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As we ALL know, the phrase "so I got bored this weekend and wrote some fanfic" is *always* the absolute *Hallmark* of *Quality* (here's a towel to wipe up all that sarcasm I just marinated that phrase in)....

So, I got bored this weekend and....

This is actually way, way backstory about Barricade. As in back on Cybertron in the early days of the war. This is sort of a 'bridge' between 'Break' and the upcoming sequel 'Fallout' which I know you're just hyperventilating for but I'm only about halfway done with that one so...I thought I'd buy me a week here. This will explain a lot of stuff that happens in 'Fallout' and might make you rethink that whole Barricade and Starscream antagonism. And hey, urban combat, yay!

Oh, and Barricade in this is WAY younger than you think.

Here are sections one and two (out of ten, so...no long drag out on this one).

1.
“Good cycle, gentle warbots,” he began his usual patter, not even bothering to listen to himself any more, “My designation is Combat Control 26G643AB, personal designation Barricade, and I’ll be your CC for the upcoming mayhem.”

He heard the six bots in his team grumble. Everyone hated CC. Hated CC til CC saved their sorry asses. And even then some. “My mission success rate is 92%, currently the highest in Combat Control. My casualty rate is average, roughly 54.2%. My fatality rate is among the lowest, at only 18%. To prepare you for what’s ahead: statistically, you will succeed. You will most likely get hit. But you will survive. I shall now give you 30 kliks to verify the statistics I have just given you. If you think you can do better on your own, please feel free to close down your channel. That will increase the likelihood of non-casualty for the others by approximately 4% each.”

He waited. One of them checked of course. One of them always checked. “He is that good,” he heard one say, almost angry. As if he wished his CC were incompetent and a liar. Because, yeah, that made sense.

He waited. “No objections? Fine. Please log your numeric mission designations. You,” he pinged one, “Are now One. You, are Two,” and so on down through the six of them. One, Number One, in fact, inevitably complained. “Why don’t you use our real designations?”

“Because it takes less time to say your number than your polysyllabic name,” Barricade replied, curtly. Also, because he didn’t really like to think about these bots as individuals with names. When a number died, who cared? When a bot with an actual name died, that implied that a history, a personality, likes and dislikes, died with it. No thanks. “You may of course refer to me as CC or more likely, ‘you’. ‘Your highness, savior of my skin plating’ would be appreciated, but I bow to circumstance.” One snort of laughter. Barricade logged that—number Four. Keep him alive, he decided. “If this is unacceptable to you, hang onto your individuality by all means. And close your channel.” Another pause. No one did. Very rarely did anyone. Not when they saw his stats. He could be the biggest fraggin’ bastard, but the numbers paid for a lot of nipped pride.

“Our mission is to assault a warehouse from where we believe a small faction of counterinsurgent Autobots who have lately been launching…unpleasantness. Likelihood of explosives judging from their usual methods, near 100%. Likelihood they will use them in a combat situation, also high. I have taken the liberty—I presume you don’t mind—of mapping the most expedient areas for them to lay explosives and traps. I will download each floorplan as it becomes relevant. Any questions so far?”

Two and Five muttered. Barricade didn’t care enough to call up their voc volumes. Sometimes it was fun to change their vol settings and have them blast out what they thought was a mutter or whisper. They hadn’t pissed him off quite enough. Yet.

“If you’re still onboard, please lower quaternary firewalls to allow CC access to your systems.” One by one, they let him in—their armament specs, stats, alt modes and abilities, and current readiness scrolling across the screens in the large CC helmet. All six. Of course, he preened. Your reputation precedes you. “Good. I have you all. The transport will drop you in half a cycle. I will leave you to your thoughts, gentlemen, and pick up with you when you hit the CZ.”

*****
Barricade slumped back in the harness, feeling the cables from the CC helmet slide over his head and shoulders as he rolled his head around to loosen up his neck. Bad part hadn’t even begun yet and he was already getting tense. Do not borrow stress from the future, you idiot, he told himself. Doesn’t spread it any thinner on the ground. Can’t do your job worth spilled oil if you tweak yourself.

He glossed his primary visor, rolling its optical control to scan the CC center. Only three other CCs working right now. Slow optempo. He wondered why he only had a six-team for this one. Not that he minded—fewer idiots to have to corral against their better instincts. He recognized Fray’s hands, frantically operating the virtual screens. Hot action there. Barricade figured he’d look like that in about half a cycle: they didn’t waste their ‘best’ CC on any milk runs.

He called up his schedule. Tomorrow, one small raid, shadowed by a new CC. Great. Another mind to deal with, except sitting right on top of his brain asking stupid questions. He could hardly wait. Well, at least he knew he had a tomorrow. Statistically one of these mechs he had dragging down his cortex probably didn’t. Too early for him to start picking favorites for that role.

He called up mission specs again. Ugly one. Lot of close in building room-to-room fighting. The mechs he’d been given were relatively small and maneuverable (he was smaller), which was good, but they were also not exactly stomping war machines. If it came to a drawn-out firefight, they could run out of ammunition. Or guts. And/or guts. And if these Autobots used well-shaped charges...well, he wished the smaller building-to-building guys had better armor. Better yet, wished the mission orders were to flatten the building from orbit. But then, they wouldn’t need him.

Not that he’d mind that. He hated this. Hated that he was so good at it.

Checked his chrono. Just about time. He called up realtime birdseye of the CZ and started his shell programs. Last minutes of peace for all involved.

*****
2.
“Three,” he said, “Forward five paces, then down.” His visor was running all six of his charges’ locations, doubled in individual monitor and then team spread. They were ground approaching the target building, leap-frogging from safe point to safe point. “Hold.” Barricade revolved the 3D of the target building. “May have a sniper. If so, on our approach 3B2.” (Third floor, second side, second window in from the approach edge).

“I’m not fraggin’ waiting,” one of the voices—Two—griped. “Damn talking head doesn’t know slag how to run a battle.”

“Two, I said hold.” There was a way to draw the sniper out. Two walking out from Barricade’s carefully selected cover for him would work, but wasn’t the ideal solution. He cursed as Two trotted out of the cover. He pulled Two’s optics—at least the damn mech had his eyes on the right window. Was going to be Two this mission, huh? Barricade’s hands keyed the override. Not yet. As long as Two had the sense to keep moving.

