Splitting Headache

Posted on Sat Apr 5th, 2025 @ 5:50pm by Crewman Michał Lipinski & Lieutenant Richard Pierce MD

2,040 words; about a 10 minute read

Mission: Resistance is Necessary
Location: USS Jane Addams | Deck 7 | Sickbay
Timeline: MD001 - 1200

The cybernetic monsters had attacked, the Luxury Starcruiser who's home port had been Risa took a defensive position at Earth and the rest was history. The young man that was resting aboard the USS Jane Addams' Sickbay on a bio-bed had been scooped up by the Ambassador class starship adrift in the Sol system as the sole occupant of an escape pod. He was beamed aboard with bumps and bruises and a good contusion on his head. Though conscious when found, the man was jabbering about nonsense and showing evidence of dehydration and a concussion. Sedated and stabilized on the Jane Addams, Michał Lipinski began to stir.

His blue eyes shot open and hell he felt sore, unable to really move, but he was still regaining consciousness. "Oh yeah..." he said slowly starting to sit up but thinking better of it and lying back down flat. "Gave me the good drugs" commented Lipinski. He heard commotion coming from his left, and gingerly rolled over onto his side.

There, he was a man in uniform coming towards him from what appeared to be an office. He wasn't on the luxury Starcruiser anymore. Where... memories were only just starting to return but it was still a mental haze, cognitive fog. "We were attacked" he said. "Where am I?" he added.

Dr. Richard "Popeye" Pierce stepped up to the biobed, rubbing his eyes before adjusting his uniform coat. He had seen his fair share of concussions, dehydration, and general post-trauma confusion, but something about Lipinski’s expression told him this one might be a doozy.

"Yeah, you were attacked, kid," Popeye confirmed, his voice carrying a mix of weariness and wry humor. "And you're on the USS Jane Addams—hell of a name, right? We picked you up floating around in an escape pod like a lost puppy. You had a nice little chat with us when you first got here—mostly gibberish, but entertaining gibberish."

He grabbed a medical scanner and waved it over Lipinski’s head, frowning slightly at the readings. "Good news: you're not dead. Bad news: you got yourself a grade-A concussion and probably the headache of the century. Don't try any gymnastics for a while."

Popeye set the scanner down and crossed his arms. "So, let's start simple: What’s your name, and how many fingers am I holding up?" He held up three. "Bonus points if you tell me something that actually makes sense this time."

"Michał Aleksander Lipinski, age 24 from Risa," replied the man. His head was still throbbing but had definitely dulled a bit from when he had gotten onto the escape pod launched himself out. "You are holding up three fingers, and I'm not sure if I can say anything that makes sense. We were attacked by demons. Is this the after life?"

Popeye let out a short chuckle, shaking his head. "Well, Michał Aleksander Lipinski, age 24 from Risa, congratulations—you passed the 'not completely scrambled' test." He leaned against the biobed rail, studying the young man. "Demons, huh? Well, I've seen some things that would give the boogeyman nightmares, but I can assure you, this ain't the afterlife."

He gestured around sickbay with a sweeping motion. "Unless you think Starfleet-issued biobeds and cranky doctors are part of some cosmic paradise. In which case, kid, I’ve got some bad news about your version of heaven."

Popeye softened his tone just a bit. "You're safe. You're on a Starfleet ship, getting patched up after what I’m sure was a hell of a ride. Now, take it easy—your brain took a good knock, and I need you to stay conscious long enough to make sure you’re actually making sense and not just faking it because you want out of my sickbay."

He reached for a nearby hypospray. "Here—this'll help with the headache. And while it kicks in, how about you tell me what you remember about these so-called demons?"

The Risian looked the physician over and smiled. "I cannot fathom anyone faking anything to get out of here. It seems like a fine place to be" he replied. "I did not see them, but the voice. The Captain had the ship's comm system active through most of it. 'We are The Borg...' that's what I remember, and lots of screaming."

Popeye’s expression tightened for just a second before he masked it with his usual dry humor. He exhaled through his nose and shook his head. "Yeah… demons sounds about right." He pressed the hypospray to Michał’s neck with a soft hiss, administering the painkiller.

"You got real lucky, kid," Popeye said, softer this time. "Most people who hear that phrase don’t get a second chance to repeat it." He pulled up a stool and sat down, rubbing a hand over his face before fixing Michał with a more serious look.

"The Borg tore through your ship, and you made it out. That means you're a survivor—whether by luck, skill, or sheer stubbornness. That also means you’re gonna have some things to work through." He gestured vaguely at the biobed. "Physically, I can patch you up. But mentally? That’s gonna take some time."

He glanced at a nearby monitor, scanning Michał’s vitals. "We’re not gonna rush you. But the more you remember, the more we can piece together what the hell happened out there. So, tell me—what’s the last thing you remember before you hit that pod?"

"Doctor, look at me," he said lying on the biobed and locking eyes with the physician. "I was in an escape pod shirtless and in briefs. What's the last thing I remember? The comfort of rest in my own bed."

