2 MONTHS LATER: Sorry guys and gals for the wait. Life has been pretty busy for me, and I should seriously stop giving set dates for when I'll have something done. Anyways, here's the next chapter, a lot of stuff going on here, it was pretty difficult for me finish through. Shoutout to DinoDragonMaster for keeping me on track with questions about my progress with this chapter. Anyways, I hope you guys enjoy.
CHAPTER 10: THE GUNNER'S DREAM
Jason impassively watched the EMS crew as they loaded the gurney holding the severely injured homeless man into the back of the ambulance. He felt a cold numbness eroding his adrenaline shock, his thoughts only now catching up to what had occurred.
It all happened so fast. The purple limo careening down the avenue; that poor vagrant; the impact; the limo stopping but for a moment and then driving off, it's driver treating the whole incident as no more different than running over a squirrel.
Jason thought of the man, he began to feel pity.
No one sees the homeless, the degraded, the destitute. They are the invisible people, they are ignored while they wallow in their desperate state because of the fear and uncertainty they instill in others: that awful reality for everyone that at any moment with some bad luck, be it a missed payment, an injury and medical bills that can't be afforded or an uncontrollable addiction, they too can end up in this state.
Isolated.
Alone.
There is a razor thin line between being normal and being an untouchable.
Jason had to be honest with himself: before the crash he had seen right through the man who was busy sorting through a trash bin, looking for bottles and cans to load into an old shopping cart for later recycling and a pittance of money—probably for some food, probably for booze. Jason didn't notice the vagrant until that obscenely purple limo had rolled him up over the hood; tossing him, broken and bloodied, back onto the concrete sidewalk.
In the moment Jason didn't have time to think, only to react as he rushed to the wounded man's aid. Laying on his back, Jason could see the damage was extensive and life threatening: the right leg broken at the femur, the jagged bone had jutted through the skin, tearing a hole through the man's old-school forest colored camouflage BDU pants. The right shoulder had been separated, rolling into an unnatural and nauseating slope under the flannel red jacket he wore. The left arm stood straight up in a fencing response. The man was unconscious, his breathing ragged but steady. His eyes, brown irises, half-lidded, stuck between a sleeping and waking state. Jason's gentle prodding and questions asked yielded no response. The man looked to be in late 40's, early 50's with shaggy gray hair on his head and beard that draped over ruddy careworn skin.
Jason remembered when he tried to save Corporal Hare. He remembered his squadmate's hands clamped over his throat, the bright red blood gushing out from between his fingers, the sick gurgling sound as he struggled to breathe; his pleading look at Jason, begging him for salvation as his skin turned pale.
He couldn't save him.
He could not save Hare, but he could still save this man.
It was to Jason's good fortune that Charley had showed up mere moments after he made his assessment. She didn't ask any questions about what to do, she simply hopped out of the door of her lifted Dodge Ram pickup truck with a rather large black satchel. Her demeanor was off-putting in it's calmness as she placed the bag down and began to rifle through it's contents. Jason could see all manner of strange devices and contraptions hidden in it's various pockets and nooks. "For the leg," she said curtly as she produced what appeared to be some sort of brace made of an unusual metal.
Charley placed the brace over the man's broken leg and pressed a large red button that jutted out prominently on the contraption. It began to make strange whirring mechanical sounds as tiny arms began to unfold from the various ribs and joints, these arms began to gently cut away the man's clothes and clean the wound, all the while the brace flexed and bent, tucking in and resetting the broken bone. Jason's jaw hung open in wonder and amazement.
Compared the the leg, the shoulder seemed to be a mere afterthought. Jason helped Charley place the arm back in it's socket, and with a simple shot from another one of those stimpack hypos all that was left to do was to wait for the ambulance to show up while keeping an eye on the injured man. The whole ordeal seemed almost anticlimactic. Jason was certain that Charley had probably treated far worse wounds.
Oh shit, thought Jason, "I forgot to call 911," he said while fumbling for his phone.
"Don't worry about it," said Charley, "I'm pretty sure someone here already called them."
