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Cambridge really hates it here.
He supposes, on some level, this is mostly petty spite. Starfleet ships aren't that different, really; while one might have a more informal atmosphere, and another goes purely on ceremony, and another contains families and the other just a scattering of scientists, they all have certain commonalities, in atmosphere and content. For example, most ships are more like each other than they are like Starfleet Medical, where Cambridge spent twelve years before being assigned to Voyager.
But, he hates it anyway. There's something missing in the atmosphere, and while the gel packs on Voyager don't have a smell of sorts, he imagines that there's a scent of ozone that's not there that should be. The uniforms look all wrong, and Cambridge resents it every moment, from bustling, bright ensigns to non-coms repairing open conduits.
Eventually, he settles on working on unsolved archaeological mysteries from the last few centuries. Alien, not human. It's at least something to do, and it's well within his area of expertise. Part of the time, he works in Ten-Forward, at a table with a handful of PADDs, frowning fiercely, cross-referencing. "No," is what he says to anyone who approaches him. Without looking up from the PADD.
The rest of the time, he works in his quarters, which he has to himself. And when he works like this, so intently, he doesn't care much for the organization of his room. Things end up on tables, on the floor. At one point he kicks a pair of pants aside, towards the doorway. Unfortunately, the next time the door opens and closes, the cloth gets in the way. So the ankle of the pants sticks out into the hallway, like a flag.
He supposes, on some level, this is mostly petty spite. Starfleet ships aren't that different, really; while one might have a more informal atmosphere, and another goes purely on ceremony, and another contains families and the other just a scattering of scientists, they all have certain commonalities, in atmosphere and content. For example, most ships are more like each other than they are like Starfleet Medical, where Cambridge spent twelve years before being assigned to Voyager.
But, he hates it anyway. There's something missing in the atmosphere, and while the gel packs on Voyager don't have a smell of sorts, he imagines that there's a scent of ozone that's not there that should be. The uniforms look all wrong, and Cambridge resents it every moment, from bustling, bright ensigns to non-coms repairing open conduits.
Eventually, he settles on working on unsolved archaeological mysteries from the last few centuries. Alien, not human. It's at least something to do, and it's well within his area of expertise. Part of the time, he works in Ten-Forward, at a table with a handful of PADDs, frowning fiercely, cross-referencing. "No," is what he says to anyone who approaches him. Without looking up from the PADD.
The rest of the time, he works in his quarters, which he has to himself. And when he works like this, so intently, he doesn't care much for the organization of his room. Things end up on tables, on the floor. At one point he kicks a pair of pants aside, towards the doorway. Unfortunately, the next time the door opens and closes, the cloth gets in the way. So the ankle of the pants sticks out into the hallway, like a flag.
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B'Elanna and Tom probably don't even know yet that their daughter will be such an important figure in the Klingon mythos. They had the first indication during the pregnancy, but Cambridge never learned the precise date. Cambridge doesn't know how anyone here would figure it out, but he can't discount the possibility. Cults tend to have their ways.
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"Prophecies are always vague and open to interpretation and 'evidence' is easy to concoct as a result."
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Not a mystic, at least. He doesn't believe for a second he could count on Chang to help protect B'Elanna and Tom, if it came to that. Honorable warrior or no, Chang is shrewd.
"What are you doing here?" he asks. "General, do us all a bloody favor and get off this ship. Go to Qo'noS. They don't need warriors of your caliber yesterday. They need them now."
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"And I thought you'd found the saviour of Qo'noS."
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He's thinking of the changelings, now. The Dominion War.
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There was certainly some humour in that.
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He leans back, crossing his arms. "Have you bothered me enough to leave me alone now?"
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He snorted. "Did you have an appointment elsewhere?"
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