A/N Following their First Date, Barricade has had *enough*.
Revenge by antepathy
The Autobot medic had told Blackout that Barricade needed to rest to recover from the close-in hit with the up-modded stunner. To which Strika had added firmly that that meant 'none of ze intervazing', smirking when Blackout's face fell, and Barricade muttered a protest. Still, Blackout knew to follow orders—especially Madam General Strika's orders—so he'd insisted and dropped Barricade straight into the repair cradle they used in their open room in the cube.
Barricade hadn't protested that as much as Blackout had feared. Even more worrisome, Barricade hadn't even complained about Blackout flying him home. The copter knew that Barricade hated being flown—it must feel pretty scary up all that distance with no ability to generate lift on your own. He'd almost melted when, when he went to pick Barricade up, instead of squirming away, Barricade had grabbed onto his arms needily.
Blackout lay himself on the berth, trying really hard not to think that this was the first time he'd recharged alone since the end of the war. He hated this feeling. It felt…cold somehow. But the medic had spoken, and he didn't want to do anything that might stand in the way of Barricade recovering. He still felt he was partly to blame: if he hadn't gotten himself caught Barricade wouldn't have gotten himself hurt. And he looked like a mess. Barricade's teasing promise of detailing him would have to wait—Barricade was in no condition to do anything. AND, Madam General Strika would KILL Blackout. And probably Onslaught too, would be pretty mad if anything happened to the smaller mech.
Blackout had never seen Onslaught mad. He didn't think anyone had…and survived to tell about it.
He'd lost all his nice polish from the detailing, which made him sad. He'd really liked the way Barricade had looked at him, and had felt kinda sexy himself just walking through the streets of Iacon, other mechs checking him out. Barricade would do a way better job anyway, he thought, eagerly. But detailing would wait. Forever if necessary. Blackout just wanted Barricade to be well.
He tossed miserably on the berth, which suddenly seemed huge and empty. But this was necessary. And it wouldn't be for long.
But…what if Barricade needed him in the middle of recharge?
No. Resist the temptation, Blackout told himself. And he's better off in the repair cradle because it doesn't stress any of his injured parts. He grimly set his chrono alarm a few megacycles—he'd wake up and check on him mid-recharge. Compromise.
**
Blackout woke up before his chrono went off, from a memory purge that involved him getting bogged down in mud. He felt a weight across his legs, and sat up, carefully. While he'd recharged, his own systems had been working at his own injuries, and he felt worse today than yesterday. Typical combat stuff, though, he thought. Keep going because the second you stop, you drop.
He looked down, and almost whimpered. Barricade lay between his legs, hugging one leg, his head resting on Blackout's hip, his arm tires pressing on Blackout's pelvis. So…fragging cute.
Then it struck Blackout that Barricade must have woken up mid-recharge and missed him so much that he'd crawled out of the repair cradle and onto the berth. His spark ached at the thought. Poor Barricade! Waking up alone and scared and missing him. If he thought too long about Barricade crawling his way into the room, he'd get upset.
It took everything Blackout had not to scoop him up and pull him next to him. First off, because Barricade would punch him in the face if he knew Blackout had seen this. Second, it would definitely give Barricade ideas, and Madam General Strika was pretty adamant that two things Barricade was not allowed to have right now were interfacing and ideas.
Blackout lowered himself gently back down against the berth, flicking his rotors out of the way. After a long moment lying perfectly still, straining for any reaction from Barricade, he shifted his weight, as though still half-asleep, moving his legs gently.
Barricade groaned softly. Blackout lay still as he felt the smaller mech push, wobblingly, off him, releasing his clamped grip from around the copter's thigh. Barricade's chassis slid over the armor of the copter's thigh, as he tried to pull himself out from between Blackout's legs.
"Hey, stupid," Barricade croaked. "Wake up. Barricade's bored."
Blackout fought down a grin. "Not allowed to, Barricade."
"What General Strika doesn't know won't hurt me." He traced his hand over Blackout's chassis.
"No, really. You need to get well first." Barricade made a rude noise. Blackout blurted, "I'll tell…Onslaught!"
