Disclaimer: Characters and settings are copyright to Nintendo, save for Snake, who's Konami's man and Sonic, who is Sega's.
Disclaimer 2: I do not consider myself a professional player of Smash Brothers, and I do not consider this story to be an accurate representation of advanced gameplay. While I refer to numerous instances of professional play, most elements of gameplay have been amended, removed or developed upon for the purposes of creating a believable and enjoyable work of fiction. For any comments that state the inaccuracies of this fic's tier list of choice, the impossibility of Link besting other characters or other remarks in this vein, the owner of said comments will be politely directed back to this disclaimer.
A/N: A big, heartfelt shout out to my gorgeous muse and beta, Crazy Foxie, for her immeasurable help in proofreading and helpfully bouncing and perfecting my ideas. There really wouldn't be a story without her. Any remaining errors are solely my own.
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THE EULOGY
AND
THE UNSUNG HERO
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o-o-chapter 9 – the dead frame-o-o
The guilt kicked in perhaps an hour after he had issued the directive. In an uncharacteristically graceless move, Master Hand crossed the cluttered floor of his command centre, promptly tripped over a cluster of cables and fell on his face. He sat there, gripping his injured ankle and swearing through his teeth. In the wake of silence, of the absence of empathy, concern or contact, he slumped against the back of the chaise longue and ruefully admitted, he really shouldn't have sent that directive.
Smash Brothers' Master Hand was Crazy Hand MK-II, an improved and fully functional robot whose pilot sat in a multidimensional jail cell with a computer screen for his vision and four joysticks as his wheels. He controlled the entire franchise of Smash Brothers from his sofa, had never set foot in the Grounds, had never met a single employee or Smasher in person, had never developed any relationship that was bond enough to make him care.
Prior to the start of the Second Tournament, Master Hand interviewed Marth Lowell – and he never forgot how it went. He remembered how he had painted the prince as haughty as any other royal, until the door opened and Marth marched in, up the hall, right in front of the whirring machinery of fingers; and as though he really didn't know – or mind – what was in front of him, the prince looked past the dead frame of the robot into the eyes of his real face, and then Marth Lowell – the only one ever to do so in Master Hand's three year reign – shook his giant hand.
-x-
In the wake of the continuing Qualifying matches, I come downstairs the next morning to a frenzied rush of people running so late, I find myself breathless just watching them.
"Why has Fox left his headset behind?" Samus. She tosses the item to an unsuspecting Peach, and Mewtwo ends up psychically catching it. "You'll have to find a way to return that at the Grounds without rousing suspicion. I'm going to the garage to try again. Third time lucky, I hope."
"Have Fox and Falco left already?" I ask a harried Falcon.
"We all should have left by now," he says, "but I'm trying to find my wallet, Peach has lost her phone and the gunship's struggling to read Hylian coordinates so Samus is stressing over it."
"Can I do anything to help?"
Falcon's nose wrinkles a tad and he shakes his head. "Don't worry about it, Link, this kind of disorganisation is normal." He thrusts a plate of buttered toast into my hands. "Here. Go sit in the kitchen and enjoy your breakfast."
Although I'm somewhat resentful at being cast aside, I decide to listen to him anyway. I know next to nothing about a gunship and with Mewtwo psychically sending sofa cushions and work papers through the air, I am only too glad to be out of harm's way.
I sit on the barstool and feeling quite proud of being with the times, I manage to aim the remote at the television and switch it on. A newscaster addresses me sternly from her seat.
"—have reached a record high. Authorities in this quadrant of space have stressed the importance to curb the galactic unrest, but they remain adamant that the events are not a sign of things to come. The Galactic Federation announced yesterday—"
I chew on my toast, watching the shaky footage of a crumbling building behind the newscaster.
"—tells me just to ring it but how can I? It's switched off!" Peach flounces into the kitchen with Mewtwo not far behind. "Oh hey, Link," she says vaguely. "You haven't seen my phone have you? It's small and pink."
"I'll keep an eye out for it," I reply.
An invisible force grips the television remote and Mewtwo wordlessly changes the channel. There is an odd moment that follows, where Peach pauses her search and straightens up to look at Mewtwo and then the television.
