Disclaimer: I, in no way, shape, or form, own the Transformers© franchise or the characters it contains. All publicly recognizable characters are copyrighted to Hasbro, and the respective artists/writers/et cetera. No infringement intended.
Continuity: TF2K7 (Transformers 2007 movie-verse)
Characters: Barricade, Dewbot
Warnings: Violence.
Author's Note: Criticism encouraged, technical points preferable.
--
That had been disastrous.
Sliding cautiously out of his hidey-hole, the scout scanned the immediate area, wary of potential observers. Confirmed that the proverbial coast was, indeed, clear, he scooted out of the largely untouched parking garage, cruising down the deserted streets, toward the freeway. Occasionally, humans ran by him, still shrieking hysterically, or attempting to flag him down. These, he ignored. The organics were unimportant distractions, not worth the processing power it took to even glance at them.
Autobots were still in the immediate area, looking for the last of the Decepticons. Their scanners were just too far away, barely missing him as he made his hasty escape, along the back streets of the mostly ruined city.
As for his fellows… well, immediate and ominous radio static does tell a charming story of their fates.
Doubtless, Starscream had already fled, knowing the battle lost, for the most part. That wasn't to say the recently-confirmed, permanent commander wasn't going to return; merely, for the time being, Barricade was quite solitary until his heroic return.
Unless one counted Scorponok, which truly wasn't saying much by way of company.
Stopping as he hit a main avenue, Barricade tentatively sent out his scanners, checking the roadway for potential threats. When nothing distinctly Cybertronian made an appearance, he slid cautiously out, engines revving uncertainly. He could use the major highways and freeways to make his journey back to Oklahoma, and await the rest of the Decepticon fleet's arrival. It would mean subjecting himself, once more, to a human driver, and all the discomforts therein, but a small sacrifice made toward the extending of his life. And it wasn't as if it would last very…
The Decepticon skidded to a halt, startled.
There was a human made soda-dispensing drone machine sitting in the middle of the street. Around it, soda cans were strewn about at random, fizzing and burbling as they released their precious cargo into the pavement, the liquid congealing in the numerous cracks. A scant few impact marks marred its frame, scattered little dents showing here and there.
He wasn't precisely an expert on all things Earthian, true, but he had learned that, generally speaking, one did not place vending machines in the center of heavily traveled byways.
Suspicious, he inquiringly revved his engine, inching forward. Still, the distributor of carbonated liquid did not budge, posed with a disturbing innocence, cheerily advertising its wares to the nonexistent passerby.
With a final, disquieted growl of his powerful engine, Barricade backed away, turning his wheels to put him on a trajectory to skirt the oddly placed drone.
That was when the first can hit him, square on the grill. From this simple beginning, a volley began, beating him back in shooting waves of yellow-green fluid. The barrage smashed his front, denting his bumper inward, dinging his immaculate hood, and cracking his windshield. His front was thoroughly drenched, runny with the soon-to-be gooey soda, dripping into his complex wiring with disgusting intent.
Scandalized by the audacious onslaught, the scout roared in fury, transforming mostly on instinct.
He was rather taken aback when the soda machine did the same.
It continued firing, hitting his door wings, his midsection, then his head, knocking him slowly but surely backward, while the insidious, inexplicable drone continued to advance, warbling out halfway-intelligible Cybertronian death threats. On and on it came, relentless as the gravitational pull of a distant sun.
Until, of course, it ran out of ammunition.
The Dewbot's arm-mounted soda-flinging cannon clicked, a spray of compressed air hissing out with no can to propel. Its distinctly Cybertronian face twisting into a grimace of dismay, it reluctantly lowered the armament, and whirled about to amble away, unimpressively lumbering. It was a gawky beast, uncoordinated and stocky limbed, not at all designed for swift escapes.
Barricade gaped after it, bamboozled by the attack and subsequent retreat. Thus, he stood, dripping with Mountain Dew and mortification, the flimsy cans sticking into wide enough joints, creating an odd polka dot effect with their bright coloring against his dark paint.
