Chapter Text
Something’s wrong.
It was not the ruins of the land of forgotten toons. It was not the fact that massive pools of thinner have tainted the previously cheerful atmosphere of Wasteland. It was not the fact that coal-black, puffy clouds swarmed the skies, looking like it was about to spew out a lightning current or two. It was not the fact that the paintbrush-wielder is responsible for this mess; responsible for causing problems for people he didn’t recognize, and in a land that he abandoned for so long after creating that... that monster.
No. It was something else. He... he can feel it. Mickey can feel it. He can feel it within his body and in the confines of his heart. That organ of his pumped violently, and it felt like it was being squeezed by a pair of clawed hands, and that its talons were scrapping against his heart as if wanting to pry it right out of his chest. It hurt. It throbbed. It would make him as stiff as a board, and for the soles of his shoes to be nailing down onto the ground.
Ink dripped upward from his statue of a form, but instead of it being at a slow pace, the ink came off in waves, like the iconic toon was melting. It was like whenever he used thinner, or if he were to make a bad decision. Whenever he used that acidic, green liquid, it gave a sickening sense of satisfaction, like he would gain more of this wrong sense of happiness if he continued to do it. It felt wrong, it felt terrible, and it made him create a solid vow as to only use the thinner whenever it was necessary or if he has nothing but thinner to use.
...But this was different. This was different. It was all different. All of that ink was a result of the mouse absorbing part of the blot, so... so that had to be it. But why? The ink swirling within his chest continued to give an uneasy feeling, and whenever he attempted to clasp a gloved hand onto it, every single motion of his body froze into place. It was like he couldn’t move. It was like he was encased in ice. It was like he didn’t have control of his own body.
A worrying thought clamped onto his brain. How was he supposed to save Wasteland from the blot if he couldn’t move? How was he supposed to use paint now to restore what the Thinner Disaster destroyed? How was he, the one who is destined to defeat the blot, the one who has to fix his mistakes, supposed to save the world now? How was he supposed to do any of that if, by the love of Walt, that he cannot move?
Come here.
Those ridiculously large ears of his perked and those beady eyes of his widened at the voice. A gasp spilled out of his lips, and the fingers gripping onto his brush tightened to the point they were beginning to feel numb. The heart inside of him felt like it was plunged into his throat, and it felt like a lump was sitting in his throat as well. Staggering on his feet for a moment, he hunched himself forward to grab a hold of his right kneecap with his free hand. He twisted his neck as he looked from left to right as if to find the source of that voice he just heard.
There was nothing.
Nothing except for a certain rabbit leaning against the cold material of the statue that is in Mean Street. Both of his arms were crossed, but his fingernails are digging into his skin. His long ears were upward, and a brow of his was raised but in a manner of confusion and perplexity. His face was scrunched in that matter, but it wasn’t like he was concerned for the mouse. Nuh-uh. No way. He just found that little moment to be strange.
“Yannow, stallin’ isn’t gonna make the blot go away faster...” he muttered, tapping one of his feet impatiently. He inched forward, his eyes squinting. “Somethin’ up with you, mouse? You froze there for a minute.”
Maybe it was just the nerves. Maybe the guy didn’t have the guts to take out the blot. Maybe he was just shaking in his shoes, afraid to face the monster that tarnished this land. It could have been any of those things, but Oswald had to admit it, this seemed off. A little too off. And he doesn’t like it. Not one bit.
The falsetto voice of the mouse returned, but it sounded strained as if he was forcing himself to speak. His thin tail was swishing behind him, and its movement made it easy for someone to tell that it meant agitation. He held the paintbrush in both of his hands now and staring at it as if hoping the paint would be there instead of thinner. A crooked smile was carved on his face, and if that wasn’t forced, Oswald doesn’t know what is.
“Nope! Nothing’s wrong! It’s just... mountain jitters, aha!” Even his iconic laugh appeared off. “Let’s go to the top of that mountain and finish this, shall we?” He didn’t waste a single moment to dart towards the projector leading to Mickeyjunk Mountain, leaving the King of Wasteland to be dumbfounded.
A hum rumbled within Oswald’s throat, and he tilted his head to the side as he glanced at the projector. A hand was perched on his hip, and he tapped his foot even more so than before, but instead of impatience, it was out of wonder. It was out of questioning. It was out of suspicion. He was hardly aware that the gremlin that has been helping Mickey out appeared, not until he felt his presence.
