Night 51: M61-M70 Hallway
[M66]
For the first time, the crackling of the intercom over Kirk's head wasn't accompanied by a scene of him rushing through his final preparations for the night. Instead, he lay on his bed, both hands folded lightly on top of his bandaged stomach as he tried to rest. It had been a quiet dinner. He'd eaten without hurry, making up for his neglect during breakfast and lunch by packing away everything except the caramel apple.
He should've been able to enjoy himself more - to the least, he'd never been able to enjoy his meals when he knew he'd be venturing into certain danger come nightfall. Yet even without that imminent danger, his mind wouldn't stop wandering... worrying. All throughout dinner, his head kept playing through every scenario, rational or irrational, of what could happen to one of his crew tonight. By the time he'd gotten to dessert, his appetite was shot. Even now, having finally settled on top of the covers, Kirk couldn't stop:
Sleep studies. People drugged and taken from their rooms, then carted off somewhere else in the hospital to be tortured. No... more than just simple torture. Experimentation. Could they take Spock? Bones?
New arrivals. More prisoners, yanked unceremoniously from their times and worlds to join the rest of them in this hell. Why continually feed the patient population? Why also continually "release" patients without any apparent rhyme or reason?
Radio Man. Marc. The rebel Spock had met in Doyleton, and the man who'd broadcast the single radio message last night. Before then, all the broadcasts had been conducted by...
"God, what I wouldn't do for a shot of whiskey right now," Kirk interrupted, one fist going out to punch the wall beside him in irritation. His body wasn't even trying to pretend to sleep anymore. He sighed. That gasp... at the end of the intercom announcement... barely anything, but even without Landel's ominous words, somehow Kirk would've known anyway that it was a woman.
He sat up, not even caring that about the quiet protest of his wounds, but the pain was still enough to remind him that he was in no state for heroics. His small crew was more than competent, and Kirk being out there too would make no difference to how they fared tonight. In fact, heading out like this practically guaranteed that some giant monster would chase him down while he was barely fit to run, and then what would Spock and Bones do? Not praise the captain's wisdom, that was for sure.
Kirk reached out to grab his journal from the desk, and ripped out a blank page.
For the first time, the crackling of the intercom over Kirk's head wasn't accompanied by a scene of him rushing through his final preparations for the night. Instead, he lay on his bed, both hands folded lightly on top of his bandaged stomach as he tried to rest. It had been a quiet dinner. He'd eaten without hurry, making up for his neglect during breakfast and lunch by packing away everything except the caramel apple.
He should've been able to enjoy himself more - to the least, he'd never been able to enjoy his meals when he knew he'd be venturing into certain danger come nightfall. Yet even without that imminent danger, his mind wouldn't stop wandering... worrying. All throughout dinner, his head kept playing through every scenario, rational or irrational, of what could happen to one of his crew tonight. By the time he'd gotten to dessert, his appetite was shot. Even now, having finally settled on top of the covers, Kirk couldn't stop:
Sleep studies. People drugged and taken from their rooms, then carted off somewhere else in the hospital to be tortured. No... more than just simple torture. Experimentation. Could they take Spock? Bones?
New arrivals. More prisoners, yanked unceremoniously from their times and worlds to join the rest of them in this hell. Why continually feed the patient population? Why also continually "release" patients without any apparent rhyme or reason?
Radio Man. Marc. The rebel Spock had met in Doyleton, and the man who'd broadcast the single radio message last night. Before then, all the broadcasts had been conducted by...
"God, what I wouldn't do for a shot of whiskey right now," Kirk interrupted, one fist going out to punch the wall beside him in irritation. His body wasn't even trying to pretend to sleep anymore. He sighed. That gasp... at the end of the intercom announcement... barely anything, but even without Landel's ominous words, somehow Kirk would've known anyway that it was a woman.
He sat up, not even caring that about the quiet protest of his wounds, but the pain was still enough to remind him that he was in no state for heroics. His small crew was more than competent, and Kirk being out there too would make no difference to how they fared tonight. In fact, heading out like this practically guaranteed that some giant monster would chase him down while he was barely fit to run, and then what would Spock and Bones do? Not praise the captain's wisdom, that was for sure.
Kirk reached out to grab his journal from the desk, and ripped out a blank page.