02-15-2016, 01:18 AM
“Choose.”
The mouse looked down at his feet. He stood on a platform of pure stained glass; the colors arranged to form a large mural of himself dressed in Blues’ armor. The friend the mouse had never met, staring back up at him. Of course, it was only a picture.
Three golden pedestals rose from the floor, each holding a different item. Teucer’s shield hovered just above the one directly across from him; to his right, the earrings that allowed him the power to combine his body with another’s; and to his left, a sword inscribed with glowing, red runes.
Gilgamesh’s sword, the mouse recalled. The memory was hazy—as were all memories of his time as the Proto Mouse—but he recognized it distinctly. For a few moments, he could not help but stare at it intently. An intense light pulsed from the runes, tempting him with the power that it held inside its blade. He didn’t notice until he’d reached it, but ever so slowly, it pulled him closer, drawing him near with the promise of power.
A gloved hand reached out, and Mickey Mouse’s fingers wrapped around the sword’s hilt. A flash of a memory rushed back to him. Death. Destruction. Violence. A city crumbled around him as he stared the golden-armored tyrant in the eyes.
Scores of insults echoed throughout the room, all in the uncomfortably silky sound of Gilgamesh’s disembodied voice. The mouse recoiled from Ea, taking a few steps back and almost tripping over himself. His gaze returned to the sword, but he didn’t dare take any steps toward it again. The pair did not fit—he and it. The blade commanded too much of a power Mickey wasn’t familiar with; and based on the feeling churning in his stomach now, he didn’t want to be familiar with it, either.
“Choose,” the voice rang out again.
Mickey spun around to look at the Potara Earrings. Thus far, he’d only used them to merge his form with that of his friend, Blues, but the mouse had to wonder: could they be utilized to fuse with anybody? Certainly, he and the preteen machine were compatible in more than just power; centrally, they shared an ideology that had made its way into Proto Mouse’s sensibilities.
But the idea of fusing with Proto Man again brought fear to the mouse. Before, it had been on a whim. And his powers had been used to depose a king and become an accessory to debilitating an entire community. Proto Mouse may not have felt any guilt about that, but Mickey looked back on the foggy memories with disdain for his ignorance. His more powerful alter-ego had a fatal flaw—though he sought to do good, and had nearly implausible power with which he could do so, his arrogance blinded him to the consequences of his actions.
Why had he fought against the tyrant? Certainly, the man was no good. Mickey had watched him murder Erza in cold blood during Dante’s Abyss—but could not he have settled this man’s crimes another way? Did he really need to banish him to… well, who even knew where?
The idea that he had been responsible for wiping this man off the face of the Omniverse forever did not sit well with Mickey Mouse. He only hoped one day he could reconcile with him and wash away his guilt. Gilgamesh deserved to pay for his crimes, but the mouse could not help but feel that maybe, just maybe, his heightened identity had taken it a step too far. Perhaps one day he would be able to find an answer to this quandary—but until then, he could only hope to do as much good as he could to make up for it.
It felt almost like sacrificing his selfishness for the sake of another’s mistakes. But deep down, the mouse knew that Proto Mouse wouldn’t be without him.
The first step in repaying his debt was saving Teucer’s life. He could at least do that.
He grabbed the shield, and the world washed away.
By the time Mickey awoke from his dream, his companions had already been up for several hours.
Noontime neared. The sun would hit its highest point in the sky in a matter of hours. The group needed to pack up and head out very soon; Belle and Proto Man seemed well on their way to this goal by the time the mouse rejoined them. Blues took stock of their inventory, while Belle stood farther away, her gaze trained out onto the horizon.
“Good morning, Mickey,” Blues waved from the spot where he had piled up all of their stuff. Well, except the earrings. Mickey kept those snugly in his shorts pocket.
“Morning, Blues,” the former King smiled. He glanced over at all of the things piled up on the ground. Okay, there weren’t that many, but certainly they were better off than they’d been yesterday morning. Mickey fingered the Potaras in his pocket. “Hey, uh… Blues?” he squeaked meekly, stepping closer to the preteen machine. Proto Man looked up from his chore and met the mouse’s eyes.
“Yea?”
“I, uh… maybe we should let Proto Mouse rest for a while,” he offered nervously. They’d never really had a chance to talk about it—just after they’d unfused the first time, they had been sucked into this ordeal, and Mickey hadn’t been brave enough to mention it until this moment.
