December 26, 2002
Cafeteria

It was a much livelier scene at breakfast than it had been for several weeks. The other high-tiers and mid-tiers talked amongst themselves as usual, but there was a free, liberated air in the cafeteria with the High-Tier Clique all absent, beaten half to death and wasting away in the hospital wing. News of the night before had spread quickly, and soon the support came pouring in from the other Smashers now that they were finally free from the High-Tier Clique's yoke.

Truthfully, the low-tiers were more than a little bitter towards their fellow Smashers. They hadn't helped at all during their time of crisis, hadn't lifted a finger to protect them from the High-Tier Clique, and, undeniably, they'd abandoned them to their fates. But at the very least they'd treated them with the same respect as they had the low-tiers of the first tournament, and that was okay with them.

Besides, now that the low-tiers had proven themselves to be no pushovers, they could afford to be a little more forgiving.

And, judging by certain events at breakfast, it seemed that the other Smashers were ashamed of their inaction too.

That morning, the low-tiers all came to breakfast for the first time in weeks, where they were immediately greeted by a flurry of apologies, hugs, and good food. Kirby practically started singing in joy at the sight of his precious watermelons, all laid out for him by Mario on a pink tablecloth. Pichu sprang into Pikachu's arms the second he stepped foot in the cafeteria, crying in relief and profusely muttering apologies for pushing him away. Yoshi gave Ness a giant box of frosted corn flakes, which he had gone out and bought himself because Master Hand didn't usually stock them at Smash Mansion. Donkey Kong bounded up to Roy and slapped him on the back, congratulating him for "kicking those high-tiers' butts." Mr. Game & Watch made a massive serving of his signature black bacon – which he knew Bowser liked – and gave it to him on the largest plate they had. Similarly, Popo and Nana made an entire batch of grape-flavored snow cones for Mewtwo, knowing that they were his favorite. Link and Young Link, feeling horrible for leaving Zelda out to dry, surprised her with a cupcake they made themselves. As she expected, it didn't exactly taste good, but she appreciated the thought nonetheless.

Once all the food was laid out, the low-tiers surprised everyone by sitting at a table by themselves. And then they talked about many things, talked about their passions and hobbies, talked about their pasts and backgrounds, hitting it off with each other. For them, it was proof that their brief moment of unity the night before was not just a flash in the pan, but a sign of better things to come. Long after the other Smashers left for Melees, the low-tiers finally retreated to Mewtwo's room, where they spent several hours playing Melee on his GameCube.

After taking a short break in the middle of the day to get some more food, the low-tiers continued their bonding experience well into the afternoon and into the evening. They told stories, shared their favorite memories, and their rapport grew at blistering speed as the hours wore on. After the day's Melees ended, they met up with the other Smashers for a jolly and carefree dinner, and back to Mewtwo's room it was. They played and laughed and partied and sang and cracked jokes for seemingly forever before they all fell asleep, one by one, in the locations that would come to define them for years to come.

It had only been one day, but for the low-tiers it had felt like they had known each other for years. Perhaps the tier list was fated to bring them together, a blessing in disguise. And in some incredible, inconceivable way, the High-Tier Clique had set them up perfectly to be unified, accidentally completing a jigsaw puzzle of battered, misshaped pieces. And at the end of day, when they all fell asleep in their respective locations in Mewtwo's room, anger winding down thanks to the day behind them, all they felt was a begrudging sense of gratitude for the tier list in bringing them together when they needed it the most.

And that was the day that the Low-Tier Clique was formed.

December 31, 2002
Cafeteria

Maybe it wasn't an Arwing, by any means. But it was something.

The electric wheelchair that Fox McCloud currently sat in was kindly provided by Master Hand for his usage, complete with two joysticks: one for throttle and braking, and one for steering. He was the only one of his friends who'd been able to get out of bed, and so he'd been cleared to participate in the New Years' festivities if he wished.

And wishing to participate, he was, because Fox was definitely, positively seething. What did he ever do to deserve the beating he'd gotten? All he'd wanted to do was help the low-tiers, and what had they thanked him with? The worst beating of his entire life. They thought they could rise up and succeed without his help, but they were wrong. They had to be. And he would do everything to make them realize that even if it cost him his life.

