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Entry tags:
Bottoms Up
TEN FORWARD
(Closed)
He doesn't remember when he got the chance to use his legs again. Frankly, it isn't much of a luxury when McCoy can barely stand on those swollen feet. Each step is numb, like he's been wandering in some godforsaken tundra with snow up to his knees. But it's not. The air is cool, even if his body is boiling from fever. There is no bite or fall of snow, just the feeling.
Five paces in and the doctor crumbles like someone cut his damn strings and let him fall to the floor in pieces. Ah well, it sure's better than walking. The vertigo is less noticeable this low to the ground, that's good. Progress is good. Be nice if he could remember just where in the hell this progress brought him to. His last memories are of a cavernous room, strung up by his hands and bloodied by two sadistic bastards with too much time on their hands--Correction, not enough time. And with that recollection, McCoy finally tries to see the world he's fallen to.
The lights are dim without being an obstacle, but the rest makes no sense. There's people or the sounds of them: Talking, low conversation that's occasionally cut by harsh laughter. His eyes are too swollen to make much sense of anything. But it reminds him of a dining hall, and McCoy has to wonder if this is Heaven. Or Hell. Then again it hurts too much to be anything else but reality. He's not falling into the sweet by and by that easily, that is just not his luck. There's a clatter to his right as if someone jumped from their seat, legs squealing against the ground. Conversation turns quiet, rushed, and somehow closer even as he begins to drool crimson on the clean floors.
SICKBAY
(Open to all)
The readings from his own monitor are what wake him. He can't help but squint in the bright clinical light as his blue eyes adjust. Smells of sterility are familiar, and McCoy doesn't need more than two brain cells to rub together that he's in Sickbay. That certainly puts his mind at ease even if there are a hundred questions whirling around in his brain.
Not to be too cynical, but he hadn't imagined getting out of their time on Minara II alive after the way those Vians worked him over. He doesn't regret his decision--Obviously, since everything seems to have worked out--but it certainly had been a rather character building experience to say the least. And he would do it again for his friends, for Jim and that pointy-eared devil he had the nerve to stuff into that category. Now the question is where are they?
There's no one around him, nurse or otherwise. His private room is, strangely, unfamiliar. Even the biobed is outfitted differently, which puts him back on high alert. Maybe they couldn't make it back to the Enterprise. Maybe his injuries were so grievous he had to be transferred--Though that seemed real unlikely. No, nothing about this makes sense, and he's starting to get frustrated with no answers. He's a doctor for Chrissake! He should be the one holding the cards here.
(Closed)
He doesn't remember when he got the chance to use his legs again. Frankly, it isn't much of a luxury when McCoy can barely stand on those swollen feet. Each step is numb, like he's been wandering in some godforsaken tundra with snow up to his knees. But it's not. The air is cool, even if his body is boiling from fever. There is no bite or fall of snow, just the feeling.
Five paces in and the doctor crumbles like someone cut his damn strings and let him fall to the floor in pieces. Ah well, it sure's better than walking. The vertigo is less noticeable this low to the ground, that's good. Progress is good. Be nice if he could remember just where in the hell this progress brought him to. His last memories are of a cavernous room, strung up by his hands and bloodied by two sadistic bastards with too much time on their hands--Correction, not enough time. And with that recollection, McCoy finally tries to see the world he's fallen to.
The lights are dim without being an obstacle, but the rest makes no sense. There's people or the sounds of them: Talking, low conversation that's occasionally cut by harsh laughter. His eyes are too swollen to make much sense of anything. But it reminds him of a dining hall, and McCoy has to wonder if this is Heaven. Or Hell. Then again it hurts too much to be anything else but reality. He's not falling into the sweet by and by that easily, that is just not his luck. There's a clatter to his right as if someone jumped from their seat, legs squealing against the ground. Conversation turns quiet, rushed, and somehow closer even as he begins to drool crimson on the clean floors.
SICKBAY
(Open to all)
The readings from his own monitor are what wake him. He can't help but squint in the bright clinical light as his blue eyes adjust. Smells of sterility are familiar, and McCoy doesn't need more than two brain cells to rub together that he's in Sickbay. That certainly puts his mind at ease even if there are a hundred questions whirling around in his brain.
Not to be too cynical, but he hadn't imagined getting out of their time on Minara II alive after the way those Vians worked him over. He doesn't regret his decision--Obviously, since everything seems to have worked out--but it certainly had been a rather character building experience to say the least. And he would do it again for his friends, for Jim and that pointy-eared devil he had the nerve to stuff into that category. Now the question is where are they?
There's no one around him, nurse or otherwise. His private room is, strangely, unfamiliar. Even the biobed is outfitted differently, which puts him back on high alert. Maybe they couldn't make it back to the Enterprise. Maybe his injuries were so grievous he had to be transferred--Though that seemed real unlikely. No, nothing about this makes sense, and he's starting to get frustrated with no answers. He's a doctor for Chrissake! He should be the one holding the cards here.
TEN FORWARD
There's only one thing he registers when he turns around though, and that's a man, bloody and broken and falling to the floor, and Simon's on his feet and dashing across the lounge by instinct alone before thought has had any chance to kick in. He may be in a different century, in a different universe, on a different ship, but he's still a doctor.
"Give him room!" he shouts to the people nearby, who are beginning to crowd in around the man on the floor. Simon pushes his way past them, dropping to his knees at the man's side, eying the man's injuries even as he starts to check his vitals.
"It's okay," he says, automatically, "I'm a doctor."
But it's not okay, and he can tell that as soon as he gets a closer look at the man that it's not okay. Not without immediate, intensive medical care.
He glances up, eyes flicking around the crowd until he sees someone in the uniform of the Enterprise crew.
"You!" he snaps, pointing at the man. "Contact the infirmary right now and tell them there's a patient on the way."
no subject
One of his hands shoots out and grabs at what he can of this supposed savior and doctor. About all he got was a fistful of shirt now stained with blood as he tried to tell him just what the problem is. But that's a problem in and of itself when you have major organ failure and heart damage; it's hard to speak past bubbles of blood and saliva choking his words.
no subject
"NOW."
That gets the message across. Either that or the bloodstained hand that reaches up to grab at Simon's shirt. Simon hears, in the background, the sound of the call being made.
Simon bends closer, trying to listen even while he continues his attempts to assess the man's condition, but his mouth's so full of blood he can't speak, so Simon shakes his head.
"Don't talk. I've got you."
The man's wounds are extensive, of a sort far beyond anything he's ever seen, but reminiscent of one case he can remember.
When they'd rescued Mal from Niska.
Behind Simon, the crewman informs him that a medical team is on its way to bring the patient to the sickbay, and that they're bringing an anti-grav lift. Some sort of way of getting him there, Simon supposes.
And hopes. The man is in no state to walk.
no subject
He'd checked on the man while he was unconscious to check vitals and discover what race the man actually was. Human. He was actually human. And there was no weird anomalies recorded. Leonard was actually surprised. Clearly he'd been on this damn ship way too long. Then he left the man alone to sleep. God knew he didn't need to wake up to a doctor poking on him.
After a while, he returned to check on the man. It wasn't necessary - he just wanted to see if he was up yet. And he was. Hey, look at that. Leonard came in with his PADD and attempted to be cordial. He'd lost his patience with several new arrivals in the sickbay he didn't need another one pissed off at him. Especially one lying in the sickbay looking aged and irritated. Well, at least he was awake. It was a start.
"Good to see you're finally up," he said, sounding a bit clinical, but honest, "How're you feelin'?"