Chapter Text
Such an odd fellow, that Mickey Mouse.
It had been at least a few days since he fell out of the sky, landing smack dab in the center of Dark Beauty Castle.
One would think the biggest star on the planet would make himself known the moment he dropped into a place like this… but Mickey Mouse, odd as he was, had slithered his way between the cracks of their tiny little home without so much as a citywide celebration.
Oswald sat quietly in his metaphorical throne, his eyes following the little mouse’s journey across the many screens covering his wall, watching as Mickey hiked up the mountain, hopping across sliding platforms and contraptions… He was a scrappy fella— Oswald didn’t need to monitor him.
And so, Oswald spun around in his chair, folding his arms behind his head and looking up at the dark, dusty ceiling high above his lair. When Mickey got here to brag about his success, maybe Oswald could spin around in his chair all slow-like… oh, what a sight that would be.
And what would Oswald even say to him? He’s had decades and decades to think about it, but now that the moment is actually here, he finds himself at a loss.
That entitled brat of a toon thinks he’s so big with all of those movies under his belt… with all of his fans and merchandise and success and money. Maybe Oswald could sit him down and tell him exactly how hard it is on real actors— people who had to work for their place in the world instead of riding off the backs of others.
It doesn’t help that the mouse looks identical to Oswald in the face. Maybe “get a facelift” would be a good opener to this conversation.
Wait.
Oswald stopped. His ears twitched.
Oswald silently turned in place, his eyes landing on two figures just below the staircase leading up to his lair. One, a tiny floating gremlin with a bushy white mustache. The other… a mouse with ears bigger than his head. Oswald held his breath to get a better read of their conversation.
He heard Mickey say, (something something), “I get that he resents me, but—“
“Gosh, ya think!?” The words left Oswald’s mouth quicker than his brain could process them, and— dang it, they were looking up at him— what should he say now? (Improvise, Oswald!)
“I’m Oswald.” Oswald made his way down the stairs as he spoke, approaching his new visitors— and there was Mickey. Quiet, unfocused. So annoyingly nonchalant. Oswald continued speaking. “I run the Cartoon Wasteland. Or, I used to. Before that, I used to be popular— a star!”
Oswald punctuated his words with a finger directly to the mouse’s chest. It was important Mickey know his place before they got into details. “Until YOU stole my popularity, mouse!”
He then walked over to the glass treasure box near the wall, fiddling with the lock, looking for something to do with his hands to keep himself focused. “Your name ‘n likeness are all over this junk. For years, I’ve looked at this mountain of your stuff—“ Off came the lock. “Wonderin’ why YOU got all the success I deserved. For a long time, I tried to—“
Oswald was rambling now, and it was quite difficult to make him stop once he got going. He took out a bottle of diluted Thinner, dabbing it onto his detached tail and cleaning his belongings absentmindedly. He scrubbed down the doll inside the case and the little pillow it sat on—
Accidentally slamming the case too hard, causing the bottle to fall and clatter onto the tile with a shrill clank, spilling green liquid everywhere.
Oswald was quick to clean it, jumping at the puddle and soaking it up with his tail. “Clumsy rabbit, let me just clean this up…”
Gosh, look at the mess. (Slow down, Oswald!)
He stopped to take a breath.
Now that he was done talking, Oswald could notice many strikingly odd little details that painted a very different picture of Mickey than what he was imagining. The guy was hunched over, brush in his hand like an iron grip, ink dripping down his face and nearly covering his face. His white muzzle was a pale, sickly beige. And clothes were tattered and smeared like he had just walked out of a fight.
And the little gremlin beside him— oh, he knew the name…
Gus, was it? He seemed acutely concerned with the mouse, who said nothing, and did nothing.
Suddenly the air felt a bit thicker. Did he step into some sort of squabble?
Oh, Oswald could feel his train of thought slipping. He needed to cut to the chase before an argument broke out.
“What are you doin’ down here, anyway, mouse? You already have what you need— a Heart.”
Mickey didn’t say anything; he was incredibly still, and dead silent. Gus moved a hand to the mouse’s shoulder, gently trying to get his attention. No response from the guy.
Suddenly, Oswald snapped two fingers in front of Mickey’s face. “Hey, bud!” He sneered, almost getting in the other’s face. “It’s not nice to ignore a fella when he’s talkin’ to ya!”
