Mandatory Evaluation

Posted on 2026, Sun Jan 25th, @ 12:32am by Captain Kate Reacher & Lieutenant Daven Voss

3,681 words; about a 18 minute read

Mission: Episode 1 "Operation Iron Justice" USS Halo, Star Base 113, USS Vigilance
Location: Counselor's Office

Lieutenant Daven Voss stood outside the counseling office, staring at the door panel with barely concealed irritation. His hand hovered near the chime.

Quarterly evaluation. Mandated by the Symbiosis Commission.

He'd received the notification three days ago—another reminder that his "irregular" joining meant perpetual oversight. As an intelligence officer, the irony wasn't lost on him: he gathered information on others for a living, but resented being scrutinized himself.

Perfect. Discussing my psychological state with the Admiral's wife. This won't be awkward at all.. he thought to himself.

Captain Kate Reacher was the Chief Counselor, which made her the appropriate person for Commission compliance. But she was also married to his commanding officer, which created professional complications Daven didn't want to navigate.

Daven had no choice. Either sit through this or get reprimanded by the Commission. . .again.

He pressed the chime.

The chime sounded, and Kate looked up from her display. The screen still held the Commission’s evaluation template—clinical, impersonal, and designed, in her opinion, to make officers feel like subjects under a microscope. She exhaled softly through her nose, smoothing out the faint crease between her brows.

Showtime.
And, more importantly: tread lightly.

“Come in,” she called, tone warm but even.

The doors parted to reveal Lieutenant Voss standing stiffly in the threshold—shoulders squared, jaw set, eyes scanning the room with the wariness of someone entering a potential ambush rather than a counseling suite.

Kate gestured to the seat across from her, choosing not to comment on the tension radiating off him like static. “Lieutenant Voss. Right on time. Please—have a seat.”

She waited until he stepped inside and the doors closed behind him before continuing. Her posture was relaxed; her hands rested loosely in her lap, not on a console or stylus. Nothing that suggested she was here to evaluate him, even if that was technically true.

“I know the Commission sends those notices in a way that feels… less than friendly,” she said with a hint of wryness. “But let’s get one thing clear before we begin: this isn’t an interrogation, and it isn’t an audit of your loyalty or performance.”

Her gaze softened—not sympathetic, but understanding in a very practiced, very genuine way.

“My job today is to make sure you are supported. Not judged. Whatever they mandated, I’m not here to make this harder for you.”

A beat.

“And for the record,” she added gently, “you’re not here because of Admiral Reacher. You’re here because you’re a joined Trill navigating a complicated situation. I’m your counselor, not his wife.”

Kate leaned back slightly, giving him space.

“So—why don’t we start simple? How are you feeling walking into this evaluation today?”

Daven entered and sat in the offered chair, his posture still formal but less rigid than he'd intended. He met Kate's gaze with something between professional courtesy and weary resignation.

"Counselor," he said, his tone conversational despite his obvious reluctance. "Honestly? I'm feeling like I'm here because the Symbiosis Commission decided emergency joinings need extra monitoring. Which makes me the procedural irregularity they can't quite categorize properly."

He leaned back slightly, some of the formal stiffness easing. "The Commission is... very invested in tradition. In maintaining their established processes. Emergency joinings disrupt that carefully controlled system, so they get treated as minor administrative difficulties rather than what they actually are—complicated situations with insufficient support protocols."

"I wasn't supposed to be the next Voss host," Daven continued matter-of-factly. "The Commission had selected Nira Koreth—a xenobiologist who'd trained her entire life for joining. She had the profile, the psychological preparation, everything they look for in their selection process. But when Telak died in that warp core accident, there was no time for the planned ceremony. I was a Starfleet cadet doing research at the medical facility when they needed an emergency host. Compatible physiology, sufficient mental discipline, and most importantly—available within the critical time window."

His expression shifted slightly. "So the symbiont survived, I became joined, and Nira lost the opportunity she'd spent years preparing for. The Commission's emergency protocol technically worked."

Daven's tone took on a more critical edge. "But here's what really makes them uncomfortable: I wasn't selected through their rigorous evaluation process. The Commission has spent generations telling the Trill population that only 50% are suitable for joining—that it requires exceptional qualities, careful preparation, specific psychological profiles. Then someone like me comes along. A cadet who wasn't even in their selection pool, who gets emergency joined and survives integration just fine. That undermines their entire narrative about selectivity."

He leaned forward slightly. "If a random Starfleet cadet can successfully join with minimal preparation, what does that say about their claims that only half the population is suitable? It suggests their selection criteria might be more about maintaining exclusivity than actual biological or psychological necessity. And the Commission really doesn't like that implication."

"So when you ask how I'm feeling about this evaluation," Daven said with conversational directness, "the answer is: resentful. The same organization that put me in this situation now evaluates whether I'm handling it well enough to meet their standards. Standards that assume preparation I never received and that exist partly to justify their own authority."

