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Big "thank you's" go out to all the reviewers! You made me blush fiercely! I went and read all of your stories, and I had a blast! )

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.

I do NOT own the poem "Dreamland" by Edgar Allan Poe, but seeing that he's no longer living, I'm sure he won't mind me referencing his beautiful work, that I have quoted NOT for profit. -bows down to the great Poe- I am not worthy!

Dark Times - Saga

The Biker Mice's lives are threatened when Plutark tests it's latest weapon, ready to defeat Mars once and for all.

Chapter 2: A Horrible Day

A warrior's injured, a mechanic is worried, danger plagues Mars, a treacherous boss looses his sanity.

Dreamland, by Edgar Allan Poe

By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only,
Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have reached these lands but newly
From an ultimate dim Thule-
From a wild clime that lieth, sublime,
Out of SPACE- out of TIME...

Escape!

He struggled desperately to escape.

Haze. Confusion. Disorientation.

He had to make sense of this! What was happening to him? Where was he?

Who was he?

He was trapped in a distorted and deranged labyrinth of darkness and pain. He needed light. Where was the light?

Were his eyes working? Yes, his eyes! That was the solution... His eyes were closed. What were they doing closed? Why couldn't he open his eyes!

He struggled against the seducing void that tried to lure him into sweet oblivion, but he refused to surrender to the consuming darkness. He fought unconsciousness with his residing strength, and though he was stifled with weakness, he prevailed. A pair of weary eyes opened. It should have been a relief, a small victory, to be saved from the harrowing darkness, and healed by the purifying sunshine. But, instead of finding relief, he found himself gasping in shock. The light was too sharp and blinding! And the world, what was happening to the world around him? It was moving far too fast, he must be falling! Tumbling! Plummeting to his death! He tightly clamped his eyes shut.

He suddenly remembered why his eyes had been closed in the first place.

Wait, he had made progress! He was beginning to remember! In fact, he seemed to recall opening and closing his eyes a lot in the past while. Each time, he had forgotten why his eyes were closed, and each time his eyes were struck by blazing sunlight, and he was alarmed by the dizzying world surrounding him. Each time, he had been startled into closing his eyes again.

Something was wrong... actually, many things were wrong, but a particular detail clawed at his mind... For some reason, a voice inside his head was telling him that he wasn't falling. In fact, he wasn't even in danger. He was perfectly safe. The voice inside his head was to be trusted. It was the only thing of which he was currently positive.

"Throttle?" A gentle and familiar voice called out to him, it was soothing, but it's origin was perplexing. This time, the voice was not coming from his head. That word... Throttle... How did he know that word? It was on the tip of his mind...

"Hey, Throttle," the gentle voice spoke again, "you awake?" Awake? Yes, he was definitely awake, although he would have preferred not to be! His entire body ached and throbbed in pain, as if he had been manhandled and tortured by an army of demons, then nearly torn-apart by a collapsing star! His head pounded relentlessly, and every sound drilled ferociously into his brain. Even the mysteriously familiar voice stabbed his head like a thousand knives. On top of the pain, his world was a great enigma! His life, his identity, everything! He could not remember who he was, and his eyes wouldn't remain open long enough to figure out where he was. All he knew was that he was safe, and that a familiar voice kept calling him Throttle...

As if by magic, that word unlocked his memories, and everything came flooding back to him. He was Throttle. That voice belonged to his good friend, Modo. He was safe, because his bros were taking care of him. In fact, he was riding with Modo on Lil'hoss.

Oh no. He was riding with Modo. He was unable to ride his own bike! He was never going to live this down! Why couldn't he drive himself home?

The pain was starting to subside, and Throttle's thoughts were becoming much clearer. Why was Modo taking him home? There had been... an explosion! Yes, now he remembered. He had been knocked out by an explosion, but he seemed to recollect something else, as well...

"Throttle?" Modo persisted.

