Lividly glaring into the air in front of him, the Captain's face is marked by lines of distinct rage. An individual on this vessel – a member of his crew – has deliberately caused harm to his First Officer, his friend. The probability of such a notion plays in one's mind from time to time; perturbing as it is, it seems that there will be those who feel an aversion towards peoples of differing heritage. All of this, despite the efforts of generations past in acquiring the goal of peaceful co-existence; of a seemingly harmonious union of culture and creed. In this moment, following the occurrence of this very incident, those webs of strings which bound together the collective, weaving around each people and planet, now lie in tattered disarray against space's dark void.
One soul within the ward in particular, is understandably brimming with ire: the Communications Officer, whose own ancestral past is tainted by that which now plagues the ship. The ghosts of injustices from bygone times haunt her still, churning the blood borne from her predecessors. Arduously they grappled against the iron hand which held them, until at last a unity was won. All of that, in the case of her half-Vulcan courter, it seems, has come undone.
Empathetic irises glance at the patient, who seems to shield himself behind a stoic facade, despite his pain. Yet, she can sense from him a dismay, seeping through a sliver in his shield. It seems that, even now, all the prejudice that had tainted his childhood, has now reared its tormenting head, and stalked him into adulthood. Her entire form quietly seething, her thoughts are broken by the voice of the physician.
"There's not a lot I can do for him right now."
"What do you mean?", queries the blond man.
"Well, there's this drug the Vulcans use to prevent heart failure – Benjisidrine. We used our last batch on an elderly Vulcan ambassador just a few days ago, he had a history of cardiac problems. Our next re-supply isn't due until tomorrow. I can repair any damage done by the heart attack, but with the way this poison works, I'm afraid there might be more to come. I don't know if he can hold out that long. We'll try our best...hell, I'll even try Adrenalin, but I doubt it'll do much.", a concerned glance at the patient, "With Vulcan gone, there might not be many Benji plants left to synthesize the drug."
It takes only but a single moment for the spark of an idea to form within the mind of the Lieutenant. "The ship's Arboretum...we could have a Benji plant there."
"Let's hope we do.", adds the Captain, "I'll ask Sulu, he knows that section inside-out.". A quick glance at the friend on the biobed, "We'll find the bastard who did this to you, Spock...the Benjisidrine, too.". Now, his eyes shift back to the medico, "Bones, do whatever you can for him."
With that, he signals to the Lieutenant, who gifts the Vulcan a final grasp of his hand and a peck softly planted onto his forehead. The two soon depart, intent on the fulfilment of their joint mission. A venture seemingly against time itself: to apprehend the one who caused such harm to their crewmate, and to acquire that which is needed to save him from further agony...and death.
"I'll sure as hell try...", murmurs the good doctor at the now barren doorway. His eyes soon travel back to the patient, whose face remains somewhat stoic, is still marked by an air of discomfort. "I'll get you something for the pain, buddy.", a brief pause is made, "Hey, uh...about those things I say sometimes..."
"Please...there is...no need to continue, Doctor.", the patient interjects, leaving the physician only slightly perplexed, yet wholly sympathetic.
Trust, he now believes, has perhaps illuded his friend once more. A trust of people with which he serves; a trust which, in light of this recent incident, must be regained.
Ever thoughtful to the plight of the Vulcan, the physician glances at him still; this comrade - this friend - whose face is contorted and eyelids taut. And, soon the human quietly slips away, allowing the patient a few brief moments, lone as he is atop the biobed. A few moments for the medico to prepare a hypospray for the mitigation of his pain, all the while the space around them is occupied by the enduring rhythmical chirping of monitors. With the physician engaged in his task for a seemingly meagre period of time, the beeps from the Vulcan's monitor seem to hasten their pace – a clear indication, this is, of an elevated heartrate. The moment his human ears detect this signal, the doctor hurriedly returns to his friend, an additional hypospray now within his grasp.
"I am...aware...of your...good...intentions, Doctor. With this...I entrust...my life to...your capable hands...". A small grunt leaves the patient's throat at his final word, his breaths now gasping inhales.
"It's alright, buddy...I know you're having another one.", the doctor's reassurance comes at the very moment an anaesthetic is injected into Spock's neck. "We'll take care of you."
