Hand-off Hook

Posted on Mon Oct 13th, 2025 @ 1:48pm by Commander Steven Greco & Lieutenant Tollan Yara & Commander Calvin 'Cal' Maraj & Lieutenant Commander Keishara Davaris & Ensign Sophie Bishop

3,236 words; about a 16 minute read

Mission: Year One: Strange Bedfellows
Location: Cargo Bay 2, USS Moore
Timeline: MD 037: 1650 hrs

Calvin leaned against a cargo crate near the back, arms folded across his chest, watching the makeshift arena come alive. The smell of sweat and recycled air mixed with the sharper tang of adrenaline — it reminded him of Academy gyms, back when bruises were badges and a black eye meant you were taking the lessons seriously.

All around him, the crew had shed the weight of uniform and duty for something rawer. Laughter bubbled over as bets changed hands at Char’s table. Shouts of encouragement rang out when someone landed a clean hit, and groans rose just as loud when a favourite stumbled. Even the normally buttoned-up engineering staff had loosened collars and joined the throng, their voices adding to the layered rhythm of the crowd.

Cal’s gaze tracked across familiar faces: Evelyn Stewart with Koaruh in tow, weaving through the bodies toward the bar; Yara crouched in Liana’s corner, barking advice between rounds; Keishara standing sentinel at the edge of the ring, arms crossed, her presence as steady and sharp as ever. And above it all, the thud of gloves against ribs, the shuffle of boots across matting, the kind of noise that told him the crew were doing exactly what they needed — bleeding tension out before it broke somewhere worse.

When the bell finally clanged and Janson dropped to a knee under Liana’s cross, the bay erupted. Some cheered, some groaned at lost wagers, others banged fists against crates in appreciation. Cal found himself grinning despite the chaos. For a moment, this wasn’t about duty rosters or Orion Syndicate headaches; it was about crew finding a release valve, and a ship learning how to laugh at itself.

As the medics stepped in and the crowd shifted, there was a brief lull — a pocket of stillness in the noise. Cal took a long breath, rolling his shoulders, feeling the faint hum of anticipation creeping into his own muscles. It had been years since he’d climbed into a ring, but the buzz in the air felt familiar, almost electric.

This wasn’t a whim. He’d quietly arranged the match earlier in the day, away from the ears of the crew. Respect was earned in the ring as much as on the bridge, and the tension that had been hanging between him and Greco needed somewhere to go before it poisoned the air. A clean fight, bare rules, no rank — just fists and intent. The organisers knew. No-one else.

The PA system crackled overhead, pulling every eye in the bay upward.

“Next up,” came the voice, crisp and carrying over the din, “Commander Calvin Maraj.”

The cheer that followed was louder than he expected. A few catcalls, a few shouts of encouragement, the unmistakable slap of hands against bulkheads. Cal chuckled under his breath, pushing off the crate as the crowd parted slightly to let him through.

The name of his opponent never came. Not yet. That was the point. Suspense was part of the lesson — the hush before the first bell, the little sting of nerves that reminded everyone how quickly a friendly spar could turn serious.

He tugged at the gloves one last time, flexing his hands. "Alright then", he thought as he stepped toward the ropes.

The noise swelled and then dipped, that curious hush that only happens when a room is waiting for the other shoe to drop. Cal climbed the steps and ducked through the ropes, the mat springing under his boots. He rolled his shoulders once, loosening his guard, eyes flicking over the sea of faces pressed in close. Excitement. Curiosity. A few nervous smirks from officers wondering who in their right mind had agreed to stand opposite him.

The announcer let the silence breathe a moment longer, milking it for effect. Then the PA crackled again.

“And his opponent…”

A ripple of anticipation coursed through the crowd — heads swivelling, whispers running like static across the bay. Cal’s grin widened fractionally, the kind of expression that said yes, you’re about to get a show.

The name landed like a dropped weight.

“Commander Steven Greco.”

