Rain came down in sheets, tapping gently against the window panes, a sound that was both soothing and melancholy, falling from a deep and dreary gray sky. The ground was slick and mired in mud, the kind of mud that claimed rainboots from unsuspecting passersby and would never come out of clothing no matter how hard one scrubbed. Every so often, a gust of wind sent a spray of raindrops against the glass, and the flicker of lightning was briefly visible in the distance. The greenery drooped under the weight of the water, sending it down in droplets to soak the earth ever further. It was a day to stay inside, huddled around a warm fire, to sigh and hope that the rain would soon pass.

And so Bomberman sat on the couch by the window, gazing out at the sky, sighing, hoping.

"Yeah, the weather sucks today," came Knuckle Joe's voice, as if reading his mind.

Bomberman only sighed as the martial artist sat down at the table. "I had so much stuff planned for today…"

Knuckle Joe rested his cheek in a palm. "I'm gonna assume most of it had to do with explosives?"

"It was gonna be great," the robot went on. "I was gonna get a bunch of Dangerous Bombs, throw in a couple of Blast Boxes, some Bob-ombs, those Gooey Bombs, the X Bombs, set 'em up all in a grid and then…" He spread his arms outward, mimicking what the obvious result would have been. "It would've been monumental."

"You and I both know," replied Knuckle Joe, shaking his head, "that Master Hand would kill you for even thinking of taking that many explosives out of the inventory."

"…Maybe," admitted Bomberman. "But the payoff would've been so worth it."

"The payoff of making a hundred-foot-wide crater with enough explosions to level a mountain."

Bomberman smiled, his antenna twitching excitedly. "See, you get it!"

Knuckle Joe sighed, but it was not an exasperated sound. "You know the training room is there for a reason, right? Just add in a bunch of bombs and go wild."

"But that's the thing," said Bomberman, his enthusiasm waning. "You get so much better explosions when you're outside. The acoustics, the acoustics are much better. When the weather's nice, it sings, the sound just rattles you to your core. When it's like this—" he gestured at the pouring rain outside— "all the rain, the muck, the wetness, it—it stifles."

Knuckle Joe nodded as he took a sip from a drink. "You know, I knew a guy who said exactly that," he said after a pause. "Reminds me of you, actually."

"Really?" asked Bomberman, his attention seized. "Who?"

"Poppy Brother Junior," Knuckle Joe sighed. "He threw a bomb at a wall and it blew up in his face."

Bomberman could only shake his head. "Ah, well. That's the way the cookie crumbles."

Groaning and heavy, staggering footsteps heralded a new entrance to the lounge. The two of them turned to see Samurai Goroh, limping into the room, clothes singed and blisters dotting his muscular arms. The man growled as he flopped down onto a nearby couch, only to wince and right himself when he landed on a particularly large bump right by his elbow.

Bomberman and Knuckle Joe wore identical grimaces. "Ooof. What happened to you?" asked the latter.

"What happened?" Goroh turned his frown on Joe. "Mister Radiant Hero and a couple of Blast Boxes happened, that's what!"

Knuckle Joe nodded knowingly. Bomberman threw his hands up and said "Aw, come on!"

Samurai Goroh glared incredulously at the robot. "Oh, what? You wanted to get blown up?!"

"Well, I—" Bomberman stopped and fumbled with his hands. "Well, I'm not saying no, but—like, it would definitely hurt—not that I'd actually want to—I mean, I just—" At last, he gave up and hugged his knees. "I just wanted to see the fireworks."

Samurai Goroh pressed his mouth in a thin line, partially because of how bizarre Bomberman was sounding, and partially because of the pain he was in. "You're friggin' weird, man." He grunted again as he tried to find a comfy position to sit.

Knuckle Joe's brows wrinkled. "You, uh… you sure you don't wanna go to the clinic?"

"Clinic's already full." Goroh shifted again in his seat, and settled for just lying down on his back. "Think there's something goin' around." He paused, letting the sound of rain fill the empty space. "Ya know… y'know, it wasn't always like this."

"Like what?" asked Bomberman.

"Like this!" Goroh gestured at his wounds and burnt clothes. "We didn't used to be punching bags before!"

Bomberman simply looked confused, while Knuckle Joe simply nodded. "Oh, is this a 'back in my day' thing?"

"Back in our day," corrected Samurai Goroh. "Back when the Assist Trophy program first started." His gaze turned thoughtful behind his glasses. "Those were the days, huh…?"

Knuckle Joe simply shook his head. Bomberman simply looked curious. "Really?" asked the robot.

Samurai Goroh nodded sagely, his eyes still fixed on the ceiling. "Oh, yeah." With great effort, he righted himself and propped his uninjured elbow on the sofa's arm. "Lemme tell ya, things were pret-ty different back during that tournament. Brawl, they called it. Wasn't so much spectacle around it back then—the whole tournament, I mean. And not for us assistants, either. But we got up to plenty of trouble back then…"

"You mean you got into trouble back then," said Knuckle Joe. "Remember the thing with the mangosteens?"

"Hey, I told you already that wasn't me!" An accusing finger was pointed at the martial artist. "For all we know, that could've been Barbara!"

"She said her hands were clean." Knuckle Joe shrugged. "She said she got summoned when that happened."

"So, what? You're gonna take her word over mine?"

"…Do you want me to lie?"

"I am so lost," said Bomberman.

"Oh, yeah." Samurai Goroh blinked, like he had forgotten Bomberman was there. But he seemed quite chuffed to have a captive audience, even if it was only one person. "I guess I should start from the top—back when we had less swordfighters runnin' around—" Knuckle Joe shook his head— "back when there were less crazy items—back before all the ceremony and grandeur— back when Waluigi wasn't completely obnoxious. Back when we were untouchable. For me, it all started the first day I got here…"

Samurai Goroh squinted at the castle that stood tall and splendid before him. Well… he thought it was a castle. Maybe it was a fortress. He never could tell the difference. But that was beside the point. There the castle stood, vast and resplendent, in the exact coordinates that the map had told him.

