I will use the names Heavy, Misha, and Mikhail interchangeably. They are all names used to address Heavy. Please enjoy.


Mikhail was not one to seek glory in the days when he had mouths to feed back in the Dzhugzhur Mountains of eastern Siberia. He took pride in his work, but considered it a necessary evil to sustain his family. All the same, the Russian heavy weapons specialist could not help but lament the situation that he was in.

Grey Mann had been defeated. Heavy's family had managed to be smuggled out of Siberia to the United States, out of the possible clutches of the KGB or other branches of the Soviet Union's tyrannical surveillance. He had retired with a large bank account, and he and the other mercenaries had left Mann Co. on good terms. By most metrics, he should have been happy.

Unfortunately, such bliss was short lived. Although he had passed the credentials to have a PhD in the literature of his home country, such educational credentials were of little help in a post Mann Co. time. It was his physicality that mattered most: the one thing he took advantage of to destroy those he was paid to destroy.

Misha's primary skill was killing, and he was good at it, too. By the time he was barely nineteen, he towered over most men, and he had organized a gulag riot that killed all of the Red Army guards. Without joy or naïveté, Misha had bravely escorted his mother and three terrified sisters out of the hellhole that had been their captivity. He had built a cabin on the eastern most frontier of Russia, in a place few would dare to look. He then traveled to America, and using his herculean strength and talent with bulky guns, made a fortune fighting in petty turf wars for the Mann brothers.

Now Mikhail's fighting skills had no more use. He still had Sasha and all of her sister Mini-guns, but they were silent and reduced to being polished trophies of a time now passed. Heavy Weapons Guy now understood the feeling that professional soldiers had when they found they could not ingratiate themselves into civilian life.

He had bounced from job to job, mostly occupations that relied on his strength, which was respectable for a man almost reaching his sixties. It was not the same, and the Slavic warrior usually spent his days hardly speaking a word, a morose, stoic expression chiseled on his face. In this time of mid-life crisis, his only joys were reading letters from his sisters and mother, eating his iconic ham sandwich and polishing his children, his beloved Mini-guns.

Nowadays, he lived in a rented townhouse on the outskirts of a town in New Mexico. The Heavy cared not what the town was named, for he had little attachment to the place. It was where work was available, and he was going to treat it as nothing more and nothing less.

It was morning, on a rare day off. Heavy's mule like work ethic had accrued many hours at a local construction site. As a result, he was legally mandated to take a day off. This free time was more a curse than a respite, for it only reminded Mikhail that he was living a life devoid of passion. With a bear like groan, he stretched out and stepped out of his bed. The springs that made the mattress groaned with relief that their large occupier was leaving.

The room itself was relatively spartan in terms of furniture and accessories. He had a closet and a dresser to keep work clothes and some of his apparel from the days of mercenary work. On the wall, a trench gun was mounted. It did not have a shell loaded in its barrel, but was perfectly usable for self defense.

Heavy glanced to the side to see five reinforced baby cribs, each one holding a unique looking Mini-gun. Sasha, his pride and joy, followed by Natasha, Svetlana, Oksana, and Sheila. They all sat perfectly upright and without even an atom of dust on them. Assured of his children's well-being, he marched to the kitchen to fix a hearty breakfast and a large pot of coffee.

Despite the modest nature of his work, Heavy had no shortage of money. His careful monetary policy and the lucratively vicious work as a Mann Co. mercenary ensured he could sustain himself for years without financial worry. That was how he could afford a heavy carb and protein diet. His strongman physique did not come about on wishful thinking and lifting weights, after all.

Mikhail's breakfast was a pound of cooked bacon, five slices of cured ham, a carton of eggs for the mother of all omelets, and some toast with jam. The coffee, black and without sugar or sweeteners was the ultimate bitter morning kick off to get him energized. Every foodstuff was consumed with gusto and washed down with caffeine.

As the last drop of coffee was gulped down Heavy's throat, he let out a hefty sigh of contentment. "Good stuff." He muttered deeply.

One by one, he got himself ready to head out for a day of "fun." Misha showered quickly and brushed his teeth before dressing himself in the iconic red outfit and dark vest that he sported during war games with the other mercenaries. A fresh belt of gigantic, custom made NATO rounds hung off his left shoulder and around the right side of his waist, like a show ribbon of death dealing ammunition. Almost ready to leave the townhouse, he gently cradled Sasha out of her bed and into another recent acquisition: a large nylon case with a fine velvet interior, similar to that of a guitar's.

Lifting the newly encased Sasha carefully in his hands, he placed her in the bed of a Toyota pickup truck he had bought on a good deal. The vehicle groaned briefly as its new cargo settled. Then, with some effort, Heavy stuffed himself into the driver's seat and drove south and west, in the direction of a town infamous for its inhospitable location and its laughably stupid populace.

The town of Teufort, New Mexico.


The battlefield the mercenaries called 2Fort was not the fondest place for them. Sniper despised the location for its sight lines and predictable makeup. Soldier found it to be an unsatisfactory battlefield, for he rarely had ample space to rocket jump beyond the middle most section and the courtyards behind the main spawn rooms.

