That Has Such People In It

[Mickey Mouse]

“But Mr. Ears—”

“I told ya, call me Mickey now.”

“But Mickey, I’m tired.”

The mouse ignored his charge’s complaints and continued to trudge down the road toward Minas Tirith. They had been walking for a few hours now, and to tell the truth, a break might have been nice, but Mickey had grown quite cross with Robbie’s attitude, given he had not stopped protesting since they left. Mickey understood if he could not wrap his head around the necessity of this trek—he was, after all, only a fifteen year old boy—but he at least hoped the boy would be excited. After all, what kid didn’t want to grow up to be a wizard?

“So,” Mickey said after a few minutes of silence, “how long have you been… accidentally doing magic, then?” He had tried to get this answer from Berthe, but she refused to give him a straight answer on the subject.

Robbie counted on his fingers. “Um… about seven or eight weeks, I guess. Couple months.” Mickey nodded; at least it had not been lying untended for an awfully long time. Surely the teachers in this ‘Dalaran’ could figure something out with the boy. At least, Mickey hoped so; the boy did not deserve to live tormented by his magic the rest of his life. He held much respect for Berthe, but that decision had put some tension on their friendship.

Back in his home world, anyone could do magic if they so wished; all they had to do was find the right teacher, and Yen Sid had been a perfect fit for Mickey. Well, at least, Mickey had held great respect for the wizard—he still sometimes felt unsure as to whether or not his mentor reciprocated his feelings of admiration.

Perhaps, the mouse thought, when he finally got home, he would ask.

“MICKEY, ARE WE THERE YET?!”

The mouse’s large ears flinched at Robbie’s sudden scream, and he spun around, whipping out his keyblade and pointing it at the boy’s neck. The kid let out a pathetic little whimper, stumbling backwards and falling flat on his butt in the Camelot dirt. The mouse took a deep breath, and then sheathed his weapon.

“Sorry, Robbie,” he averted his eyes from the boy, slightly ashamed at the anger he had displayed, “I shouldn’t have done that. No, we aren’t there yet. But soon, pal, I promise.”

Robbie shivered a little bit in the dirt, and embarrassment flared up inside Mickey’s stomach. His reaction had been so colored with violence—violence that he had learned, no doubt, from Dante’s Abyss.

He could not let it take him over. He would always be a good, noble mouse.

Sacrificing lives to make others’ lives better had never seemed like an option to Mickey until Dante’s Abyss—until he had gotten to this Omniverse. He supposed that even though he had only been here a little over a week now, the different environment really had started to have quite the effect on him. He refused, however, to let it eat him alive. Yes, he had killed, but it had been just part of the game—and, hopefully, they hadn’t been in pain long. After all, everyone that died in the Omniverse—or every Prime, anyway—simply reincarnated at the Nexus.

The more he tried to convince himself, though, the more he felt absolutely awful about it. He had promised himself he would never kill again, and he meant to keep that promise. That poor boy who he had shot with that beam…

Mickey still had no idea how he had managed to tap into that energy, either. Even though he had somehow been able to do it again during the fight at the diner, the origin of it remained a mystery to the mouse. Perhaps someone in this great “white city” Berthe had told him about would have some idea. The mouse, however, did not even know where to start.

He reached out and offered a gloved hand to Robbie, to help him up. Tentatively, the boy reached out and took it. “Come on, buddy,” the King gestured toward their path. “This big white city should be coming up soon.” I hope.