Quintin M'guire

Quintin ran a finger up the side of his glass, catching the condensation on his finger tip and using it to add to a wet pattern he had drawn on the bar counter. The glass was full almost to the brim and the ice it once had held had long since melted. His focus was on the story he was laying out for the bar keep, an older gentleman with just a touch of gray at his temples. The small pub was similar to the one he had only left a few hours ago, and consisted of little more than a small building with a large covered seating area. The tables were all unoccupied, and the only other patron, seated at the bar had his head resting on the bar top and looking in danger of falling out of his stool. “I swear to ye, the two of them stood there for what seemed like hour, just borin’ holes into each other’s skulls with their eyes,” Quintin said between bits of laughter, “And Tyler just up and pushed the two of them into the lake, tux and dress and all.” Quintin leaned back in his stool, his hands behind his head and let out a soft chuckle. “Last I heard of them, Jane and Jimmy got themselves a litter of their own, and Tyler their godfather.” Trailing off, he leaned his head further back and closed his in remembrance of the tale he recanted. It was a fond memory, one of his later teenage years, when life had seemed so much simpler. It was a time when disappearing into the night, sitting by a campfire on a false beach on the bank of the Stoneyford reservoir. When a bottle of wine or whiskey filched from an unguarded cabinet or rack and a few of his closest friends seemed like all he really needed, and a kiss from Janie Hereford was all he really desired. He fondly remembered that pretty face and curly brown hair, and the moment his wish came true. Women seemed so much simpler then, without a care for the future and the only driving force behind your romance was teenage hormones. Quintin traced another thin wet line along the counter, though little remained of the lines he had drawn earlier. “Janie, now there’s a name. Let me tell ye, that gal hadn’t a clue what she could do to ye. One look of those brown eyes just shot right through ya.” Smirking to himself, he shook his head and chuckled. His expression soon turned thoughtful, however, as a less than blissful memory penetrated his thought. Rubbing his cheek he sighed forlornly. How many women have thought they loved only to find they hate? Pride said he had done nothing wrong, that he didn’t deserve the unkind words, nor the welt on his cheek and the sore jaw. How many hate anyway? It was certainly not the first time he drawn out such anger from a woman, and definitely wasn’t the last. I ain’t perfect, but… Jaysus. What’s a fellow need to do? The conclusion he came to was the same as he had always. Even a brief smile on a woman’s lips and the passionately loving look in her eyes were worth the price of a bloody nose and a loose tooth. What does one need to do to make a woman like that smile? “C’mon pal, get up. If you wanna sleep go lay out on the beach, but don’t go slobbering all over my bar.” Like a pricked soap bubble, Quintin suddenly found himself back on a barstool in a dimly lit patio only to find that the bartender had moved off and was poking the sleeping patron in the shoulder with a beefy finger. Quietly setting a few credits on the counter, he rose from his stool and moved off in the direction of his hotel.

