"Low-tiers. I hope you know why you are all here today, gathered in front of us," started Ganondorf haughtily. Behind him, Captain Falcon made a show of cracking his knuckles, eliciting a few frightened gasps from some of the younger low-tiers.
"Listen up, gentlemen. And you of course, my lady." Zelda spat in his direction at the patronizing remark, perhaps the least noble thing she'd done all year. "We have gathered you here today because we've taken it upon ourselves to teach you how to defend yourselves. I should make it clear that all of you should be thankful we're doing this."
"I'm going to be perfectly straight with you guys," Ganondorf continued. "You are all pitiful low-tiers. You need to know the truth, and the truth is that you are not strong enough to survive in this tournament for much longer. For a whole year now, you have been given countless opportunities to demonstrate your will and determination in front of thousands of people, to prove yourself the strongest and the bravest of us all. But all you've done instead is epitomize weakness. You've all lost far too many matches to be considered worthy anymore; but I'm sure the fans and spectators have already made that clear enough."
Several of the low-tiers looked down at that, silently agreeing to that statement and shaming themselves for letting it be true. Ganondorf smirked. It seemed like the weeks of torture had broken the low-tiers' willpower. Perfect. That made his job much easier.
He noticed that one brat, that inferior Pokémon Pichu, was staring him back with a dark gaze. Pretending not to notice, he continued.
"Luckily for you, I have always believed in reformation, and I believed that you seven would be able to pick yourself up and move on from the tier list. You may have noticed, of course, that we've been attempting to…provoke reactions from all of you in the recent weeks. Originally, we had hoped that you would utilize these actions as opportunities to learn how to fight back and defend yourself. You all have the latent power to do so, I'm sure. But you haven't fought back. Not one single bit. You've locked yourselves in your rooms, and you're not coming out. You've proven to us that you lack the conviction and courage needed to succeed in Smash. You lack the killer instinct that all great Smashers have. And, beyond that, you lack the resilience and emotional stability to overcome the hostility facing you and become stronger. That is what we have been trying to instill in you this whole time."
The sheer audacity of such a twisted account of events awakened a dormant ember of rage within the low-tiers. It was bad enough that the High-Tier Clique was making their lives miserable, but not only did they refuse to admit their cruelty, they blatantly passed it off as something beneficial to them. The shamelessness was incredible, and likely even worthy of praise, because every single Smasher on that cold, snowy ground knew the stupidity and obscenity of the words that had just been said.
And that, perhaps, was the only thing they could all agree on.
Ganondorf paused for a moment, letting his words sink in. He was feeling good, really good. In his twisted, delusional mind, the low-tiers were slowly coming to the inevitable conclusion that they were doomed to be destroyed in the onslaught of hatred and mockery thrown towards them. Soon, he surmised, they'd submit to him completely, accept their "training" willingly, and from there, who knew what the possibilities were? Personally, the idea of Zelda fully acquiescing to him spawned a myriad of…not so virtuous ideas. Lust and revenge; two birds killed with one stone. It was perfect.
He smiled briefly, then continued. "But as is now clear, you low-tiers have gotten the wrong message. Over the past few weeks, you have repeatedly claimed that we have been bullying and abusing you. Well, I assure you that those claims are not true. The truth is that we only want the best, for both you and for us. I think I speak for all of us when I say that we want to teach you how to defend yourselves in a hands-on, adaptable way, so that you may better deal with the inevitable devastation that will come at you for being a low-tier. Please, trust us; this is the best way. Even if our treatment of you may seem harsh at first, it will allow you to either figure out how to fight for yourself and become a stronger, more powerful Smasher, or to develop your resilience and eventually make you immune to emotional pain. Both options are surely better than leaving you to get crushed by the boot that is the spectators' hatred."
Lies, lies, and more lies. Zelda knew Ganondorf to be many things, but a shameless liar had never been one of them. He'd always been so confident in his power that he never bothered hiding his intentions or motives from her and Link. She appreciated his forthrightness and honesty, perhaps his only two redeeming traits. And now, those two traits had been thrown out the window, along with what little remained of his reputation in her eyes.
The High-Tier Clique now collectively took a step forward, getting up close and forcing the low-tiers to look up at them.
