The airlock doors slid open to admit the passenger’s from the shuttle onto Starbase 118. As the passenger’s filed out, a few Starfleet cadets stepped out. At first or even second glance, you wouldn’t notice Cadet Micheal Cell, as it seemed he just faded into the background. His brown hair, grey eyes, average height, all seemed to meld together to allow him to not stand out in any regard. Which was just fine for him, since most of his teenage years had been spent trying not to be noticed. “Welcome to Starbase 118,” said a young, female officer to no one in particular as the passengers moved through the corridor. Micheal made a note of the time behind her as he continued behind the other cadets. He wasn’t really with them but felt that being unknown to this station, it couldn’t hurt to see where they were going. As they stepped onto a lift, one of the cadets entered the destination of the Promenade. Being as it was still many hours before Cell was supposed to arrive for his training, that destination fit him just fine. Cell listened in on the cadet’s conversation but it wasn’t particularly interesting to him, just some small talk about the academy and their new assignments. Small talk always had seemed trivial to Micheal, having grown up on a cargo ship where you only talked when required. The doors to the lift finally opened and the cadets stepped out on what seemed to be the Promenade. The other cadets started walking to the right but Micheal was in no mind to continue following them, he didn’t like to stay in groups for too long. Cell travelled along the Promenade for a while, looking at the different shops, restaurants, and bars that filled it. Finally having his fill of walking, he stepped into a bar that caught his eye, called Keal’s Pub. Spotting an empty seat at one end of the wood bar, Micheal set his lightly packed duffel down. He didn’t carry much with him, just some uniforms, usual grooming supplies, and some small personal effects. “What will you have?” asked a woman as she came round to get his order. “Scotch, single malt, on the rocks,” came Cell’s usual reply to that question. He had ordered that same drink so many times that he didn’t even need to waste a second thinking about it. The woman smiled at him as she jotted it down, but Micheal didn’t reciprocate, which didn’t seem to faze her. Cell’s normal expression was very neutral; it couldn’t be considered a smile, a frown, or anything else really, just neutral. After a couple minutes, the bartender returned with the drink. Taking a sip, Micheal noted that the scotch in this pub seemed a bit weaker than what he was normally used to. But he was used to much seedier places than this one, so it didn’t surprise him. After four years at the Academy, he had grown used to the weaker alcohol. Looking around the pub, Cell figured this was as good a place as any to waste his time before he had to report in.