(no subject)
Having not exactly been in the mood to drink, Beverly Crusher hadn't been stupid the night before; she'd lived on the island just long enough to know one didn't just ignore treats. She'd had a macchiato...all right, maybe two...and more than one croissant. It wasn't that the food was bad usually, but the limitations on dairy products could really get to someone raised in a human culture.
Beverly had done the 21st century before, once, and between the radiation, the Borg, and the historical figures, it had been a lot more trouble than it was worth. Starfleet had rules, after all, and she hadn't expected to see it again. Between the Temporal Prime Directive and the Department of Temporal Investigation (and dear lord, had Jean-Luc been chewed out by the latter), intentional time travel was a closed book.
This version, the version she was hearing about in bits and pieces from other Islanders, wasn't what she'd thought of when she'd read history books. It didn't even seem to be the kind of 2008 that could spawn the Third World War. And while Beverly usually had an opinion about nearly everything, she couldn't make this one fit. Unless they were all here from alternate timelines, in which case the entire area was at risk for subspace collapse.
Except that subspace seemed to be fine. Fine being relative, as she couldn't decide whether or not the gift she'd been given was part of that or not. The emergency replicator was the size of a traveling suitcase, and the only reason Beverly had known it was a gift, besides the fact that everyone else was going on about their own, was the bright red bow on the handle.
She knew how to use it, of course. Knew its limitations and its specifications and the fact that it was limited production--restricted compound production (some drugs you couldn't replicate anyway), general humanoid food packs, and basic necessities only. But you never looked a gift horse in the mouth, and mangoes were just fine for matter supply in a pinch.
Beverly Crusher would never deny anyone in need medical treatment. But when everyone was banging nails with rocks, it was always better to have a hammer, and to be one of only a few who knew how to use the hammer.
She had it now, because she was afraid to merely leave it, and was trying desperately to get the shelf to give her Gray's Anatomy, because she had just realized she didn't have it.
"It's a book, not a film reel!" she muttered, and shoved the offending metal cases back onto the shelf with a clatter.
Beverly had done the 21st century before, once, and between the radiation, the Borg, and the historical figures, it had been a lot more trouble than it was worth. Starfleet had rules, after all, and she hadn't expected to see it again. Between the Temporal Prime Directive and the Department of Temporal Investigation (and dear lord, had Jean-Luc been chewed out by the latter), intentional time travel was a closed book.
This version, the version she was hearing about in bits and pieces from other Islanders, wasn't what she'd thought of when she'd read history books. It didn't even seem to be the kind of 2008 that could spawn the Third World War. And while Beverly usually had an opinion about nearly everything, she couldn't make this one fit. Unless they were all here from alternate timelines, in which case the entire area was at risk for subspace collapse.
Except that subspace seemed to be fine. Fine being relative, as she couldn't decide whether or not the gift she'd been given was part of that or not. The emergency replicator was the size of a traveling suitcase, and the only reason Beverly had known it was a gift, besides the fact that everyone else was going on about their own, was the bright red bow on the handle.
She knew how to use it, of course. Knew its limitations and its specifications and the fact that it was limited production--restricted compound production (some drugs you couldn't replicate anyway), general humanoid food packs, and basic necessities only. But you never looked a gift horse in the mouth, and mangoes were just fine for matter supply in a pinch.
Beverly Crusher would never deny anyone in need medical treatment. But when everyone was banging nails with rocks, it was always better to have a hammer, and to be one of only a few who knew how to use the hammer.
She had it now, because she was afraid to merely leave it, and was trying desperately to get the shelf to give her Gray's Anatomy, because she had just realized she didn't have it.
"It's a book, not a film reel!" she muttered, and shoved the offending metal cases back onto the shelf with a clatter.