Biker Mice: Olympic Sting

by SlushBro19

This story is about the Martian trio meeting a new enemy, one which makes Plutarkians look like cute little puppies

Prologue

He knew that moving was the wrong thing to do just that moment. Moving was painful… Moving was rash. He spat blood, some of which oozed down his furry face, getting to his hands and looking around him.

'O man…'

At first he thought he had been blinded. He saw nothing, absolutely nothing. All was blackness, thick and complete. He closed his eyes and opened them again. Still the same thing. He licked his lips, shivering as much from the cold of wherever this was as from the beating they'd laid on him.

Wait a minute… Beating? What?...

He frowned, slowly rubbed his face, trying to organize his thoughts, to think past the thick fog in his mind. What beating? Where was he? He let his forehead rest against the cold floor, tried to think back, to recall. Just what the hell had happened?

'Explain to me again why we're out here?' Vincent looked over at Throttle on the other side of Modo, hiding a yawn - unsuccessfully. 'At night. On the highway.'

'You know why, Vincent,' the brown-furred Mouse replied, patiently. 'Limburger's not been seen or smelled in Chi-town for almost a month.'

'That means he's up to something sleazy,' Modo contributed, his Li'l Hoss rumbling comfortingly under him. 'We're here to find out what.'

'And how do we know he came this way?' Vincent asked, stifling another yawn with his teeth this time.

'Follow our noses, bro,' Modo told him. 'And the oil spills right down the middle of the road.' He indicated the dark shiny liquid trailing along the dark asphalt. The moonlight of the full white disk illuminated the liquid irregularity of the road. There had been no one else at this hour - 2 am to be exact. Would anyone have cared to investigate even if they had seen it? Humans could be so unobservant, after all. Hiding their heads in the sand, so to speak, in order to avoid facing a problem.

'Heads up, bros,' Throttle warned them, his spec-enhanced vision catching sight of a cold white glow off to their right. 'Look.'

'Those look like strobe lights,' Modo opined. 'A night movie shoot?'

'In the middle of nowhere?' Vincent snorted. 'There'd be a lineup of trailers and paparazzi by now.'

Throttle agreed. This was eerie: an empty highway at night with strange lights. If he didn't know better - or was an ordinary human - he'd have thought it was a UFO landing.

'Let's stop here and continue on foot,' he decided. 'Less attention that way.'

Leaving their bikes on the shoulder, the three tall Biker Mice quietly walked up to what turned out to be the edge of a small canyon. Lying down on their stomachs, they peered over the edge, helmets beside them.

'Holy…' Modo whistled. 'What the hell is this?'

Throttle put a hand on his shoulder. 'Shh.. we don't want to be heard or seen.'

Vincent quickly scanned the bottom of the canyon. There were men and women down there, exercising. He blinked, not quite understanding what his eyes were telling him. Exercising? At night?

'Can someone pinch me?' he asked, looking over at his bros. 'Because I think I am seeing things.'

'They're… training?' Modo scratched one ear with metallic fingers, puzzled.

Throttle hummed softly. This made no sense to him either: a crowd of people at night in an empty place lifting weights, running, jumping, playing ball.

'They are training… but for what?' He kept his voice low, thoughtful.

'This don't look like the Marines to me,' Modo rumbled.

'No… Hey! Look!' Vincent tapped Modo's shoulder and pointed to a large metal trailer with LI painted on the side.

'Bingo, bro!' Throttle chuckled. 'So that's where the Big Cheese is.'

'Limburger? Exercising?' Modo let out a cackle - softly of course. 'That'd take the stink off him.'

'Maybe he wants to camouflage,' Vincent offered. 'You know, lose all that dinky fat.'

'He can't hide from us,' Throttle replied. 'Vinnie, mike it, will you?' he asked, nodding towards the trailer, one window of which was glowing.

Vincent grinned and took a hand-held version of the mike shooter from his belt. This was another of Charlene's inventions - after a rather unfortunate experience of not having his bike nearby in order to eavesdrop on Greasepit. That girl could cook!

'So, Mouse,' hissed a soft quiet voice over his head. 'You finally awake.'

His head snapped up, skin tingling unpleasantly. That voice grated on him - as if he had heard it somewhere before.

'Who are you?' he asked, his own voice breaking on the words. They came out as a croak. 'Show yourself.'

A dry rasping chuckle made his skin crawl. This was trouble. Unknown trouble. His Mouse senses were sending red alert signals all over his body.

'Are you sure, little Mouse? Do you really want to see me?' The unfamiliar voice was cloying, seductive. Not good. Not good at all.

'Fine.' He gathered himself against a cold metal wall. Whatever it was, this thing couldn't come at him from behind. Still, if he could locate it… 'Stay hidden. You're probably so ugly you don't want to see yourself in a mirror.'

Another of those dry whispery chuckles. It was a comedian - or fancied itself so.

'Touché, Mouse. Touché. You have spirit.' The voice came closer. 'Which I will crush,' it promised caressingly.

'Try,' he threw back, baring his teeth. 'Good luck.'

There was a dark silence, not empty but thoughtful. Whatever or whoever the lascivious voice belonged to seemed to be considering something.

'They did tell me you Mice never gave up - even after your planet was trashed.' There was approval in the words. Admiration almost. 'That spunk will make it all the more fun to break you. I like a challenge.'

They? Who the hell…? Plutarkians! Of course! It had mentioned Mars…

'Nothing to say now, Mouse? Fish got your tongue?' It was mocking him.

'I wonder what's got yours,' he fired back. 'Stinky fish fins?'

'Good guess, Mouse. Bull's eye.' The voice giggled again. He really was starting to hate that tittering. 'They said you were a smart one.'

'Oh they would know, wouldn't they?' he grunted, wrists dangling off his drawn-up knees. He snorted, shaking his head. He must be going insane since he was talking to a disembodied voice. At least he thought it was disembodied: he could smell nothing, he could touch nothing, he could not taste it - not that he wanted to. He could only hear the voice and that was not good enough. How to make it reveal itself?

'I guess you must've met those two stinking Plutarkian fishes,' he said, probing.

'Maybe I did. Maybe I didn't.' It was evading revealing anything. Damn! So much for that idea. 'Good try, Mouse.' It knew what he was doing. It wasn't stupid.

Well, the shoe was on the other foot, wasn't it? HE was the one in this cell not by his own volition whereas the Whoever/Whatever had come in presumably because it wanted to.

He rubbed his face. He was tired of these games. His head was pounding. His jaw hurt - that must have been one hell of a wallop. He explored his jaw carefully and could not find anything broken. No obvious breaks anyway. That was promising - a sliver of light at the end of one motherfucker of a long tunnel.

'You know,' he called out into the absolute blackness. 'It was very nice chatting with you but uh… it's been a long day and I think I will turn in. You have yourself a nice day.' He infused his words with a cheeky cheeriness - just to tweak its nose (if it had one).

'Oh Mouse, you are a treat.' It sounded hungry, in more ways than one. He shivered a little. Maybe he'd pushed the envelope too far this time - but then, he'd faced longer odds on Mars with his bros. 'I will leave you to your slumber.' The voice grew quieter as if receding into the distance. 'Oh and one more thing, a gift if you will.' Another of those hateful titters. Man, if this thing had a face he'd bash it in just to stifle the inane giggling. 'There is no door to your cell.'

Chapter 1

'I'm sorry,' Vincent looked at his friends. 'But did I just hear that insane fish from Detroit?'

'Brie? O yea, Vin,' Modo confirmed. 'That was the crazy fishfin from Motown.'

'And he was discussing a competition with Limburger?' Vincent continued in a mockingly surprised tone of voice.

'A joint competition.' Throttle pressed his lips together for a moment. 'They are teaming up.'

'What for?' Modo scratched his left arm reflectively.

'Something ugly,' Throttle answered, chewing his lip and glancing back down into the training ground. 'Something that stinks.'

'You got that right, Mousebait,' came the unpleasantly familiar voice of Greasepit from behind them. They whirled…

But it was too late…

There was a flash of blinding white…

And then they were falling…

Falling far down…

'O hell…' he groaned, drawing his hands up and down his face and pressing his fingers against the sides of his nose. 'That rancid stinking…' He shook his head, then tapped it against the wall behind him. Of all the… he squeezed his eyes, forcing his poor concussed brain to work, to form thoughts. Greasepit had not come upon them by chance. He was not that smart. He followed that cheesy asshole's orders. Limburger had known then that they would be coming, right? All that oil on the highway had not been there by accident. It had been like the breadcrumbs in that fairy tale Charlie had told them once about a little boy in the forest who had put down pieces of bread to mark his way out.

He sighed, hooking his hands at the nape of his neck. Chagrin at their own gullibility filled him.

'We fell for it… Fuck!'

Usually he did not swear but this was an exceptional situation. He was a prisoner, clearly. Alone. His friends nowhere in sight. He knew nothing except what his battered memory told him in addition to his recent mysterious visitor. The stranger's final words, the 'gift' came back to him.

'There is no door to your cell.'

What the hell did that mean? That he could leave? Just up and go? But... he felt no breath of air, no stirring of wind. There was no smell here either. A sterile prison cell. No holes. No door then.

Did it mean that his visitor could come and go as it pleased? But how?

Questions… questions…

There was one thing he did know for sure: one cell implied there were others. Were his bros there? He tried calling out but no sound came back. His own voice sounded flat, dead - as if the walls contained it. Must be sound-isolated.

For want of anything better to do - or for that matter, because there WAS nothing else to do - he decided to walk about his cell and explore it. Perhaps his hands would tell him something if his other senses were useless here.

'Throttle old boy, just make sure you don't stub a toe,' he muttered with a bitter smirk. 'You will need at least some body parts intact - somewhere down the line.'

'You do realize we need a plan, Vin,' Modo reminded his white-furred friend who was pacing frenetically, restlessly. That was his usual response to inactivity. Vincent craved action the way a junkie craved heroin. He was addicted to danger and risk. He loved the adrenaline pumping through his veins in tight situations. He rarely listened to reason those times. He just acted, consequences be damned. 'And for a plan we need information. Which we ain't got.' The last sentence came out slow, each word spoken separately for greater emphasis. Maybe that would get through Vinnie's self-absorbed pacing.

'Why don't we go get some then?'

'Where?' Modo stood right in front of Vincent. Sometimes his bro of an adrenaline junkie was hard of hearing, it seemed. 'Just where are we supposed to look for it?' He held out his arms encompassing their surroundings. 'We don't even know where WE are.'

That was true, Vincent had to agree. This wasn't Chicago. Was not Earth. Nor Mars either. This was Somewhere…

'And we ain't got our bikes either,' Modo added for good measure. 'We're stuck, bro.'

'You mean we're screwed,' Vincent corrected him morosely, realizing their rather hopeless situation. 'We're Biker Mice from Mars, bro. We can't just sit here.'

'We can't just run around flapping our tails either, Vin,' the tall large grey Mouse cautioned him.