Meanwhile, the Dewbot made its ungainly escape, ducking into a dingy looking parking garage. Its footsteps clattered, growing fainter by the moment, clanking and clinking toward whatever obscure destination it had in mind.
Driven by forces even he did not understand, Barricade followed, fearlessly striding into the low-slung vehicle storage unit, optics brightening to compensate for the change in ambiance. At first he did not see it, half-wedged in the far corner, behind a gaggle of pillars.
The Dewbot had gone into its cheery alternate mode, dimly glowing, failing miserably at its attempts at subterfuge. The red lettering on its display scrolled prices, advertising 'Code Red, Livewire' and others, followed by, 'Do the Dew!'
"Transform," Barricade demanded, standing as straight as he could in the limited space, striving for an intimidating look that, under normal circumstances, was quite effortless. Alas, it was rather difficult to appear imposing when covered in soda pop, half stooped and dripping wet. Still, he believed he passed it off rather well.
The scrolling bar paused, before a very rude message in largely mangled Cybertronian flashed across it. Evidently, that was a 'no'.
"Transform!" Snarled the scout, bringing his rotating hand-blades to bear, taking a menacing step forward.
The Dewbot, considering the weapons, slowly revealed itself, settling back in a defensive stance. It clicked and whirred in both a challenge and a question, hands wriggling.
Ignoring the implied threat, Barricade raked the creature with his optics, looking for a faction insignia. "State your allegiance." He demanded, imperious.
Chirping, the creature tilted its head in bafflement. 'Do the Dew!' scrolled across its screen again, in a repeating line.
"That's not a faction! That's an organic campaign slogan."
'Dew!' The vending machine insisted, waving its arms frenetically. 'Dew, Dew, Dew, Do the Dew!'
"Do not test me, drone!" He fired upon the creature, several angry bursts of ammunition clicking as it struck the mostly-plastic surface. The Dewbot, curling to defend itself, bounced back, striking the wall in a jangle of metal and flailing legs.
Point made, Barricade ceased firing, gears whirring softly as the artillery powered down. "Now, state your—"
"What in the flying fuck is that!?"
Barricade dove aside, rolling as he struck pavement to come back about with his weapons to the front, crouched and ready to pounce at the revealed threat.
The human, stunned, staggered back, wobbling unsteadily. It was an older specimen; nearly past his prime breeding age, resplendent with the mere overhang of an excess of fat. Facial fibers littered its jaw line and chin, a protective coat to distinguish and warm its face. Perversely, the filament located upon the top of its cranium was lacking, a bending curve designating the area of barren skin, ruddy with exposure to direct sunlight.
It reeked spectacularly.
Before Barricade could move to the offensive, the Dewbot was in action, galumphing forward with obvious intent. Its powerful hands seized the organic; fingers held crooked, transmogrified into wicked scythes to better rend the flesh of the intruder.
'Do the Dew!'
It was done with decided proficiency; in mere moments, the man's throat was torn out, gushing freely the red fluid, splattering across the Dewbot's front. This was followed by his chest cavity, midsection, and, lastly, his head, knocked from his shoulders by a callous swat.
Barricade approved completely, watching with dark amusement from his crouch. He liked this drone. It was silent, efficient – with a deceptive front to lull his prey into a false sense of security and comfort, dispensing that which gave them joy.
For this artifice, he was willing to overlook its initial foolishness, and the damage done to his frame. A few dents were well worth finding such a cohort.
Interloper sufficiently rendered inoperative, the Dewbot allowed the remnants to splat to the floor, meticulously wiping its claws on the little un-bloodied cloth remaining. It sighed contentedly, moseying about to again face the larger Decepticon. Pointing one, mildly sticky, talon at the pieces, it beeped merrily, scrolling, 'Code Red'.
Barricade straightened, smirking. There was potential in this one.
"Tell me, comrade, have you ever thought of joining the Decepticons?"