Mickey was quiet for another moment.
Then, the mouse raised a hand— his movements slow, calculated, his arm raising and bending mechanically, like the arm of a crane machine. “So you… kidnapped me,” he spoke in a raspy murmur, drawing out each word. “To steal my heart.”
What—?? Nonono. Oswald was not a cheater; he’d get his heart fair and square. He was quick to rebuke that. “Not me! The Mad Doctor ‘n the Blot kidnapped you!” He threw his hands up to emphasize his point. “I don’t even want you here! I wish you’d just get out!”
Then, Oswald stopped. A great idea struck him like a bolt of lightning. “In fact… you can! You still have your Heart, mouse!”
Oh yes, this would work perfectly. Oswald scurried off, forcefully setting the Thinner bottle onto the table with a hollow clank. “Tomorrow City has the Moonliner Rocket, and we can fly it out of—…”
Oswald’s voice trailed. Before he could even finish his sentence, the mouse had already taken off, making a rather automatic beeline for the exit. (Such an odd way he walked, too— slow, and mechanical, like a robot. What did people see in this guy?) Oswald narrowed his eyes onto the sight.
Nonetheless, it seemed Mickey was eager to leave this place as much as Oswald wanted him to leave. This would be smooth as butter.
“Er— Oswald?”
Oswald jumped. He didn’t immediately recognize Gus’ voice, but his features softened when he looked over at the gremlin hovering beside him. “Oh— uh, yeah?” Oswald asked, dropping his voice to a noticeably gentler tone, then added, “Sorry you had to see that… outta me. Not a good look.” (He brushed it off with a chuckle, but he was still a bit peeved by the whole situation— the nerve of that mouse.)
“Oh, that’s quite alright, dear boy.” Gus said, although his somewhat timid tone signaled otherwise. “I doubt you bothered him in the slightest.”
Hm. Oswald scrunched his nose.
Before he could speak, though, Gus continued. “But I really do feel the need to bring up—… er…” He kept his voice at a leveled murmur, as if he were afraid the mouse would overhear. “… well, I think perhaps you and Mickey got off on the wrong foot.”
Oswald snickered flatly at that.
“Mickey is a very—…” Gus gestured with his hands as he spoke, as if he’d pull the word he was looking for out of the air. “He is a very… cautious boy. Very… very cautious.”
“Yeah, I noticed,” said Oswald in return. “Though— ‘cautious’ isn’t the word I’d use here. Maybe more like… rude. Bratty. Entitled.
“It isn’t because of you, lad.” Gus was quick to reassure him. And he seemed almost nervous, rubbing his hands together as he spoke. “Goodness, no. This boy, Mickey— well, I’m not sure exactly what’s going on with him, quite frankly. But there is something going on. I haven’t been able to—“ He paused, testing the words on his tongue before continuing. “It’s difficult to… get through to him. You heard what happened to the Clock Tower, didn’t you?”
Oswald opened his mouth to respond, then snapped his teeth shut. The Clock Tower? From Gremlin Village? “I, uh…” the rabbit stammered, not wanting to admit that he’s kept a very flimsy tab on the goings-on of the Wasteland. “Course I… heard what happened.”
“Then you’ll understand what I’m talking about.”
Then, Gus zipped downstairs and hovered back to the mouse’s side like an anxious child. And when Oswald peered over the edge of the balcony, and his eyes fell upon Mickey, he saw something… peculiar.
That mouse, odd as he was, was now rummaging through the barrels, lifting the potted plants and tearing the banners off the wall— only seeming satisfied when little globs of Thinner spilled out, splattering onto the tiles below.
Then, that mouse got on his knees, dipping his brush into the puddles of Thinner, soaking up every last bit of it he could find.
Oswald made a sound of exasperation as he watched this play out. Then, he leaned over the railing and called out below,
“Hey!! Guards!! Get this guy outta here!!”
It only took a few moments for the playing cards to gather, pointing their weapons at Mickey, guiding him towards the exit in an organized march. Oswald grumbled to himself, his eyes following the little vandal as he was escorted out.
There was a heavy slam echoing from the big metal doors at the end of the hall. Then, there was silence.
Oswald sighed and peered down at the mess below.
That mouse sure likes that Thinner, doesn’t he?