A/N: I had a sudden burst of inspiration and banged this out for you all! I'm not very good at following up on my promises, so forgive the fact that Section 31 is only briefly mentioned through here; Mal will wake up from a four-day nap in the next chapter and decide that it's finally time to answer his messages. He's going to receive an extremely demanding request, to put it lightly. I've been receiving questions as to what Hoshi's motive is, and that shall be explained in chapter 9 as well, along with another brief Trellium interlude and the exposition for Hatchery. I hope you'll forgive my horrible excuse for a Hayes-Archer scene; putting some of Archer's stress in terms of his relationship with Erika along with the mission just makes more sense to me. This is probably the last mention of Hayes and Amanda in this fic; enjoy them while you can.

Also, be forewarned: it has been decided that there will be a MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH in one of the closing chapters. If you value your feels and/or sanity, you may want to stop here. Let's just say that the events of Azati Prime don't exactly go off without a hitch, especially for the senior officers...

Wow, this is a long author's note. I will continue to apologize for my crappy writing style and penchant for describing every little detail to death. I don't know why you all put up with me. (:

Right Direction, Wrong Occasion

Chapter Eight

She is running, though she knows not why.

She is fleeing, but she knows not how.

There is not up or down, neither right nor left. There is no indication that this nightmare, this facsimile of veracity, is anything less than the cold, unyielding state of reality. For T'Pol, it is her own personal hell. In this place, where the light deems it unworthy to shine and logic fails even the staunchest of rational solipsists, she waits in terror and horrified anticipation for the inevitable.

This same dream, over and over; this same dream every single evening. It repeats itself without variation or addition; without mercy and without fail. It is predictable. She should not find herself as unsettled in the morning as she ultimately is. Tonight, the illusion begins per the norm. It is dark, the pitched blackness of the naught penetrating even the basest of forms, until the tactical alarm sounds with a sharp peal that rouses her from her fitful slumber. Gasping and sputtering, she tumbles from her bunk and dazedly makes her way over to her closet. She struggles to slip her mauve uniform over her pajamas as the deck plating bucks and vibrates beneath her. Even in her room, tucked within the heart of E Deck and shielded in the protective nearness of her colleagues' quarters, she can hear the distinct reverberations of enemy fire, striking the hull or whizzing past the saucer section with incredible closeness.

In the corridor, crewmen are running everywhere, colliding with each other in their haste to make it to their stations. Increasing the speed of her gait to a pace a bit more rapid than usual, she slid into a turbolift crowded with her associates just ahead of the closing doors. Fingers reached for the buttons indicating C Deck, G Deck, B Deck, A Deck, all desperate and frantic to reach their destinations. She could nearly smell their fear, ripe and pungent in the aroma of a hunted prey endeavoring to escape the reaches of a voracious predator. There was sweat, adrenaline, and even tears evading the emotional strongholds of an ensign near her. Some had opted to slip through the extensive system of Jeffries tubes that crisscrossed the ship's interior, but for those without an intimate knowledge of this convenient method of transport, there was the only option, however inefficient it may prove to be.

It seemed like an eternity, but eventually the doors of the lift opened out onto the bridge, and T'Pol noticed with a significant amount of dismay that she had been the last to arrive. Ensign Travis Mayweather, a considerable amount of blood leaking from a gaping wound on his forehead, was frenziedly manipulating the controls on his console in a fruitless attempt to evade the weapons of the Xindi ship that appeared prominently in the view screen. Hoshi Sato, whose thick black hair had fought its way from the rubber band that she had been using to secure it, was punching buttons before her and calling out damage reports that were only now coming in.

"Multiple casualties…six from engineering, at least one fatality…" she shouted over the din of combat, her eyes falling on her superior officer that had arrived seconds before, "Captain Archer is among the injured!"

T'Pol felt her stomach lurch as she stumbled a few steps closer to the chair on the elevated dais. Instinctively, its previous occupant rose to receive her. Malcolm.

He regarded her with an expression that conveyed the direness of the current situation. "They came out of nowhere, Commander! We had no time to go to warp before—"

"I'm reading multiple hull breaches on B and C Deck…entire sections are depressurizing…" hollered the crewman regularly assigned to T'Pol's station during gamma shift. Although normally very competent, he appeared to be tired, harried, and completely overwhelmed.

"Lieutenant! We've lost our aft torpedoes!" reported Malcolm's man, gripping tightly his chair as the floor lurched beneath him. His eyes widening with concern, Reed turned to approach the tactical console.

