Guess Who's Coming To Dinner - Part VIII (The Feast)

Posted on Fri Jan 30th, 2026 @ 9:20pm by Captain Robert Burke & Commander Vincent 'Vin' Salvatore & Lieutenant Marques Hunt & Lieutenant Kyra sh'Herhrisst & Lieutenant Nelar & Lieutenant Ryssa Dari & Lieutenant JG Maël "Gideon" Beauregard & Lieutenant JG Gianna De Luca & Ensign Shanice Winters

3,446 words; about a 17 minute read

Mission: EPISODE 1: SHAKEDOWN
Location: Great Hall
Timeline: MD036

::ON::

"No you won't!" Shenas shouted as she took a position by Vincent. "Your obnoxious tone and incessant boasting has reached it end, Dathoth." She stood there firmly, clenching her fists and smiling happily, as she finally spoke her peace. She regretted coming here with Dathoth, but not coming here in general. As she bared her fangs, Shenas looked Dathoth dead in his eyes, adding menacingly. "You didn't earn your seat here, because your House is small and lacks the honor to even be considered. You're a small Targ in a forest of hungry predators."

Ryssa moved off to the side to be out of the way. She preferred not to get into a fight right now. But just in case, she made sure she had a bottle of blood wine in her hand.

It was at this point that Lieutenant Hunt had left his own seat. Now located at Vincent's left side, Marques was positioned in a fighting stance ready to join in on the chaos. The came for his Captain and XO, which in his eyes were intolerable acts which resulted in several ass whooping's. Giving Salvatore a nod, that he was ready to follow his lead, he stood in waiting.

Still sitting in his seat, Doube observed the helm officer. Yes, he hated the Hunt family. But there was something slightly honorable about the way joined in with the odds against him. Before considering jumping into what was likely to be the end of this feast. His curiosity had him remain in his seat. Also, next to him Ensign Winters stood up with a serious look of fear and concern in her eyes. He could tell that she wasn't much of a fighter. But stood ready as if she would jump in if necessary. It was at that moment, Doube wondered if this was actually his mate. Leaning back in his chair, he chuckled to himself.

Narrowly missing getting hit in the head with a piece of thrown cutlery, Gia stood from her seated position and moved over to where Ryssa was located, somewhere safer than her previous position. Although she was more than capable of getting involved herself, it would've been quite hypocritical given her role was to help people, not do more harm.

In an effort to understand the Klingons better as a race and try and see their good qualities, she had been observing them quietly and making pleasant conversation, but now she was disappointed in what was transpiring. In fact, Gia was ashamed of how her fellow crew had reacted, especially the CO and XO, but did understand their need to defend themselves.

"Hi," Ryssa said to Gianna. "Welcome to the non-fight club. At least I got to talk science first." She held up her bottle of blood wine. "I grabbed this as a precaution. I'm not sure if it's a weapon or a bribe."

"Hi," Gia replied as she watched on, "I'd say it's more of a bribe at this point." She could still feel the after effects of the bloodwine from the other night and it didn’t sit well at all. "What do you think the outcome of all this is going to be?"

"That depends on how the crew fights. If we fight with honor, it'll go well." Ryssa shrugged. "I'm not the best judge, but so far, I think we're doing okay."

Thor'koth stumbled towards the two women, clearly worse for wear after consuming much bloodwine. 'Do not worry, the Klingons have done you great honour today. A fight in the Great Hall ... it will be spoken about for decades!'

Ryssa smiled, gratified and relieved by his words. "It will definitely be spoken of on the Hecate. We thank you for the honor. Perhaps we'll even write a ballad about this battle."

'You must transmit the ballad if you do,' Thor'koth belched as he sat next to them. 'Next to Klingon opera, human opera is the second highest musical art form,' he said solemnly, before holding up a finger. 'Only just beating out Country and Western by a shade.'

Ryssa laughed appreciatively at the mention of Country Western. "I will definitely do that." In fact, she might write it herself.

"Country and Western? I never would've guessed." Gia mused with a smile. "I appreciate the taste in opera though." This is fascinating, she thought to herself.

The chaos was growing too much now, the honour-fight in danger of spilling over into something more uncontrollable, potentially fatal for the Starfleeters, and the Accords. Seeing Ko'Vag sat in his chair mute and unwilling to intervene, K'urer'Sh grew angry, bile bubbling through his throat as he threw his head back and roared.

