There were always shots fired when Limburger and the Biker Mice crossed. There were always (well, almost. It depended on how good Vinnie was feeling) explosions. There were always bruises, maybe even broken bones from the latest villian. There was even a case of carbon monoxide poisoning that almost resulted in the Biker Mice losing two members.

But never, ever, had there been something like this, that came so close to each mouse's heart.

Limburger had targeted the abandoned factory behind the orphanage. Not with long-range weapons that were accurate and would leave the orphange mostly unharmed. Not close-range rockets that had to be placed so they fired in the right direction, so they would only blow up the factory. No, he planted a bomb, with fifty pounds worth of TNT and some other godawful explosives to add some "pizzaz".

The resulting explosion threw the five-ton supply truck that one of the nuns owned fifty feet into the air and back down again, breaking its axle rod and shattering all the windows. The shockwave three seconds afterwards tore through the south wall of the orphanage and ripped up everything in its path, including the older children and several adults.

Only by luck had the radio survived. A tiny little six-year-old had pressed the SOS button that went directly to the Biker Mice and the EMS, and then she and the radio were crushed under a ton of bricks.

When the Martians had arrived, they'd found a near-uncontrolled fire, due to the shortage of firefighters after the recent layoff. It took a few more explosions before they managed to open up the fire hydrant and get the fire put out. Then they put their gloves on and started helping to dig out the survivors.

Of the fifty-three children there, thirty had survived. The other twenty-three had either died in the blast, were crushed under the fallen roof, and three died of head injuries and one heart attack when the supply truck they were in was propelled into the air.

The Biker Mice themselves sustained injuries whilst trying to rescue children. Modo had nearly collapsed from dehydration and exhaustion; two firefighters had ended up holding him down while a nun poured Powerade down his throat, then keeping him down until they deemed him strong enough to start hauling heavy objects again. Vinnie, meanwhile, broke a wrist picking up a slab of metal and using it to pry a concrete wall off of a trapped girl. He only stopped long enough for someone to set it and nearly drown him in a nasty-tasting mix of Red Bull and Gatorade.

And Throttle? He was hauling water, going back-and-forth between the fire hydrant and a tent built to shelter the injured from the May sun. Heat did little to help a person suffering from crush injuries or exhaustion. Eventually a woman talked him into pausing and, horror of horrors, actually drinking some water. Occasionally Throttle forgot that there was plenty of clean water in the pipes of Chicago.

When the day was over and they'd gotten as many children as they could out of the wreckage, Modo simply fell over onto his side and sobbed, very quietly so as not to scare the children. Vinnie sat down next to him with a blank look on his face, and Throttle wiped down both their heads with a wet cloth in a attempt to comfort them.

In the end, they'd exchanged phone numbers with the hospital that the children had gone to (which was providing care and therapy free of charge, bless their hearts), asked to be notified at any time if any of the children died, and went back to the Last Chance. None of them really knew why they were heading there anyways; Charley was in New York visiting her parents. They slept either on the couch, on the floor or, in Vinnie's case, her bed.

When she'd come back the next morning, Charley had found three bone-tired, sore, depressed Mice with dark tear lines from the inner corners of their eyes (the Martian equivalent of puffy red eyes and stuffy noses). Asking them about it had ended up in more crying, and sniffling, and declarations of vengance. Unfortunately for them, Charley was paranoid about their health (as was her wont), so she made them wait until the next day to break into the Tower and interrogate Limburger.

The resulting conversation with Limburger shocked everyone, even the fish himself. When they'd accused him of causing the explosion, he was obviously horrified by the thought. He didn't like children that much, but even a ruthless fish like him wouldn't simply kill so dishonorably for the fun of it, and not gain profit. Neither did he know who did it, although he did give a list of fish who gave so little a shit that they'd do something like that.

The Martian trio felled his Tower anyways, but they did it in such a fashion as to make it very easy to rebuild. No explosions this time either.

Ten more children died in the hospital due to asbestos and insulation inhalation, and Modo made sure to be present at each one. Throttle and Vinnie were riding like madmen trying to catch whoever blew up the orphanage, and Modo was ill-content not to join them, but his honor dictated he stay with the children. The only really bad thing about staying to comfort them was when they died, and the fact that he could be useful elsewhere as well.

They did find who did orchestrated it, a Plutarkian in Alaska named Francis Feta who was essentially a psychopath. He'd heard of the Biker Mice's hate for Limburger and had ordered the destruction of the orphanage, thinking that in a rage the Martians would eliminate Limburger once and for all. No such luck, although they came damn near close.

In the end of it all, Feta died in a car 'accident', the orphanage was reestablished in a old library, and the Biker Mice got a influx of money from a very thankful public who donated to a fund for the children and heros of the explosion. It was used for upgrades on their bikes, paying off Charley's bills (and buying her a few gifts AKA bribes so she wouldn't tell Stoker about their manly cry-fest. She probably wouldn't have, but just to make sure..) and getting a heapload of clothing and toys for the remaining orphans.

And Modo started sleepwalking, of all things. They ended up developing a habit of chaining his arm cannon shut, just to make sure.