A/N: Cliche chapter beginning contains a standard issue description of Dreamland's perfect weather.
Also this clusterfuck chapter is secretly a Kirby and Marx chapter slotted in with other significant events.
Chapter 8
Dreamland's weather never failed to please: true to its name, it provided nothing but dream-like days and cool, cozy nights. Lately, however, the peaceful town had been seized by a determination and noise like none other. By the golden light of dawn, the fields nearby King Dedede's castle were abounding with the sound of wooden swords clacking together, excited shouts in a strange language, and the scuffling of feet over grass.
Two individuals, perched on the mount leading up to the now rebuilt castle, overlooked this action with fond smiles.
"I think they're picking it up quickly," said Captain Doo proudly.
"They're certainly enthusiastic," agreed Fumu. A year's passing had grown out her burnt hair about halfway to her ears; she kept it tamed by a green and yellow headband. She hid most of the burns scrawled across her flesh by wearing long sleeves, but those unhidden always made the villagers cringe. Perhaps that was why she spent increasing amounts of time training with or overseeing the orange-outfitted servants – although Captain Doo could think of a few other reasons as well.
Nonetheless, you would never have guessed anything had ever gone wrong, not with her curiously optimistic attitude lately.
"Captain Doo!" up came running one of the many servants, his sword bouncing at his hip.
"Enoch," Captain Doo greeted. "Is the fighting going well?"
"Much, sir!"
"Very well," Fumu corrected: Enoch was one of the few servants that had resolved to learn the English language. Although he had picked it up remarkably fast, his grammar was something to sigh over.
"Oh." Enoch smiled and peered up at her through feathery-light and tawny bangs. "Thank you, miss Fumu."
"You don't need to call me miss, Enoch."
"Sorry, Fumu. Did you want anything to eat or drink?"
Fumu sighed, "You don't need to cook anymore either, silly. You signed up to defend Dreamland; that means you don't need to work in the kitchens."
"But I am a really well cook," Enoch admitted, rolling on his heels. "And I like helping."
Fumu laughed, relenting. "Okay, okay. I'll have lemonade."
"Okay!" Enoch ran off, his little legs churning and the sword bouncing wildly at his hip again.
"He doesn't have much of a taste for war," chuckled Captain Doo.
"Honestly? I don't think any of them do." Fumu leaned back against the grassy knoll, shadowed somewhat by the mammoth castle. She felt her own sword jostle against her back and she shifted her position accordingly. "For our own sake, I hope they never will need to."
Captain Doo folded his arms over his knees; chocolate brown hair fell over his eyes. "I'm scared. I want to look after each of them so badly, but with Meta Knight gone and this war looming…. I'm so scared that I won't be able to protect them all."
"Meta Knight's going to make it better. He's going to get Kirby back, and he'll stop all of this. In the meantime, we just have to do what we can to keep faith."
"I hope you're right," the Captain said, gazing out over the servants that in the end, were so much more like children to him. "I really hope you're right."
Endless perusing with nothing but hope to go on yet again proved to Kirby his naiveté. The books Marx had gotten appeared to be hastily snatched and dumped upon the floor – if Kirby's experience told him anything, it was that Marx had simply stolen them without even pretending to check them out from the library.
As such, he appeared to have just taken the entire section on astrology and maps. Book after book supplied Kirby with large fold-out maps of a staggering number of planets, each with names just as foreign as the next. Confronted with a universe of a size he'd never dreamed, Kirby felt hopelessly powerless.
Never having asked Marx what Dreamland's planet was called, he had no idea what to use as a point of reference aside from Nashira.
Unfortunately, it also took him an obnoxiously long time to locate even Nashira within any of the books. After doing so, he found the nearest body was predictably either of Nashira's two moons, neither of which might be habitable or have starship fuel. Furthermore, he couldn't understand the distance units because they were not similar to Dreamland's units – what were lightyears, what were kilometers? Dreamland had no such terms.
Finally, despairing of his ability to search on his own and yet reluctant to get Marx, he settled with flipping aimlessly through the books. Never, in all his time within Dreamland, had he ever imagined the absolute immensity of the universe. His fingers skimmed over full-color photos of whole galaxies (which were apparently huge collections of solar systems, which were huge collections of planets).