"The Galactic Newsbeam's that programme with the turquoise logo in the top left corner," she says after a moment. "It rather looks like a flying saucer. Perhaps I can ask you a favour, Link?" She leans on the kitchen table and adopts a pleasant expression to mask her unease. "Avoid the Galactic Newsbeam if you can. It's a channel that thrives on doom and gloom and it doesn't portray our world in a favourable light. I want to shield you from that."
"A-all right then." I nod quickly, and Peach beams.
"Wonderful! Right, I need to find my phone. No, no, you stay there," she giggles, as I try to get up and help. "Once you've finished your breakfast, then you can help out. Samus might appreciate any help with her ship. Sometimes she just needs a person to complain at in order to work out how to fix the problem."
She starts to search the fruit bowl, rolling apples and oranges across the kitchen surface. "Your entrance theme to the Qualifying games is nice, isn't it?" she remarks conversationally. "I sent the base notes to the sound technicians, who reworked it into a memorable piece. What was that song?"
"The Song of Time," I answer. I shift awkwardly in my seat. "…It doesn't mean anything now. But it used to."
Peach's gaze softens. "You were subjected to a cruel fate," she comments, but there is no disdain of Hyrule to her voice. "Still, you're all right now, aren't you? You're an intergalactic celebrity! You should see how the media ranks you, you're—oh! You found it!" She takes her phone from Mewtwo's suspended hold. "Where was it?"
"In the fridge," Mewtwo replies sternly, not unlike an old man scolding his favourite grandchild. "In addition, there was a leaking yoghurt tube in your handbag. Might I suggest that in future, you confuse your phone with something less messy."
He remains effortlessly straitlaced, even as Peach and I have to avert our gazes in a bid to control our snickers.
-x-
Peach's friend Daisy, although being employed as Epona's carer, doesn't know the truth behind Summertime. This is probably why she leaps to embarrassing conclusions as I take Epona out to the paddock to meet her (over choosing to be on the receiving end of Samus' stress). The princess is already geared up in riding boots and a body warmer.
"You do know why Peach is doing all this for you, don't you?" Daisy runs a hand through Epona's mane and smiles from beneath the shadow of her riding cap. "Renting a paddock for your pony, giving you a plush villa for your sponsors…" Her eyes shine with mischief. "She fancies you! Trust me, she's gonna nab you for herself and make you Prince of Mushroom Kingdom once you eventually retire from the Tournament." Daisy jabs herself with a thumb. "You heard it first from me!"
"I doubt it," I reply (and also hope). "She's just helping me out as her job as Director. I'm…well, I'm a fish out of water. I don't really fit in this world."
Daisy shakes her head and gives me an odd, despairing look, as though I'm a child who has just proclaimed he can fly. "Well, I imagine it really helps that you're a good looking fish out of water," she says, coaxing a resigned smile out of me. "Right, I'll take her then, shall I?" She tugs Epona's reins from my clenched hands with surprising strength.
Something pulls at me from inside, that locks my knees and makes breathing suddenly a conscious effort. Like Peach, Daisy seems incredibly skilled in reading people's expressions. "First time going back home without her? Don't worry, she'll be all right. I'll take good care of her, and your sponsor will take good care of you."
"Thanks, I appreciate it."
Daisy takes Epona away for her daily exercise, and I wait a few moments for the redness in my cheeks to subside. To me, Peach's behaviour channels more of a fussing relative than a besotted girl, but Daisy's proclamation does leave open a certain set of doors in the back of my mind.
When Daisy is out of sight, I delve for my magazines and stop turning the pages whenever I come across a frozen shot of Samus and Marth. Now that I think about it, they seem incredibly close, even for best friends.
"Ready?" Samus emerges from Summertime's side door, calling down the paddock. She has her power suit on, and when I run to join her, its shadow completely engulfs me.
"I'm ready." I sling my bag over my shoulders and follow her round the back of the house to the garage.
"I finally got it fixed. I had to re-jig most of its core settings to accept the new coordinates and then do a complete system reboot, but it got there in the end. Bloody thing has no logic to it whatsoever." She whacks the side of her ship in punishment. It's significantly smaller and stranger looking than the Flyer, and on Samus' command, it drops a circular entrance pad. I follow her inside. "I have to warn you, my gunship goes faster than the Flyer."