He looked at the letter in his hands. There had been no return address, or even an address at all. Just his name written in perfect cursive, and a yellow wax seal holding the envelope shut, lying at his front door as if someone had dropped it there by accident. He had been of half a mind to simply throw it away, but… something about it had compelled him to open it.

Congratulations, Samurai Goroh!

You have been selected to be a part of the Super Smash Brothers Tournament! We are pleased to offer you a role on our brand-new Assist Trophy program, featuring a selection of helpers to aid the combatants as they fight. If you accept, simply follow the attached map to its coordinates.

We await your reply with bated breath.

-The Hosts

Samurai Goroh looked back up at the castle doors and sneered. Worst-case scenario, this was a kidnapping. He took a hold of one of the door knockers—was it shaped like a dragon?—and knocked.

Shuffling sounded behind the door before it opened with a creak, but just a crack. "Name?" came a voice.

Goroh swallowed. Oh, this better not be a kidnapping. He gripped his katana, in case something jumped out and attacked. "Samurai Goroh," he said. "From Red Canyon."

The door widened an inch. "Ah, yes. Please, do come in." The door widened further to allow Goroh entrance. "Welcome. You're just in time."

Goroh squinted as he peered inside. Nothing in the darkness suggested an ambush… or that anyone was there at all. There wasn't any sign of an intercom at the door, either. It couldn't be ghosts…could it?

"Well, don't be shy," said the voice. "Come in… and face your destiny."

Samurai Goroh swallowed. He was tempted to simply turn around and leave, and not risk his neck for something that might be fake. But something—that same feeling that made him open the letter in the first place—compelled him to step over the threshold.

Once he walked inside, the darkness seemed to dissipate with every step. Several things came into view—the staircase, the marble columns, the fancy crown molding at the ceiling.

And was that… jasmine and rose he smelled? Whoever was in charge of this place, they had good taste, that was for sure.

"Samurai Goroh," came the voice, right behind his shoulder. "I'm glad you're here."

Goroh nearly leapt out of his skin. Once he had regained his bearings, he whirled on the speaker, ready to give them an earful. However, the earful would have to wait, as his anger very quickly gave way to shock as he found that the speaker was, in fact, a large floating white hand.

Master Hand tilted to one side. "Welcome to Super Smash Brothers. I am Master Hand." He extended his form toward Goroh, as if expecting him to shake hands.

Samurai Goroh blinked, and then blinked again for good measure. He had seen plenty of strange things during his time as a bandit, but this… He was quickly finding out that his limits were much narrower than he thought, as evidenced by the giant talking hand in front of him forcibly widening them with every passing second.

Oh, right, he was expecting a greeting, wasn't he? Goroh fumbled around with his arms before grasping Master Hand's ring finger and shaking it as best he could.

Thankfully, it was enough for Master Hand. "I see you brought your katana." He gestured at the sword that hung at his hip. "Good. You will need it."

"Uh… yeah, about that." Unconsciously, his hand drifted towards the sword. By now, he had retracted his worst-case scenario thoughts. If this was some Spirited Away situation, he was ready to walk (or run) out at once. "What's this Smash Brothers thing about, anyway?"

"The Super Smash Brothers tournament," explained Master Hand, finger pointed skyward, "is an interdimensional tourney, where champions from many different worlds—such as your own—gather to do battle!" His voice swelled with pride. "I am its host, and this—" He gestured to indicate their surroundings—"is my own creation."

"Uh-huh," nodded Samurai Goroh. "You built this place?"

Master Hand chuckled. "If by 'this place', you mean this entire world, then yes. I did build this place."

Goroh opened his mouth, and closed it again. He really shouldn't have been surprised at that, but there he was. When he next opened his mouth, it was to ask, "So, uh… battling, huh?"

"Ah, yes. You, and a handful of others—" Samurai Goroh suppressed a smirk from wondering what 'a handful' meant to him— "have been chosen to participate. And you—" He suddenly pointed at Goroh, making him jump— "were specifically chosen for your connection to one Captain Falcon."

At the sound of the name of his fiercest rival, Samurai Goroh's jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed. "Falcon?! Is he here, too?"

"He…" Master Hand lowered his finger in hesitation. "There is a non-zero chance you may see him here."

"Perfect!" Samurai Goroh unsheathed his katana. "Just point me at him, and I'll make sure to repay him for all the times he's run rings around me!" He was already moving down the hall, his past misgivings about his situation forgotten. Oh, this was gonna be good. Finally, revenge on Falcon after all these years! He could only hope this would be televised. Perhaps even have him appear on live television and admit that he—

"Ah—"

A finger pressed down on Goroh's helmet, stopping him in his tracks. The fire that was lit under him dwindled a bit, but he supposed it was worth hearing him out.

"Let me explain some things," said Master Hand. "If you would follow me…"

With a bright flash, Master Hand and Samurai Goroh vanished, leaving no trace.

When Samurai Goroh's eyes readjusted, he found he was in an office, with marble walls and sleek wooden flooring. To his right, a small selection of trophies sat on shelves. To his left, an assortment of strange technology was displayed including a pristine white remote and a small handheld device with two screens. Behind him, yet more odd machinery, like a strange purple box with a handle on it. And in front, a massive oaken desk, that Master Hand floated behind.

"Now that we are in a more fitting atmosphere," said Master Hand, "we can discuss your role here."

"My role?" Goroh raised an eyebrow. "Do I get to beat up Falcon or not?"

Master Hand scrunched his fingers. "Let me explain. Yes, Captain Falcon will be here. But he will be here as a fighter."

"A fighter."

"As in, he will be part of the main roster."

"And what am I gonna be?!" Main roster? Goroh felt more than a little put out by this information. Revenge was finally in his grasp, only to be yanked away again?

"You," said Master Hand, jogging a stack of papers with two fingers, "will be an Assist Trophy, as per the invitation I sent you."

"An Assist Trophy? What's that?"

"I'm glad you asked! As I stated earlier, this is the third iteration of the Super Smash Brothers tournament. So, we thought we would liven things up by introducing the Assist Trophy program! You, and a selection of others, will be called upon to aid the fighters in battle." Master Hand snapped his fingers, and an object that looked like a stretched-out snowglobe materialized in his palm. "This is the item the fighters will use to summon you."