Springing to his feet, surprisingly sprightly for one so old and heavy-set, the grey-haired Klingon seized Ko'Vag's symbol of office and brought it crashing down on the table in front of him. 'Enough!' he cried, 'enough!' He pointed his finger at the Klingon that had initiated this. 'House Zovash has done the Hecate's crew great honour. But there is no need to continue - you treat them almost as Klingons!' He chuckled, 'we must remember that our crew are not as sturdy or solid as Klingon warriors!'

He looked about the room, gauging the reaction, seeing some slowing their brawling.

Z'mtok turned at the sound of the roar, slowly at first, as though gauging just how emotional K'urer'Sh was in his words.

He was breathing hard, chest heaving beneath his armour, knuckles split and wet. Blood--mostly not his--had darkened the ridges of his hand. He grinned without really thinking about it. The night had begun to make sense. He straightened and wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist, laughing.

"Almost Klingons," he repeated, voice loud, bright and youthful. "That is your word for it?" He took a few steps forward, boots crunching through broken crockery and matted sauce. "They sit at our table. They drink our blood wine. They throw their firsts and do not cry out." He nodded, once, satisfied. "That is called learning."

A few warriors chuckled. Someone thumped a cup against a bench in approval.

Z'mtok spread his hands, palms open, entirely unafraid. "Why should they not taste our culture?" he asked. "Why should they not feel it in their bones?" His eyes moved quickly--almost fondly--toward the Starfleet officers in their dress uniforms, his gaze landing at last on Captain Burke. "They came among us willingly. Let them leave knowing what it means."

Burke, swaying slightly, dress uniform creased, torn and definitely not ship-shape, nodded in Z'mtok's direction. 'We definitely, uh, feel it in our bones. And we have definite learnings to take from our ... interactions tonight.' He sighed, 'our superiors would not see it in the same light if we carried on, however.'

K'urer'Sh regarded the human critically. He suspected that the man would not back down from another challenge, but the Accords would not survive the death of a Starfleet captain. He growled low in his throat. 'Your superiors would be correct.' The Klingon cast his eyes across Z'mtok and his House cadre, 'and neither would ours. We must treat them as children. Teach them slowly.'

Descending from the dais, he approached Z'mtok, 'do we understand?'

Z'mtok looked as though he might dare to growl at K'urer'Sh, but his expression slowly morphed from fierce to a dark grin. "Of course."

His grin lingered a moment longer, still feral but brightening, before he turned fully toward the Hecate's Captain.

He bent, seized two flagons from the wreckage of the table, dipped them into the cauldron in one smooth motion, and strode purposefully toward Burke. Carefully, he moved into his space and thrust the flagon forward, planting it squarely against the Captain's chest--a splash of the dark liquid landing on his tattered dress uniform.

"Take it," he said. His voice had changed. It wasn't quite softer, but it was as though the blade was now sheathed. "You stood when you were struck," Z'mtok continued. "You fought as a warrior fights. It would be an honour to drink with you, Robert Burke."

'And it would be my honour to drink with you, Z'mtok. You are a ... formidable opponent,' Burke took the flagon with a weary smile, and held it up for all to see. 'May we see the day when we fight side by side as warriors.'

K'urer'Sh, seeing that order was being restored as more turned to the two charismatic characters, was pleased with himself. Then he noticed a corner where cries and shouts still emanated, and made his way over.

Z'mtok drank deeply, not once taking his eyes from the Hecate's captain. While a worthy opponent, he would never completely trust an outworlder. Especially a human. He drank deeply from the flagon, the blood wine stinging the cuts in his mouth.

Nodding, Burke met his gaze, sides aching, elbow grating, and raised his own tankard to his mouth. Grimacing around the wine, he found he'd managed to bite his tongue at some point. Weariness settled like a lead weight across his body, and secretly, he hoped this had been his last fight with a Klingon for a long time. Preferably the rest of his life.

Z'mtok slapped Burke on the back. "Come, my friend," he barked. "Let me teach you some of our songs."

Nelar resisted the urge to offer medical treatment to those who were obviously wounded while sparring with the Klingons. She would save that, as well as her admonishments for such reckless behavior for when they were safely back on board the Hecate and away from Klingon ears.

