Originally posted on fanfiction.net - Link.
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Wake the Machine
“I can’t believe this is happening,” Captain Freeman groaned pinching the bridge of her nose. “This is the most ridiculous display of ceremonial lunacy I’ve ever seen. And on this ship that’s saying something!”
“Shhh. Quiet, Cap,” Mariner shushed standing next to Freeman. “You’re supposed to being setting an example for the rest of the crew. This is a solemn and somber occasion after all.”
“More like a complete and utter farce,” Freeman grumbled gazing around. Nearly the entire crew of the Cerritos was gathered in the ship’s largest assembly room. “As indicated by the over-the-top decorations. There are more wreaths and flowers in here than in a Kressari hydroponics bay.”
“Well duh. Couldn’t pull this ceremonial shebang off without flowers,” Mariner said. “This is a funeral service after all.”
“Yeah, for my sanity,” Freeman muttered glancing around at her black armband-adorned crew, many of whom were sniffling and teary-eyed. “Do you really have to stand so close to me? Someone might suspect we’re related.”
“Relax, Cap. Nobody’s gonna notice,” Mariner assured. “They’re all too busy grieving and leaning on each other for support. Though your conspicuous lack of a prominent role in the proceedings might raise the proverbial Vulcan eyebrow or two.”
“Are you insane?” Freeman hissed giving her a look. “What am I saying? There’s no way I’m going to participate in this absurd spectacle any more than necessary.”
“Why not? All the other senior officers have willingly involved themselves in some way,” Mariner pointed out. “Billups is the chief mourner. Shaxs is leading the dirge choir. Doc T’Ana’s monitoring the buffet. Ransom’s consoling and hitting on the emotionally vulnerable ladies…”
“Oh geeze,” Freeman groaned.
“Stevens is presiding over the mariachi band,” Mariner went on. “And this whole shindig is being officiated by…”
“Ladies, gentlemen and non-binaries,” Dr. Migleemo said standing behind a small podium. A flag-draped torpedo casing lay before him. “It is with deep-dish regret and pound cake-heavy artichoke hearts that we are gathered here to pay our oven-warmed respects to the passing of a dear and nutritionally-valued companion.”
“Waaahhh!” Billups sniffed wiping his eyes.
“A companion who needs no overly-buttered introduction,” Migleemo continued. “A companion who was known, savored and relished by all: Replicator 315.”
“Waaahhhhhh!” Stevens wept blowing his nose.
“I don’t believe this,” Freeman groaned as Chief Lundy revealed a framed, hand-drawn portrait of the decedent. “A wake and funeral service for a replicator. No wonder nobody takes the Cerritos seriously. Or any of its crew!”
“Replicator 315 was a great sustainer. A true provider. A replicator among replicators,” Migleemo went on. “Despite its bland origins and intrinsic cookie-cutter nature, Replicator 315 all too often broke the loaf pan and managed to stimulate new taste buds and helped promote expanded waistlines without ever leaving the Mess Hall.”
“I am not here. I am not here,” Freeman muttered covering her eyes. “This is all some kind of transporter psychosis- or sensory tremens-based delusion. I am not here.”
“What made Replicator 315 truly special was how it chef de partie-consistenty went above and beyond its mise en place programming,” Migleemo said.
“Translation: how often it malfunctioned,” Mariner noted.
“No other replicator managed to add the vital ingredients of warmth and comfort to its meals,” Migleemo dabbed his eyes. “Replicator 315 was the only replicator to ever dispense macerated sludge worms just like my dear Mema often regurgitates.”
“There’s an image I could have gone without,” Mariner made a face. “Thanks for killing my appetite, Migleemo.”
“I lost my appetite after seeing every hors d'oeuvre at the buffet table shaped like little replicators,” Freeman sighed. “Talk about ironic.”
“Replicator 315 was one of the Cerritos’ original plankowners,” Migleemo went on. “Installed during the Cerritos’ construction, it provided countless hearty meals and many years of sterling silver service in the Mess Hall.”
