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This one is the Basement's fault. You know who you are.

Comfort Food

Hors d'Oeuvre

The replicator chimed. "One plate of grilled octopus, tenderized and flavored with black pepper, olive oil, lemon, garlic and white wine. Presented with grilled asparagus."

Gabriel Lorca held his breath as he took the steaming plate of food out of the machine. Would it finally be right this time? The smell was close, at least; it wasn't quite as pungent as he liked his Kelpien, but part of that was no doubt the difference in meat source. He'd experimented with several of the options available in this alternate universe, but had discovered that the closest analogue to Kelpien was this Earth-based squid.

How terribly ordinary, just like everything else here.

Bringing the lights up just enough to see what he was doing, he took the plate over to the tiny dining area in his temporary quarters. The doctors at Starfleet Medical weren't ready to let him completely out of treatment yet, but they'd agreed to release him to outpatient therapy — and a space of his own — a couple of weeks ago.

It couldn't have come a second too soon. If one more person suggested getting his eyes replaced….

No. He wasn't going to ruin this moment by thinking about that. Shaking his head to clear it, he picked up the fork and dug in, closing his eyes and hoping.

A moment later, he sighed.

Not quite.

This octopus, which had been prepared with a traditional, simple human method, wasn't bad. He also had learned not to waste food at a very young age. So, he ate it, but not without significant disappointment. The meat was a bit too tender, tending toward soft, and there wasn't enough of a sweet taste to counteract the pepper. At least the asparagus, which had been flavored with the same items as the meat, was a decent complement.

After finishing the meal, he dumped the plate into the recycler. "Computer, open research file Lorca-kappa-four. Note ingredients for the most recently replicated meal."

"Working. Information placed in file."

"Add note. Not quite firm enough and needed something sweeter than lemon. Octopus isn't quite as firm as Kelpi — no, wait. Strike that and replace. Octopus is a good substitute if not overcooked, but it loses firmness if it is. End log."

"Note saved."

"Close file and re-open the previous one." He'd been studying the specifications of the various ships in Starfleet's arsenal, trying to get a sense of the common denominators in their engineering. It wasn't the most interesting work, but it demanded enough of his attention to keep him from getting tired or bored.

The next schematic that came up was for the engines that powered the Fleet's newly-designated flagships, the Constitution class. One of these, he knew, had been captured and sent back in time to join the Emperor's fleet several decades ago. They'd reverse-engineered it, but there were no doubt details that they hadn't been able to discover that way. With a grin, Lorca stretched and prepared to settle in for a long, informative study session.

Just as he arched his back, though, his gut contracted into a painful cramp.

He folded back up with a hiss, allowing himself to lean forward and wrap his arms around his thighs. If there'd been anyone else here, he'd never have permitted himself to show such a weakness, but he was alone, and this Federation held an ideal that sentient beings' right to privacy overrode security needs in most cases. There weren't any recorders.

The cramp subsided as quickly as it had come, and he straightened back up in the chair. That was when the room began to spin, and an ominous sound came from the area that had just cramped.

Oh, shit.

It was only after he'd scrambled into the head that he realized how apropos the sentiment had been.