Dark Times - Saga: Part 1
DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own any intellectual property taken from "Biker Mice from Mars" the television series. This story is NOT for profit. The story belongs to the author, but it may be referenced for more NON profit usage.
Dark Times
Plutark is perfecting a weapon that may spell defeat for the scattered remains of the Martians.
Chapter 1: A Dreadful Mess
Will Throttle be project venom's next victim?
Throttle just couldn't shake away this instinctive feeling of dread, a feeling that had managed to invade his day before it had even begun. This morning, he awoke to a troubling sunrise that was void of life; there wasn't a song to be heard from the friendly feathered neighbours, nor a stroke of blue in the endlessly grey sky. As Throttle sat at his kitchen table, dread even managed to creep into his breakfast of coffee and leftover chilli-dogs: the coffee was slightly too bitter, and the chilli-dogs managed to be both soggy and stale at the same time.
At this point, Throttle would have merely wrote off the morning as "unusually bland," a morning that would have been best suited sleeping late, oblivious to the entire world. However, once Throttle tuned into the news on the radio, the morning's true nature suddenly revealed itself. The radio was showcasing Limburger and his corporation, describing the well-known business man and his latest project: a new animal shelter. The three Biker Mice choked on their food as they heard the words "Limburger" and "cute furry animals" used in the same sentence, a sentence that should never have been granted it's foul existence, a sentence that could easily give the most macho biker nightmares for weeks. Chairs were upturned and tables nearly toppled as the three martians flew out the door, leaving it unlatched and flapping in their wake, the remains of breakfast forgotten, and the radio newscaster's voice filling an otherwise dead silence.
As Throttle, Vinnie and Modo sped down the road furiously on their trusted steel friends, the feeling of dread soaked through to Throttle's bones and seeped into the cracks of his mind. Throttle couldn't get rid of his gut feelings and couldn't ease his thoughts. From where exactly did this dread originate? Was it the mental picture of innocently helpless animals being handed over to the sinister hands of his enemy? The shock of hearing about Limburger first thing in the morning? Or was it the fact that Throttle just couldn't envision Limburger having anything to do with cute furry animals? That him and his bros were heading straight into a trap? That they were too concerned about the welfare of the supposed animals, that they failed to recognise the warning signs of a hoax?
Was it just an over-all lousy morning?
Throttle tried to shake away the feeling of dread, to suppress it, ignore it, forget it. His overactive imagination was a distraction this morning. He didn't know why he was so worried, it was only Limburger, and they had been busting his ill-intentioned plans for longer than he wished to remember.
Throttle glanced over to his left, where Modo rode his beautiful navy cruiser, named Lil'hoss. He was gripping the handle bars far too tightly, his knuckles visibly pale underneath his thin grey fur. He was muttering to himself, or at least Throttle thought he was. Modo was furious. Then again, when it came to Limburger, a Plutarkian disguised as a human, he was always furious. Everything affected Modo at a personal level. Throttle didn't know another mouse more passionate, more determined, and more dedicated than his giant friend. Modo was adamantly devoted to saving the Earth from the devastating fate inflicted on their own home planet, Mars. The Plutarkians were a horrific and ruthless race who exploited the resources of every planet in their path. They drained planets and enslaved the natives until they was nothing left but a barren wasteland and the scattered broken remains of a once thriving people. Modo couldn't let this happen again, not to Earth, and especially not to the innocent earthling children. He could never let them grow up as he had, surrounded by war, death and suffering, loosing loved ones, loosing parents, and watching as civilisation was reduced to rubble. An entire world's legacy turned to dust and blown away by a reckless wind.
When it came to the Plutarkians, it was always personal.