“Nothing any of the Cerritos’ other replicators haven’t done before,” Mariner noted. “How many replicators are there on the Cerritos anyway?”
“The same as the number of crazy crewmembers they’re allocated to serve,” Freeman muttered. “Too many!”
“Service that was tragically cut short,” Migleemo sniffed dramatically. “When, during a routine cleaning and maintenance cycle, poor Replicator 315 suffered a sudden, fatal overload of its memory core while interfacing with a recently issued purple-striped tricorder.”
“A minor issue,” Freeman rolled her eyes. “Barely worth a line in the ship’s maintenance report.”
“Depends on how you look at it,” Mariner said. “It was basically the replicator version of having a heart attack in a hot tub while ‘interfacing’ with a young, well-endowed hottie. What a way to go!”
“I know what I’d like to go,” Freeman growled glaring a Mariner. “Or more exactly who!”
“Alas, the fried and over-tenderized remains of poor Replicator 315 were beyond preserving, pickling or saving,” Migleemo continued. “Despite the hero-sandwich-sized efforts of Lieutenant Commander Billups and his well-seasoned Engineering team.”
“Waaahhhhhh! It’s all my fault!” Billups sobbed uncontrollably. “I’m a terrible excuse for an Engineer! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”
“Shhh, don’t say that, sir,” Rutherford consoled patting Billups on the back. “You did everything you could. Starfleet engineers may be famously considered as miracle workers, but even we can’t fix everything.”
“Obviously,” Freeman muttered. “Just look at the currently broken state of the crew’s brains.”
“And so we mark the passing of Replicator 315 to the eternal Celestial Banquet Hall,” Migleemo spread his hands wide. “Joining the ranks of star-rated chefs to forever serve foods, beverages and culinary delights to all who are granted entry, with or without reservations.”
“If only it could sever up some sanity,” Freeman groaned. “If it could I’d reserve a spot for myself ASAP!”
“And now, anyone who would like to rise and share a few piquant tidbits about our beloved Replicator 315, please come forth,” Migleemo said yielding the floor.
“Please don’t,” Freeman moaned.
“Hey, everyone,” Ransom greeted stepping up to the podium. “Thanks for coming,”
“So much for following direct orders,” Mariner quipped. “You could court-martial him for that, Cap.”
“Right idea,” Freeman fixed Mariner with a look. “Wrong target!”
“I know you’re all feeling down about the loss of Replicator 315,” Ransom said sympathetically. “All replicated items are supposed to be perfect and identical, but old 315 always managed to kick things up a notch. It made comfort foods like hasperat and rellenos even hotter and spicier. Not quite as hot and spicy as me, but still…”
“Oh geeze,” Freeman groaned.
“Replicator 315 was a great replicator,” Ensign Meredith took the podium next. “Even though it didn’t always give me exactly what I wanted, whatever it dispensed somehow always ended up being exactly what I needed.”
“The wonders of random chance in action,” Mariner smirked. “If only the same principle could be adapted for betting pools.”
“What betting pools?” Freeman suspiciously narrowing her eyes.
“Oh, nothing,” Mariner whistled innocently.
“Replicator 315 was the best replicator I ever ordered from,” Shaxs rumbled trying to maintain a stiff upper lip. “Always managed to put extra rekja in my tuwaly pie and roasted palukoo. Whether I asked for it or not.”
“I could say the same about madness,” Freeman moaned. “Unfortunately.”
“There are and have been many replicators aboard the Cerritos, but Replicator 315 will always be my favorite,” A sniffling Ensign Asif was next. “Never asked to verify my age whenever I ordered syntheholic beverages and always included plenty of marshmallows in my hot cocoa.”
“I always knew device child protection measures were a joke,” Mariner shook her head.
“Big talk coming from the head joker herself,” Freeman glared.
“Man, I can’t believe how much I’m gonna miss friendly, neighborly Replicator 315,” Jet dabbed his eyes while standing behind the podium. “I just don’t have the words.”
