That Has Such People In It

[Mickey Mouse]

Mickey was back home.

Or so he thought, upon entering Camelot. Birds greeted his large ears with their songs, the sky glistened blue above him, and picturesque green hills rolled out in front of him, just the way they did when he looked out on his own kingdom. Way off in the distance, a white castle sat triumphantly on a hill, not unlike his own castle back home. He had half a mind to start humming ‘Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah.’

It seemed too good to be true, and Mickey could not help but gape at the gorgeous, familiar countryside. “This… this is amazing,” he squeaked, his awe and nostalgia overwhelming him. He tried his best to not sound too much like a tourist. He completely failed, of course.

“Yeah, isn’t she fine?” Conan smiled, swelling with pride about his homeland. “This, little lad, is Came—HOLY FUCKING SHIT, LOOK OUT!”

Conan dove and tackled the King to the ground, barely dodging the fiery blast meant to take him out. Mickey looked up to see a gigantic, green-skinned man standing atop a nearby plateau. He wielded a long, oaken staff with spikes jutting out the end of it; undoubtedly, this had been the source of his magic.

Looked like it was too good to be true, after all. Ah, well—a mouse could dream.

“Oh boy, the nerve,” Mickey pushed Conan off of him and stood up, placing a hand on his keyblade and eyeing the shaman above him. He scowled deeply—this was no way to greet a guest—and waited for the green man to make his next move.

The shaman flashed Mickey his best attempt at a toothy smile—to say he needed some dental work would be a gross understatement—and lowered his staff. Mickey had no time to feel triumphant, however, before two more of the hulking green men emerged from the shadows of the forest where they lurked. Even larger than the shaman, they appeared to be warriors rather than magic-users; one held an oversized, two-handed axe, and the other held a large war-hammer at his side. They flanked their leader, and Mickey’s grip on his keyblade tightened.

“I really, really don’t wanna fight you,” the mouse frowned, “and I bet you don’t wanna fight me either.”

The shaman laughed—well, it sounded more like a grunt, but still—and his ugly grin just widened. He motioned ever-so-slightly with his head, and the two other fighters charged, leaping off the plateau and sprinting toward Mickey, waving their big, scary weapons wildly.

Alright, Mickey shrugged, unsheathing his keyblade and bending at the knees, you asked for it.

The first grunt swung his battle-axe, but Mickey’s feet had already left the ground. The mouse flipped over him, landing on the ground just in time to duck underneath the second guy’s hammer. The pair of grunts stumbled past him as their blows missed, and Mickey turned around, aiming his keyblade at the hammer guy’s back and shooting a blast of Light energy from its tip.

The spell hit the monster; with his balance already shaken, it easily sent him sliding in the dirt. He slid across the ground and into the portal, disappearing from sight as he left Camelot and entered the Nexus. One down, one to go.

While Mickey had been dealing with Hammer Time, the axe-man had regained his composure, and stared the mouse down. The King squatted into his battle stance, ready to do combat with the giant, but as soon as the monster looked poised to strike, a sword blade emerged from his abdomen, and his eyes went cold. Mickey stiffened at the sight of the green man’s blood emerging from the wound, and stepped back slightly, his mouth dropping open. Conan removed his sword from the creature’s body, and it fell to the ground with a loud thump. Mickey swallowed nervously.

He had landed in a violent world.

“Watch yer back, lad!” Conan shouted, pointing to the shaman above, and Mickey spun around just in time to see another blast of flame hurtling his way. He rolled to the side and quickly fired off another Pearl at the shaman, but the magician turned and slipped back into the shadows of the forest before he could get a good shot. Instead, the white blast collided with the cliff face, and Mickey slumped onto the ground.

If the mouse’s face could look pale, it surely would right now. He tried and tried, but he could not shake the feeling of shock that had crept over him when Conan had killed that man. The Camelot scout must have seen something wrong in him, too, because he moved toward the King much more cautiously than before.

“Tha’—” he stammered nervously, “—uh, tha’ was very impressive, little lad. Ye handled that orc like a pro.” Mickey scoffed a little bit. Conan stepped away, but he did not take his eyes off the mouse. Mickey surmised that the soldier had not expected him to be such an adept swordsman.

“Why’d ya have to kill him?” Mickey asked, looking up at the human man.

“Because… ‘cause he was tryin’ to kill us, Mick!” Conan shouted, incredulous. Mickey had never been comfortable with death. He believed—or he liked to believe, anyhow—that there was always another way. He only ever killed the Heartless, or irredeemable creatures like that. These… ‘orcs’ seemed different. They seemed more civilized. They seemed worth saving.

Gosh, he needed a hug right now.

He would not get one, though—instead, he picked himself up off the ground, and brushed the dirt off of his shorts. “Alrighty then,” he smiled as warmly as he could, trying his best to put on a positive demeanor. “Let’s keep goin’, then.”

[Mickey Mouse]

As the sun started to sink beneath the horizon, the pair edged closer to a little village. Mickey felt a great pang of relief; for the first time since he had arrived at the Fountain of Infinity, he could see true civilization within his grasp. “Awright,” Conan sighed, “This is as far as I can take ye, I really should be gettin’ back to Craig.”

Mickey nodded. As if being in a new, unfamiliar verse had not already placed him enough on edge, their bloody encounter with the orcs had robbed the mouse of all ease. With his nerves heightened, he welcomed Conan’s departure much more than he expected he would. Besides, he always worked better alone. He had a reason for not inviting Donald and Goofy on his travels, after all… heck, he had not even told Minnie where he was going. Of course, that did not mean the mouse hated companionship; far from it, in fact. He recognized its value—he would not have survived his early days without the help of his buds—but, especially in recent years, he had also learned the value of thoughtfulness when it came to choosing allies. Not everyone in this world could be trusted. He hated that, but the truth was the truth no matter how unfortunate it was.

As night began to fall, the former King finally reached the walls of the little village. The gate towered before his miniature form, but he knocked as mightily as he could.

“Who goes there?” a voice boomed from behind the gate, and a small peep-hole swung open about two feet above his head. Mickey frowned. “What the hell? Goddamn kids,” the man’s voice growled.

“No, um—” the mouse piped up, waving his arms to try and get the man’s attention, “I’m down here!”

“Eh?” the voice grunted. Mickey heard some more unintelligible grumbles as the man looked once more through the peep-hole and finally found Mickey, standing several feet below eye level, waiting to be taken care of. “What the goddamn hell,” the voice droned, “uh—what business do you have in the great, majestic town of Bree?” Mickey’s face wrinkled a little bit at this—shabby this town was not, but he did not know if ‘great’ or ‘majestic’ were adjectives he would use to describe it either.

“Um, I’m… um,” he stalled for a second, thinking once more about the violent nature of this new realm, and his reawakening insecurities about trust. He saw no reason to give these people the benefit of the doubt if someone as nice as Conan could murder someone in cold blood, so perhaps it would be best if he did not reveal all that much about himself.

“Um?” the guard repeated impatiently. Mickey scrambled for something to say.

“I’m a… I’m a tourist,” the mouse nodded, deciding on the most innocent way possible to represent himself, “I’m seein’ the sights, makin’ the rounds, y’know, the usual stuff.”

“You’re in the wrong goddamn place,” the guard warned, “But it’s none of my business. I’ll open the gate, just a moment.”

Seconds later, the gate swung open, and Mickey stumbled back to avoid being hit. On the other side lay no man at all: the guard happened to be a very deep-voiced, very masculine woman, with a very big, very intimidating sword strapped to her belt. Something told Mickey the town of Bree was very careful about its visitors. The woman gave Mickey the once-over, and seemed to decide that he would not be a problem. She waved one of her large hands, gesturing for him to enter, and he obliged.

“Welcome to Bree,” she recited monotonously as she closed the gate behind them. “Up there on the left is the Prancing Pony Inn, where you might be able to get a room.”

“Might?” Mickey turned back, confused.

“They’re busy,” she shrugged, “And they don’t usually like strangers that are… like you.” She bit her lip with the slightest bit of regret as she said it, and Mickey could tell that she meant it was because he was not human. He nodded, understanding—if he could not bring himself to trust these people, how could he expect them to trust him? But at the moment, he had no choice but to place his faith in them—and so off to the Prancing Pony Inn it was.

