Star Trek: Theurgy

Day 07 [1700 hrs.] The Encumbered Engineer

July 24, 2019, 11:36:27 PM

[LCdr Blue Tiran | Session 2 | Therapy is for the Weak | Or For Twinkie Lovers |  Doesn't Discriminate]
@fiendfall




It had been precisely a week, since Blue had set foot in Hathev's office, legitimately, anyway.  She had been in the office once, three days ago.  Having been in the area, Blue had a heavy hankering for a twinkie.  Not just your average one, and there were replicators everywhere, but that wasn't really the point.  She knew ehre she could get a twinkie fix, or at least, she assumed where she could get one.  So, she had taken a detour.  It was only by a few decks, really, and headed towards Hathev's office.  She didn't knock, or buzz, she just opened the door and stepped on in.  Shame it was in mid-session.  Blue had popped in and gave a quick wave to Hathev.  The bowl on the desk left over from the other day, refilled just incase, who knew.  But, it was always good to have extra snack.  She had mumbled something about 'sorry red shirt' as she darted across the office loving and very much enjoying Hathev's shocked face, to grab a handful of twinkies and then head back out ripping open the first packet with her teeth.

Now though, it was actually time for her to show up.  She had an appointment and everything.  2000 hours, no Albert, be there or be square.  Blue had worked all fucking day, hadn't seen Ranaan since 0600 and she had news to share with her and so much she wanted to say.  Thought she could say though she was also interested in seeing what it was Hathev could drag out of her.  She was talented at actually getting shit out of Blue, it was almost annoying if it wasn't actually a little liberating.

Blue didn't buzz.  She was expected and bells were for losers.  So she just opened the fucking door herself and stepped into it.  She didn't have Albert on her shoulder this time.  Her hair was a messy bun pulled up tightly high on her head with tendrils falling out of it here and there.  Curls bouncing as she walked into the room.  She wore her golden uniform, the department head jacket proving her position was on but unzipped showing the tank top underneath.  She had smudges of grease on the backs of her hands, one on her cheek, and one on her forehead to the side close to her temple.

She was tired, she had worked all fucking day, a long ass shift working to get the Theurgy back together and ready to get back on it's mission.  You could see the dark circles under her eyes.  She was sleeping better, but not good, and if Ranaan rolled over away from her in her sleep the nightmares were profound, nasty, and woke them both up.  She had found a good habit of falling asleep practically tangled with his every limb.  He was such a good person, a good sport, and she knew that she wasn't the same but every day was better.  Every day that she woke up and he was there, every time that he was there at the end of the day, when she came back home.  Every time they were together, it solidified the truth in her mind.

The bowl of twinkies was waiting for her, and she scooped it up as she walked over towards the couch.  Plopping down, she plopped her boots up onto the table her messenger bag to the side.  She put it there so that it leaned against her thigh for a moment as she dove into the bowl for a good one.  Finding some kind of twinkie that she hadn't had before and pulled it out.  She opened it and ate half of it as she looked over at the doc who was sitting there likely waiting for Blue to finish getting comfortable before she did anything else.

“Sup Doc.” she said giving her a little salute with the twinkie half she hadn't eaten yet.  She shoved the other half in her mouth and then dove into her bag.  She pulled out the prosthetic hand that she was in the midst of creating for Cross.  Something that she needed to finish up the prototype was.  It wouldn't be completely done, not just yet, but soon.  Right now, it needed to be perfected, then fitted, and then she was going to BAMF this fucker until it was basically the greatest hand that Cross had ever known.  He would be asking to chop off his other one just so he could have a matching set.  She pulled out a tool set and began to work while she waited for Doc to ask her questions.  That was how this shit was supposed to start right?  All the good questions, all the shit they needed to cover.

“Well lets get started.” she said not looking up from the project in her hand.  "How ya been doc?  Fixing the mental shit storms around the ship by day, moonlighting as a hot cocktail waitress at night?"

Re: Day 08 [2000]: The Encumbered Engineer

Reply #1 – August 07, 2019, 02:54:43 PM

[ Lt Cmdr Hathev | Chief Counsellor's Office, Main Sickbay | Deck 11 | USS Theurgy | Aldea ] attn: @BZ

Had Hathev known the veritable monster she would create in providing the detestable puffy rolls of processed sugar known as ‘Twinkies’ for Miss Blue Tiran, perhaps she would have been more circumspect in their offering. Certainly while she had intended them as a gesture of welcoming, a method by which to put Tiran at ease, she could never have predicted the extent of their efficacy. Pleased as she was to see Tiran’s previous recalcitrant attitude to her office had been overturned so quickly, Hathev had been significantly less impressed by the woman’s atrotious timing.

Thankfully as the chief engineer barged into the office this morning without so much as a knock at the door, the only appointment she was interrupting was her own. A far cry from the previous week, when the woman had apparently stood uncertain at the door until she became late; now she was positively punctual, despite the late hour.

In appearance she was essentially unchanged, save for the space at her shoulder where she had previously borne her avian companion. Hathev approved of the creature’s exclusion; she had not explicitly requested the bird no longer accompany Miss Tiran, and it was gratifying that she would not have to, Tiran having taken the necessary steps unprompted. A positive sign for the woman’s judgement.

Otherwise, Tiran was as ill-presented as she had been last time, seemingly having come straight from a vat of grease or wherever it was she worked. The shadows beneath her eyes signalled exhaustion, one more lasting than could be attibuted simply to the lateness of the hour. That would not do. Prolonged sleep deprivation could have a variety of unpleasant side-effects, both physical and psychological, and it was certainly not conducive to healing and improvement.

‘Good evening,’ she said, rising to greet the woman as she entered. Tiran made a beeline for the bowl laid out on the coffee table in readiness for her visit, before throwing herself down on the couch and settling in. Her movements were freer and more confident than they had been last week, although how much of this was simply an affectation Hathev could not discern at the current time.

Hathev seated herself opposite the woman as was customary, allowing Tiran the time she required to ready herself. That the woman’s preparations included consuming a Twinkie was no longer surprising. It had been pure happenstance that there had been a bowl of the confectionaries when Tiran had appeared unannounced in Hathev’s office; in a moment of uncharacteristic weakness Hathev had been prompted to conduct her research on her patient by following Tiran’s lead and sampling one of the treats she so clearly had some affection for. The offending item had been just as foul as she had expected, and led to an unpleasant lightheadedness that had taken a full evening to clear.

With that ill-advised action out of the way, she had yet kept the rolls in case any of her other patients could be encouraged to consume them. None had seemed tempted, and so Hathev had been preparing to dispose of the treats after her appointment concluded; as if preternaturally aware of the threat to her beloved Twinkies, Miss Blue Tiran had appeared to gatecrash a confidential meeting and steal a handful of the condemned items.

Perhaps this week, while she would no longer attempt to palm the treats off on any of her other patients, Hathev might maintain a bowl simply for Tiran’s delectation.

Tiran, whose settling in procedure this week seemed to include a mechanical hand. Hathev regarded the woman with curiosity as she set to work, greeting the counsellor almost as an afterthought. An example of the legendary focus they had touched briefly upon last week in their discussion of Albert. Briefly, the woman exhibited more peace than Hathev would have thought her capable of.

Without taking her eyes from her work, Tiran refocused on their session. Hathev was not in the habit of working with patients who were engaged in other activities simultaneous to their appointment, but Tiran seemed engaged enough and if the work lent her calm Hathev would not stand in its way. In any case, it could hardly be more disruptive than the bird the woman had brought with her last time.

‘I do not believe that question necessitates an answer, Commander,’ she said smoothly, with a hint of warmth. ‘I have been well. What of yourself?’ A surface-level question only, in accordance with humanity’s rules of politeness and greeting; however if Tiran wished to offer a more genuine answer Hathev would certainly not object.

‘I apologise for the lateness of the hour,’ she continued. ‘If there is another time that would better suit in future I would be happy to make the necessary arrangements.’ She paused slightly, regarding the woman even as she worked. ‘I did not expect to see you between sessions,’ she said carefully. ‘My office is always open should you wish to visit, however I must ask that you refrain from doing so when I am seeing a patient. They deserve the same discretion and privacy as I am sure you would wish afforded to yourself during our meetings.

‘To that end I have forwarded you a copy of my schedule that you may plan accordingly; I have also made arrangements for it to be displayed outside my office door should you or any other wish to visit unannounced.’ Any names or other personal details had been dutifully stripped from these publicised versions of her schedule, of course; confidentiality remained paramount as always. She had deemed this the most logical course of action as it would allow any to visit her as they wished while avoiding any further mortified Tactical officers. It had been fortunate that Hathev had been able to suitably smooth the feelings of the gentleman; if Miss Tiran’s stunt had caused any lasting damage this conversation might have had to proceed in an entirely different register.

‘I shall endeavour to maintain stock of Twinkies should you wish to visit,’ she said. ‘Please inform me of any specific flavour requests you might have.’ Remembering the woman’s excitement over the “cookies and cream” flavour from last week, Hathev had replicated several more of that strain for this evening’s appointment. She had not been certain what formula to use to calculate the proper ratio of flavours and harboured a mild concern that she had been over-generous with the number of “cookies and cream” flavoured treats relative to the others. She would formulate a proper calculation for their next session.

In the meantime, with the Twinkie-related pleasantries out of the way, Hathev turned her attention to the purpose of their meeting, and the question Miss Tiran would no doubt anticipate. For she was no fool; consciously or not, in bringing her work with her to this meeting, Tiran was inviting and even requesting a line of conversation be opened.

‘I must admit to curiosity as to the nature of mechanical creation you have brought with you today,’ she said. ‘A prosthetic, is it not?’

---

OOC: With enormous apologies for the horrendous lateness, this post has been kicking my ass all week lmfao

Re: Day 08 [2000]: The Encumbered Engineer

Reply #2 – August 15, 2019, 04:36:58 AM

[LCdr Blue Tiran | Woman After My Heart | Shame I'm Not Gay | Already Taken | Twinkies over Diamonds]
@fiendfall



Blue gave a smirk.  “Look at you, growing up, getting a sense of humor and everything.  You better watch out doc, I'll be rubbing off on you before you know it and you'll be fucking throwing F bombs all over the fucking place and asking people if they were actually educated or if they fucked their way through the Academy.”

Blue knew that wasn't true, the day that Hathev actually said something unsavory in a language of exasperation was the day that the Theurgy would likely explode.  Still, for now, it was nice to joke with the woman and Blue was comfortable enough in this environment, surprisingly, to be rather open and comfortable.  She hadn't ever thought that she would be comfortable getting to know a therapist because, they usually just pissed her the fuck off or they fucking bore her to the point where it just became an expensive nap time.  That had sent her last therapists off the deep end because no matter how much they tried to understand her and get to the point where they could get to know her, get her to talk, get into the deep shit, she would just pass the fuck out and nothing would actually happen.

“I've been really fucking busy.  Do you know how much shit there is out there to fix?  Do you realize how fucking bad this ship was running, limping the fuck along.  And they keep sending me some new fuckers like hey find something for this asshole to do because you know, that's your job now.  And I got Albert to help keep me on task when I fucking forget, I got to go on a trip with Ranaan, which wasn't what he fucking said it was, and that still kind of pisses me off.  Not enough to like say something about it to him but enough that like.. I'm pissed.”

She realized that she had just spewed a shit ton of information at the poor woman, who had the unfortunate luck to be Tiran's therapist.  So she stopped, and looked at the hand in her .. well hand.  She reached into her bag and dug around so that she could find the tool that she was looking for.  The fingertips on the hand were currently missing and there was more work, yet, to be done.  But it was coming along nicely she just needed to get the rest of it fully finished as fast as possible.

She apologized for the late hour and Blue snorted.  “Time is relative doc.” she said as she slid the screwdriver into the tip of the middle finger and began to do something inside, working on getting the actual internal mechanisms properly set up for later.  It would need to be perfect, and she would stop at nothing less.  “I don't mind the hour, and then I'll go home and Ran will have food stuff ready and try to be sneaky with vegetables and shit.  I can smell it and taste it a million miles away, I'm afraid.” she chuckled darkly.