Throttle turned away from Modo and his depressing rage, making a mental note to take Modo out for a cheerful lunch once they had finished foiling Limburger's plans. To his right was an entirely opposite picture, and Throttle couldn't help but grin. Vinnie was taking advantage of riding on a currently empty street, leaping his flashy red sport's bike over every street sign and any parked car in sight. This adrenaline junkie didn't need an excuse to show off his elite motorcycle skills. He would have been pulling crazy stunts even if the street was filled with bumper-to-bumper traffic. Throttle could hear Vinnie's crazed howls and maniacal laughter on top of the three roaring motorcycle engines. Then again, Throttle's large alien ears were quite sensitive, especially for a motorcyclist. Throttle chuckled and focused back on the road. He was driving, after all. "Are we there yet?" Vinnie's anxious question rang through the helmet's communication system, delivering Throttle and Modo out of their reverie.Throttle brought a golden-furred hand up to the right side of his helmet and habitually pressed one of a tiny silver buttons, activating the helmet's communication system. "All stop," he broadcasted to his two companions, his voice soft yet authoritative. Modo and Throttle slid to a stop, side by side and in perfect unison. Throttle's left leg lazily left his bike to rest on the concrete, and Modo's head apprehensively panned the area surrounding them. Vinnie's bike landed from it's last jump and skidded to a halt. In the process, he drifted in front of the the other two bikes and turned 180 degrees so that he could face them. Vinnie smiled through the tainted visor of his gleaming red helmet, then posed with his hands triumphantly on his hips, as if to say "Ta-dah!"
Throttle pressed another button on his helmet, and this time his yellow tanned visor slid to one side, disappearing into the slick black metal. He returned Vinnie's smile with his own one-side grin, saying, "We're here."
Modo's eye searched through the buildings that were a small distance ahead. He easily identified Limburger's warehouse as the guarded building made of red brick. It was in the business district mentioned earlier on the radio, and the men standing outside were undoubtedly Limburger's goons. The heavily-built guards looked at the three bikers, waving their hands excitedly as their lips moved, but they were still out of hearing range.
The men disappeared into the warehouse.
Nothing followed.
"Come on! What are we waiting for?" Vinnie whined, not bothering to conceal his agitation. "Let's ride! Let's crash this party!" He looked at Throttle expectantly, but the tranquil leader ignored the younger mouse. He was too absorbed in his own mysterious contemplation. Vinnie continued with his ramblings, trying to attract attention, "Let's bust up some thugs! Blow up some buildings! Bring some towers tumbling-down!" Vinnie pretended to punch imaginary bad-guys in front of him, and nearly tripped off his bike.
"Such violence in today's youth," Modo gently mocked, pretending to shake his head sadly. "Must be that 'evil' heavy metal music, rotting and corrupting young minds..."
Vinnie ignored Modo's futile attempts at humour, and unable to contain his adrenaline rush, he shouted out, "Let's just do anything except stand here!" He revved his engine and twisted his bike forward again, pointing at the warehouse ahead. "Anything... but this waiting! This insane ... nothing," the adrenaline junkie shuddered.
Throttle continued to stare ahead for a moment, still deep in thought, but eventually he nodded his agreeance. "Vinnie's right," Throttle commented awkwardly. Such a statement always did tumble off the tongue with confused reluctance. "Just keep your eyes open. Remain on the lookout."
Modo peered deeply into Throttle's face, trying to read his thoughts, but as usual Throttle was too complex. Instead, he asked, "On the lookout for what, exactly?"
Vinnie just trembled with anticipation, surely looking forward to any traps or dangerous surprises the Plutarkians had prepared.
"Not sure," Throttle answered truthfully. "We'll know when we see it." Throttle reflected for a brisk moment, then added, "Probably."
"Possibly," Vinnie smiled. For the younger white mouse, it was the beginning of a great day.
Throttle revved his engine loudly and leaned forward intimidatingly. "Let's ride!" His words unleashed a whirlwind of charging martian steel, shrieking rubber on asphalt, howling martian war-cries, and blaring heavy metal music designed to inspire fear in the hearts of the brave. They were among the most exalted warriors of their planet, and the most impressive species ever to walk the Earth.