“Oh, and little man,” the guard called after him. He turned around to see her smirking. “No tourist I’ve ever known carries around a stick that big, so stay the goddamn hell out of trouble, alright?” He placed his hand nervously on the keyblade, and nodded.

I’ll try, lady. I’ll try.

[Mickey Mouse]

The Prancing Pony bustled with activity. Mickey’s small stature let him go virtually unnoticed, and so far, that was the way he liked it. He had not been in the Omniverse for very long, but to say the least, it was not the ideal spot for his and Minnie’s next royal vacation.

The humans towered above him at the bar, all loudly singing some sort of strange drinking tune. Mickey tried his best not to listen; all the foul language and talk of fornication riddling the lyrics made him sick to his stomach. His gut told him to just head toward one of the pub’s darker corners and avoid all of these messy people, but he had a goal. While hiding from these gross humans may have been preferable, he needed to rent a room.

A twinge of caution crept up his spine as he approached the bar. He clambered up an empty stool till he could see over it, then called out, “’Scuse me!” He waved one of his gloved hands at the bartender. The old, fat man looked over his shoulder, his jubilant expression quickly dropping at the sight of a mouse at his bar. Well, at least Mickey had already resigned himself to not exactly receiving the warmest of welcomes in this place.

The bartender mumbled something to the patrons he had been talking with and then turned—obviously annoyed—and came to where Mickey was sitting. “What do ye want?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at the mouse.

“Um… I, um…”

“Speak fast, rodent,” the bartender said, and the contingent of drunkards he had left laughed heartily at the mouse’s expense. Mickey frowned.

“That was…,” he started, and then he thought twice about it. Just let it go, he told himself. And then: no. He had to let these people know that they could not just make fun of him. He would not start trouble, but he would not let them call him names. “Um, that was unnecessary,” he said, and the innkeeper scoffed.

“Yer in my establishment, I’ll call ye what I like,” he chortled, placing a hand on his jiggling stomach as he joined the others in laughing at him. The mouse gulped nervously—he didn’t like getting angry, but these people were making it rather difficult.

No. No, he would keep himself calm. “I just want a room, please,” he looked back up at the man, trying his best to keep this whole conversation civil. The barkeep’s eyes grew wide and he only laughed harder at Mickey’s request.

“Ha—ha, listen, mouse-boy,” the man laughed, “We don’t rent to yer kind here. But there’s a nice hole in the wall over there if ye really need a place to sleep—ha!” He doubled over, this time, overcome by the hilarity of his own joke. The others, too, let out a hearty whoop. Obviously, this man thought himself very funny.

Mickey did not agree.

Keep your head, Mick, he told himself, taking a deep breath. He tried and failed to muster a (very fake) smile, and without another word, he slid off the bar stool and started marching back toward the door. He would have given anything to be at home, cuddling with Minnie right now, but instead he was stuck here, having to deal with these ridiculous, inhospitable people. They gave humans a bad name.

“Hey, mouse-boy!”

“Oh brother.”

The King spun around, the scowl on his face deepening. You know, he missed smiling—when was this gosh-forsaken place going to give him something to smile about?

The group of no-goodniks from the bar clumped up a few yards away, trying their best to look intimidating. At the front stood the man that called out to him, his arms crossed and his chin held high. “Y’know, we don’t take kindly to your type just waltzing in, thinking they can just do whatever the fuck they want”—Mickey winced at the language—“so who the hell, exactly, do you think you are, just comin’ up in here like you belong here?”

Stay quiet, Mickey told himself, Don’t say anything. He stood, for a second, in silence, his hand itching to grab his keyblade. He didn’t need a fight, but these guys had peeved him off so much that he would not think twice about defending himself.

“Hey! I’m talking to you, Ears!” the man shouted, placing his hands on either side of his head in a vain attempt to mock Mickey’s large ears.

“I just wanted a room,” Mickey raised his hands, trying to calm the drunken rage of this guy and his goons. “I don’t want any trouble, mister.”

“You should’ve thought of that… before,” the man hiccupped, lunging toward Mickey. The mouse slid between the big brute’s legs, letting him stumble toward the door. The King drew his keyblade, pointing it at the guy’s big friends.

“Before what, exactly?” Mickey asked, looking over at the big guy, sprawled across the wooden floor. He glanced back at the group. “I don’t want any trouble,” he repeated, slower, “please.” The leader of the gang picked himself up off the floor—slowly—and looked at his comrades. For a second, the tension in the air was palpable as the crew contemplated whether or not they wanted to try their hand at squashing this mouse. Mickey knew he could take them, but he could see why they thought they might be able to put up a fight. They did have their size in their favor, if nothing else.

Suddenly, though, a voice broke the tension. “You heard the Prime. No trouble, boys.” Mickey looked over at the entrance to see the hulking, female guard from before leaning in the doorway. He sighed with relief, lowering his keyblade.

“A P-Prime? Uh, uh, y-yeah,” the big man in charge fumbled for a second, “Sorry, Cap’n.”

He skulked off, gesturing for the other brutes to join him, and the guard—captain, Mickey supposed?—took a few steps into the pub, squatting down to be a little closer to the mouse’s eye level. Mostly a vain effort, as it happened; she was so tall that even squatting down she towered a foot or so above the mouse’s head. “I thought I told you to stay out of trouble, tourist,” she smirked, and Mickey let out a frustrated huff.

“I tried, missus,” the keyblade master shrugged, glancing over at the drunk men. “I didn’t wanna fight ‘em, but they kept comin’ for me. I just wanted a place to stay.”

“I know, little buddy,” the captain nodded, “and since this place isn’t looking very neighborly today”—she shot a look at the bartender, who refused to make eye contact—“I suppose you can come stay with me and my boy tonight.” Mickey’s mood brightened at the suggestion, and he nodded vigorously. She led the way out of the Prancing Pony and back into the dark, rundown streets of Bree. “I’m Berthe,” she said when they had left the inn, “Guard-Captain of the Town of Bree. What’ll I call you, little man?”

“I’m—” Mickey started, and then second thoughts began creeping in again. He glanced back up at the Prancing Pony, slowly disappearing in the distance. Berthe seemed nice, and more trustworthy than anyone else he had yet met, but perhaps it would be better to play it safe. For now, anyway. “You can call me Ears,” he decided, and Berthe nodded. And for the first time since he had been in this gosh-forsaken town, Mickey smiled.

[Mickey Mouse]

Berthe’s house sat a few blocks down from the Prancing Pony Inn, and already it looked more welcoming. The lack of drunken idiots stumbling around contributed to that, perhaps, but the hulking woman also knew how to make a house a home. Even before Berthe pointed out the house, Mickey had seen the glow of a warm fire flickering in the window, and as they approached, a young boy—fifteen years old, at most—bounded outside and wrapped his arms around the Guard-Captain’s waist, burying his face in her armor.

“I missed you, mummy!” the boy shouted, and Mickey could not help but coo a little bit on the inside. This, he thought, this is what I’ve been missing. When the boy separated from his mother, he leaned around her gargantuan frame to see her guest. His expression grew quizzical—not hostile, like the men in the bar, but unfamiliar with him. His curiosity quickly got the better of him. “Who’s that, mummy?”

“That’s Ears,” she replied, glancing over at him, “He’s going to be staying with us tonight. That alright with you, sir?” Berthe smiled at her son and knelt down a little to be on his level. She even towered over him. The boy looked Mickey over (a familial habit, it seemed) and pursed his lips for a minute, then nodded. “Good,” she smiled, “now go inside and get washed up for dinner. We have to show Mr. Ears true Camelot hospitality, alright?”

“Yes, mummy!” the teenager grinned, looking over at Mickey once more before nodding matter-of-factly and sprinting back into the house.

“That’s my son, Robbie,” Berthe provided a belated introduction, “You’ll be bunking with him tonight. Good luck getting any rest—he’s such a ball of energy, I’m not sure he ever sleeps.” Mickey giggled a little, and then followed Berthe into her home. The warmth it projected on the outside was matched—perhaps even surpassed—by how homely the inside was. On one wall sat a stone fireplace, blazing proudly as Mickey walked in, surrounded by extremely comfortable-looking chairs. A quaint little kitchen sat opposite that living area, with everything you would need to keep your family fed. At the other end of the room a staircase led up to what, Mickey presumed, were the bedrooms and washrooms.

