MOTHER 3 Tragic Reconstruction: Uprising (Potentially Discontinued)

Chapter 1: Super Secret Monster Hunters

Devastation. A small bank of words can be used to describe the immediate emotional pelting upon the two children as they witness what Claus could only hope was a nightmare, for the initial shock can't afford to be complicated. Strong by hand, weak by mentality. To him, he already knows deep down that his optimism will be his downfall. In what was meant to be the forest of Sunshine, fires burn and small land mines explode, only providing a backdrop to the scene of the modified Mecha Drago holding Hinawa in her teeth. Stillness turned to trembling as his brother began screaming out, his throat deathly and dry from all the smoke licking the dying lands. "Killing". The word flicks at the ginger in denial, shoving to the front of his mind. "This is killing." He always thought ending life was so cool. The thrill of hunting a bear threatening the town with his father, or the excitement of the games he'd play with Lucas where they'd pretend to kill colossal monsters and evil supervillains... In this moment, the frightening moment of clarity among the innocence of confusion, Claus will beg for forgiveness from the Dark Dragon later on.
"Claus!! We've gotta run, we've got—" The smoke isn't a generous force. Cutting off his shouts, it decides he shall be heard no more; Lucas endures a coughing fit, his lungs burning as much as the fires closing in around him. For the pair, the pure adrenaline of running, tripping, nearly drowning- all of that makes their memories a fault. They simply didn't have the capacity at the time to keep these things in the depths of their long-term, for their brains were too occupied in keeping them alive: boiling their blood against the icy water, yet also letting sweat flow to cool them against the brashings of the heat... for how complex a machine the brain is, it's still only a human organ, so balance between the temperatures was more than difficult to find. Yet the river delivered; among the dead bark coated in a layer of temptingly white ash, the main artery of Tazmily gently swept the twins to safety. Away from the burning corpse of their dear mother; she once expressed a want for her body to be buried under a new oak tree to allow it to use her nutrients to grow large and strong, however human ash has no use in fertilising the ground. At least her soul can rest easy. At least her fragile heart didn't have to witness anything and everything that predeceased these events. At least she is resting right now. Perhaps her carcass can act as a root to grow a strong trunk of a tree in another way.

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The blessing of the sky can still be noticed; the grass still jewelled with dew, and the air still rich with moisture; the weather in Tazmily today is bright and beautiful, clearing the ash and diffusing the smoke from around three days prior. But must the clouds roll away so quickly, as if nothing ever happened? The Earth is much older than we will ever be, so a blaze followed by a brief shower is nothing to this ancient deity of a planet. Not-so-hidden among the greenery of Sunshine forest, a treehouse squats up in the branches of these ever-old trees. It must be late spring, for how pasty the yellow-green of the leaves are, shrouding the treehouse from becoming damp and rotten, keeping it as a joyful place of sanctuary for the Super Secret Monster Hunters. Nothing but a made-up, imaginary organisation comprising the renowned twins Claus and Lucas, as well as the young and eager Fuel. They practically begged Flint to let Boney the chocolate labrador join them, but "That rowdy mutt'll cause nuffin' but trouble, up there'n that treehouse yer dad Lighter an' I spent a sixmonth constructin'". So they begrudgingly settled as a trio without the typical animal companion they'd need to make them a true fictional adventuring team.

The SSMH triad had arranged a meeting on this damp Tuesday morning. Well, meeting in a more casual definition: they're simply going to hang out, sipping freshly pressed apple juice out of clay cups and gnawing at those rock-hard banana chips that are never soft enough to spare your teeth from a small trickle of blood. Lucas is usually the one who arrives early to bring snacks and put out the wooden bowls, maybe give the floors a brief sweep if he had a moment to spare. But as of recent, the blonde boy has found himself unable to become any less than hip-joined to his twin brother. A vicious force of paranoia has hung around him like the smoke from before; it's a ghost of the flame, a memory of the ash-ridden stinging of his still black-coated bronchi, burdening them with a chesty cough to pair. Being with his brother near constantly is like taking a painkiller; it eases the throbbing for a while, but as soon as it wanders off, the neuralgic-esque suffering reigns once more to threaten the thoughts of our poor unfortunate soul. For the long term, all he can do is keep his chin up, to which Claus would proclaim "and that's why you should get yer head from 'round yer ankles!" So for today's meeting, Fuel decided to step in and set up some snacks, as if he would have had much of a choice. Out come the banana chips, preserved in a pot, and the apple juice released from the constrictions of the cork and allowed to flow from the glass bottle to the cups painted with red berry juice and grass stains. They look unintentionally Christmas-y, for in the land of Nowhere, no culture of the past exists. What do the Tazmilians celebrate, then? The harvest festival, birthdays and a special little get-together every full moon.