Sitting on the edge of a barstool, Quintin sat watching the action on the beach from behind the rim of a half-empty beer glass. There being plenty of shoreline on Pacifica, the beach wasn't very crowded, and he could still pick out the familiar faces of the Challenger crew among the revelers. He was paying particular attention to a game that involved hitting an inflated ball into the air and keeping the opposing team from knocking it down. Tilting the glass back, Quintin drained the last of the dark, bitter liquid and set it down on the bar. Thanks to an attentive bartender, it was full again before the sound of glass hitting wood reached the other end of the small lean-to on the beach. "Hello," a voice whispered seductively in his ear from behind him. Pretending to jump, Quintin spun around on his stool and wrapped an arm tantalizingly around Melanie's waist. "Well, 'ello there, gorgeous," he said with a grin, giving her an appraising look before handing her a tall glass rimmed with salt and filled with a concoction of fruity liquor and ice. Melanie giggled and slid easily into the handsome Starfleet officer's embrace, letting her lithe, tanned body brush up against his with practiced confidence. "‘Ello there," she responded, parroting his accent with a giggle, and winked as she gratefully accepted the drink he offered her. It had been over a year since she had last met Quintin M'Guire (if you didn't count last night's activities), but he was still a charmer. "Enjoying Pacifica?" Grinning ear to ear, Quintin lounged back in his chair and took another sip of his beer before looking up at the beautiful woman at his side. "Oh, I'm going on quite fine, thank ye. Couldn't be better," he said with a wider grin and a wink. Melanie giggled again and brushed his hair behind his ear. "Well, I could think of one way you could..." Taking a sip of her drink, she turned slightly in the curve of his arm. tracing her finger down his chest, and looked past him out at the beach. "Unless you've got plans for the day..." He wrapped his arm tighter around her waist and pulled her closer. His plan for the day included a couple more bitters and a few hours of lying on his back in the hotel pool, but most of that went out of his mind at her slight implication. Sitting up he chuckled and leaned forward to nibble on her neck. "Oh, what'd ye have in mind?" Melanie flashed a row of very white teeth as she smiled, leaning forward and pulling him closer by his shirt front, whispering an answer lost in the chatter of the groups around them. Anyone watching, however, would have had no difficulty in discerning her meaning, as she pushed him back against the bar, nipping at his jaw gently before kissing him deeply. H.G. entered the beachside pub and pulled off the dark glasses that had been protecting her eyes from the harsh glare of the sun. Removing her wide brimmed panama hat, she moved towards the bar, looking around for the proprietor. She had forgotten to pick up some water prior to leaving the hotel on her way down to the tide pools and it wouldn't do to get dehydrated on her first day of leave. Looking around she saw that the pub was fairly deserted for midday, though there were an assortment of individuals scattered around at various tables and a lone couple at the bar, obviously engaged in planning a passionate rendezvous. Amused, she stopped at the bar a short ways down from the pair, looking for the attendant. Quintin forcibly but playfully pushed Melanie back with a firm hand on her hip and made a show of gasping for air. "Jaysus, Mel, you sure know how to put the heart crossways on someone...” His voice slowly trailed off as his eyes drifted to his side to the short-statured red head standing a little ways off, and he turned his head quickly with a quietly muttered oath. Recognizing the Irish accent, H.G. grimaced, realizing that the man beside her was not just some nameless Lothario, but Challenger's helmsman, Quintin M'Guire. Suddenly, and irrationally, feeling irritated at having witnessed yet another one of his amorous trysts, she stepped back, hoping to leave the pub before he noticed her and the situation devolved into one of their now infamous arguments. She had promised herself she would stop allowing the horrid man get under her skin, as his behavior should have no effect on her. Thoughts of escape came too late, however; he had already spotted her. As the full scope of the situation came to light, he suddenly felt uneasy and went into a fit of coughing, picking up his glass and draining half of it before snapping hoarsely, "Miss Navigator..." His expression went from chagrin to angry mortification. "What're ye standing there looking at me for? I was just..." H.G. interrupted him, growing more irritated at not having escaped. "You were doing what you usually do, M'Guire, which is finding a bit of fun wherever it may be had. You don’t owe me any explanations, I already know