“It isn’t just me, isn’t it, Gus?” he asked, now shifting his gaze to the gremlin. “Something’s seriously up with him, and I’m gonna get to the bottom of it.” He emphasized his point by holding his hands together and cracking his knuckles. He looked excited too, but more so excited at finally taking down the blot.
Gus can feel the king’s excitement and curiosity, and he wondered the same about the mouse. Ever since he was dropped into the land of Wasteland, Gus knew that the guy is kind-hearted, and would often use paint to make the blotlings his friends. Paint guardians would constantly twirl around him, and there was hardly any moment that he would use thinner.
But now and then, the mouse would freeze up. His hand would get a hold of the brush, and the tip of the brush would be stained in green. Thinner would launch from the brush and would destroy something so that the mouse would get past. Sometimes, the expression on his face would be something devoid of emotion, like he was doing this automatically. Sometimes, the expression would be one of hesitation, and he would have a look that would say ‘omg what have I done?’ It was something that Gus hoped wouldn’t interfere with the plans he, Oswald, and Mickey have made so that Wasteland can return to its former glory.
But he has a strong feeling that something is going to change, and he doesn’t know what.
“...It’s not just you, Oswald.” He tried to assure the king, placing a hand on the rabbit’s tense shoulder. “But... we should focus on the task at hand. Mickey needs our help, and you need to keep an eye on that jug.”
He flew into the projector, and Oswald was quick to follow.
It was the stench of thinner and garbage that rattled the mouse’s nose, and it motivated him to climb to the top of that mountain. With one peek at that mountain, it was like the summit of the mountain was staring down at him. It was like it was giving him an invitation to walk among his ruined merchandise and memorabilia to reach it. All of those smiling faces that are on his merchandise are looking like they are staring down on him too like they were judging him for any kind of mistake he could make.
You wouldn’t want to make another mistake, wouldn't you?
It would be a shame if you caused another disaster, now wouldn’t it?
Don’t forget you have a job to do. Don’t let Wasteland down.
Don’t let your brother down.
Mickey could have sworn those were just thoughts. That they didn’t come from a voice. A distorted, mangled, unnatural type of voice. No, that would be silly. This was just his worries messing with him. This was all in his head anyway. It was just like he just said before... Mountain jitters! It was all mountain jitters and nothing else! It was just... mountain jitters. Yeah.
He wasn’t aware that now he has walked a good portion of the mountain. He wasn’t aware that these movements were not his. He wasn’t aware that the brush in his hand contained thinner now. He wasn’t aware that his eyes had a flicker of green in them, and it wasn’t until he found himself stumbling on his feet and scrambling, his hands sweating under the intense grip he has on his brush.
A few blue bunnies were hopping around his ankles, their tiny paws are now gripping onto his shoes and ankles. Each of them appeared startled, shaking as if something has truthfully disturbed them. Oddly enough, some of them weren’t willing to toss their uncle into the pool of thinner this time around. Their eyes were pinned onto the melting television that’s only an inch away from them. It was drenched by thinner.
It didn’t take a second for Mickey to conclude that the TV was destroyed because of his hands. That droplets of thinner were coming from his brush. He... he did that. He caused that. He scared the bunny children. But... but how? How can he do that? Why did he do that? He didn’t do that, he knows he didn’t, so... why did it happen?
Why did it happen?
The sound of bare feet slapping against the ground snapped him out of his terrified trance, and he spun on the heel of his foot to see that his brother was glaring at him, and he could see that his face is dusted with a red hue. He held his arms out and allowed the bunny children to leap up in his arms, and held them close to his chest as a protective father would do.
“What... in the world... were you thinkin’!?” he questioned, feeling the trembling children in his hold, “You could have scared my kids half to death with that thing you just pulled! What do you have to say for yourself?”
Gus came a moment later, and he couldn’t believe what he just saw. An angry rabbit and a frightened mouse. The rabbit has steam puffing out of his ears, looking like he was preparing to yank one of his ears off and slap Mickey across the face with it. But Mickey... Mickey was buckling on his legs. He didn’t look like he can stand straight anymore.
Mickey was shaking his head. His eyes were squeezed shut. Beads of sweat were dripping down the sides of his head. His tail swished much more than before. His grip on the brush was slipping due to the sweat, and with every single time he opened one of his eyes, he looked at the brush as if it was a cursed object.
That feeling of destroying something with thinner grew stronger within his bones. It strengthened, and it felt good. It felt good and terrifying and disgusting and wrong. His fingers had the sudden urge to do more, to destroy more, to make a wasteland out of Wasteland, and then there would be nothing to save. But he doesn’t want to do that. He can’t. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to, he doesn’t want to, he doesn’t want -
You’re getting closer to the mountain. You’re almost there.
