This story is not all my own work, but is a collaboration with the brilliant StarlitxSky.

It was thought up some time ago last year as a way of battling through the plague that is writer's block. What we did was build up the story by each writing 'what happened next' from a random starting point, and concluded the story when neither of us could think of anything more to add.

We both had a good laugh writing it, and whilst it is totally, utterly, crazy random we hope you will enjoy it nonetheless.

A day not to remember: A random story with naked mice in it.

Throttle woke up to find his nose pressed into the ground. Groaning, he picked his head up, spat out a mouthful of dirt and grass, then blinked dazedly into a blackened void. For a minute he thought it was in the dead of night, but the chirping of birds told him otherwise.

Realization sunk in and he quickly started patting the lumpy, chilly ground; his fingers soon found and closed around the frames of his specs. He slid them on and sat up - moving slowly thanks to the pounding headache he had. The world gradually came into focus; the sun was just rising into the sky, palely illuminating the empty field he was sitting in the middle of.

Dried grass and clumps of weeds rustled in the cold wind that was blowing, and beyond where the field ended, many feet away, there stood a rundown road with another field on the other side of it. He sat watching for a couple of minutes as he waited for his head to clear, but no cars drove by.

Just where the heck was he? How did he get here? Where were his bros? Or his bike? And most importantly...

Where the heck were his clothes?!

He did a quick scan of the vast field, but there was no sign of his usual attire lying anywhere. Why was he out here naked, and why couldn't he remember anything that explained how he got here? Giving himself a quick look over he found multiple bumps and bruises - and a large knot on the side of his head, right by his temple. He fingered it gingerly and discovered dried blood.

He wasn't going to find any answers to his many questions out here, and fortunately no one was around right now to watch as he got unsteadily to his feet. The cold didn't really bother him (although it bothered him a little more than it would have if he had his pants on) thanks to his fur coat, but he really needed to find some clothes before getting back to Chicago. Judging by the seclusion of the area and the lack of traffic, he guessed he was at the outskirts of one of the many rural areas found south of the big city.

There wasn't a whole lot to find in a place like this other than more fields, a few trees, shrubs, weeds, and scattered homes. There were a couple of houses on either side of the small road, and as he exited the field (tiptoeing through the tall grass and foxtail while maintaining as much dignity with his hands as he could) he spied what looked like clothes hanging on a line in a backyard up ahead, flapping in the breeze.

Ordinarily he wouldn't stoop to swiping someone's laundry but, given his situation, he was grateful for the chance to stop running around in his birthday suit. Still tiptoeing, Throttle worked his way across the unkempt portion of land between the fenced yard and the field, stepping around thick clumps of crabgrass, chicory, and curly dock, while at the same time keeping a sharp eye out for activity at the house or on the road. He dodged behind a few spindly trees along the way before finally reaching the fence. And climbing over a chain link fence while in the nude proved to be an experience he didn't care to repeat.

Throttle half-expected some rabid guard dog to come tearing at him as soon as he landed in the yard, but everything remained quiet except for his soft footsteps on the dewy, well-maintained lawn. The air was starting to warm a little as the sun rose higher, and he gratefully hurried to the clothesline and started hunting for something he could wear for now.

After poking through rows of bras, tank tops, skirts, and other feminine articles, he came to the unhappy conclusion that the only person living here was a girl. And a short girl to boot; his only options were a skirt that barely reached his knees and a baggy pink t-shirt. And he didn't pull either item on until after debating with himself for about five minutes over which would be worse: being caught naked or in a getup like this. He wasn't quite sold that the latter option was more favourable, but he grudgingly pulled the two articles on. At least the little lady wasn't rail-thin.

But he had to wonder what laundry was doing out this early in the morning. Everything looked too dry to have been put out recently, and there was a coolness in the clothing fibres leftover from last night's dampness and the morning dew drying in the sun. It wasn't damp enough to make wearing them uncomfortable, fortunately.