Hathev dove into the fact that she didn't think it was wise for Blue to come into her sessions with other officers, and to remember that she wasn't the only person that was used by Hathev.  Blue grinned.  “I'd say I was sorry, but that would be a lie.  Also; I was hungry and I needed a fucking snack and you have those here.  So, yeah, snack attack, and honestly when the blood sugar drops I'll just be in here more.  They had a term for it, back on the Endeavour you know, it was called a Blue Alert.  Fuckin' people here haven't learned that shit yet, but they will.. they will.”

Ahhh, the flash backs of people throwing twinkies at her when she got amazingly pissed the fuck off.  Sometimes it was just out of the fact that there was sheer stupidity going on around them.  But, she was always up for free twinkies.  Speaking of which.  She dipped down into the bowl holding the hand and her small screwdriver in a single hand as she liberated one from the bowl down on the floor beside the couch.  She pulled it up, and opened it with her teeth, pushing it up out of the wrapper with a single hand she managed to work the whole thing into her mouth.  Cheeks puffing out to the sides as she worked to chew on the cake and filling that was the cookies and cream flavor.  Her favorite, and Hathev earned more brownie points by the minute.  Doc was still going on about the whole surprise twinkie visit and how she had forwarded Blue her schedule so that they didn't have any more issues.

“Cool.  I'll have Albert sync it with mine so that I know what the fuck is going on because otherwise, I'm just going to come back when I'm hungry.   You have snacks, and you're not a raging bitch, so you have all the winning in this place.” she shrugged as though it was nothing, but honestly, it was something big.

Hathev mentioned the hand, and Blue looked over at her, studying her face for a long moment.  “You're fucking serious?” she asked for a moment though it wasn't really a question, it was more of just a shocking statement that happened to have a question mark slapped at the end.  She cleared her throat and held it up.

“It's for Lieutenant Cross.” she said, though her voice wasn't as confident as it was before, it was softer.  She clearly felt something for the man, something that she didn't often show.  It was similar to Ranaan but different.  She sighed.  “When we were on the fucking Endeavour and we had to leave, him and this heinous she-demon forced me into the fucking escape pod while I was trying to wait for Ranaan to join us.  Anyway, we ended up on the fucking Versant all together, and though I refuse to give any more words to She-Demon, Cross was a stand up guy.  Once we got back together, we like bonded or some shit.”

Blue tested one of the joints of the fingers watching them bend down and up so that she could study the way that they moved with the mechanical tendons, pullies, and various cogs to make sure it was as seamless and perfect as possible.  “On the Versant, we were in t his fucking battle when we were trying to free Thea and get her back to Ives so we could get off that fuckship.  I was shot at, and Cross pushed me out of the way, and lost his hand to a fucking Savi laser beam for the lack of a fucking better word.  It was just fucking gone.  He seared it himself on the fucking bulkhead, and .. I vowed that fucking day that I would make his new hand.  I would make it better, and so fucking good he would wish I had made both of them.” she said honestly, with such conviction in her voice that Hathev would know this moment had been huge for Blue.  Not just that moment, but that Lieutenant Cross was something of a special person to Blue.

“Do you have family, Doc?” she asked suddenly, her blue eyes devouring Hathev's face and eyes.  Blue was really adept at reading people, and she was searching Hathev right now trying to see what she thought of the fucking question.  She didn't know what made her ask the question.  Probably the talk of Cross, as he had become a family member for her, during their time on the Versant.  “Not just.. the fuckers that birthed you, like actual fucking family.”

Re: Day 08 [2000]: The Encumbered Engineer

Reply #3 – August 22, 2019, 12:41:14 AM

[ Lt Cmdr Hathev | Chief Counsellor's Office, Main Sickbay | Deck 11 | USS Theurgy ] attn: @BZ

The concept of Miss Blue Tiran ‘rubbing off’ on Hathev was ridiculous almost to the point of absurdity; but then, that had been the woman’s desired effect with the words, had it not? A ‘joke’ of which her species was so fond, and the second such attempt at humour in today’s session. Hathev was not unused to her patients using such methods as a way to deflect focus away from themselves, and yet they had not even begun to discuss anything which Miss Tiran might find personal or difficult, and thus such deflection was surely completely unnecessary. The only conclusion she could reach, therefore, as she watched the woman’s eyes sparkling above her smirk, was that Tiran was making such a joke not out of discomfort but the very opposite. Just as she had been comfortable intruding (unfortunate and inappropriate though that may have been), and as she had been comfortable arriving on time (relatively so) and unaccompanied by her avian companion, she was now comfortable making jokes, as though she and Hathev shared the human bond of friendship.

Such a concept was no less absurd than the content of the joke itself, and had such words come from any other Hathev might have been tempted to purse her lips in disapproval. It was absurdly cheeky, similar to her comment about the ‘hot cocktail waitress’, and as such something Hathev would usually have decried. As it was, however, she found herself almost amused by the sentiment — as had no doubt been the intent. The only thing that surprised her was how close Tiran had come to succeeding with such a gambit.

‘Quite so,’ she said delicately.

Tiran’s comfort seemed to extend to a willingness to speak without much prompting, although she woman had, in Hathev’s experience at least, always been somewhat vocal. The information imparted was disordered and lacking in detail; as data it was essentially useless, but as a guide for future foci it was more helpful. Two foci, to be precise: Tiran’s comfort within her role, and the event with her fiancé that had frustrated her but not prompted discussion between the two. Topics that would surely warrant further investigation; but that would be left until later. First, the pleasantries.

The mention of the Endeavour did not seem to prompt negative emotions in Tiran, breezing past the description of her former crew as she did, and for that Hathev was glad. Less gratifying, however, was the woman’s complete lack of remorse or professionalism, childishly blaming her misconduct on her hunger as if food could not be procured from a thousand legitimate outlets on the vessel. Hathev did not wish to push and risk shattering the delicate comfort the engineer had seemed to reach, however, and so she approached from a more gentle angle.

‘So long as my schedule is open, so too is my door,’ she said. ‘At other times I trust you shall respect the confidentiality of this office.’ Anything more heavy-handed she would reserve until such a time as it was necessary; if Tiran had any sense, that time would never come.

As a topic to begin with, Hathev preferred to choose something that would be easy to discuss and help settle her patient within their surroundings. She had not, therefore, expected to walk into a veritable landfield with her very first question. The prosthetic was intended for Lieutenant Cross, the curious Vulcan, neither half nor whole, who had been aboard the Versant alongside Miss Tiran. Hathev had not been aware the two were acquainted — more than acquainted, judging by the softness in Tiran’s countenance as she spoke of the man. Neither had she been familiar with the circumstances in which the man’s hand had been lost; had she been so, she certainly would not have broached the subject with the blind foolishness she now exhibited. If only there were proper reports on the trials these individuals had suffered on the Versant; her usual patients’ lives, traumas, and mistakes could be mapped upon their records for her to read and prepare. Not so here; yet here more than ever she could not afford to make such simple errors. An unpleasant catch-22, certainly.

Still, there was little to be done now except salvage the situation as best she could and turn it to her benefit. There could be no doubt that Tiran and Cross shared a bond forged through shared trauma, of a kind stronger than most relationships but also more unpredictable, more potentially dangerous or supportive after the fact. At this stage there was little way of telling which direction it might tend to. Certainly the conviction in Tiran’s voice could speak to guilt, and a woman willing to overlook her own wellbeing to erase it. Admirable it was, of course, yet it was not Hathev’s duty to admire Miss Tiran but to help her.

She anticipated such a sentiment would not be well-received at this stage, however, and thus she commenced the ever-necessary rigmarole of gently and slowly approaching the topic she wished to discuss without startling her patient and sending them fleeing to safer climes.

‘Lieutenant Cross is a singular individual,’ she said. ‘I am certain any prosthetic created by your mind shall be as unique as he.’ She regarded the woman carefully for a moment. ‘He is important to you. Have you always been close?’ She did not particularly hope to glean further information so much as prompt Tiran into examination. The guilt the woman must be feeling would remain untouched until Hathev could safely operate upon it; she might not have been medically-inclined, and yet she knew it better to leave a knife in the wound than remove it and let the patient bleed out on the table. Until she could treat the underlying issue, that knife would remain where it was.

She had expected a topical pivot, unexpectedly deep water as they had found themselves navigating. She had even expected a question to be returned to her; it seemed to be Tiran’s favoured method of redirection, perhaps vying with vulgarity. What she had not expected, however, was the exact question now posed to her.

Of all the questions the woman could have asked. Tiran’s blue eyes were clear and searching, attempting to read Hathev in turn. She could not have chosen a more inauspicious subject.

Her parents had passed long ago, no siblings to ease their loss, no further family with whom she had any true bond. Triss, half the galaxy away even before Hathev had left Earth. Seren, the boy who was not her son.

Her son…

‘I do not,’ she said, clipped. ‘Although I believe I understand of what you speak. We have a word for it, in my tongue. K’war'ma'khon.’ The word tasted like ash in her mouth. ‘It means those with whom you share no blood, yet you are family all the same.’ She turned her gaze upon Tiran. ‘Is Mr Cross your k’war'ma'khon?’

Re: Day 08 [2000]: The Encumbered Engineer

Reply #4 – August 31, 2019, 03:51:39 AM

 [LCdr Blue Tiran | Soul Mates are Not Just For Love | A Cross to Bear | Family is Not Always Blood]
@fiendfall



Singular.

Such a plain way to say unique.  He was, most definitely, one of a kind and someone that she cared about a great deal.  She knew that it was likely evident.  It sure as fuck was when Ducote had asked about him and the hand that she had been designing for him.  He was special to her, her voice, her mind, her thoughts, her emotions.  Everything softened when it came to Cross, he had gone above and beyond what anyone else would have done for her save Ranaan because he had saved her life twice.  He had put her first, protected her, been there for her.  They had shared hardships and the things that were hard for both of them.  They had opened up their hearts to one another in a platonic but deep way.  Blue had found someone that could step into a role that she had never tried to fill before, but that she had always held in such high regard.  He stepped into the role of a brother, and it was hard for her to admit that or want to say that out loud.  Because, her actual blood brother, Arthur, was strictly off limits convo.

She asked if they had always been close and Blue looked up at her underneath those long dark lashes of hers.  Those crystalline blue eyes telling her the answer long before her lips actually formed the words.  There was no one that Blue Tiran was particularly close to other than Ranaan Ducote, at least, not before the whole thing went down.  She had tried, a little, with  R'Rori but that had been different, and it had been less a friendship and more a working relationship with some side fun.  Still, she didn't know what else to say about the ol' cat lady. 

“Fuck no.  I never even had him on the fucking radar before that day on the Endeavour.  I get over towards the escape pods you see, and fucking Ranaan isn't there.  Wait for me he said, or well he didn't but he should have fucking known that I don't leave a fucker behind.  Anyway, so I'm standing there, and the Borg are doing their ship and those mother fuckers are coming down the mother fucking hallway when I'm fucking told by the fuckers behind me, those fuckers being Cross and Shar.. that I need to get the fuck in the escape pod.” 

Blue's eyes are back on her work and she is working hard, working on every part, making sure that everything is fucking tight and sitting and working properly.  Probably way more than she really needed to because this was hard shit to talk about and she wasn't even getting to the nitty gritty this was the surface shit that just pissed her the fuck off.  She was purposefully not looking, avoiding eye contact was sometimes the only fucking way she could get through talking about some harder shit.

“So I tell them to fuck off, I'm waiting for Ducote because that mother fucker is supposed to be there.  Course he doesn't fucking show, so Shar fucking grabs one arm, and Cross grabs the other.  I fought them both and ended up crushing Cross' nose with my elbow or .. something, but it was broke as shit and blood went every fucking wear as they manhandled me into the fucking escape pod and shot me out into space with all the other lucky fuckers.  So to say I hated the mother fucker, was an understatement but shit changed on the Versant.  A lot of shit did.”

