3.

"Many failed to grasp the Empire's true weight as a specter in our lives. It's almost unthinkable today, but once, the Mushroom Kingdom would have recoiled at the mere notion of trade with the Koopa Empire. People either stood unshaken—cut from a rarer cloth—or were simply too young to fathom the stakes. I'll confess, though, that day Mario stepped into New Donk City, I couldn't have foreseen the tide it would turn."

Pauline Verducci, Prime Minister of the Mushroom Kingdom, Voices of the Shift: Oral Histories, 1012 SV

Mario jolted awake, rubbing sleep from his eyes as the airship's intercom crackled through a fading dream—something warm, lost now to the ether. He nudged his cap's brim up, squinting against the sunlight stabbing through the porthole. A glance at his watch drew a faint smile; New Donk City's skyline loomed ahead, steel spires glinting like old friends. He tugged the cap snug, stepped off the gangway, and inhaled—grit, oil, and a whiff of baked brick. Home.

The city hummed with a rough-edged charm he'd always savored. No mobs of wide-eyed fans here, no chants of Jumpman or Hero of the Mushroom Kingdom—just Mario Segale, plain and scruffy. Sure, the Kong chase lingered in local lore, but it paled next to the bloated myths of Bowser and Smithy. Here, he was the nut who'd scaled girders, not a legend etched in gold. He'd traded his usual red shirt and overalls for a button-down, grey vest, black slacks, and boots—sharp, understated. The cap, though? A dead giveaway to any hawk-eyed scribe. Still, its style was a dime a dozen back in the Kingdom—small favors.

The streets buzzed, a mix of old haunts and fresh scars. Six months post-Smithy, New Donk had stitched itself back together—neon signs winked where rubble once sat, a defiance he admired. A new club's glow caught his eye, pulsing electric blue. His stomach growled, a low rumble, and he smirked, fishing a slate from his pocket. No paperboy today—he tapped the screen, news flickering up in crisp text. He'd rather scroll than rustle pages anyway.

Luca's was his go-to, but its shutters stayed dark this early. Then—Vesuvio. His eyes lit up, and he crossed the street, boots clipping the pavement. Inside, the air hit him—garlic, tomato, a warm tang that tugged at his gut. The dining room hummed with suits and ties, a sea of business casual, but two figures snagged his gaze. A woman—carmine hair yanked into a messy ponytail, burgundy eyes sharp—sat across from a broad, grey-scaled vyrn, silver hair catching the light, blue eyes glowing like twin beacons. She spotted him, froze, then leaned in, jabbering at her companion with a fervor that piqued his curiosity.

A vyrn in New Donk? Rare breed here, he mused as the host guided him to a table.

Settling in, Mario swiped his slate, news headlines scrolling past. His brows ticked up—the Empire's silence had slipped from the front page, a shift from months back. Two weeks ago, Peach's words echoed in his skull—not the awkward sidestep he'd braced for, but that edge in her voice when Russet came up. Something off, something heavy. Bowser's quiet stretched too long—no parades, no bombast, none of his usual chest-thumping. Even past lulls ended in noise by now. This? This was a void, and it gnawed at him. What was the Koopa brewing?

He tapped the slate dark, leaning back as Vesuvio's hum wrapped around him. New Donk felt like a reset—shaved clean, lighter—but Peach's hint of palace shadows clung like damp fog. Whatever Bowser was plotting, it wasn't parade-ground bluster. And that vyrn and human duo? Too out of place to ignore.

"Are we ready to order, sir?" The waitress approached, her tone bright, notepad poised.

Mario glanced up from his slate, offering a warm smile. "Well, I'm new here—any recommendations? I'd love your take." His mother's voice echoed in his skull: Never rile the folks handling your plate, tesoro.

Her face lit up. "Oh, between us? The crespelle's my pick—spinach, mushrooms, ricotta. Can't go wrong."

"Sounds perfect," he said, nodding. "I'll take that and a macchiato, please. Thank you kindly."

"Great choice! It'll be right out," she chirped, bustling off.

He tapped the slate, news flickering to life. A headline image stopped him cold—Peach, mid-twirl, laughing with a broad-shouldered man. He scrolled, grin tugging his lips. Baron Oliver Kiramman, Duskhaven's own. Nobles weren't his beat, but Luigi'd rattled off the name enough to stick. She looked… happy. A wistful pang hit him—good for her, finding that light. He swiped to the next story, smile souring into a grimace.

