Blurred Lines
Chapter 1: Confusion and Introductions
By Dreaming of Everything

Disclaimer:

Author's Notes: While I'm using almost entirely G1 characters, some changes have been made, especially to the Decepticons. Keep in mind that this is movieverse, and not connected to any other canon. I'm merely doing what the movie did (Kiiiind of. Okay, not really.)

Why the OCs, then? Well, there weren't any characters already in existence that suited my needs.

And I am shameless. That, too.

Many, many thanks to my beta, mmouse15. She is more wonderful than I have words for.

oOoOoOo

It was a clear, cloudless December night, and the desert was quiet. The air was dry and cold, the sandy earth colder and nearly lifeless. The Milky Way was spread out above everything, blue-gray swirls of light almost unnatural against the deep blue-black of the heavens. A star was falling, arcing across the sky.

The slight glitter of the shooting star turned into flames as it broke through the atmosphere, blazing across the sky as it fell lower and lower before crashing, resoundingly, into the earth. For square miles around it small creatures—mice, insects, lizards, snakes—ran, panicked, out of their lairs, burrows, nooks and crannies, disturbed by the vibrations of the landing.

Around the impact crater there was the utter, shocked silence left in the wake of violent noise, only magnified by the slight creaks and cracks of cooling glass where the fierce heat had melted the sand. Slowly, agonizingly, a figure unfolded itself out of the hole. He stepped carefully—too carefully—on the rim of the crater, pulled himself up and out of it, half-faltering.

Slowly, he limped off towards the highway, the wind whistling through his armor.

Eventually the small animals that had been jolted out of their homes began to creep back into the earth.

It was a cold night.

oOo

A quick, sudden flinch wove its way through all of the Autobots in unison. Sam and Mikaela were both suddenly on guard, a startling change in the two previously-laughing, no-longer-relaxed teens.

"What?" said Sam warily.

"Signal beacon," said Ratchet, sounding offhand. Sam guessed that he was preoccupied—as the medic, he had some of the most sensitive instruments in the crew. He was probably doing some kind of analysis or another.

"Autobot or Decepticon? Or blocked?" asked Mikaela after a minute. She'd started getting lessons on Cybertronian function and anatomy, along with Sam, although she'd taken to them far better than he had. She'd learned enough to know that each faction had its own unique signature attached to their general signals, but that it could be blocked—not that blocking it was particularly an advantage, usually, because it was considered highly suspicious behavior.

"Autobot," said Ratchet, the one closest to them, after another minute.

"Or a clever fake," said Jazz, frowning a little. "It's an old model—a very old model. That's suspicious."

"No," said Ratchet firmly. "It's Autobot. You might not be able to tell a fake, but I'm more than equipped to notice any little tricks they might have used."

"Where is it coming from?" asked Optimus Prime. "A new signal—"

It would be momentous. It had been six months since they'd defeated Megatron and he'd sent out his message. It hadn't so much as been bounced back. He'd almost thought it a lost cause, that the five of them really were everyone who was left—they all had, more or less. It had been a long, hard war.

"The lookout," said Bumblebee instantly. His own scanning programs weren't bad—as a spy, he needed them.

"Who wants to go investigate?" said Optimus Prime. Technically, only one would be enough—a single signal, an Autobot signal, in a place they knew well. On the other hand, it was somebody new.

There was an instant clamor.

"Who's on duty?" he said—a rhetorical question, really. He was already pulling up the data. "Okay, Bumblebee, stay here. I want someone to watch the base, and Sam and Mikaela should both stay here, just in case. Autobots don't necessarily like non-Cybertronian life any more than Decepticons do—they just have to hate some other Decepticon value more. The rest of you—be careful. Ironhide, no shooting anyone until after they have shot at you, and that includes threatening to shoot them. Even non-verbally. Actually, I think it would be better if you stayed here and ran a patrol of the perimeter of the grounds. You're still in trouble for what you tried back with the Witwickys. Jazz, don't mess around with anyone's mind." There was a short pause. Jazz had been reading up on human theories regarding psychology, and was taking to it a little too well. "…Too much. I know that even that's too much to hope for, really."

"You got it, boss-man," said Jazz cheerily. "Let's go!"