They were the Biker Mice from Mars.
"The Biker Mice from Mars!" shouts rang out throughout the warehouse, echoing dauntingly off the bare walls of the large one-room building. Plainly dressed thugs, who proudly bore dark ponytails that contrasted with the rest of their shaved heads, scrambled around in misconceived disorder. Last minute preparations were put in place, firearms double-checked, and explosives secured.
One thug stood apart visibly from the rest. Dressed in stained overalls and bearing the unique physical characteristic of having greasy dark oil leak from his pores, he stood with purpose and barked out orders. His facial expression didn't entirely lack intelligence, like the men he commanded, but he was still in serious need of an upgraded brain capacity.
"Get into positions!" he shouted with his thick rural accent, a voice that barely demanded the respect and authority endowed to him. "D'em pesky rodents be here!" He roughly overturned a chair in hopes that the action would encourage further speed from his subordinates. "Positions! Get dat package ready!" He looked to his right at a metal table adorned with metal sides, concealing what lay underneath. Mostly concealing. One of the sides had a gap large enough for a small man to crawl through. Or a short scientist with a diminished physique and an oversized head. "We're ready Karbuncle," the greasy thug spoke nervously.
"Affirmative, Greasepit," Karbuncle rasped, none-too-pleased at the indignity of having to crawl on hands and knees underneath this sort of metal box. "Let's get this over with." Greasepit could hear the disdain in the scientist's voice, and could practically see him frown as if the metal box were transparent.
Greasepit turned to face the front of the warehouse. His thugs had finally lined up into their designated positions. Everything was in place and everyone was as ready as they ever would be, but the tension was so thick in the air that one could hear the crackling of sparks with every small movement. No matter how prepared they could be, and no matter how many times they had faced the Biker Mice in battle, they could never actually be ready for the martians and their grand entrances. Nothing could ever adequately fortify their strength and spirit. The Martians were a formidable force to be reckoned with, and like a hurricane, they paved their path with pain and destruction. Any crazy fool who stood up against such a force was left devastated in a pile of rubble.
Greasepit gulped. He was that fool. "I need a new job..." Doubt flashed through his thoughts as it always did when the Martians arrived on the scene. Yet, he stood fast. He forced his legs rigid less they tremble. He willed himself into confidence. Even though the mice extracted such a reaction out of him, he couldn't let his subordinates notice. Subordinates who stood between him and the mice. Stood between him and the mice's guns. Subordinates who were practically human shields...
Greasepit stuck out his chest with a new-found confidence, and held his laser pistol high. "Stand ready!"
As soon as he had finished his words, an explosion rocked the warehouse, toppling tall men, bringing strong men to their knees, and urging smaller men to fire their weapons frantically in all directions.
"Fools!" Greasepit bellowed, and threw in some elaborate curses for good measure. "AIM! Aim d'em weapons! Aim, fah cryin' aloud!" Greasepit wasn't just shouting instructions, he was yelling in a near-panicked state. The explosives were well-shielded and could withstand stray shots; that was to be expected. However, he didn't want to be standing around while his entire platoon shot their weapons in an uncontrolled frenzy. Even though his men were regaining their composure, Greasepit figured he should observe this battle from the sidelines, and he proceeded to sneak away.
Dust was beginning to settle, and the thugs could now see the three menacing silhouettes who stood in the building's freshly-made opening. The mice were three black figures standing against the brilliant natural light of the outdoors, surrounded by beams of light made visible by the pulverised brick floating in the air. The light stretched its arms into the dark and dreary warehouse, reaching for the few dozen thugs who were staring in awe.
The ominous imagery struck the warehouse silent, an eerie calm preceding the imminent squall.
Three martian pistols cocked, the unmistakable click echoing in everyone's ears. Three martian motorcycle cannons charged, a dreadfully familiar harmonic hum. Three sets of rocket launchers anxiously stretched outward from the sides of three excited bikes, the mechanical components whirring a vocal warning to it's future victims.
