Lieutenant Commander Keishara Davaris
Name Keishara Davaris
Position Chief Security/Tactical Officer
Second Position Second Officer
Rank Lieutenant Commander
Character Information
| Gender | Female | |
| Species | El Aurian | |
| Age | 230 |
Physical Appearance
| Height | 5' 4" | |
| Weight | 120 lbs | |
| Hair Color | Dark Brown | |
| Eye Color | Dark Brown | |
| Physical Description | Compact and self-contained, Keishara Davaris stands around 5’4″ with a lean, wiry strength built for speed and close-quarters control rather than bulk. She presents as early-thirties despite her true age, El Aurian features giving her a calm, ageless poise. Dark brown hair is usually worn practical—braided, knotted, or clipped back out of her eyes—framing an oval face with steady, dark eyes that miss very little. Her skin carries the quiet record of a hard life: faint scars at the knuckles and ribs, a thin line along one forearm, and ink—tasteful, discrete tattoos—that disappear beneath a sleeve or collar. Movements are economical and deliberate; she keeps her weight balanced and her hands free, the posture of someone who expects trouble and plans to end it quickly. Her voice is low and even, warming only when she chooses to let the guard down. On duty she prefers a no-nonsense uniform fit, minimal adornment beyond a wrist-chrono; off duty she leans to simple, close-fitting layers and boots, trading parade polish for kit that won’t slow her down. |
Family
| Father | Eldrin Davaris (Deceased) Chief Financial Officer of Repor II’s largest mining consortium. Eldrin was intelligent, meticulous, and deeply protective of his family. He balanced a high-stakes corporate position with a quiet, reflective nature at home. He taught Kei to question everything, but also to act when it mattered. When the Olenovians took her, he didn’t hesitate to sacrifice everything to bring her back. Kei has never forgiven herself for surviving when he did not. She remembers his voice more than his face now—and that haunts her. |
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| Mother | Yalanue Davaris (Status: Unknown) A cultural scholar and linguist, Yalanue was known for her poise and sharp intellect. She was the emotional heart of the family—graceful under pressure and deeply empathetic. Kei remembers her as the one who always understood her silences. After the Olenovian attack, Yalanue vanished along with the rest of the family. Kei has spent years trying to track any sign of her, always believing—perhaps naively—that her mother would have found a way to survive the Borg invasion. Yalanue’s fate remains one of the deepest questions in Kei’s life. |
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| Brother(s) | Kuskyn Davaris (Older Brother, Status: Unknown) The eldest sibling. Always the steady one. Kuskyn was being groomed for leadership in planetary administration and had already begun working with interstellar diplomatic envoys when Kei was still in school. She admired his calm confidence but often felt overshadowed by him. If he survived the Exodus, he may be out there still—organising, rebuilding, or simply surviving under a different name. Illithor Davaris (Brother, Status: Unknown) A dreamer and rebel. Illithor was the artistic soul of the family—he painted, composed music, and often challenged traditional El Aurian ideals. He and Kei were closest in youth, sharing secrets and sneaking off to explore abandoned tunnels under Repor’s surface. He gave Kei her first real knife, saying she should never be without a choice. She wears a pendant he made, not knowing if he lived past the Exodus. Darcassan Davaris (Brother, Status: Unknown) Analytical, aloof, and politically minded. Darcassan had strong opinions and stronger ambitions. He and Kei often clashed in debate—he called her impulsive, she called him spineless. But underneath the friction was a mutual respect neither could admit out loud. If he survived, Kei suspects he’s operating under a pseudonym, possibly working behind the scenes in a government or intelligence agency. Hagduin Davaris (Brother, Status: Unknown) Youngest of the brothers. Bright-eyed, bookish, and fascinated with pre-Federation spaceflight. Hagduin adored Kei and used to beg her to tell stories of what she saw in her martial arts training. He was still very young when Kei was taken. She tries not to imagine what happened to him—but in her worst dreams, she hears his voice calling her name through static. |