“It’s not much,” Berthe shrugged, “but being Guard-Captain does afford me a little more than the average person.” Mickey nodded, heading over to the fireplace and starting to warm his hands. “You can take those gloves off, you know—it’ll warm your hands quicker if the heat doesn’t have to fight through the fabric.”

Mickey glanced down at the big white gloves on his hands. “Um, I’m okay,” he said, not really knowing how to explain that he had never really taken off his gloves—they had always just been there, a part of him, no matter what outfit he was wearing.

“Why are you a mouse?”

Mickey turned to see that Robbie had returned, freshly washed up for dinner. The boy stood uncomfortably close to him, double his height but thin as a twig. Short, brown hair spiked up on top of his head, and his eyes—wider than ever right now as they observed the mouse—shone a brilliant blue. He may not have inherited his mother’s frame, but he certainly was as striking. And, it seemed, carried with him an unquenchable curiosity. “I, uh,” Mickey stammered, trying his best to come up with as simple an explanation as possible, “I was born this way?” His tone reflected his unease with the question, and luckily Berthe came to his rescue.

“He just is a mouse, honey,” she swooped in, patting her son on the back, “now stop bothering him and go and set the table, I’m sure Mr. Ears is very hungry after his journey.”

“Yes, mummy,” Robbie nodded, relaxing his transfixed gaze on the mouse. He turned to head to the table, but before he could get more than a few steps away, his attention refocused, once again, on Mickey. “Oh, and Mr. Ears?” the boy said, taking a couple of steps back toward the former king, “It’s… it’s very nice to meet you.”

The boy stuck his hand out. Mickey stared for a second before reaching out with one of his gloved hands and shaking it happily. “Nice to meet you, too, Robbie,” the mouse replied. So much relief washed over him—he was sure he must’ve been glowing as Robbie turned away and went to help his mother. At the very least, he beamed with happiness, glad to finally be somewhere comfortable—for the moment, anyway.

[Mickey Mouse]

Everything was black.

Just like when he had first arrived in the Omniverse, the mouse found himself engulfed in darkness. An all too familiar dread crept up his tiny spine, and he looked around cautiously, trying to see something in the shadows.

Suddenly, a few yards away, a figure moved. “Who’s there?” he called out in his squeaky register, his attention fully focused on the disturbance. Slowly, the figure emerged from the shadows, but it was not anything that he expected.

“Minnie!”

The King ran toward his wife, and wrapped her in a hug. He pulled the Queen close to him, and she let out a great sigh of relief.

“Mickey, I’ve been so worried,” she exhaled, as if she had not taken a single breath in the time that he had been gone. The shadows around them dissipated and all of a sudden, everything was familiar—the Disney Castle towered above them, their courtyard rolled out on every side. Minnie planted a kiss on the King and then embraced him again. He looked over her shoulder and saw—just a little way off, standing at the gates to the castle—Donald and Goofy, smiling broadly.

He broke the hug with Minnie and rushed toward his friends. Never in his life had he been so terribly relieved to see anyone as he was to see the three of them. “I’m so sorry, guys,” he shook his head, feeling terribly guilty for even leaving in the first place. He looked back to Minnie, who was approaching the trio. “I thought something awful was happening, so—”

“Oh, it is,” Goofy said, grabbing one of Mickey’s shoulders. The King looked up at his friend. “Something terrrrrrrrrible! Hyuck, hyuck!” Goofy erupted into his signature laughter, and Donald, his traditional scowl plastered on his face, hit him to get him to quit.

“What are ya talkin’ about?” Mickey asked, approaching Donald and Goofy. The pair slunk back, not wanting to continue explaining, so Mickey spun around to his wife. “Minnie, what do they mean?” He stepped towards her, feeling suddenly very serious.

“Mickey, darlin’, you just got home—”

Something wasn’t right. “Tell me, now, Minnie,” the King pressed, placing his hands on his wife’s shoulders rather forcefully. Minnie did not reply, but simply looked up at their castle. Mickey turned around slowly, letting his eyes follow his wife’s. Suddenly, the Disney Castle did not look at all like the one he had left—little tiny Heartless swarmed like cockroaches out of every window, and the towers erupted in flames. Some of them already had pieces missing, and the sky glowed a violent red.

And then, a single scream pierced through above all the noise.

* * *

Mickey sat straight up at the sound of Robbie shrieking, and looked over to the boy who shared the bedroom with him. He had retreated to the corner of the room, but Mickey could not tell why, until abruptly a large, orc warrior burst into the room, ripping the door off its hinges. Thinking fast, Mickey grabbed his keyblade from beside the bed and leapt at the brute, placing a kick right in his chest.

Caught slightly off-guard, the warrior stumbled backwards, surprised by the little mouse’s strength. Mickey aimed his keyblade at the creature and shot a Pearl at him, sending him reeling once again until he tripped and tumbled headfirst down the stairs.

The mouse turned back to Robbie, who still sat in a ball in the corner of his bed, tears streaming down his face. “It’ll be alright, buddy,” Mickey assured him, “Just stay here, okay? I’m gonna find your mom.” Robbie nodded, still heaving, and the keyblade master headed out of the room, grabbing his shirt and yellow shoes and pulling them on as he went to look for Berthe.

The hulking Guard-Captain was nowhere to be found in her house—the only thing in the bottom floor was the crumpled form of their attacker, thankfully knocked out cold. Outside, all heck had broken loose—random denizens of Bree battled orcs, swords clashing against axes and warhammers. The chaos overwhelmed the mouse.

“Ears!”

Berthe came running from down the street, her great big longsword stained with orcish blood. Mickey shivered a little bit once more at the sight of it. “Ears, thank God you’re alive—my boy, is he alright? The bastards drew me out into the streets before I could get to him.”

“He’s fine,” Mickey nodded, “but what the goshdarn heck is goin’ on out here?”

“It’s a raid,” Berthe glanced back out toward the combat, “Not a big party, but then, this town ain’t really prepared for much of anything.” Mickey looked around. Obviously, he shook his head, and started out toward the fray. “Where do you think you’re going, Ears?”

Mickey turned back to Berthe. “I’m gonna fix this,” he said matter-of-factly, and then without another word, turned and headed back into the fray.

[Mickey Mouse]

The fight between the human residents of Bree and the orcish raiders raged around Mickey, but the mouse wasted no time getting involved in any petty skirmishes. Yes, the orcs towered over the humans in stature and greatly outmatched them in strength, but Berthe was right: there were not all that many in the raiding party. The citizens of Bree greatly outnumbered them. Certainly the town would prevail in the battle, so Mickey dealt with other concerns.

Like what the heck was even going on?

The mouse clambered up the side of one of Bree’s many clandestine buildings heading to the roof to get a better at the raid. Ten to twelve orcs at most—including the one he had knocked out back in Berthe’s house—roamed the city streets, getting into skirmishes with the humans that populated the village.

There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to their attack; they just lumbered aimlessly through the streets, attacking anyone they saw. Why, the mouse King wondered, did they come then? Just to wreak havoc upon the city? If that was the case, then violence permeated this realm even deeper than he thought. And, contrary to what his gut might tell him, he began to think that if these orcs had come simply to murder the townspeople and burn the village to the ground, then perhaps they deserved whatever punishment the humans dealt back.

A loud thump came from behind the King, and Mickey spun around, keyblade at the ready, to see one of the raiders standing just a few feet away from him. The orc grunted, a bit of drool slipping grossly from his lips. Mickey’s face contorted in disgust.

“That’s seriously gross, pal,” he wrinkled his black nose and took a few steps back, only to realize that he was up against the edge of the building. The orc grinned—he must have thought himself real clever—and started to approach the mouse, who took just a second to glance back at the drop below. It was pretty far.

The orc roared loudly and, the second Mickey turned away, leapt for him. The mouse reverted his attention back just in time to see the orc’s gargantuan frame hurtling towards him, and without thinking he sprung into a back-flip, leaping into the air and letting his attacker sail under him. “Whoaaaa—oh, no!” the mouse shouted, flying through the air at least thirty feet above the ground and with no viable landing pad. The orc sped to the ground, crashing into the cobble-stone streets with a loud kerplunk, and Mickey fell, as gracefully as he could manage, down to the streets, landing on the unconscious raider’s back.

