Chapter XVII

Safehaven

By, The Feesh

Most people learn to listen to their gut instinct when it told them to do something urgent. All day long, Michael had been unable to shake the feeling that he should have stayed in bed that morning.

"Barricade?!"

The grease monkey jumped backwards as the black and white mechanoid lurched forward, stumbling on all fours, seemingly unable to stay upright. Mike would be the first to admit that he knew absolutely nothing about the razor sharp mosaic that was Barricade's body, but even he could tell that something was horribly wrong. Fluids gushed in almost rhythmic beats from between terrible jaws, timed as if to the steady thrum of music that nobody could hear. Gaping, burning wounds laid open across his form, making the human's nose wrinkle against the caustic, bitter ozone scent of sizzling circuitry and melting plastic. It was a scene taken out of a Stephen King novel, and yet, Romano couldn't force himself to run the other way.

The sudden snap of cold brought him out of his state of shock. "What the fu- man! Get in here! What happened?"

Barricade didn't respond. All too eagerly, even in his mind, he dropped down to his elbows and crawled, feeling more than seeing the cold cement floor replace the stark ice beneath his hands and belly. He wasted no energy in moving about once he was inside; instead, he threw himself down on his side, a heaped, wounded beast without shelter aside from where he was right now. Vaguely, he was aware that the insect was babbling, trying to get him to talk, but it all seemed so very far away that it didn't matter. It was like Michael was speaking to him from underwater.

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit! the New Yorker thought as his rather unusual friend remained unresponsive. Quickly, he lowered the garage door to keep prying eyes from peering inward and, of course, to try and keep the heat in. Perhaps it would help Barricade stay awake, although with injuries like that, what little Mike knew about human physiology stated he probably wouldn't. Still, the damned fuzz car was hardly human. But there was damage on that alien body that Romano recognized and could possibly…

He was moving based on guesses about Barricade's anatomy. Mike dragged up a stool, picked up the tools he thought he'd need and scooted back over to the downed and certainly less-than-conscious alien. Without so much thought (although he was smart enough to think to put on leather gloves in the case that some or all of Barricade's fluids were corrosive), he set to work, mopping up blood with shop rags first so that he could see a bit more clearly. At least, he figured it was blood. Maybe. He couldn't fathom why he felt so compelled, why his hands moved as if on their own to search out pipes and tubes that had been torn and were bleeding. Why did he need to dip his digits into the gaping, red-hot injuries and risk, surely, limb removal if the Saleen jerked the wrong way? Why was it not an option that he use pliers and twist the bleeders shut, simply because it was the least he could do?

It was a weird revelation to think of Barricade as a true and honest friend. He saved my life. Maybe I c'n save his stupid ass from whatever's after 'im.

As he worked, Romano had a thought and picked up his cell phone, dialing his right-hand man and holding the phone against his shoulder. "Bugsy. Yeah, man, I know. Listen: call th' guys an' tell them to not come to the shop tomorrow, prolly the day after. The garage's goddamn breakers fried an' I gotta have the electric company come out. D'ey're closed now, but I'll call 'em first thing. A'ight? Thanks, man."

Barricade didn't care for the sensation of someone touching him. He roused, just barely enough to let a growl rumble through his intimidating frame when Michael went back to closing up bleeders in an open chasm in his side. The mechanic grumbled and ignored the sound, to his credit, despite his heart and aspiration rate speeding up in direct response. He was starting to sweat out of nervousness, too.

The greasemonkey stepped back, eyes hunting for more injuries on the alien's front, none of which presented themselves. So why was the pinkish fluid still spreading in an ominous puddle underneath the downed form? Brow furrowing, he cursed the fact that Barricade had chosen to collapse with his back nearly flush against the wall, with not near enough room for Mike to squeeze his lean body in and stand, much less to hunch and work. Still, he had to at least see, so he leaned forward and spat out a curse. 'Course. A'COURSE d' worst of it all is where I can't get at it.

Something had hit Barricade hard from behind. Michael Romano grimaced a bit at the proximity of the alien's body, so unlike his own, and leaned forward a bit more, resting bloodied gloved hands on black armor. It was like tempting fate, leering over this brutal being's shoulder like this, but he had to somehow close those tubes…

"Hey. 'Ey, 'Cade. If you can hear me, I'mma…well I gotta get to that big hurt on yer back, yannow?"

Barricade didn't respond.

"Okay? So… dun.. Like.. Eat me or nothin'."

The next move would be risky, and Mike wasn't even sure if he should even pursue this fool's fancy. What if he was doing more harm than good? He didn't know and without the interceptor conscious enough to ask, he wouldn't know.