'Duke Graemon of Ironpointe proves key in pushing Her Highness' New Society…' Luigi's words from two weeks back rang true—Graemon, clawing back credibility. But from what fall? Mario's brow creased, mulling it.

"Here we are!" The waitress swept back, balancing his plate and cup with flair. She set them down, beaming. "Anything else I can grab you, sir?"

"No, this looks amazing—thank you so much," he said, matching her smile. She nodded and stepped away.

He set the slate aside, fork slicing into the crespelle, when a light laugh cut through the din. "You know, I'm almost offended you didn't swing by five months ago."

Mario's head snapped up, and he bolted to his feet, eyes wide. "P-Pauline! I—didn't know you were here!"

Pauline Verducci's grin was pure mischief, impish and bright. "Clearly, or you'd be bowing and scraping like the rest, 'Madame Mayor.'" She wagged a finger. "But it's just Pauline to you, hotshot." She closed the gap, pulling him into a tight hug. "No rogue gorillas tearing up my city this time, I hope?"

He rubbed his neck, sheepish grin flashing. "Guess that's my eternal claim to fame." A weak chuckle followed. "Could be worse—Portobello's been… a circus."

"National spotlight will do that, Mister Bigshot," she teased, sliding into the seat across from him. "New threads, too? Gotta say, I don't miss the overalls."

He narrowed his eyes, wagging a finger back. "Hey, don't diss the classics—those straps held history!" His grin widened, easy and loose.

The waitress returned, jotting Pauline's order with a nod before slipping off. Pauline leaned back, sizing him up with that piercing stare—like she could peel back his skull. Mario took a slow bite, meeting her gaze over the fork. Six years since the Kong mess tore them apart, and sure, they'd patched the worst before he and Luigi bolted to Portobello. But words flung in the heat—sharp, jagged—still hung between them, unerasable. Like he'd told Luigi, whatever fire they'd had? Snuffed out, cold ash now. Still, the banter flowed, a ghost of old rhythm.

"So…" Mario ventured, wincing at the clumsy opener, "how've you been holding up?"

Pauline shook her head as the waitress set down her macchiato and plate, her smile faint but wry. He'd lobbed the most basic pitch imaginable—lame, even for him. She sipped her drink, exhaling softly. "If you really want to know, I've been wrangling Gadd Science Incorporated to juice up our security—nothing wild, just rail upgrades. Council's dragging its feet, fretting over Gadd's rep and the Senate's bickering about letting him near Kingdom infrastructure. They'd rather hand it to TAS Corp out in Silica City or the Harrington Consortium, but I'd bet a crown His Majesty stomps that flat and greenlights Gadd."

Mario frowned over his own cup, the steam curling up. He'd never met the professor, but the name carried weight—Luigi'd vouched for him once. Pauline's eyes, though, held a shadow. "You're worried," he said, more statement than question.

She chuckled, glancing around Vesuvio's hum. "Sometimes I forget how well we could read each other." Her hand flicked toward his slate. "Not here, though—not the place. Nothing dire, just…"

"Impolitic?" He smirked, finishing the thought.

Her eyes widened, then she nodded, a spark of surprise glinting. "Well, look at you—Portobello's polished more than your wardrobe."

He snorted, amused. "You should see Luigi—half his day's spent tracking Senate quirks." He shook his head, steering off politics. "But beyond that mess, what's new?"

Pauline shrugged, cutting into her food. "Honestly? Post-Smithy, it's been quiet—until lately. The real grind's getting folks to talk straight with me. Some think I walk on water since the Scapelli case, but taking him down shouldn't make me a saint, right?"

Mario's jaw dropped, fork clattering to the plate. "Hold up—you took down Anthony Scapelli? The bastard who tanked me and Lu's gig?" Her nod hit like a brick. "You've gotta spill that one!"

Her grin turned sharp, predatory. "You and Luigi were off in Sarasaland then—no shock you missed it. Short version: an archaeology dig went belly-up—catastrophic collapse. I repped a family suing Scapelli Construction—they funded it, supplied the gear."

He clicked his tongue, brow arching. "What were they digging for?"

She shrugged, sipping her macchiato. "Some old yarn about the Crystal Stars—kid tales we heard growing up. Seven shiny baubles, demon-made to tap Star Haven's juice, till four heroes smashed the scheme. The kid's notes—some grad student—called 'em knockoffs of something bigger. Didn't matter; the site caved in before they cracked it." She waved it off. "Anyway—Scapelli. Shady as a back-alley warp. Remember him buying you out?"