Nope. Two paused, raising his weapon to fire at the window. “Two, dammit!” he snarled, turning his voc vol up to max. Two flinched, which spoiled his shot, but also made him twitch just enough to one side that the sniper round merely punched a hole through his shoulder, and not his spark chamber. Two flailed to the ground, his weapon clattering next to him.

“One, Six, Three,”—they had the best angles of fire—“suppressive fire. Four, no—“ he checked alt modes, “Five, alt up and throw a cable at Two. Drag him to your cover.”

Five followed with an obedience bred by fear. Barricade’s small hands called up Five’s profile. First CC mission. Only a handful of other combat missions before this. Still, fear was good. Barricade could work with fear—and the obedient kind was better than the frozen kind. Five flung his alt mode’s cable out in front of Two. “Grab hold,” Barricade said. “Four, move up to Two’s previous position. Ready your parabolic launcher.” Another scramble. The other three kept up suppressive fire as Five dragged the injured bot behind the wall he crouched by. “Slack suppressive at your discretion. Five, you know how to use your emergency patch kit.” A mild reprimand. He’d pulled Five’s optics, and Five was just staring into, and through, the leaking hole that went through Two’s shoulder. “If not, ask Two.”

“Two’s out,” Five said, his voice shaky. “I think he’s dead.”

“Not dead,” Barricade said. “Got his signal right here.” But…close to unconsciousness. Barricade pulled up one of his programs. “Two. You can hear me. Lower your tertiary firewalls.” Two complied, immediately—he’d learned his lesson. Would’ve been nicer if he’d learned a little sooner—they could be accomplishing the fraggin’ mission instead of patching his sorry camshaft. Barricade’s program invaded Two. “Two,” he said, trying to gentle his voice, “I am rerouting your alarm systems, temporarily, to allow you to continue to function. Assist Five in stabilization repairs. He’s freaking out.”

Two’s optics fluttered open as Barricade’s program took hold. “Hey, let me help...," Barricade heard him say.

Four pinged him. “Ready.”

“Aim.”

Four aimed at the sniper’s window.

“Adjust one floor up. Suppression’s pushed him back from the window. Best bet is to cave the roof on him.” Four quickly adjusted his aim. He waited for Barricade’s approval. “Good.” He fired. Barricade pulled his bio—he’d been on several CCs before. “Not your first CC rodeo, Four? Who was your previous CC?”

“Damage.”

“Ah.” Damage was good, but a little overcontrolling. Explained why Four did only as he was told. “You can take a bit more initiative with me, if you like. As long as you don’t counter my orders.”

“Got it.” The smoke cleared—the fourth floor corner had collapsed onto the second floor. They saw one thin, red painted arm twitching in the rubble. One and Three cheered.

“Not over yet, warbots,” Barricade said.

“One less.” One replied.

“True.”

“Entry looks clear,” Three reported.

“Good. Regroup there. Two, you can move.” Not a question. He could read on his HUD that Two’s legs were functional.

He waited while they hopscotched their way through to the blasted open doors. He heard six pairs of feet crunch on broken glass and heat-brittled metal. He already had the first and second floorplans ready.

“We’re all here.” One reported, unnecessarily. Still, it was courtesy.

“Success. Now, we have two ways of doing this, little warriors. I can download the maps to you for continual-consult, or you can lower tertiary firewall and let me in.”

“What’s that do?”

“Be more like me whispering in your ear about bad ideas before you make them. Perhaps unpleasant, as I’ve been told I don’t have the sexiest voice, but faster than the alternative.”

“I’m in.” Four again. “It’s not bad, really. Done it before. Don’t even really hear him—you just get an idea that something or someone might be behind that door. Stuff like that.” He felt Four’s firewalls drop. Four, he decided, was not only getting out of this mission alive, he’d get out with a commendation. If Barricade had anything to say about it. And, oh look, he DID.

The others all followed Four’s lead, even, Barricade smirked to notice, Two. “If this gets creepy,” Two muttered, “I’m shutting you down.”

“I’ll just have to keep my observations about your hot ass to myself, then, Two,” he said, acidly. Three snickered.

“Gonna find you after this,” Two snarled. “Fraggin’ little runt.” Barricade saw Two’s optics leap from bot to bot. “Seriously, have you ever seen these guys? Barely bigger than drones. Don’t have the armor to fight off a paper clip.”

“Hey,” One warned. “He’s kind of got our lives in his hands right now. As in, including yours.”

“One, I would never endanger a mission because of a team member’s prejudices,” Barricade said, blandly. He’d heard the ‘pathetic droneling’ line a few too many times for it to sting anymore. Much. “Now, we’re all onboard, right? First objective.” He dropped to his subvoc, splitting his attention into six different channels. This was…uncomfortable. His attention divided, his consciousness stretched over them, feeling, because of the temporary hack, exactly what they were feeling. Five’s capacitor was a little too fast. Barricade couldn’t do anything about that right now. Four seemed perfectly calm—probably the kind more than happy to dump his trust into someone else. Bots like Four always confused Barricade more than those like Two. He could understand fighting. But the complete acceptance of another bot’s control of your fate, on any level. It was…uncomfortable to be trusted that much.

Two was pissed, but, well, no surprise there. And Two did stop when Barricade muttered to him that behind that next door was a lovely place to have a bomb. “Go in high or low?” he asked.

“Their methods are too inexact—they don’t have a preference. Blow a new door.” He heard Two’s approving grunt. Apparently anyone who authorized high firepower started to climb in Two’s estimation.

“Four,” he said, on another channel, “hang back. Getting footfalls above you. Can you get to a doorway?”

“Moving. Why?”

Before Barricade had a chance to answer, the ceiling in the room Four had been in ripped as the insurgents above began shooting AP rounds through the floor. “Idiotic,” he muttered, to Four, “destabilizing their own floor.”

“Desperate?”

“Maybe. Or they have something planned. Can you make injured sounds? Let them think they hit someone. Bad.”

Four acknowledged and, before the shots died away, began howling. Realistically enough to send chills down Barricade’s central line. And Barricade had heard the real thing more than enough times. After a moment, Four let his cries die to a whimper and fade out. “Good enough?”

