Chapter 9.

Spectre only just managed to stomach the hot dog that was served for tea that night. He didn't really enjoy them much at all. He much preferred the hamburgers that Charley had made the day before. He also had a liking for the lemonade over root beer.

While the guys were a bit more relaxed around him now, he still felt like a bit of an outcast. They played music that sounded like a screeching bird combined with a toddler banging on pots and pans. And their game of basketball usually involved the player with the ball being tackled from all directions. It was all getting a bit much for him. Now he was in bed, and how he was going to get to sleep while Modo's snoring echoed, was anyone's guess.

"Hey, I got a question for you."

Spectre turned to face Vinnie, easily the most restless of the three.

"What happened to your eyes?" he asked.

Spectre put his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling for a moment. He smiled sadistically.

"It was when I was with the Plutarkian scientists. They took a curved needle, slipped it under my eyeball and injected some dye into my optic nerve."

Vinnie felt a bit queasy. "Uhh...why?"

"Doesn't matter, really. They didn't need a reason for more than half the stuff they did to me. They just did it anyway."

There was silence, when Throttle spoke up.

"What about your ears?"

The dark brown mouse winced. This was one of the most horrible days of his life. He didn't even remember why he recalled the story. It always sickened him.

"I was on Plutark. One day, a rat called in to see Biff, my owner. Can't remember his name. Anyway, he was bragging about how good he was and stuff, and my fat slob of an owner thought that if I looked like a rat, I'd work as hard as one."

Vinnie and Throttle listened intently. Modo had woken up and was hearing Spectre's story as well.

"Anyway, Biff gave me an electric shock, and I must have passed out, 'cos I came around and...yeah...my ears," he trailed off, making a swishing motion with his hands.

"Whoa, mama," whispered Modo. Vinnie ground his teeth together. Spectre rubbed the sore spot on his neck where four-prongs device had been ripped from his skin so Biff couldn't track him down.

The mice lay in silence, out of respect of their kin who had died or were once prisoner of war of the Plutarkians, as well of those who were still captive.

"Guys! GUYS!"

Charley's voice came across their two-way radio, sounding desperate and almost panicky. Vinnie was at the handset in a flash.

"Sweetheart, what's wrong?"

"Limburger's goons are here. They got the place surrounded! I'm-" The signal cut to a hash.

"She's in trouble," Vinnie said darkly. "We gotta help her!"

"I hear ya," Throttle replied, also quite angry that Limburger had attempted another kidnapping of the best wrench jockey of Chicago. They all raced to their machines while shouting their famous war cry.

"Let's rock, and ride!"

Spectre also got to his bike and rode off after them, but a little confused as to why they had left in such a hurry. Sure, Charley was in trouble, but they would be an absolute laughing stock when they arrived to help...

*

Charley had just been securely tied to his three-wheeler when Greasepit and the goons heard the Biker Mice approach. But as they got closer, all they could do was drop from laughter. It took a few seconds for the mice to realise why.

In their haste to rescue Charley, they hadn't thought to put on any clothes, and were sitting there in only their boxer shorts. All three blushed as they silently vowed to sleep in their clothes from now on.

"Guys," Charley called out, half as a joke and half serious. "This is the last time I ever want to see you like this!"

Just then, Spectre had arrived, who was fine since he usually slept in his clothes. Then, taking advantage of the fact that the goons were incapacitated by their fanatical laughter, the battle was short. Keeping a wary eye on the bruised henchmen, the four mice untied Charley, who kept a half-meter-longer-than-normal distance from her furry friends.

"What's wrong sweetheart? The studliest mouse in the universe doesn't bite, unless you really want him to," Vinnie said in his usual, though vain attempt to charm her.

"You've just beaten Limburger's goons with no pants on, and you're thinking I should be impressed?" Charley said with a smile that took the sting out of her comment.

"Are you alright Charley? Are you hurt?" Throttle asked.

"No, I'm ok," replied Charley. "But...something's not right."

"What do you mean?" Modo frowned.

"Well, they weren't after you guys. They said something about trying to get 'the newbie.'"

"The newbie?" Throttle said, trying to piece the bits together inside his head. "What do you mean?"

"Greasepit was saying something about Limburger not wanting any resources, just this 'newbie' who tore up..." he voice trailed off.

"Plutark."

Everyone turned to Spectre, who narrowed his eyes.

"I blew up half of Downtown," he said with a deadly stare. "Seems they want me back."

Throttle nodded. "We should get you back to the hideout. Limburger doesn't know we're there. Vinnie," he addressed his comrade-in-arms. "You stay here with Charley-girl, in case the sucker squad comes back for another round."

Charley really didn't relish the thought of Vinnie looking after he in just his boxer shorts.

"Spectre, you and Modo come back to the hideout with me. We should be prepared. Let's ride!"

The trio left on their bikes in a cloud of burnt rubber. Charley then took the grinning white Martian inside to find some spare pants.

Unbeknownst to them, a shadow started following the former group on the rooftops of buildings.

*

4:34 am.

Spectre was on watch now for about half an hour. He was certain that Modo was in dreamy land – his snoring was a dead giveaway. He assumed Throttle was in the same place, since he had taken off his field specs and was mumbling incoherently to himself.

He walked over to the fridge to see if there was any lemonade, but there was only bottles of root beer in there. He picked up a bottle, took note of it's size, and a crafty smile came across his face. Taking about ten bottles of the stuff, he silently took them over to Oblivion and popped the grenade launcher housing. After finishing his little joke, he decided to have some water to drink instead, so he grabbed a cup and turned the tap on but a sudden sting in his neck prevented him from filling his glass. He tried to feel his neck but found that he couldn't even move.

He had been paralysed, standing up no less.

Before he could even think of some way to alert Throttle and Modo, a shadow of sorts had wrapped a rope around him and lifted him effortlessly to the roof, where a small hole had been cut. Taking the glass out of his hand and throwing it away, the shadow tied Spectre securely to his back and disappeared into the night.