Posted by Lieutenant Alex Cross (Chief Counselor) in Nala’s Psychology Evaluation — USS Ark Angel

Posted by Ensign Nala Shai’Mori t’Liriena (Science Officer) in Nala’s Psychology Evaluation — USS Ark Angel

Posted by Lieutenant Alex Cross (Chief Counselor) in Nala’s Psychology Evaluation — USS Ark Angel
Posted by… suppressed (3) by the Post Ghost! 👻
The doors to the counseling suites opened without a chime.

That alone caught Nala off guard.

She stepped inside and felt the ship recede.

Not disappear.
Just… pull back.

The corridor beyond Sickbay noise was gone here, replaced by softer acoustics: dampened footfalls, air systems tuned low, lighting deliberately warm rather than clinical. The quiet wasn’t empty it was expectant, the kind that left room for thoughts to echo.

That was almost worse.

Nala slowed without meaning to.

Her ears lifted slightly, angling, searching for the familiar anchors of machinery and motion. They weren’t gone, just muted enough that her own thoughts rushed forward to fill the space.

She approached the reception console, posture precise.

“Ensign Nala Shai’Mori t’Liriena,” she said. “Scheduled for psychological intake.”

The console acknowledged her with a soft visual pulse. No voice. No questions. A direction indicator illuminated down the hall.

Of course, she thought. Go sit. Wait. Think.

She followed the guidance to a small waiting alcove and chose a chair near the wall, positioning herself so she could see the doorway without sitting directly in its line. Habit. Awareness. Control.

The quiet pressed in.

Here, there were no overlapping alarms to dissect, no system harmonics to catalog. Her mind, denied external structure, turned inward too fast, too sharp.

You didn’t sleep enough.
Your heart rate was elevated in Sickbay.
You responded too quickly to the nurse.
They’ll notice.

Her tail curled tight around her ankle. She forced it to relax, then curl again more deliberately, a grounding motion she’d practiced. One paw rubbed briefly against the fabric of her uniform sleeve, claws tracing the seam.

The ship’s hum was still there distant, barely perceptible—but now it felt like something far away she couldn’t quite reach.

She inhaled slowly.

This wasn’t the Academy.
This wasn’t a formality.

This evaluation mattered.

Psych knew her file. Knew about the pacing issues. The overload thresholds. The counseling notes she’d worked so hard to turn from flags into footnotes. She straightened, smoothing imaginary creases from her uniform, jaw setting.

You are fit, she reminded herself. You were cleared. You earned this posting.

Still, her ears flicked at a sound that wasn’t there.

She didn’t pace.
Didn’t fidget openly.
Didn’t bolt.

She waited quietly, intensely aware of herself in the absence of noise until the moment came when someone else would finally break the silence.

Ensign Nala

A deep, strong voice came from the speaker near the Counselor’s inner sanctum. “Come in.” The door whooshed open once she approached it.

Once she stepped inside Nala would see what was a carefully designed sanctuary. Soft jazz music played in the background.

Cross’ office was designed with intent—every choice quietly pushing back against the cold, clinical reputation counseling so often carried aboard starships.

The lighting was the first thing most people noticed. It was warm and indirect, recessed along the ceiling and walls rather than glaring overhead. Subtle amber tones softened the room, blending naturally with Starfleet’s muted grays and blues instead of fighting them. LCARS panels were present, of course, but dimmed and unobtrusive, their soft glow more like ambient starlight than instrumentation. Nothing blinked urgently here. Nothing demanded attention.

The room itself was spacious by ship standards. Cross had deliberately shifted the focus away from the desk, which sat off to one side—solid, orderly, but clearly not the center of gravity. It held a padd dock, a single framed Starfleet citation, and a small brass paperweight shaped like a fleur-de-lis, a quiet nod to New Orleans that only those who knew him well might recognize.

The heart of the office was the recessed seating area.

A curved sectional couch, upholstered in deep slate-blue fabric, wrapped gently around a low table of brushed composite. Two additional wing backed chairs—soft-backed and angled slightly inward—created a sense of inclusion rather than confrontation. No seat faced another directly; the layout encouraged conversation, not interrogation. On the table sat a shallow ceramic bowl filled with smooth, polished stones in shades of gray, green, and amber—something for nervous hands to reach for without comment.

Against one wall stood a narrow shelf displaying carefully chosen personal items: a holo-photo of his family, a small brass trumpet model, a few antique-looking books with real pages, and a framed print of the Mississippi River winding through New Orleans at dusk. The image added warmth without distraction—movement, history, resilience.

The air carried the faintest hint of coffee and old paper, familiar and grounding. Barely audible jazz filtered through the room—slow, instrumental, and understated. Not enough to intrude on conversation, just enough to soften silences and give them texture.

The walls themselves were textured rather than smooth, designed to absorb sound and prevent echoes. Even raised voices would never feel sharp here. Privacy was implied, reinforced by the subtle hum of a white-noise field embedded in the bulkheads.

Cross had arranged the space to say something without words:

You are safe here.
You are not being examined.
You can sit. You can breathe. You can speak—or not.

It was an office built not for authority, but for trust.
“Please, come in. Can I get you something to drink, Ensign?” Cross said as he rose from one of the chairs.

