The Sparrow Club: Arawyn Chapter

Posted on 11 May 2026 @ 12:22am by Lieutenant Commander Grayson McKinney & Captain Sabrina Corbin & Lieutenant Commander Claire Dunross MD & Lieutenant Commander Aev Flammia & Lieutenant Nicholas Miller & Lieutenant Ryan Collingway & Lieutenant Commander Steven Remington & Lieutenant Kristin Emerson PhD, Counselor & Senior Chief Petty Officer Elias Merrick
Edited on on 11 May 2026 @ 12:27am

3,658 words; about a 18 minute read

Mission: The Starfall Carnival
Location: Holodeck 2

// USS Arawyn :: Holodeck 2 :: Anderson Silva Combat Institute, São Paulo :: 1900 Hours //

The holodeck smelled like work.

Not the recycled air of the corridor, not the faint ozone of emitters spinning up, but the real thing: the alkaline bite of canvas, sweat pressed into the mats by years of honest effort, the sharp resin of gloves used hard and put away without apology. Grayson had set every detail himself. The simulation delivered, with a fidelity that almost unsettled him.

The gym was wide and high-ceilinged, lit by warm amber light approximating a São Paulo afternoon filtered through industrial skylights. A mural of the city skyline curved across the padding in faded blues and golds. The main cage dominated the center of the room, its chain-link catching the light in hard lines. Heavy bags hung at intervals, silent sentinels. Conditioning stations ringed the perimeter. Nothing here was for show.Every piece had weight, placed with intent.

The intent was serious.

He built it from memory. The archive gave him parameters; memory gave him the feeling. The weight of the air, the sense of a space used hard by people who came with purpose and left something behind in the canvas and the walls.

Grayson stood at the cage door, already in kit: heavy compression shorts, a gray tank top worn thin by four deployments and a Fenris Ranger winter. His hands were wrapped. Wrist. Thumb. Knuckles. Wrist. The ritual stilled the part of his mind that never stopped calculating. It let him focus on the physics of the room.

The first Sparrow Club ran in a converted cargo bay on the Agincourt. Nine showed up. Seven returned. Three months later, the waiting list outnumbered the roster. The Chief Engineer complained about bag work rattling the port EPS conduits. Grayson recalibrated them himself at two in the morning. No one had a reason to shut it down.

That first crew taught him something he hadn't expected. The fighting was never the point. It was the mechanism. It stripped away rank, protocol, all the invisible calculus of a starship crew, until only two people remained and the problem between them was physics. On the other side, something real grew.

He heard footsteps in the corridor. He gave them time. A room spoke before its people did. He had learned to listen.

They filed in, his volunteers. He counted them without seeming to, noting who entered fast and who moved careful, who looked at the cage first and who looked at him. Two kinds of people. They'd need two kinds of handling.

"Find some floor," he said, when the last of them cleared the threshold. His voice carried easily in the high-ceilinged space, warm and unhurried. "We'll get to the furniture later."

He let the room settle. Let them look.

Quietly making his way into the assembled officers Nick took some time to look around. He wasn't quite sure what the objective was but felt that this was too fantastic of an opportunity to observe to be passed up. There was a challenge being offered and his own response would offer as much information as those around him.

"Before we start," Grayson said, "I want to be honest with you."

He hadn't greeted them, hadn't called roll, hadn't introduced himself or explained the room. He let the silence work. The gym pressed in, close and warm.

"This is not a fitness program." He rested one hand on the chain-link fence of the cage.

The hinge, when he pulled it open, made a low metallic sound that settled into the room and did not leave quickly.

"It is not a stress management initiative, and it is not an optional enrichment activity you sign up for so it looks good on a service evaluation. You can get all of that without coming here. What you will get here, if you commit, is something different: you will learn how to work together when you're put under pressure, you will build resilience against setbacks, and you'll leave this space with a readiness for the kind of challenges that won't warn you before they arrive. The point is to make you better at handling the unexpected, and better at relying on each other when it matters."

He paused, thumb tracing the edge of his wrap, the way another man might reach for a commbadge when things turned serious.

"What this is," he said, "is an honest assessment. Of you. Of the gap between what you think you can handle and what you actually can. Where you get scared. Where you get stupid. Where, if we do this right, you get competent." He looked at the room, taking his time. "I'm not here to scare you out. I'm telling you straight what you walked into. The worst thing I could do is let you find out slow."

He let that settle, then continued.

"You'll be assessed through drills. Sometimes one-on-one, sometimes as a group. There will be structured sparring. You'll get feedback after each round, not just from me, but from each other. Pay attention. What you learn here is as much about how you respond as what you can do physically."

His expression shifted. The half-smile arrived, quiet and genuine, the one his crew knew meant he'd already decided he liked them.