“Neither do I,” Freeman moaned. “About so many, many things…”
“WAAAHHHHHH!” A bawling Stevens followed after Jet. “WAAAHHHHHH! WAAAHHHHHHHHH!”
“Apparently never does Stevens,” Mariner quipped. “Thank goodness!”
“Ugh, this is beyond ridiculous,” Freeman groaned. “People are acting as if the stupid replicator was actually alive. It was just a machine!”
“I wouldn’t let any exocomps or Data fans hear you say that,” Mariner cautioned. “Or any captains who ever lost their ships.”
“Replicator 315 was more than just a machine,” Tendi sniffed taking the podium next. “It was a comforting presence. A steady companion. A gracious cohort who selflessly gave everything that was requested of it without asking for anything in return. If that isn’t the definition of an adoring dedicated colleague, what is?”
“See?” Mariner smirked. “I rest my case.”
“I wish you would take a rest,” Freeman muttered. “A good, long rest. Preferably for the next twenty or thirty years!”
“Duty shift and daily assignment changes often mean one never knows who they’re going to work with during the day,” Ensign sh’Reyan stated following after Tendi. “But the one thing I could always count on was encountering Replicator 315 and having a meaningful reaction with it.”
“Hey, there are lots of machines that can invoke plenty of meaningful reactions,” Mariner grinned wiggling her eyebrows. “Especially when they’re fully charged and fully functional…”
“I did not need to hear that,” Freeman twitched covering her ears. “I did not want to hear that. Just like the rest of this nonsensical, mindless, senseless eulogy!”
“Replicated food can sometimes be hard on one’s palette, being nothing but artificially assembled protein molecules and textured carbohydrates,” Ensign Casey was next. “But not Replicator 315’s. It was the only replicator that never gave me gas, heartburn or indigestion.”
“Too bad the same can’t be said about you,” Mariner quipped.
“It’s said that imperfections are what make one memorable and unique,” Ensign Castro followed after Casey. “So it was with Replicator 315. How could anyone forget the small nicks in its outer casing, the faded salsa stains in its dispensing slot, the intermittent flickering of its interface panel that occasionally triggered epileptic seizures?”
“If only I could forget such things,” Freeman groaned. “Along with this entire sorry, farcical funeral.”
“Replicator 315 was a beloved and valued member of the Cerritos crew. No matter what anyone may say otherwise,” Boimler sniffed taking the podium. “No other replicator can possibly take its place. It wasn’t just some random, easily replaceable cog in the machine destined to immediately be forgotten. It had a name! A name!”
“Sheesh. Talk about a sad, classic case of self-projection,” Mariner shook her head. “And people say I’m a self-centered scene-stealer.”
“Nobody calls you that,” Freeman noted glancing at Mariner. “Arrogant and irresponsible however…”
“What I liked best about Replicator 315 was that it more or less did what it was told,” T’Ana grumbled standing behind the podium. “Something I can’t say about the bulk of my bloody, targ-headed patients.”
“Not to mention anyone aboard the Cerritos in general,” Freeman sighed.
“I knew Replicator 315 longer than I have some of my co-parents,” Ensign Vendome blubbered following T’Ana. “Replicator 315 was more than a friend. It was family! It’s not easy to part and say goodbye!”
“Speak for yourself,” Freeman and Mariner muttered in unison.
“Sudden loss can be hard. Loss than leaves an empty hole in one’s heart,” Ensign P’jok sighed dramatically taking the podium. “One can’t simply accept abrupt change overnight. One needs time to grieve and heal.”
“No amount of time or medical care could possibly heal the wounds inflicted from this ludicrous monstrosity,” Freeman moaned. “Mentally or physically.”
“Eh, I was sorry to hear ol’ 315 had finally met its maker,” Honus commented taking the podium. “Especially without it admitting I make a Finagle's Folly better than it ever did.”
“That’s not the only folly around here,” Freeman groaned.
“Uh, gee,” Rutherford nervously rubbed his head while standing behind the podium. “Guess there’s nothing I can say about Replicator 315 that hasn’t already been said by anyone else.”
