Chapter VIII

Leather

By: Landray Depth Charge

I'm dead.

Feeling was slowly beginning to return to him. Tingling in the ends of his fingers; the feeling of his heart beating within his chest.

I'mma open my eyes an' be starin' at Jesus. Oh my God, I took his father's name in vain WAY TOO MUCH. Christ, I did it aga – argh!

A soft bed underneath him, and a blanket on top. His wrist hurt, and breathing brought sharp stabs of agony through his arm and chest. Blearily, Romano opened his eyes, wincing at the bright light, but instead of staring at the image of paradise, he was…gazing up at a cold white ceiling. Bare, soulless walls cascaded down in the same pallid shade, ending in pale tile that was as cheery as the rest of the room. There was a large window, shuttered with blinds, to the mechanics left and a chair to his right.

A chair.

Someone was in the chair.

Michael groaned softly and turned his head, brow furrowing as his eyes finally focused on the strange man he'd never seen before sitting in his room. He had sharp, angular features; a strong chin, high cheekbones, an intense gaze set below a firm brow. Perhaps his most defining aspect, though, was this man's short, spiked silver hair, highlighted with white and shaded with startling streaks of black. He sat slouched in the visitor's chair of the hospital room clad in a dark gray trench coat and a pair of blue jeans.

"Who the fuck are you?"

The stranger lifted his head and Mike was taken aback; his eyes were red.

"Seriously. I ain't neva' seen ya before, so scram," the mechanic said nervously, fearing that the visitor had bad intentions. "Ya prolly got th' wrong room 'r somethin'."

"Relax, you moron," the gruff, baritone voice sounded. The man looked amused. "It's me."

Michael Romano peered at the unfamiliar face. "You, as in who?"

"You flashbags astound me with your lack of intelligence." The red-eyed one grinned, if not a little maliciously, and the mechanic thought he was going bananas.

"B-Barricade?"

"Got it in one."

Michael gaped. First, he had an alien car holed up in his garage, and now apparently said alien car could change shape.

"How?"

Barricade, or rather this man who called himself that name, tilted his head. "Hologram." At Michael's utterly clueless look, he sighed and continued. "It's my mobile holomatter projector. The machine is projecting a chosen image from my core processing unit and making it interact with the environment. It's a hologram, it's fake, and I'm outside." The silver-haired man made a lazy motion towards the window with one hand.

Still gaping, Romano tore his floored gaze away from the 'hologram' long enough to look over at the window. The New York native grunted as he swung his legs carefully over the side of the bed and leaned, toes to the floor, for the window, twisting the blinds open. Lo and behold, there was Barricade's actual form, the sleek Saleen Mustang all clothed in black and white, parked in a space outside of his window.

"So weird," he muttered, leaning back against the support in his hospital bed. His chest and shoulder still throbbed. "Ugh, still tryin' ta get my brain ta process that, but…what happened last night, man?"

"You fell victim to a fellow human being. I could not tell you the details behind why, but you were struck by a projectile from a semi-automatic nine millimeter weapon," responded Barricade's hologram, his voice strangely human.

"I got shot."

"Yes," affirmed Barricade.

Mike huffed. "Speak English."

The projection crossed its arms. "I was! And for your information, you were shot three nights ago."

The mechanic snapped his head around to stare at the man in the chair, eyes wide. He was out for that long? What about his shop? His coworkers? Did they wonder where he was? Did the cars in the shop get fixed the next morning like he'd promised their owners?

As if reading his mind, Barricade idly straightened the collar of his trenchcoat and said boredly, "Your garage has been in full operation since then. Daniel Fowler has taken up charge in your absence and has kept the place in shape."

Michael Romano went limp in relief. "Thank God."

"You also owe me an interior detailing, by the way."

"Oh yeah?" Mike asked absentmindedly. "Why's that?"

Barricade scowled at him. "The blood you left all over my interior is starting to smell unpleasant."

"…Oh. Sorry, man."

Barricade was right. Two days later when the hospital finally released the mechanic after extensive watch, Michael stood outside of the white drivers side door and looked in. The windows were down, no doubt Barricade's effort of relieving himself of the stink of the gelatinous smudges of congealed red. The police interceptor let the mechanic know under no uncertain terms that this was quite possibly the most disgusting thing he had smeared all over his seats while sitting around in a parking lot under direct sunlight. Human semen even took second place to dried, caked on blood. Barricade chose not to divulge in that topic.

