Borg Trauma
Posted on Sat Jan 17th, 2026 @ 9:56pm by Lieutenant JG Diana Morrison & Lieutenant Richard Pierce MD
1,148 words; about a 6 minute read
Mission:
Collating Data
Location: Sickbay
Diana Morrison entered into the busy sickbay which was filled with various personnel setting the place up. New crew on a new ship, meant getting to know how each other operated. It also meant that everyone was extremely busy. Most of the crew here had transferred over from the Jane Addams. A crew that dealt with several losses due to being in battle with the Borg. Which was one reason she was here to meet with Doctor Pierce. Arriving to his office, she pressed the chime to introduce herself.
The chime cut through the low murmur of Sickbay like a scalpel. Popeye looked up from the stack of crew medical files he’d been reviewing — transfers, trauma histories, red-flag charts that might as well have been printed in blood instead of ink.
“Come,” he called.
The office door slid open, revealing Morrison in the doorway.
Pierce didn’t stand, but his eyes sharpened — taking her in the way a surgeon evaluates a critical case before touching a tricorder.
“Lieutenant Morrison,” he said, voice gravel-soft. “Counselor, right?”
He gestured toward the chair across from his desk with a flick of two fingers, as if this was one more procedure in a long list.
“If you’re here about the preparedness of Sickbay, we’re functional. Short-staffed, understocked, and operating on what I’ll generously call ‘creative logistics,’ but functional.”
He leaned back slightly, studying her now — not clinically, but professionally, as someone who has seen too many minds crack in silence.
“And if you’re here because command thinks I’m overdue for a ‘check-in,’” he added dryly, “you might need to take a number. We’ve had a steady stream of people who’d rather talk to a scalpel than a therapist.”
He folded his hands on the desk. No humor in his eyes now — only truth.
“But if you're here because you know Sickbay is about to get hit hardest when things go wrong — then sit.”
The words softened, not in tone, but intent.
“Counselor and CMO need to get on the same page early, or people slip through the cracks. And I’m done losing people through cracks.”
He nodded once to the empty chair.
“So. Let’s talk.”
The doctor was brash and straight to the point. Pulling out the seat, Diana sat across from the man who clearly had been through quite the ordeal. Yes, his mental stability could be in question. But this was a man who was still in survival mode. "I'm not here to evaluate you. Just wanted to introduce myself and to get on the same page. This crew has been through a lot these last few weeks. I already have several request for services, but some think they're just fine. Even though they aren't. Those are the ones who concern me most. And I am certain you know exactly who they are."
Pierce nodded once, slow and deliberate.
“Yeah. I know the type.”
He tapped a finger lightly against the desk, gaze drifting briefly toward the busy Sickbay beyond the office glass.
“The ones who say they’re ‘fine’ are usually halfway to breaking.”
He leaned back in his chair, shoulders relaxing just a fraction.
“You’ll get names from me. Not referrals — warnings. The ones who are white-knuckling their way through their shift, the ones hiding tremors or nightmares behind caffeine and bravado.”
His eyes met hers again — tired, steady, and completely sincere.
“You need intel? You’ll have it. I’m not losing crew because they think asking for help makes them weak.”
A beat.
“We’re on the same page.”
''Thank you doctor. Other than rumor, I have never experienced the Borg. Honestly, I can't imagine what any of you all experienced. Passing through the Starbase, I encountered many who believed this was the end of the Federation."
Popeye’s gaze dropped to the edge of his desk, jaw working once before he answered.
“Yeah,” he said quietly, without the usual hard edge. “A lot of people thought that.”
He didn’t elaborate. Didn’t describe the screams over open comms, or the way assimilation wasn’t just killing—it was erasing. Didn’t say how close they came, or how much they still didn’t know. Didn’t say her name.
He just exhaled slowly through his nose.
“We’re still learning what they are,” he admitted. “What they do. What they can do. Every report that comes in contradicts the last. We’re building the book while reading it.”
He finally looked up, meeting her eyes with a steadiness that wasn’t calm—just practiced.
“But as long as this crew keeps breathing, the Federation’s not finished. Not today.”
A beat. Dry, but honest:
“And nobody here’s giving up without one hell of a fight.”
Diana nodded, hearing the words of encouragement. The crew would hear from similar words from herself as time went on. Even though she was a counselor, she was still focused on the health of the crew. Even if it was the mental health, which was just as important as the physical.
"Do you have any idea how long it takes during the assimilation process for the individual to completely turn."
Popeye didn’t answer right away.
His eyes dropped to the padd on his desk, thumb tapping once against its edge as if grounding himself.
“We don’t have a clean answer yet,” he said finally. “Minutes in some cases. Longer in others. Depends on where the implants take hold and how fast the nervous system collapses.”
He looked back up, expression tight but controlled.
“What I can tell you is this—there’s a window. Small, ugly, and unpredictable… but it exists.”
A beat.
“And once it closes, we’re not talking about recovery anymore. We’re talking about prevention.”
"Guess its way too soon to address their mental health if they're ever recovered?" Morrison inquired.
Popeye exhaled slowly through his nose, eyes fixed somewhere past the bulkhead as if weighing every word.
“Yeah… too soon,” he said quietly. “If they make it back, their minds won’t be where we left them. Not at first.”
His jaw tightened just a fraction.
“But if we get them back breathing, thinking—themselves—then mental health becomes everything. That’s where the real fight starts.”
Listening to the doctors words, Diana nodded in agreement. "Any advice before I head out?"
Popeye gave a small, tired nod.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Don’t wait for them to ask for help. They won’t.”
A beat.
“And when they say they’re fine? Listen harder. That’s usually when they need you most.”
"Thank you." And with said, she turned and exited. At that moment, Diana knew she definitely had her work cut out for her.
=================
Lt. Richard Pierce
CMO
USS Crazy Horse
Ltjg. Diana Morrison
Counselor
USS Crazy Horse
RSS Feed