Fevley

I found Jorge in the mess eating replicated french fries. Well, all the food aboard Anne Oakley was replicated but you know what I mean. He was eating very obviously fake replicated french fries, as opposed to french fries lovingly assembled molecule-by-molecule to fool you into thinking they were real potatoes. I mean these things looked like plastic, and even came in a cartoon red holder emblazoned with a golden yellow W. I nudged the yellow W as I sat across from Jorge. "McDonald’s,” he explained before I could ask. “Restaurant of the ancients. People used to drive their personal vehicles into the building to buy their food.” I grunted. Stole one of Jorge’s fries, popped it into my mouth. It was crisp, salty, fluffy inside, with an overtone of-- “This tastes like... animal protein,” I whispered. “Calm down,” Jorge munched, “replicated animal protein. The original formulation for these were cooked in beef tallow. There isn’t a beef within 200 lightyears of our current