The battlefield was eerily quiet.
Kirby stood still, the Star Rod still gripped tightly in his hand, its light slowly fading. The silence that followed Nightmare's final scream was almost as deafening as the roar of their clash. It was over—Nightmare was gone. The swirling chaos of energy that had filled the room moments ago was now replaced by a calm stillness, as if the air itself had exhaled in relief. Only the faint shimmer of stardust lingered.
Meta Knight sheathed Galaxia with a slow, deliberate motion, his posture rigid as he surveyed the aftermath. His breath came in ragged, shallow bursts, his chest heaving with the effort of the battle and… something else. A hollow ache lingered in his chest, a sense of emptiness where his anger and adrenaline had been.
It was done. They had won.
But the victory felt… muted.
"Kirby," Meta's voice was hoarse, his eyes scanning the room, still tense from the fight. "Are you all right?"
Kirby nodded, panting lightly but otherwise unharmed. His round face, framed by the bubblegum pink curls, seemed to glisten in the aftermath of the battle, the last traces of the Star Rod's light still sparkling around him. His expression was tired, but determined. He'd done what he had set out to do.
The oppressive darkness that had haunted them since they set foot on this wretched ship was lifting. The suffocating weight that pressed against their hearts, the fear that had stalked their every move—it was gone.
But as the last traces of Nightmare's presence faded, a new sound broke through the quiet: a low groan of pain.
Meta's head snapped toward it.
Dark Meta Knight was slumped against the far wall, his armor cracked and dented, blood dripping from his side where Meta… His hand was pressed tightly to the wound wrapped in a shred of cape, his breath labored. He was trying to stay upright, his head low, but he was clearly fading fast.
Meta Knight's heart clenched.
He was moving before he even realized it, his boots scuffing against the stone floor as he made his way to Dark's side. His chest felt heavy with guilt as he knelt down next to him, taking in the damage up close.
"Dark…" Meta's voice was softer now, regret seeping into his words. He hesitated before reaching out, unsure if Dark would accept his help—or if he even deserved it after everything that had happened.
Dark's eye lights flicked up at him, he glared weakly through the pain. "What… do you want?" he rasped, his voice low and rough.
"To help," Meta answered without hesitation. He didn't care about the hostility. Not now. He'd been through enough to know when a wound needed tending—and Dark's condition was bad. The gash in his side was deep, the crimson staining his armor, soaking through the fabric, growing with each passing moment.
Dark scoffed, but his strength was too far gone to resist. "Reduced to… this," he muttered, his voice barely more than a whisper. He tried to stand, but his legs gave out beneath him, his whole body trembling.
Meta caught him before he could fall.
"Don't be a fool. You need rest," Meta said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. His grip was steady, holding Dark in place as he pressed the wound, hoping that they'd find an infirmary on the ship somewhere. His eyes flicked toward Kirby, who had already bounced over, concern etched on his usually bright face.
"We need to redress these wounds," Meta continued, his voice urgent now. "This fabric is soaked."
Kirby nodded quickly, his tiny hands already moving to help. Together, they worked in silence, wrapping strips of torn fabric around Dark's wound to staunch the bleeding. Meta's hands shook slightly as he worked, the reality of what had happened—what Nightmare had done to them—settling in.
He had nearly killed Dark.
The thought gnawed at him, twisting in his chest like a knife. He could still see the flicker of Velka's mask in his mind's eye, could still feel the phantom weight of her presence pressing down on him. But it had all been a lie. An illusion.
Nightmare had twisted their memories, their fears—turned them against each other. And in that moment, Meta had let it happen.
"I didn't mean to…" Meta's voice was low, barely audible as he secured the last of the makeshift bandages around Dark's waist.
Dark's eyes fluttered open, his gaze meeting Meta's. For a moment, there was only silence between them, everything unsaid hanging heavy in the air.
"I know," Dark finally rasped, his voice softer now, devoid of its usual venom. "It wasn't… you."
Meta blinked, surprised by the admission. He'd expected anger, expected blame—but there was none. Only the weary understanding of a soldier who had been through far too much.
"We can talk later," Meta said quietly, his voice steady now, though the guilt still lingered in his heart. "For now, you need to rest."
Dark didn't argue. He was too weak to protest, too exhausted to care. He merely nodded, his eyes slipping shut as his body finally succumbed to the fatigue.
Meta let out a slow breath, sitting back on his heels. The room was still, save for the quiet sound of Dark's shallow breathing. Kirby hovered nearby, watching with wide, worried eyes, but Meta gave him a small nod to show that, for now, they had done all they could.
