Captain's Log: Christopher Lennox (Ship & Personal)

Captain's Log, Stardate 93200.9:

The Windrunner has docked at her new home at the 39th Fleet Starbase. Between the shakedown forays and what Lieutenant Commander Sh'thaal likes to call "impromptu combat trials," a sedate cruise through the quadrant to a secured location was a nice change. We've put in to base for an inspection and some final readiness evaluations before our first patrol assignment. I've given the crew leave to explore their new base of operations, but Corspa and Adjutant Zero have both insisted on remaining on board. Corspa doesn't like it when the ship is without either her captain or first officer, and Zero claims that any inspection requires "direct oversight." She'd never admit it, but Zero seems to think herself to be one of the Windrunner's parents, with me being the other, at least in her eyes.

Given her disposition, she seems to share Lieutenant Pura's discomfort with Lieutenant Haral's posting as Chief Engineer. However, with Pura being Haral's operational superior, and Adjutant Zero fully in charge of most engineering matters save for the esoteric nature of the Windrunner's warp core, I feel like this is a mitigated matter. Doctor Ebrum agrees. Hopefully, a little time outside of the Windrunner's confines will help everyone grow a bit more comfortable. The crew is experienced individually, but hasn't quite come together as a team. It falls to me, as Commanding Officer, to make it so.
Spoiler: Personal Log, 93202.2Show
Lennox makes his way to the small cabin allotted to him during his stay on Deep Space 13. He removes his uniform jacket, draping it over the back of the chair behind the desk. Sorting through the small duffel he brought from the Windrunner, he first found his PADD that was linked to the LCARS on the ship. He tapped the series of commands, then said "Personal log, stardate 93202.2" as he continued sorting.

"Free time isn't something I've had over the past couple of years. Since getting involved with the Banshee project, I've either been in labs with the project team or on the Windrunner trying not to die." He sets aside a soft towel, and lays several items on top of it: an old Earth safety razor, a ceramic jar, a small round brush, a mirror with a tripod for display. "Now that we're at Deep Space 13, with an inspection and squadron assignment pending, I find myself able to breathe a bit. Take stock of my situation. Meet new people."

At this, he smiles a bit. He walks over to the replicator. "Water, large bowl, 30 degrees Celsius." The replicator hums and shimmers, producing the requested water. Lennox carefully carries it to the desk, setting it down. He adds the brush to the water. "I also feel that I should engage in a little more self-care. I've worked very hard to get here, and I should enjoy the fact that I've arrived in one piece and with plenty to show for my efforts. I didn't think I'd be here... what is it, almost 12 years ago? There was some doubt at the Academy that I'd make the cut, what with having to come from the rehab facility in Brecon."

He approaches the sonic shower in the room, beginning to make adjustments, and pulls his uniform undershirt off. "But, here I am. And I have no idea what'll come next."

He taps the PADD to end the recording, and then regards his face in the mirror. He tilts his chin upwards to regard his beard. "Yeah, I should do something about this."
Spoiler: Personal Log, 93205.1Show
The specialized display of gold-pressed latinum strips floats silently on one of the shelves in the Windrunner's ready room. Chris watches it for a long moment, how the subdued lighting in the room plays off of the gold. He turns to the other wall display, the bat'leth itself a more ominous sight as it hangs in front of the Klingon Empire's distinctive symbol. He gently lifts the weapon from its mount, laying it to one side. He then presses his thumb against the area in the center of the symbol, leaning towards it so the hidden lens can scan his retina. A satisfied beep from the locking mechanism is followed by the display sliding to one side. He passes over the old-fashioned metal box containing his 'spending' latinum, and the antique phaser pistol alongside the rolled-up toolset he used to maintain and modify it. His hand seizes one of the bottles of Romulan ale from the rack, and he examines the label. It's older than he is. Good.

