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KOOPALINGS: THE TEENAGE YEARS

by Eightane

CHAPTER XIV: ASSEMBLY

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Out in the grass, under a torrent of rain, walked the Italian. Sheets of water coming down, rustling the blades of turf, but vaporizing on him. His gait was one too solid for an injured man, too steady and unlaboured. Fire was the colour of his clothes, the temp of his blood. Flashes struck around him, making strobe lights around shadows of trees. They stood scattered in pastureland, losing leaves to the biting wind. He held a hand forward; an orange ball grew, its glow brighter with every twitch of his moustache. He set it loose, bouncing ahead, hopping from burn-spot to burn-spot. He didn't need the light from it, or heat, it was just to see the flame. Even had the lightning not put up silhouettes of the castle, distant but closer every footstep, he could close in by the lights in their windows. Ignorant devils, they left everything visible. Could be that they invited the fight... Wouldn't be the first time.

He broiled, more of anger than his coursing power, but it didn't rob his knowledge that they knew. From that checkpoint Tom had crashed through, all eyes in this dark place would be looking. Reports were already out, he had surety, just like he knew they would fail. After seeking, maybe finding him, what have they to do then? He'd trampled their city's quarter to ruins. The soldier princes and princess, all their weaponry made mincemeat of buildings, their own assets, not him. Thin bloodtrails were streaked by rain. Flesh torn up, but clothes fresh as the atom bomb's worth of might inside them. Mario was a walking sun. Lightning cracked like death's whip, close by.

And then his luck ran out.

BLAHHMMM!!... The sound didn't mesh with what one thinks of, when a bolt hits the ground. This, in Mario's ears, before a total silence. Vision was white. The man who just a moment before stomped down grass in sopping footprints, fell limp, laid down by a million watts. He'd been struck. Fire Mario was down, by the most unlikely, fatal hand of nature. Deadly to any normal mortal.

His ears started ringing. Eyesight was milky-pearl but fading back in. He felt... There. Alive. And in a way he couldn't name, since having never felt.

His hand mashed the ground, swampy mud, and it glowed. Slowly he pushed up from this, and the whole field went brighter, like a lantern was lifted high to shine upon it. His hat fell, and from the yellow, searing fabric, mini-bolts jumped and licked at the wheat and weeds mixed in with grass. His overalls billowed, bulged neck-to-pants-cuffs. They contained a light within, a man's skinglow that made him squint it was such a star's worth of energy shooting up the neckline, through the sleeves' ends. He lived, and became something more. Volt shrooms could electrify him, but this made that a blip on the tiniest charge graph. Mario's hair sparked, then ignited. Burning and not turned to ash, not going out. He took a step, and a tree exploded, zapped by his open hand... From thirty feet away. He took more steps, his mouth held thin, no longer tasting blood. He had felt no pain, but now he truly had none. More than human.

His march toward the castle lit up satellites. Seen from space, a hero so glaring. Deliberate in strolling for the city, and the palace, to the ends of confronting a doomed enemy. He'd had ego prior to all of this... Now, he pitied them. Weather, or God himself, made him a god.

He breathed double-time. Photons blinded all the night's creatures unlucky enough to look on him. Rueing the oncoming fight, his win so assured it was a sad joke. Lizard men would bow to him like they never had that paltry king.

"Jesus, you see that?" Asked a distant, older fireman, in the engine's passenger seat. Amid a black storm and driving rain, something lit the outline of the mountains like a bomb of light. No explosion, smoke, but as if the ground belched out a giant spotlight for one gasp-length moment. His driver, the captain, didn't answer... Too hard to listen AND keep this red municipal truck from a slide and jackkniving off the road.

Ahead, two hundred yards, were the wrecked car and some wrecked-looking forms in close proximity. They pulled up; the fire truck's wheels pushed mud out either side of its tread valley. Blue lights from a squad car weren't behind by more than two breaths. What looked to be two bodies were lit in their departments' siren hues. Fireman koopas jumped out and off the engine, pulled a giant hose, blasted the flames off an ex-convertible. Another city car parked by the policeman's... This one like a squad car, but red like the FD's, the Fire Sheriff. In Bowser's holds, the man in each World to wear this uniform had military roots. That which struck fear into the lowly street patrols, the pawns or even low-rank soldiers, it's all what Bowser wanted; no one had such a title without this, nor without the royal's anointing consent. This one jerked open his door, but stood with slow prestige, gung-ho as any old-time highway patrol. His clearest trait, part of an ear missing - torn off in an event best left unmentioned - showed how many fucks he'd give.

He was second also to approach the bodies lying in-state... As he'd assumed they were, but this changed by seeing one cough as he strut up to the blood-splattered scene. Tom and Morton were in sleeves of caked mud, bleeding all down the rags of clothes in shreds and hammocks over gashes and sliced flesh. If both were still 'with them', either one looked more likely to expire. One man's eye lay swollen to a grapefruit-size cyst. The other's arm twisted in ways it shouldn't. Destroyed, extensively, like boys torn to pieces in an alley gangup.

The policeman felt his own frantic sweat through the rain, and gave first aid to the lighter face with a distinct mark at its eyeline; he knew who this was. Narrowly his own eyes aimed him, hid professionally the fear, a 'nobody' swabbing Morton down. The prince moved, but didn't utter a word nor sound. Next to him smoke rose up. The Fire Sheriff hid his face, the squint, just by habit; neither the prince nor the man whose back was smoldering a foot away were conscious to offend. Sheriff got down on one knee, and slapped the back of the officer. Morton woke when the policeman's jolt jabbed the sterilizing wipe into his ribcage.

"Looks like we're in time, no need to jump out yer skin." He glanced to the cop, then swung to Morton, whose eyes rolled helplessly, severely in shock. His pointer finger wagged. "And you, don't make me wrong there. I'm not above beatin' up a dead man."

