Blood on the Dance Floor

Posted on Thu Aug 14th, 2025 @ 11:07pm by Commander Jenna Ramthorne

1,020 words; about a 5 minute read

Mission: Character Development
Location: USS Sunfire

The gym doors hissed open with the easy, unhurried confidence of Federation engineering.
Jenna stepped inside, boots thudding softly against the padded floor. The room smelled faintly of disinfectant and synthetic resin — the scent of fresh training mats. She let the door close behind her, swung the strap from her shoulder, and dropped her duffel with a dull thunk.

The Anbo-jyutsu arena loomed ahead — a raised circular platform, two meters across, surrounded by safety padding and ringed in low holo-emitters. Gleaming poles, each perfectly balanced and worn smooth by hundreds of grips, waited upright in their storage rack. Above, the holodeck ceiling flickered briefly as the simulation prepared itself, faint blue gridlines swimming in the periphery.

Her blackened left eye caught her own gaze in the mirrored wall — a faint swell in the flesh, a dark reminder from the shuttle accident. She smiled at it anyway, half-mocking herself. Rusty and bruised. Perfect combination.

She bent to unlace her boots, leaving them neatly by the wall, then padded barefoot to the warm-up mat. No matter how many hours she’d logged in a cockpit, the gym always reset her — the smells, the acoustics, the give of the floor. She rolled her shoulders, flexing her neck.

Warm-up:

She began with ten slow neck circles, her eyes closed, allowing her senses to feel the air shift against her skin. Followed with forward bends, palms flat against the mat, feeling tendons tighten and loosen in turn. Next came A slow run in place, then pivots — light, quick steps to wake her balance.

Lastly, shadow strikes with an imaginary pole, each swing carving a whoosh through the air, her muscle memory stirring from years of neglect.

The warm-up took five minutes, long enough to bring a glow to her skin and a pulse to her ears. She stepped toward the pole rack, fingers brushing along the smooth wood-composite until they found one of medium weight. The balance felt right. The grip was slightly warmer where others had held it — or maybe the holodeck was already simulating that detail.

"Computer," she said, voice steady. "Begin Anbo-jyutsu training sequence, escalating difficulty. Five opponents."

The calm, precise voice replied:

“Acknowledged. Opponent One: Level Two, Human Male, Height One-Point-Eight-Eight Meters, Mass Eighty-Five Kilograms. Skill rating: Basic precision.”

A shimmer of light condensed on the far side of the circle. The hologram resolved into a broad-shouldered man in pale training armor, his helmet visor opaque. He moved into stance — feet squared, pole raised at forty-five degrees.

Textbook form, Jenna thought. No flair, no swagger.

The start chime sounded. He advanced with careful, deliberate strikes — each aimed at her torso or shoulders, each predictable. She let the first blow glance off her guard, pivoted, and answered with a low sweep to test his footing. Solid stance. Alright, rookie.

Her breathing synced with his cadence, pole turning in her hands like a living thing. A fake high cut drew his block; she stepped inside his guard and tapped the pole end to his chestplate. The beep of the point registered.

“Point to Commander Ramthorne. Opponent reset.”

They clashed again, following the same pattern, and within another minute, she took the final point. He froze, shimmered, and dissolved into a shimmer of light.

“Opponent One defeated. Opponent Two loading.”

Opponent Two:

“Opponent Two: Level Four, Andorian Female, Height One-Point-Seven Meters, Mass Seventy Kilograms. Skill rating: Counter-strike specialist.”

Jenna felt her lips twitch into a smile. Now we’re talking.

The Andorian appeared low and coiled, pole held horizontally, antennae twitching with the slightest air currents. The start tone sounded — and nothing happened. The blue-skinned fighter waited, utterly still.

Jenna circled, testing the perimeter. She jabbed, lightly — and the Andorian’s pole snapped up to deflect, followed instantly by a thrust toward Jenna’s ribs. She twisted aside, narrowly missing the contact.

Patience damnit. She cursed herself.

They traded blows, but every time Jenna pressed the attack, the counter came sharper, faster. Twice she took stinging glances to her side armor, the sensor chiming in warning. Her mind dipped into old reflexes — sound, pressure, scent — and she began to feel the attacks before they came. A tightening of her opponent’s grip, a subtle shift in breath, the faint hum of the pole through the air.

She feinted right, drawing the Andorian’s counter — then rolled left under the strike, driving the butt of her pole against the target plate at her opponent’s abdomen.

“Point to Commander Ramthorne.”

The next two points came quicker, her timing returning in fluid surges. The Andorian shimmered out.

“Opponent Two defeated. Opponent Three loading.”

Opponent Three:

“Opponent Three: Level Six, Klingon Male, Height Two-Point-Zero-One Meters, Mass Ninety-Five Kilograms. Skill rating: Aggressive engagement.”

The shimmer resolved into a towering man in crimson armor, with heavier plating along the forearms. He didn’t wait for the chime — as soon as the tone sounded, he was on her.

The first blow jarred her grip, the pole’s shaft vibrating like a struck bell. She stepped back, deflecting high, then low, but his pace was relentless — a barrage that left no room for finesse.

Her breathing turned sharp, sweat beading on her temple. She ducked one swing and came up inside his guard, striking hard enough to force him back. For a moment, she thought she’d turned the tide.

Then the next swing came — fast, brutal — and slammed into her midsection with a dull thunk against the armor.

The sound was more impact than strike, the kind of sound you feel in your bones. Pain detonated in a hot bloom under her ribs, stealing her breath and replacing it with a rush of metallic-tasting air. Her vision tunneled for a half-second, edges darkening, and she fought the instinct to fold over.

Her pole slipped half a grip in her hands, slick with sweat, her knuckles screaming to hold on.

The giant’s shadow loomed over her — a wall of armor and motion — and in the split-second she had left to think, her instincts screamed: Move, or this ends here.

TBC

 

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