T Minus 6 Days

Trigger warning for a violent assault taking place inside an elevator.

The day began with very light rainfall, Mother Nature finally catching up to the fact that it was autumn. It was a light, sprinkling rain, the ground barely getting wet, but it was a warning of what was to come. Along with the rain came colder temperatures, short-sleeves and shorts being replaced with long-sleeves, jackets, leggings and jeans; flip-flops and sandals were swapped for sneakers and boots. When the Smashers heard that familiar drumming on the roof, a few of them decided to head out to take in the first official rain of the season, cooling their skin, the metallic scent filling their nostrils, hearing the music the droplets made as they landed on the red, orange or yellow leaves about to fall.

Falco sat in the cafeteria, eating an omelet, listening to the rain. He was six days away from witnessing the beginning of a new age. What would it be like, not having to worry about those combos anymore? With those pesky matters no longer in the way, he'd approach Luigi with an olive branch, and their friendship would be as good as new. As for Mario, that would be a completely different ballgame, but he wouldn't worry about that right now.

He glanced out the window. The clouds hung low, but eventually, they would clear. The storm would be over, and he and his fellow conspirators would have themselves to thank. It would take six days, but there was a light at the end of the tunnel. And they would reach it. The nightmare was at an end.

Finishing his omelet, Falco smeared some butter and jam onto an English muffin before wolfing it down, a glass of milk and a glass of water completing the meal. He disposed of his trash and walked over to the elevator bay. For a brief second, he remembered Luigi standing there, arms folded, after those words were said. The avian blinked, and the image disappeared. He called the elevator and stepped inside. The door slid closed. The car ascended.

It then stopped after one floor. Falco stiffened as Mario, Luigi and Peach entered. He decided not to make eye contact; it would be better that way. The doors slid closed and the elevator resumed its climb.

Falco's wing slid to his Blaster, and he patted it to reassure himself. He struggled to control his breathing as his heart thumped out of control, his bowels seized and sweat popped out on his forehead. Quietly, he murmured a prayer. He honestly didn't think he'd make it out of this elevator in one piece.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mario turn toward Peach and pull her into a kiss. Her eyes closed, and her arms rounded his short stature as she melted into it. The little man placed his hands on his Princess's hips and deepened the kiss, tasting her lips, her tongue, her mouth. She made a small, satisfied sound in response. They ended the kiss slowly, gradually separating their lips, taking deep breaths and then opening their eyes. Mario smiled at her before gently turning her so that she faced away from Falco.

The man in red then went over to Luigi and hugged him close, the two plumbers allowing their foreheads to touch. Falco watched them hug, weighing his options. He could either stop the elevator and flee while he can, or maybe get off at a different floor and wait for the next one. Maybe there was no danger at all, and he was just being paranoid…

Mario withdrew from the embrace, patted Luigi on the back and then turned him around so that he, too, wasn't looking at Falco. He whispered something to the two of them, something Falco couldn't hear. But when he saw Peach and Luigi cover their ears, a wave of nausea began crashing over him.

The avian firmly placed a wing on his Blaster as Mario calmly strode toward him. There was no hatred on his face, no rage in his eyes, as the red-capped one looked Luigi's former friend over. There was foreboding, heavy silence in the elevator, save for the beeps as they passed the floors. Falco forced a smile and decided to break that silence.

"Hey, how's it going?" he asked as casually as he could, trying his best to hide the apprehension coursing through his every nerve.

That simple question was the final straw for Mario. He smashed his fist into Falco's face, harder than he'd punched anyone in his life, including Koopa. Falco sprawled against the railing, blood gushing from his nose and beak, and instinctively went for his Blaster, not to hurt Mario, but to scare him into standing down. Not that he'd wind up in any trouble, since he was acting in self-defense.

He never reached it. Mario stomped hard on his wing, grinding it against the laminated floor. Falco managed to draw the weapon with his other wing, but the man in red grabbed it before he could do anything with it, twisted his wing until he was forced to relinquish it, and then smashed it to pieces against the wall. Falco Lombardi was now at Jumpman's mercy.

"No. Please…" The plea was cut off with another punch to the face, then another and another and another. Falco kicked out hard, striking Mario in the stomach, and dove for the emergency call button. He was fast; Mario was faster. The avian screamed and clawed at the floor as he was dragged by his legs away from his last hope of sanctuary. He was roughly flipped onto his back, forced to look into cruel blue eyes as Mario straddled him.

Peach and Luigi remained where Mario had directed them earlier, still as statues, hands clapped over their ears, eyes squeezed shut. But they could still hear the sounds of the punches as they fell, each measured thud leaving little to the imagination. Falco was whimpering and begging for mercy, but the two of them remembered what he'd said about Luigi's combos, how he'd betrayed a fourteen-year friendship, and made no move to stop Mario. Even if they wanted to, they couldn't—the abruptness of the act practically freezing them where they stood.