He goes to the shelves against the wall opposite his desk. From there he retrieves a bottle of red springwine and a rock glass, the one with symbol of Federation's tactical division etched into the bottom. He taps his PADD as he sets the glass and bottles down on the desk, pouring the Romulan ale in first, then a bit of the springwine second. "Personal log, stardate 9320...5... point... well, it's after 1 am shipboard." Picking up the glass, he swirls the contents, with faster motions than he would a glass of Chateau Picard. The electric blue of the ale and bright red of the springwine dance and touch and melt together as a subtle, semi-transparent violet. He brings the glass to his lips and takes a sip. The fruity notes of the springwine cut the acrid bite of the Romulan ale, but it still sends cleansing fire down into his belly. Perfect. He returs the contraband liquor to its home in the safe, beside the others, and touches the display to return it to the original position, hanging the bat'leth back in its place of honor.

"The inspection's complete, and I'm waiting for the results and our assignment. Commander Sh'thaal and Adjutant Zero are finally off of the ship. With the CO back aboard, Corspa felt justified in taking a day or two of leave. Zero took more convincing. She still isn't comfortable around most people, and from the way half of the crew looks at her, they're not comfortable around her, either." He takes another drink. "Then again, some of them are looking at her differently. Her body temperature is higher than most people's, according to Dr. Ebrum. Hence her showing more skin than most Starfleet officers. Talk to her for about ninety seconds, though, and it's easy to tell she's still part Borg. I hope I don't have to discipline anyone for any shenanigans."

He heads out into the corridor, glass in one hand, PADD in the other. With the ship docked and its power plants offline, only emergency lighting illuminated the interior. The Windrunner was small, barely larger than a Defiant-class, and yet, with her lights dim and her captain alone, she felt vast, mysterious, and empty. Chris takes another drink. "It's not like I don't understand having an attraction. But she's not a woman... well, not in the sense of someone available for a date. She's a Mission Specialist, and what's more, for my part, a subordinate. I'm not a backwater smuggler anymore, and haven't been for years. I'm a Starfleet officer, and stars damn it, I'm going to act like one." He steps into the turbolift. "Engineering."

The lift spits him out on the requested deck, and he heads around the bend. "I've worked too hard and given too much to throw it away on a dalliance with a crewmate. I don't care how hot they are. Figuratively, literally, or both." He steps into the trophy hall. It felt ostentatious to even have one aboard, but Corspa, Krogun, and Rixx had insisted. Corspa due to the tradition in her family of celebrating victories, Krogun to 'remind the captain of honorable service,' and Rixx so Lennox would be able to process memories. He looks from one ship model to the next, passing over the large moving display of Hobus, and his eyes settle on the Buckingham, her updated nacelles sweeping gracefully from the old-fashioned hull and saucer. He sits on the steps down into the hall, laying the PADD aside. "It was lonely in Draconis. Not just because it was remote. Because it's been a while since I've had anyone. And seeing all of the couples in the Fleet... well..." He takes a long drink, staring at the cruiser in the corner.

"I never thought I'd love again, after Oogara. I thought that finding sweetness in the cold of space only happened to someone once. Especially in the person of a fearless, ruthless pirate and smuggler like her. I was young, of course, and my head was full of romanticism from what novels I could find. A young teenager in the favor of a tall, lithe Orion woman like that... and then..." He shakes his head. "I don't know if what she did with me was right or wrong. I know it wasn't just for her pleasure. She cared about me." He pauses. A cloud passes over his face. He drinks more.

"After the Academy, aboard the Buckingham, it was all business. Until I met Ensign Bartle. Scientist, springball enthusiast, dancer. All of the romanticism came back and, for the brief time we had, it was wonderful." The lights of Hobus brighten for a moment as the core's display is revealed by a passing continental plate. The destroyed world sheds illumination on the curves of the Buckingham, setting it aglow as Chris watches. Then it's dark again, another part of the crust obscuring the light. He turns his head away. "At least I got to hold her one last time. As long as I could. Before the secondary hull started coming apart and I had to go."

The memory that had risen unbidden earlier again assaults his senses. The acrid smell of flesh seared by hand-held disruptors. The sound of screams. The sight of bat'leths rising and falling. The feel of a fallen enemy's weapon in his hands, their blood flowing onto and between his fingers, making his grip more sticky, somehow feeling more permanent, like he'd never be able to let it go. The taste of smoke in his mouth after the conduit had blown beside him. His eyes squeeze shut. He drains the glass.

