Author Note \ \taps mic\ \ Is this thing on? Good. Ahem, this is my first ever BMFM fic and therefore am not used to writing the characters. Should they sound out of character or should there be any other faults in this fic, feel free to let me know and I'll do my best to change it, or at least do better next time. But be nice, I'm fragile!

This is the important one, and although there'll be mentions in more specific chapters, I'm putting it in here too. There is one character who will, by necessity, be acting kinda - strangely. Don't worry, I'm not bashing the character or villainising them just for the sake of it (I like the character!), all will be explained. So no yelling at me for it. Wait until the story is complete. Then you can yell at me.

Disclaimer: This runs through the whole fic, as I always forget to add one of these things. I don't own any of the characters and probably never will. I'm just borrowing them to torture. I'll give them back in one piece. Maybe.

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Lawrence Limburger was enraged. And when the boss got this mad, his underlings cowered and tried very hard not to have his wrath aimed in their direction. Greasepit had retreated to a corner and was trying not to sniffle, while Karbunkle surreptitiously slid closer and closer to the door. In contrast, Fred the masochistic mutant was giggling quietly to himself, relishing the scene and hoping this might be the beginning of something that led to him being blown up, thrown off something or having a building dropped on his head. Preferably all three.

Limburger had ripped off his human mask mere minutes into the diatribe, tossing it on his desk without pausing in his lambasting of the hapless trio. That wasn't a good sign – Limburger rarely voluntarily removed his disguise. What was worse was that none of them knew what had triggered the ranting. They had been summoned to the office and then had to try to work out what had annoyed him so greatly this time.

The usual suspects were furry Freedom Fighters on intelligent motorcycles. But since the tower was still standing, it seemed that this time it was something entirely different.

Eventually, Limburger exhausted his entire repertoire of insults and sighed deeply, almost falling into the seat behind his desk. Greasepit and Karbunkle dared to raise their eyes, cautiously optimistic. Now they could find out what had brought this on and maybe do something about it. Nothing was guaranteed to put their boss in a better mood than strip-mining the planets natural resources, gaining favour with the High Council (and when it was at the expense of one of his fellow Plutarkians, it was a valuable bonus) or putting a plan in motion that involved the Biker Mice being defeated.

Fred was optimistic too. When the yelling stopped and the planning began, it usually wasn't long until things started exploding.

Karbunkle spoke in a quivering voice. "What has upset you, your Royal Dairyness?"

"What has upset me, you simpering sycophant, is that Lord High Poo-Bah Camembert has lost patience with the woefully inadequate shipments of Earths natural resources to Plutark and I have had to suffer his tedious diatribes for too long – and now, he has threatened to replace me. Replace me! And all because of you incompetent imbeciles!"

"Uh, gee boss, I thought dat was because of them there mousies," said Greasepit, who had never grasped the concept of the wise man learning silence.

"EXACTLY!"

The roar made both Greasepit and Karbunkle flinch backward. Limburger rose from his seat and slammed his palms against the polished wood, almost sending his ever-present dish of slime worms skittering right off the table.

"The Biker Mice! Those vexatious vermin are constantly stopping my plans to relieve this city of its many wonderful resources, the very thing that would solidify my standing with the High Council and why? BECAUSE I HAVE TO WORK WITH YOU PATHETIC. PITIFUL. PEONS! Resources I could be using to gain land for Plutark, being used to deal with those mice, time I could be working on gaining a political and financial stranglehold – and the financial! The money that goes on importing villains, paying goons, financing failure after failure after failure!"

"Sounds like you need someone who isn't motivated by the money."

Limburger raised his eyes, scowling as he saw the figure leaning against the doorframe. "You? What are you doing here on Earth? And – and did you just say something about not wanting any money?" His voice quieted as he said the last, his businessman's mind suddenly ticking over.

"I didn't say I wouldn't want any money." The newcomer strolled into the room, ignoring all occupants save Limburger. Greasepit watched with a slightly confused look on his face – remembering names, faces and the situations around them was not a strength of his – but Karbunkle's face clouded over and he strode angrily forward, forgetting his earlier desire to depart.

"Your Cream Cheesiness, this – this fool is the reason that the operation on Mars was a failure, how those accursed Freedom Fighters were able to stop the tug transformer…"

Without even turning, the newcomer reached out and grabbed Karbunkle by the collar with one hand, lifting the doctor off his feet and bringing him up to eye-level. Karbunkle suddenly found himself face to face with a rat, who had gone from coolly amused to cold and furious within the blink of an eye. A mouse, Karbunkle remembered with sudden nervousness, who had fought alongside the Freedom Fighters on Mars while selling them out to the enemy, undiscovered in his disguise, without even breaking a sweat. To even attempt it took nerves of steel; to get away with it for as long as he had took cunning, brains and an intense amount of ruthlessness.

Mace.