Kate listened in stillness—not the frozen kind, but the practiced, attentive quiet of someone who knew when not to interrupt. Daven’s explanation was clinical, controlled…but beneath it, she could feel the gravitational pull of resentment, old and dense and well-contained.

When he finished, she exhaled slowly, folding her hands loosely atop one knee.

“Thank you,” she said first, voice low and steady. “For being that honest right out of the gate. Most officers spend twenty minutes circling the edges before they’re willing to say the word resentful.”
She let the silence settle for a moment before continuing.

“You’re right about something very important: the Commission is uncomfortable. Not because you did anything wrong, but because your situation highlights cracks in a system they’ve been invested in preserving for centuries.”

Her tone wasn’t defensive on the Commission’s behalf. If anything, it carried the calm confidence of someone who’d had to handle institutional egos many times before.

“You were put in an impossible situation with no preparation,” she continued. “And instead of receiving additional support, you received oversight. Those aren’t the same thing, but the Commission tends to treat them as if they are.”

Kate’s eyes softened a little—not pitying, but recognizing.

“That doesn’t mean your reaction is inappropriate. It means you’re aware of the bigger context. And frankly?”
She allowed the faintest hint of dry humor to touch her expression. “You’re not wrong in your assessment. The Commission’s narrative is built on being the gatekeepers of ‘suitability.’ Emergency joinings create data points they can’t spin.”

She shifted slightly, leaning forward—not enough to crowd him, just enough to signal engagement.
“But here’s what I’d like to understand, Lieutenant: how much of this resentment is directed at the circumstances… and how much of it is directed at your own joining?”
A beat.

“You said you weren’t supposed to be the next Voss host. That the path you got put on wasn’t the one you—or anyone—had chosen for you. When something so life-altering happens without consent, it can leave a sense of…displacement. A feeling that your life was commandeered.”

Her voice lowered slightly, gentler without losing clarity.

“Do you feel that? That your agency was taken from you in the process?”

Another slight pause as she watched him carefully.

“And… how do you feel about Telak? The symbiont itself? Not the Commission. Not the protocols. The joining.”

Daven was quiet for a moment, his jaw tightening as Kate's question landed with uncomfortable precision. He'd been prepared to discuss institutional failures, procedural inadequacies, Commission politics. He had not been prepared for her to cut straight through to the core issue he'd been carefully avoiding.
Of course she went there. That's what counselors do.

"How I feel about the joining," he repeated slowly, his tone shifting to something more guarded. "That's... complicated."

He looked away briefly, then forced himself to meet her gaze again. "Yes, my agency was taken. I was a cadet doing medical research, and suddenly I was carrying two additional lifetimes of memories with no choice in the matter. The symbiont needed a host or it would die. I happened to be compatible and available. So the decision was made for me."

And now I wake up some nights uncertain whose life I'm living.

"But it's more complicated than just resentment about consent," Daven continued, his voice carrying frustration that went deeper than institutional critique. "Because I also have to function as an intelligence officer under Admiral Reacher, whose negotiation tactics are..." He paused, searching for diplomatic phrasing and finding none. "Unhinged. Half the time I don't know what he's planning. I watch him punch foreign dignitaries and then walk out of critical negotiations, and I'm supposed to somehow adapt and support whatever strategy he's apparently improvising."

His hands tightened slightly in his lap. "So I'm dealing with integration complications from an emergency joining I didn't choose, while working for a commanding officer whose tactical approach seems designed to create maximum chaos. And the Commission wants me to sit through quarterly evaluations proving I'm handling both situations with perfect psychological stability."

And I really don't want to discuss what happened to Telak because that opens conversations I'm not prepared to have. he thought. He decided to avoid discussing the trauma he had inherted from the man's death and instead focused elsewhere.

"As for how I feel about Telak specifically," Daven said carefully, his tone becoming more clinical before an edge of bitterness crept in. "...he was brilliant. Decades of engineering experience. Survived dangerous situations, solved complex problems, contributed meaningfully to Starfleet operations."

He paused, his expression hardening. "And he died because of a routine maintenance error. A warp core accident that shouldn't have happened. No heroic sacrifice. No meaningful contribution. Just... a preventable engineering failure that killed an accomplished officer and created an emergency that forced me into this situation."

Daven's voice carried resentment he hadn't fully acknowledged before. "Someone that intelligent, that experienced—and he died pointlessly. It's frustrating carrying the memories of everything he accomplished knowing it all ended because of basic operational negligence. There's no dignity in that. No purpose. Just bureaucratic failure."

Kate did not interrupt him. When he finished, she remained still for several seconds longer than most people would have tolerated—long enough that it was clear the silence was intentional, not uncertainty.

