Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Mario frowned down at the empty wicker basket. I shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up.

“Gosh, I’m sorry to disappoint ya,” the Toad clerk said. “But I might have something in the back. . . like a loose Fire Flower or some Mini Mushrooms?”

Before the clerk could scramble off for any substitutes, the man shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll just get the flour and lentils, then. And, uh. . . maybe some refreshing herbs too.”

“I only have the loose-leaf kind. Is that okay?”

“Sure.”

The Toad began to ring up the total, stuffing the goods in a paper bag, and let out a strangled groan. “I can’t remember the last time it’s been this bad! I’ve never had to make customers leave empty-handed before!”

“I’ve never seen it like this either.”

“Like, I can remember a couple winters where we had to go off of our emergency stores, but I don’t get what’s going on now. Like, are the foragers on strike? Did some bad guys steal our supplies? Are we in a drought? What gives?”

“Well, it looks like we’ll have to go without for a while.” Mario hoped he didn’t come off flat, not wanting to make the pessimistic atmosphere even worse. He might have felt depressed by the shortage, but he wasn’t planning on showing it. “Guess we’ll have to get creative, eh?”

“Yeah, I guess.“ The Toad handed him the bag. “I just hope we get some soon. I know plenty of people that rely on Power-ups for their jobs! And we’ll still need Super Mushrooms for the clinics, after all.”

“It’ll work out. Take care.” 

Once Mario waved goodbye, exited the shop, walked several paces out of town square, he allowed the smile to drop off his face. Taking the dusty road back to his cottage, he went home without stopping to chat with anyone else.

It was incredibly unfortunate, but what could he do about it? He had already checked the nearby forest and wilderness for power-ups, but they had all been used up, and none of the general stores were selling any either. And, to make matters worse, he knew that Bowser’s latest attack was behind it all. During times of crisis or panic, Super Mushrooms were the first thing to go off the shelves, out of the gardens, and out of the forests. Then Flower Power-ups were next in line, and then Stars if anyone was desperate enough to pay that much for them. Anyone with a brain would stock up on these essentials—and that included Mario. Especially Mario.

He waited for less than a minute for a herd of Yoshis to cross the road. They were migrating for the winter, traveling all the way up to Yoshi Island until the weather warmed up again. He would miss his Yoshi friends, but that thought wasn’t currently on his mind. Instead, a growing dread was cementing in his bones, weighing him down as he walked up the steps of his front porch.

If he was going to survive, he undoubtedly had to get creative.

This would be the last time this year that Luigi would return home from traveling. It was a relief to know that he would sleep in his own bed, not having to hop between hotels or spend the night alone in one of his “mansions”. It was an even bigger relief to finally be with his brother again, finally able to see all of his friends face to face instead of over texts and calls.

With one earbud in his ear, his arm hauling along an oversized suitcase, Luigi walked along the dirt road. The sky was pitch black, and the horizon had long been indistinguishable through the tree line, so Luigi knew that he was getting close to see their porch light soon. He couldn’t wait to escape the cold of early winter, tuck himself in with blankets and hot chocolate, and watch a classic movie late into the night. It was a prime indulgence that he always looked forward to. 

He had half the mind to remember Polterpup, wondering if the pup would meet him at the porch or come later at night to snuggle up on the foot of his bed, but his thoughts were interrupted by a second set of footsteps. He paused. Footsteps in the forest were always a red flag, but these footsteps were gradual and heavy footed, so Luigi could guess that the owner didn’t notice him yet.

The man plucked out his music and listened closer. The footsteps were familiar—a well-known tempo of weight distribution—and he smiled. 

“Mario! Mario! What are you doing out here, bro?”

A few steps off of the road revealed Mario’s red cap. The owner was frozen in his tracks, briefly resembling a deer in some headlights. 

“Oh, hey!” he laughed. “Didn’t think you’d be coming from this way.”

“Yeah, I used the train to get back from the Last Resort.”

“Okay, cool.” Mario loosened his shoulders, swallowing something in his mouth. “Good to see ya.”

“Hold on—Wait,” Luigi said and grinned with some mischievousness. “Did I… scare you just now?”

“Of course not. I knew you’d be coming around here soon enough.”

“Then why are you all nervous? Did you think I was a Babau?”

Mario turned his head away as his little brother chuckled at him. From what Luigi could see from the faint light of the approaching porch light, a smile had crept onto his face as well.

“So, what were you doing out here anyway?” he asked.

“Walkin’,” Mario answered, his neck and shoulders stretching themselves out for show. “I’ve been cooped up all day from tending to the house. I needed the air.”

“What were you up to?”

“Just maintenance things. Plus, I remembered to dust everything for you, Mr. Allergies.”

“Well, then! Mr. Allergies appreciates your service, Mr. Lucky-to-not-have-them!”

“I guess that’s the trade-off for being short.” Mario shrugged. “È così!”

Inside the house, the brothers split up to prepare for the evening. Mario prepared dinner—a quick carbonara with sweet peppers—and the other unpacked his suitcase. While he organized his things, Luigi couldn’t help but notice how cold it was inside. In fact, it had to be a few degrees cooler inside than it was outside, the stale air steeping into his skin, chilling his fingers and toes. He knew it was due to Mario’s Firebrand—the man ran hotter than an oven, and even hotter if he wanted to—so he didn’t question it.

But, what caught his eye the most was his brother’s “tending to the house” efforts: there were streaks of dried mud on the floors, bits of grass and broken plants mashed into the wooden floor boards. And they weren’t fresh. Most of the mess was matte, with only one fresh trail of boot prints glimmering under the lamp light. That trail led to the kitchen, where Mario busied himself with tossing the pasta in the skillet.

The kitchen was much cleaner—Luigi could smell remnants of bleach and vinegar—but he was perplex at how the same everything was. He had been traveling around the Mushroom Kingdom for the past three months, but, right now, he could painfully recognize the same souvenir cup perched on top of the fridge, the shadow of a waterline visible through the light. And a hanging cupboard still had that tomato splatter stain, now faded and crusted onto the vinyl finish.

He would have dismissed those oddities—anyone could miss details sometimes—but it was when Mario opened up the fridge to grab a block of parmesan that he noticed how barren his brother’s supplies were. A flash of its insides only showed milk, cheese, two sodas, leftover pizza, and a giant portion of the fridge’s back wall. It made Luigi feel uneasy. When did he last go grocery shopping?

“Tada!” Mario announced, handing his brother a generous plate of carbonara. “Sorry there’s no pancetta in it. I guess we’re going vegetarian tonight.”

Halfway through dinner, with the brothers chatting over the soft background of the TV, Luigi couldn’t help but have a knot in his stomach. He couldn’t help but notice more things in the cottage: crumbs on the floor, but dust free everywhere else; the kitchen sink and oven were crystal clean, but the grim of the counter corners apparent; and, when Luigi used the bathroom, the toilet was spotless, but the mirror was filthy. It’s crazy. Mario had never been one to skimp out on any type of job, never letting anything go undone. 

When dinner was over and Mario excused himself to take a shower, Luigi sat in the living room and noticed the ungodly amount of pillows and blankets there were littering the place. With some scrutiny, it looked like a head had been pressed into each one of them, some of them yellowing from sweat stains, and indenting each one into a shapeless, concaved fluff. The loose socks of the ground were tucked under the foot of the couch—a place that Mario had obviously been sleeping on for some nights now—and Luigi didn’t need to whiff them to know they were dirty.

“Pazzesco,” Luigi muttered out. He had never seen the place get this bad. Maybe Mario’s feeling sick with something… That would explain the lack of groceries too. He’s too much of a foodie to forget about that. He would have to ask him about that later.

After taking a deep breath and hearing the water turn off upstairs, Luigi decided to take heart of the situation. Since he was back here for the winter season, especially with the holidays coming around the corner, he would task himself with helping his brother out—whatever that might be. It’s a good thing I came home when I did!

Before his brother could come back downstairs, he went to go clean up the mud from the floor.

Chapter Text

In regards to the Power-up shortage, Princess Peach held a broadcast over the morning news. It was a lengthy speech about temporary policies to soften the blow of the crisis, with many answers to combat the reporters’ pressing questions. To Luigi, the enactments seemed fair, but it still didn’t make the situation any more reassuring. How would these policies affect them? Would it be as extreme as something like wartime rations? Would it only last for the winter?

For almost an hour, Luigi sat in the living room, engrossed with the new information, and simultaneously feeling sympathetic to the Princess, who he could clearly tell was fatigued from the address. He had known her long enough to know that she hadn’t slept well last night—if at all. Hopefully she’ll take a long break later. . . .

It was only when he was thinking about the Princess that he noticed Mario hadn’t come down for breakfast yet. He had assumed he was getting ready for the day or warming up on the front porch, so he took the liberty of making them omelets with sauteed leeks. But it didn’t go as planned since there were barely any eggs to use, disregarding the vegetables. He settled for cereal instead.

It was only after the broadcast ended, the news station moving onto other current events, that Mario crept downstairs—still in his PJs, hair stuck up in awkward angles, and the suggestion of a stubble growing on his chops. Perhaps it was the warm spots flushed on his face, the shallow indents on his skin, that made him look even more rough, making him akin to an ex-coma patient.

“Didn’t sleep well?” he asked.

Mario shrugged. “Slept fine. I just missed my alarm.”

“I, uh, I guess I should've gotten you up earlier. Sorry.”

“Don't be. I needed the sleep anyways.”

“Well, sleep is always good, then. By the way, there was a broadcast on the news about the Princess’s plan to buckle down on the Mushroom problem. Looks like we’re getting rationed, bro.”

“Meraviglioso,” he said through a heavy sigh.

Luigi would have said a quip that formed in his mind—some type of mushroom pun—but the amount of distress in his brother’s face unsettled him too much. Between that and the half-awake look, it didn't make for a positive picture.

“Are you okay?”

“‘Course, I’m just disappointed.” Mario suddenly went into the kitchen, his voice bouncing against the cottage walls. “Hey, did you get breakfast yet? I barely have anything commestibile in this place.”

“I helped myself to some cereal?”

“No way!” He came back as quickly as he left. “We’ll have to go into town and get something. And it just so happens to be Saturday, so let’s hit the food carts at the farmer’s market.”

Luigi perked up. “They’re not closed for the season yet? Great! Then we can get some groceries too.”

“Exactly what I was thinkin’. Lemme get ready and then let’s get going.”

Peach stood amongst the gravel, satisfied with the progress the construction crew had made. The whole scene was nothing short of a mess; marble boulders and pillars were all broken and displaced from one of Bowser’s attacks-a cruiser airship that launched an array of Bullet Bills. No one was hurt, as the evacuation order took effect before the real damage could happen, but the attack made for an expensive repair. Another problem that added to her list.

Graciously, Toadette knew how to organize very well.

“We should have the lot cleaned and repaired before the end of the month,” the Toad-girl said as bubbly as ever. “And those temporary greenhouses you wanted should be coming along even faster. I have Buster overseeing those projects, and he said that he’s able to reuse some of the material that got destroyed.”

“Good,” Peach nodded, snuffing down a yawn. “When they’re up and running, I will personally oversee the local harvest. Mushrooms can be finicky if they're not done right.”

“That’s good to hear. You’re great at gardening!”

“Thank you,” Peach said, and she was about to turn away and see to the Super Mushroom collection committee, but Toadette kept her big smile up at her.

“You know who else is good at gardening?”

She adjusted her expression. “Um… It’s someone we both know?”

“Yep, and you know him pretty good.”

“Uh… Him?” Peach repeat, but then the association of the word him made her blush. “Yes, I know he’s good at it too.”

“We should totally ask him to help us out! It will cut the labor time in half!”

“Didn’t you already ask him to fix the water system?”

“Yeah, but I’m sure he’s almost done by now!”

Although the idea was a genuinely good one, the Princess couldn’t ignore the stab of guilt that came with it. He’s done too much for everyone this year. It wouldn’t sit well with her conscience if she frivolously asked for help, even if the propagation was in response to a national emergency. She couldn’t honestly call herself an adequate ruler if she constantly relied on the charity of other people—let alone someone as giving as he was. For as political as she was, exploitive behavior wasn’t to her taste.

Peach forced a smile, saying, “Regardless, he has better things to do with his time than to just—”

“Oh, hey, Mario and Luigi!” Toadette cheered. “Good to see ya! Now, quick question, are you almost done with the water system yet?”

The Princess refrained from whirling around and confirming his presence, instead tilting her head in a polite glance. Sure enough, the man in red was there, and so was Luigi, who must had just arrived back for the season. She would have to make time to catch up with them as soon as this week settled down. Or next month, depending on how things go.

“Morning,” Mario nodded in an informal bow. “The base of the system is done, but I’m just waiting for the caulking to cure before I finish up with the pipes.”

“Nice! And—oh!—before I forget, Grouper wanted to let you know that. . . .“

As Toadette began to ramble about the finishing touches with the public plumbing system, Peach took sudden notice of Mario’s stance: slacken and asymmetrical. It wasn’t exactly abnormal, but, compared to Luigi’s tall, attentive stance, it stood out like a neon sign. In fact, he seemed to intentionally stand on one leg, shifting all of his weight onto it like it was the only thing propping him up. Was he overworking himself again? Maybe she was thinking too far into it, but the man didn’t look well rested either—not that she was any better off.

Toadette asked if Luigi was back for the winter festival.

“Absolutely,” he confirmed. “Can’t enjoy the winter without it. And it’s nice to finally be back home for the season too.”

“Oh, then maybe you could help us out with the greenhouses too! Y’see, we gotta get this crisis under control before we can get the festival together next month. First and foremost, we need to boost town morale!”

“Only if—” Peach cut in suddenly “—you’re willing to help, of course. You certainly don’t have to. You two have done more than enough for us, even in the past year alone.”

Luigi smiled bashfully. “No, no, it’s okay! We’d love to help out with anything you need. If we can help Toadtown even a little, then it’s absolutely worth it. We live here too after all, ha ha ha.”

“Great! Now we can get things into high gear!” Toadette beamed. “If you fellas have time next week, you can start helping the Princess with the Super Mushroom propagation!”

This seemed to snap Mario to attention. “That’s what the collections are for?”

“Yes,” the Princess said, subtly throwing Toadette a mixed look. “If you haven’t seen town square yet, we’re asking all citizens to donate their extra Super Mushrooms in exchange for a promissory note, as we’ll match the donation at a later time with interest. It will also include the chance to enter a raffle during the winter festival.”

“Isn’t it so innovative?” Toadette gushed, her stubby Toad-hands flying up in exaggeration. “Not only does it help the greater good, but you could win free stuff! That’s a win-win in my book!”

Luigi hummed at the idea. “Well, we’ll have to see about donating then! I think I still have one in my drawer.”

“I might have one… somewhere,” Mario said quietly. 

He made sure to plug in the night light in the hallway before he left. The other time he came home at the dead of night, he had to use Firebrand—a finger lit with an orange glow— and ended up scorching the wall and setting off the fire alarm. It was a good thing that his neighbors were nearly a half of a mile away from him, so the alarm couldn’t stir anyone up at such an hour. But, with Luigi back home, Mario had to be extra careful.

Good thing he’s such a heavy sleeper.

After fixing himself a water bottle and grabbing a fistful of refreshing herbs, preemptively chewing on some leaves to get it in his system, he slipped on his boots and headed to the door. He kept the porch light off, as he knew Luigi’s bed was right by the window upstairs, and gingerly cracked open the front door.

Mario flinched when he saw Polterpup sitting on the doormat.

“Mamma mia! I thought you were inside!” Mario hissed, the surprise ebbing away as quickly as it came. “What are you doing out here, pup?”

The ghost dog—instead of jumping up and wagging his tail or rolling over to show off his belly—only looked up at him with a side eye, his tail intentionally still. The ghost looked at him awkwardly, almost like he didn’t recognize him.

“What’s wrong? Did Luigi make you stay outside?”

Out of nowhere, the dog barked with a staccato punch of noise. It made Mario cringe, quickly kneeling down and cradling the dog’s face in his hands. 

“No barking. That’s naughty.”

Polterpup made a growly burp sort of noise, one of displeasure when the man then moved away and off the porch. The dog barked again, and Mario whirled around with his finger to his mouth, saying, “Silenzio!”

Another growly burp, Polterpup lifted his rump from the mat and began to follow him down into the forest.

Chapter Text

The next thing Mario sensed was the rumblings of the TV in the background. He couldn’t tell if his mind was automating it or not--if the white noise was apart of a dream or not. Either way, it took a while to will his body from such paralyzing sleep. He had been waking up feeling awful almost every day now, but it didn’t make it any easier to get used to it.

“Morning,” a voice said. “Did you sleep okay last night?”

Mario shot up from the couch, his head spinning as he located Luigi, sitting on the armchair with a book in his lap.

“Oh, hey,” he said, his voice too gravelly to be overlooked. “Did I oversleep?”

“Not really, but you seemed to move down here in the middle of the night.” He took a sip of expresso, but kept his attention on his brother. “I dunno why though. That couch isn’t all that comfy anyways.”

Mario swallowed the dry lump in his throat, sitting up and letting his feet hit the chilled floor. He didn’t look closely at Luigi, as a mere glance told him everything about the veiled concern in his brother’s demeanor. He knew that he should be transparent about last night, but, in that moment, the desire to do so wasn’t reaching him.

“Yeah, I couldn’t sleep, so I came down here and watched some TV.”

“Okay, well. . . Have you been feeling okay?”

“Not really,” Mario admitted with a sigh. “I was feeling kinda sick just before you got here… Scusa. Sto cercando di non farsene un baffo. I’m just trying to get back to… back to the swing of things.” 

Luigi’s gaze softened. “Poor bro, I would’ve come sooner knowing that you were sick! No wonders why you’ve been acting off.”

“Yeah, I hate to be obvious about it, y’know?”

“Oh, I know well enough, alright! And it explains all the refreshing herbs you have in the pantry—” the comment made Mario’s blood freeze “—Those things work a lot better than any Nyquil, am I right?”

“Yeah, it’s. . . it’s better than nothing.”

It shouldn’t have made Peach uncomfortable, but it made her insides squirm to no end. It didn’t make sense—she was good friends with both Mario and Luigi for years now, never feeling guarded around them before—but it was Toadette’s comments that made her overthink the situation, making her think a little too much about the amount of time she would have with Mario this week. A welcomed change of pace, but not one to get carried away with.

Regardless of her feelings, she refused to make herself look like a fool. Regardless of any amount of longing she may have, she couldn’t forget her limitations as a ruler—for as contradictory as that sounded. Instead, she planned to savor his company as a friend, as if she was only sampling a fine wine instead of indulging in the whole bottle. Besides, she had enough on her mind as of now. There was no need to distract herself any further. Between the finances and political dilemma, her kingdom needed her to be on top of her game.

After the brothers arrived, they had a quick “Divide and Conquer” meeting, and then split off into their respective tasks. It shouldn’t take more than a day or two to set up the humidity systems, the drainage collection, and the filter detectors in all of the greenhouses. The most time-consuming task had to be manually depositing the Super Mushroom spores into nutrient wells, a task only slightly less tedious than the paperwork this project required.

It was a gift from the Star Spirits above that Peach didn’t need too much focus for the tasks. While her hands toiled with the spores—her fingers repeating the memorized strokes for each deposit—she could keep her attention towards Luigi’s stories. From his travels, he had quite a few run-ins with quirky people and risky situations—all of them ending with a laugh or a provoking thought. There were quite a few things that he had forgotten to text about in their group chat, but hearing it all in person was substantially better. And, all the while, Mario chose to keep to himself and focus solely on the sprinkler system, which she could understand since he still looked completely drained.

For being on the short side of things, Mario was still able to stretch his arms up enough to install the pipes, keeping his balance on the greenhouse’s metal scaffolding. Peach was worried that it would give out on him, since this was only a temporary greenhouse with flimsy material, but he seemed fine so far. In fact, as her eyes continued to swipe looks from him while she and Luigi dealt with the spores below, he was graceful in his actions. His feet seemed to know which purchase to use at each moment—subtle adjustments and controlled muscle movement— which left his hands with wrenching in bolts and sprinkler heads. He was working like a well-oiled machine, which might have been why Mario wasn’t too engaged in Luigi’s story.

Peach couldn’t help but glance at the tool belt on his hip. The way it swung made her think it was going to fall off and knock something over. Maybe this was why she didn’t feel guilty for staring him down so much, just trying to gauge the situation for anything hazardous. But, during her scrutiny, she got a good look at his waist. Has he lost weight? His belly isn’t as. . . round. The denim around his thighs were loose too, and every jerking motion with his arm made the fabric sway more apparently.

When Luigi stopped speaking, Peach came to herself and snapped out of her trance. “Sorry, what were you saying?”

“Nothin’,” he said with a small smile. “I’d rather hear about what you were looking at just now. It’s seems way more interesting than my trip to Evershade Valley.”

Ruffled, she frowned down at the soil, ignoring the chuckles Luigi never seemed to run out of.

At least Mario didn’t seem to notice them. She would have died if he decided to jump down at that moment, smile at them, and then ask what they were laughing about.

He had promised Yoshi that he would get him a strawberry shortcake before he migrated for the winter. He had promised. This was the only reason why he pried himself out of the Northeast forest pipe—a giant green pipe that emerged from a foothill not even a kilometer away from the main dirt road. He didn’t want to leave, but the thought of Yoshi being disappointed for the whole winter made his conscience ache. He owed the dinosaur that much, at least.

He walked back to his cottage, taking the ingrained path that had carved by his own boots. He had been visiting this green pipe for ages now, especially since the privacy was its best perk, not mentioning the variety of locations it offered. It was the most convenient way to get to any backwater places quickly.

After he changed into some clean overalls, he grabbed his wallet, and, upon further inspection, decided to give his face a quick wash too. He didn’t want to explain the high-velocity splatter of mud on his cheek and neck. Even if it was mud, it would have looked way too conspicuous for the public eye.

Soon enough, he entered Toadtown and approached the meeting spot: Cosmic Creations. It was the highest-rated bakery in the area, even if it was the smallest location of the chain. The original one was opened in space by the Lumas, but they eventually branched out onto Earth and the Moon once they secured the marketing and the investment deals. Ever since it opened up here, it became Yoshi's preferred hang-out joint.

Mario walked in and was immediately hit with a waft of warmed-starbit juice, the smell strong enough to hit the back of his throat. When he looked about the crowded seating area, trying to look pass the soaring Lumas delivering orders to tables, he saw Yoshi sitting underneath the neon signs. The glow of the lights made the dinosaur look like a giant piece of candy.

“(Hey, Mario! Glad you made it!)”

“Good to see you too, buddy,” Mario smiled fondly.

After placing his order—a strawberry shortcake, a pastry and coffee for himself, and an entire box of citrus butterhorns for back home—Mario sat down next to Yoshi and was immediately smothered by the beast’s snout, pressing against him like it was a giant putty-filled pillow.

“You’re squishing me!” he chuckled. “Get off me or I’ll shake your nose!”

When Yoshi didn’t budge, the man placed his hand on his snout and gave him a vigorous rub. It tickled the beast’s face—a weird sensation to experience on the nose—and made him pull back and sneeze. It might have been annoying to feel, but he also seemed to like the attention, so he leaned into him again.

“Cosa sciocca! ” he taunted. “You only do that ‘cause I’m warm.”

For this reason, the man allowed Yoshi to lean on him. Perhaps it was also because Yoshi’s herd was one of the last groups to leave for the winter, one of the last groups sticking around to support the locals through the Power-up crisis. When magical items weren’t available to make life easier, Yoshis were the next best option. At least until they migrated for the season. Hopefully, by the time they come back in Spring, the crisis would have ended and things would go back to normal for everyone. Hopefully.

When they received their order, Mario turned to the dinosaur. “I’m glad we got to do this before you left. Seems like we’ve both been too busy for things like this, eh?” He placed the cake in front of the beast. “Okay, now, just like we talked about, remember to really taste the food before—”

As if on cue, the cake teleported out of existence.

“Did you even taste it?” He chuckled and shook his head. “At least now you can’t say I don’t give you treats.”

Yoshi shrugged before helping himself to the cake’s cardboard plate.

The man had lectured his friend before about taking the time to enjoy food. And although he himself was a bit of a glutton, he had a refined palette that he was adamant on upholding. It was apart of why he wanted to teach Yoshi how to savor food more, but maybe he should have listened to Luigi when his brother had said, “You can’t get Yoshi to pace himself! Gettare la spugna!” 

While he sipped on his coffee—black coffee, for a change—Yoshi hummed a happy song to himself. It was a soft-spoken, sing-song chant that made the dinosaur seem more like a child than a beast. He must have really liked the cake then. Mario could pat himself on the back for that, at least. Not that it’s hard to please a Yoshi.

"When you get back from your vacation spot," he began, "we should do this again. And maybe next time you'll actually taste what you're eating."

"(How about the ube crepe cake next time?)"

"We'll see about that."

Even though they had only sat at their table for less than twenty minutes, Mario found himself sinking into fatigue. It hit him all of a sudden like a brick wall. Besides the loud colors and twirling Luma workers, or even the constant whirl of oven fans back in the kitchen, there were too many Toads and Koopas that all wanted to make small talk with him. Waves, nods, playful quips, and minute-long conversations, and even sit-downs to personally thank him for, "Keepin' that rotten Koopa in line." What had once been tolerated and politely downplayed was now building pressure in his head at a compounding rate. Lively atmospheres with sociable people were his bread and butter, but, right now, he could only keep his head down, sip his coffee, and keep Yoshi company the best he could, having to ignore the tension in his neck and shoulders all the while.

After Mario finished his goat cheese croissant, he automatically reached for one of the butterhorns. Then he couldn't stop himself from having another one. This time, he pulled off one of the candied oranges on top and said, "Hey, Yoshi, think fast!"

In the blink of an eye, Yoshi ate the candy like a frog to a fly. 

"Sharp as always!"

He did this a couple more times, mostly to pass the time with something more engaging to do than just chat, and found himself downing a few more pastries. He would regret the compulsion later, but right now it was nice to have eaten something. And something was better than nothing. To justify this, he hadn’t eaten since before he was in the abandoned Koopalings’ outpost earlier that day, so it didn't seem too scandalous in his mind.

After a handful of minutes, he finally reached his limit.

“Sorry to cut this short, Yosh’, but I gotta get going. Don’t have time for basketball today.” He declared, standing up to make his point. “I’ll see you when Spring comes around.”

“(Well, that’s all good. We can always just do some next time!)” The dinosaur stood up and accompanied him out the door.

As fast as he appropriately could, Mario said his goodbyes and left the scene—leaving the bakery, leaving the town, leaving to the main dirt road towards the forest. He couldn't have left any quicker.

He had half of a mind to head straight home, but he didn’t want anyone to see him in his current state: carrying a box of half-eaten desserts, holding his nauseated stomach, and clearly in pain. It didn’t take a genius to know that he would eventually throw up all the calories he had finally managed to get in today.

At least he could make a mess in private.

He wiped his mouth and grimaced at the acidic taste. Thankfully, it was dark enough that he didn’t have to see it. Serves me right. What else did I expect? He knew he should probably head back home now, but he couldn’t bring himself to do that even if he was exhausted. Instead, he headed back to the forest pipe. His hands were cramping up again and he knew it wouldn’t go away until he did something to stave it off.

It wasn’t too late in the evening, so he should be back before Luigi got home.

Chapter Text

Toadette had told her that Mario was finishing up the water system and that it should be back in order before sunset tomorrow. And even though he wasn’t available to meet up at the greenhouses today, Peach was exceedingly thankful that Luigi was still able to make it. It certainly made the job go by faster, not to mention less boring. And, for another reason, she was glad to have time with just Luigi today. She had almost forgotten how refreshing it was to be around the more introspective brother.

Besides, there was a lot to talk about that texting just couldn’t cut it.

Luigi’s jaw dropped, the corners of his mouth curling up in audacity. “He actually did that? Only after two months?”

“Yep, and now all of the royal court’s business is on hold while he’s being investigated.”

“And the Duchess?”

“Still messing around with the other kingdom’s Earl.”

He scoffed and clicked his tongue. “I can’t even imagine. . . .”

He went on to describe how he would handle the affair if he were the sovereign of the royal court. It would involve firing nearly half of the court—which were all guilty to various degrees—and then put an end to the gross amount of nepotism that was happening. Easier said than done, she thought to herself. She knew intimately well how hard it was to eradicate an entire royal family’s influence. It was easier to pacify a Chain Chomp than it was to weed out a blood-line’s corruption.

It wasn’t until Luigi compared the gossip to this tacky telenovela that his aunts had watched back in New York that Peach remembered a more important topic to ask about. It was something that had been bothering her ever since the man in green came back in town. Although it was a much different change in conversation, she hoped that Luigi would be willing to share whatever he could, however intrusive her questions were.

Perhaps she took too long to ask the question, because Luigi paused himself mid-conversation. He gave her a tilted smile. “Is something wrong, Peach?”

She knew she had to be delicate, but the only thing she could articulate in the moment was, “Has Mario lost weight recently?”

Luigi looked at her with a blank expression and she didn’t blame him. The question threw her off too.

“I mean,” she started, “I mean, has he been eating well? He didn’t look too good when you guys came around the other day.”

The man across from her seemed to straighten up a little bit, losing all the playfulness he had brought with him. “Actually. . . I’m glad I’m not the only one noticing things.”

“So he hasn’t been feeling well?”

“No, not really.”

She was about to press for more, but Luigi held his mouth open—holding it open long enough to pull in a breath and deliver his words. “He mentioned to me that he hasn’t been feeling well. . . like, before I got back in town. I think it was a nasty cold or something ‘cause it’s that time of year, but he hasn’t gotten out of it yet. He’s still way too sluggish to be himself.”

Peach nodded. “I noticed that when he installed the humidity system the other day.”

“Especially,” he agreed. “Honestly, I think it’s stress-induced. We’ve been through a lot this year, yeah? And, as ‘sano come un pesce’ as ever, he’s trying not to make a big deal about it. If I know anything about him, it’s that he thinks he isn’t allowed to worry anyone.”

Even though she already knew that as well, it still made her upset. She wanted to find whoever told him that and confront them for telling such lies. “He’s always been the type to be like that.”

“Yeah, but it usually isn’t this bad,” Luigi continued. “Usually, it’s the little things he tries to hide, and then I find out and he opens up, but… but right now, I can’t tell.”

“Can’t tell what?”

“How bad it is… whether he’s still sick or if it's all stress.” Luigi dropped his gardening trowel and folded his hands together. “It’s either nothing or it’s pretty bad. Either way. . . either way, I want him to get feeling better.”

