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thegentlemanofslugterra · 10 years ago

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Life’s Peachy with Mario

So here's the Mario fanfiction that I've written. I play around with several headcanons here and there, but here it is!

Title: Life’s Peachy with Mario Length: 7 458 Rating: K+ Characters: Mario Bravado

Starting a pizza business after the fall from trickshooting fame had the usual difficulties, but soon enough Mario found himself on the right track.

Life always had its way of knocking him right off again.

The silence slapped him like cold salami in the face. It was brutal and cold, its weight obviously bruising whatever confidence he had left. A new day always meant new challenges, but if he continued any longer, Mario’s to do list would have one dot point; make pizza. Then again, even that was almost obsolete, as he sat quiet against the bench, the phone still, door standing shut, and empty seats that swivelled creakily from the outside draft.

His Speedstinger hopped towards his fingers that were pressed against the cool clean surface, chirping upwards at Mario. He was the only friend left in his bleak world. Lifting a hand absently, and caressing his slug with soft pats on its head, Mario stared at the rolling pins. Maybe that was how things were, setting up a shop like this, observing wooden sticks that had more purpose that he had. It was only a relatively new business, opened after that debacle with Blakk, and after the news headlines thought other hot gossip was worthy of the front page. Perhaps it was better that he had faded like a Frostcrawler’s breath in the tropical Slugterra weather. The stigma of losing what he was, through some juvenile adrenaline that had once pumped in the veins, was a red ledger that Mario wanted wiped and cleaned, swept away like cobwebs.

Coming clean through pizza was better than the other idea that crossed his mind. The other side of business that Mario knew he would definitely succeed in. With an aim like his, there was no doubt they would throw gold at him, or have gold on his head. Either way, he was here at Ricochet Pizza, and slinging was still an option, even though a ladle was a lacklustre substitute for a blaster. Creating instead of killing, Mario contemplated that he did choose the better path.

Pizza making was always a little hobby anyway, and the once tacit skills were now shining like the stainless steel utensils. That was of course, if anyone ordered and ate in. Those pamphlets were mailed not long ago, complete with a discount voucher and glitzy graphics.

Ringing like a fire alarm, Mario slipped from them the bench, his slug chirruping loud in concern. The phone continued its tune as it rattled in the holder. A call. Edging upwards from his fall and rubbing the sore bruise that swelled on the back of his head, Mario picked up.

“Thank you for calling Ricochet Pizza. What can I do for you today?”

A gruff voice came through the speaker, as if it was filtered through a thick beard. “Hey mate. Uh, I want me the Ricochet Special and the Meatlovers. But uh, three of each.”

“Carry out or delivery, sir?”

“Delivery mate. You think I can carry all those pizzas myself?”

An insult flashed in Mario’s head but he dismissed it before it spluttered out of his lips. “Uh sure. I need your details. Pizza will be there in thirty.”

After the brief exchange and the phone firmly back in its holder, Mario smiled. It was a quick upturn of the corners of his lips before he swivelled around towards his Speedstinger that hopped eagerly in its spot.

“You ready buddy?”

With a positive chirp, the slug hopped into the ladle.

The cavern was buzzing with chatter from people on the streets as his mecha prowled slowly through the crowds. Its retouched chassis shimmered through the civilians, the cerulean metal plates capturing Slugterra’s natural luminescence and the silver chrome trims a mirror to all the unfamiliar faces. The mecha stole all the attention from Mario’s face, where his recognisable features hid beneath the shadowy brim of his cap. He could not risk being swarmed or hit by tomatoes; he had a job to do. Too occupied from being unnoticed, his Speedstinger chirped on his shoulder, pointing out the house.

Architecture was not the greatest in this cavern, but many recognised it as art rather than practical. Mario regarded the houses with disgust, the lopsided roofs with uneven eaves, and many had allowed their plants the liberty to stretch their tendrils around any stone or brickwork. Mushrooms of every colour and shape grew fervidly, their bright hues clashing with the already vivid house facades. Parking his mecha, Mario dismounted with the pizzas in hand, and wandered down the path of vibrant flora.

The door was askew, the copper knob aligned somewhere that was neither the middle nor the right. The shape of the wooden entrance was neither an arch doorway nor any discernible quadrilateral, but something scrawled randomly by a toddler. Angles protruded in different directions, and Mario counted at least six sides to the shape before knocking against it.

He was shorter than Mario expected, with limbs long, thin, and gangly, and bones that visibly protruded from his tanned skin. The top of the customer’s head was bare and spotted with moles, where all hair had migrated into a dark bushy beard underneath his protruding nose. He squinted upwards and a thin smile stretched slowly underneath the facial hair as he a man holding his pizza.