you too well to be at all shocked. " For once in his life, Quintin almost felt defeated and at a loss for words. For the life of him, he couldn't figure out why he was embarrassed, and why this woman had such disdain for him; being hated certainly wasn't something he was used to. But as always, pride welled up inside of him and he gripped Melanie's waist more firmly, though his blithesome exterior, his mask, quickly returned. "Now, you needn't be so quick to judge, lass. It's bleedin' shore leave, for pity's sake. Why don't ye get off your damned high chariot for once and stop puttin' people off all the bloody time?" Temper rising, H.G. glared at him before replying in scathing tones. "As much as I might put people off, as you suggest, at least I can be happy with who I am rather than trying to define myself by having meaningless and shallow relationships." Rising from his stool Quintin loomed to his full height. "Meaningless and shal…" With a scoff he turned away from Reed, draining the last of his glass and setting it back on the bar with a loud thump. This time the bartender made no move to refill his glass, standing against the far side of the bar, drying a dish with a white bar cloth and looking somewhat bemused. Melanie, who had been watching this exchange with a slightly befuddled look, tugged on Quintin's sleeve as he pulled away, and gave the newly-arrived woman a pouting look. "Hey, Miss whoever-you-are...no one asked you your opinion!" Grabbing Quintin's chin firmly she turned him to look at her and away from Reed. "Ignore her, M'Guire...we've got better things to do than listen to that." Quintin's chin turned and he looked into Melanie's eyes for a moment, before taking her hand and managing a brief toothy smile. "Ye know, I'm so hungry I could eat the lamb o' Jaysus through the rungs of a chair. I think I smell something good over there." Releasing her hand, he turned off and walked out of the small lean-to and off of the beach, kicking a tuft of sand into the air when he was out of sight. "Of all the..." H.G. sputtered, watching him walk away before turning her eyes to Melanie and looking her over, as if noticing her for the first time. "Listen, lady, although I use that term somewhat loosely, I didn't come in here to interrupt your little tête-à-tête. In fact, I would be perfectly happy had I never run into either of you. What you two do is your own business. Unlike you, I am not one of his floozies; I just have to work with the brute." Turning, Reed stalked out, jamming her hat back onto her head and the pushing the sunglasses back onto her face.

Through the dim night-watch lights, Quintin watched the young sleeping yeoman for any stirrings of movement as he buttoned up the collar on his uniform. Jaysus, she snores like a bleedin' hacksaw, he thought to himself while he slipped into his boots, forgetting to fasten the laces as he crept for the door. His hip caught the edge of a credenza, and he let out a yelp, rubbing his leg. "Is that you, Quin-Quin?" came a soft, groggy voice from behind him and Quintin cringed for a moment before turning around with an insincere smile. "Aye, ‘s me,” he replied, looking the woman over appraisingly. She was a beauty to be sure, but dumb as a doornail and had the spirit of a babe begging for attention. If he didn't make some excuse quick, she'd be asking him to come back to bed for a cuddle. Shuddering at that thought, he picked up a PADD that had been carelessly discarded on the floor and looked at it. "Oi, would ye look at the time. I need to get meself up to da bridge." "You don't have to go on for another hour, don't you?" The young P.O. inquired, sitting up in bed and pulling a sheet up to her shoulders. "Oi, not today…erm…the skipper wants me in early for...uhhh, a propulsion diagnostic," Quintin stuttered. He knew the lie was as apparent as if he had come right out and said it was false. Creeping back over to her side of the bed he gave her a kiss on the cheek. "I'll give ye a buzz later." He hadn’t waited for much of a reply before quickly stepping out the door and into the corridor. Looking in both directions he sighed, "Fer Pete's sake, which way to the turbolift?" Picking a direction at a mental flip of a coin, he hurried off, eager to be on his way no matter where to. It was only a few moments before he arrived at the turbolift, and saw a short-statured woman with red hair standing with her back to him there. He wouldn't need to see her face to know it was that Suffolk woman, and he cursed quietly to himself before he approached the turbolift, whistling as though he didn't have a care. "Ahh, if it isn't Miss Navigator. A fine day to ye, ma'am." H.G. stiffened at the sound of that voice, her spine going rigid, her posture straightening even more, if that were possible. Slowly turning her head, she acknowledged his greeting with a curt nod before turning back to stare straight ahead at the turbolift