Collision XIX

Roadtrips and Banjos

By: The Feesh

Well, this was it. Ding, the bell rang, the horn blew, the flag waved. His life was fucking over and Mike knew it. He crossed the finished line the instant he got into that goddamned pretty alien car, and what was worse? The speed that Barricade flew down southbound I-95 told Romano that they'd not be turning around and going back any time soon. What would Nicky think? He was going to vanish off the face of the planet with seemingly no trace, a rogue, on the run from goddamned Martians while riding shotgun with one of the loony motherfuckers.

He wasn't even paying attention to the white scenery as it flew by. "And then what? Huh? I disappear and what happens to Nicky? What happens to d' shop? What-"

"Michael…"

"-I mean ya can't just take a guy like dis, it leaves tracks, yannow? It-"

"Michael."

"-and then credit card purchases and some shit and all that-"

"Cease your prattling or I will throw you out at ninety-seven miles-per, do you understand me, fleshling?"

"…Yup. Loud'n clear."

Finally, a few minutes of blessed silence. Barricade shook his mental helm in relief that the panicked jabbering of his unfortunate passenger had ceased, even though in his logical mind he knew it was only a short matter of time before it started back up again. He was irritatingly aware of the greasmonkey's vitals; he could feel the steady, rapid hammering of Michael's heart as it beat and caused vibrations in his ribcage as well as a steady ripple across Barricade's radar network. The Saleen was fairly certain that if any more adrenaline got dumped into the human's system, he'd explode, or something equally as messy.

"You cannot go back," the interceptor started slowly, keeping the aggravation out of his vocal tones as much as possible. "because they will find you, and use you to get to me, in whatever way they see fit."

Mike swallowed. "But I thought they wanted ya because ya wanted bad shit fer the planet!"

Thinking that over for a moment, the vehicle responded stoically. "And you think one human life in trade for how many they think I can take will stop them? You have aided me. You are stuck, at least for now, so be patient. In time, surely, you can return, perhaps when they have lost interest in me."

Perhaps he was over exaggerating such a smidge. It was all part of this twisted little game they had become entwined in, wasn't it? In reality, Barricade knew the Autobots might, keyword, might, have bothered the carbonmonkey in regards to his whereabouts but once convinced he didn't know, the interceptor knew they would leave him be. He could not afford to go back to that place, at least not yet, so for now he had an unfortunate organic passenger attempting to hyperventilate in his front seat.

Barricade gave the distinct impression that he was sighing in exasperation. "Fleshling, listen to me. I will be heading West, and at some point over the course of the next few days when I feel I have sufficient distance between my pursuers and myself, I will place you on a bus with a one way ticket back to New York City. You will never see me again, you will never hear from me again. This is sufficient, I trust. Yes?"

"You'll lemme go back?" the New York native queried hopefully.

"That is what I just said, is it not? I have no interest in long-term passengers, or hostages." Not you, anyway.

Mike swallowed. "But I thought ya said it would be a while."

"I could keep you for a while, if you would like" purred the Saleen. "Or, you can relax, enjoy the ride, and receive a free Greyhound ride home from New Mexico. Yes?"

"Y-yeah, yes. Tha's fine. S'fine." Romano cleared his throat and took a moment to try and control his breathing. He was getting dizzy. "You got a horrible voice, you know 'dat?"

"Your lack of ability to think before you speak astounds me."

That earned a chuckle from the human winding down in his seat. Michael leaned back against the remarkably cool black leather, eyes closing in his attempt to relax. He wasn't prone to panicking, normally, but on a bad day the worst thing he had to worry about was a mugger shooting him. That was normal for the rough and tumble of New York City. Riding in the drivers seat of a car that was navigating by itself, on the run from giant robots from Mars … was not normal. That was not within his limits of what he didn't have to panic about.

Tentatively, the mechanic lifted a hand and placed it on the steering wheel, lightly, of course, so that when Barricade needed movement, he would not be impeded or annoyed. The leather wrapped wheel slid smoothly over his palm at every lane change as Barricade dodged through the sparse highway traffic, black liquid form slipping into the triple digits on his speedometer. It was so weird, sitting in the pilot seat and not having to do a thing. Casually, Romano noticed the utter absence of so much as dust marring the interior of the vehicle he was sitting in; there were no stains, no rips, the leather was perfect despite having been covered with blood some time back. Mike hadn't even been able to get it all out, and yet, it was gone. There wasn't an inkling of evidence that Barricade had ever even been sat in before, or spent more than an hour fresh off of the Saleen assembly line.

