A/N: I am SO sorry for the wait! If it's any excuse, I had to graduate, so I didn't have time to get this up.

BUT NOW IT'S HERE. I will have much speedier updates in the future, I swear.

Enjoy!

Spock made his way down the corridor to the turbolift. The emergency meeting in Conference 7C had brought all of the department heads to the table. Engineering, Science, Security, and Medical (delegated by Nurse Chapel, since Doctor McCoy was still busy in surgery) had held a summit while the arrival clock ticked down from three hours. Spock recalled how Chief Engineer Scott had delivered a very emotional oration on the compromised safety in Engineering. Spock had responded logically and suggested an investigation to be made at once by all relevant personnel who were not otherwise engaged by the mission at hand.

The question of sabotage was broached and debated thoroughly with Security Chief Freeman. He advocated a position of proactive watchfulness, a tactic with which Spock fully agreed. Future comings and goings in Engineering would be monitored and a small security team stationed outside each of the danger zones. Captain Kirk mediated while Chief Freeman questioned Scotty about the maintenance team's movements during the hours just before the first explosion. Theories were exchanged and short tempers kept in check. Chapel gave an update on the medical team's mission readiness, stating that they were all set for departure. Scotty timidly asked for an update on Lieutenant Crowley's operation, and Chapel relayed McCoy's last report: Crowley was currently stable, but the operation was going to be tricky. Beyond that, Chapel was hesitant to discuss publicly.

The meeting had been called when the Bridge reported in. Chekov gave the ship wide one-hour warning, and all of the department heads dispersed. Spock strode at a steady pace toward the turbolift doors. He was mentally reviewing the general briefing on Hephaste I, scanning for any pertinent information that might have been omitted from the initial reports. Hepheste I, a class M planet, temperatures warmer than the average human would find comfortable… Nothing yielding in geography. The previous report stood. Perhaps culture… He searched his vast memory for the file. Ah yes. Hephasten culture: Organized into clanships… yes, trade oriented, affirmative… Proper society values- One moment. 'Proper' values are not specified in the report… Perhaps a review is in order. Spock determined he would thoroughly search the file upon returning to his station.

The turbolift doors slid open and he entered. Before closing, the doors also admitted one rushing Captain Kirk.

"Captain."

"Mr. Spock. I'm glad I caught the turbolift in time."

"Indeed, Captain."

They stood in silence for the rest of the ride to the bridge. Spock contemplated the ramifications of an incomplete report; Kirk caught his breath and readied himself for the mission. When the doors opened again, both men returned to their stations without a word. Spock immediately started sorting through the Federation's entire file on the Hephasten system. To expedite the process, he ran a specific search for societal functions. His efforts were not in vain. A mere footnote on the intricacies of Hephasten textile trading provided his answer. 'The textile trade is one of the more lucrative endeavors in the Hephasten mercantile system, in part for the Hephasten tradition of formality in both dress and mannerism. Formal attire is worn at almost all times, barring events of crisis or-"

The report continued its description of textiles and their various functions in the commonplace. Spock found this new information both fascinating, and troubling. If the Enterprise inadvertently violated one of Hephaste I's most basic social customs, they might be asked to leave or be refused the opportunity to render aid. This would complicate things for both the victims of the disaster and the crew of the Enterprise. They would no doubt have to accommodate the Hephasten custom of formal dress. Spock knew he must inform the Captain at once.

"Captain, a moment."

At the quiet request, Kirk turned in his chair. He met Spock's look and headed over to his First Officer's station.

"Captain, I have discovered some information that will be vital to pleasant relations with the Hephasten people."

"Let's hear it, Mr. Spock." Kirk rubbed a hand over his weary face. Any information on Hephasten diplomacy would be incredibly useful. In all honesty, the bare-bones reports weren't terribly helpful in that respect.

"I recalled a phrase from the diplomatic study that left some question in my mind as to its meaning and potential implementation. According to the report, 'Hephasten society upholds proper values and bases all interactions on these formal principles'." He quoted. "What the report excludes is the description of these values, which seem of immeasurable value to the Hephastens."

"So… Have you found them, then? The descriptions?"

"Affirmative, Captain." Spock displayed the footnote on textiles for Kirk to view. He quoted from the passage for his Captain's benefit. "Formal attire is worn at almost all times, barring events of crisis or severe destitution.' Though the planet is in a state of 'crisis', Captain, it would be prudent to adopt this cultural procedure. We may have more success in diplomatic relations with the governing bodies, or in communicating with local relief efforts."