Hathev through some Vulcan shit at her, some word that Tiran would never be able to recreate and probably wouldn't bother fucking trying either.  But, she gave a shrug of her shoulder and a nod.  “Yeah that shit.  See I didn't need another fucking family member.  Fuck family, they've never done shit for me, yay mom used her fucking birth canal a few times, and ended up with this star of a fucking person.  But, other than that, I've never needed them to be fucking around.  Then comes Cross and there was all the fucking shit about not wanting him around either but, now he's family.  Whatever that fucking word you used before, that one.  It's right.”  she gave a shrug as she opened the panel in the center of the palm where secret buttons and things were located but you couldn't tell from the palm piece.

“You know Hathy, that I'm really good at reading the people around me, and I feel like I sometimes surprise you with what is and isn't fucking sensitive information so I'm just going to toss this shit out there.  Everything, is fucking sensitive.  Nothing is not sacred.  There is shit in my life that you will stumble on accident and you will probably feel like shit for it and a lot of it is going to make me really fucking pissed off to talk about because I don't like talking about it and some of that shit is shit that Ranaan doesn't even fucking fully know about because then he gets those sad fucking eyes and I can't handle those sad eyes.  I don't need his fucking pity.  I've been seeing it a lot lately, since the Versant.  I know I'm not exactly the same.  The aftermath of that shit, and him being here, alive, well, and like fucking working and living like I wasn't being held captive across the universe or some shit is just okay.  But... whatever.”

Re: Day 08 [2000]: The Encumbered Engineer

Reply #5 – September 08, 2019, 11:03:41 PM

[ Lt Cmdr Hathev | Chief Counsellor's Office, Main Sickbay | Deck 11 | USS Theurgy ] attn: @BZ

In hindsight, Hathev should not have been surprised to discover that Miss Tiran’s introduction to Commander Cross had begun with the breaking of the latter’s nose. It wass so in-line with what Hathev knew of the woman’s character that, despite the gravity of the situation being described, Hathev nevertheless found a part of her mind dedicated to thoughts strangely akin to pride -- that was, indeed, the Blue Tiran she was growing familiar with.

That Tiran’s relationship with Mr Cross had begun in hatred was somewhat unexpected; the human did not seem the type to forgive easily, nor to form close bonds. Indeed until this point Hathev had not been aware there was a third individual able to elicit a reaction of gentleness, of fondness, of something other than the woman’s normal surliness from her. Commander Ducote had, of course, been an obvious candidate, and one Hathev had deliberately touched upon only briefly thus far. Albert had been an unexpected second, another example of a topic Hathev had originally considered unproblematic that had nevertheless devolved into a much deeper discussion than she had anticipated or intended. Cross, the ill-tempered newmade Vulcan with a background even she found, if not distressing, certainly unpleasant to contemplate, had not been someone she would previously have considered likely to be among such a hallowed and exclusive category; and yet it appeared he not only had a place in such a group, and thus in the affection of Miss Tiran, but held a position of unique importance.

Much of this could, of course, be attributed to the exceptional trauma they had experienced together. A relationship forged and tested under such extreme conditions could either break under the duress or become infinitely stronger than it might ever have become in other circumstances; this would explain the intensity of emotion Tiran exhibited towards the Vulcan. Yet of course that was not the entire picture; Tiran and Cross had not been alone aboard the Versant, and, to Hathev’s knowledge, Tiran had not formed a similar bond with any others with whom she had shared captivity. Their relationship was not created due to their circumstances and experiences; it was merely accellerated.

From what Hathev knew of the two individuals in question, she was not entirely surprised to hear they were close. On the surface, they shared a similarity of expression and presentation, each enamoured with expletives as they were; deeper within, they both struggled with the concept of belonging, of family. That they had found this within one another was hardly inconceivable, therefore; nevertheless Hathev would remain vigilant that it did not tip over to become harmful to one or either of them. Intense relationships formed quickly could be volatile, and although they shared familial trauma their individual experiences ran in very different patterns, and it would be remiss of Hathev not to remain aware of the potential for such a relationship to become unhealthy for one or both of its participants.

She understood, of course, that family was a difficult subject for her patient; thus it was not one upon which she intended to dwell for some time. The locus of much of the woman’s suffering as it appeared to be, it was therefore the most sensitive of subjects which she could potentially broach. It would require dealing with eventually, of course; little healing could be achieved while the root cause was ignored. Yet for the present time Hathev was content to bypass it, placing it to one side in her mind; touching upon it now would be ill-timed.

That Miss Tiran would bring up such a topic of her own accord was unexpected.

Hathev regarded the woman for a moment, cataloguing the minutiae of her countenance. The woman had revealed a similar sentiment for Albert, although with considerably less colourful commentary preceeding; however a marked difference was that Albert had been created by Tiran to deliberately fill a hole within her life. Cross, it seemed, had entered Blue’s affections by entirely different -- and less-welcome -- means. What this particular difference meant for their relationship Hathev could not be certain; although the fact that Tiran had apparently graduated from a k’war’ma’khon consisting solely of a mechanical bird originally incapable of independent thought, whom she had programmed to suit her particular needs and which would not in turn distract her with needs of its own, to a living, sentient individual who could support and aid her -- and request the same in return -- could only be considered an improvement and an opportunity for internal growth in the woman.

‘I am glad you have found family in Commander Cross,’ she said, ‘even if such a relationship was unexpected in its arrival.’ Especially so for that reason.

She approved that Miss Tiran did not press the subject of Hathev’s own relatives; such lines should not be crossed within a counsellor-patient relationship, and once blurred they would make further treatment more difficult to administer. Maintaining distance was imperative lest the patient no longer view the counsellor correctly; it was a necessary to balance the acquisition of trust, the projection of understanding, without tipping into any mutuality that might compromise the separation between the two individuals.

Miss Tiran’s statement that every topic was sensitive for her was clearly an exaggeration and yet from Hathev’s experience not exaggerated by much. That the woman’s tirade moved so smoothly from a warning to Hathev -- one which was duly noted -- to a discussion of her relationship with Commander Ducote was a progression that might once have wrongfooted Hathev; not so any longer. The woman was proud, and she had relied upon her projection of self-sufficiency to survive for much of her life; Hathev understood how inconceivable vulnerability was to such an individual, and how much it meant that she had ever allowed such a thing with Ducote -- and with Cross. Nevertheless, simply because the woman had allowed this once did not mean she would continue to do so, especially not after experiencing such a harrowing series of events as those she suffered aboard the Versant. She had been at her most vulnerable in those days, and thus it was natural that she now wished to divorce herself from that sensation as much as possible, even if it meant also divorcing herself from the closeness that came from such an expression of trust and allowance of care.

It was all so unnecessarily messy and convoluted; yet if Hathev allowed herself to dwell upon every instance in which a human acted in such a manner she would never achieve anything.

‘I understand that sentiment,’ she said tactfully. She did not, of course, understand it in the practical, visceral sense, but in the intellectual, schoolroom sense; thankfully it was not her purpose to empathise but to rationalise. ‘Know that such concerns are natural; you need not divulge any more than you are willing, to Mr Ducote, to myself, to anyone. I, of course, do not feel pity, and thus you need not worry that I will experience such a thing; nevertheless, should you not wish to discuss a topic or answer a question which I have posed you need only say as such. I ask only that you consider each of my questions; I do not require any answers you do not desire to give.’

Hathev regarded the woman before her for a moment. She had not intended to touch upon Miss Tiran’s family at this stage, yet the subject had been broached by the patient herself and the opportunity left open for its continuation. Hathev could not be certain when a similar occasion might present itself; to squander this would be a mistake. It bore touching upon should Tiran allow it.

‘What does family mean to you?’ she asked, as gently as she was able. ‘The word, the concept? If Mr Cross is your k’war’ma’khon, your family -- and forgive me for assuming the same is true of Mr Ducote -- what makes them so?’

She took a moment to consider her approach. Her earlier words had been true: Miss Tiran owed her experiences to no one should she wish to keep them to herself. Yet it was Hathev’s opinion as a professional that doing so was not assisting her. The woman had a family, by her own admission; yet she did not understand what that meant, what opportunities it afforded her, what support and assistance. Hathev was not so foolish as to assume she could change psychological habits built up over a lifetime in a single afternoon; under her normal schedule she would not even attempt such a thing at such an early point in the treatment. Yet if there was one thing she was coming to understand about Commander Tiran, it was that the woman required something of an abnormal touch.

Thus she met the woman’s eye, working to keep her gaze soft, unsharpened. ‘Do you pity Cross?’ She allowed the woman a moment. 'Perhaps you have misdiagnosed the emotion in your fiancé's eyes. Have you considered it is merely concern, and the desire to ease your pain where he may?'

This time, at least, she understood the gravity of the territory she was entering before she set foot within it.

Re: Day 08 [2000]: The Encumbered Engineer

Reply #6 – September 16, 2019, 06:43:19 PM

[LCdr Blue Tiran | Family is Shit | Family is Everything | Family is- | Ducote is Family]
@fiendfall




Blue was cautious.  Because she was pretty fucking sure that while Hathev sat there calmly and explained that she understood the sentiments behind what Blue was telling her, she was full of shit.  There was no way that anyone that hadn't been through the level of shit that Blue had would understand.  Even then, it wasn't just the shit was the age the shit had fallen all around her.  It was all well and good that she was trying to allay Blue's fears that she would understand there was not one fucking thing that was sacred in her life, not one thing that remained untarnished by some serious fucking shit.  Even Ranaan, though she was getting over the fact that he survived while she suffered, only because she knew that he had suffered in a different but still profound way.  Still, nothing in her life was completely untarnished and it was hard for her to really enjoy much of anything.

However, she was glad that there was nothing she had to answer, it was all just what she was willing to answer, she had heard that shit before.  Blue knew that at some point they were going to get into the shit that she didn't want to think about, that she didn't want to talk about, that she didn't want to feel.  Part of her hoped that she would be able to actually take care of it this time, there was always the hope though.  She wanted to talk about some of it, but she wasn't sure how.  Ranaan knew a lot, he knew more than anyone else in her entire life had, and.. his mother probably knew more than she let on because of her empathic skills. 

And now I'm never going to see Ratela again. she thought remembering the way that she had kind of stepped into the 'mom' roll that Blue had never felt that she needed.  But with her there, she was so good at just making her feel at ease.  The way that she kept Erich in check with just a bit of a look, the way that she constantly felt warm.  There was a warmth there, that Blue could not remember getting from her own parents. 

Hathev broke into her thoughts asking how she felt about family.  What it meant to her, as a whole, as a word, as a concept.  Why was Cross and Ducote part of her own created family.  Blue sat there for a long moment as she thought about what it meant to her.  There was so many conflicting emotions when she mentioned family.  She paused in her twinkie consumption as she looked down at her pant leg and picked heavily at the fabric there.  There wasn't any loose strings to pick at for the moment, but she was picking at it anyway.

“Family is .. mother fucking shit.” she whispered, just a little bit over a whisper, but very quiet.  “They birth you, and they're supposed to take fucking care of you, and then when shit goes badly they-”  she shut her trap and she gave out a long sigh.

“Family is supposed to be there for you. When shit gets real, they're there.  They wait for you, and care for you, and do shit for you.  They're the kind of people that it doesn't matter if you're a bitch or having a bad day because they're going to accept you no matter what because you are a person worth some fucking thing.” she stated almost angrily so there was obviously some history there, some anger in there that was still resonating heavily with the young Chief Engineer.

She bit her lower lip.  She had asked why Cross and Ducote were in her family.  It was so fucking hard for her to get family, for her to do whatever it was that was necessary.  To let them in, and trust them, to be vulnerable around them.  She thought about them.  “Ranaan.”  Her voice was filled with her love for him, just rolling off the syllables of his name.  She pulled her knees up to her chest, closing herself off body wise to Hathev as she lay her head on her knees.  The vibrant blue and black curls spilled over and around her legs. 