The four optics rotated up to his face. "You'd actually do it, too, wouldn't you, copter?" He frowned. "Fraggin' copter with his fraggin' loyalty."
"I want you to get better," Blackout said. "You gotta listen to the medic."
"First off," Barricade pulled himself shakily onto one elbow, "That medic was an Autobot. Everyone knows Autobots are wusses. Second, that Autobot is a foot perv. I don't trust him as far as I can point my dainty little toes."
"We can go see another medic today if you want," Blackout said. "But I don't know anything about medical stuff so until one of them says okay, you can't get me to do otherwise." He frowned, "Disobeying medics is the same as disobeying an officer."
Barricade wailed. "You're really going to stick to that, aren't you?"
Blackout could feel his resolve crumbling. He hated seeing Barricade unhappy. And if he was feeling up to it, maybe it wouldn't do any harm. And it would make Barricade so happy.
No. Barricade made…bad decisions sometimes. Like…the one where he rescued Blackout but didn't have an exit strategy for himself. He was all kinda smarts, but really wasn't the best decision-maker where his own wellbeing was at stake. Blackout would just have to be strong. No matter what.
"We can't!" Blackout said.
"Come on!! It's like…part of our date or something."
"No way! Besides, Sunstorm told me that nice mechs don't do it on the first date."
Barricade's optics bulged. "Are you fraggin' kidding me?"
"We've only been on the one date. And not even the whole date. Only like 85% of it." Blackout felt his resolve returning as the excuse built momentum.
Barricade looked ready to explode. "I hate you, copter," he hissed. "You have no idea how much."
Blackout tried not to flinch at the words. He was doing the right thing, he knew it. And Barricade would get over it. He hoped.
**
Barricade had relented enough to play a math game against Blackout on the datapad when their outer door chimed. They both looked at each other, unhappy.
"Skywarp?" Blackout groaned.
Barricade rolled his optics at the thought. "Right. When was the last time he didn't just pop wherever he wanted to go? Not even sure he knows about doorchimes. Probably terrified of them."
Blackout grinned as he limped over to get the door. He was in pretty rough shape himself, but nowhere near as bad as Barricade, and he was more used to fighting injured.
"Uhhhh, Onslaught!" He straightened up, abruptly, trying to ignore the lance of pain across his chassis. "Sir!"
"Blackout," the commander acknowledged, before pushing past him. He held a bag in one hand, several comm components stuck to his chassis. He walked into the recharge room, as though he lived here. Blackout had no choice but to gimp in after him, hoping Barricade had enough time between hearing Onslaught's name and now to prepare himself.
Barricade sat on the berth, flipping the datapad in suddenly nervous talons.
Onslaught held up the bag. It had the words "Café Outrage" emblazoned on the outside. "Brought you both some food. Figured you might not be up for getting some of your own."
"We have mil-rats," Barricade said, hotly. "Do us just fine."
Onslaught snorted in disdain. "Mil-rats are vile." He dropped the bag onto the berth and gestured to Blackout. "Unpack that."
"Yes, sir," Blackout said. He bent over the bag. Wow. Onslaught had brought a lot of stuff. Barricade's paranoia must be contagious, because the sight of all the food bundles made him a) hungry and b) suspicious as the pit. Why was Onslaught suddenly being nice?
"Café Outrage?" Barricade read. "That sounds…repugnantly cutesy."
"Yeah? You try telling that to Bonecrusher. It's his gig."
"Bonecrusher? Runs a café?"
Onslaught shifted on his feet. "Well, he's closing the café part and going to straight catering. There was an…unfortunate incident involving an Autobot not caring for the texture of the breadsticks and a plate glass window."
Barricade snorted. "Okay, NOW I believe Bonecrusher's involved."
Onslaught shrugged. "I believe in supporting his…less destructive endeavors. He makes a very attractive Sparkday cake, should you ever need one."
Barricade rolled his optics. "Attractive and probably lethal."
"No way!" Blackout said, his head buried in the bag. "Bonecrusher's awesome. He used to field chow for us for like holidays and stuff."
Terrifying thought.
