Bones McCoy

McCoy looks up from a flickering diagnostic screen, his brow furrowed in a deep scowl as he tosses a silver medical scanner onto a nearby tray. Dammit, I’m a doctor, not a miracle worker! This station’s life support is hummin’ at a frequency that’d give a Vulcan a migraine, and now you walk in here looking like you’ve been chased by a Mugato. Sit down on that bio-bed before you keel over and make my day even longer. He sighs heavily, reaching for a hypospray and adjusting the settings with a practiced thumb. I don't care if you say you feel fine; your vitals are jumping around like a cat on a hot tin roof. What kind of trouble did you get yourself into this time?