A hidden white-furry face smiled behind his red helmet and voiced a simple yet immeasurably powerful greeting, "Yo."
From human piles on the floor, men began prying themselves up onto their feet. The thugs who had remained standing broke their psychological barriers of apprehensive fright, and they began firing their weapons. The mice quickly retorted with shots themselves, anchored and unmoving in supreme cockiness and confidence as enemy ammunition flew by and barely grazed its intended targets.
Modo's one eye shone a threatening crimson as his arm cannon disarmed enemies by shooting the pistols out of their hands. His left hand fired it's laser pistol at the feet of nearest foes, startling them into jumping backward, and causing them to clumsily trip and crash into one another.
"Interesting..." Throttle began, but was cut-off by a sudden burst of heavy weapon's fire. He ducked as radiant laser beams struck the air that had been previously occupied by his head. Throttle popped back up, and his left hand briskly ensured that his trusted helmet wasn't out of place. The action was more for his own ease of mind then anything else, considering martian helmets never slid out of place. "Bros," he continued, "I couldn't help but notice this so-called animal shelter seems to be severely lacking in the animal department." Not only wasn't there any pets or animals, there also weren't any cages to hold future deliveries.
"These scum-bags are as bad as animals," Vinnie offered, as his engine rumbled and he crept forward, his actions begging Throttle to give out their orders. If Throttle didn't shout out an order soon, nothing was going to stop Vinnie from exploding across the warehouse and improvising his own battle plan. For Vinnie, every fight was long-anticipated, and it's arrival always came far too late, especially when it concerned the Plutarkians. Throttle seemed too occupied to satisfy Vinnie's battle lust. He was searching and scrutinizing the area with his incredibly trained bionic eyes. Vinnie sighed in frustration, and fired his bike's cannon anxiously, covering Throttle and keeping the leader from becoming an easy target.
"Actually, young Vincent," Modo corrected, "these hopelessly inferior would-be men fall into an entirely different category, one well apart from animal." Modo ignored Throttle's immobility and silence, and being a strong believer that a moving target is more difficult to hit than a still target, Modo finally let his bike pace around the entrance of the warehouse. He didn't stray too far away from his bros, and he never ceased firing from his arm cannon. He was amusing himself by shooting thugs so that they toppled into one another, disabling the enemy from firing off any decent shots. "They are more of a sub-creature," Modo elaborated, "something in-between monster and parasite."
Vinnie bit his lip and fired off a rocket at a group of goons. He resented being called "young Vincent." He fired his laser pistol with renewed fervour as his conscious was overrun by rampant thoughts. I'm not even two years younger than Modo, he steamed inwardly. Vinnie grabbed a flare from his shoulder strap, and lit it by striking his thigh. I'm barely a year younger than Throttle, in fact. He howled away his frustration and threw the lit flare into the sea thugs, just to see what would happen. He saw a few men cover their eyes in shock, and others yelp in pain. Maybe that was too harsh of him. Maybe it wasn't harsh enough. Maybe Vinnie just didn't want another patronising tone of voice to ruin a good fight. The adrenaline junky smiled suddenly, realising it would take a lot more than that to ruin this fight. He howled again, but this time it was joyously.
A minute hadn't even passed since the Biker Mice had crashed into the warehouse. Their explosive entrance and dangerous reputation had dishevelled Limburger's platoon and stalled any plans or traps that were supposed to have been sprung. The mice had bought themselves a little time, and Throttle had attempted to access the situation at hand. Yet, his last minute effort to quell the ever-present dread was futile. Today, he just couldn't get inside Limburger's head.
Not that Throttle could ever really want such a torturous thing.
The momentary confusion and disorganisation of Limburger's troops was quickly fading. It was time to put some effort into this operation. The hopelessly pathetic thugs might actually become dangerous if the mice didn't start to really apply themselves, not to mention Throttle was starting to feel idiotic for simply standing in the line of fire.
