WARNING: I personally feel the next four-part story pushes the limits of a T rating. I therefore classify this story as an M rating, and it contains scenes of abuse that might upset some readers.
OK this one took me a little longer to write, and due to length I have divided it into four 'chapters' of its own. I considered having it as a stand alone, but as it will impact the future stories I write in this collection, I have put it here (with the aforementioned warning regarding the nature of its content). Seriously though, writing this was incredibly emotional for me. The purpose of the story is not only to wonder at how far evil can go, or how much our furry heroes can handle before they break, but to force the reader to actually empathise with the characters involved. I challenge anyone to read this and not hate my guts afterwards (lol).
Anyway, here is my take on The Pits. Things don't just go horribly wrong, they get seriously messed up, and the none of the mice will ever be the same again.
Alternative Endings: When things go horribly wrong.
2. The Pits.
The reporter had just wrapped up her account of the attempted robbery at the Meatpacker's bank. The picture changed to the news desk, and the anchor behind it moved onto the other major stories featuring that night. Nothing too exciting. A tornado had taken out a small town near Greensburg, Kansas, though thankfully no lives had been lost; and another sighting of a large meteorite over Chicago had the local astronomers in a flap. The reporter on site did a superb job keeping a straight face as she interviewed one of the people who had seen it, especially as they had insisted it was an alien space craft and 'looked nothing like a b***** meteorite!' The reporter had swiftly moved on, inwardly praying she wasn't about to get the sack for that one.
From the lounge of the Last Chance Garage, an auburn-haired woman gave a loud huff as she flicked off the TV set. As crazy as that man had sounded, she would have bet her bike that he had it figured right. Meteorite my ass she thought as she moved back to the window. She had spent the last four hours gazing out of it, only leaving when she needed food, the bathroom, or a distraction from the worry that was creeping up inside her. They weren't normally away this long... something had to be wrong. Very wrong.
For what must have been the tenth time that night she picked up the receiver of the CB and pressed the button. "Wrench junky to helmet head, come in." For a moment there was only static, but just before she made to repeat the message a voice answered her.
"This is helmet head... still no sign, over."
She couldn't quite tell if that was a question or not. "Nope, nothing here, over."
Charley sighed. She had hoped they would show up at the scoreboard - if not her garage. After depositing with the police the robbers she and Vinnie had chased down earlier that day, they had spent the rest of the daylight hours searching for any signs of the other two bros. Coming up empty, and with no clues to go on as to their whereabouts, she had headed back to the garage and sent Vinnie to their bachelor pad - just in case they turned up there. But every time she had picked up the radio the answer had been the same. No sign. Where are you guys..? Are you alright?
She looked again at the window, almost expecting, hoping, to hear the roar of the motorcycles outside, and see the familiar mouse-shaped headlights shining in her direction. But the silent backstreet remained stubbornly deserted, save for the odd stray feline. Realising it was very late the exhausted mechanic resigned herself to sleep. If they came in the night there was no way she wouldn't hear them. If. Suppressing the lump forming in her throat, and trying to ignore the clenching in her stomach, she slowly made her way upstairs to bed.
It was dark. It was cold. And the floor was rock hard beneath him. All around him were the sounds of despair, his sensitive ears struggling to block it out. The smell of blood, bodily fluids, and even tears, were so thick in the air around him his nose was almost assaulted by it. Despite all this, though, the exhausted mouse felt as if he could sleep through just about anything right now.
He was tired to his very bones, not to mention aching all over. The tan-coloured fur clung to his skin, clammy with sweat and dirt, and there was a long, jagged line cut across his back, still weeping slightly where newly forming scabs kept pulling open as he moved. Some blood had trickled round to his stomach and dried there in thick, crimson streaks. Using his fingers he picked away at it, doing anything he could to distract himself from the pain in his body, and the truly terrible situation he was stuck in right now.