Barricade grunted assent. A little too convincing for his sensor-net’s liking. He walked the others through clearing the first floor without incident. No contact yet. They rallied below the stairwell. “They think we’re one down. Don’t have hard numbers on them yet—two, possibly three on the next floor—several more up above, but they might rush down to help. Next floor going to be rougher. Ready?”

Liking it... very tense...Always wanted to know where Barricade came from.

I forbid you to stop writing :P

This will end Act One. I know it's longer than I usually have Act One of a story last, but I wanted to get clear how the CC thing worked before I started, ummmm, messing with it. And yay, urban combat. Wait, already said that.

******

3.
No fight this time. Three aimed his weapon up around the turn of the stairwell. “Any grenades or other suspicious things,” Barricade cautioned, “you jump DOWN. Not up. Let them isolate themselves. Don’t get cut off.”

They glided up the stairwell with the kind of speed that spoke more how vulnerable they felt in the narrow funnel of the stairwell than if they’d sung a song about it. As each hit the top, he fanned them out in order of priority vector.

Three spotted the first charge. “CC?” he called. “What’s this?” Barricade pulled up Three’s optics. A dirty looking lump of…lumpiness, really. Greyish beige blob like some plaster had slagged off the walls. Would have been convincing if there were any other signs of heat slag. And the finger-marks, also. Amateurish. Must have been assembled in haste.

“Three,” he said, ‘Withdraw. Back the way you came. Do NOT turn your back on primary target door.” Three backpedaled.

Four found two more charges, these up higher in the walls. And spaced far enough apart to hit the interior support beams. “Good spotting,” Barricade said. “Whole second’s wired to blow. Still have two of their registry on this floor so they’re not quite set to blow it. Nonetheless, get yourselves by a window, and punch it out if need be. I signal you, you jump.”

“Jump?” One again. Seems Two had tagged out with him as Most Annoying.

“Tuck and roll at the end. You want some distance between you and the building. Especially if they blow the support beams.” He saw them rearrange themselves, backs to windows. “Step one to the left, each. Just in case they have a sniper across the road.” Paranoia sometimes paid off. He could feel Four’s pulse drop even more. Apparently, Barricade’s paranoia soothed him. Made him feel he was really being looked after. Great.

He felt, through his hack, everyone else’s tension. Like he didn’t have enough of his own. It wasn’t entirely unlikely that the Autobot insurgents would blow the charges with one of their own caught in it. All about the greatest good—sometimes, Barricade had discovered, that meant suck-all for the individual. Nothing. The registers on his screen seemed to amble about. Waiting. Were they drones? Fakes? If so, more than enough time to blow the second floor.

It hit him. Three’s door—the one he had been heading to. Must have the trigger. Right in the center of the building. If they’d gone in using the textbook tactics, the whole team would have lined up, one big happy group, to get blown back to the Pit. Good thing CC had thrown the textbook out. “Three,” Barricade said. “range weapon, please, and step back to the doorway where you found that charge.”

He heard/felt Three swallow. “What’s up, CC?”

“They’re waiting for us to trigger it. Behind that door. Can you blast it open with your range weapon?” Three looked down at the door at the end of the hall, his eyes lingering on the charge. “Pretty sure.”

“Wouldn’t be unusual, according to The Book, to blow the door with a projectile blast.”

“Gotcha.” Three altered the magazine of his range weapon to metal slugs.

“Hold for a second. You’re going to have to run like hell.”

“Figured.”

“Drop secondary firewalls.”

“Why?”

“Want to run like hell?”

Three was confused, but dropped his walls. Barricade clicked off the force governors in Three’s legs. “Now go.”

Three blasted the door. As soon as the others heard the noise, like a beautiful synchronized piece, they threw themselves out of the windows. Three spun, and, with his legs boosted by the removal of the force governors, pounded down the hall hard enough to dent the floor. The blast caught him just as he reached a window, blasting him flat out. Barricade’s program reached in, bending his head down into a protective roll. His primary weapon got torn from his hands in the landing, and his legs were shaking when he got up, and bits of his back plating were scored, but he was otherwise uninjured. Three turned to stare at the building.

The second floor blew straight out in a blast of white heat, slamming the third floor hard enough to collapse parts of the building to the foundation. “Frag…..” Three breathed.

4.
“What now, CC?”

“Normally, I’d say roach-stomping, but even Autobots aren’t stupid enough to blow the building up while they’re in it. Unless they have some safety. We might have to go back in. If you need a hobby, you might lob a few grenades at anything that moves.”

“On it,” Six said. He moved up to crouch behind a wall across the street. Took cover, Barricade noted, without needing to be reminded.

“Wait and see?” One said.

“Wait just a little while.”

“Why couldn’t we blow the whole building ourselves?” Two asked. Barricade felt his brow crease in irritation, but not at Two. That was a damn good question.

“Short answer? What? And spare us all this fun and manly bonding? Long answer: probably something or someone in there they want verified dead. Better with a chance of ‘taken alive’.” Mission specs were silent on this, but that meant nothing. Intel was a mess right now after the Autobots had had that huge ‘victory’ (also known as a massacre) over at Bindir Hub. That’s where Damage had been.

“Something’s moving,” Four reported. “Either two bots or one big hunched over one.”

Smoke and chemical blowback from the explosion was foxing Barricade’s birdseye. He could register a hit, but nothing more. “Can you verify, Four?”

“No.”

“Assume armed. Better yet, assumed bomb with legs, especially if it comes near you.”

“Blow it now?”

“Wait. See if we can get visual.” Barricade reached for the metadata. If they could get a visual, he could match it against any known high-value targets. That would give him a start figuring out how to react.

“CC,” one of them said, his voice anxious. “It’s stopped moving.”

“As in dead?”

“No. Just…stopped.”

Barricade hit all comms. “Everyone’s near cover. Prepare to duck if it blows. Can anyone give me angle visual?”

“I can,” Two said. “Optical separator.” Two unscrewed one of his optics and fed it out along its cable on the top of the wall he crouched behind.

“Let me worry about this, warbots. The rest of you, watch the rubble. This could be a distraction and we don’t want the rats slipping away.” He cut his comm down to Two. “How are you doing?”

“Fine.”

“Can adjust for any discomfort.”

“Can you give me my fraggin’ arm back? Right now I have 12% mobility.”

“Repairable.”

“Doesn’t help us now.” Two was mad. Not even really at Barricade. More like mad at himself for having been so slag-stupid in the first place. Barricade was used to being the scapegoat. Unfortunately.