"Mayweather!" T'Pol called out into the quickly deteriorating lightness of the bridge, but the look in his eyes she could distinctly see was one of unequivocal terror.

Obscured by the accumulating smoke and steam flowing into the room, he coughed multiple times before he was able to gasp out, "The helm controls are locked up! I can't…I've tried…"

"We're reading power junction overloads on D, C, B, and—"

The young man had no time to finish his statement before the floor beneath Lieutenant Reed exploded suddenly, releasing a fan of sparks and flame that carried with it enough propulsion to hurl the unsuspecting and unwary officer across the room.

T'Pol awoke with a start, her anguish shattering into the pillow underneath her head. No, that's not how it went—it was she who always died, not him! She was the one to suffer an untimely and painful death in this delusion! She! Always she!

Instantly, pair of strong, muscular arms was encircling her once again, for all the world seeming to threaten to squeeze the life out of her. There was a gasp and a desperate flailing of limbs as her bedmate attempted to crush her to his chest. Thrashing her legs against him, she shrieked once more, the high-pitched noise reverberating cavernously around the room. Finally ensnaring her into a restraining embrace, the man who lay beside her implored, "T'Pol! Darling, it's me! Why are you—"

"Malcolm!" she wheezed, her palms finding either side of his face, his alarmed, anxious face. "You're—you're—oh!" She buried her forehead into his neck, hungrily drawing in his scent.

She was shivering, the Briton noted, and her entire body had been seized by a powerful series of trembles. Concern gnawing at his gut, he lowered his lips to one of her delicate ears.

"Love—what are—what could have possibly—"

"Help me!" she clawed frantically at his back, leaving deep rifts in his skin where her fingernails had been.

He grimaced slightly at the sudden onslaught of pain, responding, "I'm trying—you need to tell me what has just—"

"N-n-n-nightmare," she sounded out, "Humans have those, do they not?"

"Yes, doll, but usually not this severe," he whispered in an attempt to quell the fears of the quivering woman in his arms. After some time of listening to her unsteady breathing, he continued, "What did you see?"

Her expression shifted abruptly, inexplicably morphing into the unchanging façade of a typically apathetic Vulcan. Attempting to rise from her position in bed, she droned, "That is of no consequence to you."

Her words hit him like a sharp punch to the gut. Seizing her by her elbow, he yanked her down once again, feeling a fleeting wave of regret at causing his inamorata harm. Inhaling sharply, he hissed, "Oh, no, I believe that it is. You're not going anywhere."

She acknowledged this declaration with a rapid sniff of disdain followed by an imploring look that made his heart melt. Falling back into his arms, she confessed, "I dreamt that you died."

He was shocked for a moment, before returning her embrace strongly, enthusiastically. "I'm here, my love, I'm alive. I'm not leaving you." She relaxed visibly at this assurance.

In the intimate silence that followed, he cleared his throat before inquiring, "Is this something that occurs often?"

"The nightmares?" He nodded against her cheek. "Infrequently, most seldom," she lied, praying that he did not sense the sudden tone change of her voice. "T'hy'la, I can assure you that this will never again transpire in your presence."

Because I should endeavor to keep a supply of Trellium on my person at all times from now on, she added silently, if I am to share my life with this man, he must not know of my plight.

Malcolm, unaware of her internal conflict, sighed in relief. At that moment, his computer console beeped once more, heralding the arrival of another new message.

His Vulcan beloved raised an eyebrow. "Are you going to answer that?"

"No," he admitted, raising his lips to meet hers in a slow, languid kiss.

Corporal Amanda Cole paced a short section of the corridor in front of Major Hayes' quarters, her thoughts racing faster than particles of antimatter inside a warp reactor. She knew that her superior was expecting an exact, coherent report on the nature of Lieutenant Reed's emotional state, but for the life of her she didn't know how to put into words the things that she had just seen. Heard, she silently chided herself, she hadn't really seen anything. Rather, she had heard frantic and intense conversation and the sounds of movement within.

She struggled to retrace her steps from her post patrolling the passageways of B Deck to how she managed to arrive in the antechamber of the room of the science laboratory that housed the Xindi star charts. She didn't go in there much; Amanda was aware that it was not her division and that there were too many things in there that had the potential to be broken by a clumsy young MACO. Meaning to only stick her head in and hand the PADD to the nearest scientist, her fingers froze only millimeters from the hatch.

