A/N: Wow. I actually got this done sooner than I thought I would. I'm very proud of myself. And once again, many thanks to Tess La Calme for being my beta reader, and deciding what needed to be added and/or subtracted.
Legal jargon, blah blah. I don't own Biker Mice, just the idea. I own Danny. Tess owns Jet, and is being used with Tess's permission.
A/N: Looking back, I realized that one part of this chapter was a bit disturbing, so I went back to edit it.
Charley blinked her eyes as she slowly woke up. A dull pain ran through her head as she regained her composure and became aware of her surroundings. She squinted her eyes, trying to recognize where she was. Cigarette cartons, half broken beer bottles, and fast food wrappers were scattered all over the bottom by her feet. When she inhaled through her nose, she suppressed the urge to gag. The car reeked of what she could describe as a combination of motor oil, moldy food, stale farts and unwashed dude. Now she knew she wasn't in any of her own vehicles, or even with the Bros. When Charley tried to open her mouth to breathe, she realized that some foreign cloth was stuffed inside. She squirmed, and realized her arms were pressed to her sides, and from down her chest to her wrists she was tied up. She also realized that her blue shirt was soaked through, and felt rain come down onto her and a cold wind hitting her wet skin, chilling her to the bone.
The auburn-haired mechanic mentally paused to process what was happening. Rain, wind, and bondage while in a moving car? She looked around as much as she could, and realized she was in the passenger's seat of a dune buggy, and there were more in front of her. Her eyes widened, and everything came flooding back.
The garage! Danny! Modo!
Everything came back suddenly, the impact of the memories enough to knock her out once again. She had seen Modo fall unconscious after being hit over and over with the butt of Greasepit's bazooka as he tried in vain to protect her and Danny. She remembered struggling against the grip of the goons as she attempted to get free and help her friend, but she was outnumbered and outmuscled. After being dragged out of the garage, Charley felt her head hit against something hard as she was put in a dune buggy, and everything went black…until she woke up.
Charley wiggled against her ropes attempting to free herself. It was no use; the ropes were too tight, and she couldn't budge her arms in the slightest. She looked out to her right to see if she could find anything to cut her ropes. Nothing on the seat nearby that was even remotely sharp. Not like it that ever stopped her in the past. She scooted towards the edge of her seat to rub herself against whatever she could to cut herself loose…or at least she attempted to. As Charley attempted to scoot towards the other side, she felt cold metal touch her left temple. She paused, frozen in shock, not even daring to look to her left.
"I wouldn't if I were you, Toots," the goon simply responded. "Mister Limburger would not like your pretty little brain scattered all over the seats. So be smart for once and stay put. Do that, and maybe I can convince the boss to let us keep you-and that little pest-around as our personal little 'toys'."
Charley stayed where she was, glaring at the goon as he set his gun back in his holster and resumed driving with both hands. She sat back, trying not to think about her predicament. She was kidnapped for the umpteenth time in her life, she had no way to free herself and Danny, Modo was back at the garage and she had no way of knowing if he was okay or not. She knew the Bros had endured worse than what Modo had just endured, but she still couldn't help but worry about him. She was sure that as soon as Modo woke up, he would know they're gone and search all over the city for them, and Throttle and Vinnie would join in. She wasn't worried about being held hostage; she was used to it (but she didn't enjoy it!), and knew it would only be a matter of time. What she was worried about was what would happen when the three would inevitably arrive at wherever she and Danny were going to rescue them.
Whenever Limburger would hold her as a hostage, she would always be bait for a trap he would set. All of the traps the Plutarkian mob boss-wannabe would backfire on him, but there was something about his new scheme that made his plan stand out more than his prior ones. She remembered that blue veined creature Modo fought, and while she didn't see the fight she knew the fight with it made it easier for Limburger's goon army to gang up and take down Modo. Greasepit could have killed Modo then and there; Modo was weak from fighting, and Greasepit had the firepower and manpower at his disposal. If Greasepit didn't kill Modo when he had the opportunity, then there was only one possible explanation: Limburger had something grander in mind, and it had something to do with that blue-veined monster and his connection with the hoarding of cocaine. Whatever this trap was, she just hoped that she could dismantle it before the big rescue she was sure the Bros would do. More importantly, she just hoped Modo was alive and well.
Jet gripped the outer edges of the large iron box as she struggled to keep her footing. The goons were driving so fast-and seeming to hit every pot hole and street crack they came across-that it was a miracle from falling out. With every pot hole and crack the dune buggies hit, Jet felt herself bouncing up and down on the floor of the crate until she sat down and pressed her feet to both sides to avoid falling out. She looked outside to the best of her abilities, hoping to see any landmarks or businesses to alert the Biker Mice where to find her. Nothing stood out to her, but just more deteriorating or boarded up buildings and low-income apartments that either needed to be remodeled or demolished.
This place makes the New York projects look like the high-rise apartments in Manhattan, or at least Queens. I need to write to the Alderman and make him or her get this shithole get fixed up.
