Catastrophe - Part 4 mcfanfics

The further Mitchell rushed down the stairs, the louder the splashes and yells from the basement grew. His mind raced. Was someone hurt? Being attacked? What if he got there too late?

Heart pounding, he leapt down the last few steps, flung open the heavy basement door--and stared.

The entire room was swamped in waist-high water. Soggy cardboard and scorched plastic bobbed about on its surface. And, in the middle of it all, Protostar was splashing around comically, limbs flailing in every direction.

“Help!” he spluttered. “I’m drowning!”

Mitchell opened his mouth, shut it, moved forward, stopped, lifted a hand, lowered it, and finally settled on staring at the spectacle before him.

“Don’t just stand there, you fuck!” Protostar screeched. “I’m drowning! Do something!”

With a shake of his head, Mitchell sighed, “You’re not going to drown. Just stand up.”

“Oh, sure, ‘just stand up,’” Protostar mimicked. “News flash: it’s a little hard to ‘just stand up’ when you’re drowning.”

“You are not drowning,” Mitchell muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “The water’s really not that deep. You’ll be fine--”

Suddenly, Protostar yelped, flailed wildly, did a remarkably accurate impression of a somersault, and then flopped face first into the water.

“… I stand corrected.”

~~~

After hauling a shivering Protostar out of the water and bundling him up in blankets, Mitchell began examining the basement.

What worried him the most weren’t the soot-blackened walls, or the glowing green liquid leaking from the refrigerator, or the murderous glares Protostar was shooting him. It was the complete absence of fish.

Where were all the electrocuted fish? Had someone stolen them? But who in their right mind would take the time to pick the room clean of dead fish?

The answer came in the form of a lumpy, discolored splotch decorating the TV screen. He dipped one finger in it, touched it to his tongue, and gagged.

There was no doubt about it now. He knew exactly who the culprit was.

Ignoring Protostar’s protests (“Don’t you dare leave me down here again!”), Mitchell waded out of the basement, shut the door behind him, and began striding up the stairs.

~~~

The problem with knowing the culprit, Mitchell soon realized, was that it didn’t mean a thing if he couldn’t find the culprit.

He had scoured the HQ from ceiling to floor. He had interrogated every artist conscious enough to respond. He was ready to tear his own hair out, if he didn’t collapse from exhaustion first, and yet he hadn’t uncovered a single sign of his target.

“Hey, Nitro.” Wearily, Mitchell waved at the approaching figure. “Have you seen Mr FijiWiji around today?”

Nitro Fun suddenly froze mid-step, staring at the phone in his hand.

Mitchell frowned. Had Nitro Fun not heard him? “Nitro,” he repeated, raising his voice, “Have you seen Mr FijiWiji?”

Eyes widening in awe, Nitro Fun raised the phone and pointed it at the wall.

“… Nitro?”

With a slow, practised flick, Nitro Fun swiped one finger across the screen.

“Hello? Nitro? Can you hear--”

“NOOOOOOOOO!” Mitchell nearly jumped out of his skin as Nitro Fun wailed, “IT RAN AWAY!”

“What?” asked Mitchell, glancing around him anxiously. “What ran away?”

“THE DRATINI!” With a howl, Nitro Fun hurled his phone through the window and out into the street.

Suddenly fearing for his own safety, Mitchell began to back away, keeping his gaze fixed on Nitro Fun (were those tears brimming in his eyes?). Only when the distraught gamer was out of sight did Mitchell let out the breath he’d been holding as a long, frustrated sigh.

Where in the world could that paper bag be?

Mitchell sighed again, rubbing his temples to counter his growing headache. He needed a break. Or a nap. Or something to eat. He was running purely on the power of his own frustration by this point.

Haywyre would have to live without his keyboard for a little longer, Mitchell decided, heading down the hall towards his room. He was not going to sacrifice his own well-being for this godforsaken job.

He reached his door and was about to open it when a muffled voice floated through the wall.

“So… You want me to pour this stuff into the pillow case?”

“Every last drop. Put the pillow back on the bed after, so it looks the same as before.”

Mitchell narrowed his eyes. Was that coming from… inside his room?

“I really don’t think this is a good idea…”

“Ideas? Who said anything about ideas? We’re just here to have some fun.”

Stealthily, Mitchell crept up to the door and pressed his ear against it.

“Right. Fun.”

“Yes, fun. It’s something you need more of. Now go on! There’s not much fun to be had just standing around, you know.”

A sigh and a sickening sloshing sound followed these words.

“Dear god, that’s a disgusting color…”

“Why thank you! I spent a lot of time perfecting it. Couldn’t decide between puke green and rot brown, so I thought, why not both?”

Mitchell had heard enough. “Who’s in there?” he demanded.

Silence.

“I know you’re in there!” For emphasis, he knocked sharply on the door.

The silence was quickly broken by a loud crash, a “Crap!”, and a “I knew this was a bad idea…”

To his utter irritation, Mitchell discovered that the doorknob wouldn’t turn. “Open the door!”

“Alright, this is the part where we drop everything and hide.”

“Where?”

“Try that bin over there. I bet you could fit in it.”

After rattling the doorknob some more, Mitchell stepped back, closed his eyes, and drew in a deep breath.

“… That’s a trashcan.”

“Yes, your point being?”

“It’s filled with trash.”

“Perfect! You’ll blend right in.”