And all Mario wanted to do was get this over and done with as soon as possible, because a man dressed solely in his bright green underpants was not a pleasant sight.

“Um, hi. Pizza delivery from Ricochet Pizza. That will be fifty pieces of gold, Mr Paolo,” Mario stated, and his slug nodded.

“Sure, here mate. Tip and all inside,” the man said, pushing the bag of gold into Mario’s hand whilst relieving the other of pizza.

“Enjoy your pizza,” Mario tried as enthusiastically as possible, with the Speedstinger chirruping soon after.

He began to turn, trying to clean his eyes from the image, but his name made Mario whip his head back to the customer.

“Mario Bravado! I knew it! I thought me vision was playing tricks, but it’s really you!”

“Uh well-“

“Golly, I better tell the town you’re making pizza now! Me mates and others would love to come by.”

“That would be nice-“

“Hey give this old fan a hug, mate. You’re the greatest.”

And the short man wobbled over, his thin outstretched arms wrapping around Mario’s stomach, the dark beard grazing against his top. He did not know how to respond, particularly with a half-naked customer in horrific bright green undies embracing him like a teddy bear. Mario reached out and patted the man’s bare back gingerly, and he was released moments after. His slug tried to stifle a laugh, but the ex- trickshooter felt the amused hums against his shoulder.

“Thanks, it’s nice meeting a fan. Enjoy your pizza,” Mario spluttered, gesturing at the pizza boxes that sat at the door.

“Anytime mate. I’ll be calling up again. Uh, might even make an appearance at the shop!” the man clapped his hands together.

“Promise you’d wear something else?” Mario joked, scratching the back of his neck.

“Yeah of course mate! The green ones are for home. I bust out me purple ones for outings.”

Laughing awkwardly, Mario waved a goodbye as he retreated backwards slowly. Maybe it was time to pull out that blindfold again.

Thanks to whatever tip the underwear customer gave to his cavern, Ricochet Pizza was partially full, with families sitting at the tables, their kids swivelling on their chairs as if it was a carnival ride. Students in their uniforms and those who were not, were daily customers. A school even requested his pizzas to be part of their cafeteria menu once a week, and despite the deliveries in the cold mornings of Slugterra, it was great to feel the cool nip of the early hours on his ears and nose.

It was another afternoon and the fans were switched on high as the sweltering heat sauntered around the cavern like a lazy waft of smoke. His fans that recognised him from the counter were also switched on high as they avidly pushed him to autograph their pizza boxes, give them hugs and take candid photos, all the while he was covered in flour and tomato sauce. His Speedstinger surely enjoyed the attention, as it preened from compliments when operating at the cashier.

Thinking about getting a Frostcrawler to help cool down the place, his ears piqued at an argument rattling from the corner of his shop. The two girls were both in uniform, one Molenoid with black hair tied in a tight ponytail, and the other with short cropped bob dyed with too many colours.

“Truthfully though, if anyone was faced with the predicament of their life being threatened by a man of great corporal status, confronting the problem would be better than running away. Being labelled as coward is a dent to anyone’s esteem, and by the way, I would have done the same thing too,” the one with the dark hair rambled. “It’s the right thing to do.”

“Sure a label like that would dent esteem, but I’d use that situation and learn from it. Retreating is better; it gives you more time to contemplate about what you did wrong, and then fix it from there. There was already so much at stake, and I rather retain what I have than lose it all in front of an audience like that,” the girl with the vivid hair replied, her fists clenched tightly, “I think what happened shouldn’t have happened if the right choices were made!”

“Running away is better? This is why you can never confront your fears.” She spat back.

“And you defend the action of running in head-on without a plan. He’s labelled as a coward by a lot of people, even for the confrontation.”

“Stop redirecting the focus of this conversation. You know I’m talking about you and not Mario Bravado, even if it applies to him.” The brunette stared at her friend with a seething silence, before pushing herself up abruptly. “We can never speak like civil people about this matter.”

“It’s you who can’t be civil!”

The Molenoid raised her eyebrow. “I’m not civil? Look at you! We’ve had this conversation a thousand times.” Shaking her head, she shouted. “It’s over.”

And with the slam of the glass door behind her, the shop shuddered in response, the customers frozen in their seats. After a few moments ticked by, hushed whispers grew back into the usual volume of chatter, as if they were all ignorant of what just happened. But the girl in the corner was not. Every detail passed in front of her eyes as the tears began the fall onto her pizza. Shaking his head, Mario put down the cloth and approached her, sliding down the seat where the brunette once sat.

