Author's Note:
Greetings to you all. Hope your all having a good day and thank you in advance for reading.
Before we get into it, I would like to list some names. Usernames, not real names.
IntrepidWarriors. Mad-Eyed Owl. CuriousFan. Morning. FairDrea. Inuficcrzy.
A common theme with these people is that they have all written some great stories for Biker Mice from Mars. And this is only a small amount – there are many others who have put some good reads in. I just wanted to mention some of those people, people who may live around the corner from you, who have got talent with their pen or keyboard. People who have cheered me up when I felt down, or have inspired me to write things on FanFiction through their work. So I guess what I'm trying to say is, thank you guys.
Now, about this story. It's a sequel to 'Feral Rage,' which I wrote a couple of months ago. Some questions were left unanswered, and I wanted to explore some of the characters a bit deeper than what I did earlier (kudos to CuriousFan for this, hehe). Also, I'll be uploading it chapter by chapter, so at times I may need to tweak small parts of the story for others to fit. Hopefully not though.
Anyway, enough of my sentiment. I hope you enjoy it. Cheers. A_W.
Recovery Of The Prisoner.
First Contact.
The dunes of Mars rolled beautifully as the sand hills swept forward, further than the eye could see. Crimson at the the bottom where the sun couldn't reach, but a brilliant blood red at the top, making it look as if the whole planet was burning. A rocky crag stood a bit off to the right, overhanging a shallow cove where it protected the expanding garden at its feet.
The garden.
Bright, bold colors of red, purple, blue and yellow, complemented with different shades of green foliage had begun to venture out further from the small pond that kept the garden watered. The trees that were scattered around the garden were growing taller, swaying lazily in the breeze, with some of them bearing small amounts of fruit.
Even though she gazed out across at the beautiful landscape most days, Carbine was still in awe and wonder of what she saw, especially the small changes in the Garden of Hope that mostly went unnoticed by those on base. Just looking at the scenery was enough to unwind her from a long day of ordering people around to cease any chaos in the ranks and reading reports from those who were sent on various missions to every corner of Mars, mostly to investigate new Plutarkian activity or existing damage to the planet.
"Carbine," Stoker's gravelly voice sounded from the door of the balcony.
She smiled, and looked over her shoulder to see the founder of the Freedom Fighters aiming a digital camera straight at her. The shutter clicked, and he looked up again, grinning.
"Stoker! You know I hate my photo being taken," she said sternly, walking towards him.
"Come on, Carbine. It was a great shot. Even Vinnie would say..."
"I don't care what Vinnie would say – it would either be about himself or my arse. Now, give me the damn camera."
Stoker held the black camera over his head , swapping it from hand to hand as Carbine jumped to try and grab it. After ten seconds, she gave up. Stoker brought the picture up on the display and whistled.
"That's not half bad, Carbine," he said.
"Give me a look," she cut in.
Holding it securely with both hands in case she tried to make a quick grab for it, Stoker showed her the display. The dunes and garden were caught beautifully in the background, the color immaculate. In the foreground, Carbine stood in her green vest and mustard pants, looking over her shoulder, with her hand on the rail. The smile on her face was au naturale – not a forced smile if she was aware her photo was being taken. The breeze had caught some of her long black hair, making look as if it floated all by itself.
"Not bad, eh?" Stoker asked.
Carbine shrugged. "It's alright," she grunted, not fully prepared to admit that it really was quite good. Not to Stoker anyway.
"How's your day?" he asked.
"What do you want, Stoker?" Carbine asked with a sarcastic smile.
"Just wanted to talk."
"About what?"
"Anything. We haven't had a chance to catch up for a long time," Stoker said.
"That's because we are both busy people. Which I still am, I might add. So unless there's something urgent, I need to get back to work," Carbine said, trying to get rid of him.
"We both know that you're not gonna do any more work tonight," Stoker chuckled. "You're going to stick around in your office, and only complain to yourself that Throttle's taking too long on Earth, and that you want him back here. Because if you complain to anyone else, you feel like you're showing weakness. And as a General, you can't show weakness in front of your troops."
