As fast as their limbs carry them, the trio make for their intended destination. That supposed place of healing that harbours their First Officer. That place in which some degree of suffering had been housed. And yet for the Vulcan, as his assailant inches closer to his target, it now seems apparent that more is to come. Through those gleaming corridors, the minds of the three pursuing shipmates are very much abuzz, with both adrenalin and concern.

What new trials will be placed upon him? What further suffering must he endure at the hands of his attacker? How much pain must his already tested body be put through? How close to his own death might he come? And, what of the medicos – those weary souls tending to him? Will they be able to free him from death's grip, or will this final test push their limits?

Or, will fortune offer the Vulcan's saviours a well-earned reprieve, and the assailant captured in perfect timing?

So much now is reliant on just how fast they can run.

... ... ...

The walls surrounding the ensign - and the air circulating therein - is sterile and pristine as it should be, as it always is. Yet, there may as well be a dark fog given off his form, a taint in the air in his immediate vicinity. Such is the nature of his deed, yes. If he has within his heart - his conscience - any qualms pertaining to his task, any 'change of heart', his steps would become heavy, hesitant, upon the smooth flooring. However, there are no such things within his mind, no such twinges of any kind of feeling as his destination draws near. No remorse, no hesitation for what he is about to do. Already, there had been much suffering placed upon his victim, and yet it may not have been enough.

So, with determined steps, he comes that much closer to his target.

Like a baneful apparition, that same air follows the ensign as his intended destination soon enters his view. With the ward's entrance drawing near, he can sight the personnel housed within. It seems, as per luck or careful planning, that the medicos - in a rather skeletal grouping, with such a late hour, it is night shift after all - appear quite occupied in their respective tasks.

There have been various members of the crew through that very door - sporadically coming and going - for differing reasons throughout the day time shift. Of course, into the night shift as well. Some had entered the ward with feelings of unease - a nagging headache, restlessness and sleep's elusiveness - mostly mild, yet still causing negative effects upon their duties. A rested and attentive crew is an effective one, yes? Peak well-being results in peak performance and morale.

And then, there had been those few crew members entering the ward in order to perform a duty. Maintenance of the instruments utilised by the medicos is of high importance - such equipment is vital to the health of the crew. Quite literally, lives are dependant on those devices and equipment and the maintenance thereof.

The young officer can almost effortlessly utilise the guise of either option to veil his intentions from the medicos. Or, perhaps, a mixture of both. A crew member entering the ward to perform a maintenance check on equipment and receive treatment for a merciless headache is indeed an interesting notion. And yet, perhaps it is "too much". The guise he has chosen as the shield for his task is the former: equipment maintenance. It is through this guise that he will have free reign within the confines of the ward, to go about as he pleases. Donned in his Science blues, he is clearly not of the Engineering department, yet it is known that he possesses thorough training within that field. So, his act might not be too "far-fetched".

As he moves through the doorway, all that is required from him is a simple phrase uttered to the nurse who first meets his gaze. The phrase which initiates his act.

"I'm just going to take a look at your tricorders, to make sure they're in good order."

At once, the nurse heeds his words with a nod and guides him to where he needs to be. It almost seems, well...too easy, as they say. Without an additional thought, she parts ways with him, allowing him the space to complete his "task", and she returns to her own.

Not a great deal of time - nor effort - is required of him in order to carry out his act. Yet, he prolongs the duration of it, actively going over a small bundle of medical tricorders, to ensure his performance is convincing. With each member of the Medbay staff occupied by their own respective duties, this aspect is not too burdensome. Of course, the scanners themselves are treated with high regard by the medicos - the ill-handling of such devices is detrimental to their duties and patients - and their condition remains untainted. None of the devices suffer faults of any kind. All is as it should be.

The performance soon comes to an end, and all tricorders are returned to their respective housing. His next move is now upon him. Aware of the bustle of the medicos, he maintains some distance from them, and by them he is duly ignored. This plan is so far going well. Gliding through the rows of biobeds, he feigns checking the condition of the monitors attached, glancing at and around. His apparent stealth rewards him with the staff paying almost no heed to his movements. It seems they are far too busy to overly concern themselves with someone who is checking their equipment.

It is within moments that he at last closes in on his victim. The Vulcan's long form is stilled atop the biobed, still clearly in the grips of unconsciousness. The monitor above shows that his vital signs have stabled for the time being, a hopeful sign for those tending to him. Yet, he is not completely saved from a grim fate. A vial of Benjisidrine is still required to liberate him from death's cold grasp. The completion of the drug's synthesis is unfortunately still some time away, having passed its infantile stages not long ago. All the medicos can do is monitor the patient...and wait.

These latter facts, and all those regarding the drug, are unknown to the ensign. So, he forges onward.