Vincent stood there, hand tightly wrapped around the handle of d'k tahg, with Marques at his right and Shenas at his left. He stood there and waited. Waited for Dathoth or his friend to make the first move. Vincent knew he wasn't about to, mainly because he was a Starfleet Officer, but he wasn't so sure about Shenas and Hunt. Shenas was a Klingon, despite being from a House he was familiar and close to, she was still someone who might thirst for a fight. Rush in to catch her opponent off guard or to shed blood first. Although, she seemed to be holding herself back, but the look on her face told him it wasn't going to be for long. Hunt, from what he observed when they went to help Vin with his unfinished business, told him there was a history with Klingons that pushed a lot of buttons for him, so this fight might bring out a part of him that's he's held back for quite some time.

Dathoth and the Klingon who joined him rushed toward the three. Letting out a fierce roar, like a Klingon battle cry, with their fists clenched and eyes hyper focused on their prey. Like animals preparing for the slaughter, they collided with the group and fought. Dathoth seeming to grab both Shenas and Vincent off their feet and slam them to the ground, causing the dagger to slide from his hand. As the stubborn Klingon saw it hit the ground, he reached for it, only to be stopped by Vincent who immediately began slamming his fist to the Klingons side. Only getting a slight groan out of him before his attention shifted back to the Starfleet Officer.

The Klingon attempted to swing on Hunt, but went low grabbing the larger male by legs, knocking him off his feet. On top of the Klingon who tried his best to get the Human off him. Marques began delivering of blows to the Klingons skull with his right forearm. If the poor guy was human, then he would've been unconscious by now.

Three against two. It seemed like the odds were in their favor, but the way the Klingon's were trained to fight, there was a chaos to their swings and moves. Bouncing from one to another. It was hard to predict their next move. When on seemed to be struggling, the other would rush to his aid, keeping the fight going.

Returning to his feet after the Klingon was officially out cold, Hunt looked around. There was something close to savage in his eyes.

Laying his hand on Hunt's shoulder, K'urer'Sh smiled at him, 'steady on Helmsman!' he chuckled, 'the fight is over - see your captain and the others drinking.' He grabbed Vincent by the collar and hissed in his ear, 'rejoin your companions now.'

Vincent felt himself get pulled off and immediately reacted by shoving K'urer'Sh away. He looked up at him, furious look and defiant eyes, expecting another fight. As soon as Shena joins him and gripped his arm, he locked eyes with her, immediately seeing the caution in her eyes. She knew him fighting K'urer'Sh was a bad idea, so Vincent's anger and caution subsided. He locked eyes with the Klingon again and simply nodded his head in agreement. As he walked away, back to his seat, he took a moment to pick up the d'k tahg as Shena reluctantly followed.

Turning his attention to K'urer'Sh, Hunt removed the hand from his shoulder. The fight was indeed over, and things had begun to calm down. Watching the Klingon grab Vincent by the collar left a bad taste in his mouth. The Lieutenant mentally told himself not to continue with any further hostilities.

Shanice walked over to Marques and placed a hand around his wrist. "Let's have a seat."

Nodding in compliance, Hunt followed the Ensign back to their chairs.

Dathoth stood up defiantly and smiled from ear to ear. He let out a softly chuckle before standing beside K'urer'Sh to savor his victory. He watched Vincent return to his seat, like a defeated targ, before crossing his arms. He felt even more frustration as he watched Shena follow him back. "That will teach them to come into our sacred hall and think they can stand toe to toe with a Klingon Warrior." He said under his breath. The Klingon looked over to his companion, smiling ear to ear, before it suddenly faded.

The Klingon laid there motionless, blood covered hands over a wound, his eyes looking up at the ceiling of their most sacred place. There was no life left in his eyes. His warriors heart was no longer beating. He died, like all Klingons shoulder, in battle. But, what kind of battle was this? An enemy that offered peace and mocked them whenever they could? Would he join his ancestors in battle or be placed on the Barge of the Dead?

The older Klingon looked the Dathoth up and down, and growled low in his throat. 'They have gone toe to toe with us for centuries. Only an addled Targ would deny that. Be glad you live to achieve Sto-Vo-Kor another day and honour your fallen warrior.' K'urer'Sh stilled his tongue, lest he say too much, and turned on his heel to move to quell any other grumbles and complaints around the hall.

