Quentin entered the training room, bat’leth in hand, and was pleased to find it empty at the moment. He set his gear down on one of the benches and went to the center of the training area and began practicing a form for the bat’leth described in one of the treatises he had been reading. As he did so, he couldn’t stop thinking of Clarissa. After learning of her mission into Klingon space, he found himself renewed with a hope a finding her. This idea festered in him, thinking of all the years she could have been waiting for him to rescue her. All the years he had failed her.

The blade of the bat’leth whirled about in his hands. The weapon’s nature allowed for each strike to allow for a change in hand positions, making it versatile and able to alter trajectory swiftly and with little notice. The wielder needed to know the weapon well to be able to know the various counters and directions they could take it as well as discern the correct action to take on the fly. Quentin pivoted and ducked and spun around the training room, battling a slew of enemies in his mind. All attempts to clear the picture of his sister’s helpless face from his eyes. None of it helped.

Each opponent he brought down, each enemy he felled, was immediately replaced with Clarissa’s accusing stare.
Strike. Why didn’t you come?
Parry. What took you so long?
Slice. Why did you forget me?
Thrust. You abandoned me.

Quentin brought the blade down from above to slice through the nonexistent opponent’s left shoulder and stopped at the center of his chest. There, Quentin halted, blade outstretched as he panted, sweat beading on his brow and his hair hanging down in front of his face. He stared at the nothing until he heard a noise off to the side that pulled him out of his thoughts. He turned sharply to see who it was.

-Lt. Quentin “Q” Dawson, CWO