Still, the New York native leaned further onto the form until his hip was resting against the monster's gigantic side, and jumped, just slightly, sitting with his back to the wall on Barricade's ribcage, directly behind his arm. For a moment, Romano sat transfixed, studying the great, convoluted joint that made up his odd friend's shoulder, visible only under the arm where it was most vulnerable. Vulnerable. Just like us. Only made a' metal and harder. The robots clearly had weaknesses that were, to some extent, similar to that in humans. Joints, unarmored points, and particularly the throat, Mike realized as his eyes roved in morbid fascination; Barricade's throat was nearly completely unprotected. He could even see a tube leading from what appeared to be the back of that terrible maw down into the chest. Food tube?

Shoving his personal thoughts to the side, the greasemonkey leaned down again with his pliers, taking them to the gigantic wound in Barricade's shoulder blade. This warranted an immediate movement, a twitch and a rumble that for the Saleen surely was a halfhearted gesture, but for his human companion seemed like an earthquake. Biting back a surprised yelp, Romano hung on and waited until Barricade was still again before going back to work, growling a curse when his shirt got caught up on the sharp edges of the Mustangs exterior. Be it from nervousness or heat, he was sweating anyway. It wasn't so much of a loss when Mike took off his shirt and discarded it to the side without thought, reaching over the expanse of scorched, jagged metal to twist pipelines and tubes closed. He wasn't altogether sure what had hit the behemoth, but it was big and it hit him hard.

Michael didn't stop working until Barricade wasn't bleeding anymore. For a moment after twisting the last bleeder shut, he leaned there and paid intimate attention to everything around him. He was all too aware of how warm the cold metal felt under his skin, and how the aliens body pulsed with life that was as detectable as his own heart beat. Barricade didn't breathe, or so it seemed, but he took in and removed air through vent systems that Romano couldn't help but trace with his eyes, noting that air went in through vents in his collar area and back, and came out underneath his chest. It sounded slightly rhythmic, like some beast breathing down his neck. He was oh, so aware of how big Barricade was…

A tiny clink got the mechanic's attention. Looking down, he watched as his necklace dangled off of his neck and bounced against the plating of the alien's skin. The white and silver of the cross showed with sharp relief against the deep, dark pool of black that Barricade was covered in, and Romano thought with no certain amount of distraction that if he looked at the interceptor's skin close enough, it shimmered almost like glitter. He was never very religious, despite his familial background, but he always wore it, this bit of metal on a leather cord. He'd gotten it from his brother, not that he'd wanted it -- but when a police officer hands you a Catholic cross that he pulled from your dead older brother's neck as the cars burned in the background, you tend to keep it, and cherish it. At least, most would.

He sighed and slid carefully off of the unconscious black form. He didn't have much else to do but wait, and it wasn't like he could just … leave the poor guy there. The New Yorker had bought himself a little time, and thank God he didn't have any overnight projects whose owners would be coming to pick up in the morning. The garage was closed for business for a few days, it seemed. Not that Mike could afford it, but he would figure it out. He always did.

Romano was damn tired, though. Glancing up at the heat-coils in the ceiling, he shrugged the gloves off and discarded them, pondering. What the hell was he doing? He had a sixteen foot alien in his garage. What if Barricade died? What th' fuck will I do wit' him? Ain't like I can get the poor guy towed to a scrap yard. But it ain't like I can get caught witta dead alien in my car garage, neither. Boy, what a damned right pickle he'd gotten himself into.

He wondered if Barricade had thought the same things when he'd gotten shot. Absently, Mike tossed a look at the scar on his shoulder and grumbled something profane under his breath, grabbing for his shirt. The sweat was starting to dry and it was making him cold. After a moment he found his jacket, too, and put that back on, sitting back down and staring at the black behemoth who was lying on is garage floor. To be honest, Romano wasn't even sure what time it was, only that it was after dark and he had been working on his damned Honda before his world screeched to such an utter halt.

The thing was dead anyway, he figured. But the grease monkey had a terrific desire to solve puzzles, and hated it when he couldn't at least figure out why a vehicle wouldn't cooperate. The Civic just puzzled him, and frustrated him. Mike sighed and resigned himself to dipping into savings enough to buy some other piece of crap to fix up and make run better. Hell, he'd nearly completely rebuilt the Honda from scratch.

Or maybe I'll just walk. Dun exactly need a car in this damn slum.

