“
HIIIIIIIIIIII-YA!”
Blinding light swirled up from the circular platform as all two feet and three inches of Mickey Mouse burst into the room. He somersaulted off of the platform, rolling with all the grace of a true gymnast down the ramp that bridged the teleporter to the intake desk, dropping into a low kneel as he skidded to a halt. The ties of his bandana drooping just below his big ears, he glanced up at what awaited him inside the all-too-familiar preshow facility; despite having seen it all twice before, the sight nevertheless amazed him.
Huge, marble columns held up the ceiling of the expansive hallway. Just like in past years, several domes split off from the main hall, holding what the guerilla mouse knew were the last droplets of civilization, relaxation, and meditation he’d see before he was dropped off in the arena with all those other nasty fellas, looking to stain the artificial plains with lots and lots of blood.
Grody.
Ahead of him, a pale, ginger boy with a messy bun stared at him, mouth slightly agape and one eyebrow significantly higher than the other. “…Mickey Mouse?” he finally asked after a silence the mouse king found considerable.
“You know it, pal!” he shouted, pumping his fist into the air. Clasped in that gloved hand was a clipboard and form Melissa had shoved into his paws before sending him sweeping off through the cosmos from Kraw to wherever-this-was, and the sight of the paperwork seemed to ignite Kevin’s spirits.
“Ah, well, at least you handled the teleporter better than some of our other contestants,” the redhead nodded. Conceivably, further instructions would’ve been on their way, but Mickey felt the need to interject.
“Yeah, bud,” he squeaked, “I’ve been around this block a few times.”
He leapt off the ground, making a whole bunch of noises as he spun through the air that he thought sounded like
Karate Kid battle cries but instead sounded more like the dying gasps of some poor, pathetic animal. Kevin cringed, watching as the diminutive fighter landed on the intake desk and launched the clipboard through the air like a
ninja star. It spun across the hallway until, at last, it smacked into the neck of a nearby golden statue. Cracks snaked through the sculpture until its head finally slid off its body, crashing into the marble floor around the same time as Mickey’s intake paperwork.
Kevin sighed. “Ooooooookay,” he mumbled. “You can do this, Kevin.”
Mickey watched as the intake intern trudged toward the statue, ignoring the decapitation entirely — par for the course for a crazy death tournament, the mouse supposed — and collecting the scattered paperwork before spinning around with a carefully rehearsed, spotless smile.
“I’m gonna need ya to fill this out, Mr. Mouse,” Kevin instructed, sliding the clipboard across the desk to Mickey’s feet. “Oh, and Karl — uh, Mr. Jak — wanted a message relayed to you when you arrived.”
Mickey’s ears perked up. Karl already trying to talk to him?
“It reads: ‘Mick, the new look sucks big mouse balls.’”
He scowled.
“He’s taken the liberty of having your regular clothes transported here,” Kevin continued, ignoring the disdain on Mickey’s face. “They should be here any second, so if you’d do me the favor of filling out those forms you can change back into them as soon as they arrive!” Kevin shot a bright grin at Mickey, and the former king sighed.
He supposed adventure was still out there, even without cool Rambo clothes.
“Anything else, Kev?” Mickey asked, picking up the paperwork.
“Yes,” Kevin nodded. “Feet off the desk, please, sir. It’s mahogany.”
* * *
Intake paperwork done, keyblade confiscated, and classic duds re-applied, Mick bounded out into the nearest dome, truly enraptured by the sight of trees that
weren’t freakin’ trying to eat him.
The Dante’s Abyss Preshow Facility never disappointed when it came to amenities; a false sense of security, the mouse knew, all too familiar with the real horrors this competition had in store. With that said, though, as he swung from branch to branch, flying this way and that over the park’s artificial streams, the memories from his previous universe seemed hazier and hazier. None of them were truly gone; unfortunately, he knew there were some images he’d just never forget. But long stretches of memory? That was gettin’ tougher. Names? Some remained, but some had just turned into alphabet soup in his ol’ noggin.
“Wahoo!” he shouted, fingers slipping from one branch and launching him into the air again. He soared toward the next tree, aiming to land squarely on one of its many arms, but misjudged the distance ever-so-slightly. His toe caught
underneath the branch instead of atop it, and he fell face first past the branch and toward a raging campfire someone had set below.
“Whoa, there, partner,” a gruff voice sounded. Fingers grasped at the back of Mickey Mouse’s deep black jacket, bunching up the fabric and catching him just before he’d managed to fall right into the flames. The little guy’s hood flew up and over his head, covering his big ears.
Mickey’s eyes widened. Dang. For an adventurer, he’d sure been doing kinda a sour job at adventuring, lately.
“Tryin’ to get yourself killed before the fightin’ even starts, kid?” the adult-sized man said, tossing Mickey gently to the grass.
“Gee, thanks, pal,” Mickey squeaked, reaching up and sliding his hood off his head to look up at the other dude. The mouse’s eyes and the man’s eyes both engorged simultaneously, each stricken by exactly what lay before them.
“You’re a…
talking mouse?!”
“You’re a
real-life cowboy?!”
“And I am Kopaka, Toa of Ice.”