doors. Quintin grinned in spite of himself, and wondered to himself whether this woman was ever in a decent mood. "What's got ye all knackered up, eh? Not had yer morning tea yet?" “I’ve had my tea, thank you; I am just attempting to exercise some self-control and curb myself when it comes to baser instincts, which is more than may be said for you,” she retorted hotly. "Oi, ye can stall it right there. What the blazes ye be talkin' about? At least I'm not the commander’s pet, trying to be e'reone's better," he riposted, crossing his arms in front of his chest and leering down at the young woman. “I am not attempting to be better than anyone else! If I am a good officer who adheres to my duty and lives by the Starfleet code of conduct, that shouldn’t be any of your concern! And furthermore, you can’t pretend to not know what I am speaking of. Enlisted personnel? Honestly M’Guire, did you even attempt to pay attention while they were training you to be an officer?” Quintin wagged a brawny finger at Reed, a scowl playing across his features. "What I do in me own time is me own business, and ye can keep yer powdered nose out of it." It was then that the turbolift doors swished open, and a blonde petty officer carrying a stack of PADDs stepped out. Quintin quieted for a moment and gave the young woman an approving glance as she walked by. “Sexist pig,” H.G. muttered as she stepped into the now-deserted turbolift. “Probably chases after anything in a skirt.” Quintin's gaze finally returned to the now empty space where Reed had been standing, only after the Yeoman had turned a corner out of sight. The turbolift doors had begun to close by the time he jumped into the lift shoulder first and leaned against the wall with his arms folded, avoiding looking at Reed altogether. H.G. was silent for a beat before giving in to temptation. “Do you have any morals at all, M’Guire, or were you raised by alley cats?” "Nay, I wish it were so, but me 'rents are quite respectable, actually. And, eh, I warned ye, didin't I? Ye best get on the ball if ye want a piece of the pie," Quintin said with a laugh, sidling closer to the woman and leaning towards her with a leer. The grin that played across his lips had more than a little mirth, and his intentions were set on getting a rise out of the navigator. Letting out an exasperated breath she pushed him away. “Why is it that when a woman shows a man the least bit of contempt, he automatically deludes himself into thinking she is subtly flirting with him?” she muttered, more to herself than anything else. “Let me put this in such a plain and cliché manner that even a Philistine such as yourself can understand it...Never going to happen, not in your wildest dreams and fantasies, not if we were the last two humans alive and needed to repopulate the species! I would take up with a Klingon, or defect to the Romulan Empire, before I even considered someone as uncouth and ill-mannered as you!” She managed to shove past him and move to the other side of the turbolift, trying to put some space between them, muttering “Your gall is astounding to even insinuate that I...and to think your father is much worse!” It took a few moments for what she had said at the last to sink in. His scowl abruptly returned with a fire in his eyes that had not been there before, and the Irish flew from his tongue, "Go hifreann leat, ag fein truaillaithe! How dare ye insult my father! You know nothing of him!" “That is what you think,” she retorted hotly before realizing what she had said and hastily averting her gaze, conscience stinging. Narrowing his eyes, Quintin looked her over. "What do ye mean by that, eh?! What do you know of my father?" She was quiet for a moment, steeling herself for what was about to come. Shifting slightly, she held out the data PADD she had been clutching behind her back. “The comm relief accidently dispatched this with the reports and transmissions yesterday,” she began contritely, though her tone took on an air of defiance as she added, “I didn’t realize what it was until I had already read it.” "You did what!?" Quintin raged as he snatched the PADD from her hands and perused it, not really reading the text. "I don't suppose ye have an aunt who goes by Catherine. How do ye manage to read something without knowing what yer reading! You, you, you...snoop! I knew you were a snobby, trite woman, but I never thought ye might be such a sketch!" H.G. bristled at the insult. “Now wait a minute. It was an honest mistake. I had no idea it was a personal letter and I am very sorry, but you’ve no call for speaking to me in such a manner! Such incredible cheek, especially coming from one such as yourself who never met a rule he didn’t break! You bloody arrogant git! How you even got into the academy, graduated, and got this assignment is beyond me. Clearly you are no better than the man who sired you!” Quintin’s face turned red with rage and his eyes narrowed.

