We cut into the Quarantine Chamber of the Worst Threesome Fantasy Ever. Stan is laid up on a bed while Pratt and Chen work away at trying to revive him. "He needs a drink," Pratt mutters. Chen scolds that Stan's having a very serious alcohol withdrawal seizure. "Like I said, he needs a drink," Pratt repeats. Don't we all. Pratt, concerned with giving Stan the best patient care possible, has stripped himself of that itchy, constricting sweater vest in favor of performing the procedure in his wife-beater. This gives him a better work-to-muscle-twitch ratio, thereby dramatically increasing the chance that viewers will suddenly love him, and in turn that the Powers That Be will boost his salary. But, Pratt, we're not that easy. Come back when you have an accent and can deliver complex monologues in an otherwise brittle foreign language. Then we'll mate.
Gallant pokes his head around the door -- holding a mask to his mouth and nose this time, despite having felt that wasn't necessary when dipping into Trauma Yellow to chat with the folks working on the really nasty outbreak. Sweet Gallant isn't the most powerful ship in the armada. He tosses the Ativan to Pratt just as Chen successfully inserts a central line into Stan; as Stan twitches and quivers, Chen yells, "Stan, dammit, you're not dying in here, you hear me?" Stan obediently stops convulsing. "Guess he heard you," Pratt grins. "Sats are up." Well, that was easy. The exhausted, feverish doctors collapse on opposite beds and get fetal.
Abby, Lutz, and Torres watch an instructional video on administering the smallpox vaccine. It involves pricking the skin fifteen times in a perfectly perpendicular fashion, within the same five-millimeter diameter. I knew the metric system would be this show's downfall. Susan appears to ask if they have enough space; before she can continue, a small faction of the larger (but sans Marge) angry mob storms into the room. "We took a vote," Idiotic Thug #24 booms. "They told us if we get the shot, we don't get sick," adds his cohort, Doofus Prickball #7. "We're ready." Susan politely explains that she can't start giving out the vaccine yet, and Lutz adds that they're waiting for official confirmation that it is, in fact, smallpox. Because God forbid we should accidentally vaccinate them for something that's bound to rear its ugly head in the next ten years anyway. This upsets our wee faction, and they get boisterous. "It's hot as hell, we're starving to death, and you haven't done a damn thing!" shouts Idiotic Thug. They angrily yell that they'll just casually leave and wait at home for the ER to make some solid diagnoses. Torres tries to intervene, and gets shoved for his trouble. He's even called a "jag-off" by the Doofus Prickball, who is apparently also an Uncreative Doofus Prickball. He could at least have called him something interesting, like a crustwagon or a cumrag. Think, people. And incidentally, Microsoft's dictionary thinks "cumrag" should actually be either "coma" or "courage." So close.