"As such, I simply request that you stop hiding from us and instead submit to us completely. Do not worry and trust the process; soon you will realize the benefits of your training, and soon you will be thankful that we have treated you as equals whom deserve respect, not pity or protection," Ganondorf finished, throwing on a million-dollar smile for good measure; well, as fake a million-dollar smile could get, anyway.
The sarcasm was practically snarling the low-tiers in the face.
And finally, finally, one of the low-tiers decided that he'd had enough. Pichu sprang up from the ground, electricity flying from his cheeks, his voice dripping with passion and anger. "Thankful? Why should we be thankful that you've made our lives hell for the past few weeks?"
Suddenly, that lone spark of bravery, of rebellion, lit the tiniest flame of courage underneath the low-tiers. They all felt it; felt it as the tension shook the ground, felt it as the heat warmed the air. There it was, that little subtle shift in the balance of power, barely there. But there nonetheless. And Fox seemed to sense that shift, because he immediately took another step forward. "Because it's the only way you'll become stronger! It's the only way you'll all stop being wimps!" he shouted, trying to defuse the situation as quickly as he could before it escalated. But he failed quite miserably, because several other low-tiers began to let their anger seep to the surface, and the flame, so fragile and temperate as it was, grew larger.
The ember roared to life, and soon the fire was now young and healthy, fueled by the anger and the rage and the frustration of all seven low-tiers. Fittingly, Roy was the next to react. "I think I speak for all of us that we've been hiding in our rooms because we're running scared of you pricks! You think that's helping us stop being wimps, huh? I think this is all a load of bullcrap! You're all just lying to us to get us to believe you, isn't that right?"
"It's the truth!" Falco jumped in, trying desperately to douse the growing fire and failing, just like his fellow pilot. "We're just trying to have a little fun in the process. It's very tiring to get you guys out of that funk you're in, you know that? We need our entertainment too! It's not like we're generously offering to gift you strength! There's always a price!"
The invisible flame grew hotter as the first streaks of blue were conceived. Ness was next to offer his piece, jumping up from the ground and standing up straight with his hands on his hips. "You think you're all so smart, aren't you, taking advantage of us because you think we're gullible and forgiving? Well, I'll tell you: we're hurt! Every last one of us! We know what you're up to, and we know your true intentions!"
Then Captain Falcon chimed in. "Why do you all keep resisting, anyways? You know what will happen if we don't do this? You know what will happen? You'll all stay weaklings, and when the audience begins to attack you for being a low-tier, what will you do? Cry like a baby and call for mommy? Yeah, that's right, that's exactly what will happen, and I'm sure you don't want that to happen either!"
And again, the high-tiers accidentally fanned the fire, which now laughed and danced around the low-tiers, encouraging them, pushing them to fight back with a passion, granting them strength and courage. And so little Kirby stood, still somewhat timid, but backed with an undeniable resolve. Pointing one of his arms at the high-tiers, he began. "Poyo! Poyo soccer poyo, poyo poyo, poyo ball! Poyo poyo!"
Zelda's eyes widened, and she turned to face the pink ball. "Kirby, you don't mean to say…that when they wanted to play soccer, they hunted you down and used you…as the ball?"
"Poyo!" Kirby shouted in assent, waving his arms one time in the air.
Completely disgusted at the high-tiers' lack of shame and restraint, Zelda whirled around to face them, vision blurring red, actual fire beginning to burn in her hands. "You really had to go after Kirby, didn't you? What did he ever do to wrong you, anyways? He's still a child! He doesn't deserve this treatment! And you've clearly misinterpreted him as being completely forgiving, because it's clear that he's mad at you! Don't you understand? Every last one of us doesn't want this so-called training of yours. We'd all rather face the audience than you monsters!"
The table was about to turn, and Marth knew it. Without much other choice, he decided to try and settle the situation diplomatically instead. It was a risk he had to take to ensure that the plan did not go to waste. Swiftly, he darted between Ganondorf and the low-tiers, holding his arms out in a peaceful gesture to keep both parties a safe distance from each other. Then, he turned to face the low-tiers, ready to deliver his piece. But of course, he really did no better than those before him; in fact, he actually screwed everything up big time. "Okay, everyone please calm down! Listen, I know the others have made this argument very heated, and I understand your anger at what we've done to you recently. I myself have always been a victim of bullying since I was young, and I can feel your frustration. But when I was older, I realized that the only way to get over bullying is to fight back, to become stronger, and so I did. I trained hours with my sword every day so that I could defend myself, and when I started threatening the bullies with my sword at their throat, they stopped. Don't you see? I was able to overcome the harassment by becoming stronger, and we're only trying to do the same for you! You have to trust us! This is the best course of action for all of us. You have to believe us when we say we only want the best for you! Please!"