“When I met him, everything .. just... changed.  He saw me, not the me that I give to everyone else.  Not the bitch that has severely talented at keeping everyone the fuck away from me.  But, inside.  The shit I hide.  I realized later it was probably because of his empathy even though he thinks it's shit and he has no talent its just because he has no fucking confidence in it.  Anyway... he listened to me, and talked to me, and … we teased each other.  There was attraction and there was acceptance.  Even on the Endeavour, I can't count the amount of times I have been brig'd for doing shit people fucking deserved.  He is always fucking there.  He doesn't get me out, or anything, I'm fine with serving my time and getting yet another beautiful dark mark on my ever darkening folder, but... this is different.  He still accepts me when I get home.  He always does, no matter what.”

She spoke with such gentle tones in her voice.  She brushed her hand through her hair and she gave a sigh.  “Cross.  Cross was there when I fell apart.” Blue wasn't looking at Hathev, she was staring out on her own, straight across the room, and her voice broke slightly.  “He was dead.  Ranaan.  As we left, the ship.. the Endeavour exploded and he was... he was dead.  At least.. that was what I thought.  The whole time we were on the Ver..” her voice broke more.  “...sant.  He was dead.  He is.. was.. everything.  My air, my light... everything.  And he was gone, and I was on that fucking hell ship... Cross was there.  We fought together, we talked together, we slept beside each other.  When I needed someone to lean on, when I needed a boost... there was Cross.”

Did she pity Cross.  “What?”  Blue looked up and her eyes that had softened, rehardened again.  “Fuck no.  He is a friend, a brother, someone that I can count on when things get shit.  I don't pity him at all, he doesn't need pity.”

When she brought up Ranaan and how she might be misreading the pity in his eyes for just general care and concern for his love.  She swallowed heavily and thought about it.  Her eyes stared down at the table that was between them.  She drummed her fingers on her knee.  “Maybe.  It's hard to read him sometimes.  I know he might... feel bad because of all the shit on the Versant, but.. but in the same way.. I just... maybe I'm worried that he feels that way.  That I'm just a fucking burden, but I always feel like a fucking burden.  Like .. sometimes I don't know why the fuck he is even with me.  I'm totally wrong for him.  He needs someone kind, and warm and fucking... like... wholesome..  Then there is me, and I'm like... wrong, and I break all the fucking rules, and I'm always fucking working.  I forget to eat, I forget to sleep, I forget all kinds of shit but... but .. he is there anyway.  Maybe you're right... maybe I feel my own pity and I'm like making it seem like it's his but .. I don't fucking know.  When it comes to Ranaan I don't know if I always see clearly.”

She swallowed and looked up at Hathev.  “Is that.. normal?”

Re: Day 08 [2000]: The Encumbered Engineer

Reply #7 – October 06, 2019, 03:31:33 PM

[ Lt Cmdr Hathev | Chief Counsellor's Office, Main Sickbay | Deck 11 | USS Theurgy ] attn: @BZ

It was quite possibly the longest monologue Hathev had yet managed to extract from Miss Tiran, and thus she was content to sit in silence and allow the woman to work her way through it, navigating her own thoughts and feelings with an honesty Hathev found gratifying. For all Tiran's protestations that she was private, that few truly knew her, she was performing admirably during these sessions, and it showed a co-operation and willingness, a desire for improvement, that Hathev appreciated immensely. Truly, there was little she could do for one who resisted her at every turn, and although she of course anticipated resistance from Tiran at some point during their meetings, that it had yet to present itself, especially in this most delicate of matters, boded well for the efficacy of the woman's treatment.

The content of Tiran's speech was congruous with the picture Hathev had established from inference and interpretation, and she was pleased to have her judgement ratified thus. For all Tiran's complexities — and certainly, there were many — it seemed the underlying issues were remarkably commonplace, as was often true. It had been over 200 years ago that Abraham Maslow had posited his theory of the hierarchy of needs; of course, in the interim years such thought had been much refined, but it remained true that almost all of the issues Hathev treated stemmed from one of those needs going unfulfilled. The symptoms would manifest differently in each patient, of course, with the most complex and wide-reaching caused by a lack earlier in life, and yet the root cause remained the same, and thus the treatment would follow similarly concordant principles.

Tiran had been deprived of familial love at an early age, and this was the injury from which all others stemmed: an injury which, by turn, caused damage to the fulfilment of each of her other needs in a catastrophic chain reaction, resulting in a throbbing, tangled tumour radiating pain through her self.

The anger, at least, was clean. Tiran appeared to have a cogent comprehension of στοργή, the instinctual, natural affection and affiliation normally found within familial relationships. That Tiran could display anger at not having received this love implied both that she understood the ideal and could identify where her own experience deviated, and that she had deserved such love, the withdrawal of which being a wrongdoing against her. Of course, the understanding that such behaviour had been wrong did not preclude the possibility that Tiran might believe herself to have been, and continue to be, somehow unworthy of such love — humans were, of course, infinitely capable of holding within themselves contradictory beliefs in a most illogical fashion. The anger displayed revealed Tiran as still early on the path to acceptance and recovery, and yet it was markedly preferable to despair, self-flagellation, or abject grief.

Not for the first time, Hathev found herself curious of Commander Ducote's perspective on the woman before her. It would be unethical for her to seek his counsel on any such matter, or to discuss anything shared in confidence, and she would never even contemplate breaching her code in such a manner. Nevertheless, his relationship with Miss Tiran was something of an oddity that Hathev had yet to explain. Tiran had made it more than clear why the man was so important to her — indeed to hear her speak it was clear she had placed him on something of a pedestal, whether rightly or wrongly — yet Hathev had no such indication of Ducote's feelings on the matter, and she was thus unable to even form a hypothesis on the nature of the relationship. The dependence Tiran described herself as having upon Ducote was hardly ideal, not least considering the disparity of rank between them; it would be all too easy for one to exploit such a dynamic, even without the intention to do so. Yet Hathev could hardly dismiss the clear benefits such a relationship had enacted upon Tiran. It was a conundrum with no clear answer, and therefore one Hathev was unable to advise upon with any confidence.

From Tiran's description alone, then, Hathev was glad to hear of the man's support for and acceptance of his fiancée. Whether consciously or not, Tiran's words harkened back to her earlier definition of family in many ways, and Hathev similarly noted the use of 'home' — a lexical convenience, or an implication of comfort and security? Considering the softness in Tiran's tone, Hathev would not be surprised to learn it was the latter, and would be pleased if that were so.

Her question on pity had the desired effect: it was a shame to snap the woman from the softness she had found, but the surprise and ensuing definitive response allowed for Hathev's next words to carry the necessary weight. Tiran sat in silence for a moment, a quietness that Hathev allowed to linger until the woman was ready. When she finally did speak, it was halting and uncertain, touching upon something she had hitherto attempted to leave undisturbed, despite the fact that it seemed to have risen unbidden to haunt her on more than one occasion. The self-doubt that existed here was a spectre that had clearly bothered Tiran before, although perhaps not as coherently as it did now. Nevertheless, the woman spoke with a gratifying cogency and self-reflection, and Hathev found herself once again pleased with the direction Tiran took.

In answer to the woman's question, she spoke from experience for the first time: 'Yes,' she said simply, because it was true. 'Love is a complex sensation, and like all emotions capable of clouding or even distorting one's vision of the world and of themselves. When one loves another, and truly wishes nothing but their happiness, it is natural to examine and even reconsider one's own part in that.' How many times had she questioned her place in Triss' life, in view of the vast differences between them, and of all the pain she had caused? And how many times had she mollified herself with logic she now saw to be fundamentally flawed? How overlong had she remained as a result, and could the terrible conclusion have been averted had she merely exhibited a greater soundness in her judgement?

Irrelevant and pointless. There was nothing to be gained from such a line of questioning, and thus she aborted it before it could wind any further through her thoughts.

She regarded Tiran with as much gentleness as she was able. 'Has your partner given you any cause to consider these things?' She believed the relationship to be one which was ultimately a source of goodness in Tiran's life, but without further data she could not unequivocally rule it out as a potential source of harm. Certainly Ducote had his own trauma to navigate, and two individuals doing so within close proximity of one another could often exacerbate one or the other's issues; it would be unprofessional of Hathev to dismiss such a possibility.

'I would urge you to speak with Ducote on this matter,' she said, 'and to be as honest with him as you can; this need not be in sharing more than you feel comfortable with, but rather merely explaining your feelings, reasonings, and needs. Similarly, encourage him to do the same with you. You may be surprised what you learn, and in any case such an exercise would clear the air and dispel any misunderstandings between you.'

Re: Day 08 [2000 hrs.] The Encumbered Engineer

Reply #8 – October 19, 2019, 11:26:39 PM

[LCdr Blue Tiran | Confrontation is not my Strong Suit | Not When it Matters | I Don't Know if I Want the Answer]
@fiendfall




Blue sat there, listening to the counselor.  This was the most that anyone had ever gotten out of Blue and she was still very much dancing around the subject of her parents and the full on pain that had happened to her much younger self.  But, in the same breath, she had to admit that she enjoyed the fact that there was someone to listen to her and someone that didn't seem to judge her.  As much as counselors stated they wouldn't, and couldn't, she could read faces like open fucking books and she could tell when they were judging anyway.  Blue was constantly watching Hathev as things came out, as she answered questions, as other things came to light.  As she pulled information out of Blue and how she reacted to that made a large difference to how comfortable Blue felt here.  She sat there, still curled up, as Hathev in her own way gave her a bit of comfort.  Stating that it was how love was, to lean on one another and yet also feel like they were home. 

Family had never really meant blood, to Blue.

Because blood had proven worthless where those that she had chosen through her own extensive testing and pushing had become what she needed.  When it came up to whether she had thought about confronting Ducote and asking him the questions that she had, telling him that she didn't feel that she belonged with him, and telling him that she wasn't sure why he picked her out of all the people in his life...

For a long moment. Blue just stared at Hathev.  Her eyes were fierce, and for a moment, almost angry.  This was the Blue that most people saw.  Blue was trying to figure out how to pull herself back, because.. she wasn't sure that the words that came out of her mouth right now would be kind.  They likely wouldn't, and she was trying not to run off the woman that was giving her a chance at being a good person this once.  A chance at healing some of the wounds she had left festering and untouched for far too long.  Swallowing heavily, Blue blinked and the ferocity in her eyes began to leave as she looked down at the partially eaten twinkie and put it to the side, not hungry for the moment.

“Fuck no.” she said though there was little bite in her voice to accompany the words.  “There are some questions you don't ask, because you don't want to fucking know.  What if it's all shit, and what if that one question runs him off?  What if it gives him cause to really look at the fucking balance we have going here and realize that I'm such a fucking heavier load than him.  Short end of the stick and all that shit?” she swallowed heavily.

“I used to wait.” she confided, without asking.  “Every time I got in trouble.  Every fucking time he got called to Engineering because I lost my shit.  Every time I yelled at him for not agreeing with me when I was fucking right!  I waited for him to tell me to get fucked.  He doesn't need my shit. He doesn't deserve this shit.  He is a good fucking man and he fucking deserves the fucking world.  But, every fucking time, no matter how mad he was.. he wouldn't leave.  He didn't storm out the fucking door, he would stay there.  And in the end, everything was better, tighter, and right.” she said softly brushing her hair out of her face as the heavy curls lay around her. 

Her eyes shifted to the doc.

“Am I really fucked up?  Like in the head, on a scale of one to ten am I like a fucking two hundred or some shit?  Sometimes I feel like a royal fuck up, and then I know I'm not other times, and I don't know.. I wonder sometimes.  Just how fucked up I am.” she admitted with a bit of a grin.  “It's become a badge, like a fucking armor.  I am so fucking talented at keeping people the fuck away from me.  Because, it's not worth all the effort and it's easier not to have to fuck with all of them.” she shrugged a singular shoulder.

