Captain Bolerov retreated to the sanctuary of his quarters. Once the door slid quietly closed, he headed to the bookshelves in his living area by the replicator. The small bookcase next to the ceiling high bookcase was nothing more than the door to a cooler with bookcovers across the front. He opened it and withdrew a bottle of vodka. Taking a glass from the nearby kitchenette, he poured himself a good sized shot and downed the serving as he snapped his head back. Moving over to his living area with glass and bottle still in hand, he allowed himself to collapse into his favorite leather recliner.

"I never signed on to be a public relations person," he thought out loud. "I'm just an old wardog." He poured himself another shot. He looked at the antique Earth globe mounted on a wooden pedestal. "I wonder how much easier it must have been when all we had to worry about was our own, little world." He drank down his next shot and let out a gasp. Russian vodka was not something to be taken lightly. He blinked several times as he tried to quell the burning sensation in his throat.

He actually felt badly for the crewmembers he had left behind. He just couldn't take it any more. Although he had every confidence in T'Nia, his mind kept wandering back to Kelly. He might lose his cool and say something foolish. Andrei knew he needed to get back down to the tour, but he just couldn't. He needed just a few more moments of solitude. He took a third shot of vodka, the burn even stronger this time.

Bolerov reclined his chair back a bit and let his head relax back into the overstuffed top. "I'll stay here another five minutes, then head back," he said to himself. He allowed his eyes to rest for a moment. Soon, he was dreaming of a day, not long ago, when a romulan aboard a Starfleet vessel would have been shot on sight.