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| Sister(s) | Soliana Davaris (Sister, Status: Unknown) Soliana was serene, private, and endlessly patient. She and Yalanue shared a deep bond. Kei remembers her sister braiding her hair before school and quoting ancient poetry when Kei couldn’t sleep. Soliana had planned to become a healer, and if she survived, Kei imagines her working in refugee camps—healing quietly, never revealing her true name. Falenas Davaris (Sister, Status: Unknown) The firebrand of the family. Bold, opinionated, and fiercely protective of her younger siblings. Falenas was training to be a security officer before Kei, and was known for her zero-tolerance approach to injustice. She inspired Kei’s own combative spirit. If she’s alive, Kei believes she’s still fighting somewhere—possibly as a mercenary or protector in a border system. |
Personality & Traits
| General Overview | Keishara Davaris is a stoic protector first and a diplomat a very distant second. She leads with presence rather than volume—eyes on the room, hands free, decisions made quickly and owned fully. Procedure matters to her until it gets in the way of people; when rules and justice diverge, she follows the compass, not the manual. That pragmatism can read as uncompromising, even ruthless in the moment, but it is anchored in a fierce obligation to shield those under her watch and to leave situations cleaner than she found them. She keeps her circle tight and her tells tighter. Trauma has made her wary of intimacy and impatient with bullies, hypocrisy, and wasted time. The fuse can be short—especially in confined spaces or when predators push their luck—but her anger is controlled and purposeful, the kind that moves a situation to safe. Outside of flashpoints she is dryly funny, allergic to ceremony, and untempted by theatrics; competence impresses her, not charm. As a department head she is exacting and fair. She pushes juniors hard, gives them straight answers and workable paths, and quietly does the aftercare—commendations written, rosters balanced, late-night check-ins made without fanfare. With peers and command she is blunt and solution-oriented, cooperative across departments so long as readiness isn’t diluted. Over time she has shifted from dangerous lone operator to demanding mentor: still sharp-edged, still private, but invested in building a team that can stand the watch without her. |
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| Strengths & Weaknesses | Strengths: A decisive, battle-tempered operator, Davaris excels in close-quarters control, marksmanship, and rapid threat assessment. She maintains constant environmental awareness and uses space control and clean comms to keep teams safe under pressure. As a leader she is exacting but fair—setting clear standards, mentoring juniors with actionable guidance, and doing quiet aftercare (commendations, check-ins) without fanfare. She partners pragmatically across departments when it improves readiness, and her resilience under duress—centuries of hard lessons carried with discipline—lets her stay calm, precise, and purpose-driven when situations turn ugly. Weaknesses: Her moral pragmatism means she will bend rules when they obstruct justice, which can create friction with by-the-book officers and expose her to formal risk. She carries captivity trauma and reacts poorly to predators, hypocrisy, and confined, overheated spaces; the fuse can be short and the response uncompromising. Guarded to a fault, she defaults to self-reliance over delegation and can push herself into destructive coping (overtraining, holodeck edge-cases) when stress peaks. Administrative patience is limited, and her blunt style—useful in crisis—can read as abrasive in softer contexts if she doesn’t throttle back. |
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| Quirks | Space control habits: always takes the seat with sightlines to doors and corners; hates having her back to an entrance. Economy of words: answers in clipped phrases; long sentences usually mean she’s calming herself or someone else. Kit minimalism: keeps gear arranged with almost ritual precision; will quietly fix a teammate’s sloppy loadout. Tell on stress: rolls her shoulders once before a hard call, then goes utterly still. Dry gallows humour: one wry line after tension breaks, never during. Holodeck rules: refuses “cutesy” programs; either training runs or empty wilderness, nothing in between. Heat aversion: keeps rooms a notch cooler; overheated, enclosed spaces shorten her fuse fast. |
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| Ambitions | Davaris doesn’t chase rank for its own sake; her aim is a security department that can hold the line without her—disciplined, interoperable with Marines and Ops, and ruthless only when necessary. She wants cleaner corridors for the people under her watch, fewer names on casualty lists, and a ship whose drills bite as hard as real fights. Quietly, she intends to formalise the mentoring she already does—codifying training pipelines, licensing pathways, and after-action habits so junior officers inherit competence instead of just stories. Away from the duty roster, her ambitions are more personal: to keep the past from dictating the whole of her present, to let trust widen from a handful to a team, and to find a sustainable way to carry the weight she refuses to drop. If circumstance ever forces a crossroads—command track versus hands-on security—she’ll choose the path that keeps her close to the work and to the crew she’s sworn to defend. |
