I do not own Biker Mice from Mars. I do own a plethora of other things in here.
-x-
An hour after the second failed fixer-upper job, the three women (and one turtle) filed lazily into the kitchen.
"I just don't get it," Charley said after awhile. "There's nothing wrong with The Machine, why does it keep going out?"
"Don't, don't say it like that," Macca said, bringing a hand to her forehead. "There's no way I could replace it."
"So you haven't moved on?" Charley asked, looking concerned.
"Old habits die hard," she answered, making a small motion to drop the conversation. Roadface was sitting on the counter, staring fixedly at Vinnie's plate. Macca noticed this and slapped her shoulder. "Don't steal food."
"Oh, c'mon, like he needs it," Roadface whined.
"Getcher own." She paused. "Besides, if they're going to help with The Machine, I don't want any more problems than I've already got. Sabotage city."
"The Machine?" Vinnie echoed through a bite of his hotdog.
"Yeah," Macca clarified. "'The Steel Machine'. Ever heard of that?" All three shook their heads. "Good."
"Why is that good?" Throttle ventured.
"Because that would permanently alter your impression of me."
"Are you hungry?" Charley asked suddenly, trying to brighten Macca's mood.
"Nah. I've got stuff I gotta do." She turned to Roadface. "Mind if I borrow your bike?"
"Don't kill it."
"What, everything I touch dies? Because that would be a problem." Macca dropped an all-knowing wink and walked to the door. "Feed Jude. He hasn't eaten all day."
"Oh you poor thing," Roadface crooned, ransacking the fridge. "Go tell Aunt Roadie the old gray goose is dead."
-x-
"Thanks for lettin' me stay," Roadface told Charley as the two of them fed Jude lettuce from a bag of salad mix. The mice had long since left after taking a quick look at Macca's bike
"Anything for a friend of a friend," she smiled, watching as the turtle slowly bit the piece of lettuce she offered him.
"You sure you wanna say that for a friend of someone like Macca's?" She laughed at Charley's pained expression. "Go on, mate, I won't be offended."
There was a steady silence, filled only with the tick of a clock and the crunch of lettuce. "No," Charley said finally. "But you're different."
"I'm different, am I?"
"Well, I mean, Macca did save your life, didn't she? So, she's not all bad."
"She never was. I guess it was just genes. You know, with the whole 'I'm Alexis Machine's daughter' thing. She was bound to inherit something." The two of them stared down as the radio on the counter, which had been playing Fleetwood Mac, dissolved into static. "Jude, what is it? That was a good song." He surfed through several stations before stopping on a news station, where a meteorologist was finishing up a weather report.
"The Steel Machine is rumored to be back in active service, after the body of Mac Earlson was found beaten in the section of Chicago that had once been known as Lot 39 to the gangbangers. This was the territory of Loni Machine, the daughter of convict Alexis Machine, and her former gang Machine's Way. Examination of the boy revealed that the weapon had indeed been a crowbar- the preferred weapon of Miss Machine. Citizens are to be on the look out for a woman, 5 foot 8, short orange hair, possible riding an all-chrome Harley Fatboy with 'The Steel Machine' written on the side. Anyone who sees Machine is to notify the police."
"Holy Jesus fu..." Charley whispered, turning quite pale.
"It wasn't her," Roadface said, grabbing the phone.
"How do you know?"
"She visiting the girl with the Wrecker. Texted me about it when she got there." She punched the number into the phone and held it to her ear. "Hello, Kylie? Roadface. Is Macca there? Can I talk to her...Hey Mac, you heard the news? No? They say you're back in active service." She held the phone away from her ear and a shout rang out from it.
"What? What do you mean they think I'm back? I haven't touched Lot 39 in years! I don't fucking know where my crowbar is!"
"Well, you see, that's exactly why they think it. Mac Earlson, from Rawlie's gang, he was found beaten with a crowbar on the old 39."
"DAMMIT!" And the line went dead.
"Your boys better not watch the news. Or it's gonna be hell. Macca will beat anyone within an inch of their life if they think it's true. Even if they're taller and tougher and a different species from a different planet."
"Yeah," Charley said solemnly. "I know."
-x-
Macca, without thinking twice, threw the whiskey bottle against the opposite wall. Amber drops followed as it turned in the air and shattered as it hit the gray stucco into what seemed to be a million pieces. Kylie stared at the woman in shock, watching as her scar steadily turned black. She pushed an angry hand through her blond hair as the other woman stood, strode quickly into the garage and slammed the door connecting it to the house. A brief clink of metal followed and the loud revving of Roadface's bike. It became quieter and only then did she relax, looking worriedly at the news station as it relayed the Loni Machine story.
"Fuck," she said shortly, entering the garage and examining the tool rack. One of the crowbars was missing. "Fuck."
-x-
Jesus-fucking-bald-headed-ole-Christ! Macca thought, speeding back to the Last Chance. She turned sharply up the drive and into the garage, cut the engine and knelt next to her bike. Come on, babe, there ain't nothing wrong with you. She checked the fuel tank and the battery. Exhausting all possibilities of fault, she mounted and slowly coaxed the engine to life. It began to putter dangerously, and she lifted one leg to kick the side of the tank. The crowbar clunked against it, and it became stable. Come on, babe, we got some business. She caught brief sight of Roadface and Charley's silhouettes before she sped out.