T Minus 29 Days
Aggressive, almost angry and sharp whistling breaths filled the Mushroom Kingdom U stage, the antithesis to the cheerful music playing over the sound system. Carried by the laws of physics, these breaths drifted over to the audience section of the arena, which was filled to capacity. A strange sight indeed, judging from one of the fighters in this match.
There were three big sections of the arena for the spectators, the leftmost section, the middle section and the rightmost section. In the middle seat of the first row of the middle section sat a familiar red-capped hero, a carboard tray of concession food balanced on his lap. His gloved hands clutched the sides of this tray tightly, as if it would anchor him to the chair. And maybe it would, for if he were to jump excitedly out of his seat, then the food would make a mess on his red and blue getup. Sea blue eyes were fixed on the action, and in a low, intense, voice, he'd whisper, "Yeah, yeah. Do it, Bro. Do it."
A dainty, gloved hand rested on his shoulder, calming him. Mario "Jumpman" Mario turned and smiled gratefully at his Mushroom Princess. She was glad in a pink gown, a jeweled crown atop a head of golden hair. Rubbing the small of her love's back, Peach assured him, "He'll be alright."
"You should've seen the other guy before the match," Mario whispered. "He acted like he wanted to rip him to shreds. He landed quite a few good ones, too."
"But Luigi still got up," smiled Peach. "Look at him. He knows how to handle intimidating opponents."
"That's what has me wired," explained Mario. "Look how many combos and setups he has. I mean, in the beginning…"
"I know," said Peach. "I know."
"He's improved grandly, and a lot of people aren't happy about that," Mario went on. "There's a lot of salt going on over his combo game. You check Miiverse lately?"
Peach scoffed. "As if I'd react to that stuff," she said.
"Wow. Look at him," mused Mario, taking another bite of his sandwich. "He's close to breathlessness, and he still has a combo going. That's my bro."
Normally, when Luigi started to sense that ache in his lungs, he'd lay off on offense for a while. But this particular opponent was so special that he'd happily abandon customs just this once. The opponent deserved an extra helping or two (or three or four or eighteen or forty-two or OVER NINE THOUSAND!) of his down throw combos; they'd minced no words over how eager they were to take on the man in green! He just wished they could've said it nicer; perhaps he would've gone a tad easier on them. Oh, well. This was a perfect excuse to test and push the limits of his lung capacity.
In the stands, Mario quivered with contained energy. These were the moments when he went wild, seeing his little brother in the heat of battle and holding his own, defying what was said about him. If Luigi was involved in a match, then Mario would cheer the loudest. If he didn't have food on his lap, then he'd bounce and jump up and down, cup his hands around his mouth and shout encouragement in both English and Italian. Usher Miis would politely ask him to lower his voice, or in extreme cases, politely ask him to leave on account of distracting the fighters. But Mario loved his brother fiercely, and he wasn't going to let anyone dictate how he should cheer for him!
That was why he started getting things to put in his lap. Food, drinks, stress balls, Mushrooms, POW blocks or Stars—just something to hold so he wouldn't be tempted to jump around so much. He was still energetic with his cheering and had to be corrected by the Mii ushers, but as long as he remained in his seat, the audience couldn't complain. Mario was like their unofficial pep squad leader, encouraging his fellow audience members to join in his cheers. Even those rooting for the opponent couldn't help but jump in, though they chanted the opponent's name instead of Luigi's.
Leaning into Peach's touch, Mario refocused his attention on his baby brother's fluid movements on the battlefield. He was so enthralling to watch. Especially when it came to his eyes. They were so intense. Less salty opponents would be drawn to the look in his eyes, pulling them in like a magnet. Deep intensity always colored him during his battles, along with deeper determination, if not to win, then simply to prove himself a worthy foe. Combined, these colors painted lovely pictures on Luigi's face, accentuated by heavy concentration on his opponents and on his strategy. Breathtaking. Beautiful. Mario leaned forward and bit his lip as the whoosh-ing and whistling of his brother's breaths grew fiercer and angrier.
Luigi seldom let his personal feelings regarding an opponent get in his way during a match. If he did, then it was a subtle sprinkle. Or something or someone else angered or frustrated him, and he used the match to blow off steam before he did something he'd regret. But Mario could sense that something about the opponent had irked Luigi. It was in his eyes and in the pace, volume and cadence of his breathing. Whatever it was, look what it did to that handsome face! The sight intoxicated the audience, multiplying their cheers for the man in green. His entire body was aglow with sweat, droplets flying off him as he polished off another combo. Locks of hair were stuck to his forehead, his cheeks were lightly flushed, and his green shirt had darkened. His chest was begging him to quit, but he wasn't about to let his opponent know that he was exhausted. Each time he re-grabbed, he'd allow himself a quick, deep breath before diving right into another combo. He kept going and going and going until he could no longer ignore his lungs cursing him out, at which point he'd retreat and pin his foe with fireballs.
