Chapter IV
Revelation
By: Landray Depth Charge
Wake up.
Shower. Wardrobe.
Coffee.
Some semblance of breakfast.
A cheap bus ticket and off he went.
It was the same routine every single workday for Michael Romano. The only real changes to his scheduled mornings involved what he wanted for breakfast and if he wished to drive his piece of shit Honda to work or not. If he really wanted to be daring, he could leave a bit early and walk the whole way. Considering New York traffic at seven thirty, though, he usually just paid for public transportation. Mike was lucky in one sense: his garage wasn't far enough away to warrant a long, early, and irritating subway ride across town.
A short bus or taxi ride landed him a block away from Greasemonkey's Garage. He'd named the place on a dare issued by his best friend, though Romano wouldn't admit that his decision had been heavily influenced by several cases of beer and the joy of a Yankee's win. That had been an interesting evening. The New York native stepped off of the bus clad in his usual dark gray jumpsuit, grease stained in testimony to his profession. The morning had gone as Tuesdays typically did, even if the coffee had been a little bit weak and the Cap'n Crunch a tad stale, nothing to sweat over. An extra mug of the watery java sat in Michael's right hand as his left dug around in dingy pockets in search of his keys. Once found, he let himself into the office and set the mug down on the surprisingly clean countertop, unlocking the door leading into the garage.
"Good morning, carbonmonkey."
Mike jumped and dropped the keys, nearly winding up with coffee dumped all over his front only seconds after picking the cup back up. It wasn't that being called names offended him. It wasn't that the voice that had addressed him was completely unnatural. It also wasn't that it was coming from a talking car. What scared the piss out of Michael Romano was a slightly unexpected voice coming from behind him in his locked garage when he knew no one was there.
He'd forgotten, if it was possible, about Barricade.
The memory of the unusual occurrences had been buried beneath the dim fog of early morning showers and typical daily routine.
"Don' do dat," he chastised lightly while retrieving the fallen key ring, tossing it on the long working bench that stretched across the entire back wall.
The sarcasm present in Barricade's initial greeting was coupled with a longsuffering tone. "I wonder how it is that your species survives when they are so vastly stupid as to forget about the talking car they left in their garage not more than seven hours ago." The Ford paused in mock ponderment. "Oh, no wait. You breed like Tribbles. Of course."
"Oh, stuff it," Michael groused lowly, almost dangerously. It was far too early in the morning for such antagonization. "An' why can't you call me Mike?"
"That's easy: Because Mike sucks."
Romano lobbed a roll of duct tape at the police cruiser's chassis almost as an afterthought. Something caught his eye, however, causing him to turn towards the muscle car completely. A minor displacement had presented itself, but only a little one, so minute that the greasemonkey may not have noticed it had he not thrown the tape.
"The dent," he said in mild befuddlement, pointing at the passenger side. "It was definitely worse yesterday."
"Very observant, bonebag!" Barricade rumbled in false delight, opening his passenger door in a flippant 'congratulations!' motion. "Welcome to the world of regenerative systems."
"Of wha'?"
The Ford took on an exasperated pitch as the door slammed shut. "You fleshwads baffle me with your feeblemindedness. Let's break down your English word, shall we? Regenerative, an adjective. Base word: 'regenerate'. And what does regenerate mean, my protoplasmic friend?"
"Aw'right, that's enough." Michael Romano, forgetting his fear of the irritating vehicle before him, grabbed a phillips head screwdriver and pointed it at the crumpled but still shimmering black hood. "You listen here, and you listen good, a'ight? I ain't fixing you because I have to. All of 'dese repairs are comin' out of my own pocket, nobody else's unless you're plannin' on payin' me for it. I'm staying late at the garage to work on you instead of goin' home to my beer and buddies. The least you could do is be a little more considerate, I mean, come on. I ain't got nothin' ta gain by sitting here until midnight every night working on your motor, and you bein' a bastard the whole time ain't givin' me a lotta motivation, yannow what I'm sayin'?" The human huffed slightly. "So I'd appreciate a little more respect."
The fleshbag wants respect. Hah, ridiculous.
However, Barricade chose to humor the human and went silent, if not to satisfy the one who was supposed to be fixing him, but also because another of the irksome little pests ambled in. Silence enveloped the Mustang instantly, swallowing any retort he may have come up with as the blonde headed human shrugged off his coat and set his own mug of black liquid on the counter. It must be their fuel in the morning. He didn't know. All the Saleen S281 knew was that a large percentage of the humans drank it and that it was highly caffeinated, and he only knew the latter because of Frenzy. The last thought caused Barricade to twitch in irritation; thank goodness the yellow-haired human wasn't looking his way. He didn't understand it, but thinking of his former partner made him shudder, and a familiar feeling always bloomed within his internals at the reflection:
Anger.
The Mustang hadn't been able to locate his boombox partner after everything that went down in Mission City. He'd searched, and he'd called, and he'd tried so very hard to catch even the tiniest of blips on his radar scanners but nothing had ever come up. So he'd given up and left Hoover Dam in low spirits, and nobody could truly blame him. Barricade was the last Decepticon on the face of the planet. He was the single, sole enemy of a world of seven billion occupants, all with weapons that could hurt and kill him. That would humble even the toughest of mechs, and Barricade ranked up amongst the more resilient.
