“Crichton, what are you doing?”  

“Cookin’ barbeque, babe.  I’m a guy.  It’s what we do.”

“That’s not what I mean.  What are you doing with … that?”

“This?”  He twirled a gleaming metal implement in his fingers.  “I found it up on Tier One.  It’s just
right for turning meat.”  

“That is not for cooking.”

“I didn’t think it was.  What’s the big deal?”

“John, certain Peacekeeper units have … traditions.”

“Such as?”  

Aeryn hesitated.  “Piercing … so they can wear … emblems.”

“You’re still losing me.”  

“That would have been used” -- she searched for a polite explanation -- “by an all-male unit.”

Metal hit the floor with a clatter.  Crichton looked ill.  “Maybe I can turn the meat with something
else.”  

“Good idea.”

                                                        
* ~ * ~ * ~* ~ *
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