Bare moments earlier, in the transport deck nearest medbay, the head of engineering and the Enterprise's chief medical officer were also having themselves quite a time.

"No, Dr. McCoy. I cannae guarantee that this will return them 'safe and sound'. For multiple reasons- but I can tell you that this is the best chance we are going to get at returning them to this ship in... who knows how long." The harried engineer took two steps closer to the certified physician he was attempting to reassure.
"This blasted ionic storm is showing no signs of lettin' up and this window of fourteen percent drop in interference Mx Keenser picked up on radar, of all things, may vanish at any time." He put a hand on a crabby Doctor's shoulder.
"Will you allow the extraction, Doctor? We are locked on and standing by."

McCoy, quite unused to being asked to allow reckless, potentially life ending things to happen in his presence, nor to that low, serious tone coming out of the Scott's head, simply nodded. A viscera deep sigh preceding his turn toward the beaming pad.
"Commence beam up at will, Mr. Scott."

"Aye aye, Sir."

The doctor, the engineer, and an entourage of their most vital staff, held a collective breath. Chests tightening with every second the transporter whirred and blinked in obvious strain against a natural force it hadn't been built to combat.

"C'mon you annoying bast- The two of you better make it up here alive. Or so help me..."

No one gave the doctor any weird looks; in that moment, he had every right to threaten people who weren't there.

Tension in the room spiked as a light appeared on one of the transporter pad receivers. "Only one?" Could be heard from somewhere in the close group. Right before a second, brighter light came to life, only a handful of feet from the first.

The first light flickered. Scotty's hands danced across his input terminal. It stabilized.
The second dimmed to the level of it's twin and stayed constant.
The whirring grew in volume and the shrill edge began rubbing at the room's collective psyche. A few covered their ears.

Ghosts, the exact images of their highest ranking officers began to shimmer before them. Hard to make out, but unmistakable all the same. Even in their protective, grey away uniforms.

The captain recumbent, the first officer sitting, reverted to whiteness, then, in response to Scotty's growled, "Oh, no ya don't!", came back more solid than before.

The cacophony that marked the transporter's Herculean efforts cut off, and the sudden quiet rang with an unexpected finality.
Then, the two frozen figures on the pad moved. Mr. Spock to fall on his rump, and Captain Kirk to clutch at his shoulder. Both letting out roughly a half dozen coughs as their systems attempted readjusting to starship atmosphere.

McCoy was the first to bridge the distance and first to get a good look at the rescued away team. Or what was left of it.
The two ensigns that'd gone down with them... nowhere to be seen.

But they weren't his concern. Not in that moment. Not when there were patients clearly requiring attention right in front of him.
He raised a hand and motioned for his triage team to join him on the pad, then crouched by his captain's side.

"Jim? Jim, do you know where you are?" When a lackluster cough was the only answer, McCoy's second waved over a stretcher.
"Jim, you're aboard the Enterprise. Spock's here too," he assured. Flicking a look behind his shoulder to confirm that he'd indeed told the truth.
Spock nodded at him from his rather undignified sprawl on the pad. Two triage medics checking his vitals while attempting to not overcrowd the discombobulated Vulcan.

"M'Benga?" Asked while peering at one of said medical-tricorder wielders.
Yeah. That beam up must have been one hell of a doozy, because Spock never dropped out professional titles unless begged to.
Plus: M'Benga was standing by a medbay birthing he'd prepped himself. Just in case the first officer required emergency surgery.
And, M'Benga didn't wear a dress.

"You'll see him soon enough, Spock. Meantime, tell me what this blood is doing on the captain?" He asked, both to help assess the Vulcan's alertness and in hopes of a first hand accounting of any known traumas.

"The captain was injured during our crash. The landing destroying the transport and leaving only the two of us... alive." Spock squinted at the closer of his attendants, then shook his head. "Not M'Benga."
McCoy hid a cringe.

"Yeah, Spock. Dr. M'Benga and Nurse Chapel are waiting in medbay. They've reserved a biobed with your name on it," he said. A bit of forced levity coloring the words as he ran a tricorder over his dazed patient.

"The captain suffered a punctured lung. For him to survive, it was necessary I take immediate action." Spock's eyebrows drew down and he seemed to search the transporter platform for something. "McCoy?"

"I'm right here, Spock."

"Ah. So you are," said with a sluggish blink.