In all honesty, Samus hasn't done much to personalise the cockpit. It boasts a board of complicated, illuminated controls, but where the Flyer had posters, plants, files and boxes of biscuits, the shelves of Samus' ship are painfully bare. My designated seat (next to her, disconnected from the controls) feels crisp and new, as though the gunship is as alien to company as it is to itself. The air has the faint tinge of fuel in its aroma and taste. However, in the corner of the pit, there is a sword propped up against the wall, encrusted with two jewels and a curved hilt. I realise now, more than ever, how she truly cannot let him go.
Samus' warning is confirmed when we take off for Hyrule. Unlike the Flyer, her gunship takes off vertically, powered up by three pads beneath it. As the view from the front window becomes obscured by clouds, I decide not to tell Samus her ship reminds me of a sea creature diving the wrong way, but ask instead, "What was your relationship with Marth?"
She keeps a hand on a lever, shifting lower in her seat. She bends her legs so that her feet rest on the control pad. Although it is difficult to see past her bulky suit's shoulder, I know she is smiling. "He was my best friend. Did you think it was something more?"
"Well, I just thought…" I falter and try to rephrase my words into something coherent. "I actually think you both look good together. And you seemed very close to him. I thought…well, that you might have been in love."
Her upper lip curls. "I know the media likes to romanticise our relationship, promoting the lonely ice huntress and the prince swooping in to her rescue, but Marth had a girlfriend back in Altea. A girlfriend who doesn't even know he's dead, actually," Samus says on a grim note. She scowls and spares a glance at me, and I'm suddenly afraid of being in such close proximity. "For one thing, I don't steal guys and secondly, Marth was far too exuberant for my tastes."
And for the rest of the journey, I shamefully hide behind my tabbed magazines and write notes on maps, battle customisation and the basics of advance tactics.
-x-
The gunship seemingly tumbles out the sky during landing. Rather than a smooth and gradual descent into Hyrule, Samus hits a few dangerous looking keys on the panel and lets the gunship drop. It gathers more and more momentum, such that I honestly think my insides are going to fly out of my mouth. Down and down, through a mass of smoky clouds, and I grip the armrests and hang on for dear life, and just when I think we're going to crash land in Death Mountain of all places, there is the relieving sound of air bursting underneath the gunship. We land quietly, without even the faintest bump.
I let out a painful breath I had no idea I had been holding in.
"That," says Samus flatly, "was for assuming – like everyone else – that Marth was my boyfriend."
"…I'll never assume it again," I manage weakly. I slump back in my seat and subtly check around myself to make sure I haven't made any sort of mess.
Samus flashes a light, easy smile at me. "Good. We've landed close to Kakariko Village. In fact, it's the exact same spot as when we first picked you up, since the coordinates were transferred from the Flyer's travel log."
She releases the exit door. For the first time in months, fresh air greets my face as I clamber out the ship and jump into the wild grass of Hyrule Field. Straightaway, loose blades stick to my tunic and a lone bee darts past my cheek. It's quiet, static and normal. Put against the bustling streets of the Grounds' square and the tram stops of Mushroom Kingdom, it's unexciting and forgettable.
Hyrule is now engulfed in the shadow of the rest of the universe and her galaxies, but it was once enough for me – and it should continue to be so. Wrapped in this assurance, I hold my hand out for Samus to take. She drops from her ship without my assistance, and flicks off her power suit to land in her form-fitting uniform.
She straightens up and then fits her hand into mine. It's a solid movement, as fluid and certain as her confident steps. "Okay, so what's on in Hyrule?"
"Not much, really," I say truthfully. "The biggest event we host is the spring festival, which isn't anything compared to the Tournament."
Samus doesn't seem bothered by this fact. "You could give me a tour of the village," she suggests.
"Uh…yeah, all right." I fretfully try to scramble together some sites worthy of attention as we head towards Kakariko Village. Samus appears unused to the wild grass, for her pace is heavily slowed and irregular, to the point I can walk faster than her. She glances around at the open grass areas that serve as the streets; at the small houses bordering them with peeling paint and laundry thrown haphazardly over the fence; at the piles of chopped wood and barrels of fresh apples.
"Now I know how you feel when you're at the Grounds," Samus murmurs. "Like a fish out of water." She examines a wooden sign barely hanging on its post, and she raises an eyebrow at the angular Hylian text. A group of children slow their walking pace, and they stare behind them at Samus' shimmering uniform long after they have passed us.
