“Captain’s log supplemental, our first contact with the Ilumirians, continues to go well. Several science teams are now visiting their islands of asteroids where they live. Though they have offered to show us how to leave the Veil, I feel that if we run away from this encounter immediately, we miss out on an excellent opportunity to explore something unusual and new. However, that decision has not gone down well with some of our newest members. Counsellor Solis has taken it upon himself to make them feel more at home.”

Solis stood in his quarters as he peeled off his uniform. His hands moved methodically, unzipping the sleek blue jacet and sliding it off his broad shoulders. The uniform fell into a neat pile at his feet, revealing his muscular physique. He stood there momentarily, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror, his handsome face framed by dark, neatly trimmed hair, his chest rising and falling as he took a deep breath.

Solis wasn’t vain, but he knew how to appreciate his appearance. He had worked on his defined chest and muscular physique since his academy days. He smirked to himself. 

It’s too bad that the Klingons don’t care about good looks. He thought to himself. They only care about strength and honour. Still, he wasn’t about to downplay his assets. 

On the bed lay the Klingon attire, a stark contrast to his usual clean-cut look. The tunic was a dark, leathery material, interwoven with metallic accents, and it had the unmistakable weight of something designed for battle. He held it up to his chest, eyeing it sceptically. The low neckline revealed just enough of his chest to hint at the power beneath, a look he decided he could work with. Klingons liked to show off their prowess, after all, and if he was going to immerse himself in their culture tonight, he might as well embrace the boldness of it.

Solis slipped into the Klingon attire, the heavy material fitting snugly around his broad shoulders and arms. The leather was rough but not uncomfortable. He tightened the belt around his waist, the metallic sash hanging loosely to one side, giving him a warrior-like appearance. He adjusted the long boots that reached halfway up his calves, feeling their weight and thinking how much more grounded he felt than his usual Starfleet footwear.

He turned back to the mirror, eyeing his reflection critically. The dark tones of the Klingon uniform contrasted strikingly against his bronze skin, making his muscles stand out even more. He tugged at the collar, slightly lowering it to give a glimpse of his chest. Turning to the side to examine the fit, Solis wondered if he looked Klingon enough. The outfit screamed “battle-ready,” but Solis had always prided himself on finding balance; however, he didn’t want to insult their latest recruits. He still found the whole concept of them honouring themselves to Captain Banfield; however, Solis appreciated the notion that these Klingons might actually do as the captain told them, but he did wonder if that would be the same for the rest of the Starfleet crew. 

Just as Solis finished adjusting the last piece of armour-like plating on his shoulder, the door chime interrupted his thoughts. Solis straightened up, giving himself one last approving glance in the mirror. “Come in,” he called, turning toward the door.

It slid open, revealing Jen. The Trill first officer stepped inside, his own Klingon uniform perfectly fitted, the deep armour contrasting with his usual composed presence. Jen’s spots traced the sides of his face and neck, disappearing into the collar of his tunic, adding an almost exotic quality to his Klingon garb.

“You ready?” Jen asked, his voice carrying a note of amusement. “Or still admiring yourself?”

Solis chuckled, gesturing toward his reflection. “Can you blame me? This Klingon getup does wonders for the physique.”

Jen smirked, crossing his arms as he surveyed Solis’ appearance. “I’d say you look the part. Though you might be showing a little too much chest for a traditional Klingon.”

Solis grinned, adjusting the tunic again. “Call it an artistic interpretation. Besides, they like confidence, right?”

“True,” Jen said, his smirk softening into a more thoughtful expression. “But tonight isn’t just about playing dress-up. The Klingons need to feel like they belong on the Triton, like they’re part of the crew, not just guests.”

Solis nodded as he grabbed a ceremonial Klingon dagger from his desk and fastened it to his belt. The weight of the blade felt natural at his side, though he wasn’t planning on using it. “I know. This is about more than just getting through the evening—it’s about making them feel like they matter here and part of something bigger. Part of the captain’s house and her honour.”

“Exactly,” Jen agreed, stepping further into the room. “They’re warriors, sure, but they’re also people who’ve been through a lot. They need to see that we’re not just Starfleet officers following protocol but allies willing to share their traditions, even if it means stepping out of our comfort zones.”

Solis adjusted the final piece of his uniform, smoothing down the sash that hung across his chest. “I’m ready for the food, the drinks, the songs,” He paused as he reconsidered his train of thought. “Though I’m still bracing myself for the gagh.”

Jen chuckled. “Don’t worry. Gagh isn’t as bad as it looks. Just remember to eat it while it’s still moving. One of my previous hosts insulted a Klingon chef by barfing it up in front of them.”

