Oh My Biker Gods!

Had this idea and it wouldn't leave me alone. The image of our beloved bros as gods from the series Oh My Goddess. I love both series, so I wondered if maybe they would be good together. Hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: I own nothing; I even lease my shoes.

Oh My Biker Gods

Chapter 1

Throttle growled to himself in exasperation as he worked at the glowing terminal. The young Martian god hated this desk job. Chasing down bugs and glitches in the System was tedious work, but manning the Gods Help Line at the same time made it tedious and boring. He actually found himself missing the old days, when he'd been constantly out hunting Demons that had escaped to the Mortal world. Getting shot at, chased, and blown up was at least more lively than this.

Vincent had begged off from his shift at the last minute, claiming he had a hot date tonight, and hadn't Throttle been wanting some overtime? The Martian god shook his head at his own stupidity, feeling closed in by the walls of his--he shuddered at the image of it--office. I could be out cruising right now, maybe meeting up with Modo for a few drinks, but no, I had to listen to Vinnie's whining.

A message icon suddenly blinked on his screen, and he startled a bit at the symbol it showed. The seal of the Almighty. He immediately clicked on it. Anything that bore that seal was straight from the top, the highest priority and clearance. Whatever this was, it was gonna be big.

And by the stars, it was big. He was to wait and answer the next incoming call on the Help Line, from a mortal no less! The caller was to be granted a Wish, a divine blessing of Heaven's Grace, and he was to make sure it went off without a hitch. No interference from Demon Hackers or misconstruing of the contract, no loop-holes for someone else to misuse for their own gain. In other words, he had to go and arrange things in person.

"I swear, I'm going to kill that white-furred bastard when I get back," Throttle muttered. It had been well over six hundred years since he'd last went to the Mortal world. He went on ahead and pulled up the file for the mortal he was to go meet. Hmm. Terran, only 18 years old, college student, 320 IQ? He whistled to himself. Damn, that ranks up there with a lot of gods I know. Lets see, anything else I need to know--

You have got to be kidding me. He was born under three unlucky stars?!

He sat back in his chair, his eyebrows almost vanishing into his mane in surprise. No wonder they want a personal representative to take his Wish. With that sort of bad luck, I'm amazed the kid's lived this long. He looked over the file again. Huh. And the kid, despite all that hellish fortune, still goes out of his way to help other people. I might actually enjoy talking with this Charley Davidson. The Martian god smiled as he waited for the phone to ring.

*&*&*&*&*&

"Uh-huh. Yeah, sure, I'll tell him to call. Okay, thanks, bye!" Charley Davidson huffed as she hung up the old fashioned dial-up phone. "Next time, I swear I'm telling that jerk Tomahawk to take his own messages," she muttered.

The girl leaned back against the wall of her tiny dorm room, closing her eyes in exhaustion. It had been a long day. First, she'd gotten woke up at the crack of dawn to do physical training by her insane dorm mates. She hadn't managed to get away from them until it was five minutes 'til class, and she'd had to run to get there on time, with no breakfast. Then six straight hours of college classes, with no lunch break. Then, right when she'd gotten a moment to herself to finally sit and eat, her dorm mates had found her--as they always seemed able to, no matter where she hid on campus--and dragged her off to another club fundraising event, food uneaten.

It wouldn't be quite so bad if that sort of thing wasn't a daily occurrence for the past five months!

Then the Auto club president, Foale, and vice president, Husky, had informed her that they were all going to this killer party tonight. When she'd protested, siting the massive amount of homework she had to do, Charley had then been nominated to clean the dorm from top to bottom. And get the mail, take out the trash, wash the dishes, and go shopping for tomorrow's breakfast. And answer all the social-butterfly Tomahawk's calls since his cell phone got flattened at a bike rally. After all, they'd said, she was a genius; it shouldn't take her long at all to finish her homework.

Yeah, right. Thanks to her insane friends, she'd nearly failed Martian Mythologies class due to being consistently tardy. She now had to write three--(three!)--fourteen-page long essays on the Martian Goddess of Water, from the Rat, Cave Mouse, and Sand Raider mythological points of view.

It had taken four hours to finish the housework, and she was now onto her last three pages of her last essay, thank you Almighty God. She was sore, tired, covered in dirt, dust, and grime, and all she dearly wanted right now was to grab a snack from the fridge and sleep for a few years.

