"A New Assignment"
By Lieutenant Sean O'Shea

Location: O'Shea Tavern - County Cork, Ireland
Stardate 57906.08, 21h13

***

"Sean, you banjaxed wanker!" the unsavory looking gentleman said, slapping his hands down on the bar for emphasis. "When did you blow into town?

Sean smiled broadly. He stowed the bottle of Bushmills he was holding back in its proper place and sauntered over to the man. "Rory, you old dosser! Liver hasn't given out yet I see. What can I get for you?"

"I'm just gumming for a pint of the black stuff, lad," Rory responded. "And a plate of one and one if you can."

"Fish and chips and a Guinness coming up," Sean replied. He slid a pint glass under the tap and made his way back to the grill. This isn't such a bad life, he told himself. Erin was working grill, her flowing red hair tied back in a neat braid to keep it out of the fryer. "I'll be needing another order of fish and chips, lass," he said.

"Janey Mack, yeah don't say?" Erin quipped sarcastically. "Not as if old Rory hasn't been coming in an ordering the same bleeding thing for nearly ten years, Sean. I put the gee-eyed langer's order in the moment he stepped foot through the door. You've just been away too long to remember."

Sean sighed heavily. How many years had it been since he last tended bar in the family tavern? Over a decade by his reckoning. Far too long to be away from home, family and friends. "Aye, it's a good life I've been missing," he said, as Erin handed him a plate loaded with battered cod and chips. He brought the order back and set it in front of Rory.

"Ah, that's the stuff," said Rory, contentedly as he tipped back his pint of bitter and drained half the glass. "Care to join me for a pisser, lad? Why don't you pour yourself one?" He scooped up a fish fillet and stuffed it in his mouth.

"Cause I'm working here," Sean replied. "Or didn't you notice?"

"And since when is Starfleet assigning its officers to serve up hard tack to a bunch of drunks?" Rory asked.

"I'm between assignments," Sean said.

"Aye, and they have nothing better for you to do? How long are you going to play at being one of us culchie muckers?

"That remains to be seen," Sean replied. The truth of it was, he'd likely be serving drinks and washing glasses until he either resigned his commission or dropped dead from old age. The one thing he knew they wouldn't do was to drum him out of the service themselves. Kicking him out would mean paperwork and hearings. They would have to take him before a board of review, and that meant answering questions that the bureaucrats didn't want asked in the first place. And then afterwards, he'd be a civilian, and who knows what a civilian might be inclined to say that an officer under oath could not?

So with no place better to go, and not wanting to give Starfleet the satisfaction of resigning on his own, Sean returned home, to the family tavern outside of Kinsale where, as the placard over the door proudly declared, it had stood since 1623.

"Just doesn't seem right is all," Rory stated. "People need to be doing what they do best. I'm good at pulling me plumb and putting away the pints. But you Sean, you're a doctor."

"You saying I'm not a good bartender, Rory?" Sean answered, a bit of challenge in his voice.

"Get out," said Rory. "I'm just saying it ain't right is all. You're a fine bartender, Sean, but you'd have to be thick as two short planks to not realize that you're better at putting blokes back together than at getting them drunk."

"Yeah, I'm just the dog's bollocks all right," said Sean resignedly.

The next two hours continued on without incident. Sean threw himself into his work, mentally reminding himself every five minutes that it was 'what he wanted'. But he found himself hard to convince. Still, there was a certain comfort to being home again. And it gave him the chance to catch up with his kin.

"Which reminds me," Sean said under his breath. He tapped Erin on the shoulder and had her cover the bar while he made his way up the stairs to the second floor balcony. It was there that he found his father, Angus O'Shea, having his evening smoke while watching the fog roll into the harbor. "Heya, Da," he said.

"Sean, lad. How goes your first day?" Angus asked.

"Just fine," he said. He stood by his father's side, looking out at the dim lights from the fishing fleet. They stood there for nearly 20 minutes without another word being exchanged. Angus was the one to finally break the silence.