Heavy was much more ambivalent about the rickety old stomping grounds. The place where he and the other mercs fought mattered not, only the paycheck mattered. As the closest place available for target practice with his unusually powerful weapon, it suited his purposes just fine. Misha parked next to the former RED base and departed the vehicle. Grabbing Sasha, he opened a gate within the metal wire fence and headed for the BLU base.

The reason why was simple: the BLU base was made of more durable material, and it was a suitable place to house makeshift targets that Misha had built and rebuilt for months. Indeed, as he passed the BLU base's larger spawn room, he saw that the scrap metal bags that he had mounted on old metal sitting stools were still present. The bags, each almost as large as a ripe watermelon, were partially rusted, and had origins dating back to the war with Grey Mann and his robots.

Heavy set himself up just under the walkway leading from the spawn room to the largest stairway down to the intelligence room. As he revved Sasha up, he closed his eyes, feeling a satisfying feeling of nostalgia. It was as if he was pushing through the enemy defenses with Medic just behind him.

He breathed in the hot air caused by Sasha's spinning barrel. "Sasha, how your voice makes me feel whole again..."

Then, with a sudden change in demeanor, as if attacking a trio of Grey Mann's robots, Mikhail leveled Sasha and let out a battle cry. Bullets sliced through the air at terrifying speed, striking the metal targets just ten meters away and in multiple cases, piercing through. Outwardly it looked like a mindless spray and prey assault, but Misha never wasted bullets needlessly. With speed and precision that was unnatural for most specialists of his work, he hefted Sasha's barrel at the three targets without spending a bullet at the metal wall behind them.

In a spree of twelve seconds, the three bags were riddled, with one of them tumbling off and crumbling as it struck the ground. Sasha's barrel slowed, and the air rippled with the heat from the target practice. Heavy sighed again, as his mind came to the realization that this was all he could do. This short, modest exercise was the closest thing he could legally do to return any feeling in his heart of the days of near constant warfare in Mann Co.'s employment.

"Is not the same..." Heavy muttered with dissatisfaction. "Fighting metal baby targets is not same as fighting baby men on battlefield."

Trundling on back to the RED base, the Heavy resorted to sitting on the RED battlements. The Sun was still high in the sky, and he could see the water beneath the bridge of 2Fort rippling calmly below. Years ago, it was a place where the air was a chorus of explosions, bullets, and gut wrenching screams. Mikhail had been killed more times than one could reasonably recall, and had respawned just as many times.

Now it was as he felt now: a shell of what it used to be. Civilian life was not normal to Heavy, as much as he wished in his youth that he could live a life free from hard labor and gruesome violence. Mikhail had left that world behind, or at least, he thought he did, when he "retired." After months of "peaceful living" and introspection, he realized that he and violence were like deadly dance partners. The thrill of battle, and the hidden, primal fear of death were simply too addicting and satisfying to simply leave behind.

"Sasha," Heavy said to his Mini-gun, "this life is not easy. Is strange thing to say, working without bullets or bombs threatening me. It should be a paradise. Yet it does not compare to hearing your voice as you deal death to baby men and evil robots."

Sasha said nothing, which was perfectly natural. Heavy understood this as well as any rational man, but it gave him a semblance of his old life, complimenting his gun for a job well done.

"What Heavy would give for something different... to feel heart beat like big drum when in meat grinder of war." He commented wistfully.

As the Heavy Weapons Guy sighed once more, he busied himself recalling epic battles that had raged at Teufort. He could recall with immaculate detail every backstab, every clutch intelligence cap, every headshot, and every tide turning Ubercharge. A smile dared to grow across his face, when he heard a crisp ruffle of paper to his right.

Looking rightward, he saw nothing. When he glanced down, he saw a white envelope with a red wax seal sitting between him and Sasha. The seal itself looked like a circle being unevenly sliced into four quarters by two intersecting lines: one thick, the other thin.

Heavy was alarmed, but not by the envelope. It was the thought that someone had snuck up behind him to deliver the parcel. With haste that almost bordered on paranoia, the Heavy rose to his feet, bringing his fists up. He was very well aware that he was vulnerable, for all it would take was a strong push to send him tumbling almost twenty feet to the ground below. It would not kill him, but it would give his unknown adversary a height advantage and separate him from Sasha.

As the mercenary glanced about and took a step away from the ledge, he was confounded with the sight of nothing but blank, reddish wooden walls. The Heavy's Mega Baboon heart eased its beating as he became assured of his isolation. He glanced back down at the prone, crisp letter, then snatched it up in one of his beefy, calloused hands.

"Who is letter from?" Turning it around to the front, he was disappointed to see no address or indication of who made the letter. It did not even have a stamp.

As the Sun continued to beat down over the former battlefield of Teufort, the Heavy decided to call it a day. He would reset his targets and drive back to his rented townhouse. Misha decided that he might pick up a few groceries before returning to hit the sheets early. The work schedule demanded an early rising of 4:00 in the morning, and Heavy intended to stay punctual.