"It was your lab from which the Biker Mice escaped, your mind control of Stoker that was ineffective, your tug transformer that they were able to sabotage. All that I was able to achieve on Mars was wiped away through your incompetence."

"I, em, well I…"

Dropping him to the floor, Mace reverted immediately back to his previous charming demeanour, as casually as one might flip a switch. "Have you forgotten that I spent some time with the Biker Mice back on Mars? I know a great deal about them that you don't."

"Hmmm." Limburger took no notice of his scientist gasping for breath and trying to scramble away. He could see where more intimate knowledge of his enemies would come in useful – but he had tried more cerebral methods to bring about their destruction before and none had worked. Also, Mace had not been anywhere near the mice since the tug transformer debacle. What he thought he knew might no longer apply. "What are you suggesting?"

Mace leant against the desk, half-turned so he could look at Limburger. "You've been battling against the Biker Mice for a long time."

"Oh yes," sighed Limburger.

"So it's occurred to you that they'd be weaker alone than together?"

"I had Evil-Eye Weevil transported in for that very reason."

"Evil-Eye? No wonder it didn't work. Tried talking them around?"

"I offered one of the mice a very generous salary and a new arm and what thanks did I get? My beautiful scheme, ruined again."

"Telling them you've reformed? Suggesting an alliance?"

"Yes, I don't know why I keep trying that. It didn't work very well, even the first time."

"Taking away someone they care about?" Mace said the last with a sly smirk.

"Have you any idea of the sheer number of times I've kidnapped that odious associate of theirs?"

"The mechanic?" Mace laughed at Limburgers questioning look. "I've been on the planet for some time. Been checking out old friends. Came here on a transporter – Brie owed me a favour."

Limburger didn't like the look Mace wore one bit – it suggested that there was something that Limburger didn't know and he and Brie had been trying to get rid of each other since they were back on Plutark. But then, Mace was a master manipulator and he decided to ignore the expression and concentrate on the more pressing issue.

"What is the point of these questions Mace?"

Mace stopped smirking and became deadly serious, standing upright rather than slouching. "I intend to infiltrate the Biker Mice."

Limburger stared at him for a moment, then burst out laughing. Karbunkle and Greasepit joined in, although Greasepit wasn't entirely sure what 'infiltrate' meant, he didn't want to look stupid. Mace merely looked on, his gaze appearing mild but never once leaving Limburger.

"Infiltrate the… oh, my dear boy, ha ha…" Limburger took an expansive red handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped at his streaming eyes, only then realising he had forgotten to replace his human mask and reaching for it.

"You don't think I can do it?"

Limburger put the mask on, chuckling some more. "As you must know, the number of people those mice trust is minimal, and the number they would invite willingly into their inner circle still smaller. You are a rat and known to them as someone who betrayed them. They know your mouse disguise and even if you furnished yourself with another, they also know your voice. Should you even fool them into believing you are in fact a mouse, they would want to know why you were here on Earth and why they had never heard of your involvement in the war on Mars. So, what is your plan? Disguise yourself as a human and attempt to charm Miss Davidson? That most mouthy of mice would be out for your blood and even if you were to attract the meddling mechanic, it would take time that I would prefer not to spend."

Mace raised an eyebrow. "What if I told you that I could have someone living amongst them tomorrow whom they would trust totally?"

"I would call you a liar," replied Limburger, getting bored of the joke now. "No matter how many civilians they rescue, they never let their guard down around them. I've tried that one too. Do you have a plan or did you come here for the sole purpose of irritating me?"

A look of dislike flashed over the rats face and was gone again, so fast that most people would not have spotted it, but Limburger was used to playing the political game and a successful politician sees the small things. It didn't bother the Plutarkian. Most people came to dislike him. Standing with him in an enclosed space could do it, even before he began to speak.

Mace turned his head and gave a whistle. "Hey, come in here!"

Limburger sighed as he glanced wearily at the door. "Oh really, I did insist the last time this tower was rebuilt that it be made rodent-proof…" He trailed off and a rather nasty smile crept across his face. "Maybe I have underestimated you Mace. I believe we can make a deal!"

"Let's talk turkey then Limburger." Mace folded his arms casually. "I want paying."

"I thought you said this wasn't about money," replied Limburger, hoping to get out of the stipulation.

"It isn't," said Mace, the genial smile remaining, but his eyes going cold and hard. "It's about revenge. Showing that no mouse can ever mess with me. I lost out there on Mars and I don't like losing. But if I can make a little cash while I do it, then why not take advantage?"

"Of course," said Limburger wearily, pulling out his chequebook. He should have expected nothing else from Mace.

Still… the rat was probably the best he had ever worked with, had certainly showed the Biker Mice a few things back on Mars. And he was sneaky, cunning and manipulative, knowing how to turn any situation to his advantage, how to create self doubt in even the most confident.

And he had an advantage.

For the first time in living history, Limburger gave a genuine smile while writing a cheque. He was beginning to believe that this was the plan that could bring the Biker Mice down. Permanently.