Control

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?”
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?”