“Gosh,” he heaved a sigh of relief, amazed that the orc’s body had actually successfully broken his fall, “that worked!” He hopped to his feet, turning his attention to the pair of orcs that now stood, battle-ready, just in front of the entrance to the Prancing Pony Inn. “You want some of this?” the mouse taunted, holding his hands out and trying his best to look intimidating. How in the world he thought his small frame would be scary to these big, burly guys, he couldn’t say, and the orcs snorted, recognizing the humor. One of them turned to the other and gestured for him to go inside the Prancing Pony. The big guy obliged his partner’s order, and the first orc turned his attention to the mouse.

“I’m gonna say this once and only once, pal,” Mickey warned, his eyes furrowing, “I don’t wanna fight ya—but I will if ya make me.”

“Oh yeah?” the orc scoffed, “I eat tiny shit like you for breakfast.” And then he pulled his ax back and swung it at the King.

The mouse leapt into the air, landing on the axe’s giant blade. He balanced on the blade while the swing finished, then hopped off and slammed his keyblade into the back of the raider’s neck.

“Geez, watch your language!” the mouse smirked, landing softly on the ground as his attacker took a few steps forward, trying to regain his balance. He lifted a big, green hand up to rub the bruise on his neck, and then turned his attention back to Mickey, looking angrier than ever. Without a second thought, the axe was back up in the air again, this time prepping to come down and slice Mickey into two equal halves.

The mouse was quick, though, and rolled to the side just as the weapon collided with the cobblestone road. The sheer force behind the orc’s attack stuck the weapon in the ground, and after a couple of failed attempts to yank it back out, the beast gave up, turning to Mickey and choosing to come at him barehanded.

Not quite expecting to go into fisticuffs with the orc, Mickey found himself letting his guard down just enough for the big guy to catch one of his legs and lift him up into the air. “Lemme down!” the mouse yelled, “Let me DOWN!” On the final syllable, the mouse aimed his keyblade at the orc and shot a pearl right in his face, and the pain distracted the orc just long enough so that he let go of his tiny opponent. Mickey landed on the ground and swung his keyblade at the big guy’s foot, knocking him off his feet and sending him falling to the ground.

The orc groaned, and Mickey knew it was time to finish this; he aimed his keyblade at the ground and shot another Pearl, sending him flying into the air, and while up in the air, flipped forward, smacking the monster in the face with both his feet and knocking him out cold. He bounced off the guy and landed just in front of the entrance to the Prancing Pony, taking a moment to shoot one last scowl at his attacker.

“And stay down.”

[Mickey Mouse]

Inside the Prancing Pony, Mickey encountered an eerie silence. Whereas before the place had been the center of activity, the drunks of the town parading around loudly, now it was dead silent, and the pub, at least, was quite empty.

Mickey would not be fooled, though: that raider had just entered, so someone lurked around here, out of sight. He kept his guard up, resolving not to be surprised.

Suddenly, from behind the bar, he heard a whimper. The mouse could not tell what they were saying—it sounded like they were bound—but he followed the sound to the source anyway, and saw the bartender from before hog-tied and gagged. Mickey knew that if he had been anyone other than himself, he might have had half a mind to leave him tied up; but his nobility broke through, like always, and he removed the gag, trying to decipher what the man kept saying.

When Mickey had freed the man’s mouth, he took a few deep, panting breaths, and then looked up behind the mouse in horror: “it’s a trap!”

Mickey spun around, barely ducking underneath the hammer that came swinging for his head. The hammer busted through the bar, sending most of it flying across the room in pieces. Mickey leapt through the rubble and somersaulted away from his new opponent. The orc from before crept over toward him, hammer in hand, and chuckled in the most maniacal way it could muster.

It still sounded absolutely idiotic.

“How the heck did you hide?” Mickey asked, incredulously, “You’re like… huge.”

The raider smirked, and suddenly, was gone. Mickey’s eyes grew wide as his figure disappeared little by little, and then he heard another orcish chortle from behind him. He turned, but the hammer guy did not stand before him; rather, the shaman that had attacked him right when he had entered Camelot leaned against the wall next to the door of the Prancing Pony. Mickey’s eyes narrowed, confused—what the heck was this all about?

“It’s… it’s you,” Mickey said, squatting further into his battle stance, “what are you doin’ here?” Everything moved a bit too fast for Mickey in the Omniverse; he had trouble keeping up. So much stuff happened every second here.

“We’ve come for you, tiny Prime,” the shaman scoffed, standing up straight. “A Prime like you would be an honorable sacrifice.”

Mickey felt a twinge of guilt—so that was the reason the orcs had raided the village tonight? To kidnap him and sacrifice him to… whatever?

“Well, ya ain’t gonna get me,” the mouse resolved with a huff. The shaman scoffed, and snapped his fingers. Suddenly, between the leader and Mickey, the hammer-toting orc reappeared, still wearing that same ugly grin. The mouse took a deep breath, moving his focus from the magic user to the fighter, and prepared for whatever attack this guy had prepared for him.

“He’ll bring you to me,” the shaman nodded, heading toward the Prancing Pony’s exit, “But first, he’ll make you scream.” Without another word, the shaman slipped out the door, probably heading back to whatever cave these monsters had crawled out of.

“You heard,” the hammer-man cocked an eyebrow, “I make you scream.”

Mickey smirked confidently. “I greatly doubt that, sir.”

The hammer swung toward him suddenly, but not quite quick enough to beat the mouse’s reflexes—Mickey ducked, and then ran to collide with the orc head-on. He swung his keyblade at the orc’s foot, but this guy would not be beat as easily as the last one; he brought a hand down onto Mickey’s keyblade, smashing it into the ground. Mickey released his grip on it and somersaulted between the guy’s legs, ending up on the other side, tired and weapon-less. He had downed three orcs already in the last fifteen minutes, and now he had to fight one without his weapon?

The mouse saw the next hit coming—the Orc swung his hammer, and quickly Mickey ran toward the far wall, leaping up and running along it for a few seconds. Soon, he leapt from the wall onto the mantel above the fireplace, and looked over at the orc, now staring eye-level at the monster. “Come on,” the former musketeer called, gesturing for the big guy to challenge him again. The orc leapt at Mickey, but this time the mouse didn’t dodge him—he leapt straight for the monster’s face, wrapping his legs and arms around the guy’s head and latching on tight. For a few moments, the two struggled as the orc stumbled around the room, trying to dislodge the unwanted passenger. Mickey took advantage of his position and bit down—hard—on the orc’s ear, and with a scream, the orc finally managed to wrestle Mickey free, sending the mouse flying across the room.

Mickey slammed into the far wall of the Prancing Pony, falling not-so-gracefully to the floor. Only now did he realize that somehow, he had managed to take the hammer-guy’s ear with him; he felt the grimy green appendage in between his teeth, and quickly spit it out. He groaned, and looked up to see the orc, angrier than ever, gushing blood where his ear used to be. The sight made Mickey sick to his stomach again, but he picked himself up off the ground and ran for his keyblade, lying almost exactly between him and the big guy.

The orc, too, started sprinting for the weapon, but Mickey’s speed outmatched him just slightly; the mouse reached down and grabbed the blade, then leapt up into the air, past the orc’s wildly swinging warhammer, and bashed the warrior in the face with his weapon. The monster fell to the ground, knocked unconscious by the combined force of Mickey’s hit and the rapid blood loss from where Mickey had bitten off his ear.

The King breathed heavily, looking down at his final opponent. The shaman, he realized, and he turned and ran outside, looking around for the lead orc, but he did not present himself. In fact, Mickey couldn’t see any orcs besides the ones he had knocked out in view. The raiding party seemed to have vacated the city. A little ways off, Berthe sprinted for the Prancing Pony.

“Ears!” she called out, “Ears, you alright?”

“Yeah,” Mickey heaved, “I’m… I’m fine.”

“You look—”

“I’m just a bit worn out,” he interrupted the Guard-Captain, “I’m a bit rusty, is all.” The Guard-Captain nodded, and looked around the nearby block. “So are they gone? Did we get ‘em?”