“I want him to as well,” Peach said, almost like it was a promise. “Do you think something happened?”

“Not that I can think of. Or at least something had happened while I was gone.” When the man said that, Peach could feel the regret in his voice. “If he had a fight with someone we know—or even another run-in with Bowser—we’d be hearing about it. He might try to keep things to himself, but not when he’s fired up about anything like that.”

She smiled fondly. “It’s funny how hot-headed he can get sometimes!”

Personally, the Princess considered Mario to be a patient person. Between having to stop calamities or drop everything to save her, he seemed to have an unending amount of patience at his disposal—except when it came to bullies. Evidence of this came from his weird frienemy-ship with Wario.

She wanted to share this thought with Luigi, but something shifted in Luigi’s face. The man shyly crept his hands back to his trowel and asked, “By the way, you said you noticed that he lost some weight the other day. It makes me wonder when you noticed that.”

In a flash, Peach straightened up. “Don’t try it, Weeg! You better keep that to yourself, and then I won’t tell Daisy about that time you noticed her—”

“Okay, okay! I get it! Blackmail isn’t the answer!”

“That’s what I thought,” she said with smirk. “But, besides how I noticed, you must have noticed too. You live together after all.”

Luigi smiled and shook his head, as if he was trying to prolong the mirth of the moment. “Yeah, I have. But I don’t think he’s actually lost weight.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think, uh. . . I think he’s actually gaining some,” Luigi said hesitantly, trying to justify himself in disclosing such information. “Like he’s been fluctuating a lot. I’ve noticed that he’s eating more, but he also seems to be exercising just the same. But he also hasn’t been grocery shopping regularly, so I just don’t understand it. Why would Mario be eating so much worse and not care about it? It just doesn’t seem like him at all.”

“It must be because he hasn’t been feeling well.”

“Right. . . But, either way, he needs to relieve some stress if he wants to get better. Bottling it up is never a solution, after all.”

“I just wish we could… I just wish we could blackmail him, like from what you said earlier. Well, not blackmail blackmail, but just something to help him open up about it. Talking about it usually helps me.”

Luigi sighed. “I know what you mean, but Mario will be Mario and he’ll slow down when he’s ready. . . or when he’s at his limit, at least. But I know what you mean. It would be nice to have some kind of leverage against him, but me even saying that sounds awful. I’d only want it if it can help him.”

When he said “slow down when he’s ready”, it made Peach giggle at a triggered memory. “Remember that time when he was trying to get us to take that secret short cut? The one at Koopa Cove?”

Instantly, his face lit up. “Of course! I already knew about it, but he was convinced that it’s the best kept kart-racing trick ever. And I guess it is. . . if he was able to pull it off, that is.”

“I was so worried that he was gonna break something!” She smiled. “I was shocked that he only had a bloody nose after ramming against that cliffside.”

“Eh, he’s had worse. I was surprised when he tried it again.”

“And then Daisy pulled it off?”

Luigi sucked in his lips, hiding the smile on his face. “She was so excited. She still won’t let it down.”

“Bruised his ego, but he was still cheering for her,” Peach said indulgently. “I guess that’s Daisy's leverage, huh?”

“Yeah,” he laughed. “I wish she’d share it with us.”

Luigi went on to talk about how Daisy used the shortcut to bypass half of the racers once, rambling on about this trick she made in one of the last courses of a prix. It was gushes like this that always made Peach feel warm inside, but it also tempted her to tease the man for being so transparent. She was about to be sly and comment about it, but one of the best ideas she had ever gotten popped into her mind instead. It was like a quick strike of inspiration from the Star Spirits above.

“Hey,” the Princess started. “What if I invited Daisy over for the weekend?”

Luigi lifted up his head and blurted, “That would be great!”

“Hold on! I mean, what if I invited her to go to a day spa with us—me, you and Mario?” She grinned as he looked away. “We can get Mario to slow down and actually relax properly, we can have Daisy to come visit too, and we both can get a well-deserved break from the greenhouses. Besides, she’ll have to come over eventually so we can figure out the new Power-up trade routes, anyways. And we can set something else up for another weekend too.”

He cleared his throat. “A day spa sounds nice. Is that like a regular spa, but in the day?”

Peach refrained from giggling. “Practically, yeah. It’s just an afternoon appointment.”

“Sounds fancy. I’m sure Mario wouldn’t mind to try something new… and if Daisy’s coming along, then he’ll be more likely to come join us.” Luigi looked down at the soil and smiled. “She has a way of making people get FOMO.”

Peach truly agreed with that statement. In a political way or not, Daisy was very influential—and for good reasons. Whether it was to convince another kingdom to consider all of their choices before making a final decision or even just egging on her competitors to give it all they got, she was a force to be reckoned with. And, from all the times that the four of them had know each other, Mario and Daisy were like head-butting mountain goats: a perfect pair of good-natured rivals without the drama. An outing with the four of them would be the catalyst to break Mario’s funk.

“Then it’s settled. I’ll make some calls while you make sure Mario isn’t busy this weekend.”

“Sounds like a plan to me!”

Chapter Text

It was nice of her to call back, even if it was at two in the morning. 

After practicing by the beach, he came home and crashed on the couch, yet couldn’t seem to pass out into a dreamless sleep. The adrenaline was still saturated in his blood, refusing to release its grip on his arteries. But, on the bright side of things, he got to talk with an old friend. An old friend… more like an old connection. He wouldn’t go as far as to say an old flame; they never arrived to that point, officially. However, with the way she purred through the speaker, with the way it hit his ear just right, it was like he was talking to a secret mistress instead. He wasn’t sure how to feel about it.

Regardless, the phone call distracted him enough to finally get some sleep. He didn’t bother to move upstairs. At this point, the couch had conditioned his spine to like its lumps. 

There was very little reason for him to not sleep the whole day away. The only thing that could wake him up from such indulgence would be an emergency: or, in this case, Princess Daisy.

“Hiya, you lazy bum!” she hollered. 

He shot up like a bomb had dropped and she cackled. “That’s what I like to see! Now, you better get ready ‘cause we’re going to the spa today!”

Mario forced his heart to calm down, his senses straightening up. Soon he noticed that Luigi and Peach were standing behind the couch, leaning on it as they observed Daisy’s presentation, as if they were sightseers to a street performance. They must have walked in here while he was out. Now he could only pray that he put away the med kit properly or that his ankle dressings were inconspicuous enough.

With a glance at the coffee table—it looks normal enough —Mario settled his face as he listened to Daisy’s rant.

“. . . And that’s why you need to change into something comfy. And don’t worry about showering. Where we’re going, you’ll get a shower in at least eight different ways!”

“What’s this about?” he said, clearing the gravel in his throat. “It’s not anyone’s birthday, is it?”

Peach glanced over at Luigi and then she started to say, “Well, we just wanted to have Daisy over to have some fun with us. And to try something new--for you two, that is.”

“It’s a day spa!” Luigi added. “It’s like that thing we did in the Beanbean kingdom. Y’know, the Jellyfish sisters and the hand massages?”

“Hand massages,” Daisy snorted.

“Don’t go there!”

“We just wanted something to do together,” Peach cut in, coming around the couch and sitting beside him. It was a considerate gesture, but right now it made his skin crawl to no end. Here he was: sweat stained, exhausted, and frankly unpresentable to anyone, while she was here to look at all of it from the podium of her own perfection. It was moments like these that really made him sick of himself.

“So, will you come with us?”

It's not like I have a choice.

“Of course,” he said with a smile. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Sweet!”

With another glance between his brother and the Princess—he frowned as he detected something from it—they started to make for the kitchen. “You go ahead and get ready. We’ll just make some breakfast for us all.”

“Mario,” Daisy said from the kitchen. “D’you got any pre-workout left? Luigi said you had the caramel-flavored one.”

“Second shelf to the right of the sink. Can’t miss it.”

The spa was located in a much farther part of the Mushroom Kingdom than Mario would had guessed. It was an hour drive towards the north, one that went through many tunnels carved in the sides of mountains. He couldn’t tell exactly where they were at. For all the time he had lived here, he had never been out this way before, and, from the thickets of trees and natural streams, he could guess that Bowser never came out here either. The Koopa King would never waste military units in pointless places like this, even if he did have a seemingly endless supply of minions to dispatch. Regardless of all the terrible things about him, he was still a decent tactician.

When the car finally stopped, he was the last one to get off. He thanked Peach’s personal Toad chauffeur for the ride, then he began to brace himself for the day ahead. It couldn’t be explained, but the very thought of a spa day made his palms cramp up, even if there was nothing wrong with the notion. He couldn’t quite place why, but perhaps it was due to his rude awakening.

In the lobby, Luigi trailed behind Daisy, who was determined to show him all the best parts of this establishment, promising him that, “After today, you’ll feel like an ultra-pampered princess!” She led him onto exploring the services they provided—massages, mud baths, salt soaks, facials, pedicures, wax jobs, hair braiding, tanning, and guided meditation. The pair of them left before Daisy could laugh at Luigi, who said, “Wait, isn't that what a BBL is? Or is that the one with the needles?”

Mario walked up beside Peach, who was checking the group in for their appointment at the front desk. The receptionist, who was a Lakitu with cakey, contoured make-up, smiled brightly at the pair. 

“We’re so happy to be hosting the Princess and her guests today! Please, follow me to the changing rooms. Your appointment today includes everything, so please feel free to try them all!”

She led them down a hallway, which was a long-stretch of paper screens where crisp silhouettes could be seen walking, stretching, or receiving acupuncture. Mario tried not to look too closely, keeping his eyes forwards and his shoulders back. He really hoped that he didn't have to do any of this in front of other people. Before he could take his mind off of it, Peach began to slow her pace down.

Wordlessly, he kept beside her and asked, “Everything okay?”

She nodded, but it wasn’t convincing. He wasn’t going to press her for an answer, but his silence must have been enough for her to continue.

“I just hope you have a nice time today,” she said softly. “I’ve been worried about you recently, and I hope you get feeling better.”

He nodded with a smile. So they have been talking. 

Truly, he wasn’t surprised. She and Luigi were good friends to begin with, so they must have a lot of things they talked about without him. And that was all fine and dandy, but, with everything he was dealing with right now, it just irked him—perhaps even angered him—that they would be talking about him. As if talking behind my back will make a difference. He knew that it wasn’t reasonable to think this way, but a mute rage was growing in his gut regardless. His molars pressed tightly together.

“Thank you, Princess,” he said evenly. “I’m sorry to worry you.”

She paused from speaking, probably waiting for him to talk some more—waiting for vocal, upbeat Mario to give her a little more reassurance—but he never did. It left an awkward lull in the air, one that he didn’t care to fix. However, this was enough of an incentive for Peach to suddenly grasp his hand and give it a squeeze.

“I’m always worried about you,” she said sweetly and it made his heart melt. “Anything to help you be happy.” She let go, gave him another smile, and sped off into the women’s changing room before he could respond. 

On any other day, that would have made his heart flutter and cheeks warm. It would have made his eyes squeeze together, his hands stuffed into his pockets shyly, a song in his heart, and put a permanent bounce in his step for the rest of the day. He couldn’t deny his feelings for her, even if it would never work out, but it was invigorating to think about being together with her, just as anyone would think about winning the lottery or meeting a beloved celebrity. Yet, at that moment, Mario only felt guilt for making her worry—for making her always worry about him. He didn’t want to worry anyone, least of all her, and now guilt began to accompany the anger like a chaperone.

Eventually, he entered into his designated room—skipping the sauna and getting right down to business—and met with the same Lakitu lady from earlier. 

Wait, why’s the receptionist in here?

“Hello, Mr. Mario!” she beamed. “If you want to go ahead and get started, please stripe down to the level you feel most comfortable, and then I’ll—”

He pulled out a small sack and shoved it into her hands. “Fifty coins says I had a great massage and a nice, long nap.” He hated feeling this rude, but it couldn't be helped. “No offense, miss, I just have somewhere else to be.”

She looked at the coins with a frown. “Well. . . if you’re sure. I can just do a shoulder massage for, like, five minutes if you’re on a time crunch—”

“One hundred coins says I had a nice, long full body massage and,” he said with some sharpness, “I enjoyed all the other fru-fru roba inutile that this place has to offer—and that I can’t be seen doing it. Capisci? ”

“Absolutely!” She saluted. “If you need a way out, you can use the staff hallway. No one will ask if you tell them Linda let you.”

“Thanks.”

This has got to be one of Peach’s best ideas ever , Luigi thought. Not only was his brother finally loosening up, according to a very pleased masseuse, but this day spa was the absolute best three hours of his life. He had tried the facials and pedicures with the princesses, something he found to be soul-healing; he didn’t think his feet could ever look this good. Then he tried the mud baths, which was a surprisingly soothing experience, given how marinating in mud had always seemed gross to him. If it wasn't for Daisy, he wouldn't have done it at all. Oh boy, am I glad I did!

After a guided meditation session, he transferred into the natural hot springs outside. He might be the only one in the men’s section, but he could clearly hear Daisy on the other side of the bamboo screen, explaining her preferences in face masks and toners. He might not see her, but he could tell that Daisy was smiling ear to ear with delight judging by how her words came out. And, for as much as he really enjoyed her company, it was nice to not have to worry about his body language around her—not having to constantly maintain a “natural” posture in front of her. That had to be the most relaxing part of today so far. 

“. . . But anyways,” Daisy sighed “I’m glad we did this. I seriously needed a good excuse to get out here!”

“Well, it has been a while since we’ve done this,” Peach agreed. “Last time, I think you and I spent a whole weekend here.”

“I can see why!” Luigi laughed. “I’ve never really been to something like this before. I mean, I’ve always seen them around, but I thought it was more of a girls’ thing than anything else.”

“Ain'tcha glad you came to this girls’ thing, Weeg?” Daisy said toothily. “Although, I’m sure it’s not nearly as good as those hand massages, if ya know ‘ma sayin’?”

“Knock it off!” Peach cringed while he laughed out scolds.

“Even then,” Luigi started again with a new lung full of air, “I don’t think a simple hand massage would have gotten Mario to loosen up this much. The lady said he was so relaxed that he fell asleep.”

“Poor thing!” Peach giggled.

There was a pause—a thick one where Daisy was suspiciously quiet. When no one continued, she stood up from the hot springs, got up on the stone ledge, and leaned over the bamboo division so her chin rested on the top.

“Will anyone spill the beans? What’s up with Mario?”

Luigi cowered from her sight, submerging far into the water as he could tolerate. “W-well. . . .” he started, keeping his eyes down and riveted on the water. “We’ve just been noticing that. . . noticing that he’s been acting off lately.”

“Oh, like earlier on the couch?”

“Yeah,” Peach said. “We’re thinking that he’s been pretty stressed out from this year and might have gotten sick because of it.”

“Oh, that makes sense. I can tell that something’s up, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Did he stop using pre-workout?”

Luigi hesitated. “Uh. . . Maybe?“

“Or maybe he’s busy gettin’ high in a back alley, y’know? He certainly looked stoned this morning, ha ha.”

“Do you really think it’s that?” Peach said flatly.

“‘Course not, Peachy—don’t get your knickers in a twist—but it doesn’t hurt to ask.” Something made Daisy sober up, but Luigi couldn’t tell if it was self-induced or if Peach was giving her a look, because she went back down into the hot springs water. “Honestly, he was looking pretty rough when I saw him. In fact, I’ve never seen him like that before. . . even when he saved me from Tatanga that one time. That’s the only reason why I’m asking about it, but anyways. . . .”

“It’s all good,” he said. “But that’s why we’re at the spa today. Bro needs to relax!”

“Oh, that’s why you invited me over. I thought you only wanted to talk about the Power-up trade, Peachy.”

“Well, that’s one of the reasons,” Peach said. “But I wanted to invite you over and get together as friends too. We just thought that we could feed two birds with one scone this way.”

“Wait,” Luigi started. “Isn’t it ‘kill two birds with one stone’?”

“Yeah, but I don’t wanna say it like that. It’s too. . . intense.”

Daisy snorted again, but she quickly quieted herself—perhaps another look from Peach—and said, “Well, I’m really glad we did this then. And if there’s anything you guys can think of, I’d love to help Mario out. Besides, it takes a powerhouse like me to make him loosen up! Like, we could… we could drag him out to play tennis sometime! Or basketball! Y’know, blow off some steam and all. And maybe we could go out to that fancy French restaurant in New Donk City. It can be a double date!”

“That’s true,” Peach said with interest, but didn’t say her thoughts out loud.

Luigi was going to suggest a few outing ideas too, but he soon found himself caught up in an entirely different conversation with Daisy. It must have come up when he had mentioned Polterpup in one of his ideas that she went on a five-minute tangent.

“. . . I’m just sayin’, if King Boo decided to possess Bowser again, all it would take is two Poltergusts on either side of him, and then create a vortex where it will pull him in two different way, and then make King Boo get out of him, and then you catch him. Easy-peasy!”

“Maybe, but you don’t have any evidence,” Luigi said in mock seriousness. “You’re quite knowledgeable in ghosts, for someone that’s never caught one.”

“Oh, okay!” She chuckled. “Tell me, ‘Ghostbuster-Extraordinaire’, why did you never try the vortex idea on King Boo? Hm? What makes you think it wouldn’t work?”

“Well, y’see, the last time I had a scuffle with him was in the Last Resort, and it meant that. . . .”

Chapter Text

After burning off some steam in the forest, Mario came back to the spa grounds with a raging hunger. He hadn’t eaten since last night, and even then it was only cold pizza and a slice of a Super Mushroom. For this reason, he was glad he brought a hefty amount of coins with him. Splurging wasn’t usually his style, but this year had been full of exceptions.

After getting rid of his mud-stained clothes and asking a staff member to wash them for him, he took a quick shower, scrubbed his face very well, changed into a robe, and exited to get some food. There was a hoity-toity cafe shop not too far away from the changing rooms, so he ordered all the veggie panini sandwiches they had. It all added up to three times the price of what he expected to pay, but he couldn’t care less. He ate two of them in the seating area and then left for the walking trail to stay out of sight.

He ate the last sandwich on the way. It tasted so good at that moment, but it couldn’t seem to satisfy him either. No matter how many greasy, low-quality sandwiches he ate, it would never compensate for the energy he had just burned off. It was strange how often he felt this: feeling starved with a full belly. He didn’t understand how this had been working for the past few months, but he wasn’t gaining any noticeable inches, so he was neutral to it.

When he had been in the forest earlier, he had forgotten that he didn’t have any equipment to use. There was hardly anything to work with inside of a temperate forest—no demand to keep him on his toes, no incentive to push himself to the limit. Instead of boring himself, he went on to look for a steep mountain side and practiced there. Luckily, there were plenty of purchase and jagged hazards to ricochet off of.

This must have been enough, because he was in the zone for a little over two hours.

Now, sitting on a bench and overlooking the small valley below, Mario felt the adrenaline ebb away into a low tide. Too soon, he was overcome with exhaustion, his eyes stiff with fatigue, and he wanted nothing more than to curl up on bench and sleep the weekend away. The ice-cold metal was heavenly against his skin.

But it’s almost three o'clock. . . He didn’t have the luxury to take a snooze, especially with the others around here somewhere. I’ll get a coffee instead.

When Luigi went into the men’s section of the spa, he was hoping to find Mario in there—a glowing, rejuvenated Mario with a bright smile. He could picture it perfectly in his head, something he hadn’t realized was missing since he had come back home. Instead, he saw his brother sitting next to the main Zen garden, sipping a hot drink, and looking like he was on his third divorce. Even though there was a ‘No food or drink’ sign beside him, none of the staff were brave enough to ask him to leave.

“Hey, bro,” Luigi started carefully. “How was it?”

Mario nodded, looking up and giving him a tired smile. “It was good. I really enjoyed the sauna.”

“Yeah, that was one of my favorites too.” He was about to suggest they leave and go grab dinner, but he paused and asked, “How come your face’s all red?”

From what he could see, Mario’s skin was red with irritation, spreading across his face and down the side of his neck. There were half-detached flakes of skin on it too. If Luigi didn’t know any better, it looked like he had been clubbed by a stone mace.

“Eh,” he gestured to it half-seriously, not making eye contact. “It was one of those skincare things they put on me. I might have been allergic or something. Non preoccuparti.”

“Se lo dici tu. Anyways, we’re gonna head out to eat soon. We’re thinking about sushi, but there’s also a kabob grill nearby.”

“Anything’s great. Let’s not keep them waiting.”

It was already a long week, especially since it was only Wednesday.

The Princesses had been in the meeting room for over an hour now. By this time, the sun was long gone and the evening cold had entered into the castle like a steeping tea bag. If it weren’t for the luxurious rugs underneath Toadette’s feet, the tiled floor would have felt more like a slab of glacier ice. For this reason, she scuttled over to the fireplace and added more logs. 

It had been her suggestion to expand the ventilation system to reach this room, no longer having to use the outdated fireplace for warmth, but Peach had said she preferred to keep this part of the castle as untouched as possible. It was probably one of the oldest rooms, being a part of the original foundation generations ago. This was understandable, but Toadette still daydreamed about possible upgrades. Ever since she was tasked with repairing Toadtown, her gears had been turning for other projects as well—even if it was against her Princess’s wishes. It doesn’t hurt to just think about it. . . .

She kept the noise minimal as the Princess moved onto a different topic of interest. It had something to do with updating the trading routes between the Mushroom Kingdom and Sarasaland, but she couldn’t recite any of it. Politics had always flown right over her head. It was Toadsworth, the royal advisor and Toadette’s superior, that would summarize the aftermath of such meetings, boiling it down to what was then needed of her.

However, she would have to ask him later. The older gentleman was too absorbed in his papers. He tipped his glasses to the very edge of his nose to better see the fine print in his hand, his tepid cup of tea in the other. For this meeting, he was acting as a reference for when the Princess needed to cite specific records, speaking up every now and then when his topic was needed to be presented. Besides that, from what Toadette could tell, he dozed off for microseconds at a time before snapping back and stirring his tea once more.

Later, once the meeting moved onto alliance dynamics with the Beanbean Kingdom, Toadette set a new stack of papers next to him. 

“Here’s the documents you wanted,” she said in a whisper.

His lips curled up in a pleased smile. “That was quicker than the first time ‘round.”

“Yeah, the printer was in the middle of a system update last time.”

“Well, it’s certainly better for you to figure out than for I, ho ho!” He drew out a quick splash of cursive on the documents and then handed them to her. “Would you kindly give these to Princess Daisy? Just set them next to her, thanks.”

She did that, tiptoeing over and wordlessly placing them next to the Sarasaland Princess’s sneakers, which had perched themselves on the oak table’s corner ledge. She would have asked her to put her feet down, but it wasn’t her place to do so. Instead, Toadsworth made a percussive clicking noise with his tongue.

“Princess Daisy, please refrain from putting your feet up like that. That table is older than I am! In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was made before your grandfather’s coronation!”

Peach laughed when the other straightened up and said a quick apology. “I can’t blame you, Daisy. These chairs get uncomfortable after a while.”

“You mean after three hours,” she said with a pout.

“It’s been three hours? Goodness, time flies when you’re, uh. . . when you’re busy like this.”

“Peachy,” she whined. “When can we go back to that spa resort? We’ve done nothing but meetings since Sunday.”

“Trust me, I wanna be back there too. Maybe once we coordinate with Prince Florian and his consultants, we can arrange an outing again.” She wrote down a line in the medium of her notes, a growing smirk on her face. “Or you can just take Luigi with you this time. I’m sure he’s free.”

Toadette covered her mouth, trying with all her power not to betray a grin. She wasn’t in the loop with Daisy and Luigi’s dynamic, but, from the sheepish look on Daisy’s face, she could tell that there was certainly something there. When the Sarasaland Princess returned back home next week, she would have to ask or even beg Peach for the details.

“Dear girl,” Toadworth spoke softly, summoning her over. “Could you fetch another photocopy of the route maps? I think we’ll need another fresh copy or two.”

“Sure thing.”

Luckily, it was never tricky to photocopy images. The castle’s printer was a large, upright printer machine that was imported from New Donk City. It had many bells and whistles that came with it, but she found herself only using the basic functions. She wanted to explore all the features, but she didn’t want to end up ruining the equipment, even if the buttons were tempting to push.

Once she came back with a warm stack of papers, she shuffled about distributing them to the other three. Now she could hear that the conversation moved onto other topics, something more applicable to her own work.

“Can’t you just build more greenhouses in Toadtown?” Daisy asked aloud. “Why not make a mega-complex that can supply the whole kingdom?”

“That was my initial thought,” Peach stated. “But kingdom-wide laws dictate a limit on production within a certain amount of acreage. No exceptions.”

“That’s stupid.”

“There’s a good reason behind it. Check page thirty-six, section i for more details. But,” the blonde flip through her documents with crisp swoops. “With greenhouses in multiple locations, it will be easier to move them throughout the kingdom and over the boarders. The only draw back is the operations. I would have to be present for a part of the growing cycle in order to oversee operation.”

“Why not get someone else to do it?”

“I’m already overseeing Toadtown’s cite, so that already makes me the lead operator. To distribute responsibility will lead to more meetings and paper work and funding, and I don’t think I want to put anyone else through that with me.”

“Girlie,” Daisy said, her face softening. “You don’t have to have all of this on your shoulders. I’m sure I could get someone with a dual-citizenship back home to help you out.”

“It can’t be helped,” Peach sighed and wrote down a summary of the plans, underlining 'alternative greenhouse locations; operation under lead jurisdiction' many times over. “Luckily, the only hard part about this is the travel, so it won't be too—”

“Wait, but what will this mean for—” Toadette shut her mouth and made a quick bow. “I’m sorry for interrupting!”

“No need,” Peach replied, a smile on her face. “In fact, I’d like to hear what you think. Is having multiple greenhouse locations a good move? Or would you suggest something else? I could easily be missing another option.”

The Toad-girl felt her heart skip a beat at her Princess’s courtesy. Only someone as agreeable as her would allow a non-royal, non-influential servant girl butt in on her important diplomacy meeting. It was inspiring. Moments like this reminded her how strong her loyalty was to the throne and to Princess Peach.

“W-well,” she started. “I’m not really sure. . . but if it’s the most logical thing to do, then that has to be our best bet, right? I mean, even if it’s a little more expensive. Y’know, with the economy and all right now.”

Toadsworth grunted. “Power-ups have certainly take a toll on the market. Wouldn’t you agree, Princess?”

“I’d rather have a root canal than deal with a Power-up shortage,” she groaned. “If we were low on anything else, this wouldn’t be nearly as hard.”

“It’s a good thing you know how to plan well. You can thank yourself for building up our other supplies before hand, hm?” he quipped. “I think I might’ve just about passed away if we had a shortage on cream and butter.”

“I’m just glad Bowser didn’t have time for any of that. But, anyways, I think this is a much better course of action for the Mushroom Kingdom, even if it’s finicky and somewhat of a risk. Daisy,” the Princess turned to her. “Go ahead and submit those papers I gave you to your administrators. I’ll make some calls and we can begin the commercial phase.”

“Will you be okay with all of that though?”

“Yes, I’ll have to.” Peach smiled. “Besides, I’m not alone in this. My citizens have always been so helpful at times like this. It won't take long to set everything up.”

“Yeah!” Toadette cheered. “And with the winter festival coming up, everyone’s gonna wanna pitch in!”

“Exactly. Now, I’ll go ahead and organize a list of tasks to be overseen within the next few days. It’ll probably take a few more dates and calculations in order to finalize the completed number. . . .” She jotted down a few lines in her papers before looking up again. “Any thoughts?”

Daisy raised her hand. “Yeah, when can we end this? It’s getting a little too stuffy in here for me.”

Instead of rolling her eyes and directing them back on track, Peach sat down her papers. “I’m so over this too. If I have to look at another quarterly projection, I’m going to scream. Let’s just push off the last hour for tomorrow.”

“Neat!” Daisy leaned back and kicked her feet up. “I say tomorrow we go out for lunch too and—Oh! Maybe we can play some pickleball while I’m thinkin’ about it. I don’t think we’ve had a chance to play together yet. What do you—?”

“Hey!” Toadsworth yapped. “Feet off the table!”

Ever since he got back from their spa getaway, Mario found himself more and more restless. It wasn’t the kind of exhaustion he could fix with sleep and a slice of pizza, but one that persisted into the witching hour of the night and into the wake of the morning. It left him scraping by during the day, having his volunteering for Toadette's reconstruction become his only obligation to get out of bed.

It also didn’t help that Daisy was still in town, staying in order to be apart of collaborative meetings with Peach. With her around, it seemed to make Luigi more determined to schedule activities for them to do all together like ice-skating or wall-climbing. Usually, there would be no problems with this and it would be warmly welcomed, yet right now Mario found himself subconsciously avoiding Luigi like a repulsed magnet. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to do something as a friend group; there was just too much of a pull to go out practicing instead.

Mario snuck off into the nearby forest, using the deer path that connected to the forest pipe, and centered his mind on perfecting his craft.

The best place to practice shell tricks was in the bowels of the abandoned Koopalings outpost. It had been ages since he had taken this fortress down, all the way back to when Yoshi was barely a hatchling. Now its high walls were crumbling, the ivy thickets diving deep into the cracked foundation, and the banners were sun-bleached and eaten away. The depths of the entire place stunk of stale Dry Bones and mold. For these reasons, no one came around here anymore and he couldn’t get enough of it.

Easily navigating through the labyrinth of the outpost, Mario found the spot he had last left. He lit one of the torches on the wall, lighting up the gray space with a saturated orange glow. No one had to look close to notice the litter of Koopa shell pieces and Piranha Plant teeth in the grooves of the stone floor, the finely powdered keratin dusting over the cracks.

Taking a stray shell from the ground—this one’s intact enough—Mario calculated his shot and kicked the shell into the shallow pit below him. It bounced against the wall with a hollow clink clink clink clink. Before the momentum could relax, he leaped onto the shell and used it as a platform to ricochet consecutively against it. After enough height was reach, he launched himself over the highwall and performed the move again.

This was the easy part—the warm up. After he got in the zone, he would move onto the more interesting areas.

He scaled a wall and planned to leap across the spikes below with a double long jump. It was a lot easier said than done, but it was a vital skill if he ever found himself in a tight spot. 

Another section had a spike pit that was unevenly constructed. He had grazed his thigh too many times here, so he was determined to pull off a clean stunt today.

Sometimes when he wasn’t careful enough, a Koopa shell would come whizzing back to him and smack him in the jaw. It would make a huge mess—spit and blood sprayed at a high velocity across the wall—but it didn’t stop him from trying the move again. It was a difficult jump that involved a momentum shift that would send the shell up and over the wall with him.

