Author's annoying pre-chapter comments: yay for romantic love comedy development! :D There won't be another break like this for awhile I think, so enjoy it while it lasts… dun dun dunnnnnn…

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Technical Difficulties

Part 17: Of Snacks and Snares

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Bones picked out a homey-looking restaurant named 'Deli de Terre,' one that he'd been to years back and still remembered for their genuine meat. In their rush to eat real food, the two of them snagged a spot and rifled through the menu in frenzies. When plates were finally set before them, the two of them went to town. It was only after they had been sated, their plates cleaned of any stray crumbs, last-minute orders made, that they settled down into their company.

"So, Scotty. The end of the trial. Thoughts?"

Scotty cocked his head, munching on his fifth sandwich. "'Twas a wee bit eventful."

"Ha! Just a bit?"

"Ah can honestly say tha' Ah didnae expect tha' t' happen."

"Which bit?"

"Th' judge calling for a recess an' all. Thought Finnegan would be sentenced on th' spot, Ah did."

Bones stopped and looked at him for a beat. He then promptly choked on his water. After some coughing, trying to hide his laughter, Bones regained his breath enough to ask, "You… you mean you expected the shootout, the accomplice, Spock nerve-pinching Finnegan like the hobgoblin he is, you expected all of that?"

"Nay, but that sort of thing always happens on board the Silver Lady, yea? Didnae think too much of it, really."

Bones couldn't fight off his smile enough to look properly anguished. "Jesus, Scotty, and I thought I was overexposed to the point of apathy."

"Hrmm, apathy's a strong word, Doctor. Ah'd say… more laiyke conditioned regularity."

"Okay, but in my psychological book, they mean basically the same thing."

"Well," Scotty held up a wagging finger, "Ah'd say tha' it's naewt that Ah don't care, which Ah do. It's tha' Ah don't consider it t' be out o' th' ordinary or all that memorable, 'specially in a month or so."

At this, Bones could not disagree. "Yeah, I guess. After our next mission, we'll be sure to forget about most of this trial. Not nearly the most excitin' thing we've ever been through."

"Aye."

Bones turned thoughtful. "Except Spock always remembers every little detail about every mission we've ever been on. I've started keepin' extremely detailed logs just to try to find something that he gets wrong about a previous mission, but he never fails."

"Aye, Commander Spock is a better source than Memory Alpha, Ah declare. He's been through all o' it's records before an' he's addin' to 'em day aftair day."

"That didn't seem like such a bad thing… until his goddamn brain got stolen. Now he's a target, sort of. Being too goddamn smart fer his own good."

"But we're prepared for anything like that naew, yea?"

"Yeah, Giotto set up all-new security patterns for… however stupid it sounds… brain-stealing."

"Aye, Ah helped make tha' system."

"Oh, really? How does it work, exactly?"

"Well, y'see…"

((()))

Tom the barman was washing a dirty glass, all his energies intent on scrubbing it to a shine despite the oddly-colored chemicals left there by some alien customer, when the familiar beep sounded and the door swept open. One after another, two extremely recognizable men filed in. Both of them had frequented this place many times, but Tom couldn't quite remember the last time they'd stopped here. It had probably been years since he'd seen either face. And this was the only time he'd seen both of them together.

The first was Scotty, a charming Scotsman who was always positive and smart in a natural way. A lot of people liked to sit down and have a drink with him because of his easy-going personality and funny quirks. He was a top-notch engineer that got shunted quite a few years back because of an incident with a higher-up and his dog. From the stripes on his uniform, Tom figured Scotty had gotten pretty distinguished in rank.

The second one was taller, leaner, and darker. His name was McCoy, and last time Tom had talked with him, he'd been focused on becoming a medical officer. Tom distinctly remembered one time when some poor cadet accidentally passed out from too much to drink, and McCoy had run over at once. Minutes later, the kid had been good as new. Now that he looked, McCoy had some pretty nice stripes as well.

The pair of them made their way to the bar, plopped down, and ordered drinks right away. Both of them ordered their signature drinks, which Tom quickly set about to make: a Scotch for Scotty and a whiskey for McCoy.

He slid the drinks over the counter, and once again took up his glass and wipe. Incurably curious, Tom couldn't help but sidle up to listen to them talk.

"Ain't nothin' better than kickin' back after a full meal of real food with some real drink, huh Scotty?"

"Aye… tha' i' is."

