Psychologically evaluating Spartans is a delicate matter; not just because they can snap you in two, if you manage to press particularly sensitive buttons—though that is a concern. Several times on this very couch, there have been considerably dangerous, and oftentimes unstable individuals opening up about, shall we say, their issues? It can take multiple sessions to fully get a subject to entrust you with their personal feelings. Maybe sometimes they don’t ever learn to trust you at all, and all you get is surface details they would tell to anyone. Oftentimes, Spartans are singularly remarkable individuals, in that many of them have undiagnosed mental conditions. This could very well lead to you having a lengthy conversation with a manipulative psychopath, one that also happens to be capable of wrecking the entire room in what would be considered a mild workout to them. The majority of the delicacy in dealing with Spartans, in a psychological sense, is treading that fine line between diagnosing them, and not being forced to declare them unfit for duty. Not that ONI would pull such valuable assets out of the line of duty, they’re simply too valuable. But, even they would raise their eyebrows if a Spartan were to suddenly be diagnosed with several conditions, each of them requiring extensive therapy. In that way, I suppose, much of the delicacy had to be in dealing with handlers, and Office staff, rather than the Spartans themselves. Think of it like constantly playing a game of chess, except you have three opponents to deal with; the Spartans’ own learned defensive mechanisms, the ONI lackies, and your own good conscience as a Doctor.
A ticking clock sat just above the door to the office space, keeping perfect time. He always preferred analogue clocks to more conventional digital readouts, especially for the soothing and rhythmic noise it would produce. There was something relaxing about the gentle ticks, reminding him that every second he was there meant something. Doctor Arlington took pride in presenting his office space as a comforting place of relaxation. Two mahogany bookshelves lined with expensive textbooks lined the left wall, with various personal items lining the shelves in front of them. Their spines were uniform gunmetal grey, with block white letters—standard fare for educational paper books—and the knick-knacks collected from years of hobby-crafting presented a non-threatening aura about the room. A matching brown couch and brown wooden coffee table sat in the center of the spacious room, atop a muted olive carpet and matching set of blinds, drawn half-shut to give the room a faint glow about it in the afternoon sun. His own desk, lined with datapads and official documents, sat a world away against the wall opposite the door, and between the table and his desk sat a pair of comfy chairs, upholstered in cream and black leather. He sat behind his desk, tapping on a datapad with a stylus held between his thumb and index finger, signing off on reports and files, always making sure to keep one eye on the clock in the upper right hand corner. When it hit 15:00 hours, he sat up and straightened his back, feeling three resonating clicks, and rolled his shoulders. There was a knock on his door, and he looked up from his work to fold his hands and present himself as nonthreatening as the room around him. “Come in,” he called. The handle to the door turned—he never trusted sliding doors—and a head wrapped in dark auburn hair peeked its way inside. The figure pushed the door open and scanned the room, eventually coming to rest on the Doctor behind his desk. He smiled at her, and stood up, smoothing down his navy blue uniform. “Hello, Spartan.” He motioned to the couch, and moved himself over to one of the chairs. “Please, come in, have a seat.” She entered the room and let the door swing shut behind her. Arlington went into the pocket of his trousers to fetch a smaller, thinner datapad, somewhat resembling a new model of a civilian Chatter, and sat himself down on one of the chairs. The Spartan, standing a little bit shorter than him, padded into the room with all the trepidation of a stray cat, until she sat herself down on the couch, her back as stiff as a ramrod, and eyes darting everywhere, except the Doctor in front of her. “Now,” Arlington tapped his Chatter once, and the eyes of the Spartan darted towards him. “I have to go through the standard disclosure, nothing you say here can be repeated, unless I believe it to directly affect the safety of yourself, or those around you.” He paused to let her process his words, before he cocked an eyebrow and offered a gentle smile. “Do you understand?” She gave a meek nod of the head. “Yeah.” “Good,” he ticked the box on his Chatter screen, and set it down on the table, leaning forward and pushing his fingers together. “Now, this isn’t a test of your character,” he said, holding up a hand. “I want you to know that, and you’ve done nothing wrong to be sent here, this is simply a routine check up. Okay?” he gave her a nod. She returned the gesture and shifted a little in her seat. “Okay.” Arlington let the silence hang around for a few seconds while he studied her, and the way she folded in on herself; legs, arms, and even her head were pushed as close to her body as possible, and she twitched whenever there was a noise from outside, or sometimes when the clock’s incessant ticking on the wall became too apparent. Arlington