“Unless that someone happens to be a food critic,” Mariner noted.
“AAAUUUGGGHHHHHH! I CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE!” Billups cried throwing himself on top of the torpedo casing. “REPLICATOR 315 CAN’T LEAVE US YET! IT’S TOO SOON!”
“Billups! Stop making a fool out of yourself!” Shaxs barked rushing up. “Get a hold of yourself, man!”
“I CAN STILL SAVE IT!” Billups howled desperately clinging to the torpedo casing. “JUST LET ME SALVAGE ITS MEMORY CORE! ALL I NEED TO DO IS RECONSTRUCT ITS DESTORYED MEMORY CORE AND REPLICATOR 315 WILL LIVE AGAIN!”
“That’d be a neat trick,” Mariner commented at the scene. “Considering said memory core burned out, melted and self-destructed right before shattering into a billion pieces.”
“Exactly what’s happening to my sanity,” Freeman moaned as more members of the Cerritos’ crew attempted to drag a wailing, bawling Billups off the torpedo casing. “Not to mention my reputation, my career, my dignity, my diminutive remaining will to live…”
“Hey, don’t be like that, Cap,” Mariner said as the mariachi band began to play. “Memorial services and death ceremonies can be devastating, gloomy and disheartening affairs, but that doesn’t mean one has to add to them. Instead of putting the press in depressing, why not embrace the fun in funeral?”
“Do you even have to ask?” Freeman gave her a look.
“It doesn’t hurt to try,” Mariner shrugged as a food fight broke out around the refreshment table. “What better way to remember the dearly departed? It’s better to laugh than to cry after all. Not necessarily helpful or appropriate, but still…”
“Oh geeze,” Freeman groaned as the dirge choir attempted to wail over the mariachi band. “If the crew is this emotional over the passing of a common machine, I shudder to think how they’ll act should an actual living, sentient person die. Which at the rate things are going is highly likely to be me!”
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Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek: Lower Decks.
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Wake the Machine
“I can’t believe this is happening,” Captain Freeman groaned pinching the bridge of her nose. “This is the most ridiculous display of ceremonial lunacy I’ve ever seen. And on this ship that’s saying something!”
“Shhh. Quiet, Cap,” Mariner shushed standing next to Freeman. “You’re supposed to being setting an example for the rest of the crew. This is a solemn and somber occasion after all.”
“More like a complete and utter farce,” Freeman grumbled gazing around. Nearly the entire crew of the Cerritos was gathered in the ship’s largest assembly room. “As indicated by the over-the-top decorations. There are more wreaths and flowers in here than in a Kressari hydroponics bay.”
“Well duh. Couldn’t pull this ceremonial shebang off without flowers,” Mariner said. “This is a funeral service after all.”
“Yeah, for my sanity,” Freeman muttered glancing around at her black armband-adorned crew, many of whom were sniffling and teary-eyed. “Do you really have to stand so close to me? Someone might suspect we’re related.”
“Relax, Cap. Nobody’s gonna notice,” Mariner assured. “They’re all too busy grieving and leaning on each other for support. Though your conspicuous lack of a prominent role in the proceedings might raise the proverbial Vulcan eyebrow or two.”
“Are you insane?” Freeman hissed giving her a look. “What am I saying? There’s no way I’m going to participate in this absurd spectacle any more than necessary.”
“Why not? All the other senior officers have willingly involved themselves in some way,” Mariner pointed out. “Billups is the chief mourner. Shaxs is leading the dirge choir. Doc T’Ana’s monitoring the buffet. Ransom’s consoling and hitting on the emotionally vulnerable ladies…”
“Oh geeze,” Freeman groaned.
“Stevens is presiding over the mariachi band,” Mariner went on. “And this whole shindig is being officiated by…”
“Ladies, gentlemen and non-binaries,” Dr. Migleemo said standing behind a small podium. A flag-draped torpedo casing lay before him. “It is with deep-dish regret and pound cake-heavy artichoke hearts that we are gathered here to pay our oven-warmed respects to the passing of a dear and nutritionally-valued companion.”