The Ford Mustang had come up with sneaky and creative ways of refueling as he meandered without purpose or direction. East he headed, occasionally deviating without meaning to but always correcting. The Decepticon hadn't known where it was that he was going, or where he hoped to end up, but driving long distances had always given the warrior time to think, unless Frenzy was making a ruckus in his cab; not uncommon. But this roadtrip involved just himself, his thoughts, and the heavy, drowning silence that enclosed him on the way. No movement. No claws digging into his leather seats. No mindless chattering about whatever it was that Frenzy had discovered on the Internet. After so many years of working with the neurotic little robot, the silence almost seemed frightening.
There were times that Barricade didn't even realize he'd passed into another state; any memory of South Dakota escaped him completely. Interstate 90 took him farther and farther east, into lower Minnesota where, in his detached state, the Ford had gotten slightly turned around. Finding himself going north on some obscure highway (that he later figured out was State Road 52), Barricade almost turned around, but fate decided to smirk upon him. He was nearly out of gas. Hampton, Minnesota. Slagging tiny village had better have a gas station, he'd thought.
Barricade had parked and waited. Nightfall was swift, and at midnight he made his move, plugging directly into the underground gas tanks via his own hoses and cables. He'd left, unsuspecting, with a full tank of fuel and in perfect health.
But it seemed that 240th street East and Hampton Boulevard had it out for him.
The Saleen had a green light. That he distinctly remembered. He only barely recalled noticing the truck an instant before it careened into his passenger side, and after that, everything was either fuzzy or completely dark. Barricade had left the intersection without pause, leaving behind several pieces of himself in his wake.
And then he woke up here.
…Where was here, anyway?
It was too late to ask the question that had suddenly decided to spawn. Only seconds later four more of the fleshies entered in a similar fashion, all bantering with one another as they prepared to open the shop for business.
"Still got that cruiser here, eh?" Fowler asked.
Romano snorted. "S' bein' difficult. Everythin's fixable, I'll just need your help wit' somethin' when I get to it."
"Oh 'eah? Wassat?"
"The motormounts are sheared."
Daniel Fowler arched his neck back. "It's totaled. Tell whoever owns the thing that their insurance ain't gonna cover it. Have it towed."
Barricade seethed. Waste a car on a few bolts.
"Nah. We can fix it, dude. I'm doing it all myself as a favor to a friend," the head mechanic reasoned. "Just gonna need you an' Bugsy to stay a bit longer. Interested in overtime?"
The day went by without pause or fail. Having recharged all night long to give his power cells and systems a bit of down time, Barricade remained alert for the eight-hour workday, watching intently. Cars came in, stayed for anywhere between thirty minutes to four hours, and then they left. The more he watched the more he likened these human mechanics to medics – they saw to the issues of the vehicle, fixed the problem, and sent it back on its way. What Michael Romano did for a living wasn't altogether different from the care he might be given back home in response to an injury received; it was merely done in an unusual manner. Romano was too busy throughout the day's various concerns to bother with attempted conversation, and the Mustang Saleen was thankful for that. The only prompt that would get him to speak in the middle of the bustling garage was a direct threat to his life.
But, as the day before, after almost precisely eight hours of work, the shop ushered out its last customers and closed. Unexpectedly, however, the two humans that Romano had wanted to enlist aid from went home when the workday ended, instead of staying.
This irked the Mustang.
"Why?" Barricade asked, irritated.
Mike shrugged slowly. "They both had plans for tonight that involved women. They're gonna help me with the motormounts tomorrow instead."
"Pfeh. They'd rather fraternize with your females than make time and a half?"
"Oh, believe me, buddy," Mike said in return, a little blissful smile on his face. "It ain't just fraternizing." The smile disappeared with a more serious look. "What do you know about time 'n a half?"
Barricade sounded insulted. "I can read, human. I have access to satellite Internet at all times. If something puzzles me, I look it up."
"Do ya? How fast?"
"I put T1 to shame."
An appreciative whistle escaped the mechanic's lips. He didn't exactly know what 'T1' was, but it had to be better than the dialup Internet he sported back at his apartment. Then again, this is some sort of super advanced talking car …thing. I think.
"'Ey."
Oh no. Barricade didn't care for the tone. It was…inquisitive.
Michael reached up and turned his hat backwards, standing in front of the smashed grill. "What are you, anyway?"
The silence that encompassed the garage was deafening and heavy. Romano immediately got the impression that he'd queried on the wrong subject, stepping back as the tone, the very scent to the air changed, almost so miniscule that he didn't catch it. The foreboding quiet drowned out even the busy bustling of rush hour traffic outside of the shop, and Mike began to consider taking back his question.
"I am," Barricade began, carefully but frantically picking through his words. "A Ford Mustang Saleen S281 Extreme." Smartassery had gotten him out of situations with dumber species before.