'So, we find us some food then. Some place to lay up for the night,' Vincent suggested looking up at the sky of this Somewhere place. It had a sky, thankfully. A little or rather large fact that you could acknowledge and ground yourself on (so to speak). A sky suggested other celestial bodies like stars, moons, sun - asteroids if you were running on low imagination.

'And quickly.' Modo pointed to a dust cloud in the distance coming over a low hill of something (sand?). 'I don't like the looks of that.'

Vincent squinted a bit but the indistinctly-shaped cloud was too far. His Martian Mouse warrior instincts, however, were screaming at him that on a strange planet, place, whatever this was, clouds of any type were not a good sign. The more prudent course would be to hide and observe. His rash adrenaline junkie self objected to that: he could take on five opponents at once and come out on top. That, though, was possible when he had weapons and knew who the enemies were. This was a mystery - a mystery that for some reason made his skin tingle with a rather nasty sensation somewhere deep in his subconscious. These were not visitors he was dressed and ready for.

'Vin, let's go. Please.'

He started, his eyebrows rising in surprise. Modo didn't use 'please' unless he really was upset or convinced that the incoming baddies were worse than what they'd faced before.

'Right… let's scramble.'

Chapter 2

Lawrence Limburger, the top dog of the Chicago branch of the Plutarkian operation on Earth, watched the door slide shut behind the o so sexy woman (who was not a woman at all) and sighed in relief. That had been an intense meeting. Not because he'd felt any sexual urges, o no. She made his soul crawl, not just his scales. She exuded danger the way the Lugi brothers exuded a killer stench. His teeth itched just from her voice alone. A low seductive purr that could be hypnotising. And dangerous.

No wonder the new Plutarkian allies were called Scorpions. Their voices were the stings in the tail. And that was in addition to their shape-shifting abilities. That 'woman' had been a Scorpion, one of the denizens of this remote planet. He still had no idea why Lord Camembert had decided to take them on as allies in organizing an intergalactic sports event. Did he want to scare potential participants away? The whole point of these Intergalactic Olympics was to invite as many races as possible to come and compete (and of course LOSE). He could have understood if the Scorpions were only here for security and espionage, the two tasks they excelled at due to their unique transformative capabilities. But no…

They had it appeared a rather special assignment: to catch the Biker Mice. They had managed to get one, thanks to a Scorpion 'Greasepit'. That trap had been easy to set after Limburger had debriefed the Scorpion agent as to his knowledge of the Mice's heroic habits. The three of them had walked - or ridden? - right into the Scorpions' clutches.

True, two had been sent in an erroneous direction on this planet but that was a mistake to be rectified soon. There was a Scorpion patrol searching for the two of them. When - not if - they were finally captured… Limburger found himself strangely pitying them. They had not the slightest idea what they had stumbled into. They were as blind as… mice… He smiled at his own irony: he too was blind. The Scorpions did not tell him anything unless it was on a need-to-know basis. He too was in the dark. Well, for once he and his nefarious enemies had something in common - they were all in deep trouble.

Modo, panting hard, made it the last little bit to get over the edge of the cliff and out of sight of the incoming hostiles. Vincent was right behind him, his white fur covered with dirt and dust. He leaned against the rock nearby to catch his breath. Modo was on his knees, his whole body shivering.

'Those.. are.. scorpions,' Vincent managed to whisper through dry lips. They'd not dared to stop and drink. Now both were parched. Modo's breath was rasping - could it be heard by the ugly-ass Scorps?

'Yea… and they can sting, bro.' Modo flopped against another rock, wiped his face. He was hot, tired. 'We can't rest, Vin. Not long. If they catch up to us…'

'We'll be stuck mice,' Vincent finished for him, not happy at that prospect. 'As if we were not stuck already.' He coughed dryly: all this dust was making him choke.

They were lost, in fact. They had no idea where they were. They had no way of finding out where they were. They had no compass. Not even their bike helmets which could have been useful as they had GPS built in. They only had their Mouse senses - which were in panic mode just now.

'We need quiet and time to think,' Modo agreed, kneading his knees and calves. He'd never run so much in his life. 'Those Scorps won't give us that.'

'How about we give 'em something to think about?' Vincent suggested, looking around at all the rocks. 'We bury 'em - in stone.'

'Why don't we see if they know we're here first?' Modo advised from the edge of the cliff, looking down. It was getting darker now, so harder to see. Martian Mouse eyes were better than human ones, though. 'They're milling about down there. Do scorpions have noses?'

'No idea, bro. Biology wasn't my thing.' Vincent shrugged. The notion of scorpions with noses did not please him. The stings were bad enough.

The dozen or so Scorpions down below were rattling their tails like snakes, their front claws clicking rhythmically. They seemed to be communicating - something to someone? The two trapped Mice up top looked at one another, thinking the same thing: this whole set up stank.

'O mama,' Modo groaned jumping back as a large streak of white hit the ground right in front of him. He stumbled, deafened by the electrical explosion. 'A lightning storm.'

Vincent shivered, all his fur standing up from the charges of electricity in the air. His antennae were thrumming, making his teeth itch.

'We gotta get out of here, bro.' He looked over at his grey buddy. 'Otherwise we're Mouse fries.'

Modo couldn't agree more but there was - or actually were - several problems behind them. The Scorpion patrol was on their trail still. Somehow they'd figured out a way to follow them. They must have noses, Modo reasoned, or something along those lines. The two of them had tried laying false trails, doubling back on themselves, staying low - all useless.

'Just how do we shake em off?' he muttered in irritation, grunting as another lightning blast shattered the night.

'Follow me, bro.' Vincent took his elbow, his eyes lighting up with adrenaline glee. 'We take em to a lightning dance class.'

Modo looked at him for a split second, not understanding, and then it hit him.

'Yea, bro! Good one. Let's shake their foundations!'

They set off across the lightning-blasted plain, dodging the electric detonations and sometimes barely avoiding falling into the lightning-made craters. They could not speak to each other over the ear-splitting explosions so they resorted to Martian Mouse hand signals. Sometimes that did not work since the white light was blinding - Throttle's specs would have been great about now - or just plain old sunglasses. They had neither. Periodic pauses to adjust their eyesight became a necessity. Not only that: they had to check behind them for the Scorpions, who did seem to experience some problems.

'Vin, look.' Modo pointed with his metal finger. 'They're hesitating.'

'Good,' Vincent smiled, a nasty snarl. 'I see a few of them have been fried.'

Indeed, three of the Scorpion patrol were smoking un-moving hunks of flesh. Their exoskeletons had not protected them against the overpowering heat and force of the lightning. The others were at a loss now: should they follow their orders or abandon pursuit? The hissing of the electric bolts from the sky reduced their ability to communicate with clacks and rattles. Too much interference. Yet orders were orders…

'They're coming,' Modo shook his head, exhaling sharply. For some reason, they always seemed to find enemies that did not give up. Made life worth living in a way…

'And they ain't the only ones.' Vincent was looking the other way. 'We're about to become mushed.'

Modo looked over his shoulder and swore. Through the sporadic bursts of lightning they could see another Scorpion patrol. The grey Mouse snarled, despair turning to annoyance to outright anger.

'I've had it with these crawling bastards,' he rumbled, his one eye breaking out into a sharp red light.

Vincent chuckled: finally some action, a righteous brawl. 'There are only ten, bro.' He flexed his fists, cracking his knuckles. His blood pressure started to rise. 'Mano-a-claw?'

'Mano-a-claw and lightning,' Modo growled, his electrified fur bristling and tail lashing.

'You said it!' Vincent howled ecstatically. 'Put on your dancing shoes!'

Chapter 3

'So, bro, you ready for a breakout?'

His head twisted to his left where the voice was coming from. He sat up.

'Vin? Is that you? How did you get in here?' Boy, was he ever so happy to hear a familiar voice!

'Easy,' Vincent reassured him. 'Smashed my way in. You know…'

That he did. Vincent never did things by halves, going down the barrel of a gun.

'Where are you, bro? I can't see you.'

'No wonder.' There was a soft chuckle - slightly mocking? 'There isn't any light.'

'Didn't you bring any?' he asked. Vincent usually burst in with guns ablaze. This cell should've been lit up like July the Fourth fireworks.

'No, didn't want those creeps to see me.'

'Creeps?'

'Oh, you don't know?' Vincent replied gleefully. 'Scorps got you.'

'Scorps?' He had no idea what Vincent was talking about.

'Yea, you know, those black insects that have a sting in their tail.'

'Scorpions?' Throttle shivered and it was not from the cold. The very name of those things made his flesh crawl. A primeval instinct, a fear… 'Vin, we gotta scram. On the double.'

'I hear you, bro…' There was a strange noise: a skitter? He was not sure. And then the voice changed. 'O man! They're coming! I'll be back, bro!'

The voice fell silent. He waited. And waited. But.. No more sounds at all. He listened, strained to hear something, anything… There was not even a tiniest note of air moving.

'Vincent? VINCENT!

'That should do it.' Vincent tied off the makeshift bandage around Modo's thigh. His grey-furred friend grunted, then wheezed. He was exhausted: the day and night long running fight had sapped even his extraordinary reserves of strength. Had he been human he'd have collapsed long ago.

'Thanks, Vin.' He let himself relax, still breathing hard. Sweat rolled down his face and body. There was blood all over his leg and jeans which were shorter as Vincent had had to cut some of the fabric away for bandages.

'No prob, bro.' Vince smiled, glancing out of the cave they'd found to shelter for the night. 'The storm is running itself out. Soon we'll have to move on.'

'I don't know about that.' Modo let his head thump against the stony wall behind him. 'We need some rest, Vin.'

The white Biker Mouse could not disagree with that. His bro was not looking very good just now. His face looked grey - well, greyer. Of the three of them he was the oldest and in this early dawn light of the dying lightning storm his age showed. The run and gun fight had not done wonders for their conditioning either. Vincent too was scratched and bruised in places. He'd had to use parts of his own jeans as bandage material.

'How about we spend the day here then?' he suggested, sitting across from Modo, elbows on his knees. 'You sleep. I'll keep watch.'

Modo gave him a long but grateful look. His white-furred buddy was not exactly the patient watchman material - and right now that did not matter. If Vincent offered, then he was gonna take it.

'Wake me if…' he warned his younger bro.

'Goes without saying, big guy,' Vincent reassured him with a wave of one bruised hand. Those Scorpion exoskeletons were not an easy punching bag to bash. He'd have to be careful with his hand. He moved his fingers, massaged his palm, listening to his friend's light snoring - and painful breathing. The big guy was hurting - and had not told him about all of his wounds. Typical. Self-effacing Modo. Vincent shook his head, sighing sharply.

'That whole honour thing is really overrated,' he muttered as the sun rose on this alien planet.

'Those Plutarkian shit-faced lap-dogs!' Viktor yelled, unleashing a rapid barrage of laser fire over the rim of the trench they were fighting out of.

