My Star Trek One-Shots

McCoy

Bianca Martin sits ramrod straight in a sleek black chair that looks like it belongs in a sci-fi museum. Her hospital scrubs are wrinkled, a little blood-spattered, and she clutches her phone like a life raft. The walls hum faintly. Everything is far too clean, too quiet, and definitely not 2024.

Across from her, Captain James T. Kirk leans on the table, arms crossed, curiosity sharpening his otherwise friendly expression. "Miss Martin, I assure you, you're quite safe. This is the starship Enterprise, currently orbiting the planet Camus II. Stardate 5943.7."

Bianca blinks. Slowly. Then starts to laugh. "Oh my god. Okay, this is either a very elaborate prank or I hit my head really hard. Where's Ashton Kutcher? Am I being Punk'd?"

Spock, standing stiffly beside Kirk, raises one eyebrow. "I do not know who or what 'Ashton Kutcher' is. However, your physiological scans show no sign of cranial trauma."

"Okay, Spock—wait, like real Spock?" Bianca exclaimed. "Is this Comic-Con? Are you guys actors?"

"We assure you, none of us are actors," Kirk said.

Bianca glanced around the room: the glowing wall panels, the uniforms, the crew's earnest expressions. The silence stretched before Bianca said, "Jesus Christ. I'm on the Enterprise. I'm on the freakin' Enterprise . . ."

Uhura, warm and diplomatic, gives her a reassuring smile. "We're trying to determine how you got here. There's no indication of a transporter malfunction or anomaly nearby. It's like you appeared out of thin air."

"Last thing I remember, I was leaving my shift at the hospital," Bianca said. "I was on my phone watching Vines. Well, old Vines. You know—the good stuff. 'It's Wednesday, my dudes.'" Bianca paused when she realized they didn't know what she was talking about. "No?"

"She's speaking English, but it sounds like a different language entirely," Scotty said.

Kirk smiled a little. "Can't say I've heard of 'Vines.' But . . . a hospital, you said?"

"Yeah, I'm a nurse," Bianca replied. "Well, almost. I graduated a year ago. I've been working trauma for about six months. Not to brag, but I've seen some things."

"Bones?" Kirk asked.

Dr. McCoy, leaning against the wall with arms folded, studies her like a curious case. His Southern drawl cuts through the room. "We're down two nurses after that last plasma burn incident. She doesn't look like she'll faint at the sight of blood."

Bianca looks up at him, trying not to smile. He's handsome—gruff and tired and kind of sexy in a divorced dad way. "Try me. I once treated a guy who impaled his thigh on a mailbox and tried to drive himself to the ER. I stitched him up while he was still scrolling Instagram."

McCoy had a hint of a smile. "Hell, she might fit right in."

Later, Bianca was in sick bay. Bianca is tying her hair back, working under the watchful eye of McCoy. She was quick, calm, and asked the right questions. When a patient yelped, she pressed a hand to their shoulder and murmured something reassuring. McCoy watched, impressed.

"You pick up fast," McCoy commented.

Bianca smiled a little. "You guys use a lot of the same anatomy terms. Except you've got a couple organs I've never seen before."

McCoy chuckled. "Don't worry. Most of the crew only have one heart."

She laughed, then glanced at him, cheeks flushed. "Thanks for letting me help. It beats panicking in a corner."