Posted by Lieutenant Alex Cross (Chief Counselor) in Counsellor’s Office: Psych Evaluation

Posted by Ensign Wyatt Blackford (Security Officer) in Counsellor’s Office: Psych Evaluation

Posted by Lieutenant Alex Cross (Chief Counselor) in Counsellor’s Office: Psych Evaluation
Posted by… suppressed (9) by the Post Ghost! 👻
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

Wyatt stepped inside. “Thank you for taking the time to see me, sir.” His voice was steady, but his eyes drifted around the room, taking everything in.

He’d grown up in a small town in Iowa, the kind of place where everyone knew everyone and nothing much ever changed. But as a kid, he’d once traveled to New Orleans with his father, before he transitioned. The memory had stuck with him all these years — the warmth of the people, the music drifting through the streets, the elegant, timeworn buildings that seemed to hold a thousand stories in their walls. It had felt big and alive in a way his hometown never had.

He’d promised himself back then that he would return someday. Somehow, though, life had kept moving, one responsibility after another, and the chance never came.

Ensign Wyatt Jacen Blackford

Security Junior Officer

U.S.S. Ark Angel

“Please, have a seat. Can I get you something to drink?” Cross offered as he headed up the back steps to the replicator, his own coffee cup in hand.

Counselor Alex Cross

Wyatt nervously sat down, running a hand through his brown hair for what had to be the tenth time in as many minutes. He only noticed he was doing it when a few strands fell back into his eyes again. Great. Now he probably looked as anxious as he felt.

“No… no, thank you. I already had enough coffee this morning to caffeinate a moose.”

Cross chuckled appreciatively, “I know that feeling. I’m just changing from coffee myself. Would you like some juice, water, cola?”He asked as he ordered himself up a glass of ice water.

Wyatt cringed inwardly. It was a bad joke—he knew it even as the words left his mouth. But that was what happened when he got nervous or uncomfortable. His brain defaulted to humor, even when humor was the last thing the situation called for. Silence made him ramble. Rambling led to jokes. Bad ones.

He shifted in the chair, suddenly hyperaware of everything: the faint hum of the ship’s systems behind the walls, the clean sterile scent of recycled air, the smooth, too-perfect lighting of the counseling office. Even the chair felt too soft, like it was trying to swallow him whole.

You’d think he’d be used to counselors by now.

He’d been seeing them most of his life.

First there were the school counselors, back when he couldn’t quite explain why something always felt wrong, like he’d been cast in the wrong role and everyone else knew the script except him. Then came the big one—coming out. The memory still stung, even after all this time.

His parents had called it confusion. A phase. Something to fix.

So they’d sent him to what they called a “real counselor,” someone who promised to help him “sort things out.” Help him become who he was supposed to be. Wyatt still remembered the sterile office, the forced smiles, the endless questions designed to steer him back into someone he wasn’t.

When that didn’t work, when he didn’t change, when he refused to pretend anymore, his parents decided the problem wasn’t confusion.

It was him.

After they disowned him, there were more counselors—ones who actually helped this time. People who helped him process losing his family, helped him navigate living on his own, helped him figure out how to build a future that suddenly had no safety net.

Then came the appointments for hormone replacement therapy. Evaluations, assessments, letters, approvals. More offices, more questions, more waiting rooms that smelled faintly of antiseptic and old magazines.

Another counselor when he decided on surgery. More evaluations, more waiting, more proof required that he knew who he was.

Then Starfleet Academy entered the picture, and with it another round of psychological screenings. Starfleet wanted stable officers, ones who could handle deep space, pressure, isolation. Wyatt passed, but not without long sessions picking apart his past, his coping mechanisms, his fears.

And then…

The incident.

His stomach tightened at the memory, and he forced his thoughts away from it. Even thinking the word made his pulse spike. Another counselor after that. Mandatory sessions. Fitness for duty evaluations. Questions he wasn’t sure he’d ever answer comfortably.

So why was he so nervous now?

He stared at his hands, clasped too tightly in his lap.

Probably because this meeting determined whether he could officially start on the ship. His first real posting. Everything he’d worked for. Every exam, every sleepless study session, every simulation, every moment he’d pushed himself through doubt and exhaustion—it all led here.

One conversation.

One report.

One decision.

This meeting determined his entire future in Starfleet.

No pressure.

His heart thudded so loudly he wondered if the counselor could hear it across the desk. It felt like it was trying to escape his chest, beating a million miles an hour.

He took a slow breath in, the way they’d taught him. In through the nose, hold, out through the mouth. Again. And again. The air felt thin anyway.

You’ve handled worse, he reminded himself. Much worse.

But somehow, sitting here, waiting for someone else to decide whether he was ready, felt harder than facing any simulation or exam.

Because this wasn’t theoretical.

This was his life.

He forced his shoulders to relax, even though tension still curled tight in his stomach, and finally looked up at the counselor, trying to appear calmer than he felt.

Ensign Wyatt Jacen Blackford

Security Junior Officer

U.S.S. Ark Angel

Cross had been quite impressed with the Ensign’s record and he said so. “I was quite impressed with your record, Ensign. You have worked very hard to get where you are. How do you feel now that you are here?”

Counselor Alex Cross
Wyatt smiled, a mixture of nerves and genuine excitement softening his expression. “Thank you, sir. I’m extremely proud to be here,” he said, his voice steady even as his heart raced. “I’ll work as hard as I can to prove myself and earn the trust you’ve placed in me.”

“As long as you are doing what you are capable of, you will be fine.” Cross said with an encouraging smile.

