05-19-2015, 04:10 PM
Mickey arrived in the lobby just in time to catch the tail end of the commotion. Across the way from the door to the Recreation Dome, a contingent of soldiers took down a large, anthropomorphic turtle that, according to what Mickey could glean by eavesdropping, had apparently just gone on a rampage, attacking Primes and Secondaries alike. Even unconscious, Wartortle—the creature’s name, if he could believe his ears—looked menacing. Mickey’s fur stood up on end just looking at him, and apparently the producers had signed this crazy maniac on to compete in Dante’s Abyss.
Slowly but surely, the mouse had begun to second-guess his decision to enter this competition in the first place. Originally, he had grossly misjudged what his competition would be and, for that matter, the sheer volume of “Primes” that inhabited this Omniverse in the first place. To hear the citizens of Bree talk, seeing a Prime was a rare occurrence, but gosh only knew how many people had already signed up for this tournament, and to Mickey’s knowledge, you had to be a Prime to enter.
He no longer felt that his prowess as a Keyblade Master put him above the rest of the competition. Sure, he could scrap with the best of them. But if “the best of them” were all as formidable as this terrorist turtle, then he doubted that he actually even had a chance in the first place. Was it all just some sort of fantasy he had dreamed up? Sure, when it got down to it, the mouse fought pretty well—and, to be honest, probably would be grossly underestimated by his competitors thanks to his stature—but these people fought for a living. The fights he had been in up till now could be considered child’s play; this was not child’s play, this was real.
He knew that not recognizing that he had gotten himself into something real would end up being a huge mistake. He resolved not to let anything these Primes could do surprise him, no matter how much more powerful than him they were. No doubt they all, too, had reasons for thinking they could win this competition, and Mickey would not let himself be done in by ignorance.
Couple that with the fact that he had no idea what exactly the competition had in store for any of them, and his nerves only intensified. What, even, would the players be subjected to once they had been selected for the game? The people in charge of this game had not given any of them, as far as the King knew, any inclination of what was in store in the Abyss. Mickey started to think that—just maybe—it might be better if he wasn’t picked. But he knew he couldn’t let the people of Bree down.
The strange sensation of being watched broke him from his thoughts. The mouse scanned the lobby, looking around for what could be causing the hair on the back of his neck to stand up. Most people in the room still focused on where the soldiers had carried Wartortle; they stared at the elevator to the barracks, leaning over to their friends and talking in hushed whispers. For a while, Mickey had been content to listen to them and learn what he could about the terrorist, but now something else distracted him.
No matter where he looked, though, he could not find anything. Everyone seemed focused on something else. Nobody seemed to notice him. Granted, that could be because he stood less than half the height of everyone else in the room, but still—something watched him. He could not shake the feeling.
Suddenly, a chill ran up his spine. They were right behind him.
“Excuse me,” a boy’s voice rang out from behind him. Mickey spun around and looked up to see a young human teenager standing there, hands behind his back, looking down at him with a smirk on his face. Though the boy obviously was very young—Mickey postulated sixteen or seventeen years old, at most—he had long, silver hair, and held himself like someone who had been through too much for such a young life. He wore a black cloak so long it touched the floor, zipped up the front, and had the hood of it up, though it could not hide his hair. “I wanted to tell you, sir—”
“Who are you?” Mickey’s eyes narrowed, and he wasted no time moving right along to the questions that needed to be asked. This boy had snuck up on him, and had been watching him the whole time he had been in the lobby—maybe the whole time he had been in the Dante’s Abyss facility. He, of course, had no way of knowing that for certain, but he had a certain feeling in his gut. Some might call him paranoid, but… he was right. He knew he was right.
The boy chuckled a bit at Mickey’s violent reaction, and his smile grew bigger as he removed his hood. “I wanted to tell you,” he continued, ignoring Mickey’s question, “that I like that.” He pointed lazily at the keyblade hanging off Mickey’s belt, and instinctively, the mouse’s hand went to the hilt of the weapon. “No need for that,” the boy assured him. In the ensuing silence, the grey-haired boy’s gaze shifted up to one of the large television screens lining the hallway. After a few seconds, Mickey’s name—or, well, the alias he had registered under—appeared next to a screenshot of his interview from earlier. “Can’t wait to see what you do in the Abyss, Ears,” the boy said, acknowledging the screen. “Later.”
With that, he turned to go away, and Mickey knew he should have let him go, but his curiosity got the best of him. “Are you a competitor?” he called after the boy, who stopped at the sound of the mouse’s high-pitched voice and glanced back over his shoulder.
“Me? Oh, no. Just a fan.”
He disappeared into the crowd, just as mysterious now as the moment Mickey met him. The mouse tried his best to keep his gaze trained on the boy, but he couldn’t. Within seconds, he had vanished from sight, and the mouse wasn’t tall enough or perceptive enough to keep up with him amongst the mass of bodies.
But who, exactly, had he been? He had stared at the mouse with a knowing smile, like he had some sort of knowledge of the King even though Mickey had barely existed in this world for more than a few days. Whatever the case, the mouse knew that he could not dwell on it right now; now was the time for Dante’s Abyss. Now was the time to keep his head in the game, and make sure he won the game—or at least didn’t embarrass himself, since he apparently had at least one “fan.” He wouldn’t let thoughts of this boy get in the way of his thoughts about the game; he needed to focus.