As Throttle turned to face the house he wondered absently if the owner had put them on the line yesterday and forgot to bring them back in. Everything looked quiet inside...eerily quiet...and a sudden loud grumble from his stomach made him jump a little. Feeling foolish, and rather hungry, Throttle headed towards the house for a closer look.

First he had stolen a girl's laundry, now he was thinking about breaking-and-entering so he could steal something from the fridge. Definitely not his finest hour, but it looked like a long way to Chicago and he needed his strength. So he slunk to the patio door at the back of the house, which to his surprise opened easily when he tested it. The interior of the house was as quiet as the exterior as he poked his nose inside.

It looked like no one was home - and as he took a cautious step inside, he noticed that no one had likely been home in a number of days. Just off the back entrance was a small den, and through the doorway he could see that the TV had been left on, tuned to static. There was a fine layer of dust on everything and a handful of potted plants were starting to wilt. Whoever lived here must have left in a hurry for some reason.

He'd probably never know the story, but it gave him a free run of the place. Throttle tracked down and headed straight for the kitchen, where his growling stomach sent him rummaging through the fridge. Only there wasn't much food left; just a gallon of milk that was starting to smell funny, a sickly-looking head of lettuce and a few other fuzzy vegetables, and an unopened block of cheese. Since it was still in the plastic it was probably safe to eat...but he was already running around in a skirt, here. He'd stooped low enough.

He spent the next few minutes rummaging in the cabinets for something edible, though in the end all he could find was half a bag of pretzels. Salty pretzels that left him predictably thirsty after he'd wolfed them down. Not pausing to find a suitable receptacle to drink from (most of which were piled next to the sink or shoved in the full dishwasher, waiting to be cleaned) Throttle stuck his mouth under the faucet to wash it all down. His head was still hurting, so it didn't help that he knocked the throbbing lump on his temple as he straightened himself back up again.

His snack finished, Throttle wandered out of the kitchen and into the living room, where he spied a cordless phone sitting out on an end table. He quickly snatched it up and dialed the Last Chance Garage. If his bros were there, they'd be able to tell him just what the heck was going on. They'd know how he ended up stranded in a field in the middle of nowhere. And they'd hopefully know where his clothes were. And he was definitely going to ask why they got to relax at the garage while he was having such a lousy day.

But no one came on the line. He let it ring, and ring...but there was no answer. Which left him worried as he hung up; even if his bros were out blowing something up, Charley should be around. Unless she was with them, wherever they were.

He wasn't going to find out by sticking around here. But he also wasn't going to get very far on foot, so as he stepped back outside via the front door he started hunting for transportation.

A glance in the nearby garage told him that when the owner ran off to wherever they had gone they took the only vehicle. There was a riding mower, but it was out of gas and clearly un-roadworthy. Frustrated, he headed back to the house, and as he was mounting the porch his eyes fell on an old, rusted bicycle propped up against the side of the steps. It was banged up and the tires needed air, but it would do in a pinch.

He could just picture himself now, peddling for hours alongside the road, skirt riding up to his hips while his legs pumped, flashing everything he had for all the world to see...

That'd be a humiliation he wasn't willing to subject himself to even if it didn't get him arrested. He'd find something else, or he'd walk.

In desperation Throttle went back inside and tried calling the garage for a second time, but there was still no answer.

He weighed his remaining options. The city could be miles away, and in a cloudless sky the late summer sun had rapidly warmed the morning air, and now it was starting to feel a little uncomfortable under his thick fur coat. Did he really want to be walking that far, in the heat, feeling as rotten as he did? He wondered if he should just wait around for the rest of the day, and make the journey under cover of night. It didn't look like the owner had been around for a while, and probably wouldn't be back today... besides, it was so quiet he would likely hear a truck coming from a mile off. And that battered old sofa in the cool shade of the living room did look somewhat inviting.