Samurai Goroh peered at it. There was no miniature village visible through the frosted glass, but there was a silhouette, floating inside like a lava lamp. "Do I get a say in when this happens?"

"That's the fun part!" Master Hand laughed, his voice becoming lighter. "You don't! Try to stay on your guard, because you'll never know when you'll be thrust out into the spotlight!"

"…Hmm."

The reviewing of paperwork that followed was mostly a blur to Goroh, filled with endless signing and a torrent of night-unintelligible professional jargon that made his head spin. But there was one thing that stood out to him.

"You will be summoned for only a limited time," Master Hand slid a document over to Samurai Goroh, who testily signed. Good grief, his wrists would hate him by the end of this… if they didn't already. "Once that time is up, you will be teleported back to where you were." Another signature. "You will be completely invincible; that is, other fighters cannot hurt you."

Goroh scanned over the paper. "Invincible, huh?"

"Invincible." Master Hand watched as Goroh signed yet another document. "Free to rampage as much as you please! Be as reckless as you want!"

As reckless as he wanted, huh? It put Goroh in the mind of the F-Zero races back home. His heart pounding in his ears, adrenaline pumping through his veins… the wind rushing over his machine as he sped down the racetrack… if this was anything like that, it'd make a pretty decent job. (Side job, he should say. Luckily for him, the F-Zero Grand Prix would last forever.) And if this included the chance to humiliate Falcon…

Samurai Goroh grinned as he signed one last contract. This was gonna be good.

"As reckless as we wanted…" Samurai Goroh had a faraway look in his eyes. "That was how it was: the good old days."

Bomberman blinked. "Yeah, but that was just when you got here. What were the actual battles like?"

"I'm getting there!" Goroh folded his arms, wincing at the motion. "Have some patience, would ya? Lemme tell you one of my favorites. It was a couple of weeks into the tournament…"

Samurai Goroh had gotten used to the tugging in his back that usually preceded a summoning. At the very least, it was better than those trial runs before the tournament began. No, it was the sensation of being warped to the battle stage, like being crushed flat and pulled through a bendy straw, and the flash of light that disoriented him every time. Mercifully, he hadn't eaten anything recently. The sudden, dramatic spike in temperature wasn't doing him any favors, either.

Goroh scowled. They'd picked friggin' Norfair again.

Someone (evidently his summoner) cleared their throat behind him, snapping him out of his haze. It didn't sound like Captain Falcon, so that was a good thing. He turned, and his mouth dropped into a grimace almost immediately.

Sonic the Hedgehog—so he was called—stood a few paces away, hands on his sides and eyes narrowed. Goroh had heard rumors that that Snake guy who apparently "wasn't from around here" wasn't terribly fond of him, and he was inclined to agree. Something about the way he carried himself, the pride and ego dripping off him so thick he could cut it with a knife, the cockiness in his voice every time he opened his mouth, irritated Goroh to no end.

And the worst part was, it was maddeningly familiar, too. He'd count himself very lucky if he never heard the phrase 'you're too slow' ever again.

The tap of Sonic's foot against the metal platform got Goroh's attention. His eyes gestured towards his opponents—I'm waaaitiiiing.

On the collection of platforms across from him, Luigi stood catching his breath, while Link and Pit were engaged in a swordfight, with the former gaining the upper hand. There were no racing pilots to be seen.

Samurai Goroh frowned. Maybe next time, said a mocking little voice in his head.

There was nothing to be done about it now. It was time to roll up his sleeves and do what he did best!

Drawing his katana, Goroh leapt up at Luigi at breakneck speed. The plumber barely had time to blink before the blade cut away at him, juggling him up into the air. One slash missed, buying Luigi time to aim a knifehand chop at Goroh's head, which bounced off his helmet as though he'd tried to chop a boulder.

Up ahead, Pit spared the skirmish a brief glance, which was just enough for Link to kick him in the stomach, sending him sprawling across the platforms to land in a heap. He recovered fairly quickly, and fired an arrow made of light at an advancing Goroh, which dissipated upon contact with his knee.

Completely invincible, Goroh thought as he slashed at Pit, his heart pounding and his sword arm moving almost on instinct. Above him, Luigi howled in pain as Sonic launched him towards Link, who seized the opportunity to stab his sword upward to strike him. What a feeling.

Sonic sped past Goroh, nearly knocking him off-balance and flat on his backside. Several choice words sprang to mind. Friggin' hedgehog.

Looking behind him, Goroh saw the last trail of a plume of magma that lingered where Sonic once stood. Had he been a second late, he would have been roasted like the previous night's potatoes. The fight was now on the far platform, all four fighters scrambling for space.

Samurai Goroh moved forward, intending to clear out the space himself. But a loud thunk behind him gave him pause. A Blast Box, with a worn fire hazard label stamped on its sides, had popped into existence right next to him.

As reckless as he wanted, eh? Well, in that case…

Samurai Goroh charged onto the platform, slashing wildly, telegraphing his assault. Let them jump clear, towards a safer area. He managed to nick Pit a bit, just enough to be in danger of getting knocked out, but that wasn't what he was aiming for. Not yet.

The moment Link had touched down on the center platform (with Luigi collapsing onto it a second later), Goroh pivoted to rush toward them, his grin irrepressible.

Pit tumbled down as Goroh closed in, directly on top of the Blast Box. His glasses reflected the magma below, taking on a bright shine.

The explosion that occurred was deafening, but not enough to drown out the announcement of "Game!", and the pride and thrill of superiority and winning swelling in his chest.

Untouchable.

"Untouchable," sighed Goroh, staring out at the sheets of rain that continued to fall. "Those were the days…"

"You're telling me!" said Bomberman, sitting upright. His eyes were wide and shining. "That sounds amazing!"

Samurai Goroh puffed up a little bit. "Well! This was back when we were on top of our game, after all! And I was definitely—"

"I mean, can you imagine the size of that explosion? On Norfair?!" Bomberman had stood up, pacing across the room. "The temperature is perfect for prime ignition! And you could just—you just breezed through it like it was nothing! Man, it's—I would have—" He stopped and gazed at Goroh, eyes filled with longing. "God, I wish that was me."

