-Post Orders
-Facility Safety Briefings
-Departmental Schedules
-Personal Requisition Forms
-Command Authorization Forms
-Station Quarter Lease Forms
-Security Clearance Verification Forms

At least ten different PADD’s were scattered across the table as he took a seat in his assigned quarters. He was given living accommodations in Sector “Oh”, which comprised the lower section of the station, decks 740 to 780, of the nearly 800-deck space station. There were more popular accommodations available, in the Kilo-Indigo Sector blocks on decks 450-600, with even more recreational facilities, but for one he didn’t want to be around that many people anyway, not if he could help it; and two, that same sector was close to the exterior Deuterium fuel tanks. No thanks.

No, the lower and less populated section of the station was just fine. Less mental chatter for him to have to block out, and he was at least close to the Communications Array, which was on the lowest section of the station. The intelligence department of the Fourth Fleet was organized unlike what he was accustomed to. Instead of being a fully-fledged division of its own, it was intertwined with the Strategic Operations Division, which comprised the Intelligence, Tactical, and Starfighter departments. Intelligence in itself was broken into three sub-categories: Signals, Sensors, and Sapient Intelligence. Each of these three worked closely with the Logistics, Communications, and Security departments.

Given his close living proximity to the comms array, at least the commute wouldn’t be too bad in that respect, even though everywhere else he had to turbolift over 500 decks to get there. Despite his current rank, he was the new boot and subject to the same orientation process as any other onboarding officer. It was going to be a rough adjustment; one he contemplated if it was even worth it on some occasions. If his appeals went through and his rank was restored, would he even remain with the Fourth Fleet? Maybe, maybe not, but this is where he was now, and he had to give it his all to remain in good standing.

There were a lot of tours on his itinerary: a Station Tour, Department Tours, even a planetary outing to Mellstoxx III and the academy that was there. Michael leaned back on his couch, turning to face the window out into space. He had a pretty good view of the blue-green marble that hovered outside. He marveled at the irony that he spent his whole life and career dodging Intelligence work, as well as evading his Betazoid heritage, only to be assigned an Intelligence Officer stationed at a Betazoid Colony world. He took a long sip of his cup, replicated ‘atole de arroz’, and let his mind wander.

It wasn’t that he was ashamed of being a Betazoid; he loved his mother deeply. But when she died, and the horrors his people faced during the dominion war, he felt his extended family had enough to worry about than to deal with his depressed emotions. He would talk to them regularly growing up, but always via holo-call, where it was safe and he could easily hide his pain and guilt from them. Humans were easy, smile, pretend everything was fine, and change the subject. There was no hiding dark thoughts or emotions in the presence of other Betazoids, especially full-fledged empaths who were much more proficient than he was in their abilities, which is why he always found an excuse not to visit. He didn’t want to sour their excited feelings with his own depressing ones.

But now, he didn’t have a choice. His only solace was the presence of Starfleet here in the system. He was sure that the high traffic presence of multi-cultural beings was common enough that he could possibly fly under the radar. Some betazoids had a predisposition to ‘fix’ what they perceived to be broken, to restore the atmospheric quality of their environmental mental tranquility, like turning down the temperature controls when it felt too warm. He guessed that’s why most betazoids made good therapists and doctors.

His mind snapped back into focus as he turned away from the window. Thinking about Betazoid Councilors made him remember he had to schedule his consultation with the station’s medical department. He was still in mandated counseling following the ‘accident’, along with everything else that had happened. He groaned in antipathy at the thought. It wasn’t that he disliked therapists, but every time he had to meet with a NEW one, he had to open the wound fresh all over again so they could get the proper perspective on his situation. And none of them considered a heavy weekend of drinking and two hot Orion girls to be an acceptable coping mechanism.

As his eyes trailed around the room, they fell on the Personal Requisition Form Data PADD on the table, which caused him to look over at his uniform trunk. He had spent most of his shuttlecraft trip re-replicating his command-red uniforms, since all of his belongings had been destroyed on the Nakatomi. Unfortunately, he wasn’t an Executive Officer anymore, and the operational uniform for the Intelligence department was operations-gold. “What a waste of time…” he thought to himself. It would be an easy fix if he had command authority over the manufacturing replicators, but he was now the low man on the totem pole again and had to follow proper procedure.

It’s amazing how one can take for granted the privileges of command once they’re all taken away. There was a lot he had to do to get settled in, to make this space more homely. But even as he thought of his previous quarters and all the personal items he needed to replace, a new depressing thought occurred. Maybe it would have been better if he played a minimalist this time around? A lot less packing/unpacking would be required if he had to move again.

As he stood there justifying his introverted nature, a small chime rang from his desk terminal. Who would be messaging him this late? And why? He set his drink down and approached the small work desk, turning the screen to face him. On the terminal was an intra-station message addressed to him from the ‘neighbor-deck association’ welcoming him aboard. It appeared almost to be an automated message until he reached the end. The generalized welcome message appeared to be amended in a different text font at the end with the simple question, “Will you be staying aboard during Shore Leave?”

“Shore leave?” he thought to himself.