But he knew he couldn't really stay; given the condition he was in his two bros might be in a similar – if not worse – situation. They might need his help, and Throttle reluctantly decided he had wasted enough time here as it was.

He couldn't exactly thumb a lift, even if there actually was anyone passing by in the right direction, and the chances of finding a suitable means of transport to borrow without being spotted by its owner were just as unlikely. There was no choice but to go on foot, and if he kept off the main road and out of sight, keeping to the few trees and what little shade they offered, he might just make it back to the city by nightfall.

His mind made up, Throttle left the empty house and cut through the yard and out the little gate in the fence...which he mentally kicked himself over not spotting earlier. He followed a small dirt path along the field margin, crossed the empty road, and aimed for a gap between some bushes that would hopefully lead him to a path parallel to but hidden from the main route. There was another house somewhere just beyond the gap, but if he was quick he could probably cross its yard before anyone saw him.

On the threshold he paused and took a look around. Beyond the bushes he could clearly see the house: a ramshackle-looking structure set back from the road, with an unkempt garden spanning the distance between it and himself. All seemed clear, so he made a run for it, hoping to keep as far from the house as possible and reach the fields clear of it on the north side. Only instead of running forward, Throttle felt a sharp tug on his left ankle, and yelling in surprise toppled over to face-plant back into the dirt, coughing and spitting much like he had done when he first woke up today.

The sudden pain in his lower leg made his eyes water, and after the initial shock of his fall an intense throbbing set in, making him groan loudly. Something was clamped tightly around his leg: two jaws of steel biting down hard like some wild beast had reached up and snatched its prey from below the ground.

Throttle had never seen a hunter's trap before, but blinking back tears he could easily see how the thing worked, and with a bit of effort was able to free himself. He was lucky, this time; the snare was old and worn, and there wasn't enough force left in the spring to break a bone, nor were the teeth sharp enough to deeply pierce his skin. He couldn't help but think that some real strange people lived around here – they were in the middle of nowhere, and couldn't possibly get that many burglars, so why the heck did they need to booby-trap the place? The things humans did sometimes really did make him wonder.

He sincerely hoped that whoever set the trap hadn't heard the noise he just made, and grunting softly he pulled himself back up. He quickly realised that this new injury on top of the rest was going to make his long walk back to the city near impossible, and decided to take the probably suicidal risk of seeing if this place had any alternative means of getting him home.

Throttle had just started his slow limp towards the side of the property when suddenly the rickety back door flew open, and a very angry, very crazy-looking guy in overalls burst out onto the small porch. The man seemed wild; his hair was long and greasy, and his wrinkled skin was so brown it was hard to tell if it was simply tanned or extremely dirty. And he was armed with an ancient, rust-covered shotgun that probably hadn't fired in about twenty years.

"You stay 'way from ma daughter," the farmer hollered, showing a few missing teeth.

"I'm not going anywhere near your daughter," Throttle cried, trying to hobble away. Especially not if she resembled her daddy.

" 'N you stay 'way from ma daughter's clothes, ya shaggy varmint!"

"Hey, I resent that..." Throttle said to himself, not wanting to rattle the irate, clearly insane farmer any further.

The man obviously didn't like visitors, and Throttle dodged what appeared to be a number of other 'obstacles' hidden away in the overgrown yard, some of which must have been long forgotten judging by the way the old farmer cursed and stumbled as he gave chase.

Finally, a few awkward and decidedly indecent minutes later, Throttle managed to slip through some more bushes and found himself in the driveway out front. It was a small mercy that a clunky old pickup was parked up there, and for some reason the keys were still in the ignition. Not wanting to ask the madman on his tail for permission to borrow his truck, and with an absent thought to bring it back later, Throttle quickly started the thing up, revved the engine, and sped down the driveway as fast as the battered old thing would go.

