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Clink, clink, clink.
A stray gold doubloon bounced down a meters-high pile of treasures before landing squarely at Viz’s feet. The lizard cyborg’s mechanical implements whizzed and whirred as they knelt down and scooped the little piece of cash into their claw. For a moment, they observed it with great interest before pocketing it as the sounds of coins splashing nearby reached their reptile ears. My fee, they decreed silently.
“Monsssssssieur McDuck,” they called out, to no avail. Another splash of coins rang out throughout Scrooge McDuck’s treasure trove, and Viz’s face contorted into a slight scowl. Their employer certainly did not make this… ssssssimple.
They tucked their tablet underneath one arm and lifted two sharp-nailed fingers to their mouth, sucking in a deep breath before letting out the highest-pitched whistle anyone could’ve ever imagined. No doubt enhanced by their mechanically-improved lung capacity. The tone bounced across the walls of the treasure chamber and within seconds, a swimsuit-clad Scrooge McDuck burst out of a pile of gold, hugging a particularly shiny statue of some tennis player.
“What, Viz?!” Scrooge bellowed, pushing himself completely out of the sea of money he’d made a habit of swimming in. As his webbed feet clambered out of the hole, he plopped down on a nearby stack of money, countenance betraying his intense consternation over his morning laps being so rudely interrupted.
“Ssssssssssssssir,” Viz hissed, whipping out the tablet again and tapping it a few times in rapid succession, “the mousssssssssse… isssssss here.”
Scrooge perked up, sliding his glasses to the end of his nose and leaning forward to see the screen Viz flashed at him. Indeed, he watched intently as the Mickey Mouse popped out of a teleporter in an establishment that, judging by the brightly-colored, incessantly mural’d walls, no doubt belonged to a Nos’talgia spaceport. His beak curled into a grin that could only be described as sinister.
“Bring ‘im ‘ere,” the duck said in his thick, Scottish accent. “I’ve got bus’ness to discuss with ‘im. And don’t interrupt me swim again till you’ve found him, Viz.”
“Yessssss, ssssssir,” the robotic reptilian nodded as Scrooge dove back into the treasures.
Come to usssssssss, Mickey Mousssssssse.
***
“Listen, fellas, I don’t want any trouble.”
Unfortunately, as it turned out, trouble had already found Mickey Mouse. A solid five minutes had passed -- maybe -- since he’d whipped out of the teleporter inside the Nos’talgia spaceport before some weirdly-shaped goons had jumped him and cornered him inside an alleyway.
These dudes were pretty big, at least to Mickey. They stood about as tall as he did, just huge, vaguely cone-shaped brown blobs with eyes and sharp canines poking out of their perpetually-scowling mouths. They didn’t have arms (a sensation Mickey himself was all too familiar with, now) but plodded around on stubby little feet attached to what seemed to be a… single leg? The mouse king watched as their bodies all were surrounded by blinking red lines as the confrontation grew progressively more hostile.
“Yous is that guy from tha tee-vee,” the thug at the front scoffed in an accent Mickey pinpointed as Bostonian, despite not really knowing what a ‘Boston’ was, “Mowse.”
“Hoho, yup,” the little hero squeaked, his back literally against the wall, “that’s me! Good ol’ Mickey Mouse.”
Another one of the gang, near the back of the clump, called out in a much higher-pitched, but similarly-accented, voice. “He’s prob’ly got a lotta dough, boss!”
The Boss squinted his eyes. “You gotta lotta dough, Mick?”
“Dough?” Mickey quirked his brow. “Like… for baking?”
“No, not fah bakin’!” the Boss shouted, flailing a little in frustration. Mickey imagined that if he’d had arms, they’d have been throw dramatically up in the air. “Dough like money, mowse. Cash. Coin. You geddit.”
“Ohhhhhh,” Mickey nodded. “Yeah, fella, I get it. You’re tryin’ to rob little ol’ me?”
“That’s the idea,” another one of the thugs piped in.
Mickey clicked his tongue worriedly. “That’s not a very good idea, pal.”
The Boss harrumphed a little bit, his two-feet-but-one-leg (a weird appendage, even to a giant, talking mouse) bouncing ever-so-slightly off the concrete. “Notta good idea, psh,” he rolled his eyes. “Yous clearly don’t know who yous is messin’ with, rat.”
