Posted by Ensign Skye Shepherd (Scientist) in Psych Eval - Deck 33

Posted by Lieutenant Junior Grade Samuel Andrew McIntyre (CNS) in Psych Eval - Deck 33

Posted by Lieutenant Junior Grade Samuel Andrew McIntyre (CNS) in Psych Eval - Deck 33
Posted by… suppressed (3) by the Post Ghost! 👻
Making her way down from the bridge through a turbolift, a shiver running down her spine as numbers illuminated a tiny screen on the inside. Supposed to stop on Deck 23, Ship’s Councilor’s Territory.

Skye hunched just slightly as the doors slid open on both sides, Officers having a run of the place to keep that vessel operating. Here, she was just a rookie trying to find her place amongst the stars. As soon as the coast cleared, a hybrid dressed in science blues had started sprinting down the hallway, a timer on the wall mounted screens keeping up with her.

Harsh breaths came and w by a wide her lungs, determined to make it towards the end of that hallway. But apparently, Shepherd’s heart was struggling to keep up the pace. Mid hallway, the blonde girl made a halt. Right in front of Mclntyre’s counseling room. She would’ve turned heel back towards that turbolift, only if her breath caught up.

As the doors slid open opened, the ensign was forced to look up. This young man towering over her stature. If only she could offer an awkward wave and let the ground beneath her feet to swallow her…

Ensign Skye Shepherd
Science Officer
U.S.S. Chimera - 98730 (Mjolnir Class)

The doors to Counseling slid open with their usual quiet efficiency—timed, as always, to the rhythm of the corridor traffic.
Lieutenant JG Samuel McIntyre had been on his way out.
He stopped just short of the threshold.
In front of him—slightly hunched, breathing hard, clearly not expecting company—stood the ensign in science blues. Blonde, winded, caught somewhere between bolting and pretending she hadn’t been sprinting down a Starfleet corridor.
McIntyre took the scene in quickly. Elevated respiration. Tension in the shoulders. Not injured—but pushing herself harder than necessary.
His expression didn’t change much, but his tone carried a quiet firmness.
“Ensign.”
Not sharp. Just enough to ground the moment.
He stepped aside—not crowding her, but not ignoring the situation either.
“Take a breath,” he said, matter-of-fact. “You’re not on a countdown in here.”
A brief pause, giving her space to actually do it.
His eyes flicked once down the corridor she’d come from, then back to her.
“Care to explain why you’re running through my section like you’re trying to outrun a warp core breach?”

Lieutenant Jr. Grade Samuel A. McIntyre
CNS USS Chimera

It was one of her usual routines to help with anxiety around the ship. Being almost court-martialed twice before being invited back into service under Captain Andersen. Ensign Shepherd lifted her hand to catch a breath, running like a thoroughbred down that long corridor after meeting with their commanding officer to perform her first check-in.

Skye was almost embarrassed to explain her situation being set out of service from a different sector in Starfleet. She was 23 now, and still acting like a training rookie. Too naive to understand the actual peril that they could find themselves trapped in serving on a vessel such as this one. She wasn’t sure whether providing an explanation about her anxiety, being incited back would explain the entire situation. But this was where the Trill hybrid had to draw a line.

“Sir… I—” Her voice caught, roughened by the sprint. “I wasn’t trying to cause a disturbance.”

A nervous swallow followed. She straightened a fraction, shoulders still tense.

“It’s… a routine.” Skye gave the smallest, humorless exhale that almost passed for a laugh. “Running the corridor. Timing myself. Helps keep my head from… spiraling.” Her gaze drifted past him into the counseling office, then back again, as though only now realizing where she had stopped.

“Captain Andersen asked for my first check-in after reinstatement.” The words came more carefully now, chosen one by one. “Which means everyone important on this ship either already knows my file or will soon enough.”

Her jaw tightened.

She straightened, forcing herself upright even if her pulse was still racing.

“My first real posting was the Chin’toka. Luna-class. Science officer.” Her mouth twisted around the title like it meant nothing now. “Captain Serala. Romulan-human hybrid. Brilliant, decorated, admired by everyone who liked being talked down to.”

Skye folded her arms tightly across herself.

“She hated me almost immediately. Said I questioned too much. Said I confused initiative with insolence.” A humorless laugh escaped her. “Maybe I did. Maybe I still do.”

Her eyes hardened.

“She dressed me down in front of senior staff more times than I can count. Every mistake was a spectacle. Every disagreement became some lesson in discipline.” She swallowed once. “Then she revoked my promotion to lieutenant junior grade in front of half the crew. Called me emotionally unfit for leadership.”

The words clearly still lived in her skin.

“She humiliated me because she could.”

A beat.

“The second assignment was the Octavia E. Butler. Science again. Captain Lia Rouiancet.” Skye’s voice dropped lower, colder. “Human. Smiled while she gutted you.”

She looked past McIntyre, seeing none of the corridor.

“She said my methods were reckless. That I treated protocol like suggestions. That I inspired disorder in junior officers.” Her nostrils flared. “What she meant was I didn’t bow quickly enough.”

Skye’s hand clenched into a fist.

