Chapter VII

Of Mice and Men

By: Landray Depth Charge (aka Feesh)

"And, there. Full up, man."

Four days. Barricade had spent four slagging days holed up in the same garage, staring at the same stinking brick wall, and finally he was starting to see some real progress. The bowed in dent in his passenger side was getting better every day, though he knew it would take another week to completely repair itself along with the impact damage done to his front end. Barricade's engine block was still slightly off center and therefore uncomfortable, but that sort of thing would straighten out with time.

What his body couldn't repair with any efficiency was his radiator; the piece of equipment had been crumpled entirely upon impact with the pole, or tree, or – no, it had been a pole after all. The Saleen winced internally. Falling asleep while driving was even more dangerous when the driver was also the car.

But now, some four sunrises later, several of his internal components had been tinkered with and put back, hoses replaced where Mike saw wear and tear, motormounts fixed, steering and brake fluid replenished. Barricade had remained quietly impatient, irritated at all of these little things being done when all he really needed was a radiator. It wasn't until he'd woken up from recharge on Thursday morning, the fourth day, and realized how much better he felt with all of the routine maintenance Romano had been doing. Something as simple as a transmission flush had relieved a certain pressure inside his engine that the Ford Mustang hadn't been able to discern himself, not that it had presented a problem and therefore had not required his immediate attention.

Michael stepped back, tossing the now empty antifreeze container into the trash, grinning like a Cheshire cat. "So?" he goaded, turning his hat backwards. "How's it feel?"

"Satisfactory," Barricade rumbled in return, systems scanning the new radiator that the mechanic had just finished installing and filling up. It was the right size, it was mounted correctly, the fluid was the accurate type and of good quality… "It is good."

"Told you it would be."

"It took you long enough."

"Hey, I can't control what da warehouse does, amigo."

The Ford Mustang Saleen took a very brief second to peruse over his knowledge of the Spanish language to determine the meaning of the word. He was idly surprised to find that it meant 'friend'. The human that not two days before he had threatened with a very painful death was now referring to him as a companion in their sense, or a comrade in Barricade's terms. Strange, forgetful beasts.

The S281 police cruiser was jolted out of his musings by Romano's voice again. "Start 'er up 'n see how she feels."

Barricade grunted. "She? You compare my engine to one of your females?"

"N-no, not exactly, man," the mechanic laughed nervously, itching at the back of his head with a gloved hand. "It's juss' somethin' we do sometimes. Engines, cars, boats, planes. I, uh, yannow, didn't mean nothin' by it as obviously you're as masculatin' as it gets --"

"Stop there, meatwad," the Ford rumbled, chomping his hood down with a bang. "Nervous fidgeting does not flatter you and comparing me to any gender when I do not have one is pointless."

Smirking internally at the insects befuddled look at his last statement, Barricade engaged his motor before Mike could properly respond. Without hesitation the throaty growl of a well-oiled and well-working V8 engine sounded within the confines of the garage, five hundred fifty horses trapped beneath a jet-black hood itching to run. It felt so good; gasoline flowing towards and into his fuel injectors, then to the inside of the cylinders where each of the eight sparkplugs independently sent a spark of light towards the mist of gasoline. An explosion; the piston inside the affected cylinder in turn jerked downwards away from the pressure, forcing the crankshaft to send the opposing piston up in order to repeat the process. Barricade's engine purred gravelly with life, and truthfully, so did he.

Mike smirked and whistled out a catcall. "Goddamned if that don't sound sweet, dude. Hows'it?"

A slow, tentative rev later, the supercharged muscle car replied, his voice full of malignant mirth, "Feels new."

Freedom. Open roads, a full gastank, and nothing but high speeds awaited him just beyond the closed garage door behind him. Freedom. Liberty. The ability to do and go wherever he wished to, as fast as he wanted, with no one to tell him otherwise.

Alone, a voice groused at the back of Barricade's mind. He growled softly, the sound devoured by the steady throttle of his motor. He needn't remind himself just how utterly and completely by himself he truly was. Frenzy was gone; the other Decepticons stone cold dead and rusting at the bottom of the ocean; the Autobots would surely be hunting for him, aiming to rid this wet, dirty planet of the last remaining enemy threat. Now all the Ford had to do was survive. Drive. Travel. Stay on the move. Stay alive.