Mario's face soured, the memory a bitter tang. "Yeah, not forgetting that anytime soon. Buyout clause—profit dips, we're out. Then…" He trailed off, a low growl rumbling.

Pauline's smile softened, sad-edged. "Small potatoes, that. Turns out he was shipping in junk parts from the Emerald Republic—substandard, cheap, all for a fatter margin. Passed 'em off as Kingdom-grade."

He snorted, unimpressed. "Classic Scapelli. Still don't see how that pins him."

Her grin snapped back, fierce. "That's the appetizer. The imports alone could've fined his outfit into the dirt." She leaned in, fingers lacing. "Lord Jeremiah Kiramman—Duskhaven's baron—lost his eldest, Alexander, in that collapse. You can guess the hellfire."

Mario's eyes widened. Noble blood spilled? That'd ignite a storm. "There's more, isn't there?" Her impish gleam said it all.

"Oh, plenty," she purred. "Kiramman sicced the Internal Security Bureau on it—those hounds don't miss a scent. Dug up labor violations, Pianta syndicate ties—the works. Scapelli's breaking rocks in Bargate now, sweating for once. Couldn't have picked a better guest."

Mario laughed, short and sharp, "Karma's a beaut."

Pauline leaned back, her macchiato steaming faintly. "You know…" she began, voice threading with thought, "you could take back the plumbing gig now. Scapelli's out of the picture."

Mario shook his head, the idea tugging at him like a loose thread. "Tempting, sure. But I've been off the wrenches too long." He sipped his drink, the bitter edge grounding him. "Fixing up the house—patching pipes, tweaking vents—that's been more my speed lately. Keeps my hands busy." A faint smile flickered. "Plus, all those Mycorian hauls—treasures from every corner—I'm set comfy enough."

"Oh?" Her brow arched, playful grin glinting. "Thought you'd be glued to our fair princess instead."

He sighed, shaking his head as the words sank in. "Nah, not really. Since we got back and His Majesty tapped her Prime Minister, she's been…" He lifted his cup, taking a deep gulp to mask the twist in his chest. "…swamped." Setting it down, he exhaled, meeting Pauline's frown. "What?"

She shook her head, eyes narrowing. "I know that look. Spill it—what happened?"

Mario snorted, a dry huff. Of course she'd catch it—six years since their split, and she still read him like a blueprint. Luigi might edge her out, but not by much. High school sweethearts into their twenties—Pauline had mapped his quirks, his silences. He exhaled slowly, words tangling in his throat. "Honest? I've been dodging the palace lately." Her expectant look pressed him further, a silent go on. "Short version: I made a total ass of myself."

"I see," she said, her voice soft but steady.

"I just…" He faltered, staring at the slate's dim screen. "I thought there was something there, y'know? A shot at… us. Me and her." His fingers drummed the table, restless. "Stupid part of me figured it was my roots—commoner stock, Crimino kid—holding me back. Like some fairy-tale snag."

"Yeah, that's stupid," Pauline cut in, nodding firmly. "I've barely swapped two words with her, but elitist? Doesn't track."

His mouth twitched, a half-smile breaking through. Blunt as a hammer—vintage Pauline. No wonder New Donk had crowned her mayor. He raised his hands, palms out. "I get it, I get it. Still stung like a buzzsaw, though. I was so damn sure she felt it too—didn't even clock rejection as an option." A hollow laugh slipped free. "Post-Smithy, I nabbed a quiet minute with her, laid it all out. She let me down soft as she could, but…" His smile faded, eyes drifting to the slate's photo—Peach twirling with Kiramman, radiant. "Walked off feeling like I'd torched the bridge."

Pauline pinched her nose, groaning. "Please tell me you didn't turn into a prat about it."

He chuckled, short and sharp. "Nah, learned that lesson ages ago. I just… pulled back. Needed air to unscramble my head. Got so grim Luigi bailed for his own place." He shook his head, bitter edge creeping in. "Month later, I wandered New Donk, chasing old ghosts—good days before the spotlight. Funny thing—six months back, some jerk sniped I was Bowser's twin. Oh, it pissed me off then. Now? He might've been onto something."

"You're a proper idiot if you buy that," she chirped, voice bright with mock cheer. "Seriously—that rubbish?"

