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"Can all European members of the crew please report to recreation room one?"
Scotty's thick, Scottish accent twanged as he sent the message on a ship wide broadcast, piquing the Captain's interest as he sat on the bridge, watching as Chekov and a few other members of the crew on the bridge exchanged knowing looks before being relieved by non-European counterparts.
"Is everything alright, Mr Scott?" He enquired casually, opting for a direct line to his chief engineer's communicator rather than another ship wide conversation.
"Oh, certainly captain." Came the immediate reply, a mischievous hint to the response that Jim had almost come to expect from the man. "We just have a small matter to sort out amongst ourselves, no need to worry."
Jim's suspicion was not settled by the blasé response and his eyes narrowed, but he shrugged it off and decided to investigate later when everyone was likely to have arrived at Scotty's impromptu meeting. He glanced over to see his first officer watching him curiously, one eyebrow raised.
"Captain, I do believe Mr Scott may be, as you would phrase it, up to something." The Vulcan murmured. "I have noticed several incidents of suspicious behaviour within the European crew members of late, including requisitioning of much higher quantities of alcohol than usual; particularly local to their native countries."
Jim smiled slightly at Spock’s constant attention to detail before nodding. “I’ll look into it in a moment, Spock. There’s no sense in going before they’ve got down to business.”
--
Nothing could have prepared the captain for what he would see when he casually excused himself from the bridge around an hour and a half later at the end of his shift, heading down to the recreation room to see if he could work out what his chief engineer was plotting. Around forty members of his crew were assembled there, chairs and couches rearranged so that the television was the focus of the attention, with bottles of various alcoholic drinks scattered upon tables across the room; everything from the smoothest Scottish whiskey to the harshest Russian vodka.
None of the crew appeared to have noticed his arrival, as one of the newer medical officers suddenly made an announcement to the group who already seemed slightly more than tipsy.
“They’re not singing in a Terran language!” She announced gleefully, her strong German accent punctuating her words. “Take a drink!”
Kirk watched in amazement as everyone in the room simultaneously lifted their glasses and took a long drink, some then leaning forwards to refill their glasses with whatever they first laid hands on from the tables in front of them and he felt his mouth drop open and eyes widen in an expression which could only be described as astonished.
“I don’t understand why I ALWAYS get Moldova!” Exclaimed someone else from the other side of the room- an English accent this time- as he slumped back into his chair. “I hate this betting pool; if I can’t have the UK then I at least want somewhere in Scandinavia so I have a chance of winning.” The man complained, throwing a hand up in the air as there was an excessive use of pyrotechnics causing everyone to take another long drink.
“You can’t have the UK!” Exclaimed Scotty indignantly. “I’m the one who locates the stream every year; and let me tell you that is no easy task and involves the illegal use of at least four federation satellites, so I get the UK. I may not win, but I get to have the pride- oh hello Captain!” His accent even less decipherable than usual with the alcohol-induced slurring. “It was nice of you to join us, laddie!”
Just as Jim was about to respond, asking what the hell was going on, the whole room was shushed by Chekov who was demanding that everyone be quiet as Russia’s entry took to the stage. He grinned widely, draining his glass of what Jim assumed was probably more vodka than it was mixer; though the young Russian seemed to be downing the liquid as though it were water.
“I am glad to be the only Russian crewmember at this time of year.” He proclaimed, his accent thankfully unchanged by the alcohol. “Then I can always support them in this competition and not have to draw from the hat. I would not like to support Moldova.”
The man stopped suddenly, pausing before grinning widely and beginning to loudly sing along in Russian, clearly having recognised the song that the entrant was performing as he poured himself another drink, confirming Jim’s previous suspicions as to the ratios.
Jim fished his communicator out of his pocket, still not entirely sure whether the situation presenting itself in front of him was hilarious or the single most terrifying and confusing moment he’d ever witnessed in his time in Starfleet.
“Bones? Spock?” He murmured into his communicator, trying not to distract the group’s attention to the youngest member of their crew singing passionately. “I think there’s something you need to see.”