The flood of information that rushed to the forefront of Mike's brain was almost instinctual. He went over what he knew of the specific model that the Ford had mentioned: 4.6 litre V-8 engine. 550 horsepower. Leather seats. Mmmm. "Well, I can see 'dat," Romano replied. "But, are you some sort of weirdass gov'nment experiment on the lamb or somethin'?"
There was a rumble of disapproval. "No. Not exactly." How much can I risk telling him? "How much do you know about aliens, Michael Romano?"
"Aliens?" Mike scoffed, wiping grime off of his brow. "What, like Mars Attacks? Or Canadians?"
Canadians? "More like the former."
He shrugged slowly and peered at the disassembled pieces that lay gutted on the workbench. Michael's project for the night. "I ain't never seen one, but that don' mean they aren't there. Universe seems awful big for us ta be da only ones here."
Barricade was smirking. He had no face in this form, and yet, Romano was certain he could hear it in his metallic tones. "Smart human. You're right: I don't come from Earth at all."
The mechanic sputtered somewhat and dropped the octagonal piece that he'd been fiddling with. It amused Barricade, truly, the look of utter shock that adorned the fleshwad's face at learning that he was dealing with an extraterrestrial. Repairing an alien life form.
"Holy shit," Mike muttered, turning around to face the sleek bi-colored form. "You're a fucking Martian?"
Stupid human. "No," the Mustang huffed. "I choose not to divulge where it is that I come from. Not all aliens fit your species' description of little green men from Mars. Obviously."
This was beyond Michael. He could deal with talking cars and government experiments, but aliens? A million possibilities ran through his mind – he needed to call someone. People needed to know! This, quite possibly, could rank up as one of the most important discoveries in the history of mankind, and here it was, sitting, unable to go anywhere, in his garage. Holy mother of Jesus this is amazin'. Call the press, call the papers, hell, I'll even call my Ma. This is huge!
Barricade sat in silence; optic and sensory array studying the biological life form that was currently on the verge of a conniption fit by the bench. Something about the greasemonkey was making the Mustang uneasy, something about his reaction. Barricade examined the readings his sensors were receiving; heightened heart rate and blood pressure, faster aspiration rate, increased adrenaline output. The only conclusion that the Decepticon could come up with was that Michael was either scared out of his mind, or excited.
"What is it that you humans say, the phrase about cats and tongues?" he ventured to say, almost nervously trying to lighten the mood. Humans, he realized, were greedy, blabberfaced little pests. To the mechanic, having an alien in his garage was probably a big thing. "You're silent."
"This-this is massive, man!" Mike cried, throwing his arms in the air. Barricade went quiet to listen as the humanoid walked a tight circle before his steadily straightening front bumper. "This proves all of them hippy bozos right. Dude! Jesus! You ever heard of Area 51? I can blow that whole story wide open'n shit and – oh man, they'd pay me for this kind of stuff!"
The words that fell out of Barricade's vocalizer went without pause or thought – automatic response to the explosion of red-hot rage that lit up inside of him.
"You want to make revenue off of this?" the Ford cried, his normally deep, harsh voice shrill with the utter repugnance that he felt. No. Not repugnance. The only word that could describe how Barricade felt was this: hatred. "You want to make money off of the fact that I'm disabled and presumably at your mercy? As you humans say: Fuck you!"
What happened next, Michael Romano wasn't sure. The police cruiser suddenly shifted in a manner that cars were not supposed to be capable of; the doors flung wide open and began to change and split, as the grill and front end mashed together violently. The damaged ram guard started to reallocate as the Ford Mustang arched grotesquely, as if in throes, cracks and seams appearing out of nowhere along the sides of the glossy obsidian form. Something split away and converged upon itself along the driver's side door, and with horror, Romano realized that it was a monstrous hand, its clawed fingers digging into the concrete flooring. As fast as the display began, though, it ended, and Barricade snarled as his body refused to complete the conversion that was as natural to him as breathing was to the flabbergasted human before him. With a sickening crack, the Mustang reformed as it had been.
The garage was eerily silent aside from the occasional spark flying brightly from protesting and inflamed metallic pieces. Mike, having nearly climbed the wooden platform in fright, slowly eased back down onto two feet, mouth agape beneath wide eyes that stared unblinkingly at the cruiser. Barricade fumed, shivering with the anger that threatened to drive him mad.
"Michael Romano, if you say a single word about what I am to anyone – and I mean anyone – I will see to it that you do not live to see that first check. Do you understand?"
Swallowing, the human nodded.
Barricade pressed further. "Anyone, fleshbag, and don't you dare think I won't know. Keep it to yourself, fix me, let me on my way and never speak a word." A dangerous, hissing growl accompanied the next statement. "I will know, even after I leave. I will know, and I will come after you. There is not a corner of this disgusting rock in which you could successfully hide from me, fleshling; I will find you." The snarl increased in volume, reverberating around the machine shop. "And I will dispatch you in the worst way you can't imagine."
Adrenaline rushed through Michael's veins. "I-I get it. I won' tell nobody. I swear."
"Good."
Romano popped another cigarette in his mouth and lit it hastily, going back to the parts on the workbench in silence.