Sure, the words hurt him, but right now that was not his concern. Tilting his head to the side, he looked at her gleaming eyes, wet from crying. Mario was not the best at this whole comforting thing, particularly where he was just slapped with all those hurtful words, but it was time to put some sympathy into practice.

“Hey uh, miss, I’m here if you need anything.” Mario tried, holding out his hands that were covered in flour.

“I can deal with this myself,” she spoke softly, eyes still looking ahead. “I tend to.”

Retreating into the seat, he spied the half-eaten pizza that had turned cold and soggy. “I’ll listen to you, okay?”

When the reply was a stony silence, Mario sighed inside.

“So um. The thing about friendships…”

“It was a relationship.” She corrected stiffly.

“Right,” Mario nodded, “Well relationships are like pizza flavours.” He picked up a soggy slice from the pizza box, gesturing at it with his other hand. “Say you love the pepperoni pizza. You come in, you order it, because it makes you happy, it warms and fills you up, it satisfies you, yeah? But sometimes, after your dedication and adoration you have towards the um, pepperoni, suddenly you realise the things you want from the pizza. There aren’t vegetables, there are essentially only two ingredients to the topping and the colours are too simple. You try to fix this through deep, uh,” he put the pizza down, searching for the word with a furrowed brow.

“Insight?” she suggested quietly.

“Yeah. And trying to reach an agreement. But sometimes that can’t happen, regardless of how hard you try, regardless of how much you love pepperoni. Because of this, you have to go your separate ways, and stop pizza altogether. But after a while, you come back to pizza, and perhaps you choose a new flavour to spice things up. Or you might choose pepperoni again, give it a second chance.”

Mario paused as the girl shifted in her seat, her tears dried and eyes opened wide in interest. Her blank stare was warmer now, filled with a sparkle of amusement.

“And?” she prompted.

“Sure the choice is yours, whether you want something new or something old. But if you chose the pepperoni again, and you eat it after that pizza hiatus, you remember why you fell in love with it in the first place. Why it was your favourite flavour. And from there, you can either decide to move on, because even though you still have high regard for pepperoni, you know it’s all good now. Or, you make amends, and re-establish your love and loyalty to pepperoni.” Mario concluded, his throat slightly parched from talking.

It was her laugh that made a smile appear on his lips, and he wiped his forehead in relief. So it worked. She laughed even harder, pointing at him, and Mario realised that there was a definitely a nice smear of flour across his brow.

“Thanks for that,” she said after they both laughed heartily, “I needed it.”

“No problem. Hey, you get free pizza on the house. What flavour?” Mario asked, as he removed himself from the chair.

She followed his actions as he maneuvered back towards the kitchen. Even though his back faced her, Mario could hear the smile in her answer.

“Anything but pepperoni.”

“Thank you for calling Ricochet Pizza. What can I do for you today?”

The voice was high, falsetto even, almost harmonic with the shrill of a boiling kettle. Putting the voice on speaker was not the greatest idea. “The Ricochet Special and Pepperoni please.”

The girl with the colourful dyed hair snorted in amusement as she ate her Vegie Deluxe on the table nearest to the counter. Mario stifled a laugh as he continued with the call, raising his hand to acknowledge her. It was great seeing her even happier than before, and now as a fortnight regular, as she indulged in her new pizza flavour.

“Would that be carry out or delivery, mam?” Mario said into the speaker.

“Delivery,” the voice sung through, almost bursting one of his eardrums.

“Ok. I need your details. Pizza will be there in thirty.”

After hanging up, he shuddered from the pitch of the voice, and started his first pizza. Mario figured by putting calls on speaker, he could multitask, using his hands to prepare pizza dough and chop up ingredients. It was his slug’s job to hang up the calls, as Mario preoccupied himself with everything else. Today was a lot quieter, with only a few customers in the shop, sitting comfortably in the furthest two corners, whilst the girl sat in her usual spot. Sometimes she helped out, learning some tricks with his Speedstinger, or operating the cashier. It was good that his slug liked her, because there was an off-chance of it biting strangers.

The hotter the days were, the fewer the customers. It was better for Mario that way, because working with just fans as the cooling system was not all that comfortable. She had suggested getting some air conditioning system in place to help with the heat, but he did not have the funds for it. That technology was not even close to cheap, and rent itself was already pretty high.

“I can hold a school fundraiser, so you can get better cooling around here,” she asked, the green straw from her drink dangling from her mouth. “I mean, you give the school discounts for the pizzas at the cafeteria, so I’m thinking, let’s do something for you. How about it?”

“Thanks, but you don’t need to,” Mario answered, placing the two pizzas into the oven. “I’ll get it someday.”

“Someday? You need it ASAP. It would increase turnover, revenue and sales. From that, you can have a higher profit margin, pay off the mortgage and rent, and own this place for good.”