Mickey’s nostrils flared. Nobody was allowed to call him that.
“Actually,” he held a gloved hand out to his side, “‘yous’ don’t know who you’re messin’ with, ya bunch of goombas.”
“Boss, how did he know we’re Goombas?!”
“HI-YA!”
Before the Boss could react, he’d been smacked by the full force of the Star Seeker, freshly materialized in Mickey Mouse’s fingers. The lead Goomba sailed into the nearby wall, crashing with a splat into the unusually-vibrant crimson brick. The eyes of the others in his gang went wide, and Mickey’s mousey mouth curled into a cocky smirk. These guys had really thought they were gonna mug the mouse that’d scored seventh place in an insane, highly televised death tournament? He chuckled. He’d give ‘em something: they had chutzpah.
Another Goomba lurched forward, launching a headbutt toward Mickey. The mouse swerved out of the way, plopping him in the back of the… well, ‘head’ with his Keyblade and sending him careening towards the floor just as another decided to try his luck. The second assailant managed to clip Mickey in the shoulder, sending him stumbling back into one of the walls of the alleyway.
A coalition of the strangely-anatomied creatures converged on him. They had him surrounded, to be sure, and to the untrained eye, there was no easy way out of this little pickle. But Mickey had a couple of new tricks up his sleeve.
He moved the Keyblade directly in front of his face, wrapping both hands around the hilt before pulling hard. Against all sense, the weapon glowed a bright white light and split apart, its molecules literally reforming and collecting around Mickey’s hands, wrists, and forearms until finally they settled into their new form: two blue-and-silver metallic gauntlets, with actual claws on the end.
The Goombas blinked as Mickey turned and sunk one of the claws into the wall behind him and began to clamber up.
“Hey, he’s gettin’ away!” the high-pitched one from earlier shouted.
“Not a chance, fella!” Mickey assured his attackers, placing a boot against the wall and launching himself into a backflip. He tumbled through the air, closing the distance between him and the group, and then one, two, three, four, five, six swipes later, the entire contingency of Goombas fell backwards onto their backs, fully knocked out by the speed and force of Mickey’s Agile Claws.
The Boss lumbered out of the wall he’d crashed into and Mickey could see the fury starting to rise on his face.
“Toldja that wasn’t a good idea, bud,” Mickey shrugged, lifting up one of his claws and blowing some brick dust off it.
The Head-Goomba-In-Charge scowled deeper. “BOYS! WE NEEDJA!”
Mickey’s brow furrowed as the plip-plop sounds of more of these thugs’ disconcerting neck-feet reached his ears. He looked up, and saw a whole bunch of the dudes lining up on the roofs of the buildings surrounding them. They all let out an exceedingly weird battle cry and began to launch themselves off the building, soaring down toward Mickey until he found himself altogether overwhelmed by their sheer numbers.
Within seconds, he felt like he was drowning beneath them. Goomba after Goomba joined the pile, filling the alleyway to the brim and burying Mickey Mouse beneath the sheer volume of their veritable army. He let out some Mickey curses -- an ‘oh gosh’ here, a ‘gee whiz’ there -- as long as he could before even the sounds of his own voice got muffled up beneath the pile of Goomba gangbangers. As he was suffocated into silence, he wracked his brain for a plan. Certainly one of the tools in his toolbox could subdue this deluge of misshapen hoodlums…
He blinked as he heard a new voice shouting from outside the mountain of Goombas. A bright, white light began to seep through the cracks between the little bullies before, finally, the entire pile exploded outwards. Goombas went flying, this way and that, smashing into the walls of the alleyway and knocking the dudes out cold.
Mickey himself flew backwards into the furthest wall, slamming against the crimson wall and sliding to a seat on the ground. He let his eyes slowly flicker open, and at the end of the alleyway, he saw a blurry, pink-ish red figure lower what looked to be a sizable blaster cannon attached to its arm. The entity reached up and adjusted its sunglasses, and as the mouse’s vision began to return to him, he caught the silhouette of a yellow scarf flapping in the Nos’talgia wind.