Name: M'Guire, Quintin Thomas Race: Human Gender: Male Date of Birth: May 3, 2267 Place of Birth: Lisburn, Northern Ireland, European Alliance, Earth Hair: Brown Eyes: Green Height: 1.92m Weight: 86.1kg Marital Status: Single Rank: Ensign Current Assignment: Helmsman, USS Challenger Family Father: Carson L. M'Guire, Council Member; Planetary Council of Earth Mother: Debra R. M'Guire(Price), Actress; Earth, Ireland Brothers: Benedick L. (27), Francis G. (18) Sisters: Emilia P.(Rothschild) (24), Elizabeth B.(14) Curriculum/Honors 2284-2285 – Cambridge University School of Sciences – Political Science; History (Expelled for Destruction of School Property) 2285-2289 – Starfleet Academy – Officer Training; Flight Protocol (2286, Passed Atmospheric/Space Maneuvering Exam) (2286c, Joined Nova Squadron, second year Cadet) (2288, Becomes Nova Squadron Flight Leader) (2289 Graduates From Starfleet Academy, Promoted to Ensign)

“A Russian, an Irishman, and an Australian Walk Into a Shuttlecraft” Joint Log by Lt. Anastasia Poldara and Ens. Quintin M'Guire -------------------------------------------------------------------- All grandiloquence, Quintin M'Guire lounged back in his chair, boasting over some past manuever. Using his hands he demonstrated the situation he was telling, "The nit thought he could catch me in the planet's gravity with a upward U-turn, but his vessel was already banjaxed to 'ell. Using the gravity, I was able to slow meself and pull in right behind the bugger with an upward helix. He weren't ready to put up much of a fight after that." Anastasia blinked as she tried to take in the complicated tale. The Longbourne had only been in transit for a couple of minutes before the three of them had discovered they were all destined for Challenger. After brief introductions, Michael had made the mistake of asking Quintin about his experience as a pilot. Now here they were, several hours later. While her attention was waning, her husband seemed enraptured by Quintin's tale. "Wow. That must have been exciting," Michael said. "But now you're going to be piloting a starship, where sub-orbital manoeuvres aren't necessarily the best idea. Was this your first choice of assignment?" Quintin laughed raucously, tilting his head to look at the doctor standing behind him. "Well, certainly nah. I never thought I'd be sittin' behind the controls of one those great washing machines. And aye, I wouldn't be wanting to pull any of that, be sending ya'll to your johnnies I would." He chuckled to himself, patting his knee. Anastasia shook her head. "I think I've had all the excitement I need for a while. This new assignment of Challenger's seems like it will be a nice change of pace. Something diplomatic. Hopefully it won't involve high-speed combat." "Well if it does, at least you'll have someone who can patch you up, Ana," said Michael. Then he frowned. "Wait, I suppose this means I have to address you as, 'sir' now. Hmm. I hadn't thought of that." Ignoring her husband, Anastasia turned back to Quintin. "Challenger wasn't my first choice either, but now I'm kind of glad to be coming back. There's something about the transient nature of a starship, the idea that we aren't tied to any one place, that really appeals to me." She glanced down and added, "Especially now." M'Guire stroked his chin thoughtfully for a moment, a broad smile gracing his features for a moment. Poor bloke, he thought to himself after Michael's comment about calling his own wife 'Sir'. The thought of it! He sniffed, turning his attention to Anastasia and smirking. "Aye, I agree entirely. We're not designed for staying in one place for long, scares the bejeezus out of us I think. But, you can be assured, if we're ever in a less than diplomatic situation, Quintin M'Guire will keep that boat out of trouble." With a smirk, Anastasia said, "I'm so pleased to be surrounded by such competent crew members." Even as she said this, Anastasia made a mental note that Quintin M'Guire seemed like the kind of fellow who got into trouble more than he got out of it. M'Guire's loquacity could be exhausting, and Anastasia was looking forward to some solitude when they arrived at Challenger. But their journey so far had been pleasant. "Will this be your first time behind the controls of something as powerful as an Excelsior-class ship, aside from simulations?" she asked. "Ahh well, as me old da used to say, a boat is only as strong as it's timbers. And there be a great many more timbers on lunker such as the Excelsior," Quintin explained, scratching