took a breath and smoothed out a crease on his pants. “Now, I’m going to ask you a few questions, simple stuff, just to confirm things. Your full name?” “Andra Kearsarge.” she said. He nodded. “Excellent. Service number?” She brushed away a stray lock of hair. “D054,” she said, wincing gently. Arlington reassured her with a nod. “Wonderful. Now, how have you been feeling lately?” he tilted his head and waited for her to answer. She blinked, taken aback for the time being, and with slow, careful movements, she unfolded her arms and rubbed her left elbow, shrugging. “I dunno, fine, I guess.” “No shifts in mood?” Arlington asked. “Feeling low, even something as simple as bad dreams?” “Not that I can think of,” she shook her head. “Sleep’s been normal, I haven’t had a bad day in a while.” “You suffer from depressive episodes, correct?” Arlington leaned forward and picked up his Chatter, switching it back on out of standby mode and picking up the stylus along with it, giving Andra his full attention after it flickered on. She nodded once more, and placed a hand on the arm of the couch, idly picking at a loose thread. “Not so much, these days. I’ve been getting better about them.” “That’s good,” he gave her a wide smile. “Very good, indeed.” He looked down at his chatter, furrowed his brow, and cleared his throat. “I just need to address a discrepancy, here. Your full name on file is listed as Andra K Bradford—” “I don’t go by Bradford anymore.” She cut him off with a sharp look and a click of her jaw when she was finished speaking. He looked up at her with a raised brow. It was the most new information he had gotten from her, and mentally filed it away for later. He didn’t respond, save for a patient nod. “I understand,” he said. “We have a few discussion points that the Suits want me to tackle,” he gave her an exaggerated roll of his eyes, and a dismissive wave of his hand. “Routine stuff, nothing to worry about. Okay?” Andra returned to a more reserved state on the mention of ONI suits, and Arlington took a breath to steady himself for the task of opening her back up. “Your name change,” he asked. Is there any particular reason for it?” “My father was a Bradford,” Andra said, stressing the word with a dose of venom behind it. “My mother was a Kearsarge.” “You changed your name to honour your mother, then?” Arlington suggested, wanting to avoid implying something confrontational while he tapped keys on the on-screen Chatter keyboard. Andra scoffed. “I think it was more to spite my father.” “Interesting,” Arlington rolled a hand for her to continue. “Would you care to elaborate on that?” “He wasn’t a pleasant man, after my mother…” she trailed off, and closed her eyes. He hummed. “You want to distance him from you, as much as you can.” “You could say that,” she pulled her legs up and put them on the couch, leaning onto the arm. “I understand,” he said to her. “That’s a perfectly normal reaction, in fact, it’s one of the more tame responses I’ve seen.” She tilted her head at him, and furrowed her brow. Arlington only responded with a smile that reserved judgment—something he was sure she was used to. “It feels like I’m disrespecting someone,” she said. “By doing it.” “Does that matter to you?” Arlington prodded. She rolled her head in an unsure manner. “Not really, it just feels wrong.” The Doctor put his Chatter to one side, and tented his fingers on his lap once more. “Many subjects struggle with self-actualisation,” he said. “Oftentimes they think that their own improvement comes at a detriment to something.” Holding up a hand, he pinched his fingers and leaned forward in his chair. “The important thing to remember is that nothing can control you, except you,” he pointed at her. “You have the choice to distance yourself from anyone in your life that you no longer want to associate with—even if that someone is just a memory.” The Spartan took a moment to digest his words, before she nodded. “I guess.” “Your mother,” Arlington asked, eager to keep the train rolling now that she was engaging. “Was she a pleasant woman?” Andra shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said. “I only met her twice. I suppose she was nice enough. Formal military, strict but not overbearing, you know?” Her eyes grew distant, and she smiled—perhaps at some happy childhood memory. “She was good at that balance.” “Okay, good.” He took a breath. “And your father?” Andra froze in all her movements, flicking her eyes up to meet the Doctor, studying his face. He kept his expression neutral, his body language nothing but inquisitive. All it was was a request for information; one that she could refuse if she wanted to. After a period of silence, he shifted his head and tilted it to one side, still waiting, and offering no sign of disinterest. She looked away, towards the bookshelf. “He was nice,” she said. “up until—” She cut herself off, and shook her head. “He turned to drink, and drugs, and there was collateral damage.” “I see,” Arlington tapped something on his screen, but kept one eye on her at all times. “When did you change your name?” “Uh,” She looked away, up and to one side, chewing on her tongue. “Sometime after I got my Spartan designation.” Arlington raised an eyebrow, humming in thought. “That’s interesting. Would you say the two are related in some way?” She gave him a confused look. “How do you mean?” “You received your Spartan designation,” he said, “and then