06-21-2018, 07:04 PM
Fresh air was nice.
Sure, the arena that hosted his climactic battle against Gilgamesh had been ‘outside,’ but something about the manufactured locale had seemed particularly artificial, and that included the air the fighters heaved throughout. Mickey appreciated the welcome change of air not marred by the throes of battle as he stepped out of the preshow facility and into the large, wide open park just outside the doors.
The sun dipped below the horizon, signaling the end of the first true day of Dante’s Abyss. Rumor had it throughout the facility that Karl Jak—ever the arbiter of spectacle—had something truly ‘fabulous’ planned out in the park for the conclusion of the first evening. As much as Mickey suspected it might have something to do with blood and gore, knowing that man, the mouse was content to give it a shot. He’d already been proven wrong about Gilgamesh’s lack of a heart—why not Karl, too?
The gilded king had his torments, no doubt. But Mickey Mouse would eat crow—somewhere, beneath an exterior that thrived on material riches and treated others like the actual dirt beneath his feet, he loved his people. Mickey could empathize with that.
When he’d finally reached the hill on the far side of the park, he conjured up a picnic blanket and laid back, letting the last few sun’s rays beat down on his face—and his newly regrown ear. What would be next? More fighting, for certain, but who would they face? Certainly there weren’t many people Mickey could come up against that were loaded with as much baggage as he and Gilgamesh.
Mickey’s eyes flickered open as the sun disappeared. He rolled on to his side, deciding, perhaps, to take a nap, when he spotted the blonde-haired King seated in the grass just a few feet away.
He sat up. “Hey,” he started, calmly.
“I’m not here to speak with you, rat,” Gilgamesh spat back without facing him. “I’m here to see what glorious show Karl Jak has prepared for his king.”
“Right,” Mickey nodded, “I gotcha, pal. No worries.”
Gilgamesh scowled. He hesitated before launching into his next small tirade. “I—“ he paused, “—I am not your pal. I never will be your pal. You’re a mongrel and a cur, and you always will be.”
Mickey frowned. A long silence hung in the air, until finally Gilgamesh broke it.
“You tried to kill me,” he noted, finally facing the mouse. “I thought better of you. I thought you had rules.”
Mickey turned away. “I thought I did too,” he said, sadly. “But... I guess something I’m learning is that some rules are made to be broken. Especially here. It’s not like how it was in my old home. I haven’t been adapting very well—I think because I always sorta figured it wouldn’t be a long stay—and I’ve gotta get better at it.”
“Hmph,” Gilgamesh scoffed, “Well—at least death would be better than banishment.”
“I’m really sorry about that, again,” Mickey replied. Gilgamesh waved a hand and made some noises that signified he didn’t want anymore apologies from the mouse, and Mickey couldn’t blame him. The damage had been done. That demon mark—it was burned into his skin, potentially forever. Kanda had spoken about saving the boy’s soul, but... how much was left to save? And how much had the Underverse and its undoubtedly evil denizens already eaten up? Besides, even if Gilgamesh’s soul was whole and intact, Mickey didn’t know what he could do to save it. It wasn’t within his realm.
He knew a true hero would try anyway.
Was he a true hero?
He reached into his pocket and dug out the banishment circle he’d intended for Karl Jak. Nearby, the gilded king visibly tensed at the sight of the thing.
But before Gilgamesh could even sputter out words of protest, Mickey had snapped the circle in half. He tossed the two halves down the hill and watched them roll until they were too small to see. The New Babylonian eased his body.
“There,” he muttered just loud enough for Gilgamesh to hear, “now it can never be used to inflict suffering upon anyone. Death over banishment.”
“Death over banishment,” Gil agreed.
Above their heads, the sky lit up with streaks of purple and blue. Meteors pulsed through the nighttime air, their luminescence showering the park with the most convincing imitation of natural light the mouse had ever seen.
Against the dark blue backdrop, the intermingling streams of cosmic dust betrayed what lay deep within the heart of the man who’d brought them all here. The purpose seemed primitive on the outside, but underneath, a universal truth about holding the powerful responsible for their power snaked into being. Once a year, Karl Jak gathered the strongest primes in the Omniverse together and forced them to confront their own mortality.
Less sinister, perhaps, than what Mickey’s original perspective was, and less pandering to the proletariat than the mysterious female Bandit’s postulation. But, the mouse would admit, perhaps a... necessary reminder.
Mickey gazed up at the dancing sky. “When you wish upon a star,” he hummed, “makes no difference who you are...”
“What are you doing, rodent?” Gilgamesh interrupted, glancing over at him.
“Hm? Oh, just a little folk song from my homeland,” the mouse explained. “Cute little tune.”
Gilgamesh scowled.
“Your king demands you sing the rest,” he ordered.
“Huh?” Mickey’s brow quirked, “You know I’m a king too, right?”
“Sing, mongrel.”
Gilgamesh did not deign to look at Mickey Mouse again. The expectation was clear, and for this moment... the mouse would concede. After all, he quite liked the song. He took a deep breath and began again.
“When you wish upon a star...”
