Gym Rats

Posted on Monday September 2nd, 2019 @ 6:12am by Commodore Gregory Paladin & Lieutenant Commander Canaan Serine

4,350 words; about a 22 minute read

Mission: Departure and Trial Run
Location: USS Poseidon; Gymnasium (Main Level), Deck 5
Timeline: Pre-Poseidon Launch; Pre-Departure

[ON]

The Poseidon's state of the art gym was accessible to the crew and passengers twenty-four hours, and rarely devoid of activity. Cardio and strengthening machines were on the second level, with much of the equipment configurable to accommodate the diverse species populating the Miranda-class starship. The main level held numerous stages, including a ring for wrestling and boxing, and several for different forms of self-defense training. There was a small yoga/meditation room, as well as some ancillary facilities specific to Klingon training. Around the perimeter of these stages was a massive track for impact-running. A small lift connected the two levels, and there was a replicator on the main level.

Canaan was on lap three. Long, willowy legs gracefully carried the white-haired Lieutenant at a brisk-pace. He wore a pair of teal running shorts, a gray moisture-wicking tank-top with the blue emblem of Starfleet Academy over the chest, and a set of gray running shoes with teal accents.

His graceful cantor was intended for endurance, not speed. This part of his training was in preparation for a holo-marathon Canaan was signed-up for in a month. He was feeling good about his prospects in placing well, yet wanted to improve. Running was a solo-sport based on competing with one's self. Although Canaan wasn't particularly competitive with others, he certainly was with himself.

The pool to the gymnasium wasn't particularly large or long, just deep enough to warrant an excuse to exercise old muscles and war injuries. Such was the case for Commodore Gregory Paladin, in full swim wear as he made laps from end to end of the several yards of pool at his disposal. There was a plethora of activity here, including the Lieutenant running the track, so most of the noise muffled his splashes as his entire expression was concentrated on the effort.

His body was littered with scars. Traditionally, these scars would have been healed by the advanced medical technologies of the Federation long ago. In reality, the scars were a reminder and permanent stain on his body from his participation in the Dominion War. Thousands of deaths that he had personally witnessed, several hundred he had personally attended to either in mercy or anger, all marked in some way across his darker-tanned form. His muscles rippled with effort as he swam faster, harder, trying as he usually did to run away from the emotions rather than face them.

Sometime later, with a gasp, he pulled himself from the water and accepted the handed towel from his swimming buddy, a Lieutenant from the lower decks. With a nod they parted ways, Gregory left alone as he stood there, dripping, contemplating.

Canaan rounded the track, his pace slowing to a walk as he glanced the chronometer display above the pool. Excellent! He applauded, having shaved several minutes from his overall time. Canaan's hair was damp with sweat, while beads of it ran down his forehead and temple. He couldn't suppress a smile as he approached the lap pool, and the man he now recognized as Commodore Paladin.

Gregory glimpsed upward, his mind temporary halted from the horrors of his past. He had ran, and ran hard, but he couldn't hide. Outwardly he didn't express any of this, only giving a nod as he maintained a stoic and distant expression.

"Lieutenant Serine," he greeted, his memory of the crew displaying itself again.

"Commodore!" The bubbly tone of voice mirrored his smile. "How was your swim?" Canaan pulled the bottom of his short up to wipe his forehead and cheeks as he stepped off the track and approached the dark-haired man. As he approached, Canaan took notice of the scars that accented the Commodore's toned physique. Many were noticeable from afar, while others required a bit more scrutiny. Although the young man was less than subtle in glancing the blemishes, there was no sign of judgment or objection. In truth, he found them all the more intriguing, if not utterly surprising.

The Commodore, for a brief moment, took note of Canaan looking at him. In that moment, he felt vulnerable, wanting to turn away or blink, hide even. He didn't. His composure maintained itself, his semi-gaze/glare constant as it became slightly more welcoming following the greeting from the Lieutenant. His posture presented himself facing sideways to Canaan, drying himself gently as he looked down for an instant to observe his actions.

"I did," he replied. "It was a relief, necessary. Had to burn down some thoughts. PTSD and all that."