“They both pushed for court-martial proceedings. Both of them.” Her voice cracked with fury more than pain. “Two captains with spotless records deciding I was the problem.”

She laughed again, harsher this time.

“And maybe I was. Maybe I still am. But they loved making an example out of me.”

Her shoulders dropped a fraction.

“My father stopped it from ending my career completely. Pulled strings, called favors, dragged me back to the New Jersey.”

For the first time, something softer entered her expression.

“Constitution-class. No refits. Practically a museum that still flies.” A faint, tired smile ghosted and vanished. “I lived there for two years as a civilian. Shared quarters with him and my dog, Zephram. Bernese mountain dog. Smarter than most admirals.”

Then the anger returned, though now it was exhausted.

“I resigned. Fully resigned.” She looked directly at McIntyre now. “I was done with Starfleet. Done with uniforms, done with captains, done with people deciding they could break you for your own good.”

Her fingers clawed against the fabric of her uniform over her chest, trying to outrun a heartbeat that refused to slow.

“They took everything,” she cried. “My rank, my name, my confidence—”

Ensign Skye Shepherd
Science Officer
U.S.S. Chimera - 98730 (Mjolnir Class)

---

McIntyre didn’t interrupt her.
He stayed exactly where he was—close enough to be present, far enough not to crowd. His posture remained steady, grounded, the kind of stillness that doesn’t escalate what’s already spiraling.
When she finished—when the words cracked into something raw—he moved.
Not abruptly. Just enough.
“Ensign.”
His voice was lower now. Controlled, firm in a way meant to anchor, not command.
“Hands down.”
A brief pause—giving her the chance to follow it.
“Focus on me.”
He waited until her attention met his before continuing.
“You’re not there anymore. Whatever happened—whatever they did—you’re not in it right now.”
His tone didn’t soften into pity. It stayed level, deliberate.
“You’re on Deck 23. Counseling. You’re safe. No one here is taking anything from you.”
Another beat, his eyes steady on hers.
“That heart rate you’re fighting? You’re making it worse by trying to outrun it.”
He shifted slightly, demonstrating rather than just instructing—slower breath in, controlled exhale.
“Match this. In through your nose—slow. Hold it. Then out.”
He gave her the cadence without rushing it.
“In… hold… out.”
A pause to let her try.
Then, quieter:
“You said you resigned. And yet—you’re standing here in uniform.”
Not an accusation. A fact.
“So something in you decided you weren’t finished.”
His gaze held—not pressing, but not letting her disappear into the moment either.
“Right now, I don’t need the whole story. You’re not going to lose anything else in this room.”
A slight shift of his stance, opening the doorway behind him.
“But you need to get control back—starting with your breathing.”
A final, steady beat.
“Stay with me. Slow it down.”
Lieutenant Jr. Grade Samuel A. McIntyre
CNS USS Chimera

McIntyre didn’t move to fill the silence right away.
He let her breathe—let her work for it. That mattered more than anything he could say in the moment.
When she managed that second breath—deeper, steadier—he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. Progress, not perfection.
“Good,” he said quietly. “That one landed.”
He kept his tone even, grounded.
“Again.”
He matched her pace—not leading too fast, not letting her rush it.
“In… hold… out.”
Another cycle. Then one more.
Only when her breathing began to come back under her control did he speak further.
“You’re not failing right now,” he said plainly. “You’re doing exactly what you’re supposed to do—regaining control instead of losing it.”
His eyes stayed on her, steady but not invasive.
“What happened to you—whoever made those calls, whatever they justified—it left a mark. That’s reality. Ignoring it doesn’t make you stronger, it just makes it come back like this.”
A slight pause.
“But here’s the part you’re getting wrong.”
Not harsh—just direct.
“They didn’t take everything.”
He gestured subtly toward her—her stance, her effort, the fact she was still standing here.
“You came back. You put the uniform on again. You walked onto this ship knowing full well what it could bring up.”
His voice carried a quiet weight now.
“That’s not someone who’s broken. That’s someone who’s still in the fight—whether she likes it or not.”
He gave her a moment to absorb that before continuing.
“You don’t need to have yourself figured out today. You don’t need to know exactly what kind of officer you are yet.”
A beat.
“You need to be functional. Present. Capable of making the next right decision in front of you.”
His tone softened just a fraction—not pity, but clarity.
“And you already did that.”
A small nod toward her breathing.
“You stopped. You followed direction. You regained control instead of letting it spiral.”
He shifted slightly, angling himself more toward the doorway but not leaving.
“That’s how this works. Not in big, clean victories. In moments like this—where you take ground back, inch by inch.”
A pause.
“As for not knowing who you are right now…” he added, more measured, “that’s not uncommon after what you’ve described. Identity doesn’t snap back into place. It gets rebuilt—deliberately.”
His gaze held hers, steady.
“And if you’re going to do that on this ship, then you’re not doing it alone.”
A slight tilt of his head toward the open office behind him.
“But first things first.”
Another controlled breath in, demonstrating again.
“Finish settling your system. Then we can talk like officers instead of like you’re under fire.”
A final beat.
“You’re still in control here. Keep it that way.”
Lieutenant Jr. Grade Samuel A. McIntyre
CNS USS Chimera

---

By the moment the ensign recovered from that wheezing breath, she straightened her back. Cascades of blonde hair draping over both shoulders on a blue and black tunic, artificial lights overhead catching a glimmer from a single, silver pip pinned against the uniform’s collar. Yet Skye followed his lead once again, letting recycled air run down her trachea, leading towards the bottom of her lungs. All she could do was offer a slight nod in response. Explaining her life’s story wouldn’t provide anything useful at the moment. Not when her biggest downfall were the demons haunting her mind.

