A/N:

This took me a fair while to write, actually - one of the more awkward chapters. A certain fairly unlikeable character reveals his struggle :( Mac helps him find a bit of perspective, or so he thinks.

Act I: Climbing the Mountain

Volume 11: Can't Outrun The Pain

"What's the difference between me and you?" ~Rapper Phish, in Dr. Dre's single 'What's the Difference?'

[ - Little Mac - ]

Sunday 9th August 2076, 17:43.

The metal lift doors opened. The aluminum smelled kinda nice and there was a feeling dragging me back to it.

Oh well.

I was exhausted. Getting up at two or three, then getting clearance to leave the hospital at four-thirty, it was tiring and my sleep schedule was without a single sliver of a doubt screwed. I was jaw-clenchingly tired, like having just gotten up from a two-hour nap, too flat to do anything yet too awake to go back to rest.

I dragged my feet to the floor of the flat and twisted the key into the lock.

Wrong way, idiot.

"Shiiiiiiiitt." The struggle continued for a little, the lock giving some resistance. Then, the door opened. Stepping in, I nearly slipped backwards and cracked my head on the hardwood door.

"Jesus Christ!"

It was an envelope I'd slipped on, actually.

"Who the hell sends letters nowadays…?" I picked it up, absently closing the door behind me. The tear of the paper was dissatisfying, but inside it was more important. The sheet of paper was typed on in printed Arial font, formally written.

"Hmm… two new fighters… brother and sister… coming to my apartment… new neighbours…?"

The preliminaries were going to be over in about two weeks - the fact that they hadn't been brought in earlier was weird. A little suspect, even.

The Arial font, too, was eccentric. Master Hand never sent physical letters, and never formally - he was beyond all that; hell, he sacrificed a lot to get us here, so there was always an air of familiarity about any messages he did send.

It also seemed strange, out of the blue, given that housing in Smashville was always well-spaced. There were even entire mostly-empty twenty-storey apartments for Smashers, so for two - well, three - unrelated fighters to be in the same building and floor as each other was somewhat… curious.

Are… are they losing money? I can understand the decision to maybe compact the Smashers' accommodation, but the fact that he hasn't released a statement at least to us, the fighters, is somewhat worrying…

But last of all, what the hell were the names?

Byleth… Byron…

That first one didn't sound real; hell, even Latin would be a bit of a stretch for that name. Those two were likely one of those swordfighters.

A buzz from my phone brought me back to life.

Shit, I actually haven't checked it since last night. Swiping open, I read the newest message.

SONIC: Hey Mac, do ya mind if I come over 4 a bit. Sorry if ur tired from hospital but…

SONIC: I need 2 talk.

I typed out a "yeah sure" before looking at the rest of the texts, all of them centred around congratulating Sonic for a win.

It then hit me that he'd just had his match this morning.

"If he won… why is he coming over?"

Sudden images and memories of Red Hoodie and his words flashed in my head repeatedly.

Oh, god.

Then there were the thoughts of the crowd shouting boos, shooing him offstage, the awkward image of the announcer doing damage control, and I didn't know what it was but I was pretty sure it was just that, but yet hoping it wasn't.

I texted him back. No response.

With that, the walk up the stairs to the shower was a little more troubled.

( - Partner's Theme [Music Box] | Pokémon Super Mystery Dungeon - )

The shower was - guiltily - a little refreshing. The hot water causing the steam on my skin, and then the cold of the air conditioning, and the feeling of fresh carpet underfoot all combined to form this ball of euphoria.

I walked downstairs slowly, making sure not to rush too fast or risk pulling the groin muscle Ganondorf kicked in the other day.

Low blow, god's sake, he's a dude himself. He should know not to hit below the belt.

The door was opened. From the top of the stairs, a bright ray of orange-yellow light shone into the living room from the corridor outside the flat.

"Sonic?"

"The door was unlocked." The dry tone came from right under the stairs, a blindspot for me.

"Ah, shit. Well, ya shoulda knocked. I was at risk of coming down naked."

No laugh.

I jogged down the last couple stairs, turning around. Sonic didn't bother to look behind.

Uh oh.

I sank deep into the couch bed. "What's wrong?"

"I can't hide it anymore, brother." He'd never before called me that.