"—and do you know how hot it got yesterday? It reached eighty degrees. In October. I'm black. I have black leather seats. Do you have any idea what eighty degrees does to blood on black leather--"

This cop can really bitch when 'e wants to. "I get it, man."

"And you are a horrible actor," Barricade rolled on regardless, sitting otherwise completely motionless in the parking space. "I did everything for you. I made up and fabricated police records, arrest records, a new name and social security number – I even hologrammed you a police I.D. badge and you couldn't act just the tiniest bit official. The head nurse wench thought you were psychotic."

It was how Barricade had explained Mike's arriving in the front seat of a police car. And, according to him, the gray-haired hologram was his cousin, Bill, from Pensacola. Romano sighed.

The hospital washroom towel that he'd heisted was draped unceremoniously across the backrest of the leather seat as the Ford Mustang rambled on righteously, and the New York native tiredly got in. He avoided touching the steering wheel, breathed through his mouth, and studiously tuned out Barricade's bitching as the interceptor rolled out of the parking lot and into horrendous New York City traffic.You'd think we was married.

Somewhere between picking up Mike's prescription and him realizing he had no groceries, he thought up a list of the things most efficient at cleaning stains out of leather: white vinegar and linseed oil. Gotta hit up that organic store on 3rd for that. He decided to pick up a few other cleaning materials that he didn't have in the shop and go over the rest of Barricade's cab anyway, since leather needed regular maintenance in order to maintain its quality and plastic dashboards suffered greatly under the hot sun. Keeping them relatively oiled helped to stave off the plastic cracking in the heat. Thinking to do such things without being asked was born of Michael being a car enthusiast; it was just something that he did.

Barricade was kind enough to cart him around for all of an hour. Then his Be-Nice-'o'-Meter ran out and Romano didn't have any quarters, so back to Greasemonkey's they went. Danny and Bugsy both looked up as the supercharged Mustang pulled nose-first into the farthest slot to the left, where it had been sitting since it arrived, surprised to see their boss climb out.

"—Dude! What happ--"

"Ho man! Ya okay?--"

"—And then the bitch with the Camaro came ba—"

"—heard ya got lead-stuffed, and that dumb broad with the Camaro—"

Michael held one hand up to silence the inquisitive assholes. "Whoa whoa, hold up now!"

His employees went quiet. Bugsy was leaning on a mop handle.

Let's get it all over with in a few words. "Yeah, I got shot. I was testin' out th' engine in the fuzz car. Yeah, I'm okay now. And tell the broad with the Camaro that I told her that if she didn't get a muffler put on with the tip the exhaust was going to be loud. She can't sue us for her own stupidity!" Mike sighed. "It'll only cost her another hundred bucks or so for us to fuck wit' the exhaust and put a muffler on it. But I ain't doin' it for free."

Danny and Bugsy seemed satisfied, so they went about their business in cleaning up. The police interceptor sat, ever complacent, in utter silence and Michael shook his head; Barricade's disguise was uncannily convincing. There were times in which he forgot completely that the pig car could talk. The New York native went over paperwork in the office for a few minutes as his employees finished up in the garage, emerging only after Fowler and Malone had clocked out and left for the night. Romano set a cup of his linseed oil and vinegar concoction on the cement floor near the driver's side door and tracked down a clean, lint-free rag. With a wince he sat and picked the rag up, and with a sigh he started rubbing at the bloodstain with his cocktail.

Barricade was intrigued. "I did not think you would do this now."

"Ya complainin'?" the mechanic grumbled, rubbing at his forehead with the back of his hand.

"…No," the Mustang rumbled carefully in return. It was strange how his voice seemed to come from everywhere at once when Michael was sitting in the front seat. "I had thought you would recharge before coming back in the morning."

Mike sat back and let the oil and vinegar mix set. "I may not even show up tomorrow since I can't really do shit, doctor said so. So I figured I'd, yannow, just clean ya up tonight if I can get th' stains out in one go. 'N then ya can take off to wherever you're in such a hurry ta get to."

The sharpness of the fleshbag's voice did not go unnoticed, but the Decepticon chose not to address it. "On the subject: I was on the highway and I conducted several checks and realized that I would need an oil change in eight hundred miles as it were and a transmission flush and refill could not hurt. I think I will …wander the city until you feel up to performing."

