Almost forty-two hours ago, Mickey Mouse had stumbled upon Gilgamesh, his arch-rival, in the middle of an arid, canyon-filled desert. Back then, the gilded monarch wasted no time subduing him and threatening to kill him. It was a dance they’d danced for quite some time, now, tangoing through threats and waltzing through war. They’d been at each other’s throats for what felt like forever. So sitting in a cave roasting vegetables with the King of Heroes, nary a thought of combat on their mind, struck Mickey as quite surreal.
“Explain to me again how you conjured these zucchini,” Gilgamesh demanded, although the commanding persona had softened a bit since he’d last been doling out orders to his mouse partner. He stared quizzically at the roasted fruit impaled on a stick in front of him before his eyes flickered up to the mouse.
“Um,” Mickey stammered while chewing a zucchini of his own, “kinda hard to explain, pal. Simplest way I can put it is… magic?”
Gilgamesh furrowed his brow. This answer was not satisfactory. He didn’t have to say that aloud for the mouse to feel his dissatisfaction wafting across their campfire.
“So it’s like,” Mickey hurriedly continued, “I apprenticed with this wizard one time, and he taught me how to tap into the life force of other living things. So I can touch the ground, and basically… uh… grow fruit out of it.”
He stared at his ally for a moment. Gilgamesh scoffed. “I didn’t realize you were a magus, mouse,” he hissed venomously, leaning back and lifting the zucchini to his mouth to take a long, slow bite. He savored it, and wore a curious expression the whole time, as if every chew was an inspection of the magic fruit’s quality. Had the mouse magicked a satisfactory meal for them? Three MREs remained between the pair, but they hadn’t eaten since the first morning, so Mickey had offered to try this infrequently-used spell. He’d thought it gone well, but…
The bald king locked eyes with him. His distrust of the mouse’s magic flared in his eyes, but the way he licked his lips betrayed his feelings. “Fine. It’s… good, I suppose. Fucking magic fruit.”
Mickey let out a sigh of relief, mentally reminding himself to scold Gilgamesh later for the language. The gilded monarch sat for a moment, inspecting his ally through the whipping flames; something seemed to be on the tip of his tongue, but he hesitated to speak further.
“How can I learn this magic? Where you tap into the life force of plants and mongrels?” Gilgamesh asked, and if Mickey could have gone pale, he might have. He’d never actually, uh… tried to teach magic before. Especially not this, which was arguably the most super special magic anyone in the entire multiverse had access to.
“Weeeeeeeell, it’s complicated, pal,” he shrugged. “Things aren’t just gonna let you mess around with their life force, right? So you have to be, like… a really good person to make the deal.”
Gilgamesh’s expression remained unchanged. “So how do I do it?”
Mickey sighed. The point hadn’t landed.
“No, it’s like,” he started hesitantly, “you have to be a really good person. Like, really, really good.”
“I am the King of Heroes,” Gilgamesh scowled, leaning forward.
“Yeah, but—”
“But what, rodent?!”
Mickey’s face scrunched up angrily. “That’s what I’m talking about, Gil!” he almost shouted across the fire, “I asked you — nicely — not to call me that and there you go doing it again. That’s not something a good person would do, fella!” He huffed and turned his whole body away from Gilgamesh, crossing his arms and biting down into his zucchini again. He chewed. Furiously.
For several moments — and what felt like much longer — the pair sat in silence in the cave. Mickey knew his choices of allies in this game were limited, but did he really have to end up with Gilgamesh? There was no hope. They’d been lucky for a while, but the proof was not completely in the pudding: Mickey suspected he’d been wrong about the quality of Gilgamesh’s heart, but they certainly were not destined to get along for long stretches of time, and besides that, he’d somehow managed to wrestle control back from the malefactor. Mickey didn’t know if that portended good inside of him or an evil deeper evil than the orgosynth itself; he didn’t really want to find out.
The silence hung over the tense cavern until at last, Gilgamesh broke it. “I’m listening, mouse.”
Mickey glanced over his shoulder. “To what?”
“Aren’t you going to regale your king with lessons on how to be a better person?”
Mickey turned further back toward Gilgamesh. The young man had crossed his own arms and leaned fully against the cavern wall. “I’m waiting,” he said.
“Uh,” Mickey scrambled, “uh, okay. Well first things first, you’ve gotta care about people.” Gilgamesh opened his mouth to protest, but Mickey continued: “More than just how they can serve their king, bud.”
“Do not assume you know me just because I have allowed you my friendship, mouse,” the king waved a hand. “I care about my people more than you could possibly imagine.”
Mickey almost snapped back that hey, he was a king, too, but he thought better of it. “Okay, then, let’s start from there. Tell me about the New Babylonians. What d’you like about the little fellas?”
Gilgamesh barely moved, but as he launched into his tirade, Mickey Mouse could see the King of Heroes swell with pride. Did he still call them mongrels and curs as he monologued? Well, yes — but somewhere inside Gilgamesh was a young man who desperately wanted to do right by his people, who strived to care for them and provide for them and be the king they’d always dreamed of having.
Mickey’s thoughts drifted idly to the time he and Blues had spent in Nippur, trying to help them rebuild.
Those people had sung ballads about Gilgamesh’s glory.
He didn’t know if either of them would win this scary death tournament, but this felt like victory.
