tushanshu | ( 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.

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A doctor's only wet dream should be a healthy patient!

[ 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...

[He flaps a dismissive hand.] They're always very concerned. I haven't been ill treated by my doctors, but I understand the allure of an interesting puzzle. [He just doesn't much like when the puzzle is his medical problems.]

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.]

Sure does. I can tell you to the second how old you are. If yer skeleton wasn't synthetic, I could tell you the day you hit puberty and a hell of a lot more. It's a modern marvel, this thing. [ Everything has it's limitations, but McCoy has rarely had to look to other devices for data collection when it came to living creatures. Hell, it can even tell him if people are lying. Not that he is that sneaky, but the application is virtually limitless. ]

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?

[Now he definitely wants it. Think of all the potentially useful information he could glean about other people if the need arose. Miles has no real specific use in mind at the moment, but he believes in stockpiling opportunities for later panicked crises. He makes up an excuse on the spot, careful to keep it vague and borderline truthful.]

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...]

Ah well, lucky for you I make house calls...

[ 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.

[Of all the things to take issue with, he picks the truth in there to doubt. Miles prickles instantly at the implied doubt in his capabilities. He straightens up in his seat on the table, going still and without fidgeting. Biting down on the urge to childishly protest I'm an Admiral, too! takes him a moment, but the truth is, he's not an Admiral. Not anymore, not even fictitiously.

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.]

These parallel universes sure are convenient...

[ 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. ]

[Poor McCoy unintentionally needles him even more. His spine straightens at being further doubted and having a particularly sore spot poked at.]

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.]

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