Replicated Nachos, Hot

On the Enterprise, nobody cooks. They replicate. Push a button, command an order, and the universe coughs up whatever meal you desire. Which sounds amazing, until you imagine the chaos of ordering nachos from a machine that obeys the words but ignores the soul.

Ask for “nachos,” and you might get one chip with a single, mathematically precise cheese molecule. Too vague. Say “nachos, hot,” and the replicator decides you meant molten steel temperature. Say “loaded nachos,” and suddenly the plate weighs sixty pounds and requires two redshirts to carry it.

Ask for “Nachos Supreme,” and the replicator doesn’t give you food. It conjures a glowing, godlike being made entirely of chips and cheese, demanding reverence as it hums across the mess hall. The crew shifts uncomfortably because the obvious question hangs in the air: what does a godlike nacho platter need with a starship? The answer, of course, is nothing. The whole ordeal collapses under its own weight — too bloated, too self-important, and, honestly, not even very good.

The true danger is in the modifiers. Guac replicated is never quite guac. It’s too smooth, too uniform, like it was designed by a committee of Vulcans who’ve only read about avocados. Sour cream arrives in flawless spheres, floating ominously like it knows more than you. Jalapeños replicate in perfect geometric circles, beautiful but soulless.

Still, you’d eat them. Because in deep space, nachos aren’t authentic. They’re simply… logical.