'Careful, bro!' Modo yanked him back as the Plutarkian platoon replied with their own bombs and guns.

Viktor was gasping, adrenaline rushing through his bloodstream. O this was good! To finally fight back against those scumbag invaders! To watch them drop dead. He chuckled at the concerned look on his younger brother's face.

'Don't you worry about me, bro.' He shook sweat-matted hair out of his face, coking his laser rifle. 'Let's rock 'em till we drop 'em.'

'Vic, no! Bail, bro! That thing's gonna blow!' Modo frantically shouted, scrambling over the broken land to get to his brother who'd sabotaged the Plutarkian war tower but was under heavy fire and could not get out.

'MOVE!'

Modo aimed and fired, trying to cover his brother. He did not - could not - lose him. His mother would never forgive him. His nephew and niece could not - would not - lose their father.

Gritting his teeth, Modo reloaded his rifle and with his mates kept on slamming at the Plutarkian troops. They asked for no mercy and received none. This was war. War that Mars had not asked for. War that the greedy motherfuckers from Plutark had started. Well, the Mice would finish it. Finish it hard.

'VIKTOR!' Modo called out, coughing from the grenade and bomb smoke that covered most of this rugged battlefield. Where was his brother? A dry crack, a lurid red light - and he was flying through the air, flailing his arms and legs. His rifle dropped to the ground. He hit it hard. For a split moment he could not breathe, had no idea where he was. Another detonation reminded him, brought his head around. The Plutarkian war tower they'd been attacking was on fire now, pieces of it flying off in all directions. He covered his head to avoid being hit.

Around him both Plutarkians and Mice were scramming, some on fire, screaming in pain. He rolled over, looked - and remembered.

'VIKTOR!'

Still stunned he stumbled to his feet, in the opposite direction to most of his comrades. His brother.. O no… no.. this… this could not be! Where was Viktor?

'VIC! Answer me!'

His screaming was raw, ripping his throat to shreds. He pushed past the dead fishscum and wounded dying Martian Mice, blind to all but one thing: finding his brother. His gaze frantically scanned the hot smoking metal debris of the Plutarkian machine. Nothing stirred. Only electricity sizzled.

'Viktor, talk to me, brother,' he called out, hands cupped around his mouth. Fear and despair filled him. Why wasn't Vic answering?

He started climbing over the wreckage, careful not to singe himself too badly. Viktor had headed for the control room. That would be at the top of the machine, right? Where had the top fallen?

Then he saw it: a slightly less grey tail than his sticking out from under a large piece of tower engine.

'NO!'

Panicking now, Modo grabbed the twisted metal and yanked it. It did not budge. He roared and pulled harder. This could not be. No. Not Viktor. Not his older bro. He had to be still alive - right? Right?

'Vic!' Modo shouted as Vincent shook him. The metal fist caught the smaller white Mouse square in the middle of his chest.

'Ouf.'

Vincent's breath caught. His bro had one mean jab. He'd be lucky to get away with only a bruise.

'Modo!' He tried again to reach his friend. 'Bro, you ok?'

The broad-shouldered grey Mouse did not seem to hear him. He sat rigid, staring out into space, his one eye wide open.

'Viktor, is that you?' Modo asked in an uncertain soft voice, raising his hand as if to touch someone.

'Modo, it's me, Vincent,' the worried white Mouse scooted over on his knees and reached out to brush the bigger biker's shoulder. 'Don't you remember me?'

Still Modo did not answer but continued to mutter to this Viktor person (who was that anyway?). That was not good. Did the air in this cave drive travellers insane? Not a comforting thought. He wished Throttle were here. He would have known what to do.

'Man, why do I get stuck with these emotional jobs?'

Chapter 4

Throttle bit back a scream, twisting and convulsing in fiery lancing pain. His throat was too raw to make any sound beyond a harsh ragged groan - but he wanted to cry out in agony anyway. He clamped his teeth on such weakness. On Mars, in Karbunkle's lab, he'd been confronted with ugly despicable villains and dark murderous deeds. He was not about to give these Scorpions what they wanted. He would show them what Martian Mice were made of.

'Excellent, Mouse. You take pain well,' hissed that o-so-familiar snickering voice. Right that moment he really wished he'd had one hand free to punch the living daylights out of that son of a bitch (or of whatever had given it birth). 'I have never had a patient with such incredible stamina and conditioning.'

It was discussing him like a prize fighter of some sort. Kind of reminded him of the Pit Boss. Only the latter could not hold a candle to this. The Pit Boss was a puppy compared to a large angry pitbull. And this pitbull had one hell of a sharp stinger - and not in its tail. This stinger consisted of a long metal rod with sharp edges, a kind of Scorpion Taser. He had numerous different-size cuts all over his torso to prove just how effective the damn thing was - or was that just a testament to the Scorpion torturer's skill?

What did it matter?

He realized that his mind was wandering, his thoughts focusing on factual minutiae in a desperate attempt to preserve a part of his sanity. First it was darkness in solitary confinement. Then mind games. Now physical torture… man, these Scorps had quite a well-thought out program for their 'patients'. What an irony! Patients indeed!

'Shall we continue, my rodent?' the Scorpion crooned into his ear. Throttle was panting, trying to block out the subversive buzz that was getting inside his head, taking root. 'I am rather enjoying your resistance. It is so… refreshing…'

Something cold slid along his left side, along one of his still-unbroken ribs. This 'therapy' session had revealed to him that some of his ribs were indeed cracked - a little bit. After the Scorpion 'doc' had worked him over, some of them became truly damaged. No wonder he had trouble breathing properly.

His current position was not helping matters either. His wrists were shackled together, attached to a rather cold-looking metallic rod that ran to the ceiling of this smelly stinky room. He was literally hanging, his shoulders taking all the strain of his not-inconsiderable weight. Martian macho muscle Mice were no butterflies. Just now that fact was no advantage.

'Hmmm,' the Scorpion moved around his prey, ever so gently caressing the brown Mouse's back (rather like a lover's caress, only this was no lover he'd ever want). It had taken on the appearance of a two-legged creature, neither Martian Mouse nor human, not even Plutarkian. It did not look like anything he was familiar with. But it was one butt-ass ugly some-thing. If he'd taken a rather longer closer look, it'd probably have given him nightmares. 'Silence… it is rather.. Comforting. Is it not?' Its mouth was very very close to his ear. Its breath was a soft brush of air on his fur. 'It holds so much… potential.' The tip of the long metal stick tapped against the other side now. He tensed, ready for another jab, a renewal of the 'therapy'. 'There are so many possibilities,' the Scorpion continued in a leisurely almost lazy tone. 'I could explore this side of you.' The metal tip dug into his right side, painfully so, twisting and grinding. He would have bitten his tongue if he'd not just moved it aside. His teeth grated against one another, his exhausted body spasming. 'Or I could go deeper.' Its voice fell to an almost caressing growl - like a revved up bike rumbling. 'So much deeeperrrr…' A strong longfingered but thin hand for a moment appeared in his line of vision - and then his head was hauled back, roughly. 'How deep would you like me to go, o brave Martian Mouse?'

Lawrence Limburger sat scowling beside his High Chairman. He did not like it. He did not like what he was seeing on the screen one little bit. True, he was Plutarkian, and torture had been one of his more enhanced methods of dealing with his enemies - even these Martian Mice. Nevertheless, the Scorpions took it far, far beyond what he would have done. His own methods appeared paltry, pathetic, beside the art which torture was for the Scorpions.

No, he didn't like this.

No, he didn't envy his Martian opponent. Not one little bit.

Watching how gently the Scorpion orderlies deposited the hapless unconscious Mouse back into his cell (doorless - just how did they enter? He still couldn't figure that out), the Plutarkian representative felt revulsion, a secret weakness that he knew should never be shared with anyone. Not even Karbunkle, his most loyal servant in the coterie of idiots and misfits. Well, loyal up to a certain point. Limburger suspected that dear Dr. Karbunkle had his own agenda, his own secret thoughts.

There were too many secrets in this whole mess. Frankly, he was getting tired of them.

'Marvellous work,' the High Chairman remarked approvingly as the o so sexy woman operative, the same one who gave Limburger uncomfortable shivers, approached through the metal doorway at the far end of the observer room, a long narrow space, walled in Plutarkian glass-steel on one side and some unknown metal on the other. They could see into the laboratory but the 'patients' (what a useless euphemism that was!) could not see outside. Limburger rather had the impression they did not want to. After all, there were cold fish eyes watching them - or the dead eyes of the Scorpion secret police. As far as he was concerned, this whole planet was one giant prison where the inmates, the guards, the wardens - all were spying on one another. Insanity! Plutarkians had things much more organized. They used other races to do the dirty work while they reaped the benefits. That was the most efficient way of running an empire. And that was what Plutark truly was becoming: a vast cosmic empire of various planets, languages, races, cultures. A right cacophony, truth be told…

'I am glad you approve, Lord High Chairman,' the low seductive voice jerked him out of his thoughts. 'I must thank you for providing such a superb - premium - specimen. I have never operated on a Martian Mouse.' She licked her lips. Limburger tried to suppress a fearful shiver. She sounded hungry. Very hungry. Madness! 'A shame that there are not more…' There was just a hint of a disapproving suggestion in her voice.

'Your patrol?' Lord Camembert moved his portly carcass out of the heavy chair he'd been sitting in and paced around the table. So she made him nervous too. Good, Limburger thought. His o so high and mighty leader was a coward at the end of the day. Good to know. Useful for blackmail.

'They have found the other two mice you've told me about. They are being flushed out as we speak.' The Scorpion - who it turned out could change gender as well as voice and shape - hitched her (its?) hip on the only cold metal table. 'But three…' She shrugged and all sorts of interesting motions happened under the dark blue lab coat she wore.

'Ah, you would like more Mice,' the obese Plutarkian leader chuckled, already calculating gold gill prices he would charge these Scorpions.

'Yes, breeding stock,' she replied, as if clandestinely she'd read his greedy thoughts. Surely he did not think he'd make tons and tons of gills selling Mice for her labs, Limburger laughed inside. 'Male-female couples. Fertile.' Her head, with its long dark hair that fell to her heels, shook. 'Like that one.'

'My dear,' the Lord High Chairman put on a reasonable tone sensing his deal was slipping through. 'Surely… I do not think that he would be capable of anything in his present condition…'

She smiled, not a pleasant sight. That smile reminded Limburger of a shark - of Brie in fact.

'You forget, Lord Camembert,' she said suavely (what a deadly voice hers was!). 'That I was trained as a medic. I possess different varieties of painkillers and other medicines… Some help speed up the healing process… among other functions.'

Limburger was suddenly filled with the certainty that he did not want to know what those other functions were. And once again he felt a strange sort of pity for that hapless Mouse. Was he getting soft? Or was this just a new kind of anxiety, a reflection of his dread of their new alien - truly alien in many important ways - allies? He had no answers. He was sure his o so mighty leader did not have any either.