The officer's brow came well up hearing that, but knowing his place he only cleaned Morton's chest and stomach. He had to ask, though. "Y-you see that earlier?" What he'd thought of was a ball of light... Familiar query for the other man. He kept on it, though, babbling. "I mean I got the call there was a car fire, and next thing you know sky's gone grey and I'm lookin' for the source, and-"

"-Yeah, I saw." The Sheriff made it gutteral, and this seven-year veteran of the PD aside him clammed up like a battered housewife. Mr. Sheriff had went to eyeing the man by Morton; smoke was about gone, so it might just be the clothes that were ablaze. His hand patted down what could've been a hip at one time, too charred to tell. "I wanna hope this poor shitass can save his skin, that they don't have to snip it and graft. But..." He shot looks to the car and back, wrinkles at his cheeks and ears tight. "... Just to make it 'til now, with the plumber, give these jerkoffs a medal."

The officer's eyes went truly wide. He stopped still. "... The call about Mario today, that's the same car! S-Sheriff Baines, I can't- I mean what the fuck's goin' on sir?"

"Steady, badge, we're all in this goose chase together." He pulled his radio and gripped on the side button. "Base One, need two EMTs with Level 3 priority, none of that slowass carriage ride, I repeat, Level 3. We got nobles in the cab." The officer had centered and returned to protocol, feeling Morton's pulse at the wrist, checking the pupils with a light. Baines reached down, felt Morton's face right in front of the officer. Even pinched the cheek. "... We'll stitch you up, and you'll tell us what that pastaphile said and did in your ride, won't you?" All this won him was a few lolls of those eyes. In a state near-comatose, Morton provided nil. Baines sighed, and stood, looking straight up in the rain, not wincing. "Damned shame, kid. It can't ever be easy, can it." His hands met his hips, his rather healthy-size arms jutting. In a few seconds more, he spoke casual. "And don't this beat all. Storms from the West, aurora in the East."

The policekoopa saw Morton stir, move his legs some, but he'd also heard Baines just now. The light pulse had been crazy, but not really what 'aurora' means. He had natural inclination, and looked skyward.

Dazzling blues, greens and orange trailed the air. Under clouds. Licking at them, in a sight unheard of through the ages, pushing at thunderheads. Still they rained down but curtains of light rained up, bouncing good chunks of them. It was half a mile off, too low for any of them to spot, where the incandescent hero walked. He shined these bellicose rays up to the storm. The strength to beat on Mother Nature, under Bowser's nose. No one had connected the dots; when they did, they'd be too late to save a single thing, even if they learned now where and what he was.

And most of this occurred to one man. Baines had seen no corpse IN the car, Mario was missing... The shorty had powers, a sad fact so established. Sheriff's lips felt dry even in the sheets of water falling. They parted, his jaw numb. He mumbled half of what he said to the officer. "Next man you call is at the castle guard. And that's the next thing you do, right now."

Morton stirred more; Tom's neck twitched. Sheriff Baines and the men in fire suits dousing the last of a former car gawked at a light show; it grew feral, the curtains taller and vivid as LED's in miles-high sweeps. Policekoopa dabbed a prince's face of dirt and blood, and gave the sign of the cross. In Holy Mary's name he sent thanks for his own service. Then he pleaded.

******************************************************

Deep in the bowels of castle's hospital wing, the time had arrived. Double-doors swung open, pushed by a cart, on its top a resting prince in the blankness of anaesthesia. Lights above were severe, well-maintained... A claustrophobic could have a field day with this room, a ten-by-fifteen white box amid the hallways of docs and assistants, catheters and CAT scan machines. A third of it at least was filled by devices; some would read Ludwig's vitals, some would sit by for if the unthinkable happened. The three nurses - two on Ludwig's left, one at his right - let their sweat run as it may, praying the defibrillator stayed just where it was. Or the needle w/ adrenaline, for if electric shock couldn't bring about hope. These were all the worst things imaginable, and the mental anguish for five men in their life's trying moment. They would fight to keep these from who lay limp between them, Ludwig's prone form meeting the two in surgeon's scrubs, already there before their helpers. The prep had been done, tools arranged, operating table shining and germless.

One nurse wiped his brow. The senior doc spotted this. He didn't even scowl; his handlebar 'stache twitched once, he held up his finger and pointed that rube right out of the room. No salty fluids would contaminate their subject, their cause. The nurse left, looking not dejected but relieved. He could feel his blood pressure go down, walking out towards other patients. Any commitment outside of this was better. And in a while, the punishment for carelessness was preferable.

The largest machine present never touched the floor. Ceiling mounts secured a laser, built more intricate and complex than physiology. A titan of engineering, the main instrument for surgery, it would tend Ludwig's wounds, sew him up afterwards. The surgeons still had to 'set' the bones... And one looked to be shifting, so they would be performing an excruciating move, migrating it to its old, correct place. But the overhead megabeam would cauterize and stitch him like the steadiest pair of hands. One surgeon was required to calibrate it, but as he set the dial the other glanced up, outside of any need to. He'd never seen a technological thinkpiece like this baby.

He'd never been in a surgery room before. Or set foot in a classroom. He had memories of Kamek's laugh, flashing through as he directed himelf to Ludwig's arm. Looking over the tissue damage; that would be convincing. He should never let on that he didn't belong; the dark wizard trusted him with this. There would be no tomorrows for Ludwig; when his chance was at hand, by distraction, he would flip a switch or two on this giant laser. Two seconds to make it point at the heir's throat, or his forehead, and it would be done. Nothing would be saving this crown prince, and no guilt lay in the false surgeon for this sacrificed life. What use was it, if not to serve the liberator? Kamek had always been righ,. sending him on this covert subterfuge must not be wrong. It gave the confidence he needed, and by some simple training and reads of stolen textbooks, he moved like he belonged here. Ludwig's arm 'looked okay', not that the other surgeon asked. A nod, and a nod back, signaled the real doc to turn the laser's knob, orient it to the arm.

