Relaxation Ritual [2/6]

Posted on Sat May 9th, 2026 @ 1:26pm by Captain Jaro & Petty Officer 1st Class Moana Thomas

931 words; about a 5 minute read

Mission: Episode 0: 48 Hours and Counting
Location: Holodeck
Timeline: T -20 hours

One of the Mos ducked suddenly, as the airborne puck took full advantage of the mistimed shot and sailed vertically at full-speed only to disappear into the back recesses with a delayed thunk that suggested it had at least recalled gravity's insistence eventually. As luck would have it, it was the version without volume and so it took a degree of lip-reading to decipher her reaction, at which point the matter became further complicated by a rather impulsive command that saw the program freeze just a little too late to salvage the loss of property.

The remaining Mo, not so much chastised as vehemently intrigued, turned wide eyes on the fresh spectacle that didn't immediately identify itself in terms that reminded her of important details, like seniority and command structures. It was not every day, after all, that she had the pleasure of interacting with a life-sized chicken, or perhaps...turkey. Her brow furrowed in immediate puzzlement, with a garnish of emergent amusement that eventually added a questioning grin to the ensemble.

"Bit early for the blood sacrifice, I'd say. They always made us wait until after ice cream."

Jaro’s gaze fixed on the glowing, rectangular table. He tilted his head, his feathers rustling dryly in response. "Ah, so the ice cream was the precursor? Fascinating," he remarked, stepping closer to the frozen simulation. He gestured with a wide, ochre-clad sleeve toward the air hockey table, his expression grave with scholarly interest. "I must confess, Petty Officer, my textbooks mentioned the 'Arcade' as a center of social interaction, but they were remarkably silent on the liturgical aspects. I had assumed this white, vibrating platform was perhaps a communal dining surface, but given the... aerodynamic velocity of that projectile during the duel and your mention of 'blood sacrifice', I see I was mistaken."

He leaned over the table, peering into the goal slot where the puck had vanished. "It has all the hallmarks of a traditional altar. The neon glow to focus the spirit, the rhythmic 'clack' to drive away malevolent entities, and a clear division of territory between the supplicants." He looked up at the still remaining Mo, his gaze moving between the living officer and awaiting table. "Tell me, in this specific lculture, which is destined for the honor of the offering? Is it the victor who is ascends to the plane of the 'Bonus Stage' deities, or does the loser satisfy the 'Game Over' entity to ensure a bountiful harvest of... what was it? Pepperoni?"

It had taken exactly one half of the second sentence out of the man's mouth for Mo's eyebrow to hitch, an impressive command of muscle control that she tended to overuse unapologetically. By the time Jaro had finished, her hands had found her hips and she was shaking her head. First impulse was always to assume the other mug was poking shit, and that went double if he was hiding his mischief behind a face full of duck's arse.

"Well I can tell you, if it's a choice between ritual sacrifice and eating anything off one of these," she pointed to the air hockey table, "you'd stand a better chance against the blade. These places weren't exactly renown for their hygiene policies, it's risky enough trying to stomach the food."

She paused then, arms folded across her front as she leaned back against the table and drew her own conclusions about the odd merging of cultures. "Let me guess, I missed the last-drinks call." A wrinkle-nosed grimace looked mildly apologetic for that without dipping too far into complete remorse. "I actually didn't realise someone had taken the next slot, I should probably get out and let you get on with..."

A putter of lips tried to find a way to summarise the gist of what looked to be a very busy evening.

"...stuff."

Jaro chuckled, a warm, resonant sound that set the feathers of his head-piece trembling once more. He looked down at the carpet, considering the dark, unidentifiable splotches and the way his soles still felt a lingering magnetic attraction to the synthetic fibers. "While I have found that most places of worship prefer to appear more... inviting than toxic, the state of this flooring certainly lends credence to your warning, Petty Officer. Though, from an anthropological standpoint, one could argue that the lingering patina of past offerings—spilled sugary libations and the residue of communal 'pizza'—was intended to remind worshippers of their collective history. A visceral record of every victory and defeat etched into the very fabric of the sanctuary."

He looked back up at her, his expression brightening with a genuine, eager curiosity that made it clear he was in no hurry to begin his own scheduled program. "As for vacating the premises, please, do not trouble yourself. There appears to have been a most fortuitous overlap in schedules."

He gestured vaguely toward the exit, as if dismissing the entire Tellarite species. "I was originally scheduled to observe a reconstruction of the First Great Migration of Tellar Prime—specifically the inaugural Insult Circle, where four tribal leaders spent three standard days accusing one another of being the primary reason they had gotten lost. It is a masterpiece of linguistic aggression, certainly, but I find this new insight into the religious fervor of the 1980s far more compelling. If you wouldn't mind a spectator for your... puck-duel? I promise to keep my liturgical observations to a minimum. Though I might take notes."

[TBC]

Captain Jaro
Captain
USS Amazônia

Petty Officer 1st Class Moana Thomas
Head Nurse
USS Amazônia

 

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