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( video )
[A man appears on the network of indeterminate age, extremely short-- under five feet tall, easily-- with a slight hunch to his posture and Germanic features. His eyes are sharply alive, bright with challenge. There's no hesitation as he speaks, in a gravelly kind of accent that sounds almost Russian, the words flowing quickly as he makes them up on the spot.
Right now, he desperately needs intel of all kinds, and eventually a spotter to watch him while he uses his seizure inducer. That fact he's assiduously ignoring. He'd checked his neurotransmitter levels this morning, and he has at least three days, even with all the stress of arrival. No, four days, probably. Five. Really, he can go a lot longer without one than the ImpSec medical staff had given him credit for. --Focus, Vorkosigan.]
So. I see you all have quite a neat set up here. Let's not waste time. Who can bring me up to speed, ex tempore? Surely we have more intelligence than "don't say its name" on our bogey man. Since confirmed facts are likely to be scarce, personal accounts would be acceptable.
I'm also taking proposals for getting miserably drunk at the bar, as is traditional in times of drawn out peril. I need someone to drag me home, y'see; alcohol has quite a soporific effect on my constitution. [And Ivan is unfortunately not here to do the dragging. Miles ignores the resulting pang that inspires in him.
Then he hesitates imperceptibly, the memory of his previous catastrophic failure to report his seizures clanging loudly through his brain. No. He can't ignore this, much as he'd like to. The only thing that scares Miles more than never going home is turning into a vegetable, mindless and drooling. He can at least do the preliminary investigation about options.]
Information about local medical facilities would be appreciated as well. They're not all-- er, at this level of technology, are they? [He looks dubious about anyone surviving on that level of medical care, but immediately recovers with a wide, convincing smile.] I'd just like to know preemptively for when I wake up with a skull splitting headache.
Right now, he desperately needs intel of all kinds, and eventually a spotter to watch him while he uses his seizure inducer. That fact he's assiduously ignoring. He'd checked his neurotransmitter levels this morning, and he has at least three days, even with all the stress of arrival. No, four days, probably. Five. Really, he can go a lot longer without one than the ImpSec medical staff had given him credit for. --Focus, Vorkosigan.]
So. I see you all have quite a neat set up here. Let's not waste time. Who can bring me up to speed, ex tempore? Surely we have more intelligence than "don't say its name" on our bogey man. Since confirmed facts are likely to be scarce, personal accounts would be acceptable.
I'm also taking proposals for getting miserably drunk at the bar, as is traditional in times of drawn out peril. I need someone to drag me home, y'see; alcohol has quite a soporific effect on my constitution. [And Ivan is unfortunately not here to do the dragging. Miles ignores the resulting pang that inspires in him.
Then he hesitates imperceptibly, the memory of his previous catastrophic failure to report his seizures clanging loudly through his brain. No. He can't ignore this, much as he'd like to. The only thing that scares Miles more than never going home is turning into a vegetable, mindless and drooling. He can at least do the preliminary investigation about options.]
Information about local medical facilities would be appreciated as well. They're not all-- er, at this level of technology, are they? [He looks dubious about anyone surviving on that level of medical care, but immediately recovers with a wide, convincing smile.] I'd just like to know preemptively for when I wake up with a skull splitting headache.
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[And now he's looking at him expectantly, waiting for more input. That can't be all the man had to say.]
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[ Shaking his head, McCoy can't exactly stay quiet after that derisive comment. He's the one that butted into this transmission of his own accord. ]
Well as the Welcoming Committee already told you, Brazen Turtle's as good a place as any to get drunk. And with that delicate constitution of yers, you'd do well to be careful. The native liquor around here'll knock you on yer ass before ya realize it... Clinics around here aren't gonna waste valuable resources just to treat a goddamn hangover.
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My constitution isn't delicate, merely highly idiosyncratic, [he sees fit to correct, almost primly.] Hence my preemptive search for medical facilities. If I need emergency treatment at any point in the future, giving me, oh, a benzodiazepine would put me into respiratory failure. My physiology is... temperamental.
[Benzodiazepines are used, conveniently, for treating both alcohol poisoning and seizures, which makes it a perfect example for his double talk here. Miles recognizes when putting some truth into his lies helps the gambit.]
