Hello! This is the first story I've decided to post (which is odd, seeing as this first aired when I was still floating around the gene pool), but certainly not the first one I've written. I accept constructive criticism, but not flames. Those shall be used for large explosions. Also, there will be times when I ask your opinions for things (names, pairings, etc.) and will come up with random questions that you do not have to answer (but it's nice to know what other people think), and if I ask these pointless questions, do not fight over the answer.
WARNING: This story contains violence, swearing, drug use, drinking, and suggestive themes. Do not read if you can't handle.
Disclaimer: Biker Mice from Mars belongs to its rightful creator. The two main OCs (Macca and Roadface) are based off me and my cousin, and all other OCs belong to me. You cannot use them without permission.
-x-
Macca was steadily making her way down the street, ignoring the searing pain that came with every other step. The gangbangers on the streets didn't play fair, and ever since her decision to relocate and rename her own, she'd become an easy target. Even if her former reputation had been beating up guys twice her size (which was saying something, being five foot eight herself) with nothing but a crowbar.
She dimly remembered her encounter with Rawlie's gang, being jumped in the alley and waking up later littered with cuts and bruises. Macca then made the decision to start carrying the crowbar with her again. Even if it meant getting arrested. Been there, done that.
Macca rounded the corner and promptly bumped into someone. Through the faint veil of confusion the impact had caused, she notice the familiar mechanic whom she'd helped several years ago, before things had started going down hill. Charley opened her mouth to say something, turned her head at a sudden shout at Macca, grabbed the other's hand and took off running.
-x-
Macca stared in faint amusement as Charley fumbled with the lock on the door, wheezing and panting. "Um, are you alright?" she asked slowly, watching the woman sag against the door.
"Yes...yes," Charley managed. "You've run everyday since you could walk. I haven't."
"Yeah, well, fast food is taking its toll," Macca said, rolling up her sleeve and observing a gash. "You own a sewing kit?"
"Um, sure," she said, disappearing upstairs. Macca stared around the room, walked into the kitchen. Her eyes travelled to the liqueur cabinet, which was locked. She remembered relaxing after a long day of helping out with a bottle of Rebel Yell whiskey. Grabbing a knife from one of the drawers, she picked the lock and pulled out a bottle of cheap whiskey. She leaned against the counter, loosely holding the bottle in her fingertips and accepted the kit from Charley.
"What," Macca began, threading a needle with industrial strength gray thread. "Are you trying to make me owe you?" The other woman was still huffing and puffing, unable to speak, and opted instead to shake her head. "Heh." A brief smile crossed her face. "Then do me a favor, next time you go out, be a good dudette and buy me some Rebel Yell. I'd piss Rebel Yell if I could," she added as an after thought.
Charley laughed faintly. "Yeah, you also swear to drunk you're not God." Macca chuckled, sewing up the deep cuts.
"I regret it. I was determined to yell yahoo or hot damn or sex-machine at the top of my lungs." She bit off the end and rethread the needle. "There's a helluva good one on my back, you mind?" Macca lifted up the back of her shirt, holding it with one hand and grabbing the whiskey with the other. She glanced around the kitchen again. "Have I been replaced?"
"Hmm? What?" Charley asked, confused.
"Dudette, hot dogs and root beer. You can't stomach all of this. You got men."
"In a manner of speaking."
"That isn't very reassuring," Macca murmured, pulling her shirt back down. "Well, thanks anyway." She walked to the door, the bottle of whiskey swinging in a barely-there grip.
"You can't leave," Charley said suddenly, looking concerned. Macca turned and arched a brow. "They're out there."
"Dudette, they're always out there." She paused. "But since you offered..." She collapsed on the couch, grabbing the remote. "Thanks." She opened the bottle of whiskey and poured some on the cut in her arm before becoming interested in a monster truck event being broadcast.
-x-
It was around seven when the mice showed up. Macca, who had been calmly nursing the whiskey up the this point, jolted at the sound of motorcycles. "What was that?" she asked, turning to Charley.
"Friends. Besides" -she lowered her voice, for the sake of the first impression of Macca- "just because you were in a gang, doesn't mean everyone's going to come after you with guns and bikes." Macca glared at her.
"I know that. I'm just not a people person."
-x-
The mice stared at the woman lounging on the couch. Her gold eyes stared back. Her bright orange hair, which barely touched her eyebrows, stood out in contrast with the black clothes she was wearing. A purple chain like scar ran from the left side of her hairline down her neck, where it disappeared into the collar of her shirt. She gave Charley a confused look.
"You're not that drunk," she reassured, plucking the bottle from the woman's hand anyway.
"Good," she said, brightening. "I was beginning to question the limits of my imagination. Today giant mice, tomorrow dancing hippos in tutus."
"Guys," Charley said as she began the introductions. "This is Loni Machine. She used to help me a long time ago. Loni, this is Throttle, Modo, and Vinnie." She gestured to each one as she said their name.
"Nice to meet you, Miss Machine," Modo said. Loni looked shocked.
"I...don't think anyone's ever said 'nice to meet you, miss' to me in my life," she said after a moment, following with a grin. "Just Macca, dude. Machine's what they call me."
Charley turned to her with a look of realization. "Speaking of Machine, how's your bike?"
"Looks like the wratha god," Macca said sadly. "Holdin' together with duct tape and pure will. I'm afraid to touch it."
"Really? That's horrible," she murmured. "It was your life."
"It was my reputation, not my life. Now, I suggest we stop this conversation before sone catches on." Macca stood, stretching. "I'm off. I'll bring her to the shop if she'll last that long. Maybe Roadie'll help." She walked out the door with a simple wave.
"What was that about?" Throttle asked, taking the spot where Macca had been.
"Oh, we just ran into each other," Charley said. "She's a got a bad rep, but her heart's in the right place."
