Cataclysms
I've heard legends of that person…
How he plunged into enemy territory…
How he saved his homeland…
Super Smash Brothers are…
Once upon a time, that's how we'd begin describing ourselves, as an "are". A colorful cast of characters, over twenty strong, from different worlds and universes. Called together once in a while to test our skills in combat. But when we started—as a simple band of twelve—there was more to it than fighting. It was about gaining trust, forging bonds, discovering shared interests, shared goals and common enemies. It was about expanding our horizons, discovering things about ourselves—discovering the heroes within.
As someone not entirely classified as heroic, I can attest that there's a hero in all of us. A hero who emerges in times of crisis, to give us strength, to make us noble—to keep us from falling apart and surrendering to the darkness. A hero who we look up to at our lowest points, who encourages us to hold on one second longer. It's only after we discover this personal hero that we truly realize our potential, what we're made of and where our allegiances lie. Yes, even within someone as timid as me, there lies a hero, resting, ready to emerge to answer the battle cries of his closest friends and his truest comrades with strident, unwavering battle cries of his own, ready to snap into action when distress calls sound and when drums begin to roll like thunder. Within us all, within the smallest child and the eldest senior citizen, lies a hero.
The tale I set before you today is the tale of how "are" turned into "is". Of how Super Smash Brothers transformed from a smorgasbord to a single entity. Of how a threat to our way of life stirred the heroes inside of us to life. And of how three overlooked, and in one case, misunderstood, characters united in an unlikely friendship to mount a resistance against a cunning, cruel and merciless enemy.
A tale of survival…
Of courage…
…courage under fire.
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In his castle, the king studies the golden brooches, each of which are stamped with his face. He sighs heavily. Always judged for his past actions, this king has been branded as a villain, as a tyrant. In 1992, he was, in fact, tyrannical, stealing all of the hard-earned food of his subjects to gorge on himself. But he has changed since then; he has seen the folly of his ways. And yet his past sins cling to him like a foul mist, dictating his status in the gaming world today. Gamers want to beat up the big, bad penguin as the little pink puffball and save the day—along with the food. They want to reassemble the Star Rod—even though smashing it was the only way to prevent Nightmare from wreaking havoc. They're so quick to blame the greedy king for stealing a piece of strawberry shortcake. When are they going to realize that the king's actions, questionable though they might be, have good intentions?
Perhaps now is that opportunity.
The brooches he has made are equipped with a magical power to counteract a coming darkness. This darkness threatens to consume Smash and all of its participants, condemning them to a trophified state for eternity. Unable to feel, to think, to hunger, to thirst and to love. The king has learned that this darkness attacks quickly yet savagely, giving no time to prepare. And thus, he has concocted a secret weapon which will automatically activate when the darkness strikes.
But in order to alert the people to the presence of this secret weapon, he must use—unfavorable—methods. With a heavy heart, he picks up his wooden mallet and hefts it onto his shoulder like a burden. He hopes they'll understand why he's doing this. Maybe once the darkness is defeated, and the truth about these brooches come out, they'll forgive him.
Resolved, the king stands, takes his mallet and his brooches, and sets out on his mission.
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The psychic child sees it as if in slow motion. The biker, hefting the cannon, aiming it at the chest of his blond best friend. The nine-year-old's silent scream as a beam of sorts vomits from the mouth of the cannon. His own legs, pumping as he throws himself towards his younger friend. His arms, flying out in front of him. The horrible beam closing in on the blond child. His body colliding with the child's, tackling him out of harm's way. The beam slamming into him. His mouth, forming the name—Lucas. Unbearable heat, blinding light and excruciating pain. And then nothing else…
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The plumber strolls along the dirt road, drinking in the solitude and softness of his surroundings. His mind is cluttered and spinning. He needs to think, to sort things out. So much has happened to him in the past year. So much—
His mouth goes dry as he remembers. His body, being controlled by evil forces for their own personal gain. The black mask covering soulless eyes. A scarf, black as night, around his neck. The searing agony of flames and the pit of nothingness. The explosion in his head as the Floro-Sprout takes root. Chaos. Crashing. Screaming. A man and a woman, writhing and covered in blood. Explosions. Whiteness…
And then he takes a deep breath, bringing himself back to the present. That horror was a year ago. A year! It's ancient history now. He can't do anything about it. And yet he wishes he can. By night, his villainous alter ego whispers in his ear, tantalizing him with twisted thoughts of envy and unlimited power. Guilt twists him like a knife. The evil forces had uncovered his weakness and used it as a weapon. And for that, he may never forgive himself.