Proto Man’s eyes widened up just a little bit. He looked a bit puzzled, like he didn’t know what to say. Maybe he didn’t know how he felt. Maybe he hadn’t really thought about it until this moment.
All the mouse knew was that he didn’t understand their fused alter-ego and until he did, he felt that unleashing the beast might end up being too risky.
Who could tell what the thing was going to do?
Hesitation laced Blues’ voice, but finally, he replied. “Yea,” he nodded, “Okay, sure.”
The keyblade wielder nodded, and a reluctant smile crossed his face as he turned to look at Belle, still ever pensive a few yards away.
Mickey strode up to her, standing just a few feet behind. “Something on your mind?”
“Still just thinking about yesterday,” she responded, unstartled by his sudden appearance. She glanced over her shoulder. “I… have a lot of questions.”
“I bet,” he agreed, sidling up next to her. “Lemme tell ya though, pal, this place doesn’t give many answers.” Belle huffed, crossing her arms and turning back to look at the forest. For a few moments, no words passed between the two of them.
“Just yesterday, mountains were right there,” she finally said, incredulously.
Mickey didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t explain the phenomenon they’d witnessed the night before—the island literally ripping itself apart before their very eyes. But he could explain what it meant: they had to complete their goal, and fast.
“You think anyone else has found one of these things?” Blues wondered loudly from where the campfire had been. The mouse and the redhead turned to see him examining the shield, then they headed back towards where the main part of their campsite had been.
“Hard to say,” Mickey shrugged.
“But I guess we’ll find out,” Belle tacked on.
Blues pursed his lips, then held the shield out for Mickey. The mouse grabbed it and slung it on his back, then reached into his back pocket and pulled Play, Boy out. Many pages had been sacrificed for the fire last night. Most had been superfluous, to be sure, but the mouse still got a little irritated thinking about it. “Okay, so this implies that there’s some sort of water source on the island that will give us an advantage. Maybe if we bathe in it or something. Or, well, at least Belle.”
Blues and Belle shared a look, and then, in unison: “…what?”
“Look,” Mickey said, holding the page up. “The goal is to get her wet! That’s the ticket to victory!”
The mouse looked down at his feet. He stood on a platform of pure stained glass; the colors arranged to form a large mural of himself dressed in Blues’ armor. The friend the mouse had never met, staring back up at him. Of course, it was only a picture.
Three golden pedestals rose from the floor, each holding a different item. Teucer’s shield hovered just above the one directly across from him; to his right, the earrings that allowed him the power to combine his body with another’s; and to his left, a sword inscribed with glowing, red runes.
Gilgamesh’s sword, the mouse recalled. The memory was hazy—as were all memories of his time as the Proto Mouse—but he recognized it distinctly. For a few moments, he could not help but stare at it intently. An intense light pulsed from the runes, tempting him with the power that it held inside its blade. He didn’t notice until he’d reached it, but ever so slowly, it pulled him closer, drawing him near with the promise of power.
A gloved hand reached out, and Mickey Mouse’s fingers wrapped around the sword’s hilt. A flash of a memory rushed back to him. Death. Destruction. Violence. A city crumbled around him as he stared the golden-armored tyrant in the eyes.
Scores of insults echoed throughout the room, all in the uncomfortably silky sound of Gilgamesh’s disembodied voice. The mouse recoiled from Ea, taking a few steps back and almost tripping over himself. His gaze returned to the sword, but he didn’t dare take any steps toward it again. The pair did not fit—he and it. The blade commanded too much of a power Mickey wasn’t familiar with; and based on the feeling churning in his stomach now, he didn’t want to be familiar with it, either.
“Choose,” the voice rang out again.
Mickey spun around to look at the Potara Earrings. Thus far, he’d only used them to merge his form with that of his friend, Blues, but the mouse had to wonder: could they be utilized to fuse with anybody? Certainly, he and the preteen machine were compatible in more than just power; centrally, they shared an ideology that had made its way into Proto Mouse’s sensibilities.
But the idea of fusing with Proto Man again brought fear to the mouse. Before, it had been on a whim. And his powers had been used to depose a king and become an accessory to debilitating an entire community. Proto Mouse may not have felt any guilt about that, but Mickey looked back on the foggy memories with disdain for his ignorance. His more powerful alter-ego had a fatal flaw—though he sought to do good, and had nearly implausible power with which he could do so, his arrogance blinded him to the consequences of his actions.
