Disclaimer: Before I write this, I gotta know--is anybody actually gonna read this thing? I could throw a sex scene into the disclaimer and nobody would ever know, I guarantee! Check it out:
"Throttle gazed wistfully across the room, the pale light coming in through the window dappling his fur and turning it pale in the darkness. As he stood there, naked, he dipped his mirror-shades at Carbine, who laid bare and prone under the covers, waiting for her lover, and said with his breathy, achingly sultry voice, `Hey, babe, change of plans. Me and my bros are gonna go stop Limburger's latest insidious scheme.'
"At which point Carbine whacked him upside the head with a trophy Throttle had won a year prior in a race on Uranus."
See what I mean?
Oh well, here it goes: I do not own "Biker Mice From Mars" (if I did, I'd probably be rich by now, or at least setting Throttle, Modo, and Vinnie up on dates with members of the Unofficial Biker Mice From Mars Fan Club), and I make no profit from this story save the hopefully bounteous joy of my bros in said Fan Club when they read it. This story was written for pure enjoyment, in honor of the show. Any resemblance to any person living or dead is purely coincidental.

Note: The characters and situations created in this story do belong to me (thanks to the copyright, ha ha!), so please restrain from writing any FanFics using them. All the subtle foreshadowing I throw in could go straight down the tubes with one well-meaning little story. Please respect this wish and don't be mad. You're welcome to try your hand at sketching any of them, however!

One more thing:

Each part of this story is fairly long.

It is my personal recommendation that you print this.

Trust me. You'll thank yourself in the morning.

Biker Mice ON Mars

Part One:

Mistrial And Error

by Stoker1439

Copyright June 1998

If you were on Mars today, and saw it as it appears now, you wouldn't actually have time to think about it, as you would die within seconds of entering the red planet's low pressure atmosphere. But, if you were to survive that somehow, via pressurized suit or plot hole, you would notice how bleak and barren Mars is. Nothing but stretches of rusty red soil, like the Sahara desert on a global scale. Barely enough water to sustain its tiny population.
Not somewhere you'd want to vacation, if you get my drift.
But nine years ago, Mars was.......
.....Well, actually, it was pretty much the same. Deserts everywhere, no water, tiny population, etc.
Still, it was a different world then. A world in the midst of change, a very small number of which would ultimately be for the better.
And it was on this merciless, mercurial world that the young Biker Mice from Mars would grow up. This barren, forsaken wasteland would mold their young minds and set them on their path to glory. This hellish planet whose name comes from the god of war would scrape away their innocence with its own demise. This ugly, ugly little rock--
Uh, forget what I just said. Mars is a beautiful planet! Lovely! Who doesn't adore that fabulous red color? And the deserts! Why, I can't sing their praises enough! Water is severely over-rated!
Okay. Now would you guys please get the gun out of my face? I can't tell this story without my brain securely anchored inside my skull.
Thank you.
Ahem. Now where was I? Oh yeah!
Our story begins in the early hours of the tenth day of June, 1989, in the Martian city of Hellfire.

"So, I mean, I'm still fairly new at this, y'see, but Mr. Schnoppel says I'm really improving. He says that, like, next big story he comes across, he says I can handle it solo."
Raising a skeptical eyebrow, the voluptuous news-mouse who was being come onto when she had sixty other things she needed to do (and was terribly uninterested in the young mouse before her) asked, in a dull monotone, "Really?"
"Mmmhmm. So, what do you say? Tonight, you, me? I know a great little bar about two blocks south of here. Great place for two mice to get to know each other bet--"
The young, silver-furred mouse in the backward baseball cap looked up and over his shoulder. The mouse he had been talking to breathed a sigh of relief and disappeared into the melee before her.
There, amidst the flashing cameras and the media circus that had surrounded the courthouse for nearly five months stood the venerable Ted Schnoppel, one of the most revered Martian journalists of all time. Every major news story of the past forty years, from the landing of the first Martian space probe on another planet (typically, the earthlings didn't know what it was) to the first rumblings of war with the Plutarkians, saw that wily white-furred veteran, mike in hand, on the scene.
Oleson had been the luckiest mouse alive to be trained in the field of journalism by such a mouse, or so he had thought at the beginning. Now, several weeks into his job, the young mouse had discovered he was actually nothing more than a gopher with a lousy salary.
Still, he approached Schnoppel slowly, with clear-cut reverence.
"Y-yes, sir?" Oleson stuttered.
The white-furred mouse looked up at the girl fixing his carefully maintained helmet haircut (which used three cans of hairspray to hold it in place) and snapped, "Where did you train at? A dog grooming school?" before he looked at Oleson with his deep amber eyes.
"Oleson, get me some coffee."
"Uh, t-the food truck's closed, Mr. Schnoppel," Oleson stammered nervously.
"Oleson, I want my coffee," Schnoppel answered coolly.
"But sir, you go on the air in two min--"
Schnoppel was famous for many things, not the least of which were his integrity, his doggedness, his pertinacity, and his tendency to fire inept young interns for not getting him his coffee RIGHT NOW.
"Yes sir! Right sir!" Oleson cried enthusiastically, running off toward the nearest corner convenience store.
Why didn't I just become a marine biologist like Mom wanted? Oleson wondered as he dashed across the rough-hewn streets of Hellfire. I mean, never mind the fact that there aren't any oceans on Mars, let alone marine animals that need biologi-zing, or that Mom was about six pink-seeds short of a bunch....
As he hopped down from a street corner and onto the road, Oleson began digging through his pockets. Venerable Mr. Schnoppel's coffee always came from his young lackey's own funds, and Oleson knew that he would never get a single penny of it back, naturally, but--
Oleson's ears felt like someone had stuck burning hot pokers in them. He clapped his hands over them, slamming the large plate-sized flaps of skin against his round cheeks.
That's the attack siren! he thought as he gritted his teeth in pain. The noise was excruciating. Plutarkians must be close. I wonder where--
Looking skyward, the young mouse saw what appeared to be some sort of strange, bulbous purple rock flying through the air.
Well, "flying" might not be quite accurate. "Going down in a ball of golden flame" is closer to the truth. It slammed suddenly into the Hellfire Megashopatropolis, Mars' largest mall. An explosion filled the air as it tore through concrete and steel, caving in the center of the huge building.
"Holy shit!" he cried. "Looks like the Army nailed a Stingray! I better go and try to help over--"
Suddenly, a truck slammed into young Oleson, whom we won't be hearing from for the rest of this story, as he will be busily mending in a Martian hospital.