Kirk resisted the urge to sigh. Spock's pretty clever, spotting that little detail. It could make the difference between our success or failure. The relief crews are going to hate this. I can think of one… officer… in particular who will despise wearing dress uniforms. But, if it can get the people the help they need…

"Mr. Spock, contact the aid teams. We have a little less than an hour until arrival. I'd like to see as many of them as possible in full dress uniform."

"I shall report the order at once, Captain."

Kirk turned on his heel and left the bridge to get changed.

McCoy strode out of his Sickbay. He stood tall and proud, despite his fatigue. The good doctor had been in the operating theater for the last seven hours. Crowley had made it, thank goodness, but it had been worrisome for a while. The Lieutenant had lost more blood than McCoy was initially prepared for. The team, minus Chapel, had scrambled for the necessary transfusion equipment. Well, McCoy mused, it was a long seven hours, Chapel or no Chapel. We're almost there. The sooner we start this thing, the sooner we can finish it.

Spock's ship wide announcement came not a moment later. Regardless of whether or not he was alone in the corridor, McCoy threw his hands in the air and swore. He cursed the speaker system, the green-blooded, no good, dirty hobgoblin, and most of all, the dress uniforms.

"All crew members" Spock advised, "Should report wearing their dress shirts and Starfleet-issue uniform trousers for both uniformity and safety. The terrain is hazardous, and as such, dress boots should be dismissed in favor of their multi-terrain counterparts."

After Spock's sign-off, McCoy's shoulders slumped. He trudged the rest of the way to his quarters, grumbling all the way. Deep in the darkest depths of his closet, he found the accursed dress shirt and trousers. The multi-terrain boots were an easier find. They were little used in cities or on Class M planets, but if Spock advised them, then there must be a good reason. He was exchanging uniforms when the door chimed. Grumbling some more, McCoy wrestled with the dress shirt. "Yeah, come in!" He called once he had finished.

The door opened to reveal one Montgomery Scott, wearing his regular uniform top, dress pants, and boots. In his un-braced hand, he held two things: the hanger for his bright red dress shirt, and a bottle of scotch. McCoy couldn't stop from grinning at the sight of his friend. In this case, 'drinking buddy' might be a more appropriate term.

"Mister Spock said t' wear trousers for this one. So, no kilts, I'm afraid. It's a shame. I thought we could both use a drink before this gets started." McCoy nodded appreciatively and went for glasses. Scotty made the scotch comfortable on the table. He hung his dress shirt up on the back of one chair before settling down. McCoy returned with the glassware.

"How's the arm, Scotty?"

"Oh, it's doing just fine." He gestured about with it. "Though, I'm at a loss for… Well… How am I supposed to go about gettin' dressed? It's sittin' there just fine with my one sleeve rolled up, but the dress shirts don't exactly have a lot of wiggle room now do they?"

McCoy pondered this. Scotty had rolled up one sleeve to accommodate the brace, but he would have a lot more trouble pulling it off in a dress uniform. The Doctor tried to come up with a solution while Scotty poured the drinks.

"What're the chances Jim'll let you stick with the regular shirt?"

"Slim to none, Doctor. I'll be down on the ground with the rest of my teams helping to repair… Well, whatever needs repairing! Hephaste I is a Federation member with warp-capability. Surely they'll have some life-support systems or irrigation lines…"

"Sounds t'me like you're tryin' to justify vague orders. I understand. The bureaucracy! Heaven forbid we make an exception here and there. Well," McCoy raised his glass, "Here's to something to do. Hopefully there's somethin' down there to keep us entertained. I'd hate to see all these clever heads gettin' bored. Then there'd be anarchy!"

"Amen to that, Doctor!"

They both drank an appropriate amount, considering their imminent return to duty. Heck, McCoy thought, we're still ON duty, and due to arrive any minute.

"Scotty, let's see if we can get that brace sorted out." Scotty carefully removed his outer shirt, but left his black undershirt on. It wouldn't be in the way. He'd need it, too, if the dress shirt proved to be just too much, and befell some sort of tragic annihilation. Not that he had any designs to such an end. No sir. With McCoy's help, Scotty tried to push his braced arm through one sleeve of the dress shirt. No luck.

"I, Ach!, don't think that's goin' to work, Doctor." Scotty hissed through clenched teeth. McCoy rocked back on his heels.

"I see. You're right, Scotty. I don't know what I was thinkin'. I guess all these long hours're catchin' up to me." McCoy shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "We'll have to come up with something else. There's only a few minutes left before we have to report to the shuttles. Any ideas? It's a shame we can't just tear up your sleeve. I mean, I know the braces're supposed t'be slim, but these sleeves are slimmer still." He began pacing around the room while Scotty contemplated his arm. Suddenly, his head snapped up.