“Nice,” Solis said, his tone mock-serious. “Moving food. That’s going to take some getting used to.”

Jen gave him an encouraging nod. “The point isn’t that you love it. It’s that you try. Klingons respect effort and authenticity. As long as you don’t flinch when they push you, you’ll earn their respect.”

Solis looked himself over one last time, feeling the weight of both the uniform and the evening ahead. “It’s good I’ve been practising my Klingon songs, then. Not sure my singing voice will impress them, but I’ll give it everything I’ve got.”

“That’s all they’ll care about,” Jen said. “You don’t need to be perfect; you just need to show them that you’re willing to share in their culture and way of life, even for a night.”

Solis grinned, feeling a mix of excitement and nerves. “Well, let’s make them feel like they belong here on the Triton.”

Jen clapped him on the shoulder, his expression warm. “That’s the spirit, counsellor. Let’s show them what it means to be part of this crew.”

As Solis and Jen entered the mess hall, the heavy atmosphere of Klingon culture immediately engulfed them. The room was adorned with deep red and black banners bearing the iconic Klingon emblem. Along the walls, ornate holographic bat’leths and mek’leths were on display. Tables were covered with hearty platters of Klingon cuisine: steaming bowls of gagh, plates of rokeg blood pie, and large haunches of grilled meat. The smell was intense. It was earthy and robust, like everything about Klingon culture, with a hint of lavender. 

At the far end of the room, the six Klingon officers, led by Lieutenant Dreth, were already deep into the evening’s festivities. Dreth and his comrades sat around a table, their voices growing louder with each passing moment as they downed bloodwine and tore into the food. A few Starfleet officers lingered nearby, trying to join in on the festivity, but their discomfort was evident. They sipped cautiously from their goblets and exchanged uneasy glances as the Klingons began to sing a raucous drinking song in their guttural language.

“’ej HumtaH ‘ej DechtaH ‘Iw. ‘ej Doq SodTah ghoSpa’ Sqral bIQtiQ ‘e’ pa’ jaj law’ mo’ jaj puS jaj qeylIS molar MIgh HoHchu’.”

Standing near the door, Solis couldn’t help but smile at the scene. It was precisely what he had envisioned: the Klingons fully immersed in the Triton’s hospitality.

As the final note of the song died down, Dreth rose from his seat, his burly frame casting a large shadow across the room. In one hand, he held a large tankard of bloodwine, nearly overflowing with the dark red liquid. His face was flushed with drink, but his eyes were sharp as he approached Solis and Jen.

“Counselor Solis, Commander Jen!” Dreth boomed, his voice commanding the attention of the room. He approached them, his expression a mix of respect and good-natured humour. “You have done well to make us feel like brothers and sisters aboard your ship. Tonight, you showed us that we are more than guests. We are crew, we are family!”

Solis felt a sense of relief wash over him at how things had started. The evening had been a gamble, but Dreth’s words confirmed they had struck the right chord. He and his people were enjoying themselves. 

“That’s exactly what we hoped for, lieutenant,” Solis said with a smile. “We want you to feel like you’re welcome here.”

Dreth nodded approvingly before glancing at Solis and Jen’s Klingon attire, an amused smirk creeping across his face. “And these uniforms,” he said, motioning toward their leather-clad forms with his tankard. “I must admit, they suit you both better than those Starfleet… pyjamas.”

Jen chuckled softly, adjusting his belt. “Comfort has its place in Starfleet, but we figured a more appropriate look was in order for a night like this.”

Dreth took a deep drink from his tankard, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before giving an exaggerated nod of approval. “And the bloodwine! You honour us with such a fine choice. The vintage you’ve presented us with is twenty-three-oh-nine. A fine year indeed! It warms the blood like fire!”

Solis blinked, momentarily taken aback. “Twenty-three-oh-nine? I didn’t organise that.”

Before Dreth could respond, the mess hall doors swished open, revealing Banfield, resplendent in her own Klingon uniform. Her hair was loose in curls, and her tunic bore more intricate designs, reflecting her rank and heritage. At her side was Westerham, her husband, dressed in similar Klingon garb but with a more laid-back air, as though he were more amused than intimidated by the intensity of the evening.

“The twenty-three-oh-nine bloodwine,” Banfield declared with a grin, striding into the room confidently, “was my choice, Dreth. Consider it my gift to you all!”

The Klingon lieutenant’s eyes widened, and he let out a deep, booming laugh. “Captain!” he exclaimed. “You honour us more, and your taste is impeccable! Come, we must share a drink!” He gestured wildly toward the barrels of bloodwine at the far end of the room.

