Chapter Text
Waking up in an unfamiliar location was never a fun experience, especially when Tumbler had no idea how he had gotten there. And especially not when his head also hurt like he had gone six rounds with one of the underground gladiators. The only bright side was that whoever had dragged him to this location had at least turned off the lights, leaving the room lit only by his biolights and a smattering of machines that, he realised, were hooked up to him.
A hospital, then. Obviously, he had gotten hurt, somehow.
Carefully, he pushed himself up on an elbow, just enough to carefully palpate the back of his head with the other hand, and found a sizeable dent right at the back. Someone had done their best to pop it out, but it was easy enough to trace the not-yet-healed metal and feeling out the shape. Judging by the sheer size, the dent had been big enough to damage his brain module—which explained both his headache and the lack of lights. If his visual cortex had been damaged, too much light could cause his optics to burn themselves out.
And with the same area also storing memories, that would explain why he had no idea what had happened, and why his latest mostly-clear memory was getting ready for work at his assigned Institute wing. He had probably been out for a bit, too, which was why there were no doctors or nurses actively around him. The question was if it had been a few hours or a day...
Tumbler brought up his chronometer to check, and then had to lie back down.
Four million years?!
He had not even been around for four centuries as far as he remembered. Either his chronometer was broken, or he had taken a much worse blow than he had thought. Had he been in stasis? His spark felt weaker than he recalled, so, maybe?
Thankfully, the door opened and a mech walked in, letting in a bit of light from the outside as well. Tall, spiky, teal, and unless Tumbler was much worse at guessing alt-modes than he thought even in the dim room, a regular car. Probably a nurse—ambulances were the only ones who could become doctors as far as he knew, though, then again, if his chronometer was right...
"Chromedome! I'm so glad to see you regained consciousness!" the nurse(?) said, giving him a broad and bright smile.
There had been no one else in the hospital room with him, so, the designation had to be his. "I'm Chromedome?" Tumbler asked. "... Actually, what cycle is it?"
The doctor-nurse's expression turned sad. "Ah, we were aware that there was a risk of memory loss. It's cycle 3896. You fell and injured your head, specifically—"
"—Specifically my perirhinal and entorhinal cortices, possibly with a short-circuit in my cerebellum, which has led to severe retrograde amnesia," Tumbler—Chromedome—said, lying back on the berth to digest the realisation that his chronometer was entirely correct. "Right?"
The doctor smiled and nodded. "Right. Your scans are coming up clean on motor functions, so right now we're just worried about the neurological damage. Honestly, it's a bit of a relief that you don't seem to have lost any of your medicinal knowledge!"
A relief and a miracle, in his opinion, when he got to see his own scans. If the dent had been just a quarter inch deeper, he would have been left as little more than a drooling husk. It was tempting to sink his needles into his neck and take a look around to see how the damage looked from the inside and if there was anything he could fix, but, there was no telling how much he could mess up if his cerebral calibrations were even slightly misaligned... No, much safer to just accept the amnesia for now and let his brain module heal naturally.
Once Velocity, as she introduced herself as, had determined that his visual processing had not suffered any damage, Tumblr-Chromedome was released for the other medics to look over. It had been a surprise to learn that he was on a spaceship exploring an entirely new universe, but a relief to recognise Ratchet and learn that the parts of his memory that remained were not entirely fendered.
"At least it means you won't have a lot of trouble getting to know everyone again, even if your memory never comes back," First Aid said, handing over a datapad containing pictures of Chromedome's fellow crew members.
Chromedome chose to hope that the amnesia would be temporary, and looked through the portraits. Some mechs he recognised easily enough. Highbrow and Cerebros had both been at the Institute at more or less the same time as he had, and had apparently joined the trend of getting head-related nicknames. It took him a bit longer to recognise Genitus—or Brainstorm, as he was apparently called now. Chromedome's memories ended shortly after the jet had joined the Institute, and before they had apparently struck up what had been a long-term friendship. He hoped they were still friends.
Others he recognised from having seen elsewhere, even if he had never—to his recollection, at least—met them in person: Blaster, Xaaron, Roller, and Hot Rod (apparently Rodimus, a Prime, and one of the captains now). Megatron, which was very surprising, and made Chromedome wonder what other interesting events he had lost to the amnesia.
And, of course, a slew of faces that he could not recognise at all, but whom First Aid patiently listed the names of, and Chromedome just as patiently tried to commit to memory. At least his antrograde memory had not been damaged, even though he was pretty sure he would need people to introduce themselves a few times to get the sheer list of names to stick.
Then there was one mech... Definitely not one he recalled having seen before, though it was easy enough to recognise the alt-mode as a memory stick. And very, very cute.
"Ah," First Aid said, and his field teeked amusement when he noticed which picture Chromedome had paused at. "That's Rewind. I've already commed and filled him in."
"Is he another friend of mine?" Chromedome asked, already hoping the answer was yes.
First Aid hummed thoughtfully. "We-e-ell. In a way, I suppose... He's your Conjunx Endura."
Chromedome promptly fell off the berth.