“Can boost targeting and dexterity in your remaining arm.”

“Can you?”

“Need access to secondary.”

“None of the other CCs do this.”

“None of the other CCs have my success rating.” A long hesitation, and Two dropped his secondary firewalls. Barricade’s programs rushed in, shifting the targeting and power protocols to the useable arm. He felt Two’s dislike for him and a residual throb of pain from Two’s chest-wound. No amount of him letting Two blow giant holes in something was going to make Two not hate him. Especially when Two blamed him for the giant hole blown in himself. This was a palpable presence, like a choking fog. That, Barricade thought, is gratitude from these warriors. Do not allow yourself to forget that.

Plenty of time to dwell on the petty interpersonal failings of the warrior class later. Right now, “Three and Five, mark that Two is at Alpha Bravo. Need some coverage around back—head to Charlie Delta.” He watched the team-spread as the two mechs bounced behind rubble to the far corner. Quick, quiet, professional. Pointless to ask for much more, really.

“CC,” Two said, impatient, “He’s just waiting there.”

“Exactly it. Waiting for something. Just haven’t figured out what it is yet.”

“CC,” Two said, excitedly, “He’s looking up. Could they have air support?”

Barricade pulled out the larger view. “Nothing within range currently to help.”

Barricade pulled the entire team’s optics, giving him a near 360 of the rubble pile. Most of the building had collapsed, except, strangely, the fourth floor, CD corner. As if it had been protected by a magical hand. It hung at an angle, but it was suspiciously intact. Reinforced. Whatever they wanted—whatever the Autobots wanted to protect—was in there.

“Three, Five, action’s going to come your way, at CD corner. Six and One, don’t change position but see if you can get an angle of fire on that corner.”

“I hate waiting,” Two muttered.

“Well, you can always spark things off like before,” Barricade snapped.

“Fraggin’ CC,” Two muttered, as if CC were the vilest name he could think of to call someone.

The reinforced box wobbled. “Movement,” Three said. Barricade could sense the uptic in five capacitors. Four was…pathologically calm. He was covering the AB corner with Two. Good enough.

A mech boiled out of the corner of the CD room, scrambling down two stories of rubble, assisted by gravity. Too fast and too unsteady to get a clear shot, though Primus bless Three for trying. Another mech rose up, blasting a heavy grenade straight at Three’s cover. Three screeched. Direct hit. Barricade cursed. “Three, I’m shutting down your alarm systems. Stay calm.” He shunted Three’s pain signals and warnings into a junk-code processor. Three tried to take a look down at himself, see the damage. Barricade locked his neck. “Relax and lay back,” he ordered. Mechs got bothered when they saw half their torso missing. He supposed he would too. But he didn’t need Three’s panic on top of everything else, just as it got hot. Feeling his alarm systems was bad enough.

“One, Six, divert to rear angle of that corner. Get that box, but watch your crossfire.” Aiming up, it shouldn’t be too much of an issue, but still—mechs got excited in the heat of battle.

The AB corner mech started firing, pinning Two and Four down. “We’re good,” Four said. “We can wait.” Six and One blasted at the box’s structure itself—not even trying to hit any of the mechs who clambered out. Destroy the hive. Good. Five fired wildly at the mechs, drilling the one who had hit Three. Another round from a grenade landed near Three, blasting away the remains of his cover.

“Five,” Barricade said. “Let’s get Three.”

Five collapsed against the wall he was taking cover behind. His ventilation bordered on over-rapid, his capacitor red-lining. “I can’t!” he gasped. Barricade did a quick check.

“You’re uninjured, Five. Three needs you.”

“I can’t!” he wailed.

“Scared? I can help you.”

Five made a hiccuping noise. Trying not to cry. Poor thing. Probably first blooded combat, and he’d seen two up close.

“I can help you,” Barricade repeated, readying his shells. “You want to save Three. Three needs your help. You can help him. I can help you help him.”

Three’s breath, ragged. “O—okay.”

“Lower your firewalls.”

“What level?”

Barricade checked Five’s status. And Three’s. He needed to get Three under cover, quick. “All of them.”

“All?” Five squeaked, but he dropped them. Barricade was in. He moved quickly. No time to be gentle. Blown most of that trying to sweet talk Five into doing this. Barricade cut Five’s control. “You want to come along for the ride or take a nap?”

“Uhhh,” Five didn’t know what he was asking.

“You’re coming along. Relax and try to enjoy the ride.” Barricade hijacked control of Five’s entire system. First step, slow ventilation and capacitor. Second, cut pain. Third, move.

Five bolted from behind his cover as Barricade snapped off his force governors. Five’s personality watched in horror as a round shot at him, piercing one arm. Barricade felt Five’s mind flinch against his own, waiting for the pain. And when it didn’t come, a kind of horror. Barricade boosted a chemical mix to calm Five down. Didn’t need him going even slightly shocky on him and fouling Barricade’s control.

Five’s ungovernored legs launched him into a long sailing jump. Barricade snapped Five’s main weapons open, his higher-speed processors calculating each shot. Five watched in an awestruck numbness as each round hit its mark. Barricade tucked Five’s body into a roll, landing him by Three. Five caught another long look at his injured arm—yellow lubricant and blue fluid pooling green and sickish looking in his joints.

“You’re fine,” Barricade snapped. “Three needs you.” He had Five scoop Three up with both arms, and turn and run a careful zigzag back to cover, his boosted reflexes dodging the rounds the enemy sent at him easily. He released control of Five just as Five collapsed behind the wall again, dropping Three on the ground beside him.

“Control back to you,” Barricade said. “Patch him and wait here. You’re rally for the medevac.”

One and Six were pounding the reinforced room. Plascrete had almost entirely been shot away, revealing a metal boxlike structure. Which Six was working at with his rocket launcher. “Good work,” Barricade said. Two and Four had kept the AB mech occupied. “Ready to finish him?”

“Damn right.” Two. Of course.

“Love to hear your plan, Two.”

“Why ruin it by explaining?” Two knelt down, daisy chaining the fuses of two grenades clumsily with one hand. “Time to see if your little voodoo worked, CC,” he muttered, and lobbed them over the wall. The first one blew at the mech’s feet, the second, lifted by the blast, closer to the mech’s abdomen. Minus one leg, the mech collapsed to the ground, arms flailing, firing wildly.

