Commander Ocett was restless. That went without saying; he was a Cardassian on a Federation vessel; it was almost a requirement. He was so consumed by his thoughts as he strode though the deeply red lit corridor of deck three that he ran right into Lieutenant B'Etran. Their shoulders nudged harsly, and he snapped himself from his reverie to find the tall Klingon with pale green eyes staring at him, her mouth hanging open, the PADD in her hands about to topple to the floor before she caught herself.

"I'm not an enemy," Ocett explained quickly, gesturing at his Federation uniform. "I'm just the First Officer," he told her.

Quizzically, she smiled, regaining her composure. "I know," she told him. "And excuse me sire, I should have been paying more attention--"

"It is," Ocett told her, and she felt that he said it angrily, "my fault, Lieutenant. I was four million light-years away and I was not looking where I was headed. Are you alright?"

"Fine sir," she smiled.

Holding her gaze for a moment longer, staring into her astounding eyes, the tall, reptilian-looking officer found himself wondering if the Lieutenant had engineered this little accident. He realized that he had been accidentally noticing her quite a bit recently, though always in the most inoculous of circumstances. She had been in the ship's lounge the only two times he had been there, and once in Engineering when he had met the LaGrange's Chief Engineer. B'Etran wore a black-and-gold uniform and could have been assigned to any of the ship's operations teams; he found himself wondering what it was she did aboardship.

"Where are you posted, Lieutenant?" He saw no reason not to attempt to familiarize himself with the crew; that did fall under his list of tasks as the vessel's First Officer. It was only the woman's eyes and admirable skull structure, coupled with her thick, full lips, and rugged construction that had borne into him that made him feel as if it were a personal inquiry.

"Stellar Cartography, sir. I work with Robbie in Team DeltaNu and I --spacial scalar reconstruction." Her smile was appealing, direct, straightforward --maybe a bit menacing? Ocett enjoyted seeing that smile. His mind pushed toward the two of them, seated in the ship's lounge once more, this time with the heads bent toward one another in low conversation, small tendrils of hair falling forward acroos her face as she leaned toward him . . .

"Very good, Lieutenant," he heard himself say. "Carry on," he told her, seeing what he thought must have been disappointment registering in her eyes. Not looking back to find out, he walked on, wondering if she stood in pladce, watching himgo, wondering about his abrupt dismissal.

It was not currently appropriate to indulge in flirtation, especially not with a Federation officer. Especially not with a Klingon. Especially not with anyone. He knew that any innocent friendship could turn to something more, and with all of the complications and twists in his life, that any relationship rocketing out of proportion could pose a grave danger to the both of them. A full-blown affair could go wrong, forcing friction to spread like Cardassian Vole rabies, leaving a sticky film behind of muck and sadness. Love led to the undermining of morale, and Ocett had learned to avoid it through ironclad discipline in order to avoid such troublesome situations.

He was, however, feeling restless once more. That was the best way to describe the feeling that would come on him from time to time; not intense, not profound or revealing or strong or deep, just an unnerving proclivity toward, um . . . uh . . . you know. . .

He had though he had resolved the matter, pushing it to the rear of his thoughts, yet it kept slinking back onto him, like a sheet of silk that was noticeably and annoyingly there, but unobtrusive, transparent. His descision to accept assignment aboard the LaGrange as First Officer was a conscious choice that satisfied that morelogical portions of his mind. His reasons were sound and he had accepted it.

Why then, was he so restless? He enjoyed tidiness in his life, and this refusal of certain parts of his psyche to be pushed away into a drawer disturbed him.

What he needed now wat the adventure he was used to so much. His own adventure. The ship was racing even now thorught space toward Romulus, hoping to ferret out the reasons behind Ambassador Spock's sudden change in attitude, and, although he would do everything he could to aid and abet that mission, it was not his, not a part of him. He needed one of his own.