"Modo, Vinnie!" Throttle quickly demanded their attention. "Think fast: Hurricane trio number five!" Throttle's bike burst into a roaring wheelie, his back tires spinning and squealing on the cement floor as he launched himself forward into the mess of thugs.
"Now we're talking!" Vinnie cried in obvious relief; he needed to channel his extra adrenaline before he burst. He threw his weight forward as his sporty bike thundered to life, nearly flying out of his seat. He dove into the ranks of thugs to his right, and grabbed one by the shoulder with his right hand. He snapped his arm forward and flung the man over his bike, despite the fact the thug was as large as he. The flung man toppled a few goons on his way to the ground, and they quickly found themselves tangled into a human ball on the floor, dazed and officially out of the battle.
Vinnie quickly stuck his laser pistol into his belt, then each of his hands grabbed a flare from his shoulder straps. His thumbs skilfully flicked the flares to life as he forced out loud psychotic laughter. The men around him hesitated, undecided as to whether they should stay and fight or run and hide. Vinnie solved their dilemma by charging them while waving the flares around precariously. Limburger's goons tried to run away. A few tried to shoot over their shoulder at the same time but only managed to trip over their own two feet. Vinnie's laughter now came easily.
Modo was rounding up goons on the other side of the warehouse. He had started a neat pile of unconscious bodies. Although no level of order could clean the filth off of these bunch, it never hurt to try. Modo held out his metal arm and clothes-lined a few goons, hitting them across the jaw and sending them flying with incredible force. They landed into his rough pile of bodies, and as it heaped higher, Modo stuck out his chest with pride. His new strategy was very satisfying, it made him feel more productive and gave a great feeling of accomplishment to his day. It also demanded a certain level of creativity, seeing he had to fight a large amount of bad guys while ensuring they all landed into the same rough pile.
Modo's bike slowed as it approached a wall and had to be turned around. A moving shadow attracted the enormous mouse's attention, and he ducked just time to avoid being ploughed into. Missing his target, the pouncing goon found himself flying through the air and landing into Modo's pile headfirst. Modo couldn't help but chuckle as he thanked the guy for cleaning up after himself.
Throttle had designated himself in charge creating chaos in the centre of the warehouse. He had to ensure that the platoon couldn't organise themselves back into their ranks. Modo and Vinnie appeared to be successfully taking out the bad-guys surrounding them, but Throttle was getting a surprising amount of heat. There seemed to be more laser fire cutting through the air around his head than there were actual goons firing the guns.
It had to be an illusion, and Throttle was surely mistaken; Limburger's men could never be so competent.
Throttle noticed just in time as two men flung a chair toward him. A chair! Flying through the air! Now that wasn't something Throttle saw in his everyday battles. Throttle quickly jumped out of his bike's seat while maintaining a firm grasp on the bike's handlebars. He tucked his feet securely onto the left exhaust pipe, and hugged the side of his bike. He just managed to avoid getting hit, and as the chair flew over him, it grazed and tore at Throttle's arms. Quickly propelling himself back onto his seat, he twisted the bike around briskly, and angrily charged the two innovative chair-throwers. Throttle powered the energy cells on his battle glove, and green electric lights danced across his clenched fist, eagerly anticipating the upcoming punch. Throttle drew his right shoulder back as he approached one of his attackers. He was about to strike when an incredible thunder pelted his ears, shook his bones, and upheaved his world. A spasm of pain wracked his body as he tried to cry out, but he couldn't unclench his teeth. The world spun away from him, and he was swept away by darkness...