his short beard. "Oh, ah I know what you're gettin' at, Sir. Been mostly flying sketches most of my time here in the great Starfleet, but never got the chance to test me fingers on lady such as that, except in simulations. I'm looking forward, to be sure." Anastasia nodded, feeling for a moment the romance involved in a pilot's relationship with his or her ship. "It's not like that for scientists, of course," she said. "Maybe the science lab is bigger; the sensors might be more sensory, but overall, one ship is like another." Silently, she wondered if that had been her problem, if a lack of a tactile relationship with Challenger had prevented her from settling down. A comfortable hand on her shoulder made her hope that it would be different this time around. Laughing, Quintin leaned back and put his hands behind his head, blithesome as can be. "Ahh, but as there's more to a lady than her smile and legs, there's more to ship than it's sensors and it's engines. She's a living, breathing thing s'far as I'm concerned, and deserves as much as me old mother." Looking thoughtful for a moment he added, "Perhaps more." There it was: the personification of the Ship. Anastasia had never quite been able to subscribe to the concept. Perhaps it was this barrier that prevented her from fully embracing the explorer role. Then again, Vulcans didn't hold such sentiments and—Anastasia shuddered, not eager to compare herself to a Vulcan yet. “Challenger is one of the best,” Anastasia said, then regretted it immediately. After all, it wasn't like she had much experience in these matters. But it was the thought that counted, no? Natural explorers or not, they were all in the service together, and their ship would see them through thick and thin. "Here's hoping to interesting times...."

Early October, 2288, San Francisco If those prats in the corner leer at me one more time... The thought trailed off as Cadet First Class H.G. Reed glared broodingly at her cold cup of tea. The 602 Club was not a spot she typically chose to patronize, but Mehul was doing her a favour by helping her with her linguistics project, so she really could not criticize his choice of time or venue. However, if he didn’t show up soon, she would leave and try to make sense of Professor Soren’s paper regarding Klingon poly-guttural dialects on her own. With an irritated sigh, she unconsciously took another sip from the saucer in front of her, then immediately pulled back with a shudder of distaste. What could possibly be keeping Mehul? It wasn’t like him to be tardy … "Hey! Katsulas! I swear if you keep staring at that pretty little redhead fresher she's bound to come over here and show you a thing or two," Cadet Fourth Class Quintin M’Guire, newly minted leader of the Nova Squadron, declared loudly. His companions and squadron mates, Cadets Martin Katsulas, Jeffrey Colburn, Lucas Duboise, and Phil Lee, erupted in raucous laughter at his words as they lolled around the pool table of the 602 Club, scoping out what action there was to be found. M’Guire stood, the weight of his towering frame supported by a pool cue, grinning at his own cleverness. "You gonna play or what, Colburn! I'm tired of waiting around for you!" His companions roared again as Quintin, on his way around the table, slapped Martin behind his head so hard he nearly fell out of his chair. Other patrons were casting disgruntled glares or worried frowns in the direction of the exuberant cadets who made up the Nova Squadron, hailed as one of the best teams in the short, albeit colourful, history of Starfleet Academy. Their prowess at flying ranked evenly with their reputation for getting into trouble anytime they ventured off campus for a bit of fun. Irritated that she had been stood up, H.G. checked her timepiece once more, then tossed a few credits on the table in front of her and pushed her chair back, shaking her head in disgust. She had just wasted an hour and a half she might have spent on her studies, or at least used to get a decent cup of tea at the coffee house closer to campus. The rot she had just tasted didn’t deserve to be called tea at all. "C'mon, mate. Look at her, her nose up in the air as if she is too good for the likes of this place. Standing there, commanding the very smoke in this room to just move away from her. Haughty. She's not worth your time, mate," Quintin scoffed, eyeing the young cadet appreciatively despite his criticism. Katsulas punched his charge right back, in play. "You're only saying that cause you know you can't get a