Night 46: M41-50 Hallway
[from here]
622 headed down to the last door in the cell block corridor, keeping alert for anything that might already have set itself up in the hall. There usually weren't any ambushes this early in the night, but better safe than dead.
He knocked on the door to M41, waiting slightly back from the door for the Commander to open it.
622 headed down to the last door in the cell block corridor, keeping alert for anything that might already have set itself up in the hall. There usually weren't any ambushes this early in the night, but better safe than dead.
He knocked on the door to M41, waiting slightly back from the door for the Commander to open it.
Actually getting his T-shirt off involved a lot more clever maneuvering than Kirk was used to, as he couldn't raise his right arm too high without it suddenly hurting. Nothing debilitating, but it still elicited a surprised grunt before he managed to get the whole thing over his head. He pitched his shirt at McCoy's bed, hoping the doctor hadn't noticed. Kirk really did feel fine, all things considered. The pain had stayed at the back of his mind, constant but dull, and despite the severity of the cuts, his bandages looked largely clean on the outside.
"Hey," he said as he settled down onto the mattress. "Where'd you get that uniform, anyway? I almost thought I'd hallucinated all that last night."
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"You'd need to do a whole lot more than just smile at me, captain. I'm made of tougher stuff," McCoy drawled as he flipped past the recent entries. That particular grin could be devastating, especially the first time. Lord above, Kirk knew just how effective it was and when to use it. McCoy had gotten the full brunt of it in their first meeting when he tried to sweet talk him into releasing him early from observation. The worst part was that he'd fallen for it too. The man could make you do just about anything and immediately with that look. Luckily for McCoy, he'd seen it enough by now that he didn't fall for it. At least not nearly as fast.
He caught that pained grunt all the same. McCoy turned to see him dropping the shirt on his bed. His wounded arm and chest had shifted, and although he'd missed the earlier motion, he could guess what he'd just strained to do it. He gave him a disapproving look.
"I was wearing this when I got here, but I found it again in the closet. Can't say I have a damned clue why I got to keep it, considering Mr. Hayes didn't," McCoy answered. It wasn't nearly as important as finding out how or why they were all here, but he couldn't deny he was curious as to just why he'd been allowed to hold onto it. What was the rationale behind it?
The doctor looked down at the notebook page, now bearing the medical log file name, Jim's full name, rank and not much else. Usually this preliminary information was something Nurse Chapel took down. At this rate, it wasn't going to fill itself. He'd need to take some basic measurements, height, weight, then move onto checking areas like his respiratory system, those bandages. It wasn't going to be easy without a tricorder or scale. He could eyeball it, but McCoy just didn't like the idea of using a best guess when it came down to medicine.
No way to get an accurate reading of his weight. Nothing to do a blood test with right now. Taking a full out physical examination wasn't an option. As much as McCoy disliked the idea of a partial exam, there just wasn't any getting around the fact that he was woefully under-equipped. It drove home just how urgent it was to try out the Sergeant's advice, and before he had another patient bleeding out on him. A doctor wasn't any good empty-handed. At this rate, it felt like he'd just been dropped right back into the dark ages. He couldn't even do a standard scan for basic pathogens. He couldn't even get a look inside to check how Jim's lungs were. McCoy got the very sinking suspicion that he was going to have to do it the old fashioned way and listen. If only his captain could see him now, ear pressed right up against a patient's chest. Next he'd be prescribing homemade cure-alls and placebos.
He'd put this Kirk at around a little over six feet, maybe 160-165 pounds. That was scratched into the medical log.
"You could stand to gain a pound or two by the way. How often have you been eating?" Better to start slower with harmless questions before he progressed to the subject of his brainwashing.
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Part of him still couldn't wrap his head around the idea of being captain of the Enterprise. Future Spock had attempted to drill it into his head with his destiny talk, and Kirk couldn't deny the absolute rightness of the moment when he'd stood on that gleaming bridge and called himself "Captain." If he closed his eyes, he could summon unreal images of a man who looked uncannily like himself, mid-thirties, in command gold. He wondered what that James T. Kirk was thinking. For that matter, he wondered what was going through the head of the man Spock and Chekov remembered, the one who had apparently outlasted the singularity and gotten the Enterprise home.
