Roy looked at the pamphlet Havoc had dropped on his desk. "Either this is the weirdest come-on ever or –"
Fuery leaned over to read, and his eyes widened. "You can get addicted to that?"
"You can't," said Roy.
"Can." Havoc tapped the paper. "Medical science."
"Havoc's just pissy," Roy explained, "because he didn't submit a leave request on time and then I wouldn't switch coverage with him because I had a date."
"Nobody has that many dates," Havoc said darkly.
Fuery flipped through the pamphlet, murmuring, "Emotional triggers – dissociation – altered states – This soundsscientific."
"It's not a real thing," Roy insisted. "It's a bullshit excuse invented by hypocritical politicians when they get caught –"
"Hey!" said Fuery. "This says you can go into a trance due to sexual preoccupation!"
Breda walked through the door in time to say, "That would explain all the Colonel's naps."
"Sex trances," agreed Havoc.
Roy slapped the table and said, "I am not a sex addict!" . . .
Just in time for Riza to walk in. They all froze until, after a long beat, she said, "The Colonel doesn't have a problem. He can quit any time he wants."
"You're supposed to be on my side!" Roy protested.
"I'm sorry," Riza said, and, in the same businesslike tone, "He has a problem, and he can't help himself. But if you think about what else he could be doing with his spare time –" She picked up the pamphlet and frowned at Roy. "Trances?"