Goroh stared at Bomberman. "…Yeah, I bet."

Just then, Dr. Wright poked his head into the room, his twin peaks of hair preceding him. "Ah, Samurai Goroh. I've been looking for you. What have you been doing?"

"Recovering," grunted Goroh. "And entertaining Bomberman's explosive kink, apparently."

"…I see," said Dr. Wright, choosing to ignore the latter half of Goroh's answer. "And why," he continued, speaking over Bomberman's protest that it was not a kink, it was a fixation, "are you recovering here, and not in the clinic?"

"Clinic's full." Goroh gave a shrug with his good arm. "And that's not the only thing I've been entertaining. I was just telling these guys what things were like back in the day!"

"The day," repeated Dr. Wright. "Your 'day', or my 'day'?"

"The Brawl tournament," cut in Knuckle Joe. "When the Assist Trophy thing first started."

Dr. Wright's face lit up. "The early days of the Assist Trophy program? Oh, I remember those days like they were yesterday!" His gaze grew distant as he stared off into the distance. "How simple things were…"

"Yeah, I'd bet." Goroh scratched at his shoulder.

"Yes, no thanks to you, Samurai," said Dr. Wright, shooting him a not-quite-critical look. "You can imagine my surprise when I got that letter." He turned to stare back into space. "But… but there was more good than bad. Things were shaky—especially at first—but we all pulled through. In fact, I figured as much from the very first day…"

For the seventh time that day, Dr. Wright swallowed and adjusted his necktie. He shuffled the stack of note cards in his hand. The room was stiflingly quiet, save for the low hum of anticipation just behind the door in front of him.

Dr. Wright had something very important to do, just beyond that door, but all he could think was: how did he get here?!

Breathe, he reminded himself. In and out. It was a grounding exercise he'd learned in high school. It was Monday. The opening ceremony was yesterday. The opening ceremony for the fighting tournament he'd been invited to by a giant hand—

In and out, in and out. He'd been here a while. Long enough to get used to all the ruckus. Not even Bowser, the king of the Koopas, who he had last seen rampaging through his city over a decade ago, really rattled him anymore. (Well, not completely.)

He took another breath. This was nothing new. This was going to be just like home. Like a fresh first day on the job. All he had to do was give an introductory speech to his new coworkers. His new coworkers who just happened to be aliens, cyborgs, demons, talking animals, and who knew what else.

…Maybe a sip of water would help. Yes, that would do.

The humming from the other room got louder. He'd been putting this off for too long. Time to get the ball rolling. He turned the doorknob and opened the door.

No sooner he had opened the door than the idle conversation filling the room ceased. He gazed out among the crowd. Oh, there were a lot of people out there, such as a young woman with green hair and a sword at her hip, and a boxer still dressed in boxing attire. To their left, a turtle in a helmet, hammer hefted over his shoulder, stood stiffly next to a smartly-dressed boy with thick glasses. To the right, two smaller girls dressed like ninjas fiddled with their swords, and a blue bird, just about their height, was wiping his goggles clean. Up above, what looked like a jellyfish with talon-like claws in place of tentacles, floated idly next to another turtle riding a cloud.

Sweat beaded down Dr. Wright's neck. He hadn't known what he was expecting, but it sure wasn't this.

The assembly looked at Dr. Wright with expectant eyes, most notably a woman with a feather boa and a blue-skinned demon. He cleared his throat. Time to get down to business.

"Good morning, everyone," he began, his voice measured. "My name is Dr. Wright, and I am honored to be a part of the new Assist Trophy program. I have seventeen years of experience in political science… and absolutely none in fighting."

That earned a smattering of chuckles. He wasn't trying to be funny, but still he pressed on.

"We are part of the grand festival that is the Super Smash Brothers tournament," he continued. "We are going to be assisting some of the greatest fighters known to man… er, mortals." The demon narrowed his eyes. Dr. Wright ignored that. "It's our job to make sure that these fighters flourish on the battlefield. With our combined skills, we can overcome any obstacle."

The crowd was quiet for a moment. For two moments. Dr. Wright's bow tie suddenly felt very tight.

"…Anyways! Official tournament matches start in one week, so… why don't we start with introductions?" He cleared his throat. "My name is Dr. Wright, and I come from a bustling metropolis, where I work as the mayor's assistant." He gestured to the person next to him, a short creature with pointy ears. It was best to start with the children, after all. "And what about you, little one? What's your name?"

The pointy-eared fellow looked quizzically up at Dr. Wright, who blinked in confusion. Perhaps he was just shy?

"My name is Knuckle Joe," he said. "I'm thirty-one years old, and I come from Dream Land. I, uh, I'm a martial artist."

The other assistants mumbled their own greetings to Knuckle Joe, tittering sprinkled among the crowd. Dr. Wright, for his part, recoiled and nearly shrank into his own suit.

But as the proverbial lemons were used to make lemonade, so was Dr. Wright's faux pas used to break the ice. Once the laughter had subsided, the assistants began to speak more freely. They began to be more straightforward with each other, differences forgotten, bragging about their own exploits—especially one, a tall man with a mustache, clad in purple.

Dr. Wright watched the scene unfold, skirting around the edge of the crowd, thumbing at the calming cup of tea in his hand. He felt his nerves slowly but surely melt away. He spied a boy with dirty blond hair dressed in blue, chatting animatedly to the boxer. The demon lurked in a dark corner, arms folded, not even the jellyfish daring to go near. And the ninja girls—twins, he presumed—hovered around a man wearing what appeared to be powered armor, peppering him with questions while he tried his best to ignore them. He was failing.

Loud, barking laughter rang out, and Dr. Wright saw the woman with the feather boa, laughing either at a joke the turtle had told, or one of her own. Judging by the look on the turtle's face, it was probably one of her own.

Dr. Wright felt his relief ebb away. There was still so much work to be done. After the meet-and-greet was done, there was still the mountain of administrative duties facing him. And it would have to be him. Fate had a strange way of giving him the hardest battles. And speaking of battles, who knew what these battles would carry? Would they be safe? Would Master Hand's enchantments hold, as he had promised? Would they receive recompense in the case of an accident, heaven forbid?

