Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Silence, save the wind and the low drone of insects and small creatures, slithering among the dust and red rocks of the wastes. Afternoon rolls by, hot and sleepy, another day on the planet Mars.

A lizard, a thickly scaled beat with a horned nose and spikes all the way down its back to the top of its tail, sunned itself on a large flat rock. It blinked slowly. Lazily. Waiting for its lunch to happen by.

But its peace was soon to be disrupted by much larger creatures on the food chain than itself.

Distantly, it felt the vibrations in the ground. Something was coming. Big and fast.

The vibrations grew stronger by the second, smaller rocks beginning to bounce and shudder on the hard pan while dust and sand shifted listlessly around it’s perch.

The lizard turned its head to observe with one eye what appeared in the distance.

The dune buggy was wide enough to seat two in the front, with room for one more to stand on the back, gripping the overhead bar to keep their footing inside the rambling frame.

Pops of gunfire cracked through the still hot air even as the roaring sound of the engine grew closer and shouts and whoops could be discerned between the steady roar.

All three of the furred beings inside the dune buggy were firing weapons at something trailing behind them. Something that seemed to be launching a counterattack. Which lead to it swerving snake-like across the desert ground. All the time growing closer and closer to the lizard and his rock.

Behind them, two smaller objects appeared. Faster and more agile than the wide bouncing four-wheeler and its harried canine drivers. Hunters, cashing down bloated prey.

Two motorcycles, one black and one blue, flanked either side of the fleeing dogs. Firing back with weapons that boomed and zipped, causing brief disruptions in the air flow and sounds that rattled across the open air in ripples of heat and noise.

The lizard watched as all this bore down on him. The danger was clear. But these things were far faster than him even at his quickest.

The lizard flicked out its long black tongue and made a small hissing rattle, its tail giving an anxious lash.

The big roaring car with the three dogs inside swerved away from it, missing it and its warm comfortable rock by less than two feet and rattled on its way. More pop-bangs and shuddering bullet fire in its wake, the exhaust of the buggy belching black smoke.

Only a few paces behind, the bikes followed, one of them sped right at him before leaping up and over him easily and landing without incident. The rush of air and heat making him blink again, tongue still flicking. The other driver avoided him easily, and in seconds they were already becoming a distant worry, shrinking into the distance.

With his opposite eye, the lizard watched the danger speed away and blinked lazily again. Still waiting for lunch.

Throttle and Stoker were closing in. They had chased the renegade party of Sand Raiders for the last fifty miles, determined to either follow them back to their clan or take them for questioning. They had gotten intel that Raiders had recently been roaming the area, seeming to come to and from a place where an unidentified ship had been spotted days before.

Mars had precious little left of any space/air force, and their vessels were instantly noticeable. So something unfamiliar was an immediate threat. One they suspected was more familiar or not.

It should have been an easy snare for the two seasoned Freedom Fighters. But the dogs would not go easy.

The buggy rattled on, the Mice closing with every kilometer, only forced to keep distance by the constant barrage of gunfire from the back rider, and the unreliability of their own shields. The crystal’s powering them were old and drained too quickly. But beggars couldn’t be choosers.

Their saving grace was that the shots they fired back at the Mice were coming less and less frequently.

“They’re running out of ammo!” Throttle called, his anticipation obvious, grinning hard through the yellow haze of his visor.  

“Yeah, but we’re running out of gas!” Stoker reminded him, glancing down at his own wavering gauge and watching the little red dial swing closer and closer to E. If they didn’t end this soon, they’d be walking back to Brimstone.  The older Freedom Fighter looked across the gap to his protégé. “We take them now or we turn back! Getting stranded out here is not a risk I’m willing to take! You copy?”

He looked for Throttle to nod or give him some affirmation, but the other mouse did not take his eyes off the prize. His determination was something that bordered on desperate.

“Don’t worry,” Throttle called back to his mentor, lowering his head and pressing forward, kicking his auxiliary fuel into high gear and speeding ahead with a burst of smoke and blue flame. “I’ve got ‘em right where I want ‘em.”

Throttle soared alongside the dune buggy, his portable deflector shield working overtime to repel the fire that came directly at him in a blinding barage from the sand blasted car. It flickered as the power crystal began to fail. He had minutes maybe before it vanished completely and he’d be vulnerable in the crossfire.

But this didn’t seem at the forefront of the biker’s mind.

The dog in the passenger seat, short and spotted, glared warily at the encroaching mouse and then shouted to the gunner behind him. “Hey, what are you doing back there?! Blast this flat-eared fucker!” he howled.

The ground dipped in front of them, sending both buggy and bike soaring down a sudden incline as they hit a short ridge. The biker was forced to break off slightly, pulling Lady into a wheelie and leaping her off a series of broken rocks along the craggy path, determined to keep pace with the raiders.

“My hands are a little bit full!” The brown furred gunner at the rear shouted back and was doing his best to keep Stoker off their tail and failing. He peppered the mouse with another few rounds, but his shield held.

“My turn!” Stoker called, pulling a Mouse Grenade from one of the side compartments of his bike’s saddle bag, pulling the pin and hurling it at the buggy’s side.

It landed beside them with a boom and explosion of fire, red clay and black smoke. And though the buggy swerved, tires leaving wide swaths of hot rubber behind, kept on its path.

 “Give ‘em a mouthful of lead already!” The driver, a shaggy grey-haired mutt snarled, struggling to keep the buggy from fully spinning out, never letting his foot off the gas.

His spotted compatriot rolled his yellow eyes and refocused on the black-clad rider who was once more closing in. Easy pickings for a head shot, the moment that shield faded. He grinned, very much liking this idea, and readied his pistol, doing his best to hold it steady in the bouncing, rattling junk heap of car.

As the raider in the passenger seat locked eyes on the biker through his helmet, he felt his guts squirm uneasily. The look the other had was a merciless one. This mouse meant business.

“It’s a good day to die, mousey.” He grinned with a cackle, showing his yellowed canines.

“Maybe for you, fleabag.” Throttle answered bitterly.

He swerved suddenly inward, allowing the shield to fail as he reached and gripped the raider’s gun hand and yanked forward and upward. The stunning momentum wrenched the mutt from his seat, pulling him almost over the edge of the car door, while his weapon fired uselessly into the air with a pop and a bang.

The dog yelped in fear, seeing the blur of the ground in the very narrow space between the bike and the buggy’s thick-treaded tires. He was only kept partially inside by the driver grabbing him by the seat of his pants. And if the fabric gave way, he was done for. Roadkill.

“Tell me where you’re heading, you fish-licking scum! I know you’re on some Plutarkian’s payroll—where are they?!” Throttle roared, shaking the dog as if to remind him he could let go at any second if he provided the wrong answer.

“You’re crazy!!” The spotted dog gasped, trying to wrench free as he pressed his free hand against the side of the car for purchase, trying to gain some leverage or upset the biker with the shift of his weight.

The driver made a sudden hard turn, which nearly dumped his companion fully back into his seat, pulling Throttle along with him. The tan mouse slammed momentarily into the side of buggy, still gripping the rider. Sparks flew from his metal knee guard as the car door grated against it, and Throttle cursed in pain. But refused to let go.

The gunner at the back swiveled towards him then, discarding his efforts to keep Stoker back, and took aim with his riffle at the tan mouse. “Bugger off clinger!” he spat.

“BRO WATCH YOUR BACK!” Stoker yelled, the sound coming from both inside and outside his helmet.

Throttle jolted and let go of his prey, swerving aside just in time to avoid the shot. But the sudden release still knocked the spotted raider from his precarious perch, leaving him clinging, head down, over the edge of the car door for dear life. He managed to scramble back inside, fur standing on end and tongue hanging out with the stress.

“That bloody rodent almost killed me!” He gasped, as if that hadn’t been his own intent for the Freedom Fighter. He turned and tried to grab the wheel from the other dog, intent on ramming Throttle. “Get ‘em Moxie! Get ‘em!!”

The driver—Moxie--shoved him back hard, regaining control. “Fuck off you idiot! What do you think I’m trying to do?!”

The gunner’s shots trailed after Throttle, several striking Lady’s back wheel hub and making it spark, adding to the damage already done. He grit his teeth and looked anxiously at her gas gauge, seeing her flickering closer and closer to empty.

Lady beeped as if in distress and Throttle’s fingers squeezed tighter around the handlebars. “Hang in there girl, just a little longer…”  He glanced into his rearview, seeing the blue streak that was Stoker suddenly breaking formation now that the gun was turned on Throttle instead.

Stoker gunned it, tapping into his own auxiliary fuel to close the gap between himself and the buggy. With the rear gunner preoccupied with Throttle, the older Freedom Fighter pulled into a high jump, gaining momentum off another rock ramp, and was airborne, flying up and over the buggy.

He took a precise shot with his blaster at the rear gunner, striking him between the neck and the shoulder. His weapon fell as his arms spasmed a moment, and then the gunner toppled, tumbling first into the driver's seat.

The grey shaggy mutt howled and cursed as his wounded comrade momentarily impeded his range of motion, then acted on instinct, grabbing him by the back of his vest and heaving him off. The body rolled out onto the hood for a moment, and then vanished over the bumper before going under, the buggy bouncing hideously over his body before leaving it in the dust.

Stoker landed a few yards ahead of the speeding car, just barely keeping a safe distance. The driver, furious and showing all his teeth in a murderous snarl, gunned his engine. They lurched forward, close enough to almost touch Stoker’s back tire with the spiked front of its bumper.

“I’m gonna feel you under my wheels, Freedom Fighter!” Moxie howled.

Stoker pushed his bike as hard as she could go, trying to stay ahead of the spikes. Throttle began to pepper the car from the side again, trying to knock him off his tail.

“Tailgating will get you nowhere!” Stoker called back, before firing his own rear guns into the buggy’s grill. It struck with hard metallic crunch and several short pops before a big bang. The buggy bounced up, its hood popping open as fire and smoke erupted from its engine, but then came back down again, swerving and spinning. Yet it was still moving, still trying to overtake them.

The spotted mutt in the passenger seat was standing now, holding onto the overhead bar with one hand and trying to shoot them with the other. But the smoke and flames made it even more difficult for him to get a bead on the Mice.

“Drop back!” Stoker called, and fanned to the side, letting the smoking wreck with its two clinging riders speed ahead of them.

Throttle pulled up hard beside him as Stoker dropped to a stop. “If we take out the back tire we can--!” Stoker began, catching his breath.

But another shot rang before he could finish. Throttle had fired his front canon, missing the back tires of the buggy and instead catching the front passenger wheel. The thick rubber tread shredded itself into black smoking confetti as the tire was destroyed, leaving only the melting hubcap and axle behind. The front end dropped to right with a horrible crunching sound; a hail of dirt and dust being kicked up as its spiked bumper drove into the ground like a plow head.

This should have been the end of it. The buggy was terminally damaged. But its driver had taken the whole thing rather personally. Ignoring his screaming and raving passenger, he leaned into the skid, kicking up a greater cloud of red dirt as he forced the buggy to turn back towards the mice, coming at them as hard as it was able.

“MOVE!” Stoker shouted, shoving Throttle and urging him into movement. The pair peeled out, driving to avoid the mad driver and his smoking wreck, the chase suddenly reversed.

“These guys clearly don’t know when to give up!” Stoker yelled. He glanced towards his partner only to realize that Throttle’s shield was completely down and there was nothing to save him from the hail of rocks and dirt that washed over them like breaking waves, as the buggy bore down on then.

“Peel off, get to higher ground!” Stoker ordered. But Throttle shook his head.

“No way.”

“Don’t be stupid, you’re about to skid out!” Stoker argued, growing incredulous at the others’ stubborn defiance. The spiked front of the buggy hit a particularly large rock just below the dirt and launched it towards the riders, the pair zig-zagging wildly to avoid it.

“Throttle, peel off!”  Stoker yelled again.

But Throttle refused again, firing back at the buggy again in an effort to keep it’s attention divided.

Behind them, the spotted mutt got himself into the gunner’s previous position, holding on for dear life, he finally had a shot at the two long tails. Slobbering and grinning, watching with baited breath as the metal tail’s shield flickered more and more, losing power.

“Eat shit, buck-tooth.” He cackled, his tongue flapping in the breeze, and fired.

Stoker gasped as the bullet grazed his bicep as the shield fell. He cursed and gripped the wound with his other hand, blood appearing between his fingers.

For a moment Throttle’s gaze fixed on this, everything else fading into the background. Then he shifted gears.

The tan biker gunned Lady again, gaining just enough distance to be able to turn fully and fire back at the car with his front canon and both blasters, providing cover for Stoker to speed safely past him.

The shots were diverted thanks the bouncing hood, but managed to take out the passenger, who yipped briefly before he was blown off the back of the buggy and forgotten.

But the driver kept coming.

Moxie leered back at the mouse in his headlights, mouth open and tongue wagging, laughing—howling--maniacally. Ready to make rodent roadkill.

But the biker remained cool, even in the face of being mowed down, his gun still steady in his hand. His finger squeezed the trigger slowly, waiting for the perfect moment.

Then, in flash, her face appeared before him. Jessie.

Suddenly it was her in front of him, and not the Sand Raider. Jessie, moving to intervene and assist her brother, moving in line of his shot, his finger already squeezing the trigger before realizing it. The sound it made as it sped towards her. A sound he had heard a hundred thousand times over before then, now burned in his memory.

In his mind she screamed. But he couldn’t recall if that was real or not. If she had made any sound at all before he’d killed her.

His hands shook and his fingers froze, unable to complete the movement and pull the trigger. The buggy was on him. Bearing down, less than eight yards from his own bumper.

“THROTTLE!”

Stoker’s voice, that scream of abject fear, shook him free of his momentary paralysis.

He squeezed the trigger hard, and the shot fired, hitting the Sand Raider right between the eyes. His head snapped back and then he fell forward onto the wheel. The shift in momentum made the doomed buggy swerve again, too hard and too fast, turning on her side, flipping.

The tan mouse remained rooted in place. No time to move. The buggy crashed to the ground, but her too-light frame made her bounce up as she rolled, high enough that when she struck him, it was probably going to take his head clean off his shoulders. The thought filtered through his trauma clouded mind, distant and grimly fascinating.

Something struck Throttle from the side a hard collision that knocked Lady out from under him as an arm and a tail wrapping around him. He was suddenly pulled down and back, flattened to the ground, dirt and rock biting into his back even through his jacket. Stoker had tackled him in a slide, and Throttle could feel his fingers digging into his shoulder in an effort to keep him flat. The buggy flew up and over their heads, clearing them only by a few feet, before striking the ground again. It continued to turn over several more times before finally laying with all its remaining wheels to the sky, like a turtle on its back, belching smoke and flame.

Stillness at last followed, the wastes suddenly devoid of the roar of machine engines and gun fire. Only the crackling of the fire cutting through the air.

                Little by little, Throttle’s brain clicked back into gear. He craned his neck first to try to view the wreck, and when he saw nothing moving, his gaze refocusing on Stoker’s wounded arm still thrown across him, and the feel of his tail securely around his waist. Their bikes lay toppled on either side of them, chrome and steel buffers from any lingering debris.

                “Stoke!?” Throttle gasped, finally shaking out of his frozen state and coming back to himself in a rush of urgency, twisting to lift himself and have a better look at his mentor.

                “Stoker! Are you—”

                “Fuck…!” Stoker grunted, coughing and wincing. The umber-haired mouse blinked back at him, his helmet covered with dust and soot, equally winded. “I’m alive but at what freakin’ cost?” he grunted, clearly pained all the more irritated for it. They laid there for a moment together, taking in that they were both alive.

                “That was close…” Throttle gulped, hands still shaking uncontrollably

                Stoker grunted and pushed himself up, pulling the helmet from his head and tossing it across the dirt in frustration and then looked back at his protégé. “Close?! Close?! That’s all you have to say!?”

                Throttle blinked up at him. “I had ‘im…I didn’t expect him to—”

                “You didn’t move! You froze!” Stoker shouted, staggering up and to his feet with effort. His entire left side was ragged and dirt crusted and soon to be sore as hell, and blood from his arm was making a tiny river down his elbow and forearm, before dripping from his fingers. He’d be black and blue for days. “I told you to peel off! You could have gotten yourself killed!”

                Throttle continued to lay there, heart pounding. All of it still catching up to him. His mouth dry. Images of Jessie falling kept flashing behind his eyelids in time with his own too quick heartbeat. He squinted, trying to force them away. But her face would not leave him. Vinnie’s screaming echoing in his skull, drowning out Stoker.

“I wish it was you that had died, not my sister! I wish it was you!”

He shut his eyes against the intrusive memory, but Vinnie’s voice kept echoing over Jessie’s imaginary scream.

                It was not until he felt the other biker’s hands on his shoulders that he seemed to snap back to the present, tensing hard and staring at his mentor with wild, frightened eyes.

                “Throttle?!”

                “I’m sorry!” The tan mouse blurted out, voice pained. “I’m sorry I—” he tried to wrench away, as if fearing their sudden closeness in Stoker’s anger. But the other wouldn’t let him retreat so easily.

                “Kiddo, look at me.” He said, firmly but more gently than before. The shift in his tone, stilled the frantic in the other long enough for Stoker to settle beside him and lock eyes with him, starting to understand what had happened.

He knew better than most what Throttle was experiencing. How battles past could haunt you in the moment when the reactions of the body and the psyche were too aligned with previous dangers. But the Freedom Fighter suspected that this haunting was a far more recent one, and it hurt him to see his bro still feeling the effects so strongly.

At last Throttle’s artificial baby blues focused on him fully.

“I’m sorry.” Throttle croaked out.

Stoker laid his head against his, fingers massaging the back of the other’s neck.

“You’re okay.” Stoker assured. “I’m okay.  That’s all that matters, right?”

Stoker waited for him to nod. Needing to know he recognized that in this moment they were safe. They were alive.

Dimly, the tan furred mouse nodded back, beginning to breathe a bit easier again.

“Anything hurt?” he asked. “Stiff neck? Ringing in your ears? Antenna tingling? Anything?”

                Throttle wondered vaguely if seeing ghosts meant anything. “I’m fine.” He assured in that familiar, calm monotone that Stoker was growing to hate. He sounded far too much like Axle when he spoke in that tone.

      The tan mouse caught his arm and turned it gently, looking at the blood beginning to clot along the red streak of broken skin and singed fur. “You do realize you’re the one who’s bleeding right?”

Stoker scoffed softly. “What? This little bee sting? I’d already forgotten about it. Just another to add to the collection.”

“Harley and Bowie aren’t gonna be happy.”

“That’s my problem to deal with, isn’t it?” Stoker replied.

Throttle pulled off his red bandana from its hallowed place around his neck and tied it around Stoker’s bicep to stem the bleeding. Stoker stared at it a moment, feeling an ache in his chest at the sight of it.

“That’s your favorite.” He noted quietly.

“Yeah well, feel special then.” The other nodded, managing a small smile for him. “You can return it once you get a proper patch job from the Misses.”

They pulled themselves up, doing their best to shake the caked dust and dirt off their fur and clothing. The two bikers looked back at the smoking wreck of the buggy, flames still flickering from its crushed hood. No survivors. That was for certain.

                “Well…if nothing else, that’s three less Sand Raiders terrorizing our canyon. I’ll take that as a win.” Stoker sighed, resigned.

                “That was the only real lead we had.” Throttle returned, certainly more bitter about the loss. “Now we’ll have to send out feelers all over again. Who knows how long that will take.”

                “Hey. If there’s anything to these rumors, another will come around. Trust me on that.”