fine specimen of woman like that to take you home." The laughter this time drowned out the reserved din coming from the rest of the customers. Setting his cue against the wall, Quintin rolled up his sleeve, "Oh ho ho, now that sounds like a challenge, me boys," he cried mirthfully. Casting a last disparaging glance around the establishment that called itself a pub, H.G. headed for the door, moving slowly through the crowded room past the chortling cadets clustered around the pool table. She caught the musical lilt of an Irish accent amongst them and paused for a moment, suddenly struck with a wave of longing. The last several months starting out at the Academy had been difficult to say the least. Being away from her home and confined to classrooms all day, unable to come and go as she pleased, was trying. The smooth, lyrical cadence, so similar to that of her uncle’s stable master, a former Irish jockey now living in Inverness, brought back memories of recent summers in Scotland, spending lazy evenings in the stable rubbing down Aeolus after a hard day’s ride. Quintin leaned against the wall, tapping his chin and smirking. His gaze was directed towards the redhead who was now standing close by, a far off look in her eyes. Why's she just standing there looking like somebody tickled her? he wondered abstractly, twisting his cue. Well, if he didn't get a move on, he wouldn't get the chance to prove his superiority. "Right, you're on. Three ales and a jigger says she walks out that door with me." Martin laughed, rolling up his sleeve and extending his hand. "She wouldn’t give you the time of day...she'll slap you across your face the minute you open your mouth, M’Guire." Within a few seconds the two competing teammates were blocking Reed’s way, all smiles for the young cadet. Colburn, Duboise and Lee simply sat back with their arms folded, laughing to themselves. Abruptly refocusing on the present, H.G. found her path blocked by two upperclassmen. Reality crashed back down upon her and all of her previous irritation with the pub and its occupants burst into the forefront of her mind. She craned her neck to look up in to their faces, cursing her slight stature, and silently counted to ten for a moment, hoping to regain some semblance of control. "Yes, gentlemen? May I help you?" The redhead shot them a look and Katsulas opened his mouth to speak first but found his bravado disappearing under her unflinching gaze. "Ahh, I thought that you might, umm, give me the pleasure of a dance?" The young pilot stuttered, getting quieter with every word. A blank stare was all he received in returned, and immediately Quintin was behind him, resting an elbow on his shoulder. "What my mate here is trying to say, pretty lady, is that he's a-twitter, and ye ought to be joining me for a pint or three." The smirk on his face implied more, much more, than was proper. H.G. was startled by Katsulas’s timid invitation (which, however unwelcome, was sincere), but was quickly nudged out of her surprise by the coarse proposition of his chum, voiced in the beloved accent she had heard before. She spared the towering Irish cadet nothing but a disparaging glance before turning to his shy companion. "Thank you for the kind invitation, but I was on my way out. Another time perhaps?" she ventured noncommittally, pleased that she had been able to project some semblance of composure above the underlying layers of affront and irritation at the behaviour of his friend. Martin stammered, trying to find his words, but before he could say his "Pleased," and "Thank you," Quintin pushed in front of her once more. "She says she was on her way out!" he chortled to his still mumbling companion, grinning and scratching the short growth of a beard on his chin. "My pardon, lovely, but surely you could at least lower your nose a meter or two and tell me your name." Her composure cracking, H.G. stared at him piercingly for a moment before replying in clipped British tones that unctuously oozed an aristocratic bearing from an era long past. "Someone obviously neglected to instruct you in proper etiquette when addressing a lady, but what else is to be expected of an uncouth mick?" A slightly satisfied smirk graced her lips as she moved to brush past, clearly dismissing him. Pity, she thought, he has a lovely voice and would not be bad-looking if not for his obnoxious attitude. Looming over her, his eyes agleam and all the more mirthful, Quintin managed a toothy smile. Patting his friend on the chest, he let out a laugh, "She thinks