They… they did have insurance, right?

He took a sip. It wasn't as calming as he'd hoped. Oh, yes. There was still plenty more to be done.

Someone else broke away from the crowd and settled into the seat next to Wright. He met the eyes of a brown mole clad in overalls, who was holding his own mug of what looked like coffee.

"Havin' a breather, huh?" asked the mole.

Dr. Wright nodded. The coffee looked a bit more inviting now.

"Yeah, I don't blame ya. All this fraternizin' an' such, it was never for me. People… people tend to call me a… a lone wolf. Lone mole?"

Dr. Wright gave a small smile. The mole did not return it.

"Aw, but where are my manners? The name's Resetti. Mr. Resetti." He extended his claw, which Dr. Wright shook. "I'm from the Animal Forest. Nice, peaceful place… most of the time."

"Dr. Wright. And… don't I know it," said Dr. Wright with a shake of his head. "If it's not fires, it's earthquakes, and if it's not earthquakes, it's tornadoes." He gazed out into the distance. "And if it's not tornadoes, it's monster attacks."

"Ooof." Resetti shuddered. "An' there I was thinkin that resettin' was the worst of my troubles…"

"R-resetting?" Dr. Wright blinked. "What do you mean?"

"Y'know, resetting!" Resetti's face grew pinched. "The minute someone makes even the smallest mistake, or doesn't get somethin' they wanted, they just wanna snap their fingers—" He snapped his own for emphasis—"and erase everything they went through! People don't get—they don't appreciate the setbacks in life! They just wanna take the easy way out to make things all pretty and perfect!"

Dr. Wright nodded politely. He had dealt with certain people like this mole before, but he also agreed with him on some level.

"But this is the real world," Resetti went on. "The real world doesn't work that way. Just… Doc Wright, don't you have regrets in your life?"

"I—" Dr. Wright blinked. He hadn't been expecting the question, or even the direction the conversation was taking. Regrets? Oh, he had more than a few. For starters, he wished he hadn't gotten that mullet in high school. And he certainly wished he'd actually gone out to meet people in university instead of having his nose in a book all that time, and that he hadn't tried to be a people pleaser ever since he was nine—

"Exactly," Resetti nodded, and Dr. Wright blinked again, for he hadn't even answered. "But that's just it. Regrets, and mistakes, and all that other bad stuff, that's what gives life flavor. It's like medicine. It's a bitter, mean, and ugly truth, but it's a truth that people need to hear, and what people don't wanna listen to. And that's a sad, sad thing." The mole paused, staring off into space, an almost wistful look in his eyes. He shook his head. "Aw, never mind. Just look at me go. That's ol' Mr. Resetti givin' a lecture again. How you likin' this Smash thing so far?"

Dr. Wright glanced at Resetti, studying his profile. "It's… going well," he said after a moment. "Well, it's only really just started, but…" He sighed. "I really don't have any idea where to begin. In between the desk work, managing twenty-seven people, and the actual fights we're expected to facilitate, it's like… it's like finding a mountain that's too tall to climb and too wide to go around. It feels so insurmountable. There's still so much to be done." He made a small sound of frustration as he watched the crowd mingle.

Resetti was quiet for a long time. Then, he sighed and said, "Listen, Wright. I've been in yer position more times than I can count. I've had more than my fair share of rough days. The time I hit my head on that rock, all those doctor's appointments, the Cherry Blossom incident… it's gotten real bad. But one thing I've learned—my little motto, ya might say—is that ya always gotta roll with the punches. Take things as they come, is what my brother used to say. That is, if you take care of the little things, then the big things won't seem so bad after a while. Heh. Who knows? Maybe the big things might just take care of themselves!"

Despite his worries, Dr. Wright managed a small chuckle. "Maybe," he said. "I can only hope so."

"At any rate," Resetti went on, "the union'll probably take care of most things."

For the third time that day, Dr. Wright blinked in surprise. "The what," he said.

"The… the union." Resetti was staring at Dr. Wright now, confusion plain in his eyes. "We do have a union here, right?"

"I—" He was sitting down, but Dr. Wright still felt something go loose in his knees. Through all his stress over what was to come, he hadn't even considered a union.

"We don't have a union yet." Resetti's eyes were wide as he regarded Dr. Wright, and the crowd of assistants, only now starting to disperse. "Oh… hoo boy. We got plenty to do, alright."

"...And that's why we have a union!" said Dr. Wright, chin high and shoulders back.

Samurai Goroh sat upright. "That was Resetti's idea?"

Dr. Wright nodded. "Oh, yes. It's good to start those things early. Remember how much they helped us in the last tournament during the class suit?"

"Oh, yeah, I remember that," nodded Goroh, grinning as he recalled. "Heh heh. Got myself some fine imported spirits with that money!"

"And you have the union, and Resetti, to thank for that!" reminded Dr. Wright. "I wonder how he's doing now…?"

"We just got a letter from him!" chirped a voice.

Everyone turned to see Starfy hop into the room, smiling agreeably as ever, with Isaac following closely behind. He waved a stamped letter in his hand.

"Wow, that's convenient!" said Bomberman.

"It just came in this morning!" said Isaac, pulling a sheet of paper out of the envelope. "He says that he's doing alright—I'll spare you the details—" He unfolded the letter, which unfurled to the floor, another sheet just as lengthy fluttering down from one of the folds— "you know how he is—but his blood pressure's getting better!"

"Oh, that's great to hear!" Dr. Wright beamed.

Isaac nodded, his eyes bright. "Turns out Mr. Nook's island getaway thing worked wonders for him! Who knew?"

"Well. Well, then." Dr. Wright sat back in a chair. "It's always good to hear from old friends. I'm happy for Resetti, I really am."

"Yeah," Isaac agreed. "So… what were you guys even talking about?"

"Ah, y'know," said Knuckle Joe. "Just shootin' the breeze, talking about what things were like back during the early years of the program."

"Aw, man, really?" Isaac laughed, and his gaze turned distant. "Man, those were the days…"

"You would say that," chided Dr. Wright, not noticing how Starfy's smile faded. "Giving me a headache half the time you were here!"