He had said the reason for the swim as if it was commonplace, as if one person having PTSD in this day and age was normal and acceptable. Gregory's experience with this horrible nightmare had apparently marred his impression of cultural norms - regardless what had been said was said, the Commodore for all the world acting as if the words were casual conservation.

Canaan popped off either trainer and slipped off the no-show liners before sitting down beside Paladin and dipping his feet in the water. "It's an escape, I suppose." He replied casually, casting a sideways glance at the Commodore's defined chest. A particularly prominent looking scar reached from the man's sternum around the gentle curve of his fourth and fifth rib. "Not from reality, mind you, more toward it." He resisted the urge to reach out and touch the scar. Innocent in wanting to know how the wound felt compared to the Commodore's unsullied skin, there was no perversion in this desire, merely a scientific curiosity. Of course, he didn't. To do so without permission would've been inappropriate.

"Did it hurt?" He gestured to the wound. Canaan was much too young to remember the Dominion War, although he'd heard more than enough stories, as well as studied the conflict in school and while attending the Academy. It was a prominent part of Federation history, but one Canaan would never understand from personal experience.

Gregory watched the man look at him as if he were a show piece, though not in an impolite fashion. He'd seen it before, in the showers on other starbases, in other places after and during the war; young warriors admiring the scars of their elders. He looked away, towel still in hand, his fingers crushing it briefly as water dripped slowly as it was pressed from the innards - not drenched from when it cleansed his form, merely soaked. He began to fold his towel, eyes on the process as he replied.

"U.S.S. Nautilus, NCC-31910. I was taking over the Chief of Securities station after the Lieutenant had a meet and greet with a bulkhead," Gregory said, a slight smirk appearing before disappearing as he continued. "The console exploded, again, sending shrapnel my way. I shrugged it off, but the shields didn't."

He was silent for a moment, then, as he gazed forward, he gently sat down beside Canaan. He used the now-folded towel to wipe across his hair. He continued as his eyes strayed from gazing into Canaan's, too distant to know he was there.

"The First Battle of Chin'toka, a brutal and effective battle to boost the morale of the Federation. Captain knew we needed a victory, so did the Commander, we were sent along with the U.S.S. Defiant to strike back at the enemy. Orbital weapons stations proved to be far more deadly than previously anticipated." Gregory let out a sigh, thinking back as he collected himself. He continued, "As I was saying, the shields didn't make it, only for a moment. Time enough for a few Jem'Hadar raider to make it on the ship. We reacted accordingly."

Slowly, he slid his index finger down across the scar. His eyes watching the traversing finger until it reached his lower abdomen. Then, his hand dropped to his lap with a dramatic slap.

"One of the raiders caught me off guard, slit all the way from here to here," he explained as he briefly pointed the start and finish of the scar again. "I bled, profusely, but I stayed at my station. I fought back, killed him, kept on. Not much was recorded about that, but I was later promoted because of it. All part of the war. Had we not pushed on, we'd of likely not helped win the battle. It was a brutal affair with those Cardassian orbital guns."

Canaan cringed at the brutality of it all. The very thought of the cold edge of steel slicing so effortlessly into the fragility of skin was unsettling. He visibly shuddered, thinking of a younger Paladin, severely wounded, his very life essence weeping from open wounds. The man remained steadfastly at his post, duty, and honor-bound to help his crew succeed in the mission.

"I-I'm so sorry," He tried to swallow the lump in his throat, "And, you keep them... as reminders of that day?" Canaan was no longer looking at the discolored pocks that marred the Commodore's torso. Instead, his eyes found Paladin's, holding them with an interest that wasn't in the war but the genuineness of the man sitting next to him. He didn't apologize for it happening; the past was the past after all. Canaan did so because of the memory that lived within the Commodore, causing him a turmoil Canaan could appreciate, but never truly understand.

"I'm glad you survived," Canaan added sincerely, "You have a kind heart, I think." It was an assumption based on mere observation and a bit of speculation on his part. Paladin's reputation preceded him, though, so Canaan's assumptive statement wasn't a far leap from the truth.

