(08/12/2019) (UPDATED: 09/12/2019) Hey, potential Readers, welcome to an admittedly self-indulgent story. This is my first story, and if you don't know that by the fact that the ol' profile will show just one measly story, you'll definitely notice by the writing. After a couple days' worth of revisions, refining, and something else that begins with "re", I got tired of looking at it and hit the ol' publish button. I hope you all enjoy it, and if you have any tips on writing, feel free to let me know! (Note: With their official relationship kept intentionally vague, I will state that Nana and Popo are not related in this story.)

The air was still, and the skies were clear.

While these conditions didn't make for the strongest mountaineers, they were still considered blessings to those who lived within the harsh climate of what others might consider a frozen wasteland. Besides, the day's climbing exercises were already finished during the harsher weather patterns earlier in the day, and the respite was earned. Now it was time to rest.

"C'mon, get him! Get 'em, get 'em, get 'em!" A girl was shouting in rapid cadence.

"Go, GO! Don't let up!" A boy's voice joined in enthusiastically.

Well, rest would come later. For now, the monthly ritual of watching the broadcast of the fourth Super Smash Brothers tournament was well underway. The broadcasts were actually more common than once a month, with matches taking place throughout the first couple days of each week, but major events took place at the end of each month. This one in particular was slated to be the last event of the entire tournament, and Nana and Popo were determined to watch it from beginning to end.

They reclined together on a sturdy, comfortable bench, which had a small pile of various fruits and vegetables at both ends for snacking purposes. They weren't watching via a television set, as one would expect; somehow, the matches were displayed through the swirling lights of the aurora borealis across the skies above. Atop Icicle Mountain, it was easily the best spot to watch the action from. There was no sound, but fortunately a sort of closed-captioning was provided. Having the matches put out in silence turned out to be a more considerate option for Murasat Village and the other settlements below—especially during their hours of rest—for they no longer felt the need to watch the tournament now that they were no longer represented.

Even now, Nana and Popo would be lying if they said their exclusion didn't still sting a little bit…

How they found out they weren't invited back, however, felt much worse.

~One Year Earlier~

After their return from the third tournament, life had quickly returned to normal. The condor still stole the crops from their village, and the two Ice Climbers would pursue it up the mountain to retrieve its ill-gotten gains. A year and some months later, though, another one of these routine chases was in progress. The journey was expected to take no less than two days to retrieve a particularly large haul from their adversary. After the sun had set on the first night, the snowy conditions had suddenly changed to a clear night. A confused Nana had taken the lead position then, and was securing a piton in the cliff face when she looked to the sky to figure out why.

The gently-shifting colors of the borealis were there to greet her while she waited for Popo to scramble up alongside. A common phenomenon to see in this region, but the residents never seemed to tire of sitting back and watching the show. The village Elder often told stories of ancestors and gods dancing among the flickering lights, and as the flashes got more chaotic, Nana strained her vision to see if she could see anyone within.

Nana most certainly didn't expect to see Mario leaping towards Sonic with a fireball in his hands.

Popo would eventually settle in beside her, and it didn't take long for his gaze to travel skyward and see the same sight that had left his companion looking so despondent. Popo was so stunned by the spectacle; he had nearly slipped from his perch before he brandished his mallet. A quick swing was enough to embed it into the cliff's face, allowing him a handhold. Now his emotions could echo Nana's. Outwardly, his expression was nearly identical, but the creak of his leather mittens against the handle of his maul was a clear giveaway of the underlying anger. Once he gained purchase with his crampons pressed into the ice, Popo draped his free arm around Nana's shoulders in an attempt to comfort her. They were safe for the moment, but eventually decided that they needed to keep moving. Better to shut it out and mull it over later.

The Ice Climbers would spend the rest of their mission in pursuit of the condor, against the backdrop of the Smash Brothers tournament taunting them. Upon their return to Murasat Village, they would quickly deposit their bounty and avoid an onslaught of questions by immediately ducking into their home and closing the shutters. They wouldn't come out for eight days, and it was only because the condor returned and took another harvest away.

It took a good while, but eventually Nana and Popo would be able to put aside their hurt and at least be able to support their friends, albeit from a very, very long distance. And it wasn't like they were the only ones kept out. They also noticed that Solid Snake and Wolf O'Donnell were absent. The Pokémon trainer, Red, and two of his fighting animals were also missing…but somehow his dragon-like creature was competing by itself? Also still unaccounted for were a different young version of Link, and Pichu, who were in the second tournament and conspicuously missing from the climbers' last outing.

~Present Day~

"Don't get greedy! You're gonna over-extend and—NO!" Popo put his hands on his head, stunned that his armchair coaching somehow fell on deaf ears.

"Hah! Pay up, Sucker!"