"Where in the Hell is my coffee?" Schnoppel snapped angrily just as a camera turned and focused its gaze on the elderly newsmouse. Someone waved at him, and he got the message quickly.
"Good evening," he said, leaping to his feet and grabbing a microphone, "this is Ted Schnoppel, live from Hellfire County Courthouse, where the fate of Scarp, beloved Martian football hero now on trial for the murder of his most recent wife, has finally been decided. It seems that, in spite of the incredible, seemingly unassailable evidence against their client, Scarp's defense team has managed to cast the shadow of reasonable doubt. Scarp has been acquitted."
The doors to the court opened, and out walked the eight foot four Scarp, wearing a carefully tailored suit and sunglasses, followed by his six lawyers, who were possibly six of the most gifted attorneys on Mars. He was grinning a shit-eating grin as he skipped down the marble stairs, through the media circus which surrounded him, and into the waiting limousine below, which disappeared across town.
"Damn," Schnoppel muttered under his breath. "He got away! And my exclusive interview with Scarp was supposed to be my big scoop for 51/50 tonight!"
He looked toward the defense team, having decided that an interview with one of them could be just as good as one with Scarp himself, and probably ten times more interesting. Schnoppel recognized one from the televised broadcasts of the trial, a lovely light brown-furred and gold-haired girl in a black suit with her hair tied up loosely into a bun. She seemed to be relieved and excited all at the same time, despite her tired, lined eyes.
"Perfect," Schnoppel said, grinning. He slapped his camera-mouse on the shoulder and motioned for him to follow as he chased down the young lawyer.
"Miss! Miss!"
She stopped and pushed her glasses up on her snout.
"Aren't you Glib VanWham? One of the defense attorneys for Scarp?"
Smiling shyly, she replied, "Yes, yes I am."
"Ted Schnoppel, ACB News. Mrs. VanWham--"
"Miss, please."
"Miss, it's been rumored that you are the primary reason Scarp has been freed, the architect of the entire defense strategy, that your `if the glove does not fit, it probably isn't his' defense was what placed the necessary shadow of doubt in the minds of the jurors. Care to comment?"
Glib smiled a little, then replied, "Well, Ted, I would like to think that it was all my doing, but I have to give the other members of the defense team--you know, like, uh, whozitz, and, um, what's his name?--credit, too."
"For doing what, exactly?" Schnoppel asked. "You yourself did the most arguing on Scarp's behalf, correct?"
Puzzling that over, the young lawyer agreed, "You're right. I do deserve all the credit. What can I say? I--"
An aide suddenly rushed up to Glib and said, "Glib, there's trouble. Your son's been in some kind of accident."
Gritting her teeth, the young lawyer uttered a curse under her breath and stalked off the courthouse steps, disappearing into the crowd and taking Schnoppel's second exclusive piece with her.
Wonder what that was all about....Schnoppel thought to himself. He shook his head. After countless relationships had burned like the brightest fire and then became so much ash, the newsmouse still had never come to understand women, and it took him four divorces before he decided he preferred the loose, non-commital relationship that you only got with streetwalkers and paid dominatrixes.
Someone tapped Schnoppel on the shoulder.
"Boy, you'd better have a good excuse for being late with my coffee," he growled, turning around.
Instead of seeing Oleson (who is now en route to Hellfire General Hospital), Schnoppel was confronted by a rather fetching young lady in Daisy Duke shorts and a tight-fitting tee-shirt.
"Mr. Schnoppel!" she said quickly, handing him a sheaf of papers. "Wire from the DP!"
"The Dis-associated Press? Wonder what they want...."
Scarp long forgotten, Schnoppel read down over the papers. His face paled with shock (which is hard to see when a mouse has got an inch or more of fur covering his face) before he told the young mouse to get a camera on him stat.
"Isn't that medical terminology?" she asked.
"Just do it, you little slut!"
Stunned by Schnoppel's harsh words, the girl rushed into the crowd and found the camera-mouse lying flat on his back behind the court-house, a silver flask in his hand. The young intern had a feeling that this mouse, like many others, had money riding on the verdict of the trial, and had tried to drink his losses away.
Unfortunately, he had also drunk his consciousness away in the process.
Shrugging, she dashed back to the steps and shouted to be heard over the crowd.