One quick swipe and the skin and tissue opened like a pocketbook. The two nurses ran around, fetching braces, straps, a long vice with metal flange. They worked twice as fast, down one helper. Ludwig's arms and legs were tied down; the beam's intensity, what sensation it caused, could sometimes get jerks and moans out of a patient even fully-sedated. He was snugly held, and the surgeons stepped in close, driven to be perfect. The authentic staff surgeon knew the price if in a few days Ludwig wasn't fighting fit... On a prior lunch break, Bowser had sent a kindly-looking boy to bring and wave a death warrant in the man's face. Unsigned, as it stood now. Very clearly open to change.

Mr. 'Stache was hovered over the arm; this began the nervewracking part, and he counted on his new equal, standing there as well, holding the arm in two places, keeping the cut positioned. The man was attentive, if a little wild in the eyes... He would check later where the administration had nabbed him from... Transferred from the hills for this crisis, most likely. The hands were steady, while his own switched around the tender mass of tendons, skin layers, many crusted with blood from the injury. His naked eye had years of background, telling scabs or pus from what stayed.

Incisions by the laser were deep; some strings had been severed freshly, and those were superficial. An extra day of healing, and with drugs they'd prescribe, barely noticeable. Though Ludwig might just spend a while in la-la land, a magnificent stupor of morphine and other assorted's. Patients had danced on their beds and made duck calls before... He knew what Esmerelda would be babysitting.

His helper knew the princess would be burying her husband. Every moment he guaged the look on the surgeon's face; intent and moving delicate parts, he shut out everything else. This might be the fatal mistake. The phony had a free hand, furthest from the action, closest to the laser. Cool and careful as any true professional, he moved ever-so-slow to the knob. One turn would refocus it. The button above, he would jam down and no one had time to stop it. Three inches away now, two-and-a-half. Nurses rummaged through cabinets, finding Betadine. Two inches.

He blinked; when they turned to approach, and swab lighter cuts around the neck and shoulder, his hand was down. One opportunity wasted... But the rest would come, and soon. They could coat a skin-deep gash with this remedy in moments. Dark brown liquid was painted on, and he knew enough of procedure to guess the bandages were next. This place wasn't terribly efficient either; neither nurse had remembered the gauze, and so they both went to search it out. Real-surgeon mumbled something about them, too many curses to say aloud, and he chalked it up to nervousness. He had just as much of this, but perservered. The bones were being met up, soft as silk so not to chip anything and win Ludwig painful reminders.

He had absolute attention. The nurses whispered back and forth, where each had seen the 3-width gauze last. Their muted debate bought the saboteur precious time. Hand went up smooth and steady again. Two-and-a-half inches. Two flat. He could see it now, the scrambling and him running out, dodging orderlies, pursuers, all with a lifeless husk behind them. It was close enough to taste. One inch. Half a second before he pulled the figurative trigger.

*SNAP*. Flecks of blood spurted up and tagged his nose. He squinted. The surgeon said an audible 'Damnit", level in tone. A ligament had been stretched that they didn't realize. It broke, and bright red fluid made a beeline for the false doctor. It ran down his nostril. Some made it inside.

His eyes went wide. He heaved. Almost like theatrics, eyes all around were now on him. He shook his head, and started to make an excuse, that he was sleepless or not well himself. It stammered out. Kamek himself had never gave him fear like this, gripping him this sudden. He looked around, made a judgement, and stayed with it. He would not run. It was not over.

But the surgeon had other ideas. And his hand, put on the other 'doctor's shoulder, made courteous warning. "You're compromised. Can't have you getting sick in here, you need to go cool off." He glanced at the older and taller of the two nurses. "I can have him hold this. You've done well, don't be ashamed. Just take a breather."

What he saw as a favour - and the right policy for this - the pretender took with a heart heavy as stone. This was it. No way could he reach up now and fumble with that... Goddamn thing long enough to carry out orders. He was sent out, and as he truly knew, sent to his death. A man who shouldn't have been there still walked out those double-doors with misted eyes. All he didn't know now, was how Kamek would choose to snuff him, make right the balance and his uselessness.

He had head and chest held high, passed in the hall by two teenagers. They didn't see him exit, and wouldn't care at all; Todd and Morie had come to call. Asking around they determined where Ludwig was, where the family waited, and from there, where they might find Lemmy and be the bro's he'd need right about now. They assumed this was why he'd been silent, no texts or calls, from concern for his brother. They were wrong.

A speechless koopa in surgeon scrubs left past the front check-in. The receptionist called out 'doctor?' and got no return. She was the last to see him, a man forever after missing.

******************************************************

Water flowed down the turnpike, shallow streams on the curb. Rain had just recently left this place, and steam rose in the moonlight. Roy cut a shambling path through it, on a wide sidewalk, still too narrow for his bowlegged march. No one besides was out. Cars flew by, and their gusts of drag slapping his back didn't help to stabilize. One false move, and all would be lost.

He mumbled, less legible than a preacher speaking in tongues. They were full thoughts, and in his mind very clear though the mouth struggled to make them. Regrets and questions more than anything. Not different ones than the past year or three had put in him. Their weight, maybe, was worse now. Closing in on him and the lines, the pills, fanned them away, bought him time in that bitter respect.

He leapt in terror; a car had just honked its horn at him, a high and shrill one. He was not prepared, and for the next two seconds, light chest pain. It would not get worse, but had jarred him senseless; and being already there in another way, somehow the mind's fog was negated, long enough for his sister's voice to pierce his waking trance.

"I said get in! And I don't care if you can stroll out here or NOT, I don't want you getting shivved!!"

Her choice of words belied a mistrust of the city and its 'finest'. But independent of that, Roy turned, moved his feet five times just to finish a 180, and sort of breathed his words toward her general direction. "Goin' out. Wanna be respectful? Space? For me?"

"You won't have much space in the infirmary, or worse. Don't say hi to Ludwig that way. Now!"

He... was convinced. She had a way with the jerk tones, properly motivated. He straightened up, and walked remarkably well, though zigzaggy, to the convertible. Top was down... He managed to notice, and that it would be a cool drive after storms to have that open. But, it might do him good. The orange tabs always made him sweat; this would end that.

