Centre of Gravity
Posted on Thu Jun 19th, 2025 @ 6:54pm by Commander Cressida Vale MD & Sergeant Jace Morven
1,957 words; about a 10 minute read
Mission:
Prologue
Location: Gym, USS Guinevere
Timeline: 2388, three days after “To the Bone”
The gym was dimly lit, quiet save for the rhythmic thud of fists meeting canvas. Sergeant Jace Morven moved with the controlled intensity of someone who didn’t need an audience...someone who didn’t even think about one. The punching bag swayed under the force of each blow, heavy strikes landing in tight succession. No wasted effort. No dramatic flares. Just precision, rhythm, and impact.
He wore a dark, sleeveless vest and simple black training trousers: functional, close-fitting, designed for movement rather than style. Sweat darkened the fabric across his back and chest, clinging to him. His short, dark hair was damp, fringe sticking slightly to his brow as he pivoted on the ball of one foot and launched another fast, deliberate combination.
His movements were sharp but economical, each jab and hook landing exactly where intended. This wasn’t rage, and it wasn’t release. It was maintenance. Calibration. A way to regulate the hum beneath the surface that never quite left him. His expression was hard, unreadable save for a faint narrowing of his eyes, the way a sniper might focus through a scope.
The scars caught the low light as he moved. Pale lines across his forearms, rougher tissue just visible where the vest dipped near his collarbone, and the surgical seam behind his right ear, all testaments not to battles won, but to survival. He barely noticed them anymore. They were part of him, like his breath, a map for his past.
The punching bag was on someone else's workout schedule too that day. Dr. Cressida Vale watched from a distance for a few beats, watched as Jace methodically put his fists where he meant to, the sound of the impacts echoing through the otherwise quiet workout space.
She was ready for a good workout. This would be the first time Jace saw her outside of sickbay, so also the first time seeing her outside of her Chief Medical Officer uniform. Today she was in a snug short sleeved workout shirt, leggings, and trainers. She held onto a pair of soft gloves, her work requiring that she prioritize hand safety.
"Mr. Morven," she said as she approached. "How's the foot?"
A last solid drive of a fist landed on the bag. Jace glanced at her, registering her presence as if he’d been standing there the whole time. His eyes flickered down to his left foot, then back up. His hands dropped to his sides, wrapped against the sting of the hard hits. They ached, but it was the kind of ache that would soon fade.
“Foot’s good,” he said finally, his tone neutral. It wasn’t a lie. “Stopped aching yesterday.”
He’d followed her orders...light duty, no running. It had been difficult. He’d cleaned his gear more than necessary and spent time tinkering with a broken old tricorder that belonged more in a museum than in his hands.
He took in her appearance: workout shirt, leggings, gloves. Without the uniform, he could see he’d been right. She could handle herself.
“Want the bag?” he asked, nodding towards the punching bag. It was barely a movement, but it was there.
“Only if you’re done,” she assured him. “Or we can take turns?” She watched his stance as she put her gloves on. He was standing better already. He was telling the truth, the ache was gone and his foot was properly healed.
Jace stood in silence for a moment, eyes on her. A few seconds passed. As if he were weighing something up...pros and cons, maybe, or just searching for the right words.
“Turns,” he said at last, and stepped back, clearing the space for her.
His gaze drifted to her gloves again, and his fingers gave the faintest twitch. He could fight in gloves...had done so plenty, combat gloves that were both clumsy and second skin. But for this, he preferred bare hands. Or wrapped, like his were now.
His eyes stayed on her, though he wasn’t really staring. He was observing. Noticing. She’d looked at the way he stood: not out of challenge or caution, but clinically. An assessment, the kind she made as a doctor.
His were different. Instinctive. Automatic. Something else entirely.
She fell into a familiar stance, one appropriate to a martial arts competition rather than actual combat. She started with some basic drills, left-pause-left-right, bouncing lightly, mobile, ready to avoid the theoretical return punch the bag probably wanted to deliver.
“I’d always welcome advice if you have any,” Cressida said as she punched, knowing full well the scrutiny she was presently under. “You won’t bruise my ego if you tell me something that helps me win the next competition. Or keeps me alive on a mission.”
Jace watched her for a beat longer, his gaze sweeping over her footwork, the rhythm of her hits. She was solid. Efficient. But he saw it—small things, barely-there tells most wouldn’t catch. “You’re good,” he said simply, and meant it. “But,” he stepped slightly closer, not interrupting her rhythm, just enough to be heard clearly. “Shift your weight more on the back leg when you throw the right. You’re bleeding power through your front foot.”
He folded his arms across his chest, eyes tracking her next few strikes. “And cut the bounce just a touch. You’re light on your feet, which is fine for sport. But in a real fight? Centre of gravity low. Grounded. Faster to pivot, harder to knock over.” He didn’t soften the words, didn’t pad them. Just stated them plainly, like he would to anyone who asked and meant it. But there was no edge, no judgment, just knowledge, passed on clean.
