The tragedy of the idiot

The main hall of SMG4’s castle was uncharacteristically quiet. Usually, the air would be thick with the smell of scorched pasta, the sound of high-pitched screaming, or the rhythmic thud of someone being kicked through a wall. But today, Mario was gone. He had mentioned something about a "personal trip" to a remote part of the Mushroom Kingdom, leaving the rest of the gang to enjoy a rare, peaceful afternoon.

SMG4 sat on the sofa, scrolling through his phone with a bored expression. Meggy was sharpening her Splatshot, though her heart wasn't really in it. Tari was focused on a handheld game, while Saiko leaned against the wall, buffing her nails. Bob and Boopkins were arguing over an anime figurine in the corner, but even their bickering lacked its usual fire.

"It’s weirdly quiet without the fat Italian, isn't it?" Saiko remarked, breaking the silence.

"It’s peaceful," SMG4 corrected, though he shifted uncomfortably. "We can actually hear ourselves think for once."

"I guess," Meggy muttered, looking at the spot where Mario usually sat. "But it feels... off."

Suddenly, the large monitor mounted on the wall flickered to life. The screen hummed with static before a video began to play. Everyone looked up, expecting some kind of meme or perhaps a prank Mario had set up before he left.

The image cleared to reveal a grainy, old-fashioned recording. It was a small, dilapidated house. Inside, a toddler with a familiar red cap—far too big for his head—was sitting on the floor, playing with a wooden spoon.

"Oh, look! It’s baby Mario," Boopkins chirped, his eyes widening. "He looks so cute!"

"I didn't know there was footage of him that young," Tari said, a soft smile forming on her face.

The smile died almost instantly.

A door in the background slammed open. Two figures, their faces obscured by shadow but their voices dripping with venom, stormed into the room. They weren't the whimsical parents one would expect for a hero. They were towering, radiating a palpable sense of malice.

"You useless little brat!" a man’s voice roared, the audio peaking and distorting. "We told you to stay in the corner! Why are you touching things?"

The toddler shrank back, dropping the spoon. "I-I was just—"

A hand flew across the screen. The sound of the impact was sickeningly wet. The young Mario was sent sprawling across the floor, his tiny cap falling over his eyes. What followed was a blur of violence that made the air in the castle hall turn cold. It wasn't "cartoon" violence. There were no stars circling his head, no funny sound effects. It was raw, grounded, and relentless.

Meggy’s hand flew to her mouth. "Stop it... someone stop them."

Tari hid her face against her knees, her mechanical arm whirring in distress. Even Saiko looked pale, her grip tightening on her hammer until her knuckles turned white.

Luigi, who had been sitting quietly in the back, suddenly stood up. His face was ghostly pale, his eyes fixed on the floor. Without a word, he turned and walked toward the exit, his shoulders shaking. He had lived through it too, but as the "favorite" child, he had been spared the brunt of the madness. Seeing it again was more than he could bear.

The video didn't stop. It began to fast-forward through the years. It showed Mario as a young boy, covered in bruises he tried to hide with oversized overalls. It showed him being locked in dark rooms for days because he had eaten a slice of bread without permission. It showed him being told, day after day, that he was nothing but a burden, a mistake, and a fool.

The gang watched in horrified silence as the light slowly began to drain from the young Mario’s eyes. The energetic, imaginative child was being systematically broken down into the "stupid" persona he wore like armor today.

"He... he never told us," SMG4 whispered, his voice cracking. "All those times I called him an idiot... all those times I hit him because he was being annoying..."

"We all did," Bob said, his usual robotic bravado completely absent. "We thought he was just indestructible."

The screen shifted again. It showed Mario as a young man, wandering the streets alone. He looked ragged, his eyes darting around as if expecting a blow from every shadow. He looked worse with every passing year, the weight of his trauma manifesting as a desperate, manic need for attention and food—the only things that made him feel alive.

Melony was crying silently, her Deity mask resting in her lap. She reached out toward the screen as if she could pull the younger Mario into a hug. She knew what it was like to lose people, but she hadn't realized her creator had been lost long before she was even born.

The footage transitioned to a more familiar era. It showed the day Mario met SMG4. The gang saw the scene from Mario’s perspective. To them, it was a funny memory of a stupid avatar falling out of the sky. To Mario, it was the first time someone had looked at him without pure hatred, even if SMG4 was frustrated.

Then, a specific memory played. It was the day Mario sat alone in a field, holding a regular watermelon. He was talking to it, his voice quiet and filled with a crushing loneliness.