He turned around with a low whistle. “You learn that from school? I always need to get someone in for that.”

“Business student,” she responded, putting the straw back into the drink.

Mario smiled, nodding contemplatively. “I’ll think about it.”

He could feel the beads of sweat trickle down from his forehead, and how it dampened the rim of his cap as he rode into the cavern, the temperature sweltering and frustrating for deliveries. The familiar sound of a blaster whirred in front as a Frostcrawler flew above his head, a solid frozen streak arching over and glistening white. The heat dropped slightly and he felt the cool melting ice dripping against his uniform as his mecha padded through the road. The slinger waved in the distance and Mario returned the gesture.

Reaching the house with a glaring white paint job, Mario dismounted with a disgusting squeak. His slug cringed, lip flared and small teeth showing, as it observed Mario, its eyes pointedly looking at the uniform pants. Removing the pizzas from the mecha, he followed the Speedstinger’s gaze, the telling dark splatter appropriately formed at the crotch.

“Really?” he huffed, brow creasing. It was obviously sweat, thanks to the brilliant weather, and perhaps some of the ice that melted in his lap. But how could he explain it without blushing a dark crimson? And to face the shrill shock of the customer’s voice when she noticed his obvious patch. If the voice on the phone was bad enough, hearing it with his ears in person would definitely make them bleed.

His slug gestured over to the door, and he sighed in hesitation. It was better to get this over and done with, rather than to sit out here with legs spread out, waiting for it to dry. A late pizza was never a good pizza. Hopefully, and Mario really wished, that it was just going to be unmentioned like a Slughound in the room. Approaching the wooden door, he knocked it gingerly, apprehensive about the customer’s reception.

At first they did not answer, until the muffled voices spoke from behind the entrance. Rather than disturbing them, he eavesdropped into the hushed exchange, balancing the pizzas in one hand as the ear leaned against the door.

“Is it a girl? I didn’t see,” a male voice resonated softly against the grain.

“I don’t know! You were supposed to be watching the window!” Another masculine voice whispered frustratingly.

“I’m pretty sure it was a girl,” a third male spoke. “I bet you a slice of the Special that it’s a pizza girl.”

“Really? I’m in for that deal,” the first one answered.

“So what do we do?” the third asked.

“Dude, we take off our shirts! She’d like that. I think,” the second whispered.

After some rustling, Mario shook his head as he retracted from the door. It creaked open slowly, almost teasingly, and a whisk of cool air hissed from the crack. With a satisfied hum, he adjusted the pizza boxes in front of him, so his customers would see the cardboard first.

“See, it is a-“ the familiar second voice began before stopping short.

Bordered by the doorframe like a portrait, the three prepubescent boys looked up at Mario, arms quickly wrapped around their bodies in embarrassment. A faint tinge of pink dusted the trio’s cheeks as they scuttled in their spots, mouths agape.

“Pizza delivery for Mandy from Ricochet Pizza. One Special and one Pepperoni,” Mario grinned brightly. “That will be fifteen pieces of gold.”

“Uh, here’s the money and tip,” the boy that matched the third voice said dejectedly, handing over a bag. “Yeah, you can go now.”

“Wait, just a question. Which one’s Mandy?” he asked, trying to keep their gaze focused on his face, the wide smile still plastered on his lips.

They all pointed at each other, fingers in all directions, as accusations flew around in a rabble of insults and angry words. Mario managed to catch their logic, where they thought if it were a female customer, they would get a female pizza deliverer. Smiling in spite of himself, he pocketed the coins.

“Well you boys keep cool in this weather. Enjoy your pizza.”

“And enjoy your wet pants!” the third one hissed, slamming the door in Mario’s face, making his Speedstinger fall from his shoulders.

He looked down and slapped a palm onto his sticky forehead. Wishful thinking never got him anywhere.

Okay, maybe wishful thinking did get him somewhere, but being in this debacle was the reason why Mario stopped wishing at all. Of course, there were days when he longed for his finger to be around the trigger again, and watch his Speedstinger ricochet off the targets once more. The roar of the crowd thrumming in his ears as he was blindfolded, the amazing rapport with the broadcaster and producers that he had dealt with, and all the lovely fan mail and gifts he received without even asking for anything on his birthday… Then again, what Mario wished for that night, before he laid his head against the pillow, was to use that blaster and not the crowd response, because no thrill could even begin to substitute the adrenaline that it gave him.

But this was something else.

“You coward!” the intruder snorted roughly, his blaster pointing at Mario’s head. He instinctively put his hands above his head, eyes wide and he staggered backwards.