'I see,' Lord Camembert murmured. 'You break your patients gradually. You start with easy pain and then escalate.'

'Indeed. A gradual buildup. I want them to get used to the old kind of pain before introducing a new one. I want them to have stamina. I want to test it, improve it.'

'May I ask what for?'

Her smile was slow, nasty. Limburger, swallowing his dread, kept his hands out of sight behind him, clenched.

'Come with me tonight, my lord. I will show you.'

Darkness. Thankfully. Mercifully.

Light was pain. Light was danger. Light was blood. Light was deadly.

He moaned softly, hating himself for such weakness, such fragility. What would his bros say if they could see him now? They wouldn't think him feeble. They'd probably help him any way they could for one thing. And for another they'd smash and trash everything and everyone in and out of sight that had caused their bro even the slightest bit of harm. But that would happen only if they knew where he was. And they didn't. He had tried to call out via the special link, via the antennae but… either they were too far or his mind was not able to focus well. He coughed, his exhausted broken body shuddering. He could not - would not - move. He simply lay where he had been left, blood pooling under him. He smelled the metallic tang, a fragrance he was very familiar with. War… it reminded him of war… of battlefields. Of his bros.

Why weren't they here? What had happened?

He moved his hand, barely. It had clenched into a hard fist. It scraped across the blood-slick floor, erratic, aimless. Helpless. The airy sensation of his own fingers on his face startled him. He was starting to forget he had a body at all. Every part of him ached as bit by bit he began to drag himself across the floor, pretty sure he was leaving a blood-slicked trail behind him. He just needed something… different. Some other sensation against his lacerated skin and matted fur than blood. It was safer too to be against a wall. He'd face them then.

Them…

It…

Him…

Damn, it was hard to keep all these shapeshifts in a clear order. To think and make sense was practically impossible. He sighed, slumping exhausted against the invisible metal wall. He would not even try. It was a useless exercise. Maybe what was really necessary now was to rest, to sleep - to forget. Yeah… Oblivion. It offered solace, peace… Peace...

He reached for it.

Chapter 5

'Throttle?' 'Bro!'

Modo and Vincent cried out as one, starting up, wide-eyed and awake. For a long moment they could not make sense of what they had seen.

'Was that..?' Modo blurted without thinking, tensed up.

'Where was that?' Vincent turned to stare at his friend who gave off the impression of finally being aware of his surroundings. Vincent had been becoming very worried over the last couple of days. After that dream, nightmare, whatever, the big fella had just shut down. Completely. He would not talk - not that he talked on a good day anyway. He would not look at Vincent either - had he done something? The youngest of the Biker Mice had asked himself that question many times. Nothing that he knew about. He'd tried once to ask Modo who Viktor was and his only reward had been a stony silence. Modo had always kept his secrets close, so such a response was not really a surprise. The broad-chested grey Mouse was sensitive - and silent. Some would have called him sullen. But Vincent knew better.

'That was Throttle. Right?' Vincent asked, unsure. This planet was one weird hellhole. Nothing made sense here. Illusion. Deception. Delusion. Manipulation. Those were the only certainties that Vincent was able to sustain. As for the rest…

Modo inhaled and slowly exhaled, finally turning to look at his younger bro.

'I think so. He didn't look good.' His metal fist tightented. His teeth grated. His remaining eye took on a crimson shade. 'They will pay, those insect scum.'

'You know…' Vincent rubbed his shoulder: the flare belt was chafing his stained fur and skin. 'If that is Throttle, if that was a real vision.. whatever…'

'... Then it's a trap.' Modo's voice was a low angry thunder.

'So why are we sittin' here, Modo?' Vincent was up, stretching: sleeping on rocks was not doing wonders for his depleted conditioning, macho Mouse or not. 'Let's go rock em till we drop em!'

Yea, that was the first good idea he'd heard in days, Modo decided. It'd give him something to do instead of bashing his head against the wall over his newly woken grief and guilt for Vic's death.

'Let's go pound em, Vin.'

'They're coming, your friends,' whispered the hateful presence in his brain. 'They're good, you know. I have to give you Mice that. You don't back down.' An approving kind of chuckle made him shiver - half in annoyance, half in despair. Not again! Could these Scorps not leave him alone!

'So, you come to gloat again,' he wheezed, keeping his eyes closed. No point in opening them. He'd only see nothing as usual. 'You're wasting your time, you dried-up insect.'

'You truly believe that?' the Scorpion smirked, smug. 'Don't you want to see your friends again?'

He gasped, despite himself, raising his head. He found himself more alert, still aching but able to move more freely. They'd been giving him something after 'therapy' sessions. He did not resist when they'd poured liquids down his throat. Not because he did not want to but because he was not able to. Clearly they wanted him to remain somewhat 'healthy'.

'A real health freak…' He remembered Charlie saying that. It brought a small smile to his face. A smile which died soon: he could not remember her face for some reason. That worried him. A lot. If he forgot what his friends looked like…

'I can show you what they are doing right this moment,' the seductive voice offered. It seemed to have come right near his ear. He inhaled sharply, raising one fist as if to ward it off. 'Watch…'

He opened his mouth to protest but found himself unable to. Instead it felt as if some door had opened in his mind. He gasped, staring fixedly in front of him at…

… Vinnie kicking an eye in as lobster-like claws tried to close on him. The shiny black creature screeched - a piercing sound that cut at his ears - and staggered. His white-furred bro wasted no time on self-congratulation (he was not out of danger yet) but skimmed up towards the very tip of the tail where with one flare he burned off the stinger. The wounded Scorpion leapt into the air, tail lashing but Vincent was already off and on to another, brighter-coloured specimen. This one was bigger but the white Mouse took him head on without hesitation. That was pure Vinnie: when there was mortal danger he became focused, his motions so precise that it was hard to believe that the Motormouth of Mars and Vincent the Freedom Fighter were one and the same Mouse. His younger bro was not as shallow as he might come across on first impression. He knew that. Modo knew that. And he knew that Charlie knew that too.

Speaking of his other bro, Modo had three Scorps on him, smoking exoskeletons indicating that his arm cannon was working perfectly well. In fact as Throttle watched, gripped helplessly by this 'vision', the blast of white fire hit one of the ugly creatures right in the eyes, not only blinding it but also knocking it backwards into some of its fellows.

'Yes, Modo!' Throttle could not help it: he pumped the empty air with his fist, grinning. 'The eyes! Go for the eyes!'

As though both had heard him, his two mates concentrated on attacking the cephalothorax and the eyes on top of the Scorpions' flat and tubular bodies. More shrill shrieking that made his teeth ache and his ears throb (but he didn't mind), and then the last two Scorpions turned tail and ran off, leaving behind a smoky reek.

'My my… those are some desperate fellows, don't you think?' the suave voice broke his happy moment. He snarled softly, turning his head towards where he thought the voice was coming from.

'You spineless spider wannabes,' Throttle laughed hoarsely, taunting his Scorpion jailer. 'You have no idea what you just put your claws into. You're all toast.'

'Ah that's the spirit I expected from you,' the Scorpion hissed in admiration. 'But you see, my dear Mouse.' The word 'dear' came out like a soft caress on his senses. His spine tautened. There was something predatory - possessive - in that one word. 'My dear Martian Mouse, it is too late… for them… and for you.'

'What are you talking about?' he snapped, half rising from his spot near the wall.

'I control you, Mouse.' The voice whispered deliciously. It sank lower. 'Your actions… your thoughts… all mine… YOU ARE MINE.'

Something seemed to snap inside him, some part of him detached. He crumpled to the floor, groaning, fighting this sudden alien emptiness. An emptiness that was not him, not Throttle. He convulsed, cold slamming into his spine. The frozen hard ice of fear, primeval fear, instinctual imperative to resist, to not let this THING win.

'No,' he ground out from between tightly clenched teeth. 'I. Will. N-n-n-NEVER. Be. Yours.' Each word cost him. Each sound was hard to get out when his own hand was wrapped around his throat squeezing. His body might not be under his control but his mind… he would fight to the end, no matter how bitter it might turn out to be. 'You. Will. NOT. Have. Me.' His breathing was ragged, his heart was trying to leap out of his chest, his damaged body fought while his mind fragmented. He was trying hard to hold pieces of himself together. He had to. He wouldn't - he couldn't - let this Scorpion win.

'Resist all you want,' the detested insect whispered in his head, making his battered skull vibrate. 'If I can make you strangle yourself, I can make you do other less pleasant things.' There was a dark kind of promise, a chilling certitude of power in the soft tone, the treacherous words. 'You will betray your own little self. You have already betrayed your friends. What is one more?'

'Stop talking in riddles, insectoid creep!' He rolled over onto his stomach, wrestling back control of his body, gasping and coughing. 'I didn't betray them!'

'Are you sure? You called for them. You showed them where you are. They are on their way right now.' The tone firmed, beating at his mind, making him believe what it said. 'They plan to rescue you… but instead this spider will get them.' It laughed, long, hard, driving its point home into the very centre of his brain, his mind. 'They will die. And you will watch them die. Slowly. Painfully.' His heart was grabbed and twisted. He screamed, lurching over onto his back despite himself, a distant corner of his tiring mind surprised that he was able to emit any sound at all. 'You are just a trial run, Mouse. Before we get to the rest of you.'

Tumbling and sliding into oblivion, Throttle lashed out with his own fiery defiance, a warning to his bros to stay away, a warning he knew they would not heed…

… because of the Biker Mice Code: you never left a bro behind - even if it meant walking into a fatal, terminal, trap.

Napoleon Brie, the self-proclaimed Plutarkian genius, watched in delight as the brown Mouse fought the mind control of their Scorpion ally. These Scorpions fascinated him. Their methods meshed well with his own thinking. Why hire inept goons like Limburger had done when you could simply invite these super-efficient super-effective Scorpions? Lord Camembert had done the right thing to hand over his Olympic team to be trained and perfected by these experts. The Plutarkian team was raking in medals which meant that the Plutarkian leadership was very happy and generous with their henchmen whose goons they were using.

Even that Martian rodent was coming along quite nicely: he had almost asphyxiated himself. That had been a treat to watch - although Limburger had not looked too pleased. Must be getting soft after all these years on Earth. The longer you knew your enemy, the closer to them you became. This kind of close relationship was inevitable in a way but to actually let it get to you… Well, that was just plain wrong. Perhaps he could use that bit of speculation to his benefit in order to earn favours from the Lord High Chairman.

'I see what you meant,' the Lord High Chairman spoke, thoughtfully chewing a handful of slime worms, the bowl in front of him. His appetite did not seem to be affected by the sight of the tortured Mouse. Few things really could dent his sangfroid. 'Interesting… How long do the effects of this 'therapy' last?'