“Nice.” Barricade admitted. “You do like explosions, don’t you?”

Four said, “Two’s demolitions.” Four hesitated, then rose up from behind his cover and blasted at the fallen mech. Still a little slow to take initiative, Barricade decided.

“Nice and nice,” Barricade said. “Let’s mop up.”

He directed the functional mechs closer to the metal box, diverting the more injured Two to replace injured Five pulling security on the very injured Three. The rest was almost easy, if one counted brutality as easy. But they discovered, in the end, what the Autobots had been trying to hide. A Councillor. Taking refuge or collaborating? Didn’t much matter now, after six different rounds went through him. Just…one less enemy. Barricade cursed the Intelligence failure. If he’d known they had a high value person there, he’d’ve been more careful. Still, mission objectives as listed, another success. Three casualties, no fatalities, though Three would be sketchy for a long time. He called in Medevac and Transport, and with only a grudging sense of relief, logged himself out of the CC console.

Yay! Act Two! Thank for reading O...three people that are reading.



5.

“Change of plan, CC 26G643AB.” His CC supervisor called him into a small conference room. Two other mechs, large, warriors, sat with him, frowning.

Barricade shifted, nervously. Bad enough he woke up expecting a shadow CC on top of his brain. Now…called in by the big mechs. Who wanted him to see and feel every bit of difference between them. Their size—his size. He looked like a child compared to them, even with them sitting. They had offered him a chair, which he had of course refused. Hated his short legs dangling over the sides. Hated the awkward clamber. Wouldn’t give them that spectacle. Hate me as I am, on the ground.

“Yes sirs,” he said. Better to submit, at least in this.

“The matter is, 26G643AB, we were reviewing your commendations from yesterday’s action.” The supervisory mech narrowed his eyes at Barricade as if he should know exactly what he meant.

“Yes?”

One of the other mechs clicked on some footage—Barricade saw Five’s heroic dash to save Three spool out in front of him. Damn, he thought, he was good. He made Five look damn good, to boot. Best work yet.

“This is not within Breakdown’s physical capacity.”

Breakdown? That was his designation? Strangely apt. Barricade suspected that ‘Freakout’ was probably already taken. “The footage is unaltered,” Barricade said, blandly.

“We know that.”

“We also know what Breakdown is capable of, 26G643AB.” Barricade felt the weight of using his designation code instead of his name. He knew what that meant. Breakdown was a person. He was…a CC droneling. Not even worthy of a name. Just an alphanumeric code.

One of the supervisory mechs leaned back against his chair. “We want to know how you did it.”

Play stupid or not? Might as well get it over with. “Primary systems takeover.” The mech sitting next to his supervisor bolted upright.

“You can do that? You can hijack another bot’s body?” One of the warriors, Bombshock, sat up, looking disturbed.

“Apparently so.”

His supervisor frowned at Barricade’s attitude. To the angry warrior, he said, “I told you so.”

“That is not CC protocol,” the other warrior snapped.

“Protocol would have gotten everyone on my team killed, yesterday,” Barricade said. “If you read the report, you know the triggering device.”

“That’s no excuse to—take over another bot’s primary systems,” Bombshock said, with something like horror in his voice.

“I had Five’s permission.” If they were going to reduce him to an alphanumeric, he’d reduce their kind to a number.

“Five?”

“Breakdown’s channel designation for the mission,” the supervisor explained.

“This can’t be tolerated,” Bombshock said. “I recommend immediate termination.” He turned to the other. “Tailwind?” Barricade felt his central core go cold. Hadn’t this slagging moron realized that Barricade had saved Three? Salvaged the entire mission? And this was to be the thanks he got. Great. Well, life, he thought, nice knowing you. It sucked. And now it’s over.

“No,” the second warrior said. “Five was incapable of independent action at the time—he told us himself. If this unit can do that…I’d like to see what else he can do.”

The supervisor nodded straight down. “You know my thoughts on the matter.” The warriors nodded. Barricade—this unit—did not have the luxury of knowing his supervisor’s thoughts on the matter. The supervisor frowned at him for a long moment.

“26G643AB, we are volunteering you for a special…experiment. As you know, your success rate is the highest in CC. Your fatality rate one of the lowest. And with this…news, you seem ideal for the next progression in the combat control program.” He waited. Barricade eventually indulged him.

“And the next step is…?”

“Metacontrol. You would be connected not directly to front line troops, but to their CCs and through their CCs to them. We can coordinate larger scale attacks this way. Change the whole face of the war.”

The thought was not a pleasant one. Bad enough ten-max warriors cluttering up his attention. They wanted more? They wanted him to be able to hijack more of them? Did they even know what they were asking? “And if I say no?”

The supervisor lifted one supraorbital ridge. “You cannot say no, Unit 26G643AB.” He was not a person. Just a number. A number they wanted to wire into every slagging warrior in the field. Barricade shuttered his eyes. His answer was…irrelevant.

****
6.
“Good mission cycle, warriors,” he began. “This is CC unit 26G643AB, personal designation Barricade, mission designation Meta. I will be your metacontroller for the upcoming action. And, incidentally, for the next few cycles, I am your god.”

He had been Meta for seventeen long decacycles. Long enough for any thrill (there was none) to wear off, and any stress (there was plenty) to make some good toothmarks on his sanity. They’d started him small—two or three other CCs under him, easy missions. Overkill missions, really. Sending in three to four times the firepower needed. Just to…see if he could handle it. Each mission they set him new objectives—hijack one warrior. Two simultaneously. Tactical analysis while coordinating rescue. Agonizing challenges. He’d struggled to reach every one. But he’d made them. Why? Why did I push myself so hard? Why didn’t I just admit something was out of my reach?

They would have kept the damn Meta program. Scaled it back to whatever he was actually capable of. Probably even kept him as the primary Meta. It didn’t matter. But…he’d tried anyway. Some misguided notion not to let the big warmachines see there was something, anything, a little runty droneling like Barricade wasn’t capable of. Blow their fraggin’ minds. Get some respect. Get a name.

Meta was a name.

Mechs hustled for the Meta. Mechs got out of his way when he walked down a corridor now. They might stare after him, a little surprised by his stature, and, by now, freakish appearance, but there was something close to respect and very very far away from contempt in their optics.