"Somebody give that Vulcan an oxygen boost?!"

"Wh- How did you know his oxygen levels are low?" Queried a medic already in the process of prepping a hypospray with something to correct the discrepancy.

"He's acting drunk."

"Vulcans do not drink, Bones Doctor."

"Case in point. The guy's loopy," said while administering the same in an appropriate dose for the injured captain.
"Now, Spock. Don't tell me you performed surgery on our captain after crashing on an alien planet and barely walking away alive yourself." Bones reached out and pulled the hand away from Jim's shoulder to find a small hole in his survival jacket had been patched up. Darned, to be exact.
He motioned for it to be removed and turned his attention to Spock while that was seen to. Knowing full well that because his medics were trained rather specifically to work on humans, they'd be having a tough time parsing the readouts on their instruments.

The faraway look on the still seated science officer's face was not comforting. "Spock?" Dark brown eyes found his and one pointy eyebrow quirked before any response was given.

"You asked me not to tell you," was all the explanation offered.

"Okay," said McCoy. A complimentary eye roll going unappreciated by his green blooded friend. "Now I'm asking you to tell me."

"As you wish, Leonard." McCoy crouched to run a tricorder over the unkempt Vulcan head, hoping the hypo's effects set in sooner than later.
Spock was starting to freak him out. Just a hair.
"You will find that Jim, you're captain, has several stitches-"

"What's this about 'your captain'?" Asked a chief medical officer who really didn't like the sound of tha-

"I told him not to call me that," came a voice that had everyone pause whatever it was they were doing to look in its direction.

"Jim?"

"Jim?" Came the twin questions.

"Your oxygen levels are improving. You should be thinking 'clearly' again within seconds," rushed a McCoy who wasn't wasting any time before standing, pleased that his team was indeed in top form and that he therefore needed to walk to the stretcher to get a good look at their captain.

Once he did, he kept his feeling of appall to himself.
The captain had clearly left a little something behind. Regrettable, but understandable. Having beamed through an ionic storm of such magnitude on nothing but an engineer's hope and prayer.
McCoy started with a close visual inspection of where the unfortunate captain was currently bleeding out of a nice, no longer stitched slit in his upper thoracic region.
His breathing was alright though, and getting better as the oxygen booster took effect, so the lung itself must have been holding up alright.

He ran his medical-tricorder over the quadrant and had to double take. "You stitched up his Goddamn lung?! What kind of-"

"Vulcan 'hoodoo', Doctor."

One good double take deserved another. "Well, you're never performing surgery again. Not so long as I'm around, anyway."

"You're welcome, Doctor," said a Spock now standing at the foot of the transporter pad. Close enough to touch the head medic.

"The hell you talkin' 'bout, boy?" McCoy's accent deepening in his obvious vexation.

Spock's head canted to one side. "I am physically older than you, Dr-"

"Hush up, yo-"

"I was also informed that that was the expected response to-"

"Bones!" The doctor made a sharp turn away from the elf eared butcher he called a friend, and leaned forward so his other patient wouldn't strain himself.

"Yeah, Jim?"

"He spoon fed me his own vomit," said while pointing square at the recovering first officer's chest. "Lied. Said it was a plant."

"It was indeed a plant, Captain. The-"

"Don't call me that!"

"-only one we came across which had the potential to sustain human or-"

"Alright, Spock," a disgruntled and just a tad appalled Bones cut in. "We don't need the botany lesson right now. In fact, I don't want to hear another peep out of either of you until I've had each of you on a biobed for at least ten minutes- no, make that thirty."

Jim lifted his head off the stretcher, lips curling into a goofy grin. "Peep."

McCoy sighed. "I give up."

Spock, wisely, did not inquire as to the significance, in that specific context, of the terran onomonapia for a young foul's cry.
McCoy wouldn't have humored the Vulcan.

The Scottish engineer still standing in the corner behind the controls, forgotten the moment the two targets had fully materialized, watched as the captain was wheeled out the door towards medbay for a bit of retouch surgery; the one who'd done the original patch job allowed to walk. Then, as the last of the med team rushed out the automatic doors, he wiped his nose on the gold ring around his sleeve cuff.

