*((Interior. U.S.S. Juneau, Deck 10. Clanhouse.))*
Quentin Collins quitely cursed himself for being slightly late to the
assigned port of call for their first ceremony post-transfer. He huffed and
pointedly marched through the corridor of Deck 10, finishing the buttons of
his dress white uniform and quickly arranging his pips and comm badge (both
freshly polished thanks to the transfer and post-transfer repressing of his
But as he crossed the threshold of the compartment, solemnly but
beautifully christened "The Clanhouse" by the placard on the corridor door
frame, all his apprehensions and tensions melted away into the beautiful
space that opened in front of him. Like all of the Juneau's interiors, the
Clanhouse was HUGE, and instantly warm in that. Though the Eagle's Nest had
been the setting and source of great joy throughout Quentin's first
assignment, the Clanhouse, regrettably, BLEW IT completely out of the
water. Like his office in the holds below, the sleek new deck plating was
interspersed with gorgeously lacquered wood panels, instantly calling to
mind to inside Quentin the feeling and ethos of the ships of his home.
Like most of the compartments he had inhabited so far, Quentin felt the
burning need to just touch the ship. Just to feel it's fresh-off-the-yard
hum. His father always said a new ship glowed for the first year it was in
service. Every new boat under his command had that "glow" according to him
and sometimes, if you were lucky, you could tune to it early and form the
bond you needed with a ship for her to want to keep you alive. That
was...according to his father.
All these thoughts and more surged through Quentin's mind in an emotional
torrent as he finally had crossed across the room, relishing the clack of
his dress boots (also freshly polished and gleaming) against the new
tactility of the decking. Choosing the wall closest to one of the
Clanhouse's portholes, he first gingerly touched the wood panel with his
thumb, index, and ring fingers. Pressing his finger and thumbprints into
the panel, he felt a sort of...charge. Pushing it further, he spread his
entire palm against the plank, savoring the coolness of the surface and the
now spreading charge that tingled across his palm and fingers.
*oO There it is, pop...Oo *he thought brightly, smiling slightly at the
wistful way he remembered his dad now. He didn't talk to him nearly enough
and it made Quentin ashamed of himself. He had kept him fairly abreast of
his career and status on "the boat" as his dad had called the *Eagle*. But
they didn't talk...not really talk. Not the way they used to. He clenched
his hand into a pacifist's fist and rapped his knuckles three respectful
times on the wall. She was going to be a good ship. He could feel it now.
Really feel it.
He turned and faced the interior of the room again, this time taking stock
of the space to really drink in the details. It was another intimate space
like the Nest. That would surely appeal to The Captain and Commander who
seemed to mislike spaces that separated them from the crew or put them
above their staff. They were truly humble people and it only fueled the
nobility and positivity of their command structure. Quentin had seen what
happened to Captain's back home that didn't respect their crew. More often
than not, they didn't stay Captains very long.
But the antiquity of the space and the theming of it also offered an
instant charm. While the Nest was too a more "broad appeal" sort of feel,
this seemed far more to an intention and preservation of a long under
respected community in Earth's history. Civility and comfort but with a
conscious. Quentin could very much get behind that. He also saw a number of
his peers milling about the bar and common area where a sort of makeshift
stage and podium had been set up next to the dreaded table of accolades.
Quentin also instantly recognized (and was slightly starstruck by)
Ambassador Nicholotti. Even before his acceptance into the Academy, The
Ambassador had been something of an idol to Quentin. She stood for the very
core of the Federation and was a valiant Captain in her own right. She was
something he could point to in arguments with his jaded mother about the
virtues and positive influence and very raw potential of space command.
While she would often accuse Starfleet of colonialism and the seeding of
galactic imperialism, Quentin knew in his heart of hearts that SHE was
universes away from what his mother thought was a Starfleet officer and her
actions always backed him up. Her new, important station was proof positive
of that, at least to Quentin. You didn't get to be a Federation Ambassador
and Fleet Captain being a bad person.
*oO Although, to be fair, you were just attacked by an Admiral that turned
out to be a Caradassian spy some weeks ago so....Oo*
He pushed away his wryly dark thoughts and approached the bar, still eying
the still congregating crew members. He could make out The Ambassador and
The Captain, but he craned his neck for anyone else he knew instantly by
sight. It looked like...The Captain was talking to Hontru and...
HONTRU?! If Quentin had been drinking a drink, he would have spat it out.
It had been ages since he had spoken to Mister Hontru...who now looked like
Mister Marine Hontru, which was absolutely impressive and a wonderful track
for the capable Caitian. It made all the sense in the world to Quentin. He
tried to make a note to talk to him again before the night was over, if
only just to catch up. He had seen that their ship manifest had spoken of a
contingent of Marines onboard, but Quentin never in a billion solar systems
would have thought he would be assigned to them. Hontru always seemed the
"special operations" kind of cat.
One of the bartenders finally approached him and pointed toward the various
bottles and glasses around them. He considered for a moment. He wanted
something, but not something that he couldn't nurse if he wanted to.
*Collins:* Saurian brandy, please.
The bartender nodded solemnly, but with a slight warm smile. He set to
work, snatching up the bottle from the wall and pouring a liberal amount
into a small frosted glass snifter. He set it carefully on the gorgeous bar
and slid it in front of Quentin, who happily, gratefully took it.
He took a sip, savoring the sweeting burn of the liquor. It reminded him
instantly of his Uncle Roger, who himself was the first person to give him
a taste of the exotic cosmic liquor.
He scanned the room, trying to take stock of the inhabitants so far. The
Ambassador stood on the other side of the bar, fetching her own drink. Noa
was sitting at a nearby table, though Quentin couldn't quite make out with
who as they were slightly turned away from him, obscuring his view. The
body type suggested one Mister Serinus, but he couldn't be sure from this
Lastly he set eyes on Dr. Indobri who looked...slightly lost. He decided to
try and make up for the embarrassment of his exit after his after-mission
physical (and disclosure of his...aliment) and lend a friendly hand and ear=
He approached the doctor, carefully cradling his drink.
*Collins:* Dr. Indobri?
*Collins:* Well, you looked a bit lost. I figured I could help you get your
bearings in repayment of you helping me get mine in Sickbay the other day.
*QUENTIN COLLINS III*
*CHIEF SCIENCE OFFICER*
*U.S.S. JUNEAU NX-99801*
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