Epilogue: Zero Hour

Chad sat on a park bench, patch notes in hand, reading and rereading that red bullet point over and over. They'd actually done it. Luigi had been nerfed. And he'd helped start this whole mess. Tears prickled at his eyes, bitter, remorseful tears, which he quickly swiped away. He'd changed his ways, that was true, but Project Nerf would forever stain his conscience, for it was something he'd have to live with for the rest of his days. The Mario Bros would hate him if they found out he had anything to do with this. How he'd make this up to them, he'd never know.

His phone buzzed. He answered with a curt, "Hello?"

"What's up, Chad?" Crazy Hand cheerfully asked.

"What do you want, Crazy Hand?" snapped Chad.

"Now, that's not a good way to address an old friend," chided CH.

"You're no friend of mine," said Chad. "Not anymore."

"Well, good, because this isn't a social call." CH's voice had turned ominous. "The Bennigan Brothers and I have a new project in the works."

Chad huffed. "They'll never run out of ways to hurt Luigi, will they?"

CH cackled. "That man in green deserves everything that's coming to him, and then some. Now, where was I? Oh, right—we have a brand spanking new operation in the works, and this time, we won't take 'no' for an answer."

Chad's bowels seized. That didn't sound good.

"I've already spoken to Marth, Roy, Falco and the other Smashers who helped out, and Theo and his folks are also aboard. You, however, are a different story. The question is—what to do about it…"

"Look, Crazy Hand…" growled Chad.

"You know, it's a real bummer, Luigi losing those combos," CH went on. "As we speak, people are lining up to whale on him the way he used to whale on them. It's open season for that man in green now, and that's bound to put Mr. Nintendo on the warpath." After pausing for effect, he cooed, "You know how Mario gets when people get rough with his little brother. And he's gonna spend these coming months looking for answers. Sooner or later, he's gonna come running to me."

Chad shuddered.

"I can even tell you how our conversation will go down, how many delicious morsels and goodies I'll feed him, all of the audio and video recordings, the dossiers upon dossiers of photographs and phone records I have at my disposal—if I choose to."

"Oh, J—s," murmured Chad. "Sweet J—s."

"He's not listening right now, Chad," CH said smartly. "Face it, buddy—you never had a chance with the Mario Bros to begin with. When you showed up at two of our meetings, you sealed your own fate. You're gonna spend the rest of your life peeking over your shoulder and sleeping with one eye open—to no avail. One of these fine days, you'll be at Super Mario's mercy. Unless—I decide to save you." Softly, he asked, "Do you want me to save you, Chad?"

"Yes," Chad managed to say.

"Then listen very carefully. You know of the Smash Ballots, yes? Well, our green-capped friend wants someone to win that Ballot. And with your help, we're going to see to it that she won't."

"That's insane! You're asking me to commit ballot tampering!" exclaimed Chad.

"We're ordering you to, actually," CH said smartly, "because make no mistake, Chad, you are ours now. We say jump, you say where. Unless you prefer to be Mario's punching bag when I lead him straight to you. Understand?"

"I understand," Chad said hoarsely.

"We're taking a well-deserved break for now," said CH. "Sometime in November, you and the others will be briefed on the objectives of Operation Ballot Box and what needs to be done for it to be a success. We'll expect you to attend all of the meetings regarding this endeavor. All of them. Are we clear?"

"I think I'm gonna be sick," moaned Chad.

"I'll take that as a 'yes'," smirked CH on the other end of the line. "And one more thing—we will be monitoring you very closely on this one. So, if we get so much as one phone call hinting at a defection on your part, then Mario's gonna get a phone call. And after he gets that phone call, he's gonna head to my office, ready to listen to what I have to tell him. Remember—it only takes a phone call."

"I won't defect," Chad managed to spit out. "You have my word."

"Hmm. Good to know," said CH. "You have yourself a nice day, Chad." And then he hung up.

With trembling fingers, Chad put his phone away. Then, he lunged for the nearest trash can and retched.

When he was finished, he wiped his mouth, stumbled back towards the bench and then collapsed on it, gasping, feeling as if his whole life was over.

"Why, oh, why did I ever get mixed up with those a—holes?!"

