Repair Bay
It was like a chorus. Overwhelming signals had roused his processor from its dormant state. Optical sensors flaring to life and desperately trying to focus through the distorting waves of the liquid. Fists slamming against the sides of the tube, first in shock, then to steady himself by the violent current he had caused. A flashing light and alarm announcing his emergence. His rebirth. Creaking and groaning as the chamber rapidly drained. A hydralic hiss as the door opened.
One firm step forward. Hands clinging to the sides of the hatch as he stepped into the bay. Head turning even as he took a second, more unsteady step. Things were different. His weight, his balance. A metal hand clasping at his chest and the similiar, yet distinctly different Jetform he had emerged as.
Before Venomcoil had even finished processing the room around him, the two, curved fang-like blades extended from his right fore-arm. Optics honing on the slabs and trays, highlighting the tools. The door. Spinning wildly as he tried to place where he was; friendly or hostile.
It was like a word he could not remember. Like a name on the tip of his tongue. This place was familiar, yet he could not place it. Names on displays by the other active CR Chambers, glimpses of powered down faces. Decepticon. Somewhere deep in his core, he must have known the truth. Some subprocessor recognition of safety. His stance dropped, hand unfurling and raised blades falling to his side.
Turning briskly, room still desperately blaring with lights and whatever else to signal his awakening. Grasping the side of the display beside his CR Chamber, brightly pronouncing his name: Venomcoil. Ninety nine percent completion and a ream of technical specifications and repairs which just. Kept. Scrolling.
Drawing in the information of what was done to him like a sponge.