How it Is
Interlude Nine: Reginald Simmons
By: Nightelfcrawler
Disclaimer: Obviously Transformers is not my own, and is property of Hasbro. Be gentle.

"Hey Reg."

"Duane."

"Donut?"

"No."

"So how's the civvie sector?"

"Bite me."

The man sitting across the table laughed once, biting into his donut as he leaned back, sipping a cup of coffee casually as he regarded the man across the table from him.

Life hadn't treated Reginald Simmons well, lately. The guy had been furious when the government had shut down the one operation that his family had been dedicated to for two generations now.

Sector 7 was dead. And Simmons had no idea what to do with his life.

He looked like crap, too. His hair was longer and unkempt which gave him a wild look since it was the dark curly type. He was unshaven with a week's worth of stubble he hadn't bothered to shave off, his bright Hawaiian shirt wrinkled and dull colored. Dark bags hung under his eyes, along with bloodshot eyes revealing that he seemed to have problems sleeping lately.

Duane shook his head. It was sad. Simmons had once commanded the respect of everyone in Sector 7. He was the top, the best of the best, good at what he did, trained expertly, and relentless. It hurt to see him like this. "Simmons, you need a job." Duane said simply.

Reginald Simmons glared up at him with a venomous look. "You think?" he asked dully. "I've looked, Connors."

"Private detective agencies?"

"Yes."

"CSI?"

"Yes."

"CIA? FBI?"

"Yes." Simmons' lips parted in a thin smile. "Believe me, Connors, I've asked them all. It seems that my secret government clearance makes me too qualified, and too high of a security risk."

"Damn." Pause. "Tried local law enforcement?"

Simmons shot him a look that would have normally drove the man into silence before, but he took it in stride without blinking, a testament to just how far Simmons had fallen. "The day I join the cops is the day I lose my dignity."

"I'm just saying." Duane said shrugging. "You can't sit moping about in your apartment the rest of your life, even on the good stipend they gave you for termination."

"It'll work."

Duane sighed, and genuinely felt sorry for Reg. But, one couldn't say he hadn't tried. He stood up shaking his head, and smacked some bills down on the table. "Well.. good luck then. I'm glad to see you're doing so well for yourself." He slapped Simmons on the shoulder lightly before striding out the door without another word.

Simmons turned his eyes back down to the cup of coffee on the table, and stared at it blankly. Duane had been the third this week. His men were concerned for him. Somewhere inside, he felt a bit lightened by that, but their concern didn't help his situation any.

Simmons was lost without his job.

Sector 7 had been his life, his world. He had lived and breathed it since he'd been a kid. His father had raised him with all the hopes and dreams of one day carrying on his super secret work, and Reg had taken to it like a fish to water. If he hadn't been trained in all the military self-defense his dad had to offer, he would have certainly fallen into the 'geek' category. Instead, he'd taken over his father's work and risen to Sector 7 field commander within years of finishing his Special Ops training. He'd not been out of action since he'd been 17, and not being in control of his job, his life, and his men... it was incredibly unnerving.

And it sucked.

Simmons sipped his cold cup of coffee, making a face as it's bland taste hit his palette. Duane was right, he did need some kind of motivation. His life was falling apart without it. The government had given all of Sector 7 significant pay boons for termination, and so Simmons had taken the chance to return home to Brooklyn for some rest and relaxation, a vacation. He hadn't had a vacation in years. Granted, the moment he'd walked down through Central Park he'd found himself bored and lacking direction. What was he supposed to do with his life? What he'd told Duane was right, he HAD submitted resume after resume to private and government sectors. The government claimed that they had no need for special cover ops, and the CIA and FBI weren't interested given his track record. He apparently had 'too liberal' of experience for their strict regiment. Private sector jobs had turned him down flat too, their excuse being he was overqualified.

Overqualified. How the hell was he supposed to compete with THAT?