She had the back right door open for him, and he fell in, more as a joke than anything. Rather than laugh, she slammed the door on his legs, bending them. His goofy snickers turned quickly to a muffled "Unh-"

Before he could wrench up and bitch at her, she was in the driver's seat, keys in, door locks mashed down. He got up, and saw her face in the center mirror. It wasn't the drive that would be chilling him... She had the look on her. Deadly stare a million miles ahead. Limbs steady as the petrified forest. She cranked her chariot, it purred, and they merged back into turnpike traffic.

Faster than the traffic.

Bikes and ATVs, Minivans and Caddies honked at her, as she threaded the needle. Roy's eyes were about the size of the headlights. She didn't have hers on. This was by choice, and by Roy's frantic garbled yelps. "Whoa, fuckin' slow! Like... Now, you said now, I'M saying now!" Fright put a polish on his vocals.

She heard, and went faster. Ducked around the left fender of a dump truck, paralleled it within an inch. So close, Roy could hear the spin of the axle, as he gripped their car's upholstery, tearing it with the force of his hands' PSI. She heard him rip the plush, and it would surprise no one that this didn't cool her down. The dump truck blared its air horn and had him nearly leap out the seat belt - something worn now for the first time since 'tweenhood - and he couldn't close his mouth for the screams as they shot by an Escalade like the driver was standing still. Wendy's lips were twisted into fervid knots. She felt like a med school graduate; all the words she had for huge subjects, distilled down in a speech. She'd had the time to pick and arrange.

Now, she quarter-turned, eyes enough on the road to watch. Her tone was at its strongest and surest. "Thought you might wanna see Larry and Lemmy. You know, before they're gone. Could be for weeks, or maybe for good. Who's to say." The spedometer hit 110... In two seconds it'd be 120, with her accelerating. An old man in a Civic swerved as the drag hit him; he rear-ended a sardine truck. Roy screamed bloody murder... His heart beat in his fingertips, in his swimming head. Wendy spoke on, unwavering. "It's funny, you don't come up much at the castle, when you're not the butt of jokes. We don't think it has to be that way. No need, just your choice. Is it fresh out tonight?" She lifted polished fingernails, ruffling hair, casual at 135. Her ears caught Roy hurling; the left side would need a wash and wax. Strangely this affected her none; convictions were already where they applied. The roadway opened up in front of them. A long gap of traffic helped everything; Roy just held his chest, and Wendy had her time to let it out uninterrupted.

"Roy, I don't hate you. Not even what you became, either. Need to know what I hate?... It's other people. You go off nowadays, if you're jacked out of your mind, you're just absent. I don't think Larry understood. Oh, he knows you, no doubt about that. But, they don't see you. Considerate, brash, intuitive. Smart at being stupid. You kept me from worrying, but they shoehorn it back in. It's their fault. But it's your choice." Spots of wetness hit her bedazzled skirt. She let the tears fall where they may. "I know from where I stand it all seems so easy. Never made sense, that something you put in yourself that's not even alive could rule a man like that. I don't deal with what you do. I just see how the world changes around you. And that it leaves you behind, but it doesn't. There's respect when you're there. And gone, there's just snide put-downs, and you're a sandbag they can beat on." She had one final thought; her speed had leveled off, and her foot left the gas. "I want my brother's heart to find theirs."

He had no words, but wet spots of his own on tattered jeans. His gut settled, and Wendy heard upholstery creak. It meant his shoulders heaved. Heavy sobs came in a voice so unaccustomed. Larry had opened the door... His lovely sister, the only one they had or ever would, showed Roy to walk through.

She started to go on. "So if you feel like there's a chance-" She halted, since she now felt a hand on her shoulder. Roy's mitt covered next to her neck, and in this their stress mutually melted. She would've laid her hand upon his, if not for a bunched-up traffic group ahead of their decelerating ride. Still a bit above the limit, she weaved, and by the end of passing they led the 'pack' with no rush. She would circle around, and in this time maybe hear from Roy. Epiphanies don't often come silently, at least at one's lowest point.

His, however, did. If he'd known what she would need to hear, he would still need the fortitude. And broken down, wiping nose and eyes with his sleeve and ignoring the ingrained "macho shame" of it all, he resolved himself to hearing her if she spoke again. Answering if she'd ask something. But if he hadn't words, after this, she didn't either. Enough had been done, for the better.

He did, though, have a simple request, after seven minutes headed back towards palace grounds. "Sis..."

"Go right ahead, Roy. What's on your mind."

"... Swing me by the Royal Burger? I mean, please. Could damn sure use some grease and sugar to wash down what's ahead of me."

She wanted to laugh, but just smiled. "Anything you say. But they have a Princess toy in their kids' meal, so you're buying me one. I'll just say it's for your feminine side."

His lip curled into smarminess, but the eyes still glowed. Happy, though he'd be on the same path as Larry's troubled body. Glad for clear vision, despite blur from weeping. That former wreck would see his two favourite bro's, before duty and misfortune stole their time.

******************************************************

Servants walked the castle hall, too many different ages and uniforms to count. On average days and this imperiled one, it could look like Times Square, koopas and even goombas threading each other's paths for their destinations. And thus it was now, with myriad sad looks to go around, on most every face moving. None were still, except one portly male, a sous-chef for the banquet hall. He'd looked back through the corridor, under and between two staircases. He saw the suits of armour first... A few around him witnessed his wide, ghastly stare, and when seeking where his eyes went, became likewise transfixed. They ALL knew the two men inside those gilded plates, but never saw them in uniforms like that. Spear in each of their left hands. By now twenty workers stood immobile, some with jaws low.