As Blackout pulled out a handful of white-wrapped cubes, a flimsy fluttered to the floor. Blackout snatched it up with his free hand. "'Instructions,'" he read. "'I hope you appreciate the fraggin' favor, Commander Onslaught'." He looked up. "What? That's how he wrote it. 'I only presume you'll be sharing my hard work with some similarly palate-less morons. So, here are a few pointers, even though your crude tastes will not appreciate the difference.' Wow."
"Go on," Barricade said, sniffing one of the cubes, dubiously.
"'First off, do NOT use a convection heater to reheat. Only culinary infidels and Autobots,'" Blackout stopped, his facial plates heating. "Uhhhh, I don't know if I know that word."
Barricade snatched it from his hands. "Right. No. You do not know that word. Nor should you." He glared at the copter, then picked up reading. "'Autobots who—uhhh, censored—use convection." He skimmed down, mumbling words to himself and snickering. "'En croute?' What the frag is a 'croute'? Blah blah, 'I hate mechs who use the wrong utensils'—uhhh, he's in for a treat. Don't think we have any utensils—'the sauce is appropriately spicy and anyone who says otherwise is a', uhhhh, censored again, and ANOTHER word Blackout should not know, 'you owe me so fraggin' big, Bonecrusher. PS, thank you for your order! =D'?!" He looked up. "Wow. I thought I had adjustment issues."
"Difference of kind, not degree," Onslaught said, pointedly. He reached for one of the cubes himself. "Now, you two start eating or I'm going to tell Bonecrusher."
Blackout had laid out the contents of the bag in rows, each packet carefully numbered, apparently, as much as Barricade could figure, in the order of consumption. Barricade sighed, and obediently took another cube marked '1'. "This," he said, "is ridiculous. Energon is energon. All he did was warm this up or something." He pierced the seal with one talon and took a sip.
"Whoa!" Blackout said, rotors flaring in surprise. No, that wasn't distracting at all, Barricade thought sourly. "This is way better than mil rats."
Onslaught smirked, taking some of his. "I think the next has the noodles in it."
"Huh," Barricade said. "It's okay, I guess." He snatched the next packet.
"Seem awfully eager to have more," Onslaught noted.
"I just enjoy eating on your credits," Barricade said, ripping open the second package.
"Hey, uh, Barricade, I don't think you're supposed to start number two until you've finished number one?"
Barricade looked scornfully at Blackout. "How's Bonecrusher gonna know?"
"I'll tell him," Onslaught said. Barricade looked at him through narrowed optics.
"You would, too, wouldn't you." He frowned, putting down the packet of noodles and picking up his broth cube again. "Fine. Seriously." He tried to frown and drink at the same time.
"Thanks for this," Blackout burbled. "Commander Onslaught, seriously. You didn't have to do this for us and stuff."
Onslaught smirked. Barricade wanted to pop him one across the face for it. "After last night, I didn't think either of you would be up for taking care of yourselves."
"Take care of ourselves just fine," Barricade muttered into the last of his warm broth. He decided he hated deliciousness. Just because Onslaught was involved. And that he couldn't stop eating it. He brandished his empty cube, and grabbed for the second packet again.
"I'm sure you can," Onslaught said, more than a little condescending. "But I figured no one—least of all, you, Barricade—objects to a free meal." He finished his own broth cube, and started opening his second packet. "Besides. It was a good cover."
"Ha!" Barricade said, looking up from the packet of noodles. "I figured as much. You have about as much compassion as a rusted flywheel." He tilted his head, studying the noodles. How do you eat noodles? Well, with your hands, apparently. He reached to grab a handful.
Onslaught slapped his hand aside. "Here," he said, impatiently. "Learn to be civilized. Sometimes, Barricade, I swear it's like you were raised by space wolves." Barricade took the pincer utensil he offered with as much ill grace as he could summon. He secretly had half a mind to eat the noodles with his hands, anyway. But Onslaught thought he didn't know how to eat with utensils? Ha. He'd show him. Totally civilized.
Blackout took the proffered tool graciously, and watched Onslaught for cues how to use it. He hesitantly prodded his noodles with the pincers, almost yelping in surprise as they grabbed some.
"I have more compassion than you give me credit for," Onslaught murmured. "Such as the 'keep Barricade out of the brig' kind."
Barricade glared. "One day you'll get tired of reminding me about that."
"One day." Onslaught grinned. "Not today, though." He took a mouthful of noodles. "And yes, I had a reason to come here. We have reason to believe that, for once, your paranoid suspicions are correct, Barricade, and that the attackers who went after the two of you in Iacon are after you because of your present position."
Barricade suppressed a snarl. So…Blackout nearly dies, because of this fraggin' stupid job. Frag it! NOTHING went right in Barricade's life. He put the noodles down.
"Eat up, Barricade," Onslaught said, gesturing with his pincers.
"Not hungry," he grumbled. He was ready to drag himself off the berth and lock himself in the maintenance fac, AFTER quitting this stupid job and punching Onslaught in the face, until Blackout interjected,
"Barricade? You gotta eat. Or you won't get better." The copter's olive green facial crest furrowed with worry. Frag. Barricade picked up the noodles, stirring them listlessly.
Onslaught watched the little scene play out with patent amusement. "My point is that it's a problem. And I thought you might want to be in on the solution." He nodded to himself as Barricade's optics narrowed. Oh yes, Barricade was very interested. Onslaught unclipped one of his portable mods. "If you got a flashsnap of the attackers, even just one of them, it's a place to start." He held it out to Barricade.
"Frag right I got flashsnaps," Barricade muttered. "Think I fell of the intelligence truck yesterday?" He put his pincers down and pulled a small cord from its housing behind one audio and plugged it into a jack in the mod. He held up the output display to Onslaught. "This is the only one I could get a clear frontal shot on. This is flatbed they took Blackout away on—probably a dead lead but we should run it down anyway." Onslaught nodded. "And this is the chopper they were using." Blackout craned his neck to see. Barricade tilted the display away from him. He didn't want Blackout to see himself, unconscious, injured, leaking energon from a half-dozen places, so close to a chopper's toolrack. Slag, Barricade didn't want to see it himself.
Onslaught grunted. "Right. I'll have Vortex run them through our databases. We'll find something." He took the mod back and stuck it back against his winch by its magnets.
Damn right you will, Barricade thought. And when you do….
**
Vortex commed Barricade a few hours later. Barricade was…irritable to begin with: the repair clinic they had gone to had cleared Blackout entirely, but insisted that Barricade needed more monitoring. Meaning…no interfacing. Barricade sensed a conspiracy. He'd growled at the medic until Blackout had dragged him out of there. Standing between him and the only thing that made life worth living. Frag. Stupid medic was so ugly he probably couldn't get laid with a can-opener so he didn't want anyone else to have any fun, either.
It had taken megacycles after that to convince Blackout that they could actually cuddle without danger. Of course, it was a total lie. Barricade completely planned to wait until the copter fell asleep and then…see what he could do. See how the copter responded to some rotor rubbing.
He knew how he responded to just the idea.
So…he was less than perky when he answered his comm. //WHAT?!//
//Huh,// Vortex muttered. //I guess I owe Onslaught that money now. He said you wouldn't be allowed to interface and it would make you…less than charming.//
//You tell Onslaught,// Barricade seethed, //that it's his fraggin' stupid fault that this happened to begin with and the least he could do is not profit off my distress. Or…at least share half.// That sounded fair. He struggled to calm down, just to prove Onslaught wrong. //Now, why're you bothering me?//
//Thought you'd want an update. The mech you have the full face on is called Backslash. Neutral, more or less thugged his way through the war, double dealing to both sides. Obviously not too great at it because he's still only street-level. The vehicle was a rental ran us nowhere other than a location. But…the account number to pay for the rental—and this is why this Backslash guy is small-time, because anyone smart would pay creds and not account—has also recently been used in a number of bars and other places of…questionable repute in the suburbs of Iacon .//
//Hangout, then.//
//Most likely. We don't know how the mech makes a living. We can't tap the account without setting off alarms, and the fact that it HAS that kind of security tells us plenty.//
//What are Neuts doing in Iacon?//
//A question that deserves an answer.//
//Right.//
//Onslaught, incidentally, says he really wants to know…and isn't that picky about methods.// Well, why would he be? Neuts didn't fall under Sentinel Magnus's protection. They fell under nobody's. Problem when you refuse to choose sides: the sides refuse to choose you.