He sighed, stood up and tossed a few more bills on the table before he walked outside, rubbing his stubbled face and sliding sunglasses on as he stepped out into the New York sunshine. A job would come along, he just had to keep looking. If the Government was shutting the door on him, he'd just have to look into the private sector, and if that didn't work then he could always start up a business of his own, maybe something a little less life-risking… like selling flowers.

And why was some guy in a black car casing him?

Simmons had been on his share of stake-outs and knew what to look for, how to do it right, and how to do it wrong. And he KNEW when he was being cased.

This guy either wasn't very good at it, or didn't care if he noticed he was being watched.

Simmons frowned, staring at the black car. It was parked a few spaces back behind a large SUV, so he couldn't make the model, but the man inside was a dead give-away. He looked like the typical military or government lackeys they sent out to stare people down.

And he'd been tailing him for three days now.

Interesting.

Simmons knew better than to approach him. If the guy wanted to think he didn't know what was going on, fine. But Simmons had his own eyes peeled out to see what the man did. So far, he'd just followed him around town, staked out his apartment, and not done much else. Simmons was beginning to lose patience.

HE was supposed to be the one casing people, not the other way around.

He turned and strode down the street, hands in his pockets, glad he'd walked. For once that meant that the guy would have to be careful while tailing him, and that gave Simmons more of a chance to watch him. He wondered which agency he was working for, CIA? FBI? Maybe they had turned him down merely as a method to keep an eye on him to see how he reacted to situations like this… Maybe.

But then again, they didn't need to keep watching him for three days, the same guy all day and all night, Simmons had checked. The guy was a machine, seriously. He never slept.

Simmons turned the corner, then stopped at the building's edge, leaning against the corner. He was sick of this shit, he was going to confront him. Once he turned the corner intent on following him, he'd just step out and smile cockily at the newbie.

He waited….

And waited…

The car hadn't shown up. Curious, he peered around the edge of the building, only to see no black car in sight.

Huh… Interesting.

He made his way back to his apartment, thinking. Could he be just paranoid, imagining something that wasn't there? No, he thought. He had been in the government sector his entire life, he knew the patterns, knew the rhythms that each agency used. He had analyzed their tactics, and implemented them into his own men's methods. No, he definitely was being cased.

Only… He hadn't expected to find the black car parked in front of his apartment, with the man leaning casually against the side, arms folded over his chest, waiting for him.

Simmons raised an eyebrow. The man was familiar, in a haunting kind of way but he couldn't exactly place it. He reminded him a lot of Tom Banacheck, actually. Large military issue mirrored sunglasses, bushy mustache, a plain black shirt and matching pants, black combat boots, and a crew cut hairstyle. Definitely military, or a cop at minimum.

Simmons walked up to him, stopping once he was in front, studying the man calmly. "You know." He said finally, a hint of a smile on his unshaven face. "You haven't exactly been doing a good job following me. You act like a rookie. I've been watching you for three days now."

"Really?" The voice was deep, monotone, and rather bored as the man spoke. "How sloppy of me, and here I thought I had made it obvious I was following you for an entire week."

Simmons blinked. A week? Ok, now he was impressed. "So you were intentionally letting me know you were here?" He got no answer, just a blank stare of indifference from the man. "All right, fine I can deal with that." He shrugged. "What do you want?"

The man said nothing for a moment, head expressionless and unmoving as the glasses hid any hint that he was studying him. "Let me get one thing straight, Simmons." He said finally, an edge of irritation in the voice. "I don't like you."

"Good." Simmons said simply. "Feeling's mutual."

The man still didn't show any emotion, but continued with the same irritated tone. "Look in the glove box."

Simmons raised an eyebrow, but opened the car's door and peered inside, resisting the urge to let out a low whistle. He suddenly appreciated this car, the interior was very sleek and sporty. He popped open the glove box and found only one thing in there, a manila envelope filled with some thick papers by the feel of it. He pulled it out, shutting the door and held it up. "What's this?"

"A job."

