Hidden Talents - Modo
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:
Pictator, Modo
By Nikata
November 26th - 30th, 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 Quigley 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 gentle mouse?
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 his 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."
Modo hated lying, but there were some things he just couldn't tell his bros, even if he wanted to. True, they all knew so much about each other that it was surprising they weren't all natural brothers, but even he held something back, a secret that, if they knew about, he would never hear the end of. It wasn't anything he was ashamed of, just that he would rather not have Vinnie make fun of him to the point he would want to hit him so hard that he would break his bones.
The blue bike rode down the streets of Chicago, jumping over holes and swerving rumble, compliments of Limburger to the city. It was a pretty quiet time in the city. That was, of course, until Modo hit one of the busier roads. Most roads had to be cornered off, leaving the remaining roads in a state of bottleneck, cars and trucks bumper to bumper. But, if you have a bike that isn't quite your average bike, it's quite easy to miss the traffic. Literally, by jumping over it.
All to the soon Modo reached the freeway. The traffic, though still a lot, wasn't too congested, due to the fact that there was much more room to move and travel. It was here that Modo wanted to go, since it was from here that he wanted to get to his destination. It was North out of the city.
Cars of every shape and size passed him. It was very different for Modo since he usually passed the cars, but he thought, since the day was so nice, the sun beating down on the Earth and creating a wonderful atmosphere. It reminded the large mouse of what Mars had once been like, with all its wonder and splendour, until the Plutarkians came and ripped it all away. All they could do now was hope that, once the war was over and Plutark defeated, that they could recreate what Mars had once been.
A car pulled up parallel to Modo, a large blue estate car. Casting his eye to his right, he saw little kids in the back, playing around. The one nearest him, a little blue with frizzy blonde eye, turned and looked at Modo. At first he just stared then his face broke into a large grin and his waved at the biker. Modo grinned back and gave him a thumb's up. The boy laughed, the sound unheard to Modo, then the car sped up and was gone. It left Modo with a warm feeling in his heart, having shared in the happiness of the boy.
All to soon Modo's exit came up and swing to the right, he pulled off the freeway and rode down a smaller rode. Even from here he could see what his destination, the sparkling blue lit up by the rays of sunlight. He rode closer, until Lake Michigan revealed itself fully to the Martian. He was several miles outside of Chicago, and the spot he had chosen was free of industry and was still untouched by Plutarkian hands.
He pulled to a stop on a cliff, green grass under foot and stretching out until it ended at a sharp drop. And below sat the lake, a crystal clear blue colour and Modo swore he could see little fishes swimming in the waters. The cliff overhung slightly and sitting at the water's edge was a little stretch of beach, a pale cornflower yellow colour, rocks forming a small enclosure further out into the water, giving the beach protection.
Standing at the cliff's edge, Modo breathed in the sweet smell of the lake. It was completely hidden in Chicago, the pollution made by the city completely overpowering the presence of nature and all the natural beauty that the city had to offer. It was here that anyone could become in tune to nature and really feel its presence, and how relaxing it could be.
But to work, though Modo, coming back to his bike. Opening up the back compartment, he took out a small item in the same of a white box, a dark brown case, a small stool and a flat piece of what looked like white card. Walking off slight, carrying his items, he began to look around, trying to find the right place. He came to the bottom of the cliff, to a small area of grass that sat between the cliff that Modo had stood on top of and another cliff, the same size. Setting the stool down, Modo sat upon it and studied the area carefully.
Finally satisfied he placed the little box on the ground in front of him. Pressing the side there was a short pause, then with a whoosh it expanded out. Now it could be soon for what it was. It was aisle, onto which he placed the flat piece of white card, which wasn't but in fact a piece of canvas. Setting the box in front of him, Modo opened it and revealed a box filled with paints, inks, paint brushes of all sizes and all different kinds of pencils. Set into the lid of the box was an artist's palette.
Modo was an artist.
It was a talent that Mod had somehow developed quite naturally. He never took an art courses, never had a chance anyhow. Perhaps if the war had never come along then he would have entered art collage. But instead had entered the Freedom Fighting Core and his drawings had to be put aside. His bros knew that he could draw excellent pictures, but had no idea that his art was so extensive. When he came to Earth he'd bought along some pieces that he had created, but neither Throttle nor Vinnie knew he had them.
Getting out his thin pencil, he turned his attention solely onto the scene before him. The small cliff overhanging the beach, the golden beach itself and the gentle lapping of the water at the beach, overhanging this the almost clear sky with the odd white cloud and the sun, a shiny ball of fire. It was a perfect scene to draw and paint. And so he got down to business.
First was the draw a basic picture of the scene: the cliff, the beach, the water and the sky. Then, piece by piece, he began to the draw in the details. The sloping of the cliff that was visible, the rise and fall of the soft sand, the breaking of the water against the beach and the positions of the clouds, all the little details of each feature began to appear on the canvas.