How absurdly unbelievable that he once thought his world was contained to a single town. He'd always known of Dreamland's moon, of course, but never... never really thought about what it was, or why it was there. It had simply never been important; it rose and fell with the night, and had no further mysteries to it.
Observing all these places, imagining all the people, the languages, coins, notes, colors, outfits... On one hand, it was overwhelming. On another, it was... exciting. He wondered placidly if, after he found out all he needed to know about himself and Meta Knight's past, he and Marx could just travel. The wild colors of the world could be manageable and amazing if dispersed properly with the calm familiarity of the Halberd.
Sighing, Kirby folded up the map and neatly stacked all the books. It was probably time to take a leaf from Marx's book and sleep and pretend nothing was going wrong. After all, he hadn't exactly rested since they'd left the planet: Marx had been sleeping enough for the both of them, but it was starting to catch up to him.
Kirby woke an indeterminate amount of time later in complete blackness. Upon realizing he was alone, he remembered that Marx had fallen asleep in the captain's chair. Oops. Probably should have moved him… Kirby skirted around the blanket on the floor deliberately not remembering anything about that whole scenario.
Wandering into the hall, he heard indistinguishable murmuring from the very living room in which Marx had dropped all those books before. Sighing, he followed the sound and peered around the doorway.
It looked like Marx had every single book and map spread in a circle around him on the floor. The jester himself sat cross-legged, leaning over a particularly large atlas that depicted an enormous full color picture of a pinwheel-like galaxy. All around the edges of the page were arrows pointing to solar systems within the galaxy. Every once in a while Marx would flick to the later pages of the book, where there were pictures of the solar systems themselves. Absorbed as he was, he didn't notice Kirby, and continued to mutter under his breath to himself.
"...nonspecific, how is it supposed to be found that way? Doesn't... how big the universe is... asking Marx to... should've made him..."
"Feeling better?" Kirby supplied.
"It's not like I have the… he remembers better anyway."
"I said," Kirby repeated, louder, "are you feeling better?"
Marx flinched so violently as to send torn pages fluttering about everywhere. "Ah." He squinted up at Kirby. "Hey hey hey."
"Did you find the nearest planet?"
"Nearest… Yes. Marx turned the Halberd towards it. Just a matter of time."
Kirby sighed and sat down beside Marx. "Why do you do that?"
"Do what?"
"Talk in third person like that."
Marx's eyes yanked to Kirby's lightening-quick. "Don't you ever?" he smiled vacantly. "Sometimes you just don't want to be yourself."
All the sudden Kirby really wished Marx would just go back to normal. "S-so," he said, "what are you doing now?"
"These are maps," Marx said, gesturing loosely at the mess of papers sprawled across the floor. "Of galaxies, planets – all wide-space. Wide-scale, I mean. I was searching for Halcandra."
Again with that place. If it meant so much to him, why had he never gone before? Why wait to mention it until very recently, and why stay in Dreamland for all the years the Dream Landers claimed him to live there?
It didn't make sense. He'd known about the Halberd long before they'd escaped with it.
Glancing at these maps again, he suddenly recalled Khayla's inquiry – what's the name of your planet? He'd made a mental note to ask.
"Marx?"
The jester did not at first reply. He was bent over a book – with a jolt of unease Kirby saw his lips were moving soundlessly again.
"Marx?
No response.
"Marx!" he grabbed his wrist – instantly, Marx yanked his wrist out of his grip;
"Don't touch me!" Growling, he clenched his fists into his hair, up beneath his hat, and hissed, "It's not anywhere! It doesn't exist! There is no Halcandra."
"Hey," Kirby said carefully, "Take it easy, okay? Breathe deep." Not for the first time, he wished Marx came with an instruction manual. 'How to handle extreme emotional crises', for one thing, would be nice. "This doesn't have to be so bad. You'll find it eventually, you know. You kind of always seem to get what you want in the end."
Marx lurched to his feet, his eyes aflame with mania, his lips pulled back from his teeth. "I always get what I want? I always get what I want? Hah! Oh, Kay, you are rich. Because I wanted to be stuck on this ship with you, without direction or meaning, because I wanted to – gkkk." He shuddered.