One of his favorite stunts to pull off would be this: throwing a Koopa shell at the wall and, as it came back like a boomerang, jumping off of it and reaching even greater heights than before. Mario swelled with pride whenever he managed to touch the ceiling of the stronghold, punching it religiously when given the chance.

After being satisfied with pulling these moves off, he continued on. He held the shell, running and leaping straight into another spike pit. With a similar move-set from earlier, he kicked, bounced, and soared out of the pit, escaping an incredibly nasty fall in one swift motion. The potential to succeed and the potential to fail was intoxicating, so much so that he couldn’t stop leaping into spike pits, over lava moats, under Thwomps, and around brick walls.

He did the routine again and again, ignoring any scuffs and scratches along the way. The practice would only end if he had his fill of action for the day or if he absolutely had to stop and tend to his wounds. Whichever came first. However, he had to be extra careful. He only had a few One-Ups, a wad of refreshing herbs, and a few pieces of a Super Mushroom to heal any injuries he got—yet that didn’t discourage him to stop.

Perhaps that made it even more addicting.

Chapter Text

“Y’know, I gotta say I’m surprised, Ms. Social Butterfly. You’re certainly late to the whole pickleball trend.”

Peach shrugged it off with a smile. “I’ve had a lot on my plate. I think I’m more than justified.”

After tying up her tennis shoes, Daisy got up from the locker room bench. “What? You mean to tell me that disasters left and right take up too much time? C’mon, Peachy, ya gotta get into the grindset!”

If she had said that three months ago, Peach wouldn’t have laughed. She would have felt sore from the teasing and then rant about the seriousness of malicious threats. It was no joke to go up against Bowser—inside or outside of the Mushroom Kingdom. But now, after coming through to the other side of world-ending disasters, she found herself smiling at her friend’s comment. In a way, it was actually refreshing to joke about it.

Perhaps it was because she had the opportunity to fight the good fight. She was on the frontlines of quite a few adventures and found herself invigorated by it, instead of just staying on the sidelines and worrying on everyone else’s behalf. As fate would have it, she became something of a “hero” herself and took on danger like a fish to water. It gave her no small sense of pride whenever she looked back on it all, emboldened and wiser.

Although hard times persisted—with her kingdom in the throes of a Power-up famine—it wasn’t something the sovereign in her couldn’t handle either. If anything, dealing with national problems like these were her strong suit. However exciting it was to go on an adventure, she was glad to settle down and get back to leading.

Once Peach caught up with Daisy outside of the locker rooms, she saw that the other was unwrapping a new set of pickleball paddles: a magenta set of paddles with a lavishly printed “Girls Rule!” on either side. It didn’t take much to notice the cheap sparkles plastered all over them, flaking off like dandruff with every motion.

Daisy looked up and gave her a grin. “For the brothers. I’m quite generous, aren’t I?”

“Absolutely,” she said. “I think it’ll help accentuate Luigi’s eyes too.” When Daisy didn’t respond to that comment, she pressed on. “Actually, now that I think about it, I think he’ll like having something so overly feminine. . . a little something to remind him of someone.”

She frowned, beginning to walk off. “Don’t at me right now. Irregardless, they need their own paddles and I need to watch them suffer, so win-win.”

Peach shook her head. It wouldn’t do well for her to rile Daisy up before a match.

The indoor courts were relatively busy, considering it was a weekday afternoon. There were at least two courts full of older Delfino couples playing against each other. Each one even had their own visors and matching paddle sets, so they must be practicing for some competition. When the princesses found an empty court, it was a few yards away from a group of Goomba children that were currently in a demonstration. It must have been a school field trip since all of them wore pastel bucket hats with their school’s logo. They all chattered among themselves—each little voice distinct and separate from one another—and Peach found herself pleasantly at peace with the entire scene.

Despite everything, life goes on . This was something Toadsworth had said to her late one night, when she had her head hung over stacks of paperwork. Moments pass all the time, and this moment will pass no differently. Seeing all these people here reminded her of that. The public went on—business as usual—and there was still joy to be had, even through hardships.

With this reminder, Peach found herself fully engaged in learning this new sport.

When Mario had gotten home last night, it was already seven in the morning. He would have blamed it on getting carried away with practice, but he knew it had more to do with insomnia. The past few months have been all over the place, but especially the last few weeks, making for a non-existent sleep schedule. The nights and mornings didn’t feel like how they should, but instead morphing into a hallucinogenic vision of what Hell was like.

As he had gone up the stairs, Luigi had seen him and cornered him in the hallway, telling him that they were going to meet with the princesses at the community center today.

“We all can finally play pickleball together. This’ll be great!” his younger brother had said.

“Wonderful,” he had smiled, cursing his luck.

Now, instead of napping, he trailed behind his brother as they exited the locker rooms, migrating around the complex to find the princesses. To him, the lights were far too bright and the overhead vents weren’t keeping things cool enough. All the while, the concrete floor reminded him of how badly he tweaked his ankle last night at the outpost—the hard, flatness pressing against his sole and making him suppress a cringe. Maybe it’ll get better after stretching it out a bit. . . .

All too soon, they spotted the princesses on a court. The ladies were wearing their all-too-cute tennis outfits from last year’s tournament, and, for the first time ever, Mario wished to be out of their sights. Showing up to this, he couldn’t wear anything else but some ill-fitting, oil-stained sweats, feeling more like a wild bear going into hibernation than anything else. If it weren’t for the compression wraps around his ankles and wrists, he could have shown up in something much more flattering.

“Hey-o! Sorry we’re late.” Luigi said. “Thanks for getting a court for us though.”

“Sup!” the Sarasaland princess greeted. “Now ya best be ready ‘cause I’m all warmed up and ready to win!”

He smiled warmly down at the ground and Mario already wanted to leave.

It took several moments too long for them to get on with the first match. After setting down their bags and water bottles, getting a brief rundown of the rules, he still had to wait for Luigi and Daisy to stop chit-chatting with each other before they could move on. It was something to do with a TV show they were hooked on—something about a new season premier and a new line of merch—but he wasn’t really paying attention. His mind was elsewhere, swimming through his head and only anchored down by the stale pain in his joints.

“How have you been?” Peach asked him while they stood by.

He collected himself and smiled. “Fine! The water system has been working well. Now Toadette has me on brick duty with the crew, so it’s all been going well.”

“That’s good to hear.”

“How’s the whole crisis thing going?”

“As well as it can go right now.” She shrugged. “We’re just waiting to hear back from the other leaders and consultants before we can do anything else. Though, I have an online meeting after this to go over trading agreements. That’s why we can only play a few rounds before leaving, so sorry about that.”

“We understand completely. I wish you luck with all of that.” 

He was going to add on something like, “It takes an expert like you to get things figured out, Princess!” or even, “I know you can do it! You’re as tough as nails!” but it got stuck in his throat and he averted his eyes away from her. No need to make himself look anymore like a fool.

“Oh, I think the other two are ready now,” Peach said. “Good luck! Daisy and I will try not to win too quickly.”

“Ha ha, we’ll at least make it hard for you, that’s for sure.”

They stepped off into teams—him and Luigi against the princesses—and he already wanted it to be over. He couldn’t describe how uncomfortable it was to just stand there and already feel sweaty and out-of-breath, having to stand directly across from Princess Peach no less. 

It won’t even be an hour, Mario promised himself. I can stick it out for that long. Knowing that the princesses could only stay for an hour made this less unbearable, and that they were off to do more work towards the crisis made it even better. The sooner Power-ups were available again, the sooner things would return to normal. 

In the meantime, he struggled and kept overshooting the whiffle ball over the lines.

“That’s my problem too!” Peach said, her voice echoing off the court walls as she retrieved the ball. “I’m still trying to find the sweet spot for it. I have to remember that this isn’t tennis.”

“Same,” Luigi nodded. “I just act like it’s badminton and it seems to go okay.”

The ball was served again. It only bounced a handful of times before Daisy had to jog around some Delfinos to get it back. The ball had to be served a few more times before they could find a shaky groove, one that was still amateurish and awkward. 

Mario had never played this sport before. He knew that Luigi had when he was traveling across the country, and it showed as he swung his obnoxiously pink paddle with more sureness than he could pretend. In fact, his brother was doing a better job at reflecting Daisy’s attempts to spike them out of the first round. Yet, the more they played, the more Mario realized that this sport wasn’t hard at all—not nearly as demanding as full-scaled tennis or basketball—and he found himself disliking it more and more. There was too much idle time of just standing and talking; it didn't mix well with him at the moment.

Just when Mario was beginning to accept the pace of the game, he found himself face-first against the ground. His forehead hit the ground—nose bent and mustache flush against the gritty floor like a broom’s end—and his eyes were squeezed shut in pain. Surprisingly, it was his ankle that hurt the most, disregarding the raw scrape on his knee.

He lifted his head and sensed that Peach was racing over to him.

“Oh my! Are you okay?” she said. “I’m sorry if I served the ball wrong! I should have been paying attention.”

He shook his head, dismissing the notion. Thankfully, Daisy spoke up for him, saying, “No, you’re good, Peachy. It was just a fall.”

“S’fine,” he said, trying to pick himself up without aggravating his ankle. It must have been a puffy eye-sore from underneath his pant leg.

“Bro,” Luigi said, kneeling and helping him up. “Want me to get a band-aid for you? I might have one in my bag.”

“I always carry some with me,” Peach said, hurrying to get one out of her duffle bag. “They’re all pink though—”

“I'm okay,” he said and gritted a smile. “You guys play a round without me. I'm gonna clean up my knee.”

“Are you sure?” Luigi asked.

Mario hesitated—What do you mean ‘Are you sure?’ I just said so—then said, “Of course. Win some points for us, okay?”

Once he was walking away, he allowed his face to fall into a frown. He couldn’t believe that he stumbled over his own feet in front of everyone. He couldn’t even remember how his ankle gave out on him. Luckily, he wasn’t awake enough to truly feel the full force of the embarrassment, so there was that at least.

In the locker room between the sinks was a public first-aid kit. It must have been recently installed because the plastic-coating around the box was unmarked and had no trace of dust on its hinges. Mario rummaged through the contents, pulling out a large bandage and ointment for his knee. After that was taken care of, he grabbed an entire roll of white cotton wraps and got to work replacing the compression wraps on his ankles, knees, and wrists.

Although he had taken a shower earlier, he had ran out of wrappings for his joints. Begrudgingly, he had to reuse yesterday’s wrap or else suffer for the rest of the day without the extra support. It felt as terrible as reusing underwear. Now, it gave him no small amount of relief to put on something clean, throwing out the yellow-stained, over-stretched wraps in the garbage. At least he could feel a little bit better about that.

However, he hesitated in leaving the locker room, finding himself much more comfortable in here than he was out there. In here, the air wasn’t as humid and the lights weren’t as bright. He could feel his fatigue grow into more of a pleasant sleepiness than some sort of incurable illness. 

If only he could stay here: sitting on a bench, his head down and over his knees, and just close his eyes. He could just allow the sweat unstick from his skin and clothes, feel his muscles relax, and allow his heart a moment to finally catch up to itself. And, weirdly enough, it finally felt like he hadn’t slept all night, instead of just being in a gross limbo of feeling unalive but not quite dead. It made it seem like sleep was all he needed.

When he heard footsteps coming into the locker room, he nearly flinched when he saw Luigi walk up to him. It was hard to explain, but it suddenly felt like he was in trouble.

“Everything okay?” Luigi asked, his eye catching on the still-open first aid kit. “Ah, that’s nice that there’s bandages in here. I’m glad you didn’t have to improvise something for it.”

“Yeah, it’s nice.” He was about to make a comment about the bandage options that were available, but Luigi cut him off with a hand on his shoulder. It made his insides twist.

“Bro, have you been feeling okay?” He sat down beside him. “I know you said before that you’ve been getting over a cold, but you still seem off. Is. . . is something wrong?”

It was supposed to be a caring gesture—something that Luigi was particularly good at doing—but this time it all felt like a sucker punch to the gut. Am I really that easy to see through?

“‘M fine,” he said, plucking Luigi’s hand off his shoulder and holding it in his palm. “It’s just been. . . it’s just been rough. Y’know, with everything going on right now.”

“You mean. . . with the Power-ups shortage?”

“Sure, but also cleaning up after Bowser’s latest attack and stuff. I guess it’s all hitting me hard right now, but it really isn’t a big deal.” Mario twitched a smile. “We’ve certainly made it through worse before, eh?”

“Well, sure—“

“It’s not like this is anything new.”

“Maybe, but you don’t have to play it off, bro. You can always talk about it with me.”

“I don’t think there’s anything to talk about. It’s all pretty a posto, so I’m trying not to dwell on it.”

“Clearly, you are,” Luigi said with a wince. “You just aren’t acting like yourself. Ever since I got back, it’s just felt like something's off.”

Mario had to snuff out a flare of anger in his heart—he’s only noticing because I haven’t been so perky—and quickly shook the thought away. He knew Luigi cared; he just didn't feel it right now.

“Like I said, I'm getting back into the swing of things. If it was anything else, I’d tell ya.”

“Okay, bro.” Luigi squeezed his hand. “Take all the time you need. I'm always here too if there’s anything you wanna talk about.”

“I’ll let you know. Love ya, bro.”

Luigi seemed happy with that because he gave him a smile, a quick comment about their current pickleball score, and then walked off. Now Mario was able to release the breath he was holding. Merda. . . .

He knew his brother. He loved his brother fiercely. There was nothing in the world that could ever change that. However, right now it was clear that Luigi wasn’t getting off his back no matter what he said. Supposedly, he had been observing him and talking with Peach about him, taking steps to “help him feel better,” with whatever honest and shoddy attempts they tried. But they still thought he needed their intervention, even when he had explained himself twice. Did they really think he was helpless without them?

Whatever the case, he hoped that this time his brother could take a hint. Just tired and achy, but nothing special. As much as he could keep things together and feign normalcy, it was harder to do around Luigi.

When he came back to the court, he saw that Peach had filled in for him, partnering with Luigi and facing off against Daisy. The Princess of Sarasaland was wielding two pickleball paddles and straddled the middle of the court with near manic passion, diving to and fro. It would have been an unfair 2v1 match up, but that was never the case when she was involved.

Peach noticed him in the corner of her eye, waving over at him with a bright smile. “Hey! I helped to make sure Daisy didn’t smoke you guys before you got back!”

“Thanks,” he grinned.

“How’s your knee?”

“Better. Thanks for asking.”

“Of course,” she smiled once again, further weakening his resolve. “I figured that it’ll take more than a bruise to keep you from playing.”

He chuckled, avoiding her eye.

Soon enough, they were in another round. To everyone’s surprise, the scores had been evenly balanced, giving Daisy an incentive to start playing rougher. There were more spikes, fake-outs, and eventually some smack-talk—familiar staples from past tournaments. Mario had wondered when her competitive nature would finally come clawing out.

When Luigi managed to score a point, she scoffed. “You’re lucky this isn’t tennis, green-stache! Or else I’d be going all out!” 

“Why?” He smiled shyly. “Would you shoot the ball over the fence or something?”

“Oh,” she gawked. “Those are fightin’ words!”

Mario tried to keep up with their words, but it was getting hard to focus, their quips dissolving into the background. The ball was becoming more and more flighty with every pass, all to the point where keeping track of it took all of his energy. With all of the sensory aches baring down on him, he was close to just stepping away without a word, collapsing on the ground soon after. He couldn’t explain why this hit him all of a sudden—or this hard. He was always full of gusto with some of the most demanding jobs given to him, and yet hitting a half-ounce wiffle ball was taking more out of him than running a marathon, and even more so than when he first got here. What gives?

Graciously, everyone seemed more than able to keep the conversation going.

“Y’know, I think Toadsworth would enjoy this,” Peach said aloud while Daisy went to get the ball. “His doctor’s been trying to get him to be more active without overdoing it.”

“That’s a good idea,” Luigi said. “I should tell the professor about this too. He stays too cooped up all the time, so I think it would be good for him too.”

“Speaking of which, how is he doing?”

“Oh, y’know—” He made an expression that made her giggle. “Same as usual. Though he’s beginning to publish his paranormal findings online, so he’s busy with that.”

“Good to hear that he’s internet-savvy. I tried to teach Toadsworth how to use the printer the other day, but he actually ended up. . . .“

The humidity was getting to him again. With his clothes sticking to him and the wraps feeling more and more constrictive, Mario felt himself overheating. He would have blamed it on his thick clothing, but he knew it was his Firebrand: an internal furnace that had a tendency to overheat at the worst moments. Hot and sweaty, he could only pray that no one else noticed.

He hadn’t realized that Peach was trying to get his attention until the ball was sent over to him. He hit it reflexively.

“That was for you to serve,” she giggled.

He blinked. “Oh, sorry.“

“It’s okay,” she reassured, but it made him feel even worse.

When he finally managed to get his synapses to fire properly and retrieve the ball, he noticed that Daisy was yet to tease him for it. His brother was no longer rambling either. Instead, they stood at polite attention, waiting to catch his eye and offer a small smile. It was so uncharacteristic of them, and even creepy to an extent, but then he noticed the not-so-secretive look that Peach and Luigi exchanged.

Once he connected the dots—once he finally understood what this was really all about—it hit him like a slap to the face. It sobered him up in the worst way possible.

“Actually,” he started with a tight jaw. “I think it’s about time for me to get going.” He looked over the three of them, almost daring them to say otherwise.

“Ah. . . Yes,” Peach hesitated, glancing at his brother once more. “I suppose we are cutting it close. We still have to get back and change, anyway.”

Before Luigi could pipe up about something, Mario turned away to pack up his things, his hands working in stiff movements to get everything together.

“Alright-y then,” Daisy said somewhere behind him. “We’ll have to do this again before I fly back home. And maybe we can wager next time too!”

Without so much as a wave or a nod, he left the court and walked as normally as he could out of the community center. He didn’t stick around to hear whatever plans his brother would make on his behalf, whatever suggestions either of the princesses would make, or anything about another “bonding get-together”. Right now, he had to leave and contain the smoldering rage burning in his core, the last remains of his patience in tow.

The moment I act a little off is the moment they walk on eggshells. . . It just goes to show. . . . The smolder branded itself onto his face. Do they really think I’m that oblivious?

Yes. He knew they meant well—that they are true friends through thick and thin, people he would always stand with, and people he would lay his life down for—but he couldn’t ignore the sting of betrayal either. It left him feeling sour, drained, and horribly patronized. Am I just now noticing this? Do they really think so little of me?

He knew he was paranoid about it. About many things. He knew that his tendencies had crept up on him over the years, but he wasn’t blind. He knew what this was really all about. No matter if it was friend or foe, “Super Mario” wasn’t as fragile as they thought him to be, as if he were a sick dog that couldn’t handle too much excitement all at once. They all knew he was capable, so why pretend that they could see through him?

Perhaps he would have approached the situation with more tolerance if Luigi stopped pestering him so often, if the Princess didn’t try to coddle him out of sympathy, or even if the two of them didn’t rope Daisy into their quota. He might have had more prudence. Instead, however irrational, nothing could satisfy the offense burning in his chest.

I’m just so tired of everything. . . .

He just needed some alone time, something that everyone—even Super Mario—was entitled to.

Chapter Text

He had just bought a new pack of compression wraps. He stripped off the plastic and readied to wrap himself once again, covering his irritated ankles, knees, thighs, and biceps. It brought him a magical amount of relief to have some fresh wraps, something sturdy enough to not tear or fall off so easily, especially when he had a day full of brickwork with Toadette and her construction crew.

Mario would have taken a slice of a Super Mushroom, but he didn’t need it this time. Whenever he came back from a particularly rough practice, he always ended up needing a piece, even if he had meticulously planned out the thinning rations. But a couple of painkillers and some refreshing herbs did the trick well enough. In fact, for the first time in a while, he felt fine. Pleasantly unremarkable. It was probably thanks to all the sleep he managed to catch up on during the past few days.

When he went downstairs, he saw Princess Peach and Princess Daisy sitting in the living room, flipping through TV channels. From the kitchen, there was the sound of a knife on the cutting board and something sizzling on the stovetop. Luigi must have invited them over for brunch. It would have irked him that he wasn’t notified about it, but he was actually presentable for the company this time.

“Hey, Mario!” Daisy tipped her head up in greeting. “How d’you turn the captions off on your TV?”

He came over, took the remote, and made a few changes to the settings. “There you go.”

“How come you guys have it on? Losing your hearing?”

“Not yet, thankfully. It’s for spelling out certain words.”

“But you guys are already so fluent?”

“Well enough, but it's nice to have it on for certain shows. Like, uh. . . like that one science network that talks about astronomy and stuff. Sometimes the history channel too.”

“That’s a smart thing to do, then,” Peach commented. “By the way, Luigi’s almost done with making breakfast. We wanted to help, but he wouldn’t let us.”

He was about to agree with his brother’s decision—princesses or not, never let guests move a muscle—but his voice was caught in his throat when she stood up, rising several inches above him, and rewarded him with a lovely smile. “Would you mind if I made you a plate?”

On any other day—on any other day—he would have said, “Wow, that’s very kind of you! But you don’t have to do that, Princess! You’re a guest here, and Luigi made breakfast for you and Daisy, after all. Can I get you a cup of coffee or some orange juice instead? Or would you prefer a sweet tea? I think I still have the mint plant in the window still going. Would you like some in it?” This was what he would have said—on any other day— but instead he only managed to force a smile, say a quiet, “No thanks,” and then quickly escape into the kitchen with an unexplainable rage burning in his chest. It didn’t help that Luigi approached him with a plate full of eggs, toast, and marmalade.

“‘Morning, bro!” he said. “Eat up ‘cause we’re going to the movies today!”

“Thanks.”

“So, they’re playing this new movie that we all really wanna see. It’s a rom-com—as Daisy calls it—and it looks super funny. It has that actor that we like in it—I forgot his name—but he was in that one movie with the werewolves, remember?”

Out of all the ideas they could have come up with, this had to be the worst one. The idea of coming along to appease his friends, sitting in the dark for two hours, and constantly feeling their eyes on him made his shoulders seize up painfully. Fregami, and they didn’t even care to ask me about it.

“I can’t make it today,” Mario stated as evenly as he could. “I got some work I have to do.”

“Oh?” Luigi’s face fell. “Would, uh, would it be possible to push it ‘til later today, or. . . ?” 

He put down the plate. “No, I promised I’d help the crew today. I’m sure you and the princesses will understand.” 

“Oh—okay, then. Keep us updated. Maybe we could get ice cream or something later tonight. Daisy’s going back home tomorrow, so it’d be great if, uh. . .  if you’re available for something.”

He didn’t say anything as he refilled his water bottle, the faucet blaring through the air with a whine. He could sense his brother’s eyes on him—sense him thinking up a response against his refusal—but he couldn’t care less what that would be. Just like from pickleball the other day, the rage in his chest threatened to burn up everything around him if he wasn’t careful.

Luigi smiled nervously. “Maybe we can go on a different day?”

“Maybe.”

After a handful of heavy seconds, he grabbed his toolbox and left the house. The door closed with a jerk of unspoken anger.

Once the door closed, Daisy groaned out loud.

“Dang, I love the guy, but now I feel like I can finally breathe!” She shook her head. “You guys are right. Somethin’s up. It’s almost like he’s an entirely different person.”

“That’s what I said the other day,” Luigi said, taking off his apron and sitting down with a cup of espresso. “I tried talking to him about it again—when we got together to play pickleball the other day?—but I still haven’t gotten anywhere with him. . . .“ He frowned, pausing for a moment. “I don’t think I'm taking the right approach to this.”

“What would be the right approach, then?”

“That’s a fair question,” Peach said, turning down the TV volume and collecting her thoughts. “It’s hard to help anyone if you don’t know what’s wrong.”

Daisy nodded. “Facts.”

“Y’know, I even tried to—Oh, hey!” He set down his drink and held his arms out to the floor. “C’mere, Polterpup!”

Rising up from the floor boards, the dog jumped up and into his lap, more than happy to be receiving some attention. While Luigi scratched behind his neck, the dog began to get comfortable and wedge himself in the crook of the arm chair, tucking himself between his owner’s thigh and the armrest. Eventually, the petting stopped once the ghostly fur particles got too out of hand.

“Do you use a lint roller to get those off your clothes?” Peach asked curiously.

“Hm? No, it phases right through. I actually use a magnet that the professor gave me. He said it helps dissolve ghost matter back into the. . . into the spiritual plain or something like that.”

“Oh,” Peach giggled. “Is that also why you’re careful with your Thunderhand around him?”

Bro must have mentioned that at some point, Luigi thought to himself. But it wasn’t like his surreal lightning powers were a secret—not any more or less so than Firebrand. However, it also wasn’t something he flaunted off when given the chance. Personally, he just found Thunderhand to not be as applicable in everyday life and even sometimes a hindrance. One time, when he and Mario had visited a petting zoo for a community fundraiser, he had forgotten to discharge some pent-up electricity and zapped everyone on the metal railing. There was no harm done, but it didn’t stop him from dying of embarrassment or stop Mario from laughing about it.

“Yee-ah,” he half-smiled. “The professor said it doesn’t hurt him or anything, but I try not to use it around him because it gives him the zoomies.”

“Ghost puppy,” Daisy cooed, crawling down onto the floor and giving the ghost some love. “Ghost puppy.”

On the same topic, Luigi was about to make a comment about how weird Polterpup had been acting recently, talking about how he had been harder to track down than usual, but Peach said, “Anyways, what were you saying?”

“Oh, yeah!” He picked up his drink again, fanning away some particles. “I was saying that I tried talking with Mario again, but he was still pretty vague. It was just the same things as before, mostly.”

“What were those?”

“Just things like the shortage, the reconstruction, and from everything this year—which is understandable! I think we can agree that we’ve all had it rough this year with all the world-ending dangers and such.”

“Isn’t it sad that I have to ask which one specifically?” Peach laughed without too much humor. “I can’t blame anyone for still being affected by those kind of things, especially back to back.”

“Well. . . y’see, that’s where I’m stumped.” Luigi sat his drink down again. “I’m beginning to think that. . . well, maybe I am looking to far into this. Maybe bro’s just stressed and got a little sick, and is still just recovering from things.”

“So, you don’t think it’s actually anything too serious?”

He licked his lips, chewing on the thought. “I thought so, but I’m not too sure now. I mean, it’s only been about a month since I’ve been back. And there’s not exactly a deadline to get over a rut, y’know?”

“True, but if you still feel like something isn’t right, then it’s good to look into it—or to keep looking into it. You never know.”

“Yeah.“ He hung his head, absentmindedly stroking Polterpup’s back. “I guess I just feel bad for being so nosy. I mean. . . Mario needs help opening up at times, but if there’s nothing to open up about, then it’s probably just frustrating him instead. He’s much more independent than me, after all.”

“I know what you mean.“

“I-I hope he’s not mad at me,“ Luigi added quietly. “I know that we both look out for each other, but. . . but I hope he isn’t getting defensive because of something I’ve done.” He looked down at the floor. “You don’t, uh, you don’t think he doesn’t wanna talk with me about things?”

“What—No way!” Daisy blurted, startling both Luigi and Polterpup to attention. “Why wouldn’t he wanna talk with you? You’re, like, a great brother and his best friend! Who else would he talk with anyways?”

The man looked away and blushed. “Well, I mean--“

“Lemme rephrase,” she started with some energy. “Who wouldn’t want to talk with Luigi? The more emotionally in-tuned Mario Brother? The reasonable one? Whenever something bothers you, you make sure to talk about it instead of just bottling it up like an idiot. No one has to pull teeth for you to open up—and that’s a strong suit! Honestly, I think Mario could stand to take a page or two from your book—”

“Okay, we get your point!” Peach grinned, quickly ending the rant when Luigi’s face couldn’t turn any redder. “And I agree. If Mario doesn’t open up to you, then he probably isn’t opening up to anyone else. He trusts you more than anyone else!”

“Th-thanks,“ Luigi murmured. “Thanks. . . and you’re right.”

“I always am,” Daisy said courteously. “Besides, irregardless of how he’s acting and stuff, we still need to figure out why he’s being so weird and moody and using so many compression wraps—”

“Wait, what?” He snapped his eyes to her. “Compression wraps?”

“Yeah, I saw during pickleball that he had compression wraps around his ankles and wrists. It was pretty weird to me.”

Peach and Luigi looked at each other, sharing the same thought: how did we miss that ?

“When did you notice that?”

“When he tripped over himself. His pantlegs came up and I saw them. And I saw his sleeves come up at another point. But I specifically remembered it because of the color they were. And—” she wrinkled her nose. “They were looking pretty gross.”

“That’s why he was wearing sweats!” Luigi gaped. “He never wears that kinda stuff if he can help it. Not since we visited the Beanbean Kingdom, at least.”

“W-well,” Peach straightened up in her seat. “He does use wrappings for sports, so maybe he was wearing those for pickleball?”

“Pickleball’s too easy—he had to be wearing them beforehand, especially if they were dirty,” Luigi said, staring down at the ground. “I remember now. . . . He had mentioned to me one time that he did something to his ankle while helping Toadette with the water system. It wasn’t bad though. I forgot why he told me that, but it was because I asked him about something else, but I didn’t think anything of it.“

“Hold on,” she started. “The water system has been done for over a week now. He wouldn’t need the compression support anymore, would he? Oh—” She snapped her fingers. “Maybe it's because he's still helping Toadette with the reconstruction. That’s probably it. That must be—”

Unceremoniously, Luigi shot up from his seat and stayed like that for a long moment. His eyes darted around the room as if he was trying to identify every item, scrutinizing the scene for anything out of place.

“I’ll. . . be back down shortly. Go ahead and watch some TV. I might be a second.”

Polterpup’s eyes followed his owner as he crept up the stairs, but he didn’t move from his spot, as if smelling the change in the air and deciding against it. Neither of the princesses made a move to follow either. They exchanged glances and wordlessly kept vigil.

All the while, Luigi felt his heart thump against his ribcage. It wasn't a quick, panicked rhythm, but it was one that was preparing for it. The feeling only grew stronger when he opened the door to Mario’s bedroom.

Only a couple of years ago, the brothers decided to renovate the second floor of their cottage. They abandoned the bungalow concept altogether, filling the space with a two-bed, one-bath floor with plenty of storage space instead. It was a welcomed change of pace: a more “grown-up” living situation that accommodated their lifestyles better. Although Luigi found himself missing their closeness at times. He liked having his big brother an arm’s length away from him, being able to hear his soft snoring in the background. Maybe it’s just me, but it was kinda nice.

Now, however, walking into his brother’s room felt too invasive. Instead of borrowing a pair of socks or a new razor head, just as they had always done, he was there to find something incriminating—anything to confirm his suspicions. This was probably why he felt paranoid with every creak he made on the floorboard like Mario could hear him from a mile away.

