Mario's grueling past

The grand foyer of SMG4’s castle was unusually tranquil. Sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows, casting vibrant patterns across the plush carpet. On the massive, oversized sofa that dominated the living area, the crew was draped in various states of lethargy. Tari was focused on her handheld console, her cybernetic eye flickering with blue data; Saiko was tuning her guitar with aggressive precision; and Bob was currently trying to see how many snacks he could balance on Fishy Boopkins’ head.

SMG4 himself was slumped in a recliner, staring at his phone. "You know," he remarked, breaking the comfortable silence, "it’s actually... quiet. Like, unnervingly quiet."

"Mario's been gone for six hours," Meggy noted, looking up from her training manual. She stretched her arms behind her head. "He said something about a spaghetti festival three towns over. Honestly? I’m not complaining. My ears needed the break from the screaming."

Luigi, sitting on the edge of the sofa, gave a weak, shaky laugh. "Yeah. It’s nice. No explosions, no fire, no... well, no Mario."

Despite his words, Luigi’s hands were fidgeting. He kept glancing at the large, wall-mounted television. He felt a strange weight in his chest, a lingering dread he couldn't quite name. He knew things about their childhood—things he had buried under layers of green-clad cowardice and brotherly loyalty.

Suddenly, the television flickered to life.

There was no static, no startup sound. The screen simply transitioned from a black void to a grainy, low-quality video feed. The crew perked up, thinking it might be a news bulletin or one of SMG4’s scheduled uploads gone rogue.

"Uh, SMG4? Did you turn that on?" Tari asked, her brow furrowed.

"No," SMG4 muttered, reaching for the remote. "The batteries are out anyway."

The image on the screen sharpened. It showed a small, cramped room with peeling wallpaper. In the center of the frame sat a tiny child wearing an oversized red cap. He was playing with a wooden block, his movements slow and hesitant. It was unmistakably a young Mario.

Luigi froze. His face went pale, his pupils shrinking to pinpricks. "Oh no," he whispered, so low that no one heard him. "Not this. Please, not this."

The silence of the castle was shattered by a roaring, thunderous voice from off-screen. It was deep, gravelly, and saturated with a terrifying, drunken rage.

"YOU USELESS LITTLE BRAT!"

The voice belonged to a man they couldn't see, but his shadow loomed large over the toddler on the screen. The little Mario flinched violently, dropping his block. He curled into a ball, pulling his hat down over his eyes as if the thin fabric could protect him from the world.

"I TOLD YOU TO STAY IN THE CORNER!" the voice bellowed.

Then came the sound. It was the sickening thud of a heavy hand connecting with something soft, followed by a scream. It wasn't the comedic, high-pitched "Wahoo!" or the over-the-top yells they were used to. It was a raw, primal scream of agony and sheer terror—the sound of a child who didn't understand why the person who was supposed to love him was hurting him.

"Stop it," Meggy whispered, her grip tightening on her manual until the paper tore. "Who is that? Why is he doing that to him?"

Saiko’s hand gripped the neck of her guitar so hard the wood groaned. "That’s... that’s his father?"

The video didn't stop. It was a montage of misery. They watched as the years bled into one another. They saw a ten-year-old Mario sitting in the dark, nursing a bruised ribs while staring at a single piece of stale bread. They saw a teenager with a thousand-yard stare, his eyes—once bright and full of a mischievous spark—now dull and extinguished. Every time the "father" appeared, the result was the same: violence, degradation, and the systematic breaking of a soul.

"He never told us," SMG4 said, his voice trembling. "He never... he always just acted like a moron. We thought he was just born like that."

"He wasn't," Luigi choked out, tears streaming down his face. "He had to hide it. He started acting crazy so people would laugh at him instead of... instead of pitying him. Or hurting him more."

The screen shifted again. The atmosphere of the video changed slightly. The teenage Mario was sitting in a field of tall grass, away from the house. He looked exhausted, his clothes tattered. In his lap, he held a small, round green melon.

