Deano's alternative timeline

<OOC: Apologies for the late arrival of Deano to the alternate timeline party. I'll try and be on time next time>
 
Dean awoke and shook his head. He really needed to stop goign out when he had work the next day. He left the woman beside him alone, firstly he didn't want to wake her, and secondly he didn't want to see who he'd slept with this time.
 
He pulled on his crumpled Space Corps uniform and left, shutting the door quietly. Then he tried to figure out where the hell he was, and more importantly, how he was going to get to the Academy in time to start refusing transfers.
 
Dean had qualified from the Academy but due to a lack of new ships awaiting personnel he had been placed on the waiting list. With the destruction of the Blue Dwarf, his wait had stretched out to encompass most of his new future. In the meantime, the Corps, in their wisdom, decided to place all the pilots and personnel who were bitter about not going into space in charge of making those in space's lives as miserable as possible by refusing transfers and logistics requests.
 
Just the other day, Deano had changed an order for 100 new gamehead sets to an order for 1,000 new "lamehead" T-shirts. That'd show them, sure they could wear them, but they couldn't play with the things. Dean felt a smug smile pulling at the corners of his mouth and slowly realised that the Corps was turning him into a smug, bitter pen-pusher. Albeit one with a minor drinking/shagging problem. Smeg.
 
When he arrived at the office his desk was occupied by someone else.
 
"You Dean Thomas?"
"That's what the nametag says."
"Ironically you've been transferred..." Dean's heart soared, like a bird in the sky "...to planet space monitoring division." The bird was startled by a call of "PULL! and a gunshot.
"Whoopty-do." said Dean, like a man who's heart had been shot in a poor metaphor.
"That's the spirit."
"What did you qualify as?"
"Navigation Officer."
"Woah. Sucks doesn't it?"
"Pretty much." said the nameless Deano replacement. Deano got the next shuttlebus across town to the planet monitoring station.
 
"You Dean Thomas?"
"That's what the nametag says."
"This is your desk" said Freddie Nameless, Dean's boss. "Incidentally, don't report anything. If you report things I have to check things and that requires both effort and paperwork."
"Right. What's this big green blob flashing on the screen?"
"It's the QB1. A Cruise ship, it's sending out a distress signal."
"Shouldn't we do something?"
"Well... I guess we could fill out interminable forms, persuade someone from PlanetGuard to wake up a crew for a ship to be sent out there, only to be otld it was a mistake and to get a tongue lashing. Or we can sit here, eat toasties and look at mildly naughty magazines."
"Ok, ok. Point taken. Cheese and Ham please."
"I like this kid.." said Freddie, but as he turned his back, his dreams of a peaceful day were shattered.
"Hey, this is Sergeant Python. You starting something?" came over the comm. Freddie whipped around and stared at Dean.
"I TOUCHED NOTHING!" said Deano, his hands in the air.
"I don't care. We're the military. Bring it." said Python, getting into his persona.
"Lovely." said Freddie, reaching for the paperwork....
 
Dean "Raven no more" Thomas