When Hess saw Lieutenant Reed round the corner, she wondered if he had sensed the power vacuum being left by her blithering boss.
Malcolm took one look in Hess's deer in Klingon Bird-of-Prey eyes and decided to pivot his arse back to the Armory. Unfortunately, Hess had a grip exactly like someone who played with antimatter for a living--exact control with just a hint of crazy.
"What..."
She didn't even bother to point. By this time, Trip had somehow gotten undressed behind his desk and was now wearing a blindingly bright tied-dyed muumuu with a pair of riotous pink slippers.
"Ahhh...much better," Trip sighed, oblivious to the two slack jawed bystanders of his fashion train wreck.
Hess elbowed the man next to her. No response. Again. No response. Finally, she threw caution to the wind and dared to viciously jam the crux of her arm into the ribs of the man who possessed the itchiest trigger finger this side of the Alpha Quadrant.
The Brit cleared his throat to speak, but within seconds his eyes narrowed, and his next words very nearly caused Hess to bleed internally with despair.
"Where did you get those bunny slippers?"
Who are these people and what have they done with the men?!
Malcolm knelt down to examine the fluffy footwear with all seriousness. Then he glared up at the wearer of the slippers. "These look like Hoshi's slippers!"
Trip shuffled back into a corner and growled with a snarl, "Finder's keepers, bitch!"
That brought Malcolm back with a snap. 'Bastard' was OK, he'd been call that directly many times, with a quick refreshing splash of whatever happened to be liquid and handy. But bitch? Really? Was Trip implying that he fights like a girl? That's just not on. Not wise at all, my friend.
Affronted, Malcolm finally tore his mind away from the oddly familiar bunny slippers and finally realized what was in front of him.
Trip had gone completely mad. He called a weapons-always-hot officer a bitch! He couldn't even keep his shirt on! There were no alien princesses in the vicinity! This was clearly an emergency.
Malcolm wrestled and grappled with Trip until he had him in a death grip and proceeded to drag him to Sickbay. Within these short few minutes, Trip had sobbed, sniffed, yelled, and nearly bit him. Straight-faced, he nodded at Hess, who by now had checked out and decided to go back to work on the engines. Sure, warp engines were filled with dangerous antimatter that could destroy the ship and kill everyone within a matter of seconds, but at least they were predictable that way.
The doors to Sickbay opened like the gates to heaven after the short, but eventful journey from Engineering. But instead of Saint Phlox, Crewman Randall and her ever present clipboard appeared in what appeared to be a security booth with a placard on top that said S.H.I.T Care.
"Can I help you?"
As if it was not glaringly obvious. "Commander Tucker needs to see--"
"Please have a seat outside and fill out these forms."
Outside? Sure enough, there were chairs lined up outside Sickbay. They were empty.
"Can't we go inside, Phlox can take a look first--"
Randall readily shook her head. "Oh no, we need to verify his credentials and his account status first. We had to put the chairs outside because Phlox couldn't help himself and would start to treat people before their insurance could be verified," she whispered, scandalized.
Malcolm took two deep breathes to attempt to remain calm, but it didn't help much. "Look at him! He looks like a rainbow threw up on him. His face turned just as many colors in the last five minutes! This is clearly an emergency!"
"I'm afraid not," Randall looked apologetic, but insisted on shoving the clipboard of forms at him.
Red, he was starting to see red. "You know who he is," Malcolm growled through his clenched teeth. There was not a single female on the ship who didn't know Charles Tucker the III, even if she was the health insurance incarnate.
"Yes, but with each transaction we need to verify with the S.H.I.T account representative to check whether he has exceeded his maximum annual cap, his annual deductible, his itemized benefit cap..."
He was seeing so much red, it was veering into purple.
"...it's the new S.H.I.T policy to reduce claims paperwork and avoid Denials of Coverage after the procedure. So we really need to have Commander Tucker fill in his credentials for coverage. If you have his insurance card, it has all the information you need for S.H.I.T form number 1T5-4LL-CR4P," Randall added helpfully.
It was all white now, just a space where his brain cells use to be. Malcolm stared blankly at Trip, who was muttering "my boobs hurt" as he felt up his own chest.
Blink. Blink.
"Where is your insurance card?" the words fell out of Malcolm's mouth before he could help himself. It was dead on arrival. Trip turned his baleful blue eyes on his shipmate and said, "I don't know. This is all my fault! I'm so sorry!" And then the water works returned.
It was then that Malcolm decided he was not really suited to be a security officer. What kind of a security officer wished for the sweet blissful arrival of timely death?
A very, very, sorry one.