A brown mitten, at the end of a pink sleeve, appeared in Popo's face. An exasperated sigh escaped Popo's smiling lips, and he deposited an ear of corn in the palm. He should have known better than to bet on Little Mac after all these months of watching him mostly lose, but the boxer was on a hot streak in this final event. Unfortunately, Popo still wagered one of his favorite veggies even as the venerable Mario made his entrance opposite the plucky pugilist.

He really was a sucker for underdogs.

"I'll get that back, don't you worry." Nana blew out a small raspberry in response, and plopped the corn onto her pile. Betting food on the matches allowed them to make things a little more interesting, at least while they waited for the fighters they actually cared about. Somehow, King Dedede managed to last a long ways into this particular event, and they had to root for the remaining mallet wielder. "Did you catch who was coming out next?"

Nana blew out a puff of air that made some strands of hair flutter from her forehead as she thought. "I think the captions mentioned Toon Link and Pikachu. I don't like how that'll probably end…"

"No, you're right. Poor Toonie; he probably won't get many shots in, but maybe he'll get lucky?"

"Maybe! He's bound to pull something out of the usual spot, since he got this far." Nana gave a firm, single nod before reclining to turn her attention to the sky.

Popo smiled as he watched her, before grabbing a turnip from his pile and chomping into it. While chewing, he also reclined to look upwards. Toon and Pikachu were just now making their signature entrances and the match began.

Their predictions rang true to form, for the most part. Toon Link managed to catch Pikachu off-guard with a surprisingly vicious opening, but he was only able to knock off one of the electric mouse's allotted lives before he was rather unceremoniously eliminated by a rapid onslaught of high voltage attacks. Even for Pikachu, this seemed like child's play. Nana simply waved her hand like she was swatting a fly, but Popo had a more appropriate response.

"BOOOO," he shouted, grabbing a chunk of hardened snow and throwing it in the direction of the aurora. It didn't go far, but at least cleared the edge of the summit to plummet probably-harmlessly down the mountainside. Nana's giggles at these antics were the only validation he needed at this point, and brought on a blush just a shade too deep for him to blame on the cold. Popo wasn't exactly sure why his face was burning the way it was, but that was something to grapple with another time.

Besides, his theatrics at the match results were cathartic. It wasn't that he and Nana disliked Pikachu; in fact, there weren't many in the roster that they didn't like when they competed. But the cat-eyed incarnation of the famous Hero of Time was a good friend of theirs. All of the smaller fighters needed to stick together, because they were almost always going to be underestimated by the 'grown-ups'.

The rest of the night went on at rather fast clip, the matches coming and going as these titans fought among the stars. Unfortunately, they had run out of favorite combatants to support due to eliminations—King Dedede pulled off a close upset against newcomer Cloud, against all odds, but was handily kept at bay by the unique fighting style of the Villager. Villager was then slapped down by the 'capable legs'—a term Nana did not like—of Bayonetta. On the other side of the brackets, Toon Link was avenged when Pikachu was cast down by Mario, who was taken out by a Zero Suit-clad Samus (apparently having doffed the Chozo-crafted power armor for more freedom of movement). The final match of the final event of the tournament was at hand, and over way too fast with Bayonetta standing proud over Samus as the night's victor (Nana and Popo would boo and hiss and throw snowballs at this declaration). There was then a lovely closing ceremony, with the tired fighters either applauding each other or mean-mugging for the cameras, with very little in-between. The victories were tallied, the final prizes were issued, and one last screen thanking the viewers filled the skies…before fading back into the aurora borealis proper.

The two mountaineers sat in a companionable silence for a while, content to simply take in the serene view, before the sky gradually turned to gray and the stars slowly began to wink out.

"Well, Popo," Nana haltingly began, rather unsure what to do now. Sure they were tired, and sleep would obviously be the next step, but thoughts about the future clouded her thoughts. Would there be more of these tournaments? If so, were the two of them relegated to watching these matches from home? Would they ever be able to set foot on the (relatively) exotic world of Master Hand's grand design again?

Popo yawned and turned his head to face Nana before shaking his head slightly. "Let's not think about it too much. We should get to bed so we can deal with the Elder's guff tomorrow."

"You mean today!" Nana blew another raspberry and headed towards the tent they set up much earlier in the night. Popo would soon follow after a moment's contemplation.

His thoughts echoed Nana's. Was it their fate to sit on the sidelines?

~Universe #64, Still Present Day~

"Aaaand, we're off the air."

A huge, floating, right-handed glove closed up into a loose fist, which then bobbed up and down from the wrist—an equivalent of a nod—before opening back up and lazily flexing its fingers. The Miis in the room—formerly Alloys, which were formerly Wireframes—were bustling about, taking care of various tasks pertinent to closing down the studios which handled the broadcasts from their world. The blond Mii that spoke was standing at attention next to the glove, a computer tablet held in spherical, light blue 'hands'.

