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"In the beginning" is a cliche way to start a story, but there's no other way to describe how this world formed. A world of creators and destroyers, a space between dimensions where the unimaginable happens. The nothingness connecting two otherwise unnrelated universes, or several in this case. Very few are native to the plains, but dotted around you can find beings with the ability to warp the canon timelines, but many choose not to.
They prefer to observe the going ons of the story: quests for love and affection; bitter rivalries; battles filled with pure adrenaline. It was the latter option that was the most intruging to these observers, but it tickled the fancy of some more than others. These four were never related by blood, no, but called each other brothers all the same.
And so these brothers began to structure a hubworld for the dimension crossers. Initially just a small shack, nothing meaningful in any form. They created massive hands to make heavy lifting easier, and to tear away at the ill-fitting puzzle pieces. They refined their craft over several millenia, or maybe only a few years. It passed all the same to them. Those who enountered the small hub were confused but marvelled by their dedication, and often came to stay, giving nicknames to the 4 brothers.
The eldest, the one in charge who was obsessed with perfection to the upmost degree, was known as "The Perfectionist" or "The Puppetmaster", but he simply prefered "The Creator". Less negative connotations. The second-eldest, a fighting-obsessed and boastful lad with a pension for perfectly calculated and precise moves, was deemed "The Warrior". The third, a more humble and clear-minded sort who often found himself lost in the dark and tragic stories, was called "The Storyteller". The last and youngest, a more well-rounded type of guy who idolised his brothers but yet to do anything of note, was simply "The Fourth Brother".
They weren't their real names, but then again nobody has real names in the between worlds so these honourary titles were a name to them.
And from then all, all seemed good in the between. Their smallish shack was rapidly changing and expanding to accomadate the other native entities - all humanesqe yet not human at all. The brothers wanted to host fighting tournaments for their fellow walkers, yet with nobody around to actually fight, their first creation - now a dojo - simply laid in wait, hoping desperately to be used by someone.
Was it the lack of guests that caused the first major falling out? Or was it something else, something that the Fourth Brother couldn't understand?
Whatever it was, there were more and more rows escelating from his brothers - specifically the second and third one. The Warrior and The Storyteller.
They kept going back and forth on how their idiologies were foolish and uncreative, all the while exaggerating theirs to the highest degree, to the point where it ruled out basic law and chaos. It was tiring and ruthless, to the point where the dojo actually had usage for once, for all the wrong reasons.
Still this usage was a positive, in the long run, as many started flocking to the dojo to see the exploding tensions between the 2nd and 3th brother. Rivalries between them only escelated as the crowd went nuts for this home-brewed action. Yet it felt... off in a way. They had wanted to create something, and it was being appreciated but it still felt... wrong! Still the Fourth Brother kept his concerns to himself, even when a noticable orb began to show itself on both brother's chests. He knew his concerns would only be swept away by everyone. Perks of being the youngest.
When the four could actually see eye-to-eye, they found themselves visiting the universe hubs scattered across. It was rewarding seeing more simplified fights - good versus evil, total control versus freedom, things that didn't require either much thought or worry and tension. It was oddly comforting viewing these pixellated people fight for simple goals.
The next time things seemed normal, or normalish, the first brother had some news to share. Namely, that the dojo was being rebuilt into a battleground for these indiviual fighters to meet and smash each other up with things like ray guns and boxes. It was one of the few things that they could all agree on - the nameless fun of watching other people beat each other up with no unnessecary consequences. Finally a simple luxury.
Soon enough, the four brothers got to work once again, fedding energy into their massive hands to gently move and replace their first creation with a more simple styled battlefield, mixed with elements from the respective universes. Finally, the four brothers seemed like, well, brothers again, happily laughing and chatting among each other and making all sorts of jokes about what fighters would come here and how they'd fight each other. Excited buzzes filled the air around them, and the work was light and quick.
Well, it would've been, but the first brother had demanded to get everything "as perfect as possible!" He wanted this to be a spectacle of his refined splendour, shoving his brothers aside to hog the spotlight, and once each fighter arrived to participate (only 12, as The Creator demanded every move to be as well-tailored as possible) he only presented himself as a disembodied voice booming from a giant hand. Only one: the right hand. The creative hand, as he had discarded the left hand eons ago, with the third brother picking it up and adopting it in some way.