You see, what most people don't know about Fox is that when he wants revenge, he gets it. The death of his father had instilled that stubbornness in him, a mechanism to convert defeat and humiliation into blind hatred and determination for payback. The low-tiers had, in his view, made an embarrassment out of him, painting him as a scapegoat, as the perpetrator of a crime that he believed he was a victim of.

So is how dreadfully delusional the minds of the High-Tier Clique had become at this point.

When he finally made it into the cafeteria, the first sight to greet him was the Low-Tier Clique sitting at a table together, happily celebrating the new year. His fists clenched, and his teeth bared as he bore witness to those damned low-tiers having fun at his expense.

A small, tiny part of his conscience, what remained of the Fox McCloud of old, gently nagged him, begging him to see the wrong in his view of things and to realize that he was the offender, not these poor, innocent low-tiers. But he refused to listen, because his desire for revenge was just that strong.

Steering his wheelchair towards that table with the seven bastards, Fox contemplated every possible way he could begin his vengeance. He could tell that they were riding high after their victory. Perfect. A simple demeaning prank would bring them back down to earth and allow the plan to continue once again. If he could somehow spill his food on one of them–

"(I'd hoped you learn, Fox.)"

Fox shuddered. Looking up from his wheelchair, he locked eyes with Mewtwo, who'd latched onto his train of thought using his mental powers. The other low-tiers, drawn by the sudden focus of the Pokemon's gaze, all turned in unison to look at Fox.

"Uh…Mewtwo? Mind telling us what's wrong with that guy?" Roy asked.

Mewtwo nodded, and, not taking his eyes off Fox, spoke calmly. "Mm. Everything, mind you, is wrong with that animal. Physically, mentally, and emotionally. Let me get this straight, Fox: not only do you think that we're the ones who attacked you and that you are the victim, but you're also willing to do anything to get your revenge on us?"

Fox could not deny it. He didn't want to believe that he was wrong the whole time. "Yeah, you're right. And all I have to ask is…why? Why would you reject our help and beat us down in return?"

Mewtwo shook his head simply. "I've long since given up on convincing you that those damned pranks were not helping us, Fox. Really, they were extremely detrimental for us, no matter what you might think. And now that you're all out of action, look at how happy we are."

"You would've been happier if you'd just listened to us!"

"Well, why don't you spare yourself the time and effort, then? Why don't you just leave us alone? You don't lose anything by not helping us, no? If you truly wanted to help us, you would have understood that we didn't want your help."

"Because…because…"

"Exactly. Because you didn't want to help us. Everything you've said so far is just so you can have an excuse to have fun at our expense. That's why you won't leave us alone."

Fox was floored. Mewtwo had driven a spear into the heart of the issue, and his arguments were bleeding profusely, quickly losing their color. Still, he could not give up. He had to get his revenge, he had to! He wasn't giving up so easily.

"Liar! How do I know that you're not making things up as well so that you come off as innocent while painting us as the victims? You were the ones who attacked us first!"

Mewtwo's eyes narrowed. Fox was really getting to him, and he decided then that he'd rather not bother with him any longer than he needed to. So, when he next spoke, he made certain that he manipulated the sound waves around him so that they spread all throughout the cafeteria. "Oh? And what about my collection of amputated tails?"

Once again, the mention of Mewtwo's amputated tails did the trick, drawing the attention of every Smasher in the cafeteria. Heads turned. Conversations stopped. Silence replaced celebration. The lively atmosphere of the celebration instantly turned ice cold.

Realizing that he had to give an answer quickly, Fox mentally panicked, desperately searching his mind for a strong response, but all he could say in the end was:

"Self-defense."

The words didn't sound right when he said them, and as soon as they left his mouth, Fox knew he'd messed up. The silence dragged on for just a few more brief moments. And then…

"Haha!"

The Smashers could not help but erupt in laughter at the sheer stupidity of Fox's answer, and he cursed himself for fluffing such a golden opportunity to turn the tables. He'd come here to humiliate the low-tiers, not get humiliated himself – again.

Without a word, Fox turned his wheelchair around and fled the cafeteria, trying to escape the shame he'd brought down upon himself.

In the distance, the sounds of the New Year Celebration grew softer and softer, while the voice of his old conscience grew louder and louder.