Focus, Mickey.
But something about that smirk wouldn’t let him do it.
Slowly but surely, the mouse had begun to second-guess his decision to enter this competition in the first place. Originally, he had grossly misjudged what his competition would be and, for that matter, the sheer volume of “Primes” that inhabited this Omniverse in the first place. To hear the citizens of Bree talk, seeing a Prime was a rare occurrence, but gosh only knew how many people had already signed up for this tournament, and to Mickey’s knowledge, you had to be a Prime to enter.
He no longer felt that his prowess as a Keyblade Master put him above the rest of the competition. Sure, he could scrap with the best of them. But if “the best of them” were all as formidable as this terrorist turtle, then he doubted that he actually even had a chance in the first place. Was it all just some sort of fantasy he had dreamed up? Sure, when it got down to it, the mouse fought pretty well—and, to be honest, probably would be grossly underestimated by his competitors thanks to his stature—but these people fought for a living. The fights he had been in up till now could be considered child’s play; this was not child’s play, this was real.
He knew that not recognizing that he had gotten himself into something real would end up being a huge mistake. He resolved not to let anything these Primes could do surprise him, no matter how much more powerful than him they were. No doubt they all, too, had reasons for thinking they could win this competition, and Mickey would not let himself be done in by ignorance.
Couple that with the fact that he had no idea what exactly the competition had in store for any of them, and his nerves only intensified. What, even, would the players be subjected to once they had been selected for the game? The people in charge of this game had not given any of them, as far as the King knew, any inclination of what was in store in the Abyss. Mickey started to think that—just maybe—it might be better if he wasn’t picked. But he knew he couldn’t let the people of Bree down.
The strange sensation of being watched broke him from his thoughts. The mouse scanned the lobby, looking around for what could be causing the hair on the back of his neck to stand up. Most people in the room still focused on where the soldiers had carried Wartortle; they stared at the elevator to the barracks, leaning over to their friends and talking in hushed whispers. For a while, Mickey had been content to listen to them and learn what he could about the terrorist, but now something else distracted him.
No matter where he looked, though, he could not find anything. Everyone seemed focused on something else. Nobody seemed to notice him. Granted, that could be because he stood less than half the height of everyone else in the room, but still—something watched him. He could not shake the feeling.
Suddenly, a chill ran up his spine. They were right behind him.
“Excuse me,” a boy’s voice rang out from behind him. Mickey spun around and looked up to see a young human teenager standing there, hands behind his back, looking down at him with a smirk on his face. Though the boy obviously was very young—Mickey postulated sixteen or seventeen years old, at most—he had long, silver hair, and held himself like someone who had been through too much for such a young life. He wore a black cloak so long it touched the floor, zipped up the front, and had the hood of it up, though it could not hide his hair. “I wanted to tell you, sir—”
“Who are you?” Mickey’s eyes narrowed, and he wasted no time moving right along to the questions that needed to be asked. This boy had snuck up on him, and had been watching him the whole time he had been in the lobby—maybe the whole time he had been in the Dante’s Abyss facility. He, of course, had no way of knowing that for certain, but he had a certain feeling in his gut. Some might call him paranoid, but… he was right. He knew he was right.
The boy chuckled a bit at Mickey’s violent reaction, and his smile grew bigger as he removed his hood. “I wanted to tell you,” he continued, ignoring Mickey’s question, “that I like that.” He pointed lazily at the keyblade hanging off Mickey’s belt, and instinctively, the mouse’s hand went to the hilt of the weapon. “No need for that,” the boy assured him. In the ensuing silence, the grey-haired boy’s gaze shifted up to one of the large television screens lining the hallway. After a few seconds, Mickey’s name—or, well, the alias he had registered under—appeared next to a screenshot of his interview from earlier. “Can’t wait to see what you do in the Abyss, Ears,” the boy said, acknowledging the screen. “Later.”
With that, he turned to go away, and Mickey knew he should have let him go, but his curiosity got the best of him. “Are you a competitor?” he called after the boy, who stopped at the sound of the mouse’s high-pitched voice and glanced back over his shoulder.
“Me? Oh, no. Just a fan.”
He disappeared into the crowd, just as mysterious now as the moment Mickey met him. The mouse tried his best to keep his gaze trained on the boy, but he couldn’t. Within seconds, he had vanished from sight, and the mouse wasn’t tall enough or perceptive enough to keep up with him amongst the mass of bodies.
But who, exactly, had he been? He had stared at the mouse with a knowing smile, like he had some sort of knowledge of the King even though Mickey had barely existed in this world for more than a few days. Whatever the case, the mouse knew that he could not dwell on it right now; now was the time for Dante’s Abyss. Now was the time to keep his head in the game, and make sure he won the game—or at least didn’t embarrass himself, since he apparently had at least one “fan.” He wouldn’t let thoughts of this boy get in the way of his thoughts about the game; he needed to focus.
Focus, Mickey.
But something about that smirk wouldn’t let him do it.
![[Image: 2agonyw.png]](http://i68.tinypic.com/2agonyw.png)