Chapter Text
The Mii Fighter Tournament. The ultimate challenge for fighters both new and experienced across the multiverse looking to make a name for themselves. A chance at fame, fortune, and a spot in the Smash Mansion itself!
…As an assistant.
Now Mii’s, or “Multiversal Interplanetary Intrepids” as the odd acronym apparently stood for, did get to fight the roster from time to time, live audience and all. The selection process had gotten a bit more draconian over the years to weed out any undesirables, or folks that couldn’t put up enough of a fight to keep the audience interested. Even then whoever met the standards usually found out the hard way that as tough as they might’ve been, they weren’t ready for just about anyone on the list of permanent competitors. Mii-inclusive tournaments were pretty much a ratings ploy, like if they took a season of Ninja Warrior and replaced the parkour with random MMA fighters rushing onto the course and kicking the crap out of the contestants. Typical network stuff, really.
The MFT was different though. This was a shot at permanence. Now the fine print was a little more explicit, and once people were clued into it about 80% of the potential contestants lost interest. The grand prize WAS a decent payout and the clout that came with the win, of course, but it was also the option to apply for a full-time job as the Smash-Mansion’s caretaker. Master Hand was pretty diligent about getting the operation to run smoothly, and a beloved host for the fans (you wouldn’t think a giant glove could have so much personality) but with the roster getting as large as it did, he was starting to run ragged, and it was getting a little noticeable even when the cameras were rolling. The decision was then made to kill two birds with one stone, foregoing the usual interview process for a battle-royale. Probably not the best way to pick what amounted to a secretary/superintendent, but the tournament could build up hype for the next proper season and earn some advertising money all on its own.
You weren’t all that special in the grand scheme of things. You’d traveled a few worlds in your relatively short time alive, had your fair share of scraps and managed to come out on top of all of them without much permanent damage. You wouldn’t say you were some interdimensional hero or anything, but you’d beaten some no-name monsters for money now and then, trounced a few thugs. And when you noticed that most of the people signing up looked like they’d never taken a hit in their lives as you walked past the lines at the stadium? Well, maybe you figured it’d be easy money.
And you were right. Honestly you could understand why Mii tournaments weren’t held too often. Most of these guys were just healthy enough to flail around without immediately gasping for breath. Their techniques were pathetic! The gunners couldn’t hit the broadside of a mountain, the swordfighters were insultingly easy to disarm, and at least two of the brawlers you fought against broke their own thumbs because SOMEHOW they’d made it past the first few rounds without knowing how to curl their fists for a proper punch. You didn’t even break a sweat until you reached the semi-finals.
The last opponent was tough enough, you guess. Landed a few solid hits on you, made you second-guess a couple times. Honestly fighting them would’ve been a bit more fun if part of you wasn’t worried about potentially losing the prize money after coming so far. But you clutched it in the end. You stood up there with the event organizers, getting your oversized check and smiling bright for the cameras as the audience applauded. It was nice. The money would’ve been enough to float you for a few months if you had walked then and there, but then came the second part of the reward: The job offer.
It got laid out to you like this: You would help around the Smash Mansion in whatever capacity was deemed necessary. Master Hand would still be dealing with all the high-end stuff like paperwork and management, but you’d be dealing with the day-to-day stuff. Grocery shopping, cleaning, weapon maintenance, sparring, things like that. It honestly sounded pretty menial but when they showed you the pay your eyes almost popped out of your head. The winnings were nice but in the long-term they were nothing compared to what you could make within a couple years at this gig. It might even be able to let you afford that dream of yours…
With newfound determination you signed the paper, packed your things, and moved into the mansion while the rest of the fighters were in the middle of a bout. You’d just finished unpacking as the tournament concluded, and figured it was as good a time as any to make yourself known. You took a deep breath, put on your best smile, and walked into the common area.
At least three people were on fire, someone was being choked damn-near to death in a leglock on the floor, and you counted no less than four separate swordfights all going on at once. Everyone quieted down upon noticing you just standing there, though. All at once, hundreds of eyes rested upon you.
Yeah this might’ve been a terrible idea, now that you think about it.