Disclaimer: Hello! I'm Angel, and this is my first attempt at writing for this fandom.

I've done a story similar to this in the past in another fandom, where a person enters a show/game/movie, but I also research material to add into it from other sources. Stuff that's from the same world, but not shown upfront. That's what I decided to do here with Transformers. After seeing Bumblebee, and using my love of several of the cartoons and video games, I wanted to try my hand at doing the same here: make a Transformers movie story, but with a more in-depth plot and deeper characters.

I only own Blake. Everything else belongs to Hasbro, and... well, whoever else owns Transformers. I think it's just them though.

"Speaking"

Thinking

My head hurt. Hurt, as in it felt like a sledgehammer was pounding against an anvil inside my skull. Banging again, and again, and again. So... what was the number of that car that hit me? Ow. Sitting up, even though it was done slowly, still caused a head rush, making me sway back and forth. "E-eugh..."

One could compare this to a hangover, but from what I could remember, I didn't drink anything in the past few months. So then, why was I like this? An absolute wreck? Blearily, my eyes cracked open, blinking away the tiredness. "What the-this... this isn't my living room." Lamps were spread out everywhere, bathing the cream painted room in a soft yellow glow. It was already night outside, judging from the darkness I saw out of the screen door leading to a fenced backyard. The decorations, well-manicured house plants on tables and shelves with drapes to accompany the design of it all; none of this suited my personal tastes. Sure, it was nice, but all of it proved that I was in a stranger's home.

What home though, is the big problem. At least they got nice taste in plants. Inside and outside, judging from the deck lights. "Hello?" I looked down at the dark wooden coffee table, and the glass of water and plate of snacks laid out. Was that for me, or for whoever lived there? "Is anyone home?" Footsteps echoed from within a room in the house, and I watched an older redheaded woman come out. A white blouse with pink and purple flowers on it, and a dark blue skirt falling to her knees. Another glass of water was in her hand, leading me to assume she just came from the kitchen.

"Oh, thank goodness you've come to." She sat the drink on a coaster, taking a seat in a tan recliner that matched the sofa I was asleep on. "How are you feeling, dear?" The relief in her voice took me a little off guard, not at all matching the exhausted eyes and wrinkled cheeks and forehead.

"I... my head feels like it's going to split open, but... I think I'm fine," I replied slowly, thinking over the question carefully. Finally sitting upright, I looked over my overall appearance. A baggy dark grey t-shirt and black leggings with a few holes torn in the knees. In short, suited for pure comfort only. Where are my socks and shoes? I blinked, and returned my attention back to her. "I'm sorry, but who are you?"

She smiled, and held out her hand, which I took. "I'm Judy Witwicky." We shook, and I paused as I repeated it over in my head. Witwicky, huh? Wonder what that is.

"Blake Wile. Nice to meet you," I replied. "If you don't mind, Mrs. Witwicky, but where am I?"

Her face fell a little, and sighed. "My son found you passed out on the sidewalk while my husband was driving him home from school. We didn't see any injuries on you, but you had been asleep for several hours now." I was unconscious on the street? This is going bad to worse, very fast. "What do you remember?"

"Hmm... what do I remember?" I had gotten home from work, still sore from working all day. After changing from my stained overalls into the clothes I was now wearing, and warming up a can of tomato soup for supper, I had nestled down in my living room to eat. After that though... I couldn't recall anything. The day had gone just as any other, with nothing that stood out. Just like any other, other than the glorious fact I am somewhere entirely different that is not my apartment. "I came home from work, ate, and then that's it. Sorry, but I can't recall much more."

"Mom!" The furious pounding of footsteps echoed down from a staircase, and a teenager flew around the corner. His dark brown hair was disheveled, sticking out at odd places from not being combed recently and stood against his young face. Just like myself, he seemed just as stressed as I was. For what, it was hard to say. Maybe it was something normal for him? "Have you seen grandfather's old sailing gear?"

"Try the storage room, Sammy," Judy suggested. The teen, Sam, nodded and went to do just that, muttering under his breath. What, Sammy isn't his name? Right before he left the living room, he stopped to look at me, seeing that I had finally woken up.

"Blake. Nice to meet you, Sammy." I grinned, seeing the annoyed look cross his face.

"It's Sam, actually. I got to get to work." He vanished from the room, and Judy got up from her seat.

"I better get supper ready. Make yourself at home. We can call the local police department if you can't get a hold of anyone." Just like her son, she got up and left. Sam, huh? Bet that's short for Samuel. Which meant his name would be Samuel Witwacky. Wait. Wit... wicky. I'm gonna keep slipping up on that, aren't I? Why did that sound so familiar, Witwicky? I didn't know anyone with that last name, so why did it stand out?