Throttle had forgotten that Modo was asking him a question. Was his helmet's intercom still activated? He supposed it was, considering that his friend's voice was coming through the speakers next to his ears. "Yeah," he answered hoarsely. His own voice boomed painfully in his ears.

"Try to stay awake," Modo responded calmly. How could he sound so calm? There had been an explosion! Was anyone else hurt? No, not that he could remember... no one who mattered, to be more specific. He remembered seeing both Vinnie and Modo... Well, he remembered seeing two blurry figures standing over him that were supposed to be Vinnie and Modo... but they had sounded all right.

Didn't something happen after the eruption at the warehouse? His memories of the past battle were shattered, and it was a strenuous challenge to place all the jagged pieces back together. To add to the confusion, there were many blackouts, pieces that were missing altogether, because he had been drifting in and out of consciousness. Still, Throttle was pretty sure something happened to him after the explosion, that something else had caused him to collapse. He was starting to remember. There was an ugly face... and a disproportionate head... with a pair of ...goggles? ...

No. It couldn't be, could it? ...

Throttle didn't want to remember anymore. His fragmented memory was horrifying him, and his heart beat faster in a mix of panic and outrage. Did Karbunkle do something to him?

Throttle trembled. He was familiar with that psychopath's experiments. Everyday, Throttle viewed the world through a pair of artificial eyes created by the sadistic scientist. It disgusted Throttle to no extent. Although his vision was now heightened, the bionic eyes were also defective, and without his green-tinted glasses or his helmet, he was practically blind. It made him feel so vulnerable, and it was a vicious reminder of the time he spent in Karbunkle's torturous hands, shackled and caged like an inferior and volatile animal. Even vicious animals didn't deserve such treatment.

Throttle had no intention on ever becoming that monster's guinea pig again! If that wretched creature had done something else to him, he was going to shred Karbunkle to pieces! He wouldn't hesitate to strangle him and eagerly watch the life drain out of the villain's pasty face. He would feel no remorse, no guilt, and no regret.

Such a death would be too kind for the likes of Karbunkle.

Throttle brooded over the series of events that had unravelled that morning. It looked like his gut instincts had been right all along. He should never have doubted himself. He critically analysed his actions and decisions, wondering what he could have done differently. He hadn't realised that Limburger was willing to put so many of his own thugs in harm's way during a reckless attempt to incapacitate the Biker Mice. The more Throttle thought about it, the more it made sense. The only obstacle that ever stood in Limburger's way was cost. He cared not for the lost of life, as long as it wasn't too expensive!

Yup. It was official. Limburger was loosing his sanity.

Assuming he had any to start with...

Throttle should have seen this coming. The Biker Mice had been pushing the Plutarkian to his limits, forcing him closer to desperation with every day that passed. He would have kicked himself it he had the strength. Throttle was grateful that he was the only one injured, and not Modo or Vinnie. If either of them had been badly wounded, it would have been all his fault. Throttle had failed as their leader. He hung his head as shame suffocated his pride, and strangled his confidence.

The motorcycle engines' symphonic rumbling was lowering in pitch. They were slowing down, to Throttle's thankful relief. The trip hadn't helped his splitting headache, and the movement had worsened his pain and light-headedness.

The bikes eventually rolled to a stop, and their engines fell silent. Throttle risked opening his eyes once more, but he did so very carefully. The light was still piercingly bright, but his pupils were adjusting. The world was no longer moving, and his vision was steady. He could see that they weren't home, that they were outside Charlie's garage instead. Throttle should have known his bros would have taken him here. He felt his cheeks grow warm and anxiety seep into his veins, as he was jostled by a blend of different emotions. He was embarrassed, angry, and ashamed of his frailty. He didn't want Charlie to see him in his weakened state, he didn't want to remind her how dangerous it was to be a Biker Mouse, but most of all, he didn't want her to worry.