Il fine giustifica i mezzi, he told himself. Now he hoped more than anything that he truly was looking too far into things. 

With this in mind, he first checked under the bed. Other than some pull-out storage containers full of dress shoes and souvenir jerseys, Luigi knew that he also kept a shoebox full of miscellaneous nick-nacks. It was the same shoe box that he had gotten since they moved into Toadtown, the label peeling off and the cardboard’s corners battered. Within the box was a collection of stuff that looked like a page out of an I-Spy picture book, but there wasn’t anything that seemed out-of-place. In fact, it looked about the same from the last time he needed to borrow a rubber band ball for a project.

Before he left the bed, he did notice that Mario had gotten a new set of dark red sheets. It must have changed while he was away. Although it wasn’t inherently wrong, he did find it strange; his older brother never bought himself anything brand new unless he was held at gunpoint. Maybe his old ones finally unraveled?

There was nothing in the dresser or nightstand that was out of place, except for random patches of dust prints. Luigi even checked behind the furniture for anything that was slipped behind, remembering that Mario had once kept a questionable article given to him “from a friend” back in Brooklyn. Nothing bad, just unordinary. Thankfully, there was nothing of the sort.

Luigi intentionally left the closet for last. To him, it always felt like the worst place to snoop, even if it was the most obvious, enriched place to search. Now that he was warmed up and still desperate, he didn’t feel quite as bad as when he first started.

He opened the sliding doors and cringed at the pile that was shoved in here and out of sight. Not only did he not want to look through it, especially with the princesses waiting on him downstairs, but he feared that he would misplace something and Mario would notice. I don’t even know where to start. Unfortunately, Luigi just stood there and stared at the hung up clothes, the overfilled plastic drawers, and the storage boxes of keepsakes. Should I still do this?

Whether it was a stroke of luck or a mistake, Luigi snapped out of his thoughts when he noticed this: an out-of-pocket smell of menthol. Following his nose, it grew stronger towards the floor of the closet. I might be refreshing herbs or some ointment, but why would he keep it in here? They already had a stash of those things in their shared bathroom.

He opened a few plastic drawers. Some of them were easier to open than others, but the toughest one to open was the cracked plastic drawer on the very bottom of the levels. Between the awkward angle and the overpopulation of things—fabric and metal things, judging by a few shakes—it took more than a minute to get it to opened up all the way. Once it did, the sharp, minty smell was even stronger.

He put his hand in. Luigi held his breath, but quickly released it when the first item that appeared was a pair of ragged overalls. There were a few rips and holes in it, as well as an overpowering scent of motor oil and soot. Underneath, there were at least three different shirts that all had the same ripped hole in it. Same size and placement too. They were also covered with mud stains.

Did he forget about this drawer? It would make perfect sense because Luigi was also guilty of forgoing repair jobs like this. When he did get around to it, he usually brought damaged clothes to the dry cleaners since the owner was also a skilled seamstress. Maybe bro just forgot to take these with him into town.

He rifled through the contents a little more: another pair of damaged overalls, a leather keychain, an empty, naked bottle of over-the-counter painkillers, a crumpled letter that didn’t have anything on it, and a patchy tennis ball. He also found a cloth sack full of skeleton keys, a slight shake giving it a satisfying clink. With a glance inside, he noticed that they were all keys from previous military outposts and strongholds of Bowser’s—all piled up in a tangled of off-colored metals. Yet he didn’t think much about it. He and his brother often took souvenirs from adventures when they remembered to. Plus, it might be helpful in the future to hold onto keys like these.

Eventually, he found the source of the smell: a nearly empty jar of topical refreshing herb paste. It was a premium product that was more potent than the fresh kind. Through the glass, he could see trace amounts of the bright green medicine, some streaks darker and more dried out than others. Now Luigi was glad to smell it more strongly because the closet dust was beginning to get to him—the pungency covering up the musty smell.

Soon enough, there was nothing else in the drawer. He wasn’t sure whether to be disappointed or relieved, but, in any case, he found some solace in finding typical drawer things, despite the chaos it was in. It was enough evidence for him to be proven wrong and that his assumptions held no water. I didn’t find anything that I thought I would, so that’s always better than. . . .

As he was putting the items back in the order that he found it in—thinking to himself what a more logical reason behind Mario’s behavior could be—something caught the corner of his eye. The drawer above the broken one had another ointment jar in it. It was the same brand, but it was a much newer purchase. When Luigi opened up the drawer, which slid out with ease, he saw that the jar was half-full and had pieces of the safety seal still clinging to the rim of it. He pulled it out to search some more, the anticipation emerging again. 

There were much fewer things in this drawer. Besides the jar, there was a few stray cotton balls rolling around, some old pliers, and an almost invisible black bottle. If the window curtains hadn’t been opened, Luigi might not have seen it within the shadows of the closet. He pulled it all out, discovering the bottle to be rubbing alcohol, and then noticed a small, wrinkled sandwich bag. With a glance inside, he saw perfectly sliced pieces of a Super Mushroom—five pieces in total. Its skin was dull and wilting, but it was fresh enough to have been cut up recently. 

“What on earth,“ Luigi muttered, looking at all of the items like they were jigsaw pieces from entirely different puzzles. “None of this makes any. . . .”

Then he noticed an old bag hanging up in the closet, which seemed to be used as an impromptu garbage can. It was full of packaging from some compression wraps and gauze. After some digging, it also had used cotton balls sitting at the bottom: white, translucent, and stained with dull, encrusted blood. They weren’t dry either.

“What has he been—?”

It clicked in his mind like a strike of lightening. Looking between the drawer and the bag—back to the drawer and back to the bag—Luigi let out a bellowing roar.

Peach sat upright when she heard a scream. At first, she thought she was imagining it, but Daisy and Polterpup were alert and wide-eyed as well. Soon enough, the scream died down into frantic talking—something indistinguishable to the human ear—as if Luigi was arguing with someone upstairs. His footsteps went back and forth across the ceiling, becoming heavier and heavier, threatening a rampage.

She couldn’t imagine what he had found up there. What on earth could make him this angry? She had never seen Luigi truly angry before. Not truly. He wasn’t the kind of guy to get mad over nothing, so it made her insurmountably nervous to imagine what he found. What did Mario do?

Before either of the princesses could resolve themselves and call to him, Luigi made a sudden beeline across the ceiling, his mouth still running a mile per minute, until he eventually marched down the stairs with fire in his eyes.

Peach raced over to him. “What happened—?”

“I swear,” Luigi growled, “I’m gonna kill him! I’m gonna kill him!”

Before she could ask anything else, he was already pacing again. His hands raked themselves through his hair, threatening to tip his hat off and onto the ground. His shoulders rose unnaturally high. Meanwhile, Polterpup had already gotten up and followed his owner, his tail and hackles erect in vigilance as if ready to defend his owner from an attacker.

“Oh,” he breathed out through his teeth. “I’m gonna kill him!”

“I mean. . . sounds fun, but how come?” Daisy joked, her humor disappearing the more she looked at him. “You don’t. . . actually mean that, right?”

“Luigi,” Peach stepped up to him. “What has he done?”

“He—He can’t be—I think he’s doing it, but. . . .” He grimaced and stopped dead in his tracks. “I-I dunno if he’s actually doing it—I don’t know how, I don’t know why—but it’s the only sorta thing that would make sense. I’ve seen him do something like this before—way back in Brooklyn—he acted sorta. . .  sorta. . . .” He shook his head. “But why on earth could he be going back to that? Out of everything he could be doing? It doesn’t make any sense! And he couldn’t possible be doing it again, either. It’s–it’s nowhere near close enough for him to. . .  to. . . .”

“What is it?” she pleaded. “Is he in danger?”

It took several minutes too long for him to articulate his words. He held his hands out in front of him as if they were wet, flexing and gripping them in vain, trying to articulate some sort of hand gestures to help his delivery. Frustration following frustration, he soon became an uncomfortable mess of fury.

“I just know that—I don’t know if it is—I just know that he’s doing something like that. There’s no other reason why he’d be going through those things—or so quickly—’cause he’s never acted like this before, not even when we’re going through the thick of it—”

Before Peach could try a different approach, like grabbing his shoulder and escorting him to the couch as she had seen Mario do before, Daisy beat her to the punch.

She stepped up to him, blocking him from continuing his path, and locked eyes with him in an almost confrontational way. While he continued to splutter nonsense, she kept her eyes on him, forcing him to stop, pause, and to just look at her. It made for an awkward lull in the air, but there was something happening that Peach couldn’t see. Perhaps it was Daisy’s boldness or her calmness, because he eventually gave in. 

“I—He—I just don’t. . . .” Luigi went on. “I just don’t know.”

Daisy said something to him, but it was so quiet that Peach couldn’t hear it. Though it seemed to have an effect on him because his breathing became heavier and more intentional. There must have been something about it that Luigi accepted—something nearly telepathic—because he stopped shifting his weight between his feet, unclenched his jaw, and allowed himself to be pulled into a hug.

“I’m sorry. . . I’m sorry. . . .”

“Don’t be. Just take a moment, okay?”

It was only a matter of time before the tears came out like a floodgate. Although Peach knew that he aspired to look “impressive and put-together” around his crush, the tears soon turned into hoarse crying. Daisy murmured something to him and he nodded.

“He promised me. . . He promised me. . . .” Luigi chocked on a sob. “He told me he would never do it again. . . that it was only for school and that he’d look for something else, so. . . so why would he go back to it? What’s actually stopping him from doing it again?”

The Sarasaland Princess hushed him, rubbing circles on his back while he buried his face against her shoulder. She rested her forehead against his temple and, instead of becoming bashful, he leaned into it. They stayed like that as if they had become permanently attached, like two statues that were connected by one undividable piece.

Suddenly, Peach felt like she was invading on something private. Instead of standing there and gawking, she withdrew herself into the kitchen.

Between everything that just happened, she found herself more surprised at Daisy. There was something incredibly natural from how she inaugurated herself as Luigi’s support, as some sort of pillar of reassurance. It was a rare sighting. It was something that Peach didn’t think she had ever seen her do before. And, from whatever Luigi found upstairs that made him react like that, it was only Daisy who could have helped him through his panic. If Peach had decided to step in and calm him down as well, then it would have been too much—too much stress, too much attention, too much stimulation. It might have even made the situation even more overwhelming than it had to be.

It’s another reason why I’m glad she’s here, she thought. Even now, she could hear Luigi’s cries subside, turning into more of a sniffle as they murmured to each other. However, Peach knew that none of them were out of the woods yet. There was still the problem with whatever Luigi found upstairs, and she could only brace herself for it and hope that her own reaction didn’t escalate the situation as well.

Using some forethought, Peach returned to the living room with a plate of food in one hand and a glass of water in the other. She saw that the two of them were now sitting on the living room rug, their legs folded and knees touching each others’. Polterpup was settled in Luigi’s lap and looked just as torn up as his owner did. From where Peach was at, she could see a mess of ghost fur particles plastered all over Luigi’s front and legs like he was caught in a blizzard.

Daisy gave her a nod and she took that as an invitation to sit down besides them. She set the things down in front of Luigi.

“Thanks,” he said in a quiet voice. “I’m sorry for, uh. . . for freaking out there. Not my best moment.”

“We’re all allowed to freak out sometimes,” Peach assured.

“Like I said,” Daisy said, looking at him to prove her point. “If we aren’t here at the worst of times, then what’s the point of friends? I sure don’t know.”

He nodded and smiled, but neither expression reach his eyes. “Thanks.”

“Always.”

Neither of the princesses made any attempt to start talking, even if it was the elephant in the room. For Luigi’s sake, the burning questions were going to wait. Instead, they turned on the TV, watched whatever program they found first, and let Luigi recharge himself. He nibbled on some toast and, after enough moments to breathe, took his time to finish the rest of the plate.

If he’s able to eat, then we’re in a good place. Peach had learned over the years that Luigi was just as much of an eater as Mario was—maybe even more so. It was easy to tell when Luigi was in a good mood because he always got seconds when given the chance.

Once they reached a commercial break, Peach lowered the volume and said, “Luigi, would you be able to tell us what’s wrong? We can always talk at a different time if you need to, but I’m getting worried.”

She didn’t want to pressure him to say anything he wasn’t willing to share, but the anticipation was eating her alive. For as optimistic as she usually was, it was hard to picture anything other than a catastrophe.

“No, it’s fine.” He set down his glass. “I need to fill you two in if we’re gonna get anywhere with him. Besides, it. . . it helps to talk it out.”

“Just when you’re ready,” Daisy murmured.

“Thank you. I just think I’ve freaked out long enough, and you guys deserve to know too. So. . . so I guess I don’t know how else to put it, but. . . but Mario used to do these fighting gigs back in Brooklyn. It was a fighting ring at this bar. Merda, it’s been forever since then—”

“Fighting gigs?” Peach gasped. “He’s fighting at a bar?”

“I’m not sure if he actually is," he started quickly. “Now that I really think about it, I don’t think he’s doing that at all. I mean, not that specifically. Just. . . just what I found upstairs was like when he did do that stuff.”

“Like what?”

“Uh, like medical supplies. I saw that he’s—” His face scrunched up into a wince “—that he’s been using them to patch up some injuries. He would only resort to that if he really needed to, just like he did in Brooklyn. Though he didn't do that stuff for too long. He was only involved with that place for a couple months.”

“So you think that’s what the compression wraps are for?” Daisy thought out loud, her expression loosening into a curious smirk. “Honestly, that’s pretty metal. I didn’t think Happy-Go-Lucky had it in him. But do you really think he’s doing that again?”

“He’s probably not doing that again,” Luigi repeated, saying it like it was a reminder just for himself. “He probably isn’t—He isn’t—but I know for a fact that he’s doing something like it, and I think that’s why I freaked out so much. I only found out about the gigs when I got a call from the ER.”

Peach’s face fell. “Why on earth would he do that in the first place?”

“Well, I forgot why he started, but. . . but it was either for the money or for a girl. I can’t remember which one specifically.”

She didn’t like any of those answers. “Do you think he’s doing it again. . . for those reasons?”

“Uh. . . maybe? It'd make sense that he'd be doing something like that again—it seriously explains everything going on with him—but I can’t see how he’s able to do it.”

“You mentioned that he’s been out of the house a lot, right?” Daisy asked.

“Yeah, but the place he went to is all the way in Brooklyn. It’s no joke to be traveling back and forth like that, so that’s the biggest reason why I don’t think he’s doing it again.”

“Maybe that’s why he’s so tired all the time?”

“No, it’s not just that. There’s no way he could make those kind of trips so frequently, especially since he’s been helping Toadette with the reconstruction.”

Peach had to agree with him. From the opportunity she had to visit the brothers’ world, it was a horrendously long process. Although it felt quick since it was through a warp pipe, it still made her feel withered and sick to the stomach, as if she had hiked up a mountain all in one setting. Maybe it was the jetlag or the atmospheric pressure, but it made her just want to sleep away the discomfort. This was also why she didn’t do her best when it came to the go-kart racing tournaments in that world’s locations.

Remembering this made her realize a potential hole in Luigi’s thought process.

“Then he’d have to be involved in a different place altogether,” she stated. “There’s always other underground places that he could be going to.”

Luigi sighed. “Maybe. . . but he’s probably doing something else completely stupid. Either way, I gotta get to the bottom of this. He shouldn’t be getting hurt from anything of the sort, especially without me knowing, and especially during a Power-ups shortage! What on earth is he thinking? He—” He cut himself off and shook his head. Peach could tell it was still too fresh of a wound.

The princesses looked at each other and discovered that they were of the same mind.

“How about this?” Daisy began. “Once you’re ready to confront him—just when you’re ready—you talk with him and see what you can find out. This is the very first thing to do since you already found some dirt on him. And while you do that,” she started, her hands becoming more and more animated, “Peach and I can do our own investigation.”

He looked between them suspiciously. “What kind?”

“The kind that a ruler does when there’s a problem in her kingdom,” Peach cut in. “Whether or not this is a personal matter, I will not allow illegal fighting in my kingdom—for Mario’s sake or otherwise. It might have been allowed in your guys’ world, but not in mine.”

“Ditto!” Daisy grinned. “I’ll be going home tomorrow, but I can do my own investigation too! He could be warping to my kingdom for his fights after all. Y’know, to not get recognized and stuff.”

“But he’s probably not doing that!” Luigi pleaded. “It probably really is something else!”

“You’re right,” Peach acknowledge quickly. “But this is just in case. Like you said, he hasn’t exactly been open about things recently, so I think we’d all like the confirmation for ourselves—regardless of what he tells you.”

Daisy grinned, beginning to brainstorm ideas while Luigi spluttered beside her.

“But–but what are you two gonna do?” he asked. “This is still shady business—if he’s even doing it to begin with. He probably isn’t though, but just something else that's still—”

“Again, better safe than sorry, Weeg. And besides, all of us doing our own look into this might resolve this faster.” Peach stated. “The faster, the better.”

“We can be like detectives!” Daisy exclaimed.

“Mamma mia. . . .“ He put his head in his hands.

Even though it was an exciting thought—to fortify her Kingdom without any paperwork this time—the idea of dismantling an illegal fighting ring that Mario might be involved in didn’t sit right with Princess Peach. He would technically be breaking the law and she would be legally obligated to punish him. Justice would be served, but how could she do that to the Hero of the Mushroom Kingdom? To one of her closest friends? She couldn't do that, not after everything he had done for her.

Maybe she would come up with an appropriate reprimand for him after they confirmed it—if it was truly going on. She would have asked Luigi for ideas, but the look on his face told her otherwise.

Chapter Text

The Sunshine Airport was the only central airport in the Mushroom Kingdom. It wasn’t a grandiose airport, but it offered many airlines that made it a popular choice for local or international travel. And, since it was always a hot spot, there were plans to install a train system between the terminals to shuttle patrons around. The funds for this project were made possible by a surge in revenue—a side effect of sponsoring “Mario Kart Tournaments” and creating a racetrack through the airport itself.

Today, however, the concourse was nearly bare. Instead of hordes of people migrating from gift shop to gift shop, there was just no movement or noise throughout the whole building. It made the ventilation systems above hum louder than the in-coming airplanes outside. From what Luigi and Daisy could notice as they sat in a cafe lounge, they had only seen some stray businessmen and college students. They were probably traveling before the holidays, as the next few weeks would be nothing but a headache for everyone.

To Luigi, it all felt unsettling. Crowds made him claustrophobic, but seeing the airport so empty made him feel like he was suspended in the open ocean. Besides, it reminded him of how alone he was going to be next week. Between Daisy flying back home and Peach traveling to the other greenhouse projects, Luigi would be left by himself—left to confront Mario by himself. 

He swirled the last drop of coffee in his paper cup, debating whether or not to drink the last of it. The caramel-flavored syrup that Daisy suggested he get was good, but it was cold now and left a pronounced artificial taste in his mouth.

It was only when she stopped talking—an awkward lull of silence—was when he jerked back to attention. 

“S-sorry! I didn’t mean to space off like that. What were you saying?”

“It’s okay, scatterbrains!” She laughed. “I don’t blame ya for spacing off. You got a lot on your mind, after all.”

He would have laughed it off with her, but he couldn’t get himself to. Even though he was feeling much better about the situation, it couldn’t ease the pit that settled in his stomach. It wouldn’t leave no matter how much he reasoned with it. Maybe it was because his brother wasn’t acting like himself that made him anxious, as if he was going to pick a fight with a stranger instead of talking with a beloved family member. 

“I suppose,” he sighed with a half-hearted smile. “I just wanna talk with him as soon as possible, but I wanna be ready too and not be a huge mess about it. I think I’ve cried enough already, ha ha.”

“That’ll probably make him cooperate even more. No one’s immune to you, Luigi!”

He nodded, but wondered what she meant by that. Is that a good thing? He was about to ask, but then he noticed the drop in the corners of Daisy’s mouth.

“But, to be real,” she started again, the mirth taking a sharp dip away. “I’m sorry I dragged you all the way to the airport. Traffic was absolutely nuts, and I’m sure you have better things to do than see me off—”

“N-no! I’m happy to—” He cut himself off and glanced away. “I mean. . . I’m glad to, uh, to get out of the house and get my thoughts together. If anything, I think I needed this more.”

When she didn’t respond right away, he looked up at her and saw that her face had softened thoughtfully. He didn’t think he had ever seen her make that face before—empathetic and delicate. Or at least he hadn’t noticed it when he was crying his eyes out yesterday. In fact, there were a lot of things he didn’t notice about yesterday.

She began with a mellow voice. “Well, I’m glad I can help you do that, at least. Even though I’ll be looking into you-know-what from my side of things, I’m happy to just talk with ya. You guys are as thick as thieves, so I can see it being extra hard when things go wrong, y’know?”

“Yeah,” he half-smiled. “But I guess it’s like that with everyone.”

“Exactly, but it’s still hard.” She glanced off towards the terminal window, a landing plane catching her eye. “It’s still hard and it doesn’t make it any easier. But I promise that I’ll do everything I can to help you figure things out. You guys are some of the coolest friends I’ve ever had, so I’d hate to have this go on any longer than it needs to—especially with something as wild as this.”

Luigi was about to say something to her—something about his growing readiness to talk things out with Mario, something about his hopefulness for it, or even something about his gratitude for her—but Daisy demobilized him with a warm smile.

“You guys have been through a lot together, so I think things will work out just fine. You’re the ‘Super Mario Brothers’ for Pete’s sake! Things aren’t gonna be like this forever.”

He smiled down at his nearly empty cup, the pit in his stomach no longer as overwhelming. “Thank you. And you’re absolutely right. That’s something Mario says all the time too.”

“See? Even that bozo knows it!” She grinned. “If anything, he just needs a wake up call. We all need one sometimes. Like. . . like maybe I could slap some sense into him! I can do that just fine!”

He chuckled. “Maybe! I’ll let you know after I talk with him. . . when I do, that is.”

“Just when you do,” she nodded. “Until then, take care of yourself, keep us in the loop, and remember that you got people that love you—a lot of people! Mario loves you, Peach loves you, Yoshi loves you, Polterpup loves you, I—”

Luigi looked up at her and saw that she was frozen in place, uncharacteristically tongue-tied. 

“You okay? Wait—your flight’s not boarding now, is it?”

She cleared her throat. “N-no, it’s good. Just. . . just don’t forget that you got friends in your corner, especially your brother. He may be stupid, but he’s not dumb enough to forget about you.”

“That’s also something he says!”

He was about to make a joke with it, trying to remember a witty quip that one of Mario’s past companions had said about him, but Daisy smirked—all the teasing from earlier coming back tenfold—and said, “By the way, he also didn’t forget to mention your girlfriend back in Concordia.”

Luigi frowned. “Uh—”

“Some know-it-all diva, right? She has a taste for pizza and a taste for Italians that make pizza, right?”

The memory flooded into his mind, like a TV screen that erupted in blinding whiteness, and he cringed hard enough to make his jaw hurt and for her to burst out laughing. Truly, it felt maliciously unfair that she knew anything about that.

“‘Bowser’s Skyships Seen Flying Over the Kalimari Desert: Police Tell Public to Stay Indoors’.” She gave her subordinate a dull look. “Are ya kiddin’ me? Not only did we already cover this a month ago, but the title’s absolute garbage! Gar-bage! It reminds me of a funeral pamphlet. Heck, I can make a possum write a better title than this!”

The Shy Guy fiddled with his hands. “But, uh, but I got an interview with the sheriff over there. There’s some good insight about how the officials are predictin’ another attack ‘round the corner. There’s a few tip-offs I got from—”

“Bah!” She slapped the article down on her desk, making the surrounding stacks of paper flutter. “Old news is old news! Don’t tell me ya think this’s a good pie to stick your finger in, eh? Look, I know we’re in a dry spell right now, but we got some other fish to fry—if you get creative, that is! Like–like, tell me about what happened to that marriage license scam that’s happenin’ in the town a few places over? Y’know, the one with’a that Larry “Launderer” guy?”

“Oh, uh, you mean in Marrymore? I think Kenny’s doin’ that one right now—”

“Or that one with the New Donker gal that’s bein’ investigated for fraud? She was doin’ a charity drive, yeah?”

“Uh, that one was proven wrong when—”

“Okay, smart-aleck! Tell me this,” she began, waggling her stubby Koopa finger at him. “How about you go start a-lookin’ which vendors will be showin’ up to the winter festival. It’s always a big-to-do durin’ the holidays, so it’ll give us a big leg up on the other presses, yeah? Go ask ‘round and make some calls if you hafta.”

He nodded his head vigorously. “Sure! Sure! I’m sure I can, uh, find out some stuff. I mean, I’ll try and find out some crowd favorites, or even if any celebs are plannin’ on comin’—”

“Ooh!” She hooted. “If ya find out about any big names, ya need’a milk it for all it’s worth—’specially if it’s any figs from outta country. Our readers eat that crap right up.”

“Aye, aye!”

“And make the headlines better. Shorter, juicier! We can’t afford ‘normal’ right now. And don’t be afraid to stretch it a bit. Once we got ‘em hooked, then they won’t care what it’s actually about!”

“Yes’m!”

“And while you’re goin’, remind Al to replace the pressin’ ink. These lines are lookin’ real sad.”

With a brief acknowledgement, the Shy Guy scurried out of the office. The door slammed closed—the lock failing to click—and then bounced back open again.

Kylie Koopa sat back in her oversized office chair and groaned. “Geez-Louise!”

Just what she was afraid of: she and her staff got too comfortable with last month’s numbers. Disasters always sped up sales faster than a greased pig, and any story to do with Bowser always made the front page. Plus, it didn’t hurt that her writers were delightfully busy too, actually having solid content than trying to stretch out another rumor.

If she reviewed one more story about Duke Euphonium’s scandal, she was going to swallow a Fuzzy whole.

Granted, she wouldn't have been this high-strung if there was a truly drool-worthy story in her hands. Articles full of mediocre topics with mediocre writing tended to leave a bad taste in her mouth, as if the stories spoiled before they were even printed out. Welp, we can’t wait for another freebie. . . .

She had an appointment with her statistics specialist in a few minutes, but, until then, she worked on the monthly staff-wide email. This time, she packed it full of reminders for her crew to target low-hanging fruit: celebrity drama, end-of-the-world predictions, or pop-culture trends. Just until the winter festival hits. If they could make do until then, they wouldn’t have to worry about the quarterly review.

Before she could write down one coherent sentence, she noticed that her office phone began to ring. It—a scratched, outdated piece of crap—rang out in a slightly too loud tone. She would have replaced it with something newer, but it was the perfect “Big Boss” look for her office. Ever since she took over the Koopa Kronicles, the rest of her interior designs had gravitated towards that aesthetic as well.

Blowing off some dust, she picked up the phone. “Y'ello.”

“Hello,” a feminine voice began. “I'm calling from the Mushroom Kingdom Castle. I'd like a word with—”

“Nah.” She hung up the phone. I’m not desperate enough to fall for that again!

Less than a minute passed later. Kylie was only a few more words into the email when her specialist entered through the door. He was hauling in posterboard and an armload of files, struggling to keep them from toppling out of his arms. She was about to greet him, but the phone went off again. 

Grumbling, she picked it up. “Yes?”

“Kylie, this is Princess Peach. Can I have a minute?”

“Oh—!”

Jerking in surprise, her forgotten cup of coffee fell to the ground, probably cracking in the process. Instead of looking at the mess, she locked eyes with her specialist, mouthing a command to him. 

“Wh-what?” he asked.

“Get out! Close the door! Close the door!” She mouthed, whipping her hand back and forth in desperation. “We’ll talk later, a’ight?”

Panicked, he zipped out of the room like he was sucked out of an airlock. But, even with him gone, Kylie still hesitated for a moment. She found herself speechless, trying to grasp why Princess “Toadstool” Peach would be calling her of all people—unless this was to do with the papers. Cripes, is this gonna be about that lil’ embezzlement allegation?

“Sorry about that!” She breathed. “I thought ya were a robot the first time ‘round, ha ha.”

“That's fine.”

“So. . . what brings me the pleasure of speaking with Your Ladyship today?”

There were some papers being moved around on the other line before she spoke again. “Before I start, are you alone?”

“Uh, yeah?”

There was some audible shuffling on the other end, and then a percussive sound of a pen. “I have a proposition for you. I believe you and your resources are best suited for the task. Would you be willing to work with me?”

Through the window of her office, Kylie could see the many eyeballs of her staff peering at her, with her newest intern front and center, his nose pressing into the glass like a child to a fish tank. She would have barked at them to mind their own business, but it was nice to have some sort of support in this. It wasn’t everyday that royalty called her up—for a proposition, no less.

“I got some time. What's up?”

“To keep things simple, I have a problem that arose recently. It's something personal and infinitely important to me that—”

“Well, with a word like infinitely, I'll hafta oblige!”

“I’m happy to hear it.” There was a pause before she continued. “Since this is incredibly important that you keep this deal private since it contains sensitive information, I’ll have you sign a contract once we—”

“Sure, sure, but I gotta hear what this'll be about first! I can't just go agreein’ to under-the-table work—or quickly, if you catch my meanin’. You are calling a press, after all.”

“That’s fair, however I’ll only disclose the details once we settle an agreement. Does this work for you?”

“Yes’m. Shoot.”

There were some more papers being shuffled before the Princess spoke. “I have been made aware of certain illegal activity happening abroad in my kingdom, specifically illegal fighting organizations and betting rosters. I need information regarding these places and I believe that you have the means to accomplish it—”

“Huh,” Kylie mused. “I’m surprised you knew to call me about that kinda business, but I guess it’s not too hidden in my publishin’s—if ya look close enough, that is. But why get me to bust some joints when you can just get’cha service to do it, eh? There’s gotta be some better muscles ya can hire for that kinda thing.”

“That’s where we get to the main point of this deal. I want you to investigate these types of areas and see if someone that I know is involved in them. There won’t be any confrontation necessary. Just report and record where the fights are taking place, and if my person of interest is—”

“Who’s this ‘person of interest’, Princess?”

“I will tell you after we’ve signed some documents.”

Kylie could have sworn she heard some sharpness in her tone, and that was what made those words all the more intriguing. It’s gotta be some elitist that she doesn’t want babbled about. If an associate of the Princess was tangled up in those kind of places, then it would make for the perfect heyday for the company.

“M’kay, I hear ya.” She chewed her lip, trying to frame her words just how the savvy Editor-in-Chief of Koopa Kronicles was supposed to be. “What I wanna know is what can I expect in return? Consultin’ with an operation like myself can be hard to incenti'vize, y’see.”