Mike Romano sat in the stillness of his garage, listening and looking. When empty, the building itself had a certain sound, a feel to it in the depths of the night when everyone around had gone to bed or were at the local bars instead of home. It was a buzzing, humming life that reverberated through the cold concrete, traveling up the metal riggings of the six car hoists present, seeping into the tools and the benches and desks. Now that Barricade was around, it sounded different, more tangible, because it was right there. Like the shop itself, the jagged metal creature thrummed and pulsed and breathed, fans whirring somewhere in his body to expel heat. Michael leaned forward, and then sat down directly in front of his guest, listening to the mechanical sound of life emanating from somewhere within Barricade's chest. There was something in there that almost sounded, if he perverted his thoughts, like a heartbeat. If d' heart was made of metal, screws and cogs.

He didn't really remember falling asleep, so it was strange to blink and see sunlight coming through the windows when a seeming moment before it was the dead of night. Snow fell slowly, languidly outside, as if comforting the New York City residents that it was safe, that no blizzard was coming to blanket the gritty city in white. Sleepily, the mechanic grumbled. Snow lies.

His body hated him for having slept on the hard concrete floor, evidenced by the crick in his neck and how his back screamed and every movement when he stood up. He glanced at Barricade, still the same as he had been, before stumbling to the waiting room for a cup of coffee. Romano felt his way through preparing the coffee maker, mostly asleep as he dumped the grounds and water into the machine and turned it on, listening to it hiss and grumble its hatred for his very soul. I should get a new one. This thing is evil.

Black Death, as some called it, filled his cup as strong as tar and that was just the way the mechanic liked it. His father had told him that it grew hair on a boy's chest, and as such, he'd been drinking it since he was eleven. He was also a relatively hairy individual, but what could he say? He was a strong-blooded New York Italian. His great-grandfather had come from Venice! It wasn't his fault he practically grew fur. Romano was more of a zombie when he stumbled back into the garage, mug cradled lovingly in his hands, but he woke up awful fast when his eyes flicked over automatically to check on Barricade. He hadn't exactly expected to see nothing but a puddle of pinkish fluid with no body laying on it.

Adrenaline coursed into the New Yorker's system, waking him up with the kind of speed that espresso couldn't even begin to fathom. Barricade was gone. The two-and-a-half-ton metal alien was gone, without a trace, and without a sound. How th' fuck?! Michael thought to himself as he set the mug down and stepped out into the garage. There's no way!

The car lift he was standing next to creaked ominously.

He swallowed, and despite not really wanting to, Romano looked up.

There he was, crouched on all fours, perched on the lift like some terrible, razor-sharp bird of prey. Perhaps more than anything, what worried Michael was the way Barricade was staring at him, like something to be killed, squashed, and devoured like a lamb. If the New Yorker was any judge of sanity in his unusual friend, the alien looked downright off his rocker.

The snarl that rattled out of the Saleen's throat shook the mechanic out of his fear-driven stupor, and he threw his hands into the air pleadingly. "Hey, whoa! Whoa now, man, it's me. Yannow me, right?"

Barricade spat something back, something that Mike recognized as words, but not of his own language. The words sounded like a car that wouldn't start mashed together with gears that ground together. "What? Man, hey, lookit me, it's me, it's Mike! It's Mike! Yannow, greasemonkey? You're in the garage!" The mechanoid tilted his head. "'Member? The garage? Remember me? Ya came here last night, all tore ta shit. Remember?"

He did remember, now that Romano prodded him about it. Barricade growled, more out of irritation than anything, shaking his helm once before sliding down off of the hoist and to the floor. He ached, oh how he ached, but millennia of being mortally wounded more than once and surviving made him indifferent to it. His colleagues on the Nemesis often called him t'kinu -- a cockroach-like creature on a planet known as Pandu. Its blood was made of acid, it had thick armor, large mandibles, and didn't really need its head for anything important. Barricade himself had lost his head more than once, but the backup CPU encased in the compact armor of his left knee ensured he could function without it. Certainly, it was difficult with no eyes, and only minimal sensors, but…

Slowly, the Saleen sank back down to the cold concrete floor, teeth gritted as he rested his chin on one arm. The human present never took his eyes off of him, heart hammering within the bony confines of his muscled chest. It seemed as though the crisis of nearly getting killed was over, at least for now. "What was that all about?"

Barricade seemed about to answer, but he shut his jaws with a click and lifted his head sharply, focus moving somewhere else. He peered at the nearest garage door, metal frame suddenly tense as a guitar string. It can't be … surely they do not know where…

But then again, Bumblebee had to know. He knew about the garage, he knew about Michael, but it still struck him like a missile to the chest when first a black GMC Topkick, and then a brightly painted Peterbilt pulled into the lot and parked. The Saleen's armor bristled, rattling against each other like some snake that felt threatened, and Mike could only watch in confusion as the two trucks parked across four of his garage entrances. A green ambulance took up the fifth, and some sort of bright yellow coupe blocked the sixth. The way Barricade was acting …

Oh shit. It's them.

They're here.

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3 Feeshling