His gaze flicked back to hers briefly. “Tiny adjustments. You’ve got the rest in hand.”
Cressida did as he instructed, shifting her weight to her back foot when she next threw a right punch. She could feel and hear the difference. She also tried to slow her bounce. She felt less mobile but sturdier. If someone went for her feet she felt like she would likely take the hit but also could withstand it.
"Good advice," she said, following through with more punches. "Thanks." She stepped back and yielded the space to Jace while she took a break.
Jace gave a short nod in response to her thanks. No smile, but something in his posture shifted; fractional, but there. Like he accepted the words and filed them away.
As she stepped back from the bag, he moved forward without ceremony. No change in expression, no show of effort. Just presence: sudden, quiet, definite. He didn’t ask if it was his turn. She’d made space, so he took it.
His stance was still and centred for a breath. Then came the movement. Not the rhythmic patterns of drills or sport sparring, what followed was fast and efficient, a blur of close-quarters strikes. Hooks, elbow feints, compact uppercuts. His power didn’t come from winding up but from precision and weight distribution, hips shifting just enough to drive each hit through. No wasted energy. Every strike was meant for a real opponent, not a punch bag. A final twist of the body sent the bag rocking slightly to one side, then settling. Jace dropped his arms again and stepped back, breath steady.
He didn’t look at her straight away. When he did, it was brief. “You feel the difference?” he asked. Not smug, just matter-of-fact. As if they were tuning an engine together and he’d handed her the right tool. Then, after a beat: “That thing you do, checking posture, injuries before they land. You notice people.” A faint pause, as though weighing whether to keep going. “Not many ask for advice like that. Not like that.” It wasn’t praise, not exactly. But it was close enough for him.
She smiled, acknowledging the compliment for what it was. "I always have room to improve," Cressida told him. "And it's good to know when you're not the most knowledgeable person in the room on something."
Taking a karate stance, left leg forward, knee bent, right leg back and straighter, and doing some punching drills against the air, she continued. "Putting my body exactly where I want it to go...I find that centering." Left punch, right punch, exhalation on each, opposite arm pulling back to add force to the punch. Roundhouse kick with the right leg.
Jace watched her closely, her balance steady, movements quick but controlled, strength clear in every punch. “That’s not how I fight,” he said, voice low and steady. Almost as if to say I can't give you any tips. There was a moment before he added, “basics in training—block, strike, end it fast. Three seconds, tops. One if I can.” He had learned to fight before then, but the Federation Ground Forces formalised the training. But then, with a flicker of respect, he added, “You centre yourself like you expect the ground to move. That’s smart.”
He didn’t say more. Didn’t need to as he watched her move.
"Admittedly," she said between breaths -- exhales on each punch, "I was first trained for competitions, not life and death." She stood and wiped some sweat off her forehead. "In competitive fighting there are rules. Things you can't do because you're not actually out to harm your opponent. But when your life is on the line, there are no rules, are there? You survive by ending the fight right away, however you need to."
Jace’s eyes stayed on her face, catching the darkening of her expression, the slight wetness in her eyes that wasn’t sweat. He’d seen that look before: in troopers, in medics. People who carried more than they let on.
“When your life’s on the line, it’s never about winning. Just surviving,” he said, voice steady but low. He didn’t soften the truth...someone else might offer comfort, but all he could give was honesty.
“That’s a choice, too - for some. What they’ll do to survive.” He gave her a brief nod, a silent acknowledgment of the strength it took to bear that weight.
"Someone once said that's it's easy to die for something," she said, "but harder to live for something."
“I just keep moving,” Jace said, voice flat. Blunt. It wasn’t an answer meant to impress, it was just what he did. You got hit, you moved. You bled, you moved. That’s how you stayed alive.
But something in her words made him pause. Not long. Just enough for the silence to settle.
“There’s three kinds of people,” he added, not quite looking at her. “The ones you follow. The ones you protect.” A beat. “And the ones you fight.”
He didn’t explain it. Didn’t need to. He let it hang there...a truth, plain and quiet.
“Too true,” she agreed, giving him a subtle nod. “Now, can you hold the bag for me please? I want it steady for a turn.”
Jace gave her a brief look...not surprised exactly, but something flickered behind his eyes. Please. Not a demand. Not an order. Just...a request.
He gave a short nod and stepped forward without a word, hands bracing against the bag to steady it. His stance shifted, solid, grounded, like he’d done this with her a thousand times before.
“Ready when you are,” he said, low and level.
----
Commander Cressida Vale, MD
Chief Medical Officer, USS Guinevere
Sergeant Jace Morven
Platoon Sergeant, Federation Ground Forces Detachment
USS Guinevere
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