A/N: The lovely anodyna over at livejournal has been giving out Crack Bingo cards. I have begun a line that includes such gems as "Crew turned to animals", "Amnesia", "Replicator malfunction" and "Avatar sex". I will put them all here, but as there is no time limit, updates may be slow. Many thanks to LadyFangs who convinced me McCoy should be in this story, and offered his animal avatar. As always, shout-out to my lovely beta, SpockLikesCats. I tweak, so mistakes are my own.

Animal Crackers - Crew turned into Animals

Log type / Logger: Personal log / Doctor Leonard McCoy

Stardate: How in tarnation should I know? Nobody can work the darned things out.

Location: Planet Psychon, Alpha Quadrant

Mission: Same old, same old, gettin' them to join the federation, blah blah, blah.

Well, ain't this just takin' the cake. Our hosts decided it'd be a dandy idea to turn us all into animals for an hour, as a mark of trust in the negotiations, and in us. I can't believe Jim agreed to such a tom-fool idea. I swear that boy's two bricks shy of a full load. So, here we all are, sittin' around a long banqueting table with fruit and wine and such like - no surprise there - when this tall being comes in, and believe me, he looks like he fell outta the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down … Oh Lord, I hope they're not telepathic…

"I thought we were to be turned into animals?" Everyone began to giggle (except Spock, naturally).

"Mr Chekov, did you not wonder why you are now staring at the edge of the table?"

"Meester Spock, I am not staring at edge of …oh!" Chekov tentatively surveyed his person. "Oh! Zees is good fun! Grrr! Grrr!" He was now about two feet tall, a rotund, white, cuddly ball of fluff, the cutest polar bear cub ever seen. He immediately jumped from his chair and scampered around the banqueting hall, climbing up the curtains, which promptly tore.

"Captain," growled Mister Spock, "where are you?"

"I'm down here Spaaawk, where I always was," squawked Jim.

"I am afraid I can only see feathers, Captain." A magnificent white cockatoo hopped up onto the table, its feathers tipped in gold.

"Ooh Keptain," growl-squeaked Polar-Chekov, "you are a cock!"

"Awwwk! I think you will find that is cockatoo, Mister," the captain's beady eyes narrowed, "but hey! This is wonderful. I can fly!" At that, he spread his magnificent wings and took a short run down the long table, lifting gently into the air…for about 0.013 seconds, before crashing back down onto the surface, barrelling along, feathers whirling and scattering glass and silverware like a miniature snow-plough. He finally came to a cawing stop inches from the end, piled up among dishes like a shattered umbrella. After a few seconds of reverse-origami Captain Cock stood, preened a few ruffled feathers, placed his wings behind his back in Spockian fashion and cleared his throat self-consciously. "Well, I think that needs waaaurk."

"Aaaar, Jim-lad." A sarcastic braying came from down the table, followed by an ominous creaking sound, splintering, a wavery "oh nooooo- eee-aw!" and:

CRASH!

McCoy-Mule sat in the remains of the chair, his grizzled and greying bottom jaw working furiously. Polar-Chekov almost exploded, he clutched onto his curtains and shook with laughter, tears glistening in his inky little eyes. McCoy-Mule pointedly rose, clopped to the corner and turned his back on the whole proceedings, ears flattened in frustrated fury, a muffled stream of mulish invective issuing from behind his big buck-teeth.

A soft thump and click of claws on the hard floor caused everyone to turn to look to Spock's place at the table. A magnificent Doberman was padding towards McCoy, its oil-black coat displaying the play of fine and terrifying musculature. Its ears were in points, and the dog's jaw was strong and square. Spock-the-dog politely asked McCoy if he had suffered any ill-effects from his abrupt union with the floor, but McCoy merely gave a grumpy shrug of his shoulder and turned further away from the rest of the crew. Spock loped back to his original chair and sat at attention beside it, like a proper guard-dog.

A soft, licky-rustle alerted the crew to Uhura's space. A massive black long-haired cat sat cleaning its fur in long, languid strokes. Polar-Chekov seemed rather put-out. "She is always ket when zees happens! I want to be ket some time! Rrrr!" His little bear face screwed up petulantly.

"Now, now Lieutenant, it has not happened that - awwwk! - often, and I personally, would rather be a polar bear than a cat. Look at your great big, cute paaaws!" The Captain, as always, was trying to defuse a situation before it arose.