Had Marth presented such a speech to someone less knowledgeable, then there was a good chance he could've convinced them to go along. But for people such as the Smashers who knew him personally, he could not have sounded less persuading. Just judging by the tone of his voice, his vacant facial expression, and what they already knew of his life, it was pretty clear that Marth had intentionally made up his empathetic story on the spot. There was no way he could've ever been bullied as a child. He was a prince, after all!
And that was what did it for Bowser, because if there was one thing the past few weeks had taught him, it was that he hated liars.
Being dead last and everything, he'd naturally gotten by far the worst treatment from the high-tiers in regards to their nefarious acts. His shell was still scarred badly from when Marth stabbed it with Falchion in several areas to "test its integrity"; his eyebrows were still growing back from when Falco set fire to them in the kitchen; his stomach was still stitched together from when Ganondorf sliced it clean open with his sword while he was sleeping; and he was still using metal attachments as his claws for Melees, because Captain Falcon had chopped off the real ones with an actual scalpel taken from the hospital wing. They'd all come to him under the guise of empathy and understanding, attempting to appeal to him so that his pain could feel that much more agonizing. Needless to say, he began to develop severe trust issues, and soon every attempt at kindness towards him from the other Smashers was met with him turning around and walking away.
Bowser had been shattered by the treatment towards him, more so than anyone else. With nobody willing to be within ten meters of him anymore, he nowadays spent much of his free time crying, alone, in his room. It was a spectacular fall from grace for him, and even he couldn't comprehend why he suddenly couldn't control his tears and emotions. He even cried several times during Melees, which earned him more scorn from the audience and other high-tier Smashers. Before the tier list, he was confident and determined, if but a little cruel, but now he was nothing more than an actual mope.
But the flames had become hot enough, a raging bonfire bright and aureate, and he found himself basking in the warmth of the flames, comforting him. Consoling him. Telling him that he was strong enough to fight back.
And so he did, jumping up from the ground and roaring at madness straight at Marth's face, whom took a small step back in fright. Some of Bowser's words were fueled by so much fury that he literally breathed fire while saying them. "You really think we're gonna believe that? You're a prince, goddamnit, so I know you're lying! Your false diplomacy makes me sick, you know! At least all your other buddies had the honor and the dignity to spill the truth in the heat of the moment, but you're such a dishonorable scoundrel that you just had to go and play the good guy, didn't you? Well you've failed! You've tried to appeal to us, but you've pushed us nice and far away! And I gotta say, I think the best course of action right now, in my opinion, is for you to take off that tiara right now, give yourself the worst haircut ever using your sword, and strip naked for good measure! Hahaha!"
Marth growled at such a dirty insult, but he made no move to attack, instead taking another two steps back, eyes widening as Bowser towered over him, standing up to his full height.
With the other high-tiers soundly defeated, Ganondorf knew it was up to him, and only him. He stomped his foot resoundingly as if he wanted to stomp out the bonfire – which he obviously couldn't – and he held up a clenched fist in the air, bursting with dark energy in a futile attempt to intimidate the low-tiers. "Do you fools even realize what you're doing? You're rejecting strength and resilience! You're rejecting the very thing that you've wanted for months! You're rejecting the very people who want to help you! And do you really think we're just going to let you off the hook that easy? Pah! If you truly wish to be freed of our benevolent treatment, then we will do so; with a catch, of course. Every single one of you – yes, even the women and children – will be beaten half to death, tied up together with rope, and left out here in the snow until Master Hand finds your corpses in the morning! And in the middle of the night, you'll all wish you'd never been born, and you'll die a slow, painful death as your cells freeze and contract, shutting down your organs one by one until you expire! So don't resist. Submit to us, and at least you'll get to keep your lives."