"Two senior officers engaging in a romantic relationship is much less of an offense than the goddamn chief engineer assaulting the first officer on duty shift!"

Stopping dead in her tracks, Amanda's mind worked overtime as it processed who could have possibly been the originator of this noise. Only one member of the crew had such a distinct, clipped British accent—it had to be Lieutenant Reed! The continuation of the remark was obscured by the sound of her uniform rustling as she crouched to the floor and pressed her ear to the door.

"Don't even try that with me, Lieutenant! You've known that I'm in love with her for as long as we've been on Enterprise! I care about her, obviously unlike you—"

That voice. She knew that voice. So often it had accompanied her on her midday meal break, or regaled her with words of encouragement during biweekly training sessions with her fellow MACOs, or spoke casually about a young life in the south of Florida during infrequent neuropressure sessions. What—or rather, who—could Trip and Lieutenant Reed be arguing over?

"How dare you!" Amanda could hear the rage in his tone and inflection. There was a slight shuffling sound, and then a low feminine voice.

"Malcolm—"

The blood roared in her ears. Commander T'Pol? Were two of Enterprise's arguably most professional officers really fighting over a Vulcan? They don't have emotions, the side of her mind still steadfastly stuck in her old beliefs argued; they're incapable of feeling love. How had the situation progressed this far without her making it clear that she would spurn their every advance? Furthermore, why was she in there, allowing them to argue like a pair of overtly hormonal high school boys?

"She had sex with me, Mal! Freely and by her own volition! Whatever happened between you, whatever you've done, it doesn't mean shit—"

Amanda had the distinct feeling that she had missed an important snippet of the conversation during her reverie, but her quickly honed attention was once again diverted with Commander Tucker's outburst. This explains so much—so much attention from him, and then nothing. The blatant enthusiasm for neuropressure sessions with her and then deliberate rejection and ignorance of her advances—that could all be elucidated by the fact that he was waiting for some other girl, the one he undoubtedly preferred, to put out for him? A spark of ire flickered in Amanda's gut.

Your mother always warned you about the playboys, she mused with a grimace, this will be a learning experience if nothing else.

But wait—that means—

Malcolm and Commander T'Pol—!

Her stomach lurched at this sudden realization. It was strange enough for Enterprise's resident Vulcan to fall for the confident, easy-going chief engineer, but this—!

That is why Malcolm's been so happy, the Corporal cogitated, he just has a new woman in his life. Is that really all? Was this the big revelation that she was going to have to make to her commanding officer tonight? There were no undisclosed plans for weapons upgrades, no secret plots to dispose of Major Hayes as a senior officer? Amanda knew that her boss would be incredulous at this news. Now, pacing back and forth in the corridor before the door of his quarters, she contemplated her approach, anticipating his every reaction to her report. Hayes could be somewhat of a loose cannon; unsavory or disappointing news would most likely only add to his reaction.

Perhaps she could wait until the morning to speak with him. He did, after all, specifically request for her summation of the situation before 1100 hours the next day. It really was only—here she glanced at the chronometer embedded in the communication panel on the wall—a few minutes before 2000 hours. Had she really been standing out here for nearly an hour? The slender brunette shook her head, her ponytail swishing about her neck like a pendulum. Come on, Amanda, you usually aren't this much of a pussy, she reproached herself mentally, just go in there, for the love of God. What's the worst that could happen? Would he really take out his anger with the armory officer on you?

Amanda knew the answer to that conjecture. Swallowing the rapidly forming lump in her throat, she pressed the button that would announce her arrival to the occupant within.

"Who is it?" The MACO let out a small sigh of relief. So far, so good; his mood doesn't appear entirely heinous today.

"Corporal Cole, sir," she called, shifting from foot to foot.

There was a distinct pause, and then came a punctuated command: "Enter."

The door before the anxious woman slid open with a faint hissing sound. Inhaling a bit of oxygen through her nostrils, Amanda attempted to muster as much courage and determination as she could. Although she managed to hide it quite effectively behind a well-trained militant façade, the Florida native did indeed suffer a great deal of disquiet when encountered with the unknown or situations full of circumstances unfamiliar to her. This, of course, would have done a number on her effectiveness in combat or on duty, had not she gone to great lengths to control these urges. As a result of many years of training and cautious rehearsal, Amanda had learned to control her nerves in a way that passed unbeknownst to any of her shipmates. Her mother had always told her to never let them see her sweat, and she was going to be damned if she was going to display any form of weakness in front of her superiors or anyone else.