The cargo bay erupted — laughter, disbelief, cheers that broke into a roar. Some shouted encouragement, others groaned at lost bets, but no-one looked away.

Hearing the roar of the crew, Steve came from where he stood on the side of the cargo bay, making his way to the ring as he stretched out his arms. Rotating his shoulders back, his eyes caught on Sophie’s for a moment as he passed before made his way into the ring.

He could hear the calling of bets by the crew below the ring as he took in Cal’s frame. It was clear Cal was sturdy and strong and more than comfortable in the ring. Boxing was never Steve’s sport but having a brother meant he knew what it meant to beat the hell out of someone just as much as how to take a punch.

Stretching his feet, Steve leaned onto his toes while he watched Maraj, their eyes locking. It was clear from the look he saw reflected back to him that both men wanted to settle their differences. Ever since he arrived, Greco could feel the insufferable smugness of Calvin Maraj whenever he was on the bridge. The way he followed protocol but always with a cavalier attitude, an indifference of the rules and instead commanding on impulse as he ignored bridge decorum and laughed with Stewart and Davaris about their private jokes.

Starfleet may have overlooked Steve for command of the Moore, but he was going to make certain Maraj knew who the better man really was.

The crowd pressed tighter against the rope-line, voices spilling over one another until the referee raised a hand. The bay stilled in fits and starts, anticipation rippling out until even the off-duty engineers in the back had stopped their side bets.

The referee — a wiry petty officer drafted into the role for the evening — stepped between the two commanders. He kept his voice loud enough to carry, sharp enough to cut through the haze of adrenaline.

“Alright, listen up. This is a friendly match. Three rounds unless one of you taps or I call it. No elbows, no knees, no holds. Keep your punches above the belt, break clean on my command, and if either of you goes down, you stay down until I finish the count. Understood?”

Cal gave a single nod, gloves tapping once in front of him. His grin hadn’t shifted, but his eyes had sharpened — the pilot’s focus narrowing to the space and the man in front of him.

Greco’s answer was clipped, a nod and a tight flex of his gloves, shoulders rolling like he was shrugging into the fight already.

The referee glanced between them, satisfied neither needed another word, then jabbed a finger toward their corners. “Touch gloves and back to your corners.”

Leather met leather with a solid smack, more challenge than courtesy. Cal’s grin edged wider.

They separated, each retreating to their side of the ring. The noise swelled again, a chant starting somewhere near the mess crew and picked up by a cluster of marines.

From the sidelines, Sophie shifted uncomfortably, arms folded, her eyes tracking the ring with a mix of fascination and unease. She muttered under her breath, “Only Starfleet would call this stress relief…”

Beside her, Keishara didn’t move, gaze fixed and unblinking on the ring. Her tone was low, steady, carrying the weight of someone who’d seen too many fights turn real. “It’s not stress relief. It’s instinct. Better here than somewhere it counts.”

Sophie glanced sideways, lips twitching in something between a smirk and a grimace. “Remind me never to play cards with either of them.”

Kei’s mouth ticked in the faintest echo of amusement, but her eyes never left the ring.

And then, silence—just long enough for every person in the bay to hold their breath.

The referee’s hand hovered over the bell.

Steve barely heard Yara in his ear as the Trill gave him some last minute advice about staying to the outside, out of the commanding officer's reach until he was ready to strike. He focused on his breathing and grounding himself, the internal pep talk he gave himself about how he could do this, size wasn't everything.

"Remember, hit and move. Don't let him get any momentum, dodge and counter punch, Commander!" Yara shouted over the frenzy of the officers. The tension that had been building for weeks between the two men was like tinder to the crowd as they cheered the commanding officers on. Char's voice shouting for final calls for bets amongst the crowd.

With a deep breath, Greco took the mouthpiece from Yara and squared himself up when he heard the ding of the bell and his first cautious steps towards his commanding officer brought a tremendous roar of the crowd.

The bell rang, sharp and metallic, cutting through the roar of the cargo bay.