“Waaahhh!” Billups sniffed wiping his eyes.
“A companion who needs no overly-buttered introduction,” Migleemo continued. “A companion who was known, savored and relished by all: Replicator 315.”
“Waaahhhhhh!” Stevens wept blowing his nose.
“I don’t believe this,” Freeman groaned as Chief Lundy revealed a framed, hand-drawn portrait of the decedent. “A wake and funeral service for a replicator. No wonder nobody takes the Cerritos seriously. Or any of its crew!”
“Replicator 315 was a great sustainer. A true provider. A replicator among replicators,” Migleemo went on. “Despite its bland origins and intrinsic cookie-cutter nature, Replicator 315 all too often broke the loaf pan and managed to stimulate new taste buds and helped promote expanded waistlines without ever leaving the Mess Hall.”
“I am not here. I am not here,” Freeman muttered covering her eyes. “This is all some kind of transporter psychosis- or sensory tremens-based delusion. I am not here.”
“What made Replicator 315 truly special was how it chef de partie-consistenty went above and beyond its mise en place programming,” Migleemo said.
“Translation: how often it malfunctioned,” Mariner noted.
“No other replicator managed to add the vital ingredients of warmth and comfort to its meals,” Migleemo dabbed his eyes. “Replicator 315 was the only replicator to ever dispense macerated sludge worms just like my dear Mema often regurgitates.”
“There’s an image I could have gone without,” Mariner made a face. “Thanks for killing my appetite, Migleemo.”
“I lost my appetite after seeing every hors d'oeuvre at the buffet table shaped like little replicators,” Freeman sighed. “Talk about ironic.”
“Replicator 315 was one of the Cerritos’ original plankowners,” Migleemo went on. “Installed during the Cerritos’ construction, it provided countless hearty meals and many years of sterling silver service in the Mess Hall.”
“Nothing any of the Cerritos’ other replicators haven’t done before,” Mariner noted. “How many replicators are there on the Cerritos anyway?”
“The same as the number of crazy crewmembers they’re allocated to serve,” Freeman muttered. “Too many!”
“Service that was tragically cut short,” Migleemo sniffed dramatically. “When, during a routine cleaning and maintenance cycle, poor Replicator 315 suffered a sudden, fatal overload of its memory core while interfacing with a recently issued purple-striped tricorder.”
“A minor issue,” Freeman rolled her eyes. “Barely worth a line in the ship’s maintenance report.”
“Depends on how you look at it,” Mariner said. “It was basically the replicator version of having a heart attack in a hot tub while ‘interfacing’ with a young, well-endowed hottie. What a way to go!”
“I know what I’d like to go,” Freeman growled glaring a Mariner. “Or more exactly who!”
“Alas, the fried and over-tenderized remains of poor Replicator 315 were beyond preserving, pickling or saving,” Migleemo continued. “Despite the hero-sandwich-sized efforts of Lieutenant Commander Billups and his well-seasoned Engineering team.”
“Waaahhhhhh! It’s all my fault!” Billups sobbed uncontrollably. “I’m a terrible excuse for an Engineer! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”
“Shhh, don’t say that, sir,” Rutherford consoled patting Billups on the back. “You did everything you could. Starfleet engineers may be famously considered as miracle workers, but even we can’t fix everything.”
“Obviously,” Freeman muttered. “Just look at the currently broken state of the crew’s brains.”
“And so we mark the passing of Replicator 315 to the eternal Celestial Banquet Hall,” Migleemo spread his hands wide. “Joining the ranks of star-rated chefs to forever serve foods, beverages and culinary delights to all who are granted entry, with or without reservations.”
“If only it could sever up some sanity,” Freeman groaned. “If it could I’d reserve a spot for myself ASAP!”
“And now, anyone who would like to rise and share a few piquant tidbits about our beloved Replicator 315, please come forth,” Migleemo said yielding the floor.
