07-03-2018, 03:58 PM
Time for a well-deserved break.
With two TV spots under their belt, Mickey Mouse and Yu Kanda’s new, much sought-after assistants led them out the back door of the soundstage to their trailer. Yes, trailer, singular -- the mouse halfway considered speaking up about how he and Kanda should have separate dressing rooms, but he was beginning to really enjoy the company of the swordsman, in spite of his perpetually cloudy mood. He’d always managed to have a fun time with Eeyore, and Kanda wasn’t nearly as much of a buzzkill as that, so he’d manage.
Besides, Kanda’s pep talk had put the mouse in a much more forgiving mood. After all, he really should be pitying these poor saps -- they all had to work under the perfectly manicured thumb of Karl Jak, and from Mickey’s limited experience with the dude he wasn’t exactly an ideal boss.
Although, the king would admit: his taste in amenities was choice.
“At last, a little peace and quiet,” the mouse squawked, plopping down on the extremely comfortable couch. Mickey’s eight fingers dug into the smooth violet velvet material as he sunk in with a breathy ‘aaaahhh,’ closing his eyes, kicking off his yellow shoes and throwing his feet up on one of the arms of the sofa. His partner, meanwhile, sat on the opposite side of the trailer, sliding his sword across a whetstone, sharpening it for the next battle.
“If I never have to wear one of those ridiculous costumes ever again it’ll be too soon,” Kanda scowled. Mickey giggled at Yu Kanda’s crotchety attitude; sometimes, the exorcist reminded him of an old man, out on his porch, yelling at kids to get off his lawn. “What’s so funny?”
“Psh, you, Fella!” the mouse laughed, “You’re so serious.”
“This competition is serious,” Yu Kanda bit back. “Some of us have honor and dignity on the line. I thought, based on your performance last round, that you understood that, but you’ve been nothing but foolish ever since.” The guard captain let out a frustrated grunt, spinning away from the mouse and continuing to sharpen his sword.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Mickey sat up, sliding towards his partner, “I do get it, pal! I just don’t get why we can’t have fun at the same time!”
Yu Kanda shot Mickey a puzzled glance, and to be honest, the keyblade master himself almost didn’t recognize that outlook, even as it spilled forth from his little mouse mouth. When this competition had started, he still stood firmly in the camp that this type of insane violence was unnecessary. And though he couldn’t bring himself to completely agree with the way Karl Jak executed his philosophy -- there had to be a method that involved less senseless killing -- the mouse certainly found his mind opening up, willing to accept that maybe, just maybe, there was some purpose to these proceedings.
And veiled behind that purpose, a little bit of good, old-fashioned fun!
Just then, the door to the trailer burst open and Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson busted in, arms spread wide. “What’s up, little bros?” he greeted, reaching over and squeezing Kanda by the shoulder. The normally stoic swordsman cringed in pain as Dwayne crossed the room and relaxed into one of the many other nice chairs littering their trailer.
“You really don’t understand your own strength,” Kanda muttered under his breath, hopefully low enough for Dwayne to not hear. However, he underestimated the former wrestler’s incredible hearing abilities.
“It’s all about the diet, bro,” the Rock threw a finger gun in Kanda’s direction. Instinctively, the swordsman lifted his blade from the whetstone into a defensive position to block whatever energy blast would inevitably shoot from Dwayne’s finger, but none came, and the defensive move just bent over in a fit of laughter. “Oh, that’s great, you thought I was gonna shoot one of those little ki blasts or something at you,” he giggled madly, “Psh, no, I’m not Cell, man! He’s busy fighting the loser Pepsi girls.”
The mouse’s eyes instinctively shot toward the door. He hadn’t been around here too long, but he’d been around long enough to know that you didn’t talk smack about PepsiCo in the middle of Dante’s Abyss. Dwayne, too, seemed well aware of his benefactors’ soda proclivities, and for a moment, everything in the trailer went still. Luckily, it didn’t seem like any of the hidden cameras had caught the little slip up, and so the trio eased back into their conversation.