And why, might you ask, would she put up with all that? The answer was simple. Charlene Davidson had gotten a scholarship to the most prestigious tech school in the United Planets Federation, the Brimstone Institute of Technology on Mars. She'd been ecstatic at the chance to go, at the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

Unfortunately, she had almost no money to cover any other expenses besides school supplies, and the currency exchange rate on Mars had nearly killed her budget on even that. She'd looked everywhere for a place to live on Mars and a job to pay for it, but only one thing had turned up. The Institute’s Auto Club had its own dorm, and members could live there rent free! The Terran couldn't believe her good fortune. She immediately signed up and was approved to join, and had even shipped all her things ahead to the dormitory.

But then, upon arriving on campus, she found out that a huge mistake had been made.

The scholarship was indeed for Charley Davidson the girl, but the dorm was for men only. The Auto Club was one of the last remaining boys' clubs left on Mars, and had refused to admit females of any species for more than two hundred years. Women weren't allowed in the dorm for any reason whatsoever.

By the time she found this out, almost all her money had been spent on travel expenses. She had nowhere else to go, and no way to get home. So she raided some used clothing stores, pinned up her hair under a ball cap, and told the Auto Club's enrollment officer that they had gotten her name wrong, as it was Charley, not Charlene. She hated to lie, but she had no choice. It was this, or go homeless.

Besides, no one seemed to notice anything out of the ordinary about her. The Auto Club was mostly Martian Mice, with a few Sand Raiders in the mix, and none of them had ever met a Terran before. They didn't think anything of her odd reactions to them walking around mostly naked after a shower, or to their positively disgusting eating habits, or at how they almost never washed their clothes. They just thought their newest, youngest, and only Terran member was really shy. And probably gay, which was fine with them. (Mars had a much more relaxed view of homosexuality than Earth, so to them, it was no big deal.)

She was ready to just close her eyes and sleep sitting up when she remembered that she had to call Tomahawk's pager to let him know about that last call. The girl groped for the phone, blindly dialing the number and waiting for it to ring. But she was surprised by actually getting an answer.

"Martian Gods Help Line, how can I help you?"

Her higher brain functions almost crashed to a halt. Oh my God, that's the sort of voice that you'd willingly follow down to hell. It was a deep, husky voice that sounded like black velvet being poured in her ears. Wait, he'd said something kind of important, right? She blinked in confusion before answering. "W-what? Oh, I'm sorry, I must have dialed the wrong number--"

"Don't worry, I'll be right with you to grant you your Wish. Just one second, okay?"

"What? No, wait, you don't understand, I don't think I have the right"--

The beautiful sound of a motorcycle engine interrupted her. The low rumble filled the room, its powerful base nearly shaking her down to the bones as it grew louder and louder. She glanced around, frantically trying to find the source of the noise when the only mirror in the room, a full length glass that hung on the back of her door, began to glow with white light. A sudden image filled it, and a hard burst of light came before a proud, classic black and chrome Harley Softtail came through it. And though it was gorgeous, an undeniable work of art, the rider was even more impressive.

She dropped the phone at the sight of him.

The rider was a tall Martian Mouse, with a black, sleeveless leather jacket, dark blue jeans, high black boots, and what looked like the softest tan fur she'd ever seen. He pulled the solid black helmet off his face, revealing a blunt muzzle, white buck teeth, and a mane of golden hair that brushed at his shoulders. Twin lines of darker gold fur ran from the center of his brow to the base of his antennae. Seven platinum and white gold studs hung from his ears, and she would have sworn he had a silver ring around the base of one of his antennae. He wore black framed glasses with green full-color lenses, and a pair of black, fingerless gloves on his hands. His long tail was twined around the seat bar, unwinding as he came to a stop near the foot of her bed.

And his body was built like God had decided to show off on the day he was born.

"Hey, there. Sorry to have startled you. Charley Davidson, right?"

Dear god, the voice matches the body. She couldn't help her stare as she tried to work her mouth. All the girl could manage was a slow nod as she absently hung up the old phone.

"The name's Throttle, and I'm from the Martian Gods Help Line. We got your call and I've been authorized by the Almighty to grant you a Wish."