He shrugged, ticking off points on his fingers. "Temper's a fuse sometimes. Stubborn as a brick wall. And, yeah, maybe a little hooked on a certain blonde." His grin was sheepish, half-hearted.

"Oh, hush." She groaned, waving him off. "Picture this—what if she's into someone else? Say it's Bowser—" She raised a hand, stifling his scoff, then tapped his slate, the Kiramman photo glowing. "Or that lord. Point is, if she's happy—really happy—with them, could you live with it?"

Mario snorted, amused despite the gut punch. Leave it to Pauline to sling the hard ones. He leaned back, thumb brushing his lip, humming low. Bowser? Peach? Objectivity was a pipe dream there. Her gaze bored into him, expectant, as she sipped her drink. He shut his eyes, turning the question over like a worn crown. Could he? The slate's image flashed—Peach's laugh, Kiramman's arm. Happy. He popped the last bite of crespelle into his mouth, chewing slow, letting the flavors settle—spinach, ricotta, a lifeline to the moment.

Swallowing, he opened his eyes, sighing heavy. "It'd be… tough." The word thudded, a thwomp flattening his pride. "It'd hurt like a bastard, no lie." He paused, staring at the empty plate, the slate's glow. Peach's smile lingered in his skull, bright against the ache. "But…"

"But?" Pauline prodded, leaning in.

His lips twitched, a faint curve. "If she picked it—her call, her joy—I'd stomach it. Grumble, sure, but I'd deal." He rubbed his neck, gaze drifting. "Seen her light up enough to know it's worth more than my moping."

Pauline's smile softened, rare and real. "And there's the difference. You'd ache, you'd curse, but you'd root for her happiness—even if it's not with you." She tapped the table, sharp and sure. "Flip it—Bowser'd never. He'd torch whoever she picked, maybe worse."

Mario winced, the thought a cold spike. Bowser offing him over Peach? Not a cozy daydream. He downed his macchiato's dregs, grimacing. "Yeah… not loving that visual." He set the cup down, slow. "Y'know, I might swing back here more…"

"The restaurant or the city?" She grinned, mischief glinting.

"Yes," he shot back, smirking.

"Um… E-excuse me… are you the Mario Segale?" A nervous voice piped up, trembling with awe.

Mario turned, slate dimming, as Vesuvio's hum swallowed his next breath.

Belle twirled her fork through the crespelle, the spinach and ricotta tang barely registering. Two days of this tourist charade—two bloody days of simpering smiles and gawking at New Donk's spires—and her patience was fraying like a cheap cable. The food was decent, sure, but the act? Her chipper "oohs" and "aahs" sounded like a stranger's voice, hollow and grating. She stabbed a strawberry, gaze flicking across Vesuvio's hum—then froze. That red cap. His red cap. The one burned into her skull from endless Imperial dossiers.

"Sir!" she hissed, leaning across the table, burgundy eyes locking onto Soryn. "He's here!"

Soryn's glowing gaze darted to Mario—striding toward a table, slate in hand—then slid back to his plate, unruffled. "So he is," he murmured, spearing a bite with maddening calm.

Belle growled, a low rumble in her throat. That damnable composure—rock-solid, unshakable—made her want to hurl the plate at him. She shot a glare at the Flamebreaker, hunched over his slate like any local. Too close—feet away, not leagues. Danger prickled her spine. "What now?" she snapped, voice a taut whisper. "He wasn't supposed to crash our party!"

"Patience, Commander," Soryn said, chuckling—chuckling—like she was some kid pitching a fit. "A fresh wrinkle, yes. But let's observe for a moment."

She groaned, shoving another forkful into her mouth. The crespelle turned to ash on her tongue, strawberries souring under the tension coiling her gut. Observe? Observe what? The Academy's videos—recruitment gloss and Ministry propaganda—never covered this: the slog, the waiting, the way boredom gnawed until something snapped it apart. Pirate chases, border dust-ups—those she could handle. This? This was a slow bleed, a mission teetering on a razor's edge, and Soryn was sipping tea through it.

A flash of red caught her eye—a brown-haired woman in a sharp suit, striding toward Mario's table. Belle's jaw tightened. "Oh, brilliant," she grumbled, voice dripping acid. "We were supposed to approach him solo!"

Soryn's serenity didn't flicker as he glanced over. "Mayor Verducci," he noted, a soft laugh escaping. "Our goal holds. This might tilt in our favor."