"So, anything you can talk about?" he asked.

"Not yet," Sean replied.

Angus shrugged. His son was never one to dwell on the past, a trait he liked to think he instilled in the boy himself. "So, Conner covering the bar for you now?"

"No, Erin is. Haven't seen Conner yet this evening."

"What? That layabout brother of yours was supposed to be home over an hour ago. He's probably at Flannigans, making an arse out of himself. You'd better go get him. Do you remember the way?"

"Of course," Sean replied. "I haven't forgotten that much."

"Well then, don't forget to bring your kit either," said Angus. "Chances are someone is going to need your services over there. Conner was wearing a Waterford United jersey."

"Bloody hell!" said Sean. "Didn't WU beat Cork City FC in the Munster Senior Cup recently?"

"Just last week," said Angus. "Conner's a proper FC booster, but you know how he likes to rankle the plonkers at Flannigans."

"I'll get right on it," said Sean, turning to leave.

"Oh, and before I forget," sdded Angus. "A message came in for you from Starfleet."

"I'll read it later," said Sean.

***

Flannigan's was a five minute jog from O'Shea's Tavern. The two storey stone establishment, overlooking the town's main drag was well lit and active. It attracted a different crowd than O'Shea's, a more surly crowd, looking to drink hard, watch football matches, and pick fights. It was the favorite stomping ground of Sean's younger brother, Conner. And from the sounds of shouts and breaking glass, the stomping had already commenced.

Sean pushed open the door and stepped in. He caught a glint out of his eye and ducked on instinct as a bottle whizzed past his head and shattered on the wall behind him. He looked around frantically, trying to pinpoint his attacker, but he quickly realized the bottle hadn't been aimed at him. In fact, no one even acknowledged his presence. Everyone was focused on the donnybrook, in the middle of the room, where three young toughs were circling like hyenas around a thin, lanky looking scrapper. Sean shook his head and smiled. Conner was an expert at getting in over his head, and tonight was no exception. He put his medical kit down by the door and pushed his way to the center of the room.

"Alright, that's enough of that!" he shouted, shoving one of the toughs aside and grabbing Conner by the shoulder. "Break it up lads and I'll buy you the next round."

"And who the bloody hell do you think you are, the bleeding King of England?" one of the toughs snarled.

"Yeah, bugger off you caffler!" one of the others piped in. "Before I put my toe in your hole!"

"If I were you, I'd be seriously considering that round of drinks instead," said Sean. He felt his blood beginning to rise. He was quite the scrapper himself in his younger days, before he became a doctor and cut back on the fisticuffs. But after all he'd been through in the past weeks with Starfleet, the idea of mixing it up was appealing.

"And what are you going to do about it, wank?" said one of the toughs, stabbing his index finger into Sean's chest for emphasis.

"Get yer bloody digit out of my face, you ball of shite!" Sean warned. Not much chance of going back now, he realized, so he might as well enjoy himself.

"Or what?" said the tough.

Sean grinned. He shot a glance at his younger brother, who nodded in acknowledgement. He turned back to the tough and leaned in, practically getting nose to nose with the man. "Or I'll thrash you so hard, you'll wish your daddy had pulled out early!"

That was when the chair shattered across Sean's back and he tumbled to the floor, white spots in front of his eyes. A foot came out of somewhere and caught him in the jaw, drawing blood. He forced himself to his feet, just in time to see a meaty fist hurtling towards the side of his head. He managed to escape with just a glancing blow, but ended up on the floor again amidst the shattered remnants of the chair. He reached out and grabbed a four foot length of broken wood. It wasn't exactly a fencing foil, but it would do in a pinch.

