The high-pitched clang of metal reverberated off the walls of the training hall in the ancient monastery of Boreth, brought to life by the USS Sacramento’s holodeck. The searing cold penetrated Kincaid’s body in invisible, rippling waves, breathing ice even as his muscles burned. Above, ragged, timeworn banners bearing the insignia of ancient Klingon houses swung languidly.

Kincaid barely evaded a brutal swing, a vicious arc of power that might have flattened him in an instant.

“Again!” Divok bellowed.

Grit mixed with sweat and streaks of blood dripped uncomfortably down Kincaid’s temples as he struggled to reposition himself, each laboured breath a desperate plea for endurance. His hands trembled with the weight of his bat’leth. Every muscle throbbed with unyielding pain, and his pride burned fiercer than the agony searing through his limbs.

In stark contrast, Divok stood as an embodiment of lithe, lethal purpose. His weapon gripped with precision and control. His eyes, predatory, tracked each of Kincaid’s faltering movements, studying the doomed trajectory of a wounded animal destined for slaughter.

“I’ve fought Klingons before,” he said, circling warily, each shuddering breath an effort, “but rarely with such patience”

“We have much time to practice in the monastery,” Divok retorted with a grim smile, tilting his head in amusement.

A brief, rough, laugh tumbled from Kincaid before he had to catch his breath, “And I imagined you just sit around telling stories of Kahless?”

Divok lunged forward like a fierce beast. The bat’leths met in a violent clash, a snap of brutal collision echoing like a whip. Kincaid managed a haphazard block, yet the raw, unrelenting force of the attack sent him reeling backward in a burst of brutal momentum. With ferocity, the younger combatant pressed his assault, his strikes probing and mocking Kincaid’s weakening defense.

“You fight with the ghosts of your past,” Divok observed coolly, as they circled each other like dancers.

Kincaid’s eyes narrowed, with a mix of determination and confusion, “And what do you mean by that?”
“You remember a time when your body was yours to command. Now, it fights against your wishes,” Divok said, his words hitting home.

Kincaid unleashed a furious swing, his movements clumsy but powerful, a ballet of violence. Divok deflected the swing with little effort, stepping aside to deliver a punishing off-hand palm strike to Kincaid’s chest. The older man staggered back in retreat.

At the moment of impact, the simulation shuddered to a stop, its programming halting in reaction to the dangerously rapid pounding of Kincaid’s heart.

Kincaid’s bat’leth clattered onto the cold floor and he fell into a spasm of agony. Although he had not yet begun to wheeze, the edge of collapse loomed. Kincaid was covered in sweat.

“You asked for a challenge,” Divok, showing no trace of satisfaction, simply stood, a silent warrior whose measured breathing was a taint to the older man. There was no condescension, only an unvarnished truth, a truth that forced Kincaid to grapple between resentment and a grudging respect.

With a painful grunt and a roll of his shoulder, Kincaid retrieved his bat’leth, his voice defiant, “I should have asked Komex for a fight”

“He is old, yes, but he knows how to fight with age rather than against it,” Divok countered with steely calm.

Kincaid straightened up and squared his trembling stance once more, bat’leth raised high, sweat painting streaks across his face. His gaze fixed on Divok, who waited silently, his expression neutral but resolute.

“Computer,” Kincaid steadied his breathing, “resume”. He lunged again.

Their bat’leths met with a symphony of clashing steel. Every strike from the older officer was a testament to a fading glory, fueled by an inner strength that defied the frailties of a weakening body. His muscles screamed in protest.

Divok intercepted with a surgeon’s precision, adjusting his stance and slipping beneath Kincaid’s next vicious arc. In that second, Kincaid overextended, a fleeting misstep, and a bolt of pain tore through his lower back like wildfire, freezing him in stunned agony.

His bat’leth slipped from his grasp as his jaw clenched. In a heartbeat, his strength betrayed him. His knees buckled and he collapsed onto the stone floor, one hand scrambling to cushion his fall while the other raced to clutch his back.

Divok moved to his side with a measured, cold concern, “Computer, pause program”

Kincaid waved him off weakly, his shallow breaths barely masking the agony, “I’m fine,” he said through gritted teeth. His body disagreed.

Divok replied calmly as he knelt beside him, his tone devoid of judgment, “You have torn a muscle”

“I said,” Kincaid began, trying to rise, only to be ensnared by burning pain that shattered his resolve, “damn”

Placing a firm, steady hand on Kincaid’s shoulder, Divok was sombre, “You fight to prove something and you fight with memories of power. You are old. Your strength now is different”

A silence fell as Kincaid’s gaze fixed on the floor, his jaw remained clenched through the pain. After a long, tormented beat, his voice broke in a low comment, “I can’t keep up with myself”

For a moment Divok said nothing. Then, softening his tone, “Revel in the glory of your past in stories. Keep them there. And find pride in being an old warrior, a warrior with guile and a warrior of experience”

Kincaid’s weary eyes met Divok’s, “You don’t have enough scars to have earned that wisdom,” he muttered, a smile wincing through the pain in his back.

With a trace of humor, Divok quipped, “I have fewer scars because I am not foolhardy in battle”

Kincaid laughed again before the effort caused a jolt of pain, “Computer, end program”

The Klingon surroundings dissolved into the sterile grid of the holodeck. Divok extended his hand and Kincaid accepted it, feeling no dishonour in the admission, as he gingerly walked himself up straight, testing the damage to his muscles.

“I’m fine from here, Divok, thank you. Next time,” Kincaid waved Divok away. The Klingon stepped to the side, nodded briefly, and walked out of the holodeck doors.

The doors hissed closed behind Divok, leaving Kincaid alone in the dim, artificial grid.
Slowly, Kincaid sank to the cold floor. His bat’leth lay discarded nearby, a strange sight breaking a grid square. His back screamed the most, but his hips, shoulders, arms, all felt punished.

With an exhale, he wiped the grime from his face, dreading the trembling of his hands. He reached across and drew his bat’leth onto his lap. Gazing into the polished metal blade he saw his sweat-matted hair, a reddened, weary face, and watery eyes, “My wife is not going to be happy”.