He was tall and broad-shouldered, standing just over six-three with a solid, athletic build. He carried himself with an unhurried, grounded confidence, moving deliberately rather than reacting to the constant urgency of shipboard life.

His skin was a deep warm brown, his face strong and expressive with a neatly trimmed beard softening a square jaw. Dark, observant eyes missed very little, steady and attentive without ever feeling intrusive. His hair was closely cropped at the sides, slightly longer on top, always well kept.

In uniform, he looked every bit the Starfleet officer—composed, professional—but there was an ease to his posture and expression that made him approachable. He radiated calm rather than authority, a presence that invited trust.

Counselor Alex Cross

Nala stepped fully inside, letting the door close behind her.

The change in atmosphere registered immediately too immediately. Her ears lifted, then slowly eased back toward neutral as the layered noise of the ship softened into something warmer, rounder. The jazz caught her attention for half a second longer than she meant it to. Not loud. Measured. Intentional.

She straightened out of habit anyway.

In Starfleet uniform, her leonine nature stood out sharply not in spite of the regulation cut, but because of it. The fitted science-division uniform followed her lean, digitigrade build cleanly, tailored to accommodate her stance without excess fabric. The dark tones contrasted with her tawny-gold fur, emphasizing the natural strength of her shoulders and the smooth line of her back. Rank pips rested at her collar, catching the warm light as she moved subtle markers of authority she was still learning to inhabit.

Her hair was thick and layered, meticulously kept, framing her face and shoulders like a restrained mane. It blended seamlessly into the fur at her temples and along her neck, unmistakably lionlike full without being wild, shaped rather than subdued. When she shifted, it moved with her, softening the uniform’s sharp lines without diminishing them.

“Thank you, sir,” she said, voice still quick, but no longer rushing quite as hard.

Her amber eyes bright, alert, and far too perceptive flicked briefly toward the seating area, the polished stones on the table, then returned to him as she weighed the offer with visible care.

“I no, thank you,” she added after a beat. Polite. Precise. “I’m alright for now.”

True enough. Anything else in her hands would be another variable to track.

She clasped her hands together instead, fingers lacing a little too tightly before she consciously loosened them. Her tail curled closer to her leg, not defensive just contained. Her ears twitched despite her effort to hold them neutral, reacting to the softened sounds of the room and the distant presence of the ship beyond its walls.

Her face bore the clear stamp of Caitian heritage: a fine feline muzzle, strong jaw, and high cheekbones that lent her an air of quiet dignity even as strain tugged at the edges of her composure. She took one more slow breath, letting the room do some of the work she’d been forcing herself to do all day.

“I’m ready when you are,” Nala said, ears angling forward in attentive focus.

In uniform, she looked every bit a Starfleet officer.

But beneath the clean lines and regulation posture was something unmistakably primal and young a lion learning how to exist within the structure of a pride far larger than herself, brilliant and capable, and quietly straining under the weight of her own senses.

Ensign Nala

Motioning to the other wing backed chair sitting kitty corner to the one he’d stood up from, Cross indicated it with a wave of his hand. “Please, come, have a seat.” He said as he waited for her to join him in the recessed sitting area and did not sit himself until she did.

Counselor Alex Cross

Nala crossed the room quietly, boots barely making a sound against the deck. The space invited slowness, and for once she didn’t fight it.

She chose the offered chair rather than the couch, easing herself down with careful control. As she sat, her tail curled up and around her lap, a reflexive motion she didn’t bother correcting contained, protective, grounding. Her hands rested lightly atop it, fingers lacing together and then loosening again as she settled.

Only then did she look up.

“Yes, sir,” she said, voice quick but respectful, still carrying the faint edge of nerves she hadn’t fully shaken.

She drew in a measured breath, letting the quieter acoustics do some of the work for her. The ship was still there she could feel it, humming distantly but it no longer pressed quite so hard.

“I’m ready,” Nala added, ears angling forward in attentive openness, even as her tail gave a small, betraying flick beneath her hands.

Ensign Nala

Cross smiled as he studied her for a moment, taking in her demeanour and how much she held herself contained.
“How are you settling in and finding the ship, Ensign?” He asked , easing into things and hoping to putt her at ease.

Counselor Alex Cross

Nala hesitated just long enough to choose honesty over polish.

“I’ve only been aboard for a few hours,” she said, voice quick but sincere. “So I’m still… settling.”

Her ears angled back slightly as she considered the question, tail tightening in her lap before she consciously relaxed it again.

“The ship is” she paused, searching for the right word, then gave a small, self-conscious huff of breath. “loud. Not in a bad way. Just… everywhere. There’s a lot of systems, a lot of people, and my senses pick up more than I can always filter right away. It’s a lot to get used to.”

She glanced down at her hands for a moment, then back up, amber eyes open and earnest.

“I am managing,” she added quickly, as if that part mattered. “And I think I will. I just need time.”

Another breath. Slower this time.

“And” she continued, tail giving a small, hopeful curl, “I’m actually looking forward to being here. I hope I can make friends onboard. This ship feels like… it could be a good place, once I learn its rhythm.”

She held his gaze then, posture still contained but no longer rigid an ensign being honest, not guarded.

Ensign Nala