Bumblebee grumbled. Sam and Mikaela both looked unhappy, but they'd also looked doubtful when he'd first asked his question. Their experiences meeting new Autobots really hadn't been all that great, thought Optimus reflectively. It made sense that they would be a little hesitant—especially considering that they were so soft and delicate. He'd been researching human health a little, in his free time (not that he had much, although he did have more than he was used to. Peace time was taking some adjustment,) and it was incredible how many ways they could die. That they'd managed to live at all…

Actually, the whole planet was something of a miracle. The sheer variety of forms life had taken—it was fantastical.

oOo

"Sorry you got left behind," said Mikaela suddenly, more or less out of the blue.

"Huh?" said Sam, then "Oh. Yeah. I'm sorry, too."

Bumblebee shrugged. "This isn't too bad, I guess…" he said, voice slightly wicked with humor. Mikaela rolled her eyes.

"If it's such a strain for you, we could always head back home for Christmas break and let you have some time off for yourself," said Sam, just as amused even as he called his bluff. "Spend some quality time with the rest of the team, some of the other humans. Tell Glen 'hi' for me."

The Autobot bumped a hip into the table, jolting it just hard enough to make the two standing humans stumble, then affected a casual whistle, looking as innocent as a sunny day in June.

"Hey!" said Mikaela, mock-affronted, after she'd regained her balance. Sam would have played along as well, but he was sprawled on the tabletop, laughing too hard to stand back up.

Eventually, the laugher died down.

"This is going to be the coolest Christmas break ever," said Sam, smiling widely at his girlfriend and his best friend.

oOo

He'd stumbled across a small house and scanned the first vehicle of vaguely appropriate size. At least he had an alt form, now—although it had been a surprise that he even still had the function. His self-diagnosis programs weren't working correctly anymore; he'd sustained too much damage. All his scans had showed that his transformation should work fine, but he'd been doubtful, and it would have been much harder to get to the spot marked as the origin of the message they'd intercepted without a way to blend in at least a little more than he otherwise would. He would need to be careful anyways—he didn't have a holographic system, not anymore.

Transformation had been painful. Quickly-patched repairs were not meant to deal with that sort of strain. He was ignoring the nagging worry that the switch into the car-shape had reopened the long cut along the back of his leg—his repair systems showed nothing, but he didn't expect them to. There wasn't any pain, but he was pretty sure that the main wires responsible for sense had been cut as well. Driving, thankfully, had been easier than transformation.

And now he was at the empty lookout the message had had imprinted as its location of origin. There were no Autobots or Decepticons there, no Transformers at all, unless they were shielding themselves. He'd sent out a message in return, hoping it would bring someone—anyone—and now he was waiting. He'd fallen into a half-doze, unable to stay fully alert any longer.

It was fully dark again when the sound of engines jolted him awake. He smothered the urge to leave, to find someplace a little more secure to hide, and swept his nervousness aside, starting another diagnostic again—his sensors should have alerted him, and they were moving too loudly—not even trying to cover the sound of their engines and tires—for them to bother shielding at all, let alone with the kind of strength it would take to disguise them so totally at such close range.

His own engine rumbled to life, but he knew that he was in trouble if he needed to escape. He was seriously injured, and not a racer at the best of times—it just wasn't one of his strengths. And then there were a host of other problems: from the noises he could hear, he was badly outnumbered, and on unknown terrain, and still running on far less recharge time than what he needed to be fully functional.

The first vehicle to pull up skidded to a stop and slid into a quick, competent, seamless reform before he'd even fully stopped moving. Another two vehicles—a small gray sports car and a bright fluorescent green Hummer equipped as an ambulance pulled up behind him and followed suit. Slowly, he initiated his own transformation: it would be highly rude, and possibly suspicious, not to mention outside military protocol, to not follow their lead, despite how it was probably going to rip open other barely-scabbed-over wounds.

The boxy green one made an annoyed sort of sound.

"Sir," he said, saluting the tall one who'd led the trio, assuming that he was the leader.

"At ease," he replied immediately, with an easy confidence that confirmed his guess even before he finished speaking. "I am Optimus Prime."

He saluted again, automatically—he had known a Prime was on earth, of course, because the name had been attached to the message, but he hadn't expected that he would respond to him personally like this.

"You seem like you've had a hard time," continued the other Autobot diplomatically. "Are you injured?"

The boxy green one took this as an opening. "Yes, he is," he said firmly. "I don't know who you are, but what in the name of Primus were you doing, traveling like this? You utter idiot—!"

