Chapter Text
Smoke hung low over the Chicago docks.
Greenish, thick, and oily as a shroud.
The air tasted as one would expect: rotten seaweed and oil mingled with the characteristic scent of sea salt.
It was dark, eerily so.
Cold, too.
Silhouettes of cranes and cargo containers stood tall against the overcast sky.
This was no place one wanted to venture after dark.
Not unless one was up to no good.
And it was common knowledge that there were always people out there who were exactly that.
Under the dim light of the full moon partially hidden behind dark clouds, Greasepit’s trike roared between the steel warehouses, carrying a stolen load of iron.
Plutark needed iron, and so he got iron.
He was only following orders, and yet, it was he who got chased through the docks by the Biker Mice From Mars in a blur of polished metal and headlights.
Again.
Life just ain’t fair.
“So hey, remind me again why Greasepit always runs?” Vinnie asked a bit puzzled, weaving through the cargo containers with practiced ease.
“You’d think he’d know by now that I’m always glued to his tailpipe.”
Throttle swerved around a half-collapsed pallet.
Casual, like only he could.
“Habit, mostly. Just like you’ve got a real habit of getting ‘glued’ to things that don’t want you there.”
Modo’s deeper voice came in from the other flank.
“Like that time with the street sign.”
“Or the billboard,” Throttle snickered.
Modo smirked behind his visor.
“Or the parade float.”
“Hey!” Vinnie shot back, offended.
“I told you, that clown car came out of nowhere!”
Their brotherly banter, however, was abruptly interrupted by none other than Karbunkle.
Of course.
Where there is Greasepit, there is Karbunkle.
Some things never changed.
A blinding flash of a vicious blue light cracked the darkness wide open as the mad scientist fired a destabilizing net, aiming straight toward Vinnie’s head.
The white Martian quickly ducked, the ingrained instinct of a thousand battles taking over.
The net sliced through the space where his helmeted head had been only a heartbeat before, missing him by only an inch before it violently slapped into the steel scaffolding behind him.
Vinnie straightened, a rush of pure adrenaline making his fur bristle.
A laugh—loud, slightly wild—escaped him as he glanced over his shoulder.
“Nice try, Karbunkle! But you gotta lead the target, genius!”
Meanwhile, up in the old communications shack—a flimsy box of metal and glass bolted precariously to a rusted catwalk—Charley Davidson saw the real damage Vinnie had missed, the entire steel scaffolding now trembling violently.
She didn’t even need to think; her hand was already on the radio.
“Vinnie, stop showing off and move! That rig’s about to come down on you!” she warned, her voice calm but still tight with professional urgency.
Right after the last word left her mouth, the scaffolding above the docks let go.
Steel groaned, bolts broke off with sharp cracks, and the towering array of containers came crashing down with a sound like thunder.
Just like Charley had predicted.
Hitting the accelerator, Vinnie leaned so low his knee almost scraped the oil-stained pavement, and he shot out from under the collapse with only a heartbeat to spare.
He could literally taste the dust and the metallic spray of the impact as he cleared the danger, and a grin, triumphant and utterly arrogant, bloomed on his face.
“Whoo, perfect timing! I totally planned that.”
“Sure you did,” Throttle muttered.
Adjusting his mouse-shaped side mirror—a habitual gesture of vanity—Vinnie's smile widened.
"But thanks, sweetheart. Don’t know what I'd do without you."
“Your swelled head would be flat, at least.”
Charley’s grin was audible in the comms, a clear, warm sound that always cut through the tension.
Vinnie clutched his chest dramatically, though still smiling.
“Ouch, now that hurts, babe.”
For a heartbeat, it looked like the chaos had peaked.
Now all that was left to do was to blow Karbunkle to the seventh galaxy, grab Greasepit and do the same, and give back the stolen iron.
Easy peasy, lemon squeezy.
Like a walk in the park.
Little did they know their lives were about to change drastically.
Karbunkle’s head snapped upward, his behind goggles hidden eyes narrowing at the elevated shack.
Seeing the familiar silhouette inside, a cold, calculating smile tugged at his thin lips, and he raised his weapon again.
He didn't aim at the mice this time.
He didn't need to.
He knew exactly how to hit them without actually touching them.
His smile widened into a cruel, triumphant snarl.
He manually adjusted his cannon and fired.
No regrets.
Just malice.
A concentrated bolt of destructive green energy—not a net, but a solid spear of pure force—tore across the dock.
Vinnie tracked the shot with his red eyes.
When he realized where it was aimed at, his heart plummeted right out of his chest.
No.
“Charley, get down, NOW!”
The raw sound that tore from his throat was unlike any sound he had made during his life.
A primal cry of sheer terror and utter helplessness.
He might have been ashamed if the situation wasn’t so dire, but it was.
And thus, the sound was already forgotten.
There was only Charley and the certainty of disaster.
The auburn-haired woman turned, alarmed by the sound of Vinnie’s voice.
But she didn’t have time to fully react.
There never really was.
Time.
Today was no different.
And before she could even blink, the blast slammed into the shack with a crack that split the cold air.
For one awful instant, the whole structure lit from the inside, every seam glowing with an unnatural, furious green.
And then there was the explosion.
It was different from the ones found on a battlefield, but it was loud and violent, and it blew the windows out in a spray of glass shards.