"Y'know, I have no idea how many drinks I owe ya, but might as well get started on that tonight."

"Well, Doctor, Ah owe ye some too. Ye've saved me life a few times over naew."

"I'm tellin' ya, Scotty, ya don't owe me nuthin'. You've gotten the Enterprise back into commission or fixed the communicators or the transporters so many times in a crisis that if you hadn't been there, everything would have gone to hell in a goddamn handbasket."

Scotty grinned over the rim of his glass. "Naew, naew. Goes both waeys, Doctor. Me, Ah fix th' ship – you, ye fix th' lads and lasses runnin' it."

McCoy blinked. "…Yeah. Ain't that the goddamn truth."

"So we both owe each other a drink or two, aye?"

"Aright, aright. Pay every other round, that sound good?"

"Aye."

There was a companionable silence, one that didn't need to be filled. It didn't weigh on anyone, and it certainly wasn't gloomy. No, this silence was half-lidded and laid back with a spark of happiness lying just underneath the surface.

McCoy reached the bottom of his glass, giving a great sigh as he set it back on the bar. "The stash I have onboard ship doesn't compare with the stuff straight from planetside. Something about space travel upsets all food, makes it taste off somehow."

"Hmmm. Something abaewt sandwiches, though. Jest caen't eat one an' think badly of it afterwards."

McCoy chuckled softly. "You and your goddamn sandwiches."

"Ah understand, though. Ah've tried t' improve those replicatin' machines, but there comes a point when ye caen't improve th' quality without changin' th' basic molecular pattern t' do it. An' thas' naewt what Ah'd call easy, going against th' entire system thas' been made already."

Scotty flipped his glass up to swallow the remainder of his Scotch. "Ah think th' next step will be t' design a whole new replication molecular system and present it t' th' board some time or another."

"You know that much about molecular structures in food?" McCoy raised his eyebrow. "Y'know I'm a pretty good cook myself, and those kids from Science know a thing or two about organic chemistry, so I hear."

Scotty grinned. "Well, Ah figured Ah could ask yerself an' a few scientists abaewt it now an' again."

"That is a noble cause. I'll get started as soon as possible."

"T'will take some time," Scotty warned.

"Yeah, and time is something neither of us really have."

"Aye, Doctor. Aye."

Another one of those silences, the one that Tom rarely found between the people coming into his bar. It was a rare type of familiarity, a rare type of compatibility. It was as if the two of them together caused a chemical reaction that yielded comfort.

McCoy raised his hand to call Tom over. "'Scuse me, sir, could we have another round over here?"

Tom was bustling over their orders again. His masterful hands spun a whiskey out of a nearby barrel, and elegantly whipped a Scotch from a nearby bottle.

"Thank you, sir." McCoy took his glass with an effortless swipe.

"Aye, ye make a barmy good Scotch, sir."

Tom nodded his head with a smile, and took up his rag again. He kept on scrubbing the same cup, which was still stained bright neon purple. He had no idea what it was, but he knew it had to come off eventually. Besides, he liked listening in to these two. They were interesting, real interesting; they had strong, dependable characters along with deep trust and friendship with each other. The pair was… inexplicably down to earth. And coming from a barman who worked right next to Starfleet HQ, that was saying a lot about them.

When they finally amiably ambled from the bar, the two were stumbling down the dark street with only a few lamplights guiding them from swerving off the curb. One arm slung over each other's backs, both were happily recounting some horrible events they'd seen go down on board the Enterprise, from machinery coming to life for some evil purpose to those goddamn spores. Boots languidly clopped on the smooth, broad sidewalks, and every minute or so the two would lightly collide.

They got to Central HQ somehow and found one of their quarters pretty easily.

((()))

Christine Chapel had always enjoyed taking walks around campus. She knew all of the paths, even through the complex gardens full of foreign plants that stretched for acres. Being back on Earth was rare, and that morning she took full advantage of it by combing through all of the various walkways.

It was still dark outside, but the tiny stain of pink on the horizon hinted at dawn. Birds chirped from the surrounding trees. Recognizing a call, she whistled back to them, smiling when they took off in response.

She had loved her biology course solely focused on birds. It had been her favorite. Whenever she was on an away team on an alien planet, she always tried to spot at least one native bird and categorize it. Hear its birdcall. See what tree it was in. Just a fun hobby of hers. Most everyone had a quirk like that; Sulu liked to check the plants and flowers, Uhura learned the native language, Chekhov found something culturally comparable to Russia.

