Hidden Talents - Throttle

I do not own Biker Mice from Mars and make no profit what so ever from this story. Its intention is only for the entertainment of fellow BMFM fans and no other.

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Hidden Talents:

Scripter, Throttle

By Nikata

December 10th, 1998

Copyright 1998 Nikata, all rights reserved.

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The sun shone down on the city of Chicago like a candle in the night of despair. What with the poor condition of the city, the sunlight was the only salvation that the collection of run-down buildings had to warms its concrete soul. Shafts of light highlighted areas of the city that many of its habitants would rather not know about or even acknowledge, due to the general appearance and atmosphere they gave to those visiting the Windy City. It was not the fault of the city or its inhabitants that the place of their origin stood in such desolation. The fault lay entirely at an otherworldly force.

That 'otherworldly' force lat at the hands of one Lawrence Limburger, part-time business man and all time enemy of freedom and justice. Limburger, as he was known as, was not human. In fact, under an elaborate facemask sat the true face of evil - Limburger was in fact from a race of fish, called Plutarkians, whose only goal was the total conquest of the galaxy to feed the overpopulated planet of Plutark, the centre of the Plutarkian Order. Limburger was one such arm of Plutarkian influence, but one of oh so many.

However, even a creature of Limburger's overwhelming evil, and body odour that was common in the species, even he had his problems. And his problems came in a factor of three; the Biker Mice From Mars, a trio of freedom fighting mice from Mars, which at this time was under Plutarkian control, though they were fighting back for that control.

The Biker Mice had egos to fit their courageous behaviour. Never one to see injustice done to the innocence that always got in the way when evil raised its ugly head and tried a scheme to destroy, they protected innocent people with great cost to themselves.

First off is Throttle, tan-furred leader of the trio who always wore green shades because his original eyes had been taken and replaced with bionic ones. Though they did sometimes get on his nerves, he never told anyone, less to weigh his burden onto undeserving shoulders. He is more quite then Vinnie, more thoughtful then Modo and a natural born leader.

Then there is Vinnie, the white-furred joker of the pack and with an ego that could make even a politician have to go in for a makeover. Always going on about how good he is and that he is the best at everything and that no one could beat him, it seemed he could never ever be serious. Having half his face ripped off and hidden behind a mask did nothing to dent his pride, but in fact help fuel it. But on occasions he was and that was when he was truly better then most.

Finally there is Modo, the grey-furred force behind the trio. Tall in height, large in muscles and strong in strength and stamina, it would appear on a first glance that he was all muscle and no brain. True he is a little slow off the mark, but he is not at all dense. In fact he can absorb vast amounts of information and learn a great deal, but never having to show off like his smaller bro Vinnie. A great carer of children and respectful of women, he is everything that a female would want out of a partner.

It was on a particular day in mid July that the mice were coming back to their second home in the city of Chicago. When they crash-landed in the city, they had made up base inside the scoreboard of the nearby sports stadium of Quigly Field. But they spent most of their time at the Last Chance Garage, a mechanics run by Charlene Davidson, known as Charley to her friends.

Charley was one of the few humans who knew of the truth if the situation concerning the ever growing threat of Plutark against Earth. Headstrong and a will that was unbeatable, she is a female to be reckoned with. Though put down as a 'female' and a 'innocent citizen', she had proven her worth to the Biker Mice on more then one occasions, all those times surprising them.

As usual Charley heard the roar of the three bikes as they approached the garage; It was a sound she could recognise even in her seem, the sound now engraved into her memory so deep that she doubt she could ever forget it. Just as they came towards the double garage doors she hit the open button. Just in time as the three bikes pulled into the garage, shutting off their engines. The Biker Mice were well known for not nothing hoe to use doors properly, and having a thing about bursting through them. Martian Mice are such creatures of habit.

"Hiya Charley-girl," called Throttle, dismounting his black bike and taking off his helmet. "Are those hot dogs I can smell?" He sniffed the air with the ease that was common in his species. His nose told him true.

Modo put his helmet down on his blue bike and walked towards the kitchen; he was a great lover of food. "Hot dogs and root beer, just the thing to make this mouse happy."