He took a deep breath, shoulders rising and falling as he grounded himself. “I learned a lot at the academy,” Wyatt continued, more confidently now. “Not just the technical skills or the procedures, but how to think under pressure, how to rely on the people beside me, and how to keep moving forward when things don’t go as planned.” His fingers curled briefly at his side before he relaxed them again. “I hope to make the best use of everything I learned—both in and out of the classroom—and put it to good use here. I know I still have a lot to learn, but I’m ready to listen, adapt, and give this my all.”

Ensign Wyatt Jacen Blackford

Security Junior Officer

U.S.S. Ark Angel

“You have learned what the Academy had to teach you well. You will find it easier out here now. As long as you hold your own weight and volunteer when it’s needed during duty and missions, your assistance will be valued.” Cross paused as he took a sip from his own drink as he considered where to take the conversation now.
“You have spent a great deal of time just surviving Ensign, what about friends at the Academy. Were you able to create any bonds at the Academy? I am speaking both platonically and the other.”

Counselor Alex Cross

Wyatt’s leg bounced lightly on the balls of his feet, nervous energy he couldn’t quite burn off no matter how still he tried to sit still . He’d known this question was coming—of course it was. They always asked about support systems, connections, people you relied on. Still, knowing didn’t make answering any easier.

He glanced up at him, then away again for a moment, jaw tightening as he searched for words that didn’t sound pathetic or defensive. Finally, he let out a slow breath.

“Well, um… I had a few people I hung out with sometimes,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Study groups mostly. People from my classes or training rotations. We’d grab food after drills or complain about assignments together.” A small, self-conscious smile flickered across his face. “But I wouldn’t really call them friends, I guess.”

He shifted his weight, boot scraping faintly against the floor. Saying it out loud made the loneliness sound heavier than he intended.

“I was mostly concentrating on my studies,” he continued. “The academy’s competitive, and I didn’t exactly have room to fall behind. So if I had free time, I was usually reviewing material, training, or trying to catch up on sleep.” He huffed quietly. “Mostly the first two.”

His gaze dropped to his hands as he fidgeted with a loose thread on his sleeve.

“And as far as dating… well, not really.” He hesitated, then shrugged awkwardly. “You can probably understand why.”

He didn’t elaborate right away, hoping it wouldn’t be necessary. Between the pressure of training, the uncertainty of his future postings, and the complications he’d dealt with most of his life, relationships had just… never seemed practical. Or safe. Or worth the risk of distraction.

“I just… figured it was better to focus on getting through,” Wyatt finished quietly. “One thing at a time.”

After a second, he looked back up, a little defensive now, as if bracing for judgment. “It’s not like I didn’t try to be social. Just… priorities, I guess.”

Ensign Wyatt Jacen Blackford

Security Junior Officer

U.S.S. Ark Angel

Cross nodded, “Totally understandable. I am glad you did take advantage of the support systems available in the Academy. Now that you are stationed here and the studying pressure is off , I would just like to suggest that you do not neglect that support here as well. Take the time to socialize at meal times, spend some time with your co workers. You have a lot to offer, Ensign. I for one would very much enjoy spending time with you in the lounge. Are there any recreational activities that you like?”

Counselor Alex Cross
Wyatt nodded slowly, his gaze drifting off as if the words were pulling memories up with them. “I’ve been trying,” he said quietly. “It’s just… hard, with what happened in the past, to really trust people.” He let out a breath that sounded more tired than frustrated. “I mean, I trust them professionally—yeah, that part’s fine. But personally?” He shook his head, fingers threading through his hair in a restless, familiar gesture. “That’s always been the difficult part. Letting people get close feels like standing on ground that might give way at any second.”

Cross nodded, “That will take time. You might find it rewarding though. People don’t usually join Starfleet to be with people like themselves but to meet the unusual.”

There was a brief pause before he continued, his voice softening. “I enjoy watching old movies,” he added, almost shyly. “Like, twentieth-century stuff.” A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “My mother and I used to watch them together when I was young. It was kind of our thing—Saturday nights, popcorn, the some new old movie. ” His eyes warmed at the memory. “I guess I never stopped loving them. It feels… safe. Like visiting a place where nothing bad can surprise you.”

Ensign Wyatt Jacen Blackford

Security Junior Officer

U.S.S. Ark Angel

“Ahhh! One of my favorite pastimes as well! I too like the twentieth century genre. Which is your favorite genre of the period?”

Counselor Alex Cross

Wyatt smiles, the kind of easy, relaxed smile that makes it clear he’s about to go off on one of his favorite topics. “I like watching sci-fi movies,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “It’s funny seeing their versions of aliens—sometimes they’re these terrifying, world-ending monsters, and other times they’re just misunderstood creatures who glow in the dark and want to phone home.” He chuckles to himself. “I always wonder who comes up with that stuff. Like, why do aliens almost always have giant heads or weird clicking noises? And why are they either way smarter than us or way dumber?”

He gestures with his hands as he talks, clearly getting more animated. “And the action scenes are always over the top. Spaceships exploding, lasers flying everywhere, cities getting destroyed in five minutes. It’s ridiculous, but that’s what makes it fun. You don’t watch sci-fi for realism—you watch it to see what wild idea they’re going to throw at you next.”

He pauses for a second, then grins. “There’s one movie series called Die Hard that’s really good. It’s not sci-fi or anything—it’s more straight-up action—but it’s one of my favorites. Bruce Willis crawling through air vents, taking down bad guys one by one, always looking like he’s barely hanging on but somehow still winning in the end. It’s kind of hilarious how much punishment he takes and just keeps going.” Wyatt laughs. “Have you seen it? I swear, the first one is a classic. It’s one of those movies I can rewatch a hundred times and never get bored.”
Ensign Wyatt Jacen Blackford

Security Junior Officer

U.S.S. Ark Angel