“Anyway, yeah, diet,” the Rock nodded, trying his best to move on as if he’d said nothing at all about their corporate overlords, “The Rock eats seven meals a day, and through those meals, he consumes thirty-six ounces of cod, including a ten-ounce slab of it ever morning; six cups of white rice, which, bro, is more than 1,200 calories of that shit; four cups of vegetables and two salads, and a dozen eggs.”
Yu Kanda set down his sword in awe. “And you’re still living? You aren’t a spirit?” The mouse king could almost see the swordsman’s demon hunter goggles sliding on.
After what he’d determined was a sizable lull in the conversation, Mickey leapt across the room, wrapping their celebrity guide in the biggest hug his tiny wingspan could handle. Dwayne squeezed back. “Hey, Dwayne,” the mouse smiled, “how’re we doing?”
“Oh, you’re doing great, Mick,” the big guy grinned. “In fact, the big guy’s coming to give both of you just a little word of thanks and gratitude.”
Yu Kanda’s eyes flicked up to the cuddle-puddle of primes. If Mickey’s face could’ve gone pale, it would’ve been as colorless as the Nexus.
“...b-big guy?” the mouse king stammered.
Knock, knock, knock.
Three quick raps and then the door cracked open. The man’s poofy hair became visible before anything else as he peeked in, freshly plucked eyebrows creeping around the door like tiny, hairy little worms. “Knock, knock!” the silky smooth voice of Karl Jak reached Mickey’s oversized ears and made the hairs on them stand on end.
Dressed to the nines in his traditional violet suit and carrying a small, cardboard box labeled ‘property of Syntech Corporation’ on the side, the executive producer of Dante’s Abyss slithered into the dressing room. Mickey’s eyes narrowed as he clutched harder onto a progressively more confused Dwayne. It had been three years since he’d been in such close physical proximity to the man who’d inadvertently caused him more psychological turmoil than any therapist would even consider shaking a stick at, and the fact that their inevitable reunion came as a surprise didn’t help ease the matter.
Karl slunk over toward the couch that matched his wardrobe too perfectly and sunk into it, crossing one leg delicately over the other and melding into the velvety fabric. “Afternoon, boys,” he oozed, a sweet smirk slinking onto his face.
“Afternoon, Karl!” Dwayne smiled big, placing a comforting hand on Mickey’s shoulder. The former wrestler couldn’t figure out why the little mouse in his lap was on edge, but he felt compelled to soothe whatever mental pains had entered his mind while also doing some lip service to his boss.
Karl sat like a queen on the lengthy sofa, taking a few beats to just observe the two goody-two-shoes who had, somehow -- against all odds -- managed to be the star competitors of his tournament so far. Who would’ve thought that a self-righteous mouse and a demon hunter would’ve proven so essential to snagging those critical early-season ratings? He certainly hadn’t expected it when he’d heard of the mouse’s surprise appearance in the midst of the Vasty Deep.
Karl wasn’t stupid. Ever since Samus Aran had tried -- and failed, he might add -- to banish him, he’d clocked that every member of the ‘hero’ squad MESH probably absolutely hated his guts. And to be honest, he couldn’t really blame them. The four lawful good primes were probably too soft for the classic style Dante’s Abyss. It much better served cutthroat competitors, who were willing to murder and backstab and destroy whoever got in their path to win the championship belt; or at least people whose moral compasses were more… hazy. That’s why people like Sasuke Uchiha and Deadpool had always proven to be stars here, in his world. It’s why the unlikely duo of Sarah Kerrigan and the no-named bandit, one with little regard in general for other human life and the other too in touch with how everlasting it was here in the Omniverse, were proving so successful now.
He would admit, though, that Mickey Mouse might be working to prove him wrong. He’d underestimated the ratings power of a good hero-versus-villain grudge match, and the mouse’s fight with the pretty boy king had certainly delivered in the ratings. Beyond that, though, the little prime had spunk; whatever his feelings about the competition were, he’d come back to it readily, not half-assed half-baked.
“Good show last round, boys,” Karl smirked, his eyes flickering back and forth between the pint-sized prime and his all-too-serious partner. “Hope you’re enjoying your little break -- Gilgamesh and the kid certainly aren’t, thanks to you.”
