Chapter VI

Cracks

By: Landray Depth Charge

Barricade did not enjoy being eight feet off of the ground. It was unnatural. It was revealing. It was…humiliating. "Do you really have to do this?"

Romano was standing beneath the Mustang as the vehicle sat powerless on a metal car hoist. "Well, yeah. I did a little reading and I realized that there was an easier way to replace your motor mounts." Mike glanced over at the bolts sitting on the workbench. "I think I can do it from underneath instead of lifting out the entire engine."

That thought did little to comfort the Saleen, so he went silent.

The Ford Mustang sat in quietude, keenly receptive to every little poke and prod Mike made to his undercarriage. Barricade did not care to be so exposed; there were systems and wiring down there that would be easily accessed if the human ever got it into his head to start removing panels, and there would be absolutely nothing the Decepticon could do about it. His transformation sequence was bugged. His tires were almost ten feet off of the ground. He had no mobility, and no way to retaliate if the fleshbag got curious.

As a military shock trooper, this sort of vulnerability would usually spell out a gruesome death for Barricade. The Saleen S281 had spent millennia fighting battle after battle, killing thousands of his opponents, and never once had he felt so defenseless. This entire disaster with the garbage truck and finally with this Michael Romano had forced the Decepticon officer to rethink his own strengths and weaknesses. Since waking up in Greasemonkey's Garage, he'd spent hours silent amidst the busy, jarring din of the shop just thinking about the accident. What could he have done to avoid it? The more Barricade reflected on it the less he could come up with. His side of the light was green, and according to the human's traffic laws, that meant he had the right of way and the garbage truck should have stopped. But it didn't.

The Mustang hadn't even seen it before the armor-crushing impact, so evasive maneuvers were moot. There wasn't anything I could have done. It seemed like a logical conclusion, and most sentient beings would have accepted it like that. But Barricade just kept thinking.

It wasn't like he had anything else to do, anyway.

Michael poked at something. The Ford flinched. "Stop that," he snarled hoarsely, giving a threatening rattle of his inner workings.

"'Ey, c'mon. The sooner I get you fixed, the sooner you can leave. Unless I hurt ya, just try 'n endure it, okay?"

Endure it. He'd been enduring it for three days and nights so far with nothing more than snide remarks and grating comments. The Ford Mustang Saleen figured he had a right to bitch and complain a little; he was stuck in a garage in which he had nothing to do all day, got poked and prodded at for a few hours at night, and then was left in deathly silence with absolutely nothing to amuse himself with until morning. Repeat process. The Internet had relieved some of his boredom, but there was only so much research and reading could do for an exceedingly interactive and highly intelligent mind. In other words, Barricade was bored.

Mike had gotten down to business beneath him. He could feel those greasy little fingers touching this, grasping that, pulling on this component and poking at that. Tools were used, parts replaced with a sound amount of effort from the mechanic – apparently it was a difficult task given the amount of curses and grunts Romano was emitting. The Saleen twitched and cringed uncontrollably at some points out of reflex, but he stayed silent as his temporary human helper asked him to. Barricade had to give the carbonmonkey credit; he stayed and finished working the night before even after their little "falling out". Mike even came back the next day with almost the same stupid grin as before. The human was braver and full of more character than most Decepticons he'd known throughout his long, drawn out lifetime.

…No.

Barricade shook his metaphorical head. Absolutely not. Surely he was not beginning to feel…respect for this repulsive fleshbag? No, of course not! Humans were inferior in mind and body. They leaked random odd fluids and produced viscous substances and mucous and they were fragile and stupid and sensitive and – he was relying on one. A Decepticon shock trooper; the pilot and chief science officer of the Nemesis; Barricade was slagging relying on this substandard carbon-based life form to get repaired and back out onto the road. It was horrid! It was degrading! It was downright wrong!