It was only then that Jason realized a crowd had formed. Several dozen people had gathered to watch the spectacle, many of whom had their camera phones out, probably to record the event, not even attempting to offer some aid. Then again, what aid could be offered?
As Jason observed Charley packing up her equipment he realized that what felt like an eternity in the moment had only lasted a few minutes, and as the ambulance arrived he realized Charley had, with so little effort, saved that man's life. After all, he was a homeless man, what effort or aid could he expect from the hospital that wouldn't be able to make any money off of him?
And that is where Jason found himself in the present moment, staring at the rear hatch of the ambulance closing up, everyone else none the wiser that what seemed like minor injuries were actually life-threatening a moment before.
"He'll be fine, the poor guy. Probably be on his feet in a few days. It looked like he woke up as they loaded him on," said Charley as she rested a hand on Jason's shoulder.
"Did you use some of that stuff on me?"
"Yep. But you had the right gear on, so it wasn't so bad for you."
"The man had a clean break on that leg, it would have taken him months to recover."
"The wonders of Martian tech, huh?"
"What kind of tech're talkin of there, miss?" came a voice seemingly out of nowhere, and directly behind Jason's head. Startled, he turned to see an all too familiar pear-shaped figure of authority. With a frumpy mustache, slight frown and strained blue Chicago city police officer's uniform, although it was only a few days it felt like eons since they last met.
Oh fuck, thought Jason, he knows, he's gonna ask questions and he's gonna find out how fucking crazy everything is and I'll be in the center of it oh fuck.
"Oh, hey there, officer—" said Jason in a overly-friendly tone as he glanced down at the officer's name tag, "- Peezrchick! Great to see you again!" fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck—
Pisarczyk's face turned from a frown to an astonished and bright smile as soon as he laid eyes on Charley.
"Well I'll be; is that you, Charley-girl?"
"Officer Tommy!" exclaimed Charley, sharing a similarly happy expression. The two embraced in a warm hug.
"Aw gee, it's been years! The last time I saw you you were that shy little girl with the bruised knees, now look at you!" Pisarczyk gestured with both hands at Charley, who in turn blushed at the compliment.
Jason felt a wave of relief wash over him, it seemed the reunion of had quashed the police officer's earlier line of questioning. "Small world," said Jason.
"Yup," said Charley, "Officer Tommy and I go way back."
"Believe it or not, mister, I used to ride a bike myself. Had an old Harley Road King, chromed out and dressed to the nines, but it was a '79 model, those old AMF Harleys had more problems than Michigan Avenue has potholes. I ended up spending a lot of time down at the Last Chance." Pisarczyk chuckled in his reminiscence, "I remember this little girl pretty much living in the garage, taking apart old bikes and putting them back together again, oftentimes much to her old man's chagrin." Pisarczyk chuckled again at Charley's ever-intensifying blush. "I ended up selling that hog, though. Wife couldn't deal with me blowing so much cash on that thing, and I hadn't seen you since then, what was that, almost 15, years? How're the folks doing?"
Charley's expression darkened slightly, "Mom and Dad aren't with us anymore, they both passed away years ago. I've been running the shop on my own now..."
Pisarczyk gave a pained look, "I'm so sorry, I didn't know."
"It's alright; it's in the past."
"Your parents were good people. I should have stopped by more often. How time flies..."
"...yeah."
There was a moment of awkward silence. Jason knew the mood both Charley and the cop were experiencing, the weight of years gone by, the passing of time; echoes of the past. Pisarczyk cleared his throat, eager to change the subject. "So, how'd you two end up meeting? They way you two were talking earlier made it sound like you weren't strangers."