Throwing caution to the wind, Ganondorf had decided to fight fire with fire, the two infernos clashing together in a majestic, golden blaze. But it was not enough. It never could've been enough. There was only one of him, and seven of the low-tiers. The fire surrounding them was too strong, and it swallowed Ganondorf's fire whole and multiplied. The flames spread as if they'd erupted out of a volcano, contagious and deadly, the fire viciously spiralling out of control and amplifying the low-tiers' deepest desires for retribution. They all began to burn, burning with a brilliant aura of rage, burning with the desire to exact justice.
Mewtwo was the only one left to speak, and he smirked. He'd come up with his speech while everyone else was arguing, and he just knew that a magnificent conflagration was coming as soon as he finished emptying the gas tank on the fire. He stood up slowly, psychic energy bleeding from every vessel in his body, surrounding him in a translucent purple sheath, and he spoke – with his mouth, a rarity that he reserved for moments like these. "I think we're better off dead than submitting to your punishment, Gerudo scum! I'm finished with such punishment. We all are! You really think you would win? You're a fool. Being a low-tier was never a sign of weakness. But I really do have to thank you, by the way, for starting this fire; and for all of you fanning the flames. I think it's about time we prepare for the final confrontation. Us low-tiers will no longer tolerate this, even if Master Hand still does! It's about time that we took back our human rights again. It's about time we fought back. Oh, and just what are you planning to do with all of my amputated tails, hmm? Build an egotistical bed for you to sleep on? Display them across Smash Mansion as a sign of my weakness? Or even better, cook them and savor Mew's DNA? I'll have you know that our flesh tastes like expired milk!"
The inherent meaning of Mewtwo's last few words took a while to settle in among the low-tiers. But once it did…
"Wait! You all decided it would be a good again to cut Mewtwo's tail off? A whole bunch of times?" Roy practically screamed in their faces.
Marth reeled back momentarily in shock, but quickly regained his bearings and then…smirked. "Of course. It can grow back in a few hours, anyway! What are you so mad about?"
Marth's question floated in the air mockingly. What are you so mad about? Well, as if he didn't know already!
Every single low-tier knew the truth now. The high-tiers were not ashamed. They were not guilty about their actions. And they would do anything to prove their innocence, including perjury. There was no room for conversation anymore. Nothing the low-tiers said would work. The final straw had been snapped, and the only option to settle the conflict became increasingly clear, illuminated by the glow of the white-hot fire.
The tension was almost palpable at this point. The high-tiers calmly assumed an intimidating position right in the low-tiers' faces, but the fire wasn't dying down. It was erupting. Erupting into an all-out fury. Only a few weeks of being treated as animals had awakened the primal rage that exists in all sentient beings, and within them, all of their pent-up anger and frustration burst to the surface, boiling like a geyser.
A sense of unity and brotherhood began enveloping the seven low-tiers, the wildfire wrapping them together in a warm blanket of protection. An inexplicable, but beautiful feeling of trust and camaraderie began to grow in their hearts, instilling in them the last shreds of hope and courage they needed to do what they had to do. The seven low-tiers all turned their heads at the same time, as if they were telepathically linked, and shared a solitary, knowing glance.
And then they charged.
When the high-tiers landed in the hospital wing that night, every last one of them were in critical condition. Their bodies were riddled with bruises and flesh wounds, many of their bones were fractured or even fully broken, and, perhaps most importantly, they had been terrified out of their minds. They had all been battered and broken so very hard, and the horrors they had witnessed, the sheer pain and agony the low-tiers had projected onto them, would scar them far longer than any physical injury they had sustained.
For once, they knew what it was like to be the victims.
It took two days for any of them to regain consciousness. It took six for any of them to get out of bed. It took nine days for any of them to walk. And it took seventeen days for any of them to be cleared for Melees again. Ganondorf went twenty-nine days before he could fight again, and he lost his next thirty-two matches against any of the seven low-tiers. Years later, when Ganondorf found himself bottom of the tier list in the third tournament, he would realize truly just how impressive it was that low-tiers like them could beat a mid-tier like him so many times in a row.
The low-tiers, on the other hand, had really done a thorough job with their vengeance. Of course, Master Hand only decided to punish them by suspending them from Melees for a week, which, all things considered, was nothing compared to the High-Tier Clique's "training".
The low-tiers had achieved the first of many victories. The conflict was far from over, but at the very least it was now an actual battle, and not a total beatdown. They had proven their strength to the high-tiers, and they were more than ready to do it again.