She scoffed, fork clattering to the plate. "Favor? How do you spin that?" Her tone bit, sharp and skeptical.

His smile was faint, infuriatingly assured. "We walk over and say hello. Two unarmed tourists, eager to meet the mayor and New Donk's famed hero—what's the harm?"

"Overly bloody optimistic," she muttered, arms crossing. "They'll have the watch on us faster than you can blink."

Soryn's eyes glittered, unperturbed, as he nodded toward the pair. "It's time, Commander."

Belle bit back a curse, shoving her chair back with a scrape. Tourists—hah. She'd rather storm a pirate den than play this game, but Soryn's calm was a leash she couldn't shake. Mario and Verducci laughed, oblivious, and her stomach churned. This wasn't just risky—it was a damn circus, and she was the reluctant ringleader.

Belle's eyes flicked to Mario's table, noting the empty plates—scraped clean, not a crumb spared. She snorted, a flicker of amusement cutting through her irritation. Naturally, Soryn insisted on finishing their meal first—manners over mission. Typical. As they approached, she forced her gait into a tourist's eager bounce, but Soryn glided beside her, all regal poise and effortless grace. It grated her nerves—he didn't even try to blend, just oozed vyrn dignity. He gave a slight nod, her cue. She cleared her throat, pitching her voice high and shaky. "Um… E-excuse me… are you the Mario Segale?"

The Flamebreaker blinked up, confusion creasing his face as he nodded. "Uh, yeah—sorry, you've got me stumped here, Miss…?"

"Oh! Right—Belle Fontiere," she said, gesturing to the vyrn. "This is my partner, Soryn." Two weeks arguing aliases from Caldera to Vista Hill, and he'd shot down every fake name—stick to the truth where you can, he'd said. Stubborn ass. "Sorry to barge in—mind if we join you?"

Soryn inclined his head, silver hair catching the light. "Only if it suits present company. We'd not impose," he said, his common tongue thick with a vyrn lilt—deliberate, performative.

Belle's teeth ground together, a spark of fury flaring. Fantastic. This was their play—him as the bumbling foreigner, her as the chipper guide. The mayor and Mario swapped a glance, brows arching in a wordless exchange. A shrug passed between them, and the mayor—Pauline—extended a hand, voice smooth. "Please, sit."

They settled in, Belle flashing a tight smile. "Thanks, Madame Mayor."

"Just Pauline," she corrected, warm but firm. She snagged Mario's slate from his side of the table, sliding next to him with a casual nudge. "Hope you're enjoying New Donk?"

"It has been…" Soryn paused, brow furrowing as he turned to Belle. "Luz'kan?"

She smirked, wry and quick. Mario and Pauline's raised brows only fueled her glee. "Enlightening," she translated, smooth as silk. "My partner's still wrestling the common tongue." A bald-faced lie—Soryn could charm a room in it—but she played it straight. "I speak Kresh'tal, so the Trade Guild teamed us up."

Pauline's eyes sparked with recognition as she tapped the slate, skimming something—crosschecking, maybe, though her grin stayed easy. "Oh—the Waffle Kingdom? How's King Challah faring?"

Soryn shifted, scales glinting faintly. "His Majesty is… concerned."

Belle kept her face neutral, though her gut twisted. The Waffle Kingdom sat neutral—non-interference its creed, not quite a Mushroom ally, not a foe. No Beanbean warmth or Bonneton flair there. Soryn had drilled it into her: play the politics light, let them assume. Her fingers itched to slam the table—two weeks of this tourist farce, and now they were tap-dancing on a diplomatic tightrope with the Flamebreaker and New Donk's mayor. One slip, and the watch'd be on them like hounds. Soryn's calm was a bloody tease—she'd kill for a pirate brawl over this.

Pauline scrolled the slate absently, her thumb brushing the screen. "Concerned, huh? Can't say I blame him—things have been quiet lately. Too quiet, maybe." Her tone stayed light, but her eyes flicked to Belle, then Soryn, a glint of curiosity there.

Belle forced a nod, swallowing the urge to snap. Quiet? Try suffocating. She'd choke on this charade before it paid off—but Soryn's gaze held steady, daring her to keep up.

Mario nodded, brows ticking up slightly. "I see. So… what's my part in this?" His tone was even, curious but guarded.

Belle sighed, bitterness lacing her breath. "Fact is, we need your help." The words grated—two weeks of tourist fakery, and now this, begging the Flamebreaker like some dockside tout.