                Throttle looked back at him miserably, seemingly unconvinced. “What if we don’t have that kind of time? By the time another lead comes along, the Plutarkians might have already gotten a foothold again, brought another of their fucking planet moving machines in and—"

                “Bro,” his mentor cut in, needing to stop the spiral before it really got going. “We don’t even know for sure that it was Plutarkians—”

                “What else would it be!?” Throttle snapped, exasperated. “Nothing comes here Stoker! As far as most of the galaxy is concerned we’re just a hollowed out shell, a fucking graveyard! Only the dregs from Black Rock bother to enter our airspace, and usually because they’re looking to buy us up from the Sand Raiders! Plutarkians are the only ones who would have any reason to come here, unannounced and disappear like that. We both know that.”

                Behind them, the buggy popped and shuddered as the flames hit the fuel tank and another short intense explosion erupted from the wreck, making the thing roll over again.

                The pair stared at it for a moment before Stoker spoke again. “You’re really sure it’s them?”

                Throttle nodded. “Sure enough. We can’t afford to take any chances, Stoke. We’re still getting back on our feet, if they—”

                “Hey.” They gazed at each other, and the younger mouse felt a distinct and deep-boned sort of relief when his mentor, his father figure, smirked at him in that old mischievous way. “If those gill faces are stupid enough to come crawling back here, then we’ll take care of it the same way we always have. Won’t we?”

                Throttle smiled briefly, but it faltered. He glanced towards his bike and was reminded of the other two that should be beside her. His gaze trailed up, to the ridges and dunes that rose on either side of them, as if expecting two familiar shadows might appear there, headlights beaming down on him. But there was nothing.

 “Feels like that’s gonna be a lot harder on our own.” He said quietly.

                Stoker exhaled softly, giving a small nod. “Well…maybe it doesn’t have to be.” He added. Throttle looked at him questioningly, but the chocolate furred mouse had moved on, picking up his fallen helmet and righting his poor dirt washed bike--his Rhiannon-- who beeped grumpily back at him.

                “Sorry, Rhi. Sometimes making that slide for safety means getting down and dirty. You understand don’t ya?” He soothed, and the blue and white cruiser squeaked mechanically before making her exhaust fart. Clearly unsatisfied with her rider’s apology.  His ride was temperamental as he was, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

                Throttle picked up Lady and dusted her off as well, and she chirped and hummed. Seeming to be worried. He soothed his hand down her gas tank and looked woefully at the shiny new dents in her rear wheel cover. “Don’t worry, girl. I’ll patch you up soon as we get home. Promise.”

                Stoker straddled his seat again, doing his best to not to wince and looked back at the wreckage again. “We’re going to have to notify Watchtower. They’ll want to do damage control, get that fire out. See if they can’t track which clan this pack came from.”

                Throttle rolled his eyes. “You mean come out here and do a whole lot of nothing.” He sighed. “By the time they finish dissecting the wreck and burying the bodies, anything they could have been linked back to will be long gone. Promise you that.”

                “Yeah well, unless you want to spend all day getting questioned by your favorite Brigadier, I say we cut our losses and head back.”  Rhiannon’s engine turned, and Stoker looked wearily at his gas gauge again. “If we even make it back to Brimstone…we’ll be rolling in on fumes.”

                “We’ll make it.” Throttle assured, though it was more hope than certainty.

                Stoker eyed him for a moment as they rolled away, back up the ridge. “You uh, sure you’re alright? You know the couch is always free...if you need a place to crash. And Bowie always has a plate with your name on it.”

                Throttle shook his head, pretending not to hear the worry in Stoker’s careful tone.

                “Thanks, but I’ve got plans I suppose.”

                “Oh?”

                “Come on, Stoke…you know Max will be waiting on me.”

                “Right well, you’re welcome to drag him along, if you’re so inclined. I’m sure’ Representative’ Tourmaline is going to wonder what you’ve been up to while he’s been passing out pamphlets or whatever.”

Throttle roller his eyes. “Don’t call him that. His name is Max.”

“Right. Mad Max.” Stoker replied, trying to keep the sarcasm out of his voice and failing. He was still not entirely convinced about the liaisons intentions with his kin, and he couldn’t help but be protective.  He didn’t yet know how needless his worries were in this regard.

**

The sun was getting low and the shadows long when Throttle rolled up the narrow stone road to his place. The apartment was the last in a narrow block of four that cascaded down to a bend in the road, and was the only one flush with the street. This was because its lower level was actually just a garage, leaving the actual living space reduced. But it suited the often nomadic biker just fine.

Right now he just needed to slip inside and wash himself off, throw on some fresh clothes and hope that his partner wouldn’t mind the wait. He also hoped Max wouldn’t notice the dings and scratches in Lady’s side.

As he rolled up to the door, he was surprised to see that he had both left the inside light on, and the door ajar at the bottom, still a couple of inches from the ground.

This gave Throttle pause, making him look around for signs of trouble, instinctively reaching for his pistol in his thigh holster. But the street was peaceful. His neighbors still had their windows open, and he could hear their chatter distantly. A few of the kids in the furtherest apartment were still playing on the sidewalk, Marbles and chalk.

Nothing here seemed to be amiss.

Slowly he dismounted from Lady and moved to pull the heavy roller door all the way up. It rattled noisily, and looking in, he realized that there was in fact someone waiting for him.

The tall, dark-furred figure of Max Tourmaline stood just beyond the messy clutter of the garage, to where the lower half of the apartment started, only separated the kitchen and sitting area’s slightly raised floor and pair of support beams that were draped with oil splattered tarps. Behind which he could not see the addition of new lights, as it seemed someone had hung string lights from each corner of the beams to bring some additional light into the sparse room.

Max seemed to have been putting something hurriedly on kitchen counter when Throttle walked in.

“Well hey there, stranger!” Tourmaline called, voice warm and bright.

Throttle blinked at him, confused. “How—how did you—I thought were meeting at your place?”

Max trotted towards him, grinning but looking slightly nervous as well. “Well yeah, that was the plan! But I uh,” he smirked. “I changed the plan. I wanted to surprise you.”

“By breaking into my apartment?”

Max shrugged. “Well, to be honest babe…it wasn’t that hard. Your neighbor, Mrs. Brisby, let me in the backdoor. She’s a sweetheart. Said she was glad someone was looking in on you.” 

Throttle made the smallest scoff of a laugh, still seeming dazed, perhaps slightly embarrassed, as he reached back absently and pulled the garage door down behind them as Lady drove in on her own, closing them safely inside. “Yeah, I bet she was. She’s always giving me weird pity looks. Like I’m stray kicking around her back door or something…”

He took Throttle’s hand excitedly and lead him from the door, winding through the clutter of the garage until they were standing in the kitchenette. “Surprise!”

Throttle blinked. His boyfriend had brought him dinner and what looked like a very expensive bottle of whiskey. Not only that, but he had also strung the whole kitchen ceiling from beam to beam with lights, and had set his table—a wobbly-legged salvaged patio table and chairs—with plates and had lit what Throttle realized were two of his emergency candles to add “ambiance”.

The obvious loving effort applied to the meager belongings the biker owned, made him weirdly think of that old earth cartoon Lady and the Tramp where the dogs had dinner in the back alley of a restaurant.

Throttle stared at all of this silently before looking back at his lover’s hopeful, and now slightly nervous face. “Listen, I know I should have asked but…I knew you would be gone awhile with Stoker and I figured you’d be tired…” He looked more nervous now, as Throttle was still silent. “It’s bad, right? I should have just waited—“

His lover blinked at him. “You did this for me?”

Now it was Max’s turn to look confused. “Um, yeah! Obviously.” He smiled again in a laugh, but his eyes were worried. For the first time he seemed to take in the state of his boyfriend. That he was more dust than mouse at the moment, and that he smelled like gasoline and smoke.

He pressed closer, worried. “Are you—”

His question was cut off abruptly by the tan mouse reaching and pulling him in by his jacket, kissing him hard and fast so that Max moaned into it, not expecting the sudden intensity. But he returned it eagerly, putting his arms around him and pulling him closer.

The way Throttle kissed him always sent tingles straight down through his core into his toes and the tip of his tail. He was firmly addicted to the sensation. They pulled back from each other long enough to get a full breath.

“So you like it?” Max asked.

“I love it.” Throttle’s voice was deep and his eyes were dark with something that made Max’s stomach do a small excited flip. He felt an instant rush of lust and knew he was sunk.

Max flashed him that dazzling grin again before the tan mouse kissed him once more. They stumbled back against the counter, pulling at each other in search of more to touch.

Max’s purple bomber jacket was pulled down his shoulders and fell to the floor, swiftly followed by Throttle’s black leather vest.

Throttle’s mouth was at his neck, hands pulling at Max’s belts, while the taller mouse raked his hand through his lover’s hair and down his neck and back, feeling his hard muscles through his fur.

“Damn baby, buy me dinner first.” He teased, nipping Throttle’s ear.

The tan mouse looked up at him with a smirk and Max’s knees went weak. “You are dinner, babe.”

Max shivered as his muscle-bound boyfriend lifted him onto the countertop like he weighed nothing, leaning him back and pulling his jeans down past his thighs before dropping to kneel between them.

Tourmaline shouted at the sudden heat that swallowed him, grabbing the overhead counter for purchase while his other hand combed through his lover’s hair.

Max panted and tried to restrain himself, wanting to press Throttle’s head down further, feel him swallow around him. But he didn’t want to rush or be too greedy.

He wanted, needed this to last. Unable to ever fully get enough. Max wondered if his lover though the same, his motions slow and made to entice and tease, an appetizer rather than the main course.

He glanced up, hooded gaze drifting across the glowing kitchen back into the garage where Lady stood at rest. He noticed the way the usually shiny black and silver body was marred with red dirt and more worryingly visible swaths of scratches and small round holes.

Max’s hand dropped to Throttle’s shoulder, squeezing softly. The blue-eyed mouse pulled back, looking up in question.

“Too much?”

Max looked down at him, torn between his lust and his worry. But instead of asking questions, he pulled the other level with him again, kissing him more softly. “You do have a bed in this place, right?” He asked.

Throttle nodded.

The upper level of the apartment was more of a loft, the main space open. It seemed the only truly enclosed space in the place was the bathroom off to the side. Though Max did spot a door on the right wall that looked to open onto a balcony of some sort.

The bed matched the rest of the place. Unadorned and utilitarian. A mattress with a sheet and two pillows, a quilt pooled at the lower corner. It seemed to sit on some sort of low platform but nothing that could be considered a frame. The only other objects on the room were a lamp that sat a crate near the bed, a pile of loosely folded clothing next to a duffle bag, and extra pair of black boots, a wall mounted rack that was obviously meant to hold weapons and was presently (suspiciously) empty and a lone plant, which grew out of a large blue can sat on the window sill.

Max took in all these details and stored them in the back of his mind for further consideration later.

They fell on the bed together, discarding the rest of their clothing in a fumbling rush. Max whined as his partner moved him easily, turning him over on his stomach and pushing away the longer locks of dark hair, kissing down his back and making his way lower, bringing Max’s hips into his lap.

“Oh my gods…” Max whined into the pillow as his lover teased him, working him open while kissing his shoulder blades.

He reached back, trying to pull Throttle closer, too eager now for further foreplay.

Throttle caught his wrist and kissed it before pinning it down to the bed, leaning over Max’s leaner frame and rocking against him, making him whine again.

“Did you miss me?”

Max moaned, nodding. He had. The Freedom Fighter had been out on recon for almost a week, and while life was busy and Max had work of his own, he always felt Throttle’s absence now.

The biker was thoroughly under his skin and Max hoped he would never leave.

Throttle teased him until he was leaking from the stimulation, even when his lover wasn’t stroking him directly, so hard it was almost painful.

Just when he thought he’d go insane, Throttle pushed into him finally, filling him up.

It seemed to affect the tan mouse as much as him, feeling the quiver in his limbs and fingers as he rubbed his back and steadied himself, letting out a shaky moan of his own. “Max…!”

Tourmaline smirked and squeezed around him, making Throttle gasp even as the liaison pressed the flush together by looping his tail around the other’s middle, holding him right where he wanted him.

“Seems like you missed me too.” He cooed, his tone decidedly cocky (pun intended) if not downright bratty.

Throttle uttered that deep raspy chuckle in return and leaned over him fully, pinning him to the bed with his hand in Max’s hair. “Let me show you how much.”

Dinner went cold, and stayed forgotten downstairs, while the candles burned down to thick melted nubs.

Upstairs the biker and the liaison laid curled together, dozing, washed in twilight colors as Brimstone settled for the night.

Even half asleep they couldn’t stop touching each other, pressing lazy kisses to skin, bodies pressed close.

Max laid on his side, drawing lazy patterns across the Freedom Fighter’s back. Feeling each time he started to drop into sleep, then would shift and pull himself back. As if afraid to miss something. Or afraid to fully rest.

Max kissed the back of his neck again, brushing the short ponytail aside to do so. It was then he registered something that had been missing. One of the biker’s signature pieces was gone from around his neck. He glanced back across the room, as if expecting to see it among the other pieces scattered on the floor. But the red bandana was nowhere.

He felt Throttle roll back towards him, looking up at him curiously. “What’s wrong?” it was such a soft and earnest question and spoken in the half-broken tones of one on the edge of sleep, that it made the other mouse melt. He smiled and kissed his forehead.

“Nothing,” Max promised. “Go back to sleep.”

“Not tired.” Throttle replied and Max scoffed openly.

“Liar.”

He looked down at his lover’s side, seeing bruising beginning to appear under his fur in place along his thigh, his hip and side. The fur on his ribs and his arms had thinned on long irregular patches and he could see scraping on the skin beneath. Like he had rubbed up against sandpaper. And though Max was not a seasoned rider like his companion, he was still practiced enough to know what road rash looked like.

“You and Stoker get into some trouble out there?” He asked.

“Nothing too bad.”

Max gave him a knowing look. One that told him that he registering really high on the bullshit-o-meter.

Throttle relented. “We chased down some Sand Raiders into the wastes. Kinda turned into a game of Chicken.”

“And you both walked away from I see.” He smiled, relieved, but the concern showed in the corners of his eyes. “Did they give you anything? Any lead on the ship that was spotted?”

“No.”

The quiet finality in his tone told Max everything and he exhaled softly, knowing there would be more questions from the council and follow-ups to deal with.  His mother was going to be up in arms for days about it. Any reason to shit on Freedom Fighter activity, since she had no say in it, unlike the strings she could pull with the Army and Watchtower.

“Babe…”

Throttle sat up, shaking his head. “It couldn’t be helped. It was them or us. I’m not proud of it but I’m not sorry either.”

“I don’t expect you to be. I can’t expect that any Sand Raider would shed a tear if it was Stoker or you –“ he bit the statement off as if the words burned his tongue.

Throttle saw his worry. Had seen the same expression on other faces. He put his hand over Tourmaline’s. “You know I’m built tougher than that. So don’t fret.”

“You make it sound like I’m waiting around here twisting my apron strings and waiting for you come home.”

“Well,” Throttle teased. “You were waiting at the door with dinner.”

Max scoffed softly. “You know what I’m getting at, macho mouse. I’d be out more than a dinner date if something happened to you. So be careful. Okay?”

Throttle nodded, relenting and kissed him softly to apologize. They were quiet for a moment, the many worries of the world beyond starting to seep into the room with them.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.” Throttle replied, moving now on search of fresh clothing.  He was in need of a shower still, and had no doubt he was going to devour everything Max had brought, cold or not, after days of living off rations.

Max took a moment, leaning back and choosing his words carefully. And this display turned his boyfriend’s attention on him once more, smiling in spite of his confusion at Max’s antics.

“Why do you live like a squatter?”

Throttle snorted with shocked laughter and shoved at his arm. “Shut up, man!” He laughed. “I’m sorry the décor isn’t up to your standards. Not all of us have Cathedra money.”

“You know I don’t mean it like that!”  Max cried. “But…I mean seriously luv…this looks like a crash pad, not a home. Even for a so-called ‘bachelor.’”

“Never really needed more than a crash pad to be honest.” The other admitted. “I’m on the go a lot. Makes it hard to put down roots.”

Max sensed that this was not entirely true, thinking of their short period at Stoker’s after the fallout from the Roadhouse and how the other mouse had seemed so at home there.

He flicked his gaze towards the window at the single potted plant. The only thing in this apartment besides Lady that looked remotely taken care of, and that included the owner. “Well, seems someone’s managed to take root.”

He nodded towards the plant on the window sill. “I didn’t figure you for a green thumb.”

His partner rose, pulling the sheet from the bed to wrap around his waist. Max frowned as his view was obstructed, but rose to join him at the sill, pulling on his briefs as he went.

The plant was wide at its base, producing plump barbed spikes of “leaves” that were a muted grey-blue. The spikes grew in a spiral blossom and three wispy stalks escaped from its center, the tip of each holding several small buds that were bright magenta and violet.

“It’s an heirloom plant.” Throttle explained. “Modo’s mother gave it to me after we got back from Earth.” He stroked a finger along one of the fat spikes and Max watched it plump, the pointed end peeling back to reveal a clear gelatinous inside.

Max raised an eyebrow curiously as his lover pressed his finger tip into it and cooped some of the goo free, letting it sit on his finger like a drop of clear toothpaste.

“Is it edible or something?”

“Sure. But mostly,” he held out his other arm rubbing the goo into one of the open scrape. The effect was immediate, the cuts becoming less red and noticeable, beginning to fade rapidly. “It’s a healing salve.”

Max looked at his arm and then kissed it, feeling the tingle on his lips from the left-over residue.

“Suddenly the plant choice makes sense. She must know you pretty well.”

Throttle nodded, but his expression was mutely sad.

“You still haven’t heard from Modo?” Max attempted.  

Throttle avoided looking at him directly, the subject clearly still sensitive. Max knew he had been trying to reach out. Had been since they met. That had been over two months ago now and it seemed Throttle was no closer to an answer from his estranged family.

“No.” He sighed. It was obvious how heavily this weighed on him. It only grew more so the longer they knew each other. “He still won’t talk to me.” The misery that passed across his face almost made Max wince.  He was still trying to wrap his head around the strained relationship between his lover and his “bros”, the pieces of the broken puzzle still forming for him.

 “Maybe all my trying is only hurting him more.”

Max pulled him in and held him and Throttle gripped him back tightly, as a familiar wave of missing washed over him. But Max was his anchor and wouldn’t let it carry him away.

Max gazed at his plant again, the open leaf having resealed itself. “She should have given you a bigger plant. Not enough too in there to fix this hurt.”

Throttle laughed against his neck at the joke and shook his head. “We don’t have to talk about it.” He assured, not wanting to bog his lover down. “I thought we decided not to bring work home with us?”

Max rolled his eyes. “This is not home, my guy, this is a squatters den at best. Your bike has more things here than you do. Your garage is fully stocked but your fridge only has beer, some heinous protien drink and a box of crackers!”

Throttle blinked as if he didn’t understand what was wrong with this assessment. Max deflated dramatically with a sigh, wilting over him.

“You big beautiful idiot. You cannot live like this. You need to come stay at my place until we buy you some decent fucking furniture. You can bring your bike and the plant. Deal?”

“What about my crackers?” Throttle teased.

Max lifted him abruptly and tackled him to the bed. The make-shift platform beneath it gave an audible crack under their combined force, making them both gasp.

Tourmaline shrugged. “I’ll buy you a new one.”  He promised and proceeded to smother the other in kisses before he could protest.

***

Chapter Text

***

                No matter the late night, Throttle was regularly awake before sun up, the circadian rhythm of his body too well trained. The promised soreness from yesterday was ready and present to greet him, but there was some pleasurable overlap to it thanks to his bed partner.