And if that man really existed... then what the hell did that suggest about Kirk?
"Uh..." Kirk had had only one waffle during breakfast, but McCoy already knew that, he'd been there. He'd tried to make up for it during lunch, but then he'd been too preoccupied during dinner to have more than a few bites. "Every meal," he answered at last, and attempted to project total trustworthiness as he stared straight into Bones' eyes. It technically wasn't a lie.
His gaze wandered as he took in the cut of Bones' medical officer uniform. The colour suited him a lot more than the red cadet's outfit, especially with those eyes. McCoy wore it like a second skin. "Whatever their reasons, I have to admit it's kind of reassuring to see you looking like a doctor." He smirked. "I'll miss seeing Spock with the smiley face, though."
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"You'll recover," he assured him dryly.
If this man was anything like the captain he knew, he was extremely grounded, possessed a healthy sense of humor, an empathy to his crew and good self esteem. A little knock every now and then to his ego from a friend wasn't going to rattle him. In fact, a little rattle every now and then was perfectly healthy. Bemused, McCoy just shook his head. He continued writing further observations in the medical log, mostly superficial ones: Kirk's current physical appearance, notes on the dressing on torso, current mood and mental state. He certainly seemed improved. He appeared sure of himself, his identity, had the clarity of mind to trade a few cracks, and seemed well enough to recognize him.
And yet when it came down to answer that simple question, Kirk hesitated. It was a tiny pause but enough to catch the doctor's attention. And despite full well knowing better, McCoy looked up. Jim was trying to produce an air of complete innocence. It was so sincere looking that it made him instantly suspicious. His instincts said to press the matter, that Jim was glossing over it somehow. Even as McCoy started to do just that, he faltered.
"I'm sure you have," the doctor said neutrally instead. McCoy silently cursed both himself and Jim: himself for not having built up enough immunity to the captain's charm by now and Jim for even trying it in the first place. He cursed him again for succeeding. At the rate this was going, McCoy needed to have a talk with Mr. Spock sometime soon. This was one of those situations where having that Vulcan stoicism might have proved useful.
McCoy knew Jim was trying to lead the conversation away from his diet. He let him for now, although McCoy didn't completely believe the captain for a second. Jim wouldn't lie to him. He was eating, sure... either he wasn't eating enough or failing that, wasn't eating healthy. McCoy made a mental note to keep an eye on the captain at meal times, especially when he thought he wasn't around. People had a way of acting differently when their attending physician was nearby, namely, they were on their best behavior. McCoy was more interested in seeing the bad habits that popped up when they thought they were on their own.
Jim just had to bring up Spock's uniform. McCoy couldn't resist. "It's an improvement. If we get out of here, you should bring it with you. It's doing wonders for him." Actually just about anything would be a distinct improvement to that sour expression. McCoy was dying to know what Spock thought of it.
Even as he said that, McCoy was debating what to do next. Take a look at the bandages or continue with the impromptu physical as best as he could? Routine procedure said to continue the physical, check for any warning signs, except routine procedure also said to have equipment. There was only so much accuracy you could get by going in hands on. On the other hand, his gut feeling said to check the more pressing wounds first and proceed to his mental state next.
Better to compromise for now. He'd take his pulse, respiratory rate and blood pressure, then move onto the dressings and then the mental status exam.
The doctor set the notebook down and picked up Jim's wrist, drawing it towards him, palm upwards. He hadn't had to do a pulse like this in years. It wasn't going to be entirely accurate without a watch either. McCoy pressed two fingers to the radial artery and closed his eyes, counting the beats silently and watching for any irregularities.