Berthe nodded. “As soon as the big guy with the spiky staff came out of the Pony, they all scattered to the wind,” she recounted, confirming Mickey’s suspicions. The mouse took a few steps down the street, examining the destruction the orcs had wrought on Bree. “Something has got to be done about this town’s defenses,” Berthe mused behind him, “We didn’t even see the goddamn bastards coming.”

Mickey approached one of the buildings that had taken a particular beating, and saw a flyer on the ground next to it. Presumably, it had fallen off when the orcs smashed up the wall, but aside from a few tears around the edge, it remained—mostly—intact. The King picked it up.

It read: Dante’s Abyss: The Omniverse’s Newest Reality Sensation. Sign up today!

To be continued in The Dante Verse.

[Mickey Mouse]

Continued from The Dante Verse.

Loose ends needed to be tied up.

The mouse stood in the same room as he had when he’d first volunteered to enter the competition on the behalf of Bree. Now, however, almost nobody remained with him in the chamber. Berthe lingered by the door. The mayor stood at his usual spot, behind the lectern.

Before him, Mickey Mouse stood holding enough omnilium to effectively construct more suitable fortifications to protect the little village from any more unwanted visitors.

“…I don’t know what to say.” The mayor of Bree was aghast. In just a few days, this… non-human, of all people, turned their luck around. No longer would they live in fear of the orc tribes that lurked in the shadowy forests nearby.

“You might try thank you,” Mickey sassed. Under normal circumstances he would have remained pleasant, but he had been through heck thanks to these people who probably still didn’t even like him that much, even after all he had done for them. Dante’s Abyss had not been easy.

He released the omnilium and watched as it floated up into the hands of the Secondary. The mayor grasped it and stared dumbfounded at it. They underestimated him. All of them. Never would they have expected he would place high enough to fulfill his promise. He had proven them very, very wrong. Perhaps they would not let their prejudices so heavily influence their judgments from now on.

Honestly, though, the mouse doubted it.

“Yes,” the mayor nodded, “thank you very much. The town of Bree is in your debt, Mr. Ears.” Mickey’s brow furrowed. He had almost forgotten about his alias.

“It’s Mickey Mouse,” the king corrected.

Hesitantly, the mayor nodded, his face contorting a bit. Behind him, Berthe chuckled a little bit. The mouse shot his friend a glance, and she simply smirked at him. “Anyway,” he said, turning his attention back to the mayor, “if ya want, I’ll get to work on summoning your wall. You don’t have any other Primes here, right?”

The mayor nodded, casting the bright white orb of omnilium back toward Mickey. The mouse caught it and turned on his heel. He placed a hand on the hilt of his keyblade, which he had summoned almost immediately upon his exit from the Dante Verse. It was good to have it back again.

“Your majesty.”

Mickey’s eyes narrowed at Berthe. Just as he had expected.

The guard-captain bowed dramatically—and rather sarcastically, Mickey noted—as he passed through the door back out into the town proper. “Not anymore, Berthe,” the mouse waved her off, “Obviously.”

Nobody would let that detail slip by unnoticed, though. Between that and his bronze medal placement in Dante’s Abyss, he had been given a celebrity’s welcome upon his return. Random passersby tipped their hats to him, and everyone in the town square called out to him, offering a discount on their wares. Honestly, Mickey did not even know why these people cared. He ruled over the Disney Realms, far away from the Omniverse; he wasn’t even their king. That title, according to information he had gleaned on his first visit to the village, belonged to some fella named Aragorn. And as far as Mickey was concerned, he could keep it.

He liked Camelot, don’t mistake him—he still held the same admiration for its beauty that he had felt upon his first trip through the portal from the Nexus. And the people, despite their inherent prejudice against any non-human, had good hearts. But something about this whole place—the Omniverse, that is—felt off, even after finding some friends in Dante’s Abyss. Trying to establish himself in any way, at this point at least, felt futile, and so he resolved to continue to search for a way out of here, back to his home, his friends, and his lady love.

On that point, though: he still had absolutely no idea how he could get home.

Granted, he had been mildly distracted. The competition, it seemed had turned out to be a much more involved and draining effort than Mickey had anticipated—far more than a simple tournament, to say the least. And between dealing with the realities of “kill or be killed”—he still felt some shame about accidentally killing that man while traveling with Deadpool—and trying to survive in the forest with Erza, Samus, Harry, and Pepsiman, he had not had much time to dwell on his eventual exit from this place.

In general, the events of Dante’s Abyss continued to haunt him incessantly. His guilt from the excursion with Deadpool lingered. The lasting effects of his temporary bond with that creature—the Orgosynth, it had called itself, when it telepathically spoke to him—still danced within his mind. The mystery of the energy he had been able to tap into at will twice during the tournament, where the large, yellow energy beam had come from, continued to mystify him. Though he knew now the deaths of his friends had not been real, the emotions that he had experienced had broken through the mouse’s traditional optimistic demeanor, and even now thinking back to those moments troubled him greatly.

He decided to focus on his work.

The wall went up quicker than he expected. Several hours passed as he summoned it brick-by-brick, but he would admit that it took far less time than it would have in his world, where a myriad of his subjects would have to scavenge for the materials and then make sure they fit just right. Here, only he had to work on it, and by nightfall, it rose up above the highest rooftop in Bree.

Finishing the job so quickly absolutely wore him out, however. Luckily, thanks to the hospitality of Berthe, he had a place he could retreat, where he could step back and reevaluate while letting the exhaustion of the tournament and the mass summoning slip away. Truly, the hulking Guard-Captain had been a blessing.

“So…” she said through a full mouth later that night at dinner, “Mickey, huh?”

The mouse nodded, “That’s what Pop tells me.”

“Cool little name,” she chewed. “Suits you. Way better than Ears.” She chortled heartily, placing her fork down on her plate. “Like, seriously, where’d you come up with that? I mean I guess you’ve got pretty gargantuan ears, yeah, but—”

“Okay, okay, Berthe,” the mouse smiled, shaking his head. The two continued casual conversation for a little while alone, and Mickey began to realize something: the Guard-Captain’s son had not come down for dinner. Mickey eyed the boy’s chair, wondering if Berthe would notice and say something. She followed his gaze, but seemed content to leave the stone unturned, so Mickey pressed a little bit. “Where’s Robbie?” he asked, eyeing Berthe suspiciously. She could sense his misgivings, certainly.

“He’s upstairs in bed,” the woman glanced up toward the boy’s room, “He’s been feelin’… just a bit under the weather lately. In fact, I wanted to talk to you about that.” Mickey perked up, curious as to what she meant. “I, uh… I wanted to say, you need to sleep in my bedroom tonight. I’m gonna stay with Robbie and watch him. I’m worried.”

“What’s wrong?” the mouse inquired, but Berthe shook her head.

“I don’t know,” she admitted, “But I aim to find out.”

[Mickey Mouse]

Later that night, Mickey snuggled into Berthe’s large bed. It seemed too large even for her, but the King supposed that she had, at one point, been married. Certainly it must have been a heck of a man to be able to keep Berthe tied down.

Of course, he couldn’t sleep. It was the first time he had tried since leaving Dante’s Abyss, and the threat of nightmares kept him awake.

He slid off the large bed. Scurrying over to where he had shed his every day clothes when changing into his PJ’s, he reached into the pocket to grab the little photograph of his wife, which never failed to make him feel better. As he fumbled around for it, though, his four-fingered hand closed around something else.

The earrings!

He’d almost forgotten about them in his rush to get back to Bree and tie up his loose ends. Pulling them out along with the picture, he cradled the little yellow orbs in his hands for a second, idly wondering what the heck they were supposed to do.

He reached up and hooked them on to his ears—thankfully they weren’t puncture earrings, just clip-ons—and waited. Disappointment awaited him, for nothing happened. He wondered why Karl Jak would present the finalists of this competition with a bunch of artefacts that just didn’t do anything. There’d been that creepy book, the girly-looking crown, the boots, a watch, and a bunch of other little things that really just seemed more like trinkets than anything else.

Part of the mouse was tempted to sell it. Get something worthwhile out of this competition, and spite Karl Jak at the same time. But something told him not to. Despite all the pain he had been through in the competition, he still felt a great need to keep a souvenir. Perhaps to remind himself of everything he’d been through—to remind himself that it had all been for practically nothing.