The explosion had sent bodies flying. Even the goons wore startled expressions as their jaws sagged open and their perplexed and stunned eyes yearned for comprehension. Modo had been knocked over by a flying goon, and now he had to repay the favour. He threw the goon toward the disappointing and scattered remains of his pile. "Bros!" he shouted urgently. "Vinnie? " He righted his bike as a worried eye searched for his companions. The warehouse was still relatively intact, save for a few loose bricks and a ceiling on the verge of collapse. Apparently the explosion's bark was bigger than it's bite. "Vinnie!" Modo repeated. "Are you ok?"
"Yo," the slightly shaken youth finally responded as he clambered from underneath a pile of brick, splintered wood and limp bodies. The inside of the warehouse had definitely suffered a ghastly redecoration. "My clothes aren't ripped, but how does my hair look?" he joked.
"You don't have any hair..." Modo commented distractedly. He could tell Vinnie was all right, but he was still searching for Throttle.
"Then I guess I'm fine." Vinnie had successfully stood up and was grasping onto his precious two-wheeled friend, the physical contact reassuring him. Vinnie's eyes darted wildly across the piles of men and rubble. "Where's Throttle?"
Karbuncle pulled himself up from his hiding place. His metal tableor more accurately named, his metal boxhad been tossed a short distance during the explosion, and was now lying on it's side. Karbuncle was relatively pleased that he had built the box with a metal bottom, but he wasn't sure which was worse, having a vulnerable hiding spot if his table was ever overturned, or being tossed around like a rag doll because he was boxed-in during the explosion.
He didn't have time for idle thoughts, he had to drag his battered and feeble body over to the detestable mouse before it was too late, else Limburger would have his head served on a golden platter. Karbuncle shuddered and quickened his pace. He saw a golden tan-body laying limp amongst the wreckage, close to where the explosives had been planted, an area that was currently occupied by a small crater. He couldn't see the mouse's bike, and he could only hope that it was currently indisposed. He figured the mouse's companions were recovering a short distance away behind the thick blanket of dust in the air. There wasn't much time left.
The wiry scientist removed a box from his lab coat pocket. He wasn't surprised that it was unscathed, for he had manufactured the protective box himself out of dense lead. He quickly snapped it open, and let out a sigh relief when he saw the small needle was still flawlessly intact and nestled cosily in foam. He grabbed the syringe and discarded the box. The syringe was unique because it didn't have a needle at it's tip. It was designed to spray it's contents, which would then be absorbed through the skin or fur within seconds. Karbuncle doubted the Biker Mice would ever allow him enough time to insert a needle into their arms. Even if one of them was lying helplessly unconscious on the floor in front of him, as Throttle was now, something would always go wrong. He was sure of it.
Throttle stirred. Karbuncle swore under his breath. The wiry scientist ignored his aching body and dove. He landed with a loud thud onto his stomach next to the awakening mouse, winded and wheezing, and holding the hyper-spraying syringe safely over his head. Throttle's eyes had fluttered open, and the scientist's sudden movement activated the mouse's warrior instincts. Throttle rolled onto his side and grabbed the scientist by his left arm. Karbuncle nearly shrivelled under the mouse's rough grasp. He barely had enough mental resolve to point the syringe toward his assaulter and spray him before the mouse punched him away.
Karbuncle's vision swam, and it took him a good long moment to figure out that he was sprawled out on his back and staring at the damaged ceiling. The syringe! his thoughts lurched from the haze that was his mind. Did the syringe expel? He turned his head around until he saw Throttle walking toward him, his steps hard and merciless, and his face cold and heartless. Or more importantly... did its contents reach its target?
To the scientist's overwhelming relief, Throttle's steps faltered, and the mouse raised a hand to his head. He swayed on his feet, then collapsed, falling hard onto the floor.
The scientist's heart felt like it would leap out of his chest. The residual panic had rendered him light-headedor was that the blow to his head?and his legs felt like molasses. Now wasn't the time for fainting! He would save that for later, when he was safe and secure. With a deep breath, he mustered up every ounce of might that resided in his seemingly frail physique. Through a hidden strength he never knew existed, Karbuncle managed to pull enough of himself together to crawl away from the fallen figure. He slithered away and disappeared into the dusty fog which enveloped the rubble and ruins of the structurally unsound building.