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He stayed silent while McCoy checked his heart rate, and studied him again while he wasn't looking at Kirk. For all of Bones' wry remarks about being "just a country doctor," it had been difficult to envision amidst the state-of-the-art shine of Starfleet. Growing up as a delinquent in Iowa, Kirk was well-acquainted with country doctors, and this scene reminded him less of Riverside and more of the Academy, on another one of those occasions Kirk had gotten banged up and cajoled Bones into treating him in his dorm room. Even then, they'd had a medical tricorder on hand.
He wondered if the other Kirk hated doctors. Well, not doctors - Kirk liked most of them just fine, and the pretty nurses even better. It was everything else he hated: the scans and tests, mandatory annual physicals and psychological assessments. As a child, he'd feared that the tricorder could sense what was fundamentally wrong with him, and it was an irrational fear which had never completely left him, even though no studies conclusively proved (or disproved) that being born in space made any lasting difference. The only time he'd ever voiced this, Bones had assured him that he bled and bruised and whined as much as any other patient.
"Nothing like getting back to the basics, huh, Bones?" Kirk asked cheerfully. "I swear Spock hauling a baseball bat around. I wonder where he got it?" He glanced at the closed door. "I also saw Hayes outside. One of the people he was with had what looked like a twentieth-century assault rifle, I kid you not."
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"Knowing Spock, he'd want to examine it instead. I think he'd dissect it first and check for any bacterias or compounds native to wherever this is before he'd ever wear it," McCoy pointed out. The fact that the shirt wouldn't be in any shape to be worn after all that poking and prodding would just be an unfortunate result of the process. Spock did have a strange sort of pride about him, under all that Vulcan aloofness. He also had zero sense of humor.
McCoy released Kirk's hand. He turned and bent to write down several figures and notes in the notebook splayed out next to Jim's hip. His heart rate seemed fine, a healthy seventy BPM. He'd taken the time to check for a rough blood pressure while he was there: usually he'd have gone for the upper arm but McCoy was aware of how limited time was. If this facility could somehow render them all unconscious whenever they felt like it, there wasn't any telling when they'd decide to do just that. How in hell was he expected to finish an exam when he half expected to have a repeat of last night's collapse?
The doctor gamely plowed on with his notes. Jim's minimum systolic value was also well within an acceptable range for a man his age. It wasn't a perfect measurement, but he could trust that, for now, Jim wasn't showing any signs of a possible myocardial infarction or a sudden arterial aneurysm in his future. He wrote that down as well. McCoy left the area for body temperature blank. That one was just going to have to wait for when he located more equipment. He wasn't a human thermometer. With the pulse and blood pressure ruled out, it left just the respiratory rate for now. He could start checking his wounds and start the interview after.
Startled, McCoy looked at him sharply. The captain's comment had come just as naturally as his Jim's had, and minutes after he'd remembered it. It really was eerie just how similar their universes was. The flash of surprise settled into an unamused frown. Maybe Jim found this entertaining but McCoy just didn't like trying to do his job without some equipment. He also didn't need Jim teasing him about getting his prayers answered, especially now that he was getting the very literal answer to it right now.
"This isn't what I meant and you know it," he grumbled. Jim was enjoying watching this far too much.
He placed a hand on Jim's torso, palm on his rib cage. You could do the respiratory rate just by looking at the chest or stomach rising and falling, but if he had to do it this way, without the tricorder, he preferred an extra measure. This way, he could physically feel for any rattling or irregularities. "Spock with a baseball bat?" It would go with that shirt of his. "See, it has to be killing him to have to carry that around. I can't imagine that looks very dignified for a Vulcan. What's this about a gun?"
Mr. Hayes hadn't shown any signs of possessing a weapon. Where had he gotten something like that? There wasn't any time to think that over too much. He had a more pressing job at hand, and that was finishing what he'd started before Jim managed to figure a way out of it. That answer would have to wait for a few seconds.
"Hold that thought, captain, I want you to breathe regularly until I tell you to stop. No talking until I tell you to," McCoy added with some relish. If Jim was going to get some enjoyment out of watching him work with zero equipment, then he was going to feel the same at slapping him with some doctor's orders.