'Since the patients are healed - most of the way shall we say?' the Scorpion tittered, a sound that Brie found highly enjoyable and Limburger teeth-grating. 'The therapy sessions' effects are cumulative. The bodies and minds of these lucky ones are broken gradually,' the human-looking creature peered into the screen intently. 'Of course if they resist as much as this one… it is more pleasurable.' The female licked her lips (she had them in this form). 'More sensual. With more lasting effects.' Her last words were a hungry whisper which Brie could appreciate. This Mouse was lucky indeed to have such an expert working on him.

Chapter 6

That water he'd drunk must've been somethin' because he was seeing things - or one person, actually.

'Ch-Charlie? Babe? What are you doing here?'

She smiled, melting his heart and his knees and pretty much everything else. That smile floored him every time. She could wipe the floor of her garage with his tail at that point and he wouldn't have protested one little bit.

'Vinnie? Are you alright?' she asked, concerned, her gentle fingers brushing his cheek. He almost took her hand but didn't. 'I've been looking for you guys.' That last bit was somewhat of a letdown: she was not just looking for him alone…

'We uh… we ran into some… turbulence, shall we say?'

Her very expressive eyebrow lifted. He scratched his head - his hands itched to smooth out that familiar manifestation of disbelieving annoyance.

'Just where are you guys?'

'Honestly? No idea, babe. We're… somewhere.' That was a hard admission: her best opinion mattered to him.

'But… your bikes…'

'What about them?' He wished he knew what had happened to their rides.

'I found them on I-290, abandoned.'

'The Plutarkian scum didn't take em, eh?' That was interesting: those stinking fish really wanted the bikes. And how were the Scorpions involved in all this?

'No… which is why I assumed you were still on Earth but…'

'Listen, Charlie-babe,' he took her elbow, steering her into the garden. The fact that they were walking among Earth greenery did not strike him as strange. This was a dream, right? Wasn't it? He shook off the bothersome warning itch at the back of his mind. 'I'll tell you…. We ain't on Earth, sweetheart.'

She stopped and gaped. 'You're not?' Her voice shook a bit.

'No… it seems this place is where Scorpions live.'

'Scorpions!?' Her entire body shivered, shimmered really. Her revulsion was clear to see in her grimace.

'Don't worry, baby-cakes. We gave em a beating.' He smirked, buffed his nails on his chest in unconcern. 'Fried Scorps for lunch.'

'Ew… you ate them?'

'Well…' he laughed a little. He loved shocking her. 'Since there wasn't anything else…'

'When was the last time you ate? Truly?' There was clear concern in her green eyes that looked up at him.

Now that he thought about it… it had been a long time, hadn't it? They had found water - with a funny taste. Was that why he was hallucinating? Was this a hallucination?

'Listen, Charlie… don't come here. Wherever this is, just don't.' He took her by the upper arms. 'This place is way too dangerous for you.'

'But..' she began the inevitable protest and he shushed her with a kiss.

'Look after the bikes, babe…' His fingers touched her soft hair. 'Please…'

'Vinnie!'...

He started awake, his face stinging. Instinctively his hand went to touch the hurting part.

'What?'

'Vinman, what you think you're doing? You almost walked off a cliff!' Modo's face resolved itself into a mask of worry and anger.

'I… what?' Vincent sat up, feeling every bruise. 'You been beating up on me, bro?'

'You was walkin', Vin,' Modo repeated, kneeling, shoulders hunched. 'I barely managed to hold you back.' There was a world of hurt in his face, something Vincent had rarely seen. The big fella rubbed his hands together, clearly upset. 'I don't wanna lose you too.'

Vincent did not know if he was talking about Throttle or that Vic guy. Modo still would not even mention that dream (if that's what it had been) and Vincent didn't ask anymore.

'I think that water, bro, had some special ingredients,' the white Mouse said, brushing the back of his head. 'I saw Charlie…'

Modo gave him a sharp look. He had seen his brother. Vincent had seen Charlie.

'This is voodoo, bro,' he rumbled, his fur bristling. He looked off into the distance, disgusted. 'They're messing with our heads.'

It took Vincent a moment to catch what his oldest friend was getting at. Modo thought deep but did not always share his thinking, only his conclusions.

'You mean the Scorps are playing with our heads?' he asked, just to confirm. His thoughts were still a little muddled - either from Modo's helping hand or the dream vision thing. It had been so REAL though!

'Yea, and I don't like it. That aint fair.'

'Ha! Fair? Take a good look at em Scorps, bro! Fair and Scorps is one hell of an oxymoron.'

'Oh we've been numskulls.' Modo shook his head in disdain.

'Mine sure feels numb.' Vincent moved his jaw about. 'I like male bonding... But…'

Modo stood up, extended a hand to him.

'Let's move on, Vin. We have a long way to go.'

'Where ARE we going, Modo?' Vincent asked, dusting himself off. They had been following the trail left by the retreating wounded Scorpions - and those that were keeping a close watch on them. That last fact they had discovered two days ago during Vincent's turn at watch. He had been sitting staring out into the night when he'd heard a skittering sound and then rocks moving. His sensitive ears picked up the now familiar hissing of the Scorpions. Since the two mice had no fire, they too could blend in with the night and hear the insects. Vincent had smiled to himself. It seemed the two of them were VIPs: Very Important Prey.

'Wherever they are leading us,' Modo replied, sighing.

'I hate being led,' Vincent remarked, grimacing.

'Well, we had our turn at being the lead dancer. Now it's theirs,' Modo reasoned.

'Hmph,' Vincent huffed. 'This is like dancing in the dark.'

'We have nothing to light, Vin.' The grey Mouse turned to look at him. 'And if that was Throttle…'

Well, that was the rub, wasn't it? They still were not sure if what they had seen was genuine. What if that whole vision was a lie - like Brie had done with the tapes he'd sent back to Mars that one time?

'Let's just say it was. So, what do we do? These bozos can send out a dozen Scorps to catch us, an equal number to track us. They have numbers, bro. These are some damn long odds…'

Modo couldn't help it. He gaped at his younger friend. His ears must be deceiving him. Vincent talking about prudence. Vincent actually talking sense!

'That water must've really had somethin' special…' His voice was softly wondering. 'Are you sure you're Vincent and not some voodoo doppelganger?'

'After your wallopin', I think you'd be the one to know best, bro.' Vincent flashed him a cheeky grin. Modo shook his head: his bro's optimistic ego couldn't be dented. He'd be making jokes even if all the universe were going to hell.

'And here I was gonna ask you about your plan, Vin Van Wary.'

'Haha. Very funny,' Vincent replied sarcastically. 'Look at it this way,' he offered conspiratorially, leaning in, one hand on Modo's shoulder. 'They think they are the hunters and us the prey, right?' Modo nodded, and Vincent held up one finger. 'But actually WE are hunting THEM - we are BEHIND them. Dig it, bro? WE are the hunters.'

The reasoning was specious but the bigger Mouse wasn't going to argue. Right now he would take all the optimism he was offered.

'The human female - the white Mouse has feelings for her.' The Scorpion operative smiled. 'That is useful information. An additional lure to bring him and his friend here.' He looked around at the other agents in the boardroom. 'I propose that we should bring her here. Her actual presence would be even better bait for our prey.'

There were nods around the oval table. Today the anthropomorphic forms prevailed among those present. Easier to conduct discussions. This meeting was designed to gauge the opinions of his supporters and opponents, some of whom were in this room. For now the innocuous proposition did not seem to be eliciting any antagonism.

'Are there any volunteers to execute Operation Snatch?'

There was a short-lived silence as the Scorpion operatives exchanged glances. Carrying out this assignment successfully would assure promotions for the individuals involved. Not being successful was not an option: failure in this organization was published severely. As in death penalty - and not a pleasant quick death either. The penalty for incompetence was a stint with the medical corps: their therapy sessions were designed to remind one of one's less than stellar performance in subtle ways. Death became a release. In short, missions such as this were one sure way of getting rid of one's dangerous opponents - especially if the mission was rigged for fiasco. Which often it was.

Hence the silent scrutiny: who would put their stings on the line?

'For this operation I would need three agents, working as a team. Like these Mice do.'

Working as a team: now that was a dangerous idea. His allies would work together to bring the human female here. His opponents too - simply to spite his face. But a mixed team of allies and enemies… Well, that was the rub, the trigger of failure. To be promoted one had to work with friends and enemies. Such were the rules of the power game here. However, should there be a numerical advantage for his allies or his enemies? Two for him and one against? Or one for him and two against? All of them were aware of the rules, of what was expected, what he wanted.

'I know that all of you in this room are quite capable, quite experienced, operatives. I would not have brought you together here otherwise.'

His words were filled with irony: inexperienced agents were dead ones. But flattery never hurt.

'You all have exemplary records of service.' His eyes were still friendly. 'Why do we not vote?'

There was a hushed stir. Voting was rare. It usually occurred when the question under discussion had reached an impasse and so numbers were called for. Stalemates were not a regular occurrence given the deadliness of the Scorpions attending any meeting. Most of the time difficult issues were resolved more or less 'peacefully'.

Snapping his fingers the commander of the Scorpion Secret Service summoned a lesser younger Scorpion operative who was also in humanoid form today and whispered in his ear. Bowing, the underling sashayed out and returned with a locked box, covered with a stylised gold Scorpion, the official seal of the Commander of the SSS. The other operatives watched avidly and coldly as the box was deposited gingerly and reverently in front of their chief (who could become an un-chief should his enemies so wish). After one knowing glance around at his engaged eager agents, the Commander lifted the lid and extracted a smaller box inside which were stacked the small chips into which the vote would be transmitted mentally by the Scorpions, indicating their choice while preserving secrecy and privacy.

'Choose your best friend or worst enemy,' the Commander advised passin the box to the underling to distribute the voting chips. They would change colour once a vote was registered and could not be altered.

'Let us begin.'

Chapter 7

'Finally some greenery,' Modo observed, shaking his head and scanning their new surroundings in the midday light of the yellow-red sun of this place. 'I was starting to think we were back on Mars - after the Plutarkians had dug it up.'

Vincent agreed. All that unrelieved rock and sand had started to grate on him. It was depressing really.

'So, any brilliant plan to get us inside the city over there?' He nodded his head at the shimmering roofs and gleaming metal buildings.

Modo scratched his cheek, flaking away dirt and grit. They had not had a proper wash for what felt like months. His fur was matted in places and glued together by muck they'd waded through. Vincent actually looked worse. His formerly gleaming white fur was now grey. They could almost be brothers… Well, they were…

'I say we scope out the city first. We're in unknown territory, Vin.'

'We don't exactly fit in with the locals, bro. We can't just saunter in,' Vincent objected, unsuccessfully trying to clean his tail somewhat. He was not in the best of moods: his pride and joy, his studly bod, was all smeared. He was starting to smell too - as was Modo. This whole living on the run thing was gettin' rancid - and boring, quite honestly.

And the visions, dreams, whatever they were, were not helping his own or Modo's mood. There was something very wrong with those nighttime apparitions. All his instincts were yelling at him about the impossibility of Charlie communicating over long distances. At least he assumed that they were nowhere near the Solar System.