The dune buggy took another sharp turn. Jet clenched the edges tighter to make sure she didn't go flying out. She knew she couldn't keep this up any longer. She had to know where they were going. Jet scooted closer to the edge of the large crate she was in, and making sure her grip was iron tight, she looked out the crate and turned her head to look forward. The dune buggies followed Greasepit's chopper into what looked like a deteriorating warehouse. The doorway was opening for the vehicles to enter. Jet reached back for her duffle bag, which surprisingly did not fly out of the crate during the trip and dove for the ground. When she dove out, she brought her forearm up to her forehead and brought her knees up to her waist to ball herself up, and she rolled onto the wet ground below as she tumbled out. When she looked up, the dune buggies and chopper went inside, and no one looked back to notice she had tumbled out. She stood up and brushed the bits of wet dirt and gravel that had gotten on her clothes, and made a mad dash to the side of the warehouse to avoid being caught by any guards or random bystanders.
When Jet made her way the warehouse's side, she looked around to see if she could find the building's address, or a nearby street sign; anything to give her a sense of where she was. She looked around the side, but found nothing. She dared not go out to the front in case there was a guard out to expose her and blow her cover. She walked further down, and saw tire marks on the side of the building. She slowly looked up, and saw that the tire tracks went up the side of the building, and continued onwards towards the roof. She stared at it for a moment, perplexed. Why were tire tracks on a building? She shrugged it off. After all, Chicago was another major city, and she was no stranger to seeing graffiti on buildings. Perhaps these tire tracks were from a graffiti artist trying to distinguish himself or herself. She continued walking down looking for a marker to use for location, and noticed the ladder for the fire escape. Making sure there was no one around to spot her, Jet grabbed the ladder and pulled herself up. She took care climbing the metal ladder as the rain made the steps and pole slippery. When she made it halfway up the building, paused. She heard distinctly male voices. Were there guards on the top of the roof? She continued to climb, moving slower to make sure her feet didn't make any noise to avoid alerting the guards. She continued on until the top of her head was at the roof. She paused in her ascent and looked up over the roof. When she did, she saw two large bikers huddled by a motorcycle, with the biker in a leather vest talking into a radio. She blinked, and realized the two bikers were Throttle and Vinnie. But where was Modo?
"Modo! Dammit Modo come in!" Throttle played with the knobs on his bike's radio, only to be met with static. Frustrated, he stopped and looked at Vinnie. "That big oaf turned off his radio. Knowing him, he's using the tracker on his bike and will be here shortly."
"You act like you weren't expecting him to do that at all." Vinnie reactivated the visor on his helmet. "I just hope he's not too disappointed when there's nothing left to smash, pummel or blow up."
"I'm more worried about him forcing himself when he's not in any condition to move-let alone ride."
"I'm worried about you three leveling the city at the rate you're talking."
"Well that's par for the cou-" Vinnie paused. "Wait. Who said that?"
Throttle and Vinnie turned their heads and saw Jet's head peeking out from the edge of the roof. Jet in return gave the two mice a smug smirk and wave, then stepped onto the roof. The two just stared at her as she approached, rain coming down on her hair. She stood by their side, ringing the rain water out of her hair.
"Jet?" Throttle adjusted his glasses. "Wh-what are you doing here? Are you stalking us? I know you're a sci-fi junkie and all, but-"
"Don't flatter yourselves," Jet scoffed. "I'm here because I was trying to find out what part of the city I'm in, and drug addicts aren't the best at giving directions." Jet paused. "Wait…how did you get your motorcy-wait, nevermind. Alien bikers, alien motorbikes, tire tracks on the walls…I can put the pieces together. Almost fell right into that trap."
"What tra-nevermind." Throttle shook his head. "I hope whatever reason you're here for is a good one. We got two damsels in distress that need to be rescued and-"
"That's what I'm trying to tell you, you furry dumbass!" Jet yelled. "If you'd shut up for two seconds I can tell ya: your friend Charley and some other kid are here! They're being held hostage!"
"Wait what?" Vinnie walked up straight to Jet and grabbed her by the shoulders. "You saw them? Are they alright? Did any harm come to Charley-girl!?"
"Depends on what you mean by 'alright'. If you mean they're alive and unharmed, yes. They were bound, gagged, and unconscious when I saw them. I hitchhiked on the back of one of the dune buggies while they were driving so I could find out where they were being taken to tell ya. But instead I see you here, so that saves me minutes on my phone and some battery power."
"I don't know whether to thank you for taking that risk to come here, or lecture you for taking that risk," Throttle stated. "What if you were caught? We've seen you fight, but you wouldn't be up against just one-" Throttle paused. "Wait. You said 'they', and said one of them was a kid. Did you mean Danny?"
"You mean the small one with black hair? Yeah, she was tied up behind Greasepit on his chopper." Jet paused. "Since we're on the topic, aren't there supposed to be three of you? Where is the big gray one-Modo?"