"Aye. I love a happy ending," he said to a room suddenly devoid of medical blues. The echo of an impressive hiccough the only response his remaining, red clad staff offered.
He scrubbed a hand across his damp, overly happy eyes and cleared his throat. "Alright, now. Time to rescue us a marooned scientific base camp." His face went somber as he remembered something that their recently returned first officer had said. "And... to retrieve the remainder of the rescue team."

"Aye aye, Sir," resounded the room, setting to prepping the transporter to do what it had just done all over again.

"So you seriously big spooned me every night? And we shared blankets?!" Asked an incredulous, happy to be allowed visitors post minor operation, James T. Kirk.

"We shared body heat, Jim. It was the only way to keep your system at an acceptable temperature throughout-"

"I understand the body heat part of all this," Dr. McCoy cut in. "But spoon feeding him your own vomit, Spock? Where was the sense in that?"

Spock closed his eyes for a second and shifted his weight further to one side before answering. "In your words, Doctor, 'Our damn captain is allergic to too many substances to feasibly keep track of. God knows to what more out in this unforgiv-"

"Alright," said a doctor who didn't much appreciate being 'imitated' by someone who couldn't even get the inflection right. "So how did mamma bird style feedings make alien plants safer?" He asked, giving the blond on the biobed a funny look.

"Okay, that's disgusting," Jim said, pointing a finger at his attending physician. Then the two of them turned polite heads toward Spock. Genuinely, morbidly, curious.

"I consumed and digested on a timer; regurgitating and checking with the geological tricorder every several minutes until what came up was read as harmless for-"

"Oh, God, Spock! Too much graphic information. You're gonna make me hurl next."

"Ah, ah! No you don't! I'm not cleaning up any twice hurled meal! Not in my-"

"Seriously, Bones? That's not helping."

"Yeah? Suck it up, ya big baby," McCoy grouched, turning jaundiced eyes on the Vulcan in the room. "And you need to get back to your biobed! M'Benga and I agreed you need to stay off that ankle. You want me to stick it in a cast?"

"I assure you, Doctor, that that will not be necessary. It is merely a sprain and will heal on it-"

"Don't give me any of that 'prevaricating' shit. I can tell it hurts, so go lay down and let the medstaff do their jobs."

"Yeah, Spock. Mission complete. At ease."

The science officer's head canted, eyes displaying some hesitance. Then, perhaps taking the words as an order, the sharp lines of his body snapped to and with a quick salute and a crisp, "Captain. Doctor," he was gone.

"So," Jim started as soon as he was eighty percent sure he wouldn't be overheard, "his ankle's hurt?"

"'Merely a sprain' my ass," McCoy ground out. Eyes still trained in the direction Spock had left.
He looked back at the guy on the biobed and sighed. "Yeah, thing got torqued pretty bad. Nearly crushed. He's only able to walk on it because of his creepy Vulcan 'mind partitioning' hoodoo," he said. Hands making 'creepy' gestures in the air around his head.

"Wait. You mean when our transport went down, the first time, and that floor mounted unit pinned him... he got- he was being crushed?"

McCoy pinched the bridge of his nose before saying, "Jim, that tends to happen when something that heavy lands on you." He moved his hand away to give his captain another funny look. "If he was anyone else on this ship, that foot would'a popped clean off. Lucky basta-"

"Have Ensign Jordan and Ensign Rogue's families been notified yet?" Jim blurted. Freshly reminded of the manner in which the unfortunate souls had been lost.

"Yeah. Well, someone's been dispatched to notify. They'll have the news anytime."

"... I wanted to tell them."

"No you didn't. You wanted to bring those kids back from the dead." Jim's eyes widened at the sharp delivery. McCoy shook his head and went on,"You think it's your fault they died. Well, news flash: The universe doesn't revolve around you." He ended with a look that, in 'Bones' anyway, read 'I understand the feeling'.

Jim took a moment. Then, slapping on one of his nonchalant faces, he ribbed, "Wow. Spock's bedside manner is better than yours. I'll have to apologize to-"

"That hobgoblin nearly killed you with that- that-"

"Careful, Bones. I can literally see your blood pressure rising."

"He had you dead to rights! What with all the Vulcan mind tricks and the- the... needles and- and the thread! Mind you the stitches were pretty even- but there was no sterile field!" He turned distraught eyes on Jim. "How're you even still alive?!"

"...Thanks Bones."

"You sonofa-"

"Guess I'm just too tough to kill."