'If the smell won't give us away…. Our looks will,' he pressed his point home, giving up on his tail with a disgusted sigh. When they got back to Earth, he was going to lock himself in Charlie's shower till every hair of his fur was spotless, he promised himself. the IF of their return did not cross his mind.

'We can't just walk up to any Scorpion and ask them for their clothes, Vin,' Modo objected, resting his elbows on his knees. He really was not well: the running and fighting on an empty stomach were taking their toll, not to mention his slowly healing leg. His eye had lost its brilliance. The corners of his mouth were drooping. The gold of his earrings was dull. He was thinner too.

'Who said anything about askin', bro? We're on enemy turf. We'll just take, civilized rules be damned.' The white Mouse's face darkened. 'Especially after what they've done to Throttle.'

'If those visions are true…' Modo cautioned, flinching a little bit.

The dreams were getting more intense now - not more frequent but what they contained tore at the two of them, made them angry. Perhaps that was the purpose: to make them so furious that they'd lose all sense. However, they were soldiers. They'd survived the ruin of their planet. They were not about to start running from dreams or letting those images drive them mad. The Scorpions were making a bit mistake if they thought the Biker Mice from Mars were pushovers like little kids.

'We won't help Throttle by sitting here, bro.' Vincent hunkered down under the thick tree trunk he'd been leaning against. 'I say let's wait for nightfall, then sneak in.'

Modo smiled at him, remembering that time in Detroit when Charlie had given Vincent the sharp edge of her tongue over rescuing her old pal Jack McCyber.

'Sneak indeed…'

Vincent winked at him. That was the first smile he'd seen on the big fella's face in a week.

'This place smells funny,' Modo remarked, sniffing the nighttime air of this very weird city which looked like no city he knew of on Earth or Mars. This place had no streets as they would define such things. No street signs to tell you where you were. No streetlights. Instead the moon provided the nightly illumination. That was one powerful moon - and the sun too since the former reflected the light of the latter. There were no highways either. It all was just so… bizarre.

'Nothing can smell worse than Plutark,' Vincent disagreed. This uncanny locality had a sort of a dry empty smell to it. It did not make him gag like any place Plutarkian would have. It did not want to make him vomit and trash it. He only wished to find his bro and get the hell outta dodge.

'Mmm…' Modo hummed, his eye restlessly observing the rooftops of the neighbouring buildings. His sixth sense was itching. He would have scratched himself but… 'We haven't seen anyone. Nothing is stirring. It's like this city is empty.'

'Spooky,' Vincent remarked, straining his ears for any sound out of the ordinary. Only there was nothing extraordinary. Just a silent apparently empty bunch of buildings. Just what in blazes was happening here?

'They're here,' the scout reported quietly, turning towards his leader. 'In the northern part of the city.'

'Good.' The dark-clad Scorpion Leader addressed his team. 'Encircle them. Move in. Capture them. Don't allow them to fight you. According to the Plutarkian Limburger, they are old hands at martial arts. Be ready for anything. But most importantly: take them alive, don't hurt them more than necessary.'

His orders were not to be disobeyed - upon pain of instant death. Since his team valued their exoskeletons and their lives, they would do as told. Not only their lives but their promotions depended on exact execution of their task.

'Hey, bro! Di'ya see that?' Modo whispered, ducking back around the corner of a narrow building. 'What was that thing?'

Vincent shook his head. How he wished he had his laser gun now. He'd have blasted that creature to kingdom come.

'I think the hunt's just turned, bro,' he remarked, twisting his head to look behind them down the two-lane alley. 'He's hunting us.'

'He can't be alone.'

'He isn't,' Vincent growled, cracking his knuckles and rolling his stiffened shoulders. Finally a fight, mano-a-mano. Just the way he liked it. 'Come on, you damn bug. Warm me up.'

Modo glanced over his bro's shoulder and saw two creepy creatures, neither Scorpion nor bipedal slinking down the alleyway, their mouth parts clicking hungrily. His eye lit up. This once he was in total accord with Vincent: a knuckle fight is what he needed too, if only to vent all his frustrations.

A soft whirr of something passing close by his face made him turn around, back to back with Vincent (just like old times on Mars). In the mouth of the alley were three more of those creeps with a net. A net! Really! He wasn't no dumb fish! He laughed, firing off two blasts which passed through the net. He didn't want to destroy it. He just wanted to make those idiots jump a little.

They did. Leaping aside they cast the net at him. It looked heavy - was it metallic? It was shiny - metal or silk? Not that it mattered. He grabbed Vincent and pushed him towards the opposite wall, flattening himself against it too. The heavy mesh net missed them both by inches…

… but the hair-thin poison missiles didn't.

Clapping his hand to his neck Modo roared in rage even as his body was paralysed by the fast-acting solution the needle injected into his body. His legs buckled and he fell hard against Vincent, who was clawing at his neck trying to get the paralyzing missile out and only digging it in deeper.

'B-bro?' Modo croaked, his vision darkening fast. His tongue barely moved forming that one syllable. Shadows fell over him as the Scorpion squad approached them carefully, hissing between themselves. He would have liked to lash out but even his bionic arm was useless now. He could not command it, could not control it. He was helpless - like that time in Karbunkle's lab. A helpless lab Mouse…

Chapter 8

Limburger drummed his fingers on the smooth metal tabletop. Enough was enough. Something had to be done about that insane psycho Brie. His behaviour was completely out of bounds. It was as if he had forgotten their accord. His Doom Rangers were challenging his own goons. BRIE was challenging HIM in public!

His fist smacked the table in irritation. There had to be away to neutralize Brie and ensure his own ascendant star once more. Lord Camembert was giving him those nasty looks again: Brie must have told him something compromising. That did not bode well for his future career.

But how to spike Brie's wheel?

The dark-coloured door of his office opened with a soft hiss and a Scorpion floated in, something in its hands. Limburger put on a neutral, disinterested expression.

'Come in, please,' he invited, a little sarcastically. These Scorpions really had few manners. Well, they WERE spies…

'These are for you, Mr. Limburger,' the Scorpion secretary deposited a scorpion-shaped basket on to the table. Limburger glanced at it, then at the servitor.

'What is the meaning of this?' he asked, keeping his voice polite as curiosity and a certain revulsion snaked their way down his spine. Scorpions giving out gifts? What's next? A Scorpion candy party?

'My Commander is very much pleased with the information you provided about those Biker Mice, Mr. Limburger. It has helped him to capture them.'

For a split second, Limburger simply stared.

Then his face broke out into one of those unctuous smiles that he reserved for those superiors that he despised.

'Oh, I am ever so glad to have been of some little assistance. Please convey my gratitude to your Commander for this most generous gift.' Whatever it was he would open it later. He had no idea what kinds of gifts Scorpions considered 'safe'. 'Did I hear you correctly? Your Commander has been successful in hunting down those wretched rodents?'

'Yes,' the Scorpion secretary nodded its insectoid head on a humanoid body - a creepy combination really. How could it look at itself in a mirror? Did it even? 'They were seized in a northern part of the city. No doubt trying to sneak in and free their comrade.'

'Indeed. As to that, I hope you did not place them all in the same cell…' he remarked, taking a couple of steps around the table and glancing out of the window at the lightening day. 'They are best friends, They read each other's minds. They are capable of anything as a unit, as a team… even, dare I say it, a prison break…'

'Our security measures are more than enough to ensure that they will stay put, Mr. Limburger,' the Scorpion reproved him.

The obese Plutarkian bit his lip, turning his back on the Scorpion underling. His fishing for useful information had not succeeded. No matter. He'd find out another way. Perhaps there was a way of derailing Brie.

'While I myself am no friend to these nefarious rodents, I have received intelligence that there are some who would attempt to break them out.'

A moment's silence and then soft hissing that it took Limburger a minute to understand as laughter. Apparently these relatives of arachnids had a sense of humour.

'Truly?' the insect agent remarked after gaining control of its mirth. 'That would be insanity. Who would be mad enough to even conceive of such a thing?'

'Who indeed?' Limburger murmured, chuckling and half-turning from the agent to the window.

The worm had been taken, hook, line, and sinker.

Modo's head was pounding hard. He rubbed the back of it with his large hand.

'O man…'

He spat: there was some disgusting taste in his mouth. What had crawled in there and died?

He opened his eye wide, shook his aching head, and little by little sat up.

'Vin?' he called out into the total darkness. 'You ok, buddy?' His voice came out rough, uneven. He worked his throat to clear it. 'Vin? Talk to me.'

There was a soft moan to his right.

'O what the hell….?' Vincent sounded confused.

'This don't look like no hellhole I ever saw,' Modo observed, waving his hand in front of his face. He knew his hand was moving only because of its connection to the rest of him. He was not able to see squat. Pitch black did not describe this.

A whisper of a sound next to him.

'O bummer…' Vincent hissed as if in pain. His mouth was dry as dust. 'Who turned off the light….'

'Dunno but… I can make some.'

Without waiting for a reply, he lifted his bionic arm and fired off two blasts which struck the ceiling and bounced off, heating up the ceiling and wall tiles. He had not adjusted the setting for a less heated laser blast. Their eyes were seared by the sudden flash of white light. They had to squint and let a few moments pass in adapting to the unexpected rush of light sensations on their retinas.

And when their vision did resolve itself…

'THROTTLE?!' Vincent croaked, jaw dropping and eyes now saucer size.

'Bro!' Modo's equally surprised, stunned, exclamation came almost at the same time.

What greeted them on the other side of the cell was indeed their friend, their leader, curled up into a shivering ball of ache. Modo saw more scars and lacerations and bruising on him than he'd ever seen before. How was Throttle even able to function?

Vincent was already scuttling across the metal floor - which was spotted in places with what Modo knew was blood (o those Scorps were gonna pay for this!) and other less salutary things - his hand put out to take Throttle's elbow.

'Throttle? Bro? Talk to us,' Vincent pleaded, his normally loud voice hushed in shock, plain and simple. 'It's me Vinnie…' He glanced uncertainly behind him at Modo, who came to a stop on his knees, hovering beside him. 'The big fella is here too…' He looked so young just now that Modo had to swallow hard: his expression of utter disbelief reminded him of Vic too much.

Throttle could not believe his ears. Must be dreaming. Right?... Then hands were helping him sit up, his body flinching - but these were the furry hands of his two bros - bros who'd never leave him behind.

'V-Vin…' he whispered, sandwiched between two warm solid Martian macho Mice bodies. He felt better already. 'W… How….' He sounded incoherent, breathing hard from just being sat up (or was it set up?) but they seemed to understand.

'We came a-lookin', bro,' Vincent informed him, attempting pretty hard NOT to let his shock drip into his voice. Modo did not blame him, neither did Throttle. He must look a total wreck of a Mouse. 'You didn't leave an address so we had to ask those insectoid bozos to point us in the right direction.'

