Relaxation Ritual [4/6]

Posted on Mon May 11th, 2026 @ 2:52pm by Captain Jaro & Petty Officer 1st Class Moana Thomas

974 words; about a 5 minute read

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

Jaro nodded with a fastidious, almost frantic intensity, his eyes tracking Mo's index finger as if it were a laser-pointer indicating the secrets of the universe. He was committing every syllable to memory, his lips moving silently as he echoed "seven seconds" and "opposable thumbs" with full ceremonial gravitas. He gripped the plastic mallet with a white-knuckled intensity that looked profoundly uncomfortable, hunched low over the table.

"A 'mallet', you say? Interesting nomenclature. In most Terran carpentry, one would expect a hammer for such a forceful interaction. Does the absence of a striking claw indicate a more... pacifistic approach to the projectile?" He hunkered down further, eyes level with the vibrating surface. "I am ready, Petty Officer. Let the 'Blower Motor' witness our resolve."

What followed was a masterclass in the triumph of experience over academic curiosity. Jaro's opening strategy seemed to involve an attempt to calculate the frictional coefficient of the table's air cushion in real-time, a feat of mental gymnastics that was unfortunately interrupted by the puck teleporting into the back of his goal before he’d even finished his first blink. The next few minutes were a blur of neon lights and digital klaxons. Jaro spent most of the round providing a running commentary on the "trajectory of intent" and questioning whether a true hammer might have offered better force application that was congruent with the spirit of battle, while the puck whistled past him at terminal velocity.

By the time the score reached six-zero, Jaro had finally managed to make contact, sending a slow, wobbling shot across the center line. It was a mercy point if there ever was one, allowed to tumble into the goal like a drunkard out of a bar. Jaro, however, didn't seem to notice the charity; he straightened up with a triumphant shout, declaring it a "successful offering" to the arcade gods. The round ended seconds later at seven-one, leaving the Captain breathless and slightly disheveled."

Mo had been raised by a man who, by dint of his own competitive nature, didn't have a lot of time for 'namby-pambying' kids into believing they were entitled to winning just by showing up. As harsh at that sounded on the surface, it had been a good upbringing, with just the right mixture of instruction and humility to turn all three of the children into reasonably decent losers. Her earlier frustration was an outlier, made permissible by the fact that she was failing against her own direct skill-level rather than having to adjust to the better performance of an entirely different entity. Losing to other people was one thing but losing against yourself was just embarrassing.

The same upbringing had taught her the true value of a fair victory. It tempered a natural pride in her own accomplishments with an understanding that there really wasn't anything to gloat about when you were miles ahead of the competition in both experience and skill. She hadn't insulted Jaro by going easy on him but she was neither inclined to continue to take advantage when the better option was to provide some worthwhile feedback.

"Try holding it like this," she suggested, gesturing to her mallet to show how her fingers curled around the edge rather than allowing her entire hand to rest on top of the plastic dome in the middle. With several test flicks, Mo demonstrated the flexibility it allowed. "This way," she switched to the way Jaro had been holding it, which was the instinctual way most people approached the task, "just creates an obstacle for the puck to smash into, steals a lot of the momentum. This," she switched back to the way she'd been playing, "gives you a lot more speed and force."

Jaro watched her demonstration with unblinking focus. He mimicked the grip immediately, his fingers curling tentatively around the rim of the mallet. The awkward, club-like tension in his arm began to dissolve, replaced by a more fluid, albeit uncertain, readiness. He gave the mallet a few experimental flicks, his eyebrows shooting upward as the plastic piece skated across the air-cushion with newfound grace. "I see. By shifting the fulcrum from the palm to the fingertips, one increases the rotational velocity of the strike. It is a most efficient modification, Petty Officer. I suspect my previous 'hammer' approach was indeed too rooted in a linear, perhaps overly Tellarite, philosophy of blunt force."

He leaned back for a moment, resting the mallet on the edge of the humming table as he looked at Mo with a kindly, inquisitive expression. "It is fascinating, really. This concept of 'winning' as a binary state. In many Denobulan youth games, particularly Garak-Tu, the objective is not to defeat an opponent, but to collectively sustain a sequence for as long as possible. We use a series of resonant glass spheres; the goal is to keep them all vibrating in harmony through synchronized movement. If one person 'wins' by making their sphere the loudest, the harmony breaks, and everyone loses."

He chucked, a soft sound that barely carried over the whir of the table's motor. "Humans, however, seem to find a unique spiritual nourishment in the direct clash of wills. It is a hallmark of your psychology—the drive to overcome the 'other' to validate the self. Even in this sanctuary of grease and neon, the liturgy is one of conquest." He offered a lopsided, appreciative smile. "Though I must admit, now that I have the correct grip, the prospect of a 'fair victory'—or at least a less humiliating defeat—carries a certain... charm."

Hunkering back down, his eyes narrowed as he centered his mallet. "Very well. Let us see if the arcade gods will now bestow their favor upon a chance visitor."

[TBC]

Captain Jaro
Captain
USS Amazônia

Petty Officer 1st Class Moana Thomas
Head Nurse
USS Amazônia

 

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