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He was tempted to make a few ridiculous faces to make up for the silence, but wasn't sure if he could do that and "breathe regularly" at the same time. So Kirk shut his eyes and began breathing in and out with exaggerated compliance, at least for the first second. In the second, with the whole world shut out except for Bones' solid hand on his chest, he felt a tension loosen in his body. They weren't safe, and he wasn't sure about the status of the rest of his crew, and a solution to their predicament had made itself known, but Kirk still let himself relax. The pressure of worries and strange memories eased in his head. Only then did it really strike him that McCoy had just called him "captain", and several other times before now.
He couldn't remember a time Bones - his Bones - had called him by that title, even during command simulations, or even sarcastically. Kirk hadn't minded - as much as he couldn't really complain about the authority placed on him by Spock and Chekov, it had still been nice to be just "Jim" to someone. What surprised him now was how nice it was to have that same someone consider him as "Captain."
"I always knew you were meant to be giving orders," he murmured, forgetting that he wasn't supposed to be talking. Kirk looked up at McCoy and grinned as apologetically as he could, making the hand motions for sorry, I'll shut up now.
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The thought of a patient possessing one was worrying. Maybe he didn't agree with being placed here (or being yanked here by something), but that didn't mean threatening their captors' lives or endangering the other patients. There had to be a way out of here that didn't involve killing.
Even as he thought that, McCoy still kept most of his attention fastened on the rise and fall of Kirk's chest. Jim had his eyes closed, probably concentrating on taking calm breaths. McCoy could feel it when he relaxed. He could feel each breath he took, deep, even ones that reverberated against his palm. Strong lung capacity, McCoy thought. A little stronger than his Kirk's, anyhow, although McCoy could count that as this Jim being just plain younger. He could certainly feel the rumble when Jim spoke.
Annoyed, McCoy's eyes lifted for a moment. He fixed the captain with an admonishing look.
"And you're clearly not meant to be taking them," McCoy muttered back at him. That rebellious nature was very much intact. His Jim was like this too, unable to fully relax and let him take over during a physical. Most of it was due to the captain feeling like he just didn't have time to sit there worrying about his health: the ship needed to be run. McCoy remembered most of it being Jim huffing and puffing and complaining. Swearing up and down that he was killing him during a simple wall pedal run. Kirk might be the best captain in the fleet, but he had to say it, he was one of his worst patients. The only reason he wasn't top of that list was because of Spock and Eleen jostling for that position.
For one, Jim hadn't ever tried to brain him or argue him to death with that blasted logic.
McCoy decided to let him stew for a few more seconds. It'd be good for him.
"All right, the hard part's over," the doctor finally said. He removed his hand. Again he wrote down his observations below the last estimates. The entire affair had only given the doctor a vague picture at best. Taking a pulse and silently counting himself was hardly accurate.
McCoy glanced down at what he'd written so far. An extremely rough patient file for Jim. Barely even a fourth of what he'd have written down for a standard physical. If he went by what he'd observed so far, Kirk appeared physically fine; no abnormal respiratory rate, no excessively high or low blood pressure. Jim, to all appearances, was physically healthy and able to wrestle down a Rigellan ox. Maybe even two of them.
He straightened. "Let's have a look at your dressings. Hold still."
McCoy set about to loosening the outer layer with deft hands, taking his time. He made sure not to completely remove them, only get them so he could take a look under.
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While maybe not the preferred measure in twenty-third-century medicine, the sutures binding the four deep slash marks were neatly done, and with a minimum of bleeding. There was nothing about the state of the injuries which would've caused an M.D. concern - at least, not an M.D. who hadn't seen the same wounds open and bleeding just last night. Kirk's injuries already looked a week old.
Kirk of course didn't know any of this, and wasn't even trying to get a look as McCoy inspected him, as his mind had returned to the thought he'd been forced to put on hold. "Who knows if the gun works, or even where they'd get actual bullets, but it definitely didn't look like a toy. It's the first firearm I've seen in this place... but not the first weapon. I can believe an asylum would have pipes and baseball bats hidden somewhere, but swords?"
