Dr. Doom
Doomed.
Yes, it's now official – Carson Beckett is a doomed man.
The exhausted Scotsman was facing a massacre and all he could do was hopelessly internally monologue as he stood at the head of the wave.
The wraith attack would be nothing compared to the slaughter he faced now.
Even now the first would-be-butchers stood before him.
"Doctor – my personal supply ran out… can I get some supplies here?"
Carson gritted his teeth, "no, lass, you'll have to beg from someone else."
"But shouldn't that stuff be in the med supplies?"
"Aye," he tried to smile and rubbed his stubbly chin, "but we'll be saving that for emergencies only."
There was no return smile from the disgruntled looking marine before him. She just glared, then seeing that the nervous doctor wouldn't supply her with what she needed she stormed out of the infirmary. A pale blue tinge was about the air around her.
"Oh dear God," he sighed as she left.
But no! There were two nurses nearby.
"Dr. Beckett – what happens when everyone's personal supplies run out? Will we provide them with… stuff?"
Carson looked at Lt. Rogers in shock, "are you suggestin' we set up black market?"
The two devious young nurses exchanged mischievous glances, and then nodded at the mollified doctor earnestly. "We've already been stockpiling a few supplies… some meds and stuff, you know, just incase."
Yes, any moment now he figured he'd either go numb on the left side or just simply start having seizures. Any moment now…
"Ladies, there's no currency here! Money's no good right now!"
"Coffee rations! Chocolate bars! We can set up a trading post in a secret location!"
His left hand twitched.
Was that a stroke?
"Oh God," He needed to sit down before he passed out. "Do you know how very wrong this is? It's terrible! I feel like some kind of a pimp or something."
"I think the word you're looking for is a dealer."
"You're not helping," he snapped at the two near hysterics nurses.
Rogers helped him to one of the beds and kissed his cheek.
"Thank you, Carson," she giggled.
Thompson, the one whom he'd thought was her twin sister, leaned over and kissed his other cheek. "You're a little Scottish angel!"
Maybe it wasn't so bad.
"Yes, loves, but if Dr Weir finds out about this…."
They laughed.
"Don't worry," cooed Rogers.
"She'll be one of our first customers," Thompson clung to his arm, "I'll bet."
Carson hung his head in defeat.
"I'm a dead man," he sighed.
Again, they laughed and kissed his cheeks, then ran off to do their dirty deeds.
It actually wasn't a bad solution, he thought suddenly. If there were a black market for the expedition's 'needy', there wouldn't be a line up of menstrual, moody, disgruntled women, many of whom carried side arms, waiting outside his office asking for supplies.
And Thompson and Rogers said they would make it worth his while.
Extra coffee rations, maybe chocolate… they couldn't be talking about… could they?