The cups around Aimee were piling up around her.  The plate of digestive biscuits long ago reduced to crumbs.  Aimee set her PADD down to stare out the window and into space beyond. Something was off and she couldn’t quite put a finger on it.  There was a restlessness in her that made concentrating difficult. 

“Computer time,” Aimee announced.

“The current ship time is zero-one-hundred hours, five minuets and thirty-eight seconds,” The computer responded.

With a sigh she stood and walked over to the bank of replicators, this time with an armful of cups to be recycled.  With her dirty dishes reduced to energy for ship’s power reserves she stared blankly at the empty replicator. Sighing she pressed the activation button, “Water, ten degrees Celsius.” She wondered if she should give sleep another go.  It was late after all.

The replicator obediently made as soft beep in acknowledgment and with a hum and surge of white-blue light a glass of crystal clear water appeared on the dispenser pad.

Picking up the glass Aimee returned to her seat and her medical journal. The latest from the Denobulan Medical Council. The doctors on Denobula were working on treating and reversing the effects of Irumodic Syndrome using prions modified with stem cells in order to replicate damaged brain cells from the disease.  It was fascinating research using something that was ordinarily deadly getting it to do good.

Aimee adjusted herself in her chair in her office.  Her head was pounding to the point of almost agony.  Groaning she closed her eyes and lay back head resting against the back of her chair.  “Computer time?”

“The current ship time is zero-eight-hundred hours, fifteen minutes and ten seconds.”

Aimee frowned. She didn’t remember returning to her quarters… In fact she didn’t even know how she got to sickbay.  She was still wearing the ratty t-shirt and a kilt from the night before.  Sighing she rubbed her temples. Had she drank?  She didn’t remember drinking anything, and this really didn’t feel like a hangover.  The last thing she could remember was staring out the window in the mess hall reading the Denobulan medical journal. 

Tapping her combadge she spoke, “Doctor MacDonald to Doctor Andrews.”

“Go ahead Doctor,” Andrews’ voice came over the speaker.

Aimee winced in pain from the loud disembodied voice, “Could you bring a medical tricorder and come to my office.”

“On my way.”

Andrews walked into her office seconds later and took a double take at Aimee, “Oof. Long night last night?  How much did you drink.”

“Nothing,” Aimee growled.  “I had some chamomile tea and some water.”

The other doctor opened his tricorder and scanned her waving the hand scanner all around her head. “Nothing to drink? Well, it looks like a hangover to me and the tricorder seems to agree.”  He showed Aimee the readings and she frowned.

“I swear I drank nothing.”

“Hmm…” Andrews announced ignoring her protestations.

“Hmm what?” Aimee demanded.

“Nothing really, but you have elevated adrenaline and cortisol levels and your pericortex and frontal lobe show signs of recent overstimulation.”  He snapped the tricorder shut and pressed a hypospray against her neck.  “That should ease the pain.  Next time go… uh… well go easy on the tea will you?”

Aimee shot the other doctor a look, “Thank you Doctor.  You can go now.” She wasn’t in the mood to be teased let alone for something she had nothing to do with.