Isaac at least had the sense to look sheepish. "Yeah, I was a… kind of a troublemaker back then. Me and Mac and Jill… man, we really drove you up the wall, didn't we?"

Samurai Goroh smirked. "Heh. Not just Wright."

"Okay, I'm curious," said Bomberman. "What kinda stunts did you pull?"

"What didn't we do?" answered Isaac, sitting backwards in a chair because he'd seen Rodin and he thought it looked cool. "Let me start with one of my favorites…"

Three sets of footsteps, swift in spite of their weight, sounded through the hallways. Laughter was stifled with shushes as three schemers crouched behind a statue and surveyed their technically-legitimately gotten gains.

"Do we have everything?" asked Isaac.

To his left, Little Mac nodded. "Everything's all set." Something sweet and mellow wafted from the bundle in his hands.

To Little Mac's left, a small girl with twin pink pigtails rubbed her hands together. "Managed to swipe 'em from the kitchen. And I already took care of the groundwork there."

Isaac grinned. "Let's go."

They slipped into the room with nary a sound. Once the door was swung close to the threshold (not completely shut, so as to avoid suspicion), the work began. Little Mac tore open the bundle to reveal a plethora of banana peels, freshly removed like a pair of primates had gone to town on them.

And in this regard, the three went to town on the room they were in. Banana peels were strewn anywhere and everywhere possible—on the floor, on the coffee table, on top of the shelves, on the windowsill, under the bed, on top of the bed—anywhere there was a relatively flat surface, a banana peel would be cheekily placed there. There were even a few peels placed in the lampshade on the nightstand (Little Mac claimed it was the cherry on top).

Very soon, the three assistants were up to their ankles in banana peels. The last one was placed gently on top of a small cluster in the center of the room, like mint leaves on a gyro.

"Jill, you got the rug?" asked Isaac, turning to the pigtailed girl.

"Yeah, I got the rug," answered Jill, rubbing her hands together. "No one will notice that—"

A new set of footsteps rang out from just down the hallway. They were heavy and methodical, and more importantly, they were drawing closer with every step.

"Oh jeez, he's coming!" Any spare banana peels were hastily placed, and they scampered out the door, their muffled snickering trailing behind them. They turned the corner just in time for the room's owner to approach the door.

"Do you think he'll even go in?" said Little Mac in a hushed whisper.

"It's the end of the day, he has to!" Jill chanced to peek around the corner. "Shh, shh! Here he comes, here he comes!"

The footsteps stopped. The sound of a key inserting and turning. The door opened.

Silence.

"Oh, for Din's sakes…"

Somehow, they managed to hold in their laughter, long enough to hear the growl of frustration that followed.

"I know you're there!" came the voice of Ganondorf, the great king of evil. "Show yourself!"

None of them dared to. It was a risk they were taking, but the payoff would be great.

Ganondorf's grimace was nearly audible. "Very well, then. Allow me to come to you."

One, two, three footsteps… and the sound of Ganondorf's surprised yelp as he slipped on a banana peel.

It was all they could do to keep from bursting. Jill pressed against the wall to steady herself. They heard Ganondorf slowly get up and take a single step… onto yet another banana peel.

"Blast it all!" they heard Ganondorf snarl. "When I find you, there won't be enough to—aauuugh!"

An ungainly thump rang out, punctuated by the equally ungainly sound of Ganondorf getting the wind knocked out of him. It was only by Isaac's swift hand covering Little Mac's mouth that their presence was not discovered.

Jill, peeling herself off the floor she had sunk to, composed herself just in time to hear Ganondorf slip and fall once more. She beckoned her accomplices closer, and they snuck towards the door to witness the fruits of their labor.

It was truly a sight to behold. Every time Ganondorf tried to step back from a banana peel, down he went onto another one. When he tried to roll away, another peel was waiting for him. Even grabbing the nightstand had his hand lose its grip and had him fall face-first onto the floor. It was like watching Dracula step on a hardware store's stock of rakes.

Eventually, the howls of laughter demanded Ganondorf's attention, his head snapping up to see the three schemers in front of him. His nostrils flared and a vein bulged dangerously in his forehead.

"You," he growled.

Ganondorf rose to his feet, teeth clenched in rage, and promptly slipped on yet another banana peel.

Isaac's laughter had shrunk down to just giggling. As he stared down Ganondorf's increasingly-livid face, it was starting to occur to him that maybe, just maybe, they might have gone to an extreme this time.

(He could already hear Dr. Wright's incredulous 'this time?!', but now really wasn't the time for that.)

The king of evil rose to his full height, scowl carved onto his face. regarding the three in front of him, and the layers of banana peels still on the floor. "Hmmm. I hardly expected this from some as inconsequential as you." His gaze fell on Jill for a brief moment, and he sneered. "Very well. At any rate," he declared, stepping closer with every word, "I welcome the chance to take you apart by my own hand—"

Ganondorf took another step, and he fell.

And fell.

And fell.

And continued to fall, into the deep, deep pit that had been skillfully covered by the rug.

Isaac, Jill, and Little Mac peered down into the pit. It was perfectly circular, something that Jill had bragged about after digging it.

"On a scale of one to ten," said Little Mac, "how pissed do you think he's gonna be when he gets outta there?"

From inside the pit, the sound of Ganondorf slipping on yet another banana peel was very clear.

"Eh." Jill shrugged. "Prolly a seven."

The unkind word Ganondorf shouted was also very clear.

"Eight."

"And y'know, to this day," concluded Isaac, "I still don't think he ever really got over that."

"Yes, I do remember that," said an unimpressed Dr. Wright. To the side, Samurai Goroh was doubled over in laughter, his burns forgotten. "I also remember him looking at us like he wanted to shove a knife in our backs for weeks afterward."

Samurai Goroh shrugged, his mirth fading. "Eh. It's not like he actually could've. Especially after the Subspace thing, with the Hands watching him like a hawk."

Bomberman only stared at Isaac. "None of that featured any explosives," he said flatly.

Isaac shook his head. "Yeah, sorry to disappoint you. We took an oath to ease back on the explosives. Especially after that thing with Mr. Game & Watch." His gaze was distant, as though he was remembering something horrible. "Nope, not again."