There were tears on Throttle's face, and Modo for one was not sure if that was just from the sudden lighting up of this cell.

'So, we… we…' Damn, it was hard to speak properly given the damage done to his body. 'Break out?'

'Not a bad suggestion, bro.' Modo scratched his chin. He better not have fleas, not now. 'Plan?' That would give them something to think and talk about besides the sad state of their bro's health.

'Excuse me, gents.' Vincent had been scanning their metal cell (looking anywhere but at Throttle). 'But does anyone see a door?'

"There is no door to your cell,'' Throttle whispered, eyes closing, his hands gripping his knees hard, a cold dread making him shiver.

'What was that, bro?' Modo cocked one ear. 'No door here?'

Throttle's head bounced side to side.

'No… no door…' He clamped his mouth shut as if biting down on some memory he found painful, unpleasant.

'If Modo the Divine can make light, then what is a simple door?'

Throttle couldn't help it: he snorted, mouth curving up, laughter being a bit difficult just now. Modo rolled his one eye: trust Vincent to break the tension, his way of dealing with a shocking situation.

'Modo the Divine…'

'I have a way with words right?' Vincent smiled irreverently at his grey-furred friend.

'You have too many words. They don't fit in your mouth, bro.' Modo grinned at him.

'That's why I share them, big fella. Like the good friend that I am.'

Ah, twas good (soothing, really) to hear his bros' banter again. It meant all was right with the world now. Well, almost. They still needed some scheme to extricate themselves from this place.

'So uh.. Any BRIGHT ideas?' he asked in a breathy voice.

'Well, you divinityship?' Vincent looked over at Modo.

'Divinity-what? Man… you must be running out of words.' Modo nudged him playfully.

'You swept em all up, bro, with those divine whiskers of yours,' Vincent nudged him in turn, eyes glinting with merriment.

'Bros… a little focus here..' Throttle rolled his head, looking from one to the other of his bros, his family - the only one he had left now. 'I am waiting for you two divinities to use your godly powers to effect our escape.' Talking was easier now that he'd limbered up his little-used vocal cords. That and the presence of his friends gave him hope: this wasn't the first time they'd been in an impossible spot.

Vincent scratched his ear.

'Well, I defer to my more puissant elder here…'

'Who you calling old, you mouseling?' Modo rumbled at him, not really angry but just playing along.

'Puissant, Vincent? That's a mouthful.' Throttle was genuinely surprised. Had Vincent been reading behind their backs (and not Biker Babes from Baltimore either)?

'Did I say 'old'?' Vincent waved his hand dismissively. 'No, I meant venerable.'

Modo harrumphed.

'You…'

'My my, Vincent, you been getting an education while we weren't looking?' Throttle wondered, one eyebrow raised.

'He HAS been seeing a lot of Charlie, you know,' Modo suggested, giving his younger bro a sly wink and having the satisfaction of watching Vincent blush. 'I think it's rubbing off…'

Vincent shook his head as his friends chuckled at their own witticisms.

'O you're jealous,' he said crossly - and then had to catch Throttle before the brown-furred Mouse's head hit the floor. 'Whoa, bro!'

'So… much… ex… cite… ment…' Throttle breathed, dizzy. He'd almost forgotten that his bruised body was not quite up to snuff. 'Need… rest…'

'No prob, bro,' Modo assured him, squeezing his arm which felt thinner. Throttle had lost weight. He looked and felt hollow somehow. Like he'd drift away on a puff of wind. 'We'll be here.'

As Throttle sank away into oblivion, his two friends stared at each other over his supine form with only one question on their minds: how the hell were they going to get out of this?

Chapter 9

'I would suggest you do as you're told,' the humanoid insect buzzed less than emotionally, its dead cold eyes glancing from one Mouse to the other without any sort of care, interest, or concern. 'Otherwise, your friend over there will be subject to another 'therapy' session.' Its unconcern was so strong that had it been a missile it'd have knocked them across the cell, probably further.

The two tall Mice exchanged resigned hard looks. They remembered the last time they'd refused to follow the insectoid creep's orders. Throttle had disappeared - only to be returned three quarters unalive. They'd had to work hard and fast to keep him from sinking completely: they'd had to remember all those practical battlefield med skills, the ones that were useful in the middle of a shitstorm. And this one was fucker of a real-ass shitstorm.

'Guys.' Throttle's voice was a soft whisper with a rattle at the end of it. He was still not quite out of it - and not getting better either. 'Go… Don't… Don't worry…. About me.'

That was the one thing they couldn't do. Not worrying was not on the radar. They had to work out some plan quickly, before their minds turned traitor completely. These days (at least they both hoped they were only days, not weeks) the dreams, visions (illusions?) kept getting more realistic, more disturbing. Vincent was sure that he had seen Charlie being snatched from the streets of Chicago by the Scorpion operatives. Modo was equally certain that his dead brother Viktor was among the living.

And now added to that were the Games. The Games that made what had happened to them in the Pits look like Sunday kiddie sandbox play. The kinds of Games that tested their fighting abilities, their stamina, their resilience. The deadly no holds barred kind of Games where survival was their only option - if they ever hoped to get out of here alive. The kind of Games where the survival of the fittest mind was as vital as that of the fittest body. Because sometimes, it was not other athletes they were fighting but illusions out of their own past and present. Vincent had already faced 'Charlie' (more than once), who had turned out to be a shapeshifting Scorpion. Modo had watched his younger fellow Freedom Fighter go from shocked surprise of an innocent child to the sangfroid of the hard nosed scrapper he'd been on Mars. That merry gleam of goofiness in his eyes had been replaced by a flat deadly stare of the seasoned soldier that he was.

And Modo had begun to wonder: just how had the Scorpions found out about Charlie? About their fighting prowess? About their past? The single answer to these questions did not please him. Apparently someone had ratted on them - and he had a rather good idea who that may have been. If he ever got his hands on that stinking motherfucker of an obese Plutarkian, he was going to make mincemeat out of him!

At least he was not facing 'Charlie' this time.

Small mercies but what the hell… he was gonna take 'em.

Grabbing a handful of the gritty coarse sand of the arena he flung it with crisp precision into the single eye of his monstrous opponent, distracting it enough for the tip of his boot to smash into its oversized ear on the side of its misshapen head. Stunned, the thing reeled - towards Modo, who was ready with the ultra-sharp metal knife he'd taken off an already dead monstrosity that bled out an amber-coloured ocher instead of blood. One almost gentle swipe of the thinner than razor blade, and another corpse was added to the growing tally. The two of them were an army unto themselves…

Thin strong arms wrapped around him from behind, pinning his. Without even thinking about it, he reverse-headbutted the whatever it was - assuming it had a head to butt, that is, which was not a certainty since some of their opponents had not had heads in the strict sense of the word. This time his hunch was right on. There was a sharp squeal of pain and then the stranglehold loosened up enough for him to slip through, turn around, and smash his cestus-reinforced fist right smack into the middle of the thing's face. Bone cracked, gave, and the ugly-ass critter dropped like a stone, with a soft puff of sand. It was dead before it hit the ground - bone driven straight into its brain.

'That the best you got, you useless scorch-tails?' Vincent taunted the watching Scorpion dignitaries, among whom he saw the very familiar obese form of Limburger and the dimwit Brie from Detroit. Oh, how his hands itched to pound those two into dust!

Dry laughter rang around the arena, a note of approval in it. Really irritating…

'O no, Mouse,' the sibilant whisper ruffled his mind. 'These were just appetizers… to share…' One part of the arena floor rose up, revealing a large dark cavity.

'O mama,' Modo muttered beside him. 'I don't like the looks of that.'

Neither did Vincent. Dark holes usually meant more trouble, bigger problems, meaner enemies. The white Mouse did not like it - he loved challenges like this. He lived for such exhilaration. His adrenaline shot way off his Rush-meter as the underbelly of the arena revealed its enormous hideous gift: two spiders, sixteen legs between them, hairy, multiple eyes glinting flatly, with four armed riders on each who held bazookas and laser rifles. Now this was gonna be a real fight!

'We're kinda underdressed for this party, bro,' Modo murmured, tensing for a moment. Giant spiders with nasty riders were not his area of expertise. Not that he was afraid - such things as fear had ceased to matter to him a long time ago.

'Well then let's hit the dance floor, bro,' Vincent replied, all of his Martian Mouse warrior senses at their fullest gauge: this was gonna be real fun! 'Undress em!'

'That's the kind of jam I like!' Modo grinned, a hard twist of his lips, his remaining eye flaring red. 'Sweet and deadly!'

Limburger could have told them how this would end. But he didn't. The Scorpions were not the best of listeners and he was not going to volunteer information that they didn't ask for. Let them find out for themselves just what these Mice were truly capable of. They made do with what was at hand. They were hard practical realists. They had survived a major destructive war on their planet. They had even escaped Dr. Karbunkle and his experiments. They unquestionably were unpredictable - which in a perverse way made them predictable: one knew to expect surprises which one could not possibly plan for.

Limburger had seen it all before.

And kept silent.

He would watch and bide his time.

Because he had a plan.

A plan to put the Biker Mice forever in his debt.

'No guns.'

'No bikes.'

The two Martian heroes smirked hard at each other, fur bristling, and their minds just tingling in anticipation. This was going to be one hell of a rousing party!

'No problem.'

'Cover me, bro,' Vincent threw over his shoulder as he made for the concrete wall of the arena. He had a daring plan, a dangerous plan - a Vincent Van Spiderhunter kind of plan guaranteed to make things interesting - and combustible.

Modo nodded grimly as he started firing at the lead spider's eyes to distract it from the white mouse who was picking up speed approaching the wall - and running along it to gain height. He leapt off near the top, flares already lit. With a mocking laugh he threw them at the spider riders whose rifles were less than effective against a moving target that never stood still. The flares scorched the spider's back, igniting the hair. The spider let out a low screech and twisted a little bit - which allowed Modo's blast to hit one of the riders square in the chest and blow him down off the spider's back. One down, three to go, and Vincent had things well in hand. He'd already kicked one of the remaining nasties in the head and stolen the laser rifle.

'Haha! Eat dirt!' he howled gleefully, unleashing the lasers point blank. Three smoked nasties dropped to the sand to be squished by the now rampaging spider. Vincent used the 'borrowed' laser rifle to set more of the spider hair on fire. Killing it would be no fun - let it smash and crash this arena first. Maybe it would even squash Limburger and Brie - but perhaps that was too much to hope for. O well…

'One dine-in. One to go,' Modo muttered just evading the laser blast from the second spider riders. From one knee, he fired off a few reply bursts from his bionic arm, not the highest setting but just enough to annoy those spider riding scum. That served as adequate distraction for Vincent to let them know of his own presence.

'Hi fellas!'

More laser sizzles. More maddened spider on fire. More smoked snacks.

'Bye fellas!'

