Kirk tried diplomacy. Spock tried logic. McCoy just tried not to puke.
Beamed straight into the interrogation hut of Pineland SERE School, the Enterprise crew stood face-to-beard with the legendary Bearded One—camp commander, psychological warfare enthusiast, and part-time taxidermist.
Kirk thought: “I’ve negotiated with Klingons. Surely I can handle one sweaty mountain druid.”
Spock calculated: “Eighty-two percent chance this man believes squirrels are surveillance drones.”
McCoy muttered: “Dammit Jim, I’m a doctor, not a voodoo chicken therapist.”
Scotty, off-camera, was already trying to rewire a femur into a subspace antenna.
The Bearded One, arms crossed and eyes scanning for weakness, thought: “These boys got soft hands. Gonna feed ’em feathers and make ’em scream in three languages.”
Behind him, the witch doctor, skull-faced and silent, thought only:
“I wonder if Vulcan ears hold extra soul.”
No one moved.
The chicken blinked.