He pocketed the unusual letter and grabbed Sasha in his arms. In everything outside of the town where he lived, Heavy kept Sasha and her sisters close by. He never knew when he might need them again.


The Sun had fallen just over an hour ago, and Heavy was snoring moderately as he lied down in his king sized bed. Sasha and her sisters were lying in their cradles, still as the New Mexico night outside. The strange letter from earlier in the day was lying on a nightstand next to Heavy's bed. It was as pristine as it had been when the heavy weapons specialist picked it up back at Teufort.

Suddenly, without even a gust of wind to speak of, the strange letter fluttered briefly on the night stand. Seconds later, it moved closer to the edge of the furniture, its crinkling sound louder than before. Heavy briefly snorted loudly before returning to his steady snoring.

At last, the parcel slipped onto the ground. Its creases began to glow mysteriously with a brightening light, and sound began to fill Heavy's bedroom. The sounds of colliding fists, the slashes of swords, and battlecries of numerous tongues and roars of different creatures seemingly trickled out of the envelope itself. The volume and glowing continued to intensify.

At last, the Heavy woke with a start. He blinked furiously, glancing about to see what the noise and brightness beyond his eyelids was coming from. Mikhail rose to his feet, expecting anything from an intruder to a stampede of wild animals.

Instead, struggling to adjust to the darkness, he saw and heard nothing out of the ordinary.

"Hmm..." Heavy was not content with going back so sleep after feeling such vivid sensations. Considering his options, a grumble in his stomach distracted him.

"Maybe Heavy need Sandvich." He wondered aloud. "Sandvich always helps."

He strolled over to the fridge and grabbed a carefully wrapped Sandvich half. Such a snack was a ready comfort for the former mercenary, and he never got tired of the taste, even when it was eaten cold. Not bothering to grab even a styrofoam plate, Heavy closed the door of the icebox and returned to his bedroom to eat in peace.

Entering the room again, he took a bit, dining noisily as he did so. "Om nom nom. Om nom..." A smile rose on Heavy's face. "Ah... is good treat."

As Heavy crossed to get back into bed, he heard the sound of paper being bent beneath him. With his eyes better adjusted to the low light, he saw the strange envelope he had put on his nightstand. For some reason, his curiosity was peaked even more than when he first discovered the anonymous parcel.

Given that the letter had no address to or from anywhere, it seemed harmless enough to check the contents and see what was inside. Grabbing the peculiar parcel, he neatly removed the wax seal and pulled out a plain sheet of paper. The text was initially a type of kanji, unreadable by his eyes.

His gaze widened with astonishment as the text suddenly changed to Russian. Shaking his head and rubbing his eyes with his spare hand, he glanced down at the paper again. It was still Russian. How it could change languages aside, Heavy had some comfort in that he could read whatever was being articulated in the sheet in his hand.

"To Heavy Weapons Guy,

Congratulations!

You have been given the prestigious honor of joining many fighters in the world of Smash Bros.! Your unique skills as a combatant have inspired your ascension to a grand roster of warriors from across many universes. We expect your arrival to join in the brawl very soon.

We expect great battles from you as a representative of your own universe. Get ready to mow down the competition!

Sincerely, Master Hand."

Heavy was now utterly confused. He had never heard of anything called a Smash Bros. Outwardly, it sounded like an opportunity to fight, but this led to more questions than answers.

Would it pay him to fight?

Was it a tournament of sorts?

Furthermore, the statements about universes left him completely dumbfounded. Misha was well educated despite his tumultuous life, but the concept of there being multiple universes sounded like crack-pottery that not even Soldier could think of. This letter was surely a convoluted prank. He was certain of it.

"Master Hand..." He muttered. The name sounded ridiculous on his lips. "Baby man will not get fun out of Heavy. Mail is junk."

As he was about to toss the paper onto the nightstand, it erupted in a bright light.

"Gah!" Heavy dropped the letter, and it fell swiftly down to the floor, moving more like a brick than a flimsy piece of printed paper. A vortex of bright energy erupted from the center of ten paper, and Heavy was immediately caught in its almost gravitational pull.

"Ah! Very bad!" Dropping his Sandvich to attempt an escape, Heavy found that he could not physically resist the vortex. Against Mikhail's will, and to a back drop of howling winds and deep voiced screaming, he was sucked into the vortex as easily as a dust particle down a drain.

The inexplicable cyclone was not finished. Within seconds, five Mini-guns lifted clean out of their cribs and into the vortex after their departed owner. The Mann Co. issued shotgun mounted on the far wall followed suit. The dresser opened up, and several pairs of boxing gloves flew right into the shimmering maelstrom. At last, the partially eaten Sandvich fluttered into the air before disappearing along with the rest of the aforementioned items.

The bedroom, in disarray, became silent once more. All that was left as evidence for the Heavy's unintended departure was the lone letter on the ground. Eventually, it too disappeared as if a glitch in the proverbial system, its intended recipient vanished into thin air.