, no!” She clings to him. He hugs her tight and then turns around, glaring into the camera.
His eyes are big, round and innocent, yet somehow fiercer than those of my other counterpart. Yes, this one is definitely my successor in New Hyrule.
“What is your name, child?” the announcer asks.
“Link Outsetter.”
The boy is presented to the crowd with mixed reactions. Mostly, the island is filled with cries of grief.
I don’t have my sword on me. If I did, I’d cut the screen in half. The kid has guts. Guts got me through some impossible things. However, I fear that given the lineup that I’d seen, that his will be quickly spilled.
The screen cuts out with another play of the national anthem. I need another freakin’ drink.
… Should I press continue on this ridiculous meld of world concepts? I actually have a lot of ideas for this, but right around when I was writing a Super Mario Bros. Lakitu making an announcement of a reaping, I realized “Hey, this is really stupid.” It wasn’t that I didn’t see how weird this was before, it just really hit me with renewed vigor then. I figure, if this is liked, I’ll go ahead with it, because what is fanfic if not free and stupid fun? If not… yeah… This is definitely one of my more “Whut?” ideas.
Disclaimers and Notes: Super Smash Bros. and related characters belong to Nintendo. Some of the other concepts I am borrowing belong to Suzanne Collins. I give many apologies to the owners of both properties. Why am I doing this? Because the world is weird; that’s why. Also, boredom. This story-concept is SSMB in the *style* of The Hunger Games, but not directly a crossover. This is more of a hybrid, focusing on SSMB’s characters. I’ve seen it done before – for good reason, as even before THG was known, fans were treating SSMB as gladiatorial combat, making a cute series of games into something darker. I am striving to make my vision of it unique. Please forgive the ridiculousness of this – unless, of course, the ridiculousness is why you’re reading it.
NATIONAL ANTHEM
Metal sounds rang in my ears, the noise that metal makes when it hits flesh. I saw a sword in my hand dripping with green monster-blood. This was familiar, a piece of my life as it once was. Sword-song morphed into the hollow sound of an arrow cutting the air followed by a dull thump. I pulled the shaft out of my target and watched the red blood of a human body glisten on the point. I knew whose blood it was and refused to look at his face. After that, I saw the gleam of a guillotine-blade and heard the heavy noise of it coming down.
I shot up in bed and pawed my neck. There was thumping at my door.
“Toki! Toki, time to rise and shine!”
I spat an obscure Old Hylian curse and I really meant it even though I knew she couldn’t understand it. Peach really could have all those things done to her by an octorock and I wouldn’t care. I reached for the half-full bottle of Chateau Romani on the dresser by my bed and rolled over sheets and blankets covered in my own sickness.
Ah, yes… I must have passed out last night. There are empty bottles with droplets of red potion in them everywhere, and of course what is left of the fine Chateau I was offered. That year was a good year...
Why, no, I do not have a drinking problem. It’s more like the drinking has a problem with me. If I overindulged last night, it’s because I do at this time every year. If you had my life, you wouldn’t judge me. Some of my fellows do much harder stuff. I stay far away from the “rare candies” because I’m afraid the trip would be like my dreams. “Milk” before bed has the pleasant dulling effect that I seek.
I manage to drag myself up and go to the sink to wash up and shave. I pass by the shelf where a picture sits depicting the two of us – my brother and me. One is a fresh-faced young man; the other is a long-dead child. Both of us died much too young.
I used to be a hero in a bygone age – “The Hero of Time,” they called me. Nowadays, I don’t even go by my own name, half the time. My colleagues have nicknamed me “Toki,” a name meaning “Time” in one of their languages. Officially, I am Link Kokirin. It’s a bit unusual, but not the oddest name I’ve ever heard.
“Toki!” I hear at the door again.
“Keep your crown on, Sweetheart!” I shout as I pull on my dress-tunic. Our lovely liaison, Peach Toadstool. Now that’s a stupid name. She always had fluff for brains, even before the Brawls. She’d been given a place in Smash City and a cushy job, which she did with gusto every year. Too bad her position had cost the woman her soul. I cannot hate her, not really. To be honest, I think Miss Peach is too stupid to ever be truly evil. Oblivious… yeah, that describes her style best.
“If you’re hung-over in there, I’m sending in someone with the wake-up juice!”
I send the door flying open. Peach lets out a short little scream and cowers. Maybe it’s the circles under my eyes that scare her – or the death-glare. I’ve been told that I have a mean death-glare.
“Um,” Peach fidgets, “Are you ready to meet with the other Champions? They’re all waiting in the Viewing Room – and they were on time, I might add, Toki.”
“I ain’t a hero of that element anymore, darlin’,” I reply. “We all ceased to be heroes the moment we let ourselves become slaves.”
