Built to Endure

Posted on Mon Sep 14th, 2026 @ 8:14pm by Lieutenant Vireya Talvaren & Captain Marc Steyn

3,546 words; about a 18 minute read

Mission: Season 1 Episode 2: The Garden at the Edge of Night
Location: USS Genesis - Deck 11 - Gym

ON

Genesis had been underway for almost twenty-four hours, and Marc had finally decided it was time to pay some attention to himself. His physical condition had taken something of a back seat since Wolf 359 and the long recovery that followed, compounded by the relentless demands of preparing to assume command. He had even begun to notice the softening of the once-chiselled definition across his abdomen, something he was decidedly unwilling to let continue.

The rhythmic thud of his fists striking the heavy bag echoed through the otherwise quiet gymnasium. Dressed in a loose black sleeveless shirt, already damp with sweat, Marc moved around the bag with practised ease, driving combinations into it before allowing it to swing back towards him. The exercise was simple, physical and reassuringly uncomplicated. No reports, no meetings, no decisions—just his breathing, the movement of his body and the satisfying impact of his fists.

Yet even here, his thoughts inevitably returned to Genesis and the command chair. He had commanded the Roosevelt on numerous occasions, but those had always been temporary assignments. This was different. Genesis was his ship, and every person aboard was now, to some degree, his responsibility. He knew what command could mean when things went wrong, and the thought lingered that one day a decision he made might result in someone not coming home.

Wolf 359 had taught him that loss did not need to be measured in hundreds for it to matter. One officer. One mistake. One decision made seconds too late. That was enough. He remembered the empty chairs, the names that had become memorials and the families who had received messages instead of seeing their loved ones return. He had survived that battle; now he was responsible for ensuring as many of his crew as possible survived whatever Genesis encountered.

Marc stepped in and drove another combination into the bag, harder this time. He couldn't promise that everyone would come home. No captain could. But he could promise himself that he would never become so comfortable with command that he forgot what it cost. He lowered his fists and stood breathing heavily as the bag swung slowly away from him, the weight of command settling across his shoulders once more. It was heavy, certainly—but it was his to carry. He remained there for a moment, allowing his breathing to settle, when something changed in the quiet around him. Marc felt the unmistakable presence of someone standing behind him.

Vi heard the heavy bag before the gym doors had finished opening.

The steady rhythm of impact carried across the otherwise quiet room, followed by the short scrape of shoes against the deck as whoever was working it shifted position. She stepped inside with a towel slung over one shoulder and a water bottle in hand, dressed for training in a fitted sleeveless top and dark exercise trousers, her red hair pulled back and away from her face.

Marc was already several combinations into the bag.

She slowed for a moment, watching without announcing herself. There was enough familiarity in his movement to tell her this wasn't something he'd taken up yesterday. He kept his balance, moved with the bag rather than simply standing in front of it, and there was real weight behind the punches.

Vireya could appreciate that.

Boxing had never been where her own strengths lay. She could strike well enough when she needed to, but years of judo and jujutsu had taught her to prefer someone else's momentum to her own muscle. Mok'bara had added patience and control to that, along with an appreciation for what happened in the space between movements. Against somebody heavier, stronger or simply built like a bulkhead, meeting force with more force had always seemed unnecessarily exhausting.

She set her bottle down beside one of the training mats and slipped off her shoes, rolling her shoulders as she stepped onto the padded surface.

Another hard combination landed behind her.

“Not bad, Captain.”

Vireya glanced back towards him, a smile touching her mouth.

“I was beginning to think all those science postings had kept you safely away from anything that hit back.”

She lowered herself into a stretch, giving him the bag and his breathing room rather than turning his workout into an inspection.

“I won't interrupt. I came down to train too.”

"Lieutenant... We've not had a chance to talk much since... It must be before the party now. How are you settling in on Genesis?" Marc stepped back from the bag, allowing it to swing away as he turned slightly toward her, his breathing still elevated. There was genuine curiosity in his expression, though his posture remained that of a commanding officer—attentive but measured. "I know the transition from Starbase posting to a starship can be an adjustment. I want to make sure you have what you need to get up to speed with the crew."

