3. Death is a hell of a drug. [TEXT]

[A Stildyne who's laid up in an infirmary bed is one who's got time to think, and a Stildyne who's laid up in an infirmary bed and on some fairly good pain medication is one who's thinking oddly. And if you take the bed and the medication and add easy access to a communicator...

Strikes backspaced.]

It's not the same species of gossip I'm used to here. Yes there's some of my native type. The shy breed that bolts from mouth to mouth and won't stand in the middle of a broad room. And then there's the braid. The network, I mean. The big comm feed we can all share. Regardless of rank, often. Thoughts on the day. Thoughts on the piloting. And people join in. Herd gossip. Standing around brazenly. Showing its colors.

Not something I've run into much. Not a bad thing. Just new.

And the society of the place. The way people group when it's not as much a mark of a man's self to be Security, Engineering, Command, Medical. When you weren't trained to the same tune. To some extent. Shakes out like you'd think. Bench specialist with bench specialist and rose gold with rose gold.

[Which is to say spies with spies and pirates with pirates but even high he doesn't want to out and cast aspersions.]

Then it doesn't. Fighting hulks with rebels, medical students with veterans, civilian with law enforcement with fleet with bench. The sheep at the door The wolves in the grain Whatever it was Robert said about it, it's interesting. I think I like it.

Not that it can't be its own kind of problem. But interesting.

( Private to Rassilon )

[Immediate slowtime for bed because I'm a bastard, but will be tagging first thing in the (too rapidly approaching) morning.]