"Bastard. Hit the nail right on the head," Carbine thought to herself, grimacing slightly.
"It's ok to show feelings," Stoker said, noticing the slight twitch of her lips. He remembered when he crash-landed on Earth with Rimfire and almost broke down in tears when he discovered he had lost his edge in battle. Back then, he too thought that you couldn't show emotion to anyone, and he had expressed exactly how he felt to a woman he didn't really know.
"It's ok, you're young. You will know what I'm talking about one day."
Carbine offered a soft smile. "Thanks, Stoker. If I ever need to talk, I'll let you know."
The mildly aged Freedom Fighter nodded his head and made to exit the office, but he stopped at the door. He turned the digital camera on again and looked at the display.
"Uh, Carbine," he said. "I can't quite tell from this picture, but are you even wearing panties today?"
The Army general knew it was only a matter of time before the usual crude, often sexual remark arose in conversation. "That's for me to know, and Throttle to find out when he gets back," she replied, winking. "Goodnight, Stoker."
"Goodnight, Carbine."
Standing on the balcony, she took into account what the old timer had said. Sure, he was rougher than guts, had a bigger ego than a Plutarkian's rear-end and the amount of testosterone his body produced would be considered as 'a bit more than healthy.' That didn't mean he didn't care. It was quite the opposite, even though his form of affection was rather unorthodox. And he could pick up things that people would think were the world's best kept secret as if it was as plain as day. In some cases, experience really did come with time.
She then turned he thoughts towards Throttle. The mouse with the body of a Greek god, the intelligence of a certified genius, and the smooth voice of the male lead in a steamy romance novel. He had promised her that he would return to Mars to live again, and he always followed through on promises. It was just the fact it was taking so long. All he had to do was bag that stinking Limburger, his two offsiders and that weird mutant thing with a tentacle. He could do that without Vinnie and Modo's help, and yet the three of them were taking their very sweet time. Even if she knew why it took so long, it would make her feel a lot better.
After having three minutes of peace in her office, a lieutenant knocked on the door and entered.
"What is it?" Carbine sighed, who was still on the balcony, watching over the desert.
"Ma'am, you should have a look at this," he said.
Carbine took a deep breath, and sighed, really hoping it was just a simple order which she could issue verbally. After wrenching her eyes from the beautiful sight, she took a folder from the lieutenant opened it. After taking a few moments to read the first page, she looked at the soldier.
"When did this come in?" she asked.
"Seventeen minutes ago."
"And she was sighted...when?"
"Mid-afternoon today," the lieutenant kept his answers concise.
Carbine flicked through a couple more pages, taking into account the location, main travel routes and witnesses who had reported the sighting.
"Thank you, lieutenant. Dismissed."
The trooper saluted, and left the office promptly. Carbine went to her desk and picked up the phone, dialing a number. Stoker.
"Hey! You've called 'The Love Palace.' Leave your name, number and vital statistics and I'll get right back to you. Beep!" the voice mail said.
"Carbine. 24, 20, 26. Stoker after you get this message, get back to me. We just got a confirmed sighting on Harley."
*
The die clunked on the board as Modo took his turn. It eventually stopped rolling around, four dots on it's uppermost side.
"Ok...one, two, three, four," he counted out loud.
The Biker Mice had gotten out the old game of 'Snakes and Ladders,' and had been playing for around half an hour now. There wasn't much going on lately, even though Limburger had returned from Plutark about a week ago. To get the board games out was like going into damage control. Right now, Modo was on number 74, Throttle was on number 85 and it was Vinnie's turn, leading on 89.
"Ok, let's see how much magic Vinnie has up his sleeve," he taunted as he cast the die.
"You're not wearing a shirt, so you can't have anything up your sleeve," Modo pointed out.
"Yeah, you're right. I don't need any sleeves to be able to conjure up a few tricks...Ha ha!" Vinnie yelped with glee; he rolled a six. "As I was saying before. One, two, three, four...five...six..."
Vinnie's counter landed on a snakes head, which lead all the way down to square 38.
"Huh?" he uttered, not able to comprehend he was now last, by a very long way.