Even with the setbacks, the tournament was a wide success, with the first brother himself volunteering his hand as a "final challenge" to each fighter to face off against. The crowds that gathered roared with anticipation and showered the first brother with compliments, leaving the later three feeling left-out and disheartened. Still, it wasn't enough. It was wrong and poor and soon "That music is ill-fitting" and "That voice doesn't match with his appearance" were soon oft-repeated comments.
The first brother began strictly controlling the fighters, seeing them as little more than puppets. If they didn't act correctly, speak correctly, breathe correctly, fight correctly, slash correctly, do anything correctly: they were immediately controlled like puppets on a string, the fights becoming duller and duller as the indivualised storied crumpled. Anytime they acted out of order was deemed "wrong".
The Creator didn't care. He was in control. They were all perfect now. Simple dolls to manipulate. Pull and tug on their strings, and they'll bend to your command.
Eventually, the crowds dwindled. The eldest brother, steeped in narcassism and ego, couldn't understand why. Everything was in place and tailored to perfection, so why didn't they like it?!
He refused to accept that it was his fault.
He couldn't.
And that's when the first brother abandoned them. Folded his arms, and walked out.
It had only been a few days when The Warrior began reconstructing the fighting sites, sending everyone back home to recover. Disallowing The Storyteller any input to his schemes, he focused on a wild, more action-packed and fighting centric match with little-to-no banter inbetween. A great melee, as he said himself. A true opportunity to showcase a duel, unlike whatever his elder brother had done.
They hardly mentioned the first brother nowadays, and without his leadership their relationship crumbled even faster. A noticable gap was present whenever the three were together, not helped by the constant bickering between the Warrior and Storyteller. It was clearer day by day - things were becoming unfixable. Were they also controlled like puppets, to try and avoid any conflict if necessary after the first few explosive fights? Or was it just a coincidence?
Noting his precense was unwelcomed, the third brother began to construct his own section of land for his own fighting game, this time paying meticulous attention to the stories that could be crafted from the ashes that remained. It was to be an epic of fighting games, and despite how he labelled it as a "brawl", fighting was not the focus.
However, the overhyping of one element and the complete neglect of another made people wary of attending each subsequent game, unhelped by the regular flaming of the other's matches, and what appreared to be a young boy watching from the sidelines, dismayed and thoughtless. The fourth brother. The one who has been forgotten.
Not like he minded all that much now, with the fights between bothers becoming more explosive and chaotic - he could just duck under it all and stay safe, or at least safeish.
Whenever he didn't focus on the fighters, he instead focused on a blue dot in the sky, with what appreared to be ropes holding him, or something else, in place. The figure stayed fixed in the sky, observing from above. It wasn't perfect. It was wrong.
Large, chain-like threads came cascading down, looping around the fighters and stray hands, puppeting them into how he truly thought it should be played out as. The first brother had once again returned, albeit corrupted beyond belief. Skin now a pale blue, with giant shining wings protuding from his back and an everpresent look of disgust plastered over his face. His arms hid a pulating orb, glowing bright white like a mini sun. All chained fighters were immediately unhooked, but his grip on the creating hands stayed firm even as they writhed in pain, scorch marks tainting their white sheens a brownish red. It sent down multiple waves, immediately destroying all that touched it, leaving only the four bothers.
The second and third brothers freed their hands from their grips, readying them to attack and conquer once and for all. It didn't matter if the youngest brother was still cahined up and pleasing for help. He was a liability anyway. Completely useless. The middle brothers tore and scratched away at what had once been their brother, now ruined and tainted forever. Something completely wrong. Tabuu.
The fight was long and exhausting, and neither side won in the ends. Tabuu had fled from the scene, having enough with the pointless fighting and had revived the fighters and set the youngest free, as the two active participants opposing it turned towards each other and began loudly arguing over whose fault it was that he showed up again. To ruin everything - well, their fight by any means. The others could be ruined beyond repair and nobpdy would bat an eye. More shoving and fighting ensued, with each brother hurling insults towards each other. Each time the older brother made a weapon to try and take the younger one down, it was snapped and broken. Created. Destroyed. Over. And. Over.