Not only was he respecting this secondary being, he was beginning to listen to commands. Slaggit. He was no trained puppy. Mike couldn't tell him to be quiet and expect him to listen, and yet, he did, and Barricade complied. The police cruiser chalked it up to his ever increasing boredom and his aching desire to get out of the slagging car shop and back to freedom. Open roads. Highways. If a mechanoid could dream, surely Barricade would entertain images of a long, straight road with nobody else on it while he slept. He deduced that getting back to those freeways and avenues was his only motivation to comply with the mechanics demands. Perfectly logical. But it was still undignified.

The Ford wasn't one to just talk to a lesser creature, but human logic managed to evade him still on a few certain points. One in particular. "Human?"

"My name's Mike," grumbled the greasemonkey from beneath Barricade's undercarriage. He tossed down another sheared bolt, listening to it ping against the cement flooring. "What's up?"

"Why does your twisted fleshy logic dictate that they are called 'parkways' and 'driveways'? One parks in a driveway and drives on a parkway. It's stupid."

The sheer ridiculousness of the question threw Michael entirely off kilter. He started laughing. Leaning his shoulder against the Saleen's tire for support, the mechanic had himself a good long chuckle over what appeared to be an honest question from his 'patient'. Barricade was confused, and a little annoyed. What had been funny about it?

"What?" the Decepticon probed irately. "There was nothing humorous about my query."

Mike was still doubled over, laughing like an idiot. "Naw, man," he managed, slowly recovering. "It just came outta left field, is all." He finally was able to straighten up, and with the back of his hand, he wiped the tears from his eyes. "An' I don't really know. Seems stupid, now that I think about it. The gov'ment for ya."

Barricade verbally rolled his optics. "You blame it on your government. I blame it on your species as a whole."

"Ouch. One for d' alien, zero for d' human."

Despite not having been wholly satisfied with the answer, the Ford Mustang let it go after that. Romano didn't know anyway. "How much longer, do you think?"

"I can probably finish up the motormounts tonight and tomorrow I can yank the engine back forward again," Mike replied, delving his hands back into the tight spaces again to get at another bolt. "And I think the radiator'll come in tomorrow, so I can put that in."

About time. "Don't bother with the engine. My internal healing processes will push it back into place."

"Well, dat's good. One less thing I gotta do."

The mechanic leaned back and glanced at the passenger side of the car. It never ceased to befuddle and amaze him that every day he came into the shop, the massive concaved dent was less dished then it had been the day before. Cars just didn't heal themselves.

This one did.

His coworkers just assumed that he was hammering it out himself after work every night. Romano skirted questions as often as he could, especially regarding the weird marks in the cement floor that had shown up one day. Mike wrote it off as an equipment fuck up and left it at that. He knew his employees were wondering about it, but he refused to act any differently than he had before the cop car had nearly creamed another New Yorker in the early morning mist some four days ago. Every day, he was still just Mike Romano, automobile mechanic, and their boss.

The New York native had been thinking over his conversation with the alien life form, and it had quickly dawned on him that telling people that he had the mechanical version of E.T. sitting in his car shop would probably be the quickest way to land in a mental ward. Barricade did not want to be discovered, and Michael didn't exactly want to get locked up in an asylum. It just made sense to let this one slide, to let it go unsaid, and get on with his life.

"'Ey, 'Cade?"

It would always be weird having a voice coming from beneath him. "What?"

Mike didn't stop working as he asked in a whimsical tone, "What're the odds of you, yannow, ever comin' back to N'York after y' leave?"

"Why is it that you ask?" Barricade returned suspiciously. The question had caught him offguard.

Romano shrugged. "I dunno. Might be kinda neat to see ya again here in a few months or years just to see how you're getting' along. I mean, if ya ever need an oil change or transmission flush, ya know where t' find me."