He groaned and shifted again, trying to get comfortable. The small cell they had thrown him into was barely big enough for him to lie down, and they had even been so callous as to not provide any form of bedding to keep him warm - or at least off the stone floor. Being so far away from the sun's reach meant this place was pretty chilly, even in the day... and now that night had come temperatures were falling even further. If it hadn't been for his thick fur he probably would have died of exposure. He couldn't begin to imagine what it was like for the others. Was that why they cried so much? Or was it the silent ones that suffered the most? As he lay there, curled up as tightly as his torn skin would allow, his mind slowly drifted. How could things have gone so horribly wrong? Did anyone even realise they were missing?
After being dragged what seemed like halfway down into the crust of the Earth (over 200 feet, and then some), two Martian mice had somehow survived their 'controlled' crash landing (firing their bike's jets to slow their descent), only to end up in the grubby hands of the self-appointed 'Pit Boss'. His cronies had found them unconscious in a pile of rubble, and presented them to the fat, balding (and really quite smelly, as in not-seen-a-bath-in-years smelly) man with their arms pinned by thick rope. He had offered them freedom in exchange for the use of their bikes, and when this had been less-than-politely declined he had them thrown into his slave camp for a life-time of hard labour. He had assured them it probably wouldn't be that long.
Modo had initially been incensed by the jibes the pit crew had thrown at them. He really hated being called a rat, but he also wouldn't stand for the rough treatment they were giving his friend either. The grey mouse had tried hard to fight back as they had their clothes and weapons stripped from them (it was a small mercy they had at least left them with their pants on), and it had earned him a rifle butt to the head, knocking him down long enough for the sniggering goons to pin him to the ground and cuff him in strong, wrought-iron chains. They had even had the foresight to secure his arm cannon before they cut the ropes.
There had been little opportunity since for them to escape. There were too many guards, and too many fire-blasting guns pointing their way. And too many other innocent lives at risk. They had already been forced to witness the guards beat a man unconscious when they had initially refused the pick axes tossed at their feet. They didn't want to be responsible for anyone else getting hurt on account of their stubborn pride. So they had gritted their teeth and worked away at the rock, willing themselves to ignore the cries of pain, anguish and exhaustion all around them. Just how many other slaves there were in this place they couldn't tell, but it sounded like a lot.
Throttle shifted again. It hadn't taken long for them to crack. They hadn't been able to help themselves, but it had nonetheless been a mistake to try and intervene in the cruel treatment of the other captives. The Pit Boss carried that heavy, electrified whip wherever he went, and seemed to thoroughly enjoy putting it to full use. Poor Modo had seen the worst of it, but the deep gash along on his own back was evidence of his own defiance.
Where was Modo now? he wondered anxiously. They had split them up at the end of their shift, and he hadn't seen him since. He sincerely hoped the big guy was still in one piece.
It just didn't feel right. They never, ever stayed away for so long, not without leaving some clue, or sending out some sort of distress call. An entire week. An entire week and nothing. Either something really terrible had happened, or they were having a whole lot of fun without him.
Jeez, bros, you wouldn't leave me out of the action... would you?
Vinnie leaned forward onto the control panel of his bike. He scratched his white-furred muzzle thoughtfully, trying to decide on whether jets or missiles were his means of entry today. In light of the lack of evidence that Limburger was even involved, Charley had tried in vain to persuade Vinnie not to go after the portly Plutarkian on his own. However much she reasoned with him ("If he isn't involved, isn't it better he DOESN'T know we're two mice down?") the frustration bordering on desperation the mouse felt for his missing friends had spurred him on, regardless of the consequences, with his preferred plan of action. Waiting really wasn't his style. He would break into the tower, force Limburger to give up the whereabouts of his bros, kick some fish-faced butt, smash everything in sight, pummel some goons, blow up the tower... then rescue Throttle and Modo and be home in time for supper. Job done.
So it was a little far-fetched, but with all the adrenalin in his system he felt confident he could manage it. Ho-hum, the look on Charley's face would be priceless when he pulled it off despite her dire warnings. She might even be so overjoyed, so awed by his prowess at fighting, that she might even give him another kiss... Yeah... with that to look forward to this was going to be well worth the risk. Suicidal maybe... but worth it.