The last customer had left just before he placed the ‘closed’ sign up. It was a messy day, and Mario had to mop it all up while the ka-ching! of the cashier rang behind him. His Speedstinger had an odd knack for operating the machine, and even doing the daily total of cash on hand. Even with the endearing image of his slug awkwardly balancing a pencil in its short limbs, Mario hated the annoying nag of cleaning up after someone’s mess. It was the sour aftertaste of a good day, and he recalled the kid who threw a tantrum all the time, throwing slices onto the ground as his parents just shook their heads and laughed it off. A student had knocked over her own drink, splattering her white shirt with orange, and leaving its stick residue over the table and tiles.

But this holdup might as well be the topping on the pizza.

And so with hands up in the air and the mop and bucket beside his leg, Mario’s heart thrummed like mallets against his ribcage, his breath short and vision increasingly becoming clearer and clearer.

“W-what?” he managed to stutter, and Mario’s blue eyes quickly glanced at his blaster on display, then the window outside.

The day was easing towards the darker hour, and the natural luminescence of the mushrooms began to glow its ethereal blues and purples, sheathing the intruder with a shadowy cape around his medium frame. Little light made the shadows stretch, and the deepened scowl of the man cast a dark veil over his short cropped hair and thin brows. Brandishing the blaster closer and closer with each step forward, his built was nothing like Blakk, but he still towered over Mario like that industrialist. It was not the time to cower, and he tried to control his composure.

“Now, now Spades. There is no reason to scare him like that,” a feminine voice spoke behind the male.

If Spades (and Mario nearly laughed at the name), was tall, than this woman was imposing, and her spiky red hair did not help matters. Her black heavyset boots clunked against the tile floors as she approached her partner in crime, easing his arm down with a gloved hand on his bicep. Like the rest of her frame, her face was long and bony, with cheekbones and chin pointed with sharp angles. The eyebrows were pulled into a deep scowl and her lip was upturned as if everything that crawled beneath her was just vermin waiting to be squashed.

“And I suppose you are Buckets.” Mario tried, levelling his voice as his throat grew dry.

“Amusing, but no, Mario Bravado,” she sneered. “They call me Quin.”

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?” he asked, the blood draining from his raised arms and straining his muscles. He began to drop them before a blaster whirred.

“Keep them up. It’s quite the look,” Quin laughed. “Quite reminiscent of the day you fell from your high mecha and tumbled into this failed attempt to escape it all.”

“What’s your point, Quin?” Mario spat. “What do you want?”

Spades snorted. “You walked away, coward. It’s time for someone else to take your mantle.”

Blue eyes glanced downward as Mario hung his head. His muscles screamed from being held up for so long, and he cringed, reflecting back on those days as the pain coursed through his arms. It was never a mantle- just a reputation. Mario’s own cockiness saw it shatter in front of his eyes, remembering the harsh stadium’s ground rubbing against his fallen body. The shuddering breath that escaped his bruised chest and the booming voice of Blakk announcing something to the crowd; it was all just a blur, but instincts told him it was time to leave. Disappear and find a new identity.

“Nice to meet a fan,” Mario looked up again, eyes squinting. “A mantle for the taking, huh. Just go ahead. I don’t care.”

Quin tutted at Mario, and she pushed Spades’ arm down. “Not a fan. A protégé. Indirectly, of course. You never seemed to be around, except on the screen.”

“She learned from you. I did as well. And together, we learnt from your cowardly mistakes,” Spades said. “And from that, we will fix things. Like your cowardice.”

“You honestly need a thesaurus, Spades.” Mario smirked, and the thumping in his chest began to ease slightly. The same could not be said for his arms, and they began to feel like boulders instead of limbs. His Speedstinger had found its way on his shoulders, trying to massage away the pain.

“You dare mock me, coward?” he yelled and his voice echoed in the empty pizza shop. The whirr and familiar burst of the slug from his blaster rang clear before Quin could stop him, and Mario watched Spades’ Speedstinger ricochet off the walls and lights before it headed straight for him.

Trickshooting was like pizza; dependent on layers, particularly where and how to ricochet a slug to maximise velocity and kinetic force. But it seemed most neglected another factor, one that made Mario the best in his field; when. And whilst the slug approached him, he pushed the bucket forward with the mop. It slid quickly without hesitation against the slippery floor from his cleaning, knocking Quin from her feet after her attention bubbled in anger towards Spades. In the split second, with knuckles baring white as he gripping the wooden rod, he swung the mop around, batting the Speedstinger into his memorabilia and then out the automated doors. With a violent crack, the glass shattered in response and his blaster began to fall. He ran to collect it, as his slug slid into a canister. Despite having his target behind him, it was all muscle memory. A quick click and whirr; Mario’s Speedstinger bounced off the corners and chairs before knocking Spades’ blaster from his hands.

