In case you've ever wondered whether having a team of incompetent port technicians drop a heavy hull plate right on your head hurts: Yes. Yes, it does. Rather a lot, actually.
And so I find myself confined to Sick Bay yet again. And man, are they strict! "You need rest," they say. "Focus on your healing," they say. "You'll be out of here before you know it," they say.
Heaven forbid I should pick up a slate and try to doodle a sketch for a new ship design. Anywhere else I could do it, but in here, an alarm sounds and a throng of white-coated demons instantly surrounds me. "Now, now," they say, snatching it right out of my hands. "Doctor's orders." Try to read a book? Oh, no. That, too, is verboten. Maybe I could talk to another patient? Or just review an old repair manual? What about a little physical therapy? How about I just close my eyes and rest, pretend I'm back in my hotel room? No, no, no, and no.
I swear, they'd probably dig my CORETECHS out of my skull during recuperation if they could figure out a safe way to do it. I'm pushing my luck right now, I suspect, even composing this entry internally, moving nothing but my eyes. They'll push some button or turn some dial and flood my system with enough sedat#@&/#@&#/%%%%% <<< TRANSMISSION TERMINATES >>>