He wasn't eating it. Instead, he was cradling it with a tenderness that seemed alien to his rough exterior. He took a marker from his pocket and carefully drew two dots and a small smile on the rind.

"There you go," the young Mario on screen whispered, his voice cracking. "You’re my best friend, okay? I’ll call you... Melony. You’re the only one who doesn't yell at me."

He hugged the melon tightly, burying his face into the cool fruit, sobbing quietly into the rind.

In the castle, the silence was deafening. Melony, who had been napping on the far end of the sofa, was now wide awake. Her eyes were huge, shimmering with unshed tears. She stared at the screen, her hand moving instinctively to the deity mask at her side. She had always known Mario was her creator, the one who had given her life through the mask, but she never knew she had been born from his loneliness. She had been his only comfort in a world of pain.

"He named me... back then?" Melony’s voice was small and heartbroken.

"He’s been carrying that around his whole life," Bob said, his usual sarcastic tone completely gone. "The melon... it wasn't just a joke to him."

But the video wasn't done. The "memory" feed began to accelerate, showing more recent events. It showed the SMG4 crew.

It showed the time SMG4 had kicked Mario into a wall for ruining a video. It showed Meggy screaming at him, calling him a "fat idiot" and a "burden" during training. It showed Saiko using him as a literal punching bag. It showed them all laughing as they threw him around, mocking his intelligence, treating him like a nuisance rather than a friend.

The contrast was devastating. The screen showed Mario’s face in those moments—the way he would laugh it off, the way he would make a stupid face to hide the fact that behind his eyes, the same little boy from the dark room was screaming in terror.

"Oh god," Tari sobbed, covering her mouth with her hands. "We... we were just like him. We were the ones hurting him."

"We thought it was a bit," SMG4 said, his face pale with horror. "We thought he couldn't feel it. We thought he was too stupid to care."

Meggy stood up, her legs shaking. She looked at the screen, then at the empty spot on the sofa where Mario usually sat, eating pizza and being loud. She remembered every time she had lost her temper, every time she had pushed him away when he just wanted to hang out.

"He just wanted a family," Meggy whispered. "And we treated him like trash."

Melony stood up slowly. Her aura, usually calm and sleepy, was radiating a cold, sharp disappointment. She looked at SMG4, then at Meggy, then at the rest of them. Her gaze was heavy with a silent accusation that cut deeper than any blade.

"He made me because he was alone," Melony said, her voice steady but thick with emotion. "He brought me to life because he wanted someone to love. And you guys... you guys were the ones he chose to be his new family."

"Melony, we didn't know—" Fishy Boopkins started, his eyes welling up.

"That doesn't make it better," Melony snapped, her eyes flashing with a hint of her fierce deity power. "You didn't look. You never looked past the 'idiot' he pretended to be."

The TV screen flickered one last time, showing a current image of Mario. He was sitting on a bench at the spaghetti festival, alone. He had a plate of food in front of him, but he wasn't eating. He was just staring at the horizon, his shoulders slumped, his red hat pulled down low over his eyes. He looked exactly like the toddler in the dark room.

The screen went black.

The castle was silent once more, but the peace was gone. It had been replaced by a suffocating shroud of guilt.

"We have to find him," SMG4 said, his voice firm despite the tremor. "We have to... I don't even know if we can fix this."

"We have to try," Luigi said, wiping his eyes and standing up. "He’s been through enough. He shouldn't have to be alone anymore."

As the crew scrambled to gather their things, Melony stayed by the TV for a moment longer. She touched the cold glass of the screen where Mario’s face had been.

"I'm sorry, Mario," she whispered to the empty room.

Outside, the sun began to set, casting long, distorted shadows across the castle floor—shadows that looked far too much like the ghosts of a past that Mario had tried so hard to outrun, only to find them waiting for him in the house of his friends.