His lips curling into a frown, he stuffed the earrings back in his pocket and returned to Berthe’s large bed, photograph in hand. Maybe his lady love would like the earrings whenever he got back home.

He clutched the picture of his dear Minnie. For a while, she had been the only one able to make him happy—even Donald and Goofy, at first, had just been his partners. His fellow musketeers. Slowly but surely, they had become his two closest confidants, and his best friends, but Minnie—from the moment he met her, he had been connected to her. Their fates were… well, they were intertwined forever.

Nothing had ever hit him like that spark, the first time he had seen her. And she had been ripped away from him, just like that. Yes, he had gone off on his own—begun traveling, searching for the origin of the Heartless threat, but he had always intended to return. If he had known that taking off in the gummi ship that day would mean never seeing her again, he never would have done it. He would have stayed right there, by her side, happy on his throne, and waited for the Heartless to come to them.

No, he sighed, no, you wouldn’t have. That, he knew, was the truth. He loved her so, so much, but during his time as King he had grown to love his people with the same fervor. He would have given anything if it meant he could protect them from the sinister threat that had started encroaching on his borders. And it seemed he had, but it had all been for nothing.

That was what he got for being so goshdarn noble.

Down the hallway, he heard a crashing noise. It sounded like it came from Robbie’s room, so the mouse assumed that the boy might simply be having a tantrum—sick children did that, from what he understood—but even though he knew Berthe could handle it, he still felt like he should go check on them. The King slipped out of bed, putting on some bedroom slippers and beginning the trek down the hallway. Once he had left Berthe’s bedroom, however, he noticed something troubling. A strange, blue light flickered through the crack beneath Robbie’s door. Suddenly, the mouse felt an urgent need to get there, and sprinted, pushing the door open.

Streaks of blue lightning danced across the room. They bounced from wall to wall, the boards bursting into embers with a single touch. At the center of them all, Robbie stood backed against his own wall, thoroughly terrified. Berthe sat in the opposite corner, shielding herself from the bolts that got too close. Mickey’s black pupils widened.

“Golly.”

[Mickey Mouse]

It took a considerable amount of time to quell the lightning storm Robbie had unleashed within his bedroom, and even more time after that to calm Robbie himself down.

At one point, Mickey could have sworn the boy started hyperventilating—he shuffled into a corner of the room, breathing all too deeply, and started crying uncontrollably. Luckily, Mickey and Berthe made a good team; the mouse had managed to soften Robbie’s magic with a little magic of his own, and Berthe, afterwards, swooped in to be the boy’s mother, and assure him that—despite the accidental vandalism—everything was going to be alright.

After they had successfully gotten Robbie tucked back into bed, Mickey and Berthe sat down to a cup of tea down in the dining room, and for a moment, the most uncomfortable silence persisted between them. For the first time, the mouse felt duped by the only woman he had come to truly trust in this town. He missed the friends he’d made in the Abyss. Erza had always been straight-up with him. Same with Samus and Harry.

Eventually, it became unbearable, and Mickey broke the silence.

“Why didn’t you tell me Robbie could use magic?”

Berthe swallowed, nervously. “I didn’t really know,” she said, although Mickey knew that to be a lie. She explained that there had been some hints—an accidental fire here, a sudden unexplainable downpour there—but that he had never shown abilities as volatile as the ones displayed upstairs. “And… I didn’t really want to know, either,” she continued, ashamedly, “Magic… isn’t really the type of thing I want my family involved in. I’m fine with others doing it, and everything, but I just never thought… I don’t know, I figured my boy would grow up to be in the town guard, or something respectable like that…”

“Something respectable? Just going into the family business of protecting the village of Bree?” Mickey’s expression turned quizzical. This place really did have all too many problems with all sorts of things.

“I can’t have my boy being a wizard, Mickey,” the Guard-Captain said. “Just… I have to think of what the town will think. Of my boy, of me, of my whole family. Who knows? Maybe they’ll even fire me from being Guard-Captain if they think I’ve got magic in my blood. People don’t trust magicians around here.”

People didn’t trust at all around here, it seemed.

“That’s ridiculous,” the mouse grunted, taking a sip of tea. Another uncomfortable silence set in, and once again, Mickey broke it. “So you’ve just been keeping this a secret?”

“Not for long,” Berthe explained, “I’ve only really had an inkling for a little while.”

“And you mean to keep it that way?” Mickey asked.

“Yes, as long as I can,” the Guard-Captain resolved, and Mickey shook his head, sitting the tea down on the table and walking away from Berthe. He could not bear to look at her in this moment, as she sat there so ashamed of her own son.

“Berthe,” he started, staring into the empty fireplace, “Somebody’s got to teach that boy how to handle his powers. I would say that I could do it, but… I can’t stay here. I have to find a way home. He needs more help than I’m able to give him.”

“Dalaran,” the hulking woman said, almost too quiet for Mickey to hear.

The mouse did hear, though, and spun around. “What?”

“They say people can go to Dalaran,” Berthe shrugged, “to be trained in the art of magic. But if I send my boy away there, people will know.”

Mickey’s gaze focused on Berthe, speaking louder than any words his squeaky little voice could have conjured up. He had no idea what this ‘Dalaran’ place was, but at this point, he knew it was Berthe’s only option. Keeping Robbie cooped up in her little cottage would help no one. Her eyes flickered up to meet his, and she knew what he wanted her to do.

“I don’t know, Mick—”

“I wanna go, Ma,” a little voice said from the stairs. Mickey and Berthe turned and saw Robbie standing there, listening to them bicker. The Guard-Captain sighed a deep sigh, and the boy stepped down into the living room. “I gotta go, Ma.”

Mickey turned and looked at Berthe, making eye contact with her and giving her a look as if to say, he’s right. The Guard-Captain’s eyes grew sad, and Mickey knew she’d made up her mind. “But how do I even get him there? I’m the captain of this city’s guard, I can’t just take off a few days to walk my child to the capital.”

Mickey realized what had to be done.

“I’ll take him.”

[Mickey Mouse]

“But Mr. Ears—”

“I told ya, call me Mickey now.”

“But Mickey, I’m tired.”

The mouse ignored his charge’s complaints and continued to trudge down the road toward Minas Tirith. They had been walking for a few hours now, and to tell the truth, a break might have been nice, but Mickey had grown quite cross with Robbie’s attitude, given he had not stopped protesting since they left. Mickey understood if he could not wrap his head around the necessity of this trek—he was, after all, only a fifteen year old boy—but he at least hoped the boy would be excited. After all, what kid didn’t want to grow up to be a wizard?

“So,” Mickey said after a few minutes of silence, “how long have you been… accidentally doing magic, then?” He had tried to get this answer from Berthe, but she refused to give him a straight answer on the subject.

Robbie counted on his fingers. “Um… about seven or eight weeks, I guess. Couple months.” Mickey nodded; at least it had not been lying untended for an awfully long time. Surely the teachers in this ‘Dalaran’ could figure something out with the boy. At least, Mickey hoped so; the boy did not deserve to live tormented by his magic the rest of his life. He held much respect for Berthe, but that decision had put some tension on their friendship.

Back in his home world, anyone could do magic if they so wished; all they had to do was find the right teacher, and Yen Sid had been a perfect fit for Mickey. Well, at least, Mickey had held great respect for the wizard—he still sometimes felt unsure as to whether or not his mentor reciprocated his feelings of admiration.

Perhaps, the mouse thought, when he finally got home, he would ask.

“MICKEY, ARE WE THERE YET?!”

The mouse’s large ears flinched at Robbie’s sudden scream, and he spun around, whipping out his keyblade and pointing it at the boy’s neck. The kid let out a pathetic little whimper, stumbling backwards and falling flat on his butt in the Camelot dirt. The mouse took a deep breath, and then sheathed his weapon.

“Sorry, Robbie,” he averted his eyes from the boy, slightly ashamed at the anger he had displayed, “I shouldn’t have done that. No, we aren’t there yet. But soon, pal, I promise.”

Robbie shivered a little bit in the dirt, and embarrassment flared up inside Mickey’s stomach. His reaction had been so colored with violence—violence that he had learned, no doubt, from Dante’s Abyss.

