You are no pawn, Robin. You're my tactician. Remember that.

He remembers. What he remembers terrifies him.

By all reasoning, Robin shouldn't remember anything. A warrior who has been present on the battlefield since the Brawl first began will have inevitably retrieved more memories about their forgotten origins than one who's just been summoned. According to his first traveling companion, a boy who'd equipped nothing but an energy sword and a pair of boxer briefs, Robin had literally teleported into this world via violaceous whirlwind four days ago, so vivid dreams about two powerful beings holding conversation at the dead center of a spiraling galaxy are highly atypical.

What could an evanescent human ever hope to offer an eternal being?

The skin below his eyes itch. He strokes his cheekbones a few times until the sensation dies away, blinks a few times in the dawning of the sun over the lip of the horizon. The receding night gives way to burnt oranges and pinks over a land devoid of life. Signs of civilization cling to disrupted earth: a ramshackle village here, an uprooted forest there. How surprising would it be if this parcel of land had been summoned alongside another warrior? Both human and ecosystem pulled through tumultuous space until their memories were fractured in the chaos and then dumped into an unfamiliar world as a facsimile of their former glory.

Could this be his world? How would he even know?

Long fingers trail through fine strands of his hair. "Don't think about it too much, young one," Palutena says, her hand slipping down to rest on his shoulder.

"You're only two days older than I am," he protests, though he leans into the touch. Another curious thing about losing his memory: he's always finding out new things about himself. A very tactile kind of person he is.

A phantom's fingers glide along his cheekbones. Don't forget, Robin.

The angel's chuckle shatters his illusion. "Yet you remind me… of…" The woman leaves her sentence hanging, and that's fine. Minds full of holes, trains of thought abruptly derailed, incomplete memories. They've all experienced the same.

Palutena floats off, possibly attempting to re-catch that drift before it slips away into the void, and is promptly replaced by Link. "Breakfast," he grins. "Straight from Lady Rosalina."

Among today's pickup is a cake shaped into a ring, a paper carton full of liquid fruit, and golden strips of breaded meat. They restore small amounts of stamina, appear every morning and evening upon the ground, and are usually collected by the morning watch for the rest of the team. Robin tentatively bites into a circular flatbread smeared with sweet syrup and animal fats and decides that yes, this is good.

"Do you truly believe this to come from the arms of your goddess?"

"This again? Robin. There's only so many ways we can talk about this before we run out of things to say."

"Then let us address the underlying topic at hand," he says, ignoring Link's retaliatory groan. "A goddess rallies warriors to defeat her archenemy with very little explanation aside from the vague promise that defeating him will grant her the ability to send us home. Have you absolutely no qualms regarding this?"

"She's not like that." Link repositions himself until he's facing Robin directly. "Look, I know it's hard to trust anyone when the most you can remember about anything amounts to the name of your country but not what its princess actually looks like. Believe me, I've been there. It's a sticky situation that we're all in right now and there aren't a whole lot of ways out. What Rosalina has to offer is the most obvious solution."

"The simplest path," he corrects. "The path of least resistance for a soldier who follows his sword."

Link shrugs. "The Master Sword agrees with you, but that's an argument for another time. You sure you've fought a war before? I'm getting the feeling that you don't like bloodshed."

"I try to keep it to a minimum." That's a tactician's job, no? "I think."

"Keeping the loss of life low in one's own unit is an entirely different puzzle, Sir Robin," says Marth. The prince enters their conversation with a hand resting atop the pommel of his ancient sword. "Link's inquiry pertains to your direct involvement in enemy fatalities, a puzzle that is best answered with another question: why do we fight? Because we hate that which is before us, or because we love what is behind us?"

Robin! Behind you!

A rectangular barrier materializes at his back. Seconds later, several arrows of dark light fizzle against its burnt orange surface. Marth and Link are already rushing to the forefront, swords at the ready, as Palutena's energy shield dissipates. Robin scrambles up, his bulky tome slipping from his arms until he readjusts his grip. Written in a language he can no longer read, he keeps the ancient book because it emanates a resonating energy that speaks to him. He can't say he understands what happens when the tome floats free of his hands, as he inhales the faint scent of dusty pages and burning paper and charred flesh, the coppery tang of blood and the distinct tingling of ozone. Smoke curls off the fingers of his outstretched hand as he seeks for warmth and life, the nearest source of vibrant energy.

Contact.


"Revenge is such a petty matter to one who transcends space and time itself. I can certainly lend you great power, but what could an evanescent human ever hope to offer an eternal being in return?"

"Take a deep look into the millennia and tell me what you see. Humans are just as multidimensional as you are—and even more. You are content to let destiny flow its course, yet with every second we have, humans have always sought to challenge their fates. In doing so, we bend time and space to our will."