Assuming there are no rock stars reading this story, none of us sounds half as good as we think we do when we're crooning our favorite tunes. You think you sound just like Mick Jagger or Axl Rose or whoever when the radio is on, when you actually sound more like a tomcat on a fence.
Such as is the case with Modo and Bingo.
" `Ah luv ya `cause your deuces're wild, girl!, double-shot of luv it's so fi-i-iyne, lovin' you since you were a child, girl!, `cause you an' me is two of a ki-i-iynd!" the gray-furred mouse howled, shaking his head in time with the music as he zipped along the outer edges of Hellfire.
Modo was, as he was nearly 24/7, astride his beloved purple hog Lil' Hoss. He had just finished visiting with his sister and her two young children and, having picked up his young bro Bingo, was en route back to his mother's cave on the outskirts of Hellfire, just a mile or so outside the city to score some lunch before he had to return Bingo to her home.
As Modo passed a slow (as in, it was not breaking the speed of sound) skimmer, Bingo's over-sized helmet slipped to the right and blocked out her vision. Grumbling, she adjusted it.
"Are you sure you don't have anything smaller?" she snapped.
Breaking off his off-key crooning, Modo shrugged and said, "'Fraid not, Bing."
Shaking her head in frustration, Bingo joined Modo in his song. They were still playing Sing Along With Stephen Tyler when the song abruptly stopped.
"Huh?" Modo asked, raising an eyebrow curiously as Bingo leaned around and asked, "What's goin' on?"
From the central speaker on the front of Modo's bike came the sound of a chair squeaking as the board operator turned toward the microphone. Some pages rustled, and the normally exuberant voice of the D.J. came on, sounding more than slightly upset.
"Ladies and gentlemice, we interrupt for this important news bulletin from Ted Schnoppel, live from the Hellfire County Courthouse."
"Aw, crud!" Modo snapped. "They stopped Aerosmith t'announce the verdict? That sucks!"
"Yeah!" Bingo agreed. "Why bother tellin'? Everybody knows he's gonna be guilty!"
Modo started to reach for the knob to change the station, knowing sadly that no other local station pirated Earth rock n' roll for the listening enjoyment of its Martian audience.

"Good afternoon," Ted Schnoppel said quickly. "Tragedy has struck at the Hellfire Megashopatropolis. A Plutarkian Stingray crashed into the Megashopatropolis twenty minutes ago near the food court. At least one hundred are dead, with casualties still being pulled from the wreckage. Paramedic crews and volunteers are already on the scene, with...."

"Whoah," Modo muttered as Schnoppel droned on.
"Double whoah," Bingo agreed. "Kinda makes you think, doesn't it?"
Nodding, Modo agreed, "Yup, and now my head hurts."
A thought struck Bingo suddenly.
"Don't Vinnie an' Throttle hang out at the `Shopatropolis on Saturdays?"
Sensing what Bingo was getting at, Modo corrected frightenedly, "When ain't they at the Shopatropolis?"
Gritting his teeth, Modo ripped the handle-bars around and pulled a U-turn in the middle of the road, nearly getting hit by a bus in the process. He gassed his bike and prayed silently for speed as he tore up pavement, racing for the Megashopatropolis and perhaps the lives of two of his best friends with Bingo hanging on for dear life behind.

