05-20-2015, 07:09 PM
What the heckskies is going on here?!
Every Prime here—aside from himself—seemed determined to make quite the flashy entrance. Between Wartortle toting his guns around and generally just causing a violent commotion and the weird stretchy guy who had just launched himself into the lobby, Mickey started to wonder if maybe he should be making grand displays of his abilities, showing off his prowess in front of all the competition.
He watched the thin-figured, black-haired boy struggle with the elevator guards, trying his best to bust through the elevator door for a reason that escaped the mouse. Sometime during the fight, the big men knocked the boy’s straw hat clean off of his head, and it floated down the hallway, landing serendipitously in front of Mickey. He picked it up, not wanting anybody else to steal it while the guards distracted the boy. He put up a good fight, for being so young and scrawny-looking.
Of course, no matter how hard he scrapped, the little fighter lost the brawl; not only did the guards outnumber him, but the doors seemed to be made of something extremely resistant to the boy’s powers. Try as he might, he would not make it inside.
That intrigued the mouse, though. The elevator, he had been told upon entering, led up to the barracks, where the Dante’s Abyss producers kept the approved contestants. But why, he wondered, did they not allow potential contestants to go up there and have a look around? Only once a participant had been locked in did they let them travel upstairs. Were they hiding something up there? Something that might discourage the competitors for competing? Certainly they had done a noble job of making sure that nobody got through, but… why? The idea peaked Mickey’s curiosity—and took his mind off the mysterious silver-haired boy from before, to boot.
The doctor from before once again checked up on him. “Yeah, I’m fine,” Mickey responded, before leaving the man behind to conduct an investigation into the mystery of the Dante’s Abyss elevator. Well, perhaps “investigation” was a strong word.
He headed toward the elevator, inspecting the situation despite his better judgment. This whole time, he had been floating around, trying his best to get a feel for the facility, but all of a sudden he did not know why. After all, unless his guesses were way off, the competition itself would not take place inside this facility. So why had he wasted time exploring Olive Garden, or the movie theatre, or even this lobby? No, he had to get his head in the game—even if that option proved considerably more dangerous.
As Mickey approached the elevator, a man stepped out in front of his path. “Oh, no,” the guard scowled, waving a hand in the mouse’s face, or, well, slightly above it, “No, no, no. I don’t want no more primes tryin’ to get up to the barracks. You’ll be notified when you’re allowed to head up there, sir.”
The mouse’s expression must have reflected how puzzled he was—he apparently could not keep a poker face—because the guard explained further:
“Security reasons, sir,” he continued in the absence of an actual response from the King, “We’ve got some volatile contestants and we’d like to make sure they nobody gets hurt… before they’re supposed to, anyway.” The guard chuckled at his little joke, but the idea of unnecessary violence remained unamusing to the keyblade wielder.
“Okay,” Mickey nodded, “Thanks anyway, pal.”
Upon turning away from the elevator, the mouse saw the black-haired boy still slumped on the ground, staring at the silver doors. Mickey’s gaze wandered down to the straw hat he continued to hold in his hand. He had almost forgotten that he had picked it up. Well, he supposed he should give it back, so he took a few steps toward the boy, but stayed at a safe distance in case he decided to scrap with the mouse. The boy didn’t look like much, but Mickey had seen him fight those guards and did not really want to mess with him.
“’Scuse me?” the King called, bending down to try to catch a glimpse of the boy’s face. He did not look up at Mickey, so the mouse continued, “’Scuse me, ya lost your hat.”
At that, the guy’s head snapped up, and his eyes fixated immediately on the straw hat in Mickey’s hands. “YOSH!”
After a beat, one of the boy’s arms stretched forth and snatched the hat from Mickey’s gloved fingers. With a little bit of a grin, the boy plopped the hat back onto his head and stood up, brushing himself off.
“Hmph, still no dust,” the boy mused absentmindedly, before turning his attention to the little mouse before him. “Thanks,” he stared down at the mouse, “but don’t touch my hat again, okay?” The boy nodded once abruptly, and then closed the gap between he and the mouse, crouching down so they were on the same level. He reached up and touched one of Mickey’s ears, seeming strangely fascinated by them. “Coooooooooooool,” he beamed.
“Um,” Mickey shuffled away and the boy returned to his normal height, “I won’t touch your hat if you promise not to touch my ears, pal.” Mickey smiled as best he could, despite the boy’s slight weirdness. Though, seeing a walking, talking animal could be pretty weird, too, and this boy had yet to judge him for it. “But… uhm… it’s nice to meet you,” Mickey offered, holding his palm as high as he could manage.
The boy observed him for a second, then quickly took Mickey’s hand and shook. “I’m Straw Hat Luffy,” he smiled, shaking more vigorously than most people the mouse had ever met, “You might have heard of me, I’m kind of a—”
“I guarantee I haven’t,” the King laughed, cutting him off, “I’m kind of new here. My name’s Ears. Nice to meet ya, pal.” Mickey flicked one of his ears, and Luffy giggled at the appropriateness of the nickname. The mouse turned his gaze on the elevator once again. The pirate boy’s glance followed, and he squatted down behind Mickey, all four of their eyes trained on the mysterious silver doors.
“So… what exactly did you think they had up there?”