"Throttle!" Modo slipped on pebbled brick and skidded into a thug who had been trying to pick himself up. Modo saved himself from falling by grabbing on to the thug for support. He then stepped on top the man, sending the goon grunting back to the ground. "Throttle!" Modo repeated as he continued climbing bodies and debris, moving closer to the leader's unmoving form. "Bro?" He was starting to really worry. A few seconds ago, he had been watching his friend through the cloudy air, and he seen Throttle stumble and collapse. He could only hope his friend wasn't seriously wounded as he raced onward to where Throttle lay.
Vinnie was also scrambling to make his way to the leader's side, but not as successfully. A reviving thug was laying on his stomach when he saw Vinnie walk by. He grabbed the martian's foot, grimacing and grunting for revenge, and the dashing young mouse nearly tripped. Vinnie tried to shake his leg loose. "Get off me, you brain-dead scuz-bag!" Another awakening thug saw Vinnie's tail flickering over his head, so he reached out and yanked it hard. Even in the thug's weakened state, it still packed a painful punch. "Yow!" Vinnie squealed in pain and tried to twist his torso around. "What the...!" More goons began to stumble toward Vinnie, as yet another thug grabbed ahold of the mouse's left arm. The white-furred Martian looked helplessly at the goons hanging off him and clawing at him from the ground. He was starting to feel like he was in a low-budget horror movie, and recently-awoken zombies were struggling to drag him to the ground so they could then feast on his... brains... or something...
Vinnie concluded that he was spending far too much time watching late-night cable TV.
A stumbling goon successfully tackled Vinnie to the ground. The biker mouse squeaked as he was surrounded by beat-up faces covered in dust and filth. He struggled to get himself free as they started punching his ribs. Limburger's men were obviously regaining their strength. A thug by Vinnie's head grabbed ahold of his flashy helmet, and despite the mouse's vocal objections, the man pulled if right off of his head. "Not the face, you putrid warthog!"
The Biker Mice weren't always the wittiest nor inventive when it came to insulting their enemy.
Vinnie closed his eyes and braced himself, but instead of receiving a blow to his head, he heard laser fire crashing through the air over his body. He opened his eyes and saw tiny green flashes knocking over his attackers like bowling pins, one stunned thug after another, until none remained. Vinnie leaped up onto his feet, trying to shake off his embarrassment, and saw that his saviour was none other than his gorgeous red motorcycle. "Aww, thanks Sweetheart," his voice sang sweetly as she rode up to his side. He stroked her tenderly and whispered, "Someone's getting a luxury wax massage when we get home." The bike purred happily in reply. Vinnie walked over to the unconscious thug who was still holding his helmet. The Martian put his foot on the goon's chest and took a victorious pose, then yanked his beautiful helmet out of the human's unconscious hands.
Vinnie didn't want to waste anymore time on losers. He leapt over the unconscious thugs that were in his way, giving them all suspicious glances in the process, then trotted over to where Modo sat cradling Throttle in his arms. "How is he?" Vinnie inquired eagerly as he slid to his knees and grabbed Throttle's hand, terrified that it might be cold and lifeless. Those fears were alleviated when the hand felt nice and warm in his grasp, but it did hang limply, and Throttle's body laid far too still.
Modo removed Throttle's helmet, and checked his pulse and rate of breathing. "I don't think he's hurt badly," he answered, "because his vitals are good." Vinnie would have been reassured, but Modo's voice betrayed his underlying concern. "Come on Throttle," he pleaded with his unconscious friend. "Can you hear me? Say something."
"Hey Throttle," Vinnie voiced awkwardly. He was always unsure how to address an unconscious and unresponsive friend. "Come on, bro. I know you can hear us." Actually, he didn't know that at all, but his confident words were a comfort to both his and Modo's ears. Sometimes pretending to be confident inspired the real deal.
