Alexander had grown restless in his quarters, and his head had carved a firm indent in his pillow as he ran schematics and reading programs through his PADD, a deliberate distraction from the overcrowded halls of his new Starbase. The grass is always greener, however, and the Lieutenant chose to dismiss his isolation in search of some company – which wouldn’t be hard to find, he knew, in a space as crowded as this.

His arrival on Starbase Bravo came at an inconvenient but opportune time- the recent activity on the Klingon border had sent the place into a frenzy, and with it, a number of new guests. Finding himself peoplewatching as he walked, he strolled somewhat amused by the density of civilian folk among the Starfleet personnel; their heterogeneous nature in a Federation Starbase was both amusing and unfamiliar to him, he wasn’t used to dealing with – or at least coming across – civilians in what he regarded as a military setting. 

A loud-mouthed crewman walking by with little disregard for their own volume (or social cues, for that matter) had mentioned a bar Alexander had heard mention of before, with a reputation for hosting mostly Starfleet personnel. As welcome as the civilian populace was to the young officer, he enjoyed the almost-clandestine nature of the Officer’s Clubs on other bases, and, hoping this was of the same vein to which he was familiar, he set off to give it a try. Besides, he hadn’t yet found the ‘O-club’ on board yet, and didn’t feel like asking. 

It wasn’t hard to find. The spot wasn’t crowded, besides a few sparse officers and one group of officers congregated to the left side of the bar. The were five of them and all junior officers – very junior, by the looks of it. They had to be fresh out of the Academy, if not still on their training cruise. They were drunk, they had to be, and it wasn’t yet late. Alexander paid them no mind, albeit slightly amused at their slovenly demeanor. The bartender approached him, not saying a word, just nodding in his direction.

“Brandy, Metaxa if you have it. Neat is fine.”

The bartender returned shortly with his drink, and placed it on the table quickly, then stepped away. Alexander was surprised he even knew what it was, let alone able to scrounge it up on a replicator. It wasn’t real, but close enough to the genuine thing, he was grateful.

He sat awhile sipping at his drinking, finding solace in the simplicity and rigidity of this newfound bar. Finding no desire to mingle amongst his fellow officers, he kept to himself for some time glancing about, admiring the plaques and banners that adorned the nearby walls. 

The group to his left had gradually gotten rowdier, and a tad too comfortable. they were jostling about, spilling their drinks, and shoving each other, knocking over a couple chairs as they did so. One of the officers, a command- rate Ensign with red hair grabbed his shipmate in a headlock, pinning him against the table and threw the rest of his drink on his comrade’s uniform. They were laughing and spilling all over themselves, a sloppy mess, and to Alexander, entirely unbecoming of Starfleet personnel, especially commissioned officers. The red-haired Ensign jeered, “Man, like one of those lousy Klingons! They’d regret the day they came across me and a loaded phaser bank! I’ll be damned!” His friend, a taller brunette donning yellow, nodded. “Can’t wait until we get our combat assignments,” and slammed his drink on the table and let his head fall into his hands. The rest nodded in agreement.

The Lieutenant had enough. He polished his drink and placed the class on the far side of the bar table before hopping from his seat. Straightening his unform jacket, he took his two paces before he was standing aside the group of brazen Ensigns, facing the brunette and red haired directly. They were slow to respond, and stared quizzically at Alexander, almost as if he had hopped out directly from an activated transporter. They said nothing, not even acknowledging the Lieutenant, so he took the initiative to speak. 

“Nineteen combat missions, I’ve been on. Nineteen. Can you count that high?”

The redhead looked at Alexander as if he were speaking a different language. “What are you talking about?”

“What are you talking about…Sir.” Alexander corrected the young officer, taking a step forward. The Ensign stumbled back, slipping slightly, and burped into his mouth.

“Uhm…Sir. Yeah, yes, Sir.”

Alexander glared at him, speaking with an almost desperate tone. “Nineteen combat missions. And every time, every. TIME. There’s a young ‘hotshot’ like you begging for it. And every time, it’s the kid, like you, with phaser burns, or glass in his face, or a missing arm or leg, or whatever, sitting in sickbay crying, screaming, blubbering like a baby.”

The Ensign grew defensive, and stepped forward, poking the Lieutenant in the chest. His friend’s eyes widened when he touched Alexander, immediately recognizing the misplaced brashness of their peer. “Yeah well, I don’t know you, Sir. And you sure as hell don’t know me.” 

Alexander grabbed his hand that was misplaced on his chest and twisted it to point at the visible scars on his own face. “You see these?” The Ensign was now deathly quiet. “I know kids like you plenty.” He took his wrist and turned it around his back, now pinning him against the bar, the Ensign groaning under the pressure. Alexander pointed to his rear two shipmates who had remained quiet the entire exchange.

“I’m placing you two in charge of this man. You will take him to his quarters and shove him full of anti-intoxicants, or I’ll have all five of you placed up on charges for conduct unbecoming an officer. Move.”

The group of young officers adhered immediately to the Lieutenant, pulling the redhead from Alexander and placing his arms above their shoulders and walked him out of the bar. One remained briefly, half trying to clean up their mess, then sheepishly had the sense to close out their tabs, slipping on the pool of spilt drinks they had made as he left. None of them said a word. 

Alexander realized only after the commotion had subsided, that he had garnered the attention of the rest of the bar. The eyes of the few other officers in the room followed him as he made his way back to his seat to close his tab, looking forward and refusing to meet the gaze of anyone that tried, now entirely conscious of his uneasy presence there. Pushing his chair into the bar, and nodding to the bartender as he left, he followed the path the Ensigns had made leaving there. As he made his way back to his quarters, he wondered if he had any affect at all on their perspective or inclination, now not proud, nor neither ashamed of what he had recounted to those young men.