He could not let it take him over. He would always be a good, noble mouse.

Sacrificing lives to make others’ lives better had never seemed like an option to Mickey until Dante’s Abyss—until he had gotten to this Omniverse. He supposed that even though he had only been here a little over a week now, the different environment really had started to have quite the effect on him. He refused, however, to let it eat him alive. Yes, he had killed, but it had been just part of the game—and, hopefully, they hadn’t been in pain long. After all, everyone that died in the Omniverse—or every Prime, anyway—simply reincarnated at the Nexus.

The more he tried to convince himself, though, the more he felt absolutely awful about it. He had promised himself he would never kill again, and he meant to keep that promise. That poor boy who he had shot with that beam…

Mickey still had no idea how he had managed to tap into that energy, either. Even though he had somehow been able to do it again during the fight at the diner, the origin of it remained a mystery to the mouse. Perhaps someone in this great “white city” Berthe had told him about would have some idea. The mouse, however, did not even know where to start.

He reached out and offered a gloved hand to Robbie, to help him up. Tentatively, the boy reached out and took it. “Come on, buddy,” the King gestured toward their path. “This big white city should be coming up soon.” I hope.

[Mickey Mouse]

The closer Mickey and his young companion got to Minas Tirith, the closer to the ground their jaws fell.

Berthe’s descriptions had not done it justice. Plateaus jutted out of the mountainside, protected by walls of white marble that shone in the sunlight. At the base of the city, a single black wall rose, separating the magnificence of the Kingdom’s capital from the rolling, grassy plains that the mouse and his boy had spent the last several hours trekking over.

Inside the city proved to be even more magnificent. Huge, white buildings towered above the pair. Down on the lower levels, the two navigated marketplaces so extensive and extravagant Mickey knew that those who lived here must not want for absolutely anything.

Asking around on how to get to Dalaran, the consensus seemed to be the same.

“…Pegasus?” Mickey Mouse asked, puzzled. He remembered a creature called Pegasus from his home-world. A majestic, white horse, ridden by the hero Hercules, of Olympus. The creature was here?

“It can fly you anywhere in our great Kingdom,” the passerby explained, pointing past Mickey and Robbie. Following his finger, the two saw a stable on a plateau just a little ways higher than they, with not just one but several winged horses grazing in their stalls. None of them looked exactly like the Pegasus Mickey knew, but the anatomy remained the same.

And golly gee, they sure were magnificent-looking.

At the top of the plateau, a man in armor stood guarding the legion of winged horses. Robbie, nervous as ever, stayed back while Mickey approached.

“Um, ‘scuse me,” the mouse piped up, waving a hand to get the man’s attention. The guard grunted, lazily looking down to where the squeaky little voice came from. The armored man met Mickey’s gaze.

“Oh—oh my God,” the knight sputtered, immediately standing at attention, “It’s… it’s you!”

Mickey’s brow furrowed. “Listen, um… me and my pal here just wanna go to Dala—”

“Everybody!” the guard called out, rushing to the railing and speaking to the crowded marketplace below, “Mickey Mouse has graced us with his presence! The third place winner of Dante’s Abyss!”

Mickey’s palm immediately met his forehead. He seemed doomed to be well-known wherever he went. Heck, Harry had known who he was without him even wasting time on an introduction. What the heck type of world had Omni dropped him into?

Below, the crowd went wild, clambering at the wall. Mickey cautiously approached the railing and looked between the bars, not quite tall enough to see over the top. They looked at him with an awe he had never asked for; just the sight of him put wide smiles on their faces. Why did they love him so much? He hadn’t done anything but cater to the ultraviolent tendencies of the game. If anything, they should be looking at him with disdain for compromising his moral values. Sure, the only time he had killed had been a complete accident, but still.

“You were our favorite,” the knight informed him, squatting down to get on the mouse’s level, “or, at least, some of us. Nobody else in the finale came close to your level of honor. We value honor greatly here.”

“I, uhm…” the mouse stammered. Words couldn’t describe how much comfort was wrapped in that one single expression. “Thank you.”

The knight nodded, and stood up. “Alright, back to business,” he loudly ordered the denizens of the marketplace below, “this noble mouse has his own matters to attend to.”

Mickey smiled, throwing a wave at the people down below, and then turned his attention back to the stable. A few yards away, Robbie still shivered in fear. The poor boy—all of this overwhelmed him even more than it overwhelmed Mickey. He would hurry and place the boy’s affairs in order, so that perhaps he could feel safer.

“So,” the knight smiled, leaning on his spear, “where did you say your business took you, Sir Mouse?”

Mickey chuckled a bit. Sir Mouse. He liked that.

“Dalaran,” the mouse replied, glancing up at the city in the sky. “I’m escorting this boy, who means to enroll in their school for young wizards.”

The knight nodded. “I shall retrieve a steed for you, Sir.”

He turned and walked into the stable. Mickey let out a sigh. His errand here almost completed, soon he would have to think of what to do next—where to go. Perhaps, he thought, he could seek out Erza, or Samus, or Harry. Certainly they wouldn’t be too difficult to find—how large could this Omniverse be, after all?

Behind him, Robbie screamed. Mickey whipped around, his hand on his keyblade, to see the boy cowering up against the stable wall. Before him, a gigantic, hulking green-skinned man—not unlike the orcs that had attacked Bree—stood with his hands clasped behind his back, straight and tall. He resembled the raiders in nothing more than his physical appearance; his demeanor spoke of someone altogether more civilized, and tentatively, the mouse released his hold on his weapon.

“You are Mickey Mouse,” the orc noted. A deep voice; Mickey honestly had not realized a person's voice could reach such low octaves.

“Who’s askin’?” Mickey’s eyes narrowed.

The orc grunted. “I serve Thrall, the leader of the orc population in Camelot and advisor to King Aragorn,” he listed—all in one breath—before exhaling deeply and continuing. “But… I am asking, Sir Mouse. You are Mickey Mouse, the prime who placed third in the recent Dante’s Abyss competition, yes? I am not mistaken?”

The King held his gaze, and relented. “Yep, that’s me.”

“My leader will want to see you.” The orc’s gruff voice vibrated through the marble-scented air. “I request that you allow me to take you to him.”

His desire to stick with Robbie persisted, but at the same time he felt called to obey this big guy’s commands. The idea of meeting this ‘Thrall’—advisor to the king, apparently—intrigued the mouse greatly. He turned to Robbie.

“You’ve got this, pal,” he told the boy, and Robbie’s face grew pale. “Just get on the horse and go to Dalaran. If it’s anything like the Pegasus I know, it’ll get you there safe. Find someone who can help you when you get there.”

“But, Mr. Ears—”

“Robbie…”

“…Mickey,” the boy whined, rushing over to his mouse friend. At that moment, the knight returned, leading a winged horse for the mouse and his boy. Robbie glanced over at the majestic steed, then at Mickey, then at the orc who had approached them. “…o-okay,” he nodded, “I can do it.”

“The wizards of Dalaran will help the boy,” the orc interjected. “They are, after all, the wisest men and women this land has to offer.”

Robbie nodded nervously, and headed over to the knight. After a couple minutes getting him set up, the horse lifted off the ground and Robbie was gone, off on a trip to find himself and the magical potential Mickey knew he possessed.

Mickey turned to the orc. “Alright,” he shrugged, “Take me to your leader.”

[Mickey Mouse]

The odd pair snaked through the side streets of Minas Tirith. Gradually, the pristine white marble buildings shining in the light of the sun gave way to darker alleys, lit only by torchlight. After a while, Mickey began to miss his shadow.

The door to Thrall’s chambers rose several feet above Mickey’s head. Patchwork planks of wood loosely glued together separated the mouse from the orc chieftain. His guide wrapped his fat, green fingers around the wrought-iron handle and pulled, almost jerking the door off its hinges. Mickey stared inside, but could see nothing but flickering firelight across the threshold.

“This is where I stop,” the orc informed the mouse, “Thrall is waiting inside.”

Mickey peered inside, trying to catch a glimpse of the orc chieftain. Still nothing. With an anxious gulp, he headed into the office, the door slamming shut behind him.