The human smoothed a hand over the black and silver dashboard, looking over tiny details of the Mustang's interior he had honestly not noticed before, despite his extensive work on Barricade. The short-throw shifter was encased in a black and white leather sheath, and had an 8-ball style handle that, amusingly enough, had the alien's name inscribed on the side. The Saleen drove himself, but there were keys in the ignition and dangling on those keys was a curious-looking silver symbol. The same one that's on his police seal.

"'Ey, 'Cade?"

"My name is Barricade. What?"

"Eh, sorry," Mike scratched his head. "What's this?" He flicked the keychain in question as they tore around an eighteen-wheeler going far too slow.

"It is a keychain," grunted the interceptor.

"Well, I know 'dat. Izzat the symbol of some sports team on yer planet 'r somethin'?"

"Sports team," Barricade repeated, as if in irritation, or wonder. "Ah, no. Not hardly. It is the insignia worn by all members of the Decepticon faction." The laptop tucked under the passenger dashboard opened, showing on the screen a strange symbol that looked more like a face, than a bird-of-prey. "That is the Autobot insignia. Every war has at least two sides."

A light went off in Michael's head. "Oh. And your war was Decepticons versus Autobots, right?"

"That would be correct."

Curiosity killed the cat, but unfortunately, Romano didn't really heed that old saying. "What were ya fightin' for?"

The silence that filled the cab of the car made the grease monkey shift uncomfortably. Perhaps he'd gone too far, in asking an alien why he was at war, but after a moment or two longer Barricade replied in his rough, metallic tones. "We were in it for power, and to repopulate our planet. The Autobots saw it better to send our species into vile extinction than allow us access to the Allspark."

"Allspark?" Mike asked, taking the bait.

"The life-force of our planet. Without it, we cannot reproduce, and so with its destruction, we will perish."

"Can't … at all? There ain't no other way?"

Barricade thought about that, processor accessing files from his time as the Nemesis's Chief of Science. Through the course of the war, the Science Division had been focused on one massive project. "There is one other way. But we lack the resources to pursue it, and all the hatchlings we created by it will also expire."

Mike Romano paused to chew that information over. "Hatchlings are yer … kids?"

"Yes."

"…You got any?"

The question caught Barricade completely off guard. He forgot to continue accelerating at the triple-digit rate he had been at, slowing to a far more tame 87 mph in his distraction, slinking into the fast lane to pass a sedan doing the speed limit. Traffic was becoming more of a problem as they closed in on Philadelphia. Barricade figured he would take the I-295 bypass around the Pennsylvania city.

"Yes, Michael. I do." His voice seemed reserved. "They are likely deactivated by now."

"…Oh." The human felt distinctly like an asshole. "War?"

"No. Lack of energy is killing the hatchlings before they even get a chance to emerge from their eggsacs. They are starving to death."

Now Romano felt even worse about asking. "Geez. I, uh… m'sorry for asking."

"They were for science," returned Barricade lowly. "Nothing more."

The next question he regretted immediately after it left his lips: "So you guys can't love?" Mike winced at how it sounded, but fortunately, his for-now companion seemed to take it in stride.

"Yes, we can," came the reply, hard metal words intonated with a detectable sense of … longing? Despair?

Romano didn't continue the conversation after that. He wasn't sure he wanted to know what would make someone he perceived to be as hard-nosed as Barricade say something like that.

Traffic in Washington D.C. was horrific as per usual. Barricade had taken to bitching about it as they sat in a bumper-to-bumper backup, cursing the wreck that was more than a mile ahead and the 'stupid insects inability to pilot the vehicles that they had created in a sufficient enough manner to avoid collisions'. Romano just stayed quiet and listened, knowing why the jam up had the Saleen freaked out. If the Autobots were following, the backup they were sitting in cut the distance between the hunters and their prey by quite a lot. As they inched past the 4-car fatality, Mike swore that Barricade was fed up enough to transform and walk around it. Or set it on fire. Both probably would have worked for him.