Sure, the arena that hosted his climactic battle against Gilgamesh had been ‘outside,’ but something about the manufactured locale had seemed particularly artificial, and that included the air the fighters heaved throughout. Mickey appreciated the welcome change of air not marred by the throes of battle as he stepped out of the preshow facility and into the large, wide open park just outside the doors.
The sun dipped below the horizon, signaling the end of the first true day of Dante’s Abyss. Rumor had it throughout the facility that Karl Jak—ever the arbiter of spectacle—had something truly ‘fabulous’ planned out in the park for the conclusion of the first evening. As much as Mickey suspected it might have something to do with blood and gore, knowing that man, the mouse was content to give it a shot. He’d already been proven wrong about Gilgamesh’s lack of a heart—why not Karl, too?
The gilded king had his torments, no doubt. But Mickey Mouse would eat crow—somewhere, beneath an exterior that thrived on material riches and treated others like the actual dirt beneath his feet, he loved his people. Mickey could empathize with that.
When he’d finally reached the hill on the far side of the park, he conjured up a picnic blanket and laid back, letting the last few sun’s rays beat down on his face—and his newly regrown ear. What would be next? More fighting, for certain, but who would they face? Certainly there weren’t many people Mickey could come up against that were loaded with as much baggage as he and Gilgamesh.
Mickey’s eyes flickered open as the sun disappeared. He rolled on to his side, deciding, perhaps, to take a nap, when he spotted the blonde-haired King seated in the grass just a few feet away.
He sat up. “Hey,” he started, calmly.
“I’m not here to speak with you, rat,” Gilgamesh spat back without facing him. “I’m here to see what glorious show Karl Jak has prepared for his king.”
“Right,” Mickey nodded, “I gotcha, pal. No worries.”
Gilgamesh scowled. He hesitated before launching into his next small tirade. “I—“ he paused, “—I am not your pal. I never will be your pal. You’re a mongrel and a cur, and you always will be.”
Mickey frowned. A long silence hung in the air, until finally Gilgamesh broke it.
“You tried to kill me,” he noted, finally facing the mouse. “I thought better of you. I thought you had rules.”
Mickey turned away. “I thought I did too,” he said, sadly. “But... I guess something I’m learning is that some rules are made to be broken. Especially here. It’s not like how it was in my old home. I haven’t been adapting very well—I think because I always sorta figured it wouldn’t be a long stay—and I’ve gotta get better at it.”
“Hmph,” Gilgamesh scoffed, “Well—at least death would be better than banishment.”
“I’m really sorry about that, again,” Mickey replied. Gilgamesh waved a hand and made some noises that signified he didn’t want anymore apologies from the mouse, and Mickey couldn’t blame him. The damage had been done. That demon mark—it was burned into his skin, potentially forever. Kanda had spoken about saving the boy’s soul, but... how much was left to save? And how much had the Underverse and its undoubtedly evil denizens already eaten up? Besides, even if Gilgamesh’s soul was whole and intact, Mickey didn’t know what he could do to save it. It wasn’t within his realm.
He knew a true hero would try anyway.
Was he a true hero?
He reached into his pocket and dug out the banishment circle he’d intended for Karl Jak. Nearby, the gilded king visibly tensed at the sight of the thing.
But before Gilgamesh could even sputter out words of protest, Mickey had snapped the circle in half. He tossed the two halves down the hill and watched them roll until they were too small to see. The New Babylonian eased his body.
“There,” he muttered just loud enough for Gilgamesh to hear, “now it can never be used to inflict suffering upon anyone. Death over banishment.”
“Death over banishment,” Gil agreed.
Above their heads, the sky lit up with streaks of purple and blue. Meteors pulsed through the nighttime air, their luminescence showering the park with the most convincing imitation of natural light the mouse had ever seen.
Against the dark blue backdrop, the intermingling streams of cosmic dust betrayed what lay deep within the heart of the man who’d brought them all here. The purpose seemed primitive on the outside, but underneath, a universal truth about holding the powerful responsible for their power snaked into being. Once a year, Karl Jak gathered the strongest primes in the Omniverse together and forced them to confront their own mortality.
Less sinister, perhaps, than what Mickey’s original perspective was, and less pandering to the proletariat than the mysterious female Bandit’s postulation. But, the mouse would admit, perhaps a... necessary reminder.
Mickey gazed up at the dancing sky. “When you wish upon a star,” he hummed, “makes no difference who you are...”
“What are you doing, rodent?” Gilgamesh interrupted, glancing over at him.
“Hm? Oh, just a little folk song from my homeland,” the mouse explained. “Cute little tune.”
Gilgamesh scowled.
“Your king demands you sing the rest,” he ordered.
“Huh?” Mickey’s brow quirked, “You know I’m a king too, right?”
“Sing, mongrel.”
Gilgamesh did not deign to look at Mickey Mouse again. The expectation was clear, and for this moment... the mouse would concede. After all, he quite liked the song. He took a deep breath and began again.
“When you wish upon a star...”
![[Image: 2agonyw.png]](http://i68.tinypic.com/2agonyw.png)