"I'd like to think this would pass. That it would stop hurting. Maybe I've just been so driven to be the best Starfleet officer I can be that I haven't taken the time to work all of this out." He looks down at the symbol etched into the bottom of the glass. He has the urge to throw it against the wall, feel the weight of it launch from his hand like a torpedo, watch it shatter on the wall. He restrains himself. He's gotten good at restraining himself.

"And maybe, some things you just never get over."
Spoiler: Personal Log, 93218.5Show
Lennox stretches. He feels his muscles tense, his joints pop. He's been idle for too long. Long hours spent in conference with the strategic and tactical officers in operation of Deep Space 13 and several walking tours of the Windrunner have left him feeling restless. He's a combat commander. He belongs in the void of space.

He rounds his ready room desk, a half-empty glass of his cocktail (which still needs a name... "Wailing Arrow," perhaps, or "Cold Embrace") waiting for him to finish it off. Instead, he taps the terminal on one side of the thing.
"Personal log, stardate 93218.5. These restless nights are starting to become something of an unfortunate habit." He considers sitting, but instead turns to the small closet in the corner. He draws open the door, finds the small clothing maintenance tool, and begins running it over his uniform jacket as it hangs before him. The tool hums quietly, removing lint and wrinkles with subtle subsonic vibrations.

"Still no word from fleet command on our squadron assignment. There's a feeling of restlessness from the crew. I'm spending a great deal of time in Ops and conference rooms and... well,
it's nice to be valued for things other than my skill at shooting things, but I can't help but feel a little hemmed in."
He changes hands, pulling the jacket away from the back of the closet to get at another portion of its surface.

"I'm not much for politics. I understand the purpose of it, certainly, and I acknowledge that 'war is a continuation of politics by different means,' as Von Clausewitz wrote. I try to understand it more,
and by extension the root reasoning for the existence and purpose of people like myself, and the starship at my command."
He pauses, gazing at his uniform for a long moment. "It's funny. I didn't think I had much of a purpose ten years ago or so. Starfleet Academy felt like an obligation, in a sense. Considering it was Starfleet that got my out of a life that, ultimately, would have killed me. The way it killed Oogara."

He hits the mental retro thrusters to steer away from that particular emotional minefield. Beylara's recommendation for professional counseling emerges instead, and he makes a mental note to follow up on that. "I find myself thinking about the way the Romulans approach warfare," he lies to his future self and posterity in general. "It isn't exactly what most would consider 'light bedside reading', but considering the restlessness and my seeming inability to actually relax, it's not like I have any better ideas."

Another lie. He most certainly has other ideas, not necessarily better ones. He simply can't act on them. Or won't. He's a Starfleet officer, a professional, a soldier in position on the moral high ground. Honor and propriety were the order of the day. Besides, entanglements like those that tempted his senses had a habit of getting people he cared about killed. He shakes his head, tapping the terminal to end the recording. He puts aside the clothing tool, closes the closet door, and sits at the desk, reaching for his drink.

"Computer, access Romulan treatises on strategy and warfare. Cross-reference with relevant or applicable passages of Sun-Tzu's Art of War, and display."


Lennox leaned back, drink in his hands, and waited. If he was going to keep waiting, and if sleep was continuing to elude him, he might as well do something useful with his time.
Captain's Log, Stardate 93280.1:

The Windrunner has completed her first circuit of our Alpha pattern patrol route for Gemini squadron. The activity of the Betreka pirates that seemed to be on the upswing just a week or two ago seems to have died back down. Same for the Great House of Antaak. While the Klingons maintain a strong military presence, most of their larger ships are in a formation geared more towards defense than attack. The Tholians, for their part, are very quiet. I suspect that, in the aftermath of the battle we came across, both of the antagonistic parties have gone home to lick their wounds, while the Tholians sit smugly behind their webs.

I'm not even sure a crystalline creature has a smug expression.