"Well, guess that tells us how good you are at magic," Throttle sniggered.
"It's not fair! I'm having another roll," said Vinnie, grabbing the die.
"Hey, that's cheating you know?" Modo said.
"Watch me!"
"Oh yeah? Then watch me do this," the massive grey mouse said as he planted his fist straight into Vinnie's cheekbone, knocking him off his chair.
Not one to back down from a challenge, the white mouse launched himself at his comrade-in-arms and started to throw a flurry of punches. Throttle couldn't resist and started to join in the three-being brawl, creating a rolling ball of dust, fur and tails.
Suddenly, the heavy metal music was interrupted on the radio by Sweet Georgie Brown, the baddest hard-rocking DJ in Chicago.
"Hey, dudes! This is Sweet Georgie Brow-own, shakin' rattlin' and rollin' the roads of Chi-town," he said in his usual exaggeratedly smooth DJ voice. "We got a caller for the Metallicrank competition."
"Yeah, so what?" Vinnie scoffed, before trying to get Modo in a headlock. He tried to call but again, the lines were busy.
"What's your name, little lady?"
"Charley," a very familiar females voice came over the speaker, one that instantly stopped the boy's horseplay.
"Well Charley, can you tell all the rockin' listeners out there who the lead singer of the metal-mashing band Metallicrank is?"
Vinnie beamed as Charley gave the right answer, which in turn had won her a free copy of the latest album of the band in question.
"That's my girl," he thought to himself. They had been dating for around a month, and while most things hadn't changed, there were some subtle differences in Vinnie's behaviour. In their down time, he would go to the Last Chance Garage and hang out, or go to a movie, or a picnic. He was still just as flirtatious with her, but he knew that it wasn't just casual jokes between friends; they were more than friends. They were partners. An item. Boyfriend and girlfriend.
Contrary to popular belief and rumours, Vinnie's history with women was quite small. It was mainly due to the fact that Harley had been taken straight after they had started their relationship on Mars. He had liked her for months, watching her fix bikes and share meals at the Freedom Fighter base. It was when he did a backflip off a table and colliding with the wall and her attending to his minor injuries that he was desperate to have her as his own. And finally when he did, she was gone. Disappeared. Vanished.
He was an absolute mess immediately after, and it had taken him months to even speak her name without becoming withdrawn and moody. He would go out for long rides on his bike, other times he would go out to some of the popular watering holes and pick fights, sometimes against five or six other guys. But the main thing that really distracted him were the insane stunts, intense races and incredible destruction he could cause with his bike, creating such a rush of adrenaline and other catecholamines through his bloodstream that he could just about forget everything bad in his life for a couple of minutes. Sure, he was an adrenaline junkie by nature, but these behaviours had taken it to a whole new level, and he had come off pretty badly more than a few times as a result.
Now, after a long time, he had felt that he could move on. He had all but given up hope of finding her again. She was most likely dead, or on the other side of the universe. It had been years. And now he was in love with the beautiful mechanic who could put up with his incessant egotistical charm and constant need of adrenaline. Well, maybe not love. He hadn't had much experience with it in relationships and he was still getting used to it. But he was sure he could find his way.
"Well, Miss Charley, we'll go off the airwaves of this fine cit-ay and I'll get your details," Sweet Georgie Brown said.
"Just before I do, can I request a song for my boyfriend?" Charley asked. "He's the baddest mammajammer in the universe and I know he'll be listening to this."
"Mammajammer," the slick-sounding DJ rolled the word off his tongue easily. "That is one sick saying you got there, Charley-girl. Would it be sweet if we could use that word for all the cool cats listening out there?"
"Not sure – you'll have to ask him," giggled Charley. "Can I please request 'My Generation' by Lame Cookie?"
"No probs, and in the words of My Generation," Sweet Georgie Brown said, making excellent emphasis on the pun, "Later dudes!" The speakers exploded with the sounds of screaming electric guitars and someone taking a hammer to various pieces of metal.
