The holodeck grid dissolved around Ralen, replaced by the dim, metallic interior of a Vulcan training arena—wide, echoing, and lined with tall basalt pillars. The simulation’s ambient hum settled as the program initialized.

Three opponents materialized in a semicircle around him: human-sized, armored, programmatically aggressive. Their movements were efficient but lacked nuance—perfect for testing reflex, control, and restraint.

Ralen shifted his weight, adopting a balanced Vulcan defensive stance, hands open and ready.

The first attacker lunged.

Ralen pivoted sharply, redirecting the strike with a forearm block before driving a precise palm heel into the attacker’s chest, sending the figure skidding across the stone floor.

The second came in high with a swing.

Ralen ducked beneath it, seized the attacker’s wrist, and twisted—non-lethally—before sweeping the legs with controlled force. The figure collapsed with a hard thud.

The third attacker was more persistent, circling fast. Ralen tracked him calmly, breathing steady. When the simulated opponent rushed forward, Ralen stepped inside the strike, delivering a shoulder check that disrupted momentum, then a Vulcan nerve pinch that dropped the figure instantly.

Silence reclaimed the arena for a moment.

“Simulation: increase difficulty by twelve percent,” Ralen commanded, clasping his hands behind his back as new adversaries shimmered into existence—five this time.

The Vulcan’s expression remained unchanged, but there was a quiet intensity beneath his calm exterior.

“Begin.”

The five new attackers materialized fully, forming a loose ring around Ralen. Their posture, movement speed, and strike patterns were noticeably more advanced—adaptive, almost anticipatory. A challenge worthy of effort.

The first came in low, sweeping a leg toward Ralen’s knee.

He leapt lightly over the attack—controlled, efficient—and countered with a sharp downward strike to the attacker’s shoulder, sending the hologram flickering as it fell.

Two more advanced at once.

Ralen pivoted between them, deflecting a punch with his forearm while trapping the second attacker’s wrist. Using their momentum, he brought both down in a fluid arc, a motion taught at the Vulcan Defensive Academy for neutralizing multiple threats.

A fourth attacker darted in from behind.

Without turning, Ralen stepped aside and delivered a backward elbow strike directly to the solar plexus region, calculated with exacting force. The holographic figure staggered, trying to recover.

The fifth opponent was faster—nearly unpredictable. It feinted, shifted, then lunged with unexpected ferocity.

Ralen blocked the first strike, barely diverted the second, and recognized the simulation’s escalating complexity.

“Efficient,” he murmured.

He then seized the final attacker’s arm, pulled it forward, and delivered a precise nerve-pinch. The hologram froze, its form destabilizing before collapsing to the floor.

The arena fell silent once more.

Ralen straightened, adjusting his breathing—slightly elevated but controlled. “Increase difficulty an additional eight percent,” he ordered.

The computer chimed in acknowledgment.

More figures began materializing—faster, heavier, armed.

Ralen clasped his hands behind his back, completely calm.

“Begin.”

The holodeck shimmered, and the next wave of attackers materialized—this time each opponent armed: bat’leths, mek’leths, serrated daggers, even improvised shock-blades. Their stances were no longer simple combat protocols; these were advanced tactical simulations designed for lethal engagement.

In Ralen’s hands, the weight of the Klingon bat’leth materialized, solid and familiar from years of disciplined training. It thrummed with potential energy as he lifted it into a ready stance. This was the final match.

The first attacker lunged with a mek’leth raised high.

Ralen stepped into the strike rather than away, hooking the attacker’s blade with one crescent of the bat’leth and twisting sharply. The mek’leth flew from the hologram’s hand. In the same motion, he reversed his grip and cut the figure down with a single, decisive arc.

Two more rushed him simultaneously—one frontal, one at his flank.

He pivoted, bringing the bat’leth around in a sweeping circle. The blade caught the frontal attacker across the chest, dispersing it into a shimmer of gold. Continuing the motion, he dropped low, the second attacker’s blade barely missing his ear as he swept the bat’leth upward, splitting the hologram cleanly.

Three remained—armed, coordinated, and moving with ruthless precision.

Ralen shifted his stance, grounding himself.

One charged from behind; he rotated the bat’leth, catching the opponent’s wrist and snapping it aside, then spun the blade across the attacker’s midsection. Another came from the left—he blocked the incoming dagger with the bat’leth’s inner grip, twisted, and struck the attacker’s throat with the blunt spine, dropping it instantly.

The final hologram approached slowly, confidently, twin daggers glinting. It circled him, calculating.

Ralen watched, silent.