“I... I...” he stuttered, and he couldn’t mask a positive look this time. He was backed in a corner. No amount of false smiles could assure the two toons. “It... it wasn’t me. Honest!” He held out one of his palms in defense, and the hint of thinner in his eyes was gone. “I didn’t... I didn’t do...”
He flinched at the contact of the gremlin’s hand on one of his shoulders. He concealed his mouth with the hand that was previously held out in defense and used it as a way to prevent himself from hyperventilating. He could have sworn this wasn’t him, that he didn’t do this, that this wasn’t his fault, but the Thinner Disaster was his fault.
He left a trail of suffering behind him and abandoned it all. How could he ever make that up?
Ink was coming off of him the second he collapsed onto his knees. He picked at the buttons that are on his shorts as if hoping that it would serve as some kind of distraction from that voice that keeps entering his head. What is that voice? Why is it making him do things? Why is it doing this to him? What did he do to deserve this?
Oh... right. The Thinner Disaster.
Oswald’s anger instantly vanished at the sight of the fallen mouse. He didn’t know what to expect from this. He didn’t expect any of this to happen. He didn’t know that such a question could rile the famous mouse up, or shake him up enough to be groveling. If he had a heart still, it would be echoing off in his ears.
Gently, he placed the handful of his children down onto the ground, patting each of their heads as to give them one last moment of comfort before they started running off again. He hoped they can find another television to watch Steamboat Willie (even if that short sickened him to watch).
He headed towards his brother and the gremlin whose trying to keep the mouse grounded to reality. He couldn’t help but find himself to be transfixed at the sight before him. Though, at the same time, he couldn’t help but find himself to be angry about it. This is no time to be dwelling in your fear. This is no time to take a rest and dwell on your actions.
The blot needed to be taken care of. Now.
He walked cautiously towards Mickey, plopping down on his knees himself as to take a closer look at the mess in front of him. Ink was dripping so much off of the toon that it was getting to be difficult to see his face, to see the tears that are sliding down his cheeks. It was dripping so much that the mouse could have been mistaken for a blotling, and that only made Oswald’s stomach coil with something fierce.
He laid his palms against Mickey’s own, silently hoping that would be the one thing to get the guy out of this funk. The grip tightened, now keeping a harsh hold on the fingers, but it could be enough to get some sort of reaction from Mickey... wouldn’t it? He strained his ears to listen in on anything, but all he could make out of what Mickey was saying was “it’s not me, it’s not me, it’s not me...”
“Mouse, this is no time to be sniffin’ daises! We got more important things to take care of, remember? We got the blot to take care of! The blot! Remember?” He tried to make his voice sound as urgent as possible, and it may have come out aggressive, but it was enough to get the point across.
No answer came from Mickey.
“This ain’t time for you to give me the silent treatment either! I know I haven’t been the nicest person to you, but this isn’t what’s important right now! What’s important is gettin’ rid of the blot! Do you hear me?”
Still no answer. The rabbit was awarded silence. That didn’t make him feel any better.
“Mouse, you better snap out of it before -”
He never got to finish his sentence. Gloved fingers were wrapped around his throat, startling both him and Gus. The mouse stood up from his downed position and dried up tears stained his pale face, but that wasn’t what startled Oswald. It was the fact that those innocent eyes are now glinting with green, with thinner. A chuckle came from Mickey, but it sounded unnatural. Distorted and unnatural.
“...Mickey isn’t here right now.”
The retro toon soared through the air after he was thrown, landing right on top of the junk that covered the mountain. All of his limbs ached with agony, and he saw how Gus reached out to Mickey in desperation, calling out to him in desperation, as the mouse raced up the mountain. He hardly looked recognizable anymore.
Gus came to Oswald’s aid, lifting him from the junk at a quick, fearful pace. He looked to be quaking, and the mechanic doesn’t blame him one bit. “Os-Oswald, we have to get to him before he goes after the jug! He... he might release the blot!”
Oswald pierced his tongue at that statement, bewildered by such an accusation. He always figured the mouse would be around to screw up with things, but he didn’t take him for somebody who would open the jug. “Why would he do that?”
“Don’t you understand? Mickey has part of the blot inside of him! I didn’t think this would be such an issue, but... the blot is influencing him, and has taken control of him! The blot wants him to open the jug!”