Not a moment too soon, either. In the rear-view mirror Throttle just about made out the outline of the overall-clad man, waving his shotgun above his head. A loud crack made him shudder with relief. That really was a close, he thought as he nudged his foot down just that bit harder on the gas pedal.

Once on the main road he eased off the accelerator, not wanting to draw unwanted attention in his direction. A half-naked, half-cross dressed Martian mouse in a stolen truck would not be easy to explain, and there wasn't exactly much gas in the tank either. It continued to chug steadily towards Chicago, while Throttle kept on the alert for anyone - be they cops or crazy farmers - until just a few miles from the city border when the engine finally died a smoky death.

Thankfully he was now back in familiar territory, more or less, and after abandoning the truck in a deserted parking lot, he started the last leg of the journey on foot.

The sun had set by the time he dragged his tired, sorry self up the driveway of the Last Chance. Both relief and dread filled him (if his bros saw him like this he would never hear the end of it) but as he pushed the side door open and stumbled inside, both feelings gave way to puzzlement.

The inside of the garage was dark and silent, even though the sign in the front window said it was supposed to be open. Charley wouldn't up and leave the place unlocked and unattended after nightfall...unless something had happened, that is.

He switched a light on and checked around for a minute, but there was no trace of the owner, or his bros, or any of their bikes. With a sinking heart, he came to the conclusion that if he wanted to find them - and find out how he ended up stranded in the middle of nowhere - he was going to have to go back out and look for everyone.

But he definitely needed a change of clothes before he hit downtown Chicago. It was too long (and risky) a walk back to the scoreboard, but fortunately he and his bros kept some spare laundry in a small locker shoved behind some toolboxes, just in case.

The wrinkled jeans he was soon taking out and brushing off looked like they should have been cleaned before being tossed into storage, but they were still better than a restrictive, decidedly un-masculine skirt. He also dug out a pair of heavily scuffed boots from the bottom of the locker, but that was all he could find that would fit him.

Skirt and pink t-shirt were hastily shed and shoved to the bottom of the nearest trash can, and then he started on the uncomfortable task of getting dressed with his ankle still swollen and sore - which the long trek he'd just taken hadn't helped a whole lot.

Throttle decided to start with his bad foot, since he could shift his weight to his good leg while he was putting the other into the pant leg. After that, it would be a little painful to lean on the bad leg as he lifted the other foot, but since he wouldn't have to baby it the whole way, he could get that foot through and pull the jeans up the rest of the way quickly.

He got as far as wiggling his sore foot through the pant leg and was taking a breather before starting on the other foot - when somebody came bursting into the garage.

Before Throttle knew what was happening, Charley was stumbling towards him, out of breath and saying something in a rush - and then they were both jumping back with embarrassed yelps. Charley slapped her hands over her bugged-out eyes and blurted a string of rapid apologies (along with some muttering that sounded suspiciously like 'I had no idea it was that big!') while Throttle, with plenty of embarrassed mumbling of his own, hastily struggled to get his other foot in the jeans and pull them up.

He ended up tripping himself and landed on his bare bottom. Sighing, he flopped back the rest of the way and wiggled around for a minute, until he'd worked his jeans up to where they were supposed to be. After zipping and snapping them into place, he hauled himself to his feet.

"You can look now," he told Charley, before grabbing his boots.

Her cheeks stained pink, Charley peeked between her fingers before lowering her hands. She cleared her throat a couple of times before frowning at him. "Where the heck have you been?"

"Wandering around in the middle of nowhere," Throttle responded dryly. "I don't suppose you can tell me how I got there?"

"I'm not sure, I wasn't there when it happened. But never mind that, we need to go rescue the others!"

"Rescue?" Throttle's tired head was spinning. "Why do the others need to be rescued?"

"I'll explain on the way," Charley told him, before rushing back out of the garage. Throttle finished tugging on his boots and followed.