Finally, though, they managed to squeeze around it and back to open road. They continued on a southerly route on the uncluttered I-95 through Virginia down into North Carolina, and much to Barricade's relief, they picked up I-85, and then I-40 heading west in decent time. His recklessly fast driving had reduced the time from what should have been some eleven hours or more to only ten, even with the accident in Washington, and the food, gas, and piss breaks between. Honestly, he was pleased with himself.

Romano was less than thrilled. Fortunately, with the setting sun hours ago the stress of the day had caught up with him severely, allowing him the peace of sleep as Barricade stayed the course and continued onward.

With the rising of the sun came Nashville, Tennessee and all the lights that came with it. Romano had never been that far south, or west, for that matter. While the scenery was certainly entertaining and different from what he was used to, by the time 1 PM came around, he'd had enough.

"Dude, pull over or something. My legs are gonna fall off if I don't stretch them."

"What? Why?"

"Humans ain't meant to sit in a car for like 26 hours straight and not get a break, man. C'mon."

Barricade grumbled but took the next exit that had fast food and a gas station. "Weak insects. I can stay in my alternate mode for months without getting up."

"Yeah, yeah," the mechanic mumbled back at him, reading the sign for Mayflower, Arkansas, population 1,631. The town was three square miles and looked friendly enough. Mike didn't care. He could walk around and take a leak. "So strong 'n shit, I get it."

Barricade pulled in the Doublebee's gas station, slightly irked at the name and parked in front of a gas pump. "Cease the prattling and go do whatever it is that your fleshy body needs, carbonmonkey. I will refuel."

Gratefully, Romano flung himself out of the car and stretched languorously. "Wait a minute, how you payin' for shit? With what money?"

"My secret," purred Barricade as he closed his driver's door, wincing internally at the aches and pains that still plagued him from the Autobot attack.

Somehow, though, Mike managed to catch the flinch. He was becoming very aware of his strange friend's mannerisms. "Still hurtin'?"

The silver-haired hologram appeared and worked on paying for gas. "It will pass. Go, slag you."

The New Yorker offered the Saleen Mustang a one-finger salute courtesy of his home town and sauntered off towards the McDonald's across the street. If this ain't the most abrupt and unplanned for road trip. Fuck. He didn't even have a change of clothes or a goddamned toothbrush. He decided he'd make the damn surly Saleen pull off in the next town big enough to have a fricking Walmart so he could get some PJ pants or something a bit more comfortable and cleaner than his two-days-old jeans, sweater and jacket. He needed a shower something fierce, too, but he doubted he could get Barricade to sit still long enough for him to rent a hotel room over night.

Jamming his hands in his coat pockets to protect against the cold, Romano slipped his way over to the well known fast food stop across the street, wandering back to the black and white interceptor after nabbing a couple of McDoubles and a Coke. Barricade watched Mike display the seemingly unending talent that most human men had: he finished both the burgers in about six bites and was done with the Coke by the time he got to him. It was baffling, truly.

"There is nothing but dead birds here," the Decepticon muttered.

Mike peered at the frozen crow laying beside the gas pump. "An' a McDonald's, an' a gas station, and somewhere around here there are sixteen hundred people hidden. Prolly underground."

"Underground?"

"Was a joke, man, dun worry about it."

The greasemonkey couldn't help but notice the small group of townies huddled up in front of the gas station, staring at the weird scruffy dude and the slick police car. Romano wasn't from around there, and it seemed as though the locals knew it and didn't appreciate it.

Barricade's comment about Michael's ability to filter what he was going to say rang true. "Th' fuck you guys lookin' at?"

The Saleen sighed.

The group of seven local men looked at one another, and each brandished either a pistol or a rifle from somewhere under their coats, and in the case of one, a mobile blowtorch. "Wha'd y'just say, city boy?" one drawled.

"…Why, I said whatta lovely lil town ya got here an' how we- uh, I'll be hittin' the road."

"S'what I thought. G'wan and head on yer way now."

Sure, at first, he tried for slow calmness. It just didn't last, as Mike quickly slunk into the driver's side and threw on his seatbelt as Barricade primed his engine and pulled away from the station.

"What have we learned, carbonmonkey?" the low voice rasped in vague amusement. Perhaps it wasn't so vague. In fact, it was palpable.

"Paddle faster, man, I hear banjos."