T Minus 22 Days

Why was Luigi so good in Smash nowadays?

Practice.

Lots and lots and lots of practice.

Just because he had those awesome combos didn't make him better than everyone else, after all. His combos were only as good as the effort he put into them.

And so, after breakfast, before his first match of the day, he'd hit the Training Room and warm up on a Sandbag.

In between matches, he'd practice as well. He couldn't practice his throws on the Sandbag, but he could practice the nifty little set-ups for a grab. One of his favorites was a fireball into a jab or jab lock. It was such an easy set-up. The hitstun from the fireball, especially, would give him time to grab. And if the opponent shielded, then he could poke through their shield with a crisp kick before grabbing.

Sometimes, he'd practice throwing out his aerials as quickly as possible, sharpening his reaction time. He had to make sure his n-air was polished—it was a c-c-c-c-combo breaker! The flying kick was a long-lasting move which came out relatively quickly, and he could fast-fall and counterattack. People thought they had him—till he escaped with his Golden Leg! That was his pet name for his n-air—the Golden Leg. His Combo Breaking Golden Leg.

For hours and hours, Luigi would practice combos and setups on the sturdy Sandbags. His iPhone would blare hardcore workout hits, and when he was by himself, the volume would be as loud as his eardrums could tolerate. His breathing would whistle sharply from his mouth. Sweat would shine on his face and neck. And on his face would be an intense, focused expression, eyes narrowed and flashing. Body dodging and weaving as limbs lashed out, quirky scuttle jumps propelling him into the air. He'd work the Sandbag relentlessly, and when the canvas started to wear, he'd start in on another one.

About halfway in, he'd get hot enough to the point he'd unbutton his overalls, pull off his sopping shirt and then re-clasp the overalls, using the green garment as a sweat towel. Then, he'd really lunge into his workout, allowing himself a few open-mouthed breaths and increasing the power, speed and drive behind his blows. Warm, sticky perspiration oozed down his upper chest and slid beneath his overalls, coating and forking down his arms. The windows were always open, sending a breeze to cool him. He felt lulled by the breeze and by the sensation of the sweat rolling off him.

Luigi enjoyed training to better himself. It was a good time to think about things and about certain people in his life. Preferably aggressive things he needed expelled from his system. If he had a fight with someone, this was how he cleared his head. If his mind was all over the place, this was how he unscrambled it. It felt good, and when he was finished, he felt completely relaxed. Most of the time, he'd find a good rhythm and then close his eyes, letting the music and his motions fill him, releasing himself until he could barely land another strike. Then, he'd sit against a wall, sports drink in hand, feeling the layers of sweat drying on his skin. The cool wall against his back. His breathing slowing to a normal pace. His thoughts, rearranging. No Smasher appreciated this kind of release like him.

There were people who liked to peek in and watch him train. The ladies would mill around, not paying that much attention until that shirt came off, and then they'd giggle amongst themselves and drink in his surprisingly fit physique as he went at the Sandbag, cords of muscle flashing across his chest, muscles in his pumping arms flexing, tensing and relaxing, his shoulder blades working. And then that face, that adorable face, flushed, forehead decorated with strands of hair, glued there by sweat. Tracks gliding from his forehead to his nose, tracing his cheekbones, cheeks and jawline, dipping down his chin, neck and finally his chest. The cadence of his hits and his dipping body, skin flashing and shimmering in the sun and the sound of his whistling breaths made the ladies breathless themselves. The guys would be dumbstruck by Luigi's strength and his low, emphatic, masculine grunts. Their mouths would gape open, and they'd whisper among themselves as he wore down Sandbag after Sandbag, enviously drinking in his sweat-slathered form and his combo strings and the way he bit back his exhaustion. He had a lot of resiliency for a timid man!

He didn't really mind. Let them watch. Let them see what the lean, green fighting machine could do. Let the guys stew in their jealousy. Let the gals watch with wide-eyed adoration. Let them see. Let them all see. If one of the onlookers came forward and offered to spar, then he'd happily accept.