Cal eased forward from his corner, weight balanced on the balls of his feet. No rush, no wasted motion — this wasn’t about haymakers, not yet. He raised his guard high, lead hand loose and mobile, testing the space with a light jab that barely kissed the air in front of him.

Greco bobbed his head and weaved to the side, taking the advice of Yara who was shouting encouragement from the corner. He knew he had no where near the power of Cal, but he had agility and speed over the hulking man. Steve continued to dodge and move around, hoping to make Cal continue to test and eventually go for a shot and miss and give him an opening for a counter. It was his best chance.

He circled, keeping his steps neat, pushing just enough to claim the centre of the ring. Another probing jab flicked out, quick and sharp, not meant to land so much as to draw a read. His shoulders stayed relaxed, eyes fixed, noting every twitch, every adjustment.

Steve watched how Cal opened up just slightly when he went for the jab. He decided to take advantage. He stepped into Maraj and landed a combination on the man's chest before just as quickly stepping out of reach. There was no power or bite in the punches, Steve knew that. It was more to show Cal that he wasn't intimidated, wasn't afraid to go toe to toe with the man and take risks.

The crowd roared at even the smallest movement, voices thundering down from the corners of the bay. Cal rolled his head side to side, settling into rhythm, then dipped low, feinting with his left before pulling back. He grinned faintly around his mouthpiece — getting the measure, nothing more.

Realizing, that Steve could not gain an advantage through means, he lunged at Maraj and pulled him in for a clutch, taking a moment to catch his breath and wait for an opportunity when the referee pulled them apart to watch Cal's body language.

“Keep it clean, gentlemen,” the referee barked when they edged too close, stepping in with a sharp clap of his hands.

Cal reset, bouncing lightly on his toes, gloves steady. This was the opening chapter, and he was content to let the round write itself, one test at a time.

Sliding back into range, head off the centre line, and snapped a stiff jab to the chest to break rhythm. He rode the recoil into a tight right cross that thudded against guard, then dipped his knees and sank a short left to the body before pivoting out to his lead side, eyes on the feet, not the gloves.

He showed the shoulder again—half a feint to the midriff—then popped a jab upstairs aimed to score on the brow, ready to step through with a straight right if the lane opened.

Steve saw the jab coming and weaved his body to the one side, using the moment to take advantage of the small opening in Cal's guard. Stepping into the larger man's space again, Greco forcefully drove a series of left hooks into man's ribs. His aggression getting the better of him, he weaved under the commander's attempt to counterpunch and though off balance, came up and landed a hard right cross into the man's jaw before he stepped out of range. The combination leaving him exhausted and his legs weak under him from the amount of strength and effort he expended.

Cal felt the right hand crack his jaw, rode it with a slip and tasted metal. He saw what mattered—the wobble in Greco’s knees, the dump of breath after the flurry.

He stepped in behind a hard jab to re-set the distance, then cut the ring to his left, penning Steve toward a corner. No head-hunting; go downstairs first. He dug a tight left hook to the liver line, followed by a short right to the solar plexus—nothing wild, all hips and torque—then rolled off the return to stay safe.

Pressure on. He kept the high guard, touching with the jab, then snapped a one–two to bring the eyes up before ripping another body shot—left shovel hook, glove turning over at the last moment. He felt the air leave the man.

Cal pivoted to square the feet, gave half a beat, and sent a straight right up the middle—measured, not a bomb—aimed to test the chin and the balance more than finish it. He was already sliding half a step out to his lead side, ready to smother a clinch or chase if the legs went.

Steve knew he was in trouble when he felt himself backed up, the rope digging into this shoulder blade just off the corner. He was trapped and did his best to keep his guard up, but the flurry of coordinated shots throughout his body was too fast for his untrained guard to keep up with and more punches landed than not.

He gasped then panted when Cal finally stepped away, the exhaustion of the fight starting to settle into his body. He couldn't hear the roar of the crowd, just his own labored breathing.

