Time: Early morning
Place: The Brig, unknown location
--
The thing about waking up from a phaser blast on heavy stun was that it was a lot like a hangover, but far less fun. Mostly because you didn't actually get to get drunk, and chances were that if you had been on the business end of a phaser, you weren't going to get to crawl back into your bed and sleep it off. Scotty was -- perhaps surprisingly -- not the kind of guy who got sloppy drunk on a regular basis. He liked the occasional shot, and he'd been plastered a few times, but it wasn't high on his 'things to do' list.
Still, he wished that miserable headache he woke up to would have been from a night out, and not from being phasered.
The first thing he noted immediately, past the headache, when he managed to pry his eyes open was that he was in a cell. A worryingly familiar style cell. It had some variations, but it practically reeked of Starfleet.
He might have considered this a good thing -- it had not been his plan on go AWOL, all those months ago -- except he had been snatched right before going back to bed, in his bloody pajamas, by a crazy woman who had held a phaser to the back of his neck. The resulting struggle involved most of the people in the bar, but she still managed to get him, transporting them elsewhere.
The next part involved most of the people in the vicinity. Scotty certainly had not stopped fighting just because they rematerialized in the middle of a large group of... party-goers? He had no idea what was going on, but he hadn't been done snarling, and he shoved her off and got back to the business of trying to get free.
The reactions of the people they'd beamed into were a bit perplexing, though he only gave it consideration in retrospect. There was a lot of staring, when people weren't trying to wrestle with a pissed off and toolkit-armed Scotsman.
Chaos would have been an understatement, but if his knuckles, elbows and knee were any indicator, Scotty had made damn sure that there would be plenty of bruises on bodies aside his own. There was one point where he had three or four of them on him, and he remembered the...
Did the woman who dragged him here try to actually help him? What the bloody Hell?
He hadn't really had a chance to figure out any more of it. They finally were tired of trying to keep a grip on him and just outright phasered him into oblivion.
And now he was in the brig.
His toolkit was gone -- if it weren't, he'd already be out of the brig -- and he had absolutely no idea of what he'd been brought here for, aside some kind of supposed violation of the Prime Directive. That would have been more worrying, except Scotty was too achy and pissed off to be worried right now. He had his own Prime Directive, and that was to escape, probably leaving a trail of destruction in his wake, and get the Hell back to Harold and the Red Dragon Inn.
He paced the perimeter of the cell, rubbing his face with a sore hand. They'd been... seemingly unwilling to rearrange his face and beat on him nearly so seriously as he'd tried to beat on them here. He took that as a good sign that this Starfleet wasn't like that mirror-place he'd gotten some second-hand exposure to while on the beach and prior. But it still didn't make him feel any sense of obligation to make life easy on them. The only Starfleet he'd sworn an oath to was three realities thataway, and he had no clue if he would ever see that again.
He paced the cell and mostly tuned out of the aches and pains, and tried not to feel too frustrated with the fact that he didn't even have a pair of boots on, and he definitely tried not to think too hard about Harold right now. He hoped someone had actually informed his fiance of what had happened, and he absolutely dreaded how worried Harold was going to be.
Scotty's first priority was escape. He cased that cell like a professional, looking for weaknesses; kept his ears out for any approaches. So much as a weakness in whoever came to see him, and he would exploit the Hell out of it. And he had absolutely no qualms with viewing this as a prisoner-of-war situation where he could and would leave destruction behind him in his escape.
Just following his own Prime Directive.
Place: The Brig, unknown location
--
The thing about waking up from a phaser blast on heavy stun was that it was a lot like a hangover, but far less fun. Mostly because you didn't actually get to get drunk, and chances were that if you had been on the business end of a phaser, you weren't going to get to crawl back into your bed and sleep it off. Scotty was -- perhaps surprisingly -- not the kind of guy who got sloppy drunk on a regular basis. He liked the occasional shot, and he'd been plastered a few times, but it wasn't high on his 'things to do' list.
Still, he wished that miserable headache he woke up to would have been from a night out, and not from being phasered.
The first thing he noted immediately, past the headache, when he managed to pry his eyes open was that he was in a cell. A worryingly familiar style cell. It had some variations, but it practically reeked of Starfleet.
He might have considered this a good thing -- it had not been his plan on go AWOL, all those months ago -- except he had been snatched right before going back to bed, in his bloody pajamas, by a crazy woman who had held a phaser to the back of his neck. The resulting struggle involved most of the people in the bar, but she still managed to get him, transporting them elsewhere.
The next part involved most of the people in the vicinity. Scotty certainly had not stopped fighting just because they rematerialized in the middle of a large group of... party-goers? He had no idea what was going on, but he hadn't been done snarling, and he shoved her off and got back to the business of trying to get free.
The reactions of the people they'd beamed into were a bit perplexing, though he only gave it consideration in retrospect. There was a lot of staring, when people weren't trying to wrestle with a pissed off and toolkit-armed Scotsman.
Chaos would have been an understatement, but if his knuckles, elbows and knee were any indicator, Scotty had made damn sure that there would be plenty of bruises on bodies aside his own. There was one point where he had three or four of them on him, and he remembered the...
Did the woman who dragged him here try to actually help him? What the bloody Hell?
He hadn't really had a chance to figure out any more of it. They finally were tired of trying to keep a grip on him and just outright phasered him into oblivion.
And now he was in the brig.
His toolkit was gone -- if it weren't, he'd already be out of the brig -- and he had absolutely no idea of what he'd been brought here for, aside some kind of supposed violation of the Prime Directive. That would have been more worrying, except Scotty was too achy and pissed off to be worried right now. He had his own Prime Directive, and that was to escape, probably leaving a trail of destruction in his wake, and get the Hell back to Harold and the Red Dragon Inn.
He paced the perimeter of the cell, rubbing his face with a sore hand. They'd been... seemingly unwilling to rearrange his face and beat on him nearly so seriously as he'd tried to beat on them here. He took that as a good sign that this Starfleet wasn't like that mirror-place he'd gotten some second-hand exposure to while on the beach and prior. But it still didn't make him feel any sense of obligation to make life easy on them. The only Starfleet he'd sworn an oath to was three realities thataway, and he had no clue if he would ever see that again.
He paced the cell and mostly tuned out of the aches and pains, and tried not to feel too frustrated with the fact that he didn't even have a pair of boots on, and he definitely tried not to think too hard about Harold right now. He hoped someone had actually informed his fiance of what had happened, and he absolutely dreaded how worried Harold was going to be.
Scotty's first priority was escape. He cased that cell like a professional, looking for weaknesses; kept his ears out for any approaches. So much as a weakness in whoever came to see him, and he would exploit the Hell out of it. And he had absolutely no qualms with viewing this as a prisoner-of-war situation where he could and would leave destruction behind him in his escape.
Just following his own Prime Directive.