“Oh, don’t let our great President hear you say that, Toki!” Peach gasped.
“It’s not like I have much more to lose,” I pointed out as we walked down the halls of the hotel that has been rented out for the Champions. “Besides, is the President going to be joining us this year?”
“No, but you should still watch your tongue!”
We enter the Viewing Room – a grand ballroom with huge video screens set up on one wall and a banquet table in the center. The selection of the next crop of fighters had not yet begun. I make my way to the table, straight for some bread and jam as well as a shot of Goron Firewhiskey. Yeah, the caterers knew I was coming. I clap Mario on the back. He and I go way back. A good drinking-buddy, though the poison mushrooms are his mind-fogger of choice. They’re mighty potent, but he keeps them under better control than I do my addictions.
“How’s my favorite turd-herder?” I say.
“How’s my favorite fairy-boy?” he laughs.
Friendly insults are our way. Mario used to be a plumber before he came into the fighting life. I used to have a fairy as a friend as a child back in my own world, so his banter isn’t really an insult and, even as a jab at sexuality, that kind of thing isn’t even an issue among our group. In fact, given the situation of the world, most of us are not interested in romance at all. We all know, through bitter experience, to keep our attachments to a minimum.
I spy Marth over in a corner, leaning up against a wall. He and I sometimes talk about swords…
All of us are gathered here for a special reason. We are veteran fighters. The survivors.
The Tournaments used to be a happy affair. The various worlds that each of us is from used to be loosely connected and we used to gather here, in Smash City, to fight for glory and honor and above all… fun. It’s hard to believe now that years ago, we used to actually fight for fun. Back then, the Tournaments were run by a pair of mysterious giant hands, with Master Hand overseeing it all. They were wonderful fights, really – matches of two to four of us at a time, and amazingly silly. We were given magically-enhanced food for quick energy and a variety of bizarre weapons. There were safety systems on the arenas, so none of us were ever seriously hurt and if any of us took a “fatal” wound, we would be frozen into the form of a trophy, which Master Hand could bring back to life at a touch. There were many protections and all who had lost a match would be there to congratulate the winner – or to pout… whatever we felt more inclined to do.
All that changed when Ganondorf took over.
Sometime after the grand Melee’ Tournament, my adversary had used strange and powerful sorceries to seal away the Hands and to sunder our worlds. They were all under his sway now, with a few areas even being divided. There were two Hyrules, for instance, New Hyrule and Old Hyrule, neither of them the Hyrule which was home to me.
Ganondorf, who called himself the President of this nation of Ninten, reformed in his image, entertained himself and the roaring crowds of Smash City with a new kind of fighting Tournament – one of death. He called these tournaments the Brawls of Honor. All of the safety systems were turned off. Instead of a series of small fights that built up to determine fighters’ places on the roster, all the chosen fighters were put into one arena and left for weeks to survive it out and to fight until one remained alive.
We tried to rebel… at first… those of us who were there in the beginning… the Melee-veterans. Our worlds were broken for it. We were broken. The people we’d loved were broken. My world was destroyed. These served as an example of Ganondorf’s power. Somewhere along the line, even the “best” of us, if you can call us that, decided that the Brawls were a better sacrifice than the alternatives.
Fighters for any new Brawl were chosen at random from the populations of our various worlds. Sometimes, two or three fighters were chosen from a given world, sometimes, only one. The demographics were apparently kept that way to make it interesting. One year, two from this world, and one from that, with no restrictions upon the random draw. The Brawls were made up of adult warriors – veterans of the “story” of their world (for each of our worlds was loosely connected to a greater story, a world outside of the one of our current Ninten that we all knew about and were promised we might return to someday). Just as easily and as often, children were forced to join the fray - even sapient animals.
I see Pikachu sitting on a chair, wearing a paper party hat ironically. He was the victor from the land of Kanto in the region populated by creatures known as pokemon. He’d been dismissed by everyone watching his Brawl, and, even today, other Champions didn’t think much of him, but I knew him well. He was a tactical genius and an expert on electricity. He talked in poke-speak, but if one was patient enough to learn a little bit of it, one could discover his formidable mind. He’d become a Champion by utilizing the features of the arena he’d been placed in. A simple spool of wire that had been left in the area by the prep-team by mistake had become his clever trap. His opponents had thought that he was scurrying around in a panic, a dumb mouse fleeing their traps when he’d been, in fact, laying one of his own. I admired his intelligence, although I didn’t like to think what had happened to his fellow fighters. Their deaths had been horrible.
