If I could build a fire
And burn down my life
That would the one thing
I got right
- Diamante
"Ghost Myself"
Young Lions
(2.87/3)
Serves You Right
What Snake didn't know about Roy was how the whole business had gone down in the capitol, at the very end of the war.
Running from the palace, into an open field. Running in royal cloth and cape. A target might as well have been painted on his back. Roy, not yet fourteen, called in to perform the duty he'd been born to perform. To draw enemy fire while the royal family made their escape.
The soldiers shot him down from the road.
He hit the dirt and lay there, face down. He kept his breathing shallow. Kept his eyes half closed, half open. Blood pooled on the ground beneath him. There was a chance he would die. The odds were against him surviving. But Roy didn't move. He had no choice but to play dead.
Under the aristocratic clothes, stiff navy blue and silver with gold trim, he wore a special skin tight body suit that his mother had acquired from a foreign dealer, at great cost. It was a lightweight black material capable of stopping small arms fire. It could not stop armor piercing rounds, but the fibers had been designed to seal and compress wounds to minimize tissue damage and stop hemorrhaging.
They'd had no reason to believe that it worked as it was supposed to, and testing it would have limited its use. But out of desperation, a mother's love and will prevailed.
As Roy lay belly down in the grass, he felt the suit compressing over his wounds. The bleeding stopped. He hoped there was enough of his blood on the ground to fool them into thinking he was dead.
The suit did nothing for the pain. Tears welled up and spilled over. But he couldn't cry out. He kept silent. He waited. Took shallow breaths. And waited.
Roy was shot in the afternoon. A small group of enemy soldiers came up to check him. His had slowed his heart rate at that point to something undetectable by touch. But they never bothered with that. They didn't want to handle a corpse any more than they had to. They rolled him onto his back. Someone snapped a picture with a camera. Then they walked away and left him.
Roy didn't move. He lay motionless under the sun. Even as insects crept into his hair. Even as bombs fell in the distance and gunshots rang out nearby.
He was shot in the afternoon. But it was well into the evening before soldiers came to drag him into a shallow grave. He had been lying still for hours.
They threw him into a freshly dug pit on top of a pile of other bodies. The dead cushioned his fall. The soldiers began to shovel dirt over the hole.
Still, Roy didn't move. Dirt filled the crevices of his clothes, got into his eyes and hair. He wedged his nose and mouth under the arm of a corpse, using the dead hand to make a small air pocket so that he could breathe.
He waited. The sun was setting. He knew they were tired from a day of killing. When darkness fell, they'd want to stop and rest.
He was right. With the mass grave barely covered, the soldiers picked up their tools and hurried away. No matter how tough they were, they didn't want to be near a heap of dead bodies at night. Even if they were the killers and dealers of all that death.
As the sounds of them and their trucks grew faint, Roy waited, in the dark, under a thin layer of dirt, held in the embrace of his dead countrymen. As night settled in, the killing field fell silent, the world still trembling from its destruction, a city in ruins, the air heavy with smoke and gunpowder. Roy lay in place for a few more hours.
And then, slowly, he reached out and started to pull himself from the grave. He moved in tune to the sway of the grass in the wind, moved with it so that he would not stand out. It took a while, but he emerged from the hole, staying low on the ground. He shed his top layer of clothing, the costume of a decoy, and left it in the grave. He kept under the height of the grass and crawled away, flat against the earth.
The palace was a small thing on the horizon, the lights of its gates still illuminated. A column of smoke rose from the center of its rooftop. It had been set ablaze.
Roy moved at a creep, under moonlight. The burning palace shrank in the distance. He stopped and listened, from all sides and overhead, confirmed no vehicles or people. Then he rose to half height and walked. Slowly. So as not to catch attention.
The palace and the fire were well behind him when he finally took up a jog. Guided by the map of stars above him, he eventually fell into a full run.
He ran without stopping until the first light of dawn.