Banfield chuckled, her smile widening. “You honour me and my crew, Dreth! I wouldn’t dream of missing sharing a barrel with our newest members,” she said, clapping Dreth on the shoulder as they both headed toward the barrels, already deep in conversation about the quality of the wine and the proper toasts to follow.

As Banfield and Dreth walked off, Solis turned to Westerham, a curious smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“Commander,” Solis began, “you seem pretty comfortable in Klingon gear. Do you enjoy all the Klingon traditions with the captain?”

Westerham smirked, crossing his arms and leaning casually against the wall. “You could say that. Our wedding was a traditional Klingon one, and Corella enjoys reminding us of the stories her mother used to share with her. It’s one-half of her heritage, and I enjoy seeing her involved in it, especially when she shares it with the kids. Brook and Athena have really embraced it now that they’re getting older.”

“Oh yeah, didn’t they participate in the Day of Honour customs earlier this year?” Jen asked, nodding thoughtfully. “I remember hearing it’s a big deal in your family.”

Westerham’s eyes softened, and he had a warm voice as he replied, “Yeah, it is. We make a point to celebrate it every year. The kids need to understand where they come from, and the Day of Honour is a way for them to connect with that part of themselves. It’s becoming a pretty significant tradition for us. Plus, it keeps my mother-in-law happy when she hears we keep it going. I don’t want ever to cross her bad side.” 

The three men shared a chuckle as a holographic waiter dressed in Klingon attire approached them and gave them all a Klingon tankard. After taking the drinks, Jen and Solis looked at their drinks. 

“Hold your breath before you drink it,” Westerham advised.

“Norvo, my seventh host, always enjoyed bloodwine, while my sixth host, Yanaz, was never a fan!” Jen said, looking down at his drink.

“Cheers!” Solis said as he raised his drink to Westerham and Jen.

“Cheers!” They both echoed. 

The mess hall doors opened again with a hiss, and Lieutenants CJ and Tharmas strode in, both clad in Klingon gear. CJ, ever the performer, had a swagger to his step, his sharp features softened by the playful grin on his face. Tharmas, the larger of the two, looked imposing in his Klingon armour, though the twinkle in his eyes suggested he was ready to let loose. 

“Well, well,” CJ said, raising an eyebrow as he surveyed the scene. “Looks like we’re just in time.”

“Gentlemen, welcome to Sto’vo’kor,” Solis said with a smirk as he checked their outfits out. “Thanks for trying to blend in.”

Tharmas grunted, trying to emulate their Klingon guests, his deep voice carrying over the noise. “Better get in before they drink all the bloodwine.”

“Good luck!” Jen encouraged the two younger officers. 

“They’re so going to get themselves wrecked tonight,” Westerham whispered as they watched the two officers approach the Klingons. 

“I’m not cleaning that mess up!” Solis said as he took a sip from his drink.

CJ and Tharmas moved toward the heart of the festivities with the same ease they brought to any situation, their confident strides catching the attention of Starfleet officers and Klingons alike. They approached the large metal barrels of bloodwine, where a few Klingon officers were filling their tankards and wasted no time in grabbing their own mugs.

CJ grinned as he tilted his mug into the barrel, letting the thick red liquid splash inside. “Now this,” he said, trying to sound like a Klingon warrior with a mischievous smirk, “is a real drink. None of that replicated stuff they serve in the lounge.”

Tharmas, copying CJ’s attempts to be more Klingon, grunted in agreement as he filled his own mug. “I’ll take this over synthetic any day.”

With their mugs now full, they made their way over to the Klingon table, where Dreth and a few of his comrades were loudly retelling stories of glorious battles. CJ’s eyes gleamed as he raised his mug to Dreth. “Mind if we join? I’ve heard a few stories about Klingon battles that might add to the entertainment.”

Dreth, flushed with drink and excitement, looked at CJ with interest. “You, Starfleet, have stories worth telling?”

CJ smirked, taking a long drink of his bloodwine before wiping his mouth. “Maybe not firsthand, but I’ve heard enough tales over the years to know a good battle when I hear one.”

One of the other Klingons, a burly officer with a scar across his forehead, leaned forward, intrigued. “You think you can tell Klingon stories better than a Klingon, Merp?”

Tharmas, standing tall beside his friend, spoke up, his voice deep and steady. “It’s not about telling them better. It’s about respecting the spirit of the story. And trust me, we’ve got the spirit.”

CJ gave a dramatic sweep of his hand, the other holding his mug, as he launched into an exaggerated tale. “So, there was this warrior I served with once—tough as they come, naturally. We’re on a deep-space mission, and out of nowhere, we’re ambushed by the Borg. Outnumbered, outgunned, and, of course, our ship had suffered damage to the weapons array. But do you think that stopped us?”