Michał sighed. "I'm sorry but I don't have much to offer. I'm 3rd Steward of a Risian Luxury Starcruiser that was in the Sol system to pick up charter guests from Earth. Alarm klaxons went off, the cruiser shook like nothing I've ever felt before. The Captain said we were engaging someone or something called The Borg. I scrambled out if bed inti the corridor. Deckhands were saying something about a cube. The Borg...their voices came through the comm system. I got into an escape pod and here am still in briefs and it is a bit nippy in here."

Popeye raised an eyebrow and let out a dry chuckle. "Well, kid, I’ll give you this—you’ve got priorities. Most people wake up from a trauma like that screaming, but here you are, worried about the room temperature and your wardrobe choices."

He stood up and grabbed a medical blanket from a nearby storage compartment, tossing it over Michał. "Here, consider that my official prescription for ‘nippiness.’ No charge."

Scratching his chin, Popeye mulled over what Michał had said. "So, you were in bed one second, and in an escape pod the next, with a Borg cube tearing through your ship in between. Hell of a way to wake up." He exhaled through his nose, glancing at his scanner again. "Alright, your memory’s intact enough to piece together the broad strokes, and you’re not seeing pink elephants, so I’d say you’re out of the worst of it. But that concussion means you’re on medical rest for now—no running off until I say so, got it?"

He tapped a few notes into his PADD before looking back at Michał with an amused smirk. "And don’t worry, I’ll see if we can find you something a little more dignified to wear before someone decides to write a medical case study about ‘The Briefs-Clad Borg Survivor of the Jane Addams.’"

"I'm from Risa, Doctor, trust me this is practically formal where for some places and events on my home world" Michał said in jest. "I'm just not used to the temperature of Federation starships, a bit colder than what I'm used to residing in. I won't run off, but I would like to leave Sickbay and not take up space."

Popeye smirked, shaking his head. "Risa, huh? Figures. If this is formalwear to you, remind me never to attend a Risian diplomatic function—I’d probably scandalize the whole room just by wearing pants."

He gave Michał a once-over, considering his request. "Look, I get it. Nobody likes hanging around in Sickbay longer than they have to. But you’ve been through a hell of an ordeal, and while I appreciate the enthusiasm, you’re still on my watchlist for a bit. Concussions are tricky—one minute, you're cracking jokes, the next, you're face-first on the deck because your brain decides it doesn’t like gravity anymore."

Popeye folded his arms. "Tell you what—I’ll let you out of here, but only under two conditions. One, you get yourself some proper clothes before traumatizing the rest of my staff. And two, you check in with me regularly, no exceptions. Deal?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Or I can keep you here, swaddle you in blankets, and make you listen to medical briefings on concussion recovery for the next twelve hours. Your call."

"Doctor, if you want to swaddle me in blankets, all you have to do is ask. I'm staying in one of the cargo bays I believe. Refugee status and such" teased Michal. "But best I get out of here for a bit, check in with you regularly. You don't have to worry, you don't have to hunt me down. I'll come back willingly."

Michał smiled. "Just get me a smock and scrubs and I'll walk out of here and find some actual clothes."

Popeye sighed, shaking his head with a half-smirk. "Swaddling services are extra, kid. But I appreciate the cooperation." He pushed himself up from his seat and gestured toward a nearby storage cabinet. "Alright, I’ll get you some scrubs—don’t say I never did anything for you."

He grabbed a set and tossed them onto the biobed. "There. Not exactly high fashion, but it beats running around looking like you just lost a bet with a transporter malfunction."

Crossing his arms, he gave Michał a more serious look. "Listen, I know you’re making light of things, and hey, I respect a man who can joke his way through trauma. But don’t push yourself too fast. That kind of experience? It catches up with you eventually." He tapped his temple. "When it does, remember that my doors are open—whether it’s for a check-up or just to talk. Got it?"

"I got it," Lipinski stated affirming that he understood what the Physician was saying. "If I need anything, I'll come to see you, Sir."

With that, Popeye took a step back, gesturing toward the exit. "Now, go on. Get dressed, get settled, and for God’s sake, don’t end up back here within the hour. I’d like to pretend I run a low-maintenance Sickbay at least for a little while."

"You'll miss me" Michał quipped teasingly. "But I'll do what I can to make sure to keep your low maintenance reputation up."

Popeye let out a short laugh, shaking his head. "Kid, I’ve been in this business long enough to know that the moment someone promises to stay out of trouble, they’re back in here before my coffee even cools."

He gave Michał a pointed look, but there was a glint of amusement in his eyes. "So, let’s break the cycle—go be boring for a while. Find some clothes, get some rest, and try not to do anything that lands you back on one of my biobeds."

He smirked, then turned toward his office. "And if I do start missing you? Don’t worry—I’ll send a nurse after you with a list of vaccinations you ‘forgot’ to take."

With that, he waved a hand over his shoulder. "Now, get outta here before I change my mind and make you my new medical assistant."

Lipinski did as instructed and made his way out of Sickbay. Though the thought of being a medical assistant was not all that bad of an idea. A tempting offer even in jest.

 

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