Regardless, we also passed by Drozana, and seized some contraband from a frieghter planning to smuggle the goods into Klingon space. We're putting in to DS13, where I will log and store the contraband for transfer to Starfleet Command and allow the crew a bit of downtime before we set out again.
Captain's Log, Stardate 93299.2:

The Windrunner will be departing for another patrol run along the Alpha pattern at 2300 hours station time. I haven't seen any reports of increased threat activity, but one can't be too careful. Given data gathered on the last mission, I'm curious to see how the shipboard systems respond to some of the changes we make.

... Nothing else of shipboard importance to report.
Spoiler: Personal Log, 93301.7Show
Sparks fly from the dorsal access panel of the shuttlepod Lovelace. Lennox curses, turning his head away, despite the protective goggles he wears. After a moment, he returns to work, a subsonic spanner in one hand, a small fusion torch in the other. With the tools, he makes the final connection. He eases his way to one side and kneels atop the nacelle, fingers trained through rock climbing exercises gripping the lip of the housing. He lowers himself to the deck, then heads into the somewhat tight quarters of the small pod through the back ramp.

Computer, he says, removing the googles. Run an integrity check on EPS conduit connections to warp core housing.

The computer made some soft beeps and chimes before responding.

Integrity test complete. Energy system integration confirmed. Primary power grid replacement complete. Warning: this power grid configuration does not conform to Starfleet regulations. Warning: this warp core power output may exceed safe limits. Warning: this vessel has not been stress-tested for transwarp operations.

Lennox patiently waits out the list of warnings. He knows all of this stuff already. The type-10 shuttlepod was built for orbital and sub-orbital operations, and had specifically been designed without a warp core so that it could operate in areas where the dilithium matrix of a warp core would collapse. The lack of a warp signature also made it ideal for infiltration purposes.

However, the modified warp core he'd just installed in the Lovelace also lacked a traditional signature. It was based on technology Starfleet had labelled "Ancient Obelisk," based on finds within the Solanae Dyson Sphere, which operated through the use of subspace rifts rather than warping space with a matter/antimatter dilithium matrix. Larger warp cores, like the one driving the U.S.S. Windrunner, still operated traditional warp core configurations as backups. But the Lovelace had neither the room nor need for such redundancy. It would get her up to warp speed, and allow her use of transwarp conduits. It'd be enough.

Lennox lays down the tools. Personal log, stardate 93301.7: my compliments to Adjutant Zero for doing all of the technical and exploratory work on this miniaturization of the Obelisk Subspace Rift warp system. I'm not an engineer, but I'm good with my hands, and her instructions for installation were concise and easy to follow. It's likely this system will burn itself out with extended use, but hey, new technology has to start somewhere, right?

He sits in the pilot's chair. Of course, my compliments aren't going to mean squat if I don't make it back, or I get court-martialled for this. But Starfleet doesn't like people going anywhere near Turkana IV, especially after Hobus. His expression grows even more sour. It never re-established communication with the Federation, let alone any diplomatic ties; it's on the edge of space still occupied by remnants of the Romulan Empire; it's more lawless now than it ever was. It's a cesspit. It's a hellhole.

He sighs. It's home. And I have to go there.

He shakes his head. Certain things have come to light about myself that I need to investigate. And records related to Turkana IV are thin on the ground as it is, let alone anything specific for that time period. A few ships have been lost since the last time the Federation had contact with the colony, and that was about 49 years ago, when the Enterprise-D encountered what was then called 'the Coalition' and 'the Alliance'.

He pauses. Of the Federation ships that have gone missing in that area of space, only two coincide with the Hobus incident. The U.S.S. Kearsarge was investigating spatial anomalies near Camus II, and the U.S.S. Neva was investigating a distress call in interstellar space near the Turkana system. I'm going to start on the colony itself, and work my way out. They should still have some sensor or telescopic equipment I can access. Provided I'm not caught or killed.

