Tale of the forsaken

The grand foyer of SMG4’s newly constructed castle was bathed in the golden, lazy light of a Saturday afternoon. It was a rare moment of absolute stillness. The air didn’t smell like burnt spaghetti or gunpowder for once; instead, it carried the faint scent of lavender furniture polish and brewed tea.

On the massive, plush sofa that dominated the living area, the crew was scattered in various states of repose. SMG4 was hunched over his laptop, though his fingers were still, his eyes half-closed. Tari was leaning against the armrest, her robotic arm whirring softly as she played a handheld game in silent mode. Bob and Fishy Boopkins were surprisingly quiet, sharing a bowl of popcorn, while Meggy stared at the ceiling, enjoying the absence of a certain red plumber’s incessant shouting.

"You know," Meggy murmured, breaking the silence with a soft sigh. "It’s actually... quiet. Like, really quiet."

"I forgot what this felt like," SMG4 replied, not looking up from his screen. "Mario’s been gone since eight this morning. He said something about a 'secret tunnel' behind the local pizzeria. I didn't ask questions. I just let him go."

Saiko, perched on a high stool nearby, sharpened her mallet with a whetstone. "It’s a miracle. No explosions, no crying, no pingas jokes. I could get used to this."

Luigi sat at the far end of the sofa, wringing his gloved hands. While the others basked in the peace, he looked restless. He knew Mario better than anyone, and while he appreciated the break from the chaos, a nagging feeling of apprehension always sat in the pit of his stomach.

Suddenly, the massive flat-screen television mounted on the wall flickered to life. It didn't start with the usual static or the upbeat intro of a Netflix show. Instead, the screen glowed with a harsh, clinical white light that made everyone squint.

"Hey, who turned that on?" SMG4 asked, reaching for the remote. He clicked the power button repeatedly, but the screen ignored him. "The remote’s dead. Must be a glitch."

The white light faded, replaced by a grainy, low-quality video feed. It showed a small, cramped room with peeling wallpaper. In the center of the frame stood a very small child—a toddler with a tiny red cap and a mustache that was little more than a smudge of peach fuzz.

Luigi’s face went pale. He gripped the edge of the sofa, his knuckles turning white. "Oh no... not this. Not this one."

"Luigi? What is it?" Tari asked, her voice filled with concern.

Before he could answer, a shadow stretched across the floor of the video. It was massive, looming over the little Mario. A voice boomed from the speakers—a deep, roaring baritone that vibrated with a terrifying, jagged edge. It was a voice that sounded like Mario’s, but stripped of all joy and replaced with pure, unadulterated venom.

"You worthless brat!" the voice roared. "You can't do anything right! Look at this mess!"

The little Mario on the screen shrank back, his large blue eyes welling with tears. He tried to speak, to offer an excuse, but he was interrupted by a sharp, echoing crack. The camera shook.

Then came the screams.

They weren't the comedic, over-the-top screams the crew was used to hearing when Mario fell off a cliff or got hit by a car. These were the screams of a terrified child in genuine agony. It was a raw, high-pitched sound of terror that seemed to tear through the very fabric of the room.

Meggy stood up, her hand instinctively reaching for a Splatgun that wasn't there. "What the hell is this? SMG4, turn it off! Now!"

"I can't!" SMG4 yelled, his voice cracking as he scrambled toward the wall to pull the plug. He jerked the power cord from the outlet, but the TV stayed on, powered by some unseen force. "It won't stop!"

The crew watched in frozen horror. They wanted to reach into the glass, to pull that small child away from the looming shadow, but they were paralyzed by the realization that this was a memory—a ghost of a past they had never bothered to ask about.

The scene shifted. The video began to fast-forward through the years, a montage of misery. They saw Mario at five, sitting alone in a dark corner while other children played in the distance. They saw him at ten, covered in bruises, staring blankly at a wall. With every passing year, the vibrant light in his eyes—the spark of life that defined the Mario they knew—seemed to dim, layer by layer. He looked like a hollow shell, drifting through a world that didn't want him.

"He was always so... sad," Boopkins whimpered, hiding his face behind his fins. "I thought he was always happy. He’s always laughing."

"It’s a mask, Boopkins," Saiko said, her voice uncharacteristically soft and laden with a heavy layer of guilt. She looked at her mallet, the weapon she had used on Mario more times than she could count.

The screen slowed down again. Mario was older now, perhaps in his late teens. He was sitting in a dusty field, his clothes tattered. In his lap, he cradled a small, green watermelon.

The crew leaned in. Melony, who had been dozing in the corner, sat bolt upright. Her eyes widened as she stared at the screen.

The Mario on the screen didn't look stupid or chaotic. He looked lonely. He gently stroked the rind of the melon, his touch incredibly tender.

"It’s okay," the young Mario whispered on the screen, his voice trembling. "I’ll take care of you. You’re my only friend. I’m gonna call you... Melony. Yeah. Melony."

He pulled the fruit into a tight embrace, burying his face against its cool surface. He wasn't doing it for a joke. He was holding onto the only thing in the world that didn't hit him back.

The real Melony felt a lump form in her throat. She touched her own cheek, her heart aching. She had always known Mario had a strange affinity for melons, but she had never realized that she—or the idea of her—had been his sanctuary long before she ever became human.