"They came into our hall! Stood on the same ground our most honored warriors have stood after killing many of our own and you expect us to break bread and drink bloodwine with them?!!" Dathoth shouted furiously as he pointed to Vincent. "That one carries a dagger with the emblem of a sacred house which he may as well stolen from the corpse of one of our own, used it to murder one of our own, but you want us to treat them as if they are honorable warriors?!!" He gestured to his dead friend on the ground. "They! Are! Filth!" The Klingon growled as he stared K'urer'Sh in the eyes with an intense glare. He leaned in closely to the old Klingon as he whispered. "You may believe I am an addled Targ, but at least I am not a domesticated Targ who has grown accustomed to its comforts and lost its ability to fight. An old warrior who lost his Klingon heart and kneels to his enemy doesn't deserve a place in Sto-Vo-Kor. The only place he has earned is on the Barge of the Dead. Sailing to Grethor with the other dishonored dead." He let out another growl before walking off.

The older Klingon watched the other's retreating back, chewing his chapped lip as he was deep in thought. He waved over two trusted lieutenants to dispose of the dead body. Two officers he was utterly trusting in their loyalty. The Intelligence Officer hoped that it would be enough to sweep this under the carpet.


The Steward looked around the hall, half-amused, half-appalled that the Starfleet crew had managed to wreak such damage. Kovaq wondered how he would be able to explain this to Azetbur when she returned to the Homeworld. Still, he considered that it could be measured as some success. Only one dead warrior, no dead Starfleet crew, merely bruised bodies and egos. Seeing the Starfleeters gathered in the middle of the room, he approched them, his tall cane tapping against the stone floor of the room. 'Perhaps it is best we call this the end of the night, eh.' Kovag smiled at Burke and his people. 'Best to return to your ship as we remember the old saying, nothing good happens after a fistfight.' He managed a weak laugh.

Burke nodded in agreement. 'Of course, Steward. Thank you for allowing us to experience the unique culture of Klingon banquets. I'll be sure to mention the warm hospitality in my report to Command.' Seeing Kovag's expression tighten in unspoken anger, Burke knew he was pushing it. Tired, his natural sardonic tone was asserting itself. 'We will see ourselves out. Crew?! Fall in!'

Doube stared at Lieutenant Hunt as he fell in on the Captains order. Eventually they would meet on the field of battle. This so call peace would be short lived. War with the Federation again was inevitable.

Marques Hunt returned the stare down towards Doube with one of his own and gave a slight smirk. Honestly, he expected the Klingons to attack the Hecate once they returned back to the ship. Klingons didn't take lightly to taking an ass whooping.

Falling in line, Ensign Winters simply waved to the few Klingons she had spoken to but remained silence for the most part. This dinner would make for an excellent article. With a few details left out of course.

Nelar felt relief when she overheard the Captain and Kovag signaling the end of their time with the Klingons, though Nelar would not admit to experience such an emotion to any of her colleagues. Still, she stood up a little too quickly at the Captain's orders to fall in and found herself standing a little too eagerly at attention by the Captain's side, ready and waiting to transport back to the ship.

Of course, Starfleet would tug the leash just as soon as things were getting interesting. Kyra gave the multi-species gesture (essentially a shrug) as if, 'Well, what are you going to do?" to the most interesting dinner guests she had ever engaged with. She languidly stood, the blood wine having gone to more than her head. Kyra sh'Herhrisst would get back to the ship, but the well-pickled inner voice warned that she was going to pay for this 'little' stunt.

The flood of relief washed over Gia as she stood up as well and followed the rest of her crewmates, pausing a moment to nod her head respectfully with a half smile to their hosts before continuing and keeping an eye on Kyra as she walked with a drunken swagger in front of her.

As his team assembled, Burke gave a polite half-bow of the head to the assembled Klingons, then flipped his communicator open, 'Hecate, Away Team to beam up.' What a blessed relief was the shimmer of the transporter beam as the room dissolved around him.

::OFF::

Captain Robert Burke
Commanding Officer
USS Hecate

Commander Vincent Salvatore
Executive & Chief Intelligence Officer
USS Hecate

Lieutenant Kyra sh'Herhrisst
Chief Security Officer
USS Hecate

Lieutenant Nelar
Chief Medical Officer
USS Hecate

Lieutenant Marquis Hunt
Chief Flight Control Officer
USS Hecate

Lieutenant Juno Jones
Chief Engineer
USS Hecate

Lieutenant Ryssa Dari
Chief Science Officer
USS Hecate

Lieutenant Nelar
Chief Medical Officer
USS Hecate

Lieutenant JG Maël "Gideon" Beauregard
Chief Operations Officer
USS Hecate

Lieutenant JG Gianna De Luca
Chief Counsellor
USS Hecate

Ensign Shanice Winters
Chief Diplomatic Officer
USS Hecate

 

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