He bites his lip. Should I go missing within a standard two weeks of my departure, it's most likely I've been killed, either by the planetary factions, or having taken my own life to avoid being held to ransom by said factions. If that is the case, I recommend Lieutenant Commander Sh'thaal be promoted and given full command of the U.S.S. Windrunner, as well as taking my place as Starfleet adjutant to the Banshee Development Project. As for my effects... He pauses again. There's a set of cut crystal glasses in my ready room. I'd like them to be given to Commander Beylara Ailes. She'll know why. After a moment of thought, he nods. I take full responsibility for my actions, and acknowledge that I do this without authorization from Starfleet, nor any expectation of support from Starfleet Command or Deep Space 13. He thinks again, and, having nothing more to say, ends the log, and continues making preparations.
Spoiler: Personal Log, 93317.1Show
For what feels like the millionth time, Chris Lennox sits up in bed, wincing when his knee bends to dangle his calf over the edge of the bunk. He pulls himself over to his desk, runs a hand through his hair, and keys a log entry. "Personal log, stardate 93317 point... He narrows bleary eyes at the chronometer. One. Point one. Doctor Ebrum, the Windrunner's CMO, has described "deep tissue damage" in my knee. The disruptor burns are healed, and you couldn't tell I'd been shot by looking, but it's gonna take a regimen of regenerative scans and procedures to fully restore function to my leg. I don't want to bother the station's CMO with it: Ebrum seems happy to have the work. I guess one problem with being a successful captain is you didn't have many casualties to send to sickbay.

He pauses, and passes his hand over his mouth. "But Doctor Ebrum's ordered me to stay off the leg for as much as possible over the next two days, which means I can't go with Corporal Iguram's body back to Bajor. Lieutenants Korgun and Pura are taking the U.S.S. Thames, my old Runabout, which was transferred to DS13 back when I joined the fleet. The whole M.A.C.O. detachment is going along as well. Staff Sergeant Jenassa isn't obligated, but she wants to get to know her new comrades. I think Stau is the most suspicious of an Orion joining his team, but she's got a record of engagements and commendations as long as my arm, and I for one am glad to have her aboard. Not to mention the whole 'saving my life' thing. Anyway, they should be back before our next mission or patrol."

Chris frowns. "Provided I have one. I need to send my report to Captain Varley. With me on the shelf and her being busy as the squadron CO, we may not get to meet. Besides, I'd rather get ahead of this thing if I can. Make sure Corspa doesn't take any flak for me flying off the way that I did. It certainly wasn't the most responsible thing I've ever done. But..." He blinks, then shakes his head. "My father was Starfleet. He was stationed on an outpost near the Romulan Neutral Zone, and his Runabout, the U.S.S. Neva was doing a survey of gaseous anomalies near there when Hobus went up. They were knocked out of warp near Turkana IV and got caught in the gravity well of the planet. He survived, and met my mother. And... he was half-Betazoid."

Chris shakes his head. "Not sure what impact this will have on me long-term, but... at least I have some answers, now."

He takes a deep breath. "Otherwise, life on the station, from what I've gathered from brief, ill-advised forays over to the lounge, seems normal. People are content, if not happy, from what I can tell. They're with friends and lovers, wrapped up in conversations, talking and laughing." He smiles a bit. "That's good. In the end, does it really matter that I still am not sure I feel like I belong here? That I'm something of an outsider? If I'm not fighting for the freedom of people, especially those I care about, to live their lives in such a way that they can have comfort and love and laughter, then what in the stars am I fighting for?"

His eyes sting. He tells himself it's just from the pain. He picks up the anesthetic hypo and jabs it into the back of his knee, wincing as it hisses. He then reaches for his bottle of Aldeberan whiskey, pulls its cork, and takes a long pull. "Computer, end log entry." He turns, bottle in hand, and pulls himself back over to his bunk.

Sleep continues to elude him until the bottle is empty.
Spoiler: Personal Log, 93337.4Show
The conference room in the R&D section of Deep Space 13 is rarely used. It's pretty easy for Chris Lennox to work around the few times the room is in use for official functions, and study or meditate far away from the hustle and bustle of the station, or the cramped hallways of the Windrunner. As much as he loves the ship and feels at home there, given all the work he's put into her, it's good to have space to stretch out, physically and mentally, and have distance between himself and the various personalities and social foibles of his fleetmates.