Chapel turned onto the main path where the sun shot down with its first rays, uninhibited by buildings or trees. She walked into the blinding brightness, unafraid of stumbling or stubbing. Through her closed lids, she still saw the glowing red of harsh light. As she walked, she would become used to the sunlight and be able to open her eyes; but for now, she continued on unseeing.

The birds chirped, the cicadas buzzed, her footsteps clattered on the smooth stone pathway. Ever so slightly, the breeze blew her bangs across her brow.

Beside her, there was a shuffling, a shing of metal, and the sound of a clump of dirt hitting the ground. She stopped walking, her eyes popping open in surprise at this unexpected noise.

On the right side of the path, there was a man hunched over the flowerbeds, stabbing a spade into the earth and hoisting bunches of soil out. After four or five shovels, he would pick up an unplanted blue tulip still in its container. Slowly, to not snap off any roots, he pulled the plastic off the flower's base. Then he carefully set the plant into the hole he had prepared and shuffled the excised dirt all around the newly planted tulip.

She watched him. His gloved hands were agile and certain, so used to the act of gardening that their motions seemed almost mechanical.

He had turned her way by chance, hands going back to his spade, when he caught her eye. This stopped him. He stood abruptly, and broke out in a tentative smile.

"Good morning, miss."

Smiling as brilliantly as possible, Chapel replied, "The gardens really are stunning at this time in the morning, aren't they?"

"Yes, they are."

"The flowers you're planting are simply lovely. Baby blue – I love the color."

"Thank you, miss. But their blue isn't nearly as striking as your eyes." The way he said it made Christine stifle a giggle; he looked horrified after he realized what just came out of his mouth.

"Thank you, but flattery will get you everywhere." She beamed. "My name's Christine."

He blushed a deep reddish purple, but looked up at her hopefully. "Roger."

"It is my pleasure, Roger." She considered him. "Do you often plant tulips at this time of day, or am I just lucky?"

Roger looked surprised as a laugh leapt out of him. "I don't plant as much as I would like – most of the day I'm in the laboratory. This is the only time I have to get outside, really. Wish I had more."

"Oh, the laboratory? What field are you in?"

"I'm actually into medicine."

"Really? I'm in medicine too. I'm a ship nurse."

"Oh, impressive. I just study medicine; I don't apply it. I do a lot of testing, nothing hands-on. I specialize in medical archaeology, actually."

Chapel's eyes did not bulge out of her head. She was too ladylike. But they did widen a little. "You wouldn't happen to be Roger Korby, would you?"

He rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed. "Guilty."

"The Roger Korby?"

"One and the same."

"I use your methods in research all the time with strains!" Chapel couldn't help it; her face was filled with exuberant joy as she clasped her hands in excitement. "They're always the most efficient and always yield accurate results. And I can't tell you how may times it's saved the lives of my crewmembers."

He smiled tentatively. "I'm glad my research is being put to good use."

Chapel looked with new eyes on the tulips that sat on the side of the path waiting to be planted. "And did you engineer that strain of flower yourself, Mr. 'Louis Pasteur of archaeological medicine'?"

Roger looked to the side. "Guilty again."

Chapel smiled demurely. "Then you are applying your theories. And putting them to good use to boot."

He looked back at her, puzzling over something. "It seems… I still have a lot of work to do on that flower. The color isn't good enough."

"I think the color is wonderful."

"I mean…" He frowned, fumbling over the words he was trying to get out. "I mean, I want the blue to be… just the same as your beautiful eyes."

Chapel's mouth went slack as this hit her.

"It'll probably take forever to get the incredible hue that your irises have; it might even be impossible, but…"

Incredible warmth started building deep within her. Korby's voice was dwindling as his thoughts took him away.

"…If I can see a flower with the same color as your eyes, it'll remind me of you… So it'll be worth it."

Roger stared at his flowers, embarrassed. The tips of his ears were blushing along with his cheeks.

Christine didn't trust her voice just yet.

It decided to come out anyway.

"…That is the nicest, most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me." It was quiet and low, but cracked with emotion.

Roger looked at her. Chapel's eyes were wide and watery, staring right back at him.

Far off in the distance, the soft chimes of bells sounded at the Academy. It was seven hundred hours.