Mario's eyes flicked to Pauline, a flash of bewilderment crossing both their faces. He cleared his throat. "Don't get me wrong, Miss Fontiere—I'll pitch in if I can. But shouldn't you be bending King Russet's ear? I'm just a guy, not a crown."

Belle blinked, thrown. That… wasn't the dodge she'd braced for. Soryn lifted his head, glowing eyes narrowing. "Your King and ours… see things differently." His voice was steady, but a glint sparked in his gaze. She shot him a sidelong frown—intrigued, was he? Really?

"Too right," she muttered, leaning into the lie. "Russet wouldn't toss us a brass nut, let alone real aid. We're after a pirate queen—nasty piece of work."

Mario clicked his tongue, shrugging. "Pirate queen, huh? I've tackled weirder. What's the intel?"

Her gaze darted to Soryn. That shimmer in his eyes—damn him, he was enjoying this, playing some angle she couldn't clock. Pauline, though, was a sharper thorn—head tilted, slate in hand, thumb scrolling as she watched Belle like a hawk sizing prey. Belle sucked in a breath, steeling herself. "Captain Syrup—Black Sugar Gang. She's been gutting our merchant fleets, raids nonstop. Navy's flailing, and it's tanking our trade. Politically, Russet wins if we flounder—but if you step in, we fix our mess, and he'd greenlight sweeter Mushroom trade deals."

Mario's stare iced over—no spark, just a chill that prickled her spine. Shit—had she made a mistake? Soryn lounged, serene as ever, offering zero backup. Did he even see the tightrope swaying under them? Her mind raced—Mario lunging, fists flying, Pauline caught in the fray, Vesuvio's crowd screaming. Two Imperial lives might not faze him, but bystanders? She exhaled slow, tension bleeding from her shoulders. No bloodbath here—not yet.

Mario crossed his arms, head dipping, silence cloaking the table like fog. Pauline cleared her throat, voice light but edged, slate tilting toward Mario as she tapped a detail. "I'd wager Russet would hear out Waffle envoys." She scrolled again, casual-like, eyes flicking to Belle. "We could nudge your case his way—smooth the path."

Belle's guard spiked—that edge in Pauline's tone, the slate's glow shared with Mario. Crosschecking her story? Her gut twisted, but she kept her face smooth. "Appreciated," she said, clipped. "We'd take any leverage."

Soryn nodded, unfazed. "A prudent step. Cooperation benefits all."

Pauline tilted the slate again, a headline flashing Mario's way—too quick to read, but his jaw tightened. Belle's pulse kicked. They weren't buying it wholesale—Pauline was digging, Mario was cooling. Soryn's calm was a lifeline she wanted to throttle. One wrong word, and this house of cards could crash—hard.

Belle opened her mouth to reply, but Soryn's raised forefinger cut her off—cool, deliberate, infuriating. "They disagree on much," he said, accent slipping briefly before steadying. "To a point, King Russet could not be seen to… give us aid."

Her brow arched, a scowl tugging her lips. Was he trying to botch this? That fumble—too neat, too staged. Pauline caught it too, brows dipping as she tilted Mario's slate his way, a flicker of text glinting. Belle's gut clenched—then Mario barked a laugh, sharp and sudden. She whipped her head to him. "Something funny?" she snapped, indignation masking her nerves.

He shook his head, grin fading to a hard edge. "Nah, just… solid tale you spun." His eyes blazed, pinning her. "Real polished. But that's all it is, right? A story?" He leaned forward, voice dropping. "C'mon—let's cut the crap."

Pauline's sneer sliced in, slate tilting again as she scrolled. "Next time, pick lies that hold water. Captain Syrup and her Black Sugar Gang? Vanished after Awabō's ruins caved—years back. And that's not all." She tapped the screen, eyes narrowing. "Waffle Kingdom's 'merchant fleets'? Challah's navy barely patrols its own ponds—trade's been flat since the last tariff spat. So drop the act—who are you, really?"

Belle's gaze darted to Soryn. His faint, amused smile sent a jolt of relief through her—finally, the mask could crack. She straightened, exhaling slowly. "We didn't lie about our names—or needing help."

Soryn tilted his head, accent dissolving into crisp clarity. "Indeed. Lieutenant Commander Fontiere is my aide-de-camp. I'm a Commodore in the Koopa Empire's Imperial Navy."