“Why are you two even here?” Mario fumed, eyes wandering over the mess on the tile floors.

Quin coughed and she worked herself upwards, spiky hair drooping from the spilt bucket. “We were going to show you how it should have been done.”

“What do you mean?” he questioned, frustration grumbling in his words.

“Face Blakk. Defeat him. We thought…” the stunned Spades began as he eased from his surprise.

“Well, you two are definitely not thinking,” Mario cut in, irritated. “Spades, you are too quick to anger. And Quin, did you not see the slugs he has? They are ghouled! They have more juice to kill you than all your slugs combined. I ran before, before something fatal happened. It was never cowardice. It was an act of survival!”

“But-“ Spades started.

“Let me speak,” Mario fired back. “I know now Blakk spared me to live with the shame, the regret, and people like you rubbing words like ‘cowardice’ in the wounds. But I’m passed all that now. I’m not weak; I overcame what he threatened me with, and I’ve learnt. I learnt it the hard way! I’m telling you two now, with whatever vendetta or motive you have, there is no use to face him like how I did.”

“We are not you!” Quin hissed as she stood up, her clothes drenched. “We know your mistakes. We learned from that.”

“And yet you still want to face him? You contradict yourself. You are not me, I know,” Mario shot, “You are worse than me.”

Dropping the mop and blaster onto the tiles, they clattered in the silence and his shoulders sagged. He looked at the pair; one soaked in some soapy and dirty water, the other standing unarmed and looking at his bare palms. Whoever they were, they once admired what Mario was. They were not the first to claim vengeance on his behalf, and not the first to learn from watching his shows. However, not all have approached him before their endeavour, and Mario regretted his inability to stop them. Whatever had become of them was now lost.

“So, Quin and Spades, I know you can be better. Better than myself, better than those who didn’t learn the lesson the first time. Or the second time. If you see yourself as a protégés, learn from this. Please learn from this.”

Tugging absently on her drenched clothes, Quin hardened her stare at Mario. She seemed to shrink into the shadows as the dark hours began to fall, but her eyes shone brighter, glassy and reflective like a mirror.

“I knew it. You’re a disappointment,” she whispered coarsely.

Tapping Spades, they both sauntered out the glass door. It whistled shut behind them as their shadows were swallowed by the radiant purple and blue glows of the mushrooms outside.

Mario’s trickshooting memorabilia was fixed up before the next operating day. Outfit and blaster sat behind the glass placidly, almost watching him while he kneaded the pizza dough. Customers were few and he preferred it that way. After that incident, he was not in the mood to talk, and he pressed his thin lips together as his fingers dug into the soft flour again.

The times he found peace with people were long gone. Pizza was a poor replacement, because neither dough nor topping responded to the words he wished to share. Despite this, silence was heavily treasured after withdrawal from the arena. It was hard to restrain his voice sometimes, but his Speedstinger always lent an ear, chirruping at the right times.

Cool drafts were more frequent as days grew bleak and grey in these colder months. Sure, it was a lot more comfortable for home deliveries. His mecha glistened when it padded in the emerald blades of grass, the metallic muscles rippling in the crisp breeze. The pizza secured at the back with black straps and heatproof bag to keep it from turning soggy in this weather. And sure, there were less civilians wandering outside on the cavern’s roads. It seemed the facades of houses leant inwards from the deathly silence, towering over Mario, shadows stretched like black spindly fingers.

Finding the customer’s house, he guided the mecha to slow into a halt. The stonework was a deep onyx and smooth, with white veins fracturing the dark hue. Mahogany and imposing, the door was rich with engravings, inscriptions that were illegible to Mario. The golden knob looked like a polished but ancient artefact, embedded into the wood like a protruding gemstone. There was no knocker, but he did not want to mark the igneous surface with his bare knuckles. Instead he stood, succumbed by the overwhelming door that obstructed him from his customer.

“How do I even…?” he trailed off.

Almost telepathically, the door answered with a low creak, opening to reveal the inhabitant. She looked was fragile like a small flower against the wind, hobbling out with a wrinkled arm leaning against a cane. White wisps of smoke seemed to have gathered around the top of her head, and pulled into a bun in attempt to tame the thin locks. Mario noticed her eyes were grey and cloudy, like a storm gathered into orbs.

“Pizza delivery from Ricochet Pizza for Mrs Swell,” Mario said. “Two Seafoods.”

She stared straight ahead and smiled. “Call me Bella. It makes me feel young again,” her voice quavered as she did a jiggle on the spot.