Eyes downcast, the Commodore thought on the Lieutenant's question - and his compliment. His mind shot back to that horrible moment, that familiar face, his dying family. Back further, the bridge of the Nautilus, the cries of anguish as men and women died in space on other ships. The horrible screams of the injured. His own utterances of futility and mortality, anger, the fight to survive. It happened so quickly, so fast, that he visibly shuddered. He took in a sharp intake of breath, doing as the old Counselors had taught; steady breathing, count to ten, remember the garden.

Ten seconds later his mind was clear, the brief shudder ceasing. He cleared his throat, looking to Canaan as he locked eyes. It was the first time he honestly looked at the man. An albino, if his perception of the young officers appearance was correct. Striking blue eyes, white hair, a complexion of almost complete innocence. The way he gazed at Gregory made the Commodore think he was eager for acceptance, for anything to justify an appreciation of his task of the moment. It was that perception that Gregory had that stalled his words before they came out.

I think it's time I leave, he almost said, but didn't. Instead, he spoke softly, almost with a broken voice.

"I keep them as reminders of what I lost," he explained, looking away again. It was too much to look at the Lieutenant at that moment. "I lost a lot more after the fact, much more. These scars are my own. No one else has them, not even the other....person, persons."

A short pause as he collected himself, almost giving away information that was rather classified at the moment. He looked back at Canaan.

"If I die, people will know this body belongs to me, and while the scars remind me of my pain, they also identify who I am," he said. "Don't you have that? Something that defines you? Just in case someone pretends to be you or tries to assume who you are?"

It was Canaan's turn to look away. He tried to make the gesture look natural, fluid for the moment, yet only managed to look awkward and fleeting. His mind flashed to the memory of his expedition team, their mortal bodies twisted in unnatural positions. Their souls cried out in the anguish that consumed their physical forms. He'd fled that cavern with scars, as deep and prominent as the Commodore's, yet invisible, internal, scars on his psyche.

The team members that went into that cavern returned to the outpost changed, not themselves. The signs were subtle at first, yet became more prevalent as time passed. Canaan knew. How could they have survived the torture? They didn't. Their bodies were preserved, somehow made new, but what inhabited their minds was something different. Inside, they'd died, murdered by whatever now took hold of their souls. For some reason spared, Canaan was himself... or was he? There were times he couldn't tell any more. Why hadn't they taken him like the others? They'd explained, yet it still didn't make sense to him.

When the silence between the two men had grown too long, Canaan offered an anxious smile, "I think we all do." He shook away the memory, pushing it back as far as it would go. "I try to remind myself that kindness is a universal constant, perhaps not fully understood, but completely recognized." Canaan wished there were physical attributes of himself that were as defining of his past like Paladin's. His soft, pale skin was unmarked by tragedy, yet altered for aesthetics by his own doing. The distinguishing characteristics of his body were uniquely his yet didn't define him. It was his heart that did.

"These are your story," The Lieutenant chanced it, the light touch of his fingertips tracing a calloused line that ran two inches across Paladin's flexed bicep. "They define your past, not your future." His touch lingered until his hand withdrew. "I'd like to think when I die; it's how I impacted the lives of others that will make me recognizable to those I love." He looked into the water, the image of Sulerek on the surface of his mind. The Vulcan he once loved was gone, replaced by the heartless creature that now consumed his Katra.

He glanced Paladin once more, "W-would, you like to have a drink with me sometime?"

The touch was awkward, alien. The feeling so distant to the Commodore - no, to Gregory. This meeting was beyond professional now, it had entered personal territory; a sharing of scars and pains, whether intentional or not, verbal or hidden, Gregory had seen it in the man's eyes when he looked away, what he could see, so familiar to his own pain. He hid it away well, whatever it was, and Gregory was completely fine with leaving it at that - he knew the pain.

When the finger parted his skin from the scar, Gregory's eyes looked up from having gazed at the touch for the duration. Eyes now focused on Canaan, he contemplated his response. It had been a long time since he had a drink with anyone, outside of professional discourse. The last one to fancy his friendship was Franklin, but then again, that too was slightly professional. There was an objective there, an objective yet unfinished which at the present moment tore at Gregory's soul. The brief instances of whatever humanity died a year ago was reviving itself, reminding Gregory - reminding the Commodore - that his duty did not fall in line with that direction.

His eyes focused again, having gone distant in that brief interlude. A smile, a genuine smile, played his expression.