"I’m gonna call you Melony," the screen-Mario whispered, drawing a face on the fruit with a marker. "You won't yell at me, right? You’ll be my friend?"

Melony let out a sob, burying her face in her hands. She wasn't just a byproduct of a mask; she was the manifestation of a lonely man’s desperate wish for a companion who wouldn't hurt him.

The video slowed down, the music fading into a low, thrumming heartbeat. The image on the screen changed from a physical recording to a metaphysical representation. It was Mario’s soul.

It should have been a bright, glowing star. Instead, it was a jagged, translucent sphere of crimson light, riddled with thousands of deep, glowing white cracks. With every insult they had hurled at him over the years, with every "humorous" beating they had administered, a new crack appeared. The soul looked as though it were held together by nothing but sheer will and a few threads of hope.

"He’s breaking," Meggy choked out, tears streaming down her face. "He’s been breaking this whole time, and we just kept pushing."

***

In a dark, void-like space, the same video was playing on a massive hovering screen.

Walvigi stood with his arms crossed, his usual sneer replaced by a look of grim recognition. Beside him, the spirit of Francis shifted uncomfortably, his arrogance momentarily silenced. Even SMG3, watching from his own lair, stared at the screen with wide eyes.

"I thought I was the one who suffered," SMG3 muttered, rubbing his arm. "I tried to delete him... I tried to take his life away. I didn't know there wasn't much left to take."

Further back in the shadows, even the remnants of the God Box’s influence seemed to ripple with a strange, somber energy. To see a creature of such supposed "stupidity" carry a burden of such immense gravity was enough to give pause to even the most heartless villains. They saw themselves in those cracks—the rejection, the isolation—but none of them had endured it for decades while still managed to crack a smile.

***

Back at the castle, the screen finally went black. The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating under the weight of collective guilt.

"We have to find him," SMG4 said, his voice trembling as he stood up. "We have to find him right now."

"And say what?" Saiko asked, her voice uncharacteristically soft. "Sorry for the last ten years? Sorry for treating you like a punching bag because it was easier than seeing you were hurt?"

"We start by being there," Meggy said, wiping her eyes fiercely. "No more jokes at his expense. No more 'stupid Mario' rants. He’s our friend. He’s my... he’s my big brother figure, and I’ve been a terrible sister."

Melony stood up, clutching her pillow tightly. "He’s not just a meme. He’s a person."

The doors to the castle creaked open. Everyone froze, turning their heads in unison.

Mario walked in. He looked tired—genuinely tired, not just sleepy. His overalls were dusty, and his cap was pulled low over his eyes. He was carrying a small bag of groceries, likely more spaghetti ingredients.

He stopped when he saw everyone standing in the middle of the room, staring at him with tear-streaked faces. He blinked, his brain seemingly trying to process the scene.

"Uh... oh no," Mario said, his voice lacking its usual boisterous energy. "Did Mario do something wrong again? I-I promise I’ll pay for the door this time! Or the TV! Don't kick me, please, I’m tired."

He flinched instinctively as SMG4 stepped forward. It was a small movement, a slight pulling back of the shoulders, but after what they had just seen, it felt like a dagger to their hearts. He expected to be hit. He was waiting for it.

Instead of a punch or a shout, SMG4 wrapped his arms around Mario in a crushing hug.

"Whoa! SMG4? You okay? You smelling my secret stash of ravioli?" Mario asked, trying to joke, but his voice was uncertain.

One by one, the others joined in. Meggy hugged his waist, sobbing into his shirt. Tari joined from the side, and even Saiko placed a gentle, protective hand on his shoulder. Melony squeezed in the front, refusing to let go.

Mario stood there, frozen. His arms stayed at his sides for a long moment, his eyes wide with confusion. "I... I don't understand. Is this a prank? Are you gonna drop a piano on me?"

"No, Mario," Meggy whispered through her tears. "No more pianos. No more hitting. We’re so sorry. We’re so, so sorry."

Mario looked around at them, really looked at them. He saw the sincerity in their eyes, the shared pain, and the overwhelming love. Slowly, tentatively, he dropped his grocery bag. He reached out and returned the hug, his hands trembling.

"It’s okay," Mario said softly, a single tear escaping and rolling down his cheek, disappearing into his mustache. "Mario is used to it. You don't have to be sorry."

"That’s the problem, Mario," SMG4 said, pulling back just enough to look him in the eye. "You shouldn't have to be used to it. Not anymore."

For the first time in years, the cracks in the crimson soul on the dark screen didn't grow. For the first time, they began, ever so slightly, to glow with a light that wasn't born of pain, but of a hope that he wasn't alone in the dark anymore.