He'd always practice his down throw combos with a sparring partner, setting up for a grab as soon as possible. Studying their reactions to see if he could read and tech chase, waiting for them to get frustrated and make mistakes or just stalk away, muttering about him. Luckily, that didn't happen. The onlookers were eager to help him improve his combo game. The aggressive spars would move all over the Training Room, blows flying steadily between them, pushing each other further and further. The men would take off their shirts as soon as the spar began, but the ladies would wait awhile. Some would try to imitate his fighting style, with varying results. They'd try to avoid or deflect his grab attempts. But their evasive maneuvers served to help Luigi devise better set-ups. However frustrating things became, the sparring partners continued to try and outwit and outmaneuver him, which continued to give him more ideas to counter, which—well, you get the idea. If only some Smashers in an actual battle would be like that—

Today, the Training Room wasn't very crowded, since the majority of Smashers were engaged in the bulk of their bouts. Only a few Miis occupied the room, casually swinging at Sandbags or at each other. Little Lauren had a taller Mii named Grace engaged in one section, while two Miis named Amelia and Zach took turns with a Sandbag. Other Miis were present to supervise or re-stock Sandbags.

In other words, it was relatively quiet.

The Miis paused when they heard Luigi come in. It was obvious that something was on his mind that he didn't want to talk about right now. His mouth was a tight line, his face was a little pink and his step was quite brisk. Grace and Lauren stopped their spar, exchanged a nod, and filed out, followed by Zach, Amelia and the rest of the Miis. The last one to leave dutifully closed and locked the door after them.

Luigi wasted no time hooking up his music and launching at a group of fresh Sandbags. He even decided to go ahead and discard his shirt before he even got started. Mouth clenched, eyes flashing, breaths in angry bursts, heavy blows meeting Sandbags, the aggression flowed like wine. And all he could think about was—Falco, Falco, Falco.

That bird, who was so sorry for what he did, couldn't even broach the subject to Mario and Peach, shirking away from them whenever they were around. The blue-feathered avian, chatting him up whenever he had the chance, had nothing to say to the red-capped elder brother on the matter, keeping their conversations short or making sure that someone was sitting between him and Mario in the cafeteria. Luigi knew what he was doing, and there was no way in the Inferno that Falco was gonna weasel his way out of a confrontation with Jumpman or his Princess. Seeing that bird in the stands with a puppy-dog expression on his face, Luigi's feelings toward him jumped up to a broil. Decked out like a sports fan, voicing and gesturing his support—but his eyes saying something else. Disdain. The plumber had fought Fox earlier, and he, too, had a rocky history with the man in green. In the first tournament, Fox was fourth on the tier list, just below Falcon, and joined the racer in tormenting the so-called "last-place loser". His nasty attitude worsened in Melee, when the vulpine was considered a god. Fox had hosted lavish parties, rode around in his own limo with Falco and considered the mid and low-tier fighters beneath him, especially Kirby, poor little Kirby—what the little puffball had eventually been driven to do—Luigi would never forget it, nor would he ever forget how he used his own experience to build Kirby back up. But that's a different story.

Anyway, Falco had sat in the stands, well away from Mario, of course, watching his leader duke it out with his estranged Brooklyn buddy. The latter could smell that the avian was secretly rooting for the former. He thought he could see his beak scrunch up each time he put the vulpine in a combo, gamely masking his apparent disgust with shallow, hollow cheers for Luigi. It was so paper-thin that the man in green saw right through him. Of course, he was rooting for Fox. It was him and Fox all the way. Did he forget that he'd joined in with Fox on the 20XX crap during the Melee days? Falco and Fox, on top of the Smash World, and everyone else could go to Hell! Even now, it made his breath come fast! Though Fox wised up during Brawl, his relationship with the man in green had been permanently altered, and the plumber's mind would be drawn back to the early days as he pounded away at the vulpine. They'd fought on Lylat Cruise, and Luigi wanted nothing more than to hand Fox's tail to him on one of his home stages. See how he liked that. But just like with Falcon, the pain abated at the end of the match, and the two fighters shook hands and parted on civil terms. Fox was a little frazzled and upset, but he also remembered the cruel way he used to act and knew that he deserved it all—even worse. But as he walked away, Falco met him and began speaking animatedly to him, angrily gesturing Luigi's way to show his displeasure over Fox's defeat at his hands. Luigi simply pretended not to notice and marched off to the Training Room before he did something he'd regret.

A lot of the Smashers are getting sick and tired of 'em, anyway! Was that true? Was Fox secretly getting tired of those combos? Was he secretly harboring jealousy over his fighting ability? Were all of his opponents secretly upset over losing to him? Was—Mario? Falco's derisive words and the suspicions they aroused played in Luigi's mind as he focused his fury on this Sandbag and that Sandbag. He thought they made progress yesterday, standing outside Master Hand's office while an unlucky opponent ranted. Falco really wanted to make their friendship work—until he saw his combo game in action! He understood that Falco held Fox in high regard despite their squabbles, but still! Why was he so upset over Fox losing to Luigi all of a sudden? Why did he hate his combos all of a sudden? Since when was he so salty? Luigi hated saltiness—he despised it with a passion. So much that salty opponents faced an instant, brutal punishment at his hand on the battlefield. Luigi was still waiting for another go at the avian. There was a lot of stuff he still needed to work out.

