AUTHOR'S NOTE
Heavily WIP, if I decide to expand on it into something of a series. Takes place during and directly after Mother 3's ending and the credits. The title is a working one for now.
There was talking. Lucas stared down at Claus, at the body of his brother in his arms. Lucas felt numb and there was a ringing in his ears, drowning out most else. Lucas had seen his twin's face after three years because Claus had removed his mask and returned to himself just for that moment and spoken to him, had smiled at him. And then there was lightning and a flash of painless light-on-metal-crash-burn and then Claus was there and Lucas was holding him and then Claus was dead and Lucas held his dead twin numbly in his arms.
Flint was saying things. He said some things about Claus, and about Lucas, and gave his living son some more words about forgiveness and of support and Lucas wasn't listening. He was holding Claus's body in his arms. There were the others entreating Lucas with more and more words still and their voices were so full of earnestness and encouragement and Lucas barely heard a word of it, barely felt anything as he gently lowered his precious brother to the ground and then eyed the Needle.
Claus was the Masked Man. Claus was dead. Lucas felt—dead, too, maybe? Felt nothing. Felt purpose. Shock and numbness replaced everything else and kept him in once piece as he stood and walked to the final Needle because now, he understood what must be done. Because Claus was dead yet Porky was not, and never would be dead. And this world could never hold the weight of that even if Lucas didn't know if he felt strongly about the justice of his situation one way or another.
But Lucas understood like a mantra of a hundred years in those few moments approaching the Needle that this place left to them by the one that had sealed himself away…what even remained of it…this was not right.
No one could stop Lucas from pulling the Needle.
Nothing would.
Flint was done talking. Lucas had left Claus to him, with him. Lucas placed his hands upon the pillar of light, and, trembling, he thought just a fleeting moment in the back of his mind that he dared god himself to try and stop him from doing what had to be done to fix, to destroy this wrong world. To make it stop.
To make it stop.
He did not take a deep breath. He did not brace himself. He simply gripped the wings on the point of light and wrenched it out, the Needle coming free of the earth it pierced as easily those other six before it—
Armageddon.