"Ratchet," cut in Optimus Prime with a sigh.

"Right," said the small gray one. His voice was oddly familiar, even in the stunted ranges of English. "Like you've probably gathered, this is Ratchet, and I'm—"

Something clicked into place. "Jazz?" he said, using the Cybertronian version of the name, voice suddenly filled with clear surprise.

"Yeah, that's me—wait, Prowl?"

"Yes," he said.

"Damn. It's been a long time—I'd assumed you'd gotten killed by some 'Con or another. How ya doing?" He stepped forward to bump affectionately into the other mech, who stumbled, just slightly, at even that faint nudge. "You've been really fucked over, huh?"

"Yes," said Prowl, managing a faint (if slightly sour) smile. "You haven't changed."

Jazz smirked. "Neither have you."

"You'd be surprised," said Prowl cryptically.

"Let Ratch' look over you, though—he's the best medic I've ever known—and you need it. Bad."

Ratchet growled. Prowl obediently made his way over to the medic, who already had one hand reformed into a delicate-looking medical tool, waiting.

"Down," said Ratchet forcefully. "I need to get that leg fixed before we go back to the base, where I can actually start repairing you. But you can't travel like that—it's a miracle you managed to move at all, let alone transform. What are your repair systems doing?"

"Oh," said Prowl, feeling distinctly disconnected from reality. A slightly more conscious logic function noted that it was probably a combination of fuel loss and exhaustion shutting down mental processes. "So it did end up splitting open again…" Sure enough, there was a growing puddle of internal fluids slowly soaking into the ground where he'd been at rest.

"Down!" bellowed Ratchet. Prowl obeyed.

oOo

The formidable medic—Ratchet—had forced him straight into the medbay; he'd caught only slight glimpses of the base as he passed through. It was nice—very new, enough so that the floors were unscuffed, the ceiling hadn't collected any dust and the walls were empty of the slight dents and scrapes that inevitably ended up on them over time. Jazz had informed him that it had been inaugurated just a week before. He'd also caught a brief glimpse of Ironhide—"Don't take it seriously if he threatens to shoot you," had been Jazz's advice; "He'd damn well better not shoot my patients," had been Ratchet's—and a slightly better one of the (much) friendlier Bumblebee, along with the two organics that were currently inhabiting the base, albeit only temporarily.

He'd wanted to give the Autobots—Optimus Prime, really—his message, but the medic had put him in a forced recharge. Prowl had just woken up, to find the medbay deserted. He didn't know the private comm. lines, let alone know if he would be imposing if he tried to use them—there were different rules and customs in different units—and he certainly didn't want to send off another general transmission.

Prowl just lay where he was for a while, waiting. He was relieved when the sound of footprints approached, although he couldn't see them from where he was. Eventually the source of them stepped into the room, the door swishing open and closed around the form.

"Ratchet," he said by way of perfunctory greeting. "I need to talk to Optimus Prime."

"Okay," said the medic, agreeable enough to surprise Prowl. His personality seemed to have changed dramatically. After another brief second, he added "He's on his way."

"Thank you," said Prowl stiffly, a beat after he should have said it. An awkward silence grew.

It didn't last long before the door swung open again, although it wasn't Optimus Prime. "Hey!" said Jazz. "How ya doing?"

"Better," said Prowl. His diagnostics seemed to be working again, for one, a huge relief, and he no longer hurt everywhere he wasn't numb—no numb patches at all, in fact, and only a dull ache along his leg and in a few other scattered places where he'd been more badly injured.

"He's far from well," said Ratchet, voice dangerous again. "I've got most of his basic systems and subprograms running again, but not everything, and it's just going to take time for most of the delicate wiring to repair itself. There's still a few major flaws in the armor proper—nasty sort of blade those slashes were caused by, never seen anything like it—that will also take some time. Transformation should be a strain for a few more days, but it shouldn't cause you any problems like it was. That stunt you pulled was stupid as anything I've seen from a hot-blooded rookie on his first time in the field, for the record."

Ratchet paused slightly as Optimus entered the room, before continuing. "And you need a new alt form—your current one is slightly too small, and it'll cause problems in both the long and short term. There was a flaw in that program as well—that's what got you something too small in the first place—but it's been corrected now. Really, it's a miracle you're alive."

Jazz whistled. "Damn, you really were fucked up. I—"

Before he could continue, he was interrupted by Ironhide speaking through the base intercom system, the noise broadcast into the room.