He snaps out of it when he sees a weird brown creature waddling toward him. His muscles snap taut, and he assumes a fighting stance, ready to combat the threat. The creature approaches him, peers at him, and then wanders off. He relaxes and lets out a breath, only to jump a mile in the air when another weird brown creature seemingly appears out of nowhere.
Who are these weird little guys? Where do they come from?
Preoccupied with these creatures, he doesn't notice the king creeping up on him with his mallet. Attached to the mallet is a curious-looking cannon. When the king is directly behind the oblivious man, he gives his back a lingering, regretful look. He's one of his closest friends, and he doesn't want to hurt him! Yet alas, there's no other way.
The king takes a preparatory breath, brings his mallet back, and swings with all of his might.
Exquisite, white-hot agony explodes all over the man's back, his feet leaving the ground and the air leaving his lungs. He shrieks in despair as he hurtles high into the atmosphere. And then he hurtles back down. But on the return trip, he's a trophy.
The king patiently waits, using his mallet to break the trophified man's fall. Gently, he sets the trophy back on the road, in plain view. And then lies in wait for the biker.
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The job proves quite easy. The biker alights from his motorcycle to inspect his newest find, only to be swarmed by the king's minions. In the ensuing fracas, the king snags the trophy, as well as the other trophies the biker has collected. While merrily riding along, he sees three more of his friends and tries to savage them as well. Unfortunately, as always, that pink puffball misunderstands his motives and severs part of the cargo load with his Final Cutter, leaving the king no choice but to cut his losses and flee with the three trophies currently in his possession.
The misunderstood king brings the three trophies—three of his best pals—to his luxurious castle. One by one, he takes them out of the damaged cargo load and sets them down. A smile graces his face as he looks at them. A beautiful Princess, in a tickle-me-pink dress. A young, gifted child, in a striped shirt, shorts and a red baseball cap. A plumber, kind, gentle and loyal but quiet and nigh disregarded, clad in emerald green. They're safe from the darkness now. Safe. With him.
He removes the brooches from their hiding place. One he places on the psychic's chest. The other he sticks onto the plumber's bulbous nose. And for the Princess—oh, dear, there's not enough! Should he sacrifice his own brooch for this lovely young lady? Without a second thought, he surrenders his personal brooch and pins it onto the peachy Princess. He can always make more of them, anyway.
The king steps back and takes a look at his handiwork. The plumber, the psychic and the Princess, protected by his magical brooches. He strokes each of them lovingly, his eyes glossing over their features—from the plumbers radiant blue eyes to the Princess's golden locks to the psychic's brunette tufts peeking through his cap. Perfect. These three will know what to do. Reviving a trophy is simple—just touch its base. They'll assemble a resistance army and do battle with the darkness. The king just needs to keep them protected until the time comes.
A loud crash interrupts his thoughts.
He glances up, screaming in dismay when he sees intruders smashing their way in from the ceiling. In a panic, he runs to his trophies, to shield them, to defend them, as debris falls around him. The invaders continue tearing their way inside, and the king grabs his mallet, deciding to face the hostile party head-on. But just as he brandishes it, heavy chunks of ceiling smash relentlessly into his massive body, sending him to the floor and pinning him there.
Blood trickles down his face. His vision blurs. He knows something is probably broken, and he can barely breathe. His hand reaches out, toward the three helpless trophies, but he can't move; he can't free himself from the horrible debris. He's failed his fellow Smashers. Even in their darkest hour, he's failed them.
I'm sorry, my friends. I'm so—so—sorry—
And that's all he has time to think before something hard collides with him and everything goes black.
Please R&R.