Posted by Ensign Wyatt Blackford (Security Officer) in Counsellor’s Office: Psych Evaluation
Wyatt drew in a slow breath and smoothed a hand down the front of his uniform for what had to be the fiftieth time. The fabric was already perfectly straight, the seams aligned, the insignia polished enough to catch the corridor lights — but his hands needed something to do, something to ground them.

This wasn’t his first meeting with a counselor. Not his tenth either. Star fleet loved evaluations, check-ins, “routine psychological readiness reviews.” Usually he handled them fine.

Usually.

But memories had weight, and some rooms felt heavier than others.

The Academy had not been kind to him in the beginning. A few counselors — the wrong ones — had made that painfully clear. Sometimes it was subtle: lingering looks at his file, too many questions about his “background,” the fact he was transgender, the fact that his parents disowned him at 16 when he came out. The comments wrapped in fake concern. Sometimes it wasn’t subtle at all. Words that didn’t belong in Starfleet. Words that still rang in his head when the corridor got too quiet.

His jaw tightened at the memory.

His record had been nearly spotless. strong tactical scores, commendations for teamwork. And still, one moment had nearly destroyed all of it.

One punch.

He could still feel the shock of it — not the impact, but the split second after, when he realized what he’d done. The counselor’s words had cut deep, sharp and deliberate, meant to wound. Wyatt had seen red. He’d reacted, not as a cadet, not as an officer-in-training — just as a hurt, angry person who had been pushed too far.

He wasn’t proud of it.

Anger management. Extra counseling. Probation reviews. Months of people deciding whether he was “stable enough” to wear the uniform he’d worked his entire life for.

But the investigation that followed had dug up more than his mistake. Turns out he hadn’t been the only target. Others had stayed quiet. Wyatt hadn’t. The counselor had been forced into early retirement after a pattern came to light.

A small, bitter comfort.

Still, Wyatt carried the guilt. Starfleet officers were supposed to have control. Discipline. He should have walked away. Should have reported it through channels. Should have been better.

He’d been told that his whole life.

He shifted his weight, staring at the smooth gray door in front of him. Counselor’s Office — Duty Clearance Required.

His reflection stared back faintly from the metal surface. The uniform fit him properly now. The name Wyatt Blackford sat over his chest like it belonged there — because it did. He’d fought to be here. Fought through classmates who whispered. Instructors who doubted. A family who stopped calling when he was sixteen and never started again.

He had built himself from the wreckage of that.

Still, rooms like this made him feel sixteen again. Like he had something to prove just for existing.

Wyatt exhaled slowly, unclenching his fists. He wasn’t that kid anymore. He’d done the work. Sat through the sessions. Learned to pause, to breathe, to choose his response instead of letting it choose him. His evaluations for the past year had been solid. Steady. Reliable.

He was ready for duty.

This meeting was just one more door between him and the stars.

He lifted his hand, hesitated only a second, then pressed the buzzer.

A soft chime echoed from inside.

Wyatt straightened, shoulders back, chin level — not rigid, not defensive. Just an officer reporting as ordered.

“Cadet Wyatt Blackford,” he murmured under his breath, steadying himself. “You’ve got this.”

Ensign Wyatt Jacen Blackford

Security Junior Officer

U.S.S. Ark Angel

OOC: Nice post! Very well written, I was right there with him.

IC:
“Come.” Came a low, deep voice from within. As the doors whooshed open, Jacen would see a Counselor’s office a bit different than the norm. It had a bit of Cajun or bayou vibe to it.

The warm lighting cast a gentle amber glow across the room, softening the sleek lines of the standard-issue desk and the guest chairs in front of it.

Opposite the desk, in a recessed area sat the sectional seating area with two winged back chairs , inviting against the curved wall—deep, comfortable cushions in muted blues and warm grays that reminded one of dusk over the bayou. A low table held a small arrangement of smooth river stones from home, each one worn by the Mississippi’s patient current. The subtle scent of chicory coffee—Cross’ preferred blend—still lingered faintly from this morning.

And the artwork: two framed pieces brought from New Orleans. One, a watercolor of the French Quarter at sunrise; the other, a stylized rendering of the St. Louis Cathedral, both carrying a hint of the city’s heartbeat into the quiet room.

Cross sat on one of the wing backed chairs, padd in hand, sipping a chicory coffee. As Blackford entered he rose, one hand held out invitingly.
“Ensign, please come in.”

Counselor Alex Cross