The transit station smelled like weed and urine and an in depth analysis of the human condition. Roy stepped around the rotten food containers scattered across the floor and took his voucher to the ticket counter.
They put him on a bus with tourists and families on vacation. A few wore Smash tournament t-shirts. Others were headed to different attractions in the same area. There were children and grandparents.
Roy was one of the few who had come alone. All he had for luggage was a single gym bag, slung over his shoulder. It fit into the space under his seat.
He tugged the hood of his jacket up over head. No one recognized him. He was content with that.
He put on headphones and went over orientation material on a tablet that Snake had given him. Sort of a welcoming gift. Roy had taken it apart earlier and removed the locator chip.
In his pocket he had his pain pills, dosage lessened to half his usual.
"Is this seat taken?"
Roy glanced up. A formidable stranger, in blue jeans and a red jacket, smiled openly and pointed at the empty aisle seat. He wore a red cap over a long blond ponytail. Roy gestured that the seat was free and shifted his eyes back to the tablet screen.
The man took the seat next to him. Roy tilted toward the window to avoid making physical contact. They were shoulder to shoulder. The man's bicep muscle claimed most of the arm rest between them. And Roy too, after a summer of training, took up more space that he used to.
Roy didn't need to ask where the stranger was going.
This was a pro fighter sitting next to him. A new challenger. Tournament bound. Must not have had a very good agent if he was taking the bus though.
Roy's only excuse for boarding this rolling freak show was so that he could dodge airport security.
He switched the app on the tablet to a puzzle game, hoping to avoid conversation. Fortunately, his seat mate leaned back in the chair, pulled his red baseball cap over his face, and dozed quietly as the bus rolled out.
The trip would be several hours long. They kept to the slow lane, the coast to their right. The waters were clear, waves slow and easy. Roy watched it all run by him, tuning out the chatter of the other passengers.
A text came through on his phone. It was a number not in his contacts.
- Which one should I wear?
Two images followed. Both different sets of clothes laid out on a white mattress. The first was a navy blue uniform. The second was the same uniform in black, with a red cape.
Roy made a quick choice.
- red and black
A follow up question came next:
- What about these?
Side by side on a marble counter top. Two headpieces. One gold. One red.
- go with the red
- Ok. Thanks.
- no prob
- I hope you'll have time to watch the fights this year.
- i'll try to catch highlights
- I have an exhibition match after the opening ceremony, if you're interested. It's on the free live stream.
- yeah. i'll be watchin. good luck ba...
He stopped and deleted the last word. Some things just rolled off like they belonged there. Like time hadn't passed. Like someone hadn't changed his number and severed the line between them for the past year.
But, somehow, every time, right around tournament season, that line suddenly opened back up again. Roy had only ever had one number.
Seven minutes lapsed while Roy tried to think of a good substitute pet name that didn't sound overbearing and desperate. He came up with nothing and so left it at "good luck" and hit send.
The message showed as delivered but not read.
He considered what to do with the new number. He could add it to the list on the same contact, set it as the default so as not to confuse it with the rest, even though the rest probably weren't valid anymore.
The last conversation, under the old number, had ended with Roy.
- if thats hw its gon b then thats how its gon b
He didn't bother to scroll through the rest of it. He didn't remember their last exchange. It didn't matter anymore, did it?
He added the new number to Marth's profile, and after a moment of thought deleted the others. He went through the camera roll to try and find a more recent picture to attach to it. Roy didn't take pictures much. He had a few group shots with Mac and Lucina saved in there. Apparently Snake had also snapped one of Roy throwing up into a gas station toilet on a particularly bad night.
Snake was a special kind of asshole.
It didn't take long to come across the shots he'd saved of Marth.
Nothing dirty or scandalous. The unofficial fan-appointed princess of Smash just happened to be photogenic. And Roy'd had enough chaotic neutral in him to try and catch His Royal Highness slipping up.
Never did catch him with a single hair out of place though. Not even while sleeping or eating. Not even before, during, or after -
Roy shook his head to stop that image from forming. There were better ways of getting kicked off a bus full of kids and old people than as the guy with an unexplained raging boner. And all over an old memory of his ex.
