A Fine Introduction

[Quintin M'guire 0]

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.