“Oh, you did not just--”

With a deafening roar, a massive wave rolled down the hall and blasted the door to smithereens. Mitchell stepped into the room as the water ebbed away, glaring at the intruders frozen before him.

“Um…” Direct whispered weakly, “Hi?”

“What were you doing to my pillow?”

Direct paled. “We, um… we were just… just, um…”

“Making some improvements to it,” Mr FijiWiji finished. “Here, take a look!” In the blink of an eye, he snatched up the dripping pillowcase and flung it at Mitchell.

With a wet squelch, the pillow burst and drenched Mitchell in a disturbingly warm goo. As he cursed and wiped the sludge from his shirt, the sound of running reached his ears. He turned just in time to see Fij and Direct vanish through the doorway.

“Hey!” Abandoning all attempts at cleanliness, Mitchell raced out of the room and towards the duo’s receding forms. “Get back here!”

“Not a chance!” Fij responded before darting around a corner.

Thus ensued a frantic chase down several hallways, past more than a few confused artists, into the basement and out again, and through the kitchen.

“Slow down!” Mitchell wheezed, picking his way through the towers of dirty dishes sprouting from the kitchen floor. His insides were burning up, the sludge was soaking into his clothes, and--worst of all--he was falling further and further behind Fij and Direct.

“How about you speed up, old man?” Fij retorted, nimbly hopping over a heap of pizza boxes.

“I am not old!” Inwardly, Mitchell cursed his uncooperative body as he staggered, winded, around the pizza boxes.

“Then why can’t you catch up with us?” Fij paused at the door, resting his chin in his hand as if in deep thought. “Oh, wait, that’s right. Because you’re old.” With a snicker, he slipped out of the room.

Mitchell saw red. He surged across the kitchen, through the doorway, and into the living room, where Haywyre was seated by a pile of empty mugs (he’d clearly been trying to drown his sorrows in coffee).

“Haywyre!” Mitchell pointed at the fleeing duo and, as coldly as an executioner, declared, “They stole your keyboard!”

Moments later, Mitchell strolled smugly up to Fij and Direct, now wrapped up like cocoons by cables that Haywyre had ripped out of the wall. “I’m sorry, what were you saying?”

Before either could reply, Haywyre lunged forward, grabbed the front of Direct’s shirt, and demanded, “What did you do to my keyboard?”

Direct frowned in confusion. “Your… your keyboard? I didn’t do anything to it.”

“Liar!” Haywyre violently shook Direct, as if trying to rattle the truth out of him. “You’re hiding something!”

“I didn’t touch your keyboard, I swear--”

“Liar!”

“Wait.” Mitchell turned to Fij, who had been unusually quiet. “Do you know anything about his keyboard? Or the fish that are missing from the basement?”

Fij shrugged in response. “Maybe and maybe.”

Haywyre instantly dropped Direct and grabbed Fij by the collar of his shirt. “What did you do to my keyboard?”

Casually, Fij shrugged again. “I never said I did anything to it.”

“Liar!” Haywyre hissed. “Tell me: what did you do to my keyboard?”

“No clue.” Fij shrugged again. “What did I do to it?”

Something inside Haywyre snapped. Quaking with rage and too much caffeine, he yanked Fij clear off the ground and snarled, “Tell me where she is, right now, or I will make your life a living nightmare--”

“Yeah, yeah, nice to see you too,” Fij yawned. “Hey, I’ve got an idea. How about we play a game?”

Haywyre blinked. “A game?”

“Yeah, a game. If you win, you get your keyboard back. If you lose…”

Haywyre’s anger vanished in an instant. “What kind of game? How do I play? Tell me!”

“It’s simple.” For a moment, Mitchell swore that he saw the line on Fij’s paper bag curl into a smirk. “Just beat up Mitchell.”

“Wha--” Mitchell was cut off by a sharp whack to the face with Haywyre’s baseball cap. “Ow! What kind of game is--” Another whack. “Ow! Stop that!”

While shielding himself from Haywyre’s attacks, Mitchell spotted Fij and Direct hopping away, still tied up. “Hey! They’re--Ow!--getting away--Ow!--Stop them--Ow!” He was about to run after the duo again when he froze, listening intently.

Where was that ominous rumbling sound coming from?

Suddenly, the two doors on the opposite sides of the room slammed open.

“There is nowhere left to run, weakling! Surrender to the phoenix’s wrath!”

“I’ll give you anything! Oranges, song credits, embarrassing pictures of Rogue--”

“I heard that!” Rogue snapped, swinging his sword. “Stop running, you little shit!”

“I’m too young to diiiieee!” 7 Minutes Dead wailed as he ducked beneath the blade.

Unfortunately, this caused him to crash right into Tristam, startling him into shooting off a bolt of dark energy. With a screech, Rezonate burst into flames and dove towards Tristam right as Rogue swung his sword again.

Mitchell could only watch, rooted in place by horror, as Rezonate flew into the bolt of magic, swelled into a enormous ball of pulsing energy, ricocheted off the flat side of Rogue’s sword, shot towards the ceiling, and--

BOOM.

The world turned upside-down. Debris rained from the sky. Smoke filled the air.

When the room stopped spinning around him, Mitchell noticed three things.

One: He was alive.

Two: His face was still stinging from Haywyre’s attacks (what was that hat made of? Knives?).

Three: Cats. Cats everywhere.

Submitted August 28, 2016 at 11:36AM by BluebirdOfTheSea http://ift.tt/2bqKWsk mcfanfics