Well, you see, uh, I was riding around after we met in the park and I got ambushed by some alien mice—martians to be exact, they almost got me killed when I got hit by an EMP grenade they fired at me and I wrecked my bike. Funny thing is they mistook me for my older brother who is an outlaw on the run due to the fact that he murdered some poor guy in a bar fight back in Baltimore—but now he's working for another alien species, the Plutarkians, who practice an extreme version of crony capitalism not too dissimilar to our own. They're trying to strip mine Earth like they did to Mars, hence why there are martians here because they're fighting the Plutarkians. Oh, and Charley is working with the martians and is currently probably bumping uglies with one of them, a fellow by the name of Vinnie, calls himself the 'Velocity Atrocity'. He's an asshole. Anyways I decided to join the martians, mostly for the chance to reconnect with my older brother, but also to reconcile the overwhelming guilt and trauma that I feel from both my experiences in war as well as my belief that I personally got my youngest brother, Brian, killed because he so wanted to be like me and my older brother he too joined the Marines and died in combat, this in turn tore what remained of our family apart and led me to a slow drawn-out nervous breakdown that resulted in me selling my house and riding out westward with the intention of killing myself when I got to the west coast—you know, normal people problems no big deal haha-
"I had some problems with my bike so I stopped by the Last Chance to get it fixed," lied Jason.
Pisarczyk made a slight grin, which in turn made his foppish mustache look like a dying caterpillar. "I knew you were gonna have problems on Ducatis. I mean, they're awesome bikes but the Italians never could figure out cheap and simple reliability."
"Yeah," said Jason, relieved that the officer bought his fib hook, line, and sinker, "yeah, the transmission was slipping. Gonna be expensive, but it's a good thing I got some money set aside for these kind of situations."
"So, uh, I guess you two hit it off pretty quick then if you're both out an about? You guys datin' or something?" asked the officer, his grin seemed to widen at the visible discomfort it caused both Charley and Jason.
"It's not like that, officer, puh, uh-" Jason had a hard time pronouncing the officer's last name, for some reason the spelling and actual enunciation made his brain fold into itself in confusion. It was starting to get exhausting.
"-just call me Tom," said officer Tom.
"Right, Tom, we're not dating. She's just letting me stay at her place-"
Charley saw the opening and jumped at her opportunity, "-yeah, I got extra rooms and he doesn't have anywhere else to go since he's traveling across the country so either he ends up marooned in a motel somewhere for a week or he gets to hang around and keep me company..." Charley blushed again at that last statement, her words came out not as she intended.
"Oh, well that's mighty nice of you Charley-girl. Well, I guess it's time for me to get down to brass tacks here and ask about what you two witnessed in regards to Fast Eddie." Tom pointed a thumb at the ambulance that was now leaving. Jason felt some relief at Tom's changing the subject.
"You know the guy?" asked Jason.
"Yeah," said Tom, "he's been out and about here for over a decade. The guy's an Army vet, served in Desert Storm, drove an Abrams. He has a tent in Washington Park and usually spends the day collecting recyclables; he never panhandles. We call him Fast Eddie because he used to run through all the trash for ten blocks in under an hour, but as he's gotten older he's gotten slower. Our station usually gives him some cash we pool up to help him get some warm clothes for the winter and extra food—which, I add, he reluctantly accepts." Tom looked over at the shopping cart. "At least his cans are safe. I gotta make sure he gets these when he gets out the ER... anyways," said Tom, pulling out a leather-bound notepad and pen, "what did you guys see?"
"Well, Charley wasn't here yet. I was standing over there, outside the store," Jason pointed across the intersection, he felt relieved that all the clothing and gear they purchased remained in place unmolested. "I looked down the street and saw this big purple limo—it was a super ugly beast of a car—it was driving all crazy and it hit this poor guy, he was standing right here-" Jason pointed at the site of the impact. There was a noticeable chunk of concrete from the curb missing, as well as scrape marks on the sidewalk—most likely from the limo's undercarriage. He could also see a puddle of blood from where the struck man lay after the accident. "And that's when I rushed over to help the man, and Charley showed up to help. He didn't seem too badly hurt, thank god. And we both waited for the ambulance to show up," Jason turned to officer Tom and Charley, "And that was pretty much it," he said. It was then he noticed that both Tom and Charley had a shocked expression on their faces.
"What kind of car was it?" asked Tom in a hushed tone, he looked afraid, his skin an even more clammier shade of pale.
"A... purple... limo? Very purple. I mean, holy shit it looked like the most cartoonish of pimp-mobiles that I could imagine."
"Did it have white wall tires and a Fort Knox's worth of gold trim?" asked Charley, who's expression seemed to be moldering into a mask of anger.