Karl reached out and wiggled his fingers, and the remote control flew into his hand; his acrylic nails pressed down on the power button and the television clicked on, showing footage of the gilded king and the former robot redhead flailing across an ice mountain in huge, blue parkas. Mickey tried not to take his eyes off Karl’s face, but the red spandex costume he recognized all too well as Deadpool’s caught his attention and he instinctively tensed up.
“Oh, yes, I thought you might remember him, Mr. Mouse,” Karl giggled. “As you can see, he’s not doing as well for business as you and Mr. Cute Guard Captain over here.” Yu Kanda’s brow furrowed at the producer’s light flirtation.
“Whatcha need, bud?” Mickey squeaked with a scowl, getting straight to the point.
Karl, for his part, simply laughed. “Need? Ha,” he smiled, shaking his head, “I don’t need anything from you, Mickey Mouse, except to keep doing what you’re doing. Keep being exciting, and the ratings keep going up!”
The slender man’s smooth skin glinted even in the shoddy fluorescent lights that had been hung in their trailer. It almost made Mickey jump out of his skin that even here, this guy seemed so deceptively perfect. “By the way, so glad to have you back, Mickey,” Karl continued, undeterred by the awkward silence that draped the room in his presence, “I was worried for a second. About our friendship, y’know, that we’d come to some sort of misunderstanding. Imagine my relief when I found out you’d just been run into hiding by some Empire douchebags.” He let out a hearty chortle. “You know I’ve got offices on Coruscant? I can slide some cash to some of those tight-ass officers and see if I can get that bounty removed?”
“I can take care of myself,” Mickey spat.
A normal person might’ve let the mouse’s tone get them riled up, but it simply made Karl Jak laugh harder. “Feisty mouse,” he replied, “Well, you certainly have made that much clear, absolutely. You don’t need my help.”
“No,” Yu Kanda interjected, stern as ever, “We don’t.”
Karl glanced over at the swordsman. “Kanda, the stoic swordsman, forced not only to fight against his king, but alongside the man’s worst enemy,” the producer observed, “You know, that’s quite the story too. Don’t think the mouse’s rivalry with Blondie took all the spotlight. People are talking about you, too.”
He pursed his lips. “And I know you don’t need my help -- believe me,” Karl continued, placing his hands up in a slightly surrendering gesture, “but I did bring something for you boys. A little token of my appreciation, and…” he paused, glancing over at Mickey Mouse.
“…perhaps a small olive branch.”
Karl tapped the top of the cardboard box. “I’ll leave you to it,” he said, a small smirk slithering onto his face. “Thanks for taking care of my stars, Dwayne. Sad to see you not in the competition this year.”
Dwayne blinked, his neutral expression dipping into a frown. “The Rock is sad, too, Karl.”
“Hm,” Karl mused before slipping out of the door. It shut with a click behind him, and almost instantly, tears welled up in Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson’s eyes.
“Dwayne?” Yu Kanda spoke up, noticing the wrestler’s change in demeanor.
“Mr. Rock?” Mickey echoed, but their celebrity guide lifted the mouse up, sat him on the chair, and went to hurry out of the trailer before the water works started in full force. Kanda slid between him and the door, stopping his path. The Rock pouted as he began to cry waterfalls, and as Mickey’s four fingers wrapped around one of his gigantic ones. He looked down at the tiny prime. “What’s wrong, Fella?”
“It’s just,” Dwayne wept, rubbing his eyes with his gargantuan fist, “that was just a low thing of him to say! He knows I would be in the competition if I could. He knows.”
“Then why didn’t you join?” the exorcist droned. “You seem perfectly capable of fighting. In fact, you look to be in better shape than most of the other competitors in the tournament.”
“I…” he paused, squeezing Mickey’s hand so much that the little mouse winced, “I just look better with a partner, y’know. I’m a big brute, I need some brains to back me up. And the first year -- Mick was in that one -- I had this great guy, we bonded so much, it just, like, worked, right… we had a connection… me and Straz…”
A lightbulb went off in Mickey’s brain. He remembered that name… Straz…
“Strazio Rockwell!” the mouse piped up. “I fought him in the finals!”
