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It doesn’t take long to start, the trembling. Mnemosurgery is a rather taxing profession, no matter how skilled you are or how long you hone your skills for. Despite being a job for the mind, it takes its toll on the entire body. They don’t find that out for many years after it’s already become a widespread practice.
So when it starts in Chromedome, he doesn’t think much of it. He confides in his new friend, a mech from the weapons division with a frightening personality and even more terrifying propensity to blow something up in your face, who offers to give his hands a look, but tells him it is not out of the ordinary in Chromedome’s line of work. Given the importance of Chromedome’s hands to his job, he declines the offer and decides he will get more sleep and try to take less autopsies.
But in the middle of a war you cannot exactly tell your boss to cut your hours. Chromedome may not fight on the front lines, but in a way he is no less of a soldier. He does as he is told and he does not question his orders, no matter how gifted and revered he may be. So when Trepan tells him to do an autopsy, he does it, even if they begin to blur together and he struggles to take notes. Being favored during a war does not tend to grant special privilege.
Sleep does him no good, ensuring that he finishes his share of Energon every day does nothing to ease the shaking, either. It’s becoming a hindrance, the longer it goes. He’s dropping things, struggling to line up his needles properly when reading a subject. It’s making him sloppy.
His only consolation is that he is not the only one it’s happening to. The New Institute is not somewhere one tends to make friends, and all of the Mnemosurgeons generally prefer to keep to themselves, so for a very long time, many years in fact, they all suffer in silence. One does not want to reveal weakness in a place like this. Even if Mnemosurgeons are hard to come across and require a natural gift for it, they are not so coveted as to never be replaced.
Chromedome is not the first to speak out about it. Someone else in his group is, but he can’t remember their name. He can’t remember almost anyone’s name, aside from Brainstorm. They share their struggles with the shaking, timid at first, wary of being denied and therefore replaced. But one by one, many of the other Mnemosurgeons agree. Chromedome keeps his mouth shut, but listens as they all discuss the near debilitating tremors, not just in their hands, but the rest of their bodies as well. He still does not join, even as his own hands shake around the cube he’s attempting to hold.
Talking to Trepan is never a good idea. He’s arrogant and does not value those who work for him at all. Any resistance to his ideas is met with pure hostility. He’s extremely gifted, one of the best, and he believes himself superior because of it.
The Mnemosurgery division decides, as a near unanimous group, that they are going to speak to him about the shaking and request that he either look into it or allow them to lighten their workloads.
Chromedome is not a part of this group, and he is not present for the confrontation, but he can tell it did not go the way they were hoping it would.
He cannot deny, though, that it is becoming impossible to work around. The shaking has become completely unignorable, seriously hindering his ability to efficiently do his job. It takes a lot of talking himself into it, but he goes to Brainstorm.
Brainstorm, like Chromedome, is rather appreciated on his side of the New Institute. The weapons division is more for research and development, not for getting actual results, though, so they have room to give coveted members a little extra. Brainstorm has his own lab, large and piled high with all sorts of machinery and parts Chromedome couldn’t even begin to see use for.
“Chromedome!” calls Brainstorm from somewhere Chromedome cannot see. “What brings you by?”
“I need your help,” Chromedome replies. Brainstorm appears in front of him from the ceiling, bright eyed and eager. Chromedome is never sure if Brainstorm likes to be of use or if he just likes to experiment on things. He thinks it is likely a little bit of both.
“What can I do you for?” Brainstorm asks, guiding him to a workstation with two stools. “I’ve been working on some new needles for you guys if you want to try them.”
“It’s about my hands,” Chromedome says. “I’m not the only one who can’t stop shaking.” He holds out a hand for emphasis. “And Trepan doesn’t want to look into it at all. Can you?”
“Absolutely I can.” The glint in his eye now is very clearly excitement at the idea of learning something new. Little to no research has ever been done on the effects Mnemosurgery has on the surgeon practicing. “Where do you want us to start?”
“The hands,” Chromedome answers, holding out his right hand, the one he most commonly uses. Despite the disparity between the mileage the appendages receive, both hands struggle equally with the tremors. Brainstorm takes his hand and flips it over, exposing the inner wrist. Chromedome obediently slides the panel housing the needles open for him to access.
A lot of poking around later, and Brainstorm has turned up no flaws in either the wiring or the needles. There is no rust or wear within the joint, nothing is frayed or disconnected. It’s not a surprising find, but it is the only lead Chromedome had had. The hands shake, therefore the wrist must be in trouble.
“I want to try your head now,” Brainstorm asserts. Chromedome is a Mnemosurgeon, he knows everything there is to know about the brain, has to, to be able to sift through it the way he does. He was just hoping the shaking wasn’t neurological, even if he knew that it was the most likely option.
Brainstorm fits little magnets to his head, connected with wires to a larger machine. Why Brainstorm has a machine capable of reading brainwaves, Chromedome does not ask.
“So we don’t have anyone for you to read and you can’t do me ‘cause I have to pay attention, so you’re going to have to read yourself.” Brainstorm says. Chromedome hates reading himself. It’s easier, in a way, to be able to tell his brain to relinquish his memories, and he doesn’t have to go digging for anything he doesn’t want to, but in some ways it’s like having to operate on himself. It’s hard to be both patient and doctor. Additionally, the shaking in his hands makes them less precise, and he doesn’t want to go poking erratic holes in himself.
“Fine,” he agrees, begrudgingly. He does understand why it is important, because they need to see how the activity in his brain module differs between reading and not. His needles slide out with a familiar snikt, and he sticks them as steadily as he can into the back of his neck. His optics go white as he finds himself sitting in the false expanse of his own mind. He simply waits. Brainstorm will give him a signal when it’s time for him to come out.
And he does, several minutes lanter, in the form of tapping on his hand where it’s buried in his own neck.
“All good,” says Brainstorm as Chromedome retracts his needles and shakes out the odd tingling which comes from being read. “It’s definitely the reading.” He confirms, looking over the datapad with the results on it. “And it’s definitely not fixable. There’s damage to the parts of your brain that send signals to your hands. It’s like nerve damage. There’s nothing anyone can do about that.” He keeps reading, squinting, even though he can obviously see and understand it just fine. “This is a lot worse than just your hands.” He looks genuinely distressed, an expression Chromedome has never seen before in his eyes. “The constant reading is causing irreversible damage to your entire nervous system. It’s only going to get worse the longer you do this. This is going to kill you.”
“For sure?” Chromedome asks. Brainstorm returns him a very serious, somber nod.
“I don’t know for sure, obviously, but I bet all your little Mnemosurgeon friends are having the same issue.” He holds up the datapad. “We need to tell Trepan about this.”
“He won’t do anything,” Chromedome says. There’s something about this news that isn’t quite reaching him the way it should be. He doesn’t really care.
Or, no, it’s not that he doesn’t care. It’s just that he’s resigned. Many people are dying in much worse ways on the front lines, in battle. He’s a soldier just the same, and he will continue as one. He will die as one, in his own way. Such is the reality of war.
“He’ll just replace us.” He uses his shaking hands to push open the door as he leaves.