Her nose wrinkles a little and I quickly respond, "I know it's different to what you're used to. I know it's not modern or advanced—"
She cuts in with a mere shake of her head, skilfully rendering me silent. "You don't get skies like this where I'm from." Samus jerks her head to gesture upwards. "These skies are clear and vast, no blemishes on the horizon. No zeppelins advertising the latest health fad, no contrails or searchlights or overpriced space shuttle cruises. It's nice." She observes me from behind her fringe. "Hyrule actually feels like a home, and not a place so busy and self-absorbed that we never stop to realise we're lost."
"You're kind to regard Hyrule in such a way." We head up the inn's steps so that we can drop off our bags.
"I'm guessing you don't think too highly of it then, after the way it treated you." Samus ducks through the doorway and her hand slides out of mine at the sight of the innkeeper. It surprises me how easily a resigned smile of defeat can come to my face.
"Something like that," I admit.
"Link!" the innkeeper's wife, Tara, exclaims. "You were gone a long while. Don't worry, I haven't rented out your room – I always figured you'd wander back here eventually! A friend?" She nods to Samus politely.
"Yes. This is Samus."
Tara looks at the zero suit with her brow furrowed, and though I know she is likening Samus to a deformed Zora, she remains polite enough to refrain from commenting. "Welcome, Samus," she says instead. "Is it your first time in Kakariko Village? There's plenty to do around here. Today the village market is open – you should take her, Link! You won't see fresher food in Hyrule."
It is a suggestion I have heard countless times, but this is the first occasion where I feel uncomfortable by – and even go as far as resenting – the inadequacy of Hyrule, where the embodiment of thrill is a cluttered marquee with overpriced vegetables under its brim. As such, once we are out of earshot, I tell Samus we'll give the market a miss because it really isn't that interesting. However, Samus doesn't concede so easily, and she strays from my side to follow the animated chatter of the village's central square.
The market is bustling (although when I say this, I admit the crowd of eager shoppers is about a fifth of the crowd who loiter around the Grounds' entrance) and a lot of gazes tear from vegetables on sale to stare at Samus. I imagine that even if she was dressed like the rest of us, she'd still receive attention. She stands a head taller than anyone else and when she talks, her accent is jarring. Still, her eyes flicker with a sprig of mischief and mild amusement as smitten farmers try to sell handfuls of their products to her.
"Here," I say, correctly deciphering the slight waning of her smile. I tip some Rupees into her hand and she uses them to buy an orange.
We wander out the village and sit at the edge of the stream. Away from her role as my sponsor and coach, away from prying eyes and curious fans of Smash Brothers, she is surprisingly relaxed. Her shoulder muscles soften and as she peels the orange and cleanly halves it, she tilts her head to look at me.
She hands one half to me. "Mewtwo has access to all of the records of the Tournament Grounds," she says, not quite feigning spontaneity. "The Museum log says you visited them five days ago."
I look up, meeting her gaze head on. "I'm still wondering why you didn't tell me you were a two time Champion."
For a fraction of a second, she looks deadly, haughty. Then, she seeks refuge in her orange, taking one segment and nibbling on it. "You're wondering why I delayed it as long as possible to admit I was the Smash queen of tools?"
"Is that what you call yourself?" I tear my gaze away from the empty stretch of Hyrule Field. I almost laugh in disbelief. "You won the Tournament two times…! You're a legend. There have been whispers all over the Grounds from the beginning, saying how the Tournament has been lacking this year. I had no idea that by losing you, Smash Brothers lost its projectile expert and a Champion. You're the best fighter of us all."
She smiles, but there is nothing happy behind it. Together, we study her rippling reflection in the water. I am convinced I'm looking at something of fragile beauty, but Samus stares down as though she wishes for nothing more than to gut the stream like a helpless fish.
"And on the other hand, what do people like Ike say about me?"
I shift, nervous. "Well…er…"
Samus nudges my ribs with an elbow. "You don't have to feel embarrassed on my behalf. I know the kind of person I was."
I remain unconvinced. "You shouldn't call yourself a tool. Why would you disregard your accomplishments so quickly?"
Samus shifts to sit cross legged. "You're asking the wrong things. What you need to be asking is how the Smash Brothers Tournament reached an intergalactic level in a matter of months. Not only that, you need to be asking how a Tournament that sold itself to Mushroom Kingdom by claiming to be a game of unity, somehow bred a horde of vicious fighters who couldn't spell unity if someone shouted out the letters to them. Master Hand has twisted a pipeline dream of intergalactic harmony into a money making scheme where people all across the galaxy scream for more blood and humiliation. I'll tell you how: it started with me."
