Mickey Mouse Clubhouse Presents: Blood on the Sand!

[Proto Man]

The sandstorm ravaged for half a day as it tormented a nearly fifty square mile area of the desert. When the torrents of dirt, dust, and sand finally died down, there was a pair of wayward primes within its grasp that let out sighs of joy. Having clutched one another’s hand during the storm, they released their grip and dropped down onto their haunches simultaneously.

“Well that’s a nice welcome party,” Mickey chuckled as he removed the sand-stained scarf given to him by Proto Man. After using the clean side to wipe off the rest of his face, the mouse handed it over to his friend. “I appreciate it.”

“Anytime,” Proto Man replied as he tied the now brown-ish looking scarf around his neck once more. A glance at his systems showed that he would have to do some minor maintenance to remove buildups of dirt and sand particles from a few areas. Even more disheartening, the storm was still inferring with his connection to the Dataverse, which would make it hard for him to determine their location and proximity to anything other than sand dunes.

“What do you think we oughta do, Blues?” Mickey asked as the pair picked a direction and started toward the horizon.

“Let’s just see what there is, Mick.”

“Sounds good to me, Pal!”
***



Half a mile away, a collection of six figures mounted on creatures that could have once been camels watched the two little primes wander off into the desert.

“Should we move to intercept the interlopers, Mighty Tsartan?”

The central rider, whose features were concealed beneath a heavy hood and cloth wound around most of his head, turned to glance at his lieutenant. “Not yet,” he spoke through the fabric that concealed his visage. “We’ll wait until they stumble upon the sinking pits, and then we shall make them ours.”

“Your will,” the rider replied, dipping his head in deference before turning to watch the child-sized primes wander further toward the hells of the Endless Dunes.
***


Mickey Mouse and Proto Man marched forward into the sandy landscape. Both spent the time trying to clean off some of the dust left from the storm, and it wasn’t until they felt the ground start to shift beneath them that they placed their focus back on the greater world around them.

“You felt that too?” Proto Man asked as his buster arm activated.

Before Mickey could utter a response, he suddenly slipped a foot into the ground. The mouse yelped and smacked his hands down on the sand around him, trying to find purchased with his fingers as his legs seemed to flail amid the suddenly non-solid sand layer beneath him. In an instant, Proto Man swooped forward and yanked his pal up out of the sand. With a spin, the robot placed the mouse onto a solid piece of ground, but any victory was short-lived.

Warning boxes flashed up on the android’s internal display as the sand beneath his boots suddenly gave out under his weight. Despite being only a foot or so taller than Mickey, Proto Man was probably three or four times heavier than the mouse. Even so, gloved hands clasped around one of the machine’s wrists as his friend tried to stop the red robot from sinking down into the unknown.

“Why are you so gosh darn heavy?” Mickey grunted, his boots sliding as he tried to find purchase on a surface that felt and acted more like water than sand.

“Be stronger!” Proto Man snapped back as he felt the ground actively try to swallow him. As the sand poured over his shoulders, the android thought of a desperate idea. With his legs flailing in the nonsolid sand, he shifted power to the exhausts on his boots. While he had no surface to spring off of, the sudden downward whoosh of compressed area and heat was enough to dislodge him from the grip of the sand.

A beat later, a sand-coated machine thumped into the solid ground next to the mouse.

“This place is nothing like Agrabah.” Mickey muttered. “At least there, the quicksand doesn’t hop around.”

Proto Man shook his head and tried to remember if he’d ever seen a desert outside of a book. Had California been desert? It was certainly dry and barren in spots, but he didn’t remember all this sand. Before the robot could determine whether or not that was the case, a long shadow fell over both of the disoriented primes. As he didn’t need air in his lungs, Proto Man bolted into an upright position. His sensors immediately outlined the group of mounted warriors swarming down from the surrounding hills.

At first, it seemed as the robed warriors were riding on top of horses.

Horses don’t have six legs…

With a scowl, the preteen machine reading his weapon as the creatures and their riders formed a loose circle around the pair. From twenty feet away, he could clearly see that the mounts were nothing from Earth. While the legs—all six of them—resembled those of a horse and the pair of humps looked identical to those of any dromedary camel, the similarities ended there.

Instead of brown or tan fur, the creatures had pale yellow flesh that appeared close to bursting due to the thick, chorded muscles underneath. Dulled pipes and black cables jutted out from various points in their sides, giving them the appearance of a computer tower without its case.

All of the strange mechanical parts wouldn’t have bothered Proto Man the slightest if the animals’ faces hadn’t been so unnerving. Red eyes burned hot enough that they bled small columns of black smoke. A mouth that would have otherwise seemed normal was disfigured by the presence of four large tusks that twitched and dripped slimy ichor onto the sand. One of the mounts snorted, its tusks peeling outward to reveal more of its diseased gums and make it seem as if its mouth had doubled in size.

The central rider pointed a sword at Proto Man. Not any sword, but a blade with an engine where its hilt and handle should have been. The small motor thrummed and belched smog every few seconds as the weapon gently vibrated in its master’s hand.

“Surrender yourself to New Istanople and the Eternal Tsartan Constantine !”

“Who?” Mickey Mouse shouted back as the two small primes shuffled closer to one another. Next to him, Proto Man’s eyes went wide as he recalled the last time he had heard such a rasping accent. Even with the hood and the facial wrappings muffling the voice, it was simply too distinct. No one could pack so much arrogance and spite into so few words.

The rider who had addressed them reached out his free hand and brushed aside the hood that concealed his features. Although he wore a compact turban that kept his hair up from his face, Proto Man had those stern, loathing features burned into his systems. No on else had a chin that sharp, jaw bones that high, and eyes that soulless.

Heat Man’s killer was sneering down at the two primes.

“I know you remember me, Proto Man.” He spoke, his thick Soviet accent no longer muffled by the headgear.

The preteen machine glared back, unwilling to back down to the heartless killer. “Cell Delta.”