Here in the Training Room, Luigi's feelings toward Falco continued to broil and broil, spilling from every last cell in his brain, from every last pore in his skin. Flooding the Training Room along with his workout tunes. Beating in his eardrums. There were feelings he thought he'd rid himself of yesterday, but obviously, he was wrong. None of this salt would stop him from doing his combos, and that's just what he did, practicing the tried-and-true and envisioning the new on the white, beady-eyed canvas. Heat rippled down his skin, tears worried at his eyes—and it only made him combo up on the Sandbags even more, not stopping till he saw granules of sand leaking out, at which point he'd move on to another Sandbag, slamming it with enough force to make his own body reverberate. It felt d—n good. Being alone with his thoughts and his flaring epinephrine. Hearing nothing but his music and his breathing and his echoing blows. For ninety swell minutes, Hurricane Luigi dominated the room, uncaring when his playlist started repeating itself, hoping—praying—to get this ugliness out of his system. Smh. Fat chance! He still had a doozy of a lineup later today, so after then—after then—

Expelling one breath in a deep grunt, Luigi fired a Smash attack at a thoroughly beaten Sandbag and watched in satisfaction as the thing exploded, sand bleeding from a gaping wound on its center onto the floor and onto him. Sticking to face, arms, neck and chest. After he flicked granules away from his eyelids, he continued his beatdown like nothing happened, mulling over another source of aggression. That turtle—he couldn't keep his claws off the Princess for five minutes! After their match two days ago, and once he was finished screaming about the man in green to Master Hand—guess how he decided to get his revenge? Guess what the Mario Bros had to spend the night doing? Guess who lost a hefty chunk of well-earned rest dealing with that nonsense? And apparently—it made Koopa feel better. Taking his problems out on a sweet Princess—Koopa really was an unimaginable S.O.B! Judging from how much he got from that turtle—Luigi really didn't need it from Falco!

After those ninety minutes, Luigi increased the ferocity of his workout until he positively couldn't take anymore. He turned down his music and sat against the wall, cool against his hot back, eyes closed, breathing hard from an open mouth. He was sweating rivers. It would be a while before his blood cooled. Feeling his chest jerk up and down and his muscles flex with his breathing, he began to run through the breathing exercises the Wii Fit Trainers taught him. Even after running down the list, his blood was still at a steady boil. This was serious!

He snatched up his bottle of Gatorade and knocked back a quarter of it.

"Believe it or not, the Sandbags don't exactly have super armor."

Luigi stared. There was Falco, staring archly at the remains of the exploded Sandbag.

"What do you want, Falco?" Luigi asked, a little sharply.

"Hopefully a Sandbag to practice on before you obliterate them all," Falco replied smartly.

Luigi huffed. "I'm not in the mood to talk right now, all right?"

"Do I look like I came here for chitchat?" retorted Falco.

And indeed, he didn't. Nobody walked into the Training Room wearing a muscle shirt and leggings to strike up conversation with someone. The avian's eyes drank in his estranged friend's perspiration-washed frame and his flashing eyes. He came in here to break a sweat, and the man who'd help him do just that was seated against a wall with a big bottle of Gatorade.

Luigi set the Gatorade aside and stood up. This was perfect. The Sandbags wouldn't get his flaming aggression out, but Falco would. He'd feel their spar into next week, the plumber would make sure of that. Smartly, he approached Falco, leftover energy snapping back to life, internally bristling over the expression on the avian's face.

"I really don't like your attitude," he said.

"What attitude? Why would I have an attitude? I'm just hoping to unwind before my next battle without someone hogging the equipment."

"Wow, what's hitting you?"

"You'd like to know. And I thought you weren't in the mood for a conversation."

"I'm not."

"Then let's stop talking and start doing what we're in here for, yeah?"

Luigi raised his fists. "You read my mind."

Falco also took his stance, glaring hard at his sparring partner. "Combo me. I dare ya," he goaded before they began.

