04-30-2016, 07:25 PM
Guilt.
Proto Man had left the trio’s little hideaway shortly after his excursion to the lower streets without much of a word. Perhaps the uncomfortable silence had become too much for him to handle; perhaps he just needed the fresh air. For Mickey, the stuffy atmosphere and layer of discomfort that blanketed their room served as ample punishment for the crimes they had committed against this city and its poor citizens. For hours now, he’d sat slumped against a wall. He stared at his turban sitting on a tiny, off-kilter wooden table, streaked with blood from that poor woman’s hands.
She’d grabbed at it desperately upon recognizing his face. Once his ear had popped out, true recognition flashed over her face and it had gone pale. Her screams filled the street in her final moments, and to hear Blues’ account of the aftermath, she hadn’t outlived her fear… or anger. Which was it?
When he’d been one with his best friend, he had been so convinced. Gilgamesh was evil. The golden-armored man had ruled over this city with an iron grip since its inception. He had made himself a tyrant, treating his subjects like they were… less than people. Treating them worse than they ever could have deserved. The man, truly, was a prime example of everything the former King himself hated. He represented all that Mickey had promised himself he wouldn’t be as a ruler.
So why did these people love him so much?
Even amidst the fighting, the Proto Mouse had caught glimpses of citizens cheering the gilded tyrant on. The pair of pint-sized primes had fought him and banished him based on the pretense that they were a hero—they were saving the city. But did it need to be saved?
Yes. Yes, of course. Gilgamesh had to be stopped. Perhaps, as heroes, they just knew that better than these poor, brainwashed citizens did. They’d been under the thumb of New Babylon so long that perhaps it just became natural to them. They had to be saved from themselves, and the Proto Mouse had been happy to offer them that service. It all had made so much sense to Mickey, back then, and even in the time since then. But as time had gone on… as he and Blues and Belle had made their way through the Graveyard… something inside him shifted.
Perhaps there were places that didn’t want a hero. Perhaps there were places that didn’t need one.
“Stop staring at that thing,” Mireya growled as she appeared from the floor below, carrying two loaves of bread under her arm. Mickey refused silently, his eyes not wavering from the headgear as he didn’t even consider responding to the woman’s command.
She looked down at him for a moment, and then stormed over to the table and snatched it up, tossing one of the loaves of bread his direction. “Eat that.”
“I’m not hungry,” Mickey scowled.
“Eat it,” Mireya barked, taking a bite out of her own loaf. She tossed the turban down the stairs and out of the mouse’s sight, and begrudgingly, he dug into the bread. Despite his determination to be antagonistic, hunger plagued him. “Good,” the night-elf nodded, sitting in the opposite corner of the room. For a while, the pair chewed their bread in silence. Mireya’s eyes remained squarely focused on Mickey, who refused to look at her.
The mouse couldn’t bear her piercing, judgmental stare. She knew just how he worked, and he hated it. Blues’ naivete was charming, but she knew that the former King had a deeper sense of responsibility laying inside him—he wasn’t just a boy longing to protect people. He had an obligation. He had a duty.
“I should’ve done something,” he squeaked.
“There wasn’t anything you could’ve done,” the night-elf assured him, leaning back and removing her stare from him for a moment. She took another large bite of her bread. “Those people hate you. They don’t want you, Mickey.”
“But that doesn’t mean they don’t deserve my help,” the mouse protested.
“Of course it does,” Mireya shot back. “They’re ungrateful. The two of you freed them from the clutches of a man they worshipped blindly. They couldn’t see his black heart behind his golden clothes. And how do they repay you, Mickey? How? They spit in your face. They burn likenesses of you. They call you the devil in their own dirty languages.”
“That’s why they need us, Mireya,” Mickey said, “Because they can’t see that they do.”
“This is no place for you,” the woman shook her head, standing up. “I’m going to find Blues and we’re leaving.”
“No,” the mouse fought back, pushing himself to his feet, “we’re not leaving. I’ve got to find Minnie, and these people need my help—”
“Send her a tweet and tell her where you are. Stay here, I’m getting Blues.”
“Absolutely not!” Mickey shouted, his keyblade materializing in his hand. He swung it up and pointed it at Mireya. The night elf cocked her head.
“Don’t be dramatic, mouse,” she scowled.
“I’m leaving,” Mickey said defiantly. “You can go find Blues if you want, but I’m going to try and find a way to help these people. They need us, Mireya.”
“Mickey—”
But it was too late; the mouse had turned around and leapt out of the window of their makeshift base before Mireya had time to take even a step toward him.
