CWC: Hey! I'm back, and better than ever! For those just joining us, here's the disclaimer:
Frenzy is red, Rumble is blue, I don't own Transformers, so you no sue!
And now that we've got that out of the way, here's the story! See you at the bottom! XP
XXXXXXXXXX
Chapter 1: Too Good to be True
XXXXXXXXXX
I sighed and pushed a strand of my long wood-brown hair out of my face. As I mused inside my head about getting it cut short, I allowed my hazel eyes to drift lazily around the store. A young couple was still wandering through the cooking section, while a few teenage boys were hanging around the magazine aisle. Glancing at the clock, I pulled on a headset from where it had been resting beside my cash register and hit a button.
"Ollie's will be closing in ten minutes. We hope to see you back tomorrow. Ollie's, good stuff cheap," I say in a forced cheery tone. The magazine boys slouch out as the couple comes and buys a set of frying pans before leaving. Glad for my shift to be over, I pull off the ridiculous smock that is the employee uniform and lock the register.
Grabbing my purse from under the cash machine, I pull my hair into a pony tail and walk out, waving a quick good bye to the manager, who shouts a lazy, "See ya, Teresa."
Once outside, I take a deep breath of the chilly air and look around. The mainly flat land of the fall country side is dotted with a few buildings, including a school, fire station, gas station, and town hall. My eyes drift over to the corner of the lot. It's normal for people to leave cars there that they want to get rid of or sell. Suddenly I gasp and blink, not trusting my eyes.
Sitting in the corner is a badly beaten Saleen Mustang with the distinctive black-and-white paintjob of a police cruiser. Or it used to be a police cruiser; the paint is badly scratched, all four doors are dented in numerous places, the red-and-blue lights on the dashboard have been bashed in, the tail lights are smashed, and the hood is crumpled. Vandals have even attacked the car with paint, spraying rude slogans all over the abused machine. The only unharmed part of the car that I can see from my position is the tires, which, while paint-splattered, are in one piece and inflated.
After checking for observers, I jog over to the car, ignoring where my bicycle is chained off to one side of the store. I approach the cruiser, and run an appreciative hand over the side. The interior has remained intact, and is dusty from disuse, despite the scratches around the keyhole testifying that someone had attempted to get in. A cardboard sign, held in place by a windshield wiper, catches my eye.
"You can haul it, you can have it," it proclaims in plain black sharpie.
A smile starts to form on my face, but I squash it. This does not mean that I will take the car; it could cost more to fix than it's worth. But even as I run a critical eye over the car, I know that's not the case. In almost any condition this car would be worth fixing, and if the engine is still intact and usable, even for scrap, this is an awesome machine.
I walk over to the driver's side door and, pulling a paper clip and bobby pin from my pocket, crouch down to work on the lock. Whoever tried to get into this car before me must not have been very skilled; the lock pops open after a few minutes, evidence to the fact that I leave my keys in the house way too much. Grinning, I open the door and slide into the seat, tossing my purse to the floor of the passenger side and slamming the door behind me. Giddy, I grin some more before reality crashes in, effectively smothering my glee.
Yes, I can get in the car, but how am I supposed to drive it away without keys?
Defeated, I groan and thump my head against the steering wheel, which causes the sun visor to flop open. Something falls and smacks the back of my head with a soft clink. Reaching up without moving my head, I grasp the thing and, moving the object in front of my eyes, focus on the key in my right hand, along with the piece of paper that fluttered to the floor when the key fell. The paper is a proof of ownership for the Mustang. Holding my breath, I sit up straight, put my foot on the brake, put the key in the ignition, and, saying a quick prayer, turn it.
The engine stutters for a minute and then starts with a thunderous growl. I can feel the vibration of the powerful engine through the soles of my shoes, and my grin starts up again. Silently promising myself that I'll come back for my bike later, I drive the car out of the lot and down the road towards my house. Even in such a condition, the Mustang handles with ease, and ride seems short.
As I pull into the driveway, I look at the small, A-frame house standing tall, surrounded by fields, now brown with the growing chill, and fenced in by tall pine, fir, and oak trees. Driving the Mustang up to the house, I pull a small remote from my purse and press a button to open the door to the garage that takes up most of the bottom floor. I drive the car onto the concrete floor and pull up to the middle of the garage before closing the door behind me.
The third floor is one large room with a long metal counter stretching the length of the room. A staircase leads to the second floor. Hopping out, I immediately move towards the counter and, grabbing a rolling desk from beside the wall, begin loading it with tools that I will need to fix the Mustang. I also set up four towers, each two feet tall, of cinderblocks in front of the car, connected by long, thick wooden boards. Two more boards go to make a slight ramp from the front wheels of the car to the top of the blocks.
"You know," I say, thinking out loud. "I need to give you a name. You're a Mustang, for Pete's sake, I can't just keep calling you 'the car!'" I think about a name for my newest acquisition, hopping in the car again and driving it up onto the pedestals before getting out carefully, chocking the tires to keep the car from rolling, and removing the ramps. As I move to pick up the ramps, I catch sight of the battered car's license plate. It reads: 8AR-1CAD.