Mario's eyes widened, a flash of shock Belle mirrored internally—damn it, she'd begged for sidearms, vetoed by Soryn's blend in nonsense. Pauline raised a hand, voice smooth but steel-edged. "Well, Commodore, we weren't braced for such… distinguished guests." She tilted the slate again, Mario glancing at a line. "If I'd known, I'd have rolled out a proper welcome. But here's the rub—you're boxed in. Witnesses, a mayor, Super Mario himself. One word, and the watch swarms. Your odds aren't pretty."

Soryn inclined his head, unruffled. "Certainly not. But would two unarmed tourists warrant such fuss?"

"Unarmed? Bullshit," Mario snorted, derision thick. "You're Imperial brass—gonna tell me you didn't pack heat?"

Belle bit her tongue—fair point. She'd clock Mushroom officers the same way, bare hands or not. Soryn's calm held, maddeningly steady. "You hear two Imperials say His Majesty needs aid, and you're not curious why?"

Pauline pounced, the slate steady in her grip. "Still waiting on that, Commodore. What's so dire the Emperor's begging us?" Her patience was a thin veneer, eyes flicking to Mario as she tilted the screen—a date, a headline, something sharpening his stare.

Belle's pulse hammered. Pauline had been peeling their story layer by layer—Syrup's bust, Waffle's limp trade—all while Soryn played coy. That slate wasn't just a toy; it was a net, and they were snared. She shot him a look—say something, damn it—but his glow just shimmered, daring them to bite.

Belle shook her head, pure exasperation bubbling. "Not yours, Madame Mayor." Her gaze swung to Mario, hard and unyielding. "Yours."

Mario's sneer cut deep, voice dripping scorn. "You're nuts if you think His High-and-Mighty needs me. If it's so damn critical, he'd drag his scaly ass here himself."

She snorted, a sharp bark. Fair—Mario's tangle with the Emperor and the Empire made his disbelief a given. But flip it—would the Emperor buy Mario begging aid? Doubtful. She glanced at Soryn, his glowing eyes locked on Mario, steady as stone. "Ordinarily, yes," he said, voice smooth, measured. "But circumstances tether him to Caldera. They demand your help—and they threaten ruin not just for the Empire, but the Mushroom Kingdom, perhaps the continent, if ignored. More, I cannot say."

Belle tracked Pauline's shift—eyes narrowing, processing Soryn's words, slate idle in her lap. Mario, though, stayed flinty, arms crossed. Belle's patience frayed, a wire sparking. "Look, Red, I get it—His Majesty choking on pride's a stretch. But this isn't just our mess. It could bail out your Kingdom too."

Mario scoffed, a harsh puff of air. "Sure—help Bowser, and it's all roses? You must think I'm a chump."

"Haven't you been listening, Meatball?" Belle snapped, her temper shredding like cheap code. "The Emperor wouldn't grovel unless it's dire! How many power-hungry jackals do you think—"

"Peace, Commander," Soryn cut in, voice a cool blade, forefinger raised. She bit her tongue, molars grinding as he turned to Mario and Pauline. "The choice is yours, Mario. Weigh what's been said. It rests with you."

Belle's jaw clenched, frustration boiling as Soryn rose, pivoting with that infuriating grace. She glared at Mario—his skepticism a wall—then scoffed, shoving up from her seat. The urge to snarl at Soryn clawed her throat, but one thought drowned it: this mission was a bust. Worse—a gut-punch failure. Two weeks of tourist drivel, and for what? Empty hands back to Caldera? Off-the-books or not, this was Bowser's ask—did standard flak apply? Her mind spun, already drafting the report: Target contacted. Refused. Outcome null. She'd choke on the ink before admitting how bad this stung.

"Wait."

Belle froze mid-step, boots scuffing Vesuvio's floor, and glanced back. Mario stood, head dipped, cap's brim shadowing his eyes. His voice sounded hollow, like he doubted it'd even left his throat. She flicked her gaze to Soryn—still as stone, back to them, silver hair glinting under the streetlights. Pauline's head tilted, curiosity etching her face, mirroring Belle's own. Arms crossing, she pivoted to face him, temper flaring but leashed. "Alright, Red, we're waiting. What's the holdup?"

Mario lifted his head, locking eyes with her—blue meeting burgundy, sharp and searching. "Can't tell if you're shoveling bullshit or not," he said, slow, deliberate. "But… if it's half as bad as you're selling, maybe I'd hear him out."

