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The Starfleet cadet sitting at a table cursing under his breath at the display he's studying is nothing special to look at. He's in uniform--which is an eye-searing red color--and is more or less aware that he's walked into that transdimensional bar that keeps appearing in places it really shouldn't belong.

Someone should tell him to stop working at some point.

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Carlotta drops off the rafters next to his table.

"Hallo."

He looks up with a blink, as he smiles, recognizing Carlotta. "Hello."

"Sorry, did I interrupt you?" Carlotta asks.

"Nyet, miss. I vas just vorking on a project. Is not wery important," he says.

"You look like you could use a break." Carlotta says. "Tea?"

"Oh, yes please," he says. "Zat vould be wery nice."

Carlotta orders some tea.

"How are you? Other than working very hard."

"Eh," he wavers. "I am alright. Still in Academy, but viz not much time left. One more semester."

"What's a semester?" Carlotta asks. "Is it like a term or a year?"

"More like a term," he says. "Is approximately a qvarter of ze year."

"Oh, I see." Carlotta says, sitting nearby. "In England we have three terms a year at school."

"I take ze summer courses," he explains. "Since I cannot go home ewery year."

"I'm sorry, that must be hard." Carlotta says. "I remember boarding school, and it's hard enough when you only go home three times in a year."

"Is easier to be able to finish sooner," he explains with a light shrug.

"Oh, do they let you take exams when you're ready then, rather than which year you are in?"

Amanda is still a bit upset and staring into her glass of wine when she almost bumps into the starfleet cadet but catches herself at the last moment, "Pardon me"

Her dress (seen in the icon) is singed from a fire, though she has cleaned her face off by now.

"Oh," he says, startled and looking up. "You are alright, ma'am?"

She sounds confused for a moment, "What?" then looks at herself and answers, "I am uninjured." she looks for a place to set her drink down thinking she has had one too many.

"My apologies."

"Ah, zat is alright, ma'am. Do you need a seat?"

With a bit of a smile, "Just looking for someplace to put my drink down."

Offering her free hand, "I'm Amanda"

It is, really and truly, a painfully bright uniform. Only someone with atrocious taste in clothing could come up with something like that.

Katya slips sideways into the Gloom, eying the uniform speculatively. Surely the boy would not mind a better color. Something more muted, perhaps?

...

Maybe with black banding at the wrists and waist?

...

And definitely detail work at the collar.

Pavel eyes the changes to his uniform, and sets the PADD down. "You know, vhen I am commissioned I vill be wearing gold and black. I hope you do not find zis too distasteful."

Ooooh. Katya immediately takes this scrap of information and runs with it, shifting colors as fast as thought.

The results are somewhat... gaudy (http://www.all-science-fair-projects.com/science_fair_projects_encyclopedia/upload/7/70/Photo_windsor_uniform.jpg). Just a bit. But why stop with just a little bit of braiding?

Ooooh. Katya immediately takes this scrap of information and runs with it, shifting colors as fast as thought.

The results are somewhat... gaudy. Just a bit. Or a lot, if you don't approve of Napoleonic stylings. But why stop with just a little bit of braiding?

At the new change he starts, looking down. "Aiy! Not zat much," he exclaims, laughing and turning around to look for whoever's doing this.

"If you show me who you are I vill show you."

Bargaining with an Other? That's a dangerous business, and Katya decides to highlight this by immediately making sure his uniform is, indeed, 'not that much'.

Perhaps Chekov is feeling a draft.

Perhaps it is not his imagination.

Perhaps Katya needs to lay off the coffee, if she's not going to go on nightly rounds of Moscow.

"Or perhaps not, if zat is how you like it," he says on a sigh. "It is a gold shirt, long sleeved, and black trousers. Ze uniforms are wery simple."

Katya scrunches her nose in distaste. That is a remarkably plain thing to be wearing in a time that purports to be the future of hers.

And here she'd hoped humans had gotten some good sense in them by then.

With a disgusted snort she returns him to his red monstrosity.

...

With 'this has to be the ugliest garment in existence' scrawled across the sleeves. It has to be said, really.

He rolls his eyes. "Is a uniform. If it is zat bad I vill change clothes in a moment," he says.

His uniform is unravelling - at the sleeves, at the neck, along the fronting, at the feet.

It really is that ugly. And it should come off now.

"Aiy!" he exclaims. "None of zat. I vill go change now if is so much of a problem."

Don't look now, Pavel, but there's a bored SEAL hovering over your shoulder.

What can we say? The display's all shiny and futuristic-looking. And you need something to break up the monotony of firing off ammo belt after ammo belt at the firing range.

It takes Pavel about four seconds to tell someone's staring, because his light is blocked. He looks up, with a young face for someone with military posture--even sitting--and blinks.

"Yes, sir?"

That earns a smirk from Voodoo. "'Sir'? Kid, I work for a living."

He gestures to the M60 in his right hand. "And I sure as shit ain't a gentleman."

He glances at it, and looks up. "Neizer am I, yet. But you are almost certainly abowe me in rank. It is not common practice to address superior ranks as sir vhere you are from?"

Voodoo shakes his head. "Not enlisted men. Just officers. We address superior enlisted by rank."

"But I do not know your rank. So it is logical zat ze address not be ranked, da?"

Voodoo digs into a breast pocket and comes up up with a well-worn rank insignia - an eagle perched above a flintlock pistol, an anchor, a trident, and two chevrons.

"Won't argue with that, but now you know. Special Warfare Operator Second Class. We're called SEALs."

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