"Uh-huh. We'll see about that," rejoined the doctor. The two of them sharing in a smatter of chuckles teetering on the edge of manic before things took an easy slide into a natural quiet moment.

"Hey, Bones?" Jim restarted, a majority of his joviality fallen to the wayside.

"Yeah?" Bones prompted when his most 'fun' patient didn't go ahead and speak.

"I... I treated- You think Spock's really okay?" Face sobered, McCoy went with a serious answer.

"He's three times as sturdy as you, Jim. You survived; he's fine. Like the Vulcan said, 'It's just a sprain'."

"That's not what you said earlier," Jim pointed out.

"I had to say something. He needs to keep off it!"

"Uh-huh. Most of what you said was after he left, Bones," said the captain, finding another hole in McCoy's reasoning.

"Who's the doctor here? 'Sides, this isn't about me," he snapped in the face of a confused Kirk. A Kirk who couldn't quite meet his eyes as he smoothed out some imaginary wrinkles in his biobed blanket.

"I just feel kinda... guilty? Like, he didn't deserve..."

"You could try not being an ass when he's around?" Offered the doctor. Just a tad confused about the subject matter..

"I've never had a friend I was supposed to be nice to. Feels wrong. Like the universe is trying to shift off axis."

"Okay, first off, that sounds terrifying. Never say that again." Jim couldn't help a chuckle at that. "And second, quit being a baby." McCoy paused, giving his lip a quick chew before asking, "You thank him yet?"

"What?"

"You thank him for..." Bones made a 'you know; for all that' motion with his off hand. "For not letting you get yourself killed?"

"Tried once. He said, and I quote, 'No thanks are necessary.' Went on a bit about Surak and Starfleet- you get the point," Jim said, an unhappy purse to his lips.

"And you let that stop you? No," McCoy said, a disbelieving lilt to his voice. "James T. Kirk doesn't let anything stop him. Not even logic itself."

"Shut up, Bones. That's an-"

"Ooh, an order? My turf, my rules. You can't tell me what to do. Not while laying in that bed, where you will be staying until your observation period is ove-"

"Sometimes, I really hate you, Bone-"

"Don't hate the player," said the physician, raising his hands in appeasement. "On second thought, maybe hate the Vulcan. He almost-"

"Stop. Most of the medical supplies were destroyed when we crashed. He had no other option, aside from watching me die. Or leaving me behind. Which, apparently, would be against the teachings of some really really dead guy."

"Lemme guess: Now you want me to apologize to him? He's sleeping! Can't hear a thing! What's the real issue here, Jim?" Asked a McCoy who was getting kind of peeved by all this weirdness.

"...He saved my life, tried like hell to save Ensign Rogue's; turns out he was injured the whole time, and I treated him like shit." Said like someone finally coming to the realization that they were the school bully.

"Ah, he's used to that. Everyone does. 'Cept M'Benga and Chapel, but they're kinda weird." At the stricken look his captain gave him, McCoy loosed a tiny smile.
"That was a joke. In fact, most might argue that he treats everyone else like sh-"

"That's just him trying to keep his culture alive, Bones."

"Yeah? You wanna tell the entire ship that?" Jim scoffed at his friend's ridiculous jab.

"I was just thinking, as his closest friends in the galaxy... maybe we should... be more appreciative? Or something?"

Bones, very unmoved by all that, gave him a dead eyed stare. "Jim, the guy claims to be a logic based being, yeah?" He got a nod. "If he resented the way we treat him, wouldn't the 'logical' thing to do be, oh, I don't know, not engage us outside of alpha shift hours? Not sit with us at every big meal? Not invite us to enjoy endless oodles of excitement in games of three dimensional chess?" He sent Jim an especially sardonic look before continuing.
"Pretty sure he'd'a dropped us like hot potatoes a long time ago if he didn't like us."

"It's only logical," Jim agreed.

"Excuse me, Captain. Doctor?" Said a blue shirted medic paused in the doorway, pretending to knock on the soft partition wall.

"Dr. M'Benga," Jim nodded in greeting.

"Shoot," invited the head of medbay.

"I wanted to give you a heads up, so there wouldn't be any undue surprises: I've started Commander Spock's biobed on a hypothermia prevention cycle and given him a heating blanket," the good doctor informed, taking a step inside and returning the captain's polite nod. "Turned down the lights and all the indicator speakers as well. With any luck and a little quiet; he'll slip into a light healing trance."

