Chapter 3

Charley finally got home. After being ejected from the masked motorcyclist's ride, she had run all the way to the front door. The amount of adrenaline from the previous events had made it a relatively easy feat.

It had been such an eventful night, and she was having a lot of trouble processing all the information. She decided a (very) long, relaxing shower would be the best thing to calm her nerves. She took off all her smelly clothes and threw them straight into the washing machine and poured half a box of washing powder in with it, knowing it would take about twenty more washes to make a mere change in the smell. It would probably be better to just burn them and get some new threads later.

She did a quick nudie run to the shower and set the water running. After scrubbing her skin to the point of causing small welts to come out, she sat down and just let the water run over her, easing her body and mind back into a normal rhythm.

So many objects tonight reminded her of other things, but she couldn't quite put the pieces together, so focusing on one at a time might help.

Firstly, that smell. Get it out of the way immediately. She had, unfortunately, come across it before. Sulfur. Shocking B.O. Rotting fish. Of course! It was the similar to Limburger, on a good day, no less. But this guy couldn't have been a Plutarkian; he was too skinny, and no stinkfish could ever get that slim, even on a good diet and exercise regime.

Grumbling, Charley chose a different item. The gun he used. It was purple, with a yellow rim around the muzzle. And the fact it fired laser blasts? Earth hadn't developed lasers so far. And yet, it reminded her of something she had seen enough times that she should be able to recall it like clicking ones fingers. This was becoming more of a headache than a help.

The bike. It was nothing special at all. Well, at first glance. It certainly had a lot of speed. But no bike on this planet could ever match its pace. The only thing that was comparable to it was...

A Martian bike.

Charley couldn't believe it. It was inconceivable. There were only three Martian vehicles on Earth, and she was intimate with each one of them. And yet, there was another one. But how could a human get a hold of such a thing?

And then, it dawned on her that the Biker Mice just may have a comrade-in-arms here in Chicago.

She had been trying to figure out what that thing was that picked her up so easily.

It was a tail. A Martian mouse tail. The strongest appendage on any mouse.

Now things were falling into place. It was a mouse. He was riding a bike. It also explained where the pistol came from; it was standard Martian-issue. The guys had one each.

But how the hell could he come to smell like a Plutarkian? No mouse would ever let himself become that dirty. And there was nothing about him that even associated with Plutark.

Then, the final piece of the puzzle fell right into place.

It explained his smell, and the reason why they hadn't seen him before.

The crash-landing.

He had just arrived on Earth, after leaving, or more likely escaping, from a sizeable population of fishfaces. Most likely using him as some sort of slave labour in a concentration camp or something. It wasn't unheard of, according to Stoker.

And in his first hour of being here, he had already witnessed the natives preying on each other and then being insulted for something that was completely and utterly not his fault. She almost cried at how much that must have hurt him.

She had to tell the guys.

*

After the comment from that stupid woman, Spectre was still shaking his head. He really could not believe that after saving your life, you would focus on something else. Yes, he had the capacity to clear a school auditorium in thirty seconds or less. He was perfectly aware of that. If she even had a fraction of the idea of pain he'd experienced in his life – she wouldn't be able to speak for months.

But still, he couldn't get what she said out of his mind. The fact that he wasn't from this planet was bad enough, but the fact she mentioned his smell was just alienating him even more.

He rode past a fountain of some sort out the front of a house. He stopped his bike and removed his helmet. Against his better judgement, he slipped into the front yard and gulped down some of the freshest water he'd ever had. Then he dipped his head into the cool liquid and tried to scrub the stench out of his fur. His mane was matted and clogged with grease and he found it painful to try to get through all the knots. It was years since it was last cut. After a few more attempts he gave up, thinking it would probably be best to just hack it all off.

After trundling off again, he noticed that Oblivion's engine was starting to splutter and backfire. The fuel gauge wasn't quite empty, so he pulled over. He knelt beside his bike and gently revved the engine, trying to find what the cause was. Unsuccessful at this, he wheeled his beloved bike into an alleyway and tried to find some shelter in the now-cool night air.

He shook his head at his current situation. Because he owned nothing he could exchange to fix Oblivion, there was only one other thing he could do.

Give up his newly-found freedom and play slave driver again to help him survive.

He smiled sadistically, knowing his escape from Plutark would only be short lived.

*

The next morning, Spectre woke after sunrise. His hadn't slept as well as he did for a long time. The air of this planet was so much more cleaner than his previous residence, and he hadn't spent ages trying to not suffocate in Plutark's putrid gases, lest he die in his sleep from lack of oxygen. His bed, made of two layers of cardboard, was a lot more comfortable too.

The city was starting to bustle with activity outside the alley. Donning his helmet again and hiding as much of his fur as possible, Spectre wheeled his battered bucket of bolts along the footpath, trying to find a workshop he could loan himself to. He began to wonder why he should even bother with life, and why he shouldn't just take one of Oblivion's tow cables and hang himself. Then, her voice echoed in his thoughts.

"Life, no matter how bad it seems, is still the most precious thing you can have."

He didn't know what to think. He really couldn't be bothered putting up with all this slavery. But it was she who gave him new life. It was she who had brought him out of insanity through showing him love and kindness, who bolstered him through the most lowest period of him life. But it was what she said about life that kept him going. Kept him from giving up. Kept him from not throwing away the precious gift he realised he had; his life.

His mind had wandered so far he lost track of where he was walking and almost crossed the street with cars still going across. A few horns and shouts of abuse brought him right back to the present. It was then that he noticed a picture of a motorbike on the front of a small, squat brick building. Above the picture were the words 'Last Chance Garage.'

"Guess it suits us well," said Spectre, patting his bike in the fuel tank, and wheeled her towards the front door.

Thirty seconds later, he flicked the stand out on Oblivion and set her down. Walking into the building through a roller door, he looked about the place. It was small and compact, yet tidy. Some heavy metal music was playing on the stereo. Spectre turned to examine some equipment on a shelf when he heard a females voice behind him.

"Can I help you?"

Spectre turned and made to ask about offering his services when his eyes narrowed.

It was the same girl from last night.

She too recognised the clothes and helmet (and, she kept to herself, his smell).

Spectre straightened up. "No. Sorry to bother you," he said, before turning to walk out.

Charley stood there dumbfounded for a second, before she could finally move into action. She came up beside him.

"Hey, I'm really sorry about last night..."

"So you said."

"I don't know what came over me, I was so stupid. I shouldn't have said it."

Spectre had by now arrived at his bike and kicked the stand up.

"Is there anything wrong with your bike?" Charley asked.

"No, nothing," he replied, and began to walk away.

"Then why aren't you riding it?" Charley kept pushing.

"Lady, just drop it," Spectre hissed, trying to keep his cool.

Charley let him walk before trying the last thing she could think of.

"I know where you're from," she called after him.

Spectre stopped. The young grease monkey approached him from behind, causing him to turn when she uttered one word.

"Mars?"

His eyes widened, feeling very threatened and vulnerable about her knowing so much about him after spending all of a minute together last night. And then it got even worse.

"Been a prisoner lately? Hm? Escaped from some purulent piscines?" she asked.

"What's a piscine?"

"Another word for fish."

Spectre hung his head, anything remotely resembling a cover completely blown out of the water.

"Come back. Please," Charley pleaded.

Spectre stared at the young lady, before looking away, undecided..

"Please?" Charley repeated.

Spectre sighed. "Ok," he replied in a barely audible voice.

As Charley led the way back, she asked "What's your name?"

"Spectre."

"Pleased to meet you. I'm Charley."