Holy. Heck.
A stray gold doubloon bounced down a meters-high pile of treasures before landing squarely at Viz’s feet. The lizard cyborg’s mechanical implements whizzed and whirred as they knelt down and scooped the little piece of cash into their claw. For a moment, they observed it with great interest before pocketing it as the sounds of coins splashing nearby reached their reptile ears. My fee, they decreed silently.
“Monsssssssieur McDuck,” they called out, to no avail. Another splash of coins rang out throughout Scrooge McDuck’s treasure trove, and Viz’s face contorted into a slight scowl. Their employer certainly did not make this… ssssssimple.
They tucked their tablet underneath one arm and lifted two sharp-nailed fingers to their mouth, sucking in a deep breath before letting out the highest-pitched whistle anyone could’ve ever imagined. No doubt enhanced by their mechanically-improved lung capacity. The tone bounced across the walls of the treasure chamber and within seconds, a swimsuit-clad Scrooge McDuck burst out of a pile of gold, hugging a particularly shiny statue of some tennis player.
“What, Viz?!” Scrooge bellowed, pushing himself completely out of the sea of money he’d made a habit of swimming in. As his webbed feet clambered out of the hole, he plopped down on a nearby stack of money, countenance betraying his intense consternation over his morning laps being so rudely interrupted.
“Ssssssssssssssir,” Viz hissed, whipping out the tablet again and tapping it a few times in rapid succession, “the mousssssssssse… isssssss here.”
Scrooge perked up, sliding his glasses to the end of his nose and leaning forward to see the screen Viz flashed at him. Indeed, he watched intently as the Mickey Mouse popped out of a teleporter in an establishment that, judging by the brightly-colored, incessantly mural’d walls, no doubt belonged to a Nos’talgia spaceport. His beak curled into a grin that could only be described as sinister.
“Bring ‘im ‘ere,” the duck said in his thick, Scottish accent. “I’ve got bus’ness to discuss with ‘im. And don’t interrupt me swim again till you’ve found him, Viz.”
“Yessssss, ssssssir,” the robotic reptilian nodded as Scrooge dove back into the treasures.
Come to usssssssss, Mickey Mousssssssse.
***
“Listen, fellas, I don’t want any trouble.”
Unfortunately, as it turned out, trouble had already found Mickey Mouse. A solid five minutes had passed -- maybe -- since he’d whipped out of the teleporter inside the Nos’talgia spaceport before some weirdly-shaped goons had jumped him and cornered him inside an alleyway.
These dudes were pretty big, at least to Mickey. They stood about as tall as he did, just huge, vaguely cone-shaped brown blobs with eyes and sharp canines poking out of their perpetually-scowling mouths. They didn’t have arms (a sensation Mickey himself was all too familiar with, now) but plodded around on stubby little feet attached to what seemed to be a… single leg? The mouse king watched as their bodies all were surrounded by blinking red lines as the confrontation grew progressively more hostile.
“Yous is that guy from tha tee-vee,” the thug at the front scoffed in an accent Mickey pinpointed as Bostonian, despite not really knowing what a ‘Boston’ was, “Mowse.”
“Hoho, yup,” the little hero squeaked, his back literally against the wall, “that’s me! Good ol’ Mickey Mouse.”
Another one of the gang, near the back of the clump, called out in a much higher-pitched, but similarly-accented, voice. “He’s prob’ly got a lotta dough, boss!”
The Boss squinted his eyes. “You gotta lotta dough, Mick?”
“Dough?” Mickey quirked his brow. “Like… for baking?”
“No, not fah bakin’!” the Boss shouted, flailing a little in frustration. Mickey imagined that if he’d had arms, they’d have been throw dramatically up in the air. “Dough like money, mowse. Cash. Coin. You geddit.”
“Ohhhhhh,” Mickey nodded. “Yeah, fella, I get it. You’re tryin’ to rob little ol’ me?”
“That’s the idea,” another one of the thugs piped in.
Mickey clicked his tongue worriedly. “That’s not a very good idea, pal.”
The Boss harrumphed a little bit, his two-feet-but-one-leg (a weird appendage, even to a giant, talking mouse) bouncing ever-so-slightly off the concrete. “Notta good idea, psh,” he rolled his eyes. “Yous clearly don’t know who yous is messin’ with, rat.”