"A healing trance, for a sprain?" Asked an incredulous McCoy.

With a noncommittal shrug, Dr. M'Benga went on. "His... internal temperature regulator, if you will, is strained. As if, down on the planet, his Vulcan physiology, which is optimized for functioning in extreme heat, was forced to overcompensate for conditions of intense cold for extended periods." He turned his attention to the captain and asked, "Were there no sources of heat? Fire was not possible?"

"Unfortunately, it was go cold or get eaten. I don't know how cold it was in the dead of night though. Slept through it," said Kirk, voice betraying his internal unease.

"That is unfortunate," the only clue that the guy meant what he said, a a little rise and fall of his shoulders as he heaved a sigh. "I hope that you're recovery will be swift and relatively pleasant. I will do what I can to make Commander Spock's such as well." Then with a quick turn of the head and a, "Doctor. Captain," he was off.

"He remind you, little bit, of a certain pointy eared someone?" McCoy mused aloud. Wisely not expecting an answer.

"Okay. Now I feel like shit," the captain lamented.

"None of that was in any way your-"

"I never thought to ask how he was feeling, Bones! It's just- He looked..."

"Like Spock?" Offered the doctor.

"Fine, Bones. He looked fine," he corrected, eyes casting themselves downward. "So I assumed his Vulcan-ness got him off scot-free."

"Yeah, hate to break it to ya, Jim, but that's kinda how most of us flawed humans operate," comforted, perhaps, the captain's long time friend. "You know Spock; if you'd asked, he'd've brushed it off and said he was 'functioning nominally, Captain', McCoy imitated. Getting the inflection so-so.

"...Doesn't make it okay that I-"

"I, I, I. Me, me, me. Give it a rest, ya baby. Consider his feel-... thoughts on the subject. He's probably, somewhere deep, deep down in that Vulcan brain of his, 'pleased' that both of you made out alright. In the end." The doctor reached out and gave his patient a light bop on the shoulder. Then a tiny smile when it made him cringe.
"Like I said: baby."

"Sometimes I really hate you, Bones," Jim sighed.

"Yeah, well sometimes, it's justified," McCoy sighed back. "Most times, it's mutual." Captain Kirk swiped at his chief medical officer, who dodged in the nick of time. The while, giving him a look that said, 'I own you'.
"Don't make me sedate you."

"You wouldn't," Jim said, a squint backing him up.

"Don't try me," came the warning the captain wanted to believe was a bluff. Still, Jim was the first to break eye contact. Just in case.
With a victorious chuckle, McCoy turned and started for the door. "Since you're so worried about your little Vulcan friend, I'm gonna check up on him, personally." Turning back to the biobed, his face practically serious, he added, "Anything comes up, you'll be first to- no. M'Benga'll be first." He paused, giving his head a perplexed scratch. "I'll let ya know, anyway. Get some rest, Jim. That's an or-"

"Yeah, 'an order'. I got it," Jim said, making a show of settling into his pillow and closing his eyes.

"Hmph," was the last he heard of the doctor. Spock must have been okay after all.
So Jim devoted some time to pretending to be asleep and, eventually, his whirring mind even slowed enough that he didn't need to concentrate to keep his eyes closed.
Never knew when Bones might pop his head in, 'you're not sleeping' hypo at the ready.
It was safer this way.

The minute Beta shift hit and the changing of the ship wide guard was complete, Jim let his eyes relax wide open.
The captain hadn't been able to sleep a wink. Not with the threat of sedation looming over him like Death's shadow. And not without... huh. He couldn't hear Spock from his bed, in his private little curtained off corner section.
He ran a hand through his hair, wondering how in God's name that wasn't a good thing. Had he somehow gotten used to that stupid, cramped cave setup?

Jim, suddenly feeling both awake and restless, threw off his comfy cover and swung his legs over the side of the biobed. Bare feet complaining as they hit the cold, tiled floor.

He crept from his 'do not disturb' medical birthing, through the murk of a severely dimmed medbay, over to an unusually festooned bed in which rested the veritably buried form of his first officer.

Not sure why he felt the compulsion, he inched closer to get a good look at the green blooded burrito, taking care not to disturb-

"Captain? Have you been prescribed an exercise regiment already?"

Never mind. Damn Spock's Vulcan ears.