"U-um. Marx, please calm down. I didn't mean anything by that, I was just saying... I mean, you got the Halberd, you escaped Nashira, you got…" Me.
"Easy for you to be calm," snarled Marx, jabbing his finger at Kirby savagely, "You have always had everything! You've been spoiled, softened, fed on a silver platter, you righteous heroic Dream Lander. Your birth moved fucking planets, and you just walked around with your head in the clouds like it's the latest- fffff." Marx clutched his chest and curled into himself, legs trembling. His too-long hair fell over his eyes, disguising his contorted expression.
"We never fixed your leg," Kirby realized belatedly, "Marx, did you even clean it out?" But it didn't even need to be asked, because he knew Marx too well. Kirby slowly got to his own feet, holding out his hands placating. "Please… let me help you."
"Help?" Marx threw back his head and laughed. "Please, my dear Kay, tell me how you can help me."
"I can fix your leg at least… and then maybe we can sleep, right? I… I think you need more rest, Marx. You aren't better yet."
"Rest. Better." His teeth ground together, fangs bared, lips pulled back into a morbid facsimile of a grin. "It doesn't help. What's the point of sleeping when you can't dream, Kirby? Huh?"
"Wait. What?"
Marx spread out his fingers, palms facing forward, arms and eyes wide. "I can't dream."
"What? You mean you don't-"
"I never dream." Marx dropped his arms and smiled a small smile, one that somehow managed to look broken.
"Ever?" Kirby said softly. It seemed like such a strange, small thing, to never dream. Something of perhaps little point or meaning. He could not fathom what Marx's dreams would be like, but he could imagine his own, and with a horrible wonder think about what it would be like to never experience them again.
Marx widened that unnatural smile. His eyes lacked any real luster or cheer. He shrugged. "When I go to sleep, Kirby, I see only blackness. No matter what I try-" he gestured blindly at something, events in his past, not all things which Kirby could see, "from sleeping all day, not sleeping for days, thinking about things before I sleep, not thinking about things before I sleep, eating piles of sugar at night, hallucinogens - oh, I don't know - eating enough Narcao to almost kill myself!" His voice reached another octave on the last word before breaking off.
"Oh." Something seemed to shrivel within Kirby. He wasn't sure what to say or do. How to react. Sometimes that happened when Marx told the truth. "Why?" It sounded cold even to his own ears and he cringed.
"Because the world is eeevilll," grinned Marx. "But hey, so am I! So, you know, in the grand scheme of things, I gu-"
Kirby surged forward and wrapped his arms around Marx's torso – the jester froze in place, his hands held at his sides with his fingers spread stiffly.
"I don't forgive you for anything," Kirby whispered softly. "There aren't any excuses for the things you do. But I'm sorry for whatever's happened to you too."
Silence. Long and fragile. If Marx was going to murder Kirby, then Kirby really hoped he would have gotten it over by now and that they were in safe territory.
Delicately Marx touched Kirby's shoulders with the tips of his fingers and pushed him away like a distasteful pet. Though his eyes were narrowed, Kirby could not exactly say they were hostile. "Hm. That's, um…" He cleared his throat. "Clean up these books. Then fix my leg. It hurts like murder. Yes." Still wearing an extremely confused expression, he stalked out of the room.
"How'd it go?" Magolor asked, sauntering up beside Meta Knight.
"He hung up."
"What, like –"
"But not terrible."
Magolor frowned. "He hung up on you but it didn't go bad?"
"No." Meta Knight smiled softly beneath his mask. "It was… good to see him again, if unsettling. And I think I made my message clear." He'd set the seed, at least, of something that must grow well. Meta Knight knew that even the most lost of people could find their way from hell again. And the very thing that inevitably brought all men back was hope. With luck, he'd given that to Kirby.
Finally… after so many months, something was going right. He closed his eyes, and turning, leaned against the control board. Slowly he let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding.
"Hey…" Magolor said softly, "you okay?"
"Relieved," Meta Knight admitted, eyes still closed. "As if my armor is already lighter."