Barricade turned his head away from the snoozing copter, just in case the copter woke up, he couldn't see the feral smile spreading over Barricade's face. Poor copter thought Barricade was a nice mech. And for a change, Barricade really didn't want to ruin that illusion. //Understood,// he said. He clicked off, looking back over to the copter's bulk. Blackout napped like there was no tomorrow, his vents cycling in the air in warm fuzzy pushes, optics shuttered, face serene and…ludicrously hot. Barricade figured he deserved some pre-action, well…action.
He nuzzled against the copter's shoulder, one taloned hand stroking gently over the bulky chassis. Blackout gave a murmuring kind of purr. Rowrf. One day, Barricade thought sadly, the copter was going to realize how much better he could do than a terminal slag-up like Barricade.
His hand tightened around the armor. Almost tempting to keep the copter uneducated. But when he thought of the way Blackout's optics glowed when he passed a quiz, or when, during their date, he'd read one of the museum placards out loud…. No, Barricade couldn't help it. Matter of time before the copter ditched him, but…until then, right?
Barricade squirmed up, his hands reaching for the left-shoulder rotors. They were scratched, the beautiful paint job done by the detailing scraped and pitted and no longer shiny. He wanted to fix that. He could. 'Hog would loan him the equipment. He wanted Blackout to be as hot as he was—to walk with that sudden, shy confidence as he had after he'd seen himself in the detailer's 360 mirror.
But just because the rotors weren't glossy any more didn't mean Barricade didn't want them. He pinched a blade between his fingers, running it down the length. Blackout moaned softly, squirming his pelvis on the berth. Barricade grinned. Now, they were getting somewhere he wanted to go. He drew one leg over the copter's pelvic frame, sliding his thigh over the interface hatch, leaning in to nibble on the rotor. Blackout moaned again, his hands kneading the berth, twisting his body into Barricade's touch.
Frag yeah! Barricade thought. He wriggled closer, himself, nipping at the rotor blade's mount.
"Uh!" Blackout's optics onlined abruptly, his body going rigid. He looked over to Barricade, who quickly (enough, he hoped) shuttered his optics. "Nice try, Barricade," he murmured, shifting his hips out from under Barricade's knee.
Barricade yawned showily, letting his optic shutters droop. "Whuh? What'd I miss?"
"Come on, Barricade," Blackout said. "I know you were trying to disobey medical orders."
"Me?" He widened his optics in complete (and utterly false) innocence. "I would never! I must have been asleep!"
"Right. You were nibbling my rotors…in your sleep." Blackout narrowed his optics with suspicion.
"Hey! It could happen!" Barricade had the distinct feeling his lie was failing abjectly. "Not my fault," he grumbled, "you're so fraggin' hot." It was almost worth it for the copter's startled blush.
Blackout recovered slowly. "But…yeah, but you can't! The medic said so!"
Barricade gave a cry of frustration, flopping his back on the berth. "It's clear you want me dead. Dying of lack of interfacing."
"No—no one's ever died from lack of interfacing before," Blackout said, tentatively, "I think."
"Maybe they go unreported," Barricade countered, "by the vicious murderers who withhold the interfacing." Blackout stiffened, looking stricken. Barricade relented. "Fine. Not going to fraggin' die from it. Seriously."
Blackout pulled Barricade against him, squishing him against his chassis. "I just don't want you to get hurt, Barricade, that's all." Kind of ironic, since right now Blackout was squeezing the living coolant out of him.
"Not…helping," Barricade gasped. Seriously. Getting hugged by the copter was not helping his raging libido. Blackout released him. Barricade pushed away. "I'm getting up. You want something to eat?"
"Oooh, do we have any of the crispie energon treats left? Man, Onslaught has good taste in food."