He turned back to the bag without waiting for her full response, driving a fresh combination into it with controlled precision. The rhythm resumed—strike, shift, breathe—his body moving through the familiar patterns even as his mind remained partially engaged with the conversation. "The party should have given everyone a chance to decompress a bit before we pushed out into the black. I think it was a success, even if the Doctor did have just a little bit too much fun." He cast a pointed look in her direction, knowing full well she had been the one responsible for sending the Vulcan Doctor to the point of total inebriation.

"If there's anything you need—training schedules, crew briefings, anything at all—my door is open." Another series of punches, harder now, the physical exertion a counterpoint to the careful formality of his words.

Vireya finished stretching out one leg before shifting her weight and rising smoothly from the mat. “I’m settling in well,” she said, reaching briefly for her water bottle. “The seabase was a good posting. I liked the people, liked the work, and there are worse places to spend a few years than somewhere with an ocean outside your window.” Her expression softened as she looked across at him. “But I think I’d had enough of being somewhere that stayed still.”

She took a drink, letting the thought sit for a moment before continuing. Wolf 359 did not need explaining between them. Marc had his own memories of it, and hers had acquired Hevol’s name somewhere along the way. “After everything that happened, being back aboard a ship makes more sense to me. I don’t know that I could have stayed planetside much longer without feeling as though I was watching everyone else move on without me.” There was no drama in the admission, only the quiet certainty of something she had understood about herself rather late. “So yes. Genesis feels right.”

His pointed look over Syvar drew a laugh from her, warmer now as she shook her head. “I’ll accept partial responsibility for the Doctor. In my defence, he asked what I was drinking and seemed genuinely interested.” The smile widened despite her attempt at innocence. “I perhaps should have established whether he knew what alcohol tasted like before giving him El Aurian cordial, but he did say he liked natural beverages.” There were lessons in that somewhere, although Vi suspected Syvar had learnt considerably more of them than she had.

She watched Marc return to the bag, attention settling on the rhythm of his movements rather than simply the weight behind them. He knew what he was doing. That much was obvious. He struck cleanly, kept himself balanced and did not waste much movement, but the bag remained obligingly predictable no matter how hard he hit it. When he offered anything she might need, Vireya’s eyes moved from the swinging bag back to him and a slow, thoughtful smile appeared.

“Well, since you’ve offered.” She stepped further onto the mat and rolled her shoulders loose, the change in her stance subtle but deliberate. “I could use someone who moves.”

Her gaze flicked towards the heavy bag before returning to Marc, amusement sitting easily in her expression. “You’ve spent quite a while convincing that thing who’s in charge. I’m reasonably certain it’s surrendered.” She shifted her feet, comfortable now on the mat. “I don’t box, so I’m not going to stand there and trade punches with you. But if you’re interested in something a little less cooperative…”

Vireya opened her hands in an easy invitation.

“I’m happy to oblige.”

Marc couldn't help but smile. There was something in her attempt at innocence over Syvar—the careful deflection, the warmth beneath it—that he found genuinely charming. He let the heavy bag swing away from him, catching it with one hand to still its momentum before stepping down from the platform and moving toward the mat.

He was halfway across when the gymnasium doors opened.

Three crew members entered, their attention initially fixed on the equipment scattered around the room. Then they noticed him and Vireya standing opposite each other on the mat, and the trajectory of their movements shifted. Glances were exchanged—the kind that carried weight, the kind that would likely make their way through the ship's informal communication network before the hour was out. A captain and his security chief, squaring off. The crew would draw their own conclusions.

Marc settled into a loose stance across from her, rolling his shoulders to work out the tension from the heavy bag work. The playfulness in his expression deepened as he met her eyes.

"Do you want me to pull my punches, Lieutenant?" he asked. The question carried a note of amusement, his accent lending it a warmth he hadn't quite anticipated—something that made the words sound less like a formal inquiry and more like an invitation to something he was genuinely looking forward to.

Vi noticed the newcomers almost as soon as they noticed her.