Every Prime here—aside from himself—seemed determined to make quite the flashy entrance. Between Wartortle toting his guns around and generally just causing a violent commotion and the weird stretchy guy who had just launched himself into the lobby, Mickey started to wonder if maybe he should be making grand displays of his abilities, showing off his prowess in front of all the competition.
He watched the thin-figured, black-haired boy struggle with the elevator guards, trying his best to bust through the elevator door for a reason that escaped the mouse. Sometime during the fight, the big men knocked the boy’s straw hat clean off of his head, and it floated down the hallway, landing serendipitously in front of Mickey. He picked it up, not wanting anybody else to steal it while the guards distracted the boy. He put up a good fight, for being so young and scrawny-looking.
Of course, no matter how hard he scrapped, the little fighter lost the brawl; not only did the guards outnumber him, but the doors seemed to be made of something extremely resistant to the boy’s powers. Try as he might, he would not make it inside.
That intrigued the mouse, though. The elevator, he had been told upon entering, led up to the barracks, where the Dante’s Abyss producers kept the approved contestants. But why, he wondered, did they not allow potential contestants to go up there and have a look around? Only once a participant had been locked in did they let them travel upstairs. Were they hiding something up there? Something that might discourage the competitors for competing? Certainly they had done a noble job of making sure that nobody got through, but… why? The idea peaked Mickey’s curiosity—and took his mind off the mysterious silver-haired boy from before, to boot.
The doctor from before once again checked up on him. “Yeah, I’m fine,” Mickey responded, before leaving the man behind to conduct an investigation into the mystery of the Dante’s Abyss elevator. Well, perhaps “investigation” was a strong word.
He headed toward the elevator, inspecting the situation despite his better judgment. This whole time, he had been floating around, trying his best to get a feel for the facility, but all of a sudden he did not know why. After all, unless his guesses were way off, the competition itself would not take place inside this facility. So why had he wasted time exploring Olive Garden, or the movie theatre, or even this lobby? No, he had to get his head in the game—even if that option proved considerably more dangerous.
As Mickey approached the elevator, a man stepped out in front of his path. “Oh, no,” the guard scowled, waving a hand in the mouse’s face, or, well, slightly above it, “No, no, no. I don’t want no more primes tryin’ to get up to the barracks. You’ll be notified when you’re allowed to head up there, sir.”
The mouse’s expression must have reflected how puzzled he was—he apparently could not keep a poker face—because the guard explained further:
“Security reasons, sir,” he continued in the absence of an actual response from the King, “We’ve got some volatile contestants and we’d like to make sure they nobody gets hurt… before they’re supposed to, anyway.” The guard chuckled at his little joke, but the idea of unnecessary violence remained unamusing to the keyblade wielder.
“Okay,” Mickey nodded, “Thanks anyway, pal.”
Upon turning away from the elevator, the mouse saw the black-haired boy still slumped on the ground, staring at the silver doors. Mickey’s gaze wandered down to the straw hat he continued to hold in his hand. He had almost forgotten that he had picked it up. Well, he supposed he should give it back, so he took a few steps toward the boy, but stayed at a safe distance in case he decided to scrap with the mouse. The boy didn’t look like much, but Mickey had seen him fight those guards and did not really want to mess with him.
“’Scuse me?” the King called, bending down to try to catch a glimpse of the boy’s face. He did not look up at Mickey, so the mouse continued, “’Scuse me, ya lost your hat.”
At that, the guy’s head snapped up, and his eyes fixated immediately on the straw hat in Mickey’s hands. “YOSH!”
After a beat, one of the boy’s arms stretched forth and snatched the hat from Mickey’s gloved fingers. With a little bit of a grin, the boy plopped the hat back onto his head and stood up, brushing himself off.
“Hmph, still no dust,” the boy mused absentmindedly, before turning his attention to the little mouse before him. “Thanks,” he stared down at the mouse, “but don’t touch my hat again, okay?” The boy nodded once abruptly, and then closed the gap between he and the mouse, crouching down so they were on the same level. He reached up and touched one of Mickey’s ears, seeming strangely fascinated by them. “Coooooooooooool,” he beamed.
“Um,” Mickey shuffled away and the boy returned to his normal height, “I won’t touch your hat if you promise not to touch my ears, pal.” Mickey smiled as best he could, despite the boy’s slight weirdness. Though, seeing a walking, talking animal could be pretty weird, too, and this boy had yet to judge him for it. “But… uhm… it’s nice to meet you,” Mickey offered, holding his palm as high as he could manage.
The boy observed him for a second, then quickly took Mickey’s hand and shook. “I’m Straw Hat Luffy,” he smiled, shaking more vigorously than most people the mouse had ever met, “You might have heard of me, I’m kind of a—”
“I guarantee I haven’t,” the King laughed, cutting him off, “I’m kind of new here. My name’s Ears. Nice to meet ya, pal.” Mickey flicked one of his ears, and Luffy giggled at the appropriateness of the nickname. The mouse turned his gaze on the elevator once again. The pirate boy’s glance followed, and he squatted down behind Mickey, all four of their eyes trained on the mysterious silver doors.
“So… what exactly did you think they had up there?”
![[Image: 2agonyw.png]](http://i68.tinypic.com/2agonyw.png)