Who Mimics the Mimics? (1/2)

Threadbare had never actually seen a mimic. They were legendary creatures, who were famous for shifting their shapes to resemble mundane objects. Insatiable predators, they lay in ambush waiting for the unwary to put a hand on their sticky skin. Or just to get near, if they were hungry enough.

These mimics seemed to be a touch more ambitious than the ones in the legends, though. They hopped, crawled, and stalked forward on chair legs, surging down the hallway like a tidal wave of indoor furnishings.

Threadbare looked to the mimics, looked to the cross hallway, and saw that there was no point in fleeing. He could reach it in time, but Graves was slower, he knew that. And the poor Mousewife was no adventurer, he rather doubted her agility was up to the task.

“Stay behind me!” he called, as he moved forward, feeling his claws unsheathe from his paws for the first time in years. “Do what you can.”

And then he chanted the litany of buffs that seemed most useful, in the moments before the mimics reached him. “Bodyguard Mousewife. Flex. Strong Pose. Guard Stance.”

It had been a very long time since he'd had to fight. And he was quite all right with that. He'd much rather be hugging his friends. But Threadbare felt his body moving in the old familiar ways, and he struck a pose, flexing and shifting one foot forward, turning to the side a bit, claws up and ready to meet the charge.

The smallest and lightest of the mimics led the charge. The first to reach Threadbare was a small jewelry box, with a toothed maw open and chomping and a tiny decorative ballerina inside madly dancing and cheering the box on. Threadbare put his paw through it, then hopped back and shook his hand, expecting the corpse to stick to him... but it didn't.

That was odd. He had always heard that mimics had sticky flesh. Perhaps this was a young one that hadn't grown into its full ooziness?

Behind him, he heard graves yell “Bomb!”

He ducked, just in case, but needn't have bothered. There was a snapping hiss, then a black ball with a burning fuse sailed well over his head, and landed down the corridor. There was a muffled WHUMP, and bits of furniture flew everywhere.

But Graves had put the bomb well behind the mimic front lines, and the next wave was upon Threadbare before he could straighten up. The bear's guard stance served him well then, as he quickly slapped aside thrashing table legs, charging chairs, and jumping jewelry boxes. A few managed to thump him, and every time he twirled aside, trying to memorize contact, but none of them stuck to his fur.

“Something's strange!” he called back. “Are we sure these are mimics?”

“That's what the sign said!” Graves called back, before shouting “Bomb!” again, and blowing up the next wave.

“I'm not sure the sign is telling the truth,” Threadbare replied, swiping his claws through the first two legs of a trampling table, sending it crashing down onto a pair of kiddie-sized stools. A pair of chairs struck at him, but his guard stance easily let him parry and slip out of the way. His paw lashed out as he did so, swiping the leg off the chair without any conscious thought of his own.

Your Riposte skill is now level 2!

“Let me try something!” The Mousewife squeaked. “Eye for Detail!”

“You're an animator too?” Threadbare asked, surprised. The pause cost him, as a chest dove from the crowd and swallowed him whole.

The Mousewife's scream of panic cut off as Threadbare burst his way out, sending splinters of wood everywhere.

“AAAAAHHHHH— Oh. Oh whew! You had me worried for a second there, sir!”

Threadbare didn't have time to reply, as he was beating a table to death with another table.

“What does your skill say?” Graves asked her, chucking another bomb.

“They're animi, sir! Level four! Called Mimic Mimics!”

“Level 4... this is a bluff,” Graves said. “They're trying to get us to overcommit resources. Let's have a new plan. Threadbare, kick the Mousewife from the party!”

“What?” The Mousewife shrieked, betrayed.

But Threadbare knew what Graves was intending, and it was entirely malice free. “Remove Mousewife from Party.”

“You'll get levels this way,” Graves told her. “Command and invite the animi, then use them to fight the others.”

“Oh. OH!” she said, and happily started chanting. “Command Table to join party. Invite Table! Command Chair to join party. Invite Chair. Command—“ she broke off. “Is that a chest or a trunk? I can't tell.”

“Not the time, just grab whatever you can!” Graves shot back.

“But it would match so well with the other ones I'm controlling,” she said. “It's cherry wood, it looks like, and I love that hue.”

Threadbare took a few hits, dug his way out of a set of grasping bedsheets, and flipped over the swing from an oncoming coat rack.

“It's a portmanteau!” Graves yelled. “Now get to it lady!”

“You know,” Threadbare said, balancing on one of the coatrack's arms, running up it, and toppling it onto a chest of drawers, “It wouldn't be a bad idea for all of us to stock up on minions. Remove Graves from party.”

And once he was out, Threadbare chanted his own skills, falling back to defend as he grabbed his own set of minions.

With a sigh, Graves did the same.

And with that, the battle ended swiftly. The maximum party size was seven. With six minions apiece, each buffed by their own minion-boosting skills, they no longer had to take a personal hand in the fight. Already damaged by Threadbare's offensive defense and Graves' bombardment, the remaining waves of wardrobes and barrages of beds slowed to a halt, then stopped as the last uncontrolled animi was stomped into splinters.

“Oh, it's leather after all,” sighed the Mousewife, running her hands over the portmanteau. “It's just dyed to look like wood. Pity.”

“Did you level?” Graves asked.

“Oh yes! I'm a level four Animator now, thank you so much!” The Mouswife smiled. “I feel so much better.”

Threadbare hadn't gotten anything out of that fight, himself. The enemies had simply been too weak. But they were strong enough to give the Mouswife a boost, which was why Graves had suggested removing her from the party. She wouldn't have gotten any experience otherwise, due to the level differences between them.

This was the way of the world; you couldn't hide behind your elders if you wanted to grow stronger, not all the time, anyway. You had to go out and struggle through things on your own, or with up to six similarly-leveled individuals. Otherwise the strange words that enforced the will of reality wouldn't give you the power needed to survive higher-level threats.

“I'm glad you have an adventuring job,” Threadbare told her. “I didn't expect you to be an Animator, too.”