Keto woke up.
Despite what some crewmembers might have believed, Keto was not an
utterly chaotic sociopath. He was a relatively controlled and orderly
sociopath, who happened to be somewhat prone to fits of rage and
ranting. When not provoked (usually by a member of the crew, USUALLY
Shakespeare, one of the medical staff, a Chrysler or Shakespeare) he
was actually rather calm.
His normal method of waking up was to open his eyes, stare silently at
the ceiling for a moment or two as he became fully conscious, then
proceed to get up and get on with his day.
He opened his eyes - and found that he couldn't.
Not because of any particular obstruction - his eyelids would probably
move perfectly well. It was just that as soon as his brain started
the task of actually sending any messages to his muscles, there was
this blinding and enveloping sensation of pain which seemed to run
across every nerve with a scalpel edge. He probably would have thrown
up at the sensation, had that not involved muscle movement.
He had a peanut hangover.
Hangovers due to alcohol consumption, it has been well recorded, are
primarily due to three things - dehydration, lack of nutrients and
toxins hanging around in the body.
A peanut hangover suffered from all the above causes, and then threw a
large handful of salt into the mix. Keto's throat felt like
tapdancing elves had decided to wallpaper it. With sandpaper.
With a gargantuan effort at suppressing the pain, he tried to open his
eyes again. This time they obeyed, and his retinas screamed as light
devoured them. Keto himself would have followed suit, but his jaw
decided it didn't want to start making any loud noises at this time
(for which his ears were extremely grateful).
Gradually, things swam into focus.
He was not in his quarters. Nor was he in the medibay. Even given
that both of them were the same thing at the moment, this was
unnerving. Keto was unaccustomed to falling asleep elsewhere on the
ship...and, now that he cast his agonised mind back, he couldn't
actually recall what had happened before him waking up here. He
recalled something about dogs and darts, but everything was fuzzy and
ragged at the edges. He could deduce that he'd been eating peanuts,
and so had probably been in a bar, which probably meant
Parrott's...but where was he now?
Sitting up proved too much to handle, so he allowed his head to fall
to the side. He was in a room. He was in a room that looked like
somebody's quarters, with bottles and peanut packets strewn all over
the floor. Apart from that, he could have been anywhere.
He was lying on a bunk, that much was obvious. It would probably be a
good idea, he mused, to get out of these quarters before whoever they
belonged to came back and found a drunken doctor inhabiting them.
Sitting up still proved to be unfeasible. Keto settled for rolling to
his right, and...
...and rapidly found, as he slid off the side of the bunk and onto the
floor with a thump, that this was a stupid idea. His nervous system
shrieked in pain as he hit the floor, but his jaw still remained
resolutely locked shut. Screaming would just cause additional pain.
He lay there, face down on the floor, for a good few minutes as he
tried to recover. Finally, he found the use of his arms and legs
merely caused unbearable pain, rather than an agony that made him want
to set fire to the universe, and he tried to get to his feet.
He managed to get to something of a standing crouch, supporting
himself against the wall, before he had to stop for breath, trying to
fight off the feeling of nausea that threatened to overwhelm him.
His meditations were interrupted by a groan from the sound of the bunk.
"Aaargh..." came a voice, muffled by the bedcovers, "...what the smeg
did I *drink*?!"
Keto turned, slowly, to see a face as equally hungover-looking as his
own peering out at him from the bunk, looking aghast.
"...Doc?" blinked Vanessa.
Keto suddenly regained the ability to scream.
OOC: Hehe, tag!