Presently, Major Jeremiah Hayes had risen from a navy blue lounge chair in the far corner of the room and had approached his subordinate with the same shoulder swaying swagger that was all too characteristic of him. Unlike all of the other MACOs aboard Enterprise, Hayes resided in officer's quarters rather than in bunks. Amanda had never before entered his residence, but she could now see that it was both sparsely decorated and immaculately clean; a spot-on representation of the man before her. As she looked on, he crossed his arms in the small of his back and set his feet shoulder width apart in the common gesture of attention. Mirroring this pose, she dared not to look him in the eye, but slightly above him and to the left of one temple.

"Report, Corporal," he ordered, lowering his chin a fraction of an inch.

"Sir, I have spoken to Commander Tucker since we last convened," Amanda had determined that this was the best place to begin.

"What did he tell you?" Jeremiah was struggling valiantly to veil his interest.

"Absolutely nothing, sir," she replied. Sensing his disappointment at her statement, she added, "However, I managed to gather a great deal of information from observing Lieutenant Reed."

"Like what?" His shoulders began to creep up towards his ears in a gesture that Amanda normally associated with discomfort and anticipation.

"I stumbled upon a conversation between him and Commanders Tucker and T'Pol," she began, not sure if she was violating some commonly known boundary of professional disclosure. Clenching her jaw to keep it from trembling, she continued, "The Commanders seemed to have been having a disagreement." This was an extreme understatement. "It appears that she had been engaging in a romantic relationship with him before abandoning him to pursue Lieutenant Reed." With some effort, Amanda managed to restrain the anger that was building in her gut. And Trip, even when he had a perfectly attractive alternate option, decided to chase her still, she commented silently.

"The two men argued before Commander Tucker fled the room, noticeably upset," satisfied that her tale was complete, at least as much as she was willing to make known of it, she nodded succinctly.

"Really?" Hayes' expression had rapidly turned thoughtful, all the while a wide, conspiratorial grin widening across his cheeks.

This was certainly an unexpected reaction. Relaxing visibly, Amanda let out all of the excess air that she had been storing in her lungs throughout the exchange. Tilting her head to one side, she inquired, "Permission to speak freely, sir?"

He waved his hand in the air before turning his back to her and approaching the port hole at the far side of the room. Leaning on it with an outstretched elbow, he looked back at her expectantly.

Amanda's hands, unbeknownst to her, slid out from the small of her back and were clasped again at level with her stomach. "I can only help but come to the conclusion that Lieute—Malcolm is so happy because he's involved in a new relationship."

"Yes, yes, of course," he acknowledged, his palm once again airborne. "Never mind that we're currently in a hostile region of space where such distractions may be detrimental to both the crew and the mission."

Catching on to what he was implying, a wave of fear rippled through Amanda. Her superior hadn't previously struck her as a particularly vengeful person, but now he appeared to be considering taking such action. If anything, she would have preferred that Commander T'Pol remained involved with Malcolm Reed—it would serve Trip right to find that he couldn't always receive what he wanted. Yes, she decided, that would do him nicely. That would teach him to lead her on like that—

"I think that it may be beneficial for Archer to be aware of the current situation," here he widened his eyes, almost innocently, "after all, it would be irresponsible of me to keep such crucial information from my Captain. What do you think, Corporal?"

Amanda opened her mouth, fully prepared to regale him with several reasons why reporting the incident to the Captain would not be such a good idea, but she closed it again with a snap. It was not her place to criticize her commanding officer's decisions. But, he did ask, she told herself.

"I think that…considering the circumstances…" she began slowly, carefully stacking her thoughts against each other, "action on the part of someone may be required." Yeah, like me, she held, I'll wipe that smug little grin right off Commander Tucker's face—

"Great. I knew that you would agree," strolling in her direction, he patted her roughly on the back. "Listen, Miss Cole, take the morning off before Phlox makes his rounds. You deserve it. I don't know what I could do without you."

Amanda swelled slightly at his flattering words, but deflated slightly as she knew that she had been both had and used. Swallowing her disappointment, she nodded. "It's really no problem, sir. Sleep well." And with that, Corporal Amanda Cole turned and fled the room with as measured and carious gait as she could.

