Meet and Greet
It had just gone 6:30PM. The ochre winter sun slowly retreated behind the horizon, tiny clouds doing little to cover its tracks. The sky cast a bronze hue over the courtyard of the Smash Mansion, where a chorus of chatter could be heard all around.
This hubbub came from none other than the extensive roster for the Ultimate Super Smash Bros Tourney. A celebration was being held to commemorate a successful launch; tickets for almost every match had sold out, and the many exhibition matches saw attendance records broken left, right and centre. Combatants from across game worlds, veterans and newcomers alike, were excitedly bracing themselves for another memorable tournament.
Among them was Pikachu Libre, a wrestling idol in her home world. The youngest of five sisters, she left with the promise of glory, swearing that she'd make them proud of her. She was looking up at the scattered clouds as she considered a strategy for her next battle. She had quite a winning streak and had no intention of breaking it now. Perhaps she would head to the gym after this little gathering. After all, she had to be on top form if she wanted to impress her family - and her fans.
That got her thinking deeper. When Libre's fans learned that she had been chosen to participate in the Ultimate Tourney, she had become inundated with fan mail wishing her luck, safety and success. Even when she arrived in Smashville, she was greeted by a crowd of admirers. Half of them were there to encourage her, the other half simply wishing for her autograph. Not that she wasn't prepared for his eventuality; she always carried a small ink pad in a pocket in her costume, ready to dampen her paw and instantly add value to an item. In truth, nothing made Libre happier than making her fans happy; their support meant the world to her.
She wasn't too shocked, then, when she was elbowed on the back. People had strange ways of getting attention.
"Libre, can I talk to you a moment?"
That gruff voice. Libre's ears pricked up; she'd heard it somewhere before. She cast her mind back to last few matches, trying to remember what was said in the press conferences beforehand. The words of encouragement, the attempts to impress the Hands, the trash talk… Wait a second. Now she remembered. It was that jerk who gloated his way through his interview, despite the fact that he would later lose. To her.
Incineroar!
"Sure, whatever," she sighed, trying her best to remain professional.
"The other day? Heck of a good fight. You were more of a match for me than I thought you would be."
Libre scoffed. "It's a bit rich coming from you. During the entire press conference, you kept joking about how I was easy pickings and you weren't even gonna try. That's not fighting talk. That's poor sportsmanship!"
There was a brief, awkward silence. Incineroar had been caught off guard; Libre saw right through his behaviour and he hadn't struck a single pose yet.
"Because I underestimated your skill. Out there, on the battlefield, you always seemed to have a trick up your little sleeve. I think you're a worthy opponent now that I know what you can do; we could learn a lot from each other. Only I'm no good at expressing that. I'm just a heel, really. You're gonna have to get used to it."
Libre cocked her head to the side. "I think I get it. You've got a reputation to uphold. The big bad who doesn't give two hoots what the world thinks of him. Who the public either love or fear. You don't say anything about it because all you want is to improve your skills by any means necessary. I guess that's understandable. But it just makes you look bad, doesn't it?"
"Tell that to the kids who fawn over me," replied Incineroar, shaking his head.
That timely remark gave Libre an idea.
"Sounds like we both have folks we want to impress. So how about this - come train with me tomorrow. You're not quite the champ you market yourself to be, but with my help, you can at least get one step closer. Sound fun?"
Incineroar turned away for a moment, perhaps to consider the effect this would have on his image. He shrugged, muttering that he'd think about it. That answer was good enough for Libre. But before she could wish him luck, she spotted the piece of paper that he had been holding. She watched in confusion as handed it to her, wondering why he wouldn't let her see the text, when she noticed the small Smash Ball insignia in the middle of the back. This was a familiar sight by now; none other than a tourney invitation letter.
"While I'm here, could you do me a favour and sign this for me?" He glanced away for a moment. "It's for a friend."
"Well, why didn't you say so!" replied Libre, trying to stifle a laugh. "I've had lots of folks going around asking me to sign their invitation letters, even ones that are years old. Go tell whoever it is that they don't need to be shy around me! One sec…"
And with that, she whipped out the old ink pad, lathered her left paw and firmly pressed it onto the back of the letter, leaving a black paw print with a faint heart mark in the centre. It was unmistakably Libre.
"I'll see you around. Keep getting better, okay?"
When she was sure Incineroar had left, she walked over to get some battle tips from other fighters (maybe she'd ask Little Mac first). But out of the corner of her eye, she spotted something rather interesting. A double take was more than in order. She swore she saw Incineroar fist pumping with joy, looking at the signed letter with a beaming grin on his face and carefully tucking it away in its envelope.
Her fans really did come in all shapes and sizes.
'It's alright, big guy,' she thought with a knowing smirk. 'Your secret's safe with me.'