“Yeah!” the Rock blubbered, “he’s such a badass. Strazio Rockwell… and me… the Rock and Rock Connection… it was great… and Karl hasn’t let me back into the competition since then. Says I’m more marketable being a spokesperson, being in all the commercials, talking about how great it is…”
Mickey watched as Dwayne collapsed into a puddle of sad, falling to his knees and beginning to shake from all the weeping. He frowned. Why did people place this competition in such high regard? Sure, at the end of the day, maybe he’d been wrong about it being the worst thing ever to hit the Omniverse, but it still didn’t strike him as something to get so worked up about, right? It was just a bunch of fighting and backstabbing and sometimes climbing in trees!
Clearly, though, it meant something to Dwayne, and Mickey was too empathetic to not sympathize with that. He supposed that for someone whose life didn’t carry such an idealistic purpose like his -- finding some way to wipe the true evils of the Omniverse away, forever, although that seemed less and less possible with the perpetuity of life here -- that maybe a competition like this really did hold some sort of weight. Maybe that’s what Kanda had been talking about… this tournament was a way to quantify honor and dignity, or at least win a material object to signify it, like a championship belt, or an artefact, or something. And although that wasn’t important to the little mouse, maybe other people really needed it.
How could he blame them for that?
“I mean -- don’t get the Rock wrong,” Dwayne sobbed, “I’m so grateful for everything Karl’s doing for me, but sometimes the Rock wants to crush some jabronis, y’know?”
“Absolutely,” Mickey nodded, “Y’know, I’m just now really getting into this whole ‘crushing jabronis’ thing, pal, but I really do get it.”
Mickey wrapped Dwayne in the tightest, most comforting hug he could muster, and the Rock hugged him back as best he could from several stories up. Yu Kanda, meanwhile, mused on the former pro wrestler’s emotional conundrum. The swordsman’s gaze fell on the cardboard box that Karl Jak had brought them, and instinctively, he peeked inside to see what surprises their mysterious benefactor had in store for them. What he found inside… was more than he ever could’ve imagined.
“Dwayne,” he smirked, “…what if there was a way we could help you get your old glory back?”
With two TV spots under their belt, Mickey Mouse and Yu Kanda’s new, much sought-after assistants led them out the back door of the soundstage to their trailer. Yes, trailer, singular -- the mouse halfway considered speaking up about how he and Kanda should have separate dressing rooms, but he was beginning to really enjoy the company of the swordsman, in spite of his perpetually cloudy mood. He’d always managed to have a fun time with Eeyore, and Kanda wasn’t nearly as much of a buzzkill as that, so he’d manage.
Besides, Kanda’s pep talk had put the mouse in a much more forgiving mood. After all, he really should be pitying these poor saps -- they all had to work under the perfectly manicured thumb of Karl Jak, and from Mickey’s limited experience with the dude he wasn’t exactly an ideal boss.
Although, the king would admit: his taste in amenities was choice.
“At last, a little peace and quiet,” the mouse squawked, plopping down on the extremely comfortable couch. Mickey’s eight fingers dug into the smooth violet velvet material as he sunk in with a breathy ‘aaaahhh,’ closing his eyes, kicking off his yellow shoes and throwing his feet up on one of the arms of the sofa. His partner, meanwhile, sat on the opposite side of the trailer, sliding his sword across a whetstone, sharpening it for the next battle.
“If I never have to wear one of those ridiculous costumes ever again it’ll be too soon,” Kanda scowled. Mickey giggled at Yu Kanda’s crotchety attitude; sometimes, the exorcist reminded him of an old man, out on his porch, yelling at kids to get off his lawn. “What’s so funny?”
“Psh, you, Fella!” the mouse laughed, “You’re so serious.”
“This competition is serious,” Yu Kanda bit back. “Some of us have honor and dignity on the line. I thought, based on your performance last round, that you understood that, but you’ve been nothing but foolish ever since.” The guard captain let out a frustrated grunt, spinning away from the mouse and continuing to sharpen his sword.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Mickey sat up, sliding towards his partner, “I do get it, pal! I just don’t get why we can’t have fun at the same time!”