"So," he said. "Who's got a question before we begin?"

Ryan said nothing, looking at who had arrived for the sparring session. Walkins had decided to come with him. Sorensen had opted out. Some people he recognized. Others he never worked with. He was dressed in a plain dark green t-shirt and black sweatpants. Only one thought raced through his mind.

If he was going to be sparring against any of McKinney's team, he was going to lose. Badly. He had learned some lessons, thanks to Lieutenant Flammia. Use his movement. Small actions. Small strikes. Application under stress. He could hold his own against another officer...maybe. Assuming they hadn't trained much.

But McKinney and his team? They probably outclassed all of them in every conceivable way. Which meant potentially a lot of bruises after this session. He knew McKinney made it clear it wasn't about the fighting. It was about being able to better control unexpected situations, something he had wanted to do for some time.

It didn't make him any less nervous, however.

The doors parted quietly near the back of the holodeck.

Corbin stepped inside without fanfare, the heat and smell of the gym meeting her immediately. Canvas. Sweat. Resin. Real enough to feel lived in.

Her eyes moved across the room before settling briefly on Grayson. Wrapped hands. Cage door open. Complete control of the space.

Their eyes met.

A small nod passed between them before Corbin moved to the rear wall, hands folding behind her back. Observer only. Had circumstances been different, she might have joined the floor herself. The thought crossed her mind with enough honesty to almost amuse her. She understood the appeal of this kind of training immediately. Pressure stripped things down.
Revealed fault lines. Built trust faster than conversation ever could.

But four pips changed the geometry of a room.

No matter what Grayson said about honesty or assessment, nobody here truly wanted to hit the captain of the ship. Worse, some would try too hard to prove they could. Both outcomes distorted the exercise before it even began.

A few people noticed her arrival. Most turned their attention back to McKinney quickly.

“No questions?” Corbin asked lightly after a moment. “That either means Commander McKinney explained this very well...”
A faint pause.

“...or everyone’s only just realized they volunteered to get punched repeatedly.”

A ripple of laughter broke some of the tension.

Her gaze shifted briefly back to Grayson.

“The crews who learn to function under pressure before it arrives usually fare better when it does.” Corbin nodded, giving the space back to him, “Carry on.”

Claire Dunross stepped through carrying a compact medical bag in one hand, already dressed for practicality rather than participation. Dark athletic trousers, fitted training jacket half-zipped over a gray tank, hair pulled back into a long braid that suggested she had at least considered joining before deciding otherwise.

Her green eyes swept the room once, taking stock with the efficient rhythm of a physician assessing triage. Who looked confident. Who looked nervous. Which officers were already overcompensating.

Then she spotted Corbin near the rear wall.

Recognition softened her expression slightly.

Not participating either.

Claire crossed the perimeter of the room without interrupting the session, med bag swinging lightly against her leg before she settled beside the captain with quiet ease.

For a moment she simply watched.

Grayson in command of the room looked entirely natural there. Controlled. Certain. Dangerous in a way that did not need advertising.

Corbin glanced sideways at her arrival, one brow lifting faintly.

“Are you joining them Doctor?” she asked lightly.

Claire looked toward the cage, then down briefly at the medical bag in her hand before answering dryly, “No, but I’ll patch them up if need be.”

The corner of her mouth twitched faintly as another nervous laugh rippled somewhere out on the mats.

Her gaze tracked across the volunteers again, clinical instincts already cataloguing likely injuries before the first drill had even started.

“Though,” she added under her breath, voice touched with that soft Highland lilt she still insisted barely existed, “I may need a larger kit before this is over.”

Nicholas smiled to himself quietly. He'd seen exercises before during his childhood though this time was different, it was one of his first as an officer rather than the CSec's kid. He'd been included before purely out of his father's position and determination to raise a proper officer. This was a prime chance to demonstrate that while he -was- a counselor even his teal collar didn't define his capabilities. "I am prepared to support Dr. Dunross." he replied with a nod to his superior, more confident now in his first responder abilities.

Dr Amberlyn arrived late and stood beside Claire for a moment. When Claire turned to see who had entered, Riah leaned in and whispered. "Minor crisis with the kitten. Baylee will be fine. Basically a little post surgical nose bleed."

"No problem. Miller and I have got this here," replied Claire.

"Oh, I'm so glad. I'm sure you will be patching me up," whispered Riah. This was the first time she had actually spoken words that indicated her intentions to take part in this training. She had a black belt in Mixed Martial Arts, and was consistently stronger than many women her size, but this was a whole deeper dive into physical and mental training. She was frankly terrified. Looking around the room, she spied Lt Remington among those pondering the possibilities of participation - positive and not so much. To her surprise, the counselor, Kris Emerson, also stood near the front with Amy WarmSun from among the medical techs. Medical would be well represented - at least in sickbay.