"Jets it is then" he said half to himself, half to the red racer he was straddling. He didn't even have to push the button, the bike had already fired the rocket boosters and was hurtling in an almost vertical trajectory to the penthouse of Limburger Tower. In seconds the glass windows had shattered, and the front tire of Vinnie's bike was planted into the fish-like face of the sleeping Plutarkian, waking him up with a splutter of confusion.
"What the heck..? Oh, it's you... what now? Can't you mice EVER give me a day off?" The irritation at such a rude awakening was undisguised. "I'm sleeping, can't you see that... SLEEPING! Is that a crime now too?"
The rancid smell of mouldy cheese, unwashed socks and rotten fish was expelled from the irate fish's mouth as he ranted at the mouse, who had seemed in no hurry to move his bike from the bed, that is until he got a face-full of the malodorous breath. Grimacing at the stench, he rolled his bike backwards onto the teal-blue carpet (...costing me a fortune in window repairs.. and now look at the mud on my brand new wool carpet!) and glared at Limburger. When the outburst finally stopped, Vinnie was pointing his purple laser-pistol at the bed.
"I'm only going to ask this once, stink-face...What have you done with them? Tell me now and I might leave your tower in one piece!" Vinnie had his teeth bared as he spoke, his tail thrashing menacingly. If he had hurt them, no one would be able to save him. The mouse would make sure his face was the last thing the fat felon ever saw.
"I honestly don't know what on Earth you are talking about, mouse... perhaps you need to spend some more time sleeping yourself and less time disturbing MY sleep! I suggest a vacation... say... Florida?"
"Vacation!" The mouse growled, his tail now positively hyperactive with agitation. "Vacation! That's just what you'd love, isn't it you reeking pork rind! Now TELL ME WHERE MY BROS ARE... NOW!" He bellowed the last word so loudly that he must have alerted every goon within a mile radius of the tower.
"I told you I don't know you bothersome brat, even if I did know what makes you think I would keep them here? I've just had this tower rebuilt for heaven's sake!"
Seconds later a breathless Karbunkle came crashing through the door of the penthouse bedroom, his purple dressing gown tripping him over to reveal a hideous pair of acid-green, satin pyjamas. He seemed oblivious to the fact he was also still wearing a hair net... not to mention the hot-pink, fluffy bunny slippers.
"Are you ok my slumbering silkiness...?" the mad doctor breathed, trying to untangle himself from his clothing.
Limburger raised an eyebrow. Karbunkle's been raiding my wardrobe again... and where the hell is that oily idiot Greasepit?
"It's about time – get that mouse before he..."
Vinnie hadn't stuck around to wait for Karbunkle to pull himself together. Either Limburger was a very good liar or he really didn't have a clue where his bros were either.
As his bike touched down on the pavement below, Vinnie burst out laughing. Despite the dim awareness somewhere within that he had practically just given Limburger the go-ahead to make some major moves on the city, the very sight of Karbunkle in a hair net was priceless. And those slippers. Tears of mirth poured down his cheeks, and his arms gripped his sides as they trembled violently with laughter. He was so overwhelmed with the hilarity he almost didn't notice the small goon army racing to block off his exits. With unused adrenalin still coursing through his veins, however, Vinnie quickly took his cue and proceeded to carry out the rest of his plan. It was easier than it looked too, as Charley had insisted on planting some remote detonating explosives around the tower – just in case. A few small blasts later and the goon army retreated, signalling the grand finale... Vinnie headed back to the Last Chance Garage grinning. The snarl of Limburger's from his tower's rubble still echoed loudly in his mind: I'll get you for this mouse – mark my words!
Modo hadn't told him what had happened to him that first night. Sometime in the early hours he had been dragged to the prison block, and forcibly deposited into the cell next to his. The sound of groaning and struggling had brought the sleeping mouse around, and when the guards had left he whispered as loud as he dared to his friend.
"It's alright bro" he answered softly to the anxious mouse. "They just roughed me up a bit.. you know.. trying to tell me who's boss around here. That's all."