would go on to change your name.” He let that hang there for a second, before explaining. “Perhaps being given a new designation helped you separate those two periods of your life? A fresh start, as it were. Slate clean, name changed, the new you, as it were?” She shifted a little at the idea. “I don’t know about that. I guess it makes sense.” “Would you say your mood improved after your spartan designation?” he asked. “No,” she answered immediately. “Training was hell. The drill instructors used my tag as a way to refer to me if they didn’t want to use my name. Something derogatory.” “I see. And did you have anyone to rely on, back then?” Arlington asked. “People to confide in?” “Only Merlin,” Andra said, pausing at his name. “And maybe Doctor Romero.” “D032, you mean?” Arlington asked, casting his mind back to the relevant files on his desk. “Merlin,” she repeated. “Yeah.” Arlington nodded as he put notes into his Chatter, then looked up at her once more. “Let’s talk about Doctor Romero.” Andra shrugged and looked around. “What’s there to talk about?” “After your mother passed away,” the Doctor said, “would you say there was a lack of any maternal figure in your life?” “Well,” she scoffed, “by definition.” Arlington let the jab slide and instead pressed on with his questions. “Is it possible you may have come to regard Doctor Romero as a surrogate, in a way?” he asked. Andra paused, opening and closing her mouth a few times, like a stunned fish freshly dragged onto the deck. Seconds passed, then turned into minutes, and Andra continued to gape and splutter, and darted her eyes around the room. Arlington sighed. In pressing hard he had closed her back up, her pages hidden, and her spine curled over into itself once again. He put his Chatter back down and clapped his hands with a practised softness, bringing her attention back to him. “Andra—may I call you Andra?” he asked. She gave a meek nod of the head. “Sometimes, when my patients struggle to open up,” he said with a grin, “I like to play a little game. I ask you yes or no questions, and you don’t have to speak,” he added, “or even shake your head. All you do is tap on the table.” He made a show of tapping the arm of the chair he sat in. “Once for yes, twice for no. Understand?” She considered the offer, before leaning forward and tapping the table. “Excellent,” he smiled at her. “Going back to Doctor Romero,” he asked, watching her fingers poise themselves over the table top. “Did her words carry more weight than they otherwise would, or did you notice yourself reacting to praise from her more than you otherwise would?” There was a hesitancy to Andra’s actions as she raised her hand, two fingers primed. She swallowed, keeping her eyes down towards the varnished brown surface, and tapped once. “It’s perfectly normal for patients to seek out alternative forms of maternal, or paternal influence,” he assured her. “Would it be fair to say that this would also extend to Spartan G024?” Two quick taps on the table, and a furrowed brow came after. “You became close with him, during his years as your tutor, yes?” he asked. She tapped in agreement, her scowl never leaving her face, nor the constant and unbroken glare—the girl hadn’t blinked in a full minute.. “Is it possible, however remote,” he asked, “that he became a paternal figure?” She went to tap the table twice, but hesitated on the second tap, before sighing, and shaking her head. She went back to tap the table once in defeat, and looked away from the Doctor. “I didn’t like the way he would try to pass on his worldview,” she said. “Or his cynicism..” “I suppose, in a way, fathers try to do that,” the Doctor said. “But only you can decide what view you have of the galaxy. No one else can decide that for you.” She nodded and hugged her midsection, while Arlington wrote everything down that he deemed relevant. Andra kept staring off to one side, a hand on the arm of the couch, covering her mouth and supporting her head. She was fidgeting her leg, and rubbing it against the couch fabric with a soft scraping noise, in time with the ticking of the clock on the wall. Arlington looked down the list of topics and froze at the last one, closing his eyes, and folding his legs over one another in preparation. “Just one more topic, Andra,” he said, straightening his back, and putting his arms on the chair’s. “Let’s talk about your relationship with D032.” Her movements stopped, and her eyes darted to the side of her head to stare at him. She picked her head up off her hand without moving her arm. “What about it?” she asked with a rigid, defensive slowness. “Well, what would you consider to be the nature of this relationship?” Arlington asked, keeping his tone level, and unaccusing. “You have the reports,” she shot at him. “He’s my best friend. I can tell him anything, we support one another, look out for one another.” Arlington shook his head, and offered her a knowing smirk. “I didn’t ask for what the report says,” he sniffed and rolled his wrist towards where his chatter sat on the arm of the chair. “In fact, the report makes it seem like the relationship is something more than just friendship?” Andra grabbed the arm of the couch with a white-knuckle grip, fingers digging into the plush fabric. “That’s not really your business, is it?” “On the contrary, it may end up being more important than you think,” Arlington said. She said nothing in reply, returning to her safety of