"And heavy metal music, courtesy of the baddest mammajamma this side of Mars," chorused Vinnie, taking a slick black radio out of the side compartment of his red bike, though draping a piece of cloth over something inside, hiding it from view. Plugging it in, he switched the mice's favourite radio station on Earth; Sweet Georgie Brown. "Ahhh, life doesn't get much better then this," Vinnie sighed with content. For his words he got jabbed in the side with a pointy finger.

"It could," Charley said, the source of the jabbing finger, "if one of you hot dog gloated mice would, for once, help around here." Vinnie put his arm around her and lead her to the kitchen.

"But if I did that I'd spoil my good looks. And you wouldn't want that would you?" Charley refrained from commenting.

However, she didn't complain when Vinnie pulled out the chair for her and helped her to her seat at the table. Nor when Modo passed her a plate, or when Throttle offered the choice of the first hot dog and bottle of root beer. There were times when these three furry jerks could be such gentleman. Or was that gentlemouse?

Soon all the food was devoured and all the drink gone, leaving three contented mice and one human sitting at the table. It was at times like this that they all felt like one large family, sitting down at the table talking. Though it was mostly Vinnie talking about himself, the principle was the same.

As Charley cleared away the table, putting the leftover food in the bin, not there was much, and placing the plates into the sink for washing, the three mice returned to the main garage. The battle with Limburger left them with some empty missile launchers and other little repairs that needed to be done. It was a job that needed to be done, and one that the mice were very good at doing.

But one particular mouse did not start maintenance. Modo, instead of getting out his tool kit and get down to tightening more bolts, put on his helmet and fired up his engine, much to the surprise of his two bros.

"Where you goin;' big fella?" asked Throttle, looking up from the engine of his bike.

Modo looked up and for a second Throttle could have sworn he saw an uneasy look in the mouse's single eye. "Ahh, just wanna check out my bike's engine performance. Won't be too long." With a wave he rode out the garage, leaving just as Charley came to see what all the noise was.

"Where'd Modo go off to?" she asked. Vinnie shrugged and got back to work.

Throttle answered her question. "Don't know babe, said something about his engine." He stared out of the garage door, pulling his shades down. "I wonder what he's up to."

Charley stared at the door a little while longer. It wasn't often that one of the mice would ride out on their own. Only if to pick something up, like root beer. With Limburger a constant threat, it was always best if they stuck together. You never knew when he would strike.

Half an hour later, the whirr of an electric screwdriver that had been sounding for a while now suddenly ceased as Vinnie got up, placing the said tool back onto the workbench. Putting the side panel back onto his bike, he placed his helmet, sitting on his bike and firing up his engines. Again this caused Throttle to look up and over to his white furred bro.

"Where you are off to?" Throttle asked, placing the drill on his bike.

"To test these modifications out," came Vinnie's answer. "Don't wait up." Before Throttle could say anything Vinnie roared out of the garage, going the opposite direction that Modo had gone. Charley, again, had heard the roar of the engine and had come down to investigate, finding the only mouse present to be Throttle.

"Where'd Vinnie ride off to?" she asked, answered by the shrugging of Throttle's shoulders.

He replied, "Beats me. I wonder what those two are put to?"

It did seem like something extra was going on then met the eye. Vinnie and Modo did usually keep secrets and it was no ones birthday. It was either they were both up to something together or they had gone of separately. But since that never happened often was probably the first option. And that was what confused Throttle. But since there was nothing he could do about it he got back to work. Seeing as only Throttle was left with her Charley started some backlog work that she had been meaning to do.

Both work in relevant silence, the radio the only source of sound. Even then it was on a low sound setting so as not to disturb the work of the two present. Not that it would since both were so engrossed in what they were doing anyhow. Throttle was deep in thought has he did his maintenance work. Where had his two bros gone? And why had they rushed off like they had done. He'd have to ask them when they got back.

Not long after he replaced the last part of his bike, put on the panel he'd taken off and was done. Time to see if he could find his two bros. Grabbing his helmet, he started up his engine and waited a second. "Where're you going Throttle?" came the voice he'd knew would call. He turned to find Charley giving him a strange look.