“Please don’t,” Freeman moaned.
“Hey, everyone,” Ransom greeted stepping up to the podium. “Thanks for coming,”
“So much for following direct orders,” Mariner quipped. “You could court-martial him for that, Cap.”
“Right idea,” Freeman fixed Mariner with a look. “Wrong target!”
“I know you’re all feeling down about the loss of Replicator 315,” Ransom said sympathetically. “All replicated items are supposed to be perfect and identical, but old 315 always managed to kick things up a notch. It made comfort foods like hasperat and rellenos even hotter and spicier. Not quite as hot and spicy as me, but still…”
“Oh geeze,” Freeman groaned.
“Replicator 315 was a great replicator,” Ensign Meredith took the podium next. “Even though it didn’t always give me exactly what I wanted, whatever it dispensed somehow always ended up being exactly what I needed.”
“The wonders of random chance in action,” Mariner smirked. “If only the same principle could be adapted for betting pools.”
“What betting pools?” Freeman suspiciously narrowing her eyes.
“Oh, nothing,” Mariner whistled innocently.
“Replicator 315 was the best replicator I ever ordered from,” Shaxs rumbled trying to maintain a stiff upper lip. “Always managed to put extra rekja in my tuwaly pie and roasted palukoo. Whether I asked for it or not.”
“I could say the same about madness,” Freeman moaned. “Unfortunately.”
“There are and have been many replicators aboard the Cerritos, but Replicator 315 will always be my favorite,” A sniffling Ensign Asif was next. “Never asked to verify my age whenever I ordered syntheholic beverages and always included plenty of marshmallows in my hot cocoa.”
“I always knew device child protection measures were a joke,” Mariner shook her head.
“Big talk coming from the head joker herself,” Freeman glared.
“Man, I can’t believe how much I’m gonna miss friendly, neighborly Replicator 315,” Jet dabbed his eyes while standing behind the podium. “I just don’t have the words.”
“Neither do I,” Freeman moaned. “About so many, many things…”
“WAAAHHHHHH!” A bawling Stevens followed after Jet. “WAAAHHHHHH! WAAAHHHHHHHHH!”
“Apparently never does Stevens,” Mariner quipped. “Thank goodness!”
“Ugh, this is beyond ridiculous,” Freeman groaned. “People are acting as if the stupid replicator was actually alive. It was just a machine!”
“I wouldn’t let any exocomps or Data fans hear you say that,” Mariner cautioned. “Or any captains who ever lost their ships.”
“Replicator 315 was more than just a machine,” Tendi sniffed taking the podium next. “It was a comforting presence. A steady companion. A gracious cohort who selflessly gave everything that was requested of it without asking for anything in return. If that isn’t the definition of an adoring dedicated colleague, what is?”
“See?” Mariner smirked. “I rest my case.”
“I wish you would take a rest,” Freeman muttered. “A good, long rest. Preferably for the next twenty or thirty years!”
“Duty shift and daily assignment changes often mean one never knows who they’re going to work with during the day,” Ensign sh’Reyan stated following after Tendi. “But the one thing I could always count on was encountering Replicator 315 and having a meaningful reaction with it.”
“Hey, there are lots of machines that can invoke plenty of meaningful reactions,” Mariner grinned wiggling her eyebrows. “Especially when they’re fully charged and fully functional…”
“I did not need to hear that,” Freeman twitched covering her ears. “I did not want to hear that. Just like the rest of this nonsensical, mindless, senseless eulogy!”
“Replicated food can sometimes be hard on one’s palette, being nothing but artificially assembled protein molecules and textured carbohydrates,” Ensign Casey was next. “But not Replicator 315’s. It was the only replicator that never gave me gas, heartburn or indigestion.”
“Too bad the same can’t be said about you,” Mariner quipped.
“It’s said that imperfections are what make one memorable and unique,” Ensign Castro followed after Casey. “So it was with Replicator 315. How could anyone forget the small nicks in its outer casing, the faded salsa stains in its dispensing slot, the intermittent flickering of its interface panel that occasionally triggered epileptic seizures?”