"He named her," Bob muttered, his usual bravado completely gone. "He actually cared about something that much."

The atmosphere in the room shifted from sadness to a crushing weight of realization. But the video wasn't finished. The screen flickered again, the colors becoming more vivid, the resolution sharpening.

Now, the footage was familiar.

It showed the castle grounds. It showed the crew. But it wasn't a highlight reel of their adventures. It was a compilation of every time they had lost their patience.

The screen showed Saiko slamming her mallet into Mario’s skull for a minor annoyance. It showed Meggy screaming at him, calling him an idiot and a burden. It showed SMG4 kicking him out of the castle, laughing as Mario tumbled down the stairs. It showed them all mocking him, ganging up on him, and treating him like a punching bag because "that’s just how Mario is."

The audio played back their laughter, but without the context of a "funny video," it sounded cruel. It sounded like the roaring voice of the father from the beginning of the tape.

The video ended abruptly, the screen turning black. The silence that followed was deafening.

No one moved. No one spoke. The air in the room felt thick and suffocating.

SMG4 looked down at his hands. He thought about all the times he had used Mario as a prop for his videos, all the times he had ignored the plumber's genuine cries for help because it didn't fit the "script" of their lives.

Meggy sank back onto the sofa, her face buried in her hands. She remembered the training sessions where she had pushed him too hard, the times she had snapped at him for his stupidity, never stopping to wonder why he acted the way he did.

"We’re monsters," Tari whispered, a single tear rolling down her cheek. "We did the same thing to him. We just did it with a smile."

Luigi was shaking, his head bowed. "He never told you guys because he didn't want you to worry. He thought... he thought if he was funny enough, if he was the 'stupid one,' you guys would stay. He was so scared of being alone again that he let us treat him like garbage."

Melony stood up. Her eyes, usually sleepy and distant, were sharp with a mixture of shock and profound disappointment. She looked at SMG4, then at Meggy, and finally at the rest of the group. She didn't say a word, but the way she looked at them made them feel smaller than they ever had.

"I didn't know," Bob said, his voice cracking. "I mean, I’m a piece of crap, but I didn't know he was... that he was actually hurting."

"We all knew," Saiko snapped, though there was no heat in it, only self-loathing. "We just chose not to look. It was easier to laugh at the 'fat Italian' than to ask why he was crying."

The front door of the castle creaked open.

The crew jerked their heads toward the entrance. Mario walked in, covered in soot and holding a slightly crushed box of pizza. He looked exhausted, his shoulders slumped, but as soon as he saw everyone in the living room, he forced a wide, toothy grin onto his face.

"Hey guys!" Mario shouted, his voice echoing with that familiar, forced cheerfulness. "Mario found a secret pizza stash! Who wants to see me eat a whole pepperoni pizza in ten seconds?"

He struck a goofy pose, waiting for the mockery, the eye-rolls, or the inevitable shove from Saiko.

Instead, he was met with total silence.

Mario’s grin faltered just a fraction. He tilted his head, his eyes darting between his friends. "Uh... why is everyone looking at Mario like he just pooped in the kettle? I only did that once this week, I swear!"

Meggy was the first to move. She stood up, her legs trembling, and walked toward him.

Mario flinched. It was a small, almost imperceptible movement—a slight pull-back of the shoulders, a narrowing of the eyes—but now that they knew what to look for, it was glaringly obvious. He was bracing for a blow.

Meggy didn't hit him. She stopped a foot away and simply looked at him, her eyes red-rimmed.

"Mario," she said, her voice barely a whisper.

"Yeah, Meggy? You want a slice? I didn't drop it that many times," Mario said, trying to maintain the act, but his voice was wavering.

Without a word, Meggy stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him in a fierce, tight hug.

Mario froze. His arms stayed locked at his sides, the pizza box crinkling between them. "Uh... Meggy? Is this a new wrestling move? Mario’s not ready!"

Then, one by one, the others joined. SMG4 walked over and placed a hand on Mario’s shoulder, his head bowed in a silent apology. Tari hugged him from the other side, sobbing quietly into his red shirt. Even Bob and Boopkins shuffled over, leaning against him.

Melony walked up last. She didn't hug him right away. She looked into his eyes—the eyes that had once been so dark and lonely—and saw the confusion swirling within them. She reached out and gently patted his cheek, the same way he had patted the melon all those years ago.

"Thank you, Mario," she whispered.

The pizza box slipped from Mario’s hands, hitting the floor with a dull thud. The mask finally broke. His lower lip trembled, and the forced grin vanished, replaced by a look of raw, confused vulnerability.

"Why..." Mario choked out, his voice small and childlike. "Why are you guys being nice? I didn't do anything."

"That’s the point, Mario," SMG4 said, his voice thick with emotion. "You don't have to do anything. You don't have to be the joke. We’re sorry. We are so, so sorry."

Mario stood there, surrounded by the people who had spent years inadvertently continuing his nightmare, but who were now holding him as if he were the most precious thing in the world. For the first time in his life, he didn't feel like he had to be the "stupid one" to be loved.

He let out a long, shuddering breath, and finally, he leaned into them, letting the tears fall. The castle was silent once more, but this time, the silence wasn't empty. It was full of a promise that the echoes of the past would finally, slowly, begin to fade.