He dropped his attention as the warriors logged in. Alphanumerics for them, too, now. The first being the code of the primary CC. Seventy warriors on this mission. Seven CCs. Seventy eight, if you wanted a full tally, minds and bodies Barricade—Meta—was responsible for. Biggest yet.

He called up the monitoring channel they’d installed on him. He was always being observed, now. Not as intrusive as a shadow CC but…eerie nonetheless. Meta suspected no bot particularly cared to be talked about behind his own back. Inside his own head.

“Getting a bit arrogant, isn’t he?” Bombshock said. He’d only allowed this Meta project to go forward if he had monitoring authority.

“Always been like that. It’s his sense of humor.”

“Besides, with his record, he can get away with a little attitude.” Tailwind had prepped by watching hours of the CC unit’s footage.

“But…god?”

“He is, in a way. Choose who lives, who dies, who goes where? Even without hijacking their systems, he’s in control. What other word would describe that?” Bombshock frowned—he didn’t like it when Tailwind got philosophical.

“One day,” Bombshock muttered, “he’s going to take this too far.”

That day wasn’t the day he took it too far.

I am still loving this story (second time round) always seems different, more intense online. Also it's a unique concept that hasn't been done before.

Still trying to figure out who 4 is

More rising action. Yay?


7.
“Mission objective,” the supervisor said. “Saejon Three. Autobot resupply center. This is a big one, Meta. This is our response to Bindir Hub.”

“You remember Bindir Hub, Meta?” One of the monitors. The one who thought he’d go too far. What was his name? Bombshock. Right.

“Wasn’t there. Damage was. But I remember.” He raised one of his hands. They’d had to adapt to his processing speed with an extra set of arms. Fine when in harness, but he still hadn’t gotten the hang of them in normal tasks. “Why our Intel’s been so fragged up lately.”

“Intel’s fine,” the other monitor growled. “Think you can do a better job of it?”

“Yeah, actually.” He stared the monitor down. With the standard-CC-issue four eyes and now with four arms to match, not a lot of bots could outstare him. He just looked too…odd.

“The point is,” the supervisor cut in, trying to regain control. “This is our chance for payback. Your chance, too.” They waited for him to say something gung ho. They could wait for a long fragging time. He’d do the mission—didn’t really have a choice, did he?—but all this pretending to be excited about it? That happy warrior **** was…for the warriors. This was all just a game for him. A very dull, very stressful, very un-fun game.

“Meta, are you all right?” The ‘go too far’ monitor.

“Fine. Oh, the hands?” His smaller set had been shifting, agitatedly. “Don’t know what to do with them when not in CC.” He gave a thin smile.

“You sure you can handle one hundred?” Tailwind asked.

“One hundred and ten,” Meta corrected. “Monitor the CCs too. And myself. One hundred and eleven. Or am I the only one who counts myself?” Getting a little tired of how CCs didn’t apparently rate as beings to these warriors. “Last mission was one hundred.”

“Right. Sorry.” Tailwind gave a thin smile.

He shrugged. “Can handle it. What are we facing?” About time this conversation steered away from Meta and back to the enemy.

They scrolled out the objectives. To take Saejon Three, they needed to capture an entire approach as well. Three routes, at his discretion—ground, underground, and air. The objective itself was a series of small warehouses under a force dome. Freerunning (non-CC) demolitions experts were already in place to blow the force dome generators at his mark. Once in, the mission was simple. Destroy everything.

“If it’s in the dome,” the supervisor said, “It’s the enemy.” Like he needed it to be boiled down to that stupid.

*****
8.
He’d split his teams, some taking some CC’d air support, some going ground. He didn’t like underground—no birdseye. The mission set off was for the middle of recharge cycle, when most good and law-abiding bots, even Autobots, were catching their forty volts. One joy of martial law, he supposed. He held the air support back—they could make better time and the noise might alert Autobots to their presence.

Light resistance til they hit the dome. Right on cue, the dome’s force generators blew, sparking pink and white into the nightcycle sky.

“In,” A warrior reported—B3.

“Easy part’s over,” Meta cautioned. They better not think they’d accomplished anything more than a walk down a street in the dark. Not til the dome was cleared. If it’s in the dome, it’s the enemy. Got it? Got it. Meta, you must be a moron. Some sort of idiot savant. If it’s in the fraggin’ dome, it’s the fraggin’ enemy. Like he didn’t know how to read his own registers.

“To the right, energon refinery. C and E teams—you have no explosives. You clear it. Metal slugs only.” He released C and E CCs to light monitoring. Having all of the consciousnesses in his head for a long time was agonizing. Confusing. He lost track of who he was sometimes. Where he was. You, he said, are in harness. You are Meta. Meta decides to pull back from C and E and let their primary CCs do their jobs to make his life a little easier.

“H and J teams, you’re on perimeter. Optics bright. Everyone in Saejon sector probably saw the dome go down. Expect…something.”

“A and D, you go straight up the middle. Armory to the left, some sort of warehouse—contents unknown—to the right. Go past main doors twenty paces, stop, and use your demo to blow a new front door. No fatal funnels for us tonight.”

It went like this for two cycles, directing each team as an individual unit, at the CC level. Too easy. Meta began thinking they were actually going to make it without superlative ugliness. The Autobots were going down in droves.

Until E team disappeared. Blew right off his registry. He heard the howl of the CC in agony—losing that many linked-in minds—all of those alarm systems, fatality alerts—going off at once. He reached in and shut down E’s CC, pulling him offline. No survivors. Whatever blew E away seemed to have given the Autobots new spine for resistance—they opened up with renewed vigor.

“Meta, what happened?” Tailwind asked.

Meta swore. “My frag up. I’ll fix it.”

“What happened?” More insistent.

“Have to do fraggin’ everything, don’t I?” That was it. He pulled primary control for the remaining 87 operational fighters. They couldn’t do the damn job, he was going to get the blame? He would do it. He could do it.

*****
In the control monitoring room, Bombshock shook his head. “He’s losing it. I told you it was only a matter of time.”

“He’s got it,” said the supervisor.

“No, he’s right. Meta’s losing control. We have to pull him.” Tailwind’s distress was obvious. He believed in the Meta program. Believed in Meta. They glared at each other. The supervisor looked down at his screen. "Primus, he’s taking all of them,” he said, shocked. He looked up. “Fine. Pull them.”