Spock-the-dog surveyed Uhura-Puss with an alarming menace of purpose. The coat behind his neck became a puffed ruff, and his ear points flattened to the back of his head. Eyebrows lowered, he crouched down, strong fore-paws tensioned and ready to launch. At once, his eyes closed, the fur lay smooth and his ears softened. Opening his eyes, he moved towards a window where a single candle burned, sat in front of it and stared in doggy-contemplation growling, "contrrrrrrrol."

"Uh, Uhura, do you think you should be cleaning that much?" McCoy clattered round and surveyed the mad-hatters tea-party.

"Knots, lots of knots, lots, I must get themmmeoaw owwwut."

"Well, don't come cryin' to me when your stomach is full of hee-haw hee-haw - hair."

Uhura-Puss shot McCoy-Mule a supercilious cat-glare, leapt elegantly from the chair, walked away swinging her ass, and proceeded to clean herself on the far side of the room from Spock-the-dog.

"Vait a meenit, wherrr is Meester Scott? I do not see him and I am up high here in zee curtains."

Everyone turned to the table. Scotty was nowhere to be seen. Spock-the-dog turned from his meditation and glided towards the chairs. "He was seated here, between myself and Lieutenant grrrUhura." The chair was empty but a soft droning came from beneath the seat. Spock turned his head to the side, gently grasped a chair-leg between his massive jaws and heaved the piece of furniture a few feet away from the table.

There was a growl, meow, bray and squawk of horrified gasps.

"Meowwwster Spock, what is it?" asked Uhura, at once forgetting their animal animosity.

"I do not know."

"Well-ll-ll, well-ll-ll," neighed McCoy-Mule, "an animal even Spock doesn't know about! He kind of looks like Peter Lorre."

"Who?" they all asked in chorus.

"A Terran film actorrr of the twentieth centurrry," growled Spock.

McCoy-Mule snorted. "Smart-ass."

"I think, doctor, you will find you are the ass."

"I theenk eet is Siberian Devil." Chekov's growl-squeak sounded like Spock before his voice broke.

Uhura-Puss looked exasperated. "Don't you mean Tasmanian Devil, Meowwwster bear cub?"

"No, they are Rrrussian…from Siberia." The menagerie performed a unified eye-roll.

No-one who gazed upon the lumpen form was able to find words to placate Scotty. Lying on his side, he was perhaps a small dog, if said dog had been inexpertly shaved and headless. Where the head should have been was simply a slight bump, inset with ear-holes and large, rheumy eyes that bulged grotesquely. A flat nose - barely just nostrils - and a tiny orifice crammed with multi-directional sharp teeth like darning-needles completed its features. The skin was salt-and-pepper grey, oily and translucent, with foul patches of wiry hair strewn randomly about it, and over-run with a network of white, fatty veins. But that was not all - the creature appeared unable to stand. Two short stocky legs stuck out on its uppermost flank, whereas those below were much longer, ensuring the poor thing was marooned there on the slippery surface by a combination of its unmatched limbs and oleaginous hide.

There was more; the odour was nauseating.

A salty waft of rancid grease caught everyone's eyes, causing them to water. The tang of iron filled the room, accompanied by the sweaty, sweet smell of necrosis.

"By god, I haven't smelled anything like that since a haww-hawwg killin'. That looks like something the dog dragged under the porch and kept for a fee-haw - fee-haw – few days!"

Everyone turned to glare at the heartless mule. All except one.

Spock-the-dog was gazing on Scotty-Thing with an expression akin to love. Mesmerised, his pupils became dilated, his mouth opened, and a heavy drop of doggy-drool landed with a theatrical sploosh in front of Scotty-Thing's 'head'. A pitiful whimper brought everyone back to Scotty and they witnessed a terrified tear track down the thing's frozen face.

"SPAAAWCK! You will stand down Mister!" Captain Cock flew over (rather jerkily) and perched on the chair beside Scotty-Thing. "You are a vegetarian, Mister Spaaawck-awwwk!."

Spock seemed to snap out of it. "Indeed Captain, but I believe this body in which my consciousness currently rrresides is a carnivore."

"For God's sake Spock, why can't you just say the dog ain't vegetaria - ee-aw - n?"