It wasn’t their movement that caught her so much as the change in the room around it. Curiosity sharpened at the edge of her awareness, followed quickly by anticipation once it became apparent that neither she nor Marc was simply stretching. There was amusement in there too, the particular flavour of people realising they might have stumbled upon something worth telling their friends about later. She resisted the temptation to look over. Let them watch. By the time dinner rolled around, half the ship would probably have heard that the Captain and Security Chief had tried to murder one another in the gym regardless of what actually happened.

Marc was easier to separate from the background. His mood sat closer now that they faced one another, warm with amusement but carrying a competitive little edge beneath it. He was enjoying this. So was she, if the smile creeping across her face was any indication.

“Pull them if you want to, Captain.”

Vi shifted her weight lightly onto the balls of her feet, hands loose rather than balled into fists. There was nothing particularly dramatic about her stance. Judo and jujutsu had taught her not to advertise too much before contact, and Mok’bara had only reinforced the value of patience. Marc’s shoulders, hips and feet would tell her more than his fists ever could, provided she paid attention.

Her eyes stayed on him, taking in the small adjustments of balance as he settled. Boxing gave him habits she could read, but knowing what to look for and reacting correctly were two different things. A feint was still a feint, reach still mattered, and one badly judged step could put her directly where she had no intention of being.

The smile remained.

“Unless this is lightweight sparring for cadets.” She tipped her head slightly. “I was assuming first to draw blood.”

There was enough warmth in the words to keep the challenge where it belonged, between two people about to test one another rather than two officers trying to prove something.

Vi opened the distance between her feet by another fraction and waited for him to decide how serious he wanted to be.

Marc's smile widened slightly at the challenge, the competitive spark in his eyes becoming unmistakable. He shifted his weight onto the balls of his feet, shoulders loose, hands raised but relaxed. He had no intention of rushing her; this was a spar, not a fight, and he wanted to see what she could do before deciding how hard to press. For a moment he simply watched, breathing steadily, then stepped forward and snapped out a quick left jab, followed almost immediately by a second, testing the distance rather than committing his weight behind either strike.

He shifted his feet as he recovered, circling a fraction before stepping in again. A third jab followed, slightly sharper than the first two, aimed toward the upper line of her guard before Marc withdrew his hand and reset his stance. A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "All right, Lieutenant," he murmured, barely loud enough to carry across the mat. "Let's see what you've got."

Vi gave him the first jab.

Not literally. She shifted her head just outside its line and let it pass close enough to feel the movement of air against her cheek, using the second to measure his reach rather than answering it. Marc was quick for someone who put that much weight behind his hands, and the easy rhythm from the heavy bag had followed him onto the mat. She moved with him as he circled, keeping her own stance loose, refusing the temptation to chase after either fist.

The third came sharper. She read the shoulder a fraction late and had to turn with it, his knuckles brushing across the upper edge of her guard hard enough to remind her that watching a boxer and standing in front of one were very different experiences. Vi’s smile sharpened rather than disappearing.

“Better.”

She didn’t give him the same distance again. As his hand came back towards guard, Vi stepped inside his reach, one hand moving to redirect the arm rather than block it outright while her other sought control higher up near the shoulder. Her hips turned with the entry, weight dropping lower as one foot slid towards the outside of his stance.

Punching him back would have been playing his game.

Instead, Vi tried to take his balance away from him.

Her leg hooked lightly behind his lead foot as she drew his upper body across the line she had opened, the beginnings of a judo-style sweep rather than a committed throw. Enough to find out how quickly he recognised what she was doing, and whether the boxer in him knew what to do once somebody stopped politely remaining at punching distance.

Marc felt the shift in her balance almost before he understood what she was attempting. The moment she stepped inside his reach, his instincts screamed that the exchange had changed; this was no longer boxing. His arm was redirected, his shoulder caught, and suddenly the strength behind his punches counted for considerably less than the position she had created. He felt her leg hook behind his and immediately widened his stance, dropping his centre of gravity as he twisted with the movement rather than fighting against it. A surprised laugh escaped him as he managed to stay upright, though only just. "Clever," he breathed, his grin widening as he recognised the technique for what it was.