“Of course, and I’m prepared to reward you fairly for your—”

“No, no, what I mean is—” Kylie took a glance at her window; her subordinates were practically hypnotized “—ya are consultin’ with me—a publisher. Don’t you realize how much a story like this could set us up? Honored Member of Princess Peach’s Circle Found Where?’. Ya hafta see the potential here!” It was quiet on the other end, but Kylie continued. “What I’m sayin’ is that I need compensation. An investment for an investment, see? Ya can’t exactly liquidate somethin’ like this all willy-nilly. I gotta think of my people, y’know? Are ya catchin’ me?”

“I understand,” Peach said. “I’m prepared to consider your offer if I can guarantee your silence.”

“Well, ya don’t need to make me out as a—”

“What do you want from this?”

“Oh, y’know. . . .” Kylie’s eyes darted between her co-workers’ faces, stretching her words out for as long as she could. “Like I said, uh. . . .”

“Would—?”

“How about this!” she blurted, as if trying to catch something from falling. “Since these kinda numbers are hard to crunch, how about I get a different story from ya? Somethin’ that you’re willin’ to part with, that is—but also excitin’ enough to be sellable! Like, how about some current events? You do press conferences all the time for the Power-ups thing, so why not give us an interview—open, honest, legit, ‘n’ crap—about how it’s goin’ behind the scenes?”

“A lot of that information is private for a reason, Kylie.”

“‘Course, I just want details that you’d be willin’ to part with. I’m not askin’ for ya to spill everythin’ ‘bout the state of the kingdom—unless ya wanna. I just need enough to write a story ‘n’ all.”

She was beginning to think that her request was going overboard, just how she had scared off prospecting collaborators in the past, but then the Princess gave her an answer.

“Will I be able to set limits on the questions?”

“Fine by me.”

“Then I’ll have to agree to this. I can answer questions about any statistics and possibly any trading agreements with neighboring kingdoms. I’ll expect the interview to stay on topic about Power-ups alone. I hope we can straighten out the details later?”

“Includin’ any set backs? A lil’ drama never hurt.”

“I suppose.”

Kylie’s eyebrows shot up. Wow, she must be desperate!  

Even though the crisis was wide-spread knowledge to the public, there was hardly any information about the proceedings behind closed doors. No one really knew the how in the Princess's solutions—she had a way with keeping things under wraps—and the public trust was strong enough to have it overlooked. Even though some critics theorized conspiracies and royal corruption, it didn’t hold much water when compared to her accomplishments. 

Although having an in-depth interview with the Princess would be a game changer for the Koopa Kronicles, Kylie didn’t get far in life by playing it safe.

“Okay, that sounds decent enough,” she started as nonchalantly as she could feign. “But I think I need a little somethin’ more to sweeten the deal, yeah? Like—like—”

With a quick glance around her office, she hoped to remember something vital. There were a few interesting ideas on her corkboard sign. It was swamped with photos labeled “topics of interest” that she and her staff had brainstormed one time.

“Like?”

“Like that. . . that little jaunt you had a while back. The one with that theater place?”

She could almost hear the weird look on the Princess’s face. “You mean. . . Sparkle Theater?”

“Yes, that’s the one! I want you to also throw in an exclusive interview about your time as a showstar! I want details! Insights! The public eats that up, y’know. If you gimme these two interviews, then I’ll be your inside sleuth any day! Cross my heart!”

There was a much heavier pause on the other end. It wasn’t necessarily longer than any other pause, but Kylie could imagine the gears turning in the Princess’s head. It almost made her regret pushing her luck, until she spoke again.

“I can agree to that. Though I must warn you that I’ll be out of town for the next few days, so I hope a written note would suffice for a—”

“No can do! I need an in-person interview. Photos and the works. But I’ll make it accommodatin’ for ya since you’ll be princessin’ and such. I got some of my people set up ‘round the kingdom so that should work just fine. How’s this soundin’?”

“And you won’t want anything else?”

“Nope,” she popped with her lips. “This’s plenty good enough for me.”

“Then. . . I suppose I’ll have to agree to this as well. Even though I am booked with other important things, I will try and get those interviews in place within the next week or so.”

“Plenty fine with me,” Kylie grinned, soundlessly pumping her fist to her co-workers outside. “Actually, ya can expect a majority of my findin’s within a couple days. Shouldn’t be too much of a hassle.”

“Within a day or two?”

“Yep! Call me speedy ‘cause I got my ways.”

“Wow. . . that’s very efficient of you.”

“Only the very best for you, Your Highness!”

There was a lull on the other end of the line. At first, Kylie thought the line had disconnected, but soon it was filled with the sound of a printer’s hum.

“With that said,” Peach began, the fresh papers being shuffled, “I need you to be aware that once you sign the contract I have created that there will be no altercations. As I said before, this is sensitive information, and I will not allow it to be leaked or used in anyway outside of my control—”

Kylie was about to make a comment about that, but the Princess paid no heed to her, saying, “I want you to understand that if you agree to sign our contract, then I will hold you accountable for any infringements. Am I clear?”

“Like a bell. I’m no stranger to this kinda song ‘n’ dance.”

“Excellent. Can I fax you the contract?”

She snorted. “Look, I know we’re a newspaper, but we ain’t that ancient of a—”

“Can I fax you the contract?”

She frowned over at the eyes in the window. “Yes’m, I’ll tell you the number. Hold on.”

Just like the phone, the fax machine was covered in a blanket of dust. However, there were also crumbs mixed into the filth since Kylie often set bagel bags on it like it was a pedestal. While the machine went on to printing out a three-page contract, she took the liberty to do some dusting with some loose tissues around.

“Oh-kay,” she began again. “I signed it.”

“Will you kindly fax it back to me?”

“Yep.”

For as polite as the Princess always seemed to be, it rubbed her the wrong way to sense the edge in her voice, catching signs of thinning stoicism. Yet, when the papers were submitted back, there was an immediate shift in the air on the other end of the line, like the Princess had finally let go of her breath. Kylie couldn’t blame her. There were plenty of times that a simple signature was more reassuring than any payday.

“Thank you,” she said graciously. “I've signed it and I will send you a copy for your own records shortly. We will discuss the details quickly since I don’t have much time today. I’ll actually start packing once we end this call.”

“Fine by me. I’m a busy gal too.”

“Alright.” There was a pause and some more papers being shuffled. “I’ll send you more information in an email, but, for now, I need you to investigate specifically about my friend Mario and his appearances at—”

“Sorry, my ear popped. What’s that name again?”

“My friend Mario.”

“Who?”

There was another pause. It was a much longer one than the previous ones.

“Mario?” Peach repeated. “Super Mario?”

“Ya gotta gimme a little more than that. I’ve been workin’ odd jobs since before ya were in nappies, and I’ve probably met over a million Marcos in my—Wait, hold on—” Kylie frowned, squeezing her eyes and flexing her eyebrows in concentration. “The—The—The red one with the sporting events, right? Mustache, overalls. . . and has a real blue-collared look to him, yeah?”

“You haven’t heard of him?”

“Well, I know of him, but I can’t pinpoint specifics. I only pay attention to smalltown lionhearts when they make the front page, y’see—”

Oh, that’s right! It came back to her like a punch dummy. She had written a book about the Super Mario Bros.—weren’t there four of them?—and she would occasionally receive royalties in her mailbox from it. Not enough for her to really remember, however. Just enough to cover the electricity bill. And now, with this deal alone, it would cover a lot more than that.

“M’kay,” Kylie started again after she found her own scratch paper to write some notes down. “So, you just need us to look into those fightin’ arenas and see if he’s been showin’ his mug ‘round?”

“Correct.”

“Record any sightings, accounts, photos, and the works?”

“Yes, please.” 

“And that’s it?”

“Essentially, however I’d like your findings to be organized into a document for my own—”

“Fine by me!” the journalist exclaimed. “Consider your lil’ investigation already underway! I got quite a few moles that’ll do nicely for this. And—and—” she continued excitedly, “I’ll make sure nothin’ is made known to nobody! Newspapers may be nosy, but we certainly know how to keep to ourselves.”

“Thank you.” Peach sighed. “I’ll fax you my preferred contact that you can use to reach me. Please update me when anything comes up.”

When the line ended, Kylie hung up the phone and threw her hands in the air. She held them up in victory, grinning ear to ear, as if she was able to bench the weight of the world again.

“Larson! Elenore!” She hollered through the doorway. “Get your sorry keisters in here! We’re back in business!”

Chapter Text

Although many of her subordinates thought her to be all-talk and no-show, Kylie Koopa was by no means a slouch.

Thanks to the Princess’s deal, Kylie was working overtime without complaint. She had made a number of calls to some of her connections—ones that would do nicely for the “no questions-asked” kind of work—and formed together a league of inside eyes in under a few hours, dispatching them to any and all hot spots that she could think of. Not only did the many hands lighten the load, her second-cousin was a bettor at some of those places and gave her some golden tip-offs.

After tasking one of her long-time urchins to check out Rogue Port’s scene, she hung up the phone and looked up at one of her new hires coming into her office. He—a sturdy Koopa with a metallic nose ring—was an apt photographer and a solid employee that would do well with this type of task.

“Ya wanted to see me?” Rhett asked.

“Sure did. I got a project right up your alley, son.”

“Is this about that call you got earlier today?”

“‘Course. One of the best phone calls I’ve had in a while.” As she began to organize a new folder full of documents, she laughed. “I’m no spiritual Koopa by any means, but this coinkydink makes me think it was handpicked by the Star Spirits above!”

“So what’s the scoop?”

“No scoop! We got ourselves a lil’ detective work to do, but nothin’ outside of your job description—if that’s what’cha worried about. Call it glorified snoopin’.” She stood up, unpinned a list of address on her bulletin board, and slipped it into the folder. “I need ya to take a trip over to Dinohattan. I’ll tell ya some more of the deets once Mikey gets in here.”

“Dinohattan?” He raised his eyebrows, not hiding the grimace on his face. “Detective work in Dinohattan sounds like workers’ comp to me—”

“Push off, buck-o! I’m not sendin’ ya to the guillo’tine yet. You’re gonna wanna hear it out first, unless you’re really goin’ all-in on that story with that Broque M’dame lady, ‘cause that’s certainly gonna pay off.”

Rhett frowned, opening his mouth to justify his case, but then cut himself off when a Lakitu hovered through the doorway.

“Took your sweet time,” Kylie commented, not looking up from her busying hands. “Ya got me thinkin’ we let ya go last summer, Mikey.”

“Heh, sorry—it’s Spike, by the way—”

“Anyways, I got a lil’ field trip for you boys in Dinohattan. Ya need to investigate the fightin’ arenas ‘round town. Luckily, ya ain’t going in fresh ‘cause I’ll send ya the names and addresses you’ll be needin’. Shouldn’t take more than a day or two if ya tell the bookies that ‘Miguel Chewy Catalina’ sent’cha there.”

From the drawer of her desk was a pile of cream-colored folders. They were the new ones that were ordered months ago, but didn’t have any special reason to be used until now. Once she found the correctly numbered one, she slid it across the desk and then turned back to her lists.

“All the essentials are in there. With that said, if you lose that thing then you’re as good as hanged and quartered. Got it, bubs?”

“But, wait, hold on!” Spike blurted. “Why are we asking in the first place? Are we trying to dig up a specific story, or. . . ?”

“Oh, that’s right. I forgot ya weren’t here for that part.” Leaning back in her chair, she stared up at the ceiling in concentration, clicking the pen in her clutch. “You’ll be askin’ around to see if, uh. . .  if Super Mario is showin’ his face in any ‘o those places. He’s a human guy with a mustache and a red hat—”

“Yes, we all know who Mario is.” Rhett deadpanned.

Before the conversation could move on, Spike rose his hand awkwardly with a boyish smile on his face. “Y’know, I was apart of his companions’ group for a little bit. We all traveled together for a while.”

Kylie looked up and frowned. “D’you think I care who ya swing with? I just need ya to find out—”

“Wait—!”

“Shut ya yaps! What I’m sayin’ is I just need ya to ask ‘round and gather evidence—eyewitness accounts, photos, and the like. Anything presentable, feel me? Also, use the small cameras. Those things are good for quick pics.”

Rhett glanced at Spike, who was a complicated shade of red, and groaned. “And you’re makin’ me babysit the newbie while I’m at it?”

“H-hey!”

Kylie shrugged. “He gets ‘round well enough with that cloud ‘o his. Besides, I’m sure a burly Hammer Bro like yourself can look out for the two of ya—”

“Whoa—” Rhett balked, his jaw dropping several floors. “How did you know that?”

“What can I say? I’m in-the-know with more things than ya think. But this is also why I’m sendin’ ya to Dinohattan. You’ve probably had an encounter with Bowser’s troublemaker before, yeah?”

“That was years ago! I’m not. . . I’m not involved with that kinda life anymore—”

“What? D’you want a medal for it? Well, ya might get one after ya clean house in the city. Ya need that trainin’ for this kinda terrain.” Kylie wore a much too smug of a look on her face. “Besides, think of it like this: this is a perfect opportunity that I’m givin’ to ya to show off how well ya can handle bein’ in the fire. I’m not just puttin’ any ‘o photographer in Dinohattan, son. I have tactic!”

“But how did you even—” As if answering his own question, Rhett relented and moved on to asked the second most concerning question. “But why stick me with Lakilester here?”

“It’s Spike—”

“To cover more ground! Look, ya seem a capable Koopa, but it’s always better to have more eyes than less, yeah? I’m sure ya can lead the two of ya through those sketchy places well enough.”

This seemed to help him accept the situation, because he juggled his shoulders around and said, “Yeah, and. . . and depending on how it goes, it might get done faster too.”

“Exactly!” Kylie looked between the two of them, sizing them up for any last-minute doubts. “Now, remember to record any hotels ya stay in if ya wanna be compensated for it. You’re gonna be on company time, so might as well take advantage of it.”

“Will food be covered too?”

“No, unless ya get the whole thing done within the weekend. I reward effort where it’s shown, son.”

“But an entire city sounds like a lot,” Spike murmured. “How can we possibly search all those places in less than a weekend?”

Before Kylie could snark out a comment or dismiss the concern entirely, Rhett wore a smug look on his own face.

“Eh.” He collected the folder on the desk, motioning towards the door for them to leave. “Out of all the things we gotta do, that'll be the easy part.”

Once construction was done for the evening, Mario visited the cliffsides at the edge of the forest. Not only was it a good change of scenery, but the sharp drops made for excellent wall-climbing.

Since these cliffs were at a steep eighty-five degrees, it was hard to wall-climb normally. Instead, he engineered a move that could maintain his momentum as he leapt from ledge to ledge. It—a mix between a spin-jump and a pivot turn—was the only thing that kept him from slipping off into the twenty-five foot drop below. It allowed him to bounce across the cliff like a smooth stone skipping over a lake, reaching greater speeds the further he got.

The weightless feeling from it was incredibly gratifying—like there was an imaginary pulley that lifted his insides up in a ticklish way—but even more so was seeing the ground far below him. At this time of day, the setting sun saturated the land with a matte orange, giving a golden sheen across the treetops, and made this practice all the more invigorating. 

With no help from Power-ups, magic, allies, or any other shortcuts, this was the perfect way to wrap up the day with.

Soon enough, a part of him was content with stopping for today. The sun was nearly gone, the ledges disappeared into the flatness of the cliffs like they were being absorbed, and it took more effort to improvise a useable path. The quality of the practice would only diminish from here, but he only considered this lightly, too preoccupied with what was in front of him to consider anything else. Why would he cut this short when it was going so well?

The darker it got, the more he considered stopping for the evening—until it was too late.

Mario’s ankle rolled. The weightless feeling grew stronger than before, and soon he found himself tumbling down the cliff at an uncontrollable speed, every part of him scraped against the jagged earth. It wasn’t until his back hit the ground—a shock of pain slamming into him—that everything stopped and his vision went white. His ears rang and his throat choked. The only thing he could clearly sense was the throbbing on the back of his head and the cold seeping through his clothes as he laid on the forest floor, the earth still spinning beneath him.

When the pain didn’t subside, he finally acknowledged the end of today’s practice. The biggest clue was when he saw speckles of stars above him in the much too bright evening sky. Never a good sign. When he finally managed to stand up, he wanted to hurl. The impact sloshed his organs and now they seemed to be located in all the wrong places. But, regardless, he pushed himself through it and managed to find where he had put his things earlier.

The crumpled brown bag was wedged in the crack of a boulder next to his phone. There was one last sliver of a Super Mushroom left in it, which a part of its edges were thin and translucent, cut too thinly in a fit of haste. Placing it on his tongue, he ate it without much gumption. The hinge of his jaw was much too tight to use properly, but it didn’t matter for such a small piece. When too little effect too place, he cursed himself. He would have to apply some salve once he got home, but even supplemented refreshing herbs could only do so much for the knob on the back of his head.

With a frown on Mario’s face, he left the cliffsides for the night. For however much pride he felt earlier, it was completely erased as he remembered his slip up—his weakened ankle—and berated himself to not make the same mistake again. If practice wasn’t just practice, then there would have been a lot more consequences than just a bruised ego.

Regardless, he found the closest deer path and used his phone’s flashlight to guide him through the uneven terrain. While he walked, he checked any missed notifications, soon seeing a text that Luigi had sent him that afternoon.

hey bro i just finished dropping Daisy off at the airport. ill be out shopping today but when i get home i want to talk with you about something really really important. let me know when you will be home tonight.

It was pessimistic for him to think it, but Mario half-expected the text to be a foot-long message about yesterday morning. The brothers hadn't seen each other since then, and he was beginning to suspect that it was more intentional than not. It wasn’t like anything happened—no arguments or offenses given—and yet there was something lingering from it, the proof being the vague text message. Mamma mia, it’s gotta be about that.

The further he walked along, the more he dreaded coming back home. After such a long day, he didn’t feel like opening up a can of worms at this hour, not to mention the bump on his head, the ringing in his ears, or even how he looked at the moment. Even though he wanted to avoid it forever, he didn’t want his brother to ruminate over it—especially from something so insignificant. Luigi always chewed on something for much longer than necessary, only dropping it when persuaded to.

Just as he was debating whether to respond to the text or not, his boot caught ahold of something and hurled him to the ground. His hands came out reflexively and caught him from face-planting into some slimy leaves.

“At least,” he groaned, “my hands caught me this time.”

He got up, brushed himself off, and immediately heard an animalistic whine somewhere behind him. Whirling around, he could see the light of his phone shine up on the surrounding trees, as well as on a small mound on the forest floor. It, a quivering ball, was panting so quietly that he almost didn’t recognized it as a hurt creature.

Shining his light towards it, he found it to be a Chain Chomp. It was around the size of a volleyball, so it had to be an infant—a Chain Chomp pup. This realization sobered him up instantly, more so than when his back had made contact with the ground. When Mario knelt down and checked to see if it was injured, he discovered its metal body was as cold as an ice cube.

“Oh no, poor thing. . . .”

He tried to pick it up, planning on cradling it close to his body, but he discovered that it’s chain-like tail was caught on a tree root. It didn’t look like an intentional knot—who on earth would even do that to a baby?—but it seemed more like an accidental slipknot, just how he would see adult Chain Chomps get tangled up in at times.

“Did you get lost from your pack, piccolo masticatore?” He knelt down and loosened the chains around the root, becoming even more worried when the pup didn’t react at all. If it wasn’t shivering and whining, then he would have thought it was past help.

Once he picked it up, he was surprised that it wasn’t too heavy. In fact, it was like an amateur bowling ball, a good shape to hold in his arms and offer warmth. This would certainly make things easier for the two of them.

There was a part of the forest that Mario knew would be a good place to search. It was past some foothills that he had practiced Ice Flower Power-ups on, but soon began to abandon because of all the wild Chain Chomp sightings in the surrounding meadows. At first, he had thought it was a proactive idea to drive them out, but they weren’t bothering anyone and moving them might throw off the balance of the ecosystem. Now, however, he was grateful that he remembered the spot so quickly. It wouldn’t help the little creature if he took it back home, especially for as young as it was.

As he was thinking about that, the Chain Chomp puppy began to squirm in his arms. Panicked but too small to resist, it whined and squealed in a desperate attempt to scare him off. He could feel its heartbeat flutter against his own chest.

“It’s okay, buddy. You’ll be home soon,” he cooed, trying to rearrange its position so its chain wouldn’t whip against his leg. “It’s scary. I know. I know.”

Once the infant became too rowdy, he tried a new idea. He unbuckled one overall strap and stuffed it down into his front, making a makeshift baby sling. Hopefully, this gave it enough support to keep it from slipping out of his arms.

Soon enough, he was nearly there; the path opened up into a wider clearing and had sparse trees. As if sensing the change of scenery, the Chain Chomp pup grew even more relentless. Yet, this reassured him more than anything else, showing him that it wasn’t suffering the winter’s cold anymore, like a recovering patient showing signs of an appetite. However, this reassurance came with the price of his gloves. 

The creature, whether out of aggression or a form of teething, chomped on his supporting hand. Its in-coming teeth tore through the first layer of leather, settling on the second level, and grinding into the skin underneath.

Mario sighed. “At least yours aren’t sharp yet.”

Maybe it was out of sympathy or from exhausted indifference, but Mario let it chew on him while he traveled another ten minutes towards the area. All the while, he prepared himself to detect any signs of a Chain Chomp pack. Although it wasn’t hard to hear one—their chains made for the world’s loudest wind chimes—it would be easy to stumble into one, thanks to the meager light of his outdated phone. From what he could remember about a documentary that he and Luigi had watched, Chain Chomps were cathemeral and opportunistic, so walking into the midst of a feral pack might put the bump on his head to shame.

The pup chewed further up his hand, the bottom teeth prodding against a tendon in his wrist. It wasn’t until Mario switched his hands to equalize the punishment that he began to sense movement ahead of them: looming silhouettes that had moonlight crowning the tops of them, gleaming black like obsidian. At first, he thought he was just imagining it, straining his eyes through the darkness to detect any more confirmation.

Before he could jump behind a tree or wait to see if it was the right pack, the little pup began to whine out loud again with a much stronger resolve than before. This was all it took for the figures ahead to turn on a dime, the telltale noise of Chain Chomps closing in.

As if the pup became a live bomb, Mario set it down carefully, not wasting a moment to look up, and leapt away before the pack could rush in on him as well, scrambling up the nearest tree. Fortunately, this spike of adrenaline was all he needed to escape properly—to navigate the tree limbs with precision and not trip over himself.

Once he was far enough away, he could hear the pack slow down, their tails dragging across the ground at a deescalating pace, and listen to the chuffs that followed suit. Though he couldn’t see them, it was easy to tell that there were many of them all localized at the foot of his tree. The clinking of metal told him that there was hardly any empty space left, rubbing against each other in affection. 

Satisfied, Mario got comfortable on his tree limb, waiting for the family to migrate away before he attempted an escape. He might have tried to leave now, but, considering every mistake from today, he knew better than to tempt it.

Chapter Text

The first thing he noticed was a stuffy nose. Each breath was painful, the snotty wheeze of each exhale louder than the last. It was like breathing through a coffee straw. Consequently, he must have switched to breathe through his mouth during the night, bringing on a rancidity in his mouth that was impossible to ignore.

After rousing himself up enough, he noticed the early morning sky above him, an uneven line of trees in the corner of his eye. As he slowly took in his surroundings, he realized that he was propped against a tree trunk. The bark stab into his back, but he only felt the pain once he peeled himself off of it. There was a sheen of morning mist that had collected on him, making his clothes look two shades darker and much heavier than usual. 

Wasn’t I near those Chain Chomps? He couldn’t even remember how he ended up in this part of the forest, somewhere by its edge but not quite secluded within the depths. It was a miracle that he didn’t fall asleep in the middle of Chain Chomp territory; that was just as idiotic as if he were to kick a beehive or challenge Donkey Kong to an arm wrestling match.

Once he willed himself upright, remembering everything from yesterday, he didn’t bother to check his dead phone.

Although Toadette hadn’t asked him to come in today, he decided that was the best course of action. This was all he could really do right now given his state. And, with the remembrance of Luigi’s text, he certainly didn’t want to “talk” while he looked like a homeless deadbeat. It certainly wouldn’t help with his brother’s worries right now.

Thankfully, the construction site had bathroom trailers for the workers to use during breaks. Though they were Toad-sized—practically kindergartener-sized—it had its own water tank and would work well enough for him to get clean up in. If he appeared like he was showered and refreshed, then most of everyone would overlook the holes in his gloves and the gash in his overalls.

The only thing left to worry about was Princess Peach. She—the ever courteous sovereign—would accompany Toadette and provide lunch for the workers when given the time, checking with each of them for feedback or questions. Yet, for however starved he might have been, he would rather fall asleep in Chain Chomp territory than have her see him like this. It was one thing to make Luigi worry, but it felt like pure treason to make the Princess worry.

Dinohattan was one of the few non-coastal cities in the Mushroom Kingdom. Instead of having its own port, it sat upon a wide river that directed all of its commerce and immigration: a bustling hub for those that wanted to get ahead in life. For this reason, Rhett booked tickets for the ferry boat instead of the bus. He said that it was faster than being shuttled across the rolling hills and the reception was shockingly better as well. 

However, Spike found himself wanting the warm bus instead. The winds whipped against his face as they both stood on the ferry’s deck, nothing but six-ounce paper cups of complimentary hot chocolate keeping them from freezing completely. It was a great thing that he had swallowed his pride and packed his earmuffs with him, even if it dampened his “cool aura”, because the temperature only seemed to get lower the further they went along. 

The Lakitu stood beside his superior, giving up on trying to catch his eye and went back to his hot chocolate. There was little use in asking any more questions. Rhett had done nothing but ignore everything since they boarded, his phone glued to his ear-hole and eyes riveted downwards.

I can’t be too mad. He’s actually working. Maybe it was the feeling of uselessness that made him grapple for attention.

Moments later, Rhett frowned, whipping his phone away to glare at it, then tried the number again. His paper cup was held over the edge of the bulwarks, dangling haphazardly above the waters.

“How long do you think this will take?” Spike tried again.

“Like I said, it depends if my buddies are busy or not.”

“Oh, I thought you were calling those numbers that Kylie gave us. So. . . you have friends over there?”

“Yeah, they’ll be helpful for somethin’ like this.”

When he didn’t elaborate further, Spike gave up and turned his attention to the waters passing by. The entire river was much darker than the overcast above them, which certainly didn’t help with his mood. The waves moved stiffly, as if the motions were stunted from all the fridge temperatures it held within it, all weighed down and close to freezing over. It was nothing like the “bodies of water” from back home in Flower Fields; the ponds of uncondensed water vapor was always much more fun to frolic in than the overworld’s.

When Rhett hung up and dialed a new call, Spike took the opportunity to get a word in.

“So. . . will we need to book a hotel or not? I’m just wondering ‘cause I need to text back my girlfriend.”

“Just assume so,” Rhett groused, typing something into his phone. “I’m gonna make another call, so be quiet for a sec.”

After another moment, looking at the waters made him feel too cold. Looking away, his gaze wandered across the crowd of other patrons on the ferry’s deck, considering grabbing another hot chocolate if there was any left. Instead, he was occupied with sizing up the crowd. Perhaps it was out of boredom or a morbid curiosity to size up each patron and judge how they would do in a fighting ring, but then he noticed a stark trend.

Instead of the typical Toads and Koopas—or the occasional Poplin—that usually dominated the demographic, there were a few Kongs scattered about the crowd. Nearly all of them had more body hair than anyone could hope to have, some with bleached blonde tips. Though it wasn’t unusual to see them, especially around a major city, Spike didn’t think he would see so many in one place before. It was only in the summer that it was typical to see Kongs in the mainland for vacation.

However, all speculations were lost when he noticed a human leaning against the edge of the boat. He—Spike thought it was a he—was on the phone, speaking in a carefree tone that would have made Rhett jealous. This human was bundled up in many layers of clothes, which covered him head-to-toe, and Spike wasn’t able to pick out any noticeable features except for the space along his neck, which had a green dragon’s claw imprinted against his skin.

For as much as he loved being a Lakitu, the primal need for a cool tattoo was even stronger. If his reptile skin allowed it, he would have a full sleeve to show off to his friends, a red heart with his girlfriend’s name between his pecks, and even one on the very back of his neck, like a quote or a symbol that could defined his entire meaning and livelihood. It was yearnings like these that made him envy mammal-type species.

“Heh,” he chuckled, wanting to say something out loud. “I can’t say I’ve seen this many humans in one place before. I saw, like, at least three different ones walking around here. . . and there’s one across the way from us that seems like the real deal, if you know what I mean.”

Rhett covered one ear and stared straight ahead.

“Is this city, like, human central or something? They don’t usually wander around the Mushroom Kingdom that often. W-well, actually, I don’t mean to sound rude at all—I have no problem with it, of course—It’s just new to me—”

He straightened up. “Reggy? Hey, how’s it goin’, bro?”

“‘K, nevermind,” he murmured to himself. “I’ll just back to people-watching, I guess.” 

“Wait—you’re engaged? Congrats!”

From what Spike could hear, it sounded like the other end of the line was spitting a rapid fire of questions and declarations, possibly in anger or pure excitement. It must have been the latter, because the Koopa’s smile grew the longer it went on.

“Hey, that’s good to hear, bud! I’ll look out for the invite.” There was another minute of him just saying yeah, ah-huh, and making little comments that made the other line laugh. “Hey, before I forget, are you and Gael still livin’ in Dinohattan?” 

Spike looked over, but kept his mouth shut. He could see that Rhett was hanging onto every word, significantly more engaged than any other time in the office. In fact, that bored and uncaring look—something that Spike had always wanted to perfect—was gone completely.

“Oh, that’s awesome. I’m glad that gig’s workin’ out for ya. Has it been busy? Yeah? Well. . . that’s good to hear. . . . Yeah, it is. . . . Hey, listen, I need to know if Mario’s been showin’ his face in any of those clubs—Yes, I mean him—No, I didn’t rejoin. This is just an errand. Did ya think I’d dip out on ya like that?”

Rhett went quiet, his mouth quirking upwards. “Yeah, yeah. . . I’m gonna make some more calls, but we all know how this’ll go—especially if the gang’s all here. . . . Yeah, no. . . I’ll probably be back home tomorrow afternoon. I’ll have time for a round though. What place?”

Just when Spike was beginning to drift out of the conversation again, he noticed that Rhett had his jaw gawked opened, looking completely gobsmacked. It might have been funny to see him so caught off guard, if it wasn’t for the possibility that it was for a bad reason. He leaned back in.

“Cecil’s over there?” He said, his eyebrows climbing new heights. “The one on Amarg Street? Or Trikey? Wow—Just wow! How long has he been at it?”