"I believe I just did, doctor - grrr."

The Captain looked down upon the prone engineer. "Scotty, do you have any idea what this ah, creature is?"

Scotty-Thing looked heavenward, let out an enormous sigh and wailed, "aye, Cap'n."

"Well? What are you?"

"I'm a haggis sir."

Spock was the first to speak, and that was after many seconds. "Fascinating, they have turned you into a mythical creature-rrr."

"Does this look very bloody mythical to you?" Scotty was raging, albeit in a small, high-pitched and wheezy way. His voice was like nails on a blackboard. It almost sounded like…bagpipes.

"I shall ignore that emotional outburst, Mister Scott."

"I should think so an' all Mister Spock. You were gonna eat me, ye great mutt!"

Spock-the-dog flinched at the sound of Scotty-Haggis' voice, shaking his head as if to dislodge water from his ears.

"Hah! Ye dinnae like that, do yeeeeee?" The sentence ended in a mournful minor-key wheeze.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen," Kirk stretched his wings out in appeasement, "we must waaark together, we only have a short while left. Mister Spock, I suggest you get back to your meditation candle at the window and stay there until you can control your baser urges. Scotty, tell me about the haggis, why does it look so…unique?"

"Aye, well, it's ma own fault I reckon. It's a joke we make with the tourists, we tell them a haggis is a real animal. Its legs are shorter on one side coz it lives on a hillside. Yeeee are supposed to get clockwise and anti-clockwise haggis. And they look just like they do on the plate, a bit like this. Heeedeeeous, isn't it."

"Well, Mister Scott, perhaps they taste better than they look - awwwk!"

A pained whine came from the direction of the candle at the window, but Spock sat stoically in front of his improvised shrine, although there was a minute twitch to his ears.

"Aye, that they do Captain, but I dare say I won't be able to look one in the face - eh, I mean stomach one, for a good long while after this nightmare."

The remaining part of the hour crept by. Spock sat in meditation, Uhura groomed her fur, Chekov careened about the room growl-giggling wildly and McCoy groused to himself in the corner in Eyore-ish gloom. Poor Scotty lay like a sandbag, staring at the ceiling, while Kirk yapped to him about forthcoming missions, trying to take his mind off his predicament. Birds, it appeared, had a less developed sense of smell than mammals.

At last, the door opened and the Psychon healer appeared. As if by magic, everyone resumed their usual form.

The healer sat as everyone gathered themselves and took places at the table. Once everyone was seated he turned to the Captain. "Very well, we thank you for agreeing to our little experiment. If we may indulge ourselves, we wish to ask you a few final questions if we may."

The Captain gave his affirmation. "Carry on."

"What did you learn from your hour in another's body? Let us begin at my right here, with the good doctor."

McCoy cleared his throat, rubbing his chin as if he could hardly believe it had shrunk to its normal size. He looked directly at Scotty. "I learned there are those worse off than myself." The Healer nodded sagely and used a long spindly hand to indicate Uhura, whose stomach was experiencing turbulence the like of which she had never encountered.

Between indelicate burps, she answered, "I learned that beauty and grooming come at a price."

Another sage nod. "Mister Spock."

"I learned that control of my baser urges is not to be taken for granted. I apologise to Mister Scott, and Miss Uhura, in addition."

"And Mister Chekov?"

"I learned to be heppy with what I have. I vanted always to be a ket, but polar-bear is wery good also."

"The Captain?"

Jim Kirk looked to his lap. "I suppose I do rush at things without trying them first. I need to think things through. It usually works, though."

"Very well, and finally, Mister Scott."

"Ah, I learned that the Captain is a true and loyal friend. An' I promise not to make fun of tourists ever again. It's no' big, and it's no' clever."

Log type / Logger: Personal log (supplementary) / Doctor Leonard McCoy

Stardate: Nope, still can't work the damned things out.

Location: USS Enterprise

Mission: Psychon mission de-brief.

Why are we never naked when we regain our original form? Why is nobody ever naked? What happens to our clothes? Note to Nurse Chapel, research to commence on this phenomenon immediately. I wonder if security has a tape of Uhura hawking up that hairball in the turbo lift. She was hiccupping like she sat her ass on a live wire. That 'bout tickled me to death! Hee-haw! Hee-haw! Hee-haw! Computer, delete that last part.