Barricade went silent. The fleshbag was showing him kindness, even after the countless rude comments and threats he'd issued. He was not used to his behavior. The Saleen had relentlessly researched and studied human psychology as a point of interest given his preferred profession, so he would have thought the mechanic might have become resentful and afraid after his outburst. The fear had been present, but only until Michael apologized and Barricade accepted. After that, the bonebag had relaxed phenomenally and had returned to a state of near-normalcy. Credit was due yet again: apparently, the New Yorker wasn't afraid of much, and had nerves of steel to boot.

The Ford's response was tentative. "Perhaps. I will consider it."

That was good enough for Mike. Taking a second look at everything, he tallied up and mentally organized what he had done and what still needed tending to. Two more bolts to go and he'd be done with that, and presumably Barricade's body would take care of the engine position. Really, the motor hadn't moved that much, maybe an inch or so, but it was just enough to destroy the mounts upon which it sat. The bent pieces would heal and shift the eight-cylinder engine back into place, according to what the alien told him.

That was strange: Barricade's image had shifted within the human's mind. Romano dug a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it. The sleek Ford Mustang Saleen had gone from some sort of human-built talking car -- artificial intelligence -- to being an alien. Mike stopped thinking of him as a car and started to mentally refer to him as an alien. A living, breathing, thinking being with an obvious conscious sense of self, capable of rational thought and logic. There was and would always be something undeniably frightening about dealing with a creature that was obviously far more advanced in technology than the humans were. Mike just shook his head and constantly reminded himself that Barricade was a person, a he, not an it, not a thing, and he had feelings and thoughts and dreams all of his own. Romano, out of psychological self defense to this onslaught of newness, associated him with being almost human.

It kept him from being completely terrified out of his mind.

Both of the mounts were done. The New York native wiped the sweat off of his brow and sighed. Finally. Ducking, Romano lurked out from underneath the car hoist and with a push of a button, the Ford found himself being eased back to the ground. Relief swept over him like a breeze as soon as he felt the dense rubber of his tires touch the smooth, cool concrete. His passenger side chose to ding out another small area of the dent just then, crackling slowly, ending with a loud 'pop' accompanied by a grunt from the Saleen. Mike winced a little.

"Idn't that painful?" he asked of the police cruiser.

"Compared to other agonies I've experienced in the past, no, not really." Barricade thought about it some, and then elaborated without having to be asked. "It would be like you getting a bruise and someone poking it. More inconvenient than anything."

The human was satisfied with his answer. The police interceptor watched the man as Michael began to clean up the place a bit, probably in preparation for departure for the night. Barricade groaned at the thought of another mind numbingly boring night alone. He hadn't entirely meant for the sound to be auditory, so it surprised him when Romano turned around to look at him curiously.

The human asked, "You a'ight?"

To which the mechanoid replied with, "Yes."

"Forgive me," Mike said dubiously. "If I don' entirely believe ya."

Barricade heaved air out of his grill and growled. No, he was not okay. When it came down to it, despite how much he covered it up, he was angry, sore, bored, irritated, and in constant pain. Add on the fact that he was being continuously subjected to these little human indecencies to rub salt into his already open and festering wounds.

The truth started coming. "No, I am not 'all right'," he snarled, voice strained with the stress of recent happenings. "I have not been, and won't be. This is a sick and twisted situation that is nothing less than demeaning, and I hate it. My leader is gone, my purpose is no longer existent, and my cause has disintegrated in all the time that it takes for you to take a slagging shower. Past achievements? Hah! For nothing. My life is completely without purpose or merit and so I wander heedless and unaccompanied, trapped on this shit eating dust ball as the last of my kind on the face of the planet, being hunted and followed by others who want me dead. No, Michael James Romano, I am not all right!"

Barricade stopped himself and shuddered, visibly hunkering down on his tires. There was no point in trying to explain himself to this human; he, in all likelihood, knew absolutely nothing about what he was talking about and the look on Romano's face proved it. Mike was surprised, shocked even, at the amount of emotion he'd just seen coming from the otherwise stoic and cold Ford Mustang. Apparently the car had far bigger problems then just his physical need for repair. A million questions flew to the forefront of the mechanic's mind, but Mike instinctually refused to ask them, as he had a feeling that somehow, in this situation, the less he knew about Barricade, the better. It was still hard, though, to see a being that he associated with being human to suffer as the vehicle was.