He raised the table leg just in time to catch one of his assailants on the wrist, causing the broken bottle in his hand to drop to the floor. Still on his knees, he jammed his makeshift weapon into the man's midsection, then stood and brought it down on the back of his skull while he was doubled over. A swift kick to the privates finished the job. Amazing what you can accomplish when you play dirty, he mused, rubbing his swollen jaw.

Sean saw that Conner was still getting the worst of it. One of the two remaining toughs had his arms pinned back, while the other was using his gut as a punching bag. Sean walked up behind the hitter and grabbed a large handful of his hair. He yanked back hard, causing the tough to yelp in pain.

"Howya doing?" Sean asked, then he brought the point of his elbow down on the bridge of the man's nose. The doctor in him immediately regretted what he had done, but there was another part of him that found the fountain of blood gushing from the man's broken nose wholly satisfying. Meanwhile, the distraction had allowed Conner to worm his way out of the remaining tough's grip. "Need a hand there, brother?" Sean asked.

"I kin handle this hardchaw myself!" Conner declared, his fists flying.

"Suit yourself," Sean replied. He wiped his sleeve across his mouth and saw traces of blood. "Ah well, better get to work." He walked over to the door and picked up his medical kit. He pulled out a dermal regenerator and tricorder, both of which he stuck in his pockets. Then he prepared a hypo with a nice fast acting pain killer and started back. The fight was over. Conner, beaten and bloody, was standing over the last of the toughs, berating the man while he got in a few swift bonus kicks.

"Alright! That's enough!" Sean ordered. "Conner, back off now!" Conner looked his older brother in the eye and realized he meant business. Begrudgingly, he stepped away.

"I'd have handled them!" Conner insisted.

"Of course you would have," Sean replied sarcastically. He knelt next to the tough with the bloodied nose and ran a tricorder over him. "Just lay back now, alright? You have a broken nose and a few minor lacerations." He pulled out the dermal regenerator and ran it over the cuts. "That'll take care of that, but I'm going to have to pack the nose the old fashioned way. Here, this will help a bit." He stuck the hypo on the man's arm and gave him a healthy dose.

"Jaysus! Yeah break my bleeding nose and then you fix it?" said the man. "What kind of doctor are you?"

"The Irish kind I suppose," said Sean with a half smirk.

***

Later that night, Sean sat out on the balcony back at O'Shea's with a quilt wrapped around him to ward of the chill blowing in from the harbor. He listened to the sounds of the foghorn and the cries of the gulls as he pondered what to do about the data padd in his lap. Much to his surprise, his extended leave of absence was ending early. Starfleet had given him a new assignment, and a CMO posting on a ship no less! At first he thought it was a mistake. Perhaps they had gotten the wrong O'Shea. Perhaps they had mistaken him for his cousin Shiro, a respected Professor of Engineering at the Academy. But a few quick and dirty inquires shed some light on the matter.

He was going to the USS Sulu, s new ship with a new Captain that would be out exploring and doing surveys. Nothing political or military, very little chance that his past assignments would matter at all. Just the sort of place to stick a medical officer who you didn't want spreading stories or making accusations, an officer who showed a willingness to buck the system and point out its many flaws.

The Romulans or even the Klingons would just toss such an officer out of an airlock. But apparently, in the 'civilized' Federation, such an officer was simply reassigned.

It was a good assignment, much better than he expected. Did he still have a few friends higher up the ladder that he did not know about?

"Well there goes my bloody brilliant career tending pub!" Sean muttered. But inwardly, he was pleased. He could get back to doing the work he enjoyed. He picked up the padd and placed his thumbprint on the transfer order, digitally encoding it into the document, which then automatically uploaded to Starfleet HQ. Within two minutes, his travel itinerary was in his hands.

"Tomorrow, eh?" he mused. "Well, that was a short homecoming, but no matter." He thought about it for a moment, his fingers massaging his sore jawbone. "Well, if you can't go to the pub, take the pub with you, I always say." He rose from his chair and stepped back inside, closing the balcony door behind him. He had some serious packing to do.

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