The Proto Mouse didn’t sleep the night before the competition. Of course, they didn’t need to catch any zzz’s — an adjustment the Mickey section of their brain was still getting used to — but even if they could, they didn’t think they’d be able to. Being an android didn’t protect them from the ever-present curse of the pre-murder island jitters. And boy howdy, they were nervous, y’all!
Their goal was clear: win this dang thing. It was the easiest way to score a little meet-and-greet with Karl Jak so they could read that dude his rights. They could see it now: posted up in his office, hands on their hips cowboy-style, glaring at him and tellin’ him his days of evil-doing were, finally, freakin’ finished.
Of course, winning meant playing, and that was something the Mickey part had never even really considered doing. The mouse king had always ended up in this shindig through one cockamamie scheme or another, always trying to accomplish something, but that something had never been winning. It had never been engaging with Karl Jak’s game. See, the Proto Mouse liked games as much as the next guy, but — in case this had not been made abundantly clear — Dante’s Abyss had never really been their speed. They were more of a Scrabble mouse, even if they kinda stunk at spelling.
Now, though, they were here, frickin’ committed to the bit, and tryin’ to win. It was a whole different ball game. Like, as different as baseball and the one with the little nets.
…was it basketball? Why’d people call it basketball if it was little nets and not baskets?
As the clock struck midnight, the Proto Mouse’s collar began to beep and buzz a bit, the little lights beginning to pop on and off in succession, signaling that it was nearly time to begin. The mousebot closed their eyes, and snuggled up, turning onto their side and curling up into the fetal position. They scrunched their head as much into their pillow as they could, desperately trying to get comfy before —
Poof!
It was almost like a… how could they describe it?
A woosh-swoop-bam, maybe?
Then: the sound of birds.
The soft glow of moonlight behind their eyelids.
The smell of freshly trimmed grass.
That brought a silly little smile to the cyborg’s face. Try as he might to portray this as a chaotic, wild murder island, every portion of Karl Jak’s playplace was intricately designed. The purple-suited man left not a stone untouched when he was creating this island, selecting every detail to make sure it accomplished its job to perfection.
The idea of being back here, for (sorta) a fourth time, really made the Proto Mouse sick to their stomach, almost as much as teleportin’ did. This island had brought Mickey Mouse — well, honestly, both parts of them, albeit indirectly — so much suffering. Any other day, they mighta been content to just remain lying in the gently rustlin’ grass, lettin’ it tickle their little robot toesies. They’d just lay peacefully and wait for someone to come along and put them out of their misery so they didn’t have to figure out how to be here, how to do this shiznit.
But today wasn’t any other day. Today was the day they set in motion their plan to stop this madness. So they opened their eyes, and sat the heck up.
Above them, the deep blue of the night sky stretched as far as the Proto Mouse’s ocular sensors could see. They shook their head, trying to get their faculties about them. Teleportation was, honestly, a little easier on the android body than it had ever been on the mousey one, but with bits and pieces of organic flesh still scattered about, the side effects had not been completely negated. The robomouse gagged a bit; they hated even thinking the word ‘flesh,’ let alone thinkin’ about the thing itself.
Aching for a distraction, they glanced over to their left, trying to make sure nobody was already trying to sneak up on ‘em. Woo, boy, what they saw instead, though, pal… well, it left ‘em quite stunned, you might say.
The sea.
They stood up, mouth slightly agape. It wasn’t like they’d never seen the ocean before — heck, part of ‘em had just retired from piracy on a planet made entirely of ocean — but dang, Karl had really put in the work this year. They way the moonlight, high up in the sky at this midnight-ish hour, reflected off the waves looked truly, really real, and combined with the salty smell finally wafting over to join the scent of the grass, well… things were actually starting out rather beautiful, in this first, like, thirty seconds on the murder island. The Proto Mouse stood at the edge of a small bluff, hands on their hips, and for maybe the first time ever in the history of Dante’s Abyss, they had to admit: they were impressed.
Okay, Karl, the mousebot thought, I’ll give ya this one. The Proto Mouse looked around; this was, likely, the same island they’d been on before — or that Mickey had — but the slight improvements to its presentation were hard to deny. They supposed Karl had decided to go all-out this season. Appropriate, since he’d be rottin’ in prison shortly after it was done.
They glanced back over their shoulder. About thirty or so meters behind them, their bag of supplies lay rather conspicuously in the middle of a really regular-lookin’ street — regular-lookin’, that is, compared to the gorge ocean, anyway. The cyborg strode over, paying no mind to the noise they were making since they figured it’d be a few hours at least before any of the other contestants even had a chance at finding them. They knelt next to the bag and unzipped it, warily looking inside.
“Ugh,” they scowled, “yuck.”
They’d deliberately avoided looking in the thing in the barracks because somehow, they knew whatever dastardly contraption or weirdo treasure Karl was gonna bestow upon them was gonna just tick them off. Undoubtedly it was gonna be either somethin’ gross and vile or something despicably violent that was going to make them confront the harsh realities of the game all the sooner.
Well… it was good to know their instincts were still right on target. Ya can take the mouse out of the murder island, but ya can’t take the murder island out of the mouse, it seemed. “Goshdangit, Karl,” they muttered, and zipped the bag back up with a whiny little huff.
They slung it over their shoulder. It was nearly as big as them, so it drug on the ground a bit as they started to walk down the road. It was heavy; the mousebot considered tossing the MREs inside — since they didn’t need to eat, anyway — but figured it’d be better to keep ‘em, just in case they stumbled on someone that was starving.
Down the road they went, then. It wasn’t a great plan; they were pretty out in the open, all things considered. But it was the only plan they had for right now. They hadn’t yet built up the nerve to start to scheme and plan things, to play the game. They knew it was gonna come — well, they knew they’d have to, if they were gonna win the whole shebang — but something in them told them to hold on to their disdain for this whole scenario as long as they could. Dante’s Abyss claimed even the goodest of good guys in its toughest moments, so why not hold out just a bit longer before allowing themself to fall into its clutches? They were the greatest hero in the Crossroads, after all, and what better way to prove it than to hold on to that heroism as long as they could muster!
The loudspeakers hidden throughout the island began to buzz and gurgle, followed shortly by Karl Jak’s voice booming over them to give the obligatory intro. The Proto Mouse reached up and turned down the volume receptors in their ears, and after a quick spin of the dial, all the sounds of the island — the host’s grating vocal stylings included — disappeared. Ah, they thought, much better.
Silence is golden, after all!