Two princes walked up, and past them, eyes straight as arrows. Not an escort around them of any kind; but looking how they'd been armed, they were their escort. The right hand didn't hold a shield, like olden trends or depictions; for Larry it was a double AK-47, belted on two feeds, for two barrels. In Lemmy's case, it was the cold, sweet grip on 'Bessie', what he'd nicknamed his new pet: launcher for acid grenades and a side piece with a .35 caliber sniper, the scope above sporting crystal lens and crosshairs painted with a pin's head. Heads and bodies alike were unsafe by his any-felt intent. Once in the open, every servant halted and parted down the centerway. It was the first floor, the busiest. Some koopas wound up jumping on other's shoulders to make enough way. Through all of this, the two noblemen could have stayed silent, and none would question why, but this was not what they chose. Larry and Lemmy drummed up low tones, hushed, even reassuring:

"All is calm. Don't worry."

"Rest. Find peace, we'll be winning it there so it stays here."

"We're going for broke, none of you will have to."

"Tend the grounds. Your families. Celebrate the day."

At the gate, four guards would always be. Two outside, two in, mirror images. The ones inside felt daylight on their shoulders when they hunched forward... Or, as it looked, lunged, stomping down. Sumo brothers were not to be fucked with, and now some armoured men were in their sights, too layered to be recognized by the only two that mattered at this literal point. The sumo bros' spears were gleaming, of equal make and alloy to the two men's. They held them out, pushed from three feet away from the men's to two, harsh threats. "Say who the hell you are or you get to see hell." Stated one.

"We don't mind helpin' you travel." Chimed in the other.

Larry, in the same hinged mouthguard as Lemmy - the glorious king's idea - lifted his, and the sumos reacted like it was a writhing mass of tentacles that greeted them. But the royal faces, resolute, showed the grievous mistake guards had made. Large bodies fell to the ground, amusingly swept to their knees by only themselves. One started to beg, his hands literally up in locked fingers by his many chins...

... Lemmy stopped him. "You did your job. Call in your captain and have him switch in two others while you have a lunch break. You don't need to stand watch if you've seen this, God knows you won't be concentrating."

Larry nodded, when they recognized the skater's voice but still saw him. They nodded five faster and more deliberate. Knelt low, all the way until the princes were outside by twenty solid feet. The pair of guards on outer sentry didn't make the same mistake; a Lakitu had been sent to say that warrior-princes were on their way. King Bowser had remembered those, and not the two inside; blame his state of mind, not any better than multitudes below him.

The princes were intended to go out, no pomp or ceremony. This was nothing like the time for that. And they'd have strolled on, already sweating though night and drying puddles cooled the air, if not for footsteps behind them. Wide ones. Greatest in the land, and their personal knowledge. Lemmy grabbed Larry's arm, a man deep in weighted thought, so they would turn together.

Bowser had followed. They saw nothing of the gasps on servants when His Highness had been ten yards to their rear, in perfect pace. Larry, to himself, almost wished he had. Must have been something else.

The king had nothing clear on his face; stern eyebrows, yes, but of any one nature neither one could tell. The duty, and the grief... Those shone hard, from the monarch. His cape was longer than they'd seen on him in years, not since the Water Land rebellion. A collar rose sharply, framing his temples. The cape was for war.

But the first thing Larry did was raise a hand, and actually place it firm on Bowser's chest, accusingly. "You trailed us, and you're out in the open? One shot from a spineless traitor hiding 'round here, and you're toast! What did you say to us up there-"

Bowser put his hand around Larry's wrist; it was gentle, and rubbed him. Lemmy gasped like all the cerfs back inside; nothing predicated kindness like this from his dad. But the scowl was there, and a bit meaner now. "What I said to you, is to you. I have cause here. And you should be so lucky to hear it."

Larry leaned back,slow. He took the subtlety, that being alive, in honours and expected to go fighting for them all, was privelege like no others after these recent years. He even said so. "Forgive me, dad. I have proper worries and... I care about you."

It was no easier to say it than to know why Bowser showed it. Bared hearts were not their ways; Bowser had a time, here and now, where it was well-forgotten. "I know you do that and more. I knew I could have you be what you should have been, and to see I'm right, that has more for me than ever. I came to tell you in confidence, if any ears around us were betrayers."

The brothers understood. They shifted their weight now, trying to look nonchalant. Putting off any suspicions from guards, battalions practicing on grass nearby, the constant company. The King changed nothing in his own posture, always high and stiff, always in grand auras.

His lips felt dry, speech low and flowing. "Some people tell their kids they'll be different after war. You won't be, you were always who I'm seeing now. Took the simplest flick of a wrist to bring it out of you. Larry... Lemmy. I want to start with that, so when I shift here I know you're paying attention. Look me in my eyes' dead-center." They could not have done so any harder. He breathed a pleased refrain. "You do this for the soldiers out there more than me. Their wives and children more than them. Do you know what that makes you?" It sounded like inflation for them, until he went on. "... Do you know what that means for failure also?.." He allowed it to sink in. They sweat inside their armour. He scratched his chin and went on. "Don't think I'd break all the moulds or conventions, I WILL remind you how heavy this is for all. I send you since you're capable, it's best for us politically - don't make me have to explain, either of you silver-spoon feeders - and well, let's have total honesty. You both could well enjoy an outing as action heroes. You're enough like me, you are men." He cracked a smile, and it didn't die through his next words. "... When you're over the last knoll there, feel free to shuffle out of those suits. They're not magic-proof, and I wouldn't march for miles in steel and the boiling sun." Larry smiled like his father.

Lemmy didn't, having assumed the armour was enchanted and thus foolproof. A minor letdown though, with ego and adrenaline high-octane. He looked on like Larry; their king and sire could talk long when he so wanted. "Tradition and appearance' sake, all you have on right now. And as one last aside for you to journey out in good spirits, don't worry about that snake below... Three-headed bother, he is, and under my watch all the time. He thought his methods would escape me." They now struggled, the two princes, not to bend back in exhaled relief. Keeping up their posture, and Bowser kept going. "He's a moron and a fair bit unstable. I had meant to court-martial him, you're not the first two he put to inhuman trials. I heard he had you kill in cold blood, like I asked him to..."