"Optimus, we've got possible 'Con activity on a military base nearby," he said. Prowl winced, just slightly, although only Jazz noticed the slight movement.

"Play what we received," said Optimus, frowning.

"Whoah! For a minute there, there were two jets in hangar 7!"

"You're crazy, man, or you need sleep. Charlie, don't put that in the report. Lewis, get yourself a replacement and then some rest, and you're lucky I'm not sending you to the shrink. God, what I would give to have a fully competent team just once…"

"It does sound a lot like someone just found himself a nice new alt form," said Ratchet with a frown.

"And there's been no transmission," said Jazz. "I don't like it. If they're Autobots, what've they got to hide?"

"We shouldn't be hasty," said Optimus. "But we can't risk any human lives. Ironhide, com Bumblebee and have him return to take your place—he's out with Sam and Mikaela, right? Then you're with me, along with Jazz. There were several meteor strikes mentioned in the area recently, so whoever this is might not be alone. Ratchet, I want you along in case of injury, but stay out of the fighting—your role here is too essential to risk. All of you—and this goes for you especially, Ironhide—don't make the first aggressive move. Defend yourself if you're attacked, but don't go after anyone. Autobots, move out. I'm sorry, Prowl, I'll have to talk to you later."

He was gone before Prowl could collect his still-scattered thoughts to reply.

oOo

"I wonder what's happened," said Sam. "I mean, there's that one new guy—Prowl?—and then another possible sighting, possibly with more…"

"Yeah," said Mikaela. Bumblebee chirped his agreement.

"Not talking again?" said Sam, quirking his head to look up at his friend.

"Not much," he replied, his voice scratchy. "Still hurts. And Ratchet'll throw another hissy fit if I damage anything again."

"Makes you wonder, though," said Mikaela with a frown. She sat for a minute, thinking, before she shook it off. "At least we'd already bought groceries when they called," she said, smiling slightly.

"Yeah," said Sam. He paused for a second before continuing, sourly, "But was blasting that song across the parking lot to get me out of the store really necessary? When I bought you—no, I know I don't really own you, shut up—you looked old enough that anybody would believe you had a broken radio, but now? They just give me looks. Especially when the song is 'Bitchin' Camaro.'" (1)

oOo

It was a dark night. Ordinarily, there would have been stars and a moon hanging above the desert, but clouds had blocked them over, and it was too far from any city for much spillover light pollution. The air was heavy with anticipation of the coming storm, charged with tension. The only noises were the low growls of thunder rumbling off in the distance and the muted murmur of voices.

"I don't see why we don't just leave him," a voice grumbled.

"I waited for you," a second voice pointed out, reasonably. "And you took half an eternity."

There was a long pause, silent at first but slowly filled with the noise of the rain sweeping down the desert. It bounced loudly off of metal as it reached the group.

"I hate this planet already," the first voice said.

"I don't mind it too—" the second speaker's voice cut off as another rumble of thunder faded out, revealing the growing sound of an engine overhead.

"Finally," the first voice, still disgruntled, said.

"Like I said, I waited for you, and you were hardly any better. You don't even have an excuse."

"Yeah," said a new voice, although the words weren't in English, weren't in any human language. "Damned tiny organics didn't have anything big enough for an alt form. You've got no excuse. I think I downloaded the wrong language."

There was a brief pause. "Nice non-sequitor," said the second voice admiringly.

"Well, say something," said the first voice, still annoyed. The third one did, switching out of the unearthly language all three had been using since the latest arrival.

"Nope, that's not it—try again!"

"That's not helpful—and it doesn't make sense. More countries have this one listed as an official language than any other…"

"Think of it as the current diplomatic language."

"Stupid, having so many of them, anyways. Confusing…"

There was another break in the conversation.

"…I hate the rain," said the first speaker's voice again.

oOo

Ratchet kicked moodily at the desert floor. It wasn't even sand—it was powder. The sort of thing that caused seven flavors of hell when it got into Autobot systems, which it inevitably did when there was a fight—all those cut fuel lines and coolant tubes, and dirt getting kicked around and people falling over into it.

And it was pouring rain. This was a desert—it wasn't supposed to rain, let alone like this. It made the human myth (2) about Noah and his ark make a lot more sense.

