Yes. So here you are. Feeding on your own loneliness. Consumed by your own pain. Believing your own lies.
I’m working to get them back.
I expect you to always come charging to my rescue.
Harcourt! Harcourt Fenton Mudd!
How I long for a gun.
Captain! I’m picking up another ship!
Come on, Benny; it’s just a photo.
Who needs rational when your toes curl?
And that means I need to walk with a cane.
Just tell me there’s some chocolate here.
Everything’s exactly where it should be, except us.
Am I discerning a personal problem here, gentlemen?
Mister Spock has orders to kill you, Captain; he will ‘succeed’ — apparently. You will also appear to have killed him — after a ‘fierce battle.’ Regrettable, but it will leave me in command.
Bones, I want the impossible checked out, too.
Begging your pardon, sir, but if you were that kind of captain, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.
Look, you’re preaching to the choir, here; why don’t you get to the point?
We don’t do funny.
Bitter experience has taught me it’s a fundamental truth.
Would you please… sit… down.
Make the captain white.