--
“I do not understand why that man is wearing clothing which appears to be fabricated from aluminium foil.” Spock stated, his eyebrows furrowed as he watched the screen carefully. “It seems an utterly illogical choice of material. Is this normal human behaviour?”
“Not where I’m from.” Bones stated simply, his eyes wide as he stood with his arms folded. “What the hell is going on, Jim?” He demanded, tearing his eyes away from the scene in front of him where there appeared to be a Ukrainian man dressed in a suit of foil, surrounded by women dancing in bikinis made of the same material in order to raise an eyebrow questioningly at the captain who simply sighed, shaking his head.
“Honestly Bones? I have no idea. This has apparently been going on in Europe every year since the 20th century, 1956 if I remember Scotty correctly, making this the 302nd time that this has happened.” He explained, gesturing around the room vaguely. “I… Don’t understand wh-is that a Romulan?” He suddenly exclaimed, startled as the hosts retook the stage to announce that the voting was now open, with a reminder that anyone off-planet would unfortunately not be able to vote.
“Alien species have been able to compete and present for forty years, Captain.” Slurred a very drunken engineering officer from where she was slouched in an armchair in front of where Kirk was standing. “It was decided that any European citizen- of Terran origin or not- should be given the same rights to be represented after years of fierce and brave campaigns for equal rights for non-Terrans.” The statement was amazingly sensible, hiccups interrupting it and slightly spilled drink notwithstanding, considering the level of inebriation.
The room erupted into loud conversations almost immediately as the hosts began to recount the ways to vote for your chosen entrant, members of the crew arguing loudly about who was going to win and who was better. As far as Jim could tell, the voting system was complex and Scotty’s betting system was even worse. As the conversations grew louder, Chekov pushed himself up off the couch he had been sprawled across and stumbled his way through the room to where the three commanding officers were still standing, not sure how to process the scene.
“Captain Kirk,” the young Russian slurred, ungracefully pressing a finger to Jim’s shoulder. His long limbs were even clumsier than usual thanks to the alcohol in his system. “The counting of the votes will last an hour, if you’re going to, er, crash our party, you should at least sit down.” He announced sternly, before hastily adding “sir” in a strained effort to remain respectful, despite having just given the captain an order.
Jim shrugged and pulled up a chair as Chekov stumbled back to his spot on the couch, giggling as he nearly tripped and almost flopped back into the chair. Bones and Spock both also pulled up chairs before the medical officer spoke.
“Did he just say an hour, Jim?” Bones demanded, wondering if the three of them were in fact hallucinating and he should fetch his medical tricoder.
“I believe so, Doctor.” Replied Spock, still looking astounded… Well, as astounded as a Vulcan will ever look, Bones thought to himself as the crowd suddenly hushed, sitting deathly still as the first group of scores came up, with a loud cheer from Chekov.
“Rossiya! Douze points!” The young man shouted, over the excited babbling of the officers from other countries that had scored highly and the discontented grumbling of Scotty as the UK didn’t score anything.
A similar trend followed for the next fifteen countries, with Russia and Iceland scoring highly and the UK trailing at the bottom of the scoreboard with no points and Scotty’s grumbling growing louder and more discontented when finally- with the sixteenth country being Ireland- Scotty erupted into cheers.
"We have a point!” He exclaimed, jumping up and spilling half the contents of his glass onto the floor as he hugged the English officer sitting next to him.
Kirk raised an eyebrow confusedly. “Seriously, Scotty?” He questioned, glancing up at where Russia were totalling around one hundred and sixty points and scoffed derisively. “It seems like you’re losing…”
Scotty spun around to look at the captain, not letting the negativity ruin his mood. “The UK getting any points is a big deal, captain!” He explained excitedly, spilling yet more of his drink as he gestured grandly. “I’ll never forget 2240.” This obviously meant something akin to painful memories to the English crewmember who had money on Moldova, who groaned loudly.