Slowly and surely the picture began to take shape, it being an almost perfect reproduction of the scene before him. Time ticked away, Modo not caring about the boundary all life was tied to, not wanting to know anything but the scene before him. He became one with his surroundings, not wanting to know about the troubles in his life. All his troubles washed away and he took on an air of calm.
Unbeknownst to him, his drawing had allowed over an hour to slip away. And now it was to the painting. It wasn't his best piece, he usually spent days on the pencil drawing. But unless he said so, no one would have been able to tell, the quality was that good. But as he got out his paints he saw a family come unto the beach. At first he cursed for they ruined the scene before him. Then it occurred that they actually enhanced it. The parents spread a blanket on the sand and sat down. Their two children ran to the water and began to play within the surf.
Smiling to himself, he put down his paints and took his pencil ago. Tongue sticking out the corner of his mouth, he began to add the new details of the family. It was as if they knew he was there, they hardly moved, except for the children. Rubbing some stray lines out, Modo leant back and took in the details of his drawing. Finally satisfied with the finished pencil drawing, it was time to paint.
Pulling his palette out from the lid of his case, he took out the red, blue and green paints. Their shiny casing showed off their Martian writing. These were bought just before the war began and had hardly been used. Only a little bit was missing and so Modo had not had to replace them. Putting his thumb through the hole, he squirted small globs of paint onto the palette.
His tongue sticking out the corner of his mouth again, he began to mix the paints together into the shades he wanted. Taking out the black and white, he squeezed them onto the palette and to some of the test colours. Dipping his brush into the green colour he had made, he slowly added it to the cliff, slow deliberate strokes, getting the surface even, not wanting to the make it look like some kind of road map of bumps and dips made from paint.
Time again slipped away as he painted. Every now and then he would return to the palette to get some new paint onto his brush or to mix a darker tone of the colour he was using at present. The picture began to take on new life, the colours jumping off the canvas and into the eye of Modo, his concentration completely on the picture.
The cliff was painted first, the blades of grass created by small strokes of the brush. The sandy effect of the beach was made with little dabs of the brush, and it turned out looking just like a beach, with all the tiny little grains seemingly painted on individually. The water looked deep and blue, with little marks that indicated where the rays of light penetrated into the water. The blue of the water blended into the blue of the sky, the separation only by the smallest line, only visible if seen up close. With the clouds, Modo had dabbed them on lightly, then with more force. The finishing effect was that that seemed almost transparent, the sun's light shining through them. The final effect was that of the family. They had been painted in very colours, making them seem as alive as they did on the beach.
He put his signature in the very right bottom of the picture. In fact, not many people knew that Modo was in fact an abbreviation of his full name. His full name was Marco Opidibute Dominoico Opidibute. It was quite a mouthful, so he had shortened it to Modo, the initials. And it was this, plus the date in Earth terms, that he painted very small into the bottom corner.
Finally satisfied with his picture, he wiped his paints of the palette, main difference between Martian and Earth paints was that Martian oil paints didn't stick to wooden surfaces, placed the paints, brushes, pencil and palette back into the case and stood up. He picture before him was one of his best pieces ever, the feeling just drifting out and hitting him with full force. Leaving the picture to dry, Modo went and lay down in the grass, his eye to the sky.
One second he was looking at the sky, the next he was sitting up and rubbing his eye. He must have drifted to sleep, though he didn't remember doing so. It was still light, though the sun was further across the sky. Using his military training he calculated that he must have been asleep for around three hours. Getting up, he walked back to his painting. Another advantage that his paints had over those of Earth was that they dried much quicker. Folding up the stool and placing the canvas upon the soft grass, he pressed a little button on the aisle and it folded back up to a much more manageable object to carry.
Stool under one arm and picture under another, he carried the folded aisle in one had back to his bike. It beeped to see him and opened the compartment, into which he placed all this items. Closing it, putting his helmet on, he mounted his bike and started the engine, returning to the dirt road.
By the side was the large car that had gone parallel with Modo, when he saw the little boy. Stopping, he saw that it was indeed the same car, with the same boy. Plus he realised that it was the family on the beach. Thinking for a second, he shut off the engine, dismounted and too out the picture.
The father, putting the basket into the back, was startled when a large shadow fell over him. Turning he found a very large man, obviously a biker, standing behind him, holding something. His first thought was that he was about to be attacked, but somehow he didn't think he would.
"Here," said Modo. "I'd like ya to 'ave this." He handed the picture over to the father, who took it in both hands and looked at the picture. It was of the beach they had been on. Complete with them. He would have felt annoyed to have been painted, but the picture was excellent and the biker was giving it over without wanting anything in return.
"You sure?" asked the father.
"Sure I'm sure." Modo smiled and returned to his bike. Getting on board, he fired up his engine and roared off, leaving the father standing in the afternoon sun, holding a picture made by a large Martian mouse, the lines of a expert hand, and a loving one at that.