For his part, Vinnie put his hands behind his head and smirked at his comrades in arms, rubbing in the fact that he was the luckiest mouse in the universe. The way that Charley had so openly displayed their relationship to the listeners humbled him very deeply, and yet, also gave him the biggest ego inflation in a long time.
"Well I'm a lucky man...With fire in my hands," he started singing softly, a tune that was the complete opposite Charley had just requested for him. But, as with any kind of softer moment with Vinnie, it was short-lived and he was once again throwing his head around to the song.
Watching him for a moment, Throttle and Modo could tell Vinnie was the happiest he had been for a long time. Sure, he made out that not much had changed, just that he spent more time around at the Garage, but they both knew one big thing that was different from before.
He had moved on.
It was, what, about three and a half years since they had first met Charley and even longer since Harley was gone. And now that they were pretty certain the Harley wasn't going to come back on the scene anymore, their white-furred bro had stopped chasing her ghost and come back to the land of the living, so to speak.
"Hey! Hey guys, you there?" the two-way radio crackled to life.
It was Charley.
Vinnie was there before either Modo or Throttle could blink. "I'm right here, doll-face."
"Whatcha up to?" Charley asked in an innocent and yet cheeky voice.
"Just waiting for you to call, sweetheart," Vinnie said, looking at the handpiece seductively, as if it was the beautiful mechanic he was dating.
"Are you guys busy? Do you expect any problems from Cheese-face today?"
"I don't think so, Charley-girl," Throttle's deep voice came over the microphone. "Still, anything's possible."
"Oh, come on Throttle. Lighten up, would ya?" the cheerful Charley replied.
"Yeah, come on bro. It's gonna take a few more days before Limburger gets his tower back in order," Modo offered. "We got some time before we need to get our hands dirty."
"Well, anyway guys, I got a surprise for all of you," her voice was just barely able to contain her excitement. "Can you come over here soon?"
"No problemo babe, anything you say," Vinnie said, not knowing how dangerous those words were.
"Really Vincent? Anything I say?"
"Anything, babe."
"Well, there's a couple of bikes here that need fixing, and there's a stack of dishes on the sink..."
Vinnie groaned, and Charley began laughing on the other end, knowing that she was going to have a lot of fun teasing her very studly mouse of a boyfriend.
"Alright Charley-girl, we'll be on our way soon," Throttle smiled.
"Ok, see you soon guys." The radio clicked off.
"I wonder what color she picked out to wear for me," Vinnie said with a great deal of suggestiveness in his voice as they made their way to their bikes.
"Probably a lavender shirt with black jeans; the usual," Modo grinned as he applied his helmet, reminding his friend that there was no chance of intimacy happening anytime soon.
"Ok bros. Let's rock..." yelled Throttle.
"And ride!"
*
If only the Biker Mice knew what Stoker did, back on Mars.
The room was dark, save for the small lamp illuminating the pages that Stoker read over and over again. After he got the message on his mobile phone from Carbine about Harley, he hadn't been able to relax. He could still remember that day, just after the Tug-Transformer had blasted off from Mars, when she had been abducted by Mace, the bastardly rat who had been working behind their backs the whole time.
Stoker felt it pretty hard – he had liked her for a while, but knew nothing would have happened between them. But he especially felt sorry for Vinnie, after they had just began dating on the battlefield, only to have her literally stolen from his arms. It was like they had just lost a family member, which while it was commonplace during the war, still didn't make it any easier for anyone. Everyone's story in their losses was unique, as was their pain in response to it.
They had to get her back. Failure was no option here, in any way, shape or form. Then her and Vinnie could...
Realisation hit Stoker harder than a direct crash into the Quigley field scoreboard, which was hard enough in its own right.
Vinnie was dating Charley now. Had been for around four weeks or so now. It was still early days but a lot of things would be consolidating pretty well by now.
Questions flooded through his mind. What will we say when we find her? How will she take it? Is what little hope she has left in her life being fostered by the fact that she might just see that white-furred, red-eyed, bandoleer-wearing, bike-riding thrillseeker?
Stoker lay back on the chair and steepled his hands in front of his face. He let out a little humourless chuckle.
This was going to be very messy indeed...