That caught Simmons' interest. A job? Finally. He looked suspiciously at the envelope, but opened it up, pulling out the first piece of paper and scanning it. He was silent a moment before both eyebrows lifted. "You've got to be kidding me." He shot a glare at the silent man, who did nothing but watch him. He scanned the letter more carefully.

To: Reginald Simmons

From: The desk of Secretary of Defense John Keller

Due to your outstanding service record in providing assistance to your country for many years, it is my privilege to have the opportunity to offer you an independent job that requires your particular skills. The details are provided in the following documents. Your assignment, if you accept the commission, will be to co-ordinate with your partner relating to your specific field of expertise. You are free to reject the proposal, but if you accept the position you will be compensated at the following rate provided in the attached documents.

Sincerely,

John Keller

P.S. You better thank me for pulling strings for your ass, Simmons.

Simmons lifted his gaze once more to stare at the man watching him. "So you're to be my partner? What are you, some kind of specialist?" he frowned, wondering just what kind of job this was. His expertise was something that was highly classified, and he knew all the faces of those who had clearance, and those who didn't… at least he had before he'd lost his damn job when Sector 7 had been disbanded.

The man didn't smile, but continued to regard him solemnly. "Something like that." He said in a deep voice that sounded suspiciously like a growl.

Simmons glanced back down at the attached papers and began to flip through them, almost choking as he pulled up the first image, the second, a third… and a few blurry additions. These pictures were highly classified… and this man had them in his possession in a non-sealed envelope. Which could only mean one thing.

Simmons eyes slowly shifted back to the car.

He got a cold chill down his spine. That car looked disturbingly familiar… he hadn't realized it before, but suddenly things began to click. He glanced back up to the man watching him, eyes flashing once to the car then back up. "So that's it." He said in a low careful voice. "Weren't you…one of the BAD guys?"

The man snorted, and suddenly right there in front of his eyes, in broad daylight he simply vanished into thin air, leaving Simmons staring at empty space before he glanced back down the car, as it's door opened wide like an inviting maw.

"Get in." Barricade growled.

Two weeks earlier…

"You had no RIGHT!" Barricade snapped, bristling at every pointed edge that his intimidating body had.

To his credit, Optimus Prime remained calm and collected, facing the angry ex-'con with a somber expression, while an edgy Ironhide spun one of his cannons warningly behind the Autobot leader, as if to remind Barricade not to push his luck. "Ratchet was repairing your systems and stumbled upon it accidentally." Prime pointed out. "If you wish to wipe the memory from your core, you may of course do so. However, it is not my policy to encourage hiding information or lying, therefore we left the memory intact so you were aware we recovered it."

Barricade snarled, feeling all the rage and anger boiling dangerously close to the limit of his safety protocols. If his weapons had been online, they would have been glowing at the leader's throat. Fortunately for him, disabled weapons also was keeping his own body in one piece, for Ironhide wouldn't have let him get within ten feet of Optimus when he was as angry as he currently was. Still, the indignation and fury boiling within him made him tempted to simply lunge at the mech and try to tear whatever pieces he could out of him before he was off-lined. "You call yourselves moral, yet at the first chance you get you violate my private thoughts."

"I will not defend our actions, Barricade." Optimus said simply, glowing blue optics studying the angry red pair glaring up at him. "However, you might consider your own future given this revelation."

"Hah!" Barricade snarled, standing taller as he glared hatefully at Optimus. "You expect me to join you, is that it? You can rust in the Pit before I do that! The only reason that I surrendered to your pathetic little troupe…" He trailed off, realizing in his anger he'd just revealed something he hadn't intended to.

"Yes?" Optimus asked calmly. "The reason you surrendered to us?"

Barricade studied the leaders' face carefully. How much did he really know? It was impossible to tell, Optimus kept a good 'poker face' as the humans called it. He reminded the mech of Soundwave, in a goody-two-shoes kind of way. "Bah, I don't have to tell you." He growled.