"Yeah," said Jason, who was starting to feel nervous from the sudden rush of tension in the air.
Tom and Charley both glanced at each other, and then back to Jason.
"Limburger..." they simultaneously said.
"Oh boy," said Jason.
Throttle
Actual name: Theodore, apparently
Age: Unknown, possibly late 20's
Current Relationship Status: (Very) long distance
Mental Stability: rapidly disintegrating
Current Location: NOWHERE, AND YET-
Throttle found himself sitting on a pile of rubble in a strange place. He was next to a city street, but it was not Chicago. The buildings were shaped differently, made of brown and tan brick and stucco, cramped together and gated off with high walls. Miles of electrical wires hung in all directions from wooden poles, many were fallen. No building around him appeared taller than 4 stories. Dust and debris covered the street he sat next to. It was late afternoon; he could see the sun setting, casting the clear skies in shades of purple and pink.
He remembered where he was. This wasn't a dream, it was a memory—it was Jason's memory, or maybe it was a dream for Jason, the gunner's dream. He couldn't be certain.
In front of him, across the street, lay the body of the insurgent Jason had shot earlier. He appeared young for a human, but Throttle couldn't be certain because the man was torn apart from the hail of machinegun fire that had killed him. Rivers of blood cascaded from the sidewalk from where he lay, pooling into the gutter. He wore sandals and an off-brand Adidas tracksuit, a Russian-style olive drab bandoleer was strapped to his chest. The RPG he had carried was long since confiscated, instead there were a pair of Marines posing over the corpse, smiling and taking photos. The building next to where the man lay was still on fire from the mortar strike.
Throttle looked at his hands, except they weren't his hands, they were Jason's. He found it strange how they looked; they had no fur, no claws, they felt rougher than Charley-girl's hands, and they were caked with blood, not grease like Charley's usually were. At his—no, Jason's booted feet lie a purple hairclip in the shape of a butterfly. He picked it up and pocketed it in an empty grenade pouch strapped to his body armor. Throttle could smell the place, but it was dulled—he was surprised at how little human noses could detect; all around him was an incredible stench of rotting flesh, burning buildings and the distinct metallic tang of blood, but it was to nowhere near the depth or complexity of what he was used to.
"You did a good job today, Mickey" he heard an unfamiliar voice speak to him. Yet it wasn't unfamiliar, it belonged to Brooks, who was standing next to him, looking over a map. Brooks looked worn, his face caked with dirt and streaks of dried sweat. He was looking at Throttle.
"What about Tyler—I mean, Corporal Hare?" Throttle knew this was the question Jason had asked, he didn't know why, but at the same time he did know. It felt like he wasn't in complete control, and yet also was. He decided to go with the flow of things. Maybe he could gather some more insight into their newest recruit.
Brooks looked deflated at Throttle-Jason's question, but didn't answer. "You did a good job. You saved us back there. You had real balls getting up over the top and meting out some fire discipline."
Throttle-Jason didn't respond. He averted his eyes and stared back at the ground. He felt an emptiness. Brooks could sense his despair.
"I'm sorry about Tyler. It hurts, man, I know it hurts but you can't dwell on it, you know that. We gotta keep going and get the mission done." Brooks laid a hand on Throttle-Jason's shoulder. Something was wrong.
AFTER ALL THAT IS WHAT HEROES DO
It was a statement that had no voice, but he could feel it in his bones, a gnashing, silent scream.
Throttle-Jason looked back up, instead of Brooks it was the little girl. Chunks of shrapnel and rubble were embedded in her gray skin. Her skull was smashed in from the top, looking like a deflated basketball. With her one-remaining arm she slowly lifted the hem of her simple dress, her internal organs spilling out and pouring all over his face.
"WAKE UP, BRO!"
Throttle jumped up from his seat, the ruined city streets were replaced with the familiar surroundings of the inside of Wrigley Field's scoreboard, the Martian's hideout during their extended mission on earth.