"He's on his way here. Against his-and my-better judgment,"
"Well, I wouldn't expect it to be any other way with you superhero types." Jet rolled her eyes. Seems no matter what planet a man was from, all were the same: push aside common sense to preserve one's 'machismo'.
"It's how we roll, Sweetheart." Vinnie rushed to the back of his bike.
"What are you two doing?" Jet blinked.
"What we're supposed to be doing, Jet: rescuing our friends, and saving the city." Throttle activated the visor on his helmet. "Get as far away from here as you can, and call the police and tell them to get to this street. We'll take care of the dirty work ourselves."
"Wait…you're just gonna blast your way in and beat up everyone around you? THAT'S your strategy!?"
"No, of course not." Throttle paused. "We're also gonna blow up the building and whatever equipment that stinkfish is using for his plans, and make a side trip to Limburger tower to shut him down."
"Save Greasepit for me, Bro. I have an extra special 'lesson' to give him," Vinnie growled, revving the engine of his motorcycle. "No one harms Charley-girl and gets away with it if I have anything to say about it!"
"That's not a strategy! That's not even a concept!" Jet yelled. "What if your fire power puts your friends in danger? What if they got some sort of explosive and your rockets and lasers set off a chain reaction? Shouldn't you at least find a way to get your friends of the line of fire BEFORE you go in guns a'blazin'? And what about your friend Modo-shouldn't you wait until he gets here? Three have a better chance of 'saving the day' as you call it than two."
"It might be too late for Charley-girl and Danny-girl if we wait for him," Throttle answered, and looked at Jet. "Trust us Jet: we know what we're doing. You just get out of here before YOU get caught in the crossfire." Throttle looked back at Vinnie. "You know the drill, Vincent. Let's Rock-"
"AND RIDE!"
Throttle and Vinnie activated the canons on their bikes and shot a hole in the center of the roof. Jet backed away towards the edge of the roof as the two mice shot a gigantic hole in the center of the roof, large enough for two vehicles to ride through. She watched the two mice-with wide eyes and her jaw down low-as they drove down the self-created hole. She continued to stare at the hole after they had already made their descent. She couldn't move, talk, or react at all. Only one thing was on her mind:
The Justice League. I should've sought out the Justice League. Or at least Batman. His idea of a plan would involve more than blasting random holes in buildings and go charging in.
Jet looked back at the ladder, then back at the hole in the roof's center. Throttle told her to get out of the way, and all common sense and self-preservation told her to follow through and seek solid ground. After all she did her job; there was no need for her to do anything more. She was under no obligation. But she couldn't bring herself to do so; it violated her sense of right and wrong. She was already too caught up in what was going on in Chicago to just turn her back and hope other people could do the dangerous work. Being a New Yorker, she was all too familiar with seeing people harmed and killed in the name of greed and sick pleasure. Perhaps it was the years of growing up on comics, cartoons and sci-fi shows, or maybe it was a lifetime of living in a city infested with crime and being both a witness and victim to injustice in life. Either way, Jet could not just sit back and not do something. Besides, Throttle acknowledge earlier she could handle herself in a physical fight. She may not have a heavily armored motorcycle, large muscles, or intergalactic weaponry at her disposal, but she was by no means a meek and helpless bystander!
If those giant furballs think I'm just gonna sit on my ass like some weak, whimpering damsel and do nothing but twiddle my fingers and hope and pray they'll come out alive, then they don't know the first thing about me.
Jet made her way to the ladder and started climbing down to the first balcony on the fire escape. While determined to do her part and help in any way she could, she was smart enough to know she would not survive jumping from the roof to the floor. Once on the balcony, she saw a hole in the window and used it to enter. She laid down on her stomach as she watched the fight-or more accurately, an ongoing demolition- go down below. It looked as though the two mice were able to handle the situation after all. Still, it was the principle of the matter, and Jet was familiar enough to action movies to remember one rule: everything can change in a matter of moments. There could be a moment where they would need her help, even if they didn't want to accept it.
Jet brushed a strand of her black hair out of her face to watch the fight go on. As she did, she heard two sets of food steps on each side of her, followed by the cocking of guns. She blinked, and turned her head to her left. When she did, she saw a goon approach her, cradling a rifle in his arms. She looked to her right and saw another goon holding a another. Jet frowned. She had no counted on being discovered so quickly.
"Well, lookie lookie what we got here. A little out of place rat." The goon on her left briefly gave her a once over. "Okay, not little at all. More like big 'n juicy…in all the right places."
"Too bad orders are orders," the second goon added, lifting up his rifle and pointing directly at Jet's head. "Leave no witness behind. Too bad though...seems like a waste of a fine set of T&A."
Just my luck. Jet frowned. Not even five minutes but I'm cornered by goons with guns. So much for avoiding the damsel in distress cliche.
A/N: Anyone know of a good clinic to check into for cliffhanger addictions? LOL.