Oh.
That was an option?
---
As it turned out, her view of psychiatric help was incredibly stereotypical and outdated as it was less an interrogation about her father upon a chaise lounge and more, well, more like an informal chat.
Beatrice's cynicism didn't exactly melt in the face of the (prettier, how dare he) Togruta, who was, at the very least entirely professional. The blonde kept expecting some sort of metaphorical rug to be pulled out from beneath her as she inched towards truthful assessments of her own mess of tangled feelings and issues over the weeks.
Perhaps there would always remain a part of her waiting for the next demise at the hands of another.
She didn't come leaping into the realm of absolute victory with a fully functional brain and healthy coping mechanisms after a couple of weeks, but it was a notable improvement upon where they had started (even if where they had started was in a very peculiar hole of minor self-harm).
A solution for her chronic case of overthinking came in a suggestion of keeping occupied, and since only so many hours of the day could be spent drinking soup and in therapy (both physical and mental), it fell to Govan to
find something to do. This in turn meant that it fell to Emryc Qosta to
give her something to do.
And as luck would have it, Emryc Qosta had five space stations worth of something to dos. Of course, there was an entire awkward semi-interrogation to ensure that she was even fit for purpose when she had asked him. One assurance of past experience and a small lie of omission later and she had a...
...job?
---
Then it happened.
Evelynn Dorn, drinking electric orange cocktails (
maybe Cortez had a point) and indulging in ringside violence happened upon on Aver Brand, arsehole mercenary and more-to-the-point, Emryc Qosta's darling sister. The evening unravelled into a mess of personal questions and self-realisation that was so horrific and vulnerable that the woman felt as if she was cheating on her psychiatrist with the marble-carved sibling.
A haze had descended on the rest of the evening, reckless inebriation stealing memories and leaving wicked headaches in its wake. She, at the very least, recalled two important parts.
One: That Emryc Qosta had a morally questionable sister that he would not think twice about shooting in the back of the head.
Two: That she actually cared about him.
The return trip back to two-forty-four Core was spent largely in a state of nausea, both relating to revelation and hangover. She napped upon the floor, hugging the metal of a toilet seat until it was warm and stuck to her cheek, legs that touch more useless since the reappearance of Evelynn.
No more drinking, she decided there and then.