The commute from the Hellfire County Courthouse to the Megashopatropolis took roughly twenty minutes with the traffic stirred up by the crash, but even from a mile away, Glib had been able to see the damage the Plutarkian ship had caused. Although they varied in size, Stingrays could be as large as Destroyers, and this one certainly was. It's fall from space had turned most of Mars's largest mall into rubble. The hulk of the craft remained embedded in what had once been a food court boasting over 200 different restaurants (though only two bathrooms). Even inside her skimmer, Glib's delicate Martian nose picked up the heavy scent of smoke, and the faintest whiff of blood.
Wonder if anyone is going to try and sue the mall for not being structurally equipped to handle the impact? Glib wondered, then felt both ashamed and a little amused for even entertaining the thought.
"Mom would just about shit if she heard me say that," she muttered to herself with a small grin. "Probably end up grounded for a week, at least."
Shaking the image of her domineering mother out of her head, Glib stopped just short of where a Martian police officer was busily stringing yellow police line banners around the mall's huge. The skimmer's air vents slowly settled the lightweight aircar down onto the pavement as Glib cranked her window down.
"I need to get through," she said firmly.
"I'm sorry, Miss, but no one is allowed on Megashopatropolis property at the time being."
"I got a message that my son--" Glib started to snap, grinding her teeth together and nearly growling at the guard.
Whether it was the mention of the missive or the anger clearly visible on the woman's frustrated face, the officer immediately instructed her to a first-aid area being set-up. He told her that if her son wasn't there, they would let her know whether he was at Hellfire General Hospital or in a body bag.
Glib gassed the skimmer hard and began driving once again.
That little brat! she thought to herself angrily. He's always in trouble! Worse than his father! He's really gonna--
Clutching her head and breathing hard through her teeth, she whispered, "Glib, get ahold of yourself. This isn't Vinnie's fault. He was just an innocent bystander."
This time, the first voice mocked.
It almost seemed to be a litany of sorts. It wasn't the first time Glib had had that particular argument with herself, and it most certainly would not be the last.
"Oh God. What if he's--"
Glib bit down on her lower lip and whispered, "NO. No. Don't even think it."
What's the matter? He'll be with his father. Where you put him. Where you put them both.
Shaking her head, Glib pulled the skimmer over, and before it was even on the ground, she had jumped out and was racing toward the First Aid area.
It appeared to be a camp right out of A Thousand and One Arabian Nights, or from the tales of Martian nomads that had roamed the deserts in the centuries before the first permanent city was built. Tents had been thrown up everywhere, each made of bright white canvas and bearing a Blue Cross seal on the entrance flap. Part of Glib expected to see the giant spider-like Chai that the ancient nomads had ridden and palm trees here and there. Perhaps even a magic lamp.
As she ran, one of Glib's heels broke, and she nearly twisted her ankle as she fell.
Great, she thought, rubbing the near wound. See what this boy does to me?
"Quit it," Glib whispered to herself. "Vinnie had nothing to do with this!"
Yeah, right. You'd still be celebrating if--
"Excuse me, Miss?"
Glib turned her head up to see a tall silver-furred mouse in the typical green volunteer garb of a Blue Cross member. His face was exhausted, and heavy bags hung under his eyes. He extended a hand, which Glib cautiously took, and helped the lawyer to her feet.
"I received a message...." Glib began.
"Of course," the volunteer said, wiping his sweaty brow. "We've been sending them out all afternoon. Name?"
"Glib VanWham."
"No, I mean--"
"Oh. I've got you. His name's Vincent. Vincent VanWham." As an afterthought, she added softly, "But he goes by `Vinnie'."
Nodding, the volunteer, pulled out a small computer from one pocket and pressed several of the tiny buttons on it. One called up a small holographic map, and another presented a screen with which to search for the boy's name.
"Busy day?" Glib asked, trying to make conversation.
The volunteer smiled weakly and said, "You have no idea."
Suddenly, a small dot lit up on the computer's screen, and he directed Glib to follow him. She felt a great weight off her shoulders when he didn't tell her directly that her son was dead.
Of course, the volunteer could have been leading her to a morgue tent and was just waiting to give her the bad news, but Glib doubted that.
As they worked their way through the tent maze, Glib said, again trying to make conversation, "It's amazing how fast you were able to set up a rescue station here."
"Well," her guide replied, "all of us volunteers have beepers, and most of us live within a mile or less of the `Shopatropolis. Besides that, when someone's in need, it kind of lends wings to your feet. Or your skimmer's vents."
"So how long was it after the crash that--"
"We had most of this ready about ten minutes after the actual crash. These tents, you just sort of throw them at the ground and up they go. The equipment, the beds, they're all inside. Just have to bring in the victims.
"The worst cases, they're already at Hellfire General, so really, all we're doing here is fixing up minor injuries, prepping those who need t'be transported to the hospital, and....clearing up the bodies."
The volunteer lifted up the flap of the nearest tent and directed Glib inside. Once she was in, he dashed off to help others searching for missing family members.
Inside the tent, which was about the size of a rather wide bus, beds were lined up against the walls, and not a one of them hadn't been filled. Volunteers rushed this way and that, tending their patients. Some were bandaging broken noses, while others calmed frightened children. One volunteer was tying a forearm splint onto the arm of a mouse Glib knew rather well.
"Jewel!" Glib cried.
The gold-haired and furred mouse looked up and shouted, "Glib! Thank God you're here! Vinnie's been waiting for you!"
"Are you all right?" Glib asked, dashing over to Jewel's side.
Nodding, Jewel straightened the vest over her white blouse with her good hand and replied, "Of course. I'll be fine. Just a small fracture, really. I was lucky. The mice ahead of me in line for the bathroom were all killed. Alkali is on his way over. He's going to take me to the hospital to have it looked at." She rested the splint on her other arm as her volunteer disappeared.
Cautiously, Glib asked, "Is Throttle okay?"
"Mmmhmm. He was hanging onto Rush while I was in line. Little snip was in the arcade. Doesn't have a scratch on him. Thank God he doesn't, because if he did, both my babies would probably be dead."
Glib thought this over, then said, her tone ripe with acidic anger, "Then where was Vinnie? He should've been with Throttle."
Jewel said gently, "Calm down, Glib. He was just leaving the food court with some drinks for him and Throttle when the ship crashed." Then, in a softer tone, Jewel consoled, "You know, you shouldn't be so hard on Vinnie. He's a good boy, really. You just have to ease up on him a little."
Biting her lip, Glib opened her mouth to say something rather tart before the volunteer that had guided her into the tent reappeared and said, "Ma'am? I hate to interrupt, but your son's over there."
Glib nodded and said, "I'll see you later, Jewel."
Nodding sadly, Jewel waved goodbye with her good hand, quickly putting it back under the splint.
Self-righteous old prude! Glib thought angrily. Thinks she knows everything just because she works with kids all the time! Well, Miss Social Worker, I'd like to see you try to raise that little hellion!