The air crackled with his power, yet the human before him stood fearlessly. It was akin to an ant defying the foot that threatened to crush it. It was silly, inconsequential—but ever so intriguing, such that its bravado gave the dragon pause.

"Give me the ability to create my own world. I'll bring the best of humankind together under the same sky, and in return, I'll give you the human soul."


Pit had wagered that the enemy would never spot his arrows of darkness in dawn's dim light.

Pit owes her half of his next meal.

Knowing Pit, this will probably be enough to fill her stomach for the next two days.

Lucina can crow over her tactical superiority later. She and Ike launch a two-pronged assault, a vociferous distraction, and are met in turn by two swordsmen, each swift and fleet footed. She lets pure instinct take over, lets her feet guide her away from the great slash of the green one's blade. She senses more than hears Ike's presence behind her and slides away to engage the blue one while Ike barrels into the green one with a charged swing.

She can't help a disgruntled huff from slipping past her lips as her opponent parries, strikes, parries every one of her strikes in perfect synchronization. He knows her moves before she has even carried them out. He, like she and Ike, has naturally blue hair. His techniques mirror hers almost perfectly and every time their swords collide, her Falchion resonates harmoniously. Is this warrior another forgotten memory, another star blotted out from her blank slate? What reason does she have to fight him? Is her fate so pitiful that she serves no other purpose than to serve as a mindless combatant for King Bowser?

A horrifyingly familiar energy raises the hairs on the back of her neck. Her throat is dry and her cry of warning emerges from her lips as nothing more a wordless scream. She dodges, twisting into the air and bouncing again, anything to evade the erratic ball of electricity that surges through the space she had once occupied. The concussive force it generates is enough to knock her opponent flat on his back, to push her away from the damage zone—until a hookshot wraps around her ankle. For a second, she meets the eyes of the teenager her age, the green-clothed one with the pointed ears and the high cheekbones. For a second, she is furious. Agent of Rosalina, agent of Bowser; who are they to decide her fate?

The hookshot snaps her right back down into the electrical torrent.

Her hands won't obey her. Bolts of pain shoot down her arms any time she even thinks about moving them. It's all she can do to roll onto her side, ignore the spittle that dribbles out the side of her mouth, and watch as Ike drives the two swordsmen away. Pit takes occasional potshots but is mostly occupied evading explosions of light from the female angel.

"Lucina!"

She can do nothing as she is manhandled into somebody's lap. The cloaked mage? What is he doing? His face is shadowed within the hood of his shroud, but the touch of his fingers across her cheek are hauntingly familiar to her subconscious even as her mind is repulsed by his tender gestures. Though her facial muscles refuse to form expressions, he must read the disgust in her eyes; his arms lower her slowly, shakily, and his voice trembles.

"I'm so sorry, Lucina. I… I didn't. Luce, please, I'm sorry…"

The colors of his eyes are barely visible, a quivering maroon that crystallize into a furious red at her revulsion. It's almost as if something else takes over. Hands that had seconds ago been gentle tighten around her body, clawed grips that prompt a crackling groan of pain from uncooperative lungs.

A barrage of senbon needles strike pressure points at the mage's right shoulder. Immediately his dominant arm flops uselessly, dropping Lucina's head. She barely has the strength to flex her neck and roll away before Sheik flickers into existence above and drops before the mage on all fours. The ninja launches straight into two crescent kicks, further driving a wedge between her and the mage.

Naga above, has she ever been so useless? It's been a scant few weeks that she has spent here, but always as swordswoman to be contended with, not a limp doll thrown to the wayside. Through sheer force of mind, she powers her body into a sitting position. The Falchion has constantly reinvigorated her in previous times of weariness and exhaustion; where is it now? She casts her eyes about the plain—the black earth scorched by the mage's charged Arcthunder, dilapidated ruins in the distance, and her sword, her link to the past, not a few feet away. The moment her fingers brush against its pommel, energy floods into her system. She scrambles towards her weapon, eager to rejoin the brawl.

A foot pins the Falchion against the lifeless earth. A sword stops a razor's width from the side of her neck; its point quakes until the swordsman steels his resolve.

"Farore," the man in green attire whispers. "Farore, give me courage."


"Lucina!"

Sheik does not turn to look for his teammate. The compassionate princess of Hyrule would have turned her back on her opponent in an instant to seek help for the swordswoman; as this male persona, Sheik does not hesitate to push his advantage. While the mage is distracted, he darts forward and sinks his knives through the folds of the mage's cloak and into his warm chest.