"No sweat babe," he replied in his husky voice. "I'm gonna try an' find the other two. See what kinda scheme they're up to." With a final thumbs up he rode out the garage, cutting through the empty building in front and out the other side. Charley just stood there, hands on hips, all on her own.

"Something strange is going on," she said to herself. "They've gone and left me all on my own." Slowly she realised her words. She was on her own. On her own. There was a good movie on later that afternoon and she didn't think she'd be able to watch. When the mice are away Charley will play. She went and began to plan her afternoon. All by herself.

Throttle rode through the empty building in front of the Last Chance, mainly because he wanted to get onto the road on the other side and didn't want to ride around it. With a bike like his you could do those kinds of things and it wouldn't matter. And now it was on to try and find the other two. If not, then he would have to think of something else to do.

First off was, of course, the scoreboard. He rode in, expecting to see the other bikes parked waiting for him. But with a quick look around revealed nothing but an empty scoreboard with no hidden traps. Next was the junkyard. That was just as empty. Then there was a hot dog stand they frequented if they felt hungry before going back to go some food. There was a group of children, but nothing more. This was getting perplexing to say the least.

A quick ride past Limburger's tower told him that they couldn't be there. It was a ruin though still standing, which was unfortunate. However beggars could not be choosers and as long as Limburger didn't try anything then Throttle would either. Being only a one-mouse army with no back up was not good.

Deciding that his bros must have taken time off elsewhere, Throttle thought that he deserved as much of one as the other two. And so he was decided. Besides, he had some things to catch up on. He travelled along the roads and onto the freeway West of the city. It wasn't very busy and Throttle slowed down to a leisurely crawl. Well, a crawl for him was still fast and he blazed past others on the road. As he travelled West beautiful, natural, landscape replaced that of the urban jungle that was slowly disappearing.

But it was soon time to pull off the freeway and so Throttle did so. It was another main road though the only other vehicle he passed was large going in the other direction. Soon trees appeared on either side and hung over the road, creating a natural canopy of leaves and of life. He slowed down to admire the natural landscape and as he did he saw something glistening through the trees. Seeing a gate he rode up to it and opening it up rode onto the glistening object.

It was a large pond, a deep blue colour, surrounded by trees. The powerful rays of the sun shining through the gaps in the trees and reflecting off the water's surface were the cause the glistening. Moving slowly below the surface were an array of fish of all colours. The wind rustling through the trees created a calm, tranquil atmosphere. Throttle got off his bike, took off his helmet and absorbed the air into his being. It seemed such a different place then any he'd seen before outside of Chicago.

Something popped into his head, an idea. It was something he'd not done in a time since they arrived on Earth. Switching off his bike, he opened the side compartment and took out what looked like a book and a pen. Looking around to find a place to sit, he found a little overhang over the water. Sitting down, he took off his boots and lowered his legs over the edge and his feet into the water. The water was neither hot nor cold, but just right to soothe his feet. The water lapped around his ankles, moving them slightly in a rhythmic pattern.

He grasped the book as he stared out over the water. The book was on old bounded one, a little dog eared from much use, but with an air of old and wisdom. He opened the book and on the very first page were words he knew by heart. They read "To our wonderful Throttle. May this book by the guiding point in your life. Your loving parents."

It had been a present on his ninth birthday. It was the last one he had. The next year his people were in the middle of the war with the Plutarkians. Not wanting think of that, he flicked his way through the pages. Most were taken up with writing, all his. It changed as the pages progressed through his teenage days to adult. All were the same, small lines of verse or large ones.

Throttle was a writer of poetry.

He knew that people would think that it was a sissy hobby to have, but to Throttle it was more then a hobby. It had discovered that, from an early age, he had a knack of writing a poem and would seem far more advance and meaningful then his years allowed. His teachers back at school had encouraged him to write more and his parents did so too. One reason for the book. He would write poems about how he felt on a particular day right up to that describing a single object.

And that was why he stopped to sit down and get out the book. He hadn't written a poem since before they had arrived on Earth. He really didn't have the time and also because he knew he'd get a lot of stick from his two bros. They just wouldn't understand the need to create as he did. Be it through pen or brush, there were those who had the ability to create something out of nothing. And that was what he could do, through words that he wrote he expressed life.