Throttle watched Vinnie approach through the corner of his vision. The younger mouse reached out and squeezed Throttle's arm comfortingly, but Throttle didn't want to look into this face. He decided that for now, he was going to keep his little run-in with Karbunkle a secret.

"Go get Charlie," Modo strongly suggested to Vinnie. The white mouse nodded and ran to the main entrance of the Last Chance Garage, but before he arrived, the door flew open and Charlie stepped outside. The wind wildly tossed her long brown hair, and her red highlights still glimmered in the meagre sunlight of the clouded-over day. Her blue blouse was impeccably clean and without wrinkles, despite an oil-stained rag that was tucked into her jean's pocket. Her intelligent green eyes examined the bikers, taking in their dishevelled appearance. They were battered and bruised, scratched and scraped, and their fur was blanketed in dust, as if a building had collapsed onto them. Her breath caught when she noticed Throttle slumped in front of Modo, held up tenderly by the larger grey mouse.

"What happened?" She questioned as she strode swiftly to Throttle's side.

Modo slid the violet-tinted visor away on his helmet, and looked at Charlie with a troubled eye. "He collapsed," he said evenly. It was obvious he was trying to hide the concern from his voice, especially for her sake.

"Collapsed?" Charlie removed Throttle's helmet and handed it to Modo. She soothed a golden-furred hand while she brushed away caramel-coloured bangs from Throttle's forehead. He was awake and aware of his surroundings, but he looked so sad, so defeated... She instantly felt sorry for him, even though she new that's the last thing Throttle would want.

"Well, we were in an explosion..." Modo added.

Charlie quickly raised her head and looked at Modo with wide eyes. "Explosion!" she exclaimed, trying to mask the alarm from her voice. She failed miserably.

"Charlie," Throttle was looking up at her, and his soft and husky voice silenced her distress. "It's okay. I'm okay."

She didn't believe him. "How many fingers do you see?" She asked as she held up a finger in front of his face and waved it slowly.

"One," Throttle replied, wondering why he felt a faint sense of deja-vu.

"He's doing better already," Vinnie remarked cheerfully.

"How much worse was he?" Charlie asked, worried for her friend. She held onto his wrist and felt his pulse. His arm was warm, and his circulation was strong.

"Can you stop talking as if I wasn't here?" Throttle pleaded. He despised that he felt weak and helpless, and he hated himself for worrying his friends. His arm squirmed out of Charlie's clutch.

"Not until you quit collapsing, bro," Vinnie responded lightly with a smile. Throttle turned his head away from everyone. He couldn't bare to look into their faces anymore.

Charlie bit her lower lip and distractedly ran a hand through her thick hair, pulling it back from her face. She hated seeing the proud Freedom Fighter in such a state. "Help me get him inside," she said softly. "I knew something was wrong when I heard your bikes, but you didn't come crashing through my walls as you normally do," she commented as she assisted Modo in slowly lifting a weakened Throttle up onto his feet.

Throttle stood oddly supported by his taller friend Modo, and the smaller and slimmer human woman. He indeed felt stronger already, and the pain was definitely subsiding. He stepped forward gingerly with his friends, willing himself to be strong and sturdy, and determined to get this agonising moment over with quickly.

This was working up to be a horrible day.

Carbine soothingly stroked the head of the young woman resting on her lap, as she tried to pinpoint the exact moment in time when her day had fallen apart. On the outside, she sat serenely and her face was cooly composed, but on the inside, her thoughts were twirling rapidly, tripping over the day's events, and trying to resolve the mysteries plaguing her mind. Where had that plutarkian attack come from? Why were all her soldiers ill from an unknown ailment? Why wasn't she sick as well?

Carbine looked down as she caressed the young martian's golden-brown hair. It reminded her of Throttle, and her heart twinged. Oh gods, she missed him horribly. Sometimes, in her darkest hours, in between heavy waves of Plutarkian attacks and Sand Raider swarms, she got the impression that they would never see each other again. Not in this life.