That has gotten Oswald to drop his jaw. No. No, that won’t happen. That cannot happen. After everything he has done to help Wasteland, after everything he has done to help it from the blot’s destruction, he can’t let this happen again. He can’t let anyone else close to him become inert like his honeybunch. He won’t allow it.
He dug in his hammerspace and pulled out his remote. It was now or never.
“Not on my watch.”
It wasn’t that hard to see, but it was hard to believe. The blot that was on the top of the mountain was drowning in thinner, and the mouse was perched on the top of the jug. The swirling mess inside of the jug was the real blot, and it looked eager to see that its pawn has his fingers curling around the cork. It would only take one pull, one small yank, and that beast would be unleashed.
Then, it would be free and Mickey’s heart would be theirs. It would be theirs to keep and to have and to cherish. All it would take is one pull and that would be it. That would be the one thing that the mouse would have to do. It would be perfect, so perfect...
If only the lucky rabbit and the gremlin arrived at the last second. Oswald stomped forward, clenching his remote in his hand and pointing it towards his opponent. He forced himself not to flinch at the venomous green eyes that are staring back at him.
“Mouse, this stops now!” he announced at the top of his lungs, “I dunno what hold the blot has you in, but we’re gonna get you out of it! You aren’t goin’ to open that jug no matter if you like it or not!”
An amused grin formed on Mickey’s face, and he leaned forward with his hands behind his back. His brush still has thinner on it. “Do you realize how close I am to the jug? No matter how fast or lucky you are, you won’t be able to reach me in time. You lost, you poor, unlucky rabbit.”
Oswald gritted his teeth in a snarl. “I haven’t lost yet! Just because you got the mouse in your palm doesn’t mean you have won! I will get him to snap out of it, and he will get rid of ya!”
Another distorted chuckle, just like before, came from Mickey. It was enough of a chuckle to send chills down the toons’ spines. He walked back and forth on the jug, and his grin never wavered. “Do you want to rely on someone that has caused all this trouble in the first place?”
Oswald’s ears drooped at an instant. He blinked a multitude of times. No. He didn’t hear that right. “What are you talkin’ about?” He looked like he was about to press the button on his remote.
Mickey uttered a mock gasp, a hand flying to nearly touching his mouth, and yet, his grin never faded. He looked dramatic with his sudden theatrics, but it wasn’t comforting at all. “Oh, he didn’t tell you? Why, you poor rabbit, there is another reason you can resent the mouse...”
He leaned forward once again, and a part of him demanded this to stop, demanded to be free again and regain control. He locked his eyes with Oswald. “I caused the Thinner Disaster...”
It was like time stopped at that moment. Everything stopped. It was like the summit was frozen in time. And yet, everything that happened next happened so fast. The first thing that occurred was Oswald gripping onto his remote, electricity spitting out of it, his entire face becoming red with fury and anger and newfound resentment.
Mickey ducked from the attack. His hands held onto the cork of the jug. The blot inside of it came closer towards the front of the jug as if it has been waiting years for this to happen. The grin on Mickey’s face looked almost demonic in comparison to Oswald’s rage, and the possessed toon tore the cork from the jug.
The blot is finally free.
A pained scream uttered out of the mouse, and he instinctively reached for his chest, reached for the chest that is aching with the kind of pain that is unbearable. It hurt like he has dipped his entire body in thinner. It hurt as if someone were to place their hand into a vat of lava. It hurt with the intensity that is impossible to describe, and it hurt so badly that Mickey isn’t sure if he is sobbing along with his screaming.
No longer can he hear the comforting noise of his heartbeat. No longer can he feel the warmth of his heart. He was just like any other toon in Wasteland; heartless. He might have control over his body now, but it was at the cost of losing his heart.
He felt a hand grab the back of his head, and he squinted through his tears to find the rabbit holding him in his lap. He can already tell that the rabbit is shaking, shaking as darkness swirled around both of them. The sky was now haunted with the presence of the blot, and, for the first time, Mickey can feel what loss is like.
The loss of his heart. The loss of the battle. He can now understand that this is how his brother must have felt for years. It hurt. It hurt so much and he can find himself weeping again, and Oswald held him close despite learning the truth, as he is now the tether to keep his brother from falling. He has to keep him grounded, or the loss of control would happen again.
He won’t let it happen again.
His grip on Mickey tightened. Despite how hopeless the situation might be, he is going to find some way to solve it. He knows that Mickey can do it despite his dilemma. All it would take is a plan. Hopefully, a plan that would be able to destroy the blot.
He carried his brother in his arms and headed back to safety.
“Don’t worry, Mick. I got you.”