Debut
What with the liberties the Captain took with it, maintaining the Enterprise's transporter was like painting the Forth bridge: once you'd finished tuning everything up, it'd be time to start all over again. It was one of those routine tasks that Scotty could do with his eyes closed. He didn't actually have them shut as he beavered away, surrounded by cables and components, but he did whistle a jaunty tune, compute several equations simultaneously and think about what to have for lunch, and certainly didn't look at what he was doing.
He reached for his hyperspanner and bolted one component to another, stood back a little and wondered if he'd put that where he ought to have done. He didn't have time to assess the situation properly, however, as suddenly there was a blinding golden light and a funny taste of sherbet and the molecules that made up his body were reduced to nothing more than a stream of information. When his atoms reformed, Scotty wasn't on the Enterprise any more.
His first thought was that he had to remember to be more careful when working on transporters, given their inherent potential to get you into a seriously sticky situation if anything went wrong. His second thought was that he appeared to be twenty feet above the ground and falling fast.
He didn't even have time to scream, as he'd only just managed to realise it when he hit the sand with a thud. It was lovely sand, soft and warm, but Scotty wasn't in the mood to appreciate the surroundings. His shoulder was absolute agony and as he craned his head round to try and get a better look, the awkward angle it was set at suggested he'd only gone and dislocated the damn thing. He tried to get up, and regretted it.
"Ow, ow, ow, bad idea, bad idea," he said, grimacing at the shooting pain. "Okay. Plan B, don't sit up."
He pulled his communicator from his pocket and flipped it open. It wasn't so bad. They could beam him up with the backup transporter, they'd get him to the sickbay, McCoy'd stick his shoulder back together and call him an irresponsible idiot, and everything would be fine.
"Scotty to Enterprise," he said. "I've got myself into a wee spot of bother here. Could ye get someone to the backup transporter and beam me up, please?" Nothing happened. Scotty shook the communicator, then held it to his ear. It was dead, probably broken in the fall. Well, that made things a little more complicated.
Wincing and cursing, he managed to move himself a little up the beach, craning his neck so he could see what lay further up. Out of the very corner of his eye he could see buildings. Well, that was a good sign. He just hoped that the locals were friendly. And that they had sandwiches here. He was feeling a bit peckish.
[A little bit different from the usual, so it goes like this - The first person to find him gets to try and fix up his dislocated shoulder. Everybody else, find him in the kitchen, with his arm in a sling and eating some obscenely large sandwich to regain his strength.]
He reached for his hyperspanner and bolted one component to another, stood back a little and wondered if he'd put that where he ought to have done. He didn't have time to assess the situation properly, however, as suddenly there was a blinding golden light and a funny taste of sherbet and the molecules that made up his body were reduced to nothing more than a stream of information. When his atoms reformed, Scotty wasn't on the Enterprise any more.
His first thought was that he had to remember to be more careful when working on transporters, given their inherent potential to get you into a seriously sticky situation if anything went wrong. His second thought was that he appeared to be twenty feet above the ground and falling fast.
He didn't even have time to scream, as he'd only just managed to realise it when he hit the sand with a thud. It was lovely sand, soft and warm, but Scotty wasn't in the mood to appreciate the surroundings. His shoulder was absolute agony and as he craned his head round to try and get a better look, the awkward angle it was set at suggested he'd only gone and dislocated the damn thing. He tried to get up, and regretted it.
"Ow, ow, ow, bad idea, bad idea," he said, grimacing at the shooting pain. "Okay. Plan B, don't sit up."
He pulled his communicator from his pocket and flipped it open. It wasn't so bad. They could beam him up with the backup transporter, they'd get him to the sickbay, McCoy'd stick his shoulder back together and call him an irresponsible idiot, and everything would be fine.
"Scotty to Enterprise," he said. "I've got myself into a wee spot of bother here. Could ye get someone to the backup transporter and beam me up, please?" Nothing happened. Scotty shook the communicator, then held it to his ear. It was dead, probably broken in the fall. Well, that made things a little more complicated.
Wincing and cursing, he managed to move himself a little up the beach, craning his neck so he could see what lay further up. Out of the very corner of his eye he could see buildings. Well, that was a good sign. He just hoped that the locals were friendly. And that they had sandwiches here. He was feeling a bit peckish.
[A little bit different from the usual, so it goes like this - The first person to find him gets to try and fix up his dislocated shoulder. Everybody else, find him in the kitchen, with his arm in a sling and eating some obscenely large sandwich to regain his strength.]