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A Christ, kid, you picked one helluva backwater world to get stuck on.
[ He pinches the bridge of his nose with his fingers, already feeling the headache coming on. ]
Well can you at least stop off at the Natu clinic before you go out on a binder? That way, when someone rushes you in I'll already know what not to inject you with.
[ Lord knows he'd be the one "lucky" enough to catch this allergenic lush on his shift. ]
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Being stuck on a backwater is at least familiar, [he muses,] if not quite so backwater as this.
[He immediately catches the tidbit that it'll be McCoy injecting him, and his eyes light up with interest.] Thank you, I'd love to. That would be ideal. Let's say fourteen hundred hours, later today, Doctor...? [Yes, he's just going to presume he'll meet him there at his convenience. Miles certainly doesn't want to discuss his seizures over the notoriously insecure network, and here's a convenient excuse to come in.]
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[ Seriously. This is his surprised face. It doesn't happen often, so cherish it. ]
McCoy. Leonard McCoy, and fourteen hundred works for me. Don't be late!
[ Something tells him he won't have to worry about that in a military man, but it's not going to stop him from reminding this guy since McCoy's going out of his way to make sure this fool doesn't end up dead after one day of drinking. You're welcome! ]
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[If he's vague on exactly what his plans are, well... can't be helped. But it's true that if it doesn't fit in his plans, he'd never show up at all. Miles is ruthlessly practical that way. He's also relatively comfortable with medical care, if long suffering and impatient; it's figured prominently in so many years of his life.
Miles does show up on time, blithely breezing into the clinic and charming directions out of the receptionist so he can lead himself to McCoy's office.]
Doctor McCoy, it's me, [he announces himself, seeming to take up twice his actual height with sheer chutzpah.] I didn't introduce myself, did I? Just Miles will serve for now. Thank you for agreeing to see me.
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[ McCoy doesn't bother picking his head up just yet to acknowledge the man. He always finishes his notes first. It wouldn't look very good if his mind began to ramble and his hand followed suit with the stylus. After a brief moment, he finished with a decisive click and finally regards the eager drunk.
He's rather surprised to see how short he is now that they are face to face, but there's plenty of humanoid species like him. It's nothing to really bat an eye at, unless you're green. ]
Well, Just Miles, I guess we should get started... Follow me.
[ Grabbing his medical kit, he leads Miles back into the hallway and down the corridor to a vacant examination room. ]
Hop up on the bed for me, this won't take long.
[ The first thing he pulls out of his kit is his medical scanner, then his PADD tucked securely under his arm. ]
I'll write in the medical jargon if you want xD
He's still debating which way he wants to fall.
Miles eyes the examination table for a moment, some of that debate visible, but he dutifully hops up onto it. He refuses both the stool and any potential need for help. His legs swing restlessly for a second before he stills them.]
What do you specialize in, doctor? [Nervous, him? Just a little. He's comfortable with medical professionals, but it does bring to mind an incredible quantity of painful procedures in his past.]
action;
Neurology, pharmacology, psychology...
[ He can go on, but there's no real need. Generally those three specializations are enough to placate any nervous or suspicious patient. As the medical scanner continues its readings, McCoy doesn't say anything, but his eye brow certainly raises up his forehead at some of the findings. His entire skeleton is synthetic, which is impressive when all McCoy would have to do is put someone under an osteoregenerator. So how in the hell they recreated it artificially is, uh, well... now a real curiosity, but his skeleton is only one small issue in the grand scheme of things. The cause seems to be some kind of chemical degeneration that caused a teratogenic complication.
And the list of issues just continues. One of the most alarming side effects is the imbalance of neurotransmitters, especially Gamma-Aminobutyric acid. There's brain damage as well, although it's hard to say if it caused the chemical imbalance or if it's a consequence of the seizures. ]
Well, I gotta say, son. You may have set a record here....
Re: action;
You're not going to make me recount my full medical history, are you? I don't have that sort of time.
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[ Any doctor who thinks otherwise is no true healer. If the world suddenly had no need of doctor's anymore, McCoy would be just fine with that. ]
No, that's the beauty of my lil' device here. Tells me everythin' I wanna know. And it's a good thing too, 'cause this list of allergic reactions would be a goddamn pain in the ass to write out.
