Hate to Love
Chapter 3: Escalation
By: The Feesh (LDC)
It was hot.
The wind swept over a sleek aerodynamic form, white on black cutting through the air as would a warmed knife through butter. Atmospheric differentials were gauged with terrific efficiency, maneuvers timed perfectly down to the millisecond as Barricade tore through highway traffic, lights flashing and sirens wailing to ward drivers out of his path. It was there. It was right there; he could feel it, he could taste it.
All he had to do was get to it.
The throaty snarl of a turbocharged eight-cylinder engine roared beneath the shimmering black hood as Barricade gunned it and swerved around a minivan that didn't get out of the way fast enough. Whoever was driving it didn't have such luck with Bonecrusher, but the police interceptor's concentration was not behind him. With single-minded zeal Barricade kept his focus solely on what was before his guarded prow: a Peterbilt, a Topkick, a Hummer, and two sports cars. Only one of the two interested Barricade. The bright yellow Camaro with black stripes and a growling engine – the silver Pontiac street car made little difference to him. That gold Chevrolet held the bare signal that the Ford was tracking, that little taste of raw power that his very spark reacted to. It was the thing, that sacred thing that gave him life as well as the lives of every other Transformer in existence, past and present. Bumblebee had the Allspark. Barricade wanted it.
Traffic closed in on him but he paid no heed. To his left came a highway onramp; the Saleen S281 Extreme police cruiser, knowing the kind if engine power he possessed, jammed the pedal to the floor and swung out, barreling into the onramp doing a hundred miles per hour or better. Optimus Prime was keen on his position however and slammed on the brakes, blocking Barricade's route around and forcing the muscle car to decelerate rapidly and reintegrate into traffic before the onramp disappeared. Barricade snarled and cursed, veering left and right in repeated attempts to get around the flame-painted eighteen-wheeler but Prime blocked him every time. To the Void with his heroics!
Bonecrusher's hateful voice, heavily laden with rage, cut through his systems in their native tongue: "Disengage and move away. I will dispatch the Autobot general and the weapons specialist."
Barricade rumbled his engine and backed off, attempts at evading the Peterbilt's blockade having failed. "Do it," he warbled in return, changing lanes and easing off of the accelerator to let Bonecrusher past.
The minesweeper eased past him, having a maximum speed of fifty miles per hour. He'll kill Prime if he can ever catch them, Barricade groused, drifting back to coast along about four car lengths behind his odious comrade. Bonecrusher began transformation, utilizing the wheels in his feet to propel his ponderous bulk forward at a higher rate. The police interceptor hung back but kept the pace. As soon as Prime was occupied, he'd shoot around, drive circles around the lumbering gunner and medic and go straight for Bumblebee. Jazz could very well pose a huge problem, however; Barricade had read the Autobot second-in-commands file some metacycles ago and reportedly Jazz was the fastest thing on wheels. Though speed could sometimes falter when pitted against muscle, and the Mustang Saleen's own engine power was not to be dismissed. He was banking on the sheer amount of traffic to be the Solstice's downfall, as Barricade was especially good at maneuvering wickedly through car-laden thoroughfares.
Devastator was somewhere behind him, most likely going over more cars than around them, Blackout was en route to the city and Starscream was still presumably at Hoover Dam. Frenzy reported to have found Megatron and the Allspark at the same time – but then the story adjusted when his frenetic partner sent a transmission directly to him that the humans had taken the Allspark. That had brought a drastic change in plans and direction. Starscream remained inbound on Hoover, while Blackout intercepted a human military communication dictating Mission City as their destination. The black and white Decepticon, knowing the roadways best, had changed course and lead his comrades over an improvised route –
What. Was that
Fire exploded before the gleaming black prow and Barricade found himself laying on the brakes. Rubber screamed uselessly against concrete as the Mustang interceptor fought to maintain control while locking his brakes at high speeds – all the while staring at the burning halves of what had once been a whole bus. Blindly the pieces skidded and rolled, one careening off to the center divider and forcing the Mustang to swerve into the other lane –
Right into the front fender of a Chevrolet Impala.
The angle was perfect; as though taken straight out of a police film gone badly, the force of the collision sent him sideways in front of the Impala who, in reaction, locked its wheels and swung out of control to avoid him. The older model Toyota Celica was not so lucky and struck Barricade broadside, rubber wailing and metal squealing as he was forced around to face oncoming traffic at a dead stop. The bus pieces had come to a debris-dropping halt, and the police interceptor could only watch as the milliseconds ticked by while that awfully big minivan was barreling straight at him, foot by foot, inch by rubber-rendering inch.
That particular impact sent his ramming bars into his radiator and Barricade offlined immediately to the sound of shattering glass.
"So that's why you didn't show."
Barricade huffed.
Blackout chuckled and ruffled his rotors, letting them fall back into place in an almost insectoid fashion. "You missed the battle because you got into a fight with a minivan and lost."