"If you have time tomorrow, would you like to… take a tour of my laboratory?" He took a breath. "And then, maybe… dinner?"

Chapel smiled broadly.

"Yes."

The sun was shining, the birds were winging, bells were ringing. And love was definitely singing.

((()))

bee bee-beep

That was his absolutely least favorite sound. Ever. It incited in him the most dark and vengeful feelings possible. Bones blindly flung out an avenging hand towards the noise, fumbling around on a tabletop. His fingers grabbed a watch, then a lamp, and finally that goddamn communicator –

His hand was drawn back in the air, ready to smash the goddamn thing on the ground again, when the bed beneath him shuddered.

Bones knew that shudder.

Vibrations were traveling through the mattress like ripples through a pond, and Bones definitely wasn't causing them. The sensation alone threw him back into the years and years of sleeping next to the same woman, having her shift onto her side when he hit the alarm clock.

Bones didn't bother to lower his rigidly poised hand as he craned his neck back over his shoulder.

Still utterly dead to the world, Lieutenant Commander Montgomery Scott there reclined. Cross-cut light rested over him from the shuttered window. He softly whistled through his barely opened mouth, and his short hair was spiking all over the pillow.

The communicator dropped to the floor.

One second Bones was frozen, the next he was frantically running his hands over himself, checking if yes, he still had his shirt on, yes, he still had his pants on, and yes, he was hickey-free. There's a goddamn relief.

He heaved a dramatic sigh and threw his head back against the headboard, crossing his arms and legs.

Actually, this wasn't so bad. He'd definitely had to wake up to worse faces in his time. Of course, those were usually the times he woke up on away missions in captivity, and those were the worst faces in the universe. Not that Scotty was ugly, because he wasn't. He was a decent-looking man. It was just that most of the aliens Bones had seen directly after regaining consciousness were particularly nauseating, and he hadn't woken up to that many faces otherwise, that's all. Especially when they were using you as a tool to manipulate Jim into giving them the Enterprise or for some other harebrained scheme. And they were always holding a gun to your temple. That was always exciting, as Scotty would say. Did say. Had said. What the hell. Bones yawned. Why was he still awake again…?

His eyes drifted closed as if on cue and his body relaxed into the first stage of sleep.

bee bee-beep

He ground his teeth together in frustration. With the fury and fire of fifty thousand supernovae, Bones' eyes snapped open. He stalked the necessary two steps from the bed to reach the damn contraption, picked it up, and clutched it with a crushing grip full of unrestricted hatred. Bones lifted it up over his shoulder, beyond his head, up to high heaven.

Just as he was about to deliver divine justice, Scotty decided to shuffle around with the blankets and make the bed creak in such a way that Bones knew he had sat up.

"Morning, Doctor!" a chipper Montgomery Scott cheerily sing-songed.

Bones hastily flung his arm to his side. Scotty didn't comment or even ask. Which Bones was very happy and grateful for.

"Er, mornin' Scotty."

bee bee-beep

It just wouldn't shut up! Bones flipped it open, being under scrutiny and all. Got to at least try to look halfway sane. "Bones here," he muttered gruffly.

To his surprise, someone was on the other end of the line. Less surprising was the fact that it was Jim. "Bones, thanks for finally deigning to pick up your comm! Have I got news for you!" You could practically hear him bouncing on the walls with a beaming grin. Probably because he got to annoy Bones first thing in the morning.

"Dammit, Jim, I haven't even gotten my wake-up coffee yet." He rolled his eyes, but he was smirking as he plopped ungracefully onto the edge of the bed.

"Well here goes anyway. I need you back on the Enterprise as soon as possible getting everything ready in Sickbay. Supplies, repairs, everything."

"…And why is that?"

Jim snorted. "We're going on another mission, of course."

"What, the second the week of leave is up?"

"Hopefully."

"Dammit, Jim, the crew needs rest."

"Yeah, but we also need to complete the mission that got left hanging when we crashed into the side of that planet." Jim paused, probably for effect. "Or else it'll never happen, escalate into something too big to handle, and there we have it – another galaxy-wide catastrophe."

"Uh-huh, yeah yeah, you've made your point." Bones rolled his eyes again, and Scotty grinned up at him from the covers. Which did not make Bones have to hide a smile, not at all. "And what does that mean, 'hopefully?' Do we not have jurisdiction for the mission yet or some shit?"