                His bed was warm, and the sound of breathing close by soothed away any lingering fog of bad dreams. He turned his head and saw Max sprawled out beside him, deep asleep. Throttle put his hand against his lover’s chest and let it rest there, feeling the rise and fall, and the steady beat inside his ribs. It was grounding. Safe.

                He laid there, watching his partner, drinking him in. It had only been a few months since the events at the Roadhouse, their relationship still new. But Max still felt like a miracle. A lifeline when he had been drowning. Going under for the last time.

                Throttle knew Max sensed it, even if they never spoke about it directly. Both afraid to devel too deep. He knew the why of it, but not the how. Not the details. The bits of conversation that played on loop in Throttle’s mind, reminding him why he was here. What he had lost. Who he had let down.

                To Max’s outside perspective, he had suffered the loss of a close partnership, kicked out of the club as it were, and eventually he would shake it off and begin to rebuild. But it would never be that simple for the other.

                As the thoughts began to mount in his mind, the peace he had previously felt vanished. He sat up, chest and throat tight and crept away from the broken remains of his bed. He pushed through the little door beside the bathroom, and stepped out onto the tiny balcony in his boxers and gulped for air, gritting his teeth as he tried to swallow the cry that was burning his throat. His grief strangled him, slowly, methodically. Giving way only to return again.

                The morning sunlight was beginning to filter in over the rooftops, illuminating the view from the balcony. The curve of the street as it went down to a lower road, giving him a glimpse of the homes and little street shops there. Catching sight of town as it started to stir and wake up for the day. Normal, domestic. No longer living like refugees, scrambling for survival. Life in Brimstone had returned to a sense of normal, even after such devastation. He had to believe he could too.

                As he watched the street, forcing his focus elsewhere, he spotted a lone biker coming up the bend. It was a tan, military issue bike, one Throttle had seen often but usually not on domestic streets. The deeper shadows of the houses hid the details of the rider, until he pulled closer to his own home, stopping at the curb of the small alley between Throttle’s place and the next set of row houses.

                Throttle shifted on the balcony, moving closer to the stone rail and peered down. He watched the rider pause, checking something on their display screen and then looking towards the apartment in question.

                He glimpsed the tan mouse observing him from the side of the second story, nearly hidden from view by shadow and the edge of the garage roof.

                “Uncle Throttle!”

                The tan mouse gripped the stone ledge, the words hitting him like a sudden gust of wind.

                “Rimfire?” His own response was too quiet and confused for the mouse on the street below to hear him, but it didn’t matter.

                The younger Freedom Fighter dismounted from his ride, pulling off his helmet and revealing his signature skunk-stripe of brown hair streaked with brilliant orange. He waved to the other mouse and trotted into the alley, finding the stairs that lead to the back balcony behind a row of trashcans, crates and discarded junk.

                The pair met awkwardly at the top of the steps, Throttle looking stunned while his “nephew” seemed relieved at the sight of him. “Hey! Finally tracked you down!”

                He glanced at Throttle’s state of undress and paused. “Shit, I should have called or—”

                “Why are you here, Rimfire?” Throttle cut him off, his confusion winning over his sense of manners at the moment. He had not seen the other mouse since the last time he had set foot on the Maverick’s land, a year ago now.

                Rimfire blinked at him, suddenly nervous. Perhaps in the moments before he had been able to pretend like things were still as they had been before. That Throttle had been away on a mission and nothing more. Absences between them were not easy but they never failed to pick up where they left off. The bonds were never broken. But after Jessie, they felt razor-thin, fraying at the edges.

                Rimfire exhaled and licked his lips. “I um…I heard you and Stoke had gotten back from the wastes yesterday. You were tracking those raiders that might have found the mystery ship?”

                “How did you know that?”

                “Watchtower report. Carbine thought maybe someone should check in with you—”

                He sighed and shook his head. “Of course…” He looked away from his nephew, glaring across the rooftops. “I suppose she sent you to issue a warning or something--?”

                “No!” Rimfire said quickly, confused by the other mouse’s prickly reception of him. “No, actually…I came on my own. There’s something I need your help with.”

                Throttle frowned, and looked back towards the door behind him. “I’m sure you can handle finding another lead without me—” His voice was tired, bitter.

                “It’s not just that.” Rimfire said hurriedly, moving closer to him as if to stop him from slipping back inside. Throttle’s hand rested against the door, but looked back at him in surprise, the other’s urgency cutting through everything else. “It’s Uncle Modo.”

                “Is he alright?”

                Rimfire shook his head. “No. And he hasn’t been. But it’s only gotten worse.”

                Throttle closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. “I can’t help you. I’m sorry—” He started to push in the door, but Rimfire grabbed his wrist, pausing the movement.

                “I think you’re the only one who can!”

                The pair stared at each other, letting that settle between them. Throttle’s hand dropped away from the door, and his defenses lowered. “What’s wrong?”

                “I don’t know how to explain it. He’s not eating much, hasn’t taken his bike out in almost two weeks, barely talks. He won’t even hold Daisy now. He just sits there. It’s like he’s hollowed out. I don’t know what else to do.”  He looked at his uncle pleadingly. “He needs you. No one knows him like you and Vinnie.”

                “Yeah, well, those days are over. Why don’t you find Vincent and—”

                “I’ve tried, I can’t reach him. Haven’t been able to for weeks. Listen…I know they pushed you away. But we’re still here. You’re my uncle, doesn’t matter if it’s not by blood, same as Vinnie is. Please.”

                Throttle guts churned, anger rising in him along side the worry and the guilt, but gaining ground faster. “Why didn’t you come sooner then? Why didn’t you call?” He looked at his nephew pointedly, wanting to ask why it was so easy for all of them to just walk away from him when Modo and Vinnie had. Wondering if they had any concept of what it felt like to lose your family twice.

                But of course, he knew the answer. How could they forgive him for what he had done when he hadn’t managed that forgiveness for himself? How could they look at him and not feel her absence?  It was too painful. For all of them.

                “I should have.” Rimfire answered. “I’m sorry.”

                Throttle was surprised by his forwardness, though he shouldn’t have been. His resentment ebbed, pushed down again. His nephew was here to ask for help. And however hurt he was, there was no part of him that was going to turn him away.

                They were quiet for a moment, only the sounds of the street waking around them filtering the silence.

                Finally Throttle let his hand drop from the door and laid it on Rimfire’s shoulder instead. “Okay. Let me put some pants on and—”

                The rest of his words were cut off when the other pushed forward and hugged him fully, obviously relieved.

                “Thank you.”

                The tan  mouse hugged him back, maybe harder than he meant to. “Missed you.”

                “Missed you too.” He sniffled faintly, pulling away and doing his best to look unemotional. “So uh, this your new place huh?” He looked out over the rooftops, washed with morning sun. “Nice view.”

                The door opened then, surprising both, as Max appeared, the sheet around his waist and blinking curiously between the pair. “You’re awfully chatty with the paperboy, babe.” He teased, looking Rimfire up and down curiously.

                It took Rimfire precisely two seconds to figure out that he had caught his uncle more unaware than he had first guessed and that this stranger had been a sleepover guest of his. His eyes were wide, drinking this new development in.

                “Uh…hi? I’m um, not the paperboy—”

                Max snorted, all grins. “Obviously, kid, you’re way too old. Plus I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen a physical newspaper delivered by hand. You um…a neighbor?”

                “Max, this is Rimfire.” Throttle said quickly, trying to explain.

                Rimfire extended a gloved hand to the dark-furred mouse. “I’m his nephew.”

                Max did not fail to notice the small surprised smile that appeared on Throttle’s face at this or the way Rimfire returned it. He reached and shook his hand, surprised at how strong the younger mouse’s grip was.  “Name’s Max. Any friend of Throttle’s is a friend of mine for sure.”

                “I’m uh…sorry to interrupt,” Rimfire mumbled. “I can uh, come back later?”

                “No,” the biker cut in quickly. “Come in, Rimfire, it’s fine.” He patted Max’s chest. “He’ll talk your ear off, but he’s harmless. I’ll make us something to drink.” He looked pointedly at his lover, who was still wide-eyed and amused at this development. “And you’ll put some pants on. Right, babe?”

                Max shrugged. “I mean, to be fair, he’s the one who came overdressed to the party. This is clearly a pants off house.”

                Throttle pushed him inside, swatting at him to get out of the way while Max cackled, and waved the other mouse inside, closing the door behind them.

                Rimfire sat on a folding chair in the garage, nursing a cup of “mud” and eyeing Lady’s damage while Throttle and Max were still up in the loft. Finally Throttle came trotting down the rail-less steps to the garage below, fully dressed and road ready, looking as if he’d showered and shaken himself dry.

                “Thanks for waiting. Be ready to roll momentarily.” He offered, pouring himself a drink and stuffing some cold left overs in his mouth. Clearly some habits didn’t change.

                “Sure, no problem.” His nephew offered back, nursing his own drink slowly as he took in the other and his surroundings. “I uh…thought you were living with Stoke at Bowie’s?”

                “No, I just crashed there for awhile.”

                Rimfire tapped the side of his temple. “You finally went through with it, I see.”

                It took Throttle an extra moment to catch his meaning in regards to his eyes, then nodded. “Yeah. Had to be done.”

                “You didn’t tell Gran? Or Mama?” Rimfire asked, obviously surprised. He had been young then, but he remembered well what his uncles had been through after Tharsis Rise. Had seen their damage. And even he knew that Throttle finally getting his ocular implants replaced was no small matter.

                “I didn’t want to bother them. They have enough to deal with.”

                Rimfire looked into his cup, feeling guilt and remorse, knowing what that was code for.

                “Things have gotten so messed up.” He said quietly.

                Throttle looked at him, pausing as he pulled down his spare gas cans to fill Lady’s tank. “Yeah. They really have.”

                “They’ll be happy to see you. Primer too.” He offered. Throttle nodded, but said nothing, focused on his task.

                Rimfire looked back up towards the loft and the sound of the shower running, and vague singing muffled by the water. “So…is he your—”

                “Boyfriend. Yes.”

                “I had no idea.”

                Throttle looked at him over the rim of his glasses and Rimfire relented. “Okay, maybe some idea. I just wasn’t expecting…” he looked back towards the loft. “You know he looks familiar. Have I seen him somewhere before?”

                “He’s a liaison for the Regent’s office. You’ve probably seen him lots of places. Got a smile that’s hard to forget.”  It was supposed to be a general statement, but it rang with a sort of intimate familiarity that made Rimfire smile.

                “Oh. I see. You’re down bad for him.”

                His uncle’s head snapped up, some of the fuel leaking onto the floor. “Excuse me?”

                “Easy, easy! It’s a compliment. I’m just saying…it’s nice to see you with someone. You know Gran still frets over you and Carbine sometimes…”

                Throttle made a quick cutting motion with his hand to signal him to stop. “Sorry, I only have the capacity to deal with one ghost from my past a time, thank you very much.”

                “Right. Message received.”

                The striped-haired mouse refocused on the bike and it’s obvious battle scars. “That from the Raiders?”

                Throttle nodded. “They put up a hell of a fight. Whatever they know, they don’t want anyone else finding out about. Took it to the grave.” He sighed. “Stoker caught a stray in the arm. It’s going to be a few days before he and I try again. But I worry about what kind of time we have. Things just don’t feel right.”

                Rimfire nodded. “I know. I feel it too.”

                “Official reports say it was nothing. No confirmation that a ship even landed here. But Sand Raiders don’t come this close to Mouse territory unprovoked. I’d bet anything they made a drop somewhere. Maybe sending weapons or tech to get re-established.”  Throttle mused, then paused, sighing. “Or maybe I’m just an old soldier who’s paranoid.”

                But his nephew shook his head. “No. I don’t think so. We’ve been getting really weird radio signals lately, bizarre interference. That and all the raider activity…something is definitely up. I’ve been trying to talk to Uncle Modo about it. Thought maybe another mission might shake him out of his funk…”

                To call this deep depression a “funk” felt wildly inaccurate, but he didn’t know how to put words to it. But glancing around at the sparse conditions Throttle himself was living in, the younger Maverick realized that both might be in similar states of grief and dysfunction. Just displaying it differently.

                “I bet if you could talk to him about what you and Stoke have found out so far, he’d be interested. Maybe even go with you to look. I swear Lil’ Hoss is looking about as miserable as he is without a rider.”

                “I’ll try.” Throttle offered. “But I can’t promise anything. I’ve been trying to talk to him for a long time, but if me being there hurts him more then—”

                “Nothing could hurt him more than he is right now.” Rimfire corrected. “He needs help. More than we can give him. It’s gotta be you.” He sighed. “I just wish Vinnie were here too.”

                Throttle nodded, but would say nothing else. That wound went deeper still.

                Max appeared at the top of the stairs then, now fully dressed. “Well boys, what’s on the agenda? I wasn’t expecting such an early start, but I’m up for anything.”

                Throttle gave him a pitying look. “Actually, babe, I need you to hang back for this one.”

                Tourmaline blinked, ears perking. “Oh?”

                His boyfriend moved from his bike towards him. “Yeah this is…sorta delicate business. Something I need to handle alone. For now.”

                Max looked from his boyfriend to Rimfire, and felt a little sting of worry build in him. It might have felt like he was being left out, after these past months of having Throttle’s attention almost all too himself, only competing with Stoker and the gang on the occasion when trouble brewed beyond the city. Perhaps he had gotten a little too comfortable in that liminal state.

                “Ah. No worries. I get it.” He nodded. “Biker Mice business and all that. No need for tag-alongs.”

                “Max…”

                “I’m joking.” Tourmaline assured, catching his hand and kissing the back of it. “You worry too much. Go see your bro. You’ll know where to find me when you get back.”

                Throttle nodded, then added; “If things go well, I might be gone a couple of days. Think you could look after my plant while I’m gone?”

                Max chuckled. “Yeah, sure. I’ll tuck it in every night and read it stories and feed it premium fertilizer—” Throttle tugged him in by his jacket to kiss him, the most effective way to shut the mouse up. Max melted and relented.

                “Yeah, I’ll look after your weird plant baby. You just look after yourself. And call me. Gods knows I’ll be bored to tears for the next few days in council meetings and public forums.”

                “I’ll make it up to you.” Throttle nodded.

                Max grinned and Throttle blushed when he felt the other mouse squeeze his ass. “I’m counting on it, hot stuff.”

                Behind them Rimfire choked faintly on his drink, trying to hide a smirk and Max quickly removed his hand. “Shit! Forgot you were there, sorry!”

                “I’m fueled up. Let’s roll out.” Throttle replied, moving to grab his helmet.

                “Are you sure you’re good to ride?” Rimfire asked, awkwardly handing his half-empty cup to the dark furred mouse and nodding towards Lady’s scratches and dings again.

                “No problem. Besides, if there ever was  a sure-fire icebreaker, it’s fixing up one of our bikes.” He patted Lady affectionately and she beeped in agreement.

                “I hope you’re right.” Rimfire thought.

**

                The Maverick farm had not changed in the year he’d been away. Admittedly, it looked a little more run down as time marched on and the number of hands that had helped care for it became fewer and fewer.

                The heard of beasts were out to pasture that morning, lowing quietly and enjoying the day, and coal-black sharp taloned chickens roved freely in the yard, pecking through the grass and the dirt of bugs and seed. They paid the bikers little mind as they rolled up the gravel drive towards the house, sensing no need to use their shiny black talons on them. Perhaps vaguely hoping one of them might have some feed in their pockets.

                Rimfire trotted easily up the steps of the front porch and did not realize that his companion had not yet moved from his bike, and still sat there, staring up at the place. Like he was afraid to enter.

                “You comin?” he called back.

                Throttle swallowed hard and gave a nod, forcing himself up. He had only made it to the bottom step when the screen door opened tentatively and Ada Maverick appeared.

                Modo’s mother, usually plump and always presentable and polished despite being an active farm hand even at her old age, looked suddenly small to him. Frailer and older. Like she had lost ten years over night.

                “Oh thank gods.” She breathed, hand to her chest. She moved beyond the threshold, pausing only briefly to brush a hand along Rimfire’s shoulder in gratitude before trotting down the stairs.

                She put her arms out and swallowed the tan biker in them, hugging him hard, like he was her own, kissing along the side of his cheek and hair and knotting her arthritic fingers in the back of his jacket. “There you are.”

                Throttle didn’t know what to say. He didn’t even dare open his mouth, fearing he might break if he did so. This had been the last thing he had been expecting, but also something he had so desperately wanted.

                Ada pulled back and looked at him carefully. “Where have you been?”

                She studied him a little closer and then removed the field specs over his eyes, seeing the blue that had replaced the red. She felt her heart give a little lurch of surprise and stroked her thumb along the still healing scar at one of his eye sockets. “You’ve been gone too long, honey. Too long.”

                “I’m sorry.” Throttle amended. “I didn’t think I was wanted.”

                Her brow furrowed sharply, almost angry at the statement, but pulled him in and fierce kissed his forehead. “Don’t be thick. You were always wanted here. Always.”  She argued. She saw in his gaze that he did not believe her, and hated that she knew where that feeling came from. And that she had not done enough to dissuade it.

                Inside they heard Daisy begin to cry, awake from a nap, and all three looked towards the sound.

                They turned and moved inside, Rimfire closing the door behind them. Somewhere in the den, Daisy continued sob. At two, Daisy was still a dainty little thing, not quite a baby and not quite a toddler. Her wispy snow colored curls had thicken and grown and her fog-grey fur had thickened from it’s downy baby stage. Her ears a little bigger, tail a little longer, bouncing on wobbly stumps of legs at the edge of the play pen.

                Sat had been woken from a nap in her play pen and was very displeased about it, trying to pull herself up to stand and failing in her lingering sleepiness.

                Her grandmother went to her immediately, shushing her cries. “Oh my, what a fuss you are kicking up!” she sighed. “You wouldn’t be so cranky if you would just sleep more than ten minutes…” she added, lifting the little girl and patting her back.

                “She’s already trying to ditch naps.” Rimfire sighed, tired, vaguely annoyed. “Man, I’m glad I was never like that as a kid.”

                “You were worse.” His grandmother reminded him. ‘You wouldn’t sleep at all until you’d fall over in exhaustion. Afraid you’d miss something. Had your poor mama and daddy at their wit’s end.”

                “Lies. I was perfect.” Rimfire teased.

                All the while, Throttle just stared at the baby, who continued to whimper and sob on her grandmother’s shoulder. “She’s gotten so big already…”

                “Babies do that.” Mama replied. Daisy’s screams kicked up a notch, the little girl leaning back dramatically in her grandmother’s arm, wailing as if the world was ending. It was really an Oscar-winning display.  But Mama Maverick was not impressed.

                “Alright, alright, we’ll try a bottle. Anything to get you to stop caterwauling. My goodness that set of lungs!”

                She turned towards Throttle with the squirming, pajama clad drama queen in her hands. “Hold her, would you?”

                “Oh no, I can’t—”

                Mama did not let him protest, forcing the little girl into his arms. Throttle latched onto her like she was made of glass, and Mama knew she had nothing to worry about.  “Just bounce her a bit, it’ll just take a few minutes to warm something up.”

                She moved past him as Throttle looked around helplessly for a moment and then back at the little girl.

                Her sudden transfer had temporarily startled the cry out of her, now staring at him with tear-swimming eyes, fascinated by this newcomer. He looked just as startled by her as she did of him. The biker half expected her to start screaming again, to try and wriggle free. Afraid of the stranger.