At least it would help damp down the dust. It did make things a lot more miserable, though—there were few things worse than water running down the back of an armor plate. It was better in an alt form—fewer holes, and designed with the weather in mind—but the terrain was far too rough for that to be feasible—not to mention not as safe, if an enemy combatant did show up.

So Ratchet was unhappy. He was even less happy when he came across the Decepticon, insignia clearly displayed for the world to see.

He had his guns out—he was a fast transformer, if nothing else—and aimed almost as quickly as the other one did, which was pretty good, for him; he wasn't designed or programmed for battle, although he'd learned to do his best.

The two eyed each other warily.

"There's been some kind of mistake—" the other began.

"Shut up," ground out Ratchet. The Decepticon looked surprised, then glared back. There was a Decepticon skulking around, Ratchet was an Autobot, what sort of 'mistake' could there be?

After a few more tense seconds the silvery form of Jazz materialized behind the stranger out of the rain, the raindrops falling on him hard enough to throw up a fine mist. His guns—considerably more impressive than Ratchet's own—were both pointed firmly at the Decepticon's back. The stranger cast a resigned look behind him.

"No, really—" he began again.

"Are there any more of you here?" interrupted Jazz coolly, voice steely.

"Yes," said another voice out of the darkness. There was the slight click! of guns prepping. "Don't move."

Ratchet tried to send off a message, but something was blocking the transmission. Almost definitely one of the 'Cons. He could only hope that one of the others realized that they were incommunicado and came to investigate the dead area that would show up on their scans.

They were in luck. "Want to find out if you can shoot faster than I can, punk?" said Ironhide's voice, somewhere between smug and elated at there finally—finally—being a fight.

There was another long, slow, belligerent pause, filled only with the drumming of rain against metal, turning the already loud noise of the storm into a dull roar. Thunder boomed, somewhere off in the distance.

"Hello, there," came another voice, this one clearly smirking, out of the darkness, over towards Ironhide. The slight glow of the newcomer's optics was far, far higher than anyone else's. Ratchet bit back a curse. Jazz didn't bother censoring himself.

Again, nobody moved. After another long minute Ratchet realized he could hear the familiar noise of Optimus' engine approaching, even over the pounding rain. He covered a smirk of his own.

The Decepticons could clearly hear it as well, growing visibly more agitated. "Slag this," muttered the tall one. Ratchet guessed that Optimus was still a few seconds away, at least.

And then it was too late—the tall one was moving, stepping forward to bodily pick up the smaller mech Ratchet and Jazz were threatening. As he moved his leg slammed into Ratchet's side, forcing Jazz to jump out of the way as his teammate came crashing towards him—although, the medic thought muzzily as he hit the ground hard, considering the sheer size of the 'Con, it could almost be considered a light tap, even considering how much it hurt. A little ways away there were the sounds of a fight—no guns, but metal against metal.

Jazz helped him up. "Ironhide!" he called out into the darkness, echoing the message in text on a private comlink as he realized that he could again.

There was a wordless growl and Ironhide limped forward to join the other three as Optimus pulled up out of the darkness and transformed. "What happened?" he asked.

"Three of them, all of us with guns locked on each other with the final link in their favor until you arrived. No shots from either side—they were being remarkably non-aggressive. Making me edgy, matter of fact. As you got closer the big one—and damn but he is big—grabbed the one me and Ratchet had our sights on and ran," said Jazz quickly.

"The third jumped me," said Ironhide grumpily. "Got a nasty cut in on my leg, and then ran before I had the chance to return the favor." Return it with interest, if Ratchet knew Ironhide. Which he did.

"There's something odd about this whole situation," said Optimus with a frown. "I don't like it either."

They all paused, then, as another signal drew nearer—an Autobot one, this time. Eventually the noise of a raspy, unhealthy engine drew close enough to hear, and then the car it was coming from. Prowl pulled up and shifted into his bipedal mode.

"You need to listen," he said, voice heavy with urgency. "There's something I need to explain."

oOo

(1) An actual song, by the Dead Milkmen. I blame the tf2007fun community over on LJ.

(2) Ratchet's an alien, like all the Autobots, and definitely not Christian because of that. (Barring the possibility of conversion, and that's just not something I'm going to touch with a ten-foot pole.) From his viewpoint, all Earth's belief systems and mythologies and cultural stories and etcetera look more or less the same. He's not going to differentiate between biblical parables and, say, Greek myths.

--End Chapter 1--