*****

Another unit dropped off his registry. How? What now? He’d heard no explosions. What had taken out ten warriors that he didn’t know about? His capacitor started racing. Where did they go? His consciousness struggled with controlling the remaining bots. Mission,simple. If it’s in the dome, it’s the enemy. Fine. Even overstretched, he could do that.

He called up status. Twenty two of his registering offline. At least they wouldn’t fight his control. He hit his override, and the offlined mechs stirred to life, optics dim.

In the dome: ten new enemies. Not on his registry. Enemy. Where had they come from? No matter: he knew for damn sure where they were going: to the Pit.

*****
“Dammit! He’s killing them!” The supervisor’s voice was shrill.

“Who?” Bombshock lunged for the supervisor’s screen.

“Alpha team! You pulled their connect and now he thinks they’re the enemy!”

“Stop him.”

The supervisor swore, and hit his comm. “Meta. This is Combat Control One. Cease action.”

“Can’t!” came the frantic reply. “Losing them like flies here. I cut ‘em loose they’ll all die.”

“Meta.” His voice harder. “Cease action.”

“Mission not complete. If they’re in the dome, they’re the enemy. I can get them. I can still get them. Where are they coming from?” Meta’s voice skirled up in panic.

Tailwind swore. “Doesn’t realize who he’s killing. Stop cutting teams loose, Bombshock. Don’t you see what he’s doing? If they’re not on his registry, they’re targets.”

“Well what? Do you want us to let him run them all down?”

“Meta. Direct order. Cease action.”

A long empty static.

“Meta?”

“Do you want them all to die?” Meta’s voice was tight. “I can save them. Or I can kill them all. Right now. They fight me less when they’re dead. Let me do my job.”

The supervisor went cold. Meta, a spindly little bot barely bigger than a drone, currently had…he called up, 68 warriors’ systems on hijack. Thirty of whom registered as status offline. Which he’d just said he would terminate if he wasn’t allowed to continue—exterminating any team that went off registry. “Yes, fine,” he said, and cut comm. “We need another solution.”

“Easy. Pull his plug.”

The supervisor nodded. “I’ll give the order.”

Tailwind shook his head. “End of the Meta program.”

“Pushed him too hard. Should have known better.”

Bombshock snapped, “Apologize to his corpse. I told you this would happen. And now—how many good bots are we losing?”

Ha ha ha haha. I suck. Last two official chapters, but there's...an epilogue which I'll post tomorrow. I hate epilogues. Pretty much solid admissions by the author that he or she has completely muffed tying up all the storyarc. But...nonetheless, I wrote a epilogue. I hate me for you.

I do remind you that Barricade is younger than you think.

*********
9.
Vertigo almost made it to Meta’s CC harness when he felt his entire body go rigid. “How did you get in here,” a voice hissed from somewhere inside his processor. “Are you in here now too? Are you all coming after me?” Vertigo whimpered. “What is your mission?” the voice demanded. When Vertigo didn’t answer, he felt a burst of pain shoot through his entire primary sensor net. Two alarms redlined. “What is your mission?” the voice demanded again.

“To…disconnect Meta.”

“You are the enemy.” And Vertigo fell.

*****

“What the frag just happened?” Bombshock said. “Would you please explain to me what the frag just went on down there?”

The supervisor bit his lip. “Must have…maybe. I mean, it’s the only way that explains it….”

“What?”

“He must have range-hacked Vertigo. If he’d CCd him before, the firewall permissions would still be in place and he could just—“ The supervisor gestured with his hands. CC was hard to explain to outsiders, “reach out and take him.”

*****
“Stop!” one of the warriors—H5—shrieked at him, over his controls. “They’re us. They’re our guys!” H5’s voice was filled with horror as he felt, saw, his own body shooting at his comrades.

“They are not. They have been suborned. They are in the dome. They are our enemy.”

“Stop. Listen. Please. You have to stop!”

“H5, I am tired of your voice.” Meta cut H5’s vocal processors. He could still feel H5’s mind thrashing around in his. But at least his audio was clear. He had enemies coming at him from all sides now. Even here in the CC. They’d sent two more after Vertigo, as if he could be distracted by one and let the other through to kill him. He had dropped them both. No need to ask their mission.

*****
10.
“I can do it. I have never undergone combat control,” Starscream said. That was the requirement that had gone out on all-channels. As a Seeker, he had flatly refused, and no one had had the authority—or the gyros—to call him on it. Seekers did not submit to drop their firewalls for anything. “What is it I must do?”

“Go to CC-1Alpha. There’s one harness in there. Meta’s harness. He’s…lost control.”

“Do I kill him?”

“If necessary.”

“No—wait,” another voice cut in. “If he’s hardhacked the warriors on the ground, and he dies….?”

A pause. “Try not to kill him.”

“Try? I shall do more than try.” The jet sounded offended. As if he only had an on-off switch? He would find a way to disconnect this Meta without killing him. He was a warrior, and a warrior knew more than merely how to kill. Meta would be stopped.

CC-1Alpha was a cramped, dark, ugly room, Starscream thought. With the three bodies on the floor, it was also cluttered. Combat Control was not a glamorous job, apparently. The one they called Meta dangled from a harness, tilted forward, four hands clawing at the air. His heel pistons fired intermittently. His entire head was enveloped in an enormous black globe. Cables, as thick as the jet’s own power cords, ran from the ceiling to the helmet. This. This was Meta. This was of whom they were all afraid. He was…tiny.

Starscream felt something brush his sensor net. Then, Meta spoke.

“You. Who are you? Why can’t I get you?”

The jet said nothing, sidling nearer the helmet, curious. Trying to peer through.

“They sent you to kill me.”

“They did not. They sent me to stop you.”

“Semantics. Don’t have time for it.” Meta swore. “Losing more. How? Where are they coming from? Where?” The hands moved fast enough to blur even in the jet’s optics.

“Meta,” Starscream said, gently. “What is your personal designation?” Sidelining the bot’s attention as he got closer.

“Unit 26G643AB. Barricade.”

“Barricade. Stop.”

“I can’t! They’re dying! I can’t let them die. I have to do it. I have to do it all myself.”