                But Daisy didn’t cry. She didn’t fight. She snuffled faintly, and patted at him with her little hands, pressing at his face, his neck, his broad chest and arms. Getting a sense of him. Perhaps thinking it familiar. He was built like her daddy after all. But without some of the bigger muscles or harder edges.

                She found the buttons and studs on his vest very interesting.

                She was so little. Smaller than other two year olds her size, despite her growth. She had been a very small baby too. And when she had been born Modo had been able to hold her in just one hand, the length of her barely extending to mid-forearm. She had been early and unexpected. But clearly, she was not going to let that stop her.

                Throttle stroked her back lightly, bouncing her faintly as she studied him. “Hi there little flower. You’ve gotten sooo big while I was gone.” He cooed to her. He kissed her hair. “I missed you.”

                His voice made her look up at him and she gave him a near toothless smile, little palms pressing against his cheeks. She squealed at him, like she knew him. Remembered him. But then again, it might have been wishful thinking.

                The back door opened, Modo’s familiar heavy footstep coming into the den. “Mama, is Sweep back, we’re gonna need—”

                The big grey furred mouse stepped into the den and froze in his tracks.  The tan mouse, not standing more than ten feet away from him, did the same.

                For a moment, the world became very quiet.

                For the first time in a year, Modo Maverick and Throttle Evander stood in the same room. Their entire timeline seemed to sit in that small distance between them. All the good, all the bad. All the uncertainty and the un-mended hurt, a chasm between them.

                Modo, dressed in familiar civilian clothing of drab olive green and a dark purple t-shirt that was dirty from farm work and damn with sweat, had the familiar shape of the hard-rocking, hard-riding Freedom Fighter that Throttle had spent nearly every day with for decades. But the change was obvious.

                The bone-deep weariness in the other mouse was palpable. And Throttle could see that he was looking rougher at the edges, shaggy and matted. His bionic arm, old and having been repaired and patched more times than Throttle could remember, was looking rusted and scraped. He had grown thinner too. Had lost some of his sculpted muscle. Modo looked like a man who had been weeks in the trenches, and the haunted look in his eye said that hadn’t really left.

                “Hi…” Modo said finally. It was soft, confused. Almost as if he wasn’t sure the other mouse in the room was real or just an illusion.

                “Hi.” Throttle returned, equally awkward.

                Daisy looked from her new playmate back to her beloved Daddy and reached for him, beginning to whine in earnest.

                To Throttle’s surprise, the previously doting father did not make an immediate move for his daughter, rather standing there awkwardly, looking between him and her, and beginning to fidget with the work gloves on both his hands.

                Throttle set Daisy down, and watched as she scooted her way towards her daddy, dragging herself on her knees and bum with the aid of her cozy romper on the hardwood floor. She pulled herself up on Modo’s boot and hugged his leg.

                “Up!” she squealed, little arms reaching. But he didn’t lift her. He almost seemed afraid to touch her.

                “Mama!” He called again, more sharply than Throttle expected.

                Ada appeared in the room again with the bottle she had been preparing.

                “Can you get her? I’m dirty…” Modo mumbled, but the excuse was thin. Daisy whined, craving his attention and Ada shook her head, reaching and picking up the little girl and setting her on her hip.  Her disappointed whines were soothed by the milk, and for the moment she was content.

                Modo pulled off his work gloves and dropped them on the sideboard, still eyeing the newcomer. “What are you doing here?” he asked quietly, gruffly.

                “I heard you were in trouble.” Throttle answered.

                Modo scoffed softly. “Oh yeah?” His eyes drifted from Throttle to the doorway behind him, where Rimfire was obviously eavesdropping. “I wonder where you got that idea.”  His brow furrowed in an almost glare at his nephew, who ducked out of sight.

                Mama Maverick looked between two of her boys, frowning. “Maybe he got the idea because of the way you’ve been acting lately.” She told her son sharply. “Maybe if you’d lift your head up once in awhile you’d see that there are people here that still need you. Still care about you--”

                “Mama. Don’t.” Modo said, looking at his mother seriously. The two stared at each other as if they were silently arguing, and Throttle had never seen such a display between them. But after a moment, the taller mouse relented, ears lowering slightly. Tired.

                “Could you give us a minute, please?”

                She nodded cautiously and carried Daisy away into the kitchen, and a moment later her radio went on, music wafting in to cover some of the uneasy silence.

                Modo sat down started unlacing his work boots which were caked thick with red clay from the fields he’d been in. “I’m sorry he dragged you out here.” He said. “Sure you had better things to do.”

                Throttle stared at him like he had grown another head.

                “Can’t think of much more important than this.” He offered. “If one of my bros is in trouble, I come running.”

                Modo scoffed softly. “That ain’t been true in a long time.”

                Throttle frowned. “Not by my choice.” He corrected.

                Maverick stood again and moved past him, avoiding looking at him directly. He moved into the kitchen and Throttle followed. His big bro made his way to the sink and ran the water, splashing some on his face and the back of his neck, washing away some of the dust and grime.

                “Listen,” Throttle offered from the doorway. “I’m not here to step on toes. The kid came looking for me. He’s obviously concerned. He thought I could help. But if that’s not the case—”

                The other mouse kept his back to turned to him, staring into the water draining down the sink for a moment before turning off the faucet. He sighed heavily, the fingers of his bionic arm creaking.

                “No…kid’s got me pegged right. He’s just tryin’ to help. Lord knows I ain’t been much use to anyone…”

“Modo, what happened?”

                Now the big grey furred mouse fixed him with a stare and Throttle felt ice in his veins as it seemed to cut right through him.

                “I think you know that story.” He replied carefully. “So why don’t you tell me yours? Heard you and Stoker have been tearing it up out in the wastes…good way to get your tails shot off.”

                “Word travels fast.” Throttle sighed.

                “Rimfire says there’s something going on out there. Maybe something big. Something that’s got the dogs howling at night.” He looked back at him. “Did you find anything?”

                “Nothing substantial. Yet.”

                “But you have a hunch?”

                Throttle nodded, and Modo exhaled again, gazing out through the kitchen window and out across the expanse of the front lawn. He could see Lady sitting there next to Rimfire’s bike, and even from the distance could see some of the bigger scratches across Lady’s side.

                “Your ride looks like how I feel.” He mused, giving a small hollow chuckle. “Why don’t you bring her around back. I’ll have a look at her. Probably still have some spare parts you could use.”

                The pair retreated to the garage behind the house. They worked silently at first, relying on well-ingrained physical queues where they needed. They had been patching and repairing bikes since their youth, and though they were far from mechanical geniuses of both Harley and Charlie, they were capable enough in their own rites to handle a simple buff and patch job.

                Whatever was broken and strained between them seemed to ease here, the tension becoming low and almost running in the background.

                Throttle sat back, resting on a folding chair as Modo finished buffing out the last ding in the rear part of the frame. “There. Pretty as a picture.” He patted her seat and Lady gave a strange electrical squeal and rev of her engine in thanks.

                Throttle smiled, pleased at the scene. But glancing across the hanger, he saw Lil’ Hoss sitting untouched, a tarp half over her.

                “Rimfire said you ain’t been riding much.”

                “Nope. Guess not.” He replied flatly. “Heart ain’t been in it. And they need me around here anyway. Farm’s not gonna run itself. Almost breeding season and—”

                “Modo.” Throttle cut him off gently. “Be real with me. You never wanted to run this farm. That’s not you.”

                His bro scoffed. “Oh isn’t it?” He shook his head, wiping his hands and tucking the buffer away back along the tools. “A lot has changed, Throttle. Shouldn’t have to tell you that.” His tone edged on something gruffer that made the comfortable silence between them melt like fog in morning sunlight “What did you come here for anyway?” he muttered.

                “Rimfire said—”

                “Rimfire’s got a lot to say, yeah I get it. But why’d you really come here, Throttle?”

                The tan mouse looked at him silently for a long moment, then hung his head. “There’s something happening out there, Modo. Something big. I don’t have proof. I don’t know all the details. But a few months ago I was tracking down a lead at a motorcross competition. Ran into some real bad people there. People who had their eyes set on collecting a certain trio of bikers who might put a kink in their plans. Whatever they were….now this ship and the Sand Raiders. I’ve got sinking feeling that history’s about to repeat itself. And I can’t take it on alone.”

                Modo shook his head, pacing now. “I’m sorry. I can’t help you. My biking days are done.”

                “I don’t buy that!” Throttle argued.

                “I’m not interested in what you buy or not, I’m done—“

                “Why, so you can sit around here and stew in your misery and waste your life—” Modo sent his tool box flying, the crash and rattle of it deafening in the otherwise quiet air.

                “Waste my life?!” He fired back viciously, his single eye flaring. “This is all I have left of my life! No thanks to you!”

                Throttle stiffened, ice in his stomach. He flinched as if Modo had hit him. He might as well have. He wanted to walk away then. To run. Hating to see what his mistake had done to someone he loved so much. Knowing he couldn’t undo it.

                But part of him knew that giving in now would close this door forever. And he wouldn’t do that.

                “Jessie died that day. But you didn’t.”

                “Shut up. How dare you fucking even—”

                “You’re not dead, Modo! You’re not! There’s a little girl in there who needs her daddy! Your family needs the mouse that they know you are, not his shell that shuffling around playing farm hand. You’re a Freedom Fighter for gods—”

                Modo lunged at him, grabbing him by the vest and shoving him bodily against the wall. His bionic fist plowed buried itself in the dry wall next to his bro’s ear. Inches from smashing him in the face in a punch that would have been hard enough to break bone.

                Maverick snarled at him, furious. Throttle felt his heart in his throat, but didn’t fight back. He waited, expecting the next blow.

                It was his lack of struggle or even surprise that caused the rush of rage that overwhelmed Modo to fade. He seemed to take stock of himself.

                The grey furred mouse pulled back with a gasp, taking a hurried step back. Throttle continued to stay where he was, still leaning into the wall.

                Maverick reached under his shoulder pad hurriedly, and Throttle heard the tell-tale click of his arm detaching. It fell free from his body and clattered to the floor as Modo staggered away, having disarmed himself. “I’m sorry.” He gasped, the sound strained through his heavy breathing.

                “I didn’t…I wouldn’t…!”

                Throttle’s hand was on his back. “I know.”

                Modo looked back at him, and finally broke. He turned and hugged the other mouse hard, sobbing through gritted teeth into his shoulder and gripping him with his remaining arm. Throttle held him, the pair leaning into each other. A year of grief and regret boiling to a head.

                “I don’t know how to do this.” Modo rasped, fighting to get his breath again.

                “I don’t either.” Throttle replied, arms still locked around him tight. “But we don’t have to figure it out alone.”

                Slowly the grey-furred mouse nodded, calm seeping in now that the tears were drying up. It was the first real sense of calm Modo had felt in a long time, he realized. The grief ebbed, and a sense of relief filled it’s place.

                He glanced behind them to where their bikes rested, and the absence of the third was keenly felt. He squeezed Throttle a little tighter before finally releasing him. “Don’t suppose you’ve heard from—”

                “No.’ Throttle said quickly, quietly. “Thought maybe you had.”

                Modo shook his head. “Nothing. Not in weeks.” He looked up pointedly and added with a smirk, “And don’t say Rimfire told you that.”

                Throttle finally managed a laugh, even a small one.

                They looked out of the garage, across the waving grass to the canyons in the distance. The world waited. Seeing what they would do next.

                “Guess we got our work cut out for us.” Modo admitted.

                “Seems like it. If you’re up for it.”

                Modo offered a small smile of his own. “Well…I may be a little rusty. But maybe getting some dirt under my wheels is what I need. Sure beats shoveling shit.”

                Now Throttle did laugh and Modo felt the sound in his core. He had missed it more than he realized.

                “Want me to help you reattach your arm?”

                “Yeah…but maybe after a shower. I reek bad enough to be mistaken for a Plutarkian.” Modo mused, crinkling his nose at his state of unwashed.

                “I wasn’t going to say nothin’…” Throttle replied, winking at him.

                Modo ruffled his hair, swiping his palm down across his face and knocking his glasses askew. It was his first real glimpse of his eyes and the new scar there.

                Throttle replaced his specs without further explanation, feeling a tinge of self-consciousness.

                “Come on,” Maverick nodded. “there’s still a chair at the table that’s got your name on it.”

***

Chapter Text

***

Sweep pulled up in her truck, having been gone longer than she meant to, the back of it filled with feed and supplies. Normally taking the scenic route back from the city helped clear his head. Offering a much needed moment of quiet with no one needing anything from her for a short while. Just enough to put some pep back in her step, shake the dust off.

But today it had offered no reprieve. Neither had the day before, or the day before that. There seemed not enough road to tame the noise in her head.

She didn’t fully register the additional motorcycle that was parked near the front porch as rattled up the drive. If she had, she might have stopped there and gotten out in search of the rider. Instead she continued down the gravel and dirt path that led towards the barn and pulled up the back.

She exited the truck, briefly pausing to take in horizon. The sky, the mesa in the distance and the green that was slowly but surely coming back to the Red Planet. It was a beautiful scene, but today it felt muted. Like the full color of it couldn’t quite reach her.

The supplemental bags of feed for the horned beasts and chickens came in 20 lb bags and she bought at least 30. But the muscular woman carried 3 and 4 at a time, hardly bothered by the weight. She was not as strong as her brother but damn close, consistently noting that Modo’s bionic prosthetic gave him an unfair edge. But lately, she could work circles around her “big” little bro.

The thought made the exhausted, sour frown return to her face, adding to the grey that seemed to tinge the world lately, as she carried the first load of feed into the barn and tossed it into the bin near the back wall.

                It was not the first time her world was muted this way, and she was sure it wouldn’t be the last. It had come first when he farther had died. Then when the Plutarkians came. By then she had gotten so used to it that she almost forgot what was before. Until she lost her Enfield. If the world was touched with grey before, and muted all it’s color, losing him had painted it black.

                So when he brother in turn, lost his wife, she had been more than able to sympathize with the color his world had turned. And she thought she could help. And perhaps, selfishly, it lifted her not to stand in that dark alone anymore. But instead of finding each other in the dark, it had divided her and her sibling more than she ever thought possible.

                And watching Modo stay in the black day after day, taking root there instead of finding his way out as she had, had started to fester something inside her. Resentment. Hard, sharp-edged and ugly. It burrowed into her chest, getting heavier by the day. And the muted colors had returned, getting duller by the day.

                Before she had really registered it, she had emptied half the truck. And only then did she become aware of new sounds from inside the barn. The sound of heavy bales moving and shifting and soft grunts that were both distinctly Mouse and male.

That alone ruled out her daughter, and the loads that she could see being shifted in the distance were too heavy for her son on his own, strong and capable as he was. She could still out lift him.

She raised a brow in surprise, her cycling thoughts pushed to the background for a moment. She shoved her hands into her pockets and sauntered towards the figure, still obscured by hay and the shadow of the loft. “Well! Look who finally started pulling his weight around here! I was beginning to doubt I’d see the day again—“

Sweep moved deeper into the barn, expecting some retort from her brother about getting off his case and trying to boss him around like they were still kids. But instead of the familiar grey-furred giant she was expecting, her eyes laid on a face she thought she might have truly seen the last of.

Throttle pulled the last of the larger bales off the chute from the loft and stacked it atop the others, looking up in surprise at the woman who approached him with such bluster. He smiled at her immediately, something about her gait and the sound of her voice an instant comfort, even if was feeling a bit sassy.

“Well I know there’s something of a backlog but I’m doing my best.” He answered playfully.

Sweep stared at him a moment, the annoyed smirk on her face vanishing instantly into a sort of quiet shock. Almost as if she didn’t really believe what she was seeing. Her hesitation gave him pause, suddenly nervous. “Hope I’m not intruding…”  He looked back at the bales, as if that were the problem. “Did I stack them too high?”

She stared at him a moment more, then scoffed quietly, staring at her boots for a moment before glancing back at him. “Does he know you’re here?”

Throttle nodded. “It’s sorta why I came.” He answered.

“Took you long enough.” She replied. She moved closer towards him, but did not welcome him in the way her son or mother had. She seemed reserved, holding herself at a distance, arms folded across her chest.

She regarded him carefully, almost suspiciously. “Is Vinnie here somewhere?”

Throttle gave a small shake of his head, his turn to seem cautious. “Afraid not.”

Sweep exhaled softly, tongue clicking against the back of her teeth thoughtfully. There was no surprise, but there was disappointment.

“I’m sorry to just barge in—“

She scoffed more loudly, obviously irritated. “Barge in?!” She mocked. “You’ve been working this land nearly as long as I have, Evander what the fuck do you mean ‘barge in’?! If you’re so worried about intruding, you never should have left.”

It came out sharper than she expected and the startled look behind his specs finally made her check herself, pursing her lips and inhaling deeply. “Shit.” She muttered, covering her mouth with one hand, eyes misty and brow furrowed. “I didn’t mean it to come out like that. Sorry.”

He gave a brief nod, but still looked a bit taken aback. “I uh…thought I could be some help. Modo’s inside, getting washed up. Felt weird just sitting around, ya know…”  He looked around at the barn, eyes drifting up towards the loft. Seeing the ghost of their past selves playing and working in same sweet dusty smelling hay. Parties and midnight crashes. Late night talks with pilfered bottles of very hard cider…near misses. Blood on the floor.

He shook himself out of the memory and refocused on the now, as she recovered, moving a bit closer still. “You look good.” She offered.

Behind them one of the cows, a lazy old sow who was uninteresting in grazing outside with the rest of the herd, lowed softly. “Must not smell too good if you didn’t realize I was here.” He offered.

She relented and smiled, but restrained it with difficulty.

“That’s not fair. You’re not allowed to be charming right now. I’m damned pissed at you.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He nodded, still teasing, though more carefully. “I’ll try to be less likeable.”

Finally she sighed and moved towards him, hugging him hard. Realizing upon touching him that it was what she had wanted to do in the first place. “You weren’t supposed to leave him alone. Or leave us alone.” she inhaled and swallowed hard. Knowing why, and furious that no amount of reasoning or understanding in it eased the ache. “Fuck this is so hard. Why is it so hard?”

“I’m sorry.” Throttle whispered. It felt so small, such a meager offering, but it was all he had. His regret and remorse.  The ripple effects of the wound he’d caused with his mistakes kept fanning out, wider and wider. And all he had were those two words. Trying to stretch them again and again across such a wide breadth of damage, until they were too thin to be of any use.

She shushed him, almost angrily, her nails biting into his back as she kissed the side of his head softly, the same way her mother often did. “Dummy…I don’t need that from you. Ever.”

They parted, awkward yet reluctant, catching their breath.

 Sweep quickly wiped her eyes on the back of her hand, worried frown back in place. “So. You two talked then, I take it?” She asked, her tone softened but still probing. Needing much more information before she truly lowered her guard.

“Kinda. Moved an inch, I guess you’d say.” He explained. He still vividly remembered the rage on Modo’s face, the fist crashing into the wall next to his head. The look of horror that came after that was almost worse than the expected punch. “He looks like hell.” He added.

“Yeah well, when you don’t sleep and you don’t eat, and you drift around all night, and zombie out durning the day…yeah. That’s usually the result.” She shrugged, her body still tight and clenched. Nerves frayed. Something churning close beneath her surface. Ready to burst. She moved to inspect his work, pulling one of the bales off and starting a new stack beside it.

Work was her salve. The vent to her pain in frustration. She could keep that farm running single handedly on that alone, she thought.

“He’s an absolute mess. Mama and I are at our wits end. Daisy needs him and he just…looks at her. Like he’s afraid she’ll break if he touches her.”  She grabbed two more and continued the stack. More out of a need to move than anything else.

“I noticed.” Throttle nodded. “How long has that been going on?”