Out in the parking lot, Charley was looking at the empty spaces near the door - spaces where he and his bros usually parked their bikes. The pretty mechanic put her hands on her hips and grimaced. "I forgot, they're still over in the parking garage," she noted, a grumble in her voice.

Parking garage? Was that where his bike was? "Just what went on last night?" the confused mouse asked as Charley hurried over to her truck.

At least, he assumed all this started last night. He couldn't be sure of anything at the moment.

"You don't remember?" Charley wondered, as she hopped into the cab before reaching over and popping open the passenger door for him.

Not waiting for him to answer, she plunged into a quick explanation as she started the engine and Throttle buckled in. She told him about a special gift package he and his bros had gotten yesterday from a grateful citizen they had rescued from something or other a while back: a relaxing evening at a local health spa, free of charge.

At the mention of the place, it all slowly started coming back to him. He recalled bits and pieces of the ride over to the spa yesterday. He and his bros leaving their weapons - and clothes - in a locker. Lounging in a quiet room lit with scented candles. Lying on a padded table with nothing but a towel draped over him as skilful hands kneaded all the tension out of his muscles. Vinnie playfully asking his masseuse if she was familiar with tantric massage.

And then their fun had come to an explosive end as a bunch of Limburger's goons decided to crash their little party. Patrons and employees ran screaming out of the room amidst the ethereal sound of massage music, while he and his bros fumbled to hang on to their towels with one hand and brawl with the other.

Things were still pretty fuzzy, but he distinctly remembered receiving a sharp blow to the head. After that everything went dark until he woke up in the field.

"I got wind of what happened," Charley told him as she drove rapidly toward Limburger Tower. "The others were taken captive, but since you were knocked out, I guess they decided to do what Limburger is always telling them to do and 'got rid of you.' "

"I don't think dumping me in a field I can easily find my way back from is quite what the big cheese had in mind," Throttle commented with a grin.

He frowned a second later as something occurred to him. "You found out what happened afterwards? How come you weren't at the spa with us?"

Charley scowled a little as she focused on the road. "I wasn't included in the package," she muttered.

Meanwhile, in Limburger Tower...

Deep down in the depths of the despicable fish's headquarters, two very buff, very embarrassed Martian mice were also wondering what had happened after that explosive interruption of their first spa experience.

Vinnie and Modo had been knee deep in a tangle of discarded robes, fluffy slippers and Egyptian cotton sheets when they saw the tan tail of their other bro disappearing into the back of a black van, which had driven off at high speed before they could stop it. And taking advantage of their momentary distraction, the remaining goons had produced a large wire net from their arsenal, in which they bundled the two startled mice, minus modesty, before tossing them into the back of a second black-colored vehicle.

Then, knocked senseless by a rifle butt each to the head, the pair had woken up with nothing bar matching bumps and dented egos, and a distinct sense of déjà vu.

They instantly recognised the clinical yet sinister surroundings that defined Karbunkle's basement laboratory, but what was also familiar – if absurdly out of place – was a heavy cloying smell of burning incense, and the flickering haze of several pastel-colored candles dotted around the otherwise decoration-free wall space. And that's not to mention those mystic, new-age tunes piping from a CD player somewhere over in the far corner.

Despite the thin resemblance, it was still a far cry from the earlier luxury of the spa. The two exam tables the mice found themselves strapped down to did not have forgiving eider down pillows, nor was there an exotic beauty on hand to knead away all their aches and pains. Not so incongruous, however, was a pair of metal trolleys parked up by each of their tables. On these, under the harsh glare of a set of surgical lamps, was the gleaming steel of dozens of slender needles. There were also several wads of cotton and a bottle of rubbing alcohol on each.

Vinnie was pointedly trying to avoid looking at the contents of his tray, and Modo didn't seem too happy either. And both were thinking that whatever had happened to him – assuming he wasn't dead – Throttle had definitely gotten away lightly.

