Drake paced back and forth in his quarters, frustrated. It was approaching a late hour - 2030 hours generally didn't constitute "late" for the officer, but he could tell that tonight was going to be a long night. He'd already called his dear wife at Jupiter Station, and he'd been part of a three-way conference between himself, the Daystrom Institute, and the Starfleet Academy Historical Archives on the subject of his latest paper. He was going to be published, after years of fighting and pushing his research down the throats of every academic figure he'd come into even the most remote contact with. This was a night for celebration, for victory.
And yet...Drake couldn't focus. Not even remotely. There was something haunting about Lieutenant Shatner, the officer who'd come on board from the Rorshach with him, but whose face he'd only just seen as they assembled at Starbase Twelve. There was something haunting about that face, that swagger, that confident sneer. The way he smooth-talked his way out of any situation, oozing confidence even in the presence of Commander Riker...there was something just too familiar about him, unnaturally familiar.
Drake paused, and started to glance through the crew archives of the last few ships he'd served on, trying to figure out, for the life of him, where he recognized this fellow from. Nothing from the Rorshach or the Amadeus indicated even remotely where he might have come from, or who he was. He didn't seem to appear in the regular archives for either ship.
This was just getting stranger, and stranger, and stranger. Drake went over to the replicator, and sighed deeply.
"One earl grey tea," he commanded it, "Two milk, two sugar."
The beverage was produced, and the bearded, tired Drake carried it back over to his desk, sitting down and stirring the tea effortlessly. For some reason, the answer was on the tip of his tongue...and yet, he couldn't quite place the face to a name. He flipped open the lid to his computer, and loaded up a word processor, in an effort to distract himself. The Daystrom Institute was expecting a detailed report on the five-year mission of James T. Kirk, and its effect on Starfleet regulations regarding temporal mechanics.
He paused for a moment, as if something had occured to him, but then it was gone. He'd sit, and he'd write, and hopefully it would return. But there was no certainty to this...something seemed as if it were deeply out of place.
Hopefully, the answer would come before morning. But Drake was convinced that he'd work as long as he could, if it meant he'd be able to put his mind to rest. Sleep, at this point,w as optional.