He'd been half-joking, but Jim answered, "Yep. Mission went on probation before the trial even began. After the fiasco of Finnegan's escape attempt, the Council pulled it completely."

"Goddamn."

"Yeah, that's what I've been saying."

"Shit."

"Pretty much."

"Fuck."

"Couldn't agree more."

"Goddamn."

"Couldn't you try for something more creative?"

"Hell."

"Well, I guess it's a little better than flat-out repeating yourself."

"Jesus."

"Now you're just patronizing me."

"…Shut up, Jim." Rough in a huff. But there was no menace to his words.

Jim laughed loudly. "Better get a coffee before you terrorize some poor cadets, Bones."

"I plan on it." Bones could almost see the grin in response.

"See you later today? Dinner? Ship?"

"Ship."

"Right. Gotta go – see you on deck."

"Till then."

He shut the communicator with a satisfying click.

He turned to Scotty, who was still lying back in bed looking over at him with a twinkle in his eye.

"Caen we go get some sandwiches, then?"

((()))

Jim closed his communicator and set it back on his desk. He was still poured over PADDs, and had been for hours and hours. Bags were starting to form under his eyes, big purple ones that looked obscene. To the point of looking like ripe umdoni or whatever that weird purple fruit was. Calling Bones had been a welcome distraction that really woke him up with a laugh. But he didn't have time for that now; Jim needed to finish going over all of the papers and records and documents about Colony IX and memorize the mission files for their possible annexation. And he needed it done by sixteen hundred hours.

He ran a frustrated hand over his face, particularly his puffy eyes. It was impressive how much they'd inflated; Bones would've thought he'd been hit with another allergic reaction to some alien bacteria. But no.

"Jim, I strongly advise you to rest."

Jim swiveled about in his chair to face Spock. "I need to get this done, or it may be too late."

"I have already memorized the proper information. There is no need for you to memorize it as well. You have already exerted notable energies in this endeavor; do not waste the remaining strength you have. You will require that energy for the mission dialogue."

Snort. "Logical as ever. Before you override my authority in some underhanded mutinous fashion, I concede." He held up his hands in mock defeat.

"It is very logical for you to do so." Whoever said the Spock didn't have a sense of humor or didn't smile clearly hadn't been coerced into bed by him. Wait a second… That sounded a little… Whatever.

"Okay, well just make sure to wake me up at a logical time before the dialogue."

"Affirmative." Spock's eyes glittered.

With the remnants of his sapped HP, Jim made his way over to the bed and flopped down on it without even taking his shoes off. Spock took his seat at the desk, putting everything back in order before pulling out a recreational PADD of his own.

It was an ancient novel that had quite the lengthy descriptions on whales, a long extinct species, which piqued Spock's scientific interest. He took a great many mental notes on the subject, even though the writer himself admitted to only partial knowledge, and resolved to further study by way of database once he had finished with this source. So far, he had not deciphered the title, Moby-Dick, but he supposed that would show itself at some point within the novel itself.

Not only did the scientific aspect appeal to Spock; the aesthetics of the literature were striking. Clearly Herman Melville was a master of language and presentation, and ever since Spock had begun to refine his speech as Commander, he had devoured many classic books from all cultures like this one. However, this particular novel was superior to many other texts, in that Spock valued its strengths to a higher extent than the others.

As Jim would say, it was his favorite.

Spock looked over fondly at the bed where Jim had collapsed. He was already fast asleep. Already Spock felt the soft blur of dreams cloud in the back of his mind.

No matter what the context or what he was focusing on, Spock always found himself circling back to Jim.

He considered it to be a natural phenomenon.

((()))

Chekhov spun an empty vodka bottle in his palm. He was on leave for the first time in months, free, and all he could think of to do was drink. Alone. In his rented single. Before ten o'clock in the morning.

He was so bored that the stark, cruel winters in Mother Russia that killed every animal that dared sleep were more interesting. It wasn't that he was full of restrained energy; by his standards, he was almost without pulse. Chekhov needed activity, or else.

It was time for him to start up a, what you say, party.

Seizing upon this idea with vigor, Chekhov burst across the room to his computer and looked up his contacts. He'd have to invite Sulu, of course. And Riley. Riley was always funny, thinking that a small island named Ireland could possibly compete with the greatness of the largest country on Earth – which, for your information, is Mother Russia. Chapel and Rand were possibilities. And Uhura might want to come, too. Ever since a few months ago, she'd wanted to do more things with them during leisure.