The battle was won, but there was still more to do. Nightmare may have been defeated, but the scars he left behind were deep. It would take a long time to heal, both physically and mentally for everyone on Popstar.
Meta Knight stood slowly, his wings folding behind him like heavy shadows as he cast one last glance at Dark Meta Knight's resting form. The deep gashes across his armor would be constant reminders of this war. Until they were fixed, he supposed. Meta's own body ached in protest, his muscles stiff from fatigue, and his mind was clouded with exhaustion.
"We need to reach their communications system," Meta said, his voice breaking the eerie stillness that had settled over the room. It felt wrong to speak, as if the echoes of their battle still lingered in the air, waiting for an opening. "We have to contact the survivors."
Kirby, always quick to recover, bounced to his feet, eyes wide with readiness and determination. He was raring to go, despite the fight they had just been through. But before the little Star Warrior could charge ahead, Meta raised a gloved hand to stop him. He didn't know why—it was instinctive, almost automatic.
But then it hit him.
It was Kirby who had brought that monster down with the Star Rod. He had destroyed Nightmare's last remnant of power, ended the reign of terror, and saved them all. Kirby had won.
Meta let his hand drop. The flutter of his wings stilled and folded inward, transforming into his Dimensional Cape, draping over his shoulders. He let out a long, slow breath, his eyes shifting back to where Dark lay. His fallen counterpart's breaths were shallow, and his armor was cracked, stained with blood that Meta himself had spilled.
"We shouldn't leave him here… but moving him seems like a bad idea," Meta said quietly, more to himself than to Kirby. The guilt gnawed at him, as fresh as the wounds Dark had sustained. His mind was still reeling, haunted by the visions Nightmare had forced upon them—the twisted memories that had made them enemies.
"I can stay with him," Kirby offered, his small voice breaking the somber silence. He looked up at Meta with innocent concern, his usual cheer dimmed just slightly. Even Kirby knew that this wasn't like their usual adventures. The price of their victory was heavier than either of them had expected.
Meta's heart twisted painfully at the thought. Kirby shouldn't have to see this. He shouldn't have to carry the burden of what Meta had done—of what Nightmare had made them do. The idea of leaving Kirby behind, watching over Dark, stirred a deep unease in Meta. They had fought together for so long, side by side. It felt wrong to ask him to wait, to sit idly by when they still had so much left to do.
"I… I really can't ask that of you," Meta said, his voice wavering slightly, the exhaustion and guilt creeping into his tone. "All of this is my fault." The words were heavier than he intended, but they came out before he could stop them.
Kirby blinked up at him, confusion flickering in his eyes. "Your fault? But Nightmare—"
Meta cut him off, shaking his head. "Nightmare was mine to stop. I should've seen through his tricks sooner… should've known better than to fall for his illusions. Dark—" His voice caught in his throat as he glanced at the unconscious knight, his hand clenching at his side. "I nearly killed him. I was too blind to realize what was happening."
Kirby's gaze softened, his curls bouncing as he inched closer. "But you didn't," Kirby said quietly. "You're helping him now. That's important."
Meta Knight looked away, the weight of Kirby's words settling in his chest. He knew the truth, but the sting of what had happened still burned too brightly.
He inhaled deeply, steadying himself.
Kirby, always the optimist, was right. What mattered now was what they did next. They needed to secure the future for Popstar.
"Thank you, Kirby," Meta said softly, the corners of his mouth twitching upward into the smallest, briefest unseen smile. "You're right."
He stood a little straighter, the weariness settling deep into his bones but the determination flickering back to life in his heart. He glanced back at Dark, still motionless but stable, before turning his gaze back to Kirby.
"You're sure you want to stay here? It might take some time to find the Salesman," Meta asked, his tone more serious now, though it held a note of genuine concern.
Kirby nodded firmly, his resolve clear. "I can keep watch. Don't worry, Meta Knight. I'll take care of him." His eyes shimmered with trust and the unwavering belief that they could handle whatever came next.
Meta Knight paused, feeling a pang of gratitude. Kirby's endless optimism and courage got them through more binds than he could count. Even after everything, after fighting a cosmic horror and seeing his friends injured, Kirby was ready to protect and defend.
Meta placed a hand on Kirby's small shoulder, giving a nod of approval.
With that, he turned toward the door, the low hum of the ship around them the only sound. He didn't want to leave Dark behind, but Kirby would keep him safe—and there was work to be done.
They had survived the battle. Now, it was time to ensure that the survivors of Popstar would know they could return home. Time to give them hope.
He could finally send out the call, wherever they might hear it, that Popstar was safe.