"Computer," Worf rumbles, his voice like grinding tectonic plates. "Locate the nearest source of... agave ."

"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."

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 bartender doesn't flinch. He reaches for a bottle of silver liquid and a fresh, bright lime. "Salt or no salt, big guy?"

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.

"Today," Worf mutters, staring out at the turquoise horizon, "is a good day to relax."