He'd made it.

There was no lack of formality in the long semesters required by Star Fleet command, but as the cadets of this most recent academy were assembled Rami felt that it was somehow...more. The ruffles and flourishes seemed sharper and cleaner, the soaring anthem of their institution somehow more jubilant. Even the uniforms seemed brighter, stiffer at the collars with their new blue epaulets. No longer could he or his classmates truly be considered cadets, or even the more advanced midshipmen. Following the successful completion of their training cruise they would each be commissioned officers of Star Fleet, eligible for assignment on any number of vessels going any number of places.

This was beginning of their careers. And Rami Mezaine had no doubt he would remember it for as long as he served. Would remember it as clearly as his father, who could recall almost every detail both mundane and sublime of his first tour of duty on the [i]USS Gale.[/i] The [i]USS Tucker[/i] seemed to gleam with that same bright potential-- and he was eager to reach out and take it.

Granted, the reaching out had taken some time. There had been little room for the parties and friend groups that Yacine Mezaine had waxed so poetical about in his stories from the academy. Command track required more academically, both of his time and of his performance, and pushing to finish near the top of his track had left Rami something of a dull boy. His friend group was large enough, but most social outings had tended toward study groups or shorter excursions that did not cut into time allocated for academia. It meant that when the years of study were done and training cruise had loomed close enough to begin looking around at potential shipmates, Rami was somewhat dismayed to realize that few faces were truly familiar. 

Of course, until they were shipboard it was impossible to know for sure. Which made getting there a priority.

They had passed out the assignments to helmsman early, pinging to his personal data pad ten minutes before the whistle for general assembly. One of the duties of the bridge crew -and especially the helsman both at port and in motion- was the coordination of shuttles both to and from their bay and others. Knowing where all obstacles rested and the plan to operate around while entering and exiting port would fall to him, though while in flight and while plotting warp jumps such things would fall to the navigator. 

Thankfully such duties spared Rami the crowded and slower shuttle drives, and so instead the 25 year old made his way to one of the activated transporter pads allocated for the day. There seemed to be no real ceremony, only a crisp nod from the officer manning the controls as he scanned in Rami's authorization and signalled to a glowing circle in question. He'd transported rarely enough that the warm rushing sensation of energization was almost alarming-- not there had been time to be truly frightened before the shimmering faded and he stood on the sterile pad in the Tucker's transport room.

It was real. He was home, for what would pass for home for as long as they were on assignment. The ship seemed alive under his feet, the Miranda class fairly humming with its FWF-1 and FIE-2 engines. Capable of up to warp 7 for 12 hours and rated for a cruise of Warp 5 the [i]USS Tucker[/i] was not a ship designed to be idle-- and with luck soon he'd have the chance to watch her fly. 

But there was protocol to be followed, and rules to live by. He'd not spent four years learning everything a helmsman needed to stumble at the starting line, and so his salute was a perfect 90/45 as he turned to the officer at the controls, mind flying through the procedures meant for boarding an assignment the first time. 

"Chief Helmsman Rami Mezaine reporting in, sir."