Alone.

"Open the garage."

Michael blinked. "What? Yer leavin' already? But I --"

"Just open the door," Barricade growled low. "I have been stuck here for long enough and I want out. I appreciate what you have done and I do hope that you still understand that my statements earlier regarding the secrecy of my existence are still and will always be in effect." Gears shifted and white reverse lights blinked on. "It was a mindnumbingly pleasant few days, Michael Romano, and I bid you a good evening and a good life."

The New York native yelped and scrambled for the garage release button as the Saleen Mustang backed up and threatened to simply run through it. The barrier slung up along its tracks in the ceiling with a clatter, but the sound was lost on Michael. He only watched as the dented and dinged police cruiser backed out of the shop, paused for a second as a car screamed by, only to merge tail-first into traffic and disappear down the road after straightening out. That was..that was abrupt.

The spot in the garage, now empty, seemed strange to the New York greasemonkey. His left hand dropped to his side, the other reaching up to scratch the back of his head as he stared out at the road, watching a car or two zoom past. Just like that, it was over; the alien car was gone and would probably never return, questions would go unanswered, and as much as Romano wouldn't say it aloud, he would miss that Ford's snarky, dry sense of humor. Letting his right hand collapse to his hip, Mike tossed the ratchet he'd been holding onto the workbench and started to clean up. Tools were put back in their proper places, antifreeze wiped from the counter, garbage thrown away. He couldn't help but stop on his way to fill a mop bucket with cleaner, looking down and the claw marks in the cement floor. The question still plagued Romano's mind: What was that? What was he?

Michael Romano would never resolve his queries, it seemed.

In silence, the mechanic quickly mopped where Barricade had been sitting since Monday, did away with the dirty water, and walked home.

The streets, even at night, were still fairly busy, even if the traffic was nowhere near as bad as during the daylight hours. New York City was one of those big towns that just never really slept; once the day workers went home, the night crews emerged to do their janitorial work and underground trades, questionable in content, of course. Michael hooked his thumbs into his pockets and took a hunched posture, staring at the ground as he passed what he damn well knew was a group of drug dealers who watched him as he walked by. Wisely, he never even glanced in their direction, wholly uninterested in getting himself killed. The sounds of the great city filled the mechanics ears with the life and resonance of home, things such as horns and car alarms and hollered swear words that were as normal to him as oranges were in Florida.

It was late by the time Mike arrived home, but even then he knew there would be no sleep for him that night. Barricade's sudden departure bothered him on a level that it shouldn't have; he had begun to think of the pissant police cruiser as a friend, someone who was fun to talk to and banter with even if Barricade never called him by name. Only by words like "carbonmonkey", or "fleshbag", or even Mike's favorite, "meatwad". Now all Romano had to remember him by was the snarled remains of the souped up Mustang's ram guard, which he had left behind for whatever cryptic reason. Guess he didn't need it, thought the New York native as he put on a clean t-shirt after getting out of the shower. Ain't gonna be sleepin' tonight anyway, might as well walk around.

So he left.

It was already eleven at night when the mechanic hiked out of his apartment, his Honda left where it was parked. Like a ghost he drifted, taking routes and alleyways long imprinted in his mind from years of walking and driving those same pothole-plagued roads. Mike passed shops and restaurants, stopped into a convenience store for a bottle of water around midnight, and dejectedly turned back for home. Why did it bother him so much that Barricade had, in essence, eaten and run? The realization smacked Romano in the face as he stared down at the dirty, gum-ridden pavement: he felt used. He'd spent money out of his own pocket to fix that damned Saleen, and he barely even got a 'thank you' in return before the guy had practically said 'fuck you' and run.

"'Ey, dude."

Mike jerked his head up but didn't stop walking. There was someone following him. "Buzz off, pal. I ain't got no change."

The man, clad in dark clothing continued on undaunted. "Ain't lookin' for change." Michael Romano's hackles raised at the sound of a weapon loading. "Get int' da alleyway."

The mechanic stopped and hunched his shoulders, gritting his teeth hard enough to feel them grind together. Mike's fists balled up in his pockets but he stepped into the alley without resistance, mentally going over how much cash he had on him.