Mario's face was twisted into something unrecognizable as he released his rage, his fist blasting into that bird again and again and again, Falco's entreaties falling on deaf ears. He'd administered beatings before, mostly to the Koopa King, but never like this. Never like this. This—was weeks of rage bottled up in his soul, something special reserved for those who dared mess with the ones he loved.

The sounds grew wet, the pleading voice growing weaker, Falco's struggles becoming feebler and his grip on consciousness slipping—

And. Mario. Just. Kept. On. Punching.

Falco woke up then, his body completely drenched in sweat, his sheets securely wrapped around him. He lay completely still, giving himself time to reorient himself. His heart rate returned to normal as the last of the dream faded away and the familiarity of his bedroom came into focus. Good. He was safe. He was okay. It was just a bad dream, is all.

The part about the rain was real, but still, there wasn't an angry plumber beating him up.

Reaching over, Falco turned on his lamp, opened his drawer and dumped out its contents before flipping up the bottom and studying his Project Nerf identification card, which was hidden underneath. He took it out, rubbing off the dust that had accumulated during the night.

"It's the only way," he murmured. "It's the only way."

He put back the identification card, rolled out of bed, turned up his TV and jumped into a cold shower, washing away his nightmare. Then he put on his clothes and slipped the card into the breast pocket of his flight jacket. He sat and watched TV until he heard the breakfast announcement.

Breakfast was fluffy waffles with butter and Vermont maple syrup and scrambled eggs and toast on the side. Falco didn't care much for the eggs, but he ate several helpings of waffles, two glasses of milk, and one of those yogurt cups they always had during breakfast. Once he was filled up, he dumped his trash and headed for the elevator bay, but he remembered his dream, and decided to take the stairs instead. At the Main Hall, he looked at the day's lineup and sighed in relief. Neither Mario Bro was on his schedule.

Chad appeared beside him. "Hey," he said. "Is everything all right?"

"Yeah. Just had a freaky dream."

"Falco?"

"Yeah?"

"Just apologize. To both of them," Chad entreated. "It won't be that hard. And I know Mario will come around eventually."

"It's not that simple," explained Falco.

"What are you afraid of, Falco?"

"I'm not afraid of anything. I just—if Mario would stop acting like I'm the enemy…"

"Don't blame him."

"I want him to hear me out, but I'm scared that he won't. Is that what you want to hear?"

"Falco…"

"I feel his eyes on me every day of the week. I can't approach him."

"Let me talk to Mario," Chad said after a while. "I'll see if I can get him to open his mind when it comes to you. But I mean what I say. You need to apologize to those two. Sincerely this time."

"I was sincere."

"Apparently not sincere enough." Chad's voice softened. "Just say that you're sorry. I'm sure you can build from there." He squeezed the avian on the shoulder. "I'll see you round."

He departed, leaving Falco lost in his thoughts.

1.1.1

It was Ethan's first day back in school following his suspension. He showed up in top form, with cupcakes and candy for his teacher and classmates, followed by a beautiful apology which, of course, won them over. His desk was just as he'd left it, and the student next to him was happy to fill him in on what he'd missed. The day's instruction began as usual, Ethan jotting down notes and only speaking when he was called upon. He was watching his steps, all right, because he couldn't afford another strike against him.

Six minutes away from morning recess, the Principal's voice crackled over the PA, summoning Ethan to her office.

"Oh, boy," grumbled Ethan, sliding out of his seat and trudging uncertainly down the hall.

He pushed open the double doors to find the Principal waiting for him, attired in a business suit. "Hello, Ethan," she said sweetly. "Welcome back."

"Look, Principal, about what happened…" Ethan sighed heavily. "I'm sorry. I didn't know what I was thinking. I asked them to stop, I ignored them, but they persisted, and…"

The Principal gently shushed him. "I didn't summon you here to talk about that," she said.

"Okay," Ethan said uneasily.

"Please, take a seat."

Ethan obeyed.

"I know what you've been up to lately, Ethan. The scheme you've partaken in alongside your parents. In all my years of service to the public education system, I've never come across something quite that—elaborate."

Ethan squirmed. "I—I can explain…"

The Principal silenced him again. "I have disciplined the students who provoked you that day, and have notified their parents," she said. "Your reaction to the situation was wrong, but their behavior also went against school policy."

A smile sneaked across Ethan's face, feeling partially vindicated from that day's events.

"But this scheme I've uncovered," the Principal continued, Ethan's smile fading at her words. "There remains a question of what to do about it…"

"With all due respect, Principal, look at it from my perspective. I'm helping to remove the ammunition the bullies use against me," Ethan said politely.

"Yes, I understand that," said the Principal, "which is why I intend to give the Bennigan Brothers my full cooperation. I will assist them—and you—in any way I can."

Ethan was stunned. "Principal—are you feeling okay?" He expected to be punished, along with his mom and dad, for the stunt they were pulling on that man in green.