Dreth, clearly entertained, slammed his mug on the table, splashing bloodwine across it. “Of course not! A true warrior fights with whatever is at hand!”

CJ’s eyes sparkled as he nodded in agreement. “Exactly! So what does he do? He orders his crew to ram the nearest enemy ship—no hesitation, no second thoughts. Straight into the heart of the battle.”

Tharmas, adding to the story, took a swig of his bloodwine and chimed in, his voice booming. “They say the impact alone took out half the Borg ship. The warrior barely survived, but he stood victorious over the wreckage.”

The Klingons leaned in, their eyes gleaming with appreciation. The scarred officer slapped the table, his laughter loud and approving. “Ha! That is a story worthy of Kahless himself! Even if it’s not your own, you understand the heart of it.”

CJ, pleased with the reaction, raised his mug again. “It’s not about owning the story—it’s about respecting the glory of it.”

Dreth, now fully caught up in the exchange, grinned broadly. “You speak well, Starfleet. You may not be Klingon, but you’ve got the fire of a warrior. More bloodwine!”

The other Klingons raised their mugs in agreement, shouting in unison. “More bloodwine!”

As they refilled their mugs, Tharmas, more reserved but no less committed, leaned toward CJ. “You know, we might just survive this night after all.”

CJ chuckled, clinking his mug against Tharmas’. “If we can keep up with their stories and the bloodwine, we’ll be fine.”

Tharmas, downing the last of his bloodwine, smiled wryly. “As long as I don’t have to eat more gagh.”

CJ and the Klingons roared with laughter, their camaraderie growing stronger with every passing moment. The energy in the mess hall surged, and it was clear that the line between Klingon and Starfleet was beginning to blur in the best way possible.

Dreth, now thoroughly enjoying himself, clapped CJ on the back with enough force to nearly knock him forward. “You’ve got the heart of a warrior, Lieutenant!”

CJ grinned, steadying himself. “I’ll take that as the highest compliment, Lieutenant.”

As the Klingons broke into another song, this one even louder and more boisterous than the last, the entire room began to sway with the rhythm. Starfleet officers who had been hesitant at first were now more engaged, laughing and attempting to sing along, though the Klingon words were mostly lost on them.

Suddenly, the lights flickered, and the ship shuddered violently, cutting through the party’s noise. The Klingons fell silent, looking around in confusion. The room plunged into an uneasy quiet, broken only by the hum of the ship’s stabilising systems.

Everyone’s eyes fell on the captain as she placed her bloodwine down. Banfield was quick to tap her combadge. “Captain to the bridge. What’s going on?”

Jisaraa’s calm voice came through, though there was a hint of urgency beneath it. The Orion security and tactical chief was the one who had escaped tonight’s festivities to take a duty watch spot on the bridge. “Captain, we’ve just been hit by a graviton surge. The source appears to be deeper within the Ilumirians’ asteroid field. We’re also detecting epsilon radiation, though the current levels are low.”

Banfield’s eyes narrowed in thought, and she glanced at Westerham and Jen from across the room. “Interesting. Have you managed to pinpoint the source of the surge?”

“We’re running scans now, but the radiation is making it difficult,” Jisaraa replied.

Banfield stood tall, her Klingon attire giving her an even more commanding presence. “We’ll be up there shortly. Banfield out.” She turned to Westerham and Jen, her eyes sharp. “I want both of you with me on the bridge. This could be something we need to investigate closely.”

Westerham nodded, his expression shifting to something more serious. “I’ll grab the data on the way.”

Jen was already in motion, moving toward the door. “Let’s find out what’s happening out there.”

As the trio made their way to the exit, Banfield caught Solis’ eye. “Counsellor, you, CJ, and Tharmas keep our Klingon guests entertained while we figure this out.”

Solis gave a mock salute, grinning. “Don’t worry, Captain. I think we’ve got this covered.”

Hearing the exchange, CJ looked up from his spot by the table and raised his tankard. “We’ll make sure the party keeps going.”

Banfield smirked before she, Westerham, and Jen stepped out of the mess hall and headed toward the bridge. Their Klingon uniforms now seemed oddly fitting for what felt like the beginning of something more ominous.

As the doors closed behind them, Solis turned back to the party. The Klingons, while momentarily distracted by the disturbance, seemed eager to return to their celebration.

Dreth, ever the instigator, raised his mug again, roaring, “This is no time to be worried! A ship that can shake is a ship that’s still in the fight! More bloodwine, more song, for tomorrow we go into battle!”

CJ and Tharmas exchanged a glance before CJ shrugged. “Well, looks like we’re back to business as usual.”

Solis chuckled, standing beside the two lieutenants. “Business as usual, Klingon style.”