artaswellasscience.
( @onustar. )
Something is wrong.
He feels it in a way he can’t quite define, something prickling at the base of his skull, that stomach-lurching feeling of being all rearranged and slapped back together. His hands press and prod, trying to make sure everything’s right where it ought to be. Thing is, no one’s here to greet him in the transporter room. No phaser fire going off trying to catch him while he’s still half-formed. He doesn’t understand it – it’s rarely so empty, unless there’s a bigger opportunity somewhere else. He’d feel insulted, if he could stop feeling sick.
Out into the long, curving hallways, and no one gives him so much as a second glance – and is his eyesight going funny, or are the uniforms a bit different now than they used to be? He hadn’t been planetside that damn long, had he? He takes his eyes off people for a second, and all of a sudden, everything is different.
Namely, it’s different in that, when an officer shouts his name, and he rounds on them, scalpel drown, the look of horror on their face is a sight to behold. They look honest to God surprised, and ain’t that novel? Are they new here? Don’t they know that running up to someone like that is going to get them killed?
They’re babbling about something – an emergency in Medbay, but when isn’t there an emergency in Medbay? If something out in space isn’t trying to kill them, then they’re all going stir crazy and power hungry and trying to kill each other. But it isn’t good to be away for long, not if he wants to see his rules still intact, and make sure Medical doesn’t turn into the same bloodbath the rest of the ship has the potential to turn into at any given moment.
He gestures with the shining edge of the scalpel, sharp and precise, and the officer doesn’t need telling twice; they bolt, well out of arm’s reach, and McCoy goes on his way, making his way towards Medical. Whatever is going on, it can’t be too damn big of an emergency – he hasn’t had to step over a single body yet. That’s got to be a record of some sort.
Emergencies on the Enterprise have always been subjective. An ensign on their first rotation almost always blanks on every damn thing they learned and become a well-trained, shaking, stammering mess. Nothing grates his nerves like people who aren’t prepared. What’s the damage this time? A whole batch of improperly administered vaccinations for the Deguerans of the starship Enterprise. He’s up to his eyeballs in moaning humanoids and cirrhosis-not-cirrhosis accusations. Shutting down the red alert is far easier in protocol than in practice and he’s been given the task of personally pulling aside all personnel in the area for a quick crash course in humanoid variations. He doesn’t have time for bedside manner as he gruffly demonstrates proper dosage to one kid after another, giving each of them a gentle nudge to the cluster of pain-riddled, swollen Deguerans who are doubled up on the bio beds. When the worst of the mess has run its course McCoy hands the baton to Chapel and takes a cool-down lap around the saucer, muttering to himself about the informational briefing he’ll need to put in order to keep his blood pressure below life-threatening in the future. Wishful thinking, on his part. He’s rounding the first corner, sickbay barely out of sight and--- there before him is something he’s not unfamiliar with but entirely uncomfortable with. Ambassador Spock comes to mind and a shiver races up his spine. McCoy doesn’t make it a habit to spend much time in front of mirrors but the man before him clearly bears his face with subtle differences. Isn’t there some saying to this? The doppelgänger is an omen of death? He tries to open his mouth twice and on the third he croaks out a confused and incredulous, almost angry, “What in Sam Hill...?”