When she spoke, her voice was measured and precise.

“You’re carrying three separate burdens,” she said calmly. “And you’ve been treating them as if they’re one problem that you should be able to solve through discipline and competence.”

She shifted slightly in her chair, angling herself toward him—not confrontational, but fully present.

“First: the loss of agency. You were not asked. You were used, even if the outcome saved a life. That alone is enough to create long-term psychological friction, particularly for someone whose professional identity is rooted in control, foresight, and analysis.”

She held his gaze steadily.

“Second: environmental instability. You are operating under a commanding officer whose methods are intentionally unpredictable. I will not discuss my husband’s tactics in detail,” she added neutrally, drawing a clear boundary without defensiveness, “but I will acknowledge that unpredictability places a disproportionate strain on intelligence officers. Your role depends on anticipating outcomes. When the environment resists prediction, stress compounds.”

A brief pause.

“And third,” she continued, voice lowering slightly, “is Telak.”

Kate did not soften the subject. She respected him too much for that.

“You’re angry not simply because he died—but because how he died violates your sense of order and meaning. You’re carrying the lived experience of a man who earned dignity through competence, only to have his life end in a way that feels…administratively careless.”

She nodded once, slowly.

“That kind of death leaves no narrative closure. No sacrifice. No justification. And because you now carry his memories, the injustice didn’t end with him. It followed you.”

She leaned forward just enough to signal importance.

“What I want you to hear clearly, Lieutenant, is this: your resentment is not pathology. It is coherence. It makes sense given the circumstances.”

A beat—then a subtle shift.

“However,” she said evenly, “the Commission is not evaluating whether your feelings are justified. They are evaluating whether those feelings are controlling you.”

Her tone remained clinical, not accusatory.

“So let me ask a more precise question—one they will never ask, but I will.”

She met his eyes.

“When you wake up unsure whose life you’re living, is that confusion… or is it grief?”

Another pause.

“And do you believe—honestly—that you are allowed to be angry about Telak’s death without having to rationalize it as institutional failure?”

She sat back slightly, giving him space again.

“You don’t have to answer immediately. But this is where the work actually is. Not in defending yourself against the Commission—but in deciding whether you’re willing to acknowledge the loss you inherited, rather than just the responsibility.”

His voice carried an edge that wasn't quite hostility but was definitely resistance. "The issue isn't whether I'm allowed to be angry about his death without rationalizing it as bureaucratic incompetence. The issue is that his death was because of incompetence. And that matters because it demonstrates that everything we accomplish—decades of experience, brilliant contributions, meaningful service—can be wiped away in a pointless instant by someone else's negligence."

Daven's hands tightened in his lap. "That's what makes me angry. Not just that Telak died, but what his death represents. That all of our sacrifice, all of our work, all of our expertise can be rendered meaningless by routine operational failure. There's no heroism in that. No greater purpose. Just... waste."

He paused, forcing himself to articulate the deeper concern. "I carry the memories of everything he built, everything he contributed. And I also carry the reality that it all ended because someone didn't perform maintenance correctly. That's the grief—not just losing agency or inheriting trauma, but knowing that competence and dedication don't actually protect you from pointless death."

"So yes," Daven continued, his tone shifting back toward clinical assessment, "you're right that I'm carrying multiple burdens and treating them as one solvable problem. You're right that my resentment is coherent rather than pathological. And you're probably right that the Commission is evaluating whether those feelings control me rather than whether they're justified."

His feelings towards the Counselor ranged between respect on one end and annoyance at the other. He was an intelligence officer. HIs job was to analyze others. Being on the receiving end of that analysis was deeply unnerving.

"What else do you need to establish for the Commission's evaluation?" He asked.

Kate accepted his resistance without reacting to it. If anything, it confirmed her assessment rather than challenged it.

“You’re describing existential anger,” she said evenly. “Not fear. Not depression. Not loss of function. Anger at randomness, at entropy, and at the illusion that competence guarantees safety.”

She inclined her head slightly.

“And you’re correct again: that distinction matters.”

She folded her hands, posture composed, unmistakably professional.

“The belief that skill, preparation, and dedication should protect us is foundational to Starfleet culture. Telak’s death—and your inheritance of it—violates that belief. That’s not just grief. That’s a collapse of an internal contract.”

A brief pause.

“Which brings us to the Commission.”

She brought up her display, but angled it so he could see it—transparency by design.

“For a quarterly evaluation following an emergency joining, they require assessment in five domains: cognitive integration, identity stability, emotional regulation, occupational functioning, and risk projection.”

She glanced back to him.

“I do not need to establish that you are comfortable. I do not need to establish that you are agreeable. And I certainly do not need to establish that you are compliant with their ideology.”

Her tone sharpened slightly—not harsh, but precise.