Scotty continued mournfully. “Hoo boy, that was a bad year. First time a country ever got minus points! We are not well liked in Europe, sir, but we can always rely on the Iri- Piss off, Chekov!” He suddenly interrupted himself to curse at the younger man who appeared to be mid-monologue about Russia’s supremacy.
“You will all see the contest in my homeland next year!” The boy announced smugly, taking another long drink, clearly intent on not letting Scotty have his moment as Spock suddenly spoke, after having remained silent and maintaining his usual air of irritation that he held around all drunken humans.
“Is that to say, Ensign Chekov, that the point of this competition is simply to earn the right to host the competition in the next year?” He enquired politely, a single, delicate eyebrow raised inquisitively.
“It’s to earn the bragging rights for a year, laddie!” Scotty declared with a grin. “Whoever wins can hold it over the rest of Europe for twelve months! It’s how we settle most political debates between countries and have done since the Second World War.”
Spock raised his eyebrow again before allowing his lips to quirk up into an almost unperceivable smile. “A mystifying concept, indeed.” He conceded, before announcing that he would return to his quarters in order to ensure that he was adequately rested for his shift the next morning and bidding the crew in the room farewell. He left to a chorus of drunken goodbyes and a Czechoslovakian navigator just yelling ‘DOUZE POINTS’ in a wobbly, yet gleeful tone.
As he exited, Kirk heard him greet a new entry to the room and wondered if the betting representative for France (The country’s entry had not gone down well both in the arena and onboard the ship. In fact, so poorly had it been received, that one of the engineers had suddenly announced a new addition to their drinking game and all present, bar the bewildered captain and CMO, had drunk deeply from their respective glasses as a coping mechanism) had finally turned up. Kirk was debating asking the new arrival to answer for the three minutes of out of tune screeching and electric cello solos when Bones glanced over his shoulder and frowned.
“Sulu, what the hell are you doing here?”
Kirk twisted round to see the man in question entering the room.
“Captain, I was-” Spotting the spectacle onscreen and his drunken comrades, Sulu’s eyes widened in undisguised panic and as suddenly as he’d entered, he abruptly turned on his heel and left again.
“Oh no you don’t.” Bones leapt from his seat, grabbed the helmsman by the shoulders and swiftly herded him back into the room. “Spock already jumped ship on us and we are not gonna suffer through this alone.”
“But I’m not European.” He quickly protested as Bones forced him into a spare chair.
“Wait,” Jim stared at him. “You know about this?”
“I may have made the mistake last year of asking why the United States was not allowed to compete.” Sulu said with a nervous grimace, looking every inch the man in a hostage situation. “Needless to say I was quickly informed, although by ten more people than was really necessary.”
“Yeah, that’s a good point actually, why-” Kirk began, but was quickly silenced by his crewmate violently shaking his head.
“I wouldn’t, Captain.” He insisted and was saved from further questioning by a delighted whoop from Scotty as Hungary begrudgingly granted the UK a single point.
And so it went on, the results eliciting groans and cheers in turns from the assembled group. And on. And on.
“How long does this go on for?” Bones groaned as a woman in a remarkably ugly dress trilled out the scores from Germany. His gaze fell upon the tally in the corner of the screen “NINETEEN OUT OF THIRTY FIVE? Did they even have that many acts? Hey Scotty,” He tried to hail the Scotsman’s attention, but he was too busy knocking glasses with the other Brits, celebrating their outstanding score so far of three. “Scotty! How does this goddamn acid trip idiot parade even work anyway?”
“Every country votes, but not all of them get to sing in the final.” Another crew member, this one in a red shirt explained, generously topping up his glass with the nearest wine bottle before offering said bottle to the doctor.
He accepted it a little too quickly, waving away a glass. “That still doesn’t explain anything...” he muttered.
“They’re all just voting for their neighbours,” Kirk cut in, pointing at the screen where Norway were granting Finland top points. “How is this even fair?!”
The young man blinked up at him “Welcome to Eurovision, Captain.”
