Cadet Jeremy Ryan raised the tankard of Klingon bloodwine, his hazel eyes narrowing at the swirling, viscous liquid. His nostrils were assaulted by the aroma wafting up at them, making his eyes water. He and several other cadets were aboard the IKS Buruk en route to the Starfleet Academy Annex on Mellstoxx III to complete their final year.

The room thrummed with the guttural cheers of Klingon warriors pounding fists on the central metal table in the mess hall. “Drink, Ryan!” bellowed one particularly boisterous Klingon named K’atraj, her ridges furrowed in expectation.

Around Jeremy, his fellow cadets exchanged uneasy glances. Renn Tanara, his closest friend and ally, looked torn between horror and amusement. “You don’t have to prove anything,” she mouthed with a smirk.

Jeremy clenched the dented metal tankard tighter, trying to convince himself this was just another adventure. His mantra echoed in his mind: “What’s life without a little risk? How bad could it be?” His stomach churned in anticipation, but there was no turning back now.

He tipped the tankard back dramatically, throwing his head back to swallow the demon liquid.

The giant gulp seared his throat like a phaser blast set to maximum, like swallowing a plasma grenade mid-detonation. His tongue recoiled, assaulted by an unholy cocktail of molten metal, fermented tar, and…was that plasma coolant? His throat clenched in protest, but he forced it down, desperate not to show weakness.

As the foul venomous concoction burned its way into his chest, a fleeting thought crossed his mind: “This is how I die. Death by Klingon hospitality. At least it’ll look good in my service record.” Another wave hit, bitter and rancid, like old gym socks dipped in vinegar and gasoline. His eyes watered uncontrollably, blurring the hulking shapes of the Klingons around him.

“Don’t collapse. Don’t vomit,” he repeated to himself as his pulse pounded in his ears. His eyes bulged as a choking sound escaped his lips.

Jeremy slammed the tankard down with more force than intended, his hands trembling, coughing violently as tears streamed down his flushed red cheeks. The Klingons roared with laughter, slapping their thighs and shouting praises to Kahless for the human’s bravery… or stupidity.

“It burns with…with honor,” he croaked, his voice betraying his internal struggle not to pass out. “Good!” exclaimed K’atraj, grinning fiercely as she slapped Jeremy on the back, nearly toppling him off his stool. “You have the spirit of a warrior!”

“Still alive over there?” Renn asked, leaning in with a smirk.

Jeremy wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his trademark smile, albeit strained, surfacing as he took a few shallow breaths. “Never better,” he rasped, his vocal cords sounding like they’d just been through a baryon sweep.

The room erupted into a raucous rendition of a Klingon drinking song. Jeremy found himself thrust into a makeshift conga line of warriors and cadets, the latter trying desperately to keep up with the guttural lyrics.

By the time the song ended, Jeremy’s head was spinning, not just from the bloodwine, but from the overwhelming sense of camaraderie. The fiery concoction still churned in his stomach, but for a fleeting moment, he felt connected to the room’s raw, unfiltered energy.

As the celebration wound down, Renn nudged him. “You’ve earned their respect, but next time, maybe stick to synthale.”

Jeremy chuckled, his chestnut hair damp with sweat. “No promises.”

He glanced around, noticing the approving nods of Klingon warriors who moments ago had mocked him. In their eyes, he wasn’t just another Starfleet cadet; he was a fellow adventurer, foolish perhaps, but unafraid.

And as he sat back down, letting the buzz of the bloodwine settle, Jeremy decided that poor life choices were sometimes worth toasting to.