Throttle hadn't been convinced that Modo was giving him the whole story, but he didn't press him. He knew the mouse needed rest, and he was still desperately tired himself. Soon they were both asleep, although it wasn't very long before they were woken again. The Pit Boss wanted his castle completed before the rainy season started, or so he kept saying, and he gave his captives precious little time to rest at night before sending them back to work.
The mice quickly learned that rules were to be obeyed with no exceptions. There were a lot of rules too, and they kept on changing. The two bros realised the guards did this to keep them on their toes... and they had a sneaking suspicion they also simply just enjoyed thinking up new punishments for their charges. It drove Throttle and Modo mad that no matter how hard they and the other slaves worked, it was never good enough. Work harder, stop talking. No resting, no breaks. No physical contact with any other captive. The guards really did try their best to make their already miserable lives in the slave pit as hard as possible.
The first morning had been one of the toughest. Both mice, as fit as they were, weren't used to such intensive labour, or the lack of sleep to recover from it. Their one and only meal of the day was a paltry bowl of cold, brown slop. It reminded Throttle vaguely of something Charley called porridge... but he had seen her eat that with a generous helping of sugar and warm milk. This was clearly unheated and unsweetened. It was considerably worse than the rations he had lived on back on Mars, but it was all they were getting. He could hear Modo in the next cell sniffing suspiciously at the meagre meal.
"Better eat up bro, who knows how long 'til we next get fed" Modo murmured from somewhere near his cell door.
Throttle half thought he would rather starve to death than consume whatever this was in front of him.
After breakfast they were led in a procession back to the mining pit. Slaves were assigned to their own section of rock, and were expected to just get on with it. All day long. No breaks. No talking.
A man nearby the mice collapsed suddenly, groaning with exhaustion.
"Err, hey... you alright?" Throttle muttered, trying to edge closer to the fallen captive. He could hear him croaking weakly, asking for water.
Until that moment it hadn't occurred to the mouse that dehydration would be a problem. He was so used to drinking very little (being a fur-covered mouse he sweated less, and so hardly needed to drink. A handy survival adaption when living on a desert planet), he hadn't thought about the lack of water for the less-hardy humans down here.
"Hey, guard – this man needs a drink and fast!" Modo looked at Throttle in horror as he yelled. After their little 'chat' with him last night he wasn't in any hurry to break any rules just yet, but the guards hadn't had their chance to assert such authority over the tan mouse.
"Throttle, no!" he gasped, keeping his voice low.
It was too late. They had heard him, and were leering down expectantly at the insubordinate captive, waiting eagerly for their boss to come and teach the mouthy mouse a lesson. They didn't have to wait long.
"Did I just hear you speak, mouse?" The Pit Boss growled in a cold, menacing tone, daring the defiant slave before him to answer back. Throttle gritted his teeth. The sickly man lying between them was struggling to get away from the giant boots of the slave driver. He was clearly terrified, weak as he was.
"Am I going to have to remind you what happens when you don't do as you're told?" His voice carried a dangerous air now. "Well... am I?" Throttle winced. "Answer me, RAT" and with the last word he drew back his arm and brought the yellow-glowing whip down hard on Throttle's wounded back. The blow itself was bad enough, but the electric pulse within the flex amplified the pain ten-fold, and the tan-mouse fell to his knees, groaning inwardly as he tried not to cry out. Don't give him the satisfaction of screaming he thought to himself over and over again.
Blood seeped from the fresh wound and dribbled down his ruffled fur. Throttle tried to stand, but the bestial brute laid another blow to his now tender torso, and Throttle fell back down, breathing hard.
"Well... are you ever going to answer me or do I have to stand here and beat you all day?"
Throttle wasn't sure he could take another whiplash right now, and somehow he managed to unclench his jaw and clear his throat. "No" he croaked.
"No what..?"
Throttle paled for a moment. Never in a million years would he have dreamed he would answer to anyone like this. He had defied Sand Raiders who tried to take him as a slave on Mars, and when captured during the war he had fought every Plutarkian who had ever thought to try and make him obey them. He had sworn his whole life he would never be kept, never broken. And yet here he was. Kneeling before this balding, bad-breathed monster who had crowned himself king down here. Being forced to utter the one word he thought he never would.