"Excellent, Maxwell. And what of the ratings?"

"Highest they've been for the year, Sir, but not as high as the beginning of the last season. Certainly nowhere near the heights of the second season," piped up the same Mii, who had turned his attention to a series of monitors covering the news feed from a great number of news outlets throughout the multi-verse. A brief adjustment of gold-framed glasses, before a few button presses on his tablet brought up a display featuring a series of line graphs.

The glove slumped a bit, before he turned to "look" at the ratings chart display, which compared the viewership of the latest tournament to the first three. "I don't think we'll ever reach those heights again. None of us could have predicted that the oversights we had left in the computers would bring the battles to that level of intensity. It left the combatants extremely tired, though." It rested four fingers on the chart, and then spread the fingertips wide, which separated the overlapping charts into four individual screens. "The last two competitions were a slower departure from the second, but at least fighter welfare was much higher. I have even seen some critics refer to the fighting as 'lazy' or 'sluggish'. I would really prefer to put those comments to rest." Somehow, the hand managed to let out a deep sigh. No one knew how he could do that, let alone speak or…well, it wasn't important. After a while, you just stop asking these questions. "Do you have any suggestions for how the next tournament should play out?"

"The next tournament?" Maxwell exclaimed, clearly caught flat-footed by this questioning. "Master Hand, with all due respect, do you think right now is the time to think about that? We haven't even checked the profits from this one. I don't even know if we'll be permitted to host—"

"That is enough," Master Hand gently, but quite sternly, interjected. "This is merely a hypothetical. Though I'm quite certain that we WILL be granted the pertinent funds, and we have enough money saved from recycling materials from the third tournament. You do know that we were the ones contacted first; to quickly throw together a tournament and quickly push it out of production, do you not? I'd say we at least performed adequately." He combined two charts—the third and fourth tournament ratings—and indicated the point where the falling ratings of the third and the rising ratings of the fourth briefly intersected before continuing their trajectories. "The sponsors mentioned something about 'sagging sales' before the fourth season was announced. I am not sure what they meant by that, but they certainly seemed satisfied when I spoke to them prior to this last broadcast. Again, please, what would you suggest?"

The Mii calmed down at this, pulling himself together and bringing up footage comparing the second and fourth tournament. They were both Fox versus Falco exhibition matches, running side-by-side. The action wasn't synced, but it did show a clear difference in movement speed. "I would recommend turning the gravity up a bit; enough for combatants to gain better on-ground traction and speed, but still allowing them to take to the air as easily as before if they so choose. This might be possible by adjusting the restrictions on their combat wrist-mounts, combined with making further tweaks to the fighting environment. Speed, momentum…all of these issues should be solvable within the parameters of our systems."

Maxwell continued: "This would assuage some of the complaints that people have voiced. It won't be a perfect solution, but I think this change in action will be able to help retain viewers and keep fighter wellness on the stable side. Unfortunately, there are other complaints apart from the fighting concerns," the Mii sat down and wheeled his chair over to another display, bringing up a series of snippets copy/pasted from E-mails and forum posts sent in from various viewers. "There have been complaints about the…the, er, roster."

The Mii was starting to lose composure at the end of his explanation, when he glanced back and saw Master Hand assume a rather agitated stance. Again in the loose fist, he was resting on a large desk built just for his use, and was rapidly and loudly drumming his knuckles. A sign of impatience generally displayed by his more…eccentric brother; Master hand displaying such an emotion had put everyone in the room on edge. Every Mii stopped what they were doing to observe the exchange between these two.

"The roster is bigger than it has ever been," the hand started in a strained voice. "The largest variety of fighters the multi-verse has ever seen! What more could these people want?" While he wasn't shouting, there was a distinct edge to his voice; everyone except for Maxwell had backed away as if the hand had started juggling live grenades and bob-ombs. The Mii would steel himself before continuing.

"There are some demands, regarding new fighters, but I believe we can address those if we ever do start development for a new tournament. For now, though, I'd like to bring your attention to these," Maxwell tapped away on his keyboard for a moment, before bringing up a series of numbers on screen, which were accompanied by file photos and bio entries. "Numbers 15, 19, 22, 31, 33, 34, and 44; somehow these fighters have gained enough of a following that their collective absence stuck out like a sore thumb to the audience. Viewers have been…insistent that we bring them back into the fold."

Master Hand had stopped drumming his knuckles and assumed a rhythmic tapping of his index finger on the desk. A slow, but steady tapping that showed he was in a contemplative mood. "I think," he began, as he floated up and addressed the fighters on the display. Something about them tugged at the back of his mind, and he tried to recall exactly what the situation was as he continued. "I think we should address this in the future. For now, we have earned a rest. Get this equipment packed up for the laborers to move; I have plans to consider."

A loud snap of his fingers brought all the Miis back to their tasks.