He tapped his hands against the mattress, remembering the battle atop the drill platform.
"It almost makes me wish Sulu was here. I bet he'd know how to get his hands on a sword."
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"No mental institute I've ever seen is run like this one," McCoy pointed out as he gently probed the wound edges. He'd never seen one without the appropriate paperwork and bureaucracy in place, much less one that let patients roam unsupervised. "Either it's one of the worst cases of malpractice I've ever seen on a mass scale or it's not actually an accredited medical facility."
McCoy's eyes narrowed as he studied the wounds and surrounding epidermal tissue. He was looking at an actual set of stitches and sutures, just like the old textbooks. If he didn't know better, hadn't seen it with his own eyes, he'd have thought these wounds were from a week ago. He might've expected this thing from Mr. Spock, but not from a human being. Kirk might have a remarkable way of jumping back, most of it will, no doubt, but he was as human as he was.
Unless this man isn't human, McCoy thought and instantly regretted it. Without a tricorder, he really didn't have any way to be absolutely sure right now. It was possible: a life form masquerading as another. Now it planted that seed of doubt. McCoy was inclined to believe otherwise, mostly because there was plenty pointing otherwise and because he didn't want to believe that this wasn't his friend. How a stranger would know this much about Jim's personality, despite the small changes here and there, or other crew was beyond him. No alien could perfect that particular smile Kirk used. Much less use it like he did.
There were also a number of other potential explanations. McCoy resisted going down those roads for now. Right now he needed to continue the partial exam, see if Jim was mentally fit to resume command, then he could worry about it later. The accelerated healing rate was something he'd have to bring up to Spock.
If it wasn't Kirk, then how would it know Sulu was interested in fencing? It wasn't something too widely known. Although McCoy couldn't say he was entirely comfortable with the idea of their helmsman with a sword. The last time he'd heard of Sulu picking up a sword had ended with him gallivanting up to the bridge and waving the blasted thing around. It was a damned miracle no one had been injured. McCoy also hadn't been able to get Lieutenant Reilly's rendition of 'I'll Take You Home Again, Kathleen' out of his head for over a month after that.
McCoy had to agree all the same. He hadn't witnessed that bridge incident personally, but Sulu had managed to locate a fencing foil in record time. "I'm sure he would. I'm just not sure a single sword or gun would solve our problems here."
He gentled touched a suture, noted the scabbing and faded bruises. If he had access to his sickbay, he could have taken care of this in under an hour. Under these conditions, with only the stitches and the body's ability to repair itself, he'd normally set an estimated full recovery at a week or two. At this rate, who knew? It could be tomorrow.
"Your wounds are making excellent progress," McCoy said conversationally. He managed to keep the apprehension out of his voice. "Do you remember who treated you or how?"
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In his limited reconnaissance of the building, Kirk had taken for granted that its appearance, if not its mission, closely mirrored that of a real mental asylum. In his first year, his program had included an elective which discussed the reformations of penal colonies into hospitals, possibly to make someone on the Academy Board feel better about granting him a waiver for his criminal record. To Kirk's surprise, he'd been fascinated by what he'd learned about Dr. Tristan Adams and his methods, and had wondered more than once if that's where his life might've led him had Pike not stepped into that bar in Iowa. Of course, later it turned out that Adams was doing mind experiments on the inmate-patients in his hospitals. Kirk wouldn't be surprised if Landel had a neural neutralizer of his own stashed somewhere.
Except... for the fact that Kirk didn't know about the neutralizer or what happened - would happen? - on the Tantalus colony. Bill. This was something Bill remembered from his television show. "Goddammit," Kirk muttered under his breath, but flashed a sheepish smile before McCoy could read anything into it. Maybe the doctor would think he was reacting to the poking and prodding of his injuries, which more itched than hurt now.
"And yeah," he said quickly, "you're probably right about the weapons, but a sword would've still been better than my flashlight against that creature last night. If we meet another one, and I'm betting we will..." Kirk let the thought hang. In their group, only he and Spock were proficient in combat, but even the two of them couldn't do much against giant monsters with one baseball bat. Kirk wasn't exactly a master swordsman, but he was determined to learn in a pinch if it really was the only way to protect his crew.