Kirby… ugh. Seeing him across the room immediately sends me the other way. I’m not the only one creeped out by the little pink puffball. He has a deceptively cute, soft look, but he isn’t known to us as The Cannibal for nothing. I still have nightmares from the time we watched his Brawl. He’d engulf the other combatants in his gaping maw. I’ve heard that he’d once used his appetite for heroic purposes. I remember in the innocent Melee tournament how he used to suck someone into his mouth only to spit them back out, taking only certain skills as a copy-move. In his “Brawl of Honor,” he’d suck in a person only to keep them inside, digesting them. They’d digest quickly, too. In an instant, someone would become a meal for Kirby, inflating him to a huge size. He’d resembled a python that had eaten a pig – just a huge lump in his belly – and within a few minutes, he’d deflate, that person gone. He’d spat up one fighter, partially digested… gray and burned and twitching.
My bread and jam almost came back up.
Cranky Kong rocks in a rocking chair. He’s one of the old timers – he used to be known as Donkey Kong before passing the name on to succeeding generations. There’s Falco, last year’s winner, a new Champion. His victory was something of a foregone conclusion, due to his having been a military-man. Or bird. He was an anthropomorphic bird of prey – and a space-fighter-pilot.
Sauntering about the room like silk was the one we all call “The Princess,” or, more specifically, the “Princess of Darkness.” She’d won the year before last – the Champion of Old Hyrule. Tall, mysterious, and draped in long robes, she was Midna – a sorceress from the Twilight Realm, a portion of Old Hyrule that was magically cut off from its mainland. She kept to herself and was known to us to be very fierce. I wasn’t as reluctant to share space with her as I was with Kirby, as she seemed to have some honor. What had spurred her to win her Brawl was the death of an ally she had made in the great ruined castle that had been her arena. Red was a rare human chosen from Kanto – Pikachu’s world. I’d been watching with Mario in one of Smash City’s bars as she and the boy had bonded over animal-training, a shared interest. It was only after he’d killed that she’d shown her ruthless side, systematically tracking down and slaughtering those that had killed him. Her final opponent, Zant – a man from her very same world, hard borne the brunt of her rage. She’d caused a sort of explosive reaction in his body after storing up her magic. It was the strangest death I’d ever seen, and that’s saying something because I’ve killed some very bizarre monsters in my time that did not go quietly.
I suppose I knew more about Midna, fact-wise, than most of my fellow champions. I knew Mario pretty well, as a personal friend, but as far as the rest went, I never registered too much information about them. Their worlds were strange to me. Midna, however, was of the Old Hyrule, which, supposedly – in its “story,” at least, was a land descended from my lost home. It was rumored that she’d fallen in love with a person who was my successor in that world, or who was supposed to be. He’d taken up my clothing-style and my sword-techniques. I was supposed to have a successor in New Hyrule, as well; a young one who’d played his story-mode in honor of mine.
The story-worlds… yes. It was said that once the denizens of Smash City were entertained to the full that we had a chance to return to our true homelands. As it was, we all felt the “stories” in our bones, even as we were unable to live them. I’d lived a few of my stories. Mario had lived a few of his. It seemed like us old-timers were lucky. Some had not lived their stories yet – but lived with the ache that they existed for them to return to. They were worlds that lived in the best of our dreams. Smash City was like a nightmare that we were all trying desperately to wake up from.
The national anthem plays and we turn our attentions to the great screens.
“Ah, it looks like they’re a’ doing my world first this year,” Mario comments from his place beside me. We see an aerial shot of a great plaza… Delfino, I think it was, where many people in mushroom-hats and various odd creatures mill about. Announcer Lakitu putts about on his cloud. He’d been in charge of selections from the Mushroom Kingdom last year. He pulls a random slip of paper from his cloud.
My friend has gone white from anticipation. He holds his hat in his hands, wadding it up, wringing it like a towel. Mario was desperately afraid that one of these Tournaments would see a drawing up of his younger brother. Luigi was a capable fighter, but something of a gentle soul. Ever since the Tournaments had turned deadly, Mario had developed a protective big-brother instinct that bordered on paranoia.
I cannot say I blame him. I lost my own brother. It leaves a hole in you.
The name of the latest victim of Ganondorf’s games was read.
“Bowser Miyahon.”
It was announced that he was the only denizen of the former Mushroom Kingdom that was to be chosen for this Brawl of Honor. Mario breathes a sigh of relief.
“He’s strong,” I say, “He’ll have a good shot of making it through.”
“I only care if I can get him to fight with some honor,” my friend states, putting his hat back on. “I don’ta know with that one.”
“You’ll know a feeling I have not… having someone you mentored win.”
“You have many strong people in your kingdom,” Mario tries to assure me. “The people of the sea and the people of the rails.”
“I think I’ll just tell mine to run and hide,” I sigh.
