Title: To the Rats
Author: ShadowDemon-Gengar
Character Pairings: Barricade/OC; Starscream/Alexis
Genre: Romance/Drama
Rating: T
Warnings: Profanity
Disclaimers: I own nothing Transformers.
Summary: Two women; two Decepticons; nine Autobots; over 6.6 billion humans; one mutual enemy. The Decepticons and Autobots are at it again, preparing themselves for another intense battle against one another, but what is going to happen when both sides learn of a more heinous threat slowly making its way toward Earth, searching for the spark of Primus?

Recommendation(s): Keep story's width at "3/4"; adjustment settings are at the top-right corner of the site, where the different font styles and sizes are located. "3/4" is the original width that this story was written in.

Author's Note: Holy crap, WTF is this? An update?! Hell yeah, but only because I'm scared of Blackwing.Rose and the fact I think she was about ready to eat me alive for allowing this story to wallow in its neglect, lol.

lol, nah, I'm kidding. I understand the frustration, I suppose. I love this story, which makes necessary revising that much more difficult for me. ;-;

Chapter Three: Time Ticks

Their base was filthy as slag.

And just as absurdly cold and damp.

The first orders he'd slapped down after arriving at the base was for said base to be cleaned; top to bottom.

As for the temperature . . . well, they were just going to have to deal with it.

What the slag was I consuming when I decided to build our only Earth base two miles under a fragging lot? Starscream thought irritably.

Grumbling irritably under his breath, he snagged his second-in-command by the wing as he stalked by, dragging the confused, protesting Decepticon to the control room. He firmly pushed him toward the gigantic, black-screened monitor looming over everything in the circular room.

"Tell me when you get this online," he snapped.

"Uh . . . sure," Thundercracker said, giving him a quick salute before turning to the button-infested control panels.

He left his wing-mate to visit the construction bay, where he found Skywarp, Demolishor, and Cyclonous struggling to haul a large, steel crate into a corner.

"Tell me why we couldn't have built this thing back on Cybertron? Or at least on the way here?" whined Cyclonous in his high-pitched, crazed-toned voice as they dropped the crate heavily. He leaned against it, trying to catch his breath. "Blasted . . . crate . . . why is it . . . so heavy?"

"Stop being so weak, slaghead," he growled, annoyed. "The crate is heavy because it's made up of a reinforced steel, you loon. There weren't any guarantees that the weapon would've survived impact had it already been built. At least in the crate, I knew the parts would be safe. Now, stop your sniveling and get your afts out of here and start cleaning this Primus forsaken place! NOW, slaggit!"

The three Decepticons quickly scrambled out of the room, tossing dark looks over their shoulders as they exited out into the corridors.

His expression still sour, Starscream grabbed hold of one of the large, flat dials attached securely on each side of the steel crate, fitting his sharp digits into the grooves and attempted to turn it, which would then unlock one of the latches on the inside.

But it wouldn't give way.

Scowling, he leaned his weight into it, managing to twist it loose. The latch on the inside slid open with a resounding click. He quickly did this with the other three dials before the top panel was released with a harsh hiss.

Quietly, he removed the top and set it down, peering inside and then reaching in to pull out a large, black tablet that sat on top of the many sleeves of steel, neatly bundled wires, and various types of bolts, screws, and rivets. He pressed a couple of buttons on the blank tablet to activate the hologram, revealing the instructions to assemble his Null Ray.

And then . . . he began to regret not recruiting at least one Constructicon.

"Thundercracker to Starscream."

"What?" he snarled as he slapped the tablet back into the crate. The design of his weapon had been fairly simple . . . he created it, after all. But he lacked the tools or the advanced knowledge of construction, as did the rest of his scrap-heap crew.

"I have WAR up and running."

"Fine," he hissed, disconnecting from their communication link, emphasizing the cutoff with an irritated jerk of his head.

"God damnit!"

He settled comfortably in an air of sadistic amusement as he watched the human femme kick a tool away in frustration.

"God, how does Alexis deal with this shit day in and day out? It's so – so argh!"

Good; get frustrated, you disgusting flesh creature, he thought with vicious hostility.

Suddenly, with a suppressed shudder of discomfort, he felt something - something that not even a proper human mechanic could possibly find - within him firmly snap back into place, followed by his internal computer and nano-processor coming back online, followed by a male, monotone voice.

'Processor System rebooting – Now scanning and accessing damages and repairs:
Artillery and Weaponry System offline.
Audio Receptors online.
Circuit Neurosystem offline.
Energon Levels: Critical.
Emergency Energon Backup: Depleted.
Lower-left appendage's Central Joint damaged.
Optical Visual Processor and Corresponding Components online.
Radar and Communication Link Systems offline.
Short-Range and Long-Range Sensors and Signature Sensors online.
Upper-left appendage missing.
Upper-right Optical damaged.
Vocal Processor offline.'

He wanted to growl in frustration. His state of helplessness, not unlike that of a newly created Sparkling, was not something he was accustomed to nor wanted to experience any longer. But . . . he had no choice in the matter, and the pulsing pain and restlessness was close to driving him into madness.

Primus, how could I have ended up this way? he thought, watching, through a fog of sudden exhaustion, as the human femme picked through her tools.

He remembered a time when he had once been one of Megatron's most competent, loyal soldiers, scouting and hunting down certain Autobots who were highly suspected of possessing valuable information on different aspects on the war and, most importantly, the Allspark itself.

And he had never once returned to the base without completing a mission. Sometimes, he had stayed away from the base for weeks at a time, knowing that patience was his one virtue amongst his sins . . . and thus making all of his missions successful.

And now . . . he was here – leaderless; alone; broken.

And a good portion of the blame rightfully belonged to one, insignificant maggot:

Starscream.

His rage boiled, hot and snarling, through his circuits.

You Pit-ugly fucker . . . he seethed blackly, vowing as he absently registered the human throwing her tools into the open, steel toolbox and storming out of the garage. Megatron might have dismissed your traitorous ways . . . but no one double-crosses me. . .

The female returned with a handful of envelops, dangerously oblivious to his ominous thoughts and time-bomb like temper.

Exhausted, angry, and in pain, he desperately tried to distract himself by directing his attention back to her, scanning her handful of mail as she sifted through it: electric bill, male enhancement advertisement, telephone bill, America Online service advertisement, Netflix advertisement, a letter without a return address –

When she paused, he mentally quirked an optic ridge and zoomed his Optical Sensors in on the letter as she set the others down on her workbench and, much to his indignant dismay, then braced her rear against the side of his mangled hood.

"Hmm . . . maybe it's a letter from Santa, eh, big guy?" she lightly teased, waving the envelope a little and glancing at him with a grin as she tore it open.

What in the Pit is a 'Santa'? he thought, absentmindedly, still vexed with her aft being pressed against him. What he wouldn't give to blare his horn or rev his engine . . .

When she pulled out the letter, he noticed right away that it wasn't a customary note. The contents consisted of cutout letters, varying between different sizes, colors, and fonts, which were pasted on the slip of paper, one after the other, to form words.

" . . . Oh, God."

The terrified quiver in the human femme's vocal patterns pricked his interest more. Scowling, he casually scanned the letter as it shook in her hands:

"Dear Liberty,

It seems you've skipped out on me while I've been . . . away. Why? I've missed you so much. You must be feeling the same way. But don't worry. I will be seeing you real soon . . ."