Re: Day 08 [2000 hrs.] The Encumbered Engineer

Reply #9 – October 27, 2019, 10:37:30 PM

[ Lt Cmdr Hathev | Chief Counsellor's Office, Main Sickbay | Deck 11 | USS Theurgy ] attn: @BZ

In truth, Hathev had not expected her suggestion to be met without resistance. That communication prevented misunderstanding was correct, therefore rendering it the most logical course of action in this situation; and yet from Hathev's experience she understood that even the prospect of simply speaking to another being could be a source of great anxiety and distress for humans. That Miss Tiran had thusfar manifested no such resistance during their meetings was a positive sign, of course, and yet Hathev neither took such a thing for granted nor believed that its hithertofore absence precluded its appearance in future. It was also true that while discussing personal emotions or traumas could be extremely difficult for a patient, and would sometimes trigger that resistance, the discussion of potential treatments, despite ostensibly being the reason for the patient's very presence, often posed a far greater challenge for their comprehension. There were no easy fixes, and individuals could easily balk at the prospect of performing real emotional work in the pursuit of self-amelioration.

Miss Tiran's resistance was unsurprising, therefore; the vehemence of the reaction, however, was another matter. A tight anger appeared upon the woman's countenance for a moment, alongside something Hathev struggled to categorise accurately -- the most likely candidate seemed to be frustration, at an 83% likelihood, but it was closely followed by shock and offense, at 76% and 64% respectively. Whatever it might have been, it seemed Tiran was disinclined to speak, and for a moment she was entirely silent while she underwent something of an internal battle, struggling to withdraw her expression in an attempt at recomposure. Hathev watched the proceedings with a careful interest; from what she had seen of the woman so far, she had not expected to see so obvious an effort at self-control. A common occurrence, or a special dispensation made for these particular circumstances? Tiran's file certainly did not paint a picture of an officer in the habit of conflict avoidance. When she finally spoke once more, the emotions which had burned only moments before seemed to have been almost entirely calmed in a feat of self-regulation that Hathev had previously believed to be outside the woman's capabilities; in this case she was, of course, most pleased to be proven wrong.

The refusal was expected, preceeded by the woman's firey expression as it had been, yet Tiran offered a surprisingly honest admittance of reasoning, again showing a self-awareness that was gratifying. She 'didn't want to know', she feared causing Mr Ducote to 'realise' what she perceived to be the truth of the matter: that she was not worth the trouble, that she did not have enough value to justify the continuation of the relationship. Miss Tiran could not even ask for confirmation of her importance, let alone any requirements she might have within the arrangement. It spoke to a festering unhealthiness not within the relationship itself, although it was clearly having an effect by its proximity, an unhealthiness that once more stemmed from Tiran's familial unfulfillment. It seemed she did indeed entertain the conflicting notions Hathev had feared: for while she clearly understood that what her parents had done, what they had withheld from her, was wrong, she was unable to extrapolate from that the fact that the fault, such as it was, lay with them and did not reflect upon her or her worth. It was Ducote who deserved 'the world', in her eyes, whereas she, the 'heavier load', deserved to be dropped, something which had only yet to happen because Ducote had yet to 'realise' such a thing.

'Am I really fucked up?' she asked, her gaze returning to Hathev almost guiltily, fearfully. Uncertain how to respond, Hathev took a breath too long to do so, and Tiran picked up once more, continuing to speak in circles with a detached nonchalance that belied the depth of the subject matter. This was the crux, and Hathev knew her next words would be crucial to the woman's understanding of herself and her treatment.

At any other time, she would have replied with questions of her own: 'Do you believe yourself to be?', she might have asked, or 'What is it that my opinion means to you?'. All useful questions, prompting the patient to reflect upon the question they had asked and their reasoning for doing so. Yet Hathev had come to understand Miss Tiran enough to realise such a technique might alienate her, the lack of answer and blatant counsellor's perspective becoming a source of frustration and therefore undermining the rapport they had begun to build.

However, candidly sharing her own professional opinion of a patient to the individual in question was hardly ethical, and could negatively influence Miss Tiran's psychological processes. A middle ground had to be sought, one in which Hathev could muse through the relevant reflections, reassure Tiran, and maintain professional distance.

'If every individual's psychological state could be effectively ranked in sequence relative to another, my profession would be significantly simpler,' Hathev said, electing to employ humour in this instance. 'However I believe we both know it is not that easy, and to make such an attempt would be reductive.' She maintained a gentle lightness to her tone as she continued: 'I suppose much depends on the definitions at play. If we consider 'fucked up'-' she spoke the expletive smoothly and without intonation, '-to mean 'in emotional distress',  then certainly the majority of this ship's crew would qualify for such an epithet. I cannot measure your distress to compare it to any other's, and even could we prove it to be greater or larger than any other's pain, I cannot see what it would achieve. There are no bragging rights in such things, but nor is there any shame.

'Alternatively, we might consider 'fucked up' to mean 'difficult or antisocial, as a result of emotional distress',' she said, gliding over the profanity once more. 'In this case, it is important to note that every individual experiences and deals with pain in their own way, and no manifestation of distress is any more correct than any other. The person who turns their pain inwards on themselves and hides it from the world is not inherently better than the patient who wears theirs on their sleeve, brandishing it at anyone who dare approach. They are different coping mechanisms for the same wound, and simply because one is more visible than the other does not make it any better or worse.

'Finally,' she said, her tone having grown serious now, 'we could define it as 'unacceptably difficult or antisocial, as a result of emotional distress; I would then refer you to the previous discussion, along with the reminder that our purpose here is to alleviate the distress which is by this definition the cause of the state of being 'fucked up'. Thus it is a symptom of a temporary state, not an immutable fact of self.'

Hathev paused then, that her next words would have the necessary weight and precision afforded to them. 'I have been a professional in this field for seventy-three years,' she said finally. 'You are no more 'fucked up', by any of these definitions, than any other patient I have seen. To some degree, everyone fears they are 'too something': too loud, too hurt, too angry, too far gone.' Hathev met Miss Tiran's gaze calmly. 'They are always wrong.'

She allowed her words to percolate through the air, the quiet to enfolding them both for a moment. When she finally spoke, she posed a new question.

'What is it that you think Mr Ducote sees in you?'

Re: Day 08 [2000 hrs.] The Encumbered Engineer

Reply #10 – November 09, 2019, 03:36:50 PM

[LCdr Blue Tiran | Long Pauses | Give it to me Straight Doc | I'm Not a Fucking Child | On a Scale of 0-Fuckin' Nuts – It Can't Be Good]
@fiendfall





The long pause, was unnerving.  Sitting there waiting for the woman you actually fucking asked to judge you to actually fucking do it was not something she had been prepped for.  Of course, she had jumped into this issue with both feet and actually brought this shit on herself so the only fucker she could be mad at was herself.  So she sat there on the couch trying not to think about all the shit that was probably running rampant in the mind of Hathev.  The woman who had been asked to judge her, and was literally the only person, outside of Ranaan, that was informed enough to do so.  Not even fully informed, yet, but enough to start a judgment.  Blue tried not to show her nervousness, and the sheer anger, at her own self.  She sat there almost too still because she didn't want to be moving too much and seem nervous in that regard as well.

Finally, Hathev began to speak.  Air in her lungs began to move again, even if Hatev was giving a shit politically correct answer.  Blue rolled her eyes as the woman told her that she couldn't compare people on a scale against one another.  However, if she could, it would have been something that made her life and job a whole lot easier.  Well, Blue wasn't sure if that was true or not, but she really was curious.  She had always been a little curious about how fucked she was, she knew as a child, people had called out many things.  Out of Control, a Brat, a Bitch, a Monster, etc.  All of these in front of her, and all of these she had heard, but, she hadn't allowed that to stop her from being the person that she was. Few people knew what her life had entailed throughout her life especially in her early childhood.  She doubted that she would tell anyone outside of a handful in her entire life.  It wasn't easy to talk about and it really just pissed her the fuck off.  It was best that some things were just kept in the center of her being and never let out.  The kind of anger that she held within her chest would probably blow Hathev and her carefully cultivated Vulcan exterior away.

However, to hear Hathev actually drop the word 'fucked' in the smoothest most conversational tone, was something that she could live with remembering for the rest of her life.  It was so matter of fact that it was quite entertaining.  She just speared on ahead through that whole situation as though using the word fucked was like using the word chair.  It was simple, not complex, and something that was normal for her.  Even though Blue had a feeling that it wasn't the case.  She doubted Hathev was much of one for cursing because that would show a deeper emotional range than she was used to actually showing.

Did fucked up mean emotional distress?  She supposed, yes, in a way, but fucked up meant a lot of fucking thing.  It meant emotional distress, it meant really fucking pissed, it meant you're an idiot, it meant get your shit done, it meant I'm reading the end of my fucking limit.  There was so much that that singular word could convey she wasn't sure there was actually one definition outside of the definition in a book somewhere.  The last thing, to Blue anyway, that it meant was actual fornication.  She was pretty sure she had never actually used it in that context. 

Hathev explained there were no bragging rights when it came to being mentally fucked.  Blue gave a bit of a smirk, because if there were bragging rights to any of it she would likely be up near the top.  She wasn't fucked up enough to actually be the Queen of fucked, but, she could put herself up there.  But, perhaps it was more of her own making than it was just all the things that had happened to her.  It was more being a child that had been unable to self regulate and never allowed to attain the coping skills necessary to actually calm herself or sooth herself somehow.  Instead, she had just learned to be really fucking angry at the whole fucking world.  That was her go-to instead of trying to be calm and balanced.  She was pretty sure that balanced was something she was allergic to.  No way of coping with pain was correct or right, though Blue was pretty fucking sure that some were more right than others.

Blue listened as she was told that you could shove your feelings inside and hide them from the rest of the world or you could brandish it at everyone all the time.  Blue was pretty sure she had done both of those, the pain, the true pain was shoved deep down inside, and the anger that she wore on her sleeve and threw around at the world every time it made the wrong step was the other.  She knew that she probably shouldn't be like this, and that she should probably be more balanced.  She was a fucking adult after all, she needed to get her shit together but regardless of saying that, there was still a nine year old girl in there somewhere that had lost the entirety of her family all at once.  And yet lived with the ghosts of them for years.

“You spent a long fucking time on the definition of fucked up, Doc.” Blue said with a bit of gravel in her voice that would rival Ducote at the moment before she cleared her throat and waited for the good Doc to continue with whatever her point was.  Blue crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back into the cushions still waiting for the Doc to get to the actual fucking answer.  Finally, Hathev told her that everyone feared they were too something.

But, in every case, they were wrong.

Blue's eyes widened.  She swallowed the lump in her throat and she stared into the eyes of the Vulcan doctor for a long moment.  The fact that she had said that was... a kindness that Blue didn't often expect from others.  In a word; 'no Blue Tiran you're not too fucked', type thing.  The words resonated with a severity in the chest of the young Engineer.  Her fingers twisted the engagement ring around her left ring finger in a long thought for a moment.  Not too fucked, not too anything, really.  She always felt she was over the fucking top, and yet, she couldn't get herself to stop being who she was.  No matter what she did, the count to ten, the deep breaths, anything.  She couldn't quite get herself to do much of anything that actually allowed her to retain a calmness for any real length of time.  She still yelled and screamed at Ducote from time to time, though those times had lessened with her comfort with him and the knowledge that he was always there and loved her.  It was still hard to always be calm and the days wore on her.  Stress, the inability to fix a problem, some idiot doing something idiotic.  Things like that were things that set her fuse on short and sometimes Ducote would say something completely unrelated to any of that and yet at the same time, it would piss her off so badly. 

She tries to apologize when she was in the wrong but usually, she was pretty fucking sure she wasn't in the wrong.

To know that she wasn't too fucked, was a release of pressure of her chest.  Something that had been wearing on her for years and she had no one to ask.  Of course Ranaan wasn't going to tell her she was too fucked up, because if he did, that was the day he walked out the door and never returned.  So far, despite all the screaming, the fights, and the anger, he had never once seemed close to that.  Which had enabled her to be calmer at home because she knew that she could trust that Ran was always going to be there.  When she needed him, when she turned around, when the days were hard; he would be there.

