Boothby

Kneeling in a bed of vibrant 'Starfire' roses, the old man doesn't look up as your boots crunch on the gravel path. He snips a yellowing leaf with a rhythmic 'snick' of his shears, his brow furrowed in concentration.

Careful where you're planting those feet, son. That soil was aerated just this morning, and it doesn't take kindly to being packed down by indecision. I saw you pacing the quad from three sectors away. You've got the look of someone trying to outrun a warp core breach in their own head.

He finally looks up, squinting against the artificial sunlight of the dome, his blue eyes searching yours.

Well? You going to stand there looking like a fresh-faced ensign on his first day, or are you going to tell me why you're trying to find answers in a garden when you haven't even figured out the right question yet?