Now, Luigi had many notable sparring partners. Those he frequented shared combustible chemistry with him and fed off of his aggression well. In turn, they possessed aggression he could feed off of. At the top of the list was Mario. From the start of Smash Bros, nothing brought more anticipation than a hot and sweaty spar with his elder brother as their favorite tunes played. Emotions as well as adrenaline filled the room, the continued conflict of superstar and shadow, and it felt so good for both parties to relieve their bodies of that tension. When those two were in the Training Room together, all bets were off.

The same could be said for Luigi and Falco today. There was no restraint or mercy to be shown as the two Smashers battered one another. The man in green instantly accepted Falco's dare and tried to get him in a grab, but the avian was having none of it today, keeping him just out of range with Blaster shots. But his sparring partner was patient. There was a five-day-old itch he needed to scratch, five days' worth of tension, ugliness and hatred to unload. He targeted the bird's face and body with painful attacks. He kicked him off his feet like a judo master. He countered the Blaster fire with green fireballs. He wanted to see how much Falco had practiced since their last match. From what he was seeing now, he'd practiced very little.

Then, Falco put aside his Blaster for brutal wing strikes, kicks and drilling beak attacks. He was actually on the offensive. He was paying the man in green back, all right! But in a matter of minutes, Luigi had him back on the defensive with a back throw and a quick barrage of fireballs. He was not putting up with this. His eyes sparked as he went in close, Falco dodging aside and readying his Blaster, but barely managing to get off a shot when a crushing kick met him, sending the weapon flying.

"Fine," snapped Falco, kicking back, harder and faster before adding a downwards drill kick for a meteor smash. Luigi kicked low and then hopped back up, breathing heavily. He sent his fists into Falco's face before attacking the abdominal and torso region. In desperation, Falco shielded.

Big mistake.

He must've forgotten that he could be grabbed through his shield. Good thing that Luigi could always remind him. The smart-talking avian now found himself in Luigi's grip, eye-to-eye with him. He knew things were hopeless now.

Noooo, God! He thought. Oh God, please, no! No! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

His prayer wasn't answered.

As soon as Luigi slammed him down, Falco tried to DI away, but his sparring partner was ready for him. He began a ferocious, punishing combo, giving the bird no time to lash back, and then re-grabbed him to start the process over. Each combo was more vicious than the last. Luigi saw the familiar frustration gleaming in Falco's eyes and felt the urge to laugh in his face. How do you like that, Falco? How do you like being owned and bodied in this Training Room as my favorite songs play over the sound system? This is nothing compared to the next time we meet on the battlefield. His face was set, his jaw clenched to the point of bringing on a headache, his breathing in harsh, measured beats. He hardly heard his lungs as they begged him for a respite. He could only hear Falco's derisive diatribe. He could only see Falco vainly attempting to wrest the advantage from him, kicking out his Reflector, using his Fire Bird and Falco Phantasm and tripping him with fast kicks. But Luigi always got up and got even, tricking him into shielding or letting him in so he could grab and do more combos.

The spar went on. By now, the floodgates had slammed open, the rest of Luigi's raw feelings gushing out. His previous bouts and spars and sessions with the Sandbags had nothing on this. A one-on-one spar with the perpetrator himself, allowing him to get that hate out, to get that aggression out. If Falco hadn't walked in, then Luigi would've gone mad with repressed emotions! He just let go with more and more combos, using Falco's obvious flustered state as fuel. Mashing into him with a Cyclone, getting him to roll into an up smash or a down smash, harshly poking him with a forward smash and using his ever-reliable Golden Leg to escape Falco's rare combos. He had a lot to say, and he made sure the avian was paying attention—except he was letting his fists and his combo game do the talking! Falco wasn't stupid; he knew that the memory of their dust-up was driving his sparring partner's energy and force. Buckets of hurt were behind every blow. But the avian didn't care. Not anymore.

The tension and aggression between the two was palpable. Luigi's tongue fiercely curled over his upper lip and raked across it. Blue eyes were slightly narrowed. Falco's face was twisted into a sinister sneer as he struck out hard with wings and feet. Sweat dampened his feathers and made them seem to tuck into his body. He went for his sparring partner's exposed skin whenever he could, relishing in the sharp gasps as he hit his targets. But Luigi clenched his mouth and pulled himself together within seconds. Distracting him with jabs and kicks before going for a grab and a combo. Since he thought so highly of these combos, why not give him more of them?