Over by his desk, Karbunkle stood hunched over what appeared to be the pages of a glossy magazine. Several more were piled on his cluttered workspace, whilst others were littered around him on the floor, apparently discarded. Nearly all of them featured smiling faces on their covers, and the one he was reading was headed by the title 'Holistic Weekly'. The doctor himself had swapped his white coat for a long, flowing, and very brightly-colored kaftan, and wore open-toed sandals instead of the usual black heeled boots. And beside him, perched on the only free space of the corner of the desk, Fred the mutant looked on, quietly hopeful.

"You think the demented doc is studying for a change of career?" whispered Vinnie, trying to maintain eye-contact - and only eye-contact - with the other nude mouse.

"I sure hope not," Modo replied, shuddering. The notion of a silk-clad Karbunkle straddling him from behind and pounding the knots out of his spine was not his idea of good quality, professional physiotherapy. And something told him that despite appearances, they were almost certainly not down here for the good of their health, be it physical, mental or spiritual.

The dress-wearing doctor finished reading and put down the health magazine before moving towards the two examination tables, skirt-tails swishing. He picked up one of the long needles from Modo's tray and twirled it in his gloved fingers, frowning hard.

"If I just insert these in the right order, and stimulate the right channels..." he muttered to himself, bringing the pointy end of the needle perilously close to the grey mouse.

The health spa had certainly given the malevolent medic some fresh ideas for torturing the mice. He had at first considered just broadening his résumé by experimenting with various far Eastern pain management techniques – such as forcing his two unwilling test subjects to endure gruelling sessions of aggressive acupuncture, repeating it over and over until he had finally mastered the art of inserting the needles without them feeling it. But he could earn that diploma another day, he decided, and besides, what real use were two overly-relaxed and tension-free Martians?

No, there had to be more 'productive' applications of the ancient technique, he believed, and was now hoping to use it to rid them of their free will, and turn them into mindless, obedient puppets.

"By the time I'm done with you rodents, I will have complete control of all your thoughts!" he announced, grabbing a whole handful of the tray's contents and stalking back to his desk to re-examine his textbooks.

"Do you really think it'll work?" Vinnie breathed once his back was turned, not relishing this latest scheme of Karbunkle's one bit.

Modo shrugged, doubtful. And with the way that their captor was muttering to himself it didn't appear that Karbunkle was too sure it would either.

But even if the experiment failed he would at least get to spend several enjoyable hours stabbing them over and over with sharp objects, much to the undisguised envy of Fred the Mutant.

Outside the main lobby, Throttle paused to listen. They had ditched the truck just outside the plaza, and with Charley helping him to hobble the rest of the way, together they prepared to breach the front of Limburger tower before hurrying on to find the others.

Hearing nothing to indicate any alarms had been raised, Throttle gave the nod. He stepped forward, sidearm cocked, triggering the automatic glass panel doors to sweep aside with a soft hiss. Charley followed, covering him from behind.

For a second they thought they had gotten in to the building unseen, but then an eruption of sound and a flurry of laser fire told them they were in fact expected.

Without his bike, and being as banged up as he was, Throttle wasn't well prepared for this sudden swarm of Limburger's goons, and he hastily ducked down in front of the security desk, firing back occasionally with his pistol.

"We're never going to get through this!" Throttle gasped, missing his motorcycle and cursing his bum leg in equal measures.

"Leave it to me!" cried Charley, who did not bring her favourite missile-launching bazooka to the party for nothing, after all. Throttle gaped at her for a moment, but soon dived out of hiding to take out a few thugs on their flanks whilst Charley pressed home her fearsome attack, scattering the first wave of goons. Alarms began to ring at that point, and with pillars and tiles shattering left and right the duo pressed on through the lobby, their hail of laser fire blasting away more and more goons that were piling in to try and stop them.

Finally they reached the far end of the long atrium. Panting, Throttle punched the buttons to call one of the lifts, leaving Charley to do a one-eighty and ensure that no one else succeeded in following them. After a few agonising moments with his back pressed to the wall, the metal doors abruptly slid open and Throttle stumbled tail first inside.