Her jaw slackened, surprise punching through her guard. Pauline's shock mirrored it, sharper. "What?" she blurted, voice pitching high. "Mario, I've heard dumb ideas—chasing that kong was bad—but this? This takes the damn cake!"

His lips twitched, a ghost of a grin—some old jab between them, Belle guessed. She opened her mouth to snap back, but Soryn turned, slow and deliberate, scales catching the light. "In any other case, with any other officer," he said, voice smooth as a blade, "You might have had a point, Madame Mayor. His Majesty's decree is that Mario is to be an honored guest. Straying from that, and… well… the Emperor's wrath would be… unpleasant."

Mario's stare stayed flat, unimpressed. "Bowser's never begged me for squat—makes me curious." He shrugged, glancing at Pauline. "That's the only reason I'm even chewing on it. Worst case? I buy it, I swing hard, and I drag half the Empire to the Underwhere with me."

Belle rolled her eyes, exasperation bubbling. Was it that hard to buy they weren't baiting a trap? She paused, breath catching—flip it, and she'd smell ambush too. Mushroom brass begging aid from Caldera? She'd laugh them out. Soryn's faint nod caught her eye—maybe this wouldn't be the flop she'd dreaded, no report of mission scrapped, court-martial pending. Yet.

Pauline pulled Mario into a fierce hug; voice low. "I hope you know what you're doing…"

"Hey, it's me," he grinned, light but brittle. Belle caught his lean-in, a whisper too soft to snag—Pauline's eyes widened, alarm flashing, but his face shut it down, stone-cold. No room for pushback.

"You sure?" she asked, cautious, hands lingering on his shoulders.

"Dead sure," he said, firm. "Tell King Russet and Peach—both of them." He turned to Belle and Soryn, slate forgotten on the table. "Alright, your gig now. Lead the way."

The trio shuffled out of Vesuvio, New Donk's streets swallowing them in a tense, uneasy quiet. Belle stole a glance at Mario—hands jammed in his pockets, cap low, stride steady but guarded. The silence stretched; a taut wire ready to snap. She sighed, soft and sharp. "Y'know, Red…"

"Lemme be crystal clear," he cut in, tone deceptively light. "If Bowser's itching for me to nab someone, he can shove it. I'm not playing fetch."

Soryn paused, glancing back, blue glow steady. "No need for concern. His Majesty's made it plain—this isn't about that."

Belle's brow creased, a flicker of doubt worming in. Not Peach—Soryn's word was iron on that, and she'd seen the brief: retrieve Mario, Caldera-bound, no detours. But why him? They'd stood in the First Minister's office, data slate in hand. No Emperor, though—not a scale, not a growl. Why hadn't he loomed over that meeting, barking this himself? Her gut churned—Not even Soryn knew, and that was disturbing enough.

Mario's scoff broke her spiral. "Right—'trust us,' says the Imperial. Still smells like a setup."

"Wouldn't blame you," she muttered, kicking a pebble down the street. "I'd feel the same if Russet sent his people to Caldera. But we're not here to chain you up—guest, not prisoner." She shot Soryn a look—back me up, damn it—but he just walked, serene as ever.

"Guest, huh?" Mario's voice cut the quiet, dry as dust. "Better be one hell of a welcome mat."

Note from the Author:

This chapter threw me more curveballs than I'd planned. I aimed to loosen the reins on Mario and Pauline's dynamic—less stiff than his chat with Peach in Chapter One, rawer and easier. They're exes, sure, but Pauline's got a knack for slicing through Mario's bluster like a hot knife. It's casual, lived-in, a contrast to the palace's weight. I also stumbled into planting a seed I hadn't clocked before—something that'll sprout later, though I'll keep it under wraps for now. As with Chapter One, I'm pulling from Mario's game tapestry—canon or not—like Thousand-Year Door's Crystal Stars, just folklore here but still echoing.

Pauline's past as a prosecutor shines when she dismantles Scapelli, and that edge doesn't dull as mayor. She's sharp—crosschecking Belle and Soryn's tale with Mario's slate, tapped into Mycoria's web of data. Captain Syrup's a ghost since Awabō's collapse, and Waffle Kingdom's trade? A limp fish—Challah's no merchant king. Pauline spots the holes fast, slate or no slate, proving she's still got that courtroom bite. It's refreshing, too—Mario's women aren't just damsels here; they're forces, wielding smarts and steel in equal measure.