“Screw it.” After a short pause, Kirk reached for the glass Chekov was holding towards him with a smirk. “If you can’t beat ‘em...” He took a slug and nearly choked. “Chekov, is there ANY mixer in this?”
Chekov shrugged innocently. “A little.”
This motion raised a cheer from the rest of the now deeply inebriated European crew members, who were now taking shots for every time the vote presenter commended the Spanish for hosting such an excellent show and then attempted to warble their favourite entry.
“Coping mechanism?” Bones asked after a few drinks.
“Ahssaloutely.” Kirk slurred back.
It was at this point Hikaru Sulu, who had been keeping quiet throughout, saw a chance and took it, fleeing from the room like the entire Klingon army was after him. Though he would never admit it, he personally still had flashbacks to Romania’s entry the previous year. There were some things pyrotechnics and body paint should never be used for.
His escape went unnoticed however, as the UK suddenly caused uproar and scandal by not granting any points to their neighbour Ireland.
“Moldova! Moldova!” The British better frantically announced in defence as several fierce Irish glares were shot his way. “Don’t blame me!” he suddenly put on a terrible attempt at a Scottish accent “I’m the one who locates the stream! I’m the one who gets the federation satellites, so I get the UK!”
“Scotty, that is completely unacceptable towarss’ Ireland you should be ashamed.” Jim said with a lopsided smirk.
Scotty gaped and put his hands up in surrender “Do not get involved Captain, do not blame me for this!”
To Chekov’s joy, the final voting (presented by a snappily dressed Andorian from Greece, appearing surrounded by numerous party goers clad in blue and white) set the scores with Russia in first place with two hundred points, followed closely by Norway. The United Kingdom had hovered around fifth from last throughout the voting, only just breaking double figures (“What a year! They’ll be celebrating that in Aberdeen tonight!” Scotty had announced to Jim’s utter bemusement) and France were last, with the dreaded (The captain had learnt) ‘nil points.’ As the credits rolled, requests began to be shouted out for performances from the archives, with them all unanimously agreeing that the 21st century had been a very strange time for Europe indeed, whilst Scotty tried to sort out and argue over the workings of the betting pool. The Italian entry had been knocked out of the top ten on a miscount, and the Italian medic was not amused.
And then, an hour later, as quickly as the little party had assembled, it was broken up, with crew members cheerfully bidding each other goodnight and staggering off to their quarters. Chekov, who was struggling to stand, was led off propped up by two other officers, still singing happily to himself, and Scotty quickly hurried off with his share of the betting pool. The screen dimmed and shut down, and a strange sense of calm after a storm fell back over the Enterprise.
--
“Oh my God.”
He had made a grave mistake, Jim quickly realised out several hours later, when he woke up with a taste in his mouth like something had died there.
“Chekov...” He muttered mutinously, vaguely recalling the smirking ensign handing him a full glass. His only comfort was realising that however bad Jim felt right now, Chekov had to be feeling ten times worse. Opening his eyes, he flailed in surprise as he seemed to have turned blind over night. Blue and yellow. Nothing but blue intercut with yellow. With another flail, the blindness lifted and he found his arms tangled in thin fabric and himself lying in his own bed. Which was always a good sign.
He finally decided that the bright colours were of the Swedish flag and not recalling seeing any flags in the rec room that night he wondered briefly how he’d come into possession of it. Scrunching it up in a crumpled ball, he there it aside to be dealt with (were there even any Swedes on board? He’d look into it). With a thumping headache, he got up, managed to survive a very strong coffee and made his way very carefully down to the lower levels of the ship.
“Scotty?” He rasped once before clearing his throat painfully, still suffering the effects of the alcohol, and trying again. “Scotty?”
“Ah good mornin’ Captain!” The man’s voice called with a slight echo from the inside of an open unit. Jim followed the sound and located him up a ladder, leaning half precariously inside and hitting things.
“So last night got pretty crazy, huh?” Kirk said with a grin, leaning on a nearby column.
Scotty removed his head from the open panel and frowned at him. “You what?”
The captain’s smiled faltered slightly. “You know...with everyone in the rec room?”