Today, he's focusing more on Eledri sculpture than anything else. He leans back in his chair, cup of coffee in his left hand, gesturing with his right. The black mug bears the badge art of the Banshee Development Project, and each flick of his right hand's fingers rotates the floating holographic recreations of Eledri artwork around the table towards him. He stops at a representation of a heroic figure from the Battle of al'San. He frowns, then pauses. He taps his PADD of research notes to cause the holograms to disappear, then moves it aside. He picks up the PADD he uses for sending messages and recording logs, swings out its stand, and sets it in front of him before keying the log recorder on. He could speak the command, but sometimes, he prefers using his hands.

"Personal log, stardate 93337.4: with my suspension underway and the future of my command somewhat in flux, I'm taking the time to get to know the mentality of those who struck such a cowardly and underhanded blow against our station and my comrades."

He feels ire creeping into his voice, and he closes his eyes to take a deep breath, then let it out.

"I didn't know Captain Freeman well, but with everything going on, I'm one of the members of the fleet with the time to gather intelligence to better approach the aftermath of his brave sacrifice."

He sips his coffee, then gazes into it for a moment.

"It's odd. There's nothing in my official reprimand that has anything to do with my fitness to command, or the possibility of losing it. At least, not from what I did."

He sets the mug down on the table, leaning back and crossing his arms afterwards.

"Yet I feel I should deal with my motivations and thought patterns. For one thing, this behavior of mine was aberrant. It's my first reprimand and, despite people saying 'oh, this happens all the time,' it shouldn't. It won't."

He gets to his feet, green eyes turning to the large, sweeping windows that display the starfield beyond where Worker Bees and figures in EVA suits were completing the final stages of upgrades to the station.

"I am a Starfleet Officer. That's supposed to mean something. So I need to get into my head, find whatever it is that pushed me to commit this selfish and reckless act, and cut it out as if it were a cancer. If that means giving up my command, or spending the rest of my life in counseling sessions or locked behind a desk, so be it."

His hands are clenched into fists, and the muscles in his jaw twitch. Then, feeling the anger recede, he again breathes in, and then out.

"I just want to be worthy of my uniform. Of the people who saved my life. Of the people I..."

He looks away from the window, biting his lip.

"There are people I care for, even love, and I won't let them down again."

Sighing, he runs a hand through his hair and sits back down.

"At least that debacle had some benefits. I got Staff Sergeant Jenassa back to Starfleet, and I know now how I came to be, and what contributed to make me who I am. I have to come to grips with what this extra part of my brain chemistry means, and how I can control it, focus it, and hone it into a tool or weapon that'll help me prove that I'm worthy of Starfleet."

He touches the log PADD, ending the recording. Then, resetting his workspace at the head of the conference table, he reactivates the representations of the Eledri sculpture, picks up his coffee mug, and takes a moment to clear his mind of extraneous thoughts before returning to studying the lines, expressions, body shapes, and techniques of the artist who depicted these larger-than-life figures.
Spoiler: Personal Log, 93373.9Show
Chris Lennox sat, cross-legged, in a corner of the rec room with the lights turned low. A single candle, made with Earth beeswax and Bajoran incense, burned in front of him. His wrists rested against his knees, breathing softly, eyes closed. Having lost track of time, he opened his eyes to look down at the PADD. Smiling a bit, he tapped it gently, his voice quiet.

"Personal Log, stardate 93373.9. There's a part of me that is actually a little thankful for being suspended. I've been studying all sorts of things: the arts and thinking of alien species, the history and strategies of galactic powers, the design and engineering of starships... and, well, myself."

He looked down at the candle's flame, taking it in for a long moment. He closed his eyes, breathed in, and then out.

