II: The Way It Is

The lights in the scoreboard were dim. No raucous music played. Those who knew the existance of the aliens dwelling within could be forgiven for thinking someone close to them had died. Charlene Davidson - crack mechanic and proprietor of The Last Chance Garage - paused at the lip of the road leading to the scoreboard and gazed sadly up at it. It seemed wrong somehow to just ride up there. Almost without thinking, she killed the engine of her bike and wheeled it the short distance in.

Her bike, small in comparison with the sentient mechanical monsters her strange friends possessed, fit nicely in the shelter beneath the scoreboard. Charley ascended the narrow staircase, listening for any sign or sound of the bros. For a lot longer than was normal, she heard nothing. It was only when she approached the door of their dwelling that she heard low voices murmuring to each other.

It was a sight that would have had anyone else in whatever state they expressed shock in. Charley's very first reaction when they had first met had been one of disbelief. The spunky wrench jockey had risen to the challenge of repairing their bikes. The ability to learn fast was a blessing, a bit of work, a bit of reading and she had picked up enough working knowledge of their technology to conduct any repairs and modifications that needed to be done.

Unfortunately her mechanical skills and her compassionate nature combined couldn't help now. She had dealt with this sort of thing before. But never with a guy. Guys had their own warped ways of dealing with situations like this. She paused briefly at the door to the dwelling. The soft murmurings continued. They were unaware of her presence. She couldn't make out what they were saying. Hoping she wasn't interrupting anything, she turned the handle, opening the door as quietly as she could, just enough to admit her slim form, closing it just as softly behind her.

She could have been forgiven for thinking she had stepped into the reception for a funeral. Aside from the standard casual dress of the only two attendees. At any rate it was difficult to conceive that these guys would have it any other way. Vinnie and Modo looked up listlessly as she entered. The expression of infinite sadness on Modo's face was heart wrenching. Vinnie looked like a little lost kid, and for once was not plying his usual suggestion for cheering up or generally feeling better about the world.

"How is he?" it seemed wrong to raise her voice above a whisper. Charley settled herself onto a footstool, completing a triangle of friends.

"It's bad, Charley-girl." She knew it was bad all right. Vinnie's voice was quiet and tremulous. Bad ass, loudmouthed Vincent Van Wham, self proclaimed baddest mammajamma this side of Mars. Blunt, tactless, clueless but loveable Vinnie did not do quiet and tremulous. Vinnie was overconfident and egotistical. Vinnie was always ready to take on the world regardless of the odds - the bigger the odds the happier he was.

"He hasn't moved since..." Modo paused. The situation did not need explaining again. But it had been two days.

"Is he..."

"We've checked in," Vinnie answered before she could finish the question. "He doesn't wanna talk." The albino, smallest of the trio at six foot straight up, hunched over on his seat, dejectedly resting a chin on his palm, elbow propped on one knee. His ears drooped, painting the picture of depression. Charley had not seen the third part to this trio since the incident, after he had locked himself away in the spare room that Charley used if she was staying with them. But if these two were like this...

"Has he eaten anything?"

Two despondant head shakes.

He's going to kill himself. She didn't want to alarm the other two by voicing her thoughts. Males could be so clueless sometimes. Not on this occasion. She could see her thought reflected in their ruby eyes. Or dark pink in Vinnie's case. Stupid macho mice, she thought hopelessly. As much as she wanted to comfort Throttle, she knew he wouldn't have any of it. He wanted to be alone, to deal with things alone. Such was the way of man. Regardless of where they were from, it seemed.

"He's...never been like this before." Vinnie's tail twitched in a jerky movement from across the arm of the worn chair he was settled in to across his lap.

It seemed like a stupid question but you never know til you ask. "Was Carbine his first serious relationship?" Charley hazarded.

Vinnie snorted and managed to smirk, temporarily looking like he should, before sinking back down into shared depression.

"He's had a few o' them Charley ma'm," Modo replied.

Charley nodded. She'd thought so. "He really loves her doesn't he."