Throttle was sitting across from Modo and Vinnie, their faces showed concern. In between them was the large wooden wire reel they have turned on it's side as an improvised table. They had been planning out Jason's training. The last thing Throttle remembered before drifting off to sleep was Vinnie talking, or more precisely, list all the reasons it was a bad idea to recruit a loser like Jason, and why Vinnie was better at everything, especially in the looks department. Vinnie had a tendency to do this on most occasions when discussing or planning. Rather than listen, Throttle would use these moments to take a very rare and precious mental break and drift off into sleep. Since he was the leader, the responsible one (in theory, at least) such moments of peace and quiet were hard to come by.
Also, as the leader, he couldn't let his bros in on how it was becoming increasingly difficult to distinguish reality from the hallucinations he had been having throughout the day. Since the imprinting, Throttle had been feeling an increasing anxiety, a constant feeling of being watched and an ever present, irrational dread. He could see the little girl that had haunted his dream—or was it a memory of Jason's? Or some strange cognitive distortion the strange human creates? Either way, Throttle can tell he's slowly losing his mind; he hopes the urgent report he sent out earlier gets a swift response—it's the only hope he has.
"Looked like you were having a nightmare, bro," said Vinnie, "It wasn't one of those cheese dreams, was it?"
"Oh mamma," Modo rubbed his mechanical hand on the back of his head, a sickened look painted his face, "I remember that one time Charley-girl snuck some cheddar in the chili; dreamt I was getting into a planned marriage with Karbunckle, momma was all crying in the pews and you guys were all cheering me on at the altar. Also I was naked and late for a test." Modo shuddered, "I have no idea where or why my mind decided that needed to happen..."
"I'm fine, bros, just got startled, haven't slept too good recently," Throttle removed his glasses, rubbing his eyes.
Martians hate cheese. It's not they're lactose intolerant, nor is it that most plutarkians have the same names as most types of earth cheeses, it's the fact that cheese gives martians horrible nightmares, called 'cheese dreams'. The worst thing about cheese dreams is that they're lucid, the afflicted remember them like they actually happened. Throttle remembered his cheese dream; it involved being hogtied naked to a baseball bench, Carbine in a leather dominatrix outfit carrying a cat-o-nine-tails, a sheep, two reels of bare copper grounding wire and a metal 8-foot A-frame ladder. Also it was on the pitching mound in Wrigley Field during game 7 of the world series, Cubs versus Orioles. Also he was late for a test, which is strange because he never got through martian elementary school. It had left deep scars in his psyche.
Wait, isn't Jason from Baltimore?
"It wasn't that, bros. It was one of Jason's memories, or dreams. I don't know. But I remember everything like it was a cheese dream."
"I don't get what you see in that dude," said Vinnie, "sure, it's all great and fine that he wants to help us, but I don't trust him; he's got gunk in the gas tank. He's got too many loose bolts, he's not as good looking as us, and he's not as cool as us. If we're going to get him to our level he's gonna have to get swole, he's gotta also start being a cool dude, because no one in the universe is as bad and rad as us, especially moi, and—"
Vinnie was off to the races. Again. It wasn't so much of Vinnie trying to have a discussion with the others as much as it was Vinnie talking to his own brain. When Throttle's wrist communicator began beeping he felt a wave of relief wash over himself; he can escape.
"Oh, looks like HQ is calling about that report I sent over," Throttle stood up and began making his way to the back room.
Vinnie shot Throttle a patronizing sneer. Modo rolled his eyes at the white mouse's pending immature statement. "Ooh, gotta talk to the girlfriend? Make smoochy faces at each other from across the solar system?"
Throttle looked back over his shoulder, smirking. "I gotta take any chance I can get. I don't have someone waiting for me at the Last Chance."
Vinnie made a strange face, somewhere between shock and embarrassment. "Y-yeah..." said the white mouse, bashfully rubbing the back of his head, blushing.
"What was that look for?" Modo asked Vinnie as Throttle left.
Vinnie looked ashamed, staring down at the floor with a lost expression. "I, uh... I didn't think you guys knew..."
Modo chuckled. "Didn't know? I figured you were up to something when you tried sneaking down to the garage while Throttle and I were napping. Jason's ribbing only confirmed the fact." The large grey mouse patted Vinnie on the back, "there's nothing to be ashamed about, bro. Actually, I wanted to say 'congrats'-it's about damn time you made a move!"