Still covering him with her weapon, Charley slowly backed up into the open elevator, waited for the mouse to press the button, and then tossed out a small, paper-covered package just before the doors closed in front of her.

She smirked as their descent to the basement was augmented by a satisfying boom from above them.

Damn, Throttle thought, she sure is tough. Groaning quietly, he slid down the elevator wall to the floor, exhausted but knowing he had only a few short seconds to rest before the ride came to an end. There was a jarring bob as the car came to a stop, followed by the doors sliding open with a clunk. Cool air ghosted into the elevator, indicating that they had descended deep, deep down into bowels of the foul Plutarkian's lair.

The dimly-lit corridors were empty and silent; apparently the news of their arrival hadn't reached this far yet. There were several electronic doors leading into Karbunkle's main lab, but all of them were tightly sealed and wouldn't open without passcodes and keycards. So Charley casually made a new door or two with her bazooka.

Things happened pretty quickly after that. They charged in with guns blazing, leaving a crispy mutant and an even crispier (not to mention oddly dressed) doctor in their wake. When the two of them reached the pair of operating tables at the back of the room, Throttle stopped in horror; both of his bros had been punctured with a multitude of long, hair-thin needles, which were all now sticking out of them in every direction.

While Vinnie groaned loudly, Throttle and Charley exchanged glances, wondering where they should start. Only they didn't get the chance to decide as a fresh wave of goons came barrelling into the room, forcing them to undo the table constraints and save the needle removal for later.

Since neither of them had weapons (or clothes) the only thing they could do was follow behind him and Charley, using their hands to cover their privates while slapping goons away with their tails. Or at least, Modo did; Vinnie, whose tail now resembled a silver porcupine, trailed after him with more groaning.

Charley was watching the big gray mouse in concern. "Are you sure you're okay?" she asked, eyeing the sizeable collection of needles running up his bare back.

"You bet!" Modo replied with a laugh. "My lumbar feels great!"

After a few more blasts of laser fire and numerous explosions, they made it out of the tower safely and ran to Charley's truck. Throttle sank gratefully into the front seat, while his two bros climbed gingerly up into the bed of the truck. Gritting his teeth, Throttle punched out one last persistent goon before slamming the door shut and letting his head thump back against the headrest.

Despite the need for a hasty exit, Charley pulled away carefully before gradually applying speed, obviously worried about jostling the passengers in the back too much. As her hands skilfully manipulated the steering wheel and her eyes focused squarely on the road, Throttle thought he heard her mutter "Modo wins."

The tan mouse leaned his head out the window and looked over at the pair of mice in the back who, given their tiring ordeal and the lack of covering in the truck, had given up on trying to conceal themselves and were focusing on shedding the needles.

"You two all right?" asked Throttle.

"Never better, honestly," Modo quipped, as he busily plucked one needle after another from Vinnie's tail and dropped them with a plink. The white mouse flinched every time. "Can't say the same for Vinnie, sadly, considering how-"

"Don't say it, bro," Vinnie warned hotly. "Don't even think it."

The terse interruption making him curious, and despite the unwritten rule about bros never staring, particularly below the naval, Throttle craned his neck for a better look. The white mouse was clearly fuming about something other than the needles, and he soon spotted what.

Quickly turning to face forward again and keeping his mouth firmly shut before he blurted out something that earned him a fist to the skull, Throttle casually nudged the side mirror towards Modo...and away from the bright pink square torn from a certain mouse's white fur.

Catching what he was doing, Modo sent a smirk in his direction, which Throttle caught in the mirror. He almost let out a snort of amusement in response, but he quickly squashed it down and focused instead on the undeniable sympathy he also felt.

Karbunkle truly found inspiration in the strangest of places. Either that or he really was an undercover beautician-come-therapist in training.