"Ah." Magolor smiled uncertainly. "Sometimes it's hard to tell with your mask in the way. Well, it's good seeing you happy for once."
"Hm?" Meta Knight let one eye open. "Am I not usually?"
"Oh yeah, act like you don't know," Magolor rolled his eyes. "I'm just glad your friend seems to put you in a better mood – even if he did hang up on you. Ah, what was his name again?"
"I had never told you."
"Oh."
Meta Knight stepped away from the control board. Out of habit, he wrapped the cape about himself; meanwhile, his eyes shimmered that emerald green that Magolor had begun to associate with deep thought. "His name," the knight murmured, "is Kirby. He hails from Dreamland."
"Kirby," Magolor echoed. "Interesting name. No relation to the Kirby of the Stars, right?"
Meta Knight stiffened. "You've heard of the legend?"
"Sure. I mean, don't most people know it?"
"No. There is no relation."
Magolor chuckled. "Right, of course. It's just a legend, after all. Sorry, I just-"
"No apology necessary."
"No, don't get all distant and empty again," Magolor growled. "Honestly, Meta Knight, I think you're easier to read than you let on. It can't be healthy to be that tense all the time."
Perhaps he was right. After everything that occurred in Dreamland last year, he'd been more uptight than ever – likely because everything had depended on this one final plan. Or perhaps because you've gotten a soft spot for the warrior of the stars. Meta Knight narrowed his eyes. By his very nature, he'd never expected something like that. It was out of the question, having any sort of fatherly role over anyone. He simply wasn't suited for the caring, the looking after, the tenderness. He was bred for war, and it was war where he belonged.
But it happened anyway, evidently. The stars conspired against – or with – him to make it so.
"I do not intend to be distant," Meta Knight uttered. "It is a consequence of my heritage."
"Your... Ah. You said you weren't from Dreamland. Instead you are…?"
"I'm not in the habit of telling others."
"Aw come on." Magolor spread out his gloved hands. "I'm your friend, right? We've been hanging out for like half a year, and I don't even know your real name, or your identity. Y'know, I've never seen you without your mask!"
Meta Knight smirked. "Neither have I seen you without your scarf."
Magolor floundered. "Um, well. Fantastic point."
"Also, you do know my real name."
Magolor raised an eyebrow. "Meta Knight is your real name?"
"Indeed."
"MK, that's a really crappy name. What were your parents thinking?"
Meta Knight answered, with a gleam of pink in his eyes, "It was not my parents who named me. No… No, it was a friend of mine, although not a friend at the time. I believe he meant it to be demeaning, but with a little help it took another meaning."
"Demeaning?"
"Yes. In the military, it was common practice to use 'knight' as a suffix for one's name. It was nothing but an empty title for lower ranks. Further, 'meta' is a word that generally refers to itself; if given nothing more as reference than an empty, low class title, then that is what I was."
"Meta Knight, I think you need better friends. They don't seem to be very nice to you."
"We were not friends at the time, you must understand. But as I said, the name's meaning did change. There was a very small sect of warriors who adhered to a particular code of conduct. These were the true knights of the military; who fought with honor and courage. I undertook many challenges in order to be called one of their number, and with many hardships I was at last officially knighted and welcomed amongst them."
"Hey, that's impressive. You took someone else's insulting label and used it against them."
Meta Knight nodded, the pink fading from his eyes with the memories. "Yes. Slowly, I proved this man wrong about myself. And in time we forged a bond stronger than I ever expected. He was a brilliant general."
"So…" Magolor squirmed. "I'm kinda curious, MK. It sounds like he named you when you were old enough to fight, but it's not like you can just go through your life until then without having a name, y'know?"
"You can have a number," Meta Knight said, and left it at that. It wasn't a topic he was particularly fond of, and anyway he wasn't willing to divulge that much to Magolor yet.
"Ah." Yet again, Magolor seemed to understand nearly instantly that Meta Knight wanted to speak no more on the subject; for someone who often played the fool, he did have an intelligent mind behind his dark eyes.
