Captain Jean-Luc Picard ate his croissants with great pleasure and disdain. A man of great respect and might, he was capable of doing great things, even if these were as slight as eating with such complexity of expression as to overwhelm Data’s circuits and land him in Engineering Bay for positronic refittings that lasted for weeks.

In was in this cocktail of glee and scorn that Counselor Troi found our dear Captain one clear black space morning, stardate 45254.7.

“But!” contemplated Picard over his French cuisine, “What truly is morning in a place without the solar phases of night and day? Am I really enjoying, yet simultaneously feeling haughty over, this archaic piece of French baking the replicator so well replicated?” Like the old man, Picard too was feeling affected and jolly from some far-too-early-morning synthehol. Troi sat patiently, watching the drunk Captain in the physical realm and sensing him in her own, fucked up Betazoid one.

“Captain…” she began.

“COME!” bellowed a disrupted Picard.