This is just something quick I was thinking through. Short and sweet, hopefully. :) Enjoy!

Stoker sipped at his drink, surveying the unruly crew of Freedom Fighters he had managed to assemble. Truthfully, he was surprised there were so many. He hadn't realized that there would be so many Martians in his area who were dissatisfied with Army and suspicious of the string of "coincidences" and "accidents" that seemed to characterize their government's relationship with these Plutarkian invaders.

He had to admit that he felt rather satisfied with them. True, they were mostly untrained. They could be loud and disorganized. They tended to be the outcasts and the proudly independent. But they had guts and determination and loved a good fight. Stoker could handle that. In fact, he loved it.

Especially when he considered the stars of the motley bunch.

Stoker leaned back in his chair, smiling as he regarded a Martian a few tables way. Throttle…now that was some fighting potential. Stoker could sense leadership there and was grooming him for just that. The mouse was young but skilled and consistently hit anything he targeted. He seemed to have an endless capacity to remember the names of the battle tactics Stoker taught, and carried them out flawlessly. He was quiet but affable. He would make a brilliant partner, and perhaps Throttle would help expand the resistance. Not that he imagined the war lasting, but who knew?

A large mouse sat down next to Throttle with his tray and Stoker shifted his eyes over. Ah, Modo. He had no objections to Modo's tight bond with Throttle. The two would work well together. Modo was a few years older, and he seemed to have the steadiness that befitted an older friend. He was kind and reasonable. He didn't have Throttle's sharp memory, but he was a solid fighter in the few battles they had seen. He rode well, regarding his bike almost as a living being. As for strength, well, Stoker didn't know what Modo's beloved "gray furred momma" fed him, but it seemed to have worked. There was promise in Modo.

A high pitched laugh rang through the air and Stoker grimaced as a slender, white furred mouse sprang over to Stoker's two protégées. Vinnie, he did mind. Vinnie did not fit into Stoker's plan. He didn't even belong there. He had showed up at the base, grinning widely and claiming to be of age and part of the district. He wasn't either, Stoker could guess. From the first meeting, Stoker could see the restlessness behind the wide grin, and the shaking hands that belied the bravado. The kid was not stable.

"Loss," Throttle had said shortly when Stoker asked what the kid's issue was. "He'll be fine." But he wasn't, Stoker could see that. He was reckless, throwing himself into battle as if he got some kind of high off of imminent danger. He tried to show off and ended up making mistakes. He boasted and joked, and seemed to have no volume control. Throttle and Modo, who had apparently known Vinnie from childhood, immediately resumed the friendship and the trio was growing close. It seemed to be inevitable.

Maybe Throttle and Modo would balance him out.

And yet…

For all of the mistakes and wrecks, Stoker saw raw talent in the white furred mouse. He had the thought that Vinnie, if refined, could out ride all of them, himself included. He was smart too, Stoker could tell. Quick witted in speech and in battle. All of that would be good in their fight. But there was another thing that made Stoker pause as he surveyed the young mouse, who was currently bragging about a race he had won. There was a genuine passion under the theatrics and posturing. It was something that Stoker recognized within himself as well; a delight in this unexpected line of work. Vinnie, it was clear, had had some hard knocks. But he was picking himself up, pushing himself forward, and never looking back. He seemed to have this absolute determination to enjoy his life, whatever was handed to him. He had this undefinable spark that Throttle and Modo, with all their skill and bravery, didn't have.

Maybe Vinnie would balance them out.

Stoker downed the rest of his drink and slammed it on the table, startling the mice next to him. He didn't notice. He was busy visualizing the team he was sculpting, the trio who would lead the way in the battle for freedom. He would teach them, mold them, refine them, and then launch them into the heart of the Plutarkian offensive. Living, breathing weapons.

He couldn't wait.