In spite of Glib's thoughts, though, Jewel had had a hand in raising Vinnie. When Glib was busy with an important trial, or was meeting with a client in the afternoon, Throttle's mother often baby-sat Vinnie (though the young mouse abhorred the term now that he had reached the ripe old age of eleven). In fact, Jewel had encouraged the quickly budding friendship between she and Glib's sons, if for no other reason then because it kept Vinnie from getting into trouble.
And from his mother's fists.

"Here he is," the volunteer said, disappearing once again.
Glib looked around and saw her son sitting with his legs swung over the side of a bed. Vinnie's right arm was in a sling over his neck, but there were no wrappings, just a splint under it to keep the limb straight.
Vinnie seemed completely oblivious of his injury, however. The white-furred child was laughing and having a grand old time. Sitting across from him, behaving a bit more sedately, was Jewel's son, Throttle, with his two year-old brother Rush running around in circles near the foot of the bed, where he had been tied with his own short tail. Sitting close by was Bingo, her bright red hair bouncing as she laughed at whatever hilarious bit of high comedy Throttle had just told the gathered mice (it's safe to say that the word "fart" was involved somewhere in it).
Glib looked to Throttle and smiled. Sometimes she was glad for Throttle's friendship with Vinnie. It kept her son out of her hair and out of trouble (most of the time). Throttle, whose tan fur was somewhere between his mother's bright gold and his timid father's brown, was a bit wild, and since the birth of his brother, was in Glib's estimation, completely0 ignored by his parents. The lack of involvement had allowed the young mouse to become even wilder. Sometime in the past two years, he had become interested in motorcycles, and passed his infatuation along to Vinnie, which was something Glib could most certainly do without. It was too much like Howitzer for her liking.
Everything about Vinnie was too much like Howitzer for Glib's liking.
"Vincent," Glib said, crossing her arms across her chest for dramatic effect.
"Oh, hi, mom," Vinnie replied, his cheerful tone having disappeared.
"Are you okay?" she asked in a flat tone.
Vinnie nodded and handed his mother a paper with the explanation, "They said t'give this to you."
Glib scanned the paper, which listed Vinnie's injury as a minor fracture, much as Jewel's wound had been. The bone had barely been cracked, and one of the volunteers had speculated that Vinnie's wound was little more than a serious strain. Regardless, it would have to be examined, and it was recommended that Glib make an appointment with her family doctor to tend to her son's arm, as Hellfire General was packed beyond belief.
Great. Now I've got to miss the party at work tomorrow. UGH!
Sighing, Glib said, "Come on, Vinnie. Let's go."
"But Mom, can't I come home with Throttle t'night?" Vinnie asked hopefully.
Vinnie knew better than to press the issue. He sighed and got up off the bed sluggishly, shoulders slumped.
"See ya later, Throttle, Bing-bro," he muttered, rubbing the latter on the head and following his mother out of the tent with his head hung low. "Say hi to Modo for me."
"See ya, bro," Throttle replied.
Bingo waved as her bro disappeared out the tent flap.
Jewel walked over and put a hand on Throttle's shoulder.
"Throttle, how many times do I have to ask you not to tie your brother to things by his tail?" she asked, smiling.
"Sorry, mom," he replied sheepishly. "It's just hard to keep an eye on him if I don't."
"Well, just watch it, okay? If he fell like that, he could hurt some of the vertebrae in his tail, and that's the last thing we need right now."
Natch, Throttle thought to himself bitterly, she's more worried about him than me.
Curiously, Jewel asked, "Who's your little friend?", motioning toward Bingo. Shrugging casually, Throttle replied, "Oh, that's Bingo. Bingo, you know my mom."
Bingo smiled wanly.
"Hello, Bingo," Jewel said, extending a hand and shaking the much smaller one put in her palm. "Have you known Throttle long?"