"Ethan, I've given this a lot of thought. I think it's admirable that you're channeling your anger into something constructive, rather than something disruptive. And if it means participating in a movement to get Master Hand to alter a Smasher's playstyle, so be it." The Principal rose from her seat. "Come with me. I have something to show you."

The Principal ushered Ethan into a conference room, where the teen was greeted with a stunning sight. Seated at the large round table were his mom and dad, along with the parents of his classmates. There was his computer science teacher, his gym teacher, his science teacher, his history teacher, his homeroom teacher. He saw the lunch helpers, the yard monitors, even the janitor and the bus driver.

"Wha…" breathed Ethan.

One-by-one, the people seated before him reached into their pockets and held up their identification cards, the same identification cards that the Bennigan Brothers had passed to the first wave of conspirators that had answered the call. Ethan was mystified. "Whoa."

"You have a lot of people in your corner, Ethan," said the Principal, pulling out her own identification card.

"Tell us what we can do, and we'll do it," said the head lunch lady.

"Mr. Sakurai is working on the new update patch as we speak," Ethan said once he'd found his voice. "He'll bring it to our nightly meetings so we can read over and edit his notes. He's promised Master Hand that it'll be ready by the end of the month, but he needs our help to meet this deadline. See to it that he and his team have enough food, water and toiletries to power them through this laborious task. By the beginning of next week, the Bennigan Brothers need confirmation that the final draft of those patch notes is about to pass under their eyes. By the 30th of this month, they need final and irrevocable proof that Luigi's down throw combos have seen their last sunrise."

Theo and Vanessa stood there, holding their cards and beaming proudly at their son.

1.1.1

A subtle change had come over Luigi during these last few days, and everyone who flocked to watch his matches caught a whiff of it.

He spared nothing against his opponents, friend or foe, regarding those combos. If he saw a chance to pull of a down throw combo, then he took it. He spent the brunt of the fight in an offensive stance, only going on the defensive when he took enough blows. There was this—expression—on his face which they couldn't put down. The way his eyes snapped and sparked and the way his mouth smiled, the slightly-parted or slightly-rounded lips. It was something indignant and defiant, rounded into one. All throughout that day, on stage after stage and opponent after opponent, Luigi's down throw combos were having their last dance.

If the strongest weapon in his arsenal was, in fact, on its way out, then it wasn't about to go out lightly. The man in green would make sure his combos would be missed if they were indeed done away with. Nowadays, Luigi saw Master Hand as someone who bowed to peer pressure and tried to justify it. He understood that he was trying to cater to gamers, but it wasn't just coincidence that this buzz about an update patch didn't start until after the complaining about Luigi's combos. The Hand of Creation was obliviously acting as a proxy in this grudge match, and it made the man in green nauseous. His bouts helped work off the anger, but he saved the brunt of it for a spin bike in the fitness room, where he'd spend 45 minutes to an hour, earbuds in, shirt off, staring straight ahead as he tested the limits of his core and glutes. Pedaling hard until a pool of sweat surrounded the bike and droplets leaped off of him, scattering every which way. Men and women had wandered in and out, some doing workouts of their own, most of them pretending to work out so they could watch him work out and take a big bite out of the eye candy. They pretended not to listen to his deep, intense breaths or glance at his well-muscled shoulders or shoulder blades or the brief flashes of skin on the sides of his body. He saw right through their charades, of course, but as always, he didn't mind.

Whether he was fighting Smashers or mounted on a spin bike, Luigi would think about the people he could thank for setting this into motion. Primarily, he could thank Master Hand for listening to these saltlords and submitting to them rather than telling them to get some f—ing practice. He could thank said saltlords for cursing him out and lambasting him, to Master Hand, to each other and over social media, because now they were getting their wish. He could thank his status as Player Two, the constant reminder that his year was finished and that he needed to "get back in line". And also—

…he could thank Falco Lombardi.

He probably had some involvement in this. He was the one who reamed Luigi out for his combos. Who's to say that he didn't run to Master Hand in private while he was acting like he wanted to make amends? Who's to say that he wasn't secretly conspiring with Luigi's other detractors? That bird certainly wasn't making any more gestures toward reconciliation. Thinking of Falco made Luigi even more worked up. He didn't even see him in the stands anymore. He was trying to hide from his problems. What kind of friend did that?

His fans leaned forward, drinking in this new energy. His fierce breathing echoed about the acoustic-friendly arena. His muscles started aching, but he pushed onward. All he could think about was chaining off as many combos as he could before they were permanently taken from him. All he could think about was getting this aggression out of his system before he did something he'd regret. And all he could do was hope against hope as he tried to ignore the whispers around him.

Luigi won most of his bouts that day. The Smashers he faced grumbled out of earshot and dragged battered and worn bodies to their bedrooms at the end of the day, fighting the urge to burst into MH's office and demand what the hold-up was. They were actually glad Luigi was fighting like this. Let him, while he still could.

"It's almost over," they whispered to each other. "It's almost over…"

Yes, it is.