Episode Report CardKeckler: C- | 7 USERS: C-
YOU GRADE IT
Sickbay. Paris is in serious trouble. The Doctor thinks he's having an allergic reaction, but upon learning that all he ingested was some of Neelix's coffee, he snarks, "It's a miracle he's still alive." He activates the arch-y scanner thing on the medi-bed and determines that Paris is definitely having an allergic reaction to the coffee but -- and here's the kicker -- it's the water in the coffee that's making him get all itchy-scratchy. DUN! The Doctor is stymied, and notes that all of Paris's biochemistry is changing. Paris begins gasping quite insistently, so the Doctor scans him some more and determines that the alveoli in his lungs are mutating and can no longer process oxygen. The Doctor orders Torres out of the examination theater, erects an isolation field, and sucks all the oxygen out of the theater, replacing it with nitrogen and acidichloride. Paris's breathing improves. The Doctor doesn't know exactly what is going on with Paris, but he's certain that it has something to do with him being everywhere at once. Paris, afraid again that people are forgetting he is there, starts screaming. The Doctor determines that his cellular membranes are deteriorating. "He's dying," the Doctor states. Turning to Torres, he commands her to bring him all the information concerning what went down on the Cochrane. Time has passed, and Kes is now helping the Doctor. Luckily, she hasn't spoken, so I don't feel the need to shut her up. Yet. However, whenever I hear her feathery little voice that half-whispers her lines like that kid in Mrs. Doubtfire, I want to dig over my eardrums with a spade. As the holographic doctor passes effortlessly into Paris's quarantined field, Paris -- all sweaty and veiny -- whispers, "You're losing me, aren't you?" The Doctor tells Paris he's too stubborn to die. I just realized that I'm totally immortal. The Doctor passes orders to Kes who, still silent, carries them out. Paris sends out engraved invitations for a pity party: "Here lies Thomas Eugene Paris. Beloved Mutant." "Eugene"? The Doctor R.S.V.P.s his invitation in the negative as Kes starts some rad sweeping. That is, she sweeps with rad being a unit of measure for radiometric therapy. The sweeping wasn't particularly awesome or anything. As the Doctor increases radiation, Paris babbles about his radioactive mutant state and a big funeral with lots of pretty girls crying, "except Torres. Torres doesn't cry -- did you ever notice that? I don't trust people who don't cry." Well, you may not trust her, but I already know you're going to sleep with her eventually. Paris continues not to shut up: "Of course, my father -- he'd say 'Crying is a sign of weakness.'" Great. Another starship "stud" with Daddy Issues. Who does he think he is -- Joss Whedon? Paris asks the Doctor if he ever cries, and the Doctor responds uncomfortably that it's not in his program. "Shame," Paris muses, and then rambles on that what he remembers most about his childhood is the time he spent crying in his room. I'd feel bad for him if he didn't look so nasty. Paris goes on about how much he liked his room and segues easily from memories of playing games in that room to losing his virginity in that room: "Seventeen. Parents were away for the weekend." The Doctor, looking as repulsed as I feel, comments, "I'll note that in your medical file." Hee! That's totally the way to react to any and all TMI. I'll have to remember that the next time a fellow cheesemonger regales me with tales of how they used thin strips of morbier in their bizarre (and stenchy, I imagine) sex game of "Cream Cheese."