Mouse Fiction

The text is mostly complete, +Jacob is hard at work drawing mouse motorcyclists, playtesting is well underway. Heavy Metal Thunder Mouse is happening. Here\’s a bit of fiction that may or may not make it into the final product. Please enjoy!

They rode by twos, single file, tails tucked under their arms, a pack of six tiny motorcyclists bringing a tiny storm of combustion to the streets around the Triple Fir hotel. They were waiting. For who, or what, they weren’t sure exactly, but this was the spot. There was Grey Eyes, Tim, Mickey, Sleepo on her yellow monstrosity (the chassis was mostly melted bottle caps), Grunge, and Boris, who revved his engine too often. The pack was bored and getting tired, imagining sweet cheese and other snacks awaiting their return to the clubhouse. Luckily, it appeared the end of their vigil was getting closer, for out of seemingly nowhere a small (even smaller than their own bikes) cafe racer shot between their formation into the night-black streets.

Without a word they broke off and pushed their accelerators to the limit in pursuit of the target. Sleepo, somewhat awake now, squeaked her delight at the turn of events. Grey Eyes took the lead, navigating their pursuit by feel. His instincts proved right as his headlight, one of only two motorcycles in the pack that had such a thing, reflected off the rear fender of their prey. He waved and they veered down an alley to follow.

A splashing sound, scarcely audible over the din, gave away their target and Grey Eyes led the way again. Around banana peels, under dumpsters, and through boxes the little pack zoomed and there was the racer, tipped over on its side.

“That just ain’t right,” said Mickey, “Leaving a bike like that.”

Grey Eyes hopped down and inspected the scene. The little snoop they were chasing could go quieter on foot, but not faster. Where did they go?

“There!” he shouted, and the ones still mounted raced away. Tim, the other one with the headlight, sped up and saw the bouncing little tail and whooped. In a moment they were on her, a black speckled field mouse hurrying away on all fours. They circled her with their bikes until she stopped and slunk down on her haunches in defeat.

“Fine, you got me,” she said, though no no one heard her over the engines. They only stopped when Grey Eyes scurried into the circle. He sat in front of her.

“Well?” he said.

“Well nothing,” she rejoined.

“Not the answer we’re looking for. Where’s Tasha?”

The field mouse wrung her paws nervously.

“We ain’t out to hurt nobody,” said Grey Eyes. “We just got a job to do, you see.”

“Let’s get her!” shouted Boris. Two of them rushed ahead, grabbing at the field mouse, ready for a pounding. She tried to curl up into a ball pitifully, then Grey Eyes calmed them down. The tactic seemed to work; mice aren’t overly brave by nature.

“Fine!” she squeaked. “Fine! Frankie’s got Tasha in the subway tunnels under the Main Street Bank, okay? Little crack at the base of the steps should lead you right to her.” She began to cry. “They’re gonna get me! You guys gotta protect me!”

As he popped the kickstand up and reached for the starter, Grey Eyes looked down. “We’ll see,” he said and rode away.


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