Collision XXI
Bear Country
By: The Feesh
Barricade had been off all morning. Not that there was anything normal about the entire situation, but really, his usual alien weirdness levels were just completely off the charts. It was obvious, even to a dumb greasemonkey like Mike. The monster machine would constantly switch back and forth between a bipedal stance and a quadrupedal one, never staying up or down for long. He would stumble, slip, bump into trees and jutting rock outcroppings and on one memorable occasion, walked face-first into a pine tree.
The second time the black and white creature familiarized his face with a conifer, Mike said something.
"Okay, what d' fuck, dude?"
Barricade stopped and swung his head around to peer at Mike over the mass of a wide, thick shoulder. "What?" he growled dully.
Definitely somethin' off. "What's up? Ya been stumblin' around 'n shit like yer a drunkard."
This little setback was not included in any of Barricade's calculations. When one looked at the big picture, the "little" hindrance was in fact a very, very large one. He had been operating under the assumption after the Autobots attacked him that his Internal Repair Sequence would begin to restore injured ferrous tissue, as it always had in the past. He had always been able to take severe damage that would have downed most other mechs and keep going. It was crucial to his uncanny ability to survive: get seriously wounded, run like hell. It's what the Saleen had done in this case when he fled across the country and took to the wilderness to shake off his pursuers. It just wasn't working this time.
"It is nothing." Barricade eyed the New Yorker. "Head west. We are two miles from the highway. Once you reach it, take it north. One mile ahead, you will find a car on the shoulder, Dodge Caliber, white. The keys are in it, it is unlocked. Use it to get to Santa Fe, meet me there in a few days. I will contact you."
"Now, wait a minnit," Romano replied, crossing his arms. "Yer tellin' me ya want me ta just waltz through the woods alone?"
Barricade made the most horrifying gesture: he bared his teeth. Faceplates parted and peeled away in the most unsettling way to do so. "Yes. That is exactly what I am saying. Have you always had such an issue taking simple direction, meatwad, or is this a new development?"
"I'm from New York. We got problems wit' authority."
"I suggest you drop your regional specific pride and recall that you are not in New England any longer. You are in the middle of the woods in New Mexico with a being that outmatches you in size, weight, speed, weaponization and more importantly, intelligence. You were born to die; I was built to kill. And I always have a plan, so when I tell you to do something, Michael James Romano, I suggest you do it with nary more than a 'yes, sir'." It was disconcerting, how Barricade's voice kept gaining in volume and irritation. "You have three choices, fleshling, three paths ahead for you to take. You can take the car and drive back to New York. You can take the car and drive to Santa Fe. You can lastly elect to stay here and continue in your infinitely effective methods of goading my steadily shortening temper and wind up feeding some wild animal after I use your guts as cougar fishing equipment! Which road will you take?"
It was fucking terrifying when the interceptor got mad. He was entirely made of metal, plastic and various kinds of rubber material and yet there was still some way that Barricade managed to make all the small plates and components along his back and shoulders stand up like the hackles on a harried dog. Mike Romano took the few moments he thought he had to think on his decision, and to study the alien before him. It was curious, to see a nearly humanoid creature standing on all fours. It worked, though, in an odd way; Barricade's arms were long and incredibly powerful to compensate for his short back and midsection. A solid seventy percent or more of his weight was supported by those thick, sturdy arms because his legs were too far back to hold that much mass. Barricade resembled a gorilla, or perhaps a German shepherd dog that was stacked out. A fuckin' metalled out war gorilla with knives fer fingers n' a mouth fulla sharks teeth.
Curiosity won out. "A'ight, fine. I'll meetcha in Santa Fe. How ya gonna call me? My cell phone is dead, has been for days."
"I have my ways."
Mike wasn't entirely satisfied with that answer, and despite his better judgment, he left. It would bug the hell out of him for the entire long, horrible hike exactly how Barricade knew that there would be an unlocked car waiting for him a couple miles down the road, but what other choice did he have? It was entirely too cold for him to keep traipsing about in the national park like it was a camping trip. That, and Barricade walked really fast, when he wasn't tripping into ravines or headdesking trees. They'd been hiking since dawn, and it was well past noon when the two parted ways. Romano was endlessly curious about what the Saleen wanted from him in Santa Fe, and mused to himself as he drove after retrieving the Caliber from the highway shoulder. He had to ask the damn pissant Mustang how the hell he'd managed to pull that off.
Authors note: My god, I know it's short. My new years Resolution is to write 1 paragraph on Collision per day, with the goal of getting chapters up faster. I still haven't given up. Aughs. On the other hand, it made it past chapter 20, so I'm going to keep going with it despite having so much muse for Sentinel Prime it's sickeninghomg. I love that god damn traitorous red Rosenbaur like whoa.