“I don’t know. Couple weeks now. It’s like he’s backsliding. Getting worse, not better.”  She shook her head and he saw her exhaustion on her face. The lines under her eyes that hadn’t been there before. The stress in her shoulders. “I tried to talk to him about it. But it just turns into an argument. Now hardly even that. He just…walks away.”

Your fault. All your fault.  The voice whispered in his head, needing no conscious acknowledgement to make it true. He knew it was.

Sweep looked back at him again thoughtful now that she had let off a little steam, “What made you come back? Did he reach out to you?”

“Rimfire came and found me.”

She smiled again, tucking a loose strand of white hair behind her ear. “I’m not surprised. Boy doesn’t know when to quit. And thank gods for it.”

                “Stubborn like his Mama.” Throttle nodded.

                He saw the first flicker of real light return to her face at the comment and she patted his shoulder. “You wanna work huh?”

                “Point me in the right direction, lady.”

Two hours later, with the barn cleaner than it had been in weeks and the pair of them sufficiently sweaty, muddy and hay dusted from the work, they walked the pasture together. The herd of horned beast had dwindled over the years, at one point down to one bull and three females. But now it seemed to be expanding again. There were at least three or four calf among the herd, which had grown to about fifteen, and two of the females were obviously pregnant.

“Looks like they’re really bouncing back.” Throttle nodded, watching three or four graze in a group, the little ones darting in about between their mother’s legs, shy and always hungry.

“The more green comes back, the better. Crops have finally stabilized enough that we can grow them outdoors again, and the grass has been back for awhile. Wasn’t sure I’d ever see the day again.” Sweep nodded, pleased.

She noticed a tree a little ways in the distance and the familiar old sow lying comfortably beneath it.

“I see someone you haven’t said hello to yet.”

He cocked an eyebrow at him, and she pointed him towards the tree. Blue, the old skittish sow that had taken a shine to the tan biker since she was just a calf, laid comfortably in the shade of the tree, chewing lazily on some wild flowers that had popped up among the roots.

“Blue! Your boyfriend’s here!” Sweep teased.

The sow lazily turned her head in the direction of the call, nostrils flaring as she caught a familiar scent and then wobbled slowly up right.

Throttle was stunned to say the least. Horned beast could live a long life, especially when well carried for. And Blue had her share of a full life. But time was catching up to her. As she ambled slowly towards him, giving low belts and snorts of excitement.

“Hey there’s my girl!” Throttle laughed and then paused as she grew closer, he saw the thick milky white film that covered her eyes, making them look like pale blue marbles.

Throttle stared at her until she came close enough to bump her nose into him. He stroked her softly and she lowed, happy and content, pushing to his hands.

“Oh sweet girl…” he sighed sadly. He bent and hugged her head, and butted softly against him and licked his hand when he pulled away. “When did this happen?” he asked, looking back at Sweep.

“About six months ago we started to notice. We thought maybe she’d been eating something rotten that was causing it, but…doc says it’s time and stress and years of less than perfect food thanks to droughts and famine. Poor old girl’s lived through a lot. It’s all just caught up with her.”

Blue looked up at him with those pale marbles, and he felt sickly haunted by the sight of them, unconsciously touching one of his own scars at the socket. “Yeah. Understandable.” He mumbled, stroking her head with his other hand. Even if she couldn’t see him, she looked up at him with the same kind love she always did.

“What made you decide to go through with it?” Sweep asked him, catching his attention again. He blinked back at her, and she tapped beneath one eye. “Not hard to tell you’ve had an upgrade. Blue is pretty fancy.”

He scoffed softly at the comment. “Guess I couldn’t put it off any more.” He answered.

“Were you…alone?”

“Yes. And no. Staid with Stoker and the fam afterward.”

Her tongue clicked the back of her teeth, a sign of exasperation. “Stubborn…” she muttered under her breath. “You could have called. You could have staid here.”

“Stoker took care of me just fine.”

“That’s not the point.” She argued. “You know Modo would have wanted to be there for you.” She added. “You know he would have.”

“No.” he said resolutely. “I don’t.”

The admission fell heavy between them like a stone. Something they could not ignore.

 She shook her head, frustration bubbling again. “This such bullshit. All of it. You’re torturing each other and pushing each other away when you should be closer than ever. It’s been a fucking hard year, I know, but how much longer are you three going to do this to each other?”

It was Throttle’s turn to look angry then. “You weren’t there. You don’t get it.”

“What don’t I get?” she demanded. “Don’t act like I don’t know the world just because I’m not out chasing trouble like you three. Don’t act like I haven’t seen or lost things same as any of you. Not ever battle was fought out there. There were plenty to fight here too. I buried my dead, same as you—”

“Stop.” He hissed. “Please. Stop.”

She struggled, but held her tongue.

Blue bleated softly, pulling away, feeling the stress of her caretakers.

“For the record,” he began tightly, carefully. “You’ve never had to prove your battles to me. I know what you’ve lost. It was never a competition. And when you buried your dead, we were right here, helping you shovel the dirt. But this is different. And you don’t know.”

She relented, unable to argue. And unable to bear the strain in his voice.

“I’m sorry.” She said again, quickly, before he could. “I know I wasn’t there. And I know what happened hurt all of you…”

“It was my gun, Sweep. It was my shot. She’s not here because of me. It wasn’t because some Sand Raider or Plutarkian, or grenade or landmine or some other thing took her away. I did that. It was me.” His voice was tight and shaking, struggling to hold composure. “How do we come back from that?”

She didn’t have answer. Because in a way, she knew he was right. There was no enemy or external foe to blame for the loss. Nothing to shoulder that hard and hateful part of grief. Only the man left holding the gun, who would have never chose this.

                Modo’s reaction in the garage that day seemed to encapsulate it all. The rage, and the horror of that rage. The love that remained in the midst of it. Confused, unsure how to proceed.

                Throttle turned his attention back to the sow in the silence and pressed against him again, calmed by the touch. But the allure of food and a soft bed was more appealing and she drifted back to her tree, flopping down with a great tired huff of breath.

                In the distance they heard a bell from the house ringing. A signal to come home. In the far distance they could see Mama Maverick’s figure on the porch, waving them in.

                “Fuck.” She swore again, dragging her fingers through her hair.  “She has the goddamn worse timing, I swear. If she’s dragging me in there to do lift the damn couch or something…”

                “Hey, furniture pushin’s an esteemed position. Anyone can move a couch, but when you want it done with an extra touch of feminine rage…you can’t get that just anywhere.” Throttle offered, deadpan, but with smirk in the corner of his mouth. “I mean, no one rage cleans like you, sis. Let’s be honest. There’s only one mouse for the job.”

                Sweep stared at him and then started to laugh and shake her head. “You asshole…” she chuckled, eyes wet, but the tension effectively broken.

She looked at him again and put her arm around him, kissing his cheek and forehead as she ruffled his hair. “I missed you so much.” Her easy affection with him confused him, after so many months of being iced out. Easy forgiveness even in the midst of high emotions had become rare and hard to find. But Sweep offered it easily, freely, abundantly.

“Missed you too.”

She headbutted him gently and he winced, glasses knocked askew. “You’d better fix this, Evander. Sit that big lug of a bro down and talk some sense into him. Or I’m gonna kick both your asses. And Vinnie will get his, never fear.”

The bell rang again and they parted, Sweeping giving a long harsh whistle back in response that carried over the field before turning back home.

“I’ll fix it.” He nodded. “I promise.”

**

                While Throttle and Sweep went about the farm, working to pick up the slack he’d created. Modo lingered at the edge of the house. Drifting from the porch to the garage to the shed where Primer had begun to set up shop of her own, and back again. So much so that he had worn a path between the three places, and his feet knew the steps automatically. He could have walked it in his sleep.

                But for all the listless movement he made, little seemed to come of it. He would go to the garage, fuss about with some tools. Make a list of things that needed repairing. The tractor, the thresher, the truck, his bike…

                Always when he came to Lil’ Hoss he would grind to a halt. And then he turn and leave and made his way to the house. Drink from a seemingly endless pot of coffee, tasting none of it, and watch his daughter play from a distance. It would soothe him to a point. And then something about her would remind him of her mother. And he would leave again. Now taking off towards the shed. Where he’d round out the cycle looking for nothing in the piles of parts and detritus. Until eventually, something would call him back. Either a brief bubble of clarity or relief, or want. Something that would shake him out of the fog. Just a for a second. Then he’d return to the garage…and it would start again.

                All day. Every day. For almost two months. Two months of pointless hell. He was dead at the wheel, he thought. Dead. But he was caught on the steering wheel. Foot on the gas. Going in circles pointlessly, until finally…

                He looked up suddenly. As if he hadn’t realized he’d been moving. Too lost in thought. He stared around for a moment, regaining his bearings. Half way between the house and the garage he realized.

                Modo looked down at his boots and the bare track he’d worn in the earth.

                “I’ve run out of gas.” He thought vaguely.

                Movement in the distance caught his attention, and he saw Throttle and Sweep far out in the pasture. It broke the spell of his miserable monotony it seemed, this small but familiar change in scenery.

                “Uncle Modo?”

                He blinked turning his head back towards the house, seeing Rimfire coming down the porch steps with Daisy, dressed in pink and yellow plaid, resting on his hip, while his other hand held a familiar cup of watery coffee. He handed it to his uncle, and Modo took it cautiously.

                “Thanks.”

                “Um, can we talk?” Rimfire asked. Modo nodded mutely, sipping the hot drink and gazing between him and the pair of mice in the distance.

                “I know you didn’t want me to talk to him. But I’m not sorry I went.”

                Modo nodded, still saying nothing. Rimfire continued on, used to the mute replies and the distant stares. “You’ve never been this bad, and with everything that’s been going on…I did what I thought you would want me to do. So if you’re mad—”

                “I’m not.” His uncle cut in quietly, making him blink in surprise.

                “I’m not mad, nephew. Not at you, anyway.”  He sighed heavily, looking out at the field. “I’m mad at myself, mostly.”

                This is not the response the younger Maverick had expected.

                Daisy shifted on his hip, wanting down and he obliged her. She wobbled unsteadily the few steps between the two men, and Modo bent and caught her little reaching arms, keeping her up right as she squealed in delight.  “Daddy!”

                “You’re doing so good, baby! Wobbling like drunken sailor but you’re upright aren’t ya?”

                She made an excited series of grunts, bouncing up and down and he scooped her up fully and held her close. It felt good to just…hold her. Really. He felt like hadn’t in awhile. And Daisy must have shared the sentiment, little arms tight around his neck.

                “Where was he? When you found him?”

                “In the city. Some little apartment.”

                “On his own?”

                Rimfire hesitated for a moment at the question, thinking of Max and his grin and lack of pants. It didn’t feel like a casual hookup, the way the two had interacted with each other. And thought perhaps that this might something Throttle should speak on himself.

                “Yeah.”

                Modo made a soft sort of grunting sound, his expression sad. “He shouldn’t be alone. It’s not good for people like him.”

                “Or like you?” his nephew countered.

                Modo blinked at him and scoffed softly. “People like us.” He amended. He shifted Daisy, who was getting too comfortable squeezing his neck and half choking him with her affection. She whined, but settled when he sat her down beside him and she could freely inspect the grass and the small flowering growing along it’s edges, creeping along the edge of dirt and pebbles.

                “Old soldiers. You leave us alone too long and well…that quiet gives us an awful lot of time to think. About things better left forgotten. And if you don’t have a touch stone to reach out to when the quiet gets too loud…”

                He thought about some of the blacker nights he’d weathered since Jessie’s death. The screaming he did alone out in the canyon where no one could hear him. He thought about the nights in bed, paralyzed by images of her, dead. He thought about the fight. Vinnie’s face twisting into a mask of hatred he’d never seen pointed at anyone other than one of their fish-scaled foes.  And though of his fist in the wall next to Throttle’s head.

                “…you can get lost in that quiet. On your own.”

                “Yeah. I know.” Rimfire replied. “I hate the quiet too.”

                Modo’s expression softened, taking him in. Appreciating the mouse he’d grown into. Capable and goodhearted, despite everything unfairly stolen from him as a kid.

                “So…I saw you fixed up his bike. Does that mean you’ve talked about the ship? The sightings?”

                “We talked about it.”

                “Are you going?”

                “Ain’t decided yet.”  He looked away, off towards the garage. “Not sure me jumping headlong into some recon mission is the best thing right now. For either of us.”

                Rimfire frowned, obviously disagreeing.  “I get it. But eventually, you’re gonna have to make some kind of move.”

                “What’s supposed to mean?” Modo shot back, defenses rising.

                The two stared cautiously at each other, on edge.

                Rimfire swallowed slowly and replied, “All I’m trying to say is…we waited before and  the choice got taken away from us. I don’t want to see that happen twice.”

                Modo’s guard dropped slowly, unable to deny the truth in his nephew’s reasoning. He softened. “Don’t worry. We’ll handle it. Whatever it is.”

                He smiled at him, and Rimfire thought he saw the glimmer of the old Modo for the first time in ages.

                Rimfire reached cautiously and touched his arm. It was like he was testing if the mouse beside him was really there. The real thing. Not the ghost that had been shambling through their house lately. The hope that had risen in him in Brimstone was gaining traction. Change was on the horizon.

                Mama appeared at the door of the back porch, Primer moving through behind her, bringing in heavy jugs of water from the reserve in the cellar.  “Well there’s my little one! Wonder where you had gotten off to Daisy Jane.” She called from the porch.

                The toddler looked back at her Grandmother, grinning toothlessly in the sunshine and pointed up at the sky. “Outside!” she called.

                “Sure is. Why don’t you come to Gran and—”

                “It’s okay, Mama.” Modo called back. “I think we’re gonna take a little walk around the farm. Huh baby?”

                Daisy nodded excitedly, doing her best to wobble up on her own, still shaky as a fawn. She grabbed hold of her father’s boot for support and steadied herself, beaming up at him in pride.

                Mama seemed surprised, but pleased. “I think that’s a great idea.”

**

                By dinner time, the energy on the farm had begun to shift. The way you feel the air change that night of the first frost, or the first thaw. Something sleeping wakes up. Just when you were beginning to think it would go on sleeping forever.

                Ada Maverick could not hide her pleasure, seeing her dining room table set and nearly full again. Hearing voices of chatter, casual, careful, but warm conversations drifting in and out of rooms. She hummed as her frying pan sizzled and large pots full of stew, pink corn on the cob, and pan-fried bread that were crisping up nicely on the cast iron, bubbling in herbed oil.

                She looked out the windows at the lawn, wishfully hoping she’d see another set of headlights rumbling down the dirt road. A familiar cherry red bike pulling up fast and hard to the porch, its rider crowing and still working off his most recent adrenaline high, but always ready to greet her with a prize-winning smile and a kiss to her cheek.

                He should be here. And it hurt that he wasn’t. But tonight, she had hoped that hurt would soon be mended, and so she did not dwell on the ache of that absence. She’d have all three of her boys home again soon enough. She just knew it.

                For now, her hands were full enough.

                She moved the now perfectly crispy pan bread from the pan and placed it on a cooling rack with the others, before lining up another sausage link beside it.

                A body moved behind her and she felt Primer distract her first by kissing her cheek while simultaneously reaching to steal both the fresh bread and sausage from the rack, zipping away before she could catch her.

                “Thanks Gran!”

                “You’re supposed to let those cool!” she called after them. “If you burn your fingers it’s your own fault!” she added dismissively and then continued to mutter under her breath as she poured more batter into the oil. Not really angry at all of course.

                Primer giggled and hurried back into the den, where most of the family was scattered before dinner. She tore the bread in half, wincing at the hot oil sting in the pads of her fingers, and then snapped the sausage in half too, offering it to Throttle.

                “Alright! Primer comin’ in hot with the goods. You’re the best.”

                “Damn right!” Primer nodded through a hot mouthful. They raised their shares to each other in mock-cheers and filled their mouths.

                “Hey where’s my share!?” Rimfire gasped, pretending to be affronted by the snub.

                “Guests eat first.” Primer reminded him through a mouthful.

                “He’s no guest,” Modo replied, looking up from his place in the chair while Throttle leaned on the edge of the couch across from him. “He’s practically part owner. Squatters rights and all that.” He winked.

                Throttle huffed. “Squatter huh? Guess that means I can leave the dishes for the rest of you then.” He replied.

Both younger siblings shook their heads, “Not it!” they both yelled, for a moment children again. The easy laugh that bubbled up from the adults in the room seemed to crystalize, leaving everything a little lighter, warmer.

The brothers glanced at each other across the divide. The chasm between them felt a little smaller. Closing at the edges. The distance less unfathomable. A future, murky and uncertain, felt possible.

And then they became aware of the empty seats in the room.

The absences glared back at them, and the heaviness of the world as it was settled in again. Sweep appeared in the doorway from the kitchen, “Come and get it!”

Primer and Rimfire were in motion first, still playfully shoving at each other to be the first through the door, while their mother shook her head. Modo made his way forward with Daisy, and Sweep stole her.

“Come here ‘punkin! Auntie hasn’t seen you all day! Where’s my giggles?” she tickled her belly and made her squeal before whisking her away to plop her in her booster seat.

Normally dinner was a buffet event, and people rarely held their same seat for very long, until they were spread out between the kitchen and the den and the sitting room, hands full of plates and cups, talking and eating comfortably.

But as their circle had shrunk, they now huddled together around the old slab table, seeking the company and maybe the safety of those that were left. Some of the gloom that hovered over that too small gathering had lifted with the returning members. The gloom no longer feeling so oppressive.

Throttle looked around at the faces that surrounded him. The players at the table came and went over the years. Sometimes fuller, sometimes less. He remembered his own mother at this table, and his father too. He remembered the years after her illness, and the days this was the only place he could get her to sit and be still. One of the few things still clear in her mind.

He remembered Enfield. His dark eyes bright, and always quick with a joke and fast on his feet. A fierce defender of his wife. Devoted father. Kind soul, who had been stolen away.

He remembered Stoker at this table, arm wrestling, too loud but in the best way. Bowie mixing drinks though they were all more than buzzed. Harley, still grease covered from the garage and still pretty as a picture, coming in and receiving a hot meal from Mama and a kiss from Stoke. Vinnie looking at them enviously…

His eyes darted unconsciously towards the empty seat beside him. Not empty on purpose he supposed…but sometimes the family leaned into their superstitions. When they lost someone, their chair, their most frequently used seat at the table, was retired to the cellar, covered and reserved. Enfield’s had been down there sometime, along with Modo’s father’s. Jessie’s was gone now too, and the spot was filled with Daisy’s highchair. An item the toddler vehemently hated it seemed, used to spending her meals on someone’s lap.

 But Vinnie’s staid. Waiting.  And he supposed his had to. Though he hadn’t thought about it until just now.

He felt eyes on him, and realized Modo was looking at him from across the table. The question of the empty chair hung between them for a moment, and then Throttle took a swig of his drink from brown bottle Sweep brought him.

“Good to have a hot meal, hmm?” Modo asked.

Throttle laughed no nodded. “You have no idea.”

“Oh yeah I do. You’ve always been a scrounger. If no one’s around to remind you, you’ll go ages before you think to eat something. Not good for the muscles you know.”

The tan mouse flexed. “Well, I’ve no trouble there, as you can see.”

“So someone must be feeding you then.” Modo chuckled. “Stoke visit often Or are you eating at Bowie’s most of the time? Cause I know you don’t cook.”

The thought of Max’s surprise dinner rose to the forefront and the smile that slipped over his fact, just for a moment, made Modo’s ears perk. Sweep’s too. “What was that?”

“What was what?” he scoffed.