"Shh. I'm supposed to be sleeping," whispered a Jim who wasn't interested in being found out. And subsequently sedated into next week.

"...As am I," whispered back a Spock who, for once, seemed to be on board with breaking the rules.

"Doctors," Jim said with an eye roll. "Psh. Who needs them, right?"

Spock's raised eyebrow, visible even in that abysmal excuse for minimum safety requirement lighting, was answer enough.

"Fine. We do," said Jim, making sure the biobed next to Spock's was switched off before taking a seat facing his first officer.
"No need for that," he assured when his pointy eared friend made a move to pull back his heating blanket and sit up. "Stay toasty. M'Benga said you have to."

"And you should be resting in bed. Dr. McCoy said you 'have to'."

"Touché, not bad Spock. But, as you can clearly see, I am in bed. So we're in the clear," came the captain's attempt at smoothing out the Vulcan's compunction.
It didn't seem all that effective.

"You are on a bed. I do not think that is what Leonar- the doctor had in mind," said Spock, small falter not going unnoticed by his company.

"Hm. You have a point there. Good thing I don't care what Bones 'has in mind'," he said, not missing the hint of worry in those drawn eyebrows.
"By the way: Thanks for not letting me die. Even though I was... inconsiderate and a total ass," Jim said. Making sure his face lent the sentiment the weight it deserved.

"Sentient beings are generally not at their best when cold, hungry, and in pain. No thanks are necessary." Spock looked like he meant what he said.

"Yeah, well, you're sentient and I've hardly seen you at a better," Jim said with a rather large, one armed gesticulation.
"And for future reference, Spock: The appropriate response to being thanked, by a human anyway, is 'you're welcome'," Jim advised. Hoping that this time, something about common Terran courtesy might stay with the Vulcan.

"You were welcome, Jim." Their eyes met and held at the words. "I did not think you might feel otherwise." Regret almost perceptible in the Vulcan's tone.

Jim's face broke into a subdued grin, "Yeah, Spock. It was rather... implicit." He broke off their little stare. "It's good to hear anyway. Thanks, Spock."

Jim thought the science officer's mouth might've twitched up at one corner, but put that out of his mind best he could. Spock didn't do smiley- the thought was ridiculou-
"You are welcome, Jim."

Jim, unabashed in the gloom of a deserted medbay, did nothing to suppress the smile that felt big enough for the both of them.
"...I think I'm ready for a little of that rest I've been 'ordered'. Night, Spock," said the captain, slipping under the covers of his new biobed and snuggling in.

"...Good night, Jim."

McCoy, from the anonymity of a shadowed doorway, watched as his patients settled. Listened as the strange, not quite human heartbeat coming through the biobed speaker slowed to a pace indicative of a fast approaching death, and crossed his arms. Musing that he'd never get used to that trance whatsit, mumbo-jumbo M'Benga assured him was completely 'natural'. For Vulcans.

Hearing something else he'd been waiting hours for, he emerged from his hiding shroud and walked across the room to stand between the two beds.
Yep. Out like lights. The two were finally listening to doctors' orders.
Huh. He should have put them next to each other to start with. He'd have to remember that for next time. Not that he hoped there was a 'next time'.

'Cause he didn't.

"Couple'a big babies. That's what they are," he grumbled to himself. Silenced medical tricorder reassuring him of anything the sound of easy sleep itself couldn't.
"No wonder they need babysitting," mumbled the chief medical officer, and therefore highest ranking conscious officer aboard the Enterprise.

He glanced between his captain and first officer, popped off a sarcastic salute, and about faced. Ready for a little shut eye himself.

Reaching the door to freedom, he slowed just a tad and grinned to himself. "Maybe I'll ask Chapel to mix up some formula for them. Heh heh."

Upon waking sometime well into Alpha shift hours, the two in the biobeds received plates of food which, unbeknownst to them, had narrowly escaped being liquidated and served in infant suckling bottles.
Both bedridden officers, unable to parse the strange, bashful looks the good Nurse Chapel kept trying to hide from them, looked to each other and shrugged. A mutual decision reached that: If it was important, they'd hear about it soon enough.

Haha! Well, there's already a little something lurking in the wings which could probably be coaxed out with a bit of time and patience. With any luck, I'll have something more to publish before we actually attain casual beam transportation capabilities. Wish me luck! ;D
Hope everyone's doing great and having a great time! Till next opening night,
~Anonymous