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| Hobbies & Interests | Keishara approaches her downtime much like her duty—with discipline, intensity, and solitude. Physical training is more than a hobby; it’s ritual. She maintains peak condition through a daily regimen of exercise that includes weight training, endurance circuits, and sparring. Martial arts remain her preferred form of physical and mental focus. She’s studied over a dozen combat disciplines—ranging from traditional El Aurian forms to Klingon mok’bara and Vulcan suus mahna. Some she learned through formal instruction, others through necessity and survival. Each one is a tool, but also a form of control. In training, she finds stillness. In repetition, clarity. Though she rarely admits it, Kei has made several attempts at meditation—trying to quiet her thoughts, manage her nightmares, or find grounding in a present that still feels foreign to her. It doesn’t come naturally. Her mind fights silence. But she persists, even if only for a few minutes at a time. The effort, to her, matters more than the result. She drinks socially on rare occasions—usually in small doses and only in trusted company. Strong spirits, preferably bitter. She often claims it’s just for the taste, but there's a ritualistic aspect to it—something that reminds her she’s still human, still tethered. She's not much for celebrations or large gatherings, but has a quiet appreciation for background conversation and laughter, even if she keeps to the edge of the room. Other voices are sometimes easier to bear than her own. In private, Kei has a few quieter interests. She has a deep, if hidden, appreciation for old Earth string music—particularly cello and violin. Her quarters sometimes play soft, melancholy compositions late into the ship’s night cycle. She doesn’t explain this to anyone. Nor does she explain the well-worn, leather-bound book of poetry she keeps in her locker, or the small case of tools used for maintaining antique sidearms—more art piece than arsenal. What she truly values, though, are acts of usefulness. Fixing something broken. Helping someone with no reward. Teaching a junior officer a hold that might save their life. These are her hobbies in the truest sense—not pastimes, but small acts of purpose that keep her tethered to something larger than herself. |
| Personal History | Repor II was a hard world that pretended otherwise. Corporate brochures showed clean domes and blue-white slag stacks against a gold sky; what Kei remembers is the metallic taste in the air, grease ground into boot treads, and the quiet choreography of people who knew shifts, alarms, and debt better than they knew seasons. The Davaris family lived a little above the grind—her father, Eldrin, was a CFO for one of the mining concerns—so Kei grew up between two truths: polished offices where numbers moved ore more efficiently than cranes, and catwalks where those numbers translated into backs and breaths. Yalanue kept the centre of the home steady—warm food, sharp eyes, expectations that didn’t bend for excuses. The siblings—Kuskyn, Illithor, Darcassan, Hagduin, Soliana, Falenas—were a small constellation with their own orbits: quarrels, alliances, shared jokes traded in whispers when adults talked business. Kei learned early to listen first and speak last. El Aurian longevity meant childhood didn’t end with a birthday; it stretched. Kei’s looked compact from the outside—chores, school, the same corridor to the transit hub—but the interior span was wide. She spent long hours mapping the mine grid in her head, memorising service tunnels, emergency ladders, which bulkhead doors stuck in the heat. Eldrin taught her ledgers like they were a language—how to read what was missing as clearly as what was written—while Yalanue drilled practicals: where the medkit lived, how to knot a sling that would hold, when to stand up for a sibling and when to stand down so a fight didn’t escalate. The house rule was simple: you look after your own, and “your own” includes the people without a badge or a title. Repor’s public life ran on ceremony—shareholder briefings, safety day speeches, security walk-throughs with too-clean boots—but the private truth was edges everywhere. Kei noticed who carried a second ID, which foreman’s temper got worse when a shipment ran light, and how the company’s “risk tolerance” always seemed to be paid for by