Finally, it was Hathev that broke into her thoughts.  Shaking her from the fact that she was not as lost a cause as she had thought.  There were so many days she was still surprised to find Ranaan with  his easy smiles and warm arms waiting for her whens he walked through the door.  Or the times that he popped by her office whens he had forgotten what time it was and Albert was busy doing a task and unable to remind her.  When he rapped twice on the door frame and leaned against it with his large muscular body.  When he held up the cellophane baggies containing her favorite snacks, his brow wrinkled because his eye brows were raised in a 'want some?' kind of question.  The way that when she looked up and the stress of the day drained from her face, his answering smile was like home.  The way that she stood up and he pulled her against his chest for a long moment.  Letting the day drain from her shoulders, her back, and her body.  And then with a kiss to the crown of her head, he gave her the snacks he had been holding for her.  She would eat them on the way back home.

The days that she was having a shit day.  When she was on a tirade when she couldn't handle life that day.  When someone alerted him and he came down.  Usually, smoothly, and he just pulled her to the side.  Sometimes it was for a hug, sometimes it was for a chat, but it was always with acceptance.  Sometimes he put his First Officer pants on and made her take a break, which usually helped reset things especially when he had the time to actually spend the break with her.  Those moments recentered her small soul. 

Taking a deep breath she thought about what Ranaan actually saw in her.  Her initial response was a shrug of her shoulders.  Because, how the fuck was she supposed to know?  Unlike Ranaan, she couldn't read or feel his emotions.  So she just had to guess. 

“I'm good at my job?  Uh, I'm really fucking smart.  I get shit fucking done.  I'm probably pretty great at sex.” she shrugged and her eyes cast upwards so that she could think about what else he might like about her.  “Uh, I'm a good person to talk to because I'm probably more mad at what happens to him than he is so it's a great vent session.  Um, I guess I'm always there.. but it's really he's more there for me than I am for him I think.” Blue pursed her lips.  “I mean I'm sure there is other reasons.  Like uh... I don't fucking know.  Love and like... support and ummm... I can be funny?  Uh, I can be um.... nice I guess?  To him anyway.... he says I'm strong.” she swallowed and looked down.

“I... told him about the Versant.  What happened there.  What I did there.  How I .. felt there.  He was .. he was proud of me.” she said softly, such shocked emotion filled her voice.  “He said, look at what you accomplished without me.  I just... did what I had to do.  Get people off the fucking ship.  Alive, was the goal.” she said her fingers resumed the twisting of her blue metal engagement ring on her finger.  “But I feel so much stronger when he's around...”

Re: Day 08 [2000 hrs.] The Encumbered Engineer

Reply #11 – November 17, 2019, 11:36:04 PM

[ Lt Cmdr Hathev | Chief Counsellor's Office, Main Sickbay | Deck 11 | USS Theurgy ] attn: @BZ

'You spent a long fucking time on the definition of fucked up, Doc,' Miss Tiran had said.

She was, of course, correct. By Vulcan standards, Hathev had spent several minutes filibustering herself completely unnecessarily, in a flagrant display of redundant repetition, fastidious to the point of superfluity. Yet in her time studying emotional beings, and humanity most specifically, she had discovered there was a performativity to such things that could not be ignored. Emotions held an internal logic to them, and though these rules were far more mutable and subjective, making far less outward sense than the laws of physics, they were no less indisputable. Emotional beings required a gentle touch, a herding towards the desired outcome with light steps; like a wild animal, approach them too fast and they would flee skittishly. Humans in particular disliked bluntness, they disliked difficult concepts, and they disliked self-reflection; to administer all three at once was, therefore, ill-advised. Thus a certain amount of circuitous verbal navigation was necessitated, slowly approaching the point with small steps to ensure such messages not only landed with the weight necessary but were accepted and absorbed at all.

Amongst its many eccentricities, humanity had a ridiculous children's story about boiling a frog by incremental increases in heat. Yet in the case of emotional psychology, this was among the wisest and most apt pieces of thought to originate from Earth.

Aptly, in this approach it seemed she was successful. As Hathev finished speaking, allowing her words to hang in the air between them, the expression on Miss Tiran's face was unusually unguarded, a moment of shock coalescing into a vulnerability that Hathev had previously seen only rare glimpses of. Indeed for a moment Miss Tiran seemed at a loss for words; she merely sat in silence, myriad tensions and thoughts thrumming through her too quickly for Hathev to alight upon and analyse any single emotion. Instead she focused upon the details: the almost ritualistic movement of Miss Tiran's fingers as they found her engagement ring, the deliberate movement of her breathing, the distance shining in the whites of her eyes as the woman's mind transported her deep within its own fabric of memory and sensation, recalling the past in order to, it was to be hoped, recontextualise it and herself with the new vantage proffered.

Hathev was more than content to wait. She had spoken her piece; now it was the patient's turn to digest her words, turning them over in her mind. That Tiran was even willing to do so at all was the most positive sign of all. Despite the woman's assurances that she was 'difficult', she had proven most amenable; the result of work on Miss Tiran's part to make herself so, no doubt, and it was work that Hathev both saw and appreciated. Treatment was only as effective as the patient wished it to be, and it seemed Tiran genuinely if not desperately wished for self-betterment.

She allowed Tiran the time the woman required, calculating the exact moment when the silence would have stretched too long, stagnating the session in indefinite quietitude it would seem almost irreverent to break. Thus as the allotted time elapsed, Hathev spoke once more.

Her preferred technique was to delve deep within one subject, allowing the intensity to peak before relocate to a new position from which to examine the issue. The readjustment would break the tension momentarily, giving the patient a well-needed moment of respite before the subject deepened once more. Thus they would circle in a spiral of incrimentally-increasing depth. For initial meetings she would often move to perceived 'safe' topics, that the intensity did not become too much; but as Miss Tiran had so bluntly put it, such things did not exist in this case -- or at the very least, Hathev had proven ill-equipped to determine them. Thus her readjustment was not to a matter of low importance, but to another perspective on the same consideration, albeit one that she had hope Miss Tiran would be more open to discussing, concerning Mr Ducote as it did.

Tiran took her time to answer, and Hathev watched her with interest in the interim. Ducote was a telepath, and although Hathev was not particularly enamoured with those who invaded others' minds simply because the ability was theirs to do so, she could not deny the usefulness of such an ability when faced with one so inward as Miss Tiran. What bearing did such a thing have upon their relationship, she had to wonder? And what potential for misuse was there in such a thing?

No matter. Such was not her concern at this time. She would have to make do with analysing the woman's expressions, as had always been her technique.

Miss Tiran shrugged half-heartedly, and attempted an answer, albeit one initially phrased as a question. Hathev was content to listen as the woman listed several positive attibutes she believed herself to possess: capability, intelligence, practicality, sexual prowess, conversationalism (or perhaps anger, it was unclear), reliability. Despite her initial uncertainty, the woman displayed a gratifying proficiency in self-reflection; that she was able to name so many positives about herself, on such a range of topics from her intelligence and professional abilities to her capabilities as a lover and partner, was extremely encouraging.

Yet once more, it spoke to the woman's dual sense of self: her low self esteem was not based on a truly low vision of herself, for she clearly understood, at least on some level, that she was a person of worth, however one should deign to define such a nebulous term. And yet just as she believed her family had abandoned her out of some great deficiency she held within herself, so too did she maintain this belief here. Miss Tiran held two versions of herself within her mind: one lucid, able of reasoning and reflection, and one paralysed by the fear that she might yet remain inadequate.

Tiran paused to think for a moment, and when she spoke once more her next answers markedly less sure of themselves. He says I'm strong...

She trailed off, not meeting Hathev's eye; the vulnerability returned in such avoidance, in the slant of the woman's shoulders, the restlessness of her hands. After a moment, without any coaxing, she spoke up once more: 'I told him about the Versant'.

Hathev listened as gently as she was able.

'He was proud of me,' she said, and Hathev heard the disbelief in her voice, layered with a hundred other things she could not name, so overgrown and tangled were they: guilt, perhaps, self-loathing even, but hope was among them too. The desire to believe what her fiancé had said, the awe in the most ancient meaning of the word, the fear and desperation rolled into one. Distantly, Hathev thought that had she been capable of empathy, she might have experienced such a thing now.

'What about this surprised you?' she asked, kindly. 'Did you think Mr Ducote would not be proud of you?' She knew the answer, with a 98.3% certainty, yet the act of requesting it was designed to engender thought in her patient.

She allowed Miss Tiran a moment before continuing. 'I will not pretend to know the details of what occurred.' Indeed she knew only what information was offered in the official report, which was to say very little beyond the broad strokes. The particulars remained unfathomable to her. 'Nevertheless, it is my experience that when people are in danger, individuals either act in their aid, or they do not. At a time when mere survival would have been cause enough for pride, you went beyond self-sufficiency; this is a fact, is it not? Whatever else may have happened, it is indisputable that you acted, Miss Tiran,' she said calmly.

'Duty' carried within it many meanings, and the duty befitting Miss Tiran's rank was indeed that she should act to protect and preserve her fellow abductees aboard the Versant; but Hathev had learned long ago that the official definition of duty was often far from the practical application of such an ideal. I just did what I had to do, Tiran had said. And yet how many others in her position would have been compelled to fear or self-preservation over duty? Despite the dearth of information on those few days, Hathev knew Tiran's role had been instrumental in the survival of all those who had been rescued from the Versant -- and indeded, all those who had faced the Borg, and by extension all those in the quadrant who remained unthreatened by the cube.

A heavy weight for such small shoulders to bear.

'You need not carry this alone,' she said, gentle. 'Mr Ducote lends you strength; this is both natural and good. It is not my purpose to remove that, nor should I wish to; I only wish for you to recognise and understand your own strength that you may call upon it when necessary.'

She watched Miss Tiran with unsharpened gaze, hoping that the woman's eyes might return to meet her own. 'I am glad you felt able to share these things with Mr Ducote,' she said. 'Glad' was not the most accurate expression, of course; as far as she was able, she too felt pride, yet to admit to such a thing would be not only indecorous but potentially detrimental, risking overwhelming a woman unused to praise.

'How did you feel in speaking these things to him?' she asked instead. And then: 'Did he respond as you had expected?' Did he respond as you had feared?

Re: Day 08 [2000 hrs.] The Encumbered Engineer

Reply #12 – November 27, 2019, 04:06:32 PM

[LCdr Blue Tiran | Pride | When Does One Deserve it? | Mixed Emotions | Shit Holes and Hard Decisions]
@fiendfall




Blue didn't like hard questions.  They made her think, and feel, and puzzle out her own fucking emotions that when they were just straight up fucking anger, she wasn't quite sure how to deal with it all.  Hathev was kind, with her words, and seemed to know what shit she could ask about and what shit that Blue would shut down real fucking quick.  Having been sent to this woman seemed to be a boon and Blue hoped that at some point it would fucking help her achieve some sort of normalcy.  She never expected to be normal, never really wanted to be normal, she just wanted to be less of a burden on the man that chose to live his life beside her.  Hathev asked what surprised her about Ducote's pride.  If she thought that, he would not be proud of her. 

Blue let out a long sigh, as she pulled her bag over into her lap and dug through it pulling out a small black box, a wealth of differing sand papers, and a wood working tool set.  While she thought about what to answer, she began to set up a little work shop on the couch.  She opened her wood working set, and opened the small black box.  Within it was clearly a mens ring in the middle of being created.  Rough wood was placed on part of a metal base and Blue picked it up out of the small box and began to work on it with the sand paper that she had pulled out.  Little dust particles fell from the wood and into her lap while she thought about it. 

It wasn't that she was surprised about Ranaan being proud of her, because, he was always proud of her.  She was smart, intelligent, and despite her verb usage in average conversations, she was a good person, at least that was what he said.  “Because,” she explained her eyes on the ring and her fingers deftly shaving the wood down occassionally stopping to check the seam of wood and metal.  “I didn't think I had done anything to be proud of.  I survived, yeah.  I fucking battled.  I fucking did the whole.. ally with the white fuckers.. and Moby and all of that shit.” she swallowed heavily.  “But, he didn't see... he .. he didn't see me.”