"eight-aye-are-one-cee-aye-dee," I read. "Or, if you read it like letters, Bar-icad, or Barricade." "Hm," I think as I put away the ramps and grab my purse from the seat of the car. "Barricade. A strong defensive barrier, meant to keep opposition out, weakening or entirely destroying them," I muse, getting everything arranged just so and observing my work.
"I like it," I say suddenly. "New Ford Mustang that used to be a police car, I dub thee, Sir Barricade, protector of the A-frame." I laugh slightly before putting a finger on my chin thoughtfully.
"I'll just call you Cade for short," I decide before picking up my purse and moving to the second floor. This repair job is going to take a long time; good thing I have tomorrow off of work and it's the weekend so school won't interfere.
The second floor is split neatly into two areas, one carpeted and containing a TV, a couple of arm chairs, and a couch, and the tiled area serving as a kitchen. The third floor extends slightly down into the second, cutting off like a balcony and allowing me to see up to where my bedroom and the bathroom is housed. A smaller, second bathroom takes up a little space in the basement.
Moving to the kitchen, I fix myself a quick sandwich as I move up the stairs to the third floor. I change quickly into a pair of old, worn jeans, stained black in spots by car grease and grime, and a ragged black T-shirt before pulling my hair up into a high ponytail, the better to keep it out of my face. Dumping my purse on my bed, I gather a few snack foods before heading back down to the basement.
XXXXXXXXXX
Barricade's POV
I come online with a small groan. The last thing in my memory banks is automatically going into stasis lock as the squishy males came at me with more metal sticks, wooden sticks, and strange cans, saying something about, "Gettin back at the fuzz," whatever the slag that meant. If I hadn't still been damaged from my battle with that fragging scout I would have shown them what true fear was. I take in my new surroundings silently.
I appear to have been moved into a human mechanics room, and placed on pedestals. That was going to be a problem; the blocks were too high to simply roll off of without acquiring further damage, and I could not transform in the small space without tearing the place apart. Grumbling quietly, I'm distracted from my problem by an adolescent human female coming down a set of stairs holding various human fuels, which she puts on the metal shelf on the other side of the room.
She is tall, for an adolescent, and looks stronger than other femmes of her kinds I have seen; she is not puny, built more for strength than grace, with big pedes and wide shoulders. I watch, confused, as she turns on a large electronic device. Sound patterns vibrate through the room as the girl grabs a smaller shelf stacked high with equipment and brings it over to where I am poised, helpless, above the ground.
"Alright," she says suddenly, an eager grin coming over her squishy face. "Let's get this party started." She takes a bucket of soapy liquid from off of the cart and I can't help but shudder slightly. This is not going to be fun.
XXXXXXXXXX
My POV
I pull out some soapy water and smile. "You know," I say conversationally to the car. "I feel really bad for you. It must have taken a lot to get is this condition."
I start removing the dirt and grime from the frame to prepare for the new paint job, the deep base tones of the music providing a nice rhythm.
"Geesh," I say, exasperated, as I look at the green stripes criss-crossing the car. "Why would someone do this to a car? It makes no sense!" Growling under my breath, I finish washing the car and taking off the wax.
"The name's Teresa, by the way," I say as I turn towards my cart again, reaching for a dent puller. "So, you've probably got a lot of questions. I'll try to answer them as we get you fixed up, okay?"
Nodding to myself, I get to work, pulling out all the dents, filling in the small ones, and stripping the paint down to the primer. I'm pleasantly surprised; either I was wrong about how bad some of the dents were, or this metal makes it super easy to pull them out. I keep up a constant chatter throughout, just babbling about anything that comes to mind. I tell my new car about my job, my pets, my school, what I want to do when I grow up, and everything. The music plays in the background, and I, almost unconsciously, move to the beat, speeding up and slowing down as it does. Soon it's time to repaint Cade, and I look at the rows and rows of paint I have in the shop.
"So Barricade, what color would you like," I ask, eyes roving the cans. I hear a creak from behind me and turn back Cade. He hasn't moved. I shrug; he must have just been settling more firmly onto the chocks. After a few minutes quiet deliberation, I decide that Cade would look best in silver, with a few personal touches.
I quickly select my colors and begin draping anything that isn't my car with plastic sheets. That done I pull on a plain white jumpsuit to keep the paint off my clothes and hair. A smirk grows on my face as I turn back toward my new car, face covered with a painter's mask and armed to the teeth with paint sprayers and detailing tools. "This is going to be fun," I say excitedly before attacking him with the paint.
XXXXXXXXXX
Barricade's POV
I snarled mentally. Did humans ever shut up? I had been forced to listen to the femme for hours now. As least she worked as much as she talked; I was almost completely fixed. The only things remaining were my paint job and my lights. I gave a mental sigh as the human continued covering me with the cold paint. I had almost fallen off of the pedestals when she had mentioned my name before remembering my license plate.