Just don' ask.

Michael turned his hat around, brim backwards, while he thought about it. Slowly, he levered himself down to the ground, sitting cross-legged near the Saleen Mustangs driver side fender. It was sort of like getting down to where he perceived Barricade's level was, rather than looming overtop of him.

"Us dumb fleshbags, we got a sayin', see," the dark-haired man said softly, leaning his shoulder against the slick black metal. "It goes like 'dis: 'This too shall pass'. An' it will. I've learned that when ya hit rock bottom, man, the only place left to go…is up."

Barricade was silent. Human reason was skewed and distorted; it confused him and oftentimes made little true sense to his mechanical brain. But that statement had been so wonderfully simple that it had taken the Ford several seconds just to process the straightforwardness of it. This too shall pass. The Decepticon had never heard of such a thing, and yet the logic behind it seemed glaringly obvious. Such optimistic views were not common among the Decepticon ranks, and yet, the shock trooper found himself mulling over the phrase, turning it over in his mind, reading it again and again. It was so uncomplicated. It made sense. And it was true. Once you cannot go lower, you can only go up.

Barricade knew that he couldn't get much lower without being dead.

The silence encompassing the pair was almost deafening, but in a non-threatening sort of manner. Michael remained where he was, leaning his miniscule weight against the cold ebony fender, offering silent support as the black and white cruiser thought it over. Fifteen minutes of quiet slid by, and finally the mechanic stood up, placing the palm of his hand on the slowly reforming hood to steady himself.

"I hope that made sense to your super-smart brain," Mike chuckled, patting the expanse of black metal beneath his hand. "But I'm gonna turn in. See you in the mornin'."

Barricade made a disgruntled noise.

Romano paused. "What?"

"You obviously have no idea how astoundingly boring it is to sit here all night staring at a brick wall."

"You try counting bricks?"

"I counted them all. And then double checked. And then I did the math and determined approximately how many bricks are in this entire building, and double checked that."

Micheal looked impressed. "Yeah? How many?"

"Approximately twenty-thousand, two hundred, forty-eight bricks," replied the slick Mustang matter-of-factly. "Give or take a hundred or so. Point is, I get bored witless down here, so try and get me back on the road as fast as possible. I'm losing memory space by the gigabyte."

The New Yorker frowned and looked around. There wasn't even a television he could turn on for the guy. He didn't bother bringing up and turning on the radio, given that Barricade had a good sound system and satellite radio as it was; he probably wasn't interested in listening to music all night long. What else was there?

Romano got an idea. "Hey, I'll be right back."

Puzzled, the Decepticon watched as the greasemonkey took off and jogged out of the shop. Bizarre creatures, he thought. He turned inward once more, lighting up his computer console to surf the Internet. Navigating the humans information highway was hard on account of the sheer volume of raw information to be sifted through and processed. When Barricade had nothing specific he was looking for, he found the Internet to be confusing and difficult to use. Frenzy had caught on quickly to the patterns and ways, but such intricate details had always managed to escape the Ford's –

He snarled, managing to get a weak rev out of his partially disassembled engine. Frenzy was dead. Stop thinking about him.

Utter unbridled habit was terribly hard to break. Barricade had worked with the hyperactive little mech for years even before they had been sent as a team to Earth, so when he'd been partnered with Frenzy via Starscream aboard the Nemesis, it hadn't been that complex to adjust to Frenzy's constant presence. Not every mechanoid in existence had the ability to completely support the life of a smaller robot, though, so the problem that Barricade encountered after his partner's death was his and his alone to suffer. There were certain programs and systems that existed within his body that were meant only to maintain the life of a smaller Cybertronian. He even had his own special compartment inside his chest in which Frenzy had gone during his erratic stasis cycles. The data uplink that his partner had connected to in order to receive energy and information felt empty and neglected, and even so many weeks later, it subconsciously searched for Frenzy despite Barricade's knowing he was dead.