“Not fitting for the avatar of courage,” Mario remarks. What he says is true, but I don’t let it sting. I’d seen too many of “mine” bite it. Either they were underfed, or out of luck, or carried too much honor and ended up dying stupidly rather than do what they thought was wrong. High-falutin’ morals don’t carry you very far in a Brawl. Last year was probably the worst. I’d taught a strong young lady pirate by the name of Aviel how to get food down out of trees by rolling into them. She’d employed this to great effect until she’d hit a tree with a bee’s nest. By the time she was retrieved, she looked more like a pile of potatoes than the Gerudo she’d once been. The year before that, I’d lucked into a pair of Sages – Fado and Laruto. Instead of listening to my advice, they’d just made a suicide pact and killed each other as soon as they’d hit the arena because they’d decided to die together than be forced to murder people. The scared connections and holy magic of Sages mean nothing when they’re pacifists.
Another screen, another world and a different announcer… this time a cold, robotic voice…
“Samus Aran.”
And another…
A decidedly reptilian hiss…
“Donkey and Diddy of the Kong Clan…”
I watch Midna sitting on the edge of her chair when the screen for Old Hyrule comes up. She nurses a glass of wine. Her attention is rapt.
“Link d’ Ordon!”
Midna’s head sinks and she closes her eyes. A single tear falls like a diamond. I can’t help but feel sorry for her. She’s devastated. I take a long look at the young man on the screen. He’s dressed very much like me, save that the color of his tunic and hat are duller, a more subdued green to my Kelly-hue. His eyes are striking… even a bit disturbing. He looks absolutely fierce. He stands in the shadows until he is brought before the camera. He looks like a darker and less hung-over version of what I saw in the mirror every morning. The young man strikes me as rather beast-like… like he’d torn out a few throats in his day.
“Shiek Nohansen!”
Ah, so he’s getting a partner. I feel… nostalgic. This “Shiek” person is a bit different than another I had known by that name. This one hadn’t been able to bind her chest nearly as well; then again, I do not know if androgyny was the look this one was going for.
Everyone startles when the glass in Midna’s hand shatters. With a swish of her robes, she gets up and runs out of the room, back toward the hotel suites.
“Wait! Miss Midna! This isn’t protocol!” Peach shouts after her, chasing her down.
More names were read. Don’t ask me to keep track of them all. My head’s swimming with the last shot of whiskey I took.
Lemme see… “Pit Icarus,” I think that’s one of the kids… “Bulbasaur,” one of the pokemon… “Charizard,” another pokemon… I think someone named “Meta Knight” from Kirby’s world was called… Falco is getting his old friend Fox to train…
The last screen was trained on New Hyrule. People involved in the cull were gathered at island called Windfall. It’s not actually too far from the place I’m allowed to live in during the off-season, Papachuia Village.
After I hear the name that was called and see the camera trained on whom it belongs to, I just can’t believe it. I’ve always wanted to rip Ganondorf’s spine out, but at that moment, more than ever. His sleazy announcer, Mr. Ghirahim even mocks her in a sing-song voice.
“Aryll Outsetter.”
A little girl. A tiny little girl. She can’t be more than eight years old!
Before I toss my glass at the screen in frustration, a little boy wearing green with a wooden sword on his belt comes running up, panting and puffing.
“Don’t take my sister!” the child cries. He can’t be more than twelve years old. He puts himself between the announcer and his sister and raises his little sword. “You aren’t taking her!”
“So… a little hero,” Ghirahim drawls, “Do you mean to take her place? It is the only way.”
“Yes! Yes I will!” the kid shouts for all to hear.
“Noooo!” little Aryll cries. “No, Big-Brother, no!” She clings to him. He hugs her tight and then turns around, glaring into the camera.
His eyes are big, round and innocent, yet somehow fiercer than those of my other counterpart. Yes, this one is definitely my successor in New Hyrule.
“What is your name, child?” the announcer asks.
“Link Outsetter.”
The boy is presented to the crowd with mixed reactions. Mostly, the island is filled with cries of grief.
I don’t have my sword on me. If I did, I’d cut the screen in half. The kid has guts. Guts got me through some impossible things. However, I fear that given the lineup that I’d seen, that his will be quickly spilled.
The screen cuts out with another play of the national anthem. I need another freakin’ drink.
… Should I press continue on this ridiculous meld of world concepts? I actually have a lot of ideas for this, but right around when I was writing a Super Mario Bros. Lakitu making an announcement of a reaping, I realized “Hey, this is really stupid.” It wasn’t that I didn’t see how weird this was before, it just really hit me with renewed vigor then. I figure, if this is liked, I’ll go ahead with it, because what is fanfic if not free and stupid fun? If not… yeah… This is definitely one of my more “Whut?” ideas.
I've just seen this and your Groose Defeat thing, but you are quickly becoming one of my favorite writers. I wish I was half as good as you. :puppy:
