Part III
Cutting Edge
By: Landray Depth Charge
Something jarred the mechanic out of his sleep. Mike grumbled and rolled over, glaring hazy daggers at his alarm clock. Massive electronic red letters stared back at him, as emotionless as a clock could ever be when all it did was display the time. It played no music, it had no pretty paintjob, it was an alarm clock, and according to its wise numbers, Michael still had two and a half hours to sleep. Goddamned dogs, I swear I'mma brain 'em with a brick one a' these days…
Slumber eluded the mechanic. After tossing and turning fitfully for forty minutes, Romano resentfully hauled himself from the warmth of his bed, tossed on a shirt and pants, and walked out into the early morning haze. New York was a busy city, jiving until all hours of the night and up at insane hours of the morn, so Mike found it remotely strange that the roads were fairly empty even so early. The road lamps were still lit brightly as the sky began to morph from the darkest of blues to a deep, rich purple, evidence of the oncoming summer sun from the east. With a tremendous yawn, the mechanic turned right and headed towards the sunrise.
For the most part, he kept to the little roads. Jogging through alleys, taking shortcuts that only a native would know, Romano tucked his head down and sleepily trotted along. He knew each turn without thinking about making them. Left, right, keep going straight until you hit the light, it was as automated as cruise control on a glossy new Escalade. Like the city itself, Michael Romano had his own unique rhythm, the drumbeat of his life that he and only he could hear and dance to.
But all great beats tended to be interrupted by the ever-irritating clash of the cymbols at the end.
Fate?
Nah.
Just a car.
The mechanic heard the hard rev of a high-powered engine a split second before a chorus of screeching tires went off right next to his head. Snapping to attention, Mike Romano staggered to a very ungraceful stop at the mouth of an intersection, but not before he slammed hands and knees first into a blur of black and white. Jerking back, he immediately opened his mouth to reward whoever the owner of the car was to a nice New York style verbal thrashing, but no sound ever came out of his throat. Readily, Romano shut his jaws once his groggy eyes sent the emergency message to his uncaffeinated brain: O'hey. That's a cop.
The police cruiser took off before Romano could get a decent look at it, hauling tailpipe down the road with all the patience of a five year old on sugar pills. Wonder what he's in such a hurry for. If it weren't for the car's next move, Mike would have gone on his way and his life could have possibly turned out somewhat normal.
But something about a Ford Mustang police vehicle motoring headfirst into the hip of another jogger tends to make one look twice.
The only thing that spared the runner was the cop's slow speed and the fact that the ram guard on the grille had only grazed the man. There was never a shortage of the bizarre in New York City, but that seemed way over the top even for a place like that.
"Hey, you all right?" Romano called to his fellow townsman after the cop drove off.
The other nodded. "Yeah, fine, but what the shit was that about, eh? Goddamned cops in this town can get away wit anythin'!"
"Ain't it the truth, man. The car looked trashed, I'mma go check it out," Michael resolved. "Maybe dere's somethin' wrong with the pig."
The other man just grumbled and limped off. Oh, what an interesting beginning to an already odd day.
The sun was already up by the time the mechanic spotted the police cruiser again. This time the thing was in an abandoned lot, revving around in a tight left-hand circle, and in the light Romano got a real sharp look at the car. The ram guard was bent and flared outward, sitting on a bumper and front end that didn't look much better. Brown eyes trailed down the length of the Ford as it turned continuously, noting the bashed-in passenger side and ground off paint. Holy spitballs, whad this guy get into?
"'Ey! 'Ey officer! Ya a'ight?"
Romano jogged a little closer, then halted, standing beside a streetlamp. The cruiser was still motoring in haphazard circles, accelerating, then braking, taillights and headlamps blinking in tandem with the light strip on the roof. It was making the strangest noises the greasemonkey had ever heard come out of a car; electronic chirps and clicks, dings and bloops, blips of the siren firing at random intervals – it sounded somewhat similar to his computer the day he accidentally introduced tomato soup to the tower. There is seriously something wrong with this dude. Waving his hands, Romano worriedly eased forward, trying to see inside the passenger side window as it came around, but the tinting was too dark. With minor resolve the New Yorker rounded the tail end of the Mustang (which he recognized as a modified Saleen) and stood inside the circle the car was driving, still aiming to get a peek inside. No luck. As the driver's side came around with a burst of speed, Mike reached forward and rapped his knuckled on the glass.
The cruiser stopped. All noise ceased. All the human could hear was the soft, rumbling purr of the Saleen's v8 motor as it sat at idle in the lot.
Romano swallowed. This was way too weird for him to comprehend. "Officer?"
"…..TWO cent TAcos – bbzzzzrt – PARTY IN THE BACK!"
…What?
Michael blinked and stared at the crunched police cruiser in shock. Where had that come from? The windows were still up, there was no way in hell the driver managed to project his voice through the glass at that volume, plus, it didn't sound like anything he'd ever heard before. It had a slight metallic, nigh electronic ring to it. Romano gawked as the Mustang resumed driving loops around him yet again. The noise continued, but this time the voice sustained with it, much to Romano's astonishment. It seemed to be coming…from the car.
Impossible. Utterly insane. Michael Romano shook his head and lifted a hand, gingerly placing his fingertips on his temple. Too much whiskey the night before? Maybe it ain't wore off yet. Maybe I'm still sleepin'. Dream or not, the more the voice babbled about cheeseburgers and yogurt the more Michael Romano began to believe.
"'Ey," he ventured again, turning with the cruiser as it went around him yet again. "'Ey you! Cop! R-roll down ya window, man. Whatsa matta wit you?" The mechanic was going for resolve and strength, but with the way his voice squeaked on certain words, he didn't think he quite hit it.
The Ford revved his engine loudly and grumbled, headlights blinking rapidly. "Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home!" it spouted amidst a chorus of burrs and bleeps.
"Ya ain't makin' any sense, man. Come on, get wit it!"
With a deafening roar of the powerful engine the Mustang rocketed backwards, tires squealing on the pavement. Turning sharply, the car aimed its marred, destroyed front end towards Romano and ground gears as it violently jammed the stick from reverse to first. The accelerator went to the floor, and Michael found himself standing square between the headlights of a car that was shooting at him like a missile. With a yelp, the mechanic dove out of the way, stumbling, scrambling to right himself as the police cruiser took out several garbage cans on the side of the road. It stopped and continued to grouse angrily, lights blinking as it drove back around and started to come towards him again. Mike felt his back strike the metal pole that he'd been leaning on as he watched the Ford angle up for another try. Fear numbed his mind. I'm 'onna die.
"Welcome to another episode of Johnny on the Spot!" the Ford chimed, almost cheerily if it was possible. "Broadcasting live from Davy Jones' locker. Kill the tomatoes!"
Revving, the Ford lifted off of the brake and stepped on the gas, but nothing happened. The engine roared, rotations per minute soaring into the six thousand range, but it wasn't going anywhere fast. Something clicked, something else cracked, and with a tremendous squeal the car shifted into drive and peeled out hard, engine gunning the Mustang into motion. Frozen, Mike just watched as the car accelerated towards him, eyes as round as saucers. He'd never get to see Rebecca again. He'd never get to hang out with Rob and the boys and go drinking again. He'd never get to watch another Yankee game at the bar. No more hotdogs 'n flat beer. Just this.
Steam erupted mightily from beneath the crumpled black hood as the radiator overflowed and boiled. The Saleen swerved to the left and then tried to correct, fishtailing wildly, but to no avail. Michael Romano watched as the police cruiser jerked around and skidded sideways, tires squealing across the asphalt until its back end was facing him and no more forward motion was issued. Violently, its engine seized and died.
The silence had never sounded more deafening.
As it turned out, he'd be getting to watch the Yankees face off with the Boston Red Sox after all. Mike the mechanic survived that harrowing morning, as it were.
And here he was, talking to the very same car that tried to kill him.
"This thing need to get fixed? It don' look bad but it's hard t' tell when I dunno what it is 'n all."
Barricade continued to grouse unhappily. "What thing?"
"This thing!" Michael hollered from beneath the hood, poking at the device buried in the engine compartment with a screwdriver.
"AUGH. NO. It's fine! And don't do that again!"
"Why?"
"How about I poke around the inside of your chest cavity with a small, sharp metal object?"
"Point."
The process had been going that way since eight-thirty that night. Working on a car that felt everything that was being done to it was a brand new experience to Romano, and oftentimes he found himself at the receiving end of a verbal trouncing when he poked or prodded a little too hard. Not that he really blamed the Mustang when explained like that. When put in humanoid terms, what he was doing to the sentient vehicle was akin to open-heart surgery.
That thought spawned another. "Hey," Michael chimed from beneath the battered hood. "Ya got anythin' like a heart? Or is, like, the motor your heart?"
"That is none of your business," returned Barricade snappishly. Questions like that tended to make him nervous given his current position.
"A'wright, a'wright, geez, sorry I asked," grumbled the mechanic unhappily. "Sorry."
For the most part, Barricade did his best to ignore the sensations that made him so uncomfortable. Millennia of pure paranoia were working against him quite fiercely at that point – there had been a time in his life in which even the most reputable Decepticon medic had to work his or her skids off just to get Barricade to let them in his chest at all. Trust was not an easy thing for the Mustang Saleen to give out. However, most would be surprised to find out that it was comparatively easy for him to gain the trust and even affections of others. It was part of his personality. It was part of the façade that Barricade lived in. It was the thrill that drove the Ford to devastate, but the boundaries of his destruction were not always outlined in the physical.
Barricade flinched, and flinched again. Romano thought it incredibly eerie to see the wires and innards of what appeared to be a fairly average automobile engine twitch and shrink away from his touch. Over the last three hours he had done his best to get used to it, but after having been a mechanic for fifteen years, it was not easy. It was a near certainty that from that day forward whenever Michael Romano reached in to fiddle with some trucks transmission, he'd half expect it to twitch beneath his fingers.
"So, ah, you got a name or somethin'?" the greasemonkey inquired, digging as gently as he could through masses of trinkets and metallic bits. Engine compartments were tight, and this Mustang was no exception.
Nerves wrought thin, Barricade sat in silence for a few seconds, going over his response. Humans were nosey little bastards, full to the brim with queries and quandaries. Why couldn't the fleshy just fix him and shut up? "Yes."
Mike waited through the pregnant pause that followed, and then pressed further, hinting. "My name's Mike."
"Barricade."
"Pleasure ta meet ya."
"I wish I could say the same."
Romano paused for a second, sighed, and continued searching. Thus far everything seemed to be in decent shape, other than the obvious chassis damage, the radiator, and the fan. The real challenge would be fixing the motor mounts; for that, he'd need to enlist he aid of his employees and the heavy lifting equipment in the shop. Barricade. It was an odd name for an odd machine. The mechanic straightened up and listened to the typical cricking and cracking of his spine as it returned to what was considered normal shape. The glaring clock on the wall, smudged with oil, read that it was already eleven-thirty. Be lots a time tomorrow after work to keep goin' on this guy.
The Saleen's high volume tones cut through the tired humans thoughts. "Well?"
"Well, what?" Romano returned, pulling the grease stained gloves off of his hands. "Only so much I can do on so little sleep, yannow?"
The news didn't please Barricade in the slightest. "Guestimate for me, fleshling: how long will this take?"
Michael blamed his next words on exhaustion alone: "Yannow, yer awful ungrateful for bein' some smart-ass supercomputer. Shut up, relax, I ain't here putting all this effort into ya if I had it in mind to hurt ya. A'ight? So chill."