"Maybe I knew someone when I was younger?" Sam returned to the room, carrying a large cardboard box filled with nautical equipment that I couldn't even begin to distinguish. "So, what is this project about, anyway?"

Sam looked up from rummaging through the contents, surprised I was interested. Don't have anything better to do. "Oh. It's a genealogy report about some family member of your choosing. I figured my grandfather was interesting enough to talk about in front of everyone." He pushed the other water glass, the one that was sitting there when I woke up, closer to me. "You look like you need it."

"Thanks." I picked it up, feeling the coolness against my palms. "Hey, Sam? Is this for a college class, or something?"

"College?" His attention was fully on me now, and he gave a small and awkward laugh. Awkward. Yeah, that seems to sum him up. "No, no. I'm still in high school. Grade eleven, actually. What about you?"

"Attended my local community college for mechanical work, and moved out after I was finished. I've been helping out at this small auto repair shop for the past year." I smiled for a moment, amused at how flustered he got before moving along the couch to get closer to the box. "That's a... sextant, right?"

"Yeah. Hey, um, d-do you think you can help me prepare for this? I have until Thursday night to prepare. The presentation is on Friday, last period." It's Tuesday right now, so he's starting a little late. Hope it's not that big of a grade then. I picked up the instrument I identified, taking note of how well it was used. From the faint traces of rust from age, and the small cracks in the lens. This is definitely an old one. Wonder what the age of it is. "But, you know, I don't want to pressure you or anything. You've been asleep for almost three hours, and that isn't counting how long you were outside for."

"I'm perfectly well enough to help with something like this, Sam. I did my fair share of projects when I was in high school. Get a pen or a pencil and some lined paper. I'll start looking through the stuff here on what could be shown to your class." He smiled, getting up and heading back through the house. He seems nice. "What else do we have here?" That's a quadrant, some old maps, and... glasses?

I picked up the dark metal frame, and held them up to the light of the nearest lamp to look through the tiny circular lenses. They were severely damaged, with both sides covered in tiny scratches. What are... these? I brought the glasses closer to my face, squinting. There were lines, but there were etchings that looked... odd. Different. As if someone took the time to carefully carve out each jumble I found. There's no way this is just a random mess. It's like they're... some sort of design, or charact-wait. Wait, wait, wait. Hold the metaphorical phone.

Judy and Sam Witwicky. A project involving a family member and sailing in the eleventh grade, with a pair of old glasses belonging to a grandfather bearing strange... symbols. These symbols are Cybertronian. Sam-he's the guy from the Transformers movie. Did I really-no. No. That was not a possibility. That was-that's ridiculous. Transformers was just a product of Hasbro. A toy franchise that brought out a crazy amount of cartoons, comics, and a film series. It's not real. Then explain why Sam looks a lot like a younger Shia LaBeouf. "Just a coincidence," I reasoned with myself. "A-all of it is just coincidence."

"You okay?" I looked back over at the hallway Sam took, with him returning with several sheets of paper and a pencil stuck behind his ear. "You seem a little distressed."

"I'm fine," I replied, quickly throwing my concerns away for the moment. "Let's get to work." He rested the papers beside the tray, snatching up one of the cheese cubes and throwing it into his mouth before going for the newspapers and other sheets of paper mixed in with the maps. "What's the story with your grandfather anyway? What makes him so interesting?"

"According to my family, he was one of the first to explore the Arctic Circle, back in 1897." Sam waved a hand over the equipment. "All of this belonged to him."

"Well, it's certainly taken care of. Anything else happen to him?" Please, let this paranoia not be true. I was just... drugged, that's all. Or lucid dreaming. Transformers was not real, and I most certainly was not in the 2007 mo-

"He went blind, from what no one could ever figure out. The trip to the Arctic turned him crazy, and started drawing these... symbols, everywhere." Sam held up a sheet of brown paper, with black ink... matching the characters I made out on the glasses. "He kept rambling on and on about some ice man he stumbled across. His wife divorced and remarried, and then that's how I eventually came along." He rested the paper down, and the concern from earlier returned. Returned, kicked down the door I shoved them behind, and started screaming at me through a bullhorn. "Really, Blake, are you sure you're fine? You look like you're about to faint."

Archibald... Witwicky. This... this is really happening. "Y-yeah, Sam. I most definitely... am." With that said, I fell sideways onto the couch, glass falling out of my hand and spilling out over the rug as the world went dark. I could hear the muffled and startled shout from Sam, first crying out my name, and then calling for his mother for help.

Transformers. It may just be a kid's franchise, but the reality of giant robots who could hide in public, some who kill without a second thought, and a secret government sector who dealt with aliens and things not from their world... I was screwed. I was so very, completely screwed.

Future updates are going to be a little spaced, but I'll try to not to do one-a-month. Chapters will be longer too, since this was just to set up the story.

Until next time!

Angel