He paced, paced, [i]paced[/i], furiously thinking, thinking, [i]thinking[/i]. The Captain's mind - a veritable monument to mental instability - left him reeling, ghost thoughts chasing each other about his noggin, both disinterlaced and wholly intertwined and everything inbetween -

[i]We can't establish a chain of command between the rebels, but they have to be receiving their orders from somewhere[/i] [b]Jeanie's friend Tod broke the window, mum, t'wasn't me, I'm your ittle Jon-[/b][i]Jon Bishop, Captain of Her Majesty's Army,[/i][b] nevermore, nevermore, they stole that from you, m'boy[/b] [i]What do they expect from you, hm? You haven't worn a uniform in over two years, you're not battle ready - if you ever were -[/i][b] You know the truth, though, don't you?[/b]

[i]Where've you been hiding these long years, Jonnie Boy?[/i]

"Excellent [i]form[/i], Lance - Corporal - Campbell," he congratulated the Marine, eyeing her awkwardly. "You're quite the polished soldier, aren't you? Why are you - oh, I [i]see[/i]." The Captain had about-faced, now, taking in the new inhabitants of the room. "I must say, there certainly seems to be an [i]over-representation[/i] of the orient here, no?"

Examining the two men, it was clear that Bishop had neither the patience nor the wherewithal to behave as if he were a professional. "My [i]goodness[/i]," he went on, staring quite openly at the mangled [i]other[/i] Captain. "Have you recently lost a fight with a terribly angry industrial ceiling fan, m'boy?"

Leaning back and glancing at Carrie, he stage whispered, one hand over his mouth, "Strictly speaking, I don't feel relegated to a chain of command, being that I am a civilian."