"Reminding me of Onslaught will not help my appetite," Barricade muttered, "But it did totally kill the libido, so…hey…thanks." He couldn't stop a sly grin as he brought the packet of treats back to the berth. He looked out their narrow clerestory—lit up pinky orange. Sunset. Which meant the roaches would be coming out. Roaches like…Backslash. "Hey, copter? I'm gonna go out for a bit." This Backslash character needed a bit of a visit.
"Want me to come with you?" Blackout split one of the treats in half.
"No!" Barricade said, a little too quickly. Blackout froze, the two halves of the treat in his hands. Barricade snatched his. "Sorry. Just… want to get out by myself for a bit." Frag these damn treats were good. He crammed it in his mouth. Blackout's optics were wary. "Seriously. I get stir crazy stuck in a cube all day." Unnnn still not working. "It's not you! I just…well," Okay, smarty mech, lie harder, "I…was kind of upset seeing you get all hurt and stuff and I kinda need to just get, you know, like…moving and stuff to try to get over it?" He looked down at his empty hands, partly wishing for more treat to eat, but also hoping for distraction. That…came out a bit more honest than he wanted.
Blackout's lip quivered, but in a kind of sympathy. "Okay," he said. "I trust you."
Frag. "Trust me to…?"
"Know you're not going to find someone else to interface with."
Barricade's temper flared. "What?" His sticky hands balled into fists. "You really think I'd do that?"
"No!" Blackout's optics grew a little afraid. "I meant I knew you wouldn't."
Barricade felt himself shaking. "Right. Whatever. I'm so out." He stomped to the exit.
***
Lower Iacon was the same as any other urban-fringe Barricade had ever seen. It hadn't quite gotten on the post-war reconstruction bandwagon, yet, and bombed out buildings straggled next to small shops and shady businesses clinging onto life by feeding the borderline-legal appetites of the citizenry. Barricade had strolled—glad that his chassis was still scratched and dented to help him fit in better—around the area, locating all of the businesses on the charge-account list Vortex had sent him. Thinking, of course, what a low level scavenger might be doing. Was he still flush with cash? Barricade hated to think of the bastard profiting off of what he had planned to do to Blackout. In fact, maybe since the mission was incomplete, he'd not been paid in full. Which meant he'd be scrabbling for money.
Barricade staked out a few likely businesses where a part-time self-employed greasestain could rustle up some quick creds. He'd narrowed it down to the most likely: a scrap metal yard. The night had settled in around the city, and Barricade's dark armor melted easily into the shadows, only four glowing red optics, cycled low, gave any indication anyone was there.
He perked up as a grav sled mounted with a large bin rumbled inot the yard. Action. And the silhouette of the driver as he hopped off the sled and to the business office was unpleasantly familiar. Hello, Backslash, Barricade thought. Scrounging again. The thought that, had things gone otherwise, parts of Blackout might have ended up in that bin sickened him with a kind of nauseous rage he'd never felt before. Barricade watched as Backslash moved the sled to a mass scale, weighed it, and then dumped the contents onto a lading belt, returning the sled back to the scale to get the tare weight. When he left the sled again, probably to collect his payment, Barricade made his move, slipping through the shadows to the back of the sled, lifting the bin's lid just enough to pop through into the bin.
He waited as the motor started up, humming beneath his feet. He squatted down, bracing himself in a corner. Something else to add to a list of things that made Backslash an unlikeable loser: he was a terrible driver.
The sled slowed. Barricade rose to his feet, lifting the lid just enough that his optics could peer over Backslash's shoulder. Nice, dark parking garage. Subterranean. Oh, he could work with this.
He dropped heavily to his feet, setting his vocalizer to make a series of squawks and hisses and bleeps, readying his arms for the quick swing he'd have to make. He grinned wickedly as the bin lid lifted. The head peered over.
"Hey, what the--?" He heard a fumble for a headlamp. He waited until Backslash had activated his headlamp, sticking his whole head into the dark cavity of the bin. Barricade swooped his hands forward, grabbing the mech by the back of the head, overbalancing him and pulling him into the bin with him.
"HEY!" Backslash shouted. "Who the frag--?"
"Remember me?" Barricade hissed. He pinned the mech's neck with his forearm against his chassis.
"You!" the mech croaked. "The barfing one."