"I might like that," he said, glancing in the distance then as two crewmembers fought in the ring. "Been a long time since I sat with anyone outside of my wife. She died a year ago, so did my daughter. Been alone ever since."

A silence as the echoes of battle were heard, then, "I saw it in your eyes, Lieutenant. You understand me, don't you? You understand the pain I hold when others do not."

The intensity in Canaan's eyes conveyed as much, "I do." He affirmed quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. There was no need for Canaan to note Paladin's deceased wife or daughter. An unspoken exchange happened between the two men, an acknowledgment of their shared pain. Their past was a storm that roiled within in ways no one else could ever understand. Perhaps Canaan couldn't fully appreciate Paladin's trauma, nor the Commodore his. There was an understanding that ran deeper than either fully comprehended.

The nervous beat of his heart quickened, "I'm scared it will consume me." This time he did whisper. He spoke of a fear that gripped him since leaving Arach-VI, a concern that told him his part to play in this story was far from over. Moreso, he feared what he was doing right now, at this very moment, with Paladin. He'd never dared like this before. Something inside him said to let go, and follow that wave of mutual understanding to see what lay on the other side of this moment, and the moments to come.

"I did too," replied Gregory, almost a whisper - barely. His eyes focused on the battle, it had ended briefly and now two others joined the ring. The compatriots on the other end of the Gymnasium having a good time; their good time together adding a sense of calm for some reason, allowing Gregory to think. Dangerous thoughts, thoughts that once uttered could spell doom for him.

For some reason, though, he didn't seem to care. Canaan Serine seemed to be in need of guidance, and seemed to add a bit of purpose to an otherwise purposeless existence of the moment.

"After the events that took my family from me, I changed, much like you right now," Gregory said. He finally looked to Canaan then, continuing. "I sought a way to take back what had been stolen without realizing that what had been taken cannot be returned to me. When it finally dawned on me what had transpired and what I had to accept, I pushed myself into my work. Got my promotion to Commodore. Moved on, or so I told myself."

A soft chuckle, Gregory looking back to the combatants farther off.

"I never did move on, never have, you never can from something like that," Gregory continued. "People who don't know will tell you that you can move on, should, concentrate on other things. All that does is bury it. I met a good Counselor once, man told me the only way to move past what I endured is to not let it define who I am now. He said a lot of other good stuff, but that was one that stuck. Never let the scars you bare define your current state of being."

At that, Gregory looked back to Canaan. "No matter how deep the scar, how familiar it would be, no matter the dreams or episodes you have, all of that is simply existing in the past. I still have trouble accepting it, and that's okay. It's okay to cry. If you ever need someone to talk about what happened, I can be your battle buddy, we'll fight it together."

In his rational mind, Canaan knew he could accept the fate of his team. They were gone, he was not; this was a reality no one could change. What did exist was their physical shells, housing a grotesque being that dominated Canaan's nightmares. The Dominion War may have ended decades ago, yet for Paladin, it was as if it happened yesterday. The war had ended, though — the warring factions going to their end of the galaxies to rebuild. Canaan's battle was an ever-present constant. One day, the team would come for him. Mosely, Cambridge, Lu, Genevive, Santana, Brattle, and Sulerek. Assuredly, he'd face them in battle or defeat.

Canaan hoped it wasn't the latter of the two.

"We're not alone." Canaan's gaze returned to Paladin's, an endearing expression of resoluteness exaggerating the handsome features of his face. He lost himself in the Commodore's eyes for a moment, their striking blue color softening the man's hardened features. He felt drawn to the man, in such a way that he'd never thought before this moment. Canaan wondered with the Commodore felt it too, a connection that surged between the two men.

The rose hue of his cheeks deepened, coloring his face to the complement of his pale skin. As much as he wanted to look away in embarrassment, he refused, leaving himself open and vulnerable in such a way that he knew Paladin could recognize.

When Gregory met those eyes, it was a similar feeling to something hidden deep. Before the death of his wife, he had admitted some time ago that their marriage hadn't been all that solid. They had the love, and care, but much of the time there were disagreements. In those times, he had explored many things about his own interests, as she had. Due to that, he was open to many avenues of life - and love.