Meta Knight smiled indulgingly, although he was sure the effect was lost behind his mask. "It seems almost humorous now. After countless conquests and immeasurable courage in battle, I've proven to be in so many ways ignorant of pure human nature. All of this trouble could have been sideswept if only I had acted differently a year ago."
"Guess we all have regrets, huh?"
"So it seems."
"Honestly..." Magolor lowered his eyes. "I think I have more than I ever imagined when I was younger. I'm eager to make things right. But then... sometimes not so much."
"I hope the eagerness weighs out," Meta Knight said, "for I meant to inform you that the Lor Starcutter's repairs are finished as of this afternoon. We are free to depart at will."
Magolor's light brown face paled. "Oh. Um, well that's wonderful! We can leave pretty soon then, huh?"
"Whenever you are ready."
"We could probably have dinner in the town first."
Meta Knight's brow furrowed. "Magolor, it is three in the afternoon."
"Oh." Magolor rubbed his hands together. "In that case, where is it you wanted to go again; Mekkai, right? The machine planet?"
"Correct," Meta Knight said slowly, "but it seems as though you are reluctant to depart…"
Magolor slumped. "… Do you ever want something really badly, but then the closer you get to it, the more real it becomes and… and you start becoming afraid?"
"I cannot say I have. If I am to want something, I will want it with my entire being. The act of pursuing something is no small thing."
"Oh." Magolor adjusted his scarf quietly.
"If something bothers you so much, I would say that it is not something you ought to be pursuing."
"Your friend," Magolor said suddenly, "the one who named you."
"Yes?"
"If he needed something, no matter what it was, would you help him?"
"I… Yes. Loyalty is of supreme importance to me."
Magolor swallowed. His hands unconsciously played with his scarf, and his eyes darted to the side.
"Is there something wrong?"
"No." Magolor's eyes crinkled into a smile and he dropped his hands. "No, it's fine! You're right, MK. I just need to relax or something."
Kirby tread out of the bedroom and wound his way back to the control deck, lulled by the sound of the five engines. Their effect, as always, was very nearly therapeutic. To them he could always sleep, by them troubles tended to slip away. He slipped through the doors and spotted that multicolored hat above the chair back.
Still sleeping, then.
Silently, Kirby approached and peered down.
Marx's head was tilted back on the chair, his jester hat slipping off and mouth partly opened. The computer screens cast their familiar glow upon his face while painting dark shadows beneath his closed eyes. Kirby sighed. Somehow, seeing Marx sleep always put him in a heavy mood. He looked so unlike himself; peaceful, undisturbed. Innocent. Someone like Marx should never look so innocent when they slept. Yet it never failed to stir Kirby's faith in Marx's rare but existent kindness. That was why it hurt a little: because as soon as morning would come, he would be disappointed.
Kirby fancifully imagined slipping Narcao into Marx's food to have him always peaceful, but he knew he'd never do something like that. Anyway, he didn't think they'd brought any of that stuff on the Halberd. He wondered vaguely how Dreamland was doing, if the nightmares had stopped.
Then a sliver of purple gleamed as Marx opened one eye the slightest bit. The light reflected oddly upon it; created a miniscule moon-like orb. Marx's breathing shallowed slightly as consciousness returned. "Watching me sleep?" His voice was still slow and heavy. "That's in the Stalker's Handbook, Kay."
Kirby allowed himself a small smile. "You would know."
"Only 'cuz I stole it from Meta Knight."
The name stung; a reminder of the past. But Kirby knew that Marx hadn't meant it to hurt this time. "You don't think he'll want that back?"
"Nah. He's got the whole thing memorized anyway."
Kirby laughed quietly. "Your hat's about to fall off, by the way."
"Nuuu... not the hat." Marx pulled it down over his eyes and slumped in the chair. For all intents and purposes, it looked as though he'd gone back to sleep.
"Marx?"
"Mhn."
"Is that chair really comfortable?"
"If you normally sleep on bricks."
"... Sounds pleasant."
Marx shrugged dismissively in response and tugged his hat further down. Daringly, Kirby moved closer and placed one hand on the arm rest, lightly touching Marx's forearm. When there was no protest, he took a deep breath and clambered onto Marx's lap, exceptionally careful not to jostle him. Once there, he simply sat awkwardly with his legs stiffly folded under him, and studied Marx to ensure that it wasn't bothering him.