Why had he fought against the tyrant? Certainly, the man was no good. Mickey had watched him murder Erza in cold blood during Dante’s Abyss—but could not he have settled this man’s crimes another way? Did he really need to banish him to… well, who even knew where?
The idea that he had been responsible for wiping this man off the face of the Omniverse forever did not sit well with Mickey Mouse. He only hoped one day he could reconcile with him and wash away his guilt. Gilgamesh deserved to pay for his crimes, but the mouse could not help but feel that maybe, just maybe, his heightened identity had taken it a step too far. Perhaps one day he would be able to find an answer to this quandary—but until then, he could only hope to do as much good as he could to make up for it.
It felt almost like sacrificing his selfishness for the sake of another’s mistakes. But deep down, the mouse knew that Proto Mouse wouldn’t be without him.
The first step in repaying his debt was saving Teucer’s life. He could at least do that.
He grabbed the shield, and the world washed away.
* * *
By the time Mickey awoke from his dream, his companions had already been up for several hours.
Noontime neared. The sun would hit its highest point in the sky in a matter of hours. The group needed to pack up and head out very soon; Belle and Proto Man seemed well on their way to this goal by the time the mouse rejoined them. Blues took stock of their inventory, while Belle stood farther away, her gaze trained out onto the horizon.
“Good morning, Mickey,” Blues waved from the spot where he had piled up all of their stuff. Well, except the earrings. Mickey kept those snugly in his shorts pocket.
“Morning, Blues,” the former King smiled. He glanced over at all of the things piled up on the ground. Okay, there weren’t that many, but certainly they were better off than they’d been yesterday morning. Mickey fingered the Potaras in his pocket. “Hey, uh… Blues?” he squeaked meekly, stepping closer to the preteen machine. Proto Man looked up from his chore and met the mouse’s eyes.
“Yea?”
“I, uh… maybe we should let Proto Mouse rest for a while,” he offered nervously. They’d never really had a chance to talk about it—just after they’d unfused the first time, they had been sucked into this ordeal, and Mickey hadn’t been brave enough to mention it until this moment.
Proto Man’s eyes widened up just a little bit. He looked a bit puzzled, like he didn’t know what to say. Maybe he didn’t know how he felt. Maybe he hadn’t really thought about it until this moment.
All the mouse knew was that he didn’t understand their fused alter-ego and until he did, he felt that unleashing the beast might end up being too risky.
Who could tell what the thing was going to do?
Hesitation laced Blues’ voice, but finally, he replied. “Yea,” he nodded, “Okay, sure.”
The keyblade wielder nodded, and a reluctant smile crossed his face as he turned to look at Belle, still ever pensive a few yards away.
Mickey strode up to her, standing just a few feet behind. “Something on your mind?”
“Still just thinking about yesterday,” she responded, unstartled by his sudden appearance. She glanced over her shoulder. “I… have a lot of questions.”
“I bet,” he agreed, sidling up next to her. “Lemme tell ya though, pal, this place doesn’t give many answers.” Belle huffed, crossing her arms and turning back to look at the forest. For a few moments, no words passed between the two of them.
“Just yesterday, mountains were right there,” she finally said, incredulously.
Mickey didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t explain the phenomenon they’d witnessed the night before—the island literally ripping itself apart before their very eyes. But he could explain what it meant: they had to complete their goal, and fast.
“You think anyone else has found one of these things?” Blues wondered loudly from where the campfire had been. The mouse and the redhead turned to see him examining the shield, then they headed back towards where the main part of their campsite had been.
“Hard to say,” Mickey shrugged.
“But I guess we’ll find out,” Belle tacked on.
Blues pursed his lips, then held the shield out for Mickey. The mouse grabbed it and slung it on his back, then reached into his back pocket and pulled Play, Boy out. Many pages had been sacrificed for the fire last night. Most had been superfluous, to be sure, but the mouse still got a little irritated thinking about it. “Okay, so this implies that there’s some sort of water source on the island that will give us an advantage. Maybe if we bathe in it or something. Or, well, at least Belle.”
Blues and Belle shared a look, and then, in unison: “…what?”
“Look,” Mickey said, holding the page up. “The goal is to get her wet! That’s the ticket to victory!”
![[Image: 2agonyw.png]](http://i68.tinypic.com/2agonyw.png)