Larry gulped. Any and all humour was over.

"... But he personally got those orders, alone. It's convenient enough to say I didn't speak that, and execute him." Lemmy was bewildered. Quick turns in the events and his opinion of that whole past day, and his father's ways... But the king shifted his weight, legs wider, commanding once again their focus complete. "I see what I knew I would, here. But it IS the time for heartlessness. I encourage you to hate. Start with me if you have to, but project; leave with hate for only one living man. For now, it's not that accursed plumber. Larry..." He had an odd scowl, on his youngest son's bearing. "... You'll be in charge if there's a need for it. But I leave that up to both of you. Lemmy," He swiveled head to Lemmy like a soul-endowed robot, so stiffly pointed. "Mind your control, I heard also how you went for those unlucky guards after growing accustomed. As I said, project it, but in this case... I give you discretion, make use."

He looked to Larry again; he was expected to delegate more, but at once his eyes took on a different look. His browline lifted. Lemmy spotted his lip, on one side, was it... Was it trembling?

"You have my blessings. Win the day. Come home, my sons."

Odd that Larry was the one to get that so directly... For many recent years, it was what he hadn't heard. The family's junior had been humbled by ill health... And now, turning, he didn't even bow. Didn't say a word. He impulsively marched, down the bank and the pathway towards their far, far target. Bowser would not see him cry.

Lemmy, awestruck now more than ever, stared to Larry, back to their king, the motions drastic. He stepped back, 'drawn' to Larry by distraction, but remembered what Larry hadn't. His bow touched his knee to the ground. A far soldier stifled his own snicker... He hadn't heard the precedings, and what made this a million times authentic.

He turned toward Larry, rose and chased his brother running. He might need to calm the former druggie, no way to tell. Bowser stood still for moments. Their departure he watched. Considered.

The only ones nearby who would see him were that short brigade on the turf, hammer bro's being 'coached' by their lieutenant, destined for safer duties guarding Desert World. The one who'd almost chuckled looked over again; The king sought out any eavesdroppers, and with incredible luck the monarch's gaze went right to him.

His heart nearly stopped. In a figment of a second, he retrained on the lieutenant's words. All twenty in those two lines were looking forward.

The wise king knew when eyes weren't on him... A talent he'd gained through years of having slim windows of solitude. Now, he was as alone as ever really happened. His eyes weren't on his sons, almost out of sight on hillsides beyond. His mind was, as the orbs shivered in their sockets aimed to the warm ground. He had spoke a million words in life, and for his feelings now, he had not one.

He stooped. The king's knee and shin touched down. His immense, fledgeling trust in two children, he breathed for this. He trembled for this.

Heaven above, he begged to keep his sons and aid them. An humble man would pray. Maybe even grow moist against his nose, where tears rolled down.

He had never been humble. It passed in moments. He stood, and wanting time, simply watched the wind shape trees.

******************************************************

Having seen this type of shit before, the sledge bro wasn't happy. The can of beans he held in his hand was tossed forward, from his kneeling pose, into the campfire.

"The fuck, Roger!?" his slimmer hammer-type friend judged him through a scowl. "We're low on rations and you just throw the shit away?"

None of the five others in their circle around logs aflame looked much happier. Roger flicked him a gesture, legs spread and defiant. "Yeah, I'm not living on swill they wouldn't put in a 7-11 anymore. Rather go out and murder a goomba. At least then I meet get to trip."

A boomerang bro next to him flicked his weapon towards him; not hitting him, faking. Roger tried to pull it away, angry as all hell, he was too slow. Lucky for ALL of them, the sergeant in this forty-strong troop was many meters off, with a dutiful batch of men, knocking hammers on rocks, teaching how to sharpen. Roger's first accuser - a reluctant friend - wished the officer had seen this. Like the rest, though, he knew how seldom tattling helped. He hung back, swung his head and forgot the careless fling.

Roger, though, had more on his plate, in a mental sense. He looked up, though head was down. "You spoke to Sherry today?" He didn't get an answer. He tried another way. "I'm talkin' to you, Herb!"

"I knew you are!-" He was lightly flushed; but in another second, he let his arms fall, trying to relax. "No, no calls today. She said she'd be at her ma's, so, it's fine. They get to talking and gardening and everything gets left in the house, phone, keys..." He wanted to smile, but it didn't come. "... I gave up tryin' to train her better long ago."

A red, rough-looking soldier to his left and Roger's right chortled. "You know they train us. Fuckin' stand-up comedians are right."

"Don't gimme that sexist bullshit," Roger piped right in, "It goes both ways. IF you got a something real." He paused, his head rose, and he sought somewhere above, just in the sky. "I remember those days."

Herb, still pissed about the wasted food, shot back. "Don't talk like they're over. We're going to Ice Land, what the hell happens there." Only half a question.

So Roger told only half a joke. "Shrinkage."

One other koopa laughed, a short burst. The rest, all five, contributed nothing. Silence was the best way to handle today. Lakitus had flown overhead, fanning out from the castle that lay three miles behind. Something was happening, or, the king or his advisors believed it had, or would. Some of them resolved not to think about it; this was easier. Others didn't try that approach. Herb was well put-together, but in his haste, he mentioned it, not caring how it sounded. "Those cloudriders are goin' east. Mario only comes from the West, right?"

The fire bro slammed a fist on the dirt; his body had a tiny, brief glow. "Why d'y' dumbshits do this? Just eat your beans and sammiches, shut the fuck up about figuring-"

"Shut YOUR trap, he's just wanting to 'get it' better!" Roger, surly cuss that he was, still defended a buddy. "We're in this whether they pull or push us, let him have his questions, he feels better."

Herb didn't know whether to appreciate, or wish his wants weren't... Reduced that way. But again, nothing good would come of making a huge deal.

There was silence for two minutes. The boomerang bro had a thought, and since he also had a thick drawl, none of them ever minded hearing him... Comedic enough. "Beans ain't that bad. Put 'em in de ham 'n' bread, they gonna go down smooth'r." He did just what he said, and Herb watched him pour it in, drop a spoonful out one corner of the white bread... And catch it in his hand, although it steamed like it would sear him. Dude didn't even budge.