Dr. Wright looked appalled at the boy. "That was you?!"

"Uhhhhh, no," said Isaac quickly, averting his gaze.

Bomberman wrangled the word "amateur" into a cough. Then he cleared his throat and said, "But actually, I do have a question. For all of you, I mean."

"Shoot."

Bomberman fiddled with his spherical hands and, like a mouse treading out of its hole, dared to ask, "Who's this Tingle guy I read about in the library?"

At once, the mood darkened. The rain outside battered against the windows. Starfy pouted in agitation, Knuckle Joe stiffened, Isaac's face became very wooden, and Samurai Goroh's breathing grew heavier and labored. Dr. Wright's eyes became flat—but just for a second, long enough for Bomberman to think he imagined it.

"We don't talk about Tingle," he said curtly.

"But—"

A quintet of stammered shushing sounded from the other assistants, like a drum solo made entirely of cymbals. Bomberman took the hint.

"Look, it's just—" Knuckle Joe sighed. "It's like… you know the way you feel about Wario?"

"Yeah."

"Imagine that, but he's a little nicer, and he just doesn't leave people alone. Like a tick."

Bomberman winced. "Oof. Sounds rough. The way you say it, I'd rather Wario or Waluigi."

Murmurs of agreement spread through the room. "Oh, no, Waluigi's a mess, but I'd gladly take him over Tingle."

Samurai Goroh nodded. "Especially back then. But getting back to my point. That's what made things better back then! Ganondorf couldn't have gotten back at us! We were untouchable!"

"No, we weren't."

Goroh paused. He hadn't expected Starfy to speak up at all; in fact, he had forgotten Starfy was even there. "I—uh—we—huh?"

"No, we weren't," Starfy repeated. His voice was small and devoid of its usual cheer. "Not me."

All at once, the mood took a sudden dive. Samurai Goroh started coughing a little too loudly, Isaac rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding eye contact, and Knuckle Joe moved as if to get up from his chair, but decided against it.

Dr. Wright, meanwhile, had the sense to at least look for the right thing to say. "Well—that is—I mean—it wasn't just you! Remember Lakitu? He could still get attacked!"

It wasn't the right thing to say, but it was better than nothing. "Yeah, but… nobody even noticed that. Everyone was always picking on me. They always said things like 'Starfy's so weak and useless', or 'Starfy's such a pushover', or, 'why did he even come here?'"

Everyone was quiet. Starfy's posture curled in on himself.

"But… at least I had friends," finished Starfy. He sounded a little cheerier, so that was good. "Friends that didn't get invited to this one," he tacked on, seeing Isaac look at him. "We were all members of a club…"

"Kururin! Kururin!"

The bird turned at the sound of someone calling his name. Starfy, the someone in question, was toddling towards him, coming to a sudden halt in front of him. "Kururin, Kururin! Guess what? Guess what?"

Kururin rubbed his wings together. "Alright!" he said, the curl on his head twitching with excitement. "Whatcha got for me?"

"This!" With a flourish, Starfy unveiled something he had been hiding behind his back, small enough to fit in his stubby hand. It was a figurine of two men on a single base, wearing almost identical outfits; one wearing black with a red headband, the other clad in blue with a white headband. "I got it from the Coin Launcher!"

"Right on!" said Kururin, taking the trophy in his wing and holding it up to the light. From the intense looks on their faces, the two men seemed very spirited, as if cheering for an unseen crowd. "Let's go show Barbara!"

The two of them were off like a shot, heading down the hall to the fourth door on the right. From inside, they could hear the twangs of someone tuning an electric guitar. Starfy knocked—drummed at the door, being the one whose hands were free.

A string sailed past the key of E and right into G, stopping just short of snapping outright. Someone inside tutted impatiently. There was the sound of leather shoes squeaking, and then Barbara was standing in front of them, her harsh expression softening when she realized who had come to visit. "Oh, it's you. Whaddya got?"

"Got another trophy for you!" Kururin handed Barbara the trophy to be judged by her demanding eye.

Evidently, it was satisfactory to Barbara, as she nodded and smirked. "Nice. That's another one for the collection." She turned and strutted back into her room, a single beckoning hand inviting the two in.

Barbara's room was dimly lit, and the dark brick-patterned wallpaper certainly didn't help. A few lightbulbs hanging from above provided a few cones of cold light. Guitars, both electric and acoustic, hung on every wall. It put Kururin in mind of a music store, or perhaps one of those fancy urban cocktail bars. Barbara seemed like she'd frequent a place like that.

Speaking of Barbara, she was locking a display case off to the side, the two uniformed men its newest inhabitants. From the way the case was arranged, there were roughly four or five trophies left.

"Hey, Barbara," came Starfy's voice. "Do you play all these instruments?"

"Oh, yeah, totally," said Barbara. From how distracted she sounded, it was impossible to tell if she was joking or not. "Guitars, bass, saxophones, I did clarinet for a year or two… Had a DJ gig on the side."

Kururin could almost hear the stars in Starfy's eyes. "That's so cool," he murmured in awe.

Barbara scoffed, which Kururin recognized by now as her nonverbally bragging. "Course it is. Seems like you two are the only ones who know who I am… Well, you and Saki, I guess."

"What about Devil?" asked Kururin.

Barbara scowled. "You and I both know he doesn't count."

"Fair enough."

Starfy had hopped up to take a guitar off the wall. He strummed as hard as he could, but no sound came out. "Is it broken?" he asked, giving it a shake.

"Nah, you gotta plug it in first." Barbara took a cable from behind a desk and plugged one end into its side, the other into an amplifier. With a strum of her fingers, she played a riff she had learned in her second year of self-taught guitar lessons. To Starfy, it sounded like the second coming of Jimi Hendrix.

"So cool," said Starfy, his voice dropped to a whisper reserved for the most sacred of temples. "Can you teach me how to do that?"

Barbara regarded him for a moment. "Sure, why not? I could use another minion doing my work for me!" She mussed Starfy's hair, briefly forgetting he didn't have any. "Wouldn't you like that?"