I allowed myself to relax onto the blocks as the young femme worked on my alt mode. My sensors barely picked it up when she stopped painting me and began working on my lights. I was almost in recharge when the human clapped her hands loudly and declared, "At last, it is done!"
Using my external sensors, I looked at myself and nearly gaped in shock. What had this crazy femme done to me?!
I was mainly silver, and I still had my lights, but instead of my familiar white cruiser paint job I had red and blue flame designs racing up the bottom of my doors to grow rapidly as they got past my rear doors. I had to bite back a groan as the human only grinned madly and took several pictures with her cell phone. She walks around me once more before she vents in a loud gust the humans call and 'yawn.'
"Well, Cade," she says, exhaustion lacing her voice. "It was fun working on you; see you tomorrow, or whenever I wake up."
The human manages to turn off the stereo and stumble up the stairs, and my sensors indicate she makes it to the top floor before collapsing into recharge. I roll my eyes. Humans. How have they survived this long? Running a quick sweep search for Cybertronian energy signatures before dropping into my own recharge doesn't take long, but it gives my processor time enough to consider the facts.
I was grudgingly grateful that the small human had repaired my external systems as well as her primitive mind could handle, and, though the paint job was hideous, it would be a good disguise in hiding from the Transformers, Autobot and Decepticon alike. The longer I could stay hidden, the better.
XXXXXXXXXX
Teresa's POV
I moan as I peel my face off of the blankets long enough to glare at my alarm clock. It had taken all of Friday afternoon and Saturday to fix Barricade, and I had been exhausted. Now it was eight in the morning on Sunday and something told me that I wouldn't be getting any more sleep.
Tearing myself slowly out of bed, I stumble to the shower and emerged ten minutes later feeling much better. After eating a quick breakfast, I sneak downstairs and flip on the basement light. Now fully awake and as sane as I ever am, I examine my handiwork with a proud eye.
"Time to show off," I announce, dashing upstairs to get into some better clothes. I come back to the basement dressed in my black jeans and a red t-shirt, mostly covered by my leather jacket.
Replacing the ramps at the base of the blocks, I carefully clamber into Cade and drive him back onto the cold concrete floor. I turn on the radio almost automatically and smirk as I hear the opening chords of Bad to the Bone. Opening the garage door, I drive outside and ride around the countryside, listening to the rumble of the engine and startling cows. As it gets close to lunchtime, I head into town, drawing stares as I stop at a light. I smirk behind the deeply tinted windows as pedestrians do stunning impressions of dying fish before revving the engine and continuing to the only fast food restaurant in the aptly named town of Miniville, the infamous Rose Marie's.
I ordered the standard Rosie meal and a chocolate shake before settling down at a picnic table in front of a parked Cade. Munching my burger, I bask in the fall sun and, full and warm, fall into a light doze.
XXXXXXXXXX
HONK! "BWAH!"
I jump awake and nearly fall off the bench at the sound of a car honking right beside. Glaring in Barricade's direction, I scowl as I catch sight of two teenage boys near my car. The taller one has spiked bleach-blonde hair, while the shorter one is brown haired. Both boys wear sunglasses, black muscle shirts, black jeans, combat boots, and black jean jackets with the sleeves ripped off to show mildly interesting muscles.
Brown hair is standing, frozen, in front of Cade, staring at me, while the other is crouched near his door, doing something to the lock. My mouth twists into a furious scowl. These lame excuses for punks were trying to steal Barricade!
I stand up slowly and face the two idiots. Blondie stops trying to pick the lock and stands as well. I startle us all by forcing out a cheery laugh.
"You know," I say to them happily. "I'm actually glad that you morons tried to steal my car. I've been looking for a couple of practice dummies, and you two fit the bill quite nicely."
I give them the sweetest smile I can manage before dropping into a fighting stance. "Come on, boys," I taunt when they hesitate. "Don't tell me a little girl you're scared of?"
XXXXXXXXXX
CWC: Hi, it's me again. FYI, I'll probably be updating about every two weeks, if I can swing it. Sorry for the cliffy! Remember, Reviews are love and feed hungry authors. SO GIVE ME THE NOMS!
(is whacked over the head by faithful human-sized shape-shifting Prowl-muse)
Prowl-muse: That's enough of that. Get back to typing.
CWC: Yeah, yeah. This is my voice of reason and shape-shifting muse, who currently looks like everybody's favorite Datsun.
Prowl: Greetings.
CWC: Yeah... he'll be popping up every so often, unless I do this!
(Leaps up and shouts in Prowl's face)
MY LITTLE PONY FRIENDSHIP IS MAGIC IS COMING AND IS PLANNING TO TAKE OVER THE WORLD WITH THEIR MESSAGE OF PEACE AND LOVE! RUN FOR YOUR LIFE!
Prowl: (glitches and faints)
CWC: (grinning) epic-ness (Pulls out permanent marker) Until next time, anklebiters! Bai!