"At least I didn't get disassembled and dumped by a bunch of slagging insects – it was Bonecrusher's fault!" Barricade snarled in defensive return. "Stupid brainless tactless minesweeper. He's lucky he was headless before I could get a chance to get at him. I'd use his cranial unit as a hackey-sack."
After a moment to research the term, the MH-53 Pave Low chuckled darkly. "There wasn't much to miss. It was chaos from the beginning – the attack lacked Megatron's usual planning and finesse…which is why we failed." At that, his rotors dropped imperceptibly.
The Saleen Mustang only nodded; leaning against a cement pillar in the old concrete building they had taken refuge in, Barricade looked evenly at his comrade-enemy-lover. The sun turned the dingy windows alight with fire and the air was almost lung-charringly hot, so it is a good thing we have no lungs, he mused. Midday in the deserts of Arizona.
"What is this building?" the flier queried suddenly, gazing at the uncommonly high ceilings. "Or rather, what was it?"
"From the looks of the statue over there and the remnants of stained glass, it appears to be a place of religious gathering," Barricade replied, internals trilling as he also glanced around. There were many rows of seats eaten away by termites, cobweb-covered walls and broken windows. "Run down, very old. Scans say over fifty years."
Blackout smirked. "The high ceilings and secluded area appeals to me."
"It would," the smaller Decepticon grunted, crossing his arms. "The heat reminds me of home."
"It reminds me of Qatar. Slagging hot out there."
"Whiner."
"Hush, you."
Silence befell the pair as they took to listening to the deathly sound of the desert. Why a church had been built so many miles from the last city was beyond Blackout, though Barricade had mentioned seeing the remnants of what looked like a small village when driving along the highway. Perhaps, at some time in the earthen past, someone had lived in the area.Lived, and apparently failed to thrive under such conditions. Barricade had been having trouble keeping his engine from overheating in the triple-digit temperatures and they'd both stopped and taken sanctuary in the shade of the old concrete Minster.
And here they were.
Alone in the desert.
Safe.
Blackout reached over from his sitting position and closed his massive hand over the white panel of Barricade's upper arm, physically dragging the Saleen from his place of choice over to him. The smaller of the two only snarled in halfhearted warning, not offering a fight as he staggered over and regained his balance. Sessions like these had become common, and the more they were intimate with one another, the more willing it became on the Mustang's part. Why bother resisting it? Now that Blackout was no longer attempting to beat him into submission, it wasn't so hard to allow himself to enjoy it. Speaking of…
There wasn't much resisting to be done when that gargantuan, three-fingered hand skimmed down his stomach to slide between his legs. Blackout always went there first when he wanted pleasure; every time he attacked Barricade's most sensitive (and most guarded) sensors with the knowledge that it would best entice the interceptor to give in to lust, and now was no different. Chrome claws trailed imperceptible patterns along the slate gray/green armor of Blackout's arms as the hand moved ever so subtly, forcing a hitch in ventilations on the Saleen's part. Already his mind was starting to fog with pleasure; reason skirting around desire, cognitive thought giving way to primal needs.
Barricade didn't rebel as Blackout persuaded him onto his back, mandibles trailing over hypersensitive neck struts as the Sikorsky's suffocating bulk hovered over the far sleeker, far smaller form of the Mustang Saleen. Blackout paused, noting the small air of dissatisfaction about his partner but took no heed of it. The black and white hated being subjugated – or, perhaps what rang more truth and shed more light was the thought that Barricade hated loving it…when it was Blackout.
"Not even so much as a growl," the flier mused from the crook of Barricade's neck.
The other hissed darkly. "Shut up."
"Oh, come now," Blackout crooned softly, digging the crooked tip of his finger deeper between the Ford's thighs and smirking at the delighted squirm of his lover. "You don't have to be that way."
There was something in the tone of the Pave Lowe's voice. A hidden promise, a low grated thrum of lust and carnal yearning that made Barricade's ventilations hiccup in anticipation. There was a certain advantage in being the object of Blackout's attentions, of that there would never be any doubt; the arch of the interceptor's back as his partner trailed deft mandibles over the grill of his chestplates and lower told of such a secret. The sharp, unnecessary inhalation of hot, dusty air as those mouthpieces slid in featherlight touches over the machinery and armor in his abdomen, gliding lower and lower with a careful slowness that drove the Mustang insane. Anticipation; expectation; eagerness of what was to come next forced the smaller Decepticon's intakes to stutter and snag, coughing in the grimy air. But Blackout was a tease, much to Barricade's dismay, and instead of following the line he had been drawing all along he skipped that most sensitive area and nibbled on the inside of one thigh.
The MH-53 smirked at the offended and disappointed trill his lover let off and decided not to goad the interceptor. Without further hesitation, he forced Barricade's thighs apart and lurched forward, pressing his face between, a shiver running through his frame as he attacked those sensors and was properly rewarded. Barricade threw his head back and squealed in mechanical appreciation as his sensory grid spiked at the assault; pleasure swiftly mounted, reducing the muscle car into a twisting, writhing mass of moaning armor and claws that reached out to grasp Blackout's helm.
And out in the desert, so far from anything, no one could hear them scream.