The Decepticon boiled silently. The human would be paying for that comment at a later date, but for now he let his logic systems override his emotional grid and stayed quiet. As much as Barricade loathed to admit it, he needed the squishy, carbon-based being. At least until his engine was reassembled and safely back in within the confines of his chest cavity where it belonged. For now, the cruisers needs were sated, what with the replacement of the ever-important energy converter some hours ago. After hearing the explanation of what role it served in Barricade's body, Michael Romano hadn't wasted any time in putting it back where it needed to go, and so for now, the half tank of gas that the muscle car sported could be accessed to keep him going. Fuel was fuel, but at times it needed to be processed first.
Mike wiped his hands on a rag and lit a cigarette, peering down into the bared compartment beneath a black, buckled hood. Crystal chrome shone through spots of dust and dirt, creating a pattern of dark and light that would catch anyone's eye. Just the thought of that much clean, shiny metal beneath the coat of grime that had set upon it with the boiling over of Barricade's radiator made Mike shiver. Chrome. It was a mechanics dream. An idea set the humans body into motion. Romano retrieved a bucket and set it in the slop sink across the dimly lit car garage, filling it with cold water before dumping it out and replacing it with warm water as an afterthought. A bit of car wash solvent was added, a sponge dumped in, and a stool dragged over next to the vehicle's damaged right fender. Barricade watched suspiciously, keeping a figurative eye on the fleshbags every move. What was he doing?
Sitting down, Romano took the sponge and began to excavate the grunge inlaid so heavily on the engine that he'd been working on. This had the Mustangs every sensor sharply attuned and aware; he'd never had his innards cleaned out in such a fashion before. He was confident that during tune-ups and other such medicinal procedures the medics made an effort to clean any gunk out of him that they found, but Barricade was not usually awake for that part. It was oddly…pleasant.
Mike was oblivious, of course. He listened to the patter of dirty water as it filtered down through the wires and bits of the Ford's partial engine on its way to the floor, where it puddled forlornly between Barricade's front tires. He scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed some more, rubbing off grease, muck, and dried-on antifreeze until the motor began to shine once again. It was a combination of things, really, that began to lull the Decepticon beast: the warmth, the water, it all felt so very nice.
Michael lifted his hands as the compartment shuddered and the engine seemed to sink a little with a tremendous, mechanized sigh. If it weren't for the fact that he was half crazy those days, Romano would have sworn that the thing relaxed at his touch. He hesitated only a few more moments before going back at it. The sponge touched this, the sponge passed over that, leaving behind clean chrome in its wake as the mechanic expertly wriggled it into little nooks and crannies that Barricade probably never knew he had. It took several seconds for Romano to detect the soft, rhythmic rumble emanating from somewhere amid the cruisers internals, so low that it nearly slipped his attention. The human could feel it more than he could hear it; the faint noise sent vibrations into the floor and through the slick metal frame of the car itself. As quickly as the sound began, though, it ended, leaving the vehicle still and silent once more.
Michael Romano was slightly worried at the encompassing quiet that ensued after the strange noise had ceased. Had he killed the Ford somehow? Found On Road Dead, as they say, he thought, but any humor was pushed to the back of his mind as the possibility solidified itself and he distinctly felt like an ass. How dare he joke about it when it was a real risk that the Mustang Saleen could have up and flat-lined on him?
"Barricade?" he probed, voice reflecting the mild horror that he was beginning to feel. "'Ey, 'Cade, dude. C'mon now, say somethin'."
Silence.
Aw, shit, ya gotta be kiddin' me. "This ain't funny. I don' know vehicular CPR, man!"
That time, the police cruiser shifted in a minute fashion and grumbled drowsily. Michael blinked slowly in late-night bewilderment. Barricade wasn't dead at all. I'll be damned, he thought. I put the guy to sleep.