Captain Jonathan Archer lay on his back in his quarters, unconsciously throwing a worn water polo ball up to the ceiling repeatedly. Over and over again, it would soar upwards before hurdling down to his face at a startling speed. Unflinchingly, with a well-developed reflex, he bumped it with the palm of his hand to assist the resumption of its arc into the air. Although he did not appear to be, he was deep in thought, his mind furiously overturning conjectures and scrutinizing minute details. This was a common behavior for him; ever since the Enterprise had entered the Expanse in search of the builders of the Xindi weapon, the mission had demanded much of his attention. He was nearly always otherwise occupied, with brief stints of relaxation and languid recreation shoved in the cracks of his incredibly busy schedule. Not unlike much of the crew; he had been experiencing symptoms equating to justifiable depression and adjustment disorder. He hoped that these feelings of utter listlessness and hopelessness would soon cease, but there really was no way he could gauge the duration of the mission until he met with Degra in a little less than a week and a half.

He needed something to distract from his work. There were no more movie nights. He no longer felt motivated to exercise or engage in the light-hearted intramural sports tournaments that the crewmen in the armory often organized. Even the man who he had formerly called his best friend had become distant and unreachable, so an obligation-free night of watching water polo matches and indulging in a bit of spirits was out of the question. He was aware that he had neglected to write at length in his personal log; there was just nothing to say. Jonathan felt utterly dejected, disinterested, and impartial to his surroundings.

Unless, of course, when he was speaking to Erika. At the beginning of their lengthy correspondence, the letters had been pages and pages long as they attempted to catch up on years of non-interaction. What is your crew really like? Have you caused any intergalactic incidents yet? Tell me about all the embarrassing things that have happened to you all. Are the hotels on Risa really as lavish and luxurious as some of the boomers tell me? How are you? No, not the mission—how are you feeling? No, no, I'm fine, I'm only busy. I'm away from my apartment a lot, you know. It's not that I don't want to talk, Jonathan—it's that I'm often not able to.

Just like that, her messages had gone from in depth and intimate to impersonal and a mite cold. Had he said something to offend her? No, he was sure that he hadn't. Besides, Erika wasn't a woman to hide her indignation—if he had managed to piss her off somehow, she would have let him know.

Did she not want to speak to him anymore? Did he bore her, annoy her, cause her to want to take a plasma rifle to her skull? Again, she would have said something. Jon, you've got to stop being so paranoid, he chided himself silently, be mature about this. You're a grown man talking to a grown woman. Both of you have your own tasks and appointments to uphold. When she wants to talk, she will; until then you must bide your time.

But, all the same—what could she possibly be trying to hide?

The communication device on the wall beside his door beeped, announcing a visitor. Struggling with a grunt to sit up, he ruefully placed his water polo ball at the foot of his bed. Moving his hand a few feet to the left, he deposited a rough pat onto the back of Porthos, his trusty beagle. Acknowledging his ministration only with the indistinct flick of a single floppy ear, he turned his head to tuck in back into the satiny folds of his doggy bed.

Observing his pet's apparent lack of interest in him at the moment, Jon slid both legs over the edge of his bunk and called out to the unknown entity in the corridor, "Come in!"

The door slid open to reveal the hulking form of Major Jeremiah Hayes, whose brow was creased with concentration. Archer suppressed an exasperated sigh. This had better not be about Malcolm; he had had enough of the two of them for a while.

As the MACO shouldered his way into the room, his eyes sweeping this way and that, Jonathan rose to receive him. Conceding to his presence with a gruff nod, he inquired, "Can I do something for you, Major?"

He shook his head, indicating the negative. "Good evening, Captain. I hope that I did not interrupt your sleep."

"It's only 2100, Major. Besides, I'll be getting plenty of sleep while in that artificial coma," proffering a tight-lipped smile, Jon crossed his arms across his chest. Watching his expression shift from plaintive to pensive, he asked, "Is there a problem?"

"No, sir…I mean…yes, sir. A few new developments that you may like to know about, that's all."

Ah, so it was about Malcolm. Inhaling through his nose and exhaling through his lips, Jonathan attempted to control the irritation that was building inside him. With a curt nod, he designated that the man before him should continue.

Suddenly Jeremiah caught on, his eyes widening. "It has nothing to do with Lieutenant Reed and I, sir," observing the captain visibly relax, he added, "but it definitely has something to do with his working relationship with another officer."

Only vaguely interested, Jon tilted his head in inquisition. He hoped that this was important—he hadn't had taken Major Hayes for a brownnoser or a man to slander others to get ahead, but that belief might have to change once he heard what he had to say.