Proto Man had left the trio’s little hideaway shortly after his excursion to the lower streets without much of a word. Perhaps the uncomfortable silence had become too much for him to handle; perhaps he just needed the fresh air. For Mickey, the stuffy atmosphere and layer of discomfort that blanketed their room served as ample punishment for the crimes they had committed against this city and its poor citizens. For hours now, he’d sat slumped against a wall. He stared at his turban sitting on a tiny, off-kilter wooden table, streaked with blood from that poor woman’s hands.
She’d grabbed at it desperately upon recognizing his face. Once his ear had popped out, true recognition flashed over her face and it had gone pale. Her screams filled the street in her final moments, and to hear Blues’ account of the aftermath, she hadn’t outlived her fear… or anger. Which was it?
When he’d been one with his best friend, he had been so convinced. Gilgamesh was evil. The golden-armored man had ruled over this city with an iron grip since its inception. He had made himself a tyrant, treating his subjects like they were… less than people. Treating them worse than they ever could have deserved. The man, truly, was a prime example of everything the former King himself hated. He represented all that Mickey had promised himself he wouldn’t be as a ruler.
So why did these people love him so much?
Even amidst the fighting, the Proto Mouse had caught glimpses of citizens cheering the gilded tyrant on. The pair of pint-sized primes had fought him and banished him based on the pretense that they were a hero—they were saving the city. But did it need to be saved?
Yes. Yes, of course. Gilgamesh had to be stopped. Perhaps, as heroes, they just knew that better than these poor, brainwashed citizens did. They’d been under the thumb of New Babylon so long that perhaps it just became natural to them. They had to be saved from themselves, and the Proto Mouse had been happy to offer them that service. It all had made so much sense to Mickey, back then, and even in the time since then. But as time had gone on… as he and Blues and Belle had made their way through the Graveyard… something inside him shifted.
Perhaps there were places that didn’t want a hero. Perhaps there were places that didn’t need one.
“Stop staring at that thing,” Mireya growled as she appeared from the floor below, carrying two loaves of bread under her arm. Mickey refused silently, his eyes not wavering from the headgear as he didn’t even consider responding to the woman’s command.
She looked down at him for a moment, and then stormed over to the table and snatched it up, tossing one of the loaves of bread his direction. “Eat that.”
“I’m not hungry,” Mickey scowled.
“Eat it,” Mireya barked, taking a bite out of her own loaf. She tossed the turban down the stairs and out of the mouse’s sight, and begrudgingly, he dug into the bread. Despite his determination to be antagonistic, hunger plagued him. “Good,” the night-elf nodded, sitting in the opposite corner of the room. For a while, the pair chewed their bread in silence. Mireya’s eyes remained squarely focused on Mickey, who refused to look at her.
The mouse couldn’t bear her piercing, judgmental stare. She knew just how he worked, and he hated it. Blues’ naivete was charming, but she knew that the former King had a deeper sense of responsibility laying inside him—he wasn’t just a boy longing to protect people. He had an obligation. He had a duty.
“I should’ve done something,” he squeaked.
“There wasn’t anything you could’ve done,” the night-elf assured him, leaning back and removing her stare from him for a moment. She took another large bite of her bread. “Those people hate you. They don’t want you, Mickey.”
“But that doesn’t mean they don’t deserve my help,” the mouse protested.
“Of course it does,” Mireya shot back. “They’re ungrateful. The two of you freed them from the clutches of a man they worshipped blindly. They couldn’t see his black heart behind his golden clothes. And how do they repay you, Mickey? How? They spit in your face. They burn likenesses of you. They call you the devil in their own dirty languages.”
“That’s why they need us, Mireya,” Mickey said, “Because they can’t see that they do.”
“This is no place for you,” the woman shook her head, standing up. “I’m going to find Blues and we’re leaving.”
“No,” the mouse fought back, pushing himself to his feet, “we’re not leaving. I’ve got to find Minnie, and these people need my help—”
“Send her a tweet and tell her where you are. Stay here, I’m getting Blues.”
“Absolutely not!” Mickey shouted, his keyblade materializing in his hand. He swung it up and pointed it at Mireya. The night elf cocked her head.
“Don’t be dramatic, mouse,” she scowled.
“I’m leaving,” Mickey said defiantly. “You can go find Blues if you want, but I’m going to try and find a way to help these people. They need us, Mireya.”
“Mickey—”
But it was too late; the mouse had turned around and leapt out of the window of their makeshift base before Mireya had time to take even a step toward him.