1.1.1

In the lounge, he sat there smirking, as he had been for the past hour or so. At long last, a chance at a marvelous victory against that stupid, green clad bean pole! He'd dreamed of this for the past month—looked forward to this—him creaming the puny idiot until he couldn't take anymore—until he was sniffling and whimpering and sobbing and crying out for his mercy—and finally, that dream came true, now that he no longer had to worry about that godforsaken ground pound! Things had gone just as he'd planned, him owning the guy with blow after blow, the latter's secret weapon finally failing him. He got his revenge, so to speak, on that stupid man in green for all the times he'd executed combos on him till he ran out of breath. Several times, he had to pinch himself for reassurance that this was real! He was in Heaven, right up until Master Hand called "Time."

"Ha! That scrawny little squirt!" jeered the arrogant victor, taking another celebratory swig of his cocktail. "Not so tough now without those combos, are you?"

God bless patch 1.1.1. And God bless the Bennigan Brothers for putting that idea in Master Hand's head! Later that night, the victor was going to continue the celebration by hitting the bars and getting—er—Super Smashed—as the images of him completely thrashing the mustachioed man in green continued to drum across his mindscape.

1.1.1

Match after match, they were all on cloud nine. Match after match, they paid Luigi back in spades for every combo he'd styled on them. Their friends beamed at them and said that they knew all they needed was a little practice, but practice had nothing to do with it. They were the best, for goodness sake! That man in green had been the only reason why they barely won a match up to now—him and that godforsaken down throw! And when they got together via social media, they all agreed that this heavy nerf on Luigi was just what the doctor ordered.

Upon further introspection, they also realized that they had themselves to thank for this good fortune. They'd worked together and with the Bennigan Brothers to charm the powers-that-be. They'd discovered a powerful ally on the inside willing to give them a big hand (pun definitely intended). They'd learned that they'd helped Sakurai as much as he'd helped them. And they'd manipulated another "hand"—Master Hand—to get something done about that pesky down throw.

And here, for them to savor, were the fruits of their labor—the result of such a "something".

The result of 30 days of hard work.

30 days of adventure.

30 days of tears, laughter and senses-shattering suspense.

The result of the last 30 days leading to patch 1.1.1.

1.1.1

He wasn't going to cry.

He wasn't going to sulk in his room.

He wasn't going to mope around and feel sorry for himself.

He was going to head to the Training Room and get some practice.

As one of his playlists blared on the stereo, Luigi battered away at a Sandbag, refusing to think about how many Smashers took advantage of his nerf. Nor did he allow himself an opportunity to recall the mockery tossed his way or how they dared him to pull off the combos this update patch had done in. Koopa, especially, had been vicious in rubbing the nerf in Luigi's face, but as always, he ignored him. All he could do now was play the hand he was dealt.

Three songs in, Luigi paused to catch his breath. He took a swig of his sports drink and whipped off his shirt, much to the pleasure of a few Miis who, once again, were pretending not to watch. Then, he really let loose, translating the sting, stress, shock, hurt, frustration and anger into power and strength. His attacks sizzled into that Sandbag, and when he saw the seam begin to open, he casually skipped to another one. His body danced and dipped and rolled with the punches, the kicks and the Smash attacks. He buzzed like an angry bee around groups of Sandbags when he brushed up on his aerial attacks. Aggressive, sharp and steady whistling breaths filled the Training Room, the upbeat tunes barely drowning them out. Even with the door closed, the sound of Luigi's breathing somehow slipped out. It was faint, yes, but it was there. Not that Luigi cared at the moment. He needed to get this ugliness out of his system, so he could focus and ponder his next move.

Two people lingered outside the Training Room, one of them a familiar, red-capped hero, watching his younger brother through one of the windows. His gloved hands clutched the sill tightly, as if it would anchor him to the earth. It probably wouldn't, as he was bouncing lightly on his toes. Sea blue eyes were fixed on the green-capped fighter within, and his breath fogged the pane as he whispered, "Yeah. Yeah. You got it, Bro. You got it."

A dainty, gloved hand rested firmly on his shoulder, soothing him enough to stop bouncing. Super Mario turned and smiled gratefully at his Peach. She was wearing a green dress today, her lovely blue eyes accentuated with green eye shadow. Rubbing the small of her hero's back, Peach said softly, "He'll be alright."