A tome floats into sight, its pages flipping of their own accord. Sheik uses an explosive smoke bomb to conceal his teleport just behind the mage, dodging the crackling tendrils of darkness that explode around the earth he'd occupied not three seconds ago. It takes him a second to readjust to the sudden reorientation, but he doesn't need directional awareness to wrap a bladed chain around the mage's neck. His opponent freezes instantly and the flying tome abruptly thumps to the ground. Only when his threat is neutralizes does Sheik call, "Stop!"

So the dark mage wasn't faking distress; Ike and Pit let the green-clothed warrior slip through their defense and now he's come back to bite them in the ass by taking out their weakest link. Why Sheik's opponent would be so interested in said liability, though…

"Link," the mage rasps. His Adam's apple bobs against the chain. "Link, let her go."

"The path of least resistance, Robin," Link says softly. His sword edge drifts closer to Lucina's throat but halts when Sheik simultaneously tightens his chain.

Sheik pulls the chain tight against the mage's throat, forcing Robin to back up until he's flush against Sheik's chest. "Trade."

Link's eyes flicker from Robin's to Sheik's. Something resonates deep within them, something akin to the courage to do what Zelda cannot.

A guttural cry erupts from Robin's throat when Link drives his sword through muscle and flesh and into the earth. He dives forward as if he's forgotten about the razor chain wrapped around his neck, or maybe he simply doesn't care—his momentum is jerked to a halt by his lethal leash; shocked by Robin's utter disregard for his life, Sheik releases the chain much too late and Robin topples to the side, his hood sliding back to reveal a shock of white hair and eyes the color of the life that leaps from his slashed throat onto the tome he scrabbles at with wet fingers. He's unable to speak, but the crackle of energy within his blazing eyes is enough: get away from her.

The green-haired angel plummets from above, a reflective barrier smashing into the ground before Link seconds before a miniature sun coalesces within the concave of Robin's scrunched torso and explodes outward in a beam of pure energy that vaporizes the space directly above Lucina. The angel's barrier gives Link an extra second to pull his blade free of Lucina's shoulder, but soon enough both the shield and the elfin warrior are enveloped in light.

Sheik sprints past the gurgling mage. He'd meant to save this reveal for a battle-opportune moment, but Lucina's health takes current priority. Transformational magic clings on his limbs as he dispels it, loosening his braid into tresses of brunette hair, unbinding his chest and draping legs with free-flowing cloth. Within seconds, Zelda shifts out of her Sheik persona and steps into her original identity, the crown princess of Hyrule who, for reasons unbeknownst to her, can wield weapons, offensive magic, and healing incantations with equal ease.

The flow of white magic between her fingertips is interrupted by a dark flurry of feathers and cloth that tackles her to the right. As she and Pit go down, a fireball arcs overhead and instantly consumes a tree upon impact.

"Watch it, Sheik!" yells the dark angel. He returns defensive fire, prematurely detonating Robin's subsiding flow of projectiles with his arrows. "You don't get to slack off just because you're suddenly somebody else!"

Robin coughs and waters the drying earth with a splash of crimson. His face contorts in agony. Wrinkles crease the flesh of his forehead and cheekbones and brim with blood red, giving him the likeness of possessing additional apertures—two extra pairs of scorching bloodshot eyes that judge her for the worth of her soul until they are covered by Robin's scrabbling fingers. Even then, Zelda's keen eyesight picks up on the mark tattooed onto the back of Robin's right hand.

Heat builds up in her lower gut as she conjures fire before her fingertips. The mage is spiraling into insanity, it's easy to see: attacking his own teammates, clawing at his own face. She could easily transfer the explosion in her hands into his chest. Take him out of the running. That's what the green-clothed warrior had meant, hadn't he? The easiest path. An eye for an eye, a hand for a body, an injury for a life. Could it really be so simple?

Pit's flurry of arrows have ceased. Immortal angel he could very well be, but his brash mannerisms betray his age as a cheeky young teenager. And she? Compassionate nobility or hardened warrior? How does she define herself when all has been stripped away?

The fire in her hands falters each second she hesitates until, in a flash of gold and red, Ike takes a good chunk out of Robin's side with a two-handed swing from Ragnell. The action does not break his stride; he closes the distance in a few footfalls and slings Lucina over a shoulder. A raised eyebrow is all the recognition he gives Zelda before he barks, "We're leaving."

The mage is close enough that she can still sense the slow trickle of life force within him. She could heal him. White magic will do nothing for blood loss, but she could try to save him, just like he tried to save Lucina (in his own convoluted way). But one look at the crimson drenching his dark robes and she can't bring herself to return to her mistake. Her murder.

She leaves the white-haired mage to his final breath.