Trip sat bolt upright in bed, sweating and parched. He quickly recognized the place as his cabin, though it was completely dark.
"Computer, time?", he managed. "The time is 05:00 hours," remarked the computer in its neutrally bright way.
He then noticed that he was still in his soot-stained, greasy flight suit. He nearly fell over himself getting out of it.
Internally, he was glad that Phlox had cared not to undress him. Denobulans might have had more open standards when it came to privacy, but humans, especially not ones with a gentle southern upbringing, tended not to share them.
Nevertheless, he couldn't get out of his uniform fast enough. It was ripped, blackened, stained with grease, blood, and a good amount of sweat. He stepped into the shower, not caring that it was cold at first. The water felt good, washing away the events of the night before.
He stopped short, hands midway across his face. Some things would take a lot more than soap and water to get out.
The comm chimed. "Sickbay to Tucker. Could you come down here? We're, er, experiencing a little difficulty with our, er, patient."
He frowned, turned the water off. "How d'you mean, doc?"
"Just get here as soon as possible. You'll understand, hm?"
He pinched the bridge of his nose, partially out of fatigue, partially out of frustration. "Copy that, doc. Be there was soon as I can. Tucker out."
He stepped out of the shower, dried himself, and struggled into a clean uniform. You'd think that by 2151, they'd have figured out a way to get ready faster, but none was available.
On mornings like this, Trip considered rigging up a sonic dryer in his quarters, though it'd be hell to make it suitable for use on humans. He took a quick look in the mirror, fluffed his hair with a towel, and slipped out of his quarters in a hurry.
His heart was racing, and his mind was, too. Most likely, "our patient" referred to the woman he'd rescued, and this "little difficulty" didn't bode well for her.
He wasn't a medical man, but it didn't take a doctor to see that she was in bad condition.
If she dies, said a niggling little thought, it'll be all your fault. "Not true," He muttered out loud. "I did everythin' I could."
Everything? Like fixing that plasma relay?, it sing-songed.
He fell silent, glaring guiltily at the turbolift ceiling. There was nothing he could say to that, and he knew it. Someone had died already because of his incompetence, someone he knew, someone he talked with and joked with in the mess hall.
He couldn't recall ever seeing the other crewman, but he by no means wanted her to die.
The doors slid open, and he walked into sickbay to the strangest sight he'd seen in a good, long while.
The crewman, now dressed in a clean medical gown, appeared to be fighting with the doctor, attempting to claw and bite him like a feral animal.
He rushed towards them, grabbing the crewman's shoulder and trying to pull her away. "What in the hell's goin' on here?"
She was much stronger than she looked, and tried to sink her teeth into his hand. He pulled it away before she could bite him, and, problem-solving on his feet like a true engineer, pulled a hypospray full of tranquilizer from a nearby shelf.
It took a Herculean effort from both him and the doctor, but he managed to inject it full into her neck.
She struggled weakly for a few seconds, then went limp.
They both sank back, panting. "Doc. Mind telling me what in the hell's been goin' on here?"
The doctor got back on his feet, reaching for an immunization hypospray. "Rest assured, commander, you will get an explanation. For now, er, just help me get her back on the bio-bed. I have something you may want to see."