"It's not that. It's—" The good mood that Modo felt for his little bro turned to worry, it was clear that Vinnie was struggling to come to terms with something. "It's Harley... I feel like I betrayed her when I..." Vinnie pressed his hands against his face.
To the unknowing eye the device that sat on a folding table looked like a strange desktop computer, olive drab in color and adorned with various toggles, switches and lights with a normal human tech LCD monitor and camera attached. In actuality it was a two-way video communicator with a direct line to the martian resistance headquarters. It was also set up to give alerts through Throttle's wristwatch if someone on the other end was trying to reach him.
Throttle activated the video screen, his heart beating in anticipation. Thanks to Charley rigging their wrecked ship's communications computer he could talk to HQ on a more regular basis, at least for emergency calls—for some reason Charley got phone bills for it, and calls to mars do not come cheap. But, at least, when he gets especially lonely, he can talk to Carbine. Charley seems ok with footing the bill—she said she understood. Man Charley-girl sure is something else.
There was a moment of TV static as Throttle manipulated various switches until a clear picture appeared. On the other end was Carbine with a happy smile, her hands resting on her chin. She was every bit as beautiful as the day they first met, seeing her very light tan fur, her jasper colored eyes, raven black hair; even the jagged scar over her muzzle and under her left eye added a sense of maturity and toughness that Throttle found thrilling. For lack of a better word: she was goddamn gorgeous.
"Hey there, beautiful," said Throttle, his smile was almost ear to ear. Even with his growing fear over his mental state, and all the uncertainty of recent events, he could—for the moment—forget them.
"Hey there, teddy bear," she said, her voice was confident, mature and a tad bit sultry. Throttle's face felt hot.
"Geez, not too loud, babe, the guys might hear."
"Uh-huh, and if they have a problem with that they'll have to bring it up to their superior officer which happens to be—lemme see here," Carbine made a mock pose like was quickly looking for info by shuffling through some papers on her desk, "ah, me. Besides, I like watching you get all flustered."
Throttle gave a dry chuckle. "So, how goes the homefront? How's Stoker and Rimfire and the gang?"
Carbine's expression turned slightly darker, although not unhappy. Even though they both clearly wanted to not go through with it—it's business before pleasure, and often when the business is done there's hardly any pleasure left to be had.
"It's same-same. We're making steady gains against the fishies, they seem less interested in fighting us straight on and using the raiders and rats more and more as auxiliaries. Consensus between us and the Army says that the Plutarkians are less interested in what few resources are left on Mars; they're probably eyeing up Earth. Everyone else is fine, light casualties, no deaths."
It was an inevitable thing. Eventually the Plutarkians were going to invade Earth. It was an uncomfortable thought for Throttle. Fighting off Limburger was only delaying the inevitable. After all, there are probably hundreds more Plutarkian entrepreneurs hidden among every corner of this blue planet. And eventually when enough people on the planet get pissed off at the status quo and start to fight back, those stinkfish would have to resort to more direct methods of control. But that was a problem at a later date.
Carbine changed her expression to a more mischievous grin. It reminded Throttle of his cheese dream. That was not good.
"Oh I almost forgot about something that happened recently but we'll get to that in a moment," Carbine was playing the indifferent angle way too much for Throttle's comfort.
"Well, what is it, babe? What's the 'thing' you're talking about?"
"As I said, in a moment. Heh, you're so cute when you're like this." Carbine picked up a stack of nearby papers and fumbled through them. "So I got your report just this morning, and it looks like you guys have been getting into all kinds of mischief."
"It's a long story, I know, and things have gotten complicated."
"They sure have. Anyways, of course we'll send you guys all the supplies you need with the stalker ship." Carbine raised an eyebrow as she continued to go over the report. "And it looks like you found yourself a new recruit, a human, to boot."
"Yep, I'm not sure how he'll do, but I'm willing to give it a shot. Moreso in order to help us fight Limburger's new lackey—"
"—who happens to be said recruit's older brother."
"Yep."
"And apparently you and this recruit accidentally imprinted on each other. I told you to be careful with reading people's minds! You know you're not trained for it!"