When the attacker finally lunged, he answered with flawless efficiency—sidestepping, hooking daggers aside, and driving the bat’leth forward with both hands. The blade struck true.

The last figure dissolved.

Breathing steady, posture composed, Ralen lowered the weapon. “Simulation complete,” he stated.

The holodeck responded with a soft chime, the environment fading back to the grid.

Ralen stood alone in the yellow lattice, the bat’leth still in hand, victorious in the final match.

A few days later, Ralen initiated a new program, trading the clang of weapons for the quiet rhythm of water. The holodeck shifted into a vast, open simulation of a Vulcan canyon reservoir—tranquil, sunlit, and bordered by red stone cliffs.

He stepped to the edge of the crystalline water, inhaled once, and dove.

The temperature was precisely calibrated, cool enough to engage muscle endurance, warm enough for sustained laps. He moved through the water in long, controlled strokes, each motion efficient and measured. Ripples trailed behind him in perfect symmetry.

He practiced endurance intervals first, then breath-control drills, submerging for extended stretches as he glided along the sandy floor of the reservoir. His heartbeat remained steady, disciplined. Occasionally he surfaced to recalibrate his pace before cutting through the water again—each lap a meditation, every movement purposeful.

For Ralen, the simulation was not leisure; it was balance.

A reminder that strength came from calm as much as combat.

Although Ralen preferred solitary exercise, he accepted an invitation from Lt. Lisa Clark, a human science officer specializing in marine biology. She had expressed a keen interest in observing his Anbo-jitsu technique—particularly after learning he had trained under a master-level instructor on Starbase 23.

Lt. Clark, an Anbo-jitsu enthusiast herself, met him outside the holodeck, staff in hand and an eager spark in her eyes. She was smaller, quicker, and clearly excited for the challenge. Ralen simply adjusted his grip on the padded weapon, posture composed, expression neutral.

The program initialized around them: a circular platform, low lighting, and the soft hum of the arena’s border fields.

“Begin?” she asked, settling into a ready stance.

“Begin,” Ralen replied, stepping forward with precise, deliberate motion—ready to demonstrate skill, restraint, and perhaps offer the human officer a lesson she very much wanted.

The moment the alert tone sounded, Lt. Clark lunged first, fast and agile. Her staff swept in a quick diagonal arc aimed at Ralen’s shoulder. He pivoted smoothly, letting the strike pass within centimeters before redirecting her momentum with a light parry.

She grinned, already circling. “You’re as good as they say.”

Ralen offered no reply—only precision. He stepped forward, staff held low, and delivered a measured strike toward her midsection. Clark blocked it cleanly, the crack of padded weapons echoing across the holodeck.

She countered with a spinning strike, high then low, testing his defenses. He absorbed each hit on his staff, movements efficient, almost flowing. On her third attempt, he shifted his weight and used a subtle redirect, causing her swing to overextend just enough for him to tap her upper arm—a technical point.

Clark shook out her arm, laughing. “Alright, Lieutenant. Let’s see how you handle this.”

She launched into a rapid-fire combination—three strikes, spin, reverse grip. The sequence was fast enough that most officers would have stumbled. Ralen, however, adjusted instantly, blocking each strike, then stepping inside her guard with Vulcan calm. He angled his staff beneath hers, lifted, and disarmed her with a clean upward sweep.

Her weapon clattered harmlessly onto the mat.

Breathing lightly, she raised her hands. “Okay, okay—I concede. You win.”

Ralen lowered his staff, offering a small nod of respect rather than triumph. “Your technique is disciplined, Lieutenant. With refinement, you could reach advanced proficiency.”

Clark retrieved her staff, cheeks flushed but smiling. “And that is the nicest thing I think I’ve ever heard a Vulcan say.”

He merely straightened, composed as ever—though there was, perhaps, the faintest glimmer of acknowledgment in his eyes.

Clark stepped toward him before he could even reset his stance. Her expression was bright, flushed from exertion—and something else.

Without warning, she rose onto her toes and pressed a brief, unmistakably passionate kiss to his lips. It lasted only a heartbeat, warm and sudden, before she stepped back with a breathless little laugh.

Ralen’s eyes widened a fraction—an involuntary reaction he quickly suppressed, though not quickly enough to hide the flicker of surprise.

Clark turned away, slinging her staff over her shoulder as she headed for the exit. Just before the doors parted, she glanced back and offered him a playful, almost triumphant wave.

Then she was gone.

Ralen remained standing at the center of the holodeck, staff at his side, posture composed but mind distinctly… disrupted. He replayed the moment with precise clarity, attempting to categorize its intent—and failing.

Puzzled, yes. Intrigued… undeniably.