I stayed mute.

"I… I really don't know where to start," he continued. "I play as hard as I can and I do well, and I know I'm good, and it's like the mob just doesn't see that because there's nothing but silence whenever I win, compare it to the people before and after me…

"These guys out here, I dunno, like Fox, Donkey Kong, Pikachu - and of course, Mario," he said with a sigh on the last name, "are no different to me - sure, we look different, but we're all heroes or saviours or whatever of some world somewhere in the universe - and they're getting kids and adults, girls and guys, fans of all ages, screaming, and yelling, and cheering, and waving signs and cards and it's like why do I bother?

"Mac, they're treating me different for no apparent reason and it's pissing me off because it's something I deserve, I know I do. I have fans, but why is it different to the outer, wider world - why do these random people hate me so damn much for no reason at all?" His big eyes widened even further, his neck straining a bit to hold himself down.

"Why, man, why? I put it all on the line and I train, I do, why? I'm the same as everyone else… and it's not, it's not even that important, I know, but that doesn't stop me from…

"...hating being treated this way." He buried his face in his hands.

I didn't say anything. Sometimes less is more, Mac.

I walked over to lock the door. The orange light had illuminated Sonic's face; the door had still been open. Sitting down again silently, I put my arm around him.

There should've been things I could say, but I was lost for words.

His figure was no longer tall, proud or cocky, but deflated and defeated; his tone no longer jovial, sarcastic or bright, but bitter and caustic. There was someone, someone I would've liked to punch, to shield him from, to physically protect him, to make him feel a little better as a friend, a brother, even, there should be something you should be able to do, but when the blame is distributed amongst the thousands in a mob, an audience, a crowd; and how little they care about one Smasher in one sport in one city with their complex lives and difficult girlfriends and abandonment issues and expensive mortgage and travel insurance, there is nothing to be done.

The visceral, physical bullet is easy to take for one, but the mental is another story.

I gripped his shoulder tighter.

"Bro…"

"Yeah?" I replied.

He paused, shivering. "It's a little cold in here, you mind turning the aircon off?"

"Yeah, no problem at all." I pressed a small yellow button.

The beep filled the dead air, before Sonic returned to his metaphysical hermitage.

It's not… I get it now. It's not just about the defensive playstyle, because plenty of others have that too. It's not about his speed, because others have that too. It's sort of… random. It's undeserved for Sonic… but it's probably because, because one person hated him, or a few, people found it… trendy? If that's the word? The guy everyone loves to hate?

But how do I say that?

I don't.

Without stopping to let myself think again, I had to speak, or the silence would rot like bad fruit. "You... wanna talk about it now?"

"You go."

"Well, I don't have all the answers, Sonic." I don't know, really; it's bloody unfair - you don't deserve the hand that you got. It is undeserved, and I want you to know that you have full assurance from me over that." The hedgehog nodded slightly.

"And even so… I understand the fact that you don't necessarily want or need hordes of screaming fans, but hate the fact that you don't, at least compared to others. We're here, though, the whole gang, to help you figure it out. They might have the stardom, but we have a tight group that we'd kill to protect.

"We'll walk you through this mess and no doubt, by the end of this, we'll figure it out together, no matter how slowly."

Sonic looked to his left right at me. "Thanks, Mac."

"Anytime, brother."

He smiled wistfully. "I just want to ask one thing."

"Fire away."

"What was that guy on about during Round Three?"

"Huh?"

"You know the one - tall, red hoodie."

"I… what?"

"You walked outside to confront him, didn't you?" He was pushing it a little.

"Yeah…?"

"What did he say?"

I was taken aback. "He just told me to screw off, and I chased him around a bit before he threatened to call the cops on me," I lied.

"You were out there for like ten minutes."

"Sonic, there's nothing he said that was worth repeating."

He gritted his teeth. "I still want to know."

"You don't."

"Mac… I do. Even if it kills me, I want to know."

I'd… I'd want him to be honest if we swapped roles. I guess it's better to give him the hard truth now and let him know about it.

"He just said that you aren't fun to watch. You play runaway a lot, and less aggressively, which I have noticed… and that's why he and a lot of fans didn't but he exaggerated it a lot."

"Is that it?"

"Unworthy… So many others worth the chance… don't deserve…" His words echoed.

Some things are left better unsaid, Mac.

"Yes. That's it."

"I'm gonna go. I need to be alone for a while."

"Whatever you need, Sonic, I'm here for you."

"Thanks for being such a great friend, Mac."

"It's just who I am."

Sonic came forward and briefly embraced me.

Hugging him back felt more real and normal, and when he opened the door, the salute he gave, fast as a flash, felt more like him again. As quick as that, he disappeared, leaving only the orange light in the doorway.

But sitting on the carpeted steps, the soft carpeted stairs that led upwards to the bedroom, I felt something hollow in my chest that burned, even seared a little, and I felt that same aloneness sting me in the backside, in the pit of my stomach. Perhaps it was as though the interaction with my friend was so brief, and now that I was alone, it felt like the stool that was once there got kicked out from under me. The rope around my neck dug into the skin of my throat, and as I felt those rough cords bite into me, I fell unconscious by the bone of spine cracking under the weight of my own body.

I opened my eyes to the same, same orange light and I needed to escape.

( - Jubilife City | Pokémon X and Y - )

For a Sunday night, the bar was pretty quiet. The mild smell of must lingered in the air. It wasn't exactly nice, but it wasn't horrible, and yet it was well-suited to the place.

There was some football playing on the TV. Thankfully, they chose not to cast Smash today… Trying to get the conversation with Sonic out of my head, I absently walked forward, almost bumping into a waiter.

Patrons were lined up, with a few empty spaces here and there. One of them was a tall black-haired man, his height forcing his posture to hunch and stay down quite regrettably; another man, likely his buddy, talked to him in this husky voice animatedly about some residential business project they were running. The first man drank, nodding as he listened.

A few seats across from them, a young blond woman sat, above-average height for her sex, with fair but not pale skin. She wore a black tank top.

Should I? She, uh, could be quite stunning. I couldn't tell because her face was partially turned away, but otherwise looked quite fit. I didn't really feel like it… but, girls were the one part of my life that wasn't going down the drain. My purpose. My friends - hell, they were my family. My loneliness, even.

Ah, screw it.

Thankfully, the seat next to her was empty. I plopped down into it. "Hey."

"Evening." The woman's gaze stayed set.

Wait… is that? I looked her in the eye for a second and then I knew instantly.

This chick was bloody Samus Aran.

"Wait, Samus?" I grinned for a second.

"Little Mac," she chuckled lightly. "It's been awhile."

"Not so little anymore, eh?" The first time we'd met was during that promotion video Master Hand had her do for me. At the time, I had no idea that the person in the orange-red suit was a woman, and I had a hard time thinking about her as more than a robot until she performed onstage with the skintight Zero Suit.

"Hmh." Nothing but mild amusement.

"How goes it?"

"Well enough. You?"

"Honestly, not so much," I laughed, "but that's exactly why I'm here."

"Thought you were, what, seventeen? A little young to be drowning your sorrows, no?"

"Nineteen now, and I didn't come for the alcohol."

"So you came for…?" Her poker face was impenetrable.

My internal throat gulped. "Came to explore a new place in the city, to get out of my own head, and stayed," I paused, "for a certain blonde."

"Charming," she smirked.

"Always." I didn't know whether to turn red in embarrassment if I'd just made a big ass boo-boo, or keep up the facade.

"Barkeep?" The mustachioed man swivelled around, wiping a glass down with a white tea towel. "Another whiskey," she said, raising the cylindrical glass. He nodded silently, pouring her another round.

"Y'know what, I might as well go for the same."

"You sure, kiddo?" The final word had an ambiguous tone to it, dancing on the line between playful and disparaging.

"Sure I'm sure." The bartender set down two glasses with the brown liquid in it.

It wasn't my first time drinking whiskey, but the shit was strong and left the taste of what pure ethanol smelled like in your mouth after. I drank half a mouthful down, and true to my memory, it was overpowering. I coughed. Samus laughed plainly, taking a sip of her own.

"Big balls in your shorts, eh?"

"You bet," I replied, cringing at the aftertaste.

"Not bad for your first time."

"Not my first." I almost choked on the 'i' sound with the fire in my breath.

"Hm." She continued staring at the TV. A Hispanic-looking man onscreen kicked the ball across the court, which was then intercepted by another guy in a yellow soccer jersey, black lines dancing across the shoulders. Suddenly, the commentator screamed, as the ball rocketed at lightspeed into one of the goals. Foam fingers and signs flew up in the crowd, and the second player yelled, celebrating with his teammates wildly. Then, the camera zoomed up close to the first Hispanic man as he buried his face in his hands, shivering.

I know how that feels, bro.

"How have your matches gone?" She faced me again with a neutral expression.

"If you've seen the leaderboard, you'd know." I laughed, trying to make it sound relaxed, which it was, but there was some bitterness there.

"Don't really bother with that nowadays. I get the whole 'cutoff' thing, but…" Her voice trailed off. "For some reason, can't really see them removing me."

"Heh, neither can I. Original eight, huh."

She ignored the comment. "To be honest… Can't imagine them actually implementing the cutoff."

"Whaddya mean?"

"Wouldn't make sense. It's just to build drama and tension. A lot of low-tiers are popular - why would they boot them off?" Her face tightened - kinda cutely - in thought. "There's supposed to be power differences so upsets can happen, right?"

"Mmh." I'd never considered that before, as it'd just seemed absurd that they'd lie about such a thing, but thinking about it… Samus was right.

Too confusing for right now.

"Let's stop talking about - er - work now, shall we?" I replied.

Samus laughed dryly. Nice. "I guess it technically is work, isn't it."

"I'm earning so little that if they hadn't provided us apartments, I'd be homeless."

She scoffed. "Anyway, what have you been getting up to in the offseason?"

"I actually had to go back and finish highschool."

"Oh, really?" Samus raised her eyebrow, sipping her drink.

"Yeah, really. It was alright, I guess - I only had the senior year left when I came back; I graduated a year early, actually. Lots of parties, then lots of exams that I… well, eventually stopped giving a fuck about."

"Nice… actually, I've always wondered what those are like."

"Which?"

"Senior year parties."

I scoffed. "It's pretty much two things; alcohol and girls."

"Huh - you don't seem to be very experienced with the former." Samus downed the most of the remainder of her whiskey.

"Well, I was short since I was a kid, so I had to get good at compensation, I guess."

Samus broke formation and giggled heartily at that. "Oh, my," she laughed, faking offence.

"Oh, my indeed," I paused, grinning, letting her finish. "Anyways, what did you do?"

"Mmh, killing aliens, invading bases, the like," she responded, still with a smile, nonchalantly waving her hand. "Doesn't really change after the first couple times you've risked your life."

"I guess it doesn't."

"No, it doesn't," Samus confirmed. "Now, being invited back here… it does do a little good to have a break."

"My home world is nowadays more of a break - Smash is now more the main course."

"Oh really?"

"Yeah. Boxing got a little boring, but I'll see after this tournament."

"I also," she paused, flipping out her phone abruptly, "guess I'll be seeing you later. I've got to go."

"Wow, really?" I was a bit taken aback at the conversation's sudden end. "I mean… it's only eight."

"I'm a busy lady; things to do, and places to be, Little Mac," she said. "Or should I just say, Mac?"

"Prefer the latter, but don't really mind." I raised my drink in cheers.

"It was nice talking to you," she spoke, pushing her stool in while thrusting thirty dollars on the bench.

As she got up, I called out.

"Hey, Samus?"

"Yeah?" She turned around.

"Will I see you again?"

Samus hesitated for a second.

"If we cross paths."

With that, she waved and spun on her heels, walking out of the bar. The bells slapped the side of the stained glass door as it slammed shut. The bartender grunted at me.

"Yeah?"

"I done never seen nobody start talkin' to a' Miss Samus like that before, sonny. They all done get their asses kicked."

"Is that so?" I smiled, amused and a little proud.

"Damn straight." He nodded at me approvingly, before a patron at the other side of the table called him over.

Remembering the way she said those last words, without any sense of finality, gave me a bit of hope. I'd initially come to forget, and when I first entered, I stayed to get with a beautiful girl, but talking to her was just plain enjoyable, that big wall, that impassible dry facade of hers. I liked her style.

The whiskey went lukewarm. Eeugh.

I tossed some money on the bar table, and got up. I'd done what I came to do.

It was time to go home.