Before anything else could be asked, Rhett fished out a notebook from his pocket and scribbled down an address. The pen he used was splotchy, making only half of the strokes visible and the other half indents. 

Once the call ended—a long, drawn out wrap up full of even more quips—Rhett turned to him with the biggest, most genuine smile that he might have ever seen on him. “Welp, this goose chase is gonna be a ton easier than I thought!”

“What do you mean? Do we have a lead?”

He snorted like it was a joke. “Let’s just say we’re taken care of, Lakilester. And just so you know, we’re gonna meet up with some buddies of mine later tonight and get some evidence. They got the biggest chunk of it all covered, including all the places she wanted. Should be a cake walk. For now, let’s call a cab and grab a bite to eat.”

“Okay, uh,” he started, surprised when his coworker actually turned to him and listened. “So, is Mario actually showing up in those places? I was just thinking about it earlier. . . y’know, since I’ve known him before.”

“Doesn’t matter either way. We got it made in the shade, regardless of what we find.”

“Well, sure, but it’s still kinda weird to me. . . .”

“That’s fine,” he said with a surprisingly amount of reassurance. “I get that it’s weird to think about. But, if it makes you feel any better, I know for a fact that the most we’ll find is, like, some kind of impersonator or something. And since you’ve actually been around him more than me, I think you’ll have a sharper eye for that, yeah? That’s also why I want you to take the photos for when we get over there.”

“I can take the photos?”

“Sure. It’s your job, anyways.”

Rhett’s renewed spunk was contagious, and Spike found himself feeling it as well. He might not have friends in convenient places, but a straightforward task was something he excelled at, not asking for anything more or less.

“Alright-y,” he smiled. “I can totally do that part.”

However much he wanted to go home, there wasn’t a conceivable way for him to do that. Even if construction was done for today, his feet led him back to the abandoned outpost, sending him straight into the bowels of the structure and towards the topic of interest. It had been on his mind all day—one specific type of practice—and now he felt as though he couldn’t rest until he tried it at least once.

The practice in question was an unforgiving obstacle course. It was a meticulous series of shell ricochets and spin-jumps—all of which had to be executed within milliseconds of each other. There were moats full of Bone Piranha Plants, who were all starved and far more aggressive than when they were “alive”, and even more walls blocking any easy escapes. Every piece of the course was intentional, and Mario had learned the hard way that every detail mattered, being the difference between success or a nasty fall.

Although he had practiced each technique endlessly, he had never been able to preform all of them in one sitting, or at least to this extreme. The course ran through the entire stretch of the corridor, probably close to a quarter of a mile and made it difficult to look too far ahead. He wasn’t sure why he had the need to attempt this—one of the hardest challenges he had ever constructed—but it hardly mattered.

Whether it was folly or a second wind, Mario leapt into the pit of Bone Piranha Plants.

With a shell in his arms, he navigated through the enemies. Each twirling-jump struck their heads—a hollow noise grunting out like a drumbeat—and he soared over and across them. He kicked the shell upwards, following its descent, and used it as a launch pad over the adjacent stone wall.

This patterned continued, each repetition slightly different than the previous one. It kept Mario on his feet, forcing him to make more economical decisions with every leap and with every dive, especially when the sections appeared quicker than the last, his speed increasing exponentially.

However, the next series of events took even more fancy footwork to navigate through. It was mostly due to the positions that each platform was angled at, making for awkward estimates of how far to fling himself. If it wasn’t from the previous experience through this part—from the muscle memory learned from every bruise and cut—then he probably would have broken something— again.

After another difficult section, Mario bounced on another shell and soared above the wall that was over twenty feet high. Before he could plummet onto the other side and into another pit of spikes, he scaled the wall and tossed himself up to the ledge above. He scrambled over it, rolling over and panting.

Once he caught his breath, he would continue. The three Koopa shells that he would need for this next part sat in the corner of his eye, waiting for him.

Even if he stopped to think about the risk of this next section, he wasn’t able to stop himself. Regardless of any sore ankle, overused ligaments, or his not-quite bloodshot eyes, there was a very real hunger that couldn’t be pleased by anything else, no matter how much he tried to compromise. He understood what would happen if he failed—if he overshot a jump or forgot some detail—yet that knowledge wasn’t able to sway him out of it.

Good thing it was his weekend.

Knocking two of the shells back-to-back and picking up the third one, Mario took a start towards the spike pit. With the first two speeding across the spikes, slamming against the edge and each other like dueling sawblades, Mario took this moment of forethought—his eyes scrutinizing the situation, sizing up the length of the pit—and took the chance.

He connected with each shell, lurching and freezing mid-jump for the optimal angle. There wasn’t any thoughts in his head that wasn’t geared towards survival. It was almost an out-of-body experience, feeling the adrenaline take over and forcing him to witness his own actions. 

After a few heartbeats later, it was all over in an instant: he whizzed across the pit and launched himself over a wall, somersaulting unto a ledge that he had never been able to reach before, and then collapsed into a boneless mess.

It was hard to believe. I did it. Everything—the ringing in his ears, the throb in his body—faded out into the backdrop. He couldn’t register the cold stone against him, not noticing how his body decompressed over each groove like a liquid, or how his frantic breathing echoed throughout the entire outpost.

He allowed himself this moment—this moment— of pure serendipity, this few and far between moment that was more pleasurable and more exotic than anything else in the world. It was almost overwhelming how good he felt, unable to pinpoint what part he liked the most, whether it was the fuzziness or the numbness of his nerves. Perhaps it was the stillness that overshadowed him, where nothing of the outside world or the depths of his mind could shake him out of.

Though he couldn’t hear it, he could feel the vibration of his voice running throughout his body, covering up anything that wasn’t pride. It might have been laughter or a groan. Nonetheless, it was relieving to finally feel the air reach places in his lungs that hadn’t in a long time.

It was only for this reason that he didn’t react to Polterpup, who decided to come over and plop down against his leg.

“When did you get here?” he asked, his breath evening out into long drawls. “Were you exploring this place?”

The dog gave him that awkward, whale-eyed look— a look that had been directed towards him more often than not recently—and rested his muzzle on his lap. There was a puppy-ish whine in his voice, something urging about it, but it barely registered to his senses. It blended into the ambience of the groaning fortress. Instead, Mario mindlessly petted the deceased dog, ignoring any pain that reawakened in his arm. 

“Were you looking for me?” he asked again. “I don’t have any treats for you. . . and you wouldn’t want any Dry Bones around here. They aren’t as gustoso as the ones Weegie gets you.”

The dog whined louder, pressing his snout against him.

“What’s wrong, pup?” Mario was about to go on that trail of thought, but then he finally noticed what was being urged of him to do. In truth, he felt it long before he looked down on it.

“I thought so,” he mused, beginning to put pressure on his waist. The fabric was saturated with blood, the warmth evaporating into the winter air. “Good thing I’m about done anyways.”

The dog pleaded some more, following closely behind when he departed.

It isn’t that bad, Mario thought. If his suspicions were right, he had gotten it much earlier—a superficial graze against an edge—and it had a lot of time to spoil his clothes. And, although he ran out of Super Mushrooms, he couldn’t seem to care. It was nothing a bit of medical treatment couldn’t fix and it was well worth the cost.

He stumbled out of the pipe and took the deer path home. Judging by the sky’s hue, it was late at night, or early in the morning, and Luigi was dead asleep, so it wouldn’t have made a difference if he dragged his feet across the porch or if he kicked his shoes off. Nothing would wake him, not even the incrementally heavier steps up the stairs.

When his head hit the pillow, he was immediately taken into a pleasant dream.

Chapter Text

A pink hue glowed through his eyelids. Once he came to his senses, he realized that his alarm clock never woke him up, but the light pouring in from the window did. He looked at the time and saw that it was early in the afternoon, and, to his surprise, there wasn’t a trace of fatigue left in him. There wasn’t a hint of any soreness in his body—no group of muscles more inflamed than another, the bump on the back of his head receding. The only evidence of last night was the brownish blood stains on his sheets. As he got ready, he even looked well-rested.

For the first time in recent memory, he had no plans for the day. With the last of the town repairs done last night, Toadette announced a break in any construction projects for the rest of the year and would move on to plan the winter festival, leaving him with all the time in the world. He actually had the luxury of having a slow morning—of washing his soiled clothes and sheets from last night, folding up some other neglected laundry, and even trimming and waxing his mustache for good measure. When was the last time he had this?

Creeping into the living room, Mario saw an empty espresso cup on the side table. It had a stain of coffee sentiment around the top and the porcelain was cold, and it cued him to let go of his breath. He must be out for the afternoon.

Though he didn’t want to talk with Luigi, he also didn’t not want to talk either. For however much he wanted to dismiss whatever baseless concerns he had, it didn’t feel right to have such unnecessary distance either—to be in this awkward game of peek-a-boo. This dissonance felt so much worse than when his brother had been traveling for weeks on end.

Mario went to grab some breakfast, but he stopped short when his eye caught ahold of the state of the kitchen. The grout looked a few shades too dark, the counters were dusted over with crumbs, and the overhanging lights were filled with dead bugs. The kitchen sink had a sharp funk too. Everything might have gone unnoticed while he was sleep deprived, but now it was too obvious to ignore. After filling up a bucket with hot, opaque water, he tackled the countertops and cupboard doors, then moved on to the floors with a repurposed toothbrush.

There was an itch to turn on some background music while he worked. The construction crew always had a large boombox going when given the chance, and it was something that Mario had grown accustomed to over the weeks. However, he didn’t bother to turn on anything at the moment. There was something soothing about the stillness of the room. The crisp glide of each brushstroke tickled his eardrums and he felt no need to spoil it. It reminded him of that same stillness from last night, where his mind was free to wander without any fear. When was the last time he had that ?

Perhaps if he finished up quickly, he could pull together a hearty soup for dinner tonight. It would be nice to have a warm meal when the temperature dropped later, and he knew that Luigi would appreciate it too.

In fact, talking over food would be the best way to get it over with. His brother would get his point across—reassurances would be exchanged—and then they would finally go back to being normal. No more side-stepping, no more guessing. There was nothing else that he would rather have. Besides, he could finally ask about Daisy—the butterfly that his kitten of a brother had been following around since she visited. There had to be something going on there.

Only a few more minutes of scrubbing went by when Mario sat back on the balls of his feet, stretched out his back, and then flinched when Luigi appeared through the back door.

“Mamma mia!” he gasped, which quickly subsided into a chuckle. “Were you trying to sneak up on me or something?”

When his brother didn’t respond back right away, only standing and staring at him like a deer caught in the headlights, Mario’s smile dropped. He seemed even more spooked than he was.

“No, sorry.” Luigi cleared his throat. “I was just. . . salting the patio before it snows this week.”

“Oh, it’s gonna snow? That’ll be nice. I don’t think it did last year. Looks like we can finally go sledding, eh?”

“Yeah.”

He hesitated from going back to the grout, waiting for him to continue—whether to immediately get into their talk or some other mundane thing. Instead of either of those, Luigi turned away and sat at the kitchen table.

“Is everything okay?” Mario asked.

“What? Yeah, I’m fine. Are you?”

With the legs of the chair turned towards him, it gave him a clear view of Luigi’s stiff shoulders and knotted hands, looking as if he was in the dentist’s office rather than in his own home. And, no matter how much Mario tried to return to the grout, the rigid air of the room was impossible to tolerate for any longer.

“Do you wanna talk now?” he asked, wiping his hands off with a rag and standing up. “I saw your text the other night before my phone died—”

“About that, where were you?”

“Oh, yeah,” he began with a small laugh. “It was a weird night. Things ran pretty late and I got tired, so I just stayed in town.”

There was something about the way Luigi’s jaw tightened that made his insides squirm, although that might have just been his not-so-clear story. He upheld honesty like any boy scout, but he didn’t want to add any more stress to Luigi—not wanting to cause any more reasons for him to overthink, especially for something as insignificant as this.

“And last night?”

“I just came home late. I didn’t want to wake you up.”

This wasn’t a good answer either. Luigi’s jaw became even tighter, his eyebrows turning into a much deeper furrow, and it further soured the atmosphere that Mario had once found comfortable.

“I did see Polterpup before I went to bed though,” he added, but when he didn’t acknowledge him anymore, he eventually caved in. “Weeg, if whatever you wanna talk about is urgent, then I’m sorry I wasn’t there sooner. I guess your text didn’t sound so serious—”

“It is serious.”

“Then what’s bothering you? Is this about the thermostat again? No? Then. . . I guess it really is about the movies from the other day, right?”

“What? No, it-it has nothing to do with the movies—”

“Then what? I can’t think of anything else it could be. But, bro, it’s alright to be upset about me not tagging along if that’s what—”

“It has nothing to do with that!”

“Alright, alright.” Mario stood up, motioning with his palms to keep their voices low. “Then what? C’mon, bro, you gotta spit it out if you wanna—”

“PER L'AMOR DEL CIELO!” Luigi shot up from his seat like a missile. “No—you spit it out! Where in the world have you been?”

He shrank back at the look in his eyes. To say that Mario struggled to keep a brave face on when Luigi strode up to him was an understatement. 

“What have you been doing?” he demanded.

“I-I don’t know what—”

“You know very well what I’m talking about! Do you think I’m blind? Or do you really think I wouldn’t notice?”

“What?”

“Stop stalling! I already know about the bandages and the torn clothes. So is this a new thing for you or something?”

“I. . . I dunno—” He swallowed dryly and narrowed his eyes. “You’ve been looking through my room!”

“Yeah—Sorry about that—but I had to! You’ve been acting weird ever since I got home, and I can’t just sit around knowing you’re in danger, Mario!”

“Wh–I’m not in any danger—”

“Don’t try that! I know what you’ve been doing. So tell me, where have you been going? Is it that backwater place by Cheep Cheep Falls? Or are you really going all the way to the Dark Lands, huh?”

“It’s none of that! I’m not hiding anything like. . . .”

For a moment, while he spluttered for some answer, he couldn’t hear anything but Luigi’s labored breathing, seeing his shoulders rise and fall with emotion. He seemed several feet taller now, more inclined to speak with action rather than words and more than willing to hunt him down if he tried to run. The only thing keeping Mario from becoming furious too—the only barrier keeping the flare in his chest at bay—was the threat of tears on his brother’s face.

The familiarity of it made him falter. It reminded him of something from forever ago: the two of them arguing in the kitchen, in each other’s faces with pooling eyes, voices loud and cheeks red. However, it was Luigi’s glare that brought him back to Brooklyn—back to when he felt the need to prove himself in the way that all young idiots wanted to, back to when he was too naive to understand it himself.

Mario’s face fell. “Oh, fratellino—No, of course not! I’d never go back to that—”

He tried to reach out for his arm, wanting to comfort him in a hug, but the other pulled away. There was an intentional aloofness in his stance.

“What else could you possibly be doing? It can’t be anything too different from what I can tell—”

“It’s not that at all! It’s has nothing to do with—I wouldn’t do anything like that again and I’d never go back on a promise! We both know this, so why do you think—”

“Because I don’t know!” Luigi’s hands flew up. “How could I know? You’re never secretive about anything, so the moment you start hiding things—”

“I’m not hiding anything! Just because I don’t update you every minute of the day doesn’t mean I’m—I’m—”

“Then what have you been doing? You sneak out, come home late, and just don’t act like yourself! And you’re avoiding everyone too—especially me—and Peach feels the same way! So you can’t tell me that nothing is happening, because something clearly is—”

“Sure, I’ve been doing something, but it’s nothing like—like—”

“I don’t care what it is! You’re still getting hurt and that’s still such a selfish thing to do!”

He was close to snarling now. “You wouldn’t get it! I actually know what I’m doing this time—and it’s nothing to do with those fighting rosters.”

“So what? You’re hiding injuries, Mario! What part of that seems normal to you?”

The moment a droplet poured out from Luigi’s eye was when Mario bit his tongue, yanking himself back on the leash that kept him from exploding, locking his jaw, and straining his eyes away.

If he indulged in the rising fire within him, then he could imagine the whole kitchen erupting into full-out yelling. As if our voices aren’t already there. Somehow, he had almost forgotten who he was talking to—too caught up in blind rage to consider the watery eyes and quivering frown across from him. For as much as he wanted to set the record straight about his behavior, it wasn’t worth the cost of any more tears from his brother. Not from Luigi. It was all steaming from love when all was said and done, just like from back then too. How could he forget that?

“Look,” he breathed, forcing out a steady tone. “This has nothing to do with you or anything to do with those fighting rosters. I’m not trying to avoid you or anything. I just. . . I just—”

“What? What could be so important for you to do this to yourself?”

It took all of his willpower to keep from scoffing. “Sometimes, I just have a hard time sleeping, so I go out to take my mind off things, alright?”

“Stronzate.”

“Hear me out!” he snapped. “I just go out for a walk and check up on things, then I do some tricks while I’m at it, and then once I’m done I come back home.”

“Well, I kinda knew that part already, but what goes on when you go out? It’s not like nothing happens.”

“Of course not, Weeg, I. . . I tend to visit the more problematic places. They’re the places that I, uh. . . .”

“The problematic places,” Luigi snarked, the realization making his resolve weak. “Only you would, Mario.”

“I know, I know, but I promise there’s no fighting places or anything of the sort—”

“Okay, fine—but there’s still run-ins happening! And I’ve been adventuring with you long enough to know what happens out there. Do you really think it’s a good idea to go out and tackle that alone? Without Power-ups? Without telling me or anyone else? Do you really—?” 

Before he could defend himself—a part of him wanting to turn its ugly head—Luigi paused and relented. He turned away, groaning and rubbing his slackened chops, his erect back folding over into a slouch. He was no longer tall or menacing, and the change was all it took to snuff out the heat Mario was feeling as well. There was something a million times worse about seeing his brother so dejected. Now he almost wished that he would get mad again. 

It took longer than he liked for Luigi to start talking again.

“I know. . . I know, bro. I know that you do things like this.” He said, his voice growing quiet. “Like back when those bandits kept stealing Farmer Cremini’s crops? Or. . . or when those Wigglers were. . . ? Well, we both know about that. So I get that these things can’t be controlled, exactly. But. . . but what I don’t get is why you’re still going out when you don’t have to? There’s nothing bad going on right now, so it just seems like you’re looking for trouble—”

“Just because nothing’s happening now doesn’t mean it won’t later.” He refrained to mention how many times he stumbled across gangs of Shy Guys or Hammer Bros. while out on his patrols. “Besides, it’s not like I’m really getting that beaten up—”

“We’re in the middle of a Power-up shortage! Now’s not the best time to be—”

“It’ll be a problem at some point! Besides, it’s mostly just—uh, just. . . .”

“What? What is it?”

“Well, honestly,” he started, and it suddenly felt like the whole kitchen was quiet and listening to him too. “It’s. . . It’s usually not any fighting—Honest!” He stressed, seeing the look in his eyes. “I usually just take a lap around the forest and do some parkour moves. Y’know, just like how we do on adventures? Or like those obstacle courses that Toad and Toadette make for those community fundraisers? That’s mostly what’s going on, bro. I get scraped up from that, usually.”

Miraculously, Luigi bobbed his head in thought. “And when it’s those other times?”

“Yeah, that’s when I. . . when I get roughed up the most.”

His gut twisted in on itself. Mario didn’t even realize the implications of those words until they were out—until his brother drooped with relief—and now it was too late.

“That makes so much more sense,” Luigi sighed. “I mean, the other day our neighbors were saying that they’ve been hearing things at night. Like wolves or something, but we both know it’s probably just Spinies. Or Pokies, maybe. Or, worse, a Chain Chomp or two since it’s getting colder around here. That actually makes more sense since. . . .”

Before he could nod along and push down any feelings of self-loathing, his stomach dropped the moment Luigi’s eyebrows furrowed again, his mouth gaping open. “What kind of enemies do you fight off?”

“Um, like I said, it’s just sometimes that I’ll—”

“No, Mario, what kind of things do you ‘sometimes’ deal with?”

He licked his lips. “I, uh—It’s just the occasional encounter—”

“Mario?” He stared. “Chain Chomps?” 

How Luigi was able to pinpoint that idea was completely over Mario’s head. Perhaps it was just left over nervous energy that fueled more assumptions or some type of “twin mind-reading” that Daisy had tried to convince them of. But, if not that, then it might have been because of his misleading story or the reality that he truly would go after a rogue Chain Chomp if given the chance—or both. Regardless, it made him shrivel up again, especially with how Luigi looked at him with so much expectation and dread that allowed no chance of negotiation. 

The self-loathing was unbearable now, but it was too late. He was already falling so fast to the ground that trying to backtrack would only make things worse. And, at the end of the day, his honor held nothing to his brother’s well-being.

“They really aren’t that problematic,” he said, ignoring the bile churning inside of him. “I usually don’t see them around unless I go Southwest of here.”

“That’s why your clothes got so ripped up,” Luigi groaned. “Is. . . is that why you didn’t come home the other night?”

“Huh?”

“When you ‘stayed in town’,” he growled, but the anger was severely watered down. “Peach told me that Toadette never keeps the crew past daylight hours, so is that why you didn’t come home the other night? A Chain Chomp?”

He felt rotten before he even said it. “It wasn’t a big one.”

“It wasn’t a—I don’t care how big it was! What can you possibly gain from covering that up, huh? It’s not helping anyone and you’re just getting yourself hurt!”

A sudden spike of hot tears welled up in Mario’s eyes and it made him sneer. “Because I’m just worried! Am I not allowed to? Neither of us know when another attack is gonna happen—”

“Bowser never strikes twice. He’s still recovering too—”

“I NEVER SAID—”

He strangled out the roar in his throat, smothering down the acid that wanted to burn everything around him. If it wasn’t for the look on Luigi’s face, then he could have imagined the alligator’s lunge of a verbal attack that would have followed suit.

 “I’m—I’m just worried,” he forced out. “And this is what I do to. . . do to help. Just to help everything out. We do this sort of thing all the time, so why’s this any different?”

He couldn’t bring himself to look in his eye, but he could see the apple of his throat bob, sensing the new wave of tears springing up.

“But-but I don’t go running off and not tell anyone about it. Did you really think you couldn’t talk to me about. . . about. . . .”

“Weeg, I know I can. I just. . . I just don’t want to wrap you up in anything you don’t need. You’ve been through a lot this year—”

“You need to tell me anyway! Do you. . . do you really think I can’t handle that?”

“No, no, of course not. Like I said earlier—what I really meant earlier—is that this has nothing to do with you and everything to do with me. I just do these things to help out and because it stops me from worrying so much. And this is why I thought it was better to not tell you about it. It just puts more on you than you need, and I don’t want to—”

“I tell you everything,” he choked. “You’ve always been there for me, so why can’t I? It’s all I’ve really—I’ve really. . . .”

Whatever resolution Luigi had to stand apart from him was broken the moment Mario scooped him up in a hug. It was a protective embrace that hadn’t changed since day one, tangling each other in their arms. It filled his ear with both of their beating hearts. 

“I just wanna be there too,” Luigi sobbed. “I don’t want you getting hurt.”

“I know. I know. You’re too good like that, and you have a right to know. I shouldn’t have. . . I should have been more honest about it.” Saying it out loud reawakened the disgust in his heart. “Perdonami.”

Mario rubbed circles into his brother’s back. He could feel the lungs expand beneath his finger tips. “I’m so sorry that I made you worry so much. If I had known that you were thinking. . . thinking I was actually avoiding you or going back to those places, then I would have said something sooner.”

He sniffed. “You should have told me in the first place!”

“I know, I should have. I really was just being selfish.”

“No, no, you’re not selfish. Not like this. I shouldn’t have said that earlier, so I’m sorry too. I know you’re just doing it to help everyone out.”

“You have nothing to apologize for.” He gave him a squeeze and pulled back. “This really is all on me, so I’m glad you’re calling me out. I don’t want this to go on any longer. You of all people don’t deserve that.”

There must have been something to those words that alleviated the last of Luigi’s fears, because his voice hitched. His palm came up to his eye, pressing firmly against it in an attempt to stop the leak.

Mario wrapped him up again in a hug. “I love you, Weeg. You deserve every right to know if something goes wrong, just like how you trust me with you.”

“I love you too, bro.” He gave a loud snort, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “And-and I know that you just want everyone safe. You’re the best brother anyone can ask for, but I just need you to tell me when you’re doing stuff like that. Just keep me in the loop and lemme help out too!”

“I will.” For good measure, Mario pulled back and grabbed his brother’s shoulders, holding him up as if to witness a declaration. “I promise that I’ll be more honest with you. I’ll let you know what’s up, then we can go from there.”

“That’s all I need!” Luigi chuckled, giving one last squeeze. “Please let me know whenever you go out. I can even go with you if you’ll be tackling baddies. Two is better than one, right?”

His mouth quirked up. “Even in the middle of the night?”

“Of course!”

Luigi went on to remind him how many times he had woken him up over an anxiety attack over the years, describing how he would expect to be in the trenches with him too, but Mario couldn’t listen to the ramblings. Of course! It was a gut-wrenching reminder of how unworthy he was.

For as much as he could imagine waking his brother up to go “patrolling and practicing” in the middle of the night, he already knew that he wouldn’t bring himself to do that. It was a repulsive idea to force his brother to sacrifice sleep and peace of mind for him, if only to appease his own lack of self-control. What kind of a brother would he be if he did that? What kind of brother would he be if he didn’t do that?

Mario pasted on a smile. “Welp, things will get better from here. We’re the Super Mario Brothers. Nothing can stay wrong forever!”

He grinned. “That’s what Daisy said too.”

“Well, she’s right. Only sometimes though.”

Luigi smiled brightly, his puffy eyes releasing any traces of nervous wrinkles.

It was so reassuring to see his brother a million times lighter, but he couldn’t seem to feel the same way—not that it was deserved. There was no use fighting against it or justifying the loopholes. There was no sugarcoating what he had said and there was no backing out of it, not with Luigi’s tears finally subsiding. Sei dannato se lo fai e dannato se non lo fai.

“Let’s go get some ice cream,” Mario suggested suddenly. “This was a lot for both of us, so let’s take it easy today, eh?”

Peach’s inbox was a mess. There were twelve different conversations to reply to, three different drafts to send out, and a countless number of spam emails to manually filter through. The only thing stopping her from deleting everything was the fact that it was her “work” email, and she cared way too much about her responsibilities than she ever wanted to. Besides, Toadsworth and Toadette used this for castle business, with every other email a promotional advertisement for bulk party supplies or staff newsletters. For this reason, she left her laptop open, allowing her finger to scroll through the emails, while she answered her phone.

“How did it go?” she asked, wedging her phone between her cheek and shoulder. She would have used her earbuds to take the call, but she was already situated in her train booth and her suite was at the farthest away from the dining compartment.

“So much better than I thought it would!” Luigi exclaimed. “It was rough at first, but we worked it out in the end.”

“Great to hear. So is he. . . ?”

“Nope—thank goodness—he’s just been trying to stop any trouble around town. I think it’s because he’s worried about another thing happening, so he’s trying to get ahead of it.”

It clicked in her mind. “Like those Wigglers from last spring!”

She sat back and sighed, finally able to feel a thousand pounds lift off of her. She hadn’t felt this relieved since the castle doctor announced that all of Toadsworth’s kidney stones had been successfully removed. “I cannot tell you how worried I was! He hasn’t been responding to any of my text messages in a while, so I guess I was assuming the worst.”

“Me too! Though he hasn’t charged his phone in days, so he should respond soon enough. Well, somewhat soon enough. We’re out for ice cream and groceries right now, so it’ll probably be later. Actually, he’s over talking to Ulysses at the moment, so he’ll be there a while. I think they’re talking about. . . .”

While it was reassuring to hear it from Luigi, there were still concerns that Peach needed to have addressed. That poor man was losing sleep—losing himself in the process as he tried to “get ahead” of any dangers for the greater good. To think that he was in this type of headspace for weeks on end broke her heart, hurting in a way that only Mario was able to do.

“Hey, what’s going to happen now?” she asked suddenly. “You’ve found out what’s really going on, but what’s going to help Mario feel better about things?”

There was a lengthy pause on the other end of the line. It made her stop skimming through her emails and sit on the edge of her seat until Luigi’s laughter appeared.

“Sorry! I just saw some ducks cross the road. What were you saying?”

“Aw, that’s cute.” She smiled. “I was just asking what's going to happen from here on out? With Mario, I mean.”

“Oh yeah, that was the other thing I was gonna say. We both agreed that he should tell me when he goes out and if anything happens. I also said that I wanna come with him, but we’ll see how well I'll do, ha ha. He tends to go out at night, so I hope I can keep up.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear that. Communication is usually the hardest part. But will he be okay? As in. . . do I need to involve my task force with any problems he finds? It sounds like he goes out frequently enough for it to be a problem.”

“You have a task force?”

“Yeah, I—” She detected the tone in his voice and grinned. “Ha, very funny! But yeah, they mostly handle issues within Toadtown. Do you think I need to rally them out?”

“Nah, I don’t think so, but I could be wrong. Mario said that he doesn’t encounter things very often, and even then he mostly finds them himself. I’ll let you know after I tag along with him though.”

“But that’s the thing,” she started, “I don’t want him putting himself in those kinds of situations in the first place—Mario or not. He shouldn’t have to worry about that.”

“I hear ya.”

Just when Peach thought the line was cutting out, Luigi made a small sound on the other end, saying, “I don’t want him to either, but I know he can’t just stop . I don’t think anyone can just stop worrying. I certainly can’t. But. . . but I’ve talked with him about this kinda thing before. He says these bouts come and go, and it helps if he actually does something about it than to just sit and worry—and I’ve certainly seen that for myself. I suppose this time around it became more than he can handle.”

“I wish he didn’t do that alone.”

“Me neither, but at least now he’ll include me from here on out.”

“Will that be enough?”

When she thought she needed to elaborate further or even apologize for the bluntness, Luigi replied. “Oh yeah—Absolutely. If I can get him to talk about stuff when he’s in the middle of it, then he’ll be just fine. That’s exactly what he does with me, ha ha. It’s just a matter of time now and he'll get into a better headspace.”

Although she completely trusted Luigi’s insights, the results-oriented part of her wanted proof. She needed to know for herself that Mario was doing better. It didn’t help that she was over three hours away and unable to ease any of his anxieties from here, feeling like it was a one-sided betrayal on her part. The only reason why she found herself at peace regardless of that was that Luigi had talked to him, they came up with a plan moving forward, and that Mario had been sincere about his struggles.

“Alright, I hear you,” she began. “If that’s good enough for you, then it’ll be good enough for—”

Her eyes caught ahold of a notification: a blank-titled email from Kylie Koopa. It was sent three minutes ago.