“I need to establish that your anger does not compromise your judgment, that your integration is stable, and that you are not engaging in avoidance patterns that will destabilize you later.”

She tapped the display once, then lowered her hand.

“Based on this session alone, I can already document the following:

You demonstrate intact insight into your emotional state.

You are capable of articulating abstract emotional concepts without dissociation.

Your resentment is externally anchored, not self-destructive.

Your occupational performance remains unimpaired.

You are not exhibiting identity fragmentation.”

She met his eyes again.

“What remains to be assessed is this.”

A pause.

“When confronted with the reality that competence does not guarantee meaning or safety, do you become cynical—or do you remain functional?”

Her voice softened slightly.

“Because Starfleet does not require its officers to believe the universe is fair. It requires that they continue to act with judgment even when they know it isn’t.”

She let that sit, then answered his question directly.

“To complete the Commission’s evaluation, I need one thing from you before we conclude today.”

She held up a single finger.

“Tell me—plainly—whether you believe Telak’s life was rendered meaningless by how it ended.”

A beat.

“And if your answer is ‘no,’ tell me why you continue to act as if it was.”

She leaned back, giving him the floor.

“This is not for them. This is for determining whether you’re suppressing grief through intellect—or integrating it.”

Daven was quiet for a long moment, Kate's question cutting through his defensive intellectualization with uncomfortable precision. He looked away, then forced himself to meet her gaze again.

"No," he said finally, his voice carrying reluctant honesty. "Telak's life wasn't meaningless. Decades of engineering contributions, lives saved through his work, complex problems solved that advanced Starfleet operations—none of that becomes worthless just because of how he died."

He paused, his jaw tightening. "But his death was meaningless. That's the distinction. Everything he accomplished, everything he built—it all ended because someone didn't perform routine maintenance correctly."

"And what makes it worse is that within Trill culture there are some who think hosts are just... fungible commodities. That our individual lives, our personal accomplishments, our decades of contribution—all of it comes second to preserving the symbiont. That's what matters. Not the host. Not what we achieved. Just ensuring the symbiont survives to the next joining."

His voice carried bitterness he hadn't fully articulated before. "Telak died, the symbiont needed emergency rescue, and suddenly I'm carrying his memories while the Commission treats his death as a procedural irregularity that forced them to bypass their preferred selection process."

"Telak's decades of contribution became secondary to ensuring the Voss line continued—with me, the wrong host, who happened to be available." Daven's tone shifted, becoming more controlled. "I'm not suppressing grief through intellect, Counselor. I'm angry that Telak's death reinforced the worst aspects of how Trill culture views hosts." He said coldly.

Kate regarded him calmly, letting his words settle between them. Her posture remained open, but her eyes were sharp—analytical without being judgmental.

“You’re right,” she said finally, her tone measured. “There’s a difference between life and death. Telak’s life had impact, but the circumstances of his death were, by any reasonable measure, meaningless. That distinction is important to acknowledge, because it’s the source of your anger and grief. Not ignoring it, not rationalizing it away, not masking it with intellectualization—it exists. And you’re facing it.”

She leaned forward slightly, hands resting loosely on her knees.

“Your critique of Trill culture is valid as well. To the extent that some traditions value the symbiont over the host, there is a real and understandable sense of injustice. You inherited both the memories and the consequences of a system that often sees individuals as expendable in service of continuity. That is not trivial, and it’s not something you can simply ‘adapt’ around.”

Her gaze softened just enough to convey understanding without pity.

“What you’re experiencing—the anger, the bitterness, the resentment—is not a failing. It is an honest response to systemic failure, personal loss, and cultural friction. The question is not whether you feel it—it’s what you do with it.”

She allowed a beat for him to absorb her words before continuing.

“You’re not suppressing grief through intellect. You’re processing injustice and loss while remaining functional. That’s a subtle but critical distinction. And it is exactly what the Commission should be assessing: your ability to integrate difficult experiences without letting them compromise judgment or operational effectiveness.”

She leaned back slightly, giving him space.

“So, Lieutenant, you feel anger. You feel injustice. That’s coherent. And yet you are still here, still functioning, still contributing. That is the measure of stability—not perfection, not the illusion of fairness.”

Her voice was firm, steady, and devoid of sentimentality.

“Anger without loss of function. Grief without paralysis. That is what I see in you, Lieutenant Voss.”

He gave her a respectful nod.

"If there's nothing else, I should get back to Intelligence. We've got a situation developing on the frontier, and Commander Riley will need those reports from Starbase 508 sooner rather than later."

His tone had shifted back to professional, but there was something steadier underneath it now—not resolution, but clarity. The anger was still there. The sense of injustice hadn't vanished. But he knew what he was carrying, and he knew he could still carry it.

That would have to be enough.

Kate nodded and stood. "Your Dismissed Lt."

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