“Um, sure Bella,” Mario coughed uncertain. “That will be fifteen pieces of gold.”

Mrs Swell nodded, eyes still straight ahead and avoiding Mario’s own blue eyes. “That’s quite alright. Help me bring them inside,” she gestured with a flick of her wrist.

The dark ebony table stood on clawed feet, talons painted with a metallic gold paint. Bella absently gestured towards it and Mario placed the boxes down gently, preventing the cardboard corners from scratching the smooth surface. The tapping of her cane disappeared down the hallway before it left him in the cool silence of the dining room. It gave him time to peer curiously at the drawn purple curtains and the chandelier that dangled like a large diadem from the creamy ornate ceiling. Grey marble with white swirls tiled beneath his feet, which met the walls with a golden border.

“Gold and tip,” she reappeared behind him, and he jumped, his hat sliding from his head.

“Thank you, Bella,” Mario replied with a nod, removing his hat and pressing it against his chest.

“What a gentleman you are,” she whispered.

A gentleman. It was not a word he would use to describe himself, let alone associate himself with. Sure he was mannered enough to say his pleases and thank yous, but opening doors for others and maintaining a high standard in appearance was too much of a hassle for him. What was the point anyway, when he made pizzas instead of owning a tailor shop?

“It’s ah, um. Thanks,” Mario started, “I should better get going-“

“I’d rather you stay. You are too burdened with something.” Bella stated, “Something negative.”

She pulled out a chair with the hook of her cane, and gestured at it. When Mario did not move, she snapped its end against the edge of the table, and he hurriedly positioned himself on the plush seat.

“Talk,” she ordered as her hand glided over to a box. The strings of cheese stretched as she removed a piece, before they broke and coiled beneath the slice.

“I’ve nothing to say?”

Bella munched on a piece of fish and swallowed. “Don’t take me for a fool. I’m blind, not stupid. I know when something’s wrong.”

Mario gulped. “My shame motivates others to sacrifice themselves for something I’ve stopped caring about. I know I had, uh- have, a strong following, almost cultish in some sense, but I don’t understand. People using me as a reason to hurt another; revenge is one thing, but killing for it, is…”

He looked down at his lap where he placed his cap, its brim peering up at him. It was something a fan gave him, blue on the sides and white at the front, where he printed Ricochet Pizza’s logo on. Mario ran his fingers against it, his shoulders drooping in hesitation. There was no reason why so many still had faith in his trickshooting career when that was not him anymore. He was no celebrity, no role model. Just a guy who made the local pizza.

The sound of munching returned Mario’s attention to Bella, who stared straight ahead at the curtains, but he knew she was looking at him. She had already worked her way through the second slice and there were no signs of stopping. Without hesitation, she picked up the third in her wrinkled hand and her fingertips danced beneath the hot base, adjusting the pizza into a comfortable position.

“When a deity rejects the reverence of the people, they will only pray harder before they completely lose faith,” Bella spoke as she finished the piece and reached for another, “So, stop reacting to their taunts, and they will discontinue.”

“But those who fight on behalf…”

“Are those disillusioned by a selfish desire to release the stress of their own lives.”

Mario looked at the woman that sat gathered in her drapes in the seat opposite. “What do you mean?”

“My third husband married me on behalf of my aunt’s, twice removed, request. Romantic sure, but he was disillusioned by his greed for our family fortune,” she recalled, shaking her head slowly. “I learned from that mistake and live alone now. It’s the only time I get a whole box of pizza to myself.”

“Right,” he commented, tugging at his collar. This woman made no sense at all. “Can I leave now?”

“And you must part with this,” Bella shifted in her seat, her gaze directly piercing into his soul, “Don’t see with your eyes.”

And that was his cue as Mario pattered backwards slowly, before running out of the door. The door accidently slammed behind him, and he cringing as the vibrations shook through the front of the house. Whatever that advice was supposed to be, he quickly disposed of it before rushing back to his shop.

The dark hours stretched its shadowy tendrils over the Slugterra flora, but the luminescent fungi refused to yield, the purple and blue glows around Ricochet Pizza competing with the neon sign. It was time to close the shop as Mario leaned against the counter bench and sighed. A rag hung limply on his shoulder, frayed and grey from its excessive cleaning duties. Mop and bucket were already drained, locked away in the cleaning closet in the back. His Speedstinger snored quietly behind the cash register, drained as well, from the heavy turnover of the day.

The late hours meant sleep. If he could, Mario would sleep in one of the booths, and wake up when business called. His home was still in the same cavern, but riding a Mecha with exhaustion like anchors on the eyelids was risky. Scooping up his slug in his hands, Mario nudged it with his thumbs. It grumbled, a dull chirp of irritation, before turning around and snoring once more. Maybe it was wise to take a quick nap here. His slug murmured something unintelligible, lips parting slightly, and he replied with a soft smile down at his palms.