“Everything okay?”

“Oh, yeah,” she started. “I’m just reading some emails while we talk. This trip has been nothing but paperwork and more paperwork. I’m surprised I haven’t gone crazy yet.”

“That’s the worst! Too bad you don’t have Daisy with you,” he laughed. “Now that I’m thinking about it, I should probably check my email too. I sent the professor an message about Polterpup because I’ve noticed that he’s been acting kinda strange. I think I mentioned it before, but he’s been doing this thing where. . . .”

He went on about how the dog had peed in the hallway a few times or how there would be household items turning transparent or weightless at random, but she found herself drifting off. She skimmed through Kylie’s email, which was a long string of multiple emails that was updated at different times. Though Peach had received emails since the beginning, this email was the longest one so far, with the first update being a few hours after they had made their agreement. It took longer to load than most of her other ones. She scrolled to the first cluster of bullet points:

Pagoda Peak: nothing. Reishi City: nothing. Riverside Park: nothing.

Peach giggled when she noticed the photo at the end. It was a picture of Wario at some tavern with several stacks of fry baskets in front of him. It was taken last night in Mushroom City, titled Possible Sighting .

“. . . But now I just think I should train him again. He doesn’t come when called every time now, so it might be a disobedience thing or just a ghost thing. I dunno, but I’ll ask when. . . .”

There were several more groups that were investigated down below, every single one of them coming up negative, and she couldn’t have asked for anything better. No news was good news, after all. Besides, even with her cautionary investigation, it proved Mario’s innocence even further and it was still valuable information for when she would cracked down on these illegal fighting joints—eventually. Once everything settles down, that is. Adding anything else to her plate right now sounded like a nightmare.

“. . . But, anyway, if I don’t hear back from him, then I’ll just show up anyways. He’s terrible at responding back, ha ha.”

Just when she was about to respond to him, she noticed that the very last email was titled with five red arrows. It was the one that had been sent minutes ago. 

This is an interesting find. I had a couple of my guys go all the way up to Dinohattan and they found this while investigating a nightclub. I’ve put down the address below. You might find it as interesting as I did ;) 

She clicked on it and waited for the file to load.

“Are you still there?” Luigi paused for a moment. “Oh, she might have cut out—”

“Uh, I’m still here! I was just reading something, sorry. What were you saying?”

“Eh, I was just rambling mostly, ha ha. But, basically once I know Mario’s in a good spot, I’ll be out of town for a few days to visit the professor and probably get Polterpup a little check-up. If anyone in the world knows what to do about him, it’ll be him.”

“Alright, that’s good to know. And I’m glad to know Mario’s doing a bit better too. This may sound strange, but I’ve really missed him.”

“I get that,” he chuckled. “I missed him too. And actually he’s already acting more like himself today. Like, we went to get ice cream and he was a lot more talkative than he was at pickleball the other week. That tells me that he’s probably feeling better already. In fact, he was saying that. . . .”

At first, once the photos in the file loaded, she wasn’t sure what she was looking at. All of the pictures were pointed at a dark wall, the pixels unable to focus on anything in the shadows, and the wall was full of framed photos. It seemed to be a trophy wall of sorts, with crowded shelves full of awards and keepsakes. It took a moment to find the photos’ purpose, but, once she did, she went white. The phone slipped off of her shoulder and clattered to the floor.

Immediately, Peach scrambled for it. “Sorry, Luigi! I’m, uh, glad things are going better for you two, and that Mario is not doing what you thought he was.” She said it almost like a question. “Um. . . I have to go. Thanks for calling and updating me on things.”

“Oh, of course, and thanks for being there to help! I know Mario really appreciates your concern, even if he clams up about it, ha ha. He tells me that you really help him slow down when he needs it.”

It would have warmed her to hear that, but it fell on deaf ears. She could only stare at the picture looking back at her, a million questions running through her head.

Once the call ended, she closed her laptop, escaped back into her suite, and dialed Princess Daisy—the best candidate who would be willing to dive head first with her into the abyss.

Chapter Text

“Okay—Okay—I’ll meet you over there as soon as possible. Try not to worry too much!”

Undoubtedly, Peach had given it her best effort. She kept her mind on the present: finishing up the greenhouses in Truffleton, finalizing trade route agreements through email, and answering any questions about the winter festival—anything to keep the forefront of her mind riveted on the here-and-now. There was also the interviews that she had promised to do. She met up with a couple of Kylie’s subordinates for it, meeting up in a satellite office that happened to be twenty-minutes outside of Dinohattan. Being so close to the city in question did nothing to help her focus during the Q-and-A. 

She found herself on her phone more often too, scrolling aimlessly while waiting for Daisy’s arrival. Going over past text messages helped to occupy herself, but it was all too easy to scroll through previous interactions from Mario as well. She tapped on links of silly videos, saw photos of Yoshi and Toad in a basketball game, and revisited longer messages they had sent each other . It was meant to reassure her—to remember what she did know about him—but it quickly backfired. She found herself scouring the conversations, analyzing the time stamps for any indication, and tried to see if any of this was preventable, to see if there was something that she could’ve done to prevent any of this. When it became too much, she turned her phone off and laid on her bed in the hotel room, watching the ceiling in silence.

Even now, it all felt surreal. Even now, when she stopped rejecting the evidence outright, it was almost like she had made everything up herself, like she was falling asleep and the real and make-believe of the day grew indistinguishable from one another. But she knew there was no use pretending otherwise. The incriminating photo had burned itself into her memory and there was no denying it any longer. 

Yet the diplomat within her couldn’t accept it at face-value. There was no way that she would let a single email destroy everything she knew about Mario, the one that had proven himself time and time again. Whether out of loyalty or defiance, or even a mix of the two, she was hellbent on getting to the bottom of this and investigating the proposed location herself.

Princess Peach sat in the lobby of the hotel. She crossed her legs over each other for the fifth time, then eventually the front doors opened and Daisy came inside. She walked in and they quickly embraced.

“I’m so glad you called,” Daisy said first. “I wouldn’t wanna deal with this by myself.”

“I don’t think I could even if I tried.” She gave her a grateful smile. “Can we leave in thirty minutes?”

The clothes Daisy had brought for them would work perfectly. Peach’s set was a pair of joggers and a souvenir shirt from when they had toured during the go-kart tournaments: a baggy men's t-shirt that had a neon silhouette of Los Angeles skyscrapers. She remembered when Daisy got this one. It was the last one in red, and, even though it wasn’t her preferred size, she had bought it anyway.

Unable to tuck the shirt in any smoother, Peach gave up and turned towards the bathroom. “Are you ready to go yet?”

“Aren’t you gonna get your make-up done?”

“Um, I’m already wearing some?”

“No way!” Daisy popped her head around the bathroom doorway, one of her eyelids stained with a deep burgundy. “If we’re gonna do this, we’re gonna do it right. Now c’mere!”

Perhaps her mind was drifting again because she found herself subjected to Daisy’s “disguise enhancements”.

“Keep your eyes closed, Peachy,” she murmured, going quiet as the tip pressed against her skin.

Peach didn’t risk voicing any complaints again, not when the wetness of the liner made a not-so smooth trail across her eyelid. It was hard not to notice anything else but the eyeliner. She hadn’t worn any since the last New Year’s Eve party, and even then it was such a small amount that hardly made a difference at all. The amount Daisy was using now felt like she was getting vandalized by a black marker.

“Shoot,” Daisy frowned. “Hold still again.”

The tip dragged itself at a sharp angle, repeating on the other side.

“There! Now you’ll blend right in.”

She looked at the mirror and grimaced. “It’s certainly. . . different.”

“Exactly! We’re not going in as princesses but as hardcore clubbers!” 

“Whatever gets us through the door.” 

If circumstances were different, Peach would have been ecstatic to be going undercover. The idea of being disguised and digging for her own information was a tantalizing premise, like a scene from those mystery novels that she loved to read. It reawakened the more adventurous part of her to straighten up and face the problem head on. Yet all the excitement was completely lost once the reality sat in: they were only going to understand the context of the photo and verify Mario’s claims . Just to know for ourselves . If it wasn’t such a solemn situation, then she would have enjoyed it more instead of downing it as quickly as possible like cough syrup.

Once the taxi picked them up at the hotel, they rode towards the city. She would have felt more anxious now that they were on their way, but she still felt detached from everything. This had to be the only reason why she wasn’t overwhelmed with doubts, why she was able to keep her stoic facade on and not crumble from the stress. Perhaps treating this like any other political altercation kept her feelings from getting in the way.

Daisy turned away from the car window and started speaking. “Y’know, now that I think about it, I can totally imagine that boy-o getting involved in something like this.”

“Yeah?”

“Totally. It explains why he’d get in a fist-fight with Donkey Kong,” she said, absentmindedly fiddling with the many rings on her fingers. “Especially since he did this kinda stuff back in their world. Maybe it was a normal thing to do?”

“From how Luigi reacted, I don’t think it was.”

There was a brief lull between them, one that made the highway traffic much louder than it was before, and then Daisy spoke again.

“By the way, I haven’t seen that photo yet. Is it a picture of him in a fight or something?”

“Oh.” Peach blinked. “Sorry. I forgot to even show you how I found out about this in the first place.”

“I mean, if it’s not something you wanna pull out right now—”

“No, I’d like you to see it. It’ll help us find it once we get there.”

They both leaned towards Peach’s phone and waited for the pixels to correct themselves. Once focused, she cupped her hand beside the screen to keep the glint of the city lights off.

“Do you see it?” she asked.

The photo that Kylie had sent was one of a dark wall covered in framed pictures. Most of the details were blurry from the oversaturated light bouncing off the glass and it was hard to make out any of the words or the surroundings. If it weren’t for the crowded shelves of trophies and souvenirs, then it might have seemed like it was set in the depths of a dungeon. Regardless, the topic was plain to see: a framed photo of a group of men. They stood in an informal line and had their shoulders squared towards the camera, shirtless and geared. It felt like it was some sort of mug shot, but the men all had various looks of triumph and pride—some with smirks and some with bored sneers. Mario was among them. He was towards the left side, holding up a flexed arm and a set of boxing gloves, looking the part of the other fighters.

“Wowie, that’s. . . that’s really weird.” Daisy frowned, her eyebrows drawn tightly. “It looks like it’s a photo from Brooklyn, but. . . but you said your contact took this the other day?”

“Yes. That’s why I’m worried.”

No matter how much Peach tried to make sense of it, there was no denying that this was Mario. The face, the build, the eyes: it was entirely him, even without his signature hat. There was no mistaking it. Yet, his bangs were longer in this picture, damp with sweat and curling up in ringlets. There was a hint of baby fat on his jawline and his mustache wasn’t quite as grown out, which might have made it seem like this was truly taken from back in Brooklyn. However, as logic dictates, it might have just been the angle of his face. The few other photos that Kylie had sent made this a possibility. In some of them, he looked slightly younger; in others, he looked like it was taken yesterday.

“Oh, I get it now.” Daisy licked her lips. “Like, I understood why it was a problem when you called, but. . . but it’s clicking now. Luigi texted me about their talk when I flew over.”

Peach was glad that she didn’t have to explain it to her. At this point, having to voice the elephant in the room might completely crumble her calm facade.

“Would Luigi know?” Daisy asked suddenly. “Maybe we should text him the picture and ask about it.” 

She swallowed. “I thought about that too, but I don’t want to stress him out again. If this really is nothing, that is. I’m sure there’s some explanation to this.”

The pause made them both uncomfortable. The taxi driver remained oblivious to the heaviness as he pulled off onto the upcoming exit.

Before Peach could turn off her phone and turn back to the window, Daisy put her hand on hers. It wasn’t a sudden or demanding gesture, like whenever the Sarasaland Princess would get excited and grab her hand to show her something, but a delicate one that reined Peach’s attention back into the car.

“Girlie,” she began, “we’re gonna figure this out. Luigi did his thing and now it’s our turn to get this part straightened out. It might not even be what we think it is.”

She nodded. “I hope so.”

“I mean, you’re totally right to feel like something’s off. There’s definitely something screwy happening, whether that’s him or something else. It’s gotta be something else because he’s totally not. . . y’know.”

“I know, I’m just. . . .”

How could she talk about it? How could she describe the many doubts in her mind? How could she put into words just how harrowing it was to discover this about Mario—her closest friend? The most dependable, gold-hearted person she knew? And why did it have to be this of all things: an illegal activity which she so vehemently despised? One that was intertwined with some of the most gut-wrenching problems that parts of her kingdom faced daily? The money, the influence, the corruption—was this what it was all about? She would have immediately shot the idea down—a laughable notion for someone like Mario to ever be compared with—but what other explanation could suffice? Between the evidence and his own words, how could she begin to tell?

But was it for her to tell in the first place?

Despite the royal obligations, did Peach have any place in this? Did she have any right to assert herself into his business, especially one that he even hid from Luigi? Was it right of her to feel the amount of concern she had? Did she have a place in his life that was front and center or was she trapped on the sidelines just how she feared she had been since the beginning? Would he allow it or would he raise an eyebrow at her improper attachment? Was she about to cross an unspoken boundary, one that he didn’t even know that she was crossing? If so, was she crossing a boundary of someone she even knew? Did he—Mario, the defender and protector of the Mushroom Kingdom, as well as the many other hard-earned titles from over the years—have the capacity to be a liar? Was it fair for her to even care?

“I just need to know for myself,” she said evenly. “Mario’s not that kind of person and I don’t want whatever’s happening to go on for any longer.”

“We’ll get some answers soon enough.” She squeezed her hand, offering a smile. “Besides, it’s not like he’s a criminal mastermind or anything.”

“True.”

“Or a scam artist or a dealer. Seems more like Waluigi’s thing.”

Peach snorted. “That’s true.”

Maybe it was the look on Daisy’s face or a sudden bout of enlightenment, but Peach looked over at her and said, “I’m right, by the way.” She gave a small smiled. “Luigi’s absolutely rubbing off on you.”

Instead of an eyeroll or a cheesy grin—or anything else that would dismiss the accusation—she smiled back. There was no further elaboration, and she kept her hand on hers as they arrived at their destination.

If memory served her right, the same city where Daisy bought her shirt from was the same place that Peach was introduced to a trendy nightclub. It was one of their last nights in Los Angeles and they all were invited to an exclusive venue: a rectangular plaza that hosted live music on a center stage with more than enough space for dancers to enjoy themselves. There were shopping stalls along the outskirts of the space, each one offering increasingly gimmicky snacks or trinkets that Peach couldn’t help but be enchanted with. Then, if all of that wasn’t engaging enough, there was a neon light show that played above their heads, mimicking fireworks without interrupting any of the bands.

Even though it was very overwhelming and she was dead on her feet by the time they left, she wouldn’t have traded it for anything in the world. It was the most extraordinary time she could have wished for—one of pure glamor that expanded her worldview on what it meant to “have a good time”. 

This was why she didn’t get her hopes up for The Triple B to be on par with her first impression.

Instead of any enticing signs or advertisements, there were just long stretches of unlit, closed-off nooks between doorways. There weren’t any windows to the outside street, skylights, or high ceilings to expand the space either. The dark walls and flooring gave the place a small, dingey look, like the inside of a log cabin without any of the rustic charm. When they began to walk around and search for any signs—anything that they could grapple onto for answers—they found that the majority of the establishment was just clusters of other businesses, all sectioned off into pockets of pubs, lounges, game tables, restaurants, and some sort of masseuse parlor that Peach averted her eyes away from. It’s like its own little city. If she didn’t mind the constant smell of fry oil and cigarette smoke, then she could imagine it possible to live here.

“Do you think we should’ve come here on the weekend?” Peach asked. Over half of the stalls were closed and there were even less patrons that walked around.

“I don’t see why it would make any difference,” Daisy asked, ignoring the looks a passing group of Koopas gave them. “We’re only here to dig around, right? I think it’d be harder if there were more people in the way.”

“I suppose.”

As she thought about it, she ended up agreeing that less people would be better. Large crowds and frantic staff wouldn't help them in the slightest. Besides, she wouldn’t know what to do if they had come on a busy night and got recognized by an observant citizen, one that could see through Daisy’s “enhancements”.

An illogical thought warned her to look out for the man in question while they explored. Her mind kept imagining him in the corner of her eye—Mario, strolling around with his fighting buddies, shirt off and boxing gloves on, and flashing passerby with a winning grin exactly like the ones in his photo. It was irrational to think it might happen, especially since this was where his photo’s picture was taken and not an actual in-person, caught-in-the-act sighting. Besides, there most likely wasn’t a fighting ring here; this was just a nightclub. Yet, she still found herself looking over her shoulder just in case.

Daisy pointed towards a gold-painted doorway. “How about we start with that pub over there? Seems like the place for some fighters to hang out in. I know I certainly would.”

The pub itself actually felt like a pub instead of the seedy labyrinth outside. It had a lot of sports merchandise hanging off the walls and flatscreen TVs that played reruns of championships. Peach noted that the dining area seemed to blend into the lounge next door, making the beginnings and ends of the establishment undetermined. Is everything here owned by the same company?

Before Peach could suggest that they start with the decorated walls, Daisy went up to the counter and smiled at the bartender, saying, “Hey, have you seen any fighting types around here? My friend and I are meeting someone here.”

The bartender, who was a middle-aged Beanbean woman, looked at her with forced interest. “Not that I’ve noticed. They don’t show up ‘til after their matches.”

“Oh! Uh, can you tell us how to get into those? We’d love to see them in action.”

“Nah, I can’t help ya there.”

Before she could press any further, the bartender turned away and kept her eyes squared on the few customers further up the counter, clearly avoiding their eye. Grabbing for her attention again made her retreat back into the kitchen doors.

Daisy frowned. “Rude.”

“It must be an exclusive club,” Peach said under her breath, her eyes going to a few arriving customers by the doorway. “But some fighters must come here often enough to be recognized. Maybe some other staff can tell us more.”

“That lady said they come after their matches. We could wait and ask them ourselves?”

“Hm,” Peach hummed distastefully. “I’d rather not stick around in one place for too long. I want to investigate those other possible locations that Kylie sent me. They’d have more people willing to talk about the fighting ring than here and we might get more substantial info, perhaps.”

“Oh, we’re going to multiple places!” Daisy said aloud. “I thought this was a one-and-done.”

“I wish it was, but this place probably doesn’t have all the answers.”

“Well, why wouldn’t it? If that picture’s here, then where else would we need to go?”

“Because,” she started reluctantly, “if he’s really doing this again, then we need to find the exact place he’s going to. I don’t want to assume anything, so I think we’ll need to find the actual fighting ring if we’re going to get any answers.”

“I mean, it could be here? This place is totally big enough to host some kind of ring.”

“Maybe?” Peach sighed. It was hard to know for sure. She was already tired of this guessing game and just wanted to get the situation straightened out before her nerves got the better of her. Her resolve only weakened the longer they hung around under the hod-podge of fluorescent lighting. “We’ll have to ask around.”

“Why not leave it to me?” Daisy offered. “I know how to sweet talk my way into anything. Lemme do that part while you hunt for that picture.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want us to get split up in here.”

“I’m positive. In fact, I think I’ll have a better chance at digging if I go alone. A pair of women tend to intimidate men more than just one.”

She relented, nodding at the point. “But if you run into any trouble—”

“Then I’ll get out of it, Peachy. You know me well enough.”

She was about to remind her of all the possible scenarios where they wished they stuck together, but Peach ended up agreeing completely. Daisy’s hybrid of charisma and brute force was a rare combination that would get them anywhere they needed to be and out of anything they didn’t. She wouldn’t have asked her to come with her if she didn’t have full faith in her capabilities.

“Okay, then,” she said. “I’ll look around, then we can move on once we’re done.”

Now, as Peach roamed around, she found that it wasn’t hard to navigate the complex. There were plenty of kiosk-style attractions set up around the place and she could only imagine how dense the crowds would get on busy nights. However, as she traveled in and out of passage ways and connecting hallways to restaurants and lounges, she felt how unsettling the building set-up truly was. It was framed more like a mall than anything else, and she was beginning to think that was what it was before it became such an unsavory place. The biggest indicator of it was the wide hallway that could hold large crowds and then divvy them off towards upcoming entertainment and distractions. If she hadn’t thought about it, then she might not have noticed that no one else was walking around like her.

It was only when she went back the way she came—walking through the side entryway between a pub and a billiard room—that she noticed it. Her eyes locked onto it like they were magnetized.

Hanging up on the wall was the photo that Kylie had sent. Peach stood in front of it, squinting and scrutinizing it, and she noticed that it was the same picture but it wasn’t in the same frame or on the same wall. It was in a wooden picture frame instead of a gaudy golden one, and there weren’t any trophy shelves around it. It was definitely only here in this connecting entryway for the looks and not for any self-imposed hall of fame.

When she kept staring, she noticed some other photos of him that weren’t in the email: Mario and a much taller man grabbed each other's shoulders and flexed towards the camera. There were some other photos of him in the background. One of them was one where he was walking by and unaware of the picture being taken, or another where he was in a group photo and he wasn’t looking towards the camera.

The only reassuring thing about this was Peach was able to recognize the pattern of faces between the pictures. Most of these photos were taken at around the same time or all in the same season. They were all human men as well, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. Dinohattan was one of the more diverse cities in the Mushroom Kingdom, which would usually gladden her when she reviewed the immigration paperwork. Now it only muddied the waters of her search.

Peach glanced to the side and flinched when Daisy appeared.

“So I talked to a regular here,” she said nonchalantly. She was holding a basket of fries and its paper tray was wet with grease.

“You ordered fries?”

“Yeah—Well, sorta. I was talking with an old guy by the bar and he ordered me some food.”

She grimaced. “Really?”

“What? He’s a really old guy, Peachy. Like, grandpa-coded kinda old. I doubt he was trying to go anywhere with it. Besides, he was telling me a lot about the fighting arena that goes on around here and I didn’t wanna ruin it.” Daisy ate another handful of fries. “Apparently, he has some friends that are involved in it. He only comes here to see them and ‘relive the glory days’.”

“He comes here?”

“Yeah, that’s another thing. The fighting thing happens here at night.” Daisy smirked. “I totally called it.”

“Here?” Peach said, her eyebrows raising high enough that she could feel her eyeliner crinkle. “How can something like that be done here? This place is too public to be doing such things.”

“Dunno, but he said it’s not hard to get in, which was not what I was expecting! I was thinking it was, like, you need to ‘know a guy who knows a guy’ kinda thing. Or like some bouncer we had to pay off or something.”

Peach would be lying if she said she wasn’t thinking the same thing. Perhaps too many movie nights made her think differently, the Hollywood-made scenarios influencing too many of her assumptions. Now she felt silly for bringing a bag of coins to pay off anyone.

“Did he say where it’s at?”

“No, he got distracted and started talking to his buddy again, but he mentioned that he prefers to go into the side entrance that’s in this part of the building. It’s because there’s less foot traffic and you don’t have to climb any stairs. He has a cane,” she added.

“Well,” Peach began, still bewildered. “I guess we won’t have to hop around tonight. Let’s go look for it.”

With the possibility of a fighting ring in the same building, Peach was beginning to piece together the unsettling feeling from earlier. There was a considerable number of people around yet none of them seemed to stay around for long, and, if this place really held a ring, then she could imagine the main attraction to be the ring itself. Everything else here might just be to capitalize off the foot traffic.

It wasn’t until Daisy went to throw away her empty basket that Peach’s eyes locked onto a depression in the wall. These walls were covered in black carpet and it was clear they acted as partitions based off the fingerprint indentations on the edges. A closer look showed a sliding mechanism that could roll away the barriers.

And, to their shock and amazement—and by the grace of the Star Spirits above—the entrance wasn’t locked.

Inside was a long, inclined hallway that funneled them further into the bowels of the complex. The black carpet made everything so much darker now, even with the movie theater-like wall sconces above. Peach was grateful for the hand railings as they walked through because the surrealness of it all was beginning to weigh on her. It wasn't until they turned the corner at the very end did they run into the predicted “bouncer”, who was a Delfino with some unappealing moles on the side of his face.

“What the—How did you get in here? Only the main entrance is open to the public!” The Delfino said, his eyebrows drawing tightly together. “This is the fighters’ entryway!”

“Oh, we know,” Daisy said casually—almost too casually that Peach thought she was being genuine. “We were told to go through here. We’re meeting up with one of the guys tonight.”

“Huh, really? Which one?”

“Mario, of course.”

Though it was a good response, Peach’s nerves got the better of her by the mention of his name and left her to freeze uselessly like a hunted deer. A mixture of hope and devastation welled up in her as the Delfino thought long and hard about it.

“Never heard of him. Are you ladies at the wrong place or somethin’? I can’t just be lettin’ anyone in if—”

“What?” Daisy gawked, her eyebrows lifting her forehead an entire shelf space upwards. “You mean to tell us that you forgot the name of one of the fighters, so you won’t let us in? Do you not watch the matches or somethin’? Or are you just new here?”

Whether the Delfino grew agitated or conflicted, Peach was preparing herself to double down on Daisy’s case and talk their way inside, or even to pull out her bag of coins and buy their way in, refusing to let this opportunity go to waste. Instead, it seemed like none of that would be necessary.

He shifted his weight between his feet, a tangible doubt playing across his face. “Is he the one with the nipple piercings?”

Daisy looked over at Peach with a shit-eating grin. “What can I say? It suits him.”

And just like that: they were in. Peach didn’t realize that they had moved until she was standing in an auditorium-like room—No, she thought, a coliseum. They stood at the bottom of a concaved bowl, one where a fighting ring was on full display and the first row of seats began. She could imagine the busy nights where the matches got sold out that there would be a full three-hundred and sixty degree crowd surrounding the ring, each rising row containing more and more people. It was a dizzying thought, especially for something of this scale within her kingdom. How long has this been here?

Up above, Peach saw booths in the corners of the ceiling, completely blacked out and matted against the stage lights. It had to be for VIPs or for people who didn’t want to be seen here—or both. It was hard to tell if there was anyone up there or not, or if the only spectators tonight were on the ground floor where they were at.

“Am I good or what?” Daisy grinned. “I got us some information, I talked our way inside, and, if Mario’s actually coming here, I found out that he has nipple piercings! I can’t make this up even if I tried! Now I can only imagine the funeral he’ll be getting once Luigi finds out—”

“We don’t know for sure,” Peach rebutted quickly. “We’ll need something stronger than the words of some guy to know for sure—That he’s coming here, I mean.”

“Fo’ sho’, fo’ sho’.”

“Wh—Why’d you say it like that?”

“Hey, look!” Daisy pointed towards the ring, an excited gleam in her eye. “There’s a match starting right now and it’s even in a cage!”

Impulsively, she looked and saw that Mario wasn’t in the ring. She let out a sigh, one that left her with more mixed feelings than she cared for, and turned back to Daisy to voice their next steps. But before she could say anything, Daisy walked towards the ring and sauntered up to a beefy fellow on the sidelines. He, some kind of anthropomorphic hawk, was taking up nearly half of the bench with all of his used sweat-rags and plastic water bottles. He must have just been in the previous match because his fighter’s costume was completely darkened with sweat and the rest of him was covered in a glossy sheen, the stage lights above making the tops of his shoulders glow.

“Hey, buddy,” Daisy began. “Have you seen Mario around here? He said he’d meet us here.”

The guy glanced at her—his eyes doing a quick trail up and down—and kept his jaw held to the side. He jammed his thumb behind him. “Go check the roster.”

Peach, glad to have a reason to turn her back on the cage match, was the first one over to it. It was a bulletin board with names, dates, and times, and the sight made her want to sing. They immediately looked for any familiar names. Several minutes passed with no luck and Daisy slipped away to harass the fighters for more answers. 

Peach would have gone back to her for support, watching over her and making sure those brutes didn’t try anything funny, but, then again, she did know Daisy well enough to handle herself—even in  such a place like this. If anything, Peach felt bad for the fighters because they didn’t seem equipped to handle such an impromptu interrogation.

Once she read the board for the third time, Peach realized that Mario’s name was not on it because he either didn’t come here at all or he was using a stage name. Names like The Pain Train and Kilroy were the tip off for this realization. She didn’t want to think that he would cover his tracks up like that, but who was to say? It was more likely that he fully committed himself to this than if he were to just dip his toes in. He’s never been the indecisive type. This attribute usually made her prideful, but now it fueled her doubts tenfold. If that’s the case, how long has he been at it?

The only thing she could do besides fret or reread the roster again was to stand back and refrain from watching the fight. She couldn’t seem to look away from the match no matter how hard she tried, the second-hand adrenaline making her acutely aware of each blow and each rise from the crowd. In the fight ahead, it seemed that the smaller of the two opponents was making the crowd more reactive. He was a stumpy Koopa with a lopsided jaw, a suggestion of a scar on his lip, and he seemed all too pleased with his popularity. The way he strolled and flaunted around made it seem as much.

“It’s three-to-two! This is the tie breaker, everybody!” the overhead speaker cheered.

Then, as if the fighters turned into gorillas, they launched at each other and made the crowd come alive again. Though there weren’t a lot of people watching tonight, they seemed more than capable of yelling enough for a full house, and the distinct cheers and heckles somehow made the noise all the more obnoxious.

Peach wanted to frown and look away—to scoff and roll her eyes at such money-driven violence—but she found herself  still watching. She saw the footwork of each offensive maneuver and the twitching core muscles of each dodge, comparing the performance to some kind of dance. However, even if there was no justifying a situation like this, there was some kind of pride that welled up in her as she watched the smaller Koopa rival the larger, more imposing opponent. It reminded her all too well of the times Mario would face the Koopa King head on.

She saw that the bigger one was already struggling to stay standing up. He was coughing and wobbling, but the smaller didn’t take pity on him. He was dancing circles around him, throwing punches like he was handing out flyers.

“Everyone give it up for Cecil!”

Perhaps the similarities made her unapologetic in watching the match now, reminding her of all the times he put himself in harm’s way for her sake. He, battered yet unrelenting, would always choose to stand his ground and face Bowser’s attacks unflinching. And even if this ring fight was entertaining, it had nothing on Mario. She adored her hero more than this crowd could ever feel from this, more than this place could ever try and tarnish his reputation.

How could she forget that? The very thing that sustained her in the quiet moments of any trouble? I trust Mario with my life and nothing can change that . She would face the truth once it surfaced, but, until then, she would remain unmoved just as he did for her.

She would have hung onto this thought—wanting it to comfort her and hold her hand as the investigation continued—but it was lost when she noticed that Daisy had disappeared.

“And that’s the match! Next one is up after the break!”