"About freaking time," one spectator grumbled. Mario fired him a pointed look, but remained silent.
"That guy is broken," muttered another. "Plain and simple."
Mario ignored him, instead thinking about the times when he was the one facing Luigi in battle. Even after sixteen years, he never stopped looking forward to it. Their appointments on the battlefield were more explosive than their spars in the Training Area. With his eyes, Luigi would tell him that he was going all-out, and he never reneged on that promise. He'd be on the receiving end of those intense expressions. He'd get a closer look at the perspiration trailing down his neck and sparkling on his face. He especially loved it as emotions flashed and played along those baby blues. In their clashes, loads of tension were released and both sides of their relationship were on full display—the loyal, loving side and the taut, competitive side brought on by their fame inequality, the side everyone was hesitant to touch upon lest it spoiled the fun. So many feelings brewed between them during the heat of battle that it was obligatory for them to hug it out afterwards, regardless of the victor. If Mario had to lose to anyone in Smash, then he'd chose to lose to Luigi.
At that moment, the man in green soared through the air and slammed hard into the opponent like a Semi. Before the unfortunate foe could recover, Luigi quickly set them up for a grab and a combo. And Mario could tell by the ferocity of his strikes that this was a kill combo. In a kill combo, Luigi gave it everything he had, breathlessness be d—ned. Whatever energy he'd stored during the match was saved for last. Fire blazed in his face, his power and emotions becoming nice and focused. It was like the finale of a fireworks display. Usually, the audience members rooting for him were on their feet, whooping, yelling and chanting. At this point, nobody cared when Mario started bouncing up and down, cheering as if he was possessed. They didn't care as the volume of his cheers increased. Even the Mii ushers were too enraptured in Luigi's imaginative kill combo to notice Jumpman's animated disposition.
And after the match was finished and Luigi's victory was announced, Mario rushed over to him and enfolded him in a congratulatory hug which left some of his sweat smeared on his red shirt. He didn't mind. He also didn't mind inhaling his baby bro's essence just after a match, seeing those bright eyes, that tousled hair and that heaving chest and feeling the leftover adrenaline inside his body. Compliments spilled forth from Mario's lips, and Luigi always responded by dropping his eyes, blushing, and sheepishly mumbling about practicing. What mattered the most to the green-clad brother was that Mario had been there, watching him and rooting for him and cheering him on. His presence had been the primary source of much needed energy and motivation.
And even if he couldn't attend—either because he was fighting a match of his own or because he was ill—then Luigi would simply think about the times he rescued Mario and the valuable assistance he provided during their adventures together. Curing him of Bean Fever after a perilous journey. Freeing him from eternal imprisonment in portraits. The times during a heated battle where he pulled him from the brink of a crushing defeat. Growing into a fearsome giant to defend him in a recent dreamy adventure. He'd think about how Mario would've lost if it weren't for his quick thinking.
Mario smiled as Luigi headed off for a quick shower. He had quite a heavy lineup today, so he shouldn't get too comfortable. The thought of his baby bro dazzling more audiences with his combos had his heart racing all over again. Maybe he should stop at the commissary to buy some lozenges. Since he'd be able to spectate the rest of his bro's matches, his throat would need some relief after so much passionate cheering.
1.1.1
His mop of blue hair easily concealed the knot on his forehead. The ice relieved the physical pain, but the bitterness of losing—not so much. The odds looked in his favor. He had his Tipper and his Counter and his sword skills. But the victor's spoils had been swiped from him by a lowly peasant! What did he have? Fists? Fire? Power-ups? The bluenette was certain that today would be his day to shine; he'd even dressed for the occasion. But then he'd shown up—that pathetic little peasant had shown up, and ruined everything—after that first butt-slam, he could kiss his shot at victory goodbye! And the worst part? The majority of the audience liked it!
The blue-haired prince swore in Japanese, removing the ice pack from his handsome face and throwing it across the room. "I am of noble birth! He will never usurp me!" he seethed, also in Japanese.