Anxiety had streamed down her spine the moment she walked out from the turbolift and onto that deck. Several senior officers had stepped out from her path as soon as the Trill/Human girl began running, heavy breaths abandoning her nostrils the same way a racing thoroughbred’s would. It had been a weak heart that had struggled to keep up, hybridized morphology of two species that were not intended to create viable life together. Throughout 23 years of her being alive, Skye had never met another hybrid just like her. With one Human, and one Trill parent.

Orrin had joined Starfleet just shy from having turned 18 as an ensign, someone who was fascinated to trace his path amongst the stars. His story had begun within that very Constitution Class vessel which the now experienced, Stellar Cartographer had come to call home. But there was a time when the future of his career seemed uncertain. He and Eden Shepherd, his human wife had married at the ages of 23 and 25 respectively before establishing their lives on the rural lands of Heran’zul, Trill. But, in every right, Lieutenant Commander Castel was also a stranger to the stars.

He had been born throughout the time his parents had been conducting a research program on Earth. The land which the Triyan family had come to call home was Eleuthera, Bahamas. As a kid being pushed aside by locals due to their differences. Orrin didn’t let that stop him from moving forward. A couple of years later, they returned to Trill. With the young boy now aged 14. “Life since had become simple,” Commander Castel said once, before marriage and children of his own. He was joined to Castel, a 250 year old symbiont from the caverns.

She was only two years old when it happened. Ever since, those parasites had become a great phobia for the girl. Seeing how much harm one could cause to another organism, especially its host. Skye had avoided him for as long as she could remember throughout her childhood, remaining close to her mother instead. Eden happened to be absent due to her diplomatic duties. They had spent a vast majority of the time arguing over the young hybrid’s future. Which would eventually belong beyond Trill’s atmosphere. Six years were spent on board a ship that could basically be considered a flying museum piece. Yet the crew of that vessel was proud enough to keep her functional for the fleet.

Skye let the tension on her shoulders slowly melt away as she followed McIntyre‘s lead. Both hands falling down her sides before her head shifted towards the seats inside the room behind him. This was an entirely new experience for the ensign while being commissioned. To have hands that would guide her own.

“I spent so long pretending I was fine that I think I forgot where the pretending ended.”

Her eyes flicked toward the open office.

“And now I’m standing outside counseling like some first-year cadet who couldn’t keep it together long enough to make it through a hallway.”

She rubbed the heel of one palm against the other, grounding herself in the sensation.

“My father would tell me to compartmentalize. My mother would tell me to breathe and think diplomatically.” Another dry breath. “You told me to breathe first, which was probably the smartest option.”

Ensign Skye Shepherd
Science Officer
U.S.S. Chimera - 98730 (Mjolnir Class)

McIntyre listened without interruption, letting the weight of her words settle instead of cutting across them.
When she finished, he gave a small, deliberate nod.
“Your parents gave you solid tools,” he said evenly. “Compartmentalize. Stay measured. Think before you act. Those aren’t wrong.”
A slight pause.
“But they’re later steps.”
He gestured lightly between them.
“You don’t compartmentalize when the system’s already overloaded. You don’t strategize when you can’t even get a full breath in. You stabilize first—then you decide what to do with it.”
His tone remained calm, but there was a quiet certainty behind it.
“What you did out here wasn’t failure. It was the point where the strain finally caught up—and instead of ignoring it again, you stopped.”
A beat.
“That’s a correction. Not a collapse.”
He shifted just enough to clear the doorway fully, making the invitation unmistakable without forcing it.
“And for the record—first-year cadets don’t make it this far by accident. They also don’t walk themselves to Counseling when something’s off. They avoid it.”
His eyes met hers again, steady.
“You didn’t.”
Another brief pause, letting that land.
“As for the pretending…” he continued, more measured, “that’s common. You run the act long enough, it starts to feel like the only version of you that works. Problem is, it’s brittle. Takes one bad moment to crack it.”
He inclined his head slightly toward the chairs inside.
“Real stability isn’t pretending you’re fine. It’s knowing exactly where you’re not—and still being able to function anyway.”
His posture relaxed a fraction, though his focus didn’t waver.
“You don’t need to prove anything by staying out in the corridor. If you’re going to get your footing back, you may as well do it properly.”
A final, simple gesture toward the office.
“Come inside, Ensign.”
Then, just a touch more quietly:
“We’ll take this one step at a time. No theatrics. No judgment. Just getting you back to operational.”
Lieutenant Jr. Grade Samuel A. McIntyre
CNS USS Chimera