Chapter XI

New York, New York

By: The Feesh

So thin.

Fragile.

Unsuspecting.

They play like sparklings do and even the creators – the maternal and paternal genetic donors – do not so much as look twice in my direction. So I sit, still and silent, unblinking and unmoving as the city throbs and progresses around me without pause.

This city, like so many on this planet and on others beyond, has a pulse all its own. It's alive, it has its own rhythms and beat to which it steps to. The pounding sound of footsteps as the masses cascade down the sidewalks provides an appropriate thrumming backdrop for the fortissimo of clattering noise that otherwise drifts up from the city streets; plates clanging, horns honking, irritated drivers and passengers yelling accented profanities at one another.

This is a city of anger, rage, and violence.

It is a city I could come to enjoy.

In my vast travels in this country, this one the native fleshlings choose to call "America", I have come across other towns such as this, in which the populous prides itself in the hard-nosed and callous pride and roughness that they strive to exhibit. Philadelphia. Pittsburgh. Detroit. Boston. Chicago. Even Miami. I have perused them all but none quite stand up to the sheer viciousness of New York City, even if Detroit, Michigan came close. Then again, there is nothing in Michigan other than car shows, asshole drivers, and bears. Being a police interceptor has no standing on that state's highways.

New York is much the same in regards to respect. Hooded punks wearing chains and carrying weaponry beneath their coverings give me dirty looks as I roll by, equally hating me as much as I hate them, and they know not even what I am. New York City's hatred is unanimous, is anonymous, and does not discriminate.

Specifically concerning their young population. Insect teenagers, pfah, detestable to such a degree that I'd not be bothered if they all spontaneously combusted at once. They lack any and all semblances of discipline – evidently their creators did not beat them enough when they were younger. Once they reach a certain age the younglings rebel against their parents and do as they wish to do, no matter how illegal or how damaging these activities might be to their futures.

But young. But young, they are fresh, bleached, malleable minds waiting to be warped at will. Ready to be molded at their creators and teachers whims, to be prepared for life or destroyed for eternity at the drop of a hat. The child who gets straight perfect scores through school, or the one who loses his mother to a rape-murder at an early age. All it takes is one…little…event… to fuck up a life and unravel a mind into utter, sweet, irreparable chaos.

The sparklings before me are as of yet untouched. They play and scream and run around like the cockroaches they are, playing tag or dodgeball or whatever game it is that involves putting a ball through a hoop on a pole. Basketball, I think. They are sorry shots, the young ones. But they laugh and clamber about the park as I watch, an empty police unit staring in with cold, unfeeling, uncaring eyes made of glass and light. They could all burn alive right before me and I'd not move. None of them are of my concern, and only one is of my interest.

That brown-headed boy, there. Climbing on the colorful set of plastic and iron, twisted into a dome safe for the creatures to play on. Nicholas has cast several glances in my direction as he goes along and continues to do so, even having the nerve to wave for a split second. I am but a lifeless vehicle to the teachers who check to see who the child may have been waving at, and the Romano brat keeps on his way. Eventually he gives it up and forgets about the talking Mustang his father worked on in the garage.

But I watch him. I listen to him. I single out his voice using careful filters and pay attention to every word he says, every noise he makes. I sit, I stare, and I study. For the past three days I have kept careful watch on the boy, sure to keep out of sight or otherwise unobvious until today. I am listening, waiting for the words I don't ever want to hear, waiting for an opportune moment to –

But it has not yet come to such an end. To his credit the child has blabbermouthed smartly, talking to his teachers and friends about the "cool" police car his father worked on. Not once had the secret been uttered.

Mm. So the brat seems to be able to keep to himself. It had better stay that way.

The striped orange ball ricochets off of the rim of the basket and careens my way. Stock still I remain, even as the thing bounces onto my hood with a clatter and collides with the glass windscreen separating my interior from the rest of the world. The ball rolls forlornly to the side and off of my fender, momentum spent. The brown-headed youngling bounds over and grabs it up with a whispered "sorry" and off he flounces once again to join his companions in the park.

Orgh.

I hate sparklings.

I hear a familiar voice and tune to it, turning my scanners away from the boy and down the street. The mechanic is coming to retrieve his spawn. It is time for me to leave. Without much hesitation I wait for traffic to clear before bullying my way back into the eastward flow and disappearing around a corner.

I am certain the crotchdropling will mention my presence to the carbonmonkey. Said carbonmonkey will no doubt become nervous despite himself, as in reality, he does not know who I am or what I am really here for. That frightens him. The unknown factors of my presence unnerve him and so he pushes those thoughts to the back of his mind and ignores them. However, I would put credits down on the bet that those thoughts plague him after the sun has gone down, when the home is quiet and there is nothing but the silence to listen to. That is when the mind speaks loudest.

Psychology. There is a certain advantage for me in having such a thing as a hobby. What better way to torment a victim than to be able to get into their minds with such terrifying accuracy? To be able to tell them what they are thinking, feeling, even wanting and desiring? I know what frightens these fleshbags. I know what's in their puny little heads, and I use it whenever possible.

What I cannot predict with certainty is what one or another may do next under circumstances such as these. I am loathe to the thought of leaving New York City, aside from jaunts into the countryside to rest, for I am unsure as to how long Nicholas and Michael will keep silent. One or the other will slip up eventually. When that day comes, they will most likely be written off as mentally unstable and shunned, requiring no retaliation from myself.

… Yet.

Twilight provides suitable cover in the encroaching darkness, for me, and the automobile behind me. It is a big vehicle, a truck of some sort, and I scan it idly out of curios—

Slag.

SLAG.

If there was one trigger-happy nutjob I never wanted to face on the battlefield, it would be Ironhide. I step on the gas and take off, watching him accelerate in response. My engine is far superior to his when it comes to acceleration and speed, so I leave him in my dust with ease and drift around the crooked country turns with the grace of a street legal racecar.

What were they thinking in sending the gunner to run me down? The Camaro, certainly, that would have made sense, but not this. The Autobot's logic leaves too much to be desired and something just feels wrong about it all. I am missing something. A mistake that like couldn't possibly have been made unintentionally…

Ratchet emerges from a side road and I swerve to avoid him, rocketing past the lumbering Hummer. I lay on the speed and bring up a map of the area, plotting out the fastest route to the nearest highway, be it two lane or more, it doesn't matter. I need open roads. Taking a dirt access road at stupidly high speeds, I tear across a field which dumps out onto a slightly bigger main road on the other side, feeling as though I may rip out my undercarriage. Ironhide and Ratchet are onto me like dogs. Almost there. The main road, Kenson Street, is long and straight, I can put some distance between those abhorrent idiots and myself once I get to –

A Peterbilt pulls across the opening in the fence line and I slide to an ungraceful, dust congested halt. Ironhide and Ratchet behind me, the Autobot leader before, I have nowhere left to run.

So I fight.

Eat flail, bitches.