Days like these, forlorn thoughts easily overpowered the hopeful songs of her yearning heart, logical reasoning prevailing over love and faith.

Days like these, such melancholy and self-pity also distracted a person from staying alive.

She had to focus! Push aside her longings, her regrets, and her feelings, save them for a better time and a more appropriate place. She had to get her squad out of this mess. They were going to survive. She would see to it!

Carbine surveyed the sky, expecting to see another Plutarkian fighter jet appear out of nowhere, again, and vindictively attack her small squadron of army soldiers, again. The only object she saw was the blazing crimson sun, painting the sky a flushed rose as it engulfed the horizon. The fiery scarlet mountains in the distance wavered from the heat released by the dusty-copper sand, as the very air itself seemed to blush red from the setting sun. Mars was enchanting, and no matter what happened to her beloved planet, it's beautiful was always inspiring.

Although the sunset was a vision of beauty, it was also a dire warning. The sinking sun threatened to steal away her hope as it disappeared from sight. Carbine and her soldiers were unprepared for the upcoming merciless martian night. They had lost the majority of their supplies, they were trapped on open ground, far from shelter, and her soldiers were half passed-out on the ground. Carbine was afraid to leave her defenceless troops and search for aid, but they couldn't remain here much longer. Either she had to drag them all to safety, or Carbine would have to briefly leave them as she searched for the means to set-up camp. Either way, it would be arduous and risky, but it was preferable to succumbing to death.

This was definitely summing up to be a horrible day.

"What do you mean, they want to file a class-action lawsuit?" Limburger put his elbows onto his desk, and lowered his head so he could massage his temples. He didn't know how to react to this news. Should he treat it as a stressful dilemma, or should he laugh at the absurdity of it all? He decided that the latter was more suiting. He raised his head and looked levelly into Greasepit's eyes. "They can't sue me," he continued, "they are wanted criminals!" He started to laugh. "Wanted criminals don't have the luxury of taking their employers to court, especially when they are being paid under the table." Limburger shook his head sadly, but his laughter increased in mirth. It was so hard to get good help these days.

Greasepit's eyebrows lowered in concentration as he struggled to find a response. "They... uh..." his voice faltered. He was far too nervous. He took a deep breath and started again, "You blew d'em up, boss..."

"So?" Limburger had ceased laughing, and was now growing impatient. "What's your point?"

Greasepit gulped. He opened his mouth and his lips moved, but no sound escaped. He cleared his throat and tried again. "It's just dat... well... tha men... Dey... hate gettin' blown up, Sir... 'Specially when it's dere own bombs."

An irritated Limburger regarded his greasy minion with contempt. "Get to your point, I don't have all day," he sputtered in annoyance. His inability to see the seriousness in Greasepit's words was genuine.

Greasepit wanted to step forward but his feet wouldn't move. He settled on fidgeting nervously instead. "Dat was tha point, Sir..." his voice was becoming even more timid.

Limburger waved his hands in a dismissive gesture, and turned his attention back to the stack of papers on his desk. "Then they are all fired. Now get out."

Greasepit hesitated, then uttered nervously, "Dey already quit, boss."

Limburged slammed his hands down onto his desk, and jumped up intimidatingly from his chair. "I said get out!" he bellowed, startling Greasepit into jumping back with fright. The Plutarkian's murderous glare scared the skittish henchman into scrambling out of the room.

Limburger exhaled loudly as he slumped back into his chair. The Plutarkian just didn't care about his hired-muscle anymore. It wouldn't matter if they were all killed in a single swipe, the Plutarkian just wanted one successful stab at the Biker Mice. Just one! That's all it would take to please him. It would enable him to sleep at night, it would give him a reason to wake up every morning, and it would put a smile back onto his reflection when he gazed into the mirror. In the meanwhile, it didn't matter how many bloodied bodies he left scattered in his wake, he was solely obsessed with ending the lives of the Biker Mice from Mars!