Yu Kanda shot Mickey a puzzled glance, and to be honest, the keyblade master himself almost didn’t recognize that outlook, even as it spilled forth from his little mouse mouth. When this competition had started, he still stood firmly in the camp that this type of insane violence was unnecessary. And though he couldn’t bring himself to completely agree with the way Karl Jak executed his philosophy -- there had to be a method that involved less senseless killing -- the mouse certainly found his mind opening up, willing to accept that maybe, just maybe, there was some purpose to these proceedings.
And veiled behind that purpose, a little bit of good, old-fashioned fun!
Just then, the door to the trailer burst open and Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson busted in, arms spread wide. “What’s up, little bros?” he greeted, reaching over and squeezing Kanda by the shoulder. The normally stoic swordsman cringed in pain as Dwayne crossed the room and relaxed into one of the many other nice chairs littering their trailer.
“You really don’t understand your own strength,” Kanda muttered under his breath, hopefully low enough for Dwayne to not hear. However, he underestimated the former wrestler’s incredible hearing abilities.
“It’s all about the diet, bro,” the Rock threw a finger gun in Kanda’s direction. Instinctively, the swordsman lifted his blade from the whetstone into a defensive position to block whatever energy blast would inevitably shoot from Dwayne’s finger, but none came, and the defensive move just bent over in a fit of laughter. “Oh, that’s great, you thought I was gonna shoot one of those little ki blasts or something at you,” he giggled madly, “Psh, no, I’m not Cell, man! He’s busy fighting the loser Pepsi girls.”
The mouse’s eyes instinctively shot toward the door. He hadn’t been around here too long, but he’d been around long enough to know that you didn’t talk smack about PepsiCo in the middle of Dante’s Abyss. Dwayne, too, seemed well aware of his benefactors’ soda proclivities, and for a moment, everything in the trailer went still. Luckily, it didn’t seem like any of the hidden cameras had caught the little slip up, and so the trio eased back into their conversation.
“Anyway, yeah, diet,” the Rock nodded, trying his best to move on as if he’d said nothing at all about their corporate overlords, “The Rock eats seven meals a day, and through those meals, he consumes thirty-six ounces of cod, including a ten-ounce slab of it ever morning; six cups of white rice, which, bro, is more than 1,200 calories of that shit; four cups of vegetables and two salads, and a dozen eggs.”
Yu Kanda set down his sword in awe. “And you’re still living? You aren’t a spirit?” The mouse king could almost see the swordsman’s demon hunter goggles sliding on.
After what he’d determined was a sizable lull in the conversation, Mickey leapt across the room, wrapping their celebrity guide in the biggest hug his tiny wingspan could handle. Dwayne squeezed back. “Hey, Dwayne,” the mouse smiled, “how’re we doing?”
“Oh, you’re doing great, Mick,” the big guy grinned. “In fact, the big guy’s coming to give both of you just a little word of thanks and gratitude.”
Yu Kanda’s eyes flicked up to the cuddle-puddle of primes. If Mickey’s face could’ve gone pale, it would’ve been as colorless as the Nexus.
“...b-big guy?” the mouse king stammered.
Knock, knock, knock.
Three quick raps and then the door cracked open. The man’s poofy hair became visible before anything else as he peeked in, freshly plucked eyebrows creeping around the door like tiny, hairy little worms. “Knock, knock!” the silky smooth voice of Karl Jak reached Mickey’s oversized ears and made the hairs on them stand on end.
Dressed to the nines in his traditional violet suit and carrying a small, cardboard box labeled ‘property of Syntech Corporation’ on the side, the executive producer of Dante’s Abyss slithered into the dressing room. Mickey’s eyes narrowed as he clutched harder onto a progressively more confused Dwayne. It had been three years since he’d been in such close physical proximity to the man who’d inadvertently caused him more psychological turmoil than any therapist would even consider shaking a stick at, and the fact that their inevitable reunion came as a surprise didn’t help ease the matter.
Karl slunk over toward the couch that matched his wardrobe too perfectly and sunk into it, crossing one leg delicately over the other and melding into the velvety fabric. “Afternoon, boys,” he oozed, a sweet smirk slinking onto his face.