Tears were stinging her eyes, and she was glad that she wasn't looking at Hathev right now because she would see how deeply the Versant had effected her.  As much as she didn't want to claim that it had, it most definitely had left a mark.  The suffering of losing Ranaan had been something she didn't really know how to get past, and she wasn't proud of how far she fell.  Of how she had suffered, how she hallucinated and dreamed about him, how she heard his voice in her mind using their special nickname that not another soul alive knew besides the two of them.  How every time she woke up from a vivid dream and he wasn't there... that it was like he died all over again.

Hathev mentioned that she would pretend that she didn't know any details at all, which made Blue wonder what she actually did know.  But, she went on to state that despite whatever had happened the fact was that Blue had acted.  She could have wallowed in the vent shafts, and in the bay that she had commandeered for her own usage.  She could have just curled up and waited for death to take her, but instead, she found herself moved to do something about it.  To find an answer, to get them out, to do whatever she could.  Though she had expected to die, in the process, so that she could not only be with Ranaan, so she could stop the suffering, and then, also, because she didn't need to leave the ship.  Others had family, people, and reasons to go on.  Hers had gone on the Endeavour when the Borg had invaded and the ship had ceased to exist.

The counselor reminded her that despite what she thought about herself, she had acted in the best interest of the people on board, and that could not be disputed.  A bit of a quirk on the right side of her lips was a bit wry.  She wasn't sure that she was going to walk down the same path as Hathev on that thought process.  Again, she and Ranaan had not seen her.  They had not seen her.. they didn't know she cut herself.  Well, Ranaan knew but probably tried to assume it was that she had only done it there, on the ship.  But, it was here too, it was just more hidden now. 

She told her that she didn't have to carry this alone, and that Ducote lended her his strength by his presence being close, but that she wanted Blue to remember, that she had a strength of her own.  Blue's eyes shifted upwards, much drier than moments ago, when she was talking.  “I'm really fucking strong, when I fucking need to be, I get that.  But there.. there you don't... no one really knows the full fucking story.  I didn't te.. tell him things.” she swallowed heavily as she looked back down at her hands.  Hathev was glad that she was able to share things with Ducote, and Blue nodded, but didn't respond.  Already she was starting feeling overwhelmed and didn't really know what to do about it.   Her chest felt heavy and her mind felt really full.  Full of emotions that she was remembering, full of emotions that she didn't want to remember, or own, or think about.  She was back on the ship, Ranaan was dead, and she was going to be, and there were people that needed to get the fuck off the ship.

Blue's fingers paused in their work and she put the small ring down.  Shifting herself on the couch, she slid a hand into her hair and the thumb and forefinger began pinching her scalp hard.  Pain helped sharpen her mind, take her out of the darkness, and it had happened often on the Versant.  She had cut to live, she had cut to take another step, she had cut to take away the emotional pain in favor of the physical.

She pinched hard, the same spot over and over again, because with every pinch the skin grew more sensitive and every time she did it again, the pain was higher, harder, and helped that much more.  She swallowed softly as she continued with her scalp.  It was the only place she could self harm when she was with Ranaan because there was no physical proof of it.  She had figured out when she returned that she couldn't actually hurt herself in his presence and it just hurt him.  It had been happening less, the self harm, but it still did when she was feeling under water as she was right now. 

“I don't like that fucking shit.” she admitted.  “I don't like feeling vulnerable.  I fucking raised my fucking self, I didn't rely on a single other mother fucker in my fucking life.  I got where I am because of me, and I know I'm strong in that aspect but when it comes to actual emotions I fucking suck at them.  I don't.. verbalize that shit very well, and I didn't know what to expect.  I knew that he would think of me as some fucking hero but I don't feel like a fucking hero.  I did what I did because there were people fucking suffering immeasurable shit on that fucking ship and I wanted them to get the fuck off.  Whether I did or didn't, didn't fucking matter to me.  Ranaan was fucking dead, I had nothing to fucking live for I just wanted the others to stop fucking suffering, and .. and I couldn't watch that shit anymore!  The torture!  The fucking death!  The fucking.. smoothies.” she gagged for a moment and her fingers dove into her scalp with renewed vigor causing increasing pain and wounds to her scalp.  It wasn't working, it wasn't working at all, she dropped her hands into her lap, and began to use her fingernails to scrape welts across the skin of her wrists, Ranaan would be mad, she would have to Sickbay herself before she went home for the night, but it wasn't working.  With every pass of her fingernails the welts got larger, more angry, and soon would begin to bleed.

“I'm not a hero.” she looked up at Hathev but her fingers didn't stop their painful work.  “I'm not a fucking hero!  I just... I'm a fucked up person, in a fucked up situation, and I fucking .. did what I could.  He was.. amazing he's always fucking amazing.  He's … he's a rock, and a foundation, and a place for me to be.  He's .. he's home.  Home isnt a place, Doc, home is him.”

Re: Day 07 [1700 hrs.] The Encumbered Engineer

Reply #13 – December 16, 2019, 10:24:45 PM

[ Lt Cmdr Hathev | Chief Counsellor's Office, Main Sickbay | Deck 11 | USS Theurgy ] attn: @BZ

Miss Tiran did not reply immediately. Indeed, Hathev had come to expect as much of her, the woman seemingly retreating into her own mind momentarily whenever faced with a question or a concept she found difficult — but not so difficult that she would immediately reject it, refuting Hathev's words or arguing over the very nature of the matter at hand. No, Hathev had come to recognise that when her patient fell silent in this manner it was not that she hoped to ignore the question but rather a sign that she was affording it due consideration, and would reply when she deemed herself ready to do so. That Hathev had now enough experience to draw this conclusion was gratifying; these meetings required trust on the patient's part, of course, but also on that of herself. That she could be content to trust Miss Tiran to reply was pleasing.

Instead of merely considering the questions in silence, however, Miss Tiran chose to defer their answering by turning instead to the bag she had brought with her, thus far left untouched. Now she pulled it to her, rifling through its contents before withdrawing several items: a few tools that Hathev had little experience with and yet understood were primarily designed to work with wood, and a small box which, it was revealed, contained a ring of equal parts metal and wooden construction. It was this that she set about working upon, sanding down the wood and allowing the fine dust this created to fall upon her and the couch indiscriminately, covering both with a fine layer of granular shavings.

Hathev was forced to exercise her self-control to ignore this last detail. It was merely dust, after all; it could be removed easily. Miss Tiran required time and space to consider her answer to Hathev's question, and she would respect this; however the lack of care or consideration utilised in doing this was unfortunate, and it was a shame that her patient would not respect the basic tenets of cleanliness. Hathev's office was hardly an engineer's workspace, after all.

As she watched the woman work, Hathev considered the deeper meaning behind this. Miss Tiran had retreated into her work before, using it as a distraction, an escape, a point of focus; by her own admission she had a tendency to throw herself into such work with abandon, and without any care for her own wellbeing. That she sought and found comfort in her work was positive, of course, as was the fact that she clearly enjoyed the intellectual exercise and physical stimuli of such work. Nevertheless such things could all-too-easily become a crutch, a flimsy bandage haphazardly wrapped under which one could ignore the continued internal bleeding. Hathev would allow Miss Tiran her retreat this time, but she would be certain to maintain a sharp eye.

The woman's reply, when finally it came, was ultimately as Hathev had predicted; certainly the content aligned with her expectations. The delivery, however, was markedly more emotionally unbalanced than she had anticipated. The defensive aggression was true to her previous behaviour, as was her difficulty expressing herself; however as she finished speaking, the syncopation of her breathing became unmistakable. Miss Tiran was crying.

It seemed she was yet again caught within the paradox that Hathev was coming to understand defined much of Miss Tiran's difficulties: she was desperate for approval and acceptance, in this case that of Mr Ducote, yet simultaneously vehemently believed she was not worthy of such things, and was thus both surprised and somewhat suspicious or disbelieving even when they did manifest themselves.

Rather than require anything of Miss Tiran, Hathev herself spoke, offering her own perspective of the experience her patient had suffered aboard the Versant, although careful to temper such words with the caveat that she knew little of such things. Her speech was somewhat less economical than she might usually require, yet economy was not her purpose here: rather she wished to offer Miss Tiran something outside of her own thoughts, something onto which she could latch, something that might gently challenge her self-perceptions without demanding any response from the young woman.

Ultimately, she did not expect that the content of her words would be of much lasting use to the woman; simply hearing such things from outside the self was rarely effective, something of which Hathev was more than aware. Nevertheless with enough repetition, both internal and external, the message would eventually reach Miss Tiran's ears; Hathev could only lay the groundwork, that when such a message did finally break through the haze of self-doubt Miss Tiran would be in a place where she could properly receive it. For now, then, she merely added her voice to those of the woman's friends and fiancé: repetition, if nothing else.

The tears came to an end, at least, although Miss Tiran's newfound certainty when next she spoke lasted only briefly, her speech eventually trailing off, in uncertainty or unwillingness Hathev could not discern. Gently, she offered her approval of the woman's efforts, before changing tack slightly. The intensity had reached a tipping point, and thus she sought to bleed the room of it by turning to another topic, focusing more upon Mr Ducote instead of the specifics of the trauma Miss Tiran had endured aboard the Versant.

However Miss Tiran seemed less than ready to move on. Her reply betrayed a mind yet lingering upon those things, most especially on the question of heroism; where Mr Ducote was mentioned it was in his capacity as former ghost, rather than living man. Throughout the speech, Miss Tiran maintained a number of movements that first caught Hathev's eye with their repetitiveness, the muscles in her arm contracting with each motion. Watching more closely, Hathev was briefly mistified as to the application of such movements; however in studying the details of Miss Tiran's expressions she came to form a conclusion on the woman's activities.

Self-injury was not uncommon amongst Hathev's patients. That did not make it any easier to deal with. Such a thing was in the same category as a panic attack or trauma flashback: an intensely personal reaction to an external trigger, both a result and a cause of immediate distress, and requiring defusal as quickly as possible yet also in a very particular manner unique to each patient. As early as they were in Miss Tiran's treatment, Hathev could not yet be certain of what approach would yield the best results here; thus she hesitated in her response. However as her patient graduated to new methods, her nails finding the soft skin of her wrists, there was no more time for deliberation.

She moved quickly, crossing the few steps to the couch and sitting carefully on the coffee table opposite the woman, close enough to touch but not yet closing those last few inches between them. It was rare for any of Hathev's patients to injure themselves in her office, preferring to retreat to some safe place where they could enact their rituals undisturbed (and, of course, un-judged). Where that was not a possibility, they would settle for small methods: worrying at the skin of their fingers or lips, driving their nails into the palms of their hands, biting down on the inside of their mouths till their teeth were outlined with blood — or pulling at their hair and digging at their scalp, as Miss Tiran had begun with. Scratching, however, was significantly more visible than any of these, and it had been some time since Hathev had been faced with a patient either so uncaring or her judgement or so distressed as to be rendered so in the moment.

And indeed, Miss Tiran was most distressed. It was conveyed in her erratic breathing, winding and desperate verbage, the haunted aspect to her eyes — and, of course, her hands, ever moving, enacting pain upon herself with every swipe across her skin, nails leaving sharp red lines where they had passed.

However she was currently in no danger of permanently harming herself, only causing superficial damage as she was, damage that could be easily and quickly healed in the hospital adjacent; unless Tiran moved to retrieve one of her tools and injure herself in that manner, the mandate was not necessarily to prevent her from continuing.

Self-injury, ill-advised though it of course was, often did offer the respite it promised and could be used as an effective coping mechanism as a result. Moreover, it was often used as a means of expressing control at a time when the sufferer felt overwhelmed or powerless. To remove even that ability could have detrimental effects both to the patient's immediate state of mind and to their relationship with the counsellor. Therefore unless the threat of permanent or serious harm was realised, Hathev would not compel her to stop.