Why couldn't they just go back to Mars and leave Earth alone? Leave him alone? Why did they care so much about a planet that wasn't even their own?

Limburger focused back onto the pile of paper work he had been evading for weeks. It was tax time. Or in Limburger's case, it was tax fraud time. He had both Earth and Plutarkian taxes to file by the end of the month, and he was too stingy to hire any crooked accountants. The alien in-disguise grumbled as he took out his oversized calculator.

Just as Limburger reached for a pen, his scaly ears were jolted by an obnoxious beeping emanating from the wall in front of him. "Oh no..." he groaned, as he looked up at a gigantic computer display framed by dozens of tiny computer terminals, knobs, buttons and gadgets. The display screen was easily eight feet tall and twelve feet wide, and it's enormity only worsened the hideous image it currently displayed, an image Limburger dreaded more than anything else. More than Martian Mice, and even more than tax fraud investigators.

It displayed Limburger's boss, Lord Camembert, a repugnant and obese Plutarkian council member. Lord Camembert approached the view screen until it showed a warped close-up of his face. The Lord's mouth was sagging open, and a sickened Limburger could see tarter encrusted on his boss' fangs. "Limburger?" the grotesque Plutarkian called out, his eyes squinting as he searched the darkly-lit office. "I know you're there!"

Limburger chocked back his nausea, and tore off his mask, revealing the putrid and scaly alien head beneath. His face stretched into a phony smile as he marched from behind his desk and approached his fellow Plutarkian on the computer display. "Lord Camembert!" he greeted with fake amiability. "How ... nice it is to..."

"Limburger!" Lord Camembert interrupted with a frown. "Are you forgetting?"

"No... please no..." Limburger's eyes closed, and his face cringed. Limburger wasn't a religious fish, but he found himself hastily praying to the Gods above that for once, Lord Camembert would continue their conversation without forcing him to partake in their ridiculously humiliating traditions.

"I refuse to go any further without it!" Lord Camembert stepped away from the camera so that the computer display showed his entire body. Unlike Limburger, Lord Camembert didn't need any earthling disguise, and he was dressed in an expensive gold and violet robe, a traditional garment amongst their people. He stood stubbornly with folded arms, and a scolding expression on his face.

Limburger opened his eyes, relaxed his face, and stepped closer to the over-reigning figure of his superior. "Please, for once, can't we..."

"I'm waiting!" Lord Camembert yelled sternly, his eyes narrowing threateningly.

"Fine!" Limburger spat out bitterly as he walked right up to the computer screen. He turned around briskly, his rear facing his fellow Plutarkian. He bent over slightly so that his backside hit the screen. Lord Camembert mimicked Limburger's actions, so that both rumps appeared to be touching. They began to wiggle their butts in unison, never loosing contact with one another, while simultaneously reciting the official Plutarkian greeting:

"Cheek to Cheek and Stink to Stink...

Limburger let out a quick exasperated sigh. What sort of mad men founded such a ridiculous culture? he thought sadly to himself. It must have a dark era... or a drunken debaucherous one... I suppose Plutark hasn't changed much... Limburger could barely bring himself to mumble the plutarkian greeting, but Lord Camembert's voice rang out strong and clear. Their wiggling slowed dramatically as they continued their recitation:

"As Plutark Rules, the Galaxy Shrinks!"

The two Plutarkians bent down even further. They held out their arms and wiggled their fingers while they briskly shook their heads. Limburger half-heartedly went through the motions, but Lord Camembert vigourously shook himself with sincere enthusiasm. They wiggled their rumps together once more, and shouted a loud, "Wooooooooooh!"

They both promptly jumped forward, then turned to face one another. They concluded the greeting by sticking their right hands under their left armpits, and then making two distinct farting noises.

Lord Camembert slapped his thigh and let out a short but joyous laugh. "Ahh, I find our traditions so invigorating!" he said melodiously.