Greco was so focused on getting the air back into his lungs that he didn't see straight shot right to his face until it was too late. Rocking on his feet, he tried to shake the stars from his eyes and regain focus. It was in vein though as he felt the heavy pull of his arms draining him faster as he guarded his face, leaning more into the rope at his side.

Cal watched the arms sag and the breath go ragged. He didn’t chase recklessly; he pressed with purpose.

A touch with the jab to set the sights, then a sharp dip of the knees and he buried a left to the body, glove turning over on the shovel hook. He felt the guard twitch down—there it was. Cal stepped outside the lead foot and sent a tight right cross up the middle that caught him clean on the point of the chin—no wind-up, all hips and line; shoulder snapped, back foot drove, knuckles landed flush.

The shot cracked like thunder. Steve hit the mat, ropes shivering as he went down.

“One—” the referee’s count cut through the roar.

Steve’s head connected with the sweat soaked canvas but he didn’t realize it.

“Two-“ the referee called out, measured and paced.

Greco couldn’t hear. He couldn’t hear the crowd. He just heard ringing in his ears as he turned on his side to try and get to his knees, though he wasn’t sure why he was doing it.

“Three-“ the referee called out. Steve could hear it this time but it was muffled-distant. It blended in with the background noise that also sounded distant. All he knew was he had to get up. Come on, Steve! Catch your breath and get on your feet! You have to! his inner voice screamed at him as he got to his hands and knees and tried to stop the room from spinning.

Cal drifted straight to the neutral corner, hands high, no celebration. He rolled his shoulders once, settled his mouthguard, and let his breathing go slow through his nose. Eyes on the feet, not the face—were the legs under him, or just pride?

If he beat the count, the plan was simple: reclaim the centre with the jab, touch high to make him blink, then go back to the body and take the air again. No swings, no mess. Clean.

He stayed still, gloves tucked to his chest, giving the referee the picture he wanted: control, respect, no follow-up.

“Four—five—”

Cal gave the faintest nod towards Steve and thought, 'Stay down, man.'

Greco started to make sense of his environment, coming back to the cargo bay. He couldn’t make out much except the distant sound of the referee counting. He was up to seven now. Over the din of the crowd he could make out Yara’s voice. The Trill shouting to get up with enthusiasm.

Steve went to push himself up with his gloves, moving to one knee. When he attempted to push off though, the ring went out from under him in a way his brain just couldn’t understand in the moment and he fell back on the canvas, landing and rolling on his back. His body giving out before the count finished.

The count hit ten, the ref waved it off, and the bay broke into a ragged cheer that rattled the crates.

Cal blew out a breath, tugged one glove loose with his teeth, stripped the other with his free hand, and crossed the canvas to Steve. He dropped to a knee, palm at the back of Greco’s shoulder to ease him upright.

“Easy now,” he said, low. “Breathe—through your nose, out your mouth. You’re alright.”

A quick check of the eyes, a steadying squeeze.

“Good heart. Took some shots and stayed in it.” His mouth tipped into a small grin. “Med’ll give you the once-over, then we’ll have a drink. On me.”

He offered a bare hand to help him sit higher. “We leave the rest in the ring.”

By the time Maraj got to him, Greco was back in the room. He spit out the mouthpiece when Cal helped him sit up. Despite his pride, and his head hurting, Steve couldn’t help but give the commander an exhausted smile as he nodded in agreement. “Sounds good. Just don’t expect me to call you, sir…even if you do hit like a ton of bricks.” He added, humor lacing his words but the message clear. They both knew where they stood with each other. Cal Maraj proved he was the better man, fairly and honorably. Steve would have his back going forward.

Cal huffed a laugh, the grin easy. “Off duty, ‘Cal’ is plenty,” he said, warm. “On the bridge, I’ll take ‘sir’ so the children don’t get confused.” He squeezed Steve’s shoulder once and offered a hand up. "Let's go."

 

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