Starfy's eyes sparkled and gleamed, like his namesake. "Oh, boy," he said. "Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy. "I'll get to play guitar, and be in a band, and the others won't think I'm usele—they'll think I'm cool!"

The correction wasn't quite quick enough. Certainly not quick enough for Kururin and Barbara, who asked, "What?" in unison.

"Uh—I mean—" Starfy stopped midstream.

"Starfy," said Barbara. Her tone was very much what Starfy called the mom-and-dad-are-upset-voice, a voice that made one freeze up and compelled them to confess their secrets. No one below a certain age could resist. "Was anyone saying anything like that?"

"I…" Starfy turned his eyes towards the ground. "There were… some people…"

"Okay, I need names," said Kururin, throwing down the drumsticks he had picked up. "I can talk to Fox, get him to mod the Helirin, set up an—"

"Slow down, birdie," said Barbara. She was kneeling at Starfy's height to look directly at her. "Was it people here, or other people?"

Starfy shifted his weight. "I… I read about people talking on the computer, and—and in the Gazette…" He felt Barbara relax a bit, and he continued. "They talk about how I'm the weakest helper, and everyone asks why I'm even here if I'm… just dead weight. If I'm useless."

To Barbara's worry, he sounded like he might cry.

She put a hand on the top of Starfy's head, gentler than how she'd patted him before, encouraging him to look up at her. "Hey, Starf. Listen to me. You can't let them get to you, alright?"

"But… but everyone else has something better. You can play your guitar, and Mr. Waluigi stomps on people, and—and Isaac has the big hand, and Ms. Lyn has a cool sword, and I just… I just have my stupid spin move."

"Hey, now," said Barbara in false seriousness. "If you're going to be my minion, I won't stand for any self-loathing, you hear me?" She stood up straighter. "And anyways, so what if your spin move isn't as flashy as someone else? It works, doesn't it? Look at the bikers. All they do is run into fighters."

"But they—"

"—ride cool motorbikes and deal much more damage and are completely invincible, or whatever. But so what? Is having just one spin move such a crime?" When Starfy still didn't look convinced, she gestured to the wall of instruments behind her. "Look, love, just think of it like a band. You have the guitar, leading the pack, the bass providing support, the drums as the foundation… and you—" She tapped Starfy's face, right above his eyes— "you get to be the keyboard."

"…What does the keyboard do?" asked Starfy.

"It's a crucial role, the keyboard," nodded Barbara. "It provides color to the other instruments. It fills out extra layers of the performance. It can change the atmosphere of the song itself. Why, a band without a keyboard is like having Link fight without his bow!"

"Or like having Ganondorf fight without his sword!" supplied Kururin.

Starfy stared at him. "Ganondorf doesn't use his sword."

"And what does his record look like?"

"…Oh. Ohhhh."

"Exactly."

Barbara nodded. "You see, dove? Everyone here has a role to fill, no matter how small. So I don't want to hear any words about being worthless, alright? Otherwise…" She fixed Starfy with that fake-stern glare again. "…You can't be my loyal little minion anymore." Again, Starfy's hair would have been mussed if he had any hair.

Starfy's burst of giggles brought a real, genuine smile to Barbara's face. It was music to her ears.

"Man," said Isaac. "I kinda feel bad now. I didn't even notice Barbara was gone."

"I noticed," said Dr. Wright. "Ah, but… no, you weren't there for the fourth tournament, were you?"

Isaac did a double take. "Yeah, I—wait, was she not here for the last one?"

"No, she retired. Same as Resetti, if I recall."

Starfy shook his head. "Kururin left, too."

"And so did the Excitebikers," said Samurai Goroh, counting on his fingers, "and Jill, and Ray…"

"They dropped Ray?!" Isaac blinked rapidly, then seemed to deflate back in his chair. "Sheesh. A lot more has changed than I thought…"

"Yeah, tell me about it." Something unnameable settled on Samurai Goroh's face, not quite his usual brash confidence, but not uncertainty, either.

Knuckle Joe stared at the wall. "We've come a long way, haven't we?"

"Don't I know it." Dr. Wright's face was stony.

The group lapsed into silence, awkward and gloomy. After an excruciating minute of that, Bomberman cleared his throat. "Listen, I… I wasn't around for the Brawl tournament, but…"

He paused. He'd gone into that just knowing he had to say something inspiring, but now he was at a loss. "But, um… isn't it a good thing that you've made it this far?"

Everyone simply stared at him. Sweat beaded down the back of Bomberman's head. This was definitely more Black's forte.

"Look," he began again. "I know that things look… hazy right now. Especially with there being no more Decidedly Late Challengers, and whatever is gonna happen next tournament. But… if you made it this far, who's to say you won't do well the next time? Like, if you have that foundation already, then you should be fine, right? Whatever the future holds, you should be okay if you have each other."

The other assistants were quiet. Starfy looked contemplative.

"At least, that's what I think," Bomberman muttered.

Samurai Goroh was the first to speak. "That speech sucked," he said plainly. "But I get what you're saying."

"It's just like what Ms. Lucina says!" chirped Starfy. "The future is ours to decide!"

"That's Shulk," Dr. Wright corrected, "but the point still stands. We should use the past to forge a bright future for ourselves. Take things as they come, as Resetti said."

Bomberman leaned back. "Jeez, took the words right out of my mouth. Well, metaphorically speaking."

Dr. Wright shrugged. "Well, what can I say? I minored in communications. At any rate… here's to a bright and prosperous future!"

"Hear, hear!"

The rain had stopped ten minutes earlier, but everyone was too content to notice or care.

Author's Notes: The thirtieth chapter is here at last, so I figured it was the perfect time to go back to where it began! In-universe, I mean.

You know, I kinda miss some of those older Assist Trophies. Barbara, Kururin (piloting the Helirin), Resetti... especially Resetti. And don't worry if your favorite Brawl Assist Trophy didn't make it here! They'll probably show up in a future flashback chapter!

I don't really say this often enough, but thank you so much for supporting this little story up to thirty chapters! Here's to thirty* more!

* I'm not saying there's gonna be thirty more chapters, I'm saying that's very much a possibility.