“If only I could forget such things,” Freeman groaned. “Along with this entire sorry, farcical funeral.”
“Replicator 315 was a beloved and valued member of the Cerritos crew. No matter what anyone may say otherwise,” Boimler sniffed taking the podium. “No other replicator can possibly take its place. It wasn’t just some random, easily replaceable cog in the machine destined to immediately be forgotten. It had a name! A name!”
“Sheesh. Talk about a sad, classic case of self-projection,” Mariner shook her head. “And people say I’m a self-centered scene-stealer.”
“Nobody calls you that,” Freeman noted glancing at Mariner. “Arrogant and irresponsible however…”
“What I liked best about Replicator 315 was that it more or less did what it was told,” T’Ana grumbled standing behind the podium. “Something I can’t say about the bulk of my bloody, targ-headed patients.”
“Not to mention anyone aboard the Cerritos in general,” Freeman sighed.
“I knew Replicator 315 longer than I have some of my co-parents,” Ensign Vendome blubbered following T’Ana. “Replicator 315 was more than a friend. It was family! It’s not easy to part and say goodbye!”
“Speak for yourself,” Freeman and Mariner muttered in unison.
“Sudden loss can be hard. Loss than leaves an empty hole in one’s heart,” Ensign P’jok sighed dramatically taking the podium. “One can’t simply accept abrupt change overnight. One needs time to grieve and heal.”
“No amount of time or medical care could possibly heal the wounds inflicted from this ludicrous monstrosity,” Freeman moaned. “Mentally or physically.”
“Eh, I was sorry to hear ol’ 315 had finally met its maker,” Honus commented taking the podium. “Especially without it admitting I make a Finagle's Folly better than it ever did.”
“That’s not the only folly around here,” Freeman groaned.
“Uh, gee,” Rutherford nervously rubbed his head while standing behind the podium. “Guess there’s nothing I can say about Replicator 315 that hasn’t already been said by anyone else.”
“Unless that someone happens to be a food critic,” Mariner noted.
“AAAUUUGGGHHHHHH! I CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE!” Billups cried throwing himself on top of the torpedo casing. “REPLICATOR 315 CAN’T LEAVE US YET! IT’S TOO SOON!”
“Billups! Stop making a fool out of yourself!” Shaxs barked rushing up. “Get a hold of yourself, man!”
“I CAN STILL SAVE IT!” Billups howled desperately clinging to the torpedo casing. “JUST LET ME SALVAGE ITS MEMORY CORE! ALL I NEED TO DO IS RECONSTRUCT ITS DESTORYED MEMORY CORE AND REPLICATOR 315 WILL LIVE AGAIN!”
“That’d be a neat trick,” Mariner commented at the scene. “Considering said memory core burned out, melted and self-destructed right before shattering into a billion pieces.”
“Exactly what’s happening to my sanity,” Freeman moaned as more members of the Cerritos’ crew attempted to drag a wailing, bawling Billups off the torpedo casing. “Not to mention my reputation, my career, my dignity, my diminutive remaining will to live…”
“Hey, don’t be like that, Cap,” Mariner said as the mariachi band began to play. “Memorial services and death ceremonies can be devastating, gloomy and disheartening affairs, but that doesn’t mean one has to add to them. Instead of putting the press in depressing, why not embrace the fun in funeral?”
“Do you even have to ask?” Freeman gave her a look.
“It doesn’t hurt to try,” Mariner shrugged as a food fight broke out around the refreshment table. “What better way to remember the dearly departed? It’s better to laugh than to cry after all. Not necessarily helpful or appropriate, but still…”
“Oh geeze,” Freeman groaned as the dirge choir attempted to wail over the mariachi band. “If the crew is this emotional over the passing of a common machine, I shudder to think how they’ll act should an actual living, sentient person die. Which at the rate things are going is highly likely to be me!”
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Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek: Lower Decks.