Kirk put those worries out of mind for now. "No," he said in response to Bones' question, not bothering to try racking his brain. He'd spent the entire day trying to remember, and no amount of effort yielded answers. "It was just like every time I've woken up here: in the hallway one minute, in my bed the next, fixed up and wearing new clothes. Aside from you, I don't think I've even seen an actual doctor in this place."
He suddenly looked up, meeting McCoy's gaze.
"But I might know someone who has. Admiral ZEX, my roommate, the one who was experimented on. He agreed to meet with you."
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McCoy hadn't missed that muttered curse and this time he wasn't fooled by that look. He frowned at him. He was used to hearing his captain complaining at him, not swearing suddenly to the air like that. He hadn't agitated the wounds either, which suggested it was caused by something else.
The doctor set the bandages back as they were. Regardless of what he thought of the professionalism displayed here (or lack of it) by the staff, or the level of technology and antiquated medical practices, the job was actually a good one. At any rate, it looked like the dressings didn't need his work on them. Jim was pulling through just fine on his own.
"Give me his information later and I'll see if I can track him down," McCoy said. He didn't know a thing about what a 'VUX' was supposed to be like, physiologically, but maybe he could try and help him all the same.
He couldn't say he liked Kirk's answer to his question. It sounded like last night's black out was a regular feature here. Unless he managed to locate a doctor, it wasn't going to be easy finding out who took care of Jim's wounds, how, or why it looked like the healing was accelerated beyond the human norm. It looked like this line of questioning had hit its dead end for now. Which meant it was time to start on the more difficult questions.
McCoy sat down, partially because standing around hovering didn't lead to a relaxed conversation with a patient, and partially to just get himself off feet that were starting to ache. They were throbbing again, just like his hand earlier, all pins and needles in the tight boots. He couldn't go taking them off in front of a patient either, so the doctor tried to make the best of it. He tapped a finger on the edge of the notebook, more to focus his attention back on it rather than on the sudden paresthesia.
Throughout the entire exam, McCoy had been keeping an eye on Jim's attitude, behavior and appearance. He hadn't found anything too off about it, other than that single, minor outburst just now. No strange tics, Jim met his eyes often enough and steadily enough except when he tried to avoid the issue of whether he was eating enough. That in itself wasn't too unusual. McCoy was used to something like that.
Patient's overall mood is relatively euthymic. Speech is clear and well articulated. McCoy wrote in the margins. Whatever had affected Jim yesterday wasn't showing any sign of negatively affecting his speech production. No abnormalities of activity. Steady eye contact.
The captain was about as cooperative as he'd ever seen him, their rapport a surprisingly comfortable one despite coming from different realities. It made judging Jim's behavior on that factor alone questionable just when the conditions were so different. The overall conclusion at this time was that Jim was very lucid.
McCoy crossed a leg over the other, resting the notebook on it. He'd confront him on that outburst in a bit. But for now- "I'd like you to describe what yesterday was like for you. Even if you think a detail's too small or unimportant, I'd like to hear it."
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But it wasn't the fear of not being able to protect the crew which was getting to him. Well, it was, but that fear was less immediate than what Kirk was feeling from Bones. He'd spent his entire childhood constantly trying to gauge the moods of the people around him, and even allowing for all the possible differences in their universes, Kirk's instincts told him that something was bothering McCoy. What, Kirk couldn't tell.
"ZEX will be easy to spot," he said, watching Bones write whatever he was writing in his journal. Kirk was both damnably persistent and too curious for his own good (two traits Bones had attributed to him during one of his many annoyed rants), but there wasn't anything to gain by poking around in McCoy's affairs, not if he trusted him. And Kirk did. He trusted that if Bones didn't tell him what was on his mind soon, the doctor couldn't be that put out when Kirk started poking in earnest. "He's around your age, blond hair with a hint of green, part of it shaved off to show an obvious scar. Brain surgery, I guess. His left eye has a bandage taped over it." Tomorrow, he'd leave the admiral a message telling him to expect McCoy.
