Beeps and Buzzes

🌍 ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 13 ✓

　　　　

Optimus reigned supreme over his many foes; things eased into a perfect calm expected after such a huge battle, with very little fanfare beyond an odd 'congratulations' shared between friends. Or a hearty 'good job on not dying'.

This wasn't the case for you.

You fell unconscious just before the duel between two leaders, largely in part to blood loss. It was bound to happen eventually. Functioning for even ten minutes after the grevious injury in of itself was impressive, however you soldiered on for double that amount of time!

Resilience is one word for it. Adrenaline bring another. Pure, dumb luck helped out a little too. Potentially an extremely slim chance of some alien genetics blessed upon you by long-dead ancestors -- or not.

Wasn't as though you were spared enough moments of consciousness to ponder these enormous, life changing questions. Meds doing a fine job of numbing literally everything.

All you understood could be broken down as easily as this: Egypt. Road in Egypt. Plane. Boat. Hospital room in boat.

Just to - after a solid two hours of linear thought - be confronted by cold harsh reality. News striking down just as hard as a hamner, never really managing to have the nail embedded fully within your  coffin.

Some routine tests were performed. Basic of basic examinations completed during your mental abensence, all concluding one singular thing. Something you knew from the get-go.

Your arm was royally fucked.

According to the Autobots medic, Ratchet, a new steady (gruff) precense in your life, it was severe enough to require amputation. Something that couldn't be performed till reaching land.

Long story short, that shrapnel caused extensive damage to your arm. The aggressive activity you did after didn't really help matters. Slicing deeper than originally imagined, inflicting irreversible damage upon the Median Nerve.

Topping it all off was a ten day voyage and dwindling medical supplies, antibiotics only doing so much to shield you from certain other ramifications. Namely infection.

Under different circumstances (he stated, when asked) Ratchet would've  operated personally. Eons of experience made him a deft hand at limb reattachment or removal. Boastful, even, about the numerous procedures he'd pulled off whilst under fire.

Regrettably... The Commander told him 'hard no', and to quote-en-quote 'worry about your friends, we will deal with our own in time'. Firm in his belief that, in spite of Ratchets earnest nature and stellar reputation, that the doctor would sooner squash any human patient then actually repair.

Things weren't all so dower, however.

You were one of the few fortunate enough to go onto a Morphine drip, force fed antibiotics, faring a little better compared to others currently residing in this compact medbay. Somebody two beds down was in a cast, for instance, suffering without hard-hitting painkillers. Groaning. Sobbing.

From what you saw in those brief windows of wakefulness, at least. Nothing else really stuck, given you were fluttering in and out of consciousness. Weren't too sure if you had visitors or no, the nurse said you did but that could be hurried words to placate you.

Medical delirium what came with it  carefully pushed aside for another time... Presently, Either you were now hallucinating or had been isekai'd on short notice.

Starting fairy lights of varying shades of blue, a swirling nebula a background to a vast dreamscape. Stood upon rippling water, reflecting absolutely nothing, for all your efforts it seemed as though something had glued you in place.