He opened his eyes, looked around. He seemed to be in some sort of very small room, cluttered with equipment, that was moving forward. He was strapped down in a bed.

"McCoy, by th' seven whirlin' planets, where is it you've got me?"

A young woman moved to his side. She wasn't in uniform. "Shhh," she cautioned. "You're badly injured. I'll give you a sedative." She pulled out a cylindrical object that seemed to have a needle in one end.

"Where am I" he demanded. "What kind of hypo is that? By St. Andrew, this place is primitive. What is this, the 20th Century?" It was asked sarcastically, but the young woman looked puzzled.

"Of course it is."

"Well, you're in a right good fix, Montgomery Scott," he said out loud to himself. "Start readin' th' history books and you start havin' dreams that you're in th' past." He felt a prick on his arm, but ignored it. "Weel, I'll just have t' let the captain know his history books'r having an adverse effect on me…" He drifted off.

The other paramedic turned to look at him. "Strange guy. You think that knock on the head did something to his mind?"

"Funny costume he's wearing," the other mused. "These weird pants that come down to his calf, and that red shirt's a funny material. Did you see the upsidedown V-thing on it?"

"He probably just came form a costume party or something."

The ambulance pulled up to the hospital and the man on the stretcher was unloaded. The paramedics relayed their information to the Emergency Room staff. Two joggers had found the man unconscious in a park with his head all bloody, and they'd called 911. no one knew who he was or where he came from, but he'd called himself Montgomery Scott and had a Scottish accent. He was in good shape, save for the head, had a square, stubborn face and thick black hair. The doctors patched his head up, installed him in a room and began the search for relatives and friends, but there were no takers.

He opened his eyes the second time in his hospital room. His gaze roved around the room. What was this place? It didn't look familiar. A woman in white bustled in, saw him awake and smiled broadly.

"How are you feeling, Mr. Scott?"

"What is this place and why is my head hurtin'?"

"This is the San Francisco General Hospital. You've had a serious concussion, a small amount of brain damage."

"Brain damage? Why dinna ye fix it?"

"Fix it, Mr. Scott?" She looked at him compassionately. "You can't just fix damage to the brain, sir. It's simply something you have to live with unless it goes away of its own accord."

His brow wrinkled. "Strange. I seem to remember somethin'—a machine that McCoy'd put on a person's head t'fix such a thing…maybe it was just a dream."

"Is McCoy a friend of yours, Mr. Scott? We've been having trouble locating any friends or relatives of yours."

"McCoy…? I dinna remember…He wears blue…What's blue for? Why canna I remember?"

A tall man wearing a white jacket came in. "How's the patient, Nurse Michaels?" He smiled at Scott, who passed a hand over his forehead.

"Feelin' mighty confused," he answered for the nurse. "I canna remember."