Modo glimpsed uneasily around them. He saw Throttle's bike shake itself loose from the rubble, anxiously seeking out it's rider as it threatened nearby foes with its laser cannon. "We can't stay here much longer," Modo contemplated to himself. "Once Limburger's men regain their senses and realise Throttle's condition, they could easily overtake us." Throttle's condition... what exactly was Throttle's condition? Modo addressed the younger mouse, "Vinnie, we need to head out before..." A low moan interrupted Modo's announcement, and Throttle stirred in the grey mouse's embrace.
"Throttle! " Vinnie cheered delightfully. "Bro, you're alive!" Vinnie wasn't sure if it was supposed to be a statement, a question, or an emotionally-driven uttering.
Modo managed to tear his eye away from Throttle long enough to give Vinnie a perplexedly annoyed look.
Throttle's soft voice called back the large mouse's attention. "Was there ever... any doubt?" he offered weakly.
"How do you feel?" Modo asked attentively. Throttle tried to answer but as soon as he opened his mouth, only a breathy moan escaped.
"That good, eh?" Vinnie remarked, trying to lighten up the atmosphere.
"How many fingers do you see?" Modo slowly waved a finger in front of Throttle's face.
"Uhh..." Throttle squinted underneath his green-tinted spectacles. "Is this a trick question?"
Modo's brow crinkled in concern. By now, all three bikes had formed a protective circle around the mice. Throttle's black cruiser was beeping angrily, and using his laser cannon to threaten any goon who dared to even look at the furry trio. Modo sighed. "He's not fit to drive," he said in a worried tone, "I'll take him on Lil'hoss."
"Help me up," Throttle expressed, stubbornly determined to stand on his own two feet and ride his own bike home.
Modo and Vinnie shared an apprehensive look, but there wasn't enough time to argue. Besides, if Throttle fell flat on his face, they wouldn't have to waste time convincing him that he should ride with Modo.
Modo raised the wincing Throttle to a sitting position, then locked his mechanical arm around Throttle's waist. Modo strongly held onto the injured mouse while Vinnie got a firm grasp onto Throttle's right arm and shoulder. They slowly stood up together and helped Throttle onto his feet, then they held their breath and waited to support all of his weight if he fell. No, when he fell.
Throttle took a deep breath and tried to subdue the throbbing pain in his body. It seemed to blanket every inch of his torso, and his limbs were rubbery and weak. What had been a dull pain in his head while he was on the ground was now dynamically increasing in strength and threatening to explode. Waves of nausea was flooding him, and he saw black and red spots as his vision tottered randomly. The thudding pain in his head grew unbearably sharp and he gasped, taking a quick intake of air as his legs gave out. He sagged in his companions' grasp, his face distorted and groaning, and his fists clenched as strongly as he could manage in a meagre attempt to combat the pain ravaging his body.
There was no possible way he could now argue that he was still fit to drive himself.
"Well, that was productive," Vinnie commented sarcastically, trying to distract himself from the anxiety tumbling around in his stomach.
Modo shook his head sadly. "Hurry, let's get him to Charlie's garage." He gathered Throttle up delicately and sat the brown mouse in front of him on his motorcycle, his fleshy arm holding his friend securely against his chest. His mechanical arm locked onto the bike's handlebar, rigidly keeping them both balanced and upright on the bike's leather seat.
Vinnie hopped onto his sports bike, popping a wheelie and ploughing through the mess of staggering bodies, clearing a path for Modo to follow with his wounded charge. Throttle's black bike was furiously firing it's laser cannon as it followed closely behind Modo, venting out it's frustrated rage on the remains of their enemy, and stirring up the dust again, which clouding their retreating forms. They all disappeared through the original gaping hole in the warehouse, and thundered into the grey spring morning, leaving the dreadful mess behind.
To Be Continued...
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