Modo waved his fork at him. “That face. You only make that face when you’re thinking about someone you’re sweet on. So maybe you’re getting fed elsewhere these days?”

He started to speak, and then hesitated. Almost holding his breath. Eyes darting to the place where Jessie should be. It felt wrong. It felt wrong to talk about this new relationship in front of a grieving widower. It felt wrong to say he had found someone who had made the world bearable again. Maybe even wonderful, when Modo was still so clearly in the thick of his loss. Now was not the time. And he swallowed it.

“I think I was just thinking about some of that pie over there—” he tried to deflect. Mama chuckled at him and reached to fill a plate of it for him and Modo shrugged, letting it go. Only Rimfire looked at him a little longer, and Throttle felt a different kind of guilt settle like a small stone next to the rest that had filled him up.

“Fine fine…none of my business where you’re getting your engine lubed—” Modo glanced up as his mother gave him a look that would have turned him to stone and he coughed, cutting off phrase. “Sorry, Mama.”

A change of topic was clearly needed.

“So,” Rimfire pipped up, happy to provide the redirection. “Are you two going out then? To investigate the ship sighting?”

“We’re going.” Throttle replied. He looked hopefully to Modo. “I was planning on heading out in the morning. Now that Lady’s geared up and repaired. We could tune Lil’ Hoss tonight and—”

“I didn’t agree to nothin’.” Modo said, his voice quiet and flat as he continued to eat and not look directly at his bro.

The air in the room shifted, and the easier chatter and laughter dulled. The two matriarchs of the house continued to eat without looking up. It was only the younger generation that was staring at the two brothers, meal forgotten.

“I know that.” Throttle agreed quietly. “But I thought you said it would be good for you to get some dirt under your wheels again too?”

Modo nodded, and continued to stare at the table. “I did. I do. I’ll ride with you, sure. But I ain’t going out and getting tangled in any more mess. And if you were smart, you wouldn’t either. Let it be, let Watchtower handle it.”

Throttle stared at him. “Watchtower’s been handling it. And getting nowhere. There’s too much red tape and pull back from the Cathedra. They’re chasing their tails. Carbine’s doing her best, I know but…” he sighed, frustration rising. “Modo, you and I both know what to look for out there. All I want is to see if it’s anything to worry about. It might not be.”

He knew the last part was a lie, but he felt desperate.

“I think Throttle’s right.” Rimfire cut in. “Going out where Watchtower can’t might give us a better sense of the big picture. If nothing else seeing actual bikers out on the waste roads again might give those Sand Raiders a second thought about coming so close to town.”

Modo turned and fixed his nephew with a stern warning look. “Appreciate the input, nephew, but this doesn’t concern you.”

“What?”

“You’re not Watchtower, you aren’t even a cadet anymore—”

“Because the ‘Freedom Fighters’ were disbanded and absorbed into the military, and I—”

“Your Mama and Gran need you here. Here is where you stay.”

Rimfire’s expression went hard and cold and he sat his drink down too hard on the table. “I’m not a child,” he replied curtly. “You can’t tell me what to do.”

                He looked quickly to Throttle before Modo could reply. “I’ll go with you.”

                “No.” Modo cut in sharply.

                “Modo—” Throttle began, trying to quell the storm before it erupted fully. Daisy began to squirm, anxiety building, sensing the brewing anger in the room.

                “You want to ride out there, fine, I’m sure Stoke will go with you.” Maverick cut him off, still speaking in that strange cold and direct tone that Throttle had not heard him use before. Not like this.

                “Stoker needs some down time. Our last ride out there was rough—”

                “Yeah? What a coincidence.” He looked from Throttle to Rimfire. “And that’s why you aren’t going anywhere near this. I don’t want anyone else getting hurt.”

                “Modo!” Sweep’s sharp angry voice cut in, glaring at her brother.

                “What, Sweep?” he hissed back at her. “You’re okay with your son going out there—”

                “It doesn’t matter what I’m okay with! Rimfire’s a trained fighter and a damned good one, and that’s thanks to both of you!” she looked hotly between the two men. “I can’t believe I have to stand here and listen to you take cheap shots at your own family—”

                “Family!? What about the rest of the family, Sweep? Or are you just going to pretend like you don’t notice, like I should just move on—”

                “Moving on is the only choice you have!” Sweep yelled back at him. “Gods I can’t sit and do this anymore! I can’t watch you sit and wallow and act like no one has ever felt the pain you’re feeling! I can’t do it! You used to be a goddamn Freedom Fighter, one of the best and now what the hell are you doing!? Sitting around here, cowering while your brothers need you—”

                “Yeah, well not all of us are stone-cold like you sis, sorry about it—” Modo scoffed bitterly.

Sweep looked like she might leap across the table and punch him.

                “That’s enough, both of you!” Ada called, slapping her hand down on the table, upsetting a glass that wobbled, fell spilling its contents across the table cloth and then rolled, shattering on the floor with a pop.

                Daisy let out a wail, eyes flooding with frightened tears. “Mama!!” she screamed. “I want Mama!”

                The heartbreaking sound flushed the air out of the room. The anger with it. The bickering adults all fell into pained and shocked silence, staring at her.

                In any other moment, in any other circumstance, Modo would have swept her up, hugged her, kissed her and soothed her tears. Her big brave daddy, always running to the rescue.

                But the big grey mouse staid rooted to the spot. And it was obvious how pale he’d gone under his fur. He looked haunted. Horrified. Helpless.

                He rose abruptly, but did not reach for the girl. Instead he had both hands to his head. “I can’t…I can’t--!” There was panic edged in his voice. Looking like he might bolt. Or crumple to floor. Throttle had rarely seen him so scared of anything.

                His sister gripped his arm lightly. “Modo, it’s okay, just breathe…”

                Their argument was forgotten, Sweep stepping once more into the role she’d always had. Her brother was in trouble, she needed to fix it.

                Ada looked anxiously at the broken glass on the floor as she went to move, and Rimfire stopped her to keep her from cutting her foot. “Gran, don’t move, I’ve got it.”

                Primer was already slipping the tablecloth carefully free from the table. To stop the spread of liquid. Throttle, reached for Daisy.

                The screaming toddler did not resist him lifting her from the booster, and only wiggled a little to reach for Daddy or Auntie. Sweep glanced back at him, and he just nodded, carrying the crying girl from the room and out onto the back porch.

                Dusk had settled purple over the farm. And Daisy continued to sniffle and cry. “Mama. Mama. I want Mama.” Over and over. It was no longer a scream or a wail. It was pained sort of drone. One that settled in the tan mouse’s chest and staid there. He knew that cry. He’d done the same for his own mother, even if it was just in his head.

                He rocked her, sitting on the step with her.  “Shh.” He kissed her hair and rubbed her back. But the crying continued. He buried his face in her little curls, wincing at the sound. “I’m so sorry baby. I’m so sorry.”

                Daisy sniffled against his collarbone piteously. “Mama…” she moaned softly.

                Throttle was beginning to wonder if he hadn’t actually died out in the waste and this was the hell that was waiting for him. Hearing Daisy cry for the woman he’d killed, and knowing how much Modo and Vinnie hated him for it. Swearing in that moment, he could feel it all pouring down on him. Their loss. Their rage. He’d failed. He couldn’t fix it…

                Daisy shifted suddenly in his arms, enough to snap him out of the nightmare in his head. He was shaking he realized, breathing hard. Holding her too tight. She tried to wriggle free, but he readjusted her, sitting her instead on the step between his legs. “Here baby…” he reached for his phone and showed her the screen.

                The new shiny object was enough of a distraction to quiet her sniffle for a moment as he tried to scroll through pictures, searching. Finally, he found one. A picture of Jessie and Vinnie, Modo half cropped out in the background, sitting on the steps of the Van Wham trailer. It had been a bright sunny day and the siblings had been caught in a moment where they weren’t either in competition or ragging on each other, sitting together and smiling.

                “I know it’s not the same as the real thing. But it’s the best I can do.”

                Daisy blinked at the picture on the screen with her big eyes and then the pointed with her chubby soft finger, looking up at him. “Dat Mama?”

                He nodded mutely, having to keep his mouth shut so the ache in his throat wouldn’t make itself known. But he forced a smile for her anyway. “Yeah.” He said finally, swallowing hard. “Isn’t she pretty?”

                “Pretty Mama.” The baby parroted, quite pleased. She poked at the face beside her mother’s. He could see there was some recognition on her face. That she knew Vinnie by sight, but his name was escaping her. And that hurt him in a new way he hadn’t expected. Like stepping on a piece of glass.

                “That’s Uncle Vinnie.” He explained.

                “Inny!” she nodded. The “V” was still a little difficult for her to manage.

                He kissed her hair again, her little antenna twitching slightly. She looked back at him again, “More Mama?”

                Throttle winced. “I, uh…”

                Footsteps behind, light and quiet. Primer made herself known, slipping out the back door, wrapping the quilt from the back of the couch over her shoulders as she came. “What are we looking at?” she asked.

                “Mama!” Daisy replied, eager to share. She poked and slapped the screen again, nearly knocking the phone out of Throttle’s hands.

                “I um…” he started. “I don’t keep a lot of pictures of her on my phone—”

                But his niece did not need his explanation. She pulled out her own and flicked quickly through several folders before presenting her own pretty screen to the little girl. “There she is! I’ve got loads of pics.”

                Daisy made and excited “ooo” sound, shaking with delight for a second, little feet tapping and Primer happily let her flick through the camera roll. Images of Jessie, some casual and candid, some unflattering and obviously more candid as well as pictures of the wedding and their new home all opened up at the little girl’s touch. She came to one of Jessie, obviously pregnant, sitting in the same spot they were, hand on her belly, Modo behind her.

                Primer leaned in closer and looked at her tiny cousin. “That’s you in there.” She tapped Jessie’s belly bump.

                “Not me!” Daisy huffed. “Dat Mama tummy! Silly!” She swatted at her, as if to say she had no time for her nonsense. She had pictures to look at.

                “Can’t wait till your old enough to have that talk, kiddo. It’s a doozy.” Primer chuckled. She looked back, finding Throttle looking at her.

                “Thank you.”  His voice was rough, slightly cracked.

                She gave him a sad smile and offered him the other edge of the quilt, hooking it around his back and shoulders and resting her head against him. “I’m sorry he said that.” She whispered to him. “He didn’t mean it. Really. He gets so sad and then so angry. He’s just not himself. He needs your help.”

                “Not sure if I can.” He answered.

                “You already are.” She explained. She nodded towards the phone. “This is too hard for him right now. Talking about her. Whenever Daisy cries for her he just…shuts down. Gran had to take all the pictures and put them in a drawer.”

                “What about at their house?”

                Primer shook her head. “He hasn’t been back there in months.”

                They looked out across the dark in the far distance, where this edge of the Maverick’s acres ended, and the road that divided them and the Van Wham’s wandered off towards the mesa. It was almost swallowed in shadow now, but Throttle could still make out the vague outline of the house that had been built in place of where the old trailer had once stood. Merging of clans had called for a new homestead in their opinion.

                “I should have come sooner.” He muttered.

                She hugged his arm. “You’re here now. That’s good enough.”

                He smiled at her and kissed her forehead. “When did you get to be this wise, girl? You stay quiet and in the background. But I think you’ve got a lot more to say.”

                “If anyone cares to listen.” She sighed. “Kinda hard when your acrobatic Freedom Fighter brother sucks up all the air in the room.”

                “Well. My ears are always free. If you need to borrow one.”

                She nodded, pleased. Daisy was thoroughly soothed and happily quiet now, just scrolling through the pictures of her parents and uncles, eyes drinking up the images.

                “You think you can send these to me?” Throttle asked.

                “Yeah, sure. Could use to free up some hard drive space…” she mumbled, then suddenly looked nervous about mentioning it. It was an obvious tell. To what, he didn’t yet know. Only that his niece had her secrets and she kept them close. “I think I have a drive with a few videos too. I’ll send them over.”

                “Good. I’ll take whatever you got.” He looked down at Daisy admiring the pictures of her mother again, giving her a little squeeze. “I’m gonna make sure you can see your Mama, baby. Whenever you want.”

                It was almost certain that the little girl did not understand what he was muttering about, but she turned then and hugged and kissed his face anyway.

                They sat in muted silence for a little while longer, until the movement inside the house and the hush of voices grew quieter and quieter. Finally, there was a familiar heavy footstep at the door, and Modo appeared there.

                He looked down at the three on the steps, half huddled in the quilt. The pair turned and looked back at him over their shoulders.

                Modo wore a sober and remorseful expression, nervously rubbing the back of his neck with his good hand as their eyes fixed on him. “Pry, you mind if I have a moment alone with--?”

                The girl nodded quickly before he could finish, shrugging off the quilt. She kissed her uncle’s cheek, but left Daisy where she was. Figuring the two could use a bit of a baby buffer to stem any further outbursts.

                She patted Modo lightly on the arm as she passed, both a sign of encouragement and caution, then slipped back inside.

                Modo stepped closer, but did not sit down. Not at first.

                “Mind if I join you?” he asked awkwardly.

                Throttle shrugged, not looking at him. Watching as Daisy had moved on from photos to a game that was essentially pong for babies. “It’s your house.” He replied dryly.

                Modo sighed and settled slowly beside him, his arm creaking. “It’s yours too. Always was. Far as I’m concerned anyway.”

                “Not what you said in there.” Throttle replied, still refusing to look at him.

                Modo hung his head, ears lowered. Ashamed of himself. “Yeah…I shouldn’t have said that. Or even implied it. I didn’t mean…” he sighed heavily, fumbling his words. “You caught me off guard I guess. Telling Rimfire we were going for certain. Then he wanted to go and---” he swallowed hard. “Sweep’s right. I’ve become a total coward. I can’t lose anyone else.”

                He did not look up but reached and grabbed Throttle’s hand, squeezing it. “That includes you.”

                Daisy, who was curious at the movement, placed her little hand on top of theirs. Wanting to be included.

                Throttle finally looked towards his bro. “If you don’t want to lose me, then stop pushing me away.  I don’t expect you to forgive me for what I did. I don’t. But I can’t…do this on my own. We were always better as a team. Vinnie’s not here and will probably never speak to me again but—”

                “Give him time.” Modo offered. “You know how he is. He’s gotta work it out in his own way. Gotta be stubborn and stupid and burn through everything he doesn’t want to feel. Remember when his parents died? He jumped his fucking bike—still with training wheels—off a roof. Nearly broke his damn neck.”  He laughed, and tears spilled. “We’re all hurting. And we’re stupid and we lash out…we become things we aren’t. People we don’t want to be.”

                Modo looked at him, as if he were waiting for this confirmation that he felt it too. He did. But he couldn’t say it. Couldn’t talk about the nights he wanted to wander out into the desert, no headlights, no helmet, going flat out into the dark, and let the chips fall where they may.

He didn’t want to tell him about the familiar pain he saw in Stoker’s face, watching him recover from surgery, knowing better than anyone how dark and bleak the world had become for him, in ways that had nothing to do with the temporary blindness. Seeing in him the horrible mirror image of his father, and fearing they would share the same fate. And Throttle had not been able to stand it.

That he had been running from that as much as everything else, then night he gone to the Roadhouse.

The thought of Max made him gather himself, gave enough strength to push down the hurt and strive to move forward. “We don’t have to be those people. We can come back. Maybe not just the same but…closer. Ya know?”

Modo nodded and put his arm around him. “How can I fix it?”

The tan furred mouse seemed momentarily taken aback by the phrasing of the question, almost holding his breath. He put his arm around Modo in return, the pair leaning into one another, making a rather odd lumpy shape beneath the quilt. “Ride out with me.” He said finally.

Modo looked up at him, pensive. But the hesitation faded quickly. “You got it.”

For now, that would be enough. The wind seemed to shift again. Between them, Daisy grew tired of her shiny toy and wriggled free of her uncle in favor of her favorite cuddle spot in the crook of Modo’s arm. “No more talkeeeng.” She elongated the last word comically, making both of them chuckle and she shushed them. “Bedtime for both you!”

“Yes ma’am.” Modo nodded.

“Best idea I’ve heard all day.” Throttle nodded.

***

Chapter Text

***

                 Despite her insistence that it was “bedtime” for everyone else in the house, Daisy Jane remained wakeful for several hours more, having gotten a good second wind.

For the moment she was ping-ponying on wobbly legs back and forth between her father and her uncle, who sat across from each other in the den, while the rest of the house settled in for the evening.

Rimfire and Primer had slipped off towards the shed, presumably to vent about their elders.

Sweep, glad to get some shut eye at a decent hour without needing to deal with Daisy, had gone to bed early, while Ada took her tea in the kitchen alone where she too could get some quiet—and also spy on the trio in the den unnoticed.

“Daisy why aren’t you sleepy?” Modo yawned.

She cackled, slapped his knee and then wobbled back to Throttle like she was tiny bumper car. She crashed into his legs with a manic baby giggle and toppled over, causing both big brawny bikers to jump in worry. But her diapered behind was cushioned well enough, and all she did was giggle more and start again.

“That’s the Van Wham in her for sure.” Modo nodded. “Never seen someone get such a kick out of crashing into everything. Should probably buy her a helmet.”

Throttle shrugged nursing a beer. “I dunno…never known you to complain about punching your way through a wall or two. I think there’s plenty of Maverick in that daredevil streak.” He nodded.

Modo shrugged. “Fair enough.” Daisy reached him at top speed and he made as though he’d catch her up in both arms and let her avoid it, mocking disappointment. “Oh no! She’s getting away!”

She went screaming away from him again, and this time Throttle reached and caught her outright, lifting her and pressing his face into her belly, giving her a raspberry that caused more screams of delight, until she she tried to flip over backwards in his hands.

He let her, still supporting her, letting her little tail curl around his forearm so that she hung like a possum from it. In another year or two she would have enough muscle strength there to support herself on her own.

“Oopsie Daisy!” He laughed and the little girl squealed, breathlessly happy.

Throttle’s gaze flicked up to his bro, but Modo’s expression did not change as he looked at them. Still worn and tired, but warm in the way he smiled. The sadness only showed in the corner of his eye, the way his brow wrinkled ever so slightly.

“Jessie used to say that when she played with her.” He mused quietly.

“I know.” Throttle admitted.

Modo looked a little shocked at this. And it warmed him as much as it made him ache.

Throttle lowered the little one, whose giggles had finally started to calm. “Daddy is lookin awfully tired, Miss Daisy. I think you ought to take him to bed.” He offered, whispering to her, mimicking the way the other adults often spoke around her. She nodded sagely, curls bouncing.

She toddled back to her father and took his fingers in hers. “Daddy bed. You sleepy.”

She patted the couch as if coaxing him to lay down. Ada appeared in the doorway then. “Did I hear someone mention bedtime?”

Daisy nodded to her grandmother, patted the couch again resolutely and looked seriously at her father. “You sleep!” She ordered, then toddled towards her grandmother who took her tiny hand.

“Are we ready?”

The little girl started to nod then looked back at Throttle thoughtfully. She pointed to him, “You sleep too!”

“Oh I’m fine—“he started but both Mrs. Maverick and her granddaughter shook their heads.

“You heard the little lady. Besides there’s enough empty beds in this house for sure. Come on, upstairs.”

Throttle saw there was little room for argument and rose awkwardly, glancing back at Modo. The big grey mouse rose and followed them, Ada lifting Daisy as they made their way to the second floor.

The upper floor hosted an abundance of rooms, despite Modo and Sweep being Ada’s only children. But the house had hosted multiple versions of the family over the years; from the bros as tweens and teens into young adult, to Sweep and Enfield and eventually their twins, as well as varying stay overs between the Van Whams, the Evanders, and even Stoker.