Mickey’s nostrils flared. Nobody was allowed to call him that.
“Actually,” he held a gloved hand out to his side, “‘yous’ don’t know who you’re messin’ with, ya bunch of goombas.”
“Boss, how did he know we’re Goombas?!”
“HI-YA!”
Before the Boss could react, he’d been smacked by the full force of the Star Seeker, freshly materialized in Mickey Mouse’s fingers. The lead Goomba sailed into the nearby wall, crashing with a splat into the unusually-vibrant crimson brick. The eyes of the others in his gang went wide, and Mickey’s mousey mouth curled into a cocky smirk. These guys had really thought they were gonna mug the mouse that’d scored seventh place in an insane, highly televised death tournament? He chuckled. He’d give ‘em something: they had chutzpah.
Another Goomba lurched forward, launching a headbutt toward Mickey. The mouse swerved out of the way, plopping him in the back of the… well, ‘head’ with his Keyblade and sending him careening towards the floor just as another decided to try his luck. The second assailant managed to clip Mickey in the shoulder, sending him stumbling back into one of the walls of the alleyway.
A coalition of the strangely-anatomied creatures converged on him. They had him surrounded, to be sure, and to the untrained eye, there was no easy way out of this little pickle. But Mickey had a couple of new tricks up his sleeve.
He moved the Keyblade directly in front of his face, wrapping both hands around the hilt before pulling hard. Against all sense, the weapon glowed a bright white light and split apart, its molecules literally reforming and collecting around Mickey’s hands, wrists, and forearms until finally they settled into their new form: two blue-and-silver metallic gauntlets, with actual claws on the end.
The Goombas blinked as Mickey turned and sunk one of the claws into the wall behind him and began to clamber up.
“Hey, he’s gettin’ away!” the high-pitched one from earlier shouted.
“Not a chance, fella!” Mickey assured his attackers, placing a boot against the wall and launching himself into a backflip. He tumbled through the air, closing the distance between him and the group, and then one, two, three, four, five, six swipes later, the entire contingency of Goombas fell backwards onto their backs, fully knocked out by the speed and force of Mickey’s Agile Claws.
The Boss lumbered out of the wall he’d crashed into and Mickey could see the fury starting to rise on his face.
“Toldja that wasn’t a good idea, bud,” Mickey shrugged, lifting up one of his claws and blowing some brick dust off it.
The Head-Goomba-In-Charge scowled deeper. “BOYS! WE NEEDJA!”
Mickey’s brow furrowed as the plip-plop sounds of more of these thugs’ disconcerting neck-feet reached his ears. He looked up, and saw a whole bunch of the dudes lining up on the roofs of the buildings surrounding them. They all let out an exceedingly weird battle cry and began to launch themselves off the building, soaring down toward Mickey until he found himself altogether overwhelmed by their sheer numbers.
Within seconds, he felt like he was drowning beneath them. Goomba after Goomba joined the pile, filling the alleyway to the brim and burying Mickey Mouse beneath the sheer volume of their veritable army. He let out some Mickey curses -- an ‘oh gosh’ here, a ‘gee whiz’ there -- as long as he could before even the sounds of his own voice got muffled up beneath the pile of Goomba gangbangers. As he was suffocated into silence, he wracked his brain for a plan. Certainly one of the tools in his toolbox could subdue this deluge of misshapen hoodlums…
He blinked as he heard a new voice shouting from outside the mountain of Goombas. A bright, white light began to seep through the cracks between the little bullies before, finally, the entire pile exploded outwards. Goombas went flying, this way and that, smashing into the walls of the alleyway and knocking the dudes out cold.
Mickey himself flew backwards into the furthest wall, slamming against the crimson wall and sliding to a seat on the ground. He let his eyes slowly flicker open, and at the end of the alleyway, he saw a blurry, pink-ish red figure lower what looked to be a sizable blaster cannon attached to its arm. The entity reached up and adjusted its sunglasses, and as the mouse’s vision began to return to him, he caught the silhouette of a yellow scarf flapping in the Nos’talgia wind.
Holy. Heck.