"Mom," Throttle interrupted, "I've known her for the last year. She comes over to our place all the time with Modo and Vinnie. She's one of my best friends."
"Hmmm," she mumbled. "I guess I just didn't notice."
Now there's a shock, Throttle thought miserably. If you and Dad weren't always so busy with Rush....
Jewel looked around thoughtfully and asked Bingo, "Are your parents here?"
"Naw," she answered, shrugging. "But he'll be here soon."
"You're here all by yourself?"
Jewel was shocked. The girl had to be on the shy side of ten, though by how much Throttle's mother was unsure.
"It's cool, Mom," Throttle interrupted. "Bing came here with Modo." Shaking her head, Jewel took a closer look at the younger mouse.
Bingo was, as she had noted earlier, orange-furred, a coat color that seemed to be becoming rarer in recent years. It had been Jewel's experience that orange-furred mice usually had orange hair to match, but curiously, this child had a mane she would later call, "hellfire red".
Watch for it. If Jewel doesn't say it, somebody will.
But strangest were her blue eyes. Ninety-nine point nine-nine-five percent of the time, Martian mice were born with garnet-red eyes, surrounded by gold.
Not all the time, though, a voice insisted. What about Throttle?
Jewel quickly silenced the voice and let her original thought continue.
Sometimes, though, mice had eyes that were not red-gold but rather, green or brown. Usually, these were the mark of cross-breeding, often-times with a rat somewhere in their family tree.
But this girl's eyes were dark blue. And although Jewel had certainly seen blue eyes before (strangely, the owners of these eyes were often orange-furred, too), they were usually sky blue, whereas this young mouse's were darker, richer. Cobalt. To the best of her knowledge, the social worker had never encountered that shade before.
Well, except for that copy of People magazine in the doctor's office with Frank Sinatra on the cover (it was especially ironic that old Doc Roan was able to get a magazine from Earth but simultaneously had no issues of Better Caves and Gardens newer than April `68), but that didn't count.
"Take a picture, it'll last longer," Bingo chuckled, smiling.
Jewel smirked at the young mouse and said, "It's a pleasure to meet you, Bingo." Turning to Throttle, she asked, "Have you seen your father yet? I called him a minute ago, so I guess he'll be awhile, but--"
As if on cue, a tall, thin figure appeared behind Jewel. He grabbed her by the shoulders and spun her around, asking in a panic, "Honey, are you all right? Dear God, I thought you were dead!"
Jewel grinned and said, "Alkali, I'm fine! Calm down! Gods above, that was quick!"
"Sorry," he replied, pushing up the tiny square spectacles perched precariously on his snout. His breathing was heavy. Wiping off his sweaty forehead with shaking palms, Alkali continued, "I was in a meeting all morning with my boss, and I'd been working on the books all afternoon, and then I got a call that you were here, and--" His breath came out in short little breaths, and Jewel watched as that little vein in her husband's forehead throbbed crazily.
"Honey, did you take your anti-stress medicine this morning?"
Alkali nodded and asked, "No."
"It shows." She looked closer at his head and asked, "Oh my goodness! Did you hit your head off a doorway?"
The brown-furred mouse touched his swollen forehead and drew his hand away quickly from the pain. He pushed his messy brown hair down over it and sighed, "You know me. The Jolly Brown Giant. Are the boys okay?"
"Ask them yourself," Jewel answered, motioning toward Throttle and Rush.
"Hi, Dad!" Throttle said, grinning.
"Da-dee!" Rush cried.
"Hey, boys," Alkali said, bending down on one knee to rustle Rush's dark brown hair in his palm. He stood and hugged Throttle, who barely came up to his tall, gaunt father's waist.
"Well, we've got to get your mother to the hospital. Let's go."
"Can't I ride home with Modo?" Throttle begged.
Jewel arched an eyebrow and asked, "He's here, too?"
Nodding, Throttle explained, "Yeah. My big bro heard about what happened on the radio and came to make sure me and Vinnie were okay. He went to get a drink."
"Bro", Jewel thought, smiling. Sometimes I wonder if my little boy's turning into a Biker Mouse.

