Hyrule is a large and prosperous nation. To most of her residents, Hyrule is the entire world. There is little commercial traffic, and the nominal borders of the kingdom stretch far beyond the most inhabited areas.
It is not alone in the world. Not by any means.
The southernmost region of Hyrule, a province called Ordona, has one road heading further south. Follow this road for about ninety miles, and after a rather unpleasant blurry feeling as you step between realities, you find yourself in a place called the Forset of Illusion. Follow the road as it turns west and you will reach the eastern border of the Mushroom Kingdom.
Most transient visitors to Hyrule – such as you or I – visit at times of tremendous crisis. These are all very dramatic, and certainly the most important times in the lifespan of a nation. In between, however, we can sometimes find a little entertainment.
It was a few years after a rather unhappy episode in Hylian history. Most people didn't know what the hell happened, actually, only that they all lost about a week and that there was two more weeks when the countryside was murderously dangerous, and then some green shmuck ridden on a horse and everything was back to normal. Such as it was, anyway. You and I might refer to this as "The Twilight Princess Saga."
Life continued, and the business of state continued. Zelda Harkinian, Soveriegn Princess of Hyrule, was holding court in the Palace. It was a good day; the place was empty. Tradition demanded she hold court, but she had a folding desk set up and a basket of tiny sandwiches brought in from the kitchens so she could keep working. The Great Hall, with whitestone pillars and a great red carpet, with the statuary of godesses and kings lining the walls, echoed with the sound of scribbling and muttered curses. Her Majesty was tallying payroll checks and comparing them to tax revenues, and seeing an unpleasantly small number.
Her Chief Minister, Monseur Belerand, oiled up to her from behind the Sacred Throne. He was tall and spindly, in a sharp black suit, and he exuded efficentcy and low-grade insomnia. "Ahem," he said.
Zelda closed her eyes and put her pen into the quillstand. It drooped. "You may speak, Minister Belerand." Nayru knows I couldn't stop you, she added to herself.
"Aha, Her Majesty is well aware that we, we might retain any number of professionals who could handle the, mmm, the elements of her work that she clearly finds so unpleasant." Monseur Belerand polished a button and looked hopeful.
Zelda opened her eyes and glared at Belerand. Glaring was her usual expression, but now she looked like a hawk with a case of amphetamine disassociation. "You mean, I should let you manage the kingdom's finances, and spend my time riding horses, or singing in the countryside, or arranging flowers on a balcony where I can be easily seen but just out of easy bow-shot, yes? Is that about right?"
"Ahem," said Belerand, somewhat hesitantly this time. "I am, mm, only considering Her Majesty's well-being."
Zelda closed her eyes again and pinched the bridge of her nose between a pair of exquisite white-gloved fingertips. "We should not snap at you, Belerand, and we appreciate your intent. The past years have been difficult, and we were not of a trusting character to begin with."
Belerand bowed. "Perhaps Her Majesty would appreciate my news. An emmisary from our southwestern neighbor has arrived. He shall invite you to a state visit. Her Majesty might consider accepting." Her Majesty might consider a tryst with that young goatherd she's been spying on along the way, Belerand was wise enough not to add. Her Majesty should not doodle his picture in the margins of her Edicts if she does not want her feelings known.
"Very well," said Zelda, pushing the little table aside. "Send him in." Belerand scooted back around the throne.
The great doors opened. About twenty heralds appeared from behind pillars, trying to put their livery back on straight and some stomping out cigarettes. They played the official fanfare of Hyrule, and a tiny little person with a great white hat marched in. It wobbled, and had five big red polka-dots. He wore what looked like a diaper and a embroidered blue vest.
"From Hear Marjesty Theah Prieencess Peach-Toadstool hof thea Maashroom Kingdom," drawled the little man at the top of his lungs, "Toah Hear Marjesty Zelda Harkinian hof thea Kingdom hof Hyrule: Greahteengs." He took a big breath. His voice was squeaky-raspy. "Houah great nations harve bean neighbors foa mahny yeas, hand it his Hear Marjesty's vearah great pleaasure to invite Hear Marjesty to a feast hand gala, having the purpose of a DINNER OF STATE, to discuss such matters has hare relevant to hour moochual prosperitah hand securitah."