He stuck the end of the pen into his mouth, sucking on it gently as he thought. He had a tendency to do this when he thought, it helped him think of lines. His mind hadn't done this for such a long time that is was having trouble clearing away the cobwebs of his creative part and come up with something that would suit his needs.

But there was something he could use to his liking, his surroundings. That was an answer. Look around him and see what came to mind. Trees, sun light, water and fish, he listed what was around him. But there was something missing, some key element. He could feel it coming together but there was one major item needed. And as if someone had heard his unconscious thought, that something came into view on the opposite of the pond.

It was a small boy, alone. Obviously there must have been houses near by for him to live in. Wearing what looked like a little sailor's suit, complete with a little cap, he stopped and looked around. He caught Throttle's stare and at first stood stock still like an animal caught in the headlights. Then his look softened and he waved to Throttle, who returned the gesture. Under his arm was a toy boat, which he now lowered into the water. Tied to it was a little piece of string so that it wouldn't float off. He proceeded to play with the boat.

Throttle watched for a second longer. The key element had just walked into sight and Throttle was going to use the imagery as best he could. This child was innocent beyond compare, not ever seeing the scenes of war or having to see those he loved die around him. And that image had to be captured by his words, at all costs.

A line came into his head and his wrote it down. But not satisfied with it he rubbed it out and began again. The old creative juices were taking their time to start flowing again. They had dried up to an almost dribble from none use, but Throttle was determined to see if they could not be reclaimed. And soon the words came, line after line. He wrote faster then the words could come but soon the words were down. He held the book in his hands, admiring his poem.

From the shore of waters of death I saw a boy,

The trees of old offering shelter unto him,

And so I was happy in his joy for he was young and alive.

Happy that joy is for all not one,

For those of age and those of none,

And so I was joyful for what he brought to me.

For his games were those of children,

Not of the ways that age creates,

And so I was returned to time long before when I was alive.

To a time when a world was filled with joy,

To when Nature was filled with the wonder of life,

And so I was glad that he had help me see that,

Though I am of age and of a world of death,

That there is life in Nature and in the heart.

For they were words from the heart. It was a piece of work that came straight from Throttle's own heart, and that everyone of his species hoped for more then anything else. For a time when children could play their childish games, not having to worry about the 'bad fish people', for when parents could be happy in the knowledge that their children would be safe. Throttle had vowed to see the war through, to see the rebuilding of Mars. He no longer cared if he lived to see the end of the rebuilding. But as long as he could die happy in the knowledge that he helped his planet recapture that what was taken away from them, then he would be happy in his play.

As he set the book down he heard a cry from the other side of the pond. The little boy was looking distraught into the pond and Throttle could see why. The string to the boy's toy boat had snapped and now it was floating out and into the middle of the pond. Seeing that the boy was unhappy Throttle did the only thing possible for the situation. Taking off his jacket, glove and shades, he dived into the water.

He swam with powerful strokes to the boat. Needing his arms to swim with, he grabbed the boat with his tail and swam slowly to the other side, not wanting to break the boat or pull it under the water. Soon enough he reached the point that he could his feet down and he waded out of the water.

The boy took a step back as the large mouse walked out of the water. From the other side he seemed to be just another visitor to the pond, but this wasn't like any other that he'd seen before. But in his hand he held the boat he thought was lost.

"Here ya go little bro," said Throttle, handing the boat back to the boy. He took it and looked over it, seeing that it was still sea-worthy. His attention then turned to the mouse.

"Thanks Mr. Mouse," he said, grinning wide. Throttle grinned to and ruffled the hair on the boy's head before walking off back to his side, water dripping from his fur. Getting back to his side he shook himself, spraying water in all directions, getting at least part of him dry.

Putting back on the clothes he'd taken off, he gathered up his book and pen and returned to his bike. Putting them into the side compartment they had come from, he remounted his bike, placed his helmet on his head and started the bike. With any luck the ride back should dry out his clothes. With a last look at the pond, Throttle rode off.