“Afternoon, Karl!” Dwayne smiled big, placing a comforting hand on Mickey’s shoulder. The former wrestler couldn’t figure out why the little mouse in his lap was on edge, but he felt compelled to soothe whatever mental pains had entered his mind while also doing some lip service to his boss.
Karl sat like a queen on the lengthy sofa, taking a few beats to just observe the two goody-two-shoes who had, somehow -- against all odds -- managed to be the star competitors of his tournament so far. Who would’ve thought that a self-righteous mouse and a demon hunter would’ve proven so essential to snagging those critical early-season ratings? He certainly hadn’t expected it when he’d heard of the mouse’s surprise appearance in the midst of the Vasty Deep.
Karl wasn’t stupid. Ever since Samus Aran had tried -- and failed, he might add -- to banish him, he’d clocked that every member of the ‘hero’ squad MESH probably absolutely hated his guts. And to be honest, he couldn’t really blame them. The four lawful good primes were probably too soft for the classic style Dante’s Abyss. It much better served cutthroat competitors, who were willing to murder and backstab and destroy whoever got in their path to win the championship belt; or at least people whose moral compasses were more… hazy. That’s why people like Sasuke Uchiha and Deadpool had always proven to be stars here, in his world. It’s why the unlikely duo of Sarah Kerrigan and the no-named bandit, one with little regard in general for other human life and the other too in touch with how everlasting it was here in the Omniverse, were proving so successful now.
He would admit, though, that Mickey Mouse might be working to prove him wrong. He’d underestimated the ratings power of a good hero-versus-villain grudge match, and the mouse’s fight with the pretty boy king had certainly delivered in the ratings. Beyond that, though, the little prime had spunk; whatever his feelings about the competition were, he’d come back to it readily, not half-assed half-baked.
“Good show last round, boys,” Karl smirked, his eyes flickering back and forth between the pint-sized prime and his all-too-serious partner. “Hope you’re enjoying your little break -- Gilgamesh and the kid certainly aren’t, thanks to you.”
Karl reached out and wiggled his fingers, and the remote control flew into his hand; his acrylic nails pressed down on the power button and the television clicked on, showing footage of the gilded king and the former robot redhead flailing across an ice mountain in huge, blue parkas. Mickey tried not to take his eyes off Karl’s face, but the red spandex costume he recognized all too well as Deadpool’s caught his attention and he instinctively tensed up.
“Oh, yes, I thought you might remember him, Mr. Mouse,” Karl giggled. “As you can see, he’s not doing as well for business as you and Mr. Cute Guard Captain over here.” Yu Kanda’s brow furrowed at the producer’s light flirtation.
“Whatcha need, bud?” Mickey squeaked with a scowl, getting straight to the point.
Karl, for his part, simply laughed. “Need? Ha,” he smiled, shaking his head, “I don’t need anything from you, Mickey Mouse, except to keep doing what you’re doing. Keep being exciting, and the ratings keep going up!”
The slender man’s smooth skin glinted even in the shoddy fluorescent lights that had been hung in their trailer. It almost made Mickey jump out of his skin that even here, this guy seemed so deceptively perfect. “By the way, so glad to have you back, Mickey,” Karl continued, undeterred by the awkward silence that draped the room in his presence, “I was worried for a second. About our friendship, y’know, that we’d come to some sort of misunderstanding. Imagine my relief when I found out you’d just been run into hiding by some Empire douchebags.” He let out a hearty chortle. “You know I’ve got offices on Coruscant? I can slide some cash to some of those tight-ass officers and see if I can get that bounty removed?”
“I can take care of myself,” Mickey spat.
A normal person might’ve let the mouse’s tone get them riled up, but it simply made Karl Jak laugh harder. “Feisty mouse,” he replied, “Well, you certainly have made that much clear, absolutely. You don’t need my help.”
“No,” Yu Kanda interjected, stern as ever, “We don’t.”
Karl glanced over at the swordsman. “Kanda, the stoic swordsman, forced not only to fight against his king, but alongside the man’s worst enemy,” the producer observed, “You know, that’s quite the story too. Don’t think the mouse’s rivalry with Blondie took all the spotlight. People are talking about you, too.”