He wasn't ready to commit to another relationship. So much had transpired within the span of one year that he was still adjusting to his promotion to Commodore. Yet he saw in that face something vulnerable, something in need of reassurance. Gregory, almost on instinct, seemed to resign himself to the inevitable; a slight of nod as his eyes locked with Canaan's, leaning close, and closer, as he gently rose a hand to cusp the cheek of subordinate officer. A slight hesitation, then, a gentle touch of the lips into a slight, affectionate kiss.

Pulling back, the hand stayed on the cheek, almost as if a support for what he was about to say.

"It won't work between us," Gregory said, bluntly, yet with care. "You know that. I can't be a lover, but I can be a friend. I hope you understand."

Canaan's heart beat so loudly; it was of thunderous applause in both ears. His lips touched upon Paladin's with the lightest of pressure, playing against the Commodore's for a passing second before parting. The kiss was abrupt. Canaan hadn't closed his eyes as their lips connected. Wide-eyed, he leaned into the man's hand as Canaan brought fingers to his lips, touching where Paladin had kissed. "I-I understand." He stuttered, yet not sure he entirely did in the haze that now clouded his mind. The Commodore's declaration was measured, reasoned. Canaan wouldn't argue, not here... not now. "I would like that, your friendship, I mean."

The fair-skinned Lieutenant wasn't sure if others had noticed the two, most notably that it was Paladin. "That was... unexpected."

"It was necessary," Paladin concluded, though the coldness of the statement was replaced by a warmth. His smile hadn't yet faded. "And I wouldn't worry about onlookers, none of that here."

He gave a chuckle, releasing his palm from Canaan's cheek. He gave a pat on his shoulder before retracting his hand, gazing about.

"Everyone here is too busy fighting past their own demons to care about two folks at the edge of everything," Gregory said, almost musing, eyes looking from one particular place to another. Indeed, no one seemed interested, and if they were no one was rude enough to show it. "In any event, yes, consider us friends. If you happen to want that drink, perhaps you should pay a visit to my quarters. I'm sure we could discuss our friendship more thoroughly there."

His eyes had turned to look at Canaan's as he said that last part, a slight glint in them, though without mischievous intent.

Paladin's words reassured Canaan as he gathered up both shoes. "I'd like that." He stood before extending a hand toward the Commodore to help the man to his feet. The young Lieutenant felt a little lightheaded, either because of the kiss or from standing too quickly. Canaan chose to believe it was due to the former.

The two would share a drink, but not on this night. In their hearts, they both knew a pause was needed to more fully understand what had just happened and what it meant moving forward. In Paladin's mind, he sounded resolute with perhaps just a glimmer of doubt. In Canaan's, he held onto that glimmer for the possibility of what could be. Through friendship, could something more be borne?

Without saying another word, Canaan leaned forward and leaned into Paladin, his arms wrapping around the man's bare torso for several seconds before pulling away. He nodded his goodbye before padding barefoot toward the open corridor.

Canaan's heartbeat hadn't slowed and wouldn't for a little while yet. In his mind, he knew what had just happened, yet disbelief called into question his recollection of events. He needed to think, and there was no better a place to do so than the arboretum.

The smile on Gregory's face faded. With each step that Canaan took further away, the glimmer of hope that things would change went with it. For that briefest of moments, Gregory actually believed he was wrong. That his mission objective, approved by Starfleet, was under the assumption of his typical modus operandi; vengeance was personal, not professional. That hug at the end, also, nearly pulled the Commodore to safety.

He had been so foolish. He watched Canaan leave, watched him depart still as he sat. There was still hope, perhaps even the Chief Counselor could save Gregory before the inevitable conclusion of his objective. But he knew no one could, and he tried so hard to tell Canaan that without actually telling. Gregory believed that he had failed in that regard, now having to deal with the fallout of something far worse - or better, depending on perspective.

Strangely, as Gregory glimpsed elsewhere following Canaan's departure, the Commodore found something was missing. For once, the nightmares didn't claw at his mind. He was at peace, a feeling equally foreign to him, yet in this moment of respite and strangeness it was a welcoming new sensation.

[OFF]

"My past is an Armor I cannot take off, no matter how many times you tell me the war is over."
– Jessica Katoff

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