The fire bro was the only one unimpressed. Boomerang bro looked over at Roger. "You ain't gah' no sweetie at home? Tender bis'kit lahk you?"

Roger planted both hands on the ground, about to rise and beat the Cajun off that bent-toss-wrangler. The guffaw, high and haughty, was just funny enough to stop him. His hands went back up.

The sergeant's hand went up this time too, though. From ten steps away, he'd heard the jovial curs. "Shut up and eat!! When we're done scraping these, we're off, and if your gut growls even once I'll punch it raw! Understand!?"

Half of them nodded, half said "Yessir!"... The man in charge didn't have time to beat them into better uniformity. He was standing before a shorter koopa. This private was slim... A little meek... He was trying to knock the hammer on a stone's edge, but every fourth time was a miss.

The sergeant blew up like none of those at the campfire had. "HOW MANY GODDAMN TIMES HAVE I SAID, CONTROL!! YOU DON'T DROP THE FUCKIN' THING, GUIDE THE DAMN MALLET!!"

The koopa shook, and inside he wanted to drop it all the way, cover his hands. He regretted ever doing the boy's father, his Major, a favour. But he'd been told this boy should be treated equal to the better specimens around. His saving grace now... His voice laid into the hawkbill with all he had.

"WHEN WE HIT THE DIRT, YOU'D BE A DAMN PONY WOULDN'T YOU!! DON'T EVEN KNOW HOW TO DROP!! IF YOU AREN'T PICKED OFF FIRST, IT'D BE AN ACT OF GOD!!"

The koopa was in tears. He tried, still, to beat the hammer on rocks the right way. He thought he was at last, after five perfect strikes, getting the hang of it.

Then he was knocked back. The sergeant fell over him. He gasped out a squawk, first thinking he'd been struck with a boot.

Or that the lead man was so distraught, he tackled him. But, moments went by. There was no movement. There wasn't even motion from the troops around; they'd froze. He felt the sergeant's weight, but didn't feel his breathing.

One nearby sledge bro exclaimed. "Holy shi-" And footsteps cut off his syllable. Three other sledger's had run over. They picked up the sergeant. His eyes were open, he lay warm. But no thoughts. No life.

The koopa processed slowly... He finally kicked out, scrambling back, even though they'd had the sergeant - his body - up now, and were slapping him. No one heard a shot. There hadn't been one. Blood or wounds were nowhere to be seen.

Herb, Roger and two others whose turn it had been to eat, shot up to their feet. Roger lumbered slowest, but said the most. "The hell happened!? Guys, is it... Can you tell a heart attack?"

One of those holding the sergeant looked over, shook his head almost instantly. "None of us are doctors. And what's it matter... Holy..." They all processed that they now worked without their command.

They let him drop. Somber eyes, wide eyes, many means of grief fell over their numbers. They thought quickly how to bury him. If any knew last rites.

They didn't get to. Near the campfire, a horrible sound started. They looked over, and a hammer bro... One of those who hadn't spoke, flailed around. His body was ablaze. Arms, head, down to his cleats... Sickening yells left his throat, unthinkable pain.

Half now rushed over to catch him. Roger was among them... So was the fire bro, knowing plenty about safety from his own need by genetics. Roger flapped his jaws frantically. "Wha' the fuck!! Man watch yourself, drop! Roll man!" He caught the man, fearlessly taking him down, the fire bro helping. They tumbled him in the dirt. But the assumption that it had been an accident... The illusion of this, went away. Roger pulled back his arms and hands, burned. No matter how they'd rolled him, he burned just as hot. Hotter.

The fire bro kept trying, a bit more immune, but not entirely. He winced, and Roger and Herb grabbed his shoulders, pulled him back. The soldier's flesh was bubbling. Melting. His screams distorted... His throat was destroyed like all else. Many covered their eyes, some others their mouths. It took forever for the poor soul to die.

Pockets of chaos broke out, in the varied ranks. In only three minutes, all of this transpired. Not an answer around, why, or how, or from where.

Then, one of them saw it. Next to the sun, east of it, a speck. None of them had binoculars. They couldn't place the shape of that magikoopa.

But he saw all. And the diminutive man, in glasses, a blue hood and robe, turned his pockmarked lips upward, relishing the "ants" he looked over, Bowser's troops as low and silent as insects, bound to the turf. They could no more fly up to him and his level than they could escape.

His wrist locked. It raised his wand, a deep glow born in the center of its jewel. His spell, phrase of power, was whispered, but the volume meant no cutback to it. Quick as lightning that wand unleashed hell. A firebolt was red, blinding light from his hands. A grove of trees just next to the soldiers was no more; in a true instant it had conflagrated. Every leaf, twig and shred of bark was now made of fire. Those who didn't scream from the explosive turn, did so when the heat wafted forth, searing the unlucky closest ones. Mad dashes were started by hammer bro's, one after another. Some tripped over each other. One was trampled, and he was the only one fortunate... His sense was knocked out by a friend's boot on his chin. His mind wasn't there in that moment, when the magikoopa raised both hands, motioned the fire, and commanded it to move from forest to the grasslands. Toward the men. It was now a wall of orange, burning tsunami, and in one breath's breadth it rolled over them like floods. Every soldier engulfed. Screams didn't make it out the molten tide... Raw heat stole the sound, and their every life, and when the fire died to nothing at the snap of an evil hand, not a shoe or helmet was left behind. No trace in the wake of loss what had just been done... They were all of them, history.

Good news would be brought back to Kamek. Carried on the wings of his own sorcery, the magikoopa rushed to show his lord and master how feeble they had shown. How little there was threat to him now.