When Bones asked him to recount the events of yesterday, Kirk let out a breath in a long exhalation. He'd known this was coming, and hadn't relished giving voice to the unsettling memories in his head. And really, did he have to? Sure, the extra knowledge kept filtering into his thoughts, but it hadn't yet impaired his ability to act or reason. At worst, it took Kirk an entire second to realize that the memory was a false one. More likely, this was just one more attempt to break their spirits and make them doubt themselves.
No, Bones didn't need to know - not yet, not until Kirk knew more about it. Besides, there were still plenty of other things to tell. "It was... weird," Kirk answered, both accurately and inadequately. He couldn't think of a better word to describe the way Bill Shatner's memories fit into his head, never mind their actual content. "I know everything which happened yesterday. I know it was me, even if I thought I was someone else at the time. When I- when he woke up that morning, he remembered everything I'd gone through, but he thought most of it was a hallucination. He believed he'd been delusional for weeks, and had only snapped out of it right then. And he was so sure of himself. No matter what anyone said, he knew he wasn't James T. Kirk."
He smiled wryly at Bones.
"And don't say it was just my stubbornness coming through. I feel the same way about his memories. In a lot of ways, they were familiar: his brother looked like my brother, and his mother looked like mine, and his father..." Kirk rubbed absently at his dressings, and the persistent itch underneath. "But his memories feel different in my head. Fake. I mean, I really don't think we're in any danger of having Bill pop back up."
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Maybe he was just finally getting old.
It wasn't exactly the most optimistic thought. He wasn't that old at all. McCoy could run all over the galaxy and back with Kirk and Spock, outlasted a number of the new recruits half his age when it came to hauling all over the place, getting shot at and getting knocked around by hostile aliens: not bad for forty. But there wasn't any acting like he was still in his teens. All the same, he'd considered himself healthy as a horse, especially for his age.
Maybe it's catching up, he thought bleakly. Having occasionally numb extremities recently seemed a strange way to show it though. He'd certainly never heard of it being too common either.
McCoy nodded silently and wrote down this 'ZEX's description down in the corner, along with what Jim had told him about yesterday. He'd want to have a look at that scar certainly. Jim wasn't showing any obvious scars himself, so he had to wonder why this other patient would. Maybe they were attempting different procedures on accessing the brain.
Jim's answer was enlightening, to a point. It sounded like he'd been somehow delusional but also somehow aware of self to some degree. From the sound of what little he'd told him so far, it was as if someone had just planted this other life in his brain and he'd believed it completely. The worst part was that McCoy had heard of it being performed before.
A neural neutralizer? McCoy jotted down with some unease. The Tantalus Penal Colony was long behind them, with Dr. Adams dead and Dr. Van Gelder seeing to the destruction of that contraption. He'd been keeping an eye on the news from both the Federation and the medical community after that. After the Tantalus incident and his report, there was a heavy push to ban any further devices or practices.
He hadn't ever heard of a spontaneous recovery either. Jim had required a few weeks of counciling and a number of visits to sickbay, a myriad of tests and scans, to make sure he recovered from that incident. You didn't just pop back to yourself the next day. McCoy eyed the man before him quietly. Jim had tried to offer a smile, and if he'd been anyone else, he might have been fooled by it. He might've even been derailed by Jim guessing he'd just been about to mention the captain's occasional pigheadedness. Not this time. McCoy watched as he unconsciously rubbed at the bandages. It was a nervous gesture.
He hadn't known this version of the captain for long. They were similar enough that McCoy felt like he could make some good guesses on his behavior. Enough to know when that smile might be halfhearted. And even if he hadn't known the man, or some incarnation of him he'd known for years, McCoy had an eye for patient behavior. He was hiding something.
Jim wasn't telling him everything. It was something McCoy felt he needed to face, especially if they were going to see how much it'd affected him, how much it might still be affecting him and what they could do to help him recover.