"Turn around," the voice growled.

Romano did. "I said buzz off, bub."

The mugger kept both hands steady on his gun. "Gimme everything you got."

"An' what if I ain't got anythin'? I'm just out for a walk, man, didn't even bring my wallet."

"Ya lyin'," the man snarled dangerously. "Give me ya wallet or I swear I'mma pump you so full a-lead you'll never be able t' float again."

Michael stood firm, glaring, his hands in plain sight. "I think ya oughtta go find someone else to mug. I ain't got shit for you, and you can suck my dick while you're at it and go fuck ya'self with ya little goddamned play gun, eh? Scram!"

He never heard the shot; all Romano felt was something slamming into his shoulder with enough force to send him reeling back against the brick wall behind him. His attacker was making like an Olympic sprinter out of the alley for some reason…

Oh my God 'n all that's holy.

He shot me.

The realization hit him as hard as the bullet had. Eyes wide, Mike looked down at his right shoulder and his breathing hitched when he saw red staining his otherwise fairly clean white shirt. Then it began to hurt. Impulsively, the mechanic bit back a groan and grabbed the wound, trying unsuccessfully at stemming the flow as he slid down the wall into a sitting position. Oh god I'mma die. The second time this week, I'mma die. Sharp stabs of wicked hot pain shot through Romano's mind and body with every ragged breath drawn in. Sirens wailed off in the distance, but the New Yorker knew they were not coming for him. Gunshots, cries for help, cries of rape and fire were so common in the darkness of the city that no one would react. Knowing this, Mike tried anyway.

He sounded weak even to himself.

Unconsciousness flowed closer, its black tendrils gently brushing at his mind to calm some of the pain. I can't die like this. It didn't seem right, it didn't seem fair! He hadn't done anything to deserve a death like this unless saving the life of some unknown alien Ford was considered taboo among Christ's higher-ups. Warmth soaked his shirt, but by then Romano was hardly even aware of it. Slowly, his grip loosened and his bloodstained hand fell into his lap as the alley blurred. I'mma be another homicide. Another case they neva' solve. Oh, god, somebody help me.

The sharp rev of a high-powered engine jerked Mike back into a state of near complete consciousness. His eyes, at first, refused to make out what exactly had made the noise; just a blob of colors that all washed together in a neutral black and white scene. Another snarl, exhaust rattling with authority, and with several irritated blinks of his eyelids the colors finally formed a coherent picture. Slick black metal touched white as the streetlights played and danced across the shining, dented hull, the word 'police' stretched out in reflective letters across the driver's side door. The car had a long prow and a short aft, nose lowered as if ready to rocket down the street in a moment's notice.

Barricade swung his door open. "Get in, fleshwad."

Michael spluttered softly, unable to form the question he wanted to ask.

"Michael," the modified Saleen growled, urging. "Michael."

The pain was incredible. Gasping, the mechanic jerked to his hands and knees, left arm curled against his chest. God, please gimme strength and fortitude, just help me get into that car. Tha's all I'm askin'. Just help me get into th' car 'n he'll help me do th' rest. It was only feet away, the black leather interior, but it seemed lightyears in the distance to the wounded human being. Gritting his teeth, the New York native lurched forward and grabbed the gray steering wheel, smearing red all over 6 'o' clock. Moaning despite his best efforts, Romano hauled his upper body onto the cool material of the driver's seat, pushing up with his legs so that he sat with a dull 'pluff' on the black leather. It hurt. Michael's head was swimming, his world spinning around as he listened to the thud of the door slamming shut and the roar of the engine he'd just fixed three hours before. Blood soaked through his shirt, sullying the cold black seat as it reclined, laying him back as a seatbelt came out of nowhere to click into place across his chest and lap.

Barricade was talking to him – no, he was trying to get him to talk back. It all seemed so very surreal to the New York native; this happened to people every day and yet he never thought it would happen to him. Romano opened his mouth and tried to answer, but no sound came out. Was it odd that the bastard Saleen, normally so very rude and witty, sounded concerned?

Michael didn't know.

And as the world closed in around him, he didn't care.