02-22-2016, 05:57 PM
With their fourth morning on this goshforsaken island upon them, Mickey began to grow more and more desperate as the minutes passed.
Something just didn’t click. Maybe the wires in his head had been crossed incorrectly, or maybe he’d just been raised to be a better person in general than everyone else wandering around this place, but he just couldn’t justify actively keeping the relics away from the spirit in some foolhardy attempt to collect all of them. The equation didn’t make sense in his head. Winning a prize for this seemed like something that, in the end, was just a non-issue. Wouldn’t the joy of knowing you helped someone escape for a possibly eternal prison be enough of a reward?
Not for some, as it seemed. Undoubtedly, primes stalked in the forest around them just waiting for an opportunity to pounce on them and steal the two relics they had managed to acquire. Still others weren’t even here for relics at all—some just relished in the destruction, and some had come for purposes wholly superfluous to the task at hand.
Mickey had found himself the unfortunate victim of one of these insane individuals; Kopaka, it seemed, was an agent of the Empire, taking this opportunity of proximity to try and cash in on the bounty the evil organization had placed upon him.
Honestly, he might have been flattered the Toa went to all that trouble if it didn’t make him want to puke.
Even more, he found himself utterly disgusted at how unsavory ideals like Kopaka’s hunt or a thirst for blood had done major damage to Belle. He hadn’t known the girl very long, but he had already deemed her a much better person than most of the people he had come across since arriving in the Omniverse, and the fact that she had suffered so much in the name of hooligans hunting him made him sick with guilt.
Still, his redheaded companion trudged along. Proto Man supported her on his shoulders as they traveled through the woods; Mickey’s stature made him not the most ideal candidate to help her as she struggled through the forest. With the mouse’s shield in Belle’s hands and no other weapon to his name, he had only a rolled up, ripped apart Play, Boy to use as a weapon, but his status as the sturdiest of his comrades relegated him to the front of the pack. Aside from the occasional grunt of pain she couldn’t help, though, Belle suffered the trek mostly without argument. Well, then; on top of everything else, she also surpassed many people the mouse had met in terms of sheer willpower. The girl had a will to survive despite her countless traumas.
Blues had taken his fair share of hits, too, but perhaps the most brutal struggle he’d had to encounter was his loss of everything that seemed to make him him. Whether it was replacing his normal, red bracers for the ones belonging to Teucer or watching his scarf get soaked more and more with blood as Belle’s injuries compounded, he seemed to be growing less comfortable in his own skin.
Mickey, for his part, had lost any sort of hope that good was a given here. They had arrived on the scene of the battle for the defibrillator hoping that it wouldn’t end up being a battle at all—they obviously had a very real need for medical supplies. Once again, though, his faith in the goodness of people had failed him. Back home in the Disney Realms, perhaps, he could trust people to take stock of a situation and decide what the greatest good was, but here, it seemed, most primes—with some clear exceptions, like Blues and Belle—seemed most focused on what the greatest good for them was. The mouse would no longer make the mistake of trust here. Trust had failed him too often.
Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me a bunch of goshdarn times, shame on me.
So perhaps it is easy to imagine how quickly he dropped into a battle stance when the bushes up ahead of them shuddered with movement. He tightened his grip on Play, Boy and prepared to defend his friends.
“Come on out,” he dared them, “We know you’re there.”
“Mickey Mouse?”
Mickey stood upright, surprised at the call. And from a voice unfamiliar to him. Slowly, the figure broke through the brush and revealed himself to the trio.
“It is you,” he muttered, “I mean you no harm.”
“You’ve got me at a disadvantage, pal,” Mickey said, warmer but ever cautious, “You know my name but I’m afraid I don’t know yours.” The boy nodded. “Mind introducing yourself to us, bud?”
Something just didn’t click. Maybe the wires in his head had been crossed incorrectly, or maybe he’d just been raised to be a better person in general than everyone else wandering around this place, but he just couldn’t justify actively keeping the relics away from the spirit in some foolhardy attempt to collect all of them. The equation didn’t make sense in his head. Winning a prize for this seemed like something that, in the end, was just a non-issue. Wouldn’t the joy of knowing you helped someone escape for a possibly eternal prison be enough of a reward?
Not for some, as it seemed. Undoubtedly, primes stalked in the forest around them just waiting for an opportunity to pounce on them and steal the two relics they had managed to acquire. Still others weren’t even here for relics at all—some just relished in the destruction, and some had come for purposes wholly superfluous to the task at hand.
Mickey had found himself the unfortunate victim of one of these insane individuals; Kopaka, it seemed, was an agent of the Empire, taking this opportunity of proximity to try and cash in on the bounty the evil organization had placed upon him.
Honestly, he might have been flattered the Toa went to all that trouble if it didn’t make him want to puke.
Even more, he found himself utterly disgusted at how unsavory ideals like Kopaka’s hunt or a thirst for blood had done major damage to Belle. He hadn’t known the girl very long, but he had already deemed her a much better person than most of the people he had come across since arriving in the Omniverse, and the fact that she had suffered so much in the name of hooligans hunting him made him sick with guilt.
Still, his redheaded companion trudged along. Proto Man supported her on his shoulders as they traveled through the woods; Mickey’s stature made him not the most ideal candidate to help her as she struggled through the forest. With the mouse’s shield in Belle’s hands and no other weapon to his name, he had only a rolled up, ripped apart Play, Boy to use as a weapon, but his status as the sturdiest of his comrades relegated him to the front of the pack. Aside from the occasional grunt of pain she couldn’t help, though, Belle suffered the trek mostly without argument. Well, then; on top of everything else, she also surpassed many people the mouse had met in terms of sheer willpower. The girl had a will to survive despite her countless traumas.
Blues had taken his fair share of hits, too, but perhaps the most brutal struggle he’d had to encounter was his loss of everything that seemed to make him him. Whether it was replacing his normal, red bracers for the ones belonging to Teucer or watching his scarf get soaked more and more with blood as Belle’s injuries compounded, he seemed to be growing less comfortable in his own skin.
Mickey, for his part, had lost any sort of hope that good was a given here. They had arrived on the scene of the battle for the defibrillator hoping that it wouldn’t end up being a battle at all—they obviously had a very real need for medical supplies. Once again, though, his faith in the goodness of people had failed him. Back home in the Disney Realms, perhaps, he could trust people to take stock of a situation and decide what the greatest good was, but here, it seemed, most primes—with some clear exceptions, like Blues and Belle—seemed most focused on what the greatest good for them was. The mouse would no longer make the mistake of trust here. Trust had failed him too often.
Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me a bunch of goshdarn times, shame on me.
So perhaps it is easy to imagine how quickly he dropped into a battle stance when the bushes up ahead of them shuddered with movement. He tightened his grip on Play, Boy and prepared to defend his friends.
“Come on out,” he dared them, “We know you’re there.”
“Mickey Mouse?”
Mickey stood upright, surprised at the call. And from a voice unfamiliar to him. Slowly, the figure broke through the brush and revealed himself to the trio.
“It is you,” he muttered, “I mean you no harm.”
“You’ve got me at a disadvantage, pal,” Mickey said, warmer but ever cautious, “You know my name but I’m afraid I don’t know yours.” The boy nodded. “Mind introducing yourself to us, bud?”
![[Image: 2agonyw.png]](http://i68.tinypic.com/2agonyw.png)