"Today hasn't been a good day for him," sighed Mario. "He only managed to win a few of his matches. The rest of his opponents practically ripped him to shreds."

"But he's not letting that slow him down," smiled Peach. "Look at him. He knows that won't do any good. If only everyone else followed his example…"

"That's exactly why I'm so wired," explained Mario. "When life deals you spaghetti sauce, you make spaghetti. Even though a good chunk of his combos were taken from him, he's soldiering on."

"I know," said Peach. "I know."

"I saw this coming, you know," Mario said suddenly. "The rants in MH's office, the Miiverse posts, the general salt. And I—just didn't want to believe it."

"Hey," Peach said gently. "Everyone gave it the benefit of the doubt. This isn't your fault."

Mario's eyes glistened as he refocused his attention on Luigi. "Wow. Look at him," he mused as the green-clad one sailed through the air and slammed into a Sandbag. "He's taken a beating, and yet he's picking himself back up. That's my bro."

Back inside the Training Room, Luigi sensed a fog clearing from his mind. As he continued to work the Sandbags, he remembered seeing something about his Cyclone being buffed. He also had a bigger hitbox on his d-air, and his combo-escaping n-air remained untouched. After dealing one last punch, he began practicing his d-air, quickly finding that he had a better chance of getting that spike. After throwing out a few d-airs, he next threw out a handful of n-airs, finishing by sending a Super Jump Punch into the canvas. He flicked some sweat from his forehead and kept going.

Standing there at the window, Mario quivered with contained energy. Luigi was still so enthralling to watch, nerf be d—ned. He leaned into Peach's touch as he observed the intense facial expression, that determined spark in his eyes, his clenched mouth softening into a smile. His body continued to move fluidly from Sandbag to Sandbag, sweat plastering him thickly and making him come aglow, tiny droplets flinging themselves off him. His bangs were stuck to the back of his neck, as were several curls of hair to his forehead. His muscles flexed excitedly beneath his skin, his chest practically dancing as it heaved in and out. Now, his mouth was in that distinctive "O" shape as he concentrated hard. The sound of the blows were muffled by the walls and windows, but Mario could still hear the breaths, whooshing and rhythmic and fierce.

Luigi hammered into those Sandbags long and hard until he could no longer ignore the entreaties from his long-suffering lungs. As he sat against the wall, waiting for his heart rate to come down, he noticed that his playlist was starting to repeat. Once he could breathe a little through his nose, he stood and selected another playlist to play. After he gulped down some more of his sports drink, he took a preparatory breath and leaped right back into his training.

And it was then that he decided that he was just—finished. Finished with fretting and worrying about that nerf, finished with fuming and mulling over what would've been. His down throw combos—those down throw combos—were gone, and there was nothing he could do about that.

But—

The end of those combos didn't mean the end of the world. Just because they were finished in Smash didn't mean he was finished. There were new combos out there, brand-spanking new combos he could create, string together, practice and hammer into his strategy. New combos he could expertly craft if he worked with the nerf, rather than against it. New combos ready to sprout themselves from the ashes of the old ones, ready to poke their heads out of the rubble of this nerf and say, "Hello!" All he needed—was a little patience.

And outside that window, both Mario and Peach saw and felt the fire, the fire blazing in Luigi's face and along his limbs and in his heart and mind. His power and emotions became nice and focused, resisting the icy grasp of self-pity. It was as if they were witnessing a fireworks display ushering in the New Year. And in those fireworks, in that fire, came the same thoughts Luigi was thinking, that there were new combos waiting to be discovered and tested, and that the nerf didn't slam the door in his face, but rather, opened up all sorts of possibilities. By now, Mario was hopping up and down as if he was on a pogo stick, shouting to his brother in English and Italian, with no stuffy ushers telling him to lay off.

Through the window and over his music and his breathing, Luigi heard Mario's voice, as he always did, encouraging and exhorting, which served to improve his mood. He was down but not out. Beaten and bruised, but not broken. The salty masses tried to bring him down with this nerf, but they failed. Maybe the nerf on his down throw was for the best. If he clocked in enough hours here—with Sandbags or with sparring partners—he'd tailor a strategy better than the previous one. One thing was for sure, his big brother, his friends, and all of his friends still had his back, and no red bullet point on a piece of paper was gonna take that away!

Good times ahead, indeed.

The End

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