******************************************************

Who in the castle had time to wonder where many of their own were, on this day. News of the outfield tragedy still had yet to come, and of a wayward enemy, changed by voltage that could not be leashed, but it was dire enough marshalling forces to go up against Kamek. One man that none of them were mindful of - on better days, even - worked under their noses. Underneath their very feet. Iggy's lab had him on a run-around; he snagged vials of ooze, poured them in beakers two feet away. Between the stations of chemicals he practically jogged. Hours and minutes were of the essence, and for what he might not even know... But something was bound to congile. He tried formulas left and right... Only avoiding what corroded or exploded, versed in science where the worst would be avoided.

Not a word left his lips; all he said was through his twitching eyes, to himself. Redness ran through them, purple bags lay below. Something would be found that would help. He would break the game with this fight he was involved with, same as his family. Their struggles were inherently his, all hung in the balance. Likewise, he took his right hand to balance his left, pouring minute amounts of a bubbling cocktail in a teal-fluid flask. Instantly it smoked and vapored. Hydrofluoric acid, he'd safely held up and poured in. The receiver was antimony pentafluoride. Earth's strongest superacid, in its teflon holder, the only material that wouldn't eat away in nanoseconds from holding such death-in-a-pourable.

Now, to the corner he rushed; partly to escape noxious fumes, but more to find what he'd stashed. Bowser had barely missed the five empty grenade rounds, meant for the elite squadrons... Those he'd blamed for the count being off when Iggy had first copped them were merely court-martialed. They were brought into his arm, swaddled like babies. He rolled them careful out beside his smoking compound, and went for the gloves. Four layers of welding-scale protection, and even then, should he get jittery, a spill could cost him a limb. He came back, leaned over the counter far enough away, and breathed deep. Shut his eyes, and pushed out all thought, as much as one like him could do.

Calmed, steady as a violinist, he took up the flask. Each grenade's fill chamber lay open, and after taking on the first 'payload', he shut the top, and waited. And waited.

Eleven seconds later, his fears came true.

Smoke emerged from the table's edge. From under it, where drips had started. The grenades were concussive, not insulating. Something that strong ate through the husk like cotton candy. His frantic eyes darted to the long pail, amid the table of liquids like an oil pan. It, too, was teflon, and so he placed it underneath, catching all that came down. He squinted, rubbed his temple. This was an amateur mistake.

He felt a curious pity for the bedrock, under the castle's subfloor, where this leak might finally stop. Hopes came over him that the groundwater wouldn't be what it found... Hell knows what would happen to one who ingested this, even terribly diluted.

Now, his thoughts were specific. Not all over the place, as they'd started when he had. 'It might be the weapon they deserve, but if it stays here, it's a decoration, no more.' He looked up, through the ceiling and the first floor's cobblestone above. Tiny sounds of bootsteps sounded... Ordinarily nothing. There were dashes far worse than his. No telling what he'd missed, if something developed.

He shook it off. There were bigger fish to fry. He thumbed his lip... This lasted none too long, since the answer was obvious. He turned on one foot, and almost stumbled... He could well have fallen into an agonizing death if any clumsier, but his grounded foot held him. Stable, he took large strides for another table. Mixing of another, less-dangerous thing began. This one took hours, but what it would yield was the right tool. He may not have a mould to create flawless grenade rounds, but the PTFE he'd make could be etched that way with simple chisel.

The thoughts inside him didn't change much - concerns and chances of particular futures - through the hundreds of steps to get this synthetic made. The sun was passing noon when he at last had a solid, set batch. His hammer and wedge were set into it... He was no glassblower. This would be painstaking. Cruel how boring it would feel, but the result was the cruelty needed, for traitors and their own. He pressed on, thinking mostly of the pride his father would have and show. He didn't live for approval but it had its own perks.

He coughed. Instantly he shot off to the wall, and flipped a switch. A loud hum filled the room; a fan had been turned on to exhaust the air. Coming back, he wiped his brow before etching more. Any longer and the fumes might have done his lungs in, sometimes the first sign was too late. 'Not in this case', he consoled himself. This would be the last slip-up.

There it was again, the feet thundering above. He would find out the cause when it was right. In his shaking, cracking hands, the first round came out... Proper chambers for the gun were a dirty green, these were more ivory, like softsoap. But solid and true. They may not fire straight from a muzzle to its greatest rated distance, but not that much else of a difference.

He didn't fear that if he failed, all this might go away. Certainly the risk was real, and in his face. And to wit, he didn't care either that his father could only win, and any less might mean if they DID survive, deposition happened.

He feared men going into doom. Falling on the battlefield, when this could save them.

He didn't think like a jarhead or a gun fetishist. Men and women had taught him what was killed in war besides flesh. The bonds he knew were the ones who made this dear to him.

As he brought the flask - black inside, carbon crusting even an unreactive chamber - to the first new weapon round, feet didn't stop above. The melèe were reservists, pouring out from the castle, leaving its gated door like grits poured out a bag.

The town was quiet. Every door was barred, deadbolted. One sighting had made this happen... Mario hit the outer bounds of Grand Koopa City, and all denizens knew when they could be just one more statistic if they didn't self-preserve. Surely, though, on other days, soldiers would come out to 'greet' or their paths would collide... Today he had no way to know they'd been held back for another risk, a magician who could do all the plumber never had. He passed through empty streets with no one there to stop him. What the few who glimpsed him saw before ducking or drawing curtains, they utterly disbelieved. And going on, his shoes at the inner edge, this kingdom's palace put his gleam in shadow. Now it shined more.

The land rose, and his feet were dodging none of the archers, high on castle walls. Mario looked at none of them. Three hillsides to go, an opulent path or two, and he'd be there, by the turrets where arrows skimmed the air. By his ear they whooshed. One hit the ground next to him and caught it afire; burning pitch tipped the arrowheads. But grass behind him was black and leveled. He hadn't tried, but jagged bolts zapped the failing projectiles and they blew to pieces. Every koopa, monty and spiketop beaded sweat, and the day wasn't hot. They stared upon the arcs in his blue eyes, and hearts beat out-of-time. Thousands of Dark World's own stared on death.

To be continued...