In the largest of the Sacramento’s cargo bays – converted for medical triage with mobile biobeds scattered across the space – it began with one solitary, trembling beam of light. Then another appeared, then two, until soon seven beams emerged simultaneously. The air began to change, the neutral smell of the ship tainted with primal odours.The Klingon wounded arrived. Battered, bloodied, and broken.

The Klingons arrival was everything except muted: the raw, uncontrollable fury of a storm laced with despair. Doctor Vennock barely managed to call out her first command before a newly arrived warrior lashed out. His blood-soaked forearm struck a nurse who, caught off guard, wavered on her feet and in her conviction that this was a good idea. The wounded Klingon’s cry – a desperate mix of pain and defiance – echoed across the cargo bay as he stumbled away.

“No restraints!” he roared through clenched teeth, “I still stand!”

Close by, another Klingon crumpled to his knees, clutching a warped, shattered gauntlet that had become one with his scarred skin. With what little strength remained, he pounded the deck in a slow, almost sacred rhythm – as if each strike summoned the courage to defy the pain.

“Help them to the biobeds!” Vennock cried out urgently amid the unfolding chaos, “Now!”

A young ensign rushed forward only to be brushed aside by a third bruised Klingon, staggering past. This warrior, his teeth bared in a pained snarl and bleeding from a deep, unyielding wound above his ribs, declared with a heart-wrenching determination, “Treat others first, Starfleet!”

The ensign retreated a step, her eyes wide with a mix of shock and sorrow., “I don’t think he realises he’s at the top of the list,” she murmured in a voice heavy with grief.

“Their ‘list’ is different to ours,” Vennock answered softly, her grip on a dermal regenerator tightening as if trying to cling onto some control, “And that’s a problem”

The patients continued to arrive. Every transporter subroutine on the ship – from the cargo bays to the auxiliary science labs – had been rerouted to deliver a mournful tide of Klingons. They arrived in groups: some trudging along in broken defiance, others staggering and crawling with the weight of their pain, and a few carried by comrades who had fared better.

The Sacramento trembled under the arrival of these wounded souls – not from physical shock but from the profound weight of their sorrow and cultural anguish. The ship had transformed overnight into a war-torn infirmary, where cries of pain were matched with shouts of strength.

The sound was unremitting. Guttural grunts and anguished shouts merged with wild, sorrowful chants; metal clashed as Klingons, rejecting sedation, collapsed against cargo containers or stood bleeding in the recesses, reciting passages of poetry or composing laments to lost comrades. Their voices were raw and shattered by near-defeat. An eruption of anger and pain, their cries punctuated by the tragic desire to return to the fight.

“You must sit down”, Lieutenant Clarke implored, addressing a massive warrior whose leg lay shattered into three jagged fragments.

“I will not lie before a battle is won!” the Klingon growled defiantly, his voice heavy with pain. He used Clarke’s shoulder to steady himself, leaving a streak of crimson – a silent testament to both his defiance and his wounded pride – across her uniform. Clarke winced, her face tightening, but she did not retreat.

“Then at least lean dramatically”, she said dryly, “so I can try to save your leg”

Elsewhere, a nurse found herself violently tossed across a biobed by a panicked Klingon, his grief-stricken rage contorting into physical violence. Amid the chaos, he bellowed in his guttural tongue – accusing, lamenting, and mourning a lost brother. For a moment, the nurse lay frozen in shock until, unexpectedly, a deep, throaty laugh erupted from the Klingon.

“All right”, he declared as he rose with a faltering, pained limp, reaching out toward the nurse “we will tame our wild brothers together!”

By the midpoint of the first shift, Vennock was entrenched in the heart of bedlam. Surrounded by disorder, her voice was hoarse from the endless stream of orders. Her uniform was drenched with sweat and stained with blood. Her hands ached under the demand of her practice and her overtaxed mind burned with exhaustion while she navigated the throng of mourning Klingons. Some lay unconscious, others chanting, and still others calling for attention.

Parr stepped into the bay, stopped in her tracks by the pandemonium, “Fucking hell” she whispered, each syllable stretched.

Vennock swiveled toward the executive officer, “Don’t just stand there, Emilia. Get stuck in!”, her voice breaking from the effort of projection.

“This isn’t just a medical crisis, it’s a clash of cultures”, Parr murmured quietly as she moved to help the nearest medical team.

The crew of the Sacramento buckled under more than just the quantity of Klingons, they felt the burden of their pain, grief, and frustration to fight again. For the Klingons, they demanded to be treated, patched up, and sent back to their ships, their eyes strong but imploring.

By the end of that first day, the cargo bay – one of several modified for triage – was a mess. Medical gowns and gloves discarded on the floor, countless biobeds filled, and the Klingons – quieter now – exhausted from their efforts in the battle and in fighting against their pain. The Sacramento’s crew were equally exhausted, the medical teams pressed beyond their past experience. Vennock moved among them, quietly reassuring them of a job well done, of efforts appreciated.