Scotty laughed nervously. “I’m not sure what you’re on about Captain. You feeling alright?” He stared at Kirk as he began to stammer in disbelief. “May I suggest popping along to see Doctor McCoy? Although from what I hear he’s feeling a wee bit fragile this morning too.” Shaking his head, he disappeared back into the piece of machinery leaving Kirk deeply confused.
Assuming that the vast quantities of whiskey his chief engineer had consumed the previous evening had wiped the events from his memory completely, he carried on back towards the bridge, soon spotting a familiar figure hurrying along the corridor.
“Chekov!” Kirk greeted the young Russian as they both headed towards the bridge. “How are you feeling today? Good night for Russia, huh?”
Chekov looked confused, and surprisingly none the worse for wear. “I am sorry Captain?”
“Two hundred points, wasn’t it in the end?” Jim continued, giving an impressed whistle. “Not bad at all.”
“Two hundred...I do not understand? If you excuse me.” And with that he scuttled off, leaving Jim dumbstruck. Hadn’t he less than eight hours earlier, seen the ensign joyfully waving a glass of vodka in the air and singing an altered version of the Russian national anthem that managed to insult much of the United Kingdom?
His headache was beginning to return, so he headed to the bridge, hoping beyond hope for life to return to some semblance of normality.
“Captain on the bridge!”
“Good morning Captain.” Spock greeted him, a tad too cordially for Kirk’s rapidly worsening mood.
Of course, he recalled, Spock had managed to slip away from the strange event without too much trouble. As a matter of fact, so had Sulu...when had Sulu left? Jim looked to the helmsman for any evidence that he knew what had happened, but Hikaru Sulu looked the same as he usually did, focused intently on the control desk in front of him.
“I don’t get it.” Kirk muttered darkly to himself. “I was there. We all were. Why is everyone acting like Eurowhatever never happened?”
“The Eurovision Song Contest?” Spock interjected.
Jim nearly leapt out of his chair. “Yes! It happened! You remember!”
“Of course Captain. Unlike others, I did not become intoxicated during the event.” When Jim just continued to stare at him, he raised his eyebrows and continued. “I believe that the European crew refer to this day colloquially as ’Europe’s hangover’. Since a major element of the aftermath is continuing with day to day life quite inexplicably as if nothing ever happened, I believe we have nothing to concern ourselves with. If you have doubts, you are more than welcome to check, but I believe you’ll find that all members of the crew are present and correct at their stations.”
“Spock,” Jim began, dumbfounded. “How the hell do you know so much about Eurovision?”
“Engineer Gordon went to great lengths to explain the intricacies of the event during the performances last night.” Spock stated. “Admittedly this was without me requesting such information from him, but I feel it would be illogical- not to mention unwise- to ignore it. Regardless, a commander must be able to relate to the crew, no matter how...unusual we find their annual customs.”
“Unusual.” Kirk echoed. “You can say that again.” Thankfully at this point he was handed a PADD with the tasks for the day displayed onscreen and his attention was diverted from the stranger antics of the crew.
He didn’t speak to any of the Europeans again until later that day in the dining room. Jim was just leaving and as he passed him, Scotty nodded a greeting and uttered five words that completely floored the captain.
“Same time next year Cap’n?”
“You REMEMBER?” He yelped, wheeling around to face him. That was it. He couldn’t cope anymore, with this chopping and changing, the secrecy, the illegal use of federation satellites, the vast amounts of alcohol and the lurex , dear lord the vast quantities of lurex...
Scotty hushed him quickly. “Yes, yes. Not so loud! Besides I’ve got a headache like a Romulan mining drill boring into the side of my head, so I can’t imagine how you must be feeling. Good grief, you lot can put it away. Anyway,” he waved a hand casually and carried on. “I’m just doing a little base research for Moscow next year, garnering interest, shall we say for the pool.” As the captain continued to stare at him in total defeated bewilderment, Scotty took this as a positive sign and added; “Care for a little flutter next time? How do you feel about, say...Latvia?”