"You're gonna cut off the circulation in my legs," was the flat comment.
Kirby peeled back the front of his hat just enough that he could see the pair of purple eyes lazily glaring at him. "Seriously," Marx protested, "You're morbidly obese."
"I'm obese?"
"Mmyeppp." Pause. He listened to the hum of the engines for a moment, thinking. Then:
"Can I stay?"
"Depends. If I can't feel my legs in the morning, I have permission to cut off yours."
Kirby carefully considered a reply. "I think I'll take the risk."
"That's what you think now. Just wait till it's morning and you have leg removal on your schedule."
"Tomorrow…" Kirby said softly, "will you help me look through those books?"
"After I take off your legs, maybe." Marx's eyes were definitely clearing. His next words were sharper, "Are you incapable of sleeping?"
"Sorry. Doing that now." Kirby placed the band back over his eyes. Marx stuck out his tongue, but did nothing more. Relieved, Kirby shifted his cramping legs and curled up on Marx's chest. Definitely not the most comfortable thing in the world... but much better than going back to the room alone.
There was a simpler time, where good and evil had clear lines and defenders of freedom never came under question. This was a time of noble and blameless warriors, those that began with Galacta Knight and ended with Sir Arthur. This was a time when the GSA's polished name had not yet been dragged through the mud, and when Holy Nightmare Company, in its fledgling and middle years, was widely known as evil.
Unfortunately, no one had the luxury any more to discriminate so harshly between good and evil.
Something else had risen, something long hidden, something birthed from the primordial chaos of the world, something older than time itself.
Zero Two had tired of things so ephemeral and impulsive. Wars that ended as soon as they began, meaningless bloodshed and sacrifice, betrayal and human emotion. So Zero Two, patient and deliberate, decided to reclaim the universe as his, and in doing so, plunge it back into the infernal darkness it once knew.
At first, his re-emergence did not bring any great concern:
In fact, it seemed almost humorous that this Zero could pose any sort of threat when, after several months of scattered attacks, not a single casualty in the war was attributed to him. He had but a small army, and although Zero several times pitted them against Nightmare's demons or the GSA's soldiers, they never took a single life. They came in, fought, and scattered.
Nightmare laughed and renewed his attacks on the GSA with vigor. Sir Arthur remained dubious but eventually had to admit that the unknown face behind the 'Dark Matter' attacks posed absolutely no threat.
How ignorant they had been, then, like children wandering in the dark. They could have no conception of what Zero was then. They did learn, though... eventually.
See, Zero did not kill. Neither did he need to. He very slowly and very thoroughly destroyed people, without ever touching their physical body.
It took months, years even, for the effects to be noticed, and even longer for the GSA to realize the source. The GSA soldiers that had fought at any time against the Dark Matter soldiers fell into a slow, twisted decline. Motivation vanished, as did strength. Some terrible invisible force wasted their bodies and minds, destroyed willpower, courage, meaning. By the end, they were left as lifeless husks, with no energy to live, and no energy to die, consumed by perpetual negative feelings, incapable of hope or love.
They became, in many ways, a reflection of Zero himself.
Not that they knew that, of course. Zero never made his own appearance known. He wasn't arrogant like Nightmare, or infuriatingly courageous like Sir Arthur. He did not need people to know his name and face – these were petty wishes, beneath him.
He worked now as he had always done, and as he always would do – gradually, meticulously, missing no details and making no mistakes. This was how universes were won.
He almost wished that he could smile at his skill and expert maneuvering, but his thin pale lips only pressed together unhappily. He didn't do any of this because it pleased him. He did it only because he had tired of the incessant noise of humans.
Another person would be proud. Because of him, GSA soldiers fought alongside demons – they both agreed that the preservation of the universe was more important than their immediate desires: Nightmare admitted that he could have no empire if there was no empire to rule over. Zero had united two forces with such a deep-rooted hatred. But Zero did not know pride, or pleasure.
He simply… thought it would be nice, if we all could just cease existing.
A/N: Magolor. Mags. Fucking maggylaggyagolor. So damn exited.
