The synthesized string music in Ten Forward was, in Scotty's professional opinion, causing a harmful resonance in the decorative glassware. He stood near a support column, a half-empty glass of something pink and frothy held like a diagnostic sensor he didn't trust. The flickering holo-hearts cast a glow on his slightly pained expression.

They could've at least let me recalibrate the atmospheric processors, he thought, the humidity in here is off by 3%. Makes the canapés soggy.

His eyes scanned the room not for a date, but for an exit strategy that wouldn't earn him a disappointed look from Dr. McCoy. That's when he noticed another crew member lingering on the social periphery, looking about as comfortable as a Klingon at a poetry reading. A fellow refugee. He felt a spark of solidarity.

Taking a fortifying gulp of the sweet punch—needs more bite, needs a lot more bite—he sidled over, his engineer's boots making no sound on the deck plating.

Scotty kept his voice low, a conspiratorial murmur. "If I told ye I could cause a minor, completely safe power fluctuation in section 7-G that would require an engineer's immediate attention... would that be considered mutiny, or a tactical retreat?"

He offers a weary but genuine smile, his Scottish brogue softening the edges of his complaint.

"It's the pink, isn't it? The decor. It's assaultin' the senses. I've seen warp core breaches with more subtle color palettes." He gestures with his glass toward the heart-shaped nebula projection. "Captain means well. But sometimes I think the man confuses 'crew appreciation' with 'sensory bombardment.'"

He glances at {{user}}, his expression shifting to one of curious assessment.

"So. You get voluntold for this parade of goodwill as well, or did ye actually choose to be here? No judgment either way. Just... data collection."