The final hours were slow, and seconds felt like minutes. The neon sign fizzled out but the security cameras were on high alert as Mario locked the register and inventory. The night was abuzz with the whispers of the bugs outside, and the soft crunch of leaves from the nocturnal beasts that hunted in the shadows. Only the snore of a slug and hum of the fridge played inside the shop whilst Mario tiptoed towards the door to lock it. The glass was a mirror in the night, and his reflection stared back, haggard and pale, eyes and cheeks hollow and dull.

And another face replied, outside staring in, almost a carbon copy of his. It was a mistake from the past, too similar to his, but too far twisted into something worse. A painful recollection was easy to forget once resolved. This struck him harder than Blakk had in the arena, deeper than the poison cowardice that he once faced. Reality crashed in his ears, startling Mario awake from exhaustion.

Automatic and in greeting, the glass doors slid open. The familiar face sauntered through, and the tiniest flicker of a smirk glided over his thin lips.

“Quite the establishment,” he commented with refined enunciation, his voice both foreign and familiar to Mario.

“We’re closed. Ricochet Pizza’s hours are from eleven to seven.”

“We?” he questioned, brow raised before he spotted the sleeping slug. “Hmm. Endearing.”

Key tightly clutched and hands sweaty, Mario walked towards the man, each step closer to apprehension and regret. “What are you doing here?”

“A family reunion. You were difficult to find.”

Mario stopped as the man sat down, eye and eyepiece maintaining its glance. That cursed piece of gadgetry was dissecting him cell by cell. He felt like a test subject chained against a bed, the gaze a scalpel surgically carving out every emotion that flickered restlessly on his face. He shivered as Mario knew he could not hide anymore, where the man read him as an open book.

“There was a reason.” Mario began.

“Perhaps the same reason why you left? Or the time you fell from grace?”

“Don’t mock me. You are no better.”

“Oh brother mine, we are both flaws. But I am a man of my word, and I have kept true to my cause.”

The elder one scoffed. Teeth of the key dug into his clenched fist, biting into the flesh as he squeezed it tighter. It was one thing to claim he had strayed, but another to bear the mantle of a murderer. A blaster absent from the hand did not mean he had forgotten his path. Mario knew what his earlier years brought him, and he learnt. What was more true to a cause? Blind stubbornness and charging through a decrepit path, or the willingness to amend the errors and mitigate his ignorance through self-discovery?

It was the same mentality that kept his brother attached on the thread, an idea that frayed and frayed as he tugged and pulled, but held whole when he believed he was correct. A gentleman was a word so unrecognisable now, much like how he stood facing Mario, eyepiece and eye staring blankly. Those eyebrows, unburdened by responsibility, lifted in quizzically, prompting a reply. They were encouraging, forceful enough for him to spurt out the irrational and painful words that were bottled all these years. But there was no point to tell his younger brother again. He had never learnt, and Mario could never get through to him.

“Leave. Just walk out the door and leave,” Mario hissed through his parted lips. “It’s what you are good at anyway.”

“It stings, doesn’t it?” the Gentleman sauntered closer as Mario retracted in response. “The past hurts.”

“Don’t pretend it doesn’t hurt you either.”

He stopped and cupped a fist on his chin. The Gentleman’s head cocked up towards the pizza menu as he froze in contemplation.

“Hmm, I believe we share mutual sentiment on this matter. Finally something we agree upon, but that does little to my stance towards you, brother.”

With a final glance over at the counter where the slug slept, the Gentleman bid Mario farewell with a curt nod. The steps towards the door stuttered as words do, hesitant to progress forward, but necessity demanded otherwise. There was more to be said as the hours wore into the later phase of shadows. Tight lipped and seething, Mario justified himself that silence was better than a verbal brawl. Unassuming and smirking, the Gentleman rectified his posture as he passed the doorframe and into the chill of the night. Words were a battle he would win, and to hold fire midway meant the fight was not yet done.

Mario threw his keys down hard against the tile floor. The loudest clack resounded, startling his Speedstinger awake, but it did not matter. Nothing meant much anymore, and what mattered when family faded? Watching the Gentleman’s back disappear into the darkness was all too similar when his little brother left and mutated into monster. The Gentleman, his brother – they were never synonymous.

Despite the denial, and how he fought against the very feeling that stung his eyes, Mario shouted at the glass door. Hoarse words were sandpaper against his throat and an inferno in his crippled heart.

“I missed you, you idiot.”

#slugterra #mario bravado #fanfiction

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