[ At least the man's smart enough to admit his limits. ]
Well, Mr. Miles... Do you have any medication you take from your world? There's a chance I can synthesize 'em or find you somethin' similar, if necessary...
Re: action;
Does it really tell you everything? [Miles sends it an extremely curious and slightly alarmed look, to the point of covetousness.] No, I don't take any regular medication when I can help it, but, ah-- where could I get one of... what did you say that is?
[He didn't say, Miles is aware. He just wants to know.]
action;
I didn't, and no you can't. This is Starfleet-issued. I'd get court martialed for handin' them out like candy to civilians. Besides, I only came over here with one....
[ However, he does have access to manufacturing and R&D as an employee of Wayne Enterprise. Perhaps if it only did a few things for Miles... ]
What, exactly, would you want to use it for?
Re: action;
Medical purposes, of course, [he says as if it's obvious, to distract from how not obvious it is.] I don't like having to come in for evaluations all the time. And I'm hardly a civilian! [That indignant huff is real and entirely unfaked.] I've been in galactic covert ops for thirteen years.
Who would court martial you here, anyway? [he asks automatically, brain clicking over to possible repercussions.] What kind of presence does Starfleet have in Keeliai?
[Just give him a tricorder, McCoy... Come on...]
action;
[ Not liking where this is going, McCoy gradually pockets the medical scanner with a raise of his eyebrow and a suspicious scowl. A few key interfaces is one thing, but the entire spectrum of a medical scanner in a stranger's possession? Ha! Ha ha haaa! Good one! ]
Oh really? Galactic covert ops, huh? Never heard of it. What branch of the Federation is it part of?
[ If only his medical scanner could sense bullshit, but it smells sharp enough to the good doctor's keen nose that he doesn't really need it. Sorry, kid, but with the amount of shit wrong with you... There's no way you are doing anything covert! ]
Plenty... My Captain [ No, he would never, but Miles doesn't need to know that. ] and an Admiral from Starfleet and, believe me, he'd do it.
Re: action;
He was discharged from ImpSec about a year ago, and became Imperial Auditor instead. Miles isn't mentioning that little tidbit, but before his discharge, he'd done an incredible amount of covert ops. Covert as in they weren't traced back to his real identity; not covert as in well hidden. He's used to facing skepticism in his abilities and every time he runs across it, it stokes higher the fire to prove himself.]
Barrayaran Imperial Security. I'm aware it's unfamiliar to you, Doctor. The perils of multiple galaxies represented here and so forth. But I see action frequently and sometimes am unable to entertain something like a house call.
[That is pure unvarnished truth, all of it. It's just not the reason Miles wants this thing, though admittedly he'd probably use it for this purpose, too.]
Re: action;
[ Sure makes accountability something rather questionable. Hell, if he wanted to he could tell everyone he was the Archangel Gabriel here to be worshiped and adored. Sure was a tempting idea when they beamed down to a new and unknown planet. ]
Fine, so in the cases when you do see action, how do you deal with your seizures? With your imbalance, they must be frequent enough to warrant some anxiety in the heat of battle...
[ If he had his facilities on the Enterprise or a well-equipped starbase here, he could fix Miles. The bitch of it is even with his genius, if he doesn't have the right tools, his sensational abilities mean nothing. It's beyond frustrating. ]
Re: action;
I don't, [he says shortly.] I was discharged for it. I serve in another way now. [Which is true, and Miles loves being Lord Auditor, but it's not the military and he knows it. He ignores the sting of failure and shame that lingers from the epic string of mistakes he'd made to get himself discharged.]
I induce seizures with a device given to me by my doctors, under controlled conditions, deliberately. It drastically reduces unplanned episodes, but it's not foolproof. I don't carry lethal weapons any longer and I don't pilot anything, as a safeguard.
[The glint in his eyes dares McCoy to doubt his effectiveness within those constraints. Suddenly, it's extremely believable that Miles is a high ranking officer; he has the jut of his chin and the flat, unimpressed look down perfectly. He radiates sheer, unflagging confidence in himself.]