The house was never empty and it would be a sad day when it finally was.

Ada stopped at her own door, shifting the two year old on her hip as she looked back at her boys. Tonight she would sleep in Grandma’s bed, letting both Auntie and Daddy get some much-needed sleep.

“The big room is all made up. Everything’s same as it’s always been in there, if you need any extras like blankets or pillows you know where to find them.”  Her eyes turned from Throttle back to Modo, worried but hopeful. She reached and stroked his cheek gently. “Maybe you ought to try and sleep in a real bed tonight. You two always slept better in the same room.”

Modo nuzzled into her palm, his hand over hers. He glanced briefly towards Throttle but shook his head. “I’ll be fine, Mama. We’re not kids anymore. Besides, he doesn’t want to deal with my snoring or the bed creaking when I move.”

“Daddy loud.” Daisy nodded, sucking her thumb as the familiar warmth of her grandmother sapped some of her energy.

“You’ll be fine on your own, right?”

Throttle tipped his head. “Of course.”

They both looked away from each other, trying to ignore the lie.

Modo leaned over and kissed both his mother and daughter and then slipped back down stairs with a wave. “Goodnight.” He vanished hurriedly before anyone could call him back.

Behind him, Ada sighed heavily and then looked back to Throttle, reaching to stroke his cheek affectionately as she had her son’s. “Get some rest, darlin’. Sure you boys will be off to an early start.”

“Thanks, Mama.”

He kissed her cheek and then did the same to Daisy. “Night-night little flower. Sleep tight.”

“Night-night Tot.”

Both Throttle and Ada blinked at this attempt at his name, and Ada giggled. “Well, that was certainly a valiant try.” She nodded.

Throttle gave the little girl an extra kiss for her trouble then stepped back. Daisy waved to him sleepily and he waved back, watching them as they slipped into the warm dark bedroom and closed the door behind them. Leaving him alone again.

Reluctantly, Throttle turned and stared into the remaining open room. Two bunks and a twin bed covered in hand-made quilts stared back at him. The only light in the wide bedroom being a small pink-ish orange lantern that rested on the nightstand at the edge of the window sill, which was directly across from the door. Throttle wondered if Ada still kept it lit every night as she had when they were young. It was like a beacon, sometimes the only visible light in the house. Calling them home.

He put a hand on the door frame to steady himself. The stillness of the bedroom yawned open in front of him, it’s shadows deep despite the nightlight glow. Ghosts lingered here. The past forms of himself and his bros. From childhood to the early years of the occupation…this room held memory the way an oyster holds a pearl.

For a moment he thought about backing out, going back downstairs and finding a chair to rest in. Hell, even the porch seemed potentially more restful. But he had no doubt that his footsteps would disturb Ada, not to mention Modo who was clearly crashing on the couch downstairs. There was nothing for it.

He stepped inside, letting the room swallow him up.  He surveyed the three beds that lined the walls to his left. The bunk taking up one side, while the single third bed sat along the adjoining wall. An easy jump from the top bunk to it, or a slightly more awkward scramble from there to the bottom bunk.

The standalone had been Vinnie’s. He sprawled too much in his sleep not to fall out of the top and tended to take to absently kicking and poking the underside of the top bunk if he was on the lower, to see if the person on the top could feel it. They always could. So the single bunk had been the only option to save their sanity.

He lowered himself down on it, hearing the faint creak of the mattress springs. He smoothed a hand along the quilts, feeling the stitching and patchwork that Modo’s mother had spent hours creating.

What once had been so familiar, so common place, now felt like he had entered some sort time capsule of a life gone by. Of a life had been cast out from.

Now returned, it should have felt like homecoming. Instead, it felt strange. Too small. As if he had outgrown it. Lost, perhaps permanently, some of the connection that had once anchored him there. Unable to recover it.

He shifted slowly, reaching to pull off his boots, leaving them at the ready next to the bed. He started to take off his jacket and then thought better of it. The room was cold. Or maybe that was only in his head. Either way, he felt he needed more armor at the moment.

He didn’t lay down but instead scooted back to rest against the wall, staring across at the window on the opposite side, which overlooked the front of the house and the road beyond.

The emptiness made the walls feel like they were closing in. Shadows of dozens of memories swirled in the dim lamp light. The room should have offered him comfort, the way the rest of the house did. But sitting in it alone, this place that had been theirs; full of late-night talks and plans, stupid boyish games and arguments as well as laughter, all so still now, made the room feel like a cell. One of his own making.

“You shouldn’t be here.  How dare you show your face after what you’ve done…”

The hateful voice in his head whispered in the dark, filling the silence. Throttle winced, trying to will it back into silence. But the quiet here in the sleeping house was too much, and his inner critic was happy to take advantage of it.

 It didn’t matter that he knew the voice was all in his mind. His guilt and shame had grown, turning to deep, poisonous self-loathing, and had taken on a life of its own. Grown within him like a tumor, piggybacking off the shadow that had loomed over him since childhood, until the threads of it ran through every part of him. And like a tumor, it would kill him just as surely if it was not removed.

It felt at times inescapable. Even here. Where he should have felt safe. Where had been so well loved.

But having known that love, it hurt twice as much to have tarnished it. To know the grief he’d caused in people who had taken a chance on him. Welcomed him in. Only to be betrayed in the end by his mistakes and failure.

His thoughts began to spiral from the precarious state of Modo and his family to Vinnie’s outright absence. It wasn’t even that the other mouse had simply cut ties with him; it was that he had disappeared completely.

A fact that was gnawing at him more and more. There were not, after all, many places a Martian Mouse might still safely call home in region. The small villages and outposts that managed to survive were few and spread far between each other. Making anyone traveling between them prime targets for a plethora of lethal  troubles. Anything from falling prey to a Sand Squid attack, to being caught in an ice or sand storm, to far more frequent and likely Sand Raider attacks. Mars was not a safe place to travel alone for any mouse, even one as wild and brazen as Vinnie.

The ghosts in the room shifted. Out the window he saw the swerve of a motorcycle’s high beam flash through the glass, cutting across the shadows on the wall behind him.

The memory started to open out. He, Modo and Vinnie entangled in a brawl on the bedroom floor, laughing as much as they were yelling. Fighting over a board game gone wildly aery.  The high beam and the sound of Stoker’s engine going full out had been the first sign of trouble.

It was late. His mother was back at their house, and he had been staying almost exclusively with the Mavericks while she and her father tried to right the ship that was their marriage and Axle’s crumbling mental health. Stoker was often the mediator in the matter.

So why was he here?

In his distraction, Throttle let Vinnie push him back to the floor and he laid there, pinned while his younger brow crowed and cackled. Unaware. At least until he saw that Throttle no longer tried to defend himself or retaliate in their game. That he was just staring, brow knit, out the window.

They heard movement downstairs. Someone going outside. Not coming in. Raised voices. Not anger. Something else.

Modo had gotten up first. Was standing at the window, looking down across the dark shingles of the roof into the pool of light created by the porch light and front door.

“What is it, big fella?” Vinnie asked, turning to look at him.

Modo glanced back at them, “Not sure…” the tall grey furred boy had replied. “Stoke looks upset…”

Vinnie, still small and scrawny, all long limbs without real muscle definition at this age, clambered towards the window to see for himself.

But Throttle hadn’t needed to look. He was already on the move. Rushing out into the hall and taking the steps down to the front foyer where he saw the front door to the house hanging open.

He heard Ada’s voice carrying through the dark. Broken and gasping. Questioning the rider in front of her.

Curiosity propelled him forward. But everything else in him told him to stop. Told him to go back upstairs and shut the door.  He didn’t listen.

He moved out onto the porch, only vaguely hearing Modo and Vinnie calling out to him but he couldn’t quite make out the words.

Throttle stood at the edge of the porch, able to clearly see the pair in the drive in front of him now, washed in yellow porch light.

Stoker saw him and looked up.

For a moment, he did not recognize his friend and mentor. The mouse who was now and even then, had been his second father. The expression his mentor wore that day was one that Throttle hadn’t seen before. But one he would later recognize easily.

It was the face you made when some part of your world had been revocable altered.

Ada had turned back towards him then in surprise, allowing an unintentional unobstructed view of the biker in front of her.

Throttle saw the red that discolored his clothing. The smears of it on his arms, his face and hands. The way it turned his olive green vest dark muddy brown with it.

It should have made him fear that Stoker was hurt. That there had been an accident of some kind. But his expression held. That look of shock and devastation. And something in the younger mouse, too mature for his age, knew that the blood did not belong to Stoker.

It happened then.

The invisible specter that had hung over the Evander family since Throttle’s earliest memories, hanging over his parents like a film that could not be scrubbed off, took clearer and deeper definition, and found him.

It settled on his back. Sinking its claws like icy pins into his spine. Grief. Loss. Made home in him then in a way it never had before.

The weight that had attached itself to him that night had taken root there and never left. And every year after, it had grown a little more, becoming heavier and heavier. The weight a little harder to carry on his own.

His father was dead. It had not formed in so many words in his mind then but he knew it all the same. The blood was his. Axle’s.

“Honey, go back in the house—“ Modo’s mother tried to insist, reaching for him. But he and Stoker had only been able to stare at each other.

Throttle’s breath came quicker, trying to shove the memory away. He snapped his eyes shut and forced away the scene, drawing his knees up to his chest and bringing the heels of his fists up to his temples, pressing hard.

His father was dead. He lost the final battle with his own demons and left them all behind. Left him behind. The son who wasn’t enough. Who hadn’t been able to fix what was so broken inside him.

He opened his eyes again, sure that would end the visions and force him back into the present.

But Stoker was still in front of him. Still bloody. Closer than ever, standing at the edge of the bed.

Throttle stared up at him. “He went off alone.” Stoker said in a dead drone. “I couldn’t stop him.”

He’d heard the words before. Knew they were true. But his have wandered down to the item Stoker held in one bloody hand. His dad’s red bandana. The same he wore faithfully around his neck everyday. The one he had loaned to Stoker as a bandage.

But as he looked at it, it wasn’t red. It was pink. Throttle’s mouth twitched into a pained sort of grimace, almost hyperventilating as he tried not to openly cry at the sight. Recognizing it now as Vinnie’s.

“He went off alone.” Stoker repeated but as he looked up his mentor’s face shifted. He was no longer looking at the bloodied biker from his past, but himself. Standing there, blood soaked with the same guilty hollowed expression Stoker had worn. “I couldn’t stop him.” He heard his own voice repeated back to him.

He screamed then.

Throttle crashed backwards, smacking his head and shoulders into the wall with a pronounced thump as he gasped and sobbed for breath.

The biker winced and cursed, holding his offended skull, crying out again when he heard a loud sharp noise cutting through the room.

The sudden onslaught of stimuli was enough to make him look around and see what was actually in front of him.

No ghosts. No specters of past or future in front of him. The covers of the quilt where bunched and half hanging off the bed, the mattress skewed from his sudden movements. But the bedroom was just a bedroom again, and he was still alone in it.

The lamp by the window was still on, but there was a new level of night and stillness about the house. The clock on the wall said 3:33 am. He’d fallen asleep without knowing it.

The noise which continued on was the ringing of his phone.

He looked down and saw the illuminated screen. He reached for it in a rush, half to silence the sound and half in hopes that whoever was on the other end might save him.

“Babe?”

Max’s voice, slightly confused but always sweet to his ears, cut through the unsettled dark. “Babe, are you there?”

Throttle swallowed hard, “Yeah yeah—“ he answered, trying to force a normal tone and failing. “It’s so late…a-are you okay?”

Max laughed softly on the other end at the question. “Yeah I’m fine! You sound weird--did I scare you awake?”

Throttle sunk back onto the bed, the night terror fading. The room was just a room again.

“No…just startled me.” He assured. He realized then what must have prompted the very late call. He winced. “Shit! I forgot to —“

“Babe, chill. I figured as much, I would have just called you in the morning but…dunno. Couldn’t sleep.” There was a small pause and Throttle swore he could hear him patting the empty spot beside him in the bed. “Are you sure you’re ok? I got a weird itch in my antenna thinking about you just now.”

“Bad dream.” Throttle admitted, voice still thick. Tears rolled down the corners of his eyes, racing down his temples and wetting his ears and the corners of his jaw as he laid there, staring at the ceiling. His breathing was finally beginning to slow, heart no longer trying to beat out of his chest.

“Glad I interrupted then.” Tourmaline answered carefully.

Throttle smiled brightly even as the tears kept coming. “It seems to be a talent of yours.”  He replied with a grin.

“Wanna talk about it?”

“Not even a little bit.”

Max chuckled again softly. “Okay, Roger that. How’d it go with Modo?”

Throttle considered, “Rough start I suppose, but…making headway. I think. it’s complicated.”

“You should have brought me along. I love complicated.”

“You don’t say?” His boyfriend teased softly. Anything to keep Max talking. His voice was the anchor he needed right now.

“Buttering people up to go along with my ideas is half my job you know. And you’re letting it go to waste. Such a pity.”

“I think talking relentlessly might be less effective than you think in this situation. Just because it worked on me doesn’t mean my bro will be so inclined. We’re a different breed of mouse, you know. Talk tends to be cheap out of here.”

“Don’t be a hater, gorgeous. Not all of us can rely on punching our way to the point. Sometimes you gotta use a little finesse.”

He heard him shift in the bed, and wished he was there beside him. Ached for it more than he expected to.

“But I’m sure he’ll come around. He has to know how much you care about him. If he doesn’t then he’s been living under a rock I guess.”

Throttle laughed again softly, wiping his face.

He felt the words bubble up at the back of his tongue. The three big ones. They came to him then as naturally as anything. Which was a dead give away that they were real and not a fleeting impulse. And that was jarring all on its own.

“Miss you babe,” Max sighed. “Hope that’s not too corny to say.”

“No! Are you kidding? I…”

He almost said it. Almost confessed. But his awareness of where he was in that moment and what had brought him there made the words scatter on the way to his lips. It felt too risky. Like saying it might curse them. As it seemed to have had everyone else he cared about.

He swallowed hard. “I miss you too.” He forced out and the change in Max’s breathing made him worry. What if the other mouse realized that those words were not his first choice? He tacked on quickly, trying to change the subject; “You should try to get some shut eye. What will Brimstone do if you’re too tired to assure them all is well and good in our fair city?”

“You mock me, but my silver tongue pays the bills. And pays for your plant food.”

Throttle blinked, “Huh?”

“Your ‘pet ‘ plant baby. I’m trying to figure out how to feed it….”

Throttle was about to inquire further when he heard footsteps on the stair and in the hall outside.

“Babe, I gotta go. Call you in the morning.”

He hung up before Max had a chance to reply, sitting up as the door opened and Modo appeared in the opening between door and frame.

“You ok? I heard noises, sounded like you hit the floor or something…”

He looked around as if searching the room for some unseen intruder or foe.

Throttle shook his head, rubbing the back where he had smacked the wall. “No, sorry…just tossing and turning I guess. Hope I didn’t wake you up…”

Modo shook his head. It was clear from the ring beneath his eye that hadn’t been asleep in the first place.

“Did this room get smaller?” He asked absently, blinking around at it.

“Thought the same thing.” Throttle nodded the conversation feeling so surreal after the last few minutes.

“Well to be fair…I guess we probably gained about 50 lbs of muscle between then and now. And a couple of feet.” He chuckled softly and studied the other carefully before moving to ease himself down on the edge of the bed.

 “Bad dream?”  He asked cautiously.

Throttle blinked, ears lowering faintly in embarrassment. “What gave it away?” He asked, attempting to joke.

“I get ‘em too.” Modo replied. “The quiet gets you sometimes. Like Stoke used to say.”

Throttle nodded, knowing the anecdote well and having witnessed a few of their leaders own night terrors firsthand.

“Well it got me good then I guess.” He sighed.

They sat awkwardly together for a moment before the grey furred mouse looked at him again. “Care for some company?”

Throttle looked back at him, obviously surprised, and relieved. “If you’re offering…”

They moved closer, adjusting the skewed mattress and sat together, propped up against the wall like sagging stuffed animals, Throttle’s head on Modo’s shoulder.

Neither said a word. There was too much, and it was too late an hour. Emotions were already raw and compromised. But the silent closeness was enough. Familiar, steady and safe.

It was fortunate for the pair that their nervous systems cared nothing for the feud between them or the feelings of remorse and loss. They knew only that this person was safe, had always been safe. Whatever the confusing and foolish brain had to say to the contrary didn’t seem to matter.

Modo found for the first time in too many weeks that he could relax. Breathe a little deeper. Hold a little less tension in his shoulders.

If he were truly honest in that moment, it was a relief that he had not felt since the day his wife died.

This comfort preceded her. And now in her absence, it remained. It felt like a betrayal in a way. But if she had still been there, she would have told him otherwise. There were different kinds of love after all.

All of this passed through Modo’s over tired mind but did not catch. The fog of much needed sleep, real sleep, blotted it out.

Throttle felt him slipping, relaxing and it put him at ease too. Today had been hard. Ground gained and lost. But this felt like hope. Maybe forgiveness wasn’t as impossible as he believed.

Finally, the quiet did not matter. The war between them did not matter. There were no ghosts here. The pair slept, finding some measure of peace and relief at last.

**

Chapter Text

The wasteland highway opened before them, the long broken stretch of former highway that went on for miles past canyon ridges and gorges, craters and once wide river beds that were now thin streams going all the way to what had previously been the coast.

Even in it’s broken state of upheaval and disrepair, it still remained a hardcore biker’s dream ride. A place where one could still test their skill and metal and really experience life on the road.

It hadn’t taken Modo long to remember the feel of his bike and find that singular connection again. The weird sort of balance that came over him when he was soaring over the open road, the wind rushing over him, Lil’ Hoss’s steady hum in his ears, mixing with the familiar sound of rock and heavy metal over the radio.

By the time they paused at the rest of a hill to scope the landscape and get their bearings, Modo turned and realized that the farm and the city limits were now a vague outline in their rear view. But he could still see the smoke from the fireplace at the Mavericks wafting up into the early morning sky.

He felt a bizarre pinch of anxiety in his chest then, being so far from home. He hadn’t realized how small he had made his world over the past year. How narrow his view had become. Something that would have been unfathomable to him in the past. Even something he had actively fought against, always fearing being trapped in a life that felt too small and too mundane.

He glanced over to Throttle, who was absorbed in the coordinates on his monitor. “Lost already?” He attempted to tease. But his delivery was a bit flat, making the question more dubious than playful.

“Not yet. Retracing steps. Stoke and I chased these guys for awhile, doubling back and looping around. They were desperate to shake us off.”

He looked ahead and then pointed south.  “That trail there up the ridge looks familiar. Best bet if we head that way. If Watchtower hasn’t already collected evidence from the scene, odds are the rest of their scavenger pals have been out there to pick at the remains and cover their tracks. All we can do is hope they did a bad job at it.”

Modo seemed to mull this over and then nodded and they started off again, riding in silence with only the music to act as a buffer between them. Yester still sat between them, undigested and unsettled. Unsure of where they stood. And neither seemed particularly keen to poke rock the boat, afraid of which way they might tip.

As they rode further through the canyon, Modo saw the tell-tail signs of a battle. Not only deep tread marks in the sand and dirt but obvious gashes and cuts from lazor fire into the rocks. Battle wounds on the landscape.

“Looks like they were really trying to shake you off their tail.” Modo noted, voice low, perhaps a little worried. They had not been in any sort of dire conflict of this kind in ages. Or at least, he hadn’t.

