"The Forest Listens"
Posted on 05 Aug 2025 @ 8:59am by Lieutenant JG Halux-denari-vettaliin
939 words; about a 5 minute read
Mission:
Assignment: Arawyn
Location: Counseling Suite, USS Arawyn
Timeline: SD242508.05
=/\= Head Counselor's Office =/\=
The office at the rear of the counseling suite wasn’t extravagant, but it held a quiet significance. Slightly larger than the other offices in the suite, it marked Halux's new role aboard the USS Arawyn—a quiet sanctum not of status, but of stewardship. The space was simple: a desk positioned at a soft angle to the wall, two chairs set across from it with enough space between to allow comfort without formality, and two exits—one opening into the main suite, the other offering a discreet path toward the rear corridor that led back to Sickbay.
He appreciated that. Not just the privacy, but the practicality—two exits meant quicker access in a crisis, whether someone was in distress in Sickbay or needed quiet space in the suite. In his role, responsiveness mattered. Sometimes presence wasn’t about being available—it was about being reachable.
Each counseling office in the suite—including his own—was equipped with localized holo-emitters, discreetly embedded into the ceiling and walls. It allowed the space to shift and reshape itself into whatever setting a session might call for: a Denobulan meditation terrace, a Vulcan sand garden, the shoreline of a tranquil Earth lake. The goal was simple—not escape, but access. Familiar landscapes, symbolic imagery, or calming sensory input could often do what words alone could not. Halux had already begun configuring a few baseline programs and intended to build more as he got to know the crew—therapy tailored not just to species, but to the individual. Because comfort wasn’t one-size-fits-all. Healing never was.
The lighting had been adjusted first. Starfleet standard tended toward clinical clarity, but Halux preferred something a degree or two warmer, closer to sunlight filtered through leaves. With a quiet command, the ceiling projection shimmered to life, transforming the flat panels into the gentle canopy of a forest grove. Pale green leaves swayed in slow rhythm, their movement matched to a simulated breeze that rustled branches without ever disturbing the air. It wasn’t Denobula—not exactly—but it felt familiar. Calming. The room responded like it was listening. The ambient light softened with it, bathing the space in the hush of imagined morning. He had dimmed the brightness just slightly more, letting the room breathe. The air felt still, but not stagnant. Like it was waiting to be lived in.
The walls remained bare for now. He’d requested a small shipment of personal items from storage: a few Denobulan artifacts, a shallow planter for some of his herbs and maybe a few fragrant flowering bulbs, a prayer stone with a whispermark etched into the side. They hadn’t arrived yet, and he wouldn’t decorate prematurely. Rooms had energy, and he preferred to let them introduce themselves before telling them who they were supposed to be.
He took a slow walk around the space, fingertips brushing lightly across the edge of the desk. Noticing. Listening.
His meeting with Dr. Riah Amberlyn still lingered in his thoughts. The Chief Medical Officer had an energy he hadn’t expected—firm but curious, passionate without being overbearing. She moved through Sickbay like someone who’d dreamed of it long before stepping aboard. There was potential there. A kind of mirror, perhaps.
Halux eased into the chair behind his desk and keyed in his access credentials. The holo-canopy above remained in place, leaves swaying in slow rhythm as the interface lit before him in soft amber tones. He brought up the first batch of psychological profiles—crew transfers, new department staff, and officers rotating aboard following extended field service.
He read in silence, posture upright but relaxed, letting the data settle as he scanned.
Subtle patterns emerged quickly. Indicators. A cluster of personnel flagged for anxiety spectrum conditions, most of them well-managed. Some untreated, a few masked behind language like "high-functioning" or "mission-capable with oversight." Another cluster trended depressive—persistent depressive disorder, seasonal affective traits, post-assignment fatigue. Some clear cases of post-traumatic stress. None of it was surprising. Not after years of fractured policy and overextended deployments as Starfleet worked to rebuild. But it carried weight just the same.
This wasn’t a crew in crisis, but rather a crew in quiet recovery.
He made a few discreet notes—departmental overlaps, likely early referrals, indicators to share with his team during intake rounds. Counseling wasn’t triage. Not if it was done right. It was preparation. Prevention. The kind of care that began before anyone knocked on the door.
He paused after the third page, letting the display dim slightly while his eyes drifted upward. The canopy still swayed, soft green leaves catching an invisible breeze. The movement wasn’t just visual—it had rhythm, a kind of pulse that reminded him to exhale fully before moving on. A forest didn’t rush. It observed. It endured.
He wondered, briefly, if any of the other counselors on his team had requested holographic modifications to their spaces—or if they’d see his as a novelty, or perhaps something indulgent.
Leaning back in his chair, he tapped a few notes into the console.
*Schedule introductory staff meeting
*Review comfort levels with integrated holo-environment use.
*Establish first-wave intake priorities.
The list was short, but deliberate. He didn’t want to rush. But they couldn’t wait too long either. Healing wasn’t always loud. Sometimes it was quiet, coiled, waiting for permission.
He looked back up at the trees. They swayed, steady and patient.
“We’ll get there,” he murmured.
And he meant it.
=/\= End Log =/\=
Lt(JG) Halux
Head Counselor
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