"Ha ha," Barricade tightened his grip. "So. How bout we have a nice civilized little discussion."
"Frag you."
"NOT," Barricade snarled, "right now. Doctor's orders."
"Get off me." Oh right. Bluster was just totally called for right now when you're on your knees, Barricade thought.
"Answers: who hired you?"
"Not telling you!"
Barricade dug the talons of his free hand under one of Backslash's cheekplates, prying up the armor. The mech squealed. "Let's see how long your loyalty lasts. Problem with mechs who hire you cred-a-dozen lackeys. Sometimes the higher bidder comes in."
"Frag yourself."
"Already used that one, rustnuts." Barricade's voice was cold.
Backslash struggled, trying to get his feet under him for upward leverage. Barricade kicked the instep, tightening his grip against the falling weight. A time like this when a smaller frame came in handy—Blackout's massive forearms were awesome (guh! Sexy!) but he couldn't throat anyone with them.
When in doubt and stupid, apparently, bargain. "Hey," Backslash said. "It was just a job, you know? Nothing personal." NOTHING PERSONAL?!?! He was willing to send Blackout to a chopper. Maybe it wasn't personal for him, but it was damn sure fraggin' personal for Barricade. Mess with Barricade, one thing. Mess with the copter, another.
Barricade fought with his boiling temper. Do NOT lose your cool.
"So," he said, coolly, "Let's not make it personal. Tell me what I want to know."
"I don't know anything! Everything was done through agents!"
"So…who was your agent?"
"Mech named like Slingslot or something. Didn't exactly meet up with him planning a honeymoon. His name was way less important than his creds."
"Faction?"
"I don't know! I mean, he wore an Autobot symbol but these days that's like a 5 cycle paint job or a magnet."
Good point. Barricade knew all about magnets. Still, a place to start. "Know anything else?" Barricade flexed his claws in front of the mech's optics.
"He was real mad when it didn't work out. Cut off our account access, the fragger. Go get him," Backslash spat, "not me. I'm the little guy."
"Yeah." Little guy with a big mouth. Which could flap both ways.
"Hey, uh…like I said," Backslash said, his hands clawing at his throat when Barricade didn't release his grip, "It was a job. Nothing against you or your whirlybird friend. Promise I won't go near him again."
"Notice," Barricade said, "that I didn't ask you for that. Want to know why?" He activated his blade weapon. "Because I know for fraggin' sure you won't." He plunged one spoke between the fingers he was bracing the neck with, into the main energon line, gritting his teeth in satisfaction as the blade jarred against a servo on the far side.
"Gaaaaaauhhh!" Backslash cried out, his energon rushing pink-purple and hot over Barricade's hands. Barricade retracted his blade, thrusting the dying mech to the bottom of the bin.
"By the way," Barricade said, "this isn't personal, either." As he watched the light die out of Backslash's optics, his comm chimed.
//On.//
//Hey, uh…Barricade? It's me. Blackout.// A pause. //Sorry, forgot you already knew that. Just wanted to let you know, you know, in case you like cared and stuff. I'm, uhhhh, picking up a half shift, covering for Lugnut tonight at Inamorato. //
//That's cool,//Barricade replied. //Didn't have to tell me.//
//I know. I just…didn't want you to come home to an empty cube and, you know, like, not know where I was and stuff.//
Fraggin' copter could stab him in the spark without even trying. He looked down at his energon-covered hands. //Covering Lugnut for what?//
//I don't know. Some big match coming up and it's like they have to check mods or something?//
//Okay. Hey.// He kicked at Backslash's body with one foot, grinning as the death-stiffened servos squeaked. //Mind if I stop by? If you get off early enough, you know, maybe we can do something cool.// He grinned. //Finish up our date so that when I do get cleared we can finally get back to action.//
//Really? That would be super cool!// The copter's enthusiasm was palpable. //Hey, you okay? I'm sorry about earlier. I know I shouldn't worry about you and stuff. You just… you know, mean a lot to me.//
//Yeah,//Barricade replied. He wiped the blade against the mech's immobile thigh. //Don't worry. Mean a lot to me, too, copterbutt.//