Two nods. Charley had never seen the guys like this. There must have been other times, in their past. She knew unspeakable things had happened to them, had been done to them, before. They had told her about some of their past, but really only events of the war leading up to them crashing on Earth, and occasionally bits of information that would prove useful in their latest attempts to foil the resident Plutarkians. She could see their physical scars, but they never shared the mental and emotional effects their experiences had had on them. If not for the little bits of information they often unwittingly let slide, she would never have known. They were always so happy-go-lucky and carefree, even in the worst times. A righteous fury was brewing somewhere in the pits of her stomach. If I get hold of Carbine...The rational part of her argued that Carbine must have had a reason, but it still didn't give her the right to hurt Throttle so much. Carbine at least had the advantage of being ages away on another planet so she didn't have to deal with the damage she'd caused. She could just get on with her merry little life and forget all about him. That bitch. She'd better hope she never has to come back here ever again...It must have been difficult. They'd been apart for so long. Charley had seen them together. There was no way Carbine could possibly have made that decision lightly. Was there? She had no way of knowing. She didn't know much of the story. From what Modo and Vinnie had told her, Carbine had contacted Throttle from Mars. There'd been talking, pleading, many tears. All that they could get from Throttle before he secluded himself was that Carbine had dumped him.

In the other room, the one the boys had converted into a 'radio shack', the communication device that was their only link home crackled to life. For some insane, bizarre second Charley thought it might be Carbine. It probably would have been if they were playing through some movie.

"Runt? You there?" It was a very hard, very masculine voice. Did not sound even remotely like Carbine. It had the same effect on Vinnie and Modo that a balloon would have if a pin were stabbed into it.

"Not him. Not now," Vinnie groaned. He leaped from his seat. Modo, who had uncurled himself from the split, stuffing-leaking couch with the grace of a cat, rested his hand on Vinnie's shoulder. Not so much pressure later he had Vinnie back in his seat.

"Allow me." Modo walked into the radio shack. "What you want Quickshift." He could have easily sliced a diamond with his tone of voice. It made Charley double take. Sweet, gentle Modo speaking harshly to anyone?

"That runt still hanging with you losers?"

*******

Modo was vaguely aware of the Plutarkian addition to his body curl itself into a fist. He could punch through most things that weren't laid to waste with the in-built cannon. Punching through the commstation would be counterproductive.

"Where is he?" the mouse on screen inquired, enunciating each word as if speaking to someone with a hearing disability, an understanding disability or perhaps both.

"He's not in a talkin' mood," Modo answered harshly.

"Pining over General Carbine? He always was a softcock."

If they'd been standing in the same room there wouldn't have been a lot that would have stopped Modo from planting his bionic fist through Quickshift's smug head. His grey-furred momma had always said he should be diplomatic - which to him meant not following Vinnie's policy of shoot first, shoot later, shoot some more and then try to ask questions after everyone was dead*.

"You jus' call to shoot off your mouth?" there was the distinct hint of a threat in Modo's voice. At that point in time he was perfectly ready to fix up their busted ship and fly all the way to Mars for the pleasure of knocking Quickshift out.

Quickshift sighed. "S'pose you can pass it on to the runt if he's ever done cryin'." He seemed to sober. "More to do with you anyway. Can't give you too much details obviously, army intelligence are cunts like that. Long an' short of it, covert ops mission. Botched. Some of'em butchered. Nasty work. Rest of 'em gone. No trace that they can find. Your boy's among the MIA."

Modo froze. His throat constricted painfully. "...Rimfire...?" He stared at Quickshift, processing the information. As much as he wanted to believe Quickshift was just bullshitting him, stirring like he used to do before to get them riled, it was a plain and simple fact that Quickshift did not bullshit. He may be an absolute bastard who derived pleasure from tormenting them but he never lied. Not even to save his own skin. "When? How? Who...?"

Quickshift sighed in exasperation. "Couple weeks ago, classified, and that's s'posed to be classified as well but fuck it. They were goin' after those motherfuckin' stinkfish. Who else?" The bitterness and hatred remained. Maybe it was too much to hope that there was a trace of sympathy in Quickshift's voice. He'd given the three of them hell for so long it was near impossible to wonder if he even gave a fuck. Seriously.

"Does Primer know?" Modo took care to keep his voice even.

"Not yet." There was something unreadable in Quickshift's voice.

"Do you know where he might be?" Modo pressed.

This time Quickshift's usually well-controlled face took on the expression in his voice. "Shit happens, kid. That's the way it is around here."

"Fuck Quickshift could you be any more heartless!" Modo didn't even realise he'd smashed his bionic fist into a nearby console - thankfully nothing major - until it sparked and sputtered, sending a mildly uncomfortable current up into his shoulder. The screen went blank. That was it then. Communication cut. Modo growled in his throat, then tried breathing deeply. Had to calm down. Had to think straight. What a fucked up week it had been.

* stole that from Wild Wild West :)