The youngest tore his eyes away, and began to subconsciously fix the staduim. It was now his turn, he thought, yet dared not say a word.
The fight has become much more physical, with tackling and wresting from either sides. Yelps of pain flew through the air, and each time the youngest would look back to his remaining brothers, they seemed less and less like the people he had always known about, but rather eldrich beings hellbent on enforcing their own way. The youngest - no, only - brother could only ignore it. He had to. There was nothing he could do now, not likt they'd beg him for help anyway. The yelling and insults devolved into meaningless noises; not of pain but of fear. Whatever was happening seemed brutal, and it was awful hearing them suffer like that.
Raising up his hands, he tore a hole with the left one, picking up one of the screaming entities, now bathing in light and a desire to rebuild the place itself in its own image, and tossed it into the void he had created. He repeated the same process, albeit with a new void, with the second figure, drawing in all light it could like a black hole and its eye focused on the lone surviver. For now, at least, it would make suitable prison cells for them.
It had been a long few years, but things were starting to be steadily improved. The monstrosities that he had caged away broke free of their shackles, but he was always quick to pummel them back into submission insude another void. Dimension hoppers were warned to avoid the places where the two, later three, lay. This repeated work had disrupted him from his master project, but had earned him a new name - "The Defender". It wasn't too much of an improvement, still reminding him of them, but more apt for describing his role in protecting the next set of fighting games. With nobody to host after him, the Defender knew he should be careful one entering the ring for the grand finale.
Eaxh time it came, he was relaxed and prepared. Counter and dodge; not artificial with a light touch on story for commentators to pick up on. A song and dance of emotions, both positive and negative.
Yet each time, a growing darkness grew within him. Reflecting on himself was a core of steadily growing darkness, whispering in his ear constantly. What must've driven his brothers those monstrosities to their current state. What started as a mere whisper grew louder and louder with each finale, each recapture, each and every action he did the voice grew louder and louder.
The last he could remember thinking freely was when it all burst out.
The final fight of the season. Everything seemed good. Nothing too dangerous was let loose. His opponent was neither too strong nor too weak, and overall things seemed good.
Then the match begun, and that voicekept yelling and yelling at him, obscuring his view with tiny, dust-like darknesses as he felt the voids where those beings were locked up being ripped open as they flooded the world. He tried to encase the arena in it's own void for the time being but found he couldn't. His vision went blurry, the voice now screeching in his ear and the blows becoming too powerful to manage as he started to feel his hands collapse to the ground.
It was his fault that his brothers had mutated into twisted and warped versions of themselves It was his fault that nobody cared for him It was his fault that the previos games had failed It was his fault that Tabuu was alive It was his fault that Galeem was alive It was his fault that Dharkon was alive It was his fault that any of this happened It was his fault that the people needed someone strong to depend on It was his fault that they chose him to lead It was his fault It was his fault It was his fault It was his fault It was his fault It was his fault and he should just allow himself to admit that everything was his fault and now the only way to fix things was to become as monstrous as his brothers had been and that he should die and give it what it wants
But he refused to give into it's urges.
And then, it smashed open.
The next thing he knew, the defender boy was lying on the ground, only just able to sit up. Shaken fighters and audience members alike had backed as far away from him as he could. The last little pieces of darkness fluttered down like snow, as a crystal ball laid nearby to him, smashed open. He tried looking for his core, but failed. All that remained of it now was a shattered case and the last drops scattered across the land. His brothers were nowhere to be seen, despite breaking out of their confines.
Whatever had happened here wasn't good. And it wasn't his fault. Well, it was but kinda wasn't.
He wasn't himself when he was destroying everything. He had been possessed by what seemed to be his own negative thoughts, or maybe some entity amplifying them to an extreme degree.
Whatever it was, it was gone for the time being. All that was left to do was recapture his brothers and prepare for the next game.
Once the whole stadium had been evacuated, the boy looked at the broken remains of his core and smiled softly, before tossing it away and preparing for the ultimate finale.