Darkness blanketed the room. Sections of it glowed orange, lit by the torches along the walls, but even those were sparse. Thrall, it seemed, cared little for the sunny disposition of the rest of Minas Tirith.

Shelves and shelves of books and other important-looking scrolls and documents filled the wall to Mickey’s left. To his right, the chamber’s single window took up residence. Maroon curtains were drawn completely over it, leaving just a sliver of natural sunlight peeking into the room. A few yards in front of him, the King could see a shabbily built desk with various papers splayed out across it. For all intents and purposes, however, the room seemed to be devoid of any signs of life. Mickey might as well have been the only person in here.

Out of the shadows at the back of the room, a hulking figure lurched forward, slamming his hands down on the desk. His fingers were knobby, the same green color as the orc who had guided the mouse here; long fingernails traced the lines in the wood of the escritoire. A low hum—perhaps a growl?—elicited from a mouth too small for the teeth it housed. Thrall’s lips curled into something like a scowl.

“Mickey Mouse,” the low voice grumbled.

Even on the murder-island, the mouse didn’t know if he had ever been so afraid in his entire life. “…uhm, that’s me,” he nodded, hesitantly stepping forward.

Thrall reached into the shadows, dragging a tribal-looking chair to the desk and sitting down in it. With no matching seat on the other side, Mickey remained standing. Thrall’s long fingernails clicked on the desk for a few seconds as he skimmed over the pieces of parchment laying haphazardly before him.

“I must say,” the orc chieftain leaned back in his seat, “for such a small creature, you carry an impressive talent, mouse.”

Mickey scoffed a bit. He preferred Sir Mouse.

“You foolishly entered this tournament amongst a slew of primes whose abilities greatly outmatch your own,” he continued. Mickey wasn’t sure if he was supposed to be insulted or not. “And yet… and yet,” he trailed off.

“And yet?” the mouse pressed. He knew the others’ power far exceeded his own; of course they did. He had lived in this Omniverse for, what? A week? How could anyone expect him to match up to someone like Samus, or that green monster, or the golden-armored king? Even a cretin such as Deadpool probably outmatched him. The mouse struggled to see where the orc chieftain’s point lay in this.

“And yet you still somehow managed to outlast most of them,” he noted, “and keep your honor while doing so.”

The mouse’s eyes fell to the floor. Yes, he had done so. He had kept his promise to not participate in the game’s murderous style, slipping up only once—and on accident that time, to boot. But why did this interest the people of Camelot so much?

“I… admire that quality, Mickey Mouse. I admire that you, above all, stayed true to your convictions. Even when you succumbed to the draw of that demonic entity, you did not let it overtake you. You used it for its power, but you never let it control you.” Mickey’s mind drifted back to the Orgosynth, and the same slimy feeling crept up his spine as had overtaken him when he had used the creature in the final battle. It was not a feeling he looked to experience again, no matter whether or not he thought he could fight the demon back. But that mattered little—the creature was gone now, out of his possession, and thank gosh for that.

The chieftain laced his fingers together in front of him. “Tell me, mouse,” he leaned forward, “what did Mr. Jak reward you with?”

Mickey swallowed nervously. Why did Thrall want to know about his reward? Did this huge man mean to take it from him? Certainly he could—not only did he physically tower over him, but the mouse had a feeling Thrall’s power greatly outmatched his own. How else could he have gotten such a position in the hierarchy of Camelot, and being a non-human at that?

Hesistantly, the mouse’s four-fingered hand slipped into his pocket and clasped the earrings. He pulled them out, and held out his hand so that Thrall could see them. The big guy stood from his chair and lumbered over to the mouse, kneeling down and picking up one of the earrings.

“Hmph,” he grunted, “I know these.”

“What do they do?” the mouse asked, one of the few things he had said since this conversation had begun. His curiosity outweighed his shyness.

“They are called the Potara Earrings,” Thrall informed him, placing the jewelry back in Mickey’s palm and closing the mouse’s fingers around them. “They allow you to become one with another prime. One body, one mind, one soul.”

Mickey’s eyes widened. What did that even mean?

“You put one on,” Thrall explained, “and your friend—whomever—puts the other on. The magic of the earrings pulls you together, combines your energies to form one even more powerful prime.”

Mickey looked at the earrings and all of suddenly, he feared them greatly. “…but couldn’t that end up really awful? Like, what if I… uh… combined with some really bad guy or something?” He could only imagine if somehow Deadpool managed to get his hands on the other earring. He could barely coexist with the merc-with-a-mouth as it is; how would he handle living in the same body as the guy?

“Your mind must remain strong,” Thrall nodded, “lest you be subjected to the will of the person you have fused with. But I have faith in you, little mouse.”

Mickey couldn’t help but smile a bit.

“Now,” Thrall’s voice growled low, “I have something to show you. Close your eyes.”

The orc chieftain reached out and placed a hand on Mickey’s forehead. The mouse obeyed Thrall’s command, and shut his eyes.

And with a whoosh, the low-lit chamber was gone.

Continued in The Astral Realm.

[Mickey Mouse]

Continued from The Astral Realm.

Thrall’s office rematerialized around the mouse as the pair exited the dreamscape the orc chieftain had brought him to. Within seconds, the endless fields of blue light had been replaced by the low-lit stone walls and wooden furniture of the little chamber. Mickey took a deep breath, readjusting to being in his own body.

Before him, Thrall leaned on the front of his desk, his war-torn eyes gazing down at the mouse with intent. Mickey looked up at the large man, trying to discern what, exactly, lay hidden behind his look.

“If ever you need to contact me,” the orc chieftain droned, “all you must do is enter the Astral Realm. It takes nothing more than a simple thought for one as in tune as you are, little mouse.” For a few seconds after that, the conversation lay dormant as the mouse tried to work up the courage to leave. He knew what he had to do: go to Coruscant, and find out about the mysterious yellow light Thrall had shown him.

A few beats of silence hung over the room before the orc chieftain finally stood up. He crossed over to the bookshelves on the far wall and removed a tiny little chest, maroon in color. The amount of collected dust suggested that it had not been touched in a very long time.

Thrall blew some of the cobwebs off of the little thing and approached the King, kneeling down once more. “Before you are off,” he grumbled, “you should take this.”

He opened the chest, and inside lay a small, orange-colored gem. It held a fiery glow that hypnotized the mouse’s little black pupils. Inside the stone, lights of various warm colors danced amongst each other like spirits moving in the wind. “This little thing,” Thrall began, continuing to monologue at Mickey like he had for the majority of the time the mouse had been in his chambers, “is called the Earthshine.” Mickey reached in and placed a gloved finger on the crystal, feeling the energy pulsing through it. It reminded him vaguely of the magic he had felt from the Master Sword, but… more familiar.

“It contains the spirit of a secondary my people captured,” the orc chieftain explained, “He had a noble heart—like yours’—so I did not let them eat him.” Mickey shivered at the rather grotesque idea of Thrall’s orc populace devouring a poor, unsuspecting secondary. “Perhaps… in a time of need… he can help you.”

Mickey’s fingers closed around the stone and lifted it from the box. He didn’t know what else to say, so he just went with the traditional response. “Thank you, Thrall.” He shoved the little stone in the pocket of his shorts, and smiled up at the orc chieftain. Nothing would separate him from his goal—he wouldn’t disappoint Thrall. He would continue to be noble, and he would find out more about that little yellow light.

But, most importantly, perhaps this was the first step toward going home.

The idea, at this point, had already begun to seem slightly far-fetched. Especially after the conversation he and Samus had amidst Dante’s Abyss—it seemed to the mouse as if no one would be heading home any time soon.

But goshdang it, he would try. And Coruscant was the first step on that journey.

“Well, Thrall my pal, I’m off,” Mickey smiled, holding out one of his gloved hands for the orc to shake. Thrall might have been the most civilized of his people, but even he seemed genuinely surprised when the little mouse wanted to shake his hand. Mickey supposed he rarely got the offer, being so big and scary. Nevertheless, the shaman did not pass it up, and reached out with one of his hands. The giant thing was too big for Mickey’s diminutive little fist, but the mouse was persistent, so he grabbed one of Thrall’s fat fingers and shook it as vigorously as he could manage.

Thrall smiled. “Goodbye, little mouse.”

“See ya!”

To be continued in Coruscant.