"I've got it! Doctor McCoy, exactly how long would y' say we've got?"

"Oh, about twenty minutes, give or take. What'cha thinkin', Scotty?"

"Just a little idea… Doctor, can you sew at all?"

McCoy snorted. "Every physician worth their salt is versed in a stitch or two. We learn 'em in case of emergencies, like if we've got an away team stranded somewhere without anything but primitive medical aid." He made his way over to one of the low cabinets and removed a small first-aid kit. "Scotty, what do you have in mind? Scotty? Hey-!"

The engineer was already pulling McCoy out the door. They made a mad dash down the corridors to Scotty's quarters. The door swished open, and Scotty was rifling through his closet in a flash. His dress shirt hit the table with a swoosh. In a moment, Scotty stopped searching. He returned to the table with a pair of large black gloves.

"These are primarily used for dangerous electrical work, or repairs on overheated machinery." Scotty explained. He set the thick gloves on the table in front of McCoy and returned to his closet. He stooped to pick up another article and came back around. Scotty was holding a red uniform shirt. McCoy was surprised to see the gaping hole that stretched all across the front half. He was more used to seeing that kind of damage in Command Yellow, strangely enough, but accidents happened in Operations all the time.

"There was an accident a while back. Caught my shirt on fire. No other significant damage, really." McCoy checked out the singed edges of the shirt. Scotty's statement caused him to review his memory of the past few accidents in Engineering. McCoy was concerned and more than a little upset that he had never been informed of the incident. His attention was brought back to the present by the sound of tearing fabric. Scotty was in the process of ripping the gold stripes off one sleeve.

"Scotty! Would y'slow down and tell me what you're plannin'?"

"Oh! Sorry, Doctor. I was just making a few… cosmetic adjustments...Here." He picked up the right-hand glove and held it out to the doctor. "I reckon if we can get the stripes sewn on one o' these things, it might look a bit more… formal." He finished removing the second stripe and handed the pair to McCoy.

"If you could just attach those, let's say, right about here," Scotty indicated a point closer to the arm-hole than the fingers, "This could work."

McCoy was starting to see where this was headed. The long gloves would cover Scotty's arm up to the bicep. The bio-brace would be completely hidden.

"That's… That's brilliant, Scotty! But what're you gonna tell Jim or the Vulcan if they ask?"

"I'll tell them the truth." He stated simply. "But if any Hephasten 'diplomats' decide to ask, I'll tell them it's the mark o' the Chief Engineer, a special honor earned only from valor under fire!" Scotty's grin was enough to make McCoy chuckle as he started neatly-but-hastily forcing the needle through the tough fabric. It was as thick as it was heat resistant, if Scotty's descriptions were anything to go by. This 'formal gauntlet' was going to be tricky to pull off in fifteen minutes. Unfortunately, Scotty's "sewing hand" was out of commission. While he couldn't help McCoy fix up the glove, he could implement the second, and slightly riskier, part of his plan. He wielded the pen-knife carefully. Before McCoy could ask any questions, Scotty cut his dress uniform sleeve at the elbow.

"Scotty!"

"It's the only way, Doctor! These people need help. If we're going to be able t' give it t' them, accordin' to Mr. Spock's estimates, we're gonna 'ave t' play by their rules!" Seeing how Scotty was getting worked up, McCoy held out his hand in a placating gesture. He's just as shocked as I am. Desperate times call for desperate measures, Jim'll understand. I've cut up uniforms before in emergencies. I guess it's just a new thing for Scotty.

"You're fine, Scotty. Just surprised me 's all. Here- roll that sleeve once. It'll stop the severed edge from rubbing your elbow raw under this glove." McCoy finished up the last bit of his stitching and held the glove out to look at his handiwork. The only color thread he had available was black, but with some careful maneuvering, he had minimized the visible thread. "Here, have this." McCoy tossed the finished glove to Scotty, who caught it left-handed. The glove slid over the brace. Scotty was able to pull it back all the way past his elbow as expected.

"How's it feel?"

Scotty flexed his fingers. "A wee bit tight, but other than that," Scotty couldn't help but smirk, "I'd say it fits like a glove."

Before McCoy had a chance to throttle his friend, the announcement came for all teams to report to the shuttle bay. It was time to go.

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A/N: HA HA HA. Oh Scotty. That was really terrible. Feel free to tell me if I messed anything up. Constructive criticism is the dilithium crystal to my warp drive!

I should not be allowed to make jokes.