Sighing deeply, his shoulders lowered and his countenance became one of distress and concern. "Corporal Cole has informed me that she observed Commanders Tucker and T'Pol in an argument with Lieutenant Reed."

"That isn't that unusual, Major," Jon found himself saying with a small smirk of amusement, "They verbally spar all of the time. The most rational of Vulcans and the most irrational of humans—"

"No, sir," he cut him off sharply. Upon realizing his misstep, he held up a reassuring palm. "I apologize. The disagreement appeared to be about with which man Commander T'Pol was engaging in a romantic relationship with."

Jon's eyebrows climbed into his hairline. He should have seen this coming, he realized, the way they constantly quarreled and bickered like an old married couple…

"Lieutenant Reed appeared to have been the aggressor in the situation," Hayes endeavored to stretch the truth just a bit. "It seems that Commander Tucker was only defending her honor as the Lieutenant approached him in the laboratory and demanded that he cease to be romantically involved with her."

"Why was the Corporal in the laboratory?"

This question caught him off guard. Sputtering a little bit, he responded, "She, uh, wasn't, sir. She was standing in a transition module listening to them argue through the doorway."

Jonathan's mind immediately began to drift. He and Erika had disputed quite frequently; being two very strong-willed individuals, it was easy to fall into the same old pattern of disagreements. It would often end in and unwinnable stand-off in which they would swear never to associate with the other again. By the end of the night, their mutual set of friends had convinced them to make up. All would be well again—until the next argument, perhaps.

Turning his attention back to the matter at hand, he queried somewhat absentmindedly, "The Corporal should really respect the privacy of her fellow officers, should she not?"

"With all due respect, sir, the disagreement was occurring in a public place."

"They were all off-duty," Jonathan retorted, knowing fully well that his logic was flawed. He wasn't consciously trying to get a rise out of the Major, was he?

"Not Commander T'Pol," one corner of Hayes' mouth curled up in a poorly disguised expression of distaste. The Captain seemed distracted, not entirely focused on what he was relating to him. In an attempt to re-concentrate his efforts on his main goal, he said, "I believe that some disciplinary action may be in order."

Jon resisted letting forth a snort in the display of his unwillfulness. Who was Major Hayes to tell him how to supervise his officers? Merely a few days ago he had been on the receiving end of the captain's own unique brand of chastisement, and now he was back to try and commit the same offenses that had gotten him into that similar trouble, albeit a little more subtly? It was unbelievable. This man's stubborn, he mused, just like someone else I know…

"I'm not trying to tell you how to do your job, sir," the man before him interjected, swaying slightly from side to side. "I'm only offering a suggestion based on the known standards and protocols of Starfleet."

Jon held up one hand in a gesture akin to reassurance, although he wasn't entirely sure that he wanted to bid it. "Don't worry, Major, I know that you don't mean any blatant disrespect. However, you are right in the fact that I'm going to need to discuss this matter with each of them."

A wave of satisfaction washed over Jeremiah. In his mind, he imagined how flustered Malcolm Reed would grow once confronted by his captain—and he had not have had to do anything sneaky or underhanded to inflict this mortification! Yes, he was sure that a firm reprimand would do wonders to knock his pride down a few notches.

However, he was distinctly aware of the noncommittal way in which the captain had vowed to accordingly deal with the matter. It didn't sound like he was very upset about the prospect of a love triangle among his top three ranking officers—

"Thank you, sir, for taking my opinions into consideration. You know as well as I do that we just can't have little love affairs springing up all over the ship. What would be next, lover's spats during board meetings and public displays of affection on the bridge?" He shook his head to indicate his dissent of this notion. "We expect our fellow crewmen to be devoted, their heart, mind, and soul focused on the mission, not on chasing some potential bedmate. Don't you agree?"

Jon coughed and raised his hand to his lips to hide the crimson blush that was spreading rapidly across his cheeks. Yeah, Captain, get with the program, he ruminated grimly, before responding with a strained and clipped, "Yes, I do."

The corners of Hayes' mouth turned up nearly imperceptibly in an uncharacteristic break of his typical professional façade. Nodding at his current commanding officer, he took his leave.

"Thank you once again, Captain. Goodbye." As soon as the doors slid shut behind him, Jon was down again, falling into his bunk with a shallow thump. Grasping his personal duty PADD, he endeavored to undertake one of the most difficult assignments that he had ever personally dealt himself: composing a follow-up letter to the woman formally known as Erika Hernandez.

to be continued