Zelda nodded to the Mushroom Herald. "We appreciate the kind invitation of our friend and ally the Princess Peach-Toadstool," she said in her most regal tones. "Considering that" we have nothing better to do "we have no other business, we shall be pleased to offer our response before the day has ended. You may go."
The little Toad bowed his way back out the great doors, and the Hylian Heralds crawled back into their holes. Monseur Belerand reappeared.
"Her Majesty is considering refusing the offer?"
Zelda rubbed her temple. "Her Majesty is wondering if she could solve two problems at once. Tell me, are there any Mushroom Kingdom trade goods we could slap a heavy tariff on?"
"Well," said Monseur Belerand, "There are several mycological products, the most popular of which, well, I am, aha, uncomfortable to say."
"I insist you explain."
"Well," said Belerand, shifting a little, "A certain mushroom is considered, it is, aha, it is rumored to, not to put too fine a point on it, to um." Zelda rolled her wrist. "To um. To um, aha, to increase – so go the reports anyway, to increase a man's, um."
Zelda pulled the folding desk back over and put her head on it. "His Um, Minister?"
"His, um, aha, his size, Your Majesty."
The Princess looked up and glared at the middle distance. "His size?"
The Chief Minister was full-on fidgeting now. "Indeed, his size."
Zelda licked her lips with the speed of a snake. "Do these reports, these rumors, do they specify by how much they increase a person's size?"
"They are doubled, if my information is correct."
Zelda lifted an sculpted eyebrow. "Those will be very popular."
Hyrule has many periods of peace and ordinary life, punctuated by periods of crisis. Samus Aran, on the other had, lives through long periods of relaxing mortal danger, punctuated by terrifying instants of intense safety.
The cockpit of her gunship was lit up with hundreds of warning lights. Each was an alert about a critical system failure, or damage to life-support, or incoming enemy fire. Space was filled with blasts of deadly light and the hunger of homing missiles. All in perfect vacuum silence, since the cabin had depressurized.
Samus had been Interdicted, pulled out of hyperspeed by a Space Pirate cruiser. It had sealed all hatches and trained all guns on her position. The Hunter had become the hunted, and Samus was doing something she had rarely done before. She was running and hiding. The planet below was green and blue, which was a great place to start. She angled down into the atmosphere and shifted all power to her rear shields. It would have to be enough, and -
It wasn't.
She was at fifty thousand feet when the missiles caugh up to her. She could outrun Pirate fighters and drop ships, especially in atmosphere, but their rockets had been engineered from Chozo missile technology. It was loud, so loud now, with screaming metal and roaring engines. Her ship flashed a final message across her readout:
CRITICAL FAILURE OF ALL SYSTEMS/ ||
CHASSIS BREAKUP IMMANENT/ ||
RECOMMEND IMMEDIATE EJECTION/ ||
GOODBYE/ ||
Samus tugged on a little handle. All was silent once more. She was too small, even in her Power Suit, for the remaining missiles to target. They followed her ship and turned it to so much irradiated dust and shrapnel.
Her suit had some thruster ability, but not enough to stabilize a fall from fourty-five thousand feet. And her ejection chair was designed for hard vacuum, with a magnetic oxygen containment field, thermal lining, and a sort of solar sail that was useless as a parachute. It was going to be a long fourty thousand feet to the forest floor.
Samus reflected, which she was also not accustomed to doing. She had gone from cruising the galaxy, thumbing for a hitch, to falling to what was possibly her death on a planet she knew nothing about. From thirty-five thousand feet, at least, it looked pretty nice, but so had Zebes and Tallon IV. And it had happened fast, too, with virtually no warning. Samus was not an ace pilot by any means. She would have to become one, especially if the Pirates could just grab you out of faster-than-light travel, like that. She snapped her fingers to punctuate the thought.
She could see, when her uncontrolled tumble allowed, Pirate drop ships entering the atmosphere. Coming to finish the job, or to claim any loot the remaining thirty thousand feet left intact. First came the rage, the roiling hatred for their kind. They had done nothing but stalk and kill their way across the galaxy. Then came disappointment – she had stalked and killed them across the galaxy, and here they were.
Twenty-five thousand feet now.