He pursed his lips. “And I know you don’t need my help -- believe me,” Karl continued, placing his hands up in a slightly surrendering gesture, “but I did bring something for you boys. A little token of my appreciation, and…” he paused, glancing over at Mickey Mouse.
“…perhaps a small olive branch.”
Karl tapped the top of the cardboard box. “I’ll leave you to it,” he said, a small smirk slithering onto his face. “Thanks for taking care of my stars, Dwayne. Sad to see you not in the competition this year.”
Dwayne blinked, his neutral expression dipping into a frown. “The Rock is sad, too, Karl.”
“Hm,” Karl mused before slipping out of the door. It shut with a click behind him, and almost instantly, tears welled up in Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson’s eyes.
“Dwayne?” Yu Kanda spoke up, noticing the wrestler’s change in demeanor.
“Mr. Rock?” Mickey echoed, but their celebrity guide lifted the mouse up, sat him on the chair, and went to hurry out of the trailer before the water works started in full force. Kanda slid between him and the door, stopping his path. The Rock pouted as he began to cry waterfalls, and as Mickey’s four fingers wrapped around one of his gigantic ones. He looked down at the tiny prime. “What’s wrong, Fella?”
“It’s just,” Dwayne wept, rubbing his eyes with his gargantuan fist, “that was just a low thing of him to say! He knows I would be in the competition if I could. He knows.”
“Then why didn’t you join?” the exorcist droned. “You seem perfectly capable of fighting. In fact, you look to be in better shape than most of the other competitors in the tournament.”
“I…” he paused, squeezing Mickey’s hand so much that the little mouse winced, “I just look better with a partner, y’know. I’m a big brute, I need some brains to back me up. And the first year -- Mick was in that one -- I had this great guy, we bonded so much, it just, like, worked, right… we had a connection… me and Straz…”
A lightbulb went off in Mickey’s brain. He remembered that name… Straz…
“Strazio Rockwell!” the mouse piped up. “I fought him in the finals!”
“Yeah!” the Rock blubbered, “he’s such a badass. Strazio Rockwell… and me… the Rock and Rock Connection… it was great… and Karl hasn’t let me back into the competition since then. Says I’m more marketable being a spokesperson, being in all the commercials, talking about how great it is…”
Mickey watched as Dwayne collapsed into a puddle of sad, falling to his knees and beginning to shake from all the weeping. He frowned. Why did people place this competition in such high regard? Sure, at the end of the day, maybe he’d been wrong about it being the worst thing ever to hit the Omniverse, but it still didn’t strike him as something to get so worked up about, right? It was just a bunch of fighting and backstabbing and sometimes climbing in trees!
Clearly, though, it meant something to Dwayne, and Mickey was too empathetic to not sympathize with that. He supposed that for someone whose life didn’t carry such an idealistic purpose like his -- finding some way to wipe the true evils of the Omniverse away, forever, although that seemed less and less possible with the perpetuity of life here -- that maybe a competition like this really did hold some sort of weight. Maybe that’s what Kanda had been talking about… this tournament was a way to quantify honor and dignity, or at least win a material object to signify it, like a championship belt, or an artefact, or something. And although that wasn’t important to the little mouse, maybe other people really needed it.
How could he blame them for that?
“I mean -- don’t get the Rock wrong,” Dwayne sobbed, “I’m so grateful for everything Karl’s doing for me, but sometimes the Rock wants to crush some jabronis, y’know?”
“Absolutely,” Mickey nodded, “Y’know, I’m just now really getting into this whole ‘crushing jabronis’ thing, pal, but I really do get it.”
Mickey wrapped Dwayne in the tightest, most comforting hug he could muster, and the Rock hugged him back as best he could from several stories up. Yu Kanda, meanwhile, mused on the former pro wrestler’s emotional conundrum. The swordsman’s gaze fell on the cardboard box that Karl Jak had brought them, and instinctively, he peeked inside to see what surprises their mysterious benefactor had in store for them. What he found inside… was more than he ever could’ve imagined.
“Dwayne,” he smirked, “…what if there was a way we could help you get your old glory back?”
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