....Although it would explain why he got his ear pierced, and why he's been asking for a motorcycle for his birthday, and his sudden fascination with leather...
...Although that could also mean he's into that sadomasochistic stuff....
"And I promised Bingo I'd wait for her ride to get here with her," Throttle added quickly, patting Bingo's shoulders.
"You wouldn't want a poor, defenseless little kid like me left here all by myself, wouldja, ma'am?" Bingo asked, biting her lower lip. Her eyes looked like the ones in those disgusting pictures of the little Mexican kids painted on velvet.
Mulling it over carefully, Jewel asked, "Modo's a fairly safe driver, right?"
"Yup! He's been on the road with his bike since he was ten!"
"But the legal age for motorcycles is thirteen," Alkali pointed out.
"Well, yeah.....but....practice makes perfect!"
Jewel looked to Alkali, who shrugged passively. His wife rolled her eyes up, then gave Throttle her assent and told him to be home before dinner.
"Whoo-hoo!" the young mouse cried, running off to look for Modo and dragging Bingo by the wrist behind. "Kick ass!"
"I worry about him," Alkali muttered, shaking his head.

Modo heard Throttle coming before the flap to the tent even opened. It was hard to miss the sound of the younger mouse dashing around volunteers, spilling trays, igniting wars in small third-world countries, etc., in his mad dash to find his eldest bro.
Grinning, Modo thought to himself, Ah guess he's ridin' home with me after all.
The gray-furred mouse slipped his cup under the spout of the water cooler once more, filling it with water. He pulled another cup off the pile and began to fill it. A second later, Throttle dashed in, panting. Dropping Bingo, he took the water from Modo, knowing it would be there when he arrived, and drank it all in one gulp.
Wiping the water from his lips (although whether Martian mice have lips is a topic that has been hotly debated by scientists for decades), Throttle told Modo that his parents had indeed given consent.
"What about Vinnie?" Modo asked.
"He got a ride home with his mom," Throttle replied, sounding slightly impatient. "Didn't seem to eager to be goin', though," Bingo added quietly.
Modo picked up his helmet and said gently, "Y'worry about him, too, lil' bro?"
Bingo nodded sadly. She was as close to or closer to Vinnie as were Modo and Throttle, probably because they were closest in maturity (or im-maturity, in Vinnie's case).
Throttle nodded and added, "Mom's always talkin' about how she thinks Glib is beatin' up on him. I used to didn't believe her, `cause, you know, she's Vinnie's mom. I used to be like, `Well, yeah, it happens, but t'other kids, not Vinnie'. But he keeps gettin' all bruised up, and the way she talks t'him sometimes.....It's like she hates him."
Nodding in agreement, Modo asked curiously, "An' am ah givin' you a ride home too, Bingo?"
Bingo shook her head no and said, "Wallenczech'll be here soon. Why don't we get somethin' to eat?"
"Sounds good t'me," Modo agreed. "The volunteers ransacked the food court, an' they're givin' away all the stuff that'll go bad. We can git somethin' there."
Smiling, Bingo said, "I been there. Good food."
"What's good?" Modo asked. As always, his stomach led his decisions.
A tiny black dot appeared above the unused bed to Modo's right. As the two older mice turned to watch it, the dot grew in size and shape, becoming a foot-long black oval, paper-thin and nearly impossible to see in profile.
The tiny room was silent.
Suddenly, out of the hole dropped several large, breaded hunks of meat, as well as a half a case of soda.
"Nice one, lil' bro!" Modo said happily, picking up one of the meat hunks. He sniffed it appreciatively and asked, "Fried Crashers?"
Bingo nodded, grabbing a piece for herself and pulling a can of soda to her.
Throttle bit into a portion and asked, through a mouthful of food, "Ooo e-uh ink a-out oo-in ose ing or oin' aces?"
For the ease of the audience, who may not understand Throttle's speech, the following translation into English is provided:
"You ever think about using those things for goin' places?"
Glad of the translation but horrified, Bingo cried, "NO!" Face ashen, the little mouse added, "Ever since I can remember, `Czech's told me never to go through one of those things, no matter what!"
"Easy, bro. It was just a suggestion."
Modo munched on his snack and said thoughtfully, "Y'know, while we're eatin' there's gonna need t'be alot of those translations, so why don't we just shut up and let The Writer tell readers about our little Bing-bro? Give us some time to chow, and it'll take away some confusion as to her connection to us."
Bingo and Throttle nodded in agreement.

Bingo Ritz, although now a full-fledged bro, had once been a sort of fifth wheel to the young threesome of Throttle, Modo, and Vinnie, although technically, she would be a fourth wheel. A native of Brimstone, the young mouse had moved to Hellfire roughly a year earlier with her never-seen-in-public guardian, Wallenczech. The young mouse (then seven) might never have met her once and future bros if Bingo's intelligence hadn't scored high enough for her to be in Vinnie's class last year. Vinnie had, probably because it meant the possibility of danger to himself (and thusly fun!), protected Bingo from the class bully and earned her complete and total adoration. If Vinnie said it was cool, it was cool. If Vinnie asked Bingo to go with him exploring the abandoned buildings on the far side of Hellfire, she was there. And if Vinnie need a kidney, well then, by God, Bingo would give it to him with a side of fries.
Hero worship, anyone?
Eventually, the reverence faded a little bit, but Bingo was still Vinnie's bro (she nearly fainted from sheer joy when he first called her that). She found herself easily accepted among the other young Biker Mice, though the two older bros did so somewhat hesitantly, unsure of whether someone so young, and a girl, on top of that, should be hanging out with them (they forced her into "cootie-quarantine" for a week before she could ride Modo's bike with him).
But it had all worked out. She became sort of their, "little bro" (she would not tolerate being called a "sis" and told them so). Modo said she had spunk, which the others translated as, "pockets filled with matches", and soon Bingo was an accepted part of the Biker Mice from Mars.