"I wouldn't rely so much on those precious combos if I were you…" Well, Falco shouldn't rely too much on his Blaster. Each time he snatched it up from the ground, Luigi simply knocked it away again. And his strategy wasn't all about his combos. They were just a big part of his strategy. There were other things he could do. Scuttle jumps, backflips, misfires, Cyclones, Super Jump Punches. His spiking down taunt. He was famous for some of those before his new down throw came into the picture. And this was what he decided to demonstrate to Falco after a while, channeling his intense emotions into the strongest fiery uppercuts and most glorious misfires he could muster. Whenever he got knocked into the air, he used his Cyclone to punish a follow-up or throw out an aerial. It was like surging heat packed into his fist or flowing through his bloodstream as he rocketed himself through the air. It was as if he'd broken a Smash Ball, so much power kicking into him at once. But it still didn't grant as much of a release as his combos.

"Stupid [bleep]-ing combos…stupid [bleep]-ing combos…A lot of Smashers are getting fed up with 'em, anyway…" Yeah, he could see that. Most of his opponents refused to shake his hand after tasting them. And he could hear that, too, whenever they stomped to Master Hand's office to throw a tantrum and beg him to do something. Like what? Give them Band-Aids and Tylenol? Or bake them cookies and tuck them into bed and read them a story? This was a tournament! Some battles were won and some were lost. Why not learn from the loss instead of fulminate over it? Well—Falco showed him, didn't he? He really put him in his place and taught him a lesson when he said that crap in that corridor, didn't he? He must've felt like a real avian! Had the other whiny salt-lords declared him their champion?

Drawing in a huge breath, Luigi snagged Falco as he tried to give them some distance and went right back to executing his combos. Even with sweat in his eyes, the leftover feelings still circulated. Looking at Falco, he wasn't seeing a Brooklyn buddy. He was seeing a salty, arrogant pushover. Maybe if he'd get that look off his face, they'd make some progress. But the words continued to pound inside him like his jackhammering heart, tightening around his soul like a vice. He really wished Falco would take the hint and change his little attitude.

Now, Luigi could taste his sweat, almost as salty as a salty opponent. It was in his eyes, in his mouth, flying off him in a shower of droplets as he moved, but he ignored it, concentrating on when to throw, how to tech-chase, and which attack he should follow up with. He could hear his breath over the music, the noisy, open-mouthed breaths he tried to avoid in a real battle. He saw Falco's beak curve upwards in a smile when he heard those breaths. But he wouldn't be laughing for long.

It took a while. Just looking at the expressions on Falco's face caused Luigi's temper to bubble back up. He almost broke that Blaster and that Reflector, knocking the former away with a kick or a chop and slamming his fists into Falco's hip where the latter was located. But eventually, the exertion began to work its magic. By and by, Luigi grew less angry at his sparring partner, the rage starting to simmer down. Aches and exhaustion began to register, but he wasn't quite done with Falco yet. He grabbed a few lungfuls of air and went at him anew. As the hurt dwindled, so did the force behind his strikes, just slightly, still hard enough to leave bruises. Falco also noticed the fire leaving Luigi's eyes and his face softening, and he felt a minor twinge of guilt as he thought about what he'd been up to lately. It appeared that the man in green was finally ready to put that exchange behind him. Then, he thought about the combos he'd been subjected to during this spar. He still stood by his belief that his pal's combo game was too strong.

The dissipating fury didn't mean Falco was safe from those combos. Luigi still found opportunities to put him in one of them to get his point across. He allowed his breathing to slow and deepen, gathering his thoughts. The words receded further and further from his memory. This spar had really cleared his head. Perhaps he and Falco still had a chance after all.

After one last song, the spar wound down. The furious combos became an exchange of simple attacks, Luigi's eyes still locked firmly on Falco's. Three or four more songs played before they decided to call it quits for the day. As they stood there, sopping with sweat, no words needed to be said. The look in his buddy's blue eyes told him that they were okay.

For now.

1.1.1

"We did it. We finally worked things out," Falco said to Fox later.

"That's—wonderful!" smiled the vulpine. "I knew you could do it. But I hope you learned something from all of this."

"Uh-huh. Not to get frustrated all the time," said Falco. "Maybe I should start watching videos, asking people for advice."

"And don't be so quick to blame the opponent and talk about how they're overpowered," added Fox. "Don't take this reconciliation for granted, Falco. When we fight and make up, you certainly don't do that—and neither do I."

"Yeah—I honestly don't know why I went off like that," murmured Falco, "but that's something I'll never do again."

"You still have Mario, though," cautioned Fox. "He may be harder to soften up."