silence. Arlington decided to poke once more. “The reports state that you have sometimes referred to this friendship as almost—” “The reports are made by people who’ve only ever wanted to break us apart!” she said, flicking her head over to him with an angry glare. “Which is why I am asking you.” Arlington said with a measured emphasis on each word. “Andra, I’m on your side.” She held herself tight before she spoke again, keeping her voice low enough that Arlington had to lean forward to hear her. “We never want to leave each other alone. We want to support each other, comfort each other.” She gave off a soft little smile. “Isn’t that what spouses do?” “It is,” Arlington agreed. “That you’re this close with him is good, in a way. It shows that you can rely on people, and that they can still rely on you.” Andra peered at him from out under the recesses of her burnt caramel hair. “I feel like there’s a ‘but’ coming.” “However—” Arlington began. Andra clicked her tongue. “That’s cheap!” “—It may be a good idea to speak about your expectations,” Arlington continued, unabated, “regarding this relationship, and whether or not he shares those expectations.” She drew back as though burnt. “What, are you trying to say it’s not real?” “To you it is real,” Arlington pressed his palms together and pointed at her with all ten fingers. “And that makes it as valid as anything else you may be feeling,” he said, “but I think you may be mis-attributing worth to the relationship.” She huffed a mirthless laugh. “You think?” “It’s worth exploring, is what I mean,” Arlington said. “Why?” Andra shot back. “Because it represents the only relationship which you actively choose to acknowledge,” he said. “That you choose to participate in. It may be the only healthy relationship you’ve ever had, but it is still, shall we say, ‘work-related’.” She furrowed her brow in one half confusion, one half anger. “Why does that matter?” “You weren’t given time to grieve for your mother,” he said, holding up a hand. “Not properly, and your father turned into an abusive, toxic relationship,” he held up his other hand as well. “With those two soured, you turned to the next available source of comfort and praise, that coming from Doctor Romero, some time later.” He lowered his right hand. “I think you have an inherently toxic view on how relationships are meant to work, I think the moment you began to consciously form a relationship with D032—” “His name is Merlin!” Andra shouted at him. Arlington drew back into the chair and took a calming breath. “Merlin,” he said. “When you began to consciously make the decision to associate with him, I think that perhaps you latched onto that as a psychological crutch.” He watched her seethe and broil across the table from him, wondering in part if he would need to replace some of the furniture before the session was over. “You may be perceiving it as greater than it really is,” he said. “It happens a lot with people who have gone through much the same issues as you have; they find friendship, but are unable to quantify it. Because it is different than anything they have experienced before, they think of it as something more, when in reality it isn’t.” She looked away, considering it, thinking it over. Arlington could almost hear the gears in her mind turning as loudly as he could hear the tick of the clock on the wall above her. “I think you should at least consider the possibility that—” he began. “You think,” Andra cut him off with a sharp tone. “You think you think you think!” She spat the words out and looked up at him. “All my career I’ve been told what to think, well I’ve had enough! Ultimately, it doesn’t matter what you think.” Arlignton shut his mouth with a click. “And what does matter, Spartan?” “It’s not a question of what, but ‘who’,” Andra said, leaning forward. “The people who matter, now that’s a very short list. You’re not on it, Doctor.” “And what happens if the relationship becomes toxic?” The Doctor asked. “Because your expectations differ from his? Codependency is a killer of many friendships, Andra.” Her face turned passive, and she stood up from the couch. “I think we’re done here,” she said, before turning around and walking over to the door. Before the clock had finished ticking its next second, she had swung it open with a crash. She stepped through it in the next, and left the door, and the room as a whole, reeling from her strength. Arlington let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, stood up, and grabbed ahold of his Chatter. Walking over to his desk, he resumed his place behind it, and stared down at the papers for some time. With a flick of his wrist he brought the Chatter up to his face, and selected the button marking Andra as fit for continued service.
I think we so often forget that these outstanding soldiers—these pinnacles of human physical abilities, towering mountains of strength and speed—are oftentimes no more than children. There is nothing more steadfast, and resolute, than a child who doesn’t want to change, because oftentimes change is scary. Stubborn isn’t really the word to use here, there’s no place for it. ONI trained them to be this way, they trained all the Spartans to never give up information that they don’t want to disclose, and protect each other on the battlefield. In that way, perhaps Sierra D054 embodies best what it means to be a Spartan. |
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