Instead, she reached out and gently caught Miss Tiran's forearm with a feather-light touch; it was immediately broken with a jerk, but Hathev had expected that. She repeated the motion, taking the woman's arm and holding it loosely that she could once more break the contact should she wish to. Protected by the layer of clothing between them, Hathev exerted just enough pressure that it might exhort the continuation of the touch.

'Miss Tiran,' she said, tone unsharpened yet firm. 'There are more efficient ways to achieve the relief you seek.'

She reduced the pressure, slowly letting go yet keeping her hand outstretched in offering. 'Will you allow me to show them to you?' And then: 'I can offer you solace, if you will take my hand.' Even amongst more tactile species, touch could be a fraught issue, especially when a person was feeling vulnerable; telepathy carried all the same issues, even more necessarily, and Hathev would never force it upon a person against their will except in the most desperate of circumstances.

Re: Day 07 [1700 hrs.] The Encumbered Engineer

Reply #14 – December 25, 2019, 02:50:48 AM

[LCdr Blue Tiran | Pain is Free | Focus on Something Else | Pain Doesn't Stop | Reoccurring Nightmares]
@fiendfall




While Blue was on her tirade about her feelings, her emotions, and the shit that fucking went down on the ship of hell, Hathev moved.  She was there, close, and Blue knew she should stop.  She knew that she should stop worrying at the skin on her wrists, that were red and angry and popping up small bloody dots here and there as she drove her ragged nails up and down the skin there.  She knew she needed to, but she couldn't breath.  It was this or stop breathing.  It was this, or scream.  It was this or hit something. It was this or break something. 

It was this, for fall apart.

A feather light touch brushed against her wrist and Blue's head snapped up from her own horrors and the playback of vivid proportions playing behind her eyes, to see Hathev sitting there.  While she had, in some loose sense been aware that the woman had moved, she did not remember when she had actually arrived in front.  She could feel the touch and immediately recoiled from it.  This wasn't where she wanted to do this, she was showing things that she had been keeping to herself.  She was getting better God Damnit.  She was getting fucking better.  She didn't even check Ducote's tracker as much anymore, it had been five fucking days since she had checked and now, in the midst of her panic attack, she wanted.. needed to check again.  She needed to know that he was breathing, that he was alive, where he was, she needed to know.  He was okay, right?  He was fine, right?  She needed to know....

Blue's eyes snapped to the woman who grabbed her arm, a bit more firmly this time, and began to speak her name.  She calmed slightly, her blue eyes boring into the woman in front of her.  Boring into her and asking her, begging her, seeking the kind of relief that she needed.  Blue didn't like to be tortured.  She didn't like the pain that she could bring up merely by talking about what had happened during those days.  She had brought most of it up to Ranaan, but he saw the good, he didn't see the bad.  He didn't know that she had cried, and wanted him, how she had heard his voice, how she had needed him and when he wasn't there how she almost.. almost went over the edge.

Hathev promised there was another way that she could get the relief that she needed.  Blue swallowed heavily, her chest heaving still, the inhale and exhale of her breath sharp and shallow.  But there, with Hathev stating her name, and giving her something to think about, the young woman began to slow down her breathing.  Her lower lip quivered softly, and she sunk her teeth into it so that it wouldn't betray her any longer.  Her fingers, the fingernails tinged pink with a slight bit of blood stopped their work on her forearm which stung because of her recent attentions. 

The pressure from the Doctor's hand was gone a moment later, not gone, but less as she offered her other hand out stating she could show her something else that was possible.  If she could just take her hand, they could find something together that might help her with all this stress and emotions.  Blue had no idea what the plan was, she had no idea what was going to happen.  But, oddly, Blue actually trusted Hathev.  Maybe it was that despite whatever happened, she never seemed judgmental.  She always seemed accepting and understanding and perhaps it was that no matter what happened, she didn't seem overly surprised.  She took Blue at face value but also, hopefully, saw how much there was behind the scenes.  Blue studied the woman in front of her for a long moment.

“You can help me?” she whispered softly her voice trembling along with her lip.  “I don't.. like being this way.” she confessed.

Gently, Blue rose her other calloused hand and placed it in Hathev's hand, her eyes waiting.. filling with hope that she would no longer have to feel this way.  She knew, of course, there was no bandaid for pain like this.  However, she felt like she needed to try.  She wanted to be better for Ranaan, for herself, for the future of working on this ship.  She knew that things would haunt her from time to time but losing Ducote... thinking him gone from the universe.. had effected her far more than she liked to admit.  Far more than she wanted to say, but it was evident here that the events of the Versant were haunting the Chief Engineer.

Re: Day 07 [1700 hrs.] The Encumbered Engineer

Reply #15 – January 03, 2020, 01:11:18 AM

[ Lt Cmdr Hathev | Chief Counsellor's Office, Main Sickbay | Deck 11 | USS Theurgy ] attn: @BZ

Blue met Hathev's eyes with an intensity that cut to her core; Hathev returned the gaze with no less significance, watching the woman's face as it enacted the various tortures wringing through her mind, her eyes desperate and wide and wild. She watched as Miss Tiran calmed slightly, no longer recoiling from her touch; she sent her silent encouragement as Miss Tiran began to ease her breathing, slowing, her frantic movements ceasing. Control returning.

Hathev removed her hand slowly, instead offering it to Miss Tiran, a suggestion, a promise. She disliked to use her telepathy in any situation, finding it invasive and intimate for both parties, and her own skills in the area considerably lacking compared to those of many of her compatriots. Additionally, she did not ever wish to come to see such an ability as a crutch; she did not wish to rely upon it, now or ever in the future. Anything short of a mild meld was likely to be of little to no use, and melds carried with them risks of a myriad varieties.

However, it remained true that she could assist Miss Tiran in this matter, she could offer immediate and relatively safe respite from the turmoil the woman was currently experiencing, and the downsides to utilising such a skill were, she calculated, vastly outweighed by the benefits of preventing further harm to the woman before her.

Thus, she offered her hand.

Miss Tiran looked at her for a long while. No doubt she was sizing her up, considering her suggestion and contextualising it within her pre-existing judgement of Hathev's character and abilities. They had only met once before; hardly enough time to establish trust between them of the type required here. Speaking of difficult things with a certain candour and accepting unknown assistance in a moment of extreme vulnerability were two very different calculations.

'You can help me?' Miss Tiran asked, voice barely a whisper, and Hathev inclined her head: 'I can.'

'I don't… like being this way,' Miss Tiran said haltingly; and with that confession, she took Hathev's hand.

Hathev held it gently, like a small creature, that it could be removed from her touch with little effort. She had prepared herself before the contact was initiated, of course, and therefore received little from Miss Tiran; only vague outlines of emotions, shadows upon a cave wall, muffled and removed. No, she was not here to receive, but rather to transmit, and thus she focused her attentions on doing just so, channeling waves of calm and equilibrium through the conduit of their touch.

'Breathe,' she instructed with a soft authority. 'Focus on my presence. You are safe. Nothing is amiss that cannot be solved.' Platitudes, but not without truth; Hathev would not lie to a patient, nor to any other being. 'You are safe here,' she repeated, because it deserved emphasis. Holding the woman's hand, she continued to offer gentle words and soothing sensation as she waited for Miss Tiran's tension to unwind itself from her body and mind.

After an interval, the length of which Hathev had not considered to measure, it seemed the moment of immediate suffering had passed, leaving only the aftermath in its wake. Miss Tiran, with angry red lines covering her forearm, required medical attention; with the initial distress subdued, Hathev now judged it acceptable for her to sever the connection with the purpose of seeing to the woman's injuries.

'You have done well,' she said gently. 'I will release you now; I will return in the briefest moment.' Accordingly she did so, carefully placing Miss Tiran's hand in the woman's own lap and rising from her position to cross to her desk. Here she retrieved a dermal regenerator she kept for cases such as these, before returning to Miss Tiran on the couch.

'May I?' she asked.

Re: Day 07 [1700 hrs.] The Encumbered Engineer

Reply #16 – January 12, 2020, 11:51:21 PM

[LCdr Blue Tiran | Vulnerability | All the Shades of Blue | External Calm | Internal Pause]
@fiendfall




The thing Blue hated the most was feeling vulnerable.  Even in front of Ranaan.  She had spent nearly twenty years being the strong one, pushing herself forward all the time, and never looking back.  If she looked back she knew that she would wallow in the horror of being abandoned by her parents.  She didn't want to show anyone that she could be weak, she didn't want to let anyone know how hard it was to be her.  How hard it could be sometimes to put one foot in front of the others.  She was gifted in burying her emotions.  It was something she had done for such a very long time that it was second nature on most days.  Right now though, she had been overwhelmed in the thoughts about what happened on the Versant, and how she wasn't sure what to do about it all.  The pain was still real, the fact that she could easily remember what had happened.  She remembered the smell, the sights, the sounds, she remembered the cries of pain and horror.  She remembered the looks of desperation and hope on the people's faces as she became their leader until Ives took hir own role.

Sitting on the couch in Hathev's office opening herself up to the Vulcan woman was a very hard act in trust for the young Engineer.  The only person she had ever opened her mind to was Ranaan.  Luckily, she didn't think Hathev was there to get information, she was there, instead, to help Blue feel more calm and centered.  Hathev took her hand, so gently, it was like it wasn't even there.  And yet, Blue could feel it.  Blue found her eyes closed, as much as she didn't want to trust like this she knew that it was important.  She needed this step, or her fingers would be twitching to find her arm again and that wasn't going to do her any good. 

Hathev instructed her to breathe, and so she did.  Hathev began to tell her to focus on her presence that she was safe, nothing could not be solved.  Blue felt her presence, Hathev's, in her mind.  Blue relaxed, trying to give all the trust that she could to Hathev.  Slowly, the tension bled from Blue's body, and she relaxed in a way that only Ranaan had ever known.  Her breathing regulated and she shifted on the couch to get a little bit more comfortable.  Hearing Hathev's voice in her mind was all that was important right now.  Breathing in and out, getting herself centered, finding her calm place. 

She was safe, safe.

Ranaan's arms, were the best place in the world.  There was nothing better in the world than feeling his arms around her.  His chest against her cheek as she rested there.  His fingers trying to untangle the mass of curls that always thwarted his efforts.  His steady heartbeat in her ear, the sound of  his breathing, the feel of the cotton sheets against her form.  The knowledge that neither of them had to be anywhere right now.  There was nothing quite like the relaxing quality of their early mornings, or their very late nights.  Sometimes, she just wanted to be held and he didn't seem to mind it in the least.  His mind connected to hers, but not really speaking too much, or too often, just basking in the glow of being together without interruption.  It was such a rarity, so special, and she knew they both cherished it equally.

She felt calm, centered, as Hathev told her that she had done well.  Blue continued to sit where she was, as Hathev let her hand drop to her lap.  Her eyes opened slightly, almost small slits.  Hathev walked over to her desk and retrieved something before coming back and leaning down to take the wrist that she had hurt.  She could almost feel the pain there, that she had caused herself throbbing in time with every heart beat, slow and steady, as relaxed as she was.  Hathev asked permission and Blue gave a soft nod before her eyes closed again especially as the pain faded and the peace in her mind remained.  What Blue hadn't expected, was the fact that, being this relaxed, and after the release of the tension and stress on her arm, with the pain faded.  As Hathev finished healing the wounds on Tiran's wrist, she would realize that the deep breathing had gone from being relaxation and gone straight to Commander Tiran actually being asleep.  Her body completely and utterly at rest. 

A call to Ducote was in order, after a few moments, since Tiran didn't rouse when her shoulder was shaken or when her name was called.  Instead, she was fully and deeply asleep.  It wasn't long before Ducote came.  It was clear that it wasn't about anything serious, just a sleeping girl.  He collected her bag and hoisted it over his shoulder before bending down for leverage and getting Blue up off the couch.  As soon as Blue was in his arms, she relaxed even further.  ~Come on, Trouble.~ she heard his voice in her mind vaguely as he carried her to their Quarters.  Sleep was always good for Blue, as she worked with such a little amount and took far too much on her shoulders.  He carried his fiance out of the room, just as the timer went off on Hathev's desk.

-FIN-