Grayson stood in the center of the octagon. He adjusted the fabric of his hand wraps, feeling the rough texture bind his knuckles tight. He rolled his broad shoulders to loosen the heavy musculature of his upper back, dropping his usual booming volume. A calm, earnest cadence took its place, carrying easily across the quiet room.

"I know the kind of shifts y’all pull," Grayson said. His dark eyes swept over the scattered people. "You spend your days holding back the void and praying the ship's EPS conduits hold together under load. That pressure builds up in the blood. The human body is not designed to absorb the constant, low-grade terror of deep space without consequence. You need a pressure valve."

He paced a slow semi-circle around the center of the mat. His bare feet gripped the textured synthetic surface with a soft squeak. The overhead lighting cast harsh, defining shadows across the ring, a stark contrast to the sterile, flat illumination of a starship.

"This canvas is not about aggression. It is a sanctuary. It is a place to burn off the stress of the void before the void burns you out. We are here to master internal chaos."

He paused to scan the perimeter, reading the posture of the assembled crew. He caught sight of Captain Corbin standing near the archway, her composed figure half-hidden in the shadows of the simulated gymnasium. Grayson offered her a subtle, deeply respectful nod. It was a silent acknowledgment of her trust in allowing this unorthodox therapy to operate on her ship.

A few meters down the chain-link fence, the medical staff hovered like cautious spectators at a dangerous exhibit. Grayson found Claire Dunross among them. The corners of his eyes crinkled. He flashed her a quick, grounded wink and a wide, easy grin, deliberately breaking the heavy tension hanging over the teal-collared officers.

Then he turned back to the LCARS node mounted on the cage post. His demeanor sharpened instantly into absolute tactical focus. He keyed the authorization sequence, his thick fingers moving rapidly over the glass interface.

The air shimmered, resolving into a holographic sparring partner. Grayson had programmed the avatar to match his own formidable dimensions exactly. It stood six-foot-four and carried two hundred and fifty pounds of dense, digitized muscle. The simulation wore traditional heavy hand wraps and battered trunks. Its eyes were blank and relentlessly calculating.

"We do not do this to break things," Grayson announced. He kept his eyes locked on the digital opponent. "We do this to prove we can survive."

He tapped his gloves together. The hologram lunged.

It did not waste motion. A stiff, probing jab flashed toward Grayson's jaw to gauge distance. Grayson parried it with a crisp flick of his lead hand. The hologram immediately planted its weight and launched a punishing low kick aimed directly at Grayson's lead thigh.

Grayson did not attempt to absorb the blow. He lifted his leg slightly and turned his knee outward, checking the heavy kick shin-to-shin. The impact cracked through the gym like a snapped tree branch.

Before the avatar could fully reset its stance, it fired a heavy right cross. Grayson slipped his head off the centerline, letting the strike sail past his ear. The displaced air brushed his cheek. Rather than retreating, he stepped deep into the pocket. He pummeled his right arm forcefully under the avatar's armpit to secure a deep underhook and clamped his left hand behind the hologram's neck to break its posture.

"Leverage," Grayson said. His voice was strained but completely steady.

He drove his weight forward and hooked his right calf securely behind the avatar's planted leg. With a sharp, twisting drive, he executed an inside trip. The maneuver removed the avatar's base of support entirely, sending two hundred and fifty pounds of digital mass crashing onto the canvas with a resonant thud that rattled the chain-link fencing.

Grayson followed it down instantly. He dropped his hips to establish heavy side control, driving his shoulder into the avatar's jaw with calculated crossface pressure to pin it flat to the mat. The floor vibrated beneath them. Grayson held the dominant position for a three-count, his chest rising and falling in a steady, measured rhythm. The smell of sweat and heated polymer filled the space, grounding the moment in absolute physical reality.

He released the hold and stood up, stepping back into a balanced ready stance.

"Physics always wins," Grayson said softly. His voice cut cleanly through the lingering echo of the takedown. "Welcome to the lab. Leave your ranks at the door and find a partner."

Riah let out a long sigh, took another deep breath and stepped forward to tap a crewmate on the shoulder. He turned, surprised.

He was not a small man, but neither was he of the massive stature of Grayson. He out-weighed her by probably 45 pounds or a little less. He was perhaps 5’10” to her 5’7”. He wore Starfleet issue compression training shorts and a body hugging, sleeveless T-shirt that said Arawyn across the chest. Riah wore a pair of tight, eggplant purple shorts and a long-waisted sports bra of the same fabric.

“Can we be partners?” she asked.

“Yeah, sure,” he replied. “I’m Todd.”

“You can call me Jesse,” she replied.

They turned their attention back to Grayson.

