Chapter 2
It was several years before the invasion of Mars when Spectre was abducted from his home world and tossed like an old rag doll into a life that Hell itself had nothing on. In fact, Spectre wasn't even his real name.
Born to a seamstress mother and labouring father, Spectre didn't always have all the fancy things all the other kids had. His mum made all his clothes and his father brought all the food back from the farm he worked on. The majority of their earnings went towards paying tax and schooling, so he rarely got toys to play with or other special treat. He was an only child too, his parents unable to have any more children after he was born. Despite all these things, he was still a normal kid – average height, a little on the slim side, with dark brown fur, blue eyes and a short mane.
It all began when he was nine. While exploring around his hometown, he happened across a small scouting party of Plutarkian soldiers, who were taking samples of matter from the planet to determine if it had a worthy potential of being strip-mined. After a very brief attempt at trying to leave, he was knocked out and taken by the soldiers as a final sample of what Mars had to offer.
Thats all he was to them – a sample.
And samples are taken so that knowledge can be made about particular things. They are tested. They are experimented on. They are pushed to their absolute limit till every last drop of information is extracted, so a complete picture can be presented to anyone who inquires about what a Martian Cave Mouse is.
Initially, the tests were simple enough. Blood tests. Internal scanning. Measurements. But the longer he spent with the Plutarkians, the more terrifying and horrific the tests became. And after years of experiments that were one step away from tearing him limb from limb, they had finally gotten everything they could possibly get out of him. Consequently, since there was no more use for a seventeen year old, emaciated, half-insane inhabitant of a small desert planet in the science department, he was given away as a slave to a cruel mechanic on Plutark.
It was at this point, upon presentation to the positively malodourous tradesman, that he was actually asked for his name. While with the scientists, they had always called him by his "Subject Registration Number, M-2971," which was tattooed on his right arm. After being driven crazy by the experiments for years, he had actually forgotten it.
"So? What is it?" asked the gruff Plutarkian, who called himself Biff.
He looked around the room, his eyes narrowed in a permanent frown. Finally, he looked at the mechanic, cocking his head to the side.
"Spectre," he said in a deep, deathly voice.
"Spectre?" he repeated.
"Yeah."
"What kind of name is that?"
"It means an object of terror and dread," his eyes flashed angrily. "It's what your kind have made me into."
"Really? Well, if that's the case, a little precaution may be needed here," the mechanic replied. He went to a workbench and picked up a small device with an antenna and four little prongs. Then, without warning, he grabbed Spectre by the mane and attached it to the back of him neck, the prongs digging into his flesh. He yelped.
"Welcome to Plutark, Spectre. But just remember one thing about your new life here," Biff said, taking a remote from where the device sat next to. He pressed a red button, and instantly, Spectre was overcome by a severe shock of electricity. He feel to the floor, panting.
"It's...MINE!" the stinking fish face said, and began laughing loudly.
*
Using their hydrofoil modes, the bros had rode out across Lake Michigan to where the Plutarkian ship was sinking.
"Guess it's got that sinking feeling, eh bros?" asked Vinnie.
"Yeah, yeah. Not very good at holding its water," added Modo.
"Let's hang here for a bit and see if we catch a good haul of fish," Throttle's deep voice decided.
After sitting there for five minutes, Vinnie was bored.
"Come on, Throttle! Can we go already? Nothing's coming out," he wailed.
"Yeah, you're right. Let's get 'em before they start polluting the lake," the tan leader spoke in his deep, smooth voice.
"Uh-uh. I ain't taking no bath," Vinnie protested.
"Fine, you can stay up here and keep watch," grinned Modo. He and Throttle extracted the front towing cables form their bikes, engaged the visors on their helmets and dove into the water. Vinnie, not wanting to be left out of the action, followed them, but took a couple of Martian grenades down with him.
After a quick poke around the inside, Vinnie let off the two explosives inside the hulk and blew it to bits, hopefully dispersing it enough to mask the fact there were parts of an alien spacecraft on Earth.
The guys sailed back to a more discreet part of the mainland, hopefully not attracting any of the police divers and rescue crews who were making to try and salvage whatever was on the bottom of the lake.
"Nobody was home, bros," said Modo as they rode along.
"Which means that our slippery customers probably bailed before they crashed," declared Throttle.
"One guess where they went," said Vinnie.
"Limburger."
"Let's visit the fish market first thing in the morning. We'll get to see the freshest produce," Throttle chuckled. "Let's rock, and ride!"
*
Spectre rode along the backstreets of the city, trying not to attract any attention. He noticed the main population here were, at a glance, fairly different from him in a physical sense. They had shorter manes, no fur on their bodies, smaller ears, no antenna and no snout; rather, they had a triangular-shaped projection from their face, which appeared to be their nose. They also had no tails. To try and blend in a bit, he decided not to remove his helmet, and wrapped his tail around his waist to make it less obvious.