"But--" Mike stopped and stared at the steering wheel. "Yer gonna stick around? It could be weeks before I can do much of anything. Ya can…ya can just get it done by one a' the guys, yannow?"

"I do not trust your employees with my internals enough to bother letting their greasy, uncaring hands in my undercarriage," Barricade stated with finality. "Even for something as simple and menial as an oil change. I will wait for you to do it."

That was unexpected. The mechanic continued to work on the stains in silence, stunted due to his right arm being in a sling. So Barricade was staying. "I don't think I can let you stay at the garage, man. That'd raise alotta questions and I gotta have this slot open for business."

"I know that, meatbag, I'm not stupid," came the rumbling growl that vibrated the seats. "I will find my own way. Walmart parking lots work just as well for a living car as a garage, minus the rain protection of course."

That made him feel downright shitty. "Yeah, but ya shouldn't have to sit out in the rain or snow or whatever if it gets cold." He felt like he was making a friend sleep in Central Park in the dead of winter.

The Ford Mustang shifted only slightly on his tires, air-conditioning vents pushing out a whispy, whuffling sigh that blew Romano's bangs out of whack. "Overpasses work well for that and there will never be a shortage of those in New York City."

"Yeah, but—"

"No buts, carbonmonkey. Shut up, go home, sleep, and get better. As quick as possible."

And that was the end of that. The mechanic just grinned to himself at the Saleen's cheek and worked at the stains quite steadily. The smell of vinegar made him dizzy on more than one occasion but two hours and some soap and water later rendered Barricade free of the bloodstains that had been baking on his drivers seat. Throughout the process Michael would have sworn that he'd caught the police car purring once or twice, but he never brought it up, hesitant to incense the sentient vehicle's wrath. With Greasemonkey's taken care of, the stains gone, and nothing else to do for the night, Barricade took the fleshwad home and disappeared into the busy city streets.

Mike's recovery began. For the next two weeks, he didn't go to the garage unless he had to and endured two check-ups. He saw neither hubcap nor headlight of the elusive police interceptor and there were times that he thought Barricade had taken off again and wouldn't come back. Then, on a pre-dawn walk he'd taken due to lack of ability to sleep, the sleek ebony form of the Ford motored past him slowly, looking cherry pretty and even sporting a new ram guard. The dents had healed, the hood smoothed out, and Barricade looked like he'd just rolled off of the Saleen show floor.

Romano watched him go past, clothed in a sweatshirt sweater and jeans in the crisp autumn air.

It then occurred to the New Yorker that he had no way to get a hold of Barricade when he felt up to doing an oil change. No phone number, no address, no reliable place that Mike knew he'd be. Walmarts were like McDonald's, they were everywhere, so checking random parking lots was pointless and there were more overpasses in the city than what he cared to count. He was stuck, and had to wait for an opportunity.

Two weeks later, at the same time, Barricade rolled past again.

"'ey!"

The cruiser stopped, brakes letting off a slight squeak.

Romano jogged over to the black specter. "How ya been?"

"New York City never ceases to amuse me," the interceptor rumbled over the steady thrum of his engine. "But fine. You look better. Still pale, however."

"Dude, come on, I'm a New Yorker. I'm always gonna be mime-white." Romano turned his hat backwards and Barricade wondered if he took that thing off even to sleep. "I think I can get an oil change done. Not sure about the flush, but still."

"It will do. When?"

"Stop by the garage tomorrow night after closing?"

"Done." The engine revved. "See you there, meatstick."

Barricade let off of the brakes and hit the gas, and was gone once again. Son of a bitch can get up and go.

Author's note: First of all, I'd like to ensure to thank anyone who takes a moment to read this series, and another moment to shake the hands of those who are kind enough to leave comments. Reading your reviews both good and bad provide me with a joy and a sense of accomplishment and a wish to continue to please. I would also like to apologize for this chapters lateness. It is the holiday season and I work in retail, full time, so I am oftentimes pulling 40+ hours a week at a job that is physically challenging. I come home most nights and do not feel like doing anything but completing other obligations, taking a hot shower, and going to bed. Bear with me and the slow updates for just a little while longer, and rest assured in knowing that I refuse to leave Collision unfinished. I will be done, you will read the conclusion, regardless of how many chapters that may take. Or how long it may take.

Again, thank you, readers, and don't lose faith in me. I'm still plugging away.

Love, Feesh