“You don’t know the half of it.” Throttle huffed softly. He chanced a sidelong glance at the other mouse. “Sure could have used you and that quick draw of yours.” He offered a small but encouraging smile. “You could have probably ended that chase quick.”

Modo nodded mutely, only offering a noncommittal hum before speeding up slightly, putting space between them again.

Throttle blinked and then sped up to catch him again. “You leading the charge might go better if you knew where you were heading…”

Modo side-eyed him. “Easy enough. All I have to do is follow your trail of destruction.”

In any other time or scenario it would have landed as a joke, and they would have laughed at the ribbing. But this felt so much heavier and sharper. Almost accusatory.

“Well,” Throttle said slowly, treading carefully, despite feeling a prickle begin from the base of his spine and down. “You can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs…”

“You said Stoke got hurt?”

Throttle’s hands tightened noticeably on his handlebars. “Yeah. Just a battle tag on his arm. Nothing major, but…”

“Sounds like you both got lucky.”

This too landed hard and in the momentary silence between them unspoken began to boil and churn. As Modo’s face fell, looking remorseful, Throttles tightened in both pain and frustration.

“’Luck’ has nothing to do with it.” He replied sharply. “If you think I would ever put Stoker or any of you in danger on purpose—“

“Didn’t say that—“ Modo cut back defensively.

Throttle scoffed and then gunned his engine, shooting ahead so that Modo was forced to almost chase him. His throat burned, trying to swallow all the things he wanted to say that he wouldn’t allow. Afraid to be angry. Because what right did he have to that, after what he’d done?

Instead he drove faster, taking the narrow canyon curves at a dangerously high speed. It would have been disastrous for a less talented, less practiced biker. But even for one of the Biker Mice it felt overly reckless.

Modo followed, gaining all the time.

“I didn’t know this was a race!” Modo called through his com, tight tone edging on sarcasm. As if he were speaking to a petulant child.

In response, Throttle gave Lady more gas and sped onward, taking a flying jump off a narrow ridge only to land at the lower section of road below in a hard wheelie and then sped off again.

“It’s not a race if you’re the only competitor.” He replied evenly.

Not a moment later he heard Lil’  Hoss kick into high gear, zooming after him. He saw Maverick make his own jump, landing a little shakily but correcting quick enough, kicking up a cloud of exhaust and dust behind him.

“You were saying?”

Throttle accelerated again and watched as Lady’s speedometer climbed steadily passing 70 then 80, closing in fast on 100 in a matter of seconds. And Modo kept gaining.

“This is real mature you know.” Modo muttered through the com.

“Who said anything about mature? I thought we were having a friendly race?” Throttle retorted, on the edge of mockery.

Modo cut in suddenly beside him. “Knock it off, Throttle. I expect this crap out of Vinnie, but not you. You’re gonna get someone hurt—“

The last word did not fully land as both bikes suddenly beeped in alarm, diverting their rider’s attention. Dead ahead of them the road splintered as a fallen but of rock had landed across the road and crumbled part of the ridge into the canyon below.

Both bikers immediately took action, Modo jumping high to go over the rocks while Throttle took the lower road, dropping into a controlled slide down the rough ridge.

“Throttle!”

Modo was barely over the rocks before he practically bounced into a hard right turn and went over the side after him. His own ride down was a bit more bumpy, but Modo handled the rocks and ridges more easily than expected. Years of practice and experience kicking in.

They both reached the bottom in succession, coming to quick and complete stops beside each other, both breathing a little hard as they looked back up the ridge 20 feet above them.

“You okay?” Modo gasped quickly, almost panicked. The tan mouse blinked back at him and then nodded slowly, seeming caught off guard by the earnest question.

“Yeah, peachy…” he nodded. Both had dealt with far more dangerous road situations than this, and it had only been the abruptness that really startled him. But clearly Modo was rattled. His defensiveness towards the other died then.

“Are you?”

It seemed to take Modo a moment to understand the question and by then the answer was obvious. He rubbed the back of his neck, hanging his head.

“Guess I should stay in my own lane huh?” He offered, clearly embarrassed. Ashamed.

They both stood there, unsure what to say. Both feeling childish and wishing they knew the way forward. Or at least saw and end that might make this struggle easier to weather. It was then, as they struggled for explanation, that they became aware of where they had landed.

The charred black and half melted remains of the dune buggy loomed there just beyond their landing area. Modo gawked at it, seemingly stunned by the extent of the damage.

He whistled low. “Damn…that’s some carnage right there.”

Throttle stepped from Lady, moving to examine the remains. The charred and melted mass of metal was like a grotesque art piece, and he wondered if he would even be able to make any sense of. There was obviously no hope of tracking some brand, logo or any other distinctive part back to a particular Raider clan.

 He crouched low, trying to look beneath for any sign of a body, even though there wasn’t likely to be much left. But there was nothing. Not so much as charred bone left behind. He looked back at Modo. “Someone’s been here. Bodies are gone.”

He sighed heavily in frustration. “Dead end.” He hung his head, now second guessing if he shouldn’t have turned around as soon as he’d gotten Stoker home. As if it would make a difference. But if he had…Modo would not be here with him now.

“Maybe not.” Modo called back, surprising him. As he looked, he saw that his bro had wandered away from his own bike and had back tracked, following the swerving patterns of tread along the sand and dirt. He pointed further down the slope where thicker tracks split from the other chaos above. Throttle stood and trotted over, following his gaze with interest.

“Looks to me like your body snatchers headed east.” He nodded. Tapping his helmet he advanced the magnification several times, seeing that the tracks continued steadily for at least two miles and likely more. “Let’s see…east of here is…” he wracked his brain for some previously geography the years had blurred.

“Used to be an army outpost.” Throttle replied.

“And now?”

The tan mouse shrugged. “Guess we’ll just have to find out.” He looked at Modo cautiously a moment, “You still up for this?”

To his surprise the big grey mouse nodded quickly. “Definitely. These scum bags are way too close for my liking. Let’s make sure they think twice about it.” He smiled, a flicker of a familiar eager grin and then it softened. “Lead the way.”

**

The tracks went on for much more than a few miles. They followed them past the canyon ridge and across the empty desert, leaving the wasteland highway in the distance for wilder, less traveled land.

The old army outpost was a now rust-covered collection of ramshackle buildings, barbed wire fencing and a wide assortment of collected junk, cobbled together into a forbidding scrapheap that served as a fort.

The only way the two bikers could hide their approach was by lingering behind a sparse patch of rock, sand dunes and two gnarled and twisted trees that gave the barest suggestion of still being alive. Small hard nodes poked out along the trunk and branches, a few slowly but surely turning green, with dark needles fanned out like fern leaves, offering obscurity.

The tracks they had followed still marked the path ahead, disappearing into the wide front gate, which was hanging open. Which would have seemed suspicious if it didn’t also seem haphazard. It seemed odd and counter intuitive to keep the entrance into your secret fortress so accessible. But anyone approaching would be seen easily enough.

With the magnification of their visors, they could see snipers in both watch towers that flanked the front of the fort.

“Looks like the flea bags have made themselves at home.” Modo muttered. “I’m sure Carbine would just love to see this.”

“Yeah…doubt two snipers would be enough to hold her off. She’d bounce them all out of there single-handedly.” Throttle chuckled.

“If I’m honest, I’m surprised you didn’t call her for backup on this.” Harkening back to an earlier conversation.

This time, Throttle gave a bit more context to his previous answer. “I’m sure she would have come. But I couldn’t risk compromising her.” He replied, tone quieter. He glanced at Modo. “This is shaping up to be a little on the unorthodox side, ya know what I mean?”

Modo scoffed softly but smiled. “Yeah, afraid I do.”

He shifted closer. “We need something to distract those gunners. Don’t suppose you still have a cloaking crystal on Lady?”

Throttle shook his head. “No go. Lost charge a long time ago and replacements are hard to come by.”

“Approaching from behind? It looks like the rocks kick up back there. More places to hide if we can get to it. No snipers or towers back there.”

“No entrance either. And we’d be losing time to boot.” He paused, considering. “How many you think are in there?”

Modo maxed his magnifier again, focusing on the activity he could see through the open gate. Dogs came and went, but it didn’t seem like many. “Maybe two dozen. Tops. Not a lot of tracks going in and out of that place. Looks like they holed up here recently.”

“Good eye…” he chewed his lip thoughtfully, a small tick Modo knew well. He also knew that it tended to surface when his bro was weighing a particularly risky decision.

“You got a play for this?”

“Yeah, I think I know the one.” He nodded. He sat back on his heels and shrugged himself out of his jacket, discarding it on Lady’s seat, then started to remove his gun holster and utility belt.

Modo’s single eye widened. “What are you doing?”

“Disarming myself. It will make the inevitable shake down go more smoothly. Besides, those are my favorite blasters and those mutts aren’t getting their mitts on them so easily.”

Modo put a hand on his arm urgently, her voice a tight whisper. “You’re gonna get yourself captured?! You aren’t serious! There’s no way you’re gonna pull off the Trojan Horse Maneuver and not get your ass kicked in the process!” He argued. “Besides that play needs at least three to pull it off as practiced…”

Vinnie’s absence once more announced itself. Like feeling a shard of glass in your foot.

“Maybe so. But it’s a sure fire ticket inside. And I’m not sending you out there…”

Modo exhaled sharply at this, seeming ready to argue and then hesitating.

“Big fella. I’ll be fine.” He promised. “Besides if I make it easy for them, they might just be inclined to let those tongues of theirs waggle a little more freely.”

“Yeah well, don’t make it too easy on them.” He cautioned.

Throttle nodded. “Once I’m out there and they take the bait, you circle around and scale that back wall. Give me a little time; say an hour or two?”

Modo nodded and Throttle handed him his specs. “Take extra care of those. These new eyes are a decent upgrade but ya never know.”

                The grey furred mouse took them carefully, knowing how precious they were.

He reached into his saddle bag and pulled out a very small disc, close to the size of his gold stud in his ear. He removed the earring gingerly and placed that in Modo’s hand as well, replacing it with the disc. “One of Harley’s new prototypes.” He grinned. “Now we won’t lose contact.” He tapped it and Modo heard it sync to his helmet and bike com, hearing Throttle in stereo for a moment.

Modo’s worry eased. “She’s still tinkering then huh? Some things never change.”

“Thank gods for small favors.” Throttle nodded.

He grabbed up a handful of dust and dirt and smeared himself with it, streaking it across his face and through his hair. He pulled off his t-shirt and continued the treatment until it looked like he had walked through a dust storm.

Modo watched, trying not to be amused. “Are you sure you aren’t part chinchilla?”

Throttle snorted. “Gotta look the part. Now, I just need one last touch.”  He tapped his cheekbone. “Sock me. A shiner’s gonna be more convincing.”

“Convincing of what exactly?”

“That I’m fleeing from something and out of my element. Come on, give me the ol’ left hook!”

Modo’s nose crinkled. “Is that really necessary?”

“Oh come on, I can take—“ before he could finish laughing off his concern, Modo’s fist collided with his face in a sharp, fast pop and he was knocked back firmly on his ass, blinking and holding his jaw as his mouth hung open in surprise.

“…oww!”

“Sorry!” Modo gasped, shaking out his hand. “I thought the surprise factor would make it easier—“

“It’s okay…just glad you didn’t use your other fist.” He replied. It was a joke, easy and thoughtless that had never been taken seriously between them. Not until yesterday anyway.

Modo’s ears dropped faintly, his shame creeping over him. He reached and pulled the tan mouse back upright, the pair standing slowly, still sheltered by the short trees and rocks.

“Ride or run?”

Throttle considered. “Ride and roll. I’ll drop as close to the gate as I can manage and then let Lady lead them on a wild goose chase. That will give you plenty of time to make your way around with Lil Hoss. I’ll make sure she’s loud, give you as much cover as I can.”

Modo knew their positions should be reversed. It was how the maneuver had been originally devised. He would detach his arm, letting one of the bros hold it for safe keeping and then wander out to play the part of easy prey. Nothing a Sand Raider liked better. The missing limb and eyepatch always added to the ruse, giving their targets false confidence that came back to bite them ten fold when his bros would surprise them, followed by the new addition of his bionic limb, ready to blow their tails off.

Though one time, Vinnie had used the arm independently, practically bludgeoning some stupid fish with it before he’d returned it. Modo had been picking scales out of the joints for weeks after…

It should be him. Even if Vinnie wasn’t here to act as the additional safety net. But the thought of letting those dogs take him without a fight…he couldn’t do it. He would give them away instantly. His rage getting the better of him…

“…Modo?”

He looked up, not realizing he had gotten lost in his thoughts. Throttle looked at him with concern.

“Bro. I need you to trust me.”

It was a plea. Modo could see it in his eyes. That he knew the weight of it. It had once been given without a second thought. Not a moment’s hesitation. As natural as breathing.

Modo’s lips thinned into a tense line but he nodded.

Throttle felt the sting of that hesitance but did not reply, diverting his gaze to the course ahead. It was the best he was going to get.

He left his effects with Modo, who tucked them away safely in one of his own saddlebags. Only closing to keep the field specs and the earring closer, tucked into his utility vest pocket

“Wait until they go after Lady, then make a break for it. Got it?”

The grey furred mouse nodded. He watched anxiously as Throttle straddled his bike, gripping her handlebars resolutely. “If anything goes wrong…first two numbers in Lady’s contacts are who you need to reach. You should be able to pull them up through your helmet link-up.”

This statement, spoken so calm and with such detachment, shook the other out of his mental lock-up.

“Bro, wait—“

Lady’s engine let out an explosive roar as she took off like a bullet across empty terrains, Modo’s words blow away like dust.

He almost launched himself after the other mouse, gripping the shrub trees hard enough to make the bark audibly crack.

All he could do now was watch.

At first Throttle kept a straight line, glaring ahead until his view of the gunners in the guard tower became more clear. The first shots were fired, hitting the dirt on either side of him. He waited for two more, testing their aim. It was a risky gamble, but he couldn’t give away the ruse so quickly by retaliating or avoiding them too easily. He had to take the chance that he was a better rider than the dogs were shooters.

Another shot deflected off Lady’s front wheel and ricocheted with a flash. It was perfect. The mutts likely wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between the deflection and a direct hit.

He leaned hard to left, dropping low as he could, “Give ‘em a run for their money, girl.”

She beeped and he let go.

Hitting the ground, no matter how ready for it he was, still hurt like a bitch. He cried out in spite of himself and rolled crazily for a yard or two as Lady laid down a volley of fire that drew any new blast to her instead of her downed rider.

Throttle came to a stop, dazed and scraped and a good deal more dusted than he had been to start. He laid there in the dirt and waited for the dizziness to stop.

It wasn’t more than a few moments before he heard more engines swiftly approaching him.

“Bro? You okay?!” Modo’s voice over the com, frightened.

“I’ve had better landings…” he answered softly. “Was the ground always that hard?”

Throttle watched as a buggy, loaded with its two raiders rolled up close to him, feeling the heat of their engine from how close they stopped beside him.

Behind them, he heard the higher pitch of dirt bikes—other riders dispatched no doubt in attempt to catch Lady.

As he looked up, he found himself staring down the barrel of a shot gun.

“What do we got here, lads?” The dog holding the gun laughed. He was big and brown and wore an eyepatch over his left eye, one pointed ear speckled with holes that suggested shrapnel wounds. “Looks to me like an attempted suicide runner. Can’t imagine much else, coming right as us the way you did.”

“I dunno, Ned.” A voice mused beside him answered. This dog was taller, sleeker looking with a thicker head and muzzle. Something resembling a bull terrier. The passenger got out and moved close to Throttle, nudging him with his foot. “What kind of suicide runner comes at you with no bombs, no weapons and only half his clothes?” He smirked. “Not that I’m complaining…”

They cackled, and the gun holder nudged the downed mouse with his weapon. “A stupid one from the look of it. Looks like he scrambled his marbles a bit…”

Out of the corner of his eye, Throttle glimpsed the purple and chrome that was Modo, making his move. He cracked a small smile before being yanked up onto his knees by his hair and ears, yelping in pain and scratching at the rough hand that held him.

“State yer business, rodent!”

Throttle said nothing, despite the gun in his face and the claw in hair. The raider holding him looked down at him speculatively. He could see the growing bruise on the side of his face, add in the dirt and the fresh scrapes and abrasions and he looked more like someone who had been wandering the waste than any kind of organized threat.

“I bet he’s a runner.” The sleek white dog mused. “Bet he jumped off a convoy on a stolen bike.” He laughed again and gave Throttle a small shake. “That it, runt?! You try and make a break for it? Well look what it gets ye.”

“Fuck off!” Throttle hissed finally in reply.

Both of them blinked and then cackled anew. “He can talk! Saints be praised…” Ned laughed and considered his companion. “I know that look, Tar. What ya thinking?”

“Hmm…I dunno, Ned. Should we keep ‘im?” Tar replied with teasing thoughtfulness. “We are lacking for any laborers at the moment. Might be nice while we’re here. And he’s kinda cute…” he leaned over and licked the blood off Throttle’s cheek from the new scratch.

This initiated a knee-jerk reflex in the mouse who twisted and punched the dog square in the face.

The grip on his head was dropped as the mongrel yelped in pain and surprise. But the victory was short lived. “Ned” stepped from the buggy and cracked Throttle across the back of the head for his trouble. He went down like a stone.

“Fucking hell! That was a good punch!” Ned nodded in appreciation, even as his partner glared at him, blood dripping from his nose.

“Are you seriously fuckin’ cheering him on right now?!”

 The dog with the patch shrugged. “Well, ye did kind of have it comin’. Didn’t yer mother ever tell you not to lick things you find lying around in the dirt?”

“Shut up and help me put ‘em in the back!”

From his new safe vantage point, Modo heard all of this, feeling a rock settle into his stomach.

In the distance he could still see Lady antagonizing the raiders who were trying to wrangle her. But there wasn’t a chance. She was just as wild and woolly as any of their beats back home and twice as dangerous if cornered.

Beneath him, Lil’ Hoss beeped softly, as if sensing his worry or trying to share her own.

“I know, darlin’. I don’t like it anymore than you do.” He admitted. “Wish I had a better view of what was happening inside…”

 Her monitor flashed and showed him a glimpse of what she could pick up from their new vantage point.

The area in front and beside the depot was flat and empty but the ridge behind it was another story. Modo sheltered here behind a high spire of rock, giving him a partial bird’s eye view inside the barbed-wire studded walls.

It was as he had guessed. Less than two dozen Sand Raiders milling about the old ruin of the military base. From the look of it they were barely settled in, probably only having occupied it in the last few days.  The question was if this was a temporary hold up or if they were waiting for more of their clan to arrive…

Modo couldn’t decide. Sand Dogs were nomads and notably transient but something about this cluster of them seemed…off. Why he couldn’t yet tell but his intuition seemed certain of it. Maybe he wasn’t as far out of the game as he had previously thought.

He watched as they returned inside, this time closing the gates behind them. No matter. That wasn’t going to keep him out if he wanted in. Or if Throttle wanted out.

He sighed, settling back and checking the time on the monitor. Staying low for two hours while his bro was trapped alone inside was going to test every ounce of patience and control he had. And as he tried to reconcile with this, he thought of Throttle’s last instructions. The one about contacts.

It was morbid curiosity more than anything, he knew. And after a moment’s debate, he began tapping through the menu options on his visor’s screen, connecting with Lady’s information, which was also held the contacts from Throttle’s phone. Again he was surprised at the muscle memory of it.

The first number was Stoker’s. Not a surprise there.

But the second confused him. A name he didn’t recognize. “Max.” No surname, no title. Just “Max”.

“Who the hell is Max?”

***