"That was a nice little interlude," Modo commented.
"Yeah," Throttle agreed, "though it feels like forced characterization to me."
"It's probably easier this way," Bingo replied, shrugging her shoulders. "It's either a few paragraphs thrown in or a whole `nother short story just to get the point across.
"Either way, we're steppin' way outside the `fourth wall', so we'd better get back into the story now."
"Did your uncle say when he was gonna be here?" Modo asked.
Bingo shrugged her small shoulders and replied, "I dunno. Soon. But he's not my uncle. We're not even related. He's just my guardian. How many times am I gonna have to say that?"
"Given our relatively short attention spans," Throttle speculated, "at least eight times a day."
"Bingo?" a voice asked from outside the tent. "Are you in there?"
The three mice turned to see a shadow against the tent wall, and whether the light of the midday sun was enlarging the cast shade or not, the owner of that shadow was tall. Tall as Alkali, and maybe taller.
"That's my ride," Bingo said, smiling. "See ya, bros."
She disappeared out the flap, and as she did, her small shadow struck the wall. Seeing Bingo's shape imposed there made the mysterious Wallenczech look even taller. They walked a few feet, then dashed away quickly.
"That guy sure doesn't like bein' seen in public, does he?" Modo asked.
Throttle shook his head no.
Modo spun his helmet on his finger and asked, "You ready t'roll?"
Throttle nodded, grinning.
Modo put an arm around Throttle, nearly having to stoop because of the difference in height between them, and walked out the tent. Modo's bike was waiting eagerly outside, and when Lil' Hoss sensed its owner's presence, the hog suddenly sprang to life and rushed to the gray mouse's side. Lovingly, Modo stroked Hoss's purple cowl, then reach inside a storage compartment in the bike's rear and pulled out the spare helmet he had loaned Bingo.
"So, when're you finally gonna get a bike so I don't have t'haul your tail everywhere?" Modo asked, grinning.
Throttle caught the helmet easily and pulled it on over his head (a considerably better fit for him than it had been for Bingo) before replying, "I think Gramma got me one for my birthday."
"You're kiddin'! Just like that, she's gonna give you a bike?"
"Mmmhmm. Can't wait."
Modo straddled Hoss and waited until Throttle was behind him before kick-starting the engine. As a safety measure, he whipped his tail around Throttle's thin waist before they zipped up the on-ramp and took off onto the hustle and bustle of the Martian highway.
"Ah dunno, Throttle. Y'oughtta have a choice what bike you're gettin'. What if you don't like the way it looks? An' how're you gonna get a good bond with it? You know that's more important than anything else."
Smiling, Throttle replied, "I picked it out myself when I visited with Gramma in spring. She told me she was gonna get me a motorcycle, and we went lookin' around until I found one I liked. I get it on Saturday."
"Ah just can't believe your Gram's gettin' you a bike! Ah mean, she doesn't let you go on the merry-go-round when the carnival's in town!"
"I think it's her idea of reverse psychology."
"On you?"
"No; on my Mom. I think she figures that about the time I bust my head open ridin' the thing, Mom'll stop letting me do whatever I want and keep a closer eye on me."
"Think it'll work?"
"Nope," Throttle sighed, looking out at the red dunes they passed en route to Throttle's home. "Mom never pays much attention to me, anyway. I break somethin', and she'll probably just make me use my time off school to babysit Rush."
Modo winced.
"Bein' kinda harsh, ain't ya?"
"What can I say? Mom's parenting style does have its flaws. Still, I'm gettin' my bike!"
Shaking his head, Modo looked ahead at the road. It would be another ten minutes to Throttle's place if they went over the only conventional route--over the bridge they were about to cross, down to the interchange, get off on the side road, then a five mile drive out to Hellfire's suburbs.
On the other hand, there was the more unconventional route...
"Wanna take the shortcut?" Modo asked, smiling.
Throttle's replying grin shot from ear to ear, and given the size of Martian ears, that's a damn big smile.
Throttle! For crud's sake, you're gonna get yourself killed! Don't do it!
Damn, Throttle thought to himself, holding his head in his hands. Not you again!
That's right! his mind replied. It's me, that nagging little voice in your head! Now you stop this! You shouldn't even think of using that damnable shortcut! Your mother is depending on Modo to get you home safe! You don't wanna disappoint your mother, do you? She's depending on you to be responsible!
Oh, for God's sake! Shut up or I'll--I'll--
You'll what, big mouse?
I'll--I'll start sniffin' airplane glue!
Duh. You already did that when you were six, and looky look! I'm still here!
Oh yeah? Well, how're you gonna feel if I suddenly start showin' an appreciation for--Milli Vanilli?
You wouldn't.
Bet me.
You're--you're joking.
"Buh-buh-buh-buh, buh-buh-buh-buh-baby, don't forget my number, number, number....." Throttle crooned, severely off-key.
Suddenly, Throttle found himself lurching violently forward and slamming into Modo's back, hard.
They had come to a dead stop in the middle of the highway. Sand skimmers zipped around them, their drivers making rather ungentle statements and various gestures at the two young mice.
"Bro?" Throttle asked, puzzled. "What's goin' on? Why'd we stop?"
Calmly, but clearly upset, Modo replied, "Bro, ah hear one more word outta you that vaguely even sounds like `Blame It On the Rain', and ah'm gonna have t'ask you t'get offa my bike."
"Gotcha," Throttle replied. He looked out and saw the edge of the road close by, and the huge dropoff to the ground that was simultaneously frightening and yet, oh so inviting.
"Well?" Modo asked, hands on hips.
Grinning, Throttle pumped his fist and cried, "Do it, bro!"
Modo gunned the engine, dropped into fifth, and shot ahead of surrounding skimmers and other motorcycles. His tail tightened around Throttle's waist, and he could feel the younger mouse's bony fingers sinking into his shoulders as they neared the guard rail that was the only thing protecting them from a hundred-foot fall to the ground below.
Of course, a guard rail is only effective if you don't jump over it, which is exactly what Modo did.
"WHEEEEEEEEEE-HAH!" Throttle crowed as the two mice soared over the rail and began plummeting toward the sands below. Wind whipped the loose hairs sticking out of his helmet skyward. It was pure biker's high. There was nothing save the incredible rush.
Suddenly, Throttle's face froze.
"Modo," Throttle said sedately, "I've got a bad feeling we shouldn't have taken the shortcut after all."
"Why not?" Modo shouted, trying to be heard over the wind.
"'Cause didn't you take the jets on your bike out to be fixed yesterday? The jets that would lower us safely on the last leg of the jump to the ground? The jets that would eliminate our splattering upon reaching the ground?"
Modo's face froze.
Hah hah! the little voice laughed. Told you so! You're gonna die! Man, is your mom gonna be pissed!


Will Throttle and Modo splatter on the ground (severely disrupting Biker Mice continuity, as they haven't even made it to Earth yet, where most of the action in the series takes place)?

Is Glib really beating up Vinnie?

What the Hell is up with the little voice in Throttle's head?

And what's with all the other foreshadowing?

Some of these questions will be answered in our next installment,

"Biker Mice ON Mars Part Two: Hail to the Thief"!