He gulped hard. The repercussions of disobedience were too great. He felt sure the Pit Boss would have no hesitation in hurting someone else if that's what it took to make him do what he wanted.
"No... master". He barely whispered it, but it hurt worse than the lashes to his back.
"Good boy... i'm glad we have an understanding here" the hateful villain crooned down at him. "Now get back to work or I swear you will regret the day you were brought into this world, slave."
That last word stung the beaten mouse hard. As the Pit Boss stalked away to punish another captive elsewhere (the thirst-weakened man on the floor was completely ignored), Throttle glanced up at this grey-furred friend, the tears leaking from his eyes leaving tell tale lines on his anguished face. Modo looked as though he had just fought a terrible battle for the past few minutes, a battle with himself to stop him from jumping forwards and choking the balding crony to death with his bare hands. Once Throttle was on his feet again, the two mice continued their heavy work in silence. The man on the floor eventually stopped moving. At the end of the shift he was dragged away by one of the guards, and the mice never saw him again.
"For Pete's sake Vinnie – I told you Limburger had nothing to do with it, and now he knows Throttle and Modo are missing!"
Sometimes Charley despaired at just how dumb this mouse could be. Sure he had had his fun... stretched his legs a bit, seen some action. He had had the nerve to come swaggering back to the garage, give her a blow by blow account of how he took out the tower and the goons single-handed ("Aren't you forgetting it was MY idea to use the remote detonating charges?") and then expect her to be happy with him! He had even offered up his left cheek for a kiss... She had offered it a hard slap.
"Sweetheart, please!" Vinnie was stunned at her less than welcoming response. "I had to know, I had to get out of here and do something!"
Charley sighed. The poor mouse was going spare not knowing where his bros were... or even if they were still alive. Her garage was beginning to show the classic signs of his frustration. At least she had got him out her building for long enough to not only patch it up a bit, but to look (somewhat horrified) at the pile of jobs mounting up on her desk. How was she ever going to get all her work done when she had to practically babysit Vinnie to stop him doing something stupid? Worse still, how would she cope when Limburger inevitably came knocking at her door? Two mice down, the prospect of battling to save her garage from the odious stink-fish's grasp was quite daunting in the least.
"Well at least you took out his tower... might give us some time to fortify this place a bit. Work out a few battle plans. Restock supplies." She glanced wearily around her workshop. They were down on just about everything from tools and weapons to food and medical supplies. There was nothing for it... she was going to have to do the run herself, and leave the loose cannon that was bouncing off the walls to guard the place. If there was anything left of it when she returned it would be a miracle.
"Just... just... don't break anything while i'm gone will you" she called back over her shoulder as her truck pulled out of the yard. And please don't let Limburger come calling just yet.
It was Throttle's turn to have a 'chat' with the Pit Boss and his cronies. Modo had given him a horrified look when the guards had pulled him out of the line on their way back to the cells, and Throttle knew instantly what it meant.
The foul-smelling despot was reclined back on something vaguely resembling a throne, and the room itself was (loosely perhaps) designed to look like some kind of aristocratic retiring room, minus anything resembling the finer comforts (notably carpets, curtains...). Clearly the Pit Boss wanted grandiose and imposing, but something that more said bandit's lair than nobleman's living room.
The tan mouse was deposited on his knees in front of the fat brute. The man leaned forwards over his sizeable gut, looking down on the blood-stained captive with a mixture of cold triumph and menacing disgust.
"So... what have we here..?" He rubbed his stubbled chin with his grimy, sausage-like fingers. "Of course... it's the slave who thought he was above the rules... my rules no less..." His voice trailed off, the dangerous tone just tipping the end of the sentence, taunting the kneeling mouse at his feet.
Throttle was breathing fast, shallow breaths, clenching his jaw hard to prevent him saying something he regretted. His back was still very raw from the morning, and his head was starting to ache from the lack of fluids. The hard, manual work had forced his body to sweat much more than normal for him, his thick fur trapping in too much heat even in these cold depths. His mouth was dry, too, and it wasn't just from the need of a drink.