"You acted like you recognized us," McCoy offered. "You keep speaking of who you thought you were as if it was a complete person. What kind of person did you think you were?"
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But Bones knew, or at least had picked up a general idea from the occasional drunken, careless comment, and had never once treated Kirk differently for it. For anything, even. If there was only one person he could trust with this insane story, it was Bones. Kirk looked over at him, lips parted to confess, only to recall with a discomforting jolt just how he'd recognized the doctor last night. Unlike with Spock and Chekov, Bill had known at once that the man was Leonard McCoy. Why? The eye colour was different, sure, but for some reason, it hadn't at all occurred to Bill that this was an older version of his best friend. The only other possibility he'd thought of had been an actor, not a doctor.
Shit. That definitely sounded crazy. No way he could tell Bones all of this. Kirk pushed himself to his feet, too agitated to remember to grab his shirt first. "William Shatner was a construct, that I'm certain of," he asserted, pacing in the small space, "but whoever created his memories knew way too much about me, about my life. It's like they cracked my head open and changed all the names around. I recognized Spock because Bill knew a guy who looked and acted just like him, except his name was Aidan. And he knew you. Or... he knew the other you, the one who's like you in every way."
Kirk made a face, realizing that this explanation was bordering on the incoherent and possibly suspicious. God, no wonder he was in a mental hospital. His life had way too many Spocks and McCoys for any sane mind to deal with.
"That is to say, the Doctor McCoy from my reality. He had a different name too, but I - Bill - still called him Bones. However, I didn't know Chekov because Bill's memories stopped right after the disciplinary hearing. Apparently, the board chose to expel him, this caused him to have a mental breakdown, and he... turned into me. Captain Kirk," he said, echoing the comical reverence Bill would've used for his hero. "That's the story they put in my head, anyway."
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Aside from not being Kirk, not having the captaincy, that brainwashing didn't seem too different. That was if Jim was telling him everything and McCoy sensed he wasn't. A case like this was never as simple as it seemed. But the altered reality for Jim? Wasn't actually too far off from reality. Maybe that was where the deviousness of the story really lay. Keep it rooted in reality just enough and it wouldn't seem off at all to a patient. It'd certainly be easier to accept. Now the question was why go through with all that? What were their captors hoping to accomplish? And why let Jim break out of it so easily the next day?
And how was he going to get Jim to open up and tell him everything? The captain was a tough one, or that was what McCoy was used to at least. The more obviously you prodded, the more he threw up shields. He couldn't handle Jim the same way he'd handle any other patient. Jim required a little more of a tactful approach when he started getting stubborn. Go too softly and he'd realize it and clam up. Go too obvious and hard and he'd push back.
That nervous gesture had translated itself to Jim rising and walking the length of the small room. It was the body language of someone instinctively looking for a way out: a way out of the room, a way out of the facility, even a way out of the doctor's line of questioning. McCoy grimly took note of it. Yes, he was definitely on about something.
"Jim, you're pacing like a caged tiger," he grumbled. He reviewed the notes he'd written down rapidly while the captain had answered. There were things that weren't quite adding up. "Now, it's just a theory but if there's any actual sanity behind this facility's methods, it sounds like they may have wanted to see what you would've been like with one major event altered. Maybe how you'd function if you'd never had command."
McCoy didn't usually start dropping theories left and right so early to a patient, but it was partially to get Jim's mind thinking about the possibility, and partially to get him distracted from being so careful about whatever other details he was being so blasted stubborn about. It was a damn dirty tactic. McCoy preferred a direct approach himself. But Jim had a way of being as obstinate as he was.
He'd come back to the exact details of this 'William Shatner' when Jim dropped his guard. McCoy decided to press on.
"You're right about how well they know you. Could be telepathy." Which wasn't his realm of expertise. He'd have to bother Spock about it. The doctor flipped to a new page. He shifted tracks just slightly. "Have you been experiencing any flashbacks, or anything of the sort, since morning?"
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