Well, they weren't exactly exes. They were just planets in orbit. Sometimes close, sometimes far. But each one always caught in the gravitational pull of the other.
None of the pictures on his phone were of the two of them together. Except for one. Marth had taken it. After Roy's acceptance party. At the hotel room. Lying next to each other. Still fully clothed, though Roy's tie was missing and his shirt was unbuttoned at the top. Trying not to make noise in a room full of passed out guests. Marth had gone for the selfie. The camera had caught Marth at just the right angle but had hit Roy like a gremlin crawling out of the gutter at 2 AM. Seemed like the sort of shot Marth would take and save on someone else's phone.
He commanded the center stage, and everything else just revolved around him.
Judged as a prince, expected to maintain that appearance. He kept his own personal stylist and a fashion consultant. Drove one of those all electric vehicles. Filed his taxes on time every year. Liked his breakfast with the proper food groups laid out in exact proportions. Wouldn't be caught dead at a cheap burger joint or a local taco truck...
...unless it was after midnight and Roy had brought him there with the promise of tortas and spicy carrots. Then he'd finish off two bags of chips with the meal and tip the servers twice the cost of everything.
And leave his cape over a homeless man sleeping on a park bench.
And take off running through the rain, following the faint notes of a song he'd heard over the downpour, a woman's voice, singing words in an ancient language, one he had left behind in the old country.
Roy had chased after him, found him standing alone in the middle of an empty street, confused, shaking, unable to hear the song anymore, unsure if it had been just a product of his own imagining.
And Roy had wondered if they were all like goldfish, trying to retrace steps back to a past distorted by time and memory. No one had ever thought to give them space to grieve their cultures lost.
That too was Marth, a part of him. Suffering underneath his own outward show of control. Marth, who planned his life in advance. Who indulged in the frivolous comforts of brand name clothes and weekend spa treatments.
Who gave away a third of his tournament earnings to charity. And cried over the death of a stray cat he'd been caring for. And got his hands dirty burying it under a tree.
Who had tried to convince Roy to give up the drinking. Especially when things weren't going right. And had walked away when he got tired of cleaning up the mess every time.
The picture of him that Roy finally settled on had been taken on a bridge. Marth, arms folded against the railing, leaning forward over it, eyes fixed on some point in the distance. It'd been sunset.
He'd been talking to Roy about dying again.
Talking as if they'd outlived their purpose. As if their lives didn't belong to them. As if living was just another form of punishment.
And that had brought Roy back to the grave of his homeland. Buried him again under the corpses of allies and enemies.
So he'd held out a hand, an offering, and felt Marth take it, hesitantly, and pulled him away. Away from the bridge. And kept holding on to him as they walked. Through the worst part of town. Head up. Eyes forward. Switch blade in his fist. Marching like he had as a child soldier. Daring anyone, anyone, to step up. But no one did. No one ever did. Something about his eyes they didn't like.
Or maybe the ghost of his mother had always walked with him.
Roy saved that picture to Marth's profile and slipped his phone back into his pocket. His neighbor was still sound asleep, and Roy figured to do the same. He slouched in his seat and turned toward the window, catching one last glimpse of the shoreline as it passed.
The waters looked more turbulent now.
He closed his eyes.
The message was still unread a couple hours later, when they pulled into a rest stop.
Roy filed out with the other passengers.
The facilities were decently clean. Roy had seen far worse.
He came out of the bathroom and into the rest station's convenience store. He walked in to the sound of yelling, insults thrown, angry words. Found the stricken faces of other passengers, the staff falling back behind the counter. A scuffle had broken out between some customers. And it was escalating into an all out brawl.
Fists swinging. Bodies falling.
And in the middle of it, Blondie in the red cap, proving his tournament readiness by thoroughly destroying the site of someone's business and livelihood.
Roy ducked as a shelf toppled and the other onlookers scattered.