With a grin, Chekhov typed up a message and sent it to everyone on his list.

In less than twelve hours, he was going to be so drunk he would probably start speaking in Russian again.

That got his blood running at its usual speed.

He sat at his computer, waiting eagerly for a response to his message. As time dragged on in endless minutes, Chekhov opened another window and worked on some complex equation that some friend had forwarded to him to pass the time.

Oops, he'd solved it.

He clicked on another one.

((()))

Back in the room, Bones had fully expected to be in a restaurant right now, choosing items on a menu. But here he was, in central San Francisco, wandering alone in the midst of a bustling farmer's market.

Nobody could have guessed at Bones being put off by his unexpected situation. He knew exactly what to do, swooping down upon the various food stands with a vengeance, cutting through ridiculous prices with skilled repartee. He came to a particular stand that was gleaming with bright produce.

Bones bent over the stand, looking through the armada of fresh fruits and vegetables. He hunted for the very biggest and best. As he passed the peaches, he had to pause and take a minute there, picking up and personally inspecting the ones that caught his sharp eye. He filled his basket with all the fresh, perfectly ripened peaches that passed his test, as well as some obligatory grapes, tomatoes, celery sticks, carrots, and lettuce.

The shopkeepers scanned his card, putting his purchases on credit. It had been forever since Bones had gone shopping; he had more than enough stocked away from being a high-ranking Starfleet officer, but the only place he ever usually spent was the bar. In comparison, the marketplace was hectic and lively. He'd missed this feeling of being in the crowd, of being busy at work to get a good place in line and a quality piece of whatever he was trying to find. The last time he'd been in this situation was a long time ago, in Georgia. He'd been grocery shopping for dinner. Before the whole goddamn divorce began.

Bones shook his head, shaking his mind free of that depressing trap. He had some very important tasks to complete here. What was next?

Scotty had already gone to get the meats; he'd gotten cheeses, fruits, vegetables… Now to pick up the bread. He headed over to the bakery, which was down the street from all the fruit stands. After much deliberation, pouring over the rows of steaming rye and sourdough, Bones decided on two loaves of the best wheat bread.

Passing by all the clothing shops that popped up on the street corners, he happened to glance in the window and see a multitude of quilts hanging there. They reminded him of his grandmother's quilts she had always had when sitting in her rocking chair, knitting. There was nothing he could do but walk through the door. On a whim, he bought a nice patchwork blanket that they could lay on the ground as they ate on the lawn of the quad.

All that was left was to get the spices and sauces. He was thinking oregano for spice, some mayonnaise, some ketchup and mustard for sauce. Nothing too fancy. Then he'd be done getting everything he needed, and he would head back to Main Street to meet up at the corner.

Then he'd make some sandwiches with Scotty.

Unbeknownst to him, Bones was brimming with unfettered happiness as he marched through the active marketplace.

Whistling.

((()))

Jim brought his metaphorical fist down as he stated his last, most resounding point to the Council.

"We have the responsibility of tracking Slistastostas down. We have the responsibility to finish the mission we so abruptly halted. And we have the responsibility to solve whatever problems that are encroaching in Federation space that result in the atrocities of kidnapping and torture."

Spock stood solidly behind Jim, silently supporting him, looking on the faces of the Council that were gazing at Jim as if they had never seen anything quite like it before. Spock had seen similar faces at many previous dialogues.

They were, as Jim had hoped they would be, hopelessly snookered.

The Council was adjourned, Jim and Spock were dismissed, and they were on their way to a late lunch.

They had gotten their mission.

((()))

End of Part 17

tbc

((()))

Author's après-vous Note: Okay, I know, super cheesy. Like, to the point of it being disgusting. But hey. The cuteness… Oh, it's too cute.

And this cuteness will of course leak over to the next chapter, where there are unresolved issues like a picnic, a party, and a hot date in the lab. :D Don't worry, the scary stuff will resurface eventually. But for now… enjoy the down time. There's a while week of leave, so…

In other concerns, Slistas' name has appeared again! Yay! Yes, he's coming back.

It was a bit short for the wait you guys had to sit through, but hey, this is the original length. It's half of one of the courtroom chapters, but it's still within my original standards. The next one should be about the same length, if not longer.

If you read all the way to this ending line, you might as well review; you're smart and patient enough. :)