Both burning now, shrieking in pain and discomfort, the two spiders collided, waving their mandibles and legs. There were dry snaps as the tangled limbs began to crack. The spiders reeled apart and then came back together - like two drunks trying to find support after having one too many shots of tequila.

The two mice, ocher-covered, breathing hard but still alert for unexpected surprises, watched from a safer distance, the ground shaking under them.

'You gotta admit,' Vincent remarked, wiping his grimy mask (good thing it did not stain or scratch at all). 'The difficulty level this time was impressive.'

'Yeah,' Modo agreed. 'It keeps getting more difficult.'

'Like a video game.'

'Only this video game ain't over.'

''Cuz we aint dead!' Vincent's smile combined rapture and hardcore relentlessness. He was a wild child, the proof being not so much in the pudding but in his combative flair and revelling.

'How many lives do you figure we still have?'

'Ask the cats.' Modo pointed at the gates on the far end, beyond the smoking hulks of the dead spiders, from which now issued out cat-like creatures that he was sure were shapeshifting Scorpions. There was a certain lack of truly feline movement that gave the insects away. They did not quite fit into the feline form - or they had not bothered to correct that little glitch.

Vincent flexed his fingers, grimly happy.

'Alright, the party continues,' he practically crooned.

Modo rolled his shoulders. He still had some fight left in him - he simply did not revel in it the way Vinman did.

'Biker Mice,' the leading cat-like creature spoke. It was not purring like a cat, nor hissing like a Scorpion. It was a teeth-grating combination of the two. 'Once again you triumph.' It sounded disappointed, the usual reaction of their enemies to them not dying. It was almost becoming comical.

'O mama, sounds like another level of difficulty is coming up,' Modo shook his head.

'Like extra hard Scorpion perhaps?' Vincent it seemed was eager for more action. He had one hell of a party drive.

The cats slunk closer, eyes flat and hungry-looking. Vincent really wanted to sneeze - his cat allergies were coming out even though these were not real cats. His body did not seem to care for that though: a cat was a cat was a cat. He clamped his teeth shut. He was not going to give them the satisfaction of watching him snuffle - he had a hero status to maintain, even here. They had to keep on thinking that neither he nor his bros were expendable, weak. Otherwise they'd never make it out of here.

'I trust you enjoyed watching your friends, eh, Mouse?' that same detested whisper came from close to his ear. He did not snarl, much as he wanted to. Control. He had to maintain control. These insectoid scum were good at exploiting weaknesses and he was not about to give them any more. They already knew too much about him and his bros, no doubt from that cheesy bastard Limburger. That one had it coming to him big time - once they broke out of here.

'What do you think should be done now?'

A vague question that disquieted him. Done with them? Or done to them? These riddles were starting to frankly irritate him.

'Their performance was masterful, gold caliber,' the Scorpion went on, the sibilant spikes of its voice driving deep into his skull. 'Maybe they deserve a rest, a break… what do you think, my brave Martian hero?' Its tone had sunk lower, almost caressing his spine. The last word sounded like an insult, a mockery - deliberately so, he was pretty certain. A provocation - only he was past all provoking now. He was a Martian Mouse. He was cunning…

'You pathetic stinking stinging reptile, us Martian macho Mice are not gold caliber.' His voice was a low grinding growl. 'We're platinum grade. Get it, moronic insect?'

The Scorpion giggled, admiring the pluck of these Mice. They were most delectable. Keeping them alive definitely made better sense - and better entertainment.

'O very good, Mouse,' it purred admiringly. 'Very good.' Its regard returned to the screen where the two Martian Mice faced off against the 'cats'. It seemed to think for a moment. 'Ask and you shall receive.' There was a sweetly decisive tone to its words. You will get your platinum grade…'

Chapter 10

'Think on it, dear rodentia.'

The three Mice stared at each other as Limburger's voice died away.

'Excuse me…' Vincent went first.

'..But was that…" Modo picked up.

'...The Big Cheese?' Throttle finished.

'And did he…' Vincent continued.

'...Just offer us…' Modo cut in.

'...A way out?' Throttle closed.

'Just what stinkin game is he playing now?' Modo added grimly. That disgustingly fat Plutarkian lackey was starting to really annoy him - but not worry him as much as the Scorpions, who were much more deadly and cold-blooded than any fish.

'He mentioned Brie and his Doom Rangers,' Throttle remarked, leaning back against the wall. This was one of his better days - after Scorpion 'medical treatment', that is. That made him suspicious. His health clearly was important to them - right before they walked all over him once more. So something was up. And he didn't think it boded well for him - for all of them.

'Something about killing us…' Vincent muttered, rubbing his knuckles with the all-too-familiar expectant gleam of adrenaline in his eyes.

'Why would that stinkin fish warn us about that insane wacko?' Modo wanted to know. That really bothered him. 'Limburger ain't no philanthropist.'

'No… He ain't from Philly…'

'No brotherly love lost there,' Throttle chuckled, scratching his chin. 'They are rivals. Always trying to get one up on each other.'

Modo shifted his position, tucking one leg in. The cold floor was not exactly made for mouse-comfort, and his bruised body was not in top shape just now.

'O those dirty Plutarkians!' Vincent shook his head, one elbow resting on his knee.

'So, the question is,' Throttle brought the discussion back on track. 'Is Limburger trying to use us to get at Brie?'

'That sounds like him,' Modo said in disgust. 'We are being used and abused.'

'I am tempted to take him up on his offer,' Vincent offered. 'Since we don't have any other plan of vacating these premises.'

'Yeah…' Modo sort of agreed, reluctantly. They did need help: that fact was inescapable. Given that they were under almost constant surveillance - discovered thanks to Vincent's restlessness - attempting a breakout on their own would sure as hell land them ALL in those 'therapy' sessions.

'But accepting Limburger….' Modo made a face. 'Really?'

Throttle had been tapping his lip with one finger. He felt more alert, more like the Mouse he'd been before this ordeal. His mind needed tasks, work to do. Work that kept him away from distracting thoughts and worries. Like his bros. Both of them gave him concern just now. Modo had become more silent than usual, his eyes filled with a hidden pain which he didn't share. Vincent's whole body language indicated that there was something bothering him - not their captivity but something else. And his white-furred bro was not telling. And that was not usual Vincent behaviour. Vincent was as different from Modo as day from night.

'We know there is an underhanded ploy behind his offer,' he suggested to his friends. 'We can figure it out once we're out of here. That is priority number one.'

Nods all around: that went without saying. Stuck here they were no use - and slowly going insane. Ending up like Brie was not in their game plan.

'And… I think for once Limburger and us share certain sentiments.'

Three eyes widened, gaping.

'What?!'

'We ain't got nothing in common with that scale-slick!' Modo objected strongly.

'Ah, but did you hear his voice, Modo?' Throttle took off his specs for a moment to massage his eyes. Sometimes these bionic ones chafed - in more ways than one. 'He is not so sure of himself here. Not his turf. Not his kind of villains.' He looked from one to the other of his best buddies. 'He is afraid,' he whispered, leaning in. 'The Scorpions make him uneasy. Really uneasy.'

'That's our leverage, eh?' Vincent's smirk was a nasty one. He really wanted to nail that stinking fish's tail to a wall. If not for him, they'd never have ended up here in the first place.

'I like me some blackmail in the morning,' Modo crooned, his metal fingers squeezing into a fist.

'Then we're agreed.' Throttle held out his hands. With a quick conspiratorial glance at his youngest bro, Modo took one. Vincent, grinning, took the other. All of them shared an unyielding Martian Mouse stare. 'Let there be rock.'

He knew that they would take it. They had no choice at all. Unless they wanted to die, that is. And one thing he knew about the three verminous thorns in his side - suicidal they were not. He would help them and they would help him deal with Brie - not to mention owe him for saving their miserable skins. That was the beauty of his plan: two birds with one stone. Well, correction: one lunatic fish with delusions of grandeur and three heroically-minded mice.

Lawrence Limburger sipped his own mineral water and smiled into the darkness of his room. Let Lord Camembert deal with the Scorpions if he was so minded. Lawrence Limburger wanted no part of that. He'd had enough of the bizarre rituals, the almost-erotic habits, and the disconcerting espionage of their 'allies'. How did those Mice put it? Tailbail? No… cowa… No, that wasn't it…

'Ah… Time to blow this joint…' His chuckle shook his entire obese body. 'Yes, indeed. Time to get explosive.'

So now, for phase two of his plan: setting up Brie..

'WHAT!' Brie screeched, almost salivating in his fury, jumping up and down, his pudgy figure quaking. 'I never…'

'Please, do not try my patience,' the Scorpion operative, in strict police uniform which had never seen dirt, lint, or hair, cut him off coldly. 'Your men were found trying to break into the prisoners' cell. With explosives.'

WIES! ALL WIES!" Brie was bouncing all over the room, like a basketball, his eyes blazing hate, disbelief, and fear, his L's becoming W's. Watching his enemies get worked over by the Scorpions was one thing, a pleasure. Being the object of their 'tender' attentions had never been in his plans. 'It's that useless fatso Limburger! He set me uuuuuup!' he howled, shaking his fists.

'You surely do not expect me to believe that, do you, Mr. Brie?' There was something insidiously cold and mocking in that o-so-polite address. Brie stopped in his tracks. Scorpions had no sense of humour at all. They took everything literally: if they had seen his Doom Rangers, they they had seen his Doom Rangers. The possibility that it had been Limburger's goons did not appear to figure at all.

And now HE, the Genius of Plutark, who had been trying to set up Limburger, had been one-upped by that despicable talentless moron from Chicago.

He howled his defeat and eternal hate to the ceiling, beating the floor with both fists, chomping, froth spilling from his mostly-toothless mouth.

'O Wimp-burger,' he growled as he was cuffed and dragged away, his eyes shining with hate. 'You will pay for this. I promise you THAT!'

Using Brie's own Doom Rangers to frame him had proved to be most delicious. He'd fed them some misinformation since Dr. Karbunkle had hacked into the Scorpion communication system. He'd had to be careful to keep his attempts to reach the Mice and the Doom Rangers minimal to avoid notice. His messages therefore had had to be exact, precise, short, clear. Beating about the bush was useless on this planet anyway: the Scorpions might hide their true feelings and thoughts at all times but when some sort of interaction was called for, the speed and directness were amazingly quick. Scorpions got to the point. Limburger snorted at his own wittiness. Get to the point indeed…

Which reminded him.

It was time for his own point-making.

Now that the Scorpions were focused on Brie and his Doom Rangers, they had left the Mice more or less alone. The three vermin were receiving rather special treatment now: food, drink, specially designed to bring them to top form. They were going to be the star attractions of the last day of the Olympics - at Lord Camembert's suggestion (which of course had been recommended ever so carefully by himself, Lawrence Limburger). He wanted his three opponents to be in top shape to effect his and their own escape. Half-dead they were no use to him.

'The show must go on,' he murmured. 'On to phase three.'