"I know, I know, I screwed up. But both me and Jason need help, can you send someone?"
"Sent," she corrected.
"Who?"
Carbine's grin, now a knowing smile, returned. Throttle at least now knew that Carbine's mystery was a person. But who?
"I said we'll get to that. So about this Jason guy; come to think of it, I've never met a human man in person. Is he as cute as you?" Throttle's ears twitched and fur stood on end at that question. Carbine laughed.
"I'm kidding! No need to get all flustered. Can't a girl have some fun, especially with you being so far away all the time with Charley?"
"You'd know I'd never cheat on you."
"And I know she'd never let you do that. And if she did—" Carbine pulled out a combat knife and stabbed it into the table. Throttle gulped. He decided it best to get the conversation back on track.
"So are you ok with us recruiting him?" he asked.
"Of course. We need to start getting the humans involved in this fight. We can't handle a two front war like this on our own, but he'll need a good teacher."
"What, you don't trust us?"
"No. Not really," she said flatly. "It's not that I don't have faith in you guys, but he needs the same training you got, especially if he wants to be at your guy's level. And I wouldn't trust Vinnie to babysit a rock for three days let alone give him responsibility over another living being. That's why I'm sending Stoker over to you guys, if he can't get Jason in shape then no one can."
"Stoker? All right! I guess he got bored sitting around all day over there, telling old war stories to bright-eyed newbies?"
After picking Carbine as his successor, Stoker had resigned his role as commander of the freedom fighters, taking on a more mentoring role as head instructor. It would be good to see the old mouse again.
Carbine laughed at Throttle's jab. "Yeah, I guess he wants a bigger challenge, and he was excited to see how a human would measure up. So, that's about all I have for—oh wait, I almost forgot," Carbine's smile seemed to grow ever more joyful looking, which in turn only increased the excitement Throttle felt over what she was going to say next.
"So, about that certain someone I'm also sending your way," Carbine carefully shuffled a few papers around, trying to find the right way to announce it.
"Well, let it out: who is it?" The anticipation was killing Throttle.
"Well... a couple days ago we conducted a raid at a plutarkian storage facility near Olympus Mons. It was an overwhelming success, we managed to cart off everything, including a certain someone in a cryogenic storage pod, like the ones used in deep space travel. I didn't want to jump out and tell you until we knew for sure she was safe and sound in mind and body..."
She?
Tears of happiness formed around Carbine's eyes.
"We found her, Throttle. We found Harley."
Throttle's heart leaped into his throat.
She has been found. They found her.
Throttle jumped his chair, grabbing the sides of the monitor, bringing his face in close to the camera. "That's amazing! This is great! I can't believe it!"
All these years, wasted, searching in vain. Vinnie's heartbreak, the agony of loss. All of that dispelled with one single, solitary word. Found.
"I know," said Carbine, "I'm guessing she got put into storage by Mace, probably to preserve her as a bargaining chip. No sign of that bastard rat, though. But Harley is fine, safe and sound. She'll be the one who can help you and your newest recruit. When we revived her the first thing she asked about was Vinnie. She pretty much demanded to be flown over ASAP. While we could certainly use her skills here, I figured that the stars pretty much aligned for her to come over to you guys."
"Oh man! Wait'll I tell everyone, wait'll I tell Vinnie and Charley and—"
Oh SHIT.
Throttle froze, his face locked in a rather not so pleasant expression. Carbine got immediately concerned.
"What's wrong? What's up?" she asked.
"Uh, what's the ETA on that Stalker ship?"
"Well, they embarked first thing this morning, so they'll be in Earth's orbit in... about an hour."
"Well... uh..." Throttle made a pitiful wish that life wouldn't always have to be so complicated. He stumbled through his words trying to dig out an explanation. "You see, uh, Vinnie and uh Charley, they have..."
Carbine's eyes widened in shock. "They have what? What are you trying to say?"
Before Throttle could answer his wrist communicator began beeping. It was Charley calling. "Hold on," he said as he answered, "what's going on Charley-girl?"