The jet was close enough. He swept one of his long arms out over the Meta’s control helmet, severing the cables. Disconnected, the helmet fell from the ceiling in a shower of sparks. The jet caught the smaller bot in one arm. He jerked the helmet off—its faceplate shattered against the floor. Starscream looked down at this…thing in his arm. Barely larger than a sparkling, eyes deformed by the helmet, hands still clawing the air. It seemed not to register him immediately, as if its optics were still showing him CC screens. Suddenly, it shrieked, a sound that ripped through the jet’s audioprocessors. Raw pain. “Gone!” Meta shrieked. “All of them? I’ve lost all of them. All dead. All dead! What didn’t I see? What didn’t I do!” His limbs started flailing, not like before. Almost like…some sort of seizure.

The jet held the smaller bot away from himself, letting the thing thrash its way through the seizure, until the ugly little thing started tearing away at himself, his small claws digging into the unarmored skin of his other arms, his chest, his face.

Starscream pressed the bot against his chest, smothering its voice, pinning its panicked limbs against him. It scrabbled; its small hands clawing at his armor. This. This was the bot who had killed his thirty of his own mechs. Three more here in CC. And the other combat control bots? This. He couldn’t even scratch Starscream’s paint. “Barricade,” he said. “It’s over.”

“It’s not over. I can do it! I lost them. All of them? How? How? I don’t understand!” The smaller bot started trembling, all over. Starscream patted the small mech, awkwardly. Its deformed optics leaked optical lens lubricant, probably from the change of lighting. Even the dim light of the CC seemed to hurt its optics. It pressed its ugly face against his shoulder.

“Losing a battle is difficult, Barricade. Losing good warriors is also difficult. It is…normal to be upset. It is not your fault. It is simply how battles go. If you persist in blaming yourself, you will swiftly be non-functional.”

“It’s my fault. My fault! I didn’t go in early enough. I didn’t see…something.” It banged its head against Starscream’s chest, hard enough to bruise the jet’s clavicular strut. “What didn’t I see?” it moaned.

“Barricade.” Starscream jerked the small mech’s face up to his. Its feet kicked feebly against his thigh. Helpless. Like a drone. Starscream’s spark ached: this little bot was too young. Too young, and they had done this to him. How many deaths, how many maimings had the little thing seen through his CC system? How many had he had to push through, work around? And he had almost never lost. And this, this was his reward. Starscream knew the CC supervisor wouldn’t hesitate to terminate the little mech. Public show, close the books on the Meta project. It would be a liability to have Meta work CC again—who would ever trust him?

“Little one,” he said. It was so easy, too easy, to think of the small mech as a sparkling. Not just his size, but his immaturity, the raw emotion splashed over his malformed little face—all the anger and grief and sorrow and helpless fury that older mechs learned to mask. “You have one life you can save. One more.” The mech’s eyes struggled focus on him, listening intently to his words. The hands calmed down, clutching tiny fingers around his armor plating. “Little one, who are you? You can be Meta, or you can be Barricade. Which one are you?”

Wow. What can I say? This is amazing! The end in particular is just so touching; poor Barricade!
And Starscream! So very pleased he came in somehow (saving the day = even better!)
Keep it up!
Petrina

Petrina, thanks for your kind feedback! It's much different than what I usually write, but it's semi important backstory for an upcoming one.

Anyway, here's your lovely Epilogue. Was it necessary? Discuss.


********

Epilogue:

“This is on your authority, Air Commander.”

“Yes.”

“And on your head. If he shows any signs of instability….”

“He will not. If metacontrol did not break him, nothing will.” Starscream looked behind him, where the ugly little thing crouched on the floor. The walk over here had exhausted the thing’s legs—atrophied from merely dangling in the harness cycle after cycle. Something like a second-thought bubbled in Starscream’s brain: the droneling cannot even manage to walk. How can he adapt to anything else? No. He deserved a chance.

“What did you have in mind for him?”

“Intelligence.” He heard Tailwind suck in a breath to protest. “The bot is not stupid. Even you must admit that his tactical abilities are almost unmatched. It would be, if nothing else, a waste not to use him.” Starscream felt the little ugly thing’s freakish eyes on him. It had finally managed, after cycles of effort, to get all four eyes to point in the same direction.

“Too high priority. If he cracks, just once….” Bombshock let the sentence dangle into possibilities.

“He will not crack. When I pulled him, he was controlling more than sixty bots. That is not a weak or unstable mind.” More than that, every kill these hijacked mechs had scored had been one-shots. Straight, drilled through the spark chamber. That was not an out-of-control processor. The survivors had pointed out how easily one could identify one of Meta’s kills. Apparently, his trademark.

“Unit 26G643AB defied a direct order.”

“His name is Barricade. He is not a mere unit. You will grant him that dignity.” Starscream’s voice was cold.

“He was murdering other bots!”

“He was acting within mission parameters. I heard him—you did not. His orders were if they were in the dome and not on his registry, they were the enemy. All of his actions were entirely consistent with that directive. He did not snap. He did not crack. He was following orders.” That was what had overcome the jet’s repulsion to the deformed little thing—in his way, Barricade was acting as a warrior. And from what Starscream had seen on playback, a damn good warrior. “If there is a problem here, it is in the directives he was given.”

The CC supervisor pinched his mouth. He spoke for the first time. “All right. I will sign the orders releasing it—him—from CC. And Meta will die. But…it’s up to you.”

“No,” Starscream said, looking over at Barricade again. The ugly thing met his eyes. It had fully expected termination. Told him that even trying this was a waste of time. Starscream had responded that a mech who expects to die wouldn’t find any time or any chance a waste. And then he simply pulled rank and overrode the little mech’s wishes, leaving the thing openmouthed. Apparently unused to any sort of challenge. He was no longer Meta. He would have to learn.

Starscream had been surprised how meek the bot had been—not even saying a word for itself, just squatting on the floor lost in its own thoughts. The two other combat leaders seemed surprised by the small mech’s humble silence as well. Apparently it was not his usual behavior. Starscream hoped it spoke well for the little mech’s maturity. Perhaps Meta was gone, and Barricade…was yet to be formed.

Its smaller arms twisted idly—the only sign of tension in the little frame—picking at the gouges it had made in itself during its thrashing seizure. Barricade’s gaze was somewhere between gratitude and a glare.

“It is up to him what he makes of this.”

need..to find...jaw-drop smily

AWESOME work, HK. Micromaster cameos FTW!!!