"No doubt," Limburger forced out the words through clenched teeth.

"What a vibrant and enjoyable culture we have been blessed with!" Lord Camembert sighed happily.

Limburger smiled weakly, but it failed to reach his eyes, and his clenched teeth turned the facial expression into a creepy snarl.

Lord Camembert cleared his throat, and his hands smoothed away unwanted wrinkles from his robe. "Now, onto business..." the Plutarkian's smile faded, and his gaze pierced into Limburger's face. "You have been granted a great honour," he continued with gravity. "I, along with a few other members of the High Council, will be visiting Earth to investigate our progress."

Limburger gulped, and was overcome by dread. He knew where this was going, and the last thing he was feeling was "honoured"!

"That's right, Limburger," the Plutarkian diplomat continued, reading the dire expression planted all over his subordinate's face. "You shall be hosting this year's Seminar for Earth. Every Plutarkian representative on Earth, along with important delegates including Lord Planktyn, Lord Tempist, and myself, will all be your honoured guests." He gravely enunciated the last few words as if he were a judge sentencing Limburger to the death penalty.

He may as well have been.

Limburger felt as though he was about to have a heart attack. A stabbing pain wracked his chest as his stress levels skyrocketed. His pulse raced to limits never-before visited. His face fell into a grimace, and his left eye twitched uncontrollably.

Limburger stumbled backward. His trembling left hand flailed behind him, searching for the support of his desk. Upon finding it's smooth oak surface, he gripped it tightly and leaned against it with all his weight, saving himself just in time from his buckling knees. He brought his right hand up to his face and pinched between his eyes, attempting to subdue the onslaught of a major migraine.

This was not happening. This couldn't be happening. This was going to be a catastrophe! This was the ghastly end of Lawrence Lactavius Limburger! He saw flashes of his head and neck draped over the royal Plutarkian guillotine, a cataclysmic finale to an illustrious life! No! He was too young to die! The universe would be a horrible place without his exquisite stink! What was he going to do?

From the gloomy darkness, a faint glimmer of hope reached out it's merciful arms and carried Limburger back into the light. Limburger took a deep breath and steadied himself. Yes. There was hope. There always was hope...

"Is something wrong, Limburger?" Lord Camembert smirked. Limburger looked back at the computer display, and did his best to wipe the hatred off his face. His boss new very well that of all the Plutarkians stationed on Earth, Limburger was having the most difficulty operating business. Instead of blaming the Biker Mice, Limburger was held responsible, and resented for his failures. Limburger was positive that Lord Camembert was counting on the Seminar being a disaster, so that he would have an undebatable reason to throw Limburger into a plutarkian prison. He had probably already chosen a permanent replacement for Limburger's position.

There wasn't a doubt in Limburger's mind that this was another of the Lord's conspiracies, but this time he would prove Camembert wrong! He would prove his worth to the High Council! He would demonstrate that he was more than capable of handling a simple rodent infestation! He would host the most successful seminar Earth had ever known! He would upstage every other plutarkian representative, and he would impress the High Council members until they were rendered speechless!

Most importantly, he would deal with the Biker Mice once and for all! He was going to prepare a little "entertainment" for the seminar. He had a plan! A brilliant plan! A marvellous plan! The most promising plan he had ever conceived, and it was all thanks to Project Venom.

"Nothing is wrong, your Lordship," Limburger answered with a mischievous smile, "and it is indeed an honour to host this year's Seminar!" Limburger chuckled wickedly under his breath, and his eyes stared off into a far-distant vision that only he could see.

The Biker Mice from Mars would fall, even if he had to kill every single one of his employees in the process! Those vexing rodents were going to meet their gruesome demise! Limburger would see to it personally.

To Be Continued...

How am I doing? My writing isn't getting worse, I hope!

Lots of rock'n'riding action coming up soon!

Please review! )