Charley's voice rang out, the distinct rumble of her truck's hemi-V8 engine was audible in the background. "Limburger's limo just ran over a homeless man. Cops won't make a move on him. Jason and I are heading towards River North looking for him."
"Damn it, Charley-girl! You can't get Jason involved like this! He ain't ready!"
"Well then, you boys better hurry and catch up to us."
Throttle sighed, "10-4, the cavalry is on it's way." Throttle hung up, looking over to a now sad and worried looking Carbine. "Sorry babe, no rest for the wicked. Tell Stoker to hone in on my wrist communicator. Hopefully he won't crash into us."
"Life never gets easier, does it?"
"But then where would be the fun in that?" Throttle gave a confident smile, business as usual.
Carbine kissed her hand and pressed it against the computer monitor, her attempt to touch her love from across the solar system. Throttle returned the favor.
"See you around, babe."
"Stay healthy, teddy-bear. Carbine out."
The last thing Throttle saw was that familiar tender but slightly worried expression she always had before he went out on a mission. Whatever feelings he might have at the moment he needed to suppress, he had a job to do. He'll figure out the rest later. He stepped out of the back room to see his bros with quizzical expressions.
"Time to rock'n'roll bros. Charley needs us out there; the big stink ran over an innocent and time for us to pay him back in kind. She's already ahead so there's no time to waste."
Vinnie jumped his seat, "About time! I was losing my mind just sitting here!"
"Heard you yelling back there, Throttle, was it good news? You sounded happy."
I can't tell Vinnie, we got a job to do, it'll distract him. If we're going after Limburger then that mean's we'll be seeing Jason's brother, and we'll need all the focus we can get.
Throttle grabbed the M79 and the bandoleer of EMP grenades from a hanger on a nearby wall. "I'll tell you guys after we're done with Limburger and his new lackey. Mission comes first."
"Right." Modo didn't seem too pleased with the answer, but at least this would keep Vinnie focused on something other than the horrible crises of self that the white mouse seemed to be going through. "Can't wait to get a piece of that jerk, what's-his-name?"
"I think Jason said it was Danny." Said Vinnie as he began to wrap a belt of flares over his waist. "Which, to be honest, is a really shitty name for a bad guy."
The Martian's dependable, faithful mechanical steeds roared to life as soon they all threw a leg over. The electric garage door for the front of the scoreboard opened, revealing a partially cloudy sky. Rain was in the forecast later on, probably within an hour or two. Hopefully later than sooner. Throttle closed the visor to his helmet.
"Well bros, it's time to teach that fat wad of aquarium gravel a thing or two about the consequences of a hit-and-run. It's time to rock—!"
And all three yelled in unison.
"And RIDE!"
As Charley ended her call she glanced back over at Jason. He looked distant, his hands clenching and opening. His face turned into a scowl.
"As I was saying, the plan is we find the limo and wait for the guys to show up. If things get out of hand, I have an AT-4 stashed in the toolbox behind us." Jason snapped out of his thoughts and gave her a surprised look.
"What the fuck?" he said, "how did you manage to get one of those?"
"I know some people. You know how to use one, right?"
"Yeah, but still..." he glanced back out the passenger side window. "This is all going way too fast for me."
"How are you doing?"
Jason looked down at the cabin floor. He gave a sour laugh. "To be honest with you, I'm terrified. I know my brother's gonna be there, I can feel it. And I'm terrified of what he might say. Terrified of what he has become."
All these years, gone. Missing. Disappeared. Now found again. So sudden, so unexpected.
Charley didn't say anything, she didn't know what to say. All she could hope for was that things would work out. Hopefully.
Silence filled the cabin as Charley's truck roared down the Chicago city streets. Their destination, certain, inevitable.
So, that's it for this chapter. Things are about to get messy. There were a couple of songs I played a lot of while writing this, but the one that stood out to me the most was the ABANDONED STREETS by Jordan F, mostly for the anxiety and tension the song exudes. I think it's a good setup for a big confrontation, which is where this story is headed. Anyways, hopefully I wont be too late for the next chapter. I thank anyone who is still following this story, and I apologize once again for the wait. Anyways, feel free to post any comments or criticisms.