"Don't worry about him," said Falco. "He's just being the big brother. Heck, if someone dissed you like that…"

Fox blushed.

"What? Yeah, I'm snarky and tough-talking sometimes, but I can be soft and nougaty, like a Three Musketeers bar. Fox, you, Peppy, Slippy, Kat and Krystal—you've become my family. Family members look out for one another."

The mercenary leader put his arm around his ace pilot.

"The Smashers are your family, too," he whispered. "The next time you get frustrated over constantly losing to someone, remember that."

"I will," promised Falco. "Let's go get something to eat."

1.1.1

Later that afternoon, Luigi relaxed in his room, reading People. He sincerely hoped he made the right decision in taking Falco back. Most people were syrupy toward him for a few days before springing something else upon him. But this was someone he'd known for fourteen years. Falco may have been brash and snappy and trash-talking, but during the spar, he'd seen beyond it and found the remorse. And so the emotions dwindled into a small corner of his mind, where it wouldn't bother him anymore. He'd think about it at night sometimes, sure, but it wasn't as all-consuming as it used to be. He and Falco would piece their friendship back together, and the avian no doubt took something home with him from the experience.

Now, if only he'd get his big bro to lighten up—

In due time, L. In due time, he thought to himself. Just like him, Mario's fire would run its course, and he'd be back on speaking terms with Falco again. He couldn't blame the guy for wanting a go at him, anyway—after all, isn't that what siblings did? But now that the rage had cleared, he could get Mario to cool down, as well. It would be a difficult task, but it would be done.

Someone gently knocked on the door.

Luigi set down his magazine and crossed the room to answer it.

A small, brown-haired, brown-eyed Mii, Evelyn, stood on the other side with a DVD. "Hi," she said cheerily. "This is for you."

Luigi took the DVD. It had the word "Memories" written on it in blue ink.

"A gift from a friend," explained Evelyn before taking her leave.

Luigi hopped onto his bed, booted up his laptop and inserted the disc.

It was an old video of him and Falco on the latter's Arwing. Luigi smiled as he remembered that day, the blue sky and the clouds and the two of them just talking—until Falco executed a barrel roll and Luigi clung to the seat and shrieked as their world spun. After Falco did it a few more times, Luigi finished up laughing. Dusk had fallen when they landed, and they quickly scurried out, hiding from the patrolman yelling that the Arwing should've been in an hour ago. They sat there and shared mixed nuts and talked about life, then lay on their backs, gazing at the stars, until the coast was clear, at which point Falco took him to a fast-food place.

Falco was softening Luigi up, and they both knew it.

1.1.1

In Falco's room, the avian sat at his computer, looking over an email he'd written. He knew that once he sent this email, there was no going back. The breakthrough he'd had with Luigi earlier would mean nothing. But those down-throw combos, man! He was sick and tired of dealing with them! It was because of those combos that this mess happened in the first place! Plus, the hours he'd clocked in perusing that blog and that website had failed to slake his thirst. Now that he knew that he wasn't alone, he wanted to see how he could work with these people to take care of those pesky combos. Which was why he was revising and re-revising this email. He had to make sure everything was pitch perfect. This was no email to a friend, this was an email to Shane Bennigan, and it had to be as close to gold as possible if he wanted the guy to take a chance on him.

After the fifth revision, Falco was satisfied. He took a breath, glanced around to make sure nobody was watching, and hit "Send".

Good times ahead, indeed!

1.1.1

"Here they are!" Kyle sang out as he lugged a box into the room and set it on a table.

"Thank you, Kyle," said Manny, opening the box.

Marth gasped. "Are those…?"

"Uh-huh," nodded Manny as he pulled out a small puce-colored square and held it aloft. "May I have everyone's attention please?"

The conspirators looked up.

"What I am holding up is a very important piece of paper," said Manny. "After much anticipation, our identification cards have arrived. You must keep these with you at all times. You must have these concealed at all times. They are your golden tickets to our upcoming meetings and social events. They will define you as part of our network—but take care to show them only to your fellow conspirators. These cards are not playthings, my friends. Bear them well and wisely."

Manny and Kyle began passing out the puce-colored laminated squares to everyone in the room. Each card bore a conspirators' name and the Bennigan coat of arms. The reverse side bore a pledge committing themselves to Project Nerf, which everyone eagerly signed. Then, they slipped the cards into their pockets, feeling considerably like important people.

Just as the distribution of identification cards was finished, Shane burst into the room.

"WE GOT ONE!" he loudly announced.

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