“Excellent!” Flavius called out, pausing the sim. “This is the most effective combination yet.” He rushed over to the sobbing ensign, pulling a specially-made, ridiculously rugged tricorder from his belt. “Are you alright, Brother?”
“My... arms...” Danny managed to say, before falling backwards into the dirt.
The Marine scanned him thoroughly, sighed, and hefted the ensign, suit and all, to his shoulder. “Tensile strength is still insufficient. I will have the computer address this.” With that, he carried his charge to the infirmary for the eight time that week, muttering litanies.
Crusher was livid. “You can't keep doing this!” she shouted, laying the unconscious patient on the familiar bed, calling for assistance. “There's a limit to how much we can repair, Commander!”
Flavius stood at attention. “Better here than on the battlefield, Sister Apothecary.”
“What battlefield?” the redhead replied angrily, running one of her instruments over the ensign's shattered arms, “What the hell do you think you're going to need this for? Why do you need to half-kill one of my people every hour just to test it?”
The Marine shook his head. “Sister Apothecary, I must be vigilant. The enemies of the Emperor persist even here. I cannot afford to let my Brothers seek them unprotected.”
The Doctor said nothing for a moment, consuming herself in her work. She didn't want to think about what the ensign was putting himself through, and, for the life of her, she didn't know why he did it.
“Commander,” she said finally, “Please return to your duties.”
Flavius bowed and departed, easily fitting through the enlarged and reinforced door. He made his way to the nearest turbolift, a new and improved heavy-duty model suited to his size and mass, and told the computer to take him to the bridge.