"Boys, why don't we show this rat how the chain of command works in here. Show him who is at the bottom of the pile." An excited murmur echoed around the stone-walled chamber.
One of the unarmed cronies stepped up behind Throttle, kicking him hard at the top of this thighs so that his body rocked forward, then pressed his booted foot down onto the back of his head, pushing his face to the floor. He held it there, and the mouse was forced to turn his face so that he could breathe. "What is it you want from me, pit breath?" he growled, a small trickle of blood oozing from his nose where it had struck the hard stone.
The tyrant laughed. "It's quite simple you insubordinate twerp, either you submit completely to my rule or I make sure neither you nor that simpleton sewer dweller you call a friend ever see the light of day again."
Rage burned in the tan mouse's heart. Modo may have been a little slower than some, but he was a good mouse and had more courage than anyone he knew. Not to mention physical strength. Despite the hatred he felt, and the strong desire to call this vile villain just about every bad word he could think of (and he knew a few choice ones by now), he didn't want to doom his bro anymore than himself. He kept silent.
"Good, it seems you might actually be learning. Let's continue with the lesson, shall we?"
Modo was pacing his tiny cell, desperately hoping that Throttle had kept his cool. He knew he was a hypocrite for feeling it, after all it was normally he who couldn't control his temper. But after seeing the kind of mercy the men down here were capable of, he instinctively had kept his head down and his mouth shut, and did everything that was required of him... no matter how dreadfully demeaning it had been. He knew this would be hard for Throttle. He had never seen the mouse lose face in front of an enemy. He was a leader, and only followed orders from those who had earned such respect. Not malodorous menaces like the Pit Boss.
When Throttle was returned to his cell, the grey mouse could tell that his friend hadn't fought back this time. He was still able to walk, which was a good sign, but his head hung low as he shuffled towards the steel bars. The guards threw him roughly inside the cell and locked the door, giggling nastily as they turned back to their own quarters.
"Throttle... Throttle are you ok?" It was Modo's turn to be anxious. He could smell blood, which was no surprise, and he could also sense the anguish and pain he was feeling through the chemicals in his drying sweat. But there was something worse than that. He could smell a familiar, acrid smell coming from the mouse next door. As he sniffed harder he raised his top lips, baring his teeth in an expression of utmost disgust. Those vile pigs...
The smell reminded him of something else he had been trying his hardest to ignore. A pain in his lower belly was giving him urgent signals, and it was getting worse. There was no where the mouse could go, and his cell was so tiny he wouldn't want to foul the meagre floor space on which he was forced to sleep. Might as well get this over with... at least whilst no one's looking.
Relief flooded his face, not to mention his belly, as he unbuttoned his jeans at the front of the cell. He sincerely hoped that the evidence would be gone before the morning.
Throttle groaned softly. "Modo... is that you bud?"
"Yeah, it's me. Had to take care of nature's business... you know, better now than..." Than when stopping to relieve yourself was considered a punishable offence. "Did they hurt you much bro?"
"Nah, not really" he whispered, joining him at the bars. He desperately wanted to reach through and grasp his older friend by the hand, anything to remind himself that he wasn't alone in all of this. But the thought of the look of revulsion that must have been on the gentle grey face of his comrade was more than enough to stop him. He didn't even want to touch himself right now.
He heard Modo retire to the back of his cell, a soft gasp issuing from the mouse's mouth as he lay his work-tired body onto the cold stone. He took the opportunity to add to the small puddle outside, and then flopped himself down in exhaustion. He wasn't able to sleep for quite a while, though, and as he lay there listening to the rhythmic snores of his exhausted companion, he tried to suppress the humiliation that blazed white-hot inside him. Images kept coming into his mind of the Pit Boss's boots, thick with dirt and god-knows-what, that he had been required to 'clean' for him... He could still hear the cronies in the background howling with laughter as he was forced to the floor, again and again, until their boss was satisfied with the job. He tried his very best to not remember what happened after that.