Author's Notes: Don't ask. I don't even know.

Warnings: Nonsensical fantasy, hierarchy and politics, and unbeta'd.

Pairing: 0-11/4.

Disclaimer: I don't own Super Smash Brothers.

Summary: A collection of one-shots (drabbles) in the genre of speculative fiction. Alternative universes in every sense of the term. -Yaoi, slash: Ike/Marth-

Chapter Inspiration: [Card ranking and symbolism AU]. As the assassin broke through his study's window, he thought this had to be the end of his reign.


Speculative Impromptu

09. Trump Card

By SSBBSwords


He couldn't recall the precise date on which he had visited the Kingdom of Clubs, but he did have a vague memory of being handed a rose by the court jester during a banquet performance. Joker or not, the man had authentic sleight of hand skills, which the other had conveyed by pulling out the silly red thing for him from seemingly thin air. As further evidence, the masked individual then handed his queen her crown, which absolutely dumbfounded him, because he knew how many decorations held that metal piece in place.

"I like your tiara," the man whispered in his ear while passing him en route to entertaining the next seated couple. Their fingers brushed as the object in reference was slid back into his hands, which were folded in his lap along with the ostentatious flower.

As the other left his vicinity, he heard his queen giggle beside him. "How clever," she mused, rotating the custom-made metal headpiece in her hands like an alien specimen, "but could you please help me put it back on?"

Setting the rose on the tabletop and his royal emblem back on his head, he stood to have the necessary height to fix the crown back into the Queen of Swords' hair.

They were in the Kingdom of Clubs for no more than a week, as the region had been celebrating the inauguration of a new Ace. By his observations, the newcomer did not seem particularly impressive (but it was a role that understandably required some growing into), so he made sure not to verbalize any of his mental comparisons with his own Ace (who had an impenetrable history with the Queen, but that was neither here nor there).

"How was Clubs?" the Jack of Swords had asked him upon their return.

"Fine," he replied, having noticed nothing out of the ordinary between perfunctory meetings.

"I heard," his advisor began, "the internal politics are unstable." The other leveled a searching gaze as if to read the answer off his face. "Any signs of conflict?"

"Nothing I could have seen," he answered and added curiously, "From whom did you hear this?"

"Queen of Coins," the Jack informed, "but perhaps it is too early to tell."

He had agreed and forgotten all about the neighboring kingdom's rumored strife long enough to be completely bewildered upon being ambushed by his Ace one afternoon. The man found him in the treasury with his accountants and budget-in-progress. "The castle is going on lockdown," the Ace stated without preamble, "and you may want to arm yourself."

Nodding to dismiss his subjects, he turned his full attention to his Ace and asked, "What happened?"

"Fool of Clubs escaped two nights ago and has been seen in our city," reported the other, tension overt by means of the Ace's clenched jaw.

"Understood." They exited and before they separated down different corridors, he asked, "The archers?"

"I'm joining them now."

Barely ten minutes later with armor just cinched, he pivoted sharply when he heard the soft padding of footsteps behind him. The Queen smiled at him, whose hand had instantly gripped his sword handle by his hip. Her posture remained regal, but her garb screamed guarded, what with the metal-embellished appearance and flat footwear. She tossed an amulet at him with only a parting, "If you need me," before she disappeared around the bend with a sparkle of lingering transport magic.

The protocol for such a situation required the leaders of the castle to be strategically located apart from one another in order to avoid a group assassination. He had a few options to go in the likelihood of a lockdown, completely independent and isolated from those of the Queen, Jack, or general counsel. Any one individual therefore would not be able to disclose another's location even in the event of threatening force.

So when the perpetrator crashed through the study window, a cold wave of panic washed over his body, despite how adept he was with a sword. His rule was going to be overthrown in the dark recesses of scrolls and moonlight and he couldn't quite bring himself to appreciate the poetic backdrop. Sword unsheathed, he could at least be grateful that his eyes had since adjusted to the dim environment.

"Hello, Your Highness," the shadowy outline of a figure greeted while shaking shards of glass out of a billowing cape. "Or is it Your Majesty? I never quite figured it out…" the other trailed off conversationally and pushed back the hood of the obscuring fabric.

"You—you're," he lowered his blade a fraction in surprise, "the jester." To think that the man had held a formally ranked title amongst the Clubs court was shocking.

There was a flash of reflected light off the other's teeth as the man gave a crooked smirk. "Nice evening, huh, King?"

He hefted his weapon back up and stabilized his defensive stance. Keeping his voice firm, he ordered, "Tell me what the Fool of Clubs wants with the Kingdom of Swords."

"Technically, I was the Ace before I burned those bridges," the other corrected, seemingly having no qualms about speaking so informally to royalty. As to punctuate the statement, the cloaked man pulled aside the swathed cloth to expose some collarbone, completely disregarding the fact that there wasn't enough light to see the supposed symbol.

His discomfort slowly converted to terror. He didn't have the confidence to best an Ace in battle. "You…"

"Yeah," the rogue fugitive interrupted unabashedly, eyes flashing while turning in place to take in the study's décor, and confirmed, "I disposed of the last Ace." The escaped convict used a gloved hand to brush broken glass from his desk. "Got in my way, so…" The man shrugged impassively. "Anyway, sorry 'bout your window."

"What do you want," he repeated, secretly cringing at this frail variation of his original question but yet managing enough to present it with no inflection.

"Neighborly love," the runaway answered, one sweeping hand finding the closest unlit oil lamp and striking a match to it. With the casting of a weak but warm glow into the study, the man looked up at him and grinned. "What's that called in fancy terms?"

"Political asylum," he breathed out, a touch more relieved than he should be, considering the consequences of what the future held should the Kingdom of Swords protect this individual.

With a monosyllabic murmur of agreement, the taller man crossed the length of the room and, upon coming close enough, fearlessly lowered his sword arm. "I knew you'd understand."

Affronted at the other's bold invasion of personal space, he retorted, "And if my kingdom doesn't?"

The culprit's lips twitched upward as the ex-Joker swiftly pulled his crown out from beneath well-worn folds of travel fabric. "Let's hope they do."


-fin-


Author's Notes: Impressions, questions, ideas all welcome!

Chapter Hints: Italo-Spanish/Latin suits, Order of the Trumps (tarot), French/Italian feudal class.