It had been hours since that match, but he hadn't let go of the rage. He'd refused to talk to the peasant who had defeated him or shake his hand. After the defeat, he went to the Training Area and slashed Sandbags for a few hours. Then, he sought the company of his red-haired lover. And finally, he witnessed several others get trounced by that man in green, envy arising in his gut. This was a person he once held in high regard. When he was a newcomer in 2001, the man had told him how he'd conquered his fears to see his brother safe. In 2008, the bluenette had been floored as the normally timid man stood strong against a malevolent being. But that was then, and this was now. He felt nothing but foul scorn and contempt for the plumber who dared to bring him to his knees. During this tournament, the two began to drift apart, and the bluenette's snobby attitude was the reason why.
"Psst, hey," his fiery-haired lover whispered to him. "You're coming tonight?"
"Indeed," he smirked.
That peasant had better enjoy his little oasis while he still could…
1.1.1
In a lavish manor in an undisclosed location where the cool night winds whisked the picturesque landscape in a sleepy little part of town where nobody would notice, there was a gathering going on. A man in a black suit and white tie stood at the front door, smiling and greeting the numerous guests filing inside. This was a quasi-formal social event which drew people in from miles around. Tuxedo clad men had arrived either in limousines or in their own swanky rides, each with a lady wearing an elegant gown on his arm. These guests were fed well, from crudités and cocktail wieners to stuffed chicken breast, poached salmon and smothered steaks and finally a variety of cakes, ice creams and chocolates. Paired with this magnificent feast were the best wines on the market, and it wasn't long before everyone started cutting loose a bit.
But this gathering wasn't completely social. There was some business to attend to. And the business in question concerned a certain endeavor led by the three proprietors of the manor. Their names, from youngest to eldest, were Shane, Manny and Vincent.
One everyone had been sufficiently stuffed with delicious food, Vincent lightly tapped his glass, gaining everyone's attention.
"Thank you, ladies and gentlemen," he said. "Thank you all for coming out and showing me and my brothers that you're still committed to this project. The first order of business on our agenda is to welcome a very special guest."
The man with the blue hair smiled lightly. He had changed clothes and was now dressed in white, his familiar divine sword on his hip. Next to him sat his fiery-haired lover, looking equally anticipated.
"Our guest has valuable knowledge of what we're up against. He's experienced it countless times, along with the humiliation in its aftermath. I personally asked him to come over tonight and say a few words about this horrific blight and why it must be eradicated. Let's all put our hands together for the Prince of Altea and the Hero King, Marth Lowell!"
Calm and dignified, Marth rose and joined Vincent at his seat.
"Good evening," he said.
"Good evening."
"First of all, I'd like to thank Vincent for having me here tonight. And I am here because for the last time, I was bodied and trounced by a mere peasant, a peasant who has stepped out of line. I'm talking, of course, about Luigi.
"Now, Luigi has this thing going on in his head that he's a hero, too, but he was created solely for the Player Two slot. As a faithful sidekick, and nothing more. And all he should've done was to accept it and be happy. But, no. He gets all flustered over his big bro getting most of the credit for their exploits, but let me ask you—who does most of the grunt work? Who would want to give their attention to him? I mean, look at him! He's awkward, he's scared of everything—being a shadow is perfect for him! Well, he seems to think differently, and he convinced Nintendo, too, because they wasted a year on him. Okay, he plucks someone out of a painting. How heroic is that? Is that worthy of a whole year of attention? I think not!
"Okay, getting back to the subject, I have some photos to show you all. These photos were taken from a match earlier today in which Luigi and I faced off. I'm convinced that once you look at them hard enough, then you will share my outrage."
Marth passed the photos to the nearest person at the table, preening at the attention he was receiving. People swore under their breaths, shook their fists, swooned or crossed themselves at the sight of the Altean prince being overcome by the man in green.
"Do you see what is wrong with this picture? He shouldn't beat me!" shouted Marth. "Remember in the good old days when he was considered the worst fighter on the roster? Well, I aim to bring those days back. And it appears that you do, too." He smiled. "We're going to find a way to pull Luigi's pedestal out from under him and send him tumbling back down where he belongs. Perhaps if something happened to that down throw of his, he'd remember his place.
"So, you have a little project going on, eh? Project Nerf, is it? Well, never fear. If you find some way to cut me in, along with the man I love…" He gestured to the redhead. "…then I shall assist you to the best of my ability. Do we have an accord?"
Vincent put a hand on Marth's shoulder. "Marth, you want to crush that man's self-esteem, and so do we. Together, he doesn't stand a chance." Indicating the redhead, he continued, "and don't worry. We'll get Roy in on this, as well. We need as much help as we can get." He nodded. "Welcome to the club, milords."
The plot thickens!