The other problem was his fur. It certainly wasn't normal here to have that much fuzz growing off your skin. His clothes didn't help – he only left Plutark with the clothes on his back, which were tattered cargo pants, a torn white shirt (positively filthy), a belt and a pair of old combat boots. Not much to hide it with.
The plan was simple, in theory. Don't get seen for too long.
He was a bit concerned about riding Oblivion around, but he did see a few motorbikes, and they seemed to be a bit similar to her. She was essentially built for speed, with a steamlined body and handlebars that forced the rider to crouch over the body, keeping the drag to a minimum.
Spectre had come across her on Plutark, after she was brought to Biff's joint for scrap metal and spare parts. She was fairly badly damaged, with parts crumpled or missing after she was involved in a vicious fight. Spectre examined one of her body panels hanging loose and saw inscribed on the inside "Freedom Fighters." He didn't know who they were, or didn't think any more of it. Another one of countless others who were destroyed by the stinking planet wreckers.
After sitting there with no-one even taking a second look at her, Spectre approached his 'owner' about letting him keep her, and using the bike to travel out to breakdowns and delivering bills, rather than walking out and taking a longer time. The idea appealed to Biff, whose beady little eyes gleamed when Spectre mentioned something about bringing faster money into the business. And after a few weeks of working on her in his spare time, Spectre had her running again. Over time, he added more parts and replaced others to keep his bike going smoother, faster and nimbler.
And with the help of the young wrench jockey who claimed she was from the same planet as him, mouse and machine got off the rancid, sulfur-ridden hellhole and escaped into outer space.
His mind came back to the present. He saw that he was coming close to the stadium he just missed, so he turned a corner and started riding away from it.
*
Charley was fuming. She had been left behind like a helpless schoolgirl in the middle of the carpark and could only watch as her ride home left her to investigate a spaceship crash. Ooh, big deal!
As a result, she was now forced to walk back to the Last Chance Garage, at night. She wasn't afraid of the dark, rather, her only concern was the kind of scum that it brought out with it. She'd seen more than her fair share of fights and brawls in her lifetime.
"Stupid, chauvinistic, macho," she muttered under her breath, adding a few expletives every now and then. It mad her so mad.
After stomping halfway down a deserted street lined with shops, she became aware that someone was following her. She looked over her shoulder and saw two young, well-built men behind her and closing fast.
She increased her speed to a brisk walk, whereupon the path ahead of her became blocked by another man. Looking around for some kind of weapon to defend herself, the only thing she saw were three sports bikes parked on the footpath.
The man in front of her produced a knife. "Money, girley," was all he said.
She quickly forgot about the bros leaving her to trying to think of a way to escape. She couldn't go forward or backward, and if she ran out to the side, out onto the road, they would catch her in a matter of seconds.
It was then that she found a shimmer of hope. Someone was cruising down the street...on a, mildly put, banged-up bike. Still, it was better than nothing.
She bolted onto the road, her arms waving and shouting at the top of her lungs with the men on hot pursuit. The rider seemed to recognise she was in danger, and turned in her direction. She was just about to jump onto the back while the bike was still moving, but something about two finger widths wide wrapped around her torso and lifted her onto the seat effortlessly. Then, with it still wrapped around her, the rider gunned the engine hard.
It screamed off the mark and tore down the road. Charley could do nothing but hold on and hope to heaven that her enormous dinner of hot dogs would stay in her stomach. She was about to think the men were far behind when she heard a gunshot. Looking behind her, the crooks were riding their bikes after them. One was firing a gun at them wildly.
Without slowing down, the masked rider reached into a holster on his hip, pulled out a weird looking purple pistol, aimed over her shoulder and fired three blue laser shots.
All of them hit their mark, hitting the front wheels, destroying the tyres.
He put the pistol away and slowed the bike a bit, knowing that the men wouldn't be able to catch them now, especially after falling off at such a high speed.
Charley let out the breath she was holding ever since she jumped onto the motorcycle and breathed deep again, but her senses were assaulted by a voracious stench of sulfur, body odour and rotten fish, seemingly embedded in his long hair.
"Eww, you reek! Ever heard of a shower?" she said without thinking.
The bike stopped as quickly as it had taken off and she was roughly shoved off the back. The rider turned to her, his large helmet masking his face.
"I apologise for my hygiene. I'm also sorry for saving your arse back there."
Charley covered her mouth, realising what she had just said.
"Good night," he scoffed, before leaving her in a cloud of smoke and dust.
"I'm so sorry!" she yelled. Whether he didn't hear or didn't care, it was unknown, but he kept riding. Charley slumped her shoulders, feeling guilty, and trudged back home.