Her hands fall limply to the side and for a moment, she looks as though she might finally give in to her well-practised stoicism, but she skirts just shy of the start of truth. "Master Hand needed someone who'd eventually change the tune of the Tournament. He strung me along, used me and my career as a galactic huntress because he knew I had no other purpose than to fight. Why do you think I didn't shake hands with Smashers, why I didn't indulge in the perks of stardom? Master Hand trained me into a fighter, not a celebrity. He simply magnified the degree of coldness I had in me and made it twist the Tournament into a business."
My reply is swift, automatic, honest. "I don't think you're cold."
She appears wounded by my words. "Well…Marth," she explains vaguely. We fall into a sudden – albeit comfortable – silence. She just eats the remainder of her orange, while I observe the fragments of sun that skate down the stream. My stomach twists with the resonating echo of Samus' words, at one particular word.
"Before you think of it," Samus says abruptly, "no, you're not a tool. You're a member of our crew and our friend."
I chew my lip and let my thoughts wander. Perhaps I have always been a tool to Zelda, to Ganondorf, to the Sages and Samus and Master Hand. A means to an end, a stepping stone, a carefully constructed machine called a hero. Then I think of how long I have wished for a purpose, and how purposes – no matter their origin or nature – often grow into ambitions. One seemingly trivial purpose may eventually flourish into a dream.
"I don't think anyone in Smash Brothers is a game piece," I say finally. "You argue that the whole Tournament is a farce and we are just cogs to one machine. But if you fight the influences and the people who try to change you, if you know there's more to you than Smash Brothers, then you can hardly call yourself a tool."
"That's pretty much what Marth said," Samus says, and she adds with a light smile, "although he was far less eloquent."
In that instant, I understand why Samus had mellowed over time. She is someone of self doubt, no matter how high she keeps her chin, how square she sets her shoulders. Marth must have been able to ease her worries just like that, and now in the wake of his death, her niggling thoughts of being an empty shell are eating her up inside.
"Come on." I leap to my feet and pull Samus up by her arm. "I don't know what I was talking about earlier – there's so much to do in Hyrule. Are you afraid of heights?"
She blinks, nonplussed. "Link, I just piloted you across six dangerous space quadrants renowned for tempestuous supernovas, and at thirty thousand feet."
I point to Kakariko's windmill. "Can you climb, then?"
"You know what," Samus says around a smile, "I'll race you."
-x-
Samus and I end up exploring the majority of Kakariko, right to the foot of Death Mountain. I tell her about the Well of Three Features and the monster that had been locked beneath it, somewhere in the folds of time; I teach her how to pick up Cuccos without chasing them in circles and hold them comfortably; as the sun starts to set, I take her to the stream again and show her how to fish; and just as the sun melts into the horizon, we sit in the graveyard and throw ghost stories into the cool air of dusk.
I learn many things about her today, different facets and meanings and levels to her behaviour. I take Cucco feathers out from her hair and she manages to smack my ribs with the fishing rod in panicky response to a bite; and though the whole afternoon has been the peaceful remedy needed to calm my Tournament nerves, there is one moment in particular that lingers.
From the sloped, sturdy top of Kakariko windmill, the view is spectacular. The sunset transforms the brown roofs to giant scarlet plates, and it filters through the thin panelling of the windmill's blades as they cut through the sky in front of us.
I have sat like this before, watching the day give in to the night, but it had been with a different horizon, a different person. For some unfathomable reason, I remember Marth and the way he used to chew the edge of his gloves and scold himself afterwards for being so openly hesitant. The more I think about him, the more I recall knowledge of his existence. I keep asking myself, have the Goddesses become an intangible conduit, connecting me to Marth?
Though I know the counter evidence is right in front of my eyes, as Samus' tired default expression of masked grief, I cannot help but half wonder, half hope, that Marth might actually be alive.
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END CHAPTER 9
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A/N: I've actually been concentrating more on the next chapter as that's where it starts to dig into the plot. There are hints here and there as to where this fic is heading, but I'll leave that to you to find out :) As always, thank you to the kind people who read and especially review this fic. Your support and encouragement does wonders for my motivation to keep this fic going. Thanks for reading this far! Comments and feedback will be most gratefully received.
~B