With a loud crack, the shack lurched sideways before it tore free from the catwalk and plummeted to the pier, taking Charley with it.
All this happened in a split second, a micro-moment Vinnie used to turn his bike and speed toward the crash site.
He slammed the brakes hard, his bike skidding into a smoking, desperate halt inches from the wreckage.
He jumped off, ripping his helmet from his head as he ran, almost tripping over his own feet.
“Charley!”
Throttle and Modo slid their bikes to a stop next to Vinnie’s, but he was already halfway into the debris field, pushing hot, splintered metal with his bare hands.
He didn’t care if it burned the fur off his palms or the skin off his fingertips.
All that mattered was finding Charley, so he could get rid of this stone-cold hand clutching his heart in such a tight grip that it hurt.
“Bros! Help me dig, NOW!”
His voice was ragged, desperate even, the mask of cockiness shattered.
Never, ever, had he been so scared as he was now, but he forced himself to focus.
To not let the fear take over, because he had no idea what would happen if he did.
He hadn’t lied earlier.
He really had no idea what he would do without her.
Charley.
She had to be okay.
She just had to be.
Instead of joining the panicked digging, Throttle climbed onto a pile of debris and quickly eyed the catastrophic situation.
He felt the same crippling fear that currently sharpened his little brother's features, but he deliberately pushed it away.
They had to stay calm.
For Charley.
“We need to move that beam over there,” he commanded, pointing with precision.
“She was right near that console. Modo, we need your arm.”
The grey mouse climbed toward the spot his leader had indicated.
When he reached the jagged tangle of metal, he kneeled and used his powerful bionic arm to carefully apply pressure against the thick support beam.
“I need another hand here,” he grunted, feeling the enormous weight of it.
Vinnie, however, was suddenly standing perfectly still.
His red eyes were fixated, unblinking, on a small, blood-streaked piece of glass embedded near the beam’s base.
The hand around his heart tightened.
Breathing suddenly became increasingly difficult.
He shook his head, his voice reduced to a low, panicked whimper.
“No… no, no, no…”
Though he understood the paralyzing strength of fear gripping his friend, Throttle moved quickly, knowing every second counted.
He grabbed Vinnie by the shoulder and gave it a mean, hard squeeze.
“Stay focussed. We move together.”
With a small, guiding shove, Throttle got his little brother moving again.
It took only that and their flawless teamwork for the three mice to heave the heavy support beam aside.
And there, beneath it, was Charley.
Lying entirely still.
Vinnie released the beam with a grunt and immediately dropped to his knees next to her, ignoring the sharp debris and splinters of glass pricking his flesh.
With a trembling hand, he swept thick layers of concrete dust and grime from her pale, blood-streaked face.
His red eyes urgently sought movement, scanning her chest.
A profound, shuddering relief caused the tension around his heart to loosen a fraction.
She was still breathing.
Shallow, labored, maybe, but breathing.
She was completely unconscious, however.
His gaze fixed on the deep, severe laceration running across her temple.
That must be why.
At least, he prayed that the surface wound was the entire reason she was out cold, and not something far worse buried beneath.
His nose wrinkled.
Oh man, Charley.
How could this even happen?
“Charley? Hey, sweetheart… Open your eyes. Just tell me you’re okay. I need to know that you’re okay…” he whispered, wiping a sticky strand of auburn hair out of her face with painstaking gentleness.
She didn’t respond.
The agonizing silence was an answer in itself, and the hand clenching Vinnie's heart tightened once more.
He looked up at Modo, who was now sitting across from him, checking Charley’s pulse with the warm, flesh hand he still possessed.
For a moment, all Vinnie could do was stare at how ridiculously small her hand looked between Modo’s thick, powerful fingers.
It was a crushing reminder of how utterly fragile she actually was—one of the key reasons they always fought so hard to keep her out of danger.
But not today.
No.
Not today.
“Her pulse is weak, Throttle,” Modo finally said, his voice even heavier than usual, drenched with profound fear.
Fear they all three felt, for this was Charley.
Their friend.
Their alley.
Their anchor.
Throttle knelt next to his grey brother, his gaze, hidden behind his dark glasses, wandering quickly over Charley’s face, assessing the situation with clinical speed.
"Internal. It's internal," he stated, his voice low and grim.
"And the pressure on her head… that comms shack was hit with a highly concentrated destabilizer charge. It didn't just smash the metal; it struck her nervous system hard."
Vinnie looked up with a sharp jerk, his red eyes wide open and glossy with silent, unspilled tears.
“What does that even mean?”
Throttle leaned forward and rested a heavy hand on Vinnie’s shoulder.
“It means, Vinnie, that her brain is shutting down. We need to take her back to the garage and use the drone. It’s her only hope now.”
The drone.
The one they had stolen from Karbunkle’s lab a few missions back.
The very one carrying bizarre, experimental Plutarkian technology designed to diagnose and treat impossible injuries.
The one they swore to never touch, unless they absolutely had to.
This was one of those moments.
This was Charley.
Vinnie wiped the dampness from his face, his expression hardening, changing abruptly from desperate agony to steely, focused determination.
Perhaps there was even a glimpse of hope.
“Let’s get her home.”
And with that, he gently scooped her into his arms, holding her close to his chest as the three of them prepared to outrun time.
They could only hope they would be fast enough.