Ask me how much I love playing the guinea pig. Go on ask me, I dare you! Beckett had found some ancient device that he was using on me. He had given me some long ass explanation with lots of words that ended with 'isms' and 'itises'. To be honest, I stopped paying attention about fifteen seconds into his narrative. The upshot was that if I was a good boy and showed up everyday to put my leg in the ancient's machine for an hour, I might knock two, maybe even three weeks off my recovery time. The downside? It hurt some - big surprise, not. But if it was unpleasant, it was at least bearable; and with the wraith likely to be at our doorstep at any moment, those were weeks I sorely needed.
Rodney would show up in the infirmary during my treatments - coincidently of course. Making small talk with him helped me focus on other things. Eventually we stopped pretending it was a coincidence and put the time to good use perfecting our latest hobby - bomb building. Not the whole thing, mind you. We were leaving out the explodey bits until later. You'd have thought Beckett would object, us kinda being the current poster children for death and destruction, the very antithesis of his Hippocratic oath. I think he was just relieved we were willing to sit quietly for an hour everyday like good little children.
It was kind of ironic, I guess, here we were building bombs on our lunch hour and had yet to figure out what had caused the explosion that led to all this. It would be weeks before the repairs were finished, days more before all the water could be pumped out of the damaged area so that it could be investigated…though by then I imagine we'll have bigger things to worry about.
I hope I didn't mangle Beckett's dialog too much. If you're interested in the terms I used, you may wish to visit the Scottish Vernacular Dictionary on-line (this won't let me include the URL, sorry).