"No, you do not." Optimus said, a small windy sigh escaping his processors. "However, I have my suspicions based on what you have revealed to Sam, and regarding this development. You sought the Allspark for your own reasons, I am willing to accept that, and even draw my own conclusions. However, you must realize that now knowing this, we cannot permit you to continue to remain in close proximity to Sam. You must understand our concerns that you could abuse this situation to your own advantage."

He had a point. Barricade's own actions were completely irrational to even himself. He should have taken the boy and done what he'd planned at the outset, now he was screwed in more ways than one. The Autobots knew the secret that even he had not realized he had. And this development unnerved him more than anything else. Without the distraction of war to give him the excuse to lock it back up, the memory was driving him nuts. But he refused to let that show to THEM. On the other hand, he had no desire to return to Starscream's pathetic ranks. Something inside him twisted in disgust at the thought of working with the Decepticons again, but it also twisted with equal revulsion at the thought of working with the Autobots. He was torn on what to do.

"If I might make a suggestion." Ironhide spoke up casually. All optics shifted to the weapons specialist. "I was speaking with William Lennox, who mentioned the need for a greater presence spread out across the states, but was uncertain that we would like to split our members apart, for fear of Decepticon ambush." His cannon spun slowly, the rippling yellow gold heat from it's energy sending shimmers across the path as it twirled. "Seeing as Barricade cannot help us here, and has no desire to return to his fellows, perhaps he could assist on this front."

Barricade frowned. "Work with humans? Are you insane? I work alone."

"You had a partner before." Ironhide pointed out. Barricade cringed. Frenzy. The little glitch had been a pain up his aft, but he did admit he'd had his uses. "You would still be monitored of course, both by the government of this country, as well as by ourselves. But if you were to collaborate with a representative of their choice, you could go out on your own, and you would have your weapons re-instated, providing you did not use them against the humans or ourselves."

"I have no interest in harming either of your sorry species." He snarled in reply, folding his arms over his torso. "And I don't want to work with one of those revolting fleshies."

"Fine. Then you stay here." Ironhide said calmly, a cold smile on his facial plates. "And if you frag up, I get a moving target to use as target practice."

"Ironhide." Optimus said warningly, however he didn't correct him. Instead, he turned his head back towards Barricade. "The option is yours. If you wish to have a little more freedom, you have proven yourself worthy of minimal trust. Providing you act responsibly and co-operate, this could be a useful chance for you to go and do your own thing, as you so obviously wish to do. Since you voluntarily surrendered to us and have assisted us in the interim with no insolent behavior, I feel confidant in offering you this opportunity."

Barricade scowled. Work with a human? Him? The idea of having one of those revolting flesh creatures sitting inside his cab for an extended time, their stench lingering, it was disgusting. But then, what were his other options here? He could remain a guarded prisoner with the gun-happy mech watching him all the time, make a run for it but have little chance of escape without weapons, or he could run back to that coward Starscreams's side. He cringed at the thought. Pit, no, anything but that. To be honest, he longed to turn his wheels on the Autobots and be rid of them forever. Grudgingly he growled. "What are the terms, exactly?"

"You'll remain in our communications network, Decepticon network still disabled. You'll work with a government representative, just the two of you following leads. Anything you find will be reported both to us, and to the government representatives. You essentially will be a contract agent."

"Neutral?"

"Yes."

He frowned. He could deal with Neutral. Sure, he'd been a Decepticon since he could remember, and with a shudder internally he knew that was the point. They had wanted to make him into a Decepticon who didn't question judgment, and did what they programmed him to do. And Starscream…. His internal systems began to warn him of an overload again. If he EVER found that fraggin' pit-spawned son of a glitch… he would personally rip him limb from limb, and laugh over the carcass.

"Fine." He said finally, optics lifting to stare evenly back at Prime. "On one condition. I get to scout out who I'm to work with. I won't be stuck with some useless fragger who only gets in the way."

"I think that can be arranged."

And with that, Barricade officially wiped his programming and insignia of any Decepticon markings.

He was his own mech now.