With her eyes darting around, Peach tried to find any semblance of her friend before too many of the patrons could get up and block her view. She didn’t see her at all. When she scaled upwards through the seating aisles, she still wasn’t able to spot her. She knew it was probably because Daisy wandered off or wanted to question someone that was a distance away, but there was still the fear that she got into some trouble. Once again, unrealistic Hollywood-propaganda made her worry that someone took notice of Daisy’s questioning and did something to quiet her. Then again, that was always a possibility in this type of place.

It was only when Daisy reappeared and walked over to her that Peach was able to breathe again. 

“Where on earth did you go?” she scolded.

“Not far, just around the corner—But guess what! I think I just got someone who knows what’s going on.”

“Wait, you got someone?”

“Yeah, I totally did! I mean, I got some questions answered, but then I got told something even better. Apparently, the owner’s here tonight and she said she’ll help us get things figured out!”

“The owner?”

“Yeah! The fighters say that she’s great friends with Mario!”

Chapter Text

The owner’s office was close by. It was suspended among the black booths that Peach had seen earlier, the ones overlooking the stadium below. Even though they were still bells ringing and patrons hollering below, hardly any of the noise could reach them. There were only the muffled sounds of chatter, air vents, and some faraway music seeping through the walls—a much welcomed change of pace. She was incredibly grateful for a break from the chaos outside.

While they waited for the owner to join them again, they were left in one of the most glamorous offices that Peach had ever visited. It had high ceilings, an open floor space, and more than enough sights to keep anyone entertained, to say the least. There was a bookshelf that made up the entire west wall, dressed head to toe in matching book sets and awards, and there was a handcrafted ruby chandelier above that made the floor look like liquid crystal. To the very edge of the office was a lounge by the French windows, overlooking the stadium through a one-way glass. There was some kind of device propped up in the middle of it, and it was the same kind that she had noticed by the ticketing booths. The bets must be ran digitally to need such things, and she could imagine that this was where the owner allowed special guests to participate.

However, the biggest attention-grabber was the arrangement of figures, plaques, and picture frames that covered every square inch of wall space. More specifically, there was a partition wall in the middle of the office that had its own spotlight, showcasing itself to any curious eyes. It didn’t take long to notice some of Mario’s photos on it too.

Peach saw that Daisy was occupied with an enclosed set of collectables on the glass shelves, enthralled with reading each one's description. It must have been a set from some TV show or album that Daisy was into, but Peach didn’t bother to ask about it. Instead, what caught her eye the most from everything here was the owner’s desk: custom-made, red-lacquered resin table with golden drawer handles. It was grand enough to make the rest of the office seem normal, and it didn’t take much to imagine that it was valued at real estate prices—not considering the other novelties that adorned it.

Undoubtedly, it was all impressive. Peach had been to capital buildings with less finesse. There was hardly a single object that didn’t add to the ‘Big and Bold’ look that the owner was going for—and that included the owner herself.

Even from the first minute on the elevator ride up, it was apparent that she—Bertha—was the kingpin of this place. She had the air of a self-made woman, one that was past proving herself, and her office certainly eluded to her “New Money” status. But Bertha had even more than that. She was a mountain of a woman with generous curves, the kind that could make even the most self-assured jealous, and took up her space with a confidence that few possessed. Her red dress hugged her like a second skin, her lips, nails, and shoes matching in color and shine. It was hardly fair that she had flawless, glowing mocha skin to go with her aesthetic, making her overall style look like hers and hers alone.

Right now, Bertha was behind a personal bar by the side of the room. It was furnished with redwood countertops and gold-trimmed barstools, arranged in such a way to show off as much of the mosaic tiles below. She was pulling out a number of drink-making instruments, each one more elaborate than the last.

“So what can I get you two princesses?” She started. “Anything from the top shelf? I have some sodas if you’d like a back for something.”

Peach smiled politely. “I appreciate the—”

 “Or maybe a sour or a blend? I’d offer something neat, but forgive me for thinking you two aren’t the type.”

“I think we’re okay. Thank you for your hospitality."

With a quirk of her sculpted lips, she waved her off and said, “I’ll get’cha something on tap then. Friends of friends get taken care of around here.”

What might have been playful ended up rubbing Peach the wrong way. There was something about the casualness of how she said it that made her guard rise up higher than before, but that might just be how she was feeling at the moment. From being in such a crowded, humid stadium for so long, she could only imagine how red her face was, how much sweat soaked through on the back of her t-shirt. Her eyeliner was probably flaking too and she could only hope that she didn’t look like a racoon. 

It didn’t help that Bertha was so put-together, so in her element. In a way, Peach felt like a cheap imitation of her—of someone who could actually navigate a cutthroat environment and thrived nonetheless, of someone who had climbed uphill and came out on top with more street-smarts than Peach could ever hope to understand. It was like Bertha was a princess in her own right, except she gained her authority through conquest rather than birthright. 

For the first time in her life—something that the poise Princess Peach of the Mushroom Kingdom had never experienced before—she felt the gross feeling of insecurity, the kind that made her level-headedness stutter. She might be pretty in the conventional way, but what excitement was in that? What was that compared to Bertha? A beauty that embodied a type of exclusivity that was rarer than diamonds? Maybe if Peach weren’t so underdressed, then she wouldn’t feel so misplaced.

However, regardless of any superficial concerns, she had a task to complete. She didn’t come this far for anything less than absolute answers, and she certainly didn’t come this far to be intimidated by the flashiness of some ringleader—and that included her act. It’d be foolish to take everything at face-value from her. Perhaps it was the fact that the owner led them into her office herself: an all-too hospitable gesture that Peach had seen time and time again. And the office itself was another clue. No one spent that much into presentation without a good reason. She had been in the political game for too long not to consider such things.

Soon enough, Bertha came back with some mugs and a carafe of water, leading them to her desk and setting down an ale across each of them. The drinks were all in tinted steins, ones that made the bubbles inside look like tiny amethysts, but Peach didn’t reach for hers. She kept her shoulders back and her hands folded over her lap. 

We’re not in here for free , she thought as Bertha sat across from them. There’s something she wants from this too.

“Thanks.” Daisy took a gulp from her drink, setting it down with a glassy clink . “So, how come you let us in here anyway? The fighters said you’d be busy right now.”

“Like I said. Friends of friends,” Bertha said and took a sip, not making any move to face them again. She sat with her office chair tilted away from them, as if she was attending to something else entirely, like looking out the window and spectating the match below. “I don’t host royalty because I care about that kinda thing, but you two are the exception. I’m no respecter , as the saying goes.”

Clearly . Peach might have been charmed by being treated impartially, but the aloofness of it was more than enough to make her suspicious. This was probably why she felt no shame with jumping right into the point.

“How do you know Mario?” she asked firmly, just as she would in any other negotiation meeting. “Your associates say that you’re friends with him.”

Bertha took another deliberate sip from her drink before she answered, the lack of urgency that could make anyone impatient.

“Well, you tell me,” she hummed. “You two came down here to one of the last places on earth you’d ever wanna be caught dead at—and to my place, no less—so you must know enough to connect the dots.” Whether she was trying to get them to answer their own question or not, she didn’t wait to hear it. She went on and said, “I used to be his employer. One of them, anyway. This was all back in Brooklyn, as you can probably guess, and all before he went off to become some hero.”

There was a weight that pulled itself off of Peach’s heart when she heard that, when she heard the words “used to” and “Brooklyn”. Just as I thought! Perhaps she should have been more skeptical of such free responses, but it matched with Mario and Luigi’s account perfectly—and it matched with Bertha’s accent as well. She said her words with comparable depth and enunciation as the brothers did, to an extent.

A part of Peach’s relief must have shone through because Bertha seemed pleased with something. The woman began to go through a drawer in her desk, a hand languidly searching for something with the same lack of urgency that Peach was beginning to despise.

“He showed up one day and asked to be in the rosters. Of course, I couldn’t have some nobody mixing in with our guys—for everyone’s sake. My boss at the time kept things air-tight for a reason, girls. But when he came back for the fifth time was when I finally let him in for the night. Well,” she said with a smile, “on the condition that he take himself to the hospital afterwards.”

“That sounds like him alright,” Daisy chuckled. “While I’m thinking about it, do you know why he started in the first place? I still can’t imagine him going into that from out of nowhere.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like, why he started with ring-fighting of all things? Was it really for money or love or something like that?”

“‘The hell are you talking about?” Bertha gave them a look that could make anyone feel ashamed. “Can’t you figure it out?”

Daisy shifted in her seat. “I mean, I was just wondering if you knew specifics. We, uh, were told some things about it already, but my question is—”

“It was for the money, of course. I mean, a young, broke, workin’ guy like him needing extra cash as quickly as possible? Unable to land a good job and not willing to stay in a dead-end one? The city’s a jungle, girlies. I thought even some silver spoons like you two could understand that.”

Peach wanted to defend herself, wanting to say that she knew his reasoning and the circumstances of his finances at the time, wanting to prove that she knew more than what Bertha thought they did, but she didn’t want to embarrass herself further. Mario and Luigi grew up with a different lot in life; she just didn’t know how far that extended. It was better that she didn’t pretend to know the details.

Bertha went back to glancing off towards the side. “Anyways, he kept showing up after that and the boss and I were impressed with his moxie. I mean, when a five foot-something comes walking in and fights our champions without immediately losing, how could you not be impressed?" She wore a smirk on her face. There was something about her smile that was reminiscent of Bowser’s smugness. “Though he wasn’t the best fighter, he definitely made the ring more exciting. He was a favorite among the riskier bettors, which is probably why the boss and I kept him around. Speaking of which. . . .”

The thing Bertha was searching for was finally pulled out from her desk. It was a compact binder, one that was well-worn as if it had survived through a war or two, and it had to be the only ratty thing allowed inside the office. Peach was surprised to see that it was a receipt log, seeing every shade of white and yellow in each paper slot, but there was one slot that had at least an entire inch of papers in it. Closer inspection showed that they were a stack of loose photos and outdated blank checks.

She place one photo across for them to see, which was a picture of some bar. “I think this was all around the same time that I opened up my own place. Since I was the boss’s right-hand woman, I got to operate in his territory and get all the perks that come with it. I was pretty much safe when all the trouble really began to start for him. Eventually, I hosted the majority of the ring at my place because he needed someone reliable when he was in hot water. The ring was his biggest money-maker, so of course he’d let me oversee it.”

Bertha described how her boss was apart of rivaling family drama. It involved decades worth of organized crime and inheritances, how that kind of world revolved around blood bonds, marriages, and some sort of a thieves’ code. Luckily, Peach was able to bridge together most of it, even if Bertha bragged about her “origin story” with more half-finished stories than full ones. From what she could tell, Bertha was one of the few “contacts” that still “made it” even when the boss was “dethroned”, inheriting a part of his territory and fighting ring once the “dust settled”.

Bertha flipped through some more photos, smiling and no longer bothering to show them. “Now I look back on being both a bar-owner and a ring manager, and I realize that I was sitting very pretty compared to a lot of people at the time. I think me making all that wealth so early on—and from nothing, relatively speaking—is why the boss made sure to take care of me, and why his family kept contact with me. I’m sure you understand how investments work in that line of business. But, even though I was established in the community, I still had some legal hoops to jump through.”

Peach was about to ask her to elaborate, especially now that the conversation had derailed significantly, but she was cut off when a document was slid across to her.

“Now, I’m no lawyer,” she began with a shameless grin, “but it’s amazing how a few words can make all the difference, don’t’cha think?”

She only needed to skim the first paragraph before a frown could settle on her face, one that she couldn’t stop from showing. Of course Bertha’s business was considered a rotary club. She couldn’t pinpoint exactly which legislation protected regulated card clubs, community raffles, and networking groups, but she knew that Bertha’s “Enterprise” was considered legal on paper. It didn’t help that there were legitimate tax breaks— entirely valid tax documentation! —cited within the paper either. Was the city council in on this? Or were they just as blindsided as she was?

“If you want to see the numbers, I can find last month’s donation efforts,” Bertha offered. “I think all the funds for that went into the Kingdom’s humanitarian efforts for displaced Goombas.”

Peach fought to keep her face neutral. “Is this why you brought us in here?”

“Sure, just to cover my bases while you’re here. I don’t think you’d wanna pull the plug on all this generosity—and especially during this Power-ups shortage either. Wanna see the totals on the next page?”

Truly, Peach wasn’t even thinking about dismantling anything yet. She was still basking in the relief of knowing that Mario was safe, not yet ready to even think about how she would tackle this next problem. With the inclusion of social-politics and charity funds, dealing with Bertha’s operation was going to be a royal headache, an undertaking that had to be approach with the prudence of a heart surgeon. Yet, at least it explained why Bertha let them in so readily. This might have been what she was after from them this whole time—the chance to cover her tracks before the hounds were unleashed—but Peach wasn’t ready to surrender all of her suspicions just yet.

Bertha drained the rest of her glass, setting it aside and flipping through more of the photos, content with absorbing herself with her own memory lane.

“Yep, you can thank me for these lil’ relief efforts,” she said without looking up. “I know for a fact that a lot of people rely on these things—both in and out of my reach—so it’d be heartbreaking to see it go away, don’t you agree?”

“Was this something you learned from your boss?” Peach asked.

She seemed to be holding back a laugh. “No, I just adapt to what my people and I need in the moment. You’d know how that goes, I’m sure.”

Before Peach could say something she would regret, or even reveal a single twitch of annoyance in her face, the owner finally set down another photo for them to see.

“This was when he won his first Fighter’s Triad—a thing we did once a month—and he and the boys were celebrating at my bar.” She set down a few more photos that were of the same scene but from different angles. “This was when all of the fights were moved to my place and I became the forewoman of it all, like from what I was saying earlier. I was writing everyone’s paychecks while still doing what I loved.”

Peach didn’t need to look closely to see that it was one of the photos from the pub. It was the one where Mario and his buddies were sitting at a long table and sharing a round, all in various states of awareness. Though she appreciated finally getting to know the context of the photos—only supporting Mario’s alibi even further—she found herself uninterested. She got what she came for; her Mario was innocent and just as trustworthy as she knew him to be. There was nothing more she needed—but there was still something she wanted . She couldn’t pinpoint what exactly, whether that be more about Bertha’s business or not, but there was something that needed to be satisfied before Peach could walk away from this.

“Why did you come here to my Kingdom anyway?” she asked suddenly. It was sudden enough to make Daisy take a glance at her. 

“Probably for the same reason you did.” She made an uncommitted shrug. “I think us humans just find ourselves down here, don’t ya think?”

“So you just left everything behind in Brooklyn?”

“Who said I left it? For all you know, I still have it. Haven't you thought of that possibility?"

“I have,” Peach blurted, feeling somewhat dumb for answering a clearly rhetorical question. “In any case, your dealings are not what I came here for. I came here solely for Mario’s well-being.”

“Is that what you call it?” Bertha smirked, and it took all of Peach’s restraint not to glare. “Seems to me like you’re just doing your duty and keeping tabs on him. But, hey, don’t get me wrong,” she said quickly—as quickly as a nonchalant person could be. “I understand why you’re doing this. Who am I to judge? We all gotta do what we gotta do. But rest assured, Peachy-girl, that that boy’s not gonna abandon you and go back to any old ring. I know that for certain.”

There was a million things she wanted to say—and even more things she wanted to blurt out—but she ended up saying, “Why are you so sure?”

“Well, I think you already know why. When he’s in on something, he’s sold to it.” She shook her head, a slight purse in her lips. “That was probably why it was so hard to pull the plug on him when I did.”

“Pull the plug?”

She waited for her to continue, waiting for the momentum to continue without interruption, but it seemed like Bertha preferred to have others hold their breath for her. It was obvious with how she had acted so far, the act being more intentional than not. Even Daisy was feeling the brunt of it. Peach could see that she was fidgeting with the rings on her fingers, not seeming to notice doing it.

Before she could ask again, Bertha snorted. “Peachy-girl, that boy wouldn’t have stopped ring-fighting if he had any say in it. He just doesn’t know when to quit—Then or now.”

That made the inside of Peach’s mouth sour. Whether it was what she said, how she said it, or even the fondness with which she said it, it all rubbed her the wrong way—even more so than any passive-aggressive slight that had been made so far. He just doesn’t know when to quit . It was a saying that everyone in Mario’s circle repeated, all to the point where it became something of an inside joke. To her, it was an endeared strong suit, one of the things about him that she held in high regard. But, with it said with Bertha’s mouth, it somehow felt like a violation of privacy.

Daisy was the one to ask, “What do you mean? We talked with his brother, Luigi, about it and Mario stopped when he found out about it.”

Bertha ignored her, clicking her tongue and leafing through a few more photos. “It was during some championship when he got sent to the emergency room—Well, sent for a serious reason. Though he did manage to get his opponent to go with him,” she added with a smile like it was some funny afterthought. “But then his emergency contact got called and he never came back. Is that what you’re wanting to know?”

Daisy frowned, which helped to validate what Peach was feeling too. “Well, yeah? Luigi told us that he got a call that Mario was in the ER and that’s how he found out and then made him stop.”

“Mario promised him that he would quit and he did,” Peach added.

“Look, I’m sure he promised not to, but he certainly would’ve kept going if his brother wasn’t the wiser. He came into the ring alone for a reason, girls, and he only gave me an emergency contact when I made him, so I knew he had a family that wouldn’t approve of his side gig. I was the one writing the checks so I knew that he made more in a weekend than he would working as some construction worker or plumber or whatever the hell he was doing then.” Bertha took on a thoughtful look, a complete shift in the look she just had. “Maybe that’s why he took on hero-ing. There’s a lot to be had in it, isn’t there? That’s probably how he funded all those sport tournaments now that I think about it.”

Peach shook her head. “Look, we know he promised not to go back to ring fighting, so there’s no need to—”

“And you can thank me for that. He only stopped because I’m the one that ratted him out in the first place. I called his contact and told him what was up. If I didn’t, then hell if I know what things would look like now.”

“ You’re the one that call?” Daisy asked. “Why would you do that?”

“Why so surprised?” she shot back. “D’you think I’m some heartless broad or something?”

“N-no, just why would you tell Luigi anything if you knew he was hiding it from him? Mario seemed like a good enough fighter for you to keep him, right?”

Instead of some cocky response or a deflecting question—or even sugared words to gain control of the conversation—Peach was surprised when there was no response. Bertha made no move to fill the air with her voice, instead keeping her eyes down on the photos in her hand, her thumb stroking the corners in thought. There was something overshadowing her face that she couldn’t quite describe. Maybe it was something sober or regretful, but there was also a glint in her eye that made it hard to define. Regardless, Peach knew she had to pay attention to whatever was revealed next. The owner seemed inclined to brag about herself, so maybe she was predisposed to oversharing whatever was on her mind as well. Except, just as soon as it appeared was how fast it left.

She looked up and gave them a small smile. “I mean, sure, he got some head trauma from the fight, but it was nothing unheard of. I didn’t have to call anyone, but I did anyways.” In a calculated motion, she set down the photos, uncrossed her legs, and leaned towards them. She lowered her voice, saying, “Just between us girls, I think I did it because I had a soft spot for the lil’ guy. He was a fan favorite for sure, so I guess I didn’t want to see him ruin himself. It’d be such a shame if he ended up like everyone else, wouldn’t you think?”

“What do you mean?” Daisy asked on both of their behalf.

“I’m not sure if I should be telling his business, but you two are alright with me. Y’see. . . he probably never told anyone this, but he used to be a terrible drunk. Almost half the cash I gave him ended up back in my pocket after a night out with the boys.” She sat back again, barely concealing the indulgent frown on her face. “I mean, either mine or one of my girls’. It was either Darla or Arabella, but I can’t remember which one.”

Daisy’s jaw dropped to the ground.

“Actually, I think it was both.”

“ Really? ”

“Yep, he was quite the menace, even if he’s got a bit of a babyface. The mustache helps though, don't you think?” She began to put some of the photos away, organizing them in some personalized order. “Even though it was entertaining to see him be broken in, I guess I didn’t want to see him completely lose himself. It wasn’t the life for him.”

“ Actually? ” Daisy asked aloud. “I. . . I can’t even imagine—”

“I might’ve benefited from having him around,” she kept going, the shadow of something returning to her face, “but I couldn’t just let him destroy himself—and for something stupid like money. It wasn’t worth it, but he certainly wasn’t gonna stop himself, so I made the decision for him. Though I suppose that’s a new concept to you, princess.”

Peach didn’t need to look up from her folded hands to know that Bertha was looking at her. She couldn’t bring herself to see the clearly amused face across from her, not when she struggled to reign in a deepening scowl. 

Instead, Daisy took the bait, saying, “What does that mean?”

“Hey—What I’m tryna say here is that I get why it’s hard to let him go,” she said in a vaguely kind way, still looking at Peach. “It’d be even harder in your shoes, so I get it. The moment he leaves is the moment your kingdom’s up for grabs, but I’m sure you already know that, Peachy-girl. I’m pretty sure everybody does at this point.”

“Is that how you feel, Bertha?” Peach asked.

“Feel? Honey, I know it! There’s no way you’d keep him around if you didn’t understand that—or for this long. How many times has he saved you again? I think it’s past speculation at this point that you got him wrapped around your finger. Why else would you come here and ask about him?” She ignored whatever defense that Daisy spluttered out. “But don’t take it the wrong way. This isn’t an attack on your character or anything. I’m just saying that we’re not too different. We’re both pillars in our communities—you keep the peace, I write the checks—so of course we have the duty to look out for people like him. It’s in our best interest. I, on the other hand, just happened to let him go before he got worse.”

“You think that’s what this is about?”

“I can say it out loud if you want me to,” Bertha began, aiming a look at her that would have made a lesser woman flinch. “That boy has it bad for you. Everyone with eyes can see that.”

Truly, that wasn’t something she expected to hear from her. She was gearing herself for another attack, but the moment any of that was mentioned—the very thing she hoped, struggled, and pined for—was the moment Peach faltered.

“I—He—We’re just good friends—”

“Then my point stands. He just doesn’t know when to quit, even if he’s being led on for one reason or another.”

It took every ounce of restraint she had to stop from sneering and spitting out a remark, but she couldn't stop the heat rising in her face. It wasn’t bashfulness from being told that Mario might be in love with her, or even shock from such corrupt political implications, but it was from the sheer audacity this woman had in telling it to her face. The public could speculate all they wanted—Peach kept her private life behind closed doors for a reason—but Bertha had no right to talk to her like she knew anything about it. Though Peach had experience in dealing with difficult topics, how could she react to this? How could she rebuttal that Bertha’s accusations were completely false? That she and Mario had talked about this misunderstanding before? That they have communicated openly and respectfully after the whole moon debacle? That she sometimes worried if she signaled her feelings clear enough or if Mario even liked her back? If whatever feelings he might have for her survived this long? Truly, truly , she wanted nothing more than a relationship with him if circumstances permitted. That was something Bertha couldn’t understand. For as much as she was tempted to put her foot down and explain herself, she wasn’t about to throw pearls before swine. 

While this would have been one of those times where Peach should swallow her pride and steer the conversation back to something tamer, her self-respect wouldn’t allow it. She refused to give this woman the satisfaction of getting to her, refusing to give an inch to the anger that raked through her insides, even if all this offense came out of nowhere—and truly it did. There was hardly any reason for Bertha to say this to her face. Bertha was a business woman; everything she did was intentional—so why waste time with her? Why waste her breath on things that don’t involve her, unless. . . .

Beside her, Daisy was growling something in her defense, but Peach couldn’t pay attention to it. She was too busy looking at Bertha’s face again, seeing an underlying vengeance that she was able to finally recognize, something that had been there this whole time. With this final clue, it began to make sense: what the point of all of this was, why Bertha allowed this whole meeting, and what she got to gain from it. In fact, now that she thought about it, it supported one of her earlier theories from the start.

Before anything else could be said, Princess Peach got up from her chair. She stood up with as much grace as she knew how to and leveled the owner with a smile.

“Though I don’t appreciate your insinuations, I’ll never turn down feedback when it is given. I’ve found some of your comments eye-opening, and I’ll definitely make sure to take it as constructive criticism," she said.

Bertha hummed. “Well, I’m overjoyed to hear it then. Maybe now you’ll give some leeway to your boytoy.”

She cleared her throat. “Before I leave, I have one more question for you, if you’d indulge me.”

“Sure, though I can’t imagine it’s anything I haven’t touched up on yet.”

“When you had to flee Brooklyn, was it because of your boss’s drama or was it problems of your own making?”

In an instant, Bertha frowned. She leveled a look at her, her eyelashes being the only barrier from the full force of her glare. “The hell are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about your wall.” Peach pointed to the side of the room. “They all have the same faces and the same layout, so your time as a ringleader in Brooklyn wasn’t nearly as long as you want us to believe. The photos in your desk only prove this. They all have the same men in them, and Mario—who only fought for a few months, like Luigi told us—was in more than half of them. And I can’t imagine that you decided to stop the ring just because, so clearly you had a good incentive to leave everything behind.”

There was a lull between them, one where the two had a staring match while their responses were brewing. Daisy was halfway up from her chair, unsure whether to stand up or sit back down, as if either option would ignite the tension in the room.

“Ballsy guess, princess.”

“I’m confident in it.”

“Regardless of why I left,” Bertha began, “it hardly matters to you, Peachy-girl. You weren’t even there to know for yourself.”

“You came here for him, didn’t you?” Peach asked, seeing how Bertha began to struggle for stoicism—the same struggle that Peach had been dealing with this whole time. “When things went wrong in Brooklyn, you came here in hopes that he would help you out like he does everyone—”

“ I wasn’t about to —” She cut herself off with a scoff. There was a kaleidoscope of emotions on her face, each one bleeding into another the longer she sat and looked away. Soon enough, she settled on disgust. “Yeah, sure , I might’ve come down here for a fresh start, but I wasn’t planning on dragging him back. He has his own life now. Too busy savin’ people’s asses to be bothered by any old ties. That’s all true, but you can deny it all you want.”

“I’m not denying anything. I know that’s true too. If Mario was helping you in some way, we’d all be hearing about it. He’s not the kind to keep secrets, no matter what you said about him.”

“I dunno what you’re talking about—”

"Don't try that. I see exactly what you’re doing,” Peach said with no small amount of spite. “Mario’s never been a drinker because he hates the smell and having the headaches. He doesn’t sleep around because he promised his ‘mama’ that he wouldn’t. And he promised to stop fighting because he loves his family more than anything else your place had to offer. And guess what? You might’ve known him first, but I know him better, so stop pretending like he's someone else because you aren’t fooling anyone.” 

When there wasn’t another sharp word or glare was when Peach knew she hit the nail on the head. Bertha had gone still, her body still pointed at them but her head turned away. It was hard to tell what she was thinking, but Peach could at least see the same shadow from before, dejection falling across her face like some kind of veil.

"Look—” She began after a moment, her voice no longer projecting across the room like before. “I might've spun a few things, but I was being genuine about why I let him go. He really was hurting himself, in a way. He. . . he enjoyed the thrill too much. He had a hard time saying no to himself when he got going, even when it didn’t make any sense. So, whether you like it or not, that part’s all true. He really, really did have a problem."

Peach might have pushed for a more detailed answer, wanting to know more about this supposed ‘problem’, but the rawness with how Bertha explained it was enough to pacify her. In fact, she was able to understand her better in that moment than any amount of time spent trying to guess.

“I believe you, Bertha. I’ve seen him get caught up in challenges from time to time too, so I understand,” Peach said softly. “But he was getting carried away, so you let him go. You did it because you loved him.”

“Don't flatter yourself. You don’t understand shit.”

“I get the feeling that I do, actually. You wouldn’t have called Luigi and you wouldn’t have let us in if you didn’t. You aren’t in his life anymore so this was the next best thing—”

“So what ?” Bertha snarled, locking her eyes back onto her. “Whether I am or not, it doesn’t change the fact that he’s trapped with some pretentious bitch because he’s too much of a good guy to walk away from her helpless ass. He can’t give up for the right or wrong reasons, and that’s why he’s staying put as your footstool. So, tell me, princess , are you really just keeping him around as some political example, or are you really just that stupid to make him wait on you?”

To even the most anchored person, the accusation would have been a slap to the face. Peach would be lying if she said she wasn’t shaken by it, if she wasn’t unnerved by Bertha’s clenched jaw and head tilted in faux curiosity, all aimed squarely at her. And yet, not in the anticipated or intended way, she was caught off guard with how enlightened she felt. Making him wait for me? There was a dawning realization that made all other doubts wash off of her, clearing her mind in a way that even reassurance from a friend couldn’t replicate.

“You’re right,” Peach said slowly, almost in awe, “I have been making him wait for me. I should’ve realized it sooner.”

I’ve been in my own way this whole time. Their friendship made her forget that Mario still viewed her as a princess, still kept a courteous distance from her in the name of social order, and—ever the gentleman—wouldn’t dare to make the next move without permission. Especially since the moon debacle. How could she overlook that? How could she put him on hold while she worried about the consequences of dating a non-royal? Mixed-class relationships were a needless propriety that could be eradicated with the right strategy and Peach was more than willing to fight it. Besides, Mario deserved it. If she were to create the right circumstances for them to move forward, then she absolutely had to include him. There was no need to make such one-sided decisions anymore, not when he had been so patient with her.

To think that the rantings of a jealous hater was all she needed to see her error. Now Peach had no problem keeping herself upright, her response beginning to surface with the ease of an experienced diplomat. In fact, much to the confusion of the other two women, she couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across her face, just like how a champion would in the last few moves of a chess game. 

“Like I said, I appreciate constructive criticism when it’s given. I’ll make sure to clear up any confusion that the public may have about me and Mario. There’ll be no guessing anymore.” Peach picked up Daisy’s hand and guided her up from her seat. “Actually, I think I’ll begin now by asking you to take down those photos of Mario from around your establishment. I wouldn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea.”

Bertha looked daggers at her. “Or else what? Gonna arrest me or something?”

“No, just asking as a friend. Although, I highly recommend that you update your policies before I make a few more ‘hoops’ for you to jump through. I’d hate to see your rotary club get shut down, but I think you’ll get creative.”

When there was no response, no other attempt to get the last word in, Peach gave a polite smile. “Thank you for your time. Have a good night.”

The Princesses left the office, seeing themselves out and entering into the elevator. The whole stadium was calm now. There were still crowds of people circling the betting tablets, but the noise was a low rumble, just as an audience would make during a long intermission.

Once they walked out of the fighters’ hallway and into the club again, Daisy started snickering. 

“What?”

“Y’know, I was gonna be cute and say that Bowser’s been rubbing off on you, but I don’t think he could pull that off. That was brutal !”

Peach laughed with her. It was easy to laugh since the only thing she wanted to do now was wipe off her eyeliner.