Ryan was trying really hard not to think about the fact that the Captain was observing from the sidelines, or that the doctor next to her was holding a really large medical kit. He watched the demonstration from McKinney, and jumped slightly at the large 'thud' as the hologram was planted on the mat.

People were finding partners quickly. He spotted a Lieutenant by herself and approached her. He was pretty sure she was McKinney's crew. "Can we pair up?" he asked, and she nodded.

The holodeck doors parted and Aev strode in wearing all the authority of his position, clearly expecting to walk into a full-scale brawl. He came to an abrupt halt just beyond the archway as he took in the gathered senior staff spread across the gym floor.

Behind him loomed the imposing figure of the Aurelian security officer, Areet-Ok, towering slightly over the Romulan as sharp blue eyes swept methodically across the room and its occupants.

The moment Aev spotted the Captain near the far wall, his entire demeanor shifted with practiced casualness. Without missing a beat, he started toward her as though he had been fully aware of what was happening in the holodeck all along.

Areet-Ok moved after him immediately, broad taloned feet striking the deck with measured weight as he followed half a pace behind. The Aurelian’s wings remained tucked close against his back, though his posture carried the unmistakable alertness of a security officer walking into an unknown situation. His sharp gaze tracked across the octagon, lingering briefly on the cage before flicking toward the gathered officers and medical staff with open suspicion.

A small golden shimmer sparked to life near Aev’s shoulder. Ignis materialized upside down in midair, arms folded behind his head as he surveyed the room with exaggerated delight. His molten eyes widened slightly at the sight of the cage. “Oh this is fantastic,” the hologram announced far louder than necessary. “I honestly couldn’t decide if we were arriving at an underground fight club or an intervention for unresolved emotional trauma. Turns out it’s both.” His fox tail flicked lazily through the air as he peered toward the medical staff hovering nearby. “And look, they even brought doctors. That’s how you know morale is healthy.”

“Ignis,” Aev muttered through clenched teeth, keeping his voice low. “A little subtlety, please.” He made his way over to the Captain and offered her a quiet nod before taking up a position a few feet away. Leaning back against the wall, he folded his arms across his chest and turned his attention toward the controlled chaos unfolding on the mats before them wondering what they just walked into.

Grayson retreated to the perimeter of the primary mat. He clapped his wrapped hands together. The sharp crack cut through the nervous chatter and set a working pace for the room. The squeak of bare feet on synthetic canvas and the dull thud of sparring gloves against heavy bags filled the air. He rolled his broad shoulders, feeling the persistent tension of the past few weeks bleed out into the simulated São Paulo air.

By the main archway, the doors hissed apart. Lieutenant Aev Flammia and Lieutenant JG Areet-Ok stepped inside. Grayson’s dark eyes tracked them automatically, assessing threat vectors out of pure habit before consciously dialing his hyper-vigilance back to a steady hum. The two Security officers lingered near the chain-link fence, scanning the gymnasium with the distinct, sweeping gaze of personnel entering a volatile situation. Grayson raised a single, thick eyebrow. He briefly wondered who called Security, but a faint smirk touched his mouth. A little healthy paranoia never hurt anyone. He offered Aev a brief, acknowledging nod and did not break his slow patrol along the edge of the cage.

He shifted his attention back to the canvas, zeroing in on his Assistant Chief Tactical. Reyna Keagan was paired with Ryan Collingway. The contrast was stark. Keagan’s posture was tight and coiled, radiating the kind of aggression that won firefights but caused pulled muscles on a mat. Collingway stood stiffly, analyzing the geometry of the octagon as though he were mentally running structural integrity diagnostics on his own skeleton.

"Keep your guards up," Grayson’s voice boomed, carrying easily over the ambient noise. He closed the distance, his bare feet making no sound on the padding. He stopped just short of their lane, intercepting Reyna right as she dropped her shoulder to launch a heavy strike.

"You are overthinking it," Grayson said to Ryan. He tapped his own temple, projecting a calm, grounded authority. "This is not an EPS flow calculation. Drop your center of gravity. Plant your feet as you belong there."

He turned his gaze to Keagan. "Breathe, Reyna. This isn't a phaser drill. You are rushing the engagement. Do not fight his momentum; redirect it. Give him a slow, controlled jab. Ryan, slip the strike and pivot."

He stepped back, gesturing for them to initiate the drill. Keagan exhaled sharply, loosening her shoulders, and threw a measured punch. Collingway shifted his mass, letting her glove sail past his ear, and turned smoothly on his lead foot.

"Better," Grayson murmured.

He crossed his massive arms over his chest, settling back to observe. The crew's erratic, pent-up energy slowly smoothed into disciplined focus. He inhaled deeply, watching hands and feet blur into motion. They were learning how to bend without breaking. It was a small but vital victory against the grinding pressure of the frontier, leaving the ship fundamentally safer.

End Log

 

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