Ten Forward Social Lounge

A starship never sleeps. Even the third watch, in what would be the wee hours of the morning in an equivalent planetside clock, functions enough to keep a capital starship under control. Which is to say, hundreds of people are going about their duties. But, a starship does have rhythms, and this shift represents the time when people are least active socially.

Which is exactly why Hugh Cambridge sits himself down in Ten-Forward now.

Because the nightmares are back.

They haven't been around for years. Oh, they'll rear up, one night in a very long while, usually aimless strung-out sequences, endless starship corridors, shaking lights and fires and ever-morphing enemy encounters. Cambridge's nightmares are never specific things, but they're not subtle, either. He's afraid of what's coming, just like he used to be afraid of what had already happened.

He rests his forehead on the bar after the second Scotch - the real stuff, not synthehol - and begins to breathe deep and quell his panic.

-

On another night, after another nightmare, he quells it in a different way.

Open the holodeck doors - they're not locked for privacy - and there's a studio, mirrors all along one wall. Cambridge dances with a single partner - female, lovely - in some pseudo-jazz number, something old-fashioned.

It's easy to see that he's trained, on first glance. His movements are precise and practiced, and he is flexible, strong enough to do lifts, jumps. But, next to a professional dancer, he wouldn't look very good. Technique or no, Cambridge isn't an artist of dance. He doesn't elevate the dance, doesn't make it his own. He just does it. It makes him an unusually good dancer among laypeople, but not much at all among dancers.

Doesn't matter to him. He's there to be distracted, not to show off.

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.

Hugh Cambridge is partway through an analysis of an artifact - an old one, part of an extended paper that he'd never finished - when the transition comes.

At first, he assumes the ship's entered some sort of anomaly, and he turns away from the viewport (the stars have shifted, how odd), his hand moving to his combadge. A quick touch, and he starts, "Cambridge to -"

This isn't Voyager. In fact, this is the Ten-Forward of a Galaxy Class starship, unless he misses his mark. Populated with a few handfuls of people, some out of uniform, some in uniform, but those in are wearing the style that was in use twenty years earlier. Cambridge's uniform has shoulders of a grey-purple, and the turtleneck inside is medical/science blue. His combadge is thinner and sleeker.

"- Oh, bugger," finishes Cambridge. It's an illusion or it's time travel - neither of those bodes well.