she’s some kind a’chancer, dud’nt she, mate? Got a manner befitting that hair, that's for sure." He looked her up and down challengingly and grinned, as light-spirited as could be. "Is that a bit of the Suffolk I hear on your tongue?" he inquired. "What's the matter, aul wan didn't teach ya how to show respect to your superiors?" Prevented from making a graceful exit by the human wall in front of her, H.G. raised a questioning eyebrow and let a derisive, humourless laugh pass from her lips. "You may be assured that when I actually meet someone who is my superior, I will show them the respect they are due. Now if you will excuse me…" She attempted to push past him again, before her temper could break and cause her to do something she would later regret. Martin had given up trying to put his words together and was now fiercely trying to persuade Quintin into backing down. However, his leader, never one to ignore a challenge, stepped in front of H.G. once more and placed a restraining hand on her arm. "Now hold on, young wan..." He trailed off, realizing that the pub had quieted. The three other members of his squadron were now advancing towards them, determined to stop this before it went too far. Pushed past the limits of patience and endurance, frustrated at being unable to leave, H.G. didn’t think, she merely lashed out. Not bothering to telegraph her punch, she hit him squarely in the face, causing his head to turn sideways and his nose to break, and shattering the delicate bones in her hand in the process. Quintin grunted, stumbling backwards and holding a hand to his ruined nose. Martin and Jeff had come to see to their injured companion, who began trying to push past them. Pointing a bloodied finger at his assailant he wailed, "Bluddy 'ell, who in the blazes do ya thin' ya are? Do ya even know who I am? Ya'll find yourself in the bleedin' cell a week for 'ittin' me, ya little pillock!" He fumed, angrily, his speech taking on a distinctive nasal tone through the broken appendage. His other two companions, Lucas and Phil, slowly moved towards the first year cadet warily, but likewise tossing insults and threats in her direction. H.G. backed up into the crowd that was now forming around them, cradling her injured hand and staring at Quintin in horror, wondering what had possessed her to do such a thing. However, her consternation was soon replaced by rage as he and his chums began to hurl insults while advancing in her direction. Halting to stand her ground, she ground her teeth, ready to display her own wrath, when a heavy hand clapped down on her shoulder and she was turned about, now facing a very stern-looking Academy security officer. "Is there a problem here, cadet?" he questioned, looking from her hand to Quintin’s bloodied nose. "He..." H.G. began, only to trail off, unable to articulate a coherent thought in her present state of rage. Quintin's companions immediately became quiet as the security officer appeared, taking on a three point stance with their hands at their sides. M'Guire was still hunched over, holding his nose, but looked pleased at the officer’s arrival. "Dirk! Oh, am I bluddy 'appy to see ya. I demand that ya arrest this 'arpy, she..." He was cut off as the looming security officer spoke up. "That's Lieutenant, cadet," the officer demanded, getting an abashed look from Quintin, who opened his mouth to apologise but was again interrupted. "I should have known I'd be seeing you five here tonight, causing trouble. But I never expected this," the lieutenant admitted, turning to the young cadet nursing her hand. "I can't say I blame you. Quintin M'Guire is a pompous troublemaker who doesn't know when to quit. I can't blame you, but I also can't excuse this." H.G. nodded, biting her tongue for fear that she would lash out once again at her tormentor. "I understand, sir," she assented through gritted teeth, willing to accept censure and punishment for her own behaviour. The Lieutenant nodded compassionately and signalled to one of his men, who stepped up and took hold of her elbow. "Let me see that, miss," he directed, gently checking her injured hand. "We will take you to medical immediately," he continued after giving it a cursory glance to confirm it was indeed broken. H.G. allowed herself to be led away, satisfied as the Lieutenant began to castigate the other cadets, but only daring at the last minute to turn her head and give Quintin M’Guire the most contemptuous look she could muster. If she never saw the arrogant tosser again, it would be much too soon.