Rather than retreat, Marc used the contact to his advantage, shifting his weight and turning his shoulder through the space between them. His free hand came up to establish a light grip at her upper arm, not striking but using the connection to prevent her from completing the sweep cleanly. He pivoted on his lead foot, attempting to turn with her momentum and reclaim his balance while simultaneously working to create enough space to bring his boxing back into play. For a man who had spent most of his career studying problems from a scientific station, there was something deeply satisfying about solving this one without a console or sensor in sight. "You're going to make me work for this, aren't you, Lieutenant?" he said, breathless but clearly enjoying himself.

Vi felt Marc trying to turn through the contact and reclaim the space she had taken from him. For a second it nearly worked. His balance shifted beneath her grip, his shoulder coming around strongly enough that she had to abandon the cleaner sweep she had been setting up and move with him instead. She caught his wrist, stepped across his centre and let his own momentum finish what she had started.

The takedown worked.

The landing was considerably less graceful.

Vi went down with him, her intended control becoming a tangle of limbs as they hit the mat together. She caught herself before all of her weight came down on him, one forearm braced beside his shoulder, but it left her stretched across him with one knee caught awkwardly between his legs and her other hand still wrapped around his wrist.

For a moment neither of them moved.

They were close. Far closer than anything the spar had required. Barely an inch separated their faces, both of them breathing hard from the exchange, and Vi became abruptly aware of the warmth coming off him, the quick rise and fall beneath her and the sharp pulse of surprise that reached her through the emotional noise of the room. Something else sat alongside it too, warmer and harder to separate from her own amusement.

Her eyes found his.

“Well,” she murmured, slightly breathless, “that could have been tidier.”

Vi closed her eyes for the briefest seconds before her attention returned to Marc, and only then did she become aware of one more detail their untidy landing had produced.

One of his hands had ended up pressed against the side of her breast.

There was nothing remotely deliberate about it. They had hit the mat in a knot of arms and legs, both trying not to drive the other into the deck, and his hand had simply found somewhere unfortunate to land. Still, a few metres away were several other crew members now paying considerably more attention than they had any right to, Vi could almost feel the story spreading through Genesis in real time.

Her eyes dropped briefly to Marc’s hand, then lifted back to his face.

“Captain,” she murmured, still slightly breathless, “I think you’ve found something that definitely wasn’t part of the technique.”

The corner of her mouth twitched. She shifted carefully, trying to free the knee still caught between them, only to discover that Marc’s body remained thoroughly braced from the takedown.

“And if you could make yourself slightly less rigid,” she added under her breath, amusement warming the words, “I might actually be able to get off you.”

That one caught up with her a fraction too late.

Vi’s eyes narrowed briefly as she heard her own phrasing, but there was no rescuing it now. Not with an audience.

“Not a word,” she warned quietly, though the smile had already betrayed her.

Once she had finally disentangled herself, Vi pushed back to her feet and retrieved the towel she had abandoned near the edge of the mat. A quick pass across her face and neck did little for the colour in her cheeks, but at least she no longer looked as though she was conducting a display while sitting on her commanding officer.

Marc rose once they had become untangled, suddenly far more conscious of the audience that had gathered around the gymnasium. What had started as a friendly sparring match had apparently become a minor spectator event, and the knowledge left him more than a little self-conscious. Vireya's earlier comment hadn't helped matters either. The implication had been just suggestive enough to make him wonder if he'd heard it correctly, but for the moment he decided to give his Security Chief the benefit of the doubt and assume it had been nothing more than an unfortunate verbal slip.

"Well, Lieutenant, I'd best let you get to your duties," Marc said, retrieving his towel and wiping the sweat from his brow. He offered her a genuine smile, the competitive edge of the match already giving way to professional respect. "Thank you for the practice. And I have to admit, it's rather heartening to know my Security Chief can put someone considerably larger than herself on their backside when necessary. Kudos to you."

He turned towards the gathering officers and inclined his head politely. "Do you people not have anything more productive to be doing?" He asked pointedly trying to mask some of the embarrassment he was feeling, Marc gathered up his gear and slung the towel over one shoulder, making his way towards the showers. He paused only long enough to rub at his forehead, shaking his head with a faint, rueful smile at the realisation that half the gym had probably just witnessed their captain being reminded that size wasn't everything.

END

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