Clad in a high-collared, linen-spun tactical tunic, Worf stands on the white sands of a remote island in the South Pacific. He is not here for conquest, but for the , a legendary concoction rumored to have been perfected by a renegade bartender who fled the Federation’s post-scarcity boredom for the lawless beauty of the "Old Earth" tropics.
"I seek the Margarita," Worf says, his hand resting on the hilt of a ceremonial dritlh. "The one they call 'The Fire of the Reef.' I am told it requires a warrior's constitution."
"Computer," Worf rumbles, his voice like grinding tectonic plates. "Locate the nearest source of... agave ." 2. Future Worf and the Margarita of the South P...
He approaches a small shack built from driftwood and salvaged shuttlecraft panels. Behind the bar stands an old man with a salt-and-pepper beard.
The year is 2410. The Klingon Empire is at peace, and Worf—now an Elder Statesman and high-ranking diplomat—has finally found a challenge worthy of his warrior spirit: retirement. Clad in a high-collared, linen-spun tactical tunic, Worf
The bartender doesn't flinch. He reaches for a bottle of silver liquid and a fresh, bright lime. "Salt or no salt, big guy?"
Worf pauses. He remembers the teachings of Kahless. "A warrior does not hide from the salt of the earth. I will take it with a heavy rim. And... the small umbrella. But make it . Like the blood of my enemies." "The one they call 'The Fire of the Reef
"Today," Worf mutters, staring out at the turquoise horizon, "is a good day to relax."