"I wondered if discovering the truth about my heritage, and the reason why I have heard some of what I've heard without words being spoken, would make a difference in my life. After this time of suspension and isolation, I can say that it definitely has. The possibility of overhearing the thoughts of a confidential or classified or personal nature has pushed me to have better control of my own thoughts, especially when it comes to seeking personal connections. That's extended to have more clarity of thought in general, and about my future in particular. I don't know if I'll be in command of the Windrunner, or a desk, or another ship. But I definitely aspire to maintain command. In one way or another. I'd like to think that many of my skills and decisions point towards the skillset of a good commander. All I need to do, when I once again put on the Starfleet uniform, is prove it."

He opened his eyes, and smiled. Leaning down, he ended the recording, then doused the candle with his thumb and fingertip.
Spoiler: Personal Log, 93761.7Show
Going through a crate of things delivered to him from the Fleet Yards where he had helped create the U.S.S. Windrunner, Chris Lennox found a small PADD. He turned it over in his hands, then smiled. He took the time to recharge it, then activated its standalone application.

"Personal log, Stardate 93761.7. ... Whoa, it's been a while, hasn't it? Last entry looks like it was some time last year. So, to bring things up to speed. I've been involved with a few low-visibility low-impact research projects, which has for the most part kept me out of active duty aboard Deep Space 13. Now that those projects are completed, I'm scheduled to return within the week. I'm not entirely sure what my posting will be, since I haven't been keeping up of what the opportunities might be."

He pauses, looking around his austere quarters. He smiled softly. "I'm not even sure what I want at this point. I suppose it would be fair to say that I'm not as headstrong as I used to be. A good portion of what was my Turkana upbringing doesn't really apply to me anymore. I've worked to unlearn some old behaviors, and take on more responsibilities that don't have me on the front lines of combat."

He moves to one side, finding the small bottle of Aldeberan whiskey and pours a finger. "Do I miss it? I haven't given that question a great deal of thought. I'm starting to see combat as more of a puzzle to be solved, than a bloody struggle to be won. I've been studying philosophies, strategies, tactics, and art from a variety of species. I can see some patterns, for sure, but I don't know if I have it in me to personally apply them in battle. Not to mention I'd have to get to know an entirely new crew. And do I really want to command something as blatantly aggressive as the Windrunner?" He rubs his chin, then takes a drink.

"I guess we'll see when I set foot on Deep Space 13 again." He smiled slightly. "End recording." Taking another sip, he sat back down behind his desk, pulled up a holographic image of some Tzenkethi art, and began studying it.
Spoiler: Personal Log, 93789.9Show
Lennox took a moment to breathe deeply when he entered his quarters on Deep Space 13. He'd taken his usual evening jog around the circumference of the Habitat Ring, and he checked the chronometer as he replicated a serving of water charged with electrolytes and vitamins. His time was improving. He took a sip, careful not to gulp, then found his towel on his desk and tapped his PADD.

"Personal log, stardate 93789.9: I couldn't sleep, so I ran. I'm sure that a counselor would have something to say about that." He sat at his desk, taking another sip. "It's been quiet since I got back. I'm still keeping a low profile and spending most of my time in the research lab and operations. I think I'll be taking the third shift watch down in ops, or at least something along those lines. I guess the big news is that I've been reintroduced to some people I've missed."

He took another sip. "I'm also more... aware of things. Of individuals. There's not a lot of Betazoid in me, so I mostly just get impressions from people. 'Super-intuition', Mila called it." He pauses, then smiles a bit. "Colwyn, on the other hand, once told me he wanted a little less ability than he had, being full-blooded Betazoid and all. Still... it's been interesting."

He frowned. "Occasionally there's someone with enough empathic or telepathic ability that just puts pressure on me. I know they don't mean to, and I'm not angry at anyone. But it made the icebreaker I attended very uncomfortable. I ducked out early, which I'm not very proud of, but a little gin went a long way to taking care of that headache." He regarded his water, and finished it off. "I'm not proud of that, either, but I've been careful not to drink every night. I don't want it to become habitual."

He stood, rolling his shoulders. "Guess I better get a shower before I have to go on duty in a few hours." He tapped the PADD to end the recording, then headed for his refresher, leaving his running clothes in his wake.