He hated it. He wanted nothing more than to find that slagging uplink port and rip it out.

It's constant yearning for the partner it no longer had made him feel more alone than he wanted to admit.

Romano chose that moment to burst back into the room, sporting a look that gave the Decepticon the impression that he'd just cured cancer in his spare time. "I got an idea for ya," the mechanic said, plopping himself back down near the fender he'd sat by before. "I call it 'How Fast Can Barricade Find It'."

"Uh huh," rumbled the mechanoid doubtfully, eyeing the paperback book Mike held in his hands. "And what's that?"

Mike grinned like a Cheshire cat. "You said you have fast Internet, so I got a challenge for you. I say somethin', and you find it on the 'Net as fast as ya can 'n tell me about it. Like, if I said somethin' like 'Abe Lincoln', you just gimme a bit of info on him."

A game. This human wanted to play a game with him. As if he had anything else to do. "Fine."

"A'wright, first one: Mike Mussina."

Now he had a target. Barricade sat in silence for only a meager few seconds before he had his results.

"Michael Cole Mussina, born in 1968 in Williamsport, Pennsylvania. Six feet, two inches tall, weighing one hundred sixty pounds. Pitcher for the New York Yankees. Bats left handed, pitches right handed," Barricade rattled off without hesitation.

Romano blinked. "That was fast. Okay, next one's harder." He took a second to think of something more obscure. "Queen Elizabeth."

A click, a whirr, and then: "Queen Elizabeth the first; born September seventh, 1533, died March twenty-fourth, 1603. Also known as 'The Virgin Queen', and the 'Good Queen Bess' – though no one really knows if she was actually a virgin or not."

Dis guy's good. Michael Romano smirked as he got another idea, and leaned forward, sure this one would stump the sentient vehicle. "Bubba Dean."

Barricade thought. The Internet held nothing in particular so he switched over within a second to his access to police databases and started there. Four seconds later, he replied adequately with, "Robert 'Bubba' Jonathan Dean, born July fourteenth, 1971 in Biloxi, Mississippi. He lives in a swamp, has a police record for car theft when he was sixteen years old, four kids, and an estranged wife who he has a restraining order against on account of the fact that she tries to kill him." The mechanic could hear Barricade's smirk. "I could continue."

Mike was floored. Nobody knew that but him and a few select friends. Nobody. "Cheese whiz, son," he laughed incredulously, ruffling his hair and getting it out of his face. "Yeah, that'd be Bubba."

"Interesting choice in friends you have," Barricade remarked sarcastically.

"'Ey, who said the guy was my friend?"

The police interceptor flickered his headlights. "Police have records stating you were arrested on the same night as the Bubba fleshbag, in the same city, with the same charge. Call it machine's intuition."

Romano elbowed the fender he was sitting against good naturedly. "Allright, fine, you caught me. Next one…"

As the game continued well into the early morning, the Decepticon remained fairly deep within his musings. His mind was capable of multitasking on a level unheard of by human beings – all at once, he was listening to the target words, searching them, then giving the information he found while doing self-diagnostic checks, a system defragmentation, system bug checks, and antiviral work. Michael Romano was being kind to him. Why? What motivation could the fleshwad possibly have to stay up all night playing Internet trivia games with a cold, harsh, and mean mechanical extraterrestrial? Worse yet, why was he, Barricade, enjoying such company?

But he didn't complain. The Ford Mustang Saleen came up with the answers to the trivia key words almost instantaneously every time, going over a cornucopia of subjects varying from banana trees to Babe Ruth to different types of mold. As a sort of final hurrah, Barricade ensured to look at Wikipedia first for his answers. It had been Frenzy's favorite website for useless Earth knowledge.

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