This wasn't his fight. He had no fucking interest in the outcome. No matter how it started. It was time to bone out.
Roy slid toward the nearest exit.
He'd almost made it to the door when the girl pulled out an arm cannon.
A fucking. Arm. Cannon. In the middle of a fist fight. In the middle of a convenience store.
Roy did fast calculus on the level of stupid involved in that choice, just as the girl used her prosthetic arm to deflect a wrench someone had thrown at Blondie. But Roy couldn't even be mad at the guy who threw it.
At this point he wanted to throw wrenches at both of them.
But then someone tried to grab the girl from behind.
Without thinking, Roy lunged forward and tackled her attacker into a tower of beer cans. The cans tumbled over and cracked open against the floor. The other man landed under Roy, stunned from the fall. Roy pulled himself off the guy, and the injured man struggled out of the spray of beer. Staggering, he scrambled out the door. Roy didn't even bother to give chase.
He stood up, wiping damp bangs out of his face, drenched in alcohol.
He turned around to find the other two fighters, back to back, surrounded by piles of defeated enemies.
The two had enough time to grin at each other like fools before Roy stepped up, right in their faces. He smacked the red cap off the guy's head. When the girl pointed her arm weapon at him, he slapped it out of the way.
"Listen," he said, "you fucking idiots. Are you both trying to get arrested?"
"It wasn't - "
"They were the ones - "
"Shut up. Seriously. You're both headed to the tournament, yeah?"
"Yeah, I mean - "
"How did you - "
"Fucking listen to me. You all know you could get disqualified for this type of shit, right?"
"Uh, really?"
"But it wasn't our - "
"No one. Literally no one. Gives a shit what your excuse is. The organizers will can you the second you hurt the image of the brand, got it?"
"Are you sure - "
"How do you even - "
"Trust me. I know, okay? Take it from a guy who's been there."
They both stared back at him.
"So what do we - "
"How can - "
"Stop. Just stop. Both of you."
Roy turned around, toward the counter, intending to try to repair things with the staff. Instead, he caught a broom, full swing, to the skull. It almost knocked him completely over. He straightened up slowly, blinking stars out of his eyes.
A hammering pain radiated from his left temple.
The blurry image in front of him settled down. An old man wielding the broom like a lethal weapon. The name tag on his shirt said -
"Chen?"
"GET OUT OF MY STORE!"
"How many stores do you have?"
"A lot. NOW GET OUT!"
The bell jingled on the door as Roy shoved the other two fighters through it. Outside, police sirens sounded off in the distance.
Roy hissed under his breath and dropped down to sit on the edge of the curb.
The other two just stood there and looked at each other.
"Guess that got a little out of hand."
"It was their fault to begin with!"
Roy snapped. "Will you two get on the fucking ground before the cops get here?"
"Why?"
"What's the pur - "
Roy grabbed both of them by their belts and yanked them bodily to the ground.
"Hey!"
"What are - "
"Have you dumbasses never been arrested before?"
"No."
"Never hav - "
"Maybe you both should shut up and let me do the talking then."
He was met with a blank stare and a shrug.
The sirens got louder. Red and blue lights flashed on the main road. Roy shook his head. This wasn't how he had expected things to go.
After a moment of silence, Blondie gave his companions a look over. He offered a small smile. "We might as well introduce ourselves, right?"
"Min Min," the girl said, waving her arm...thing.
"Hey, Min Min. I'm Terry."
Roy tilted his head back to stare into the sun. Maybe if he did it for long enough he'd go blind, and he wouldn't have to see the stupid.
You should get back into Smash, they said. It'd be fun, they said. One last hurrah, they said.
What do you have to lose? they said...
Roy looked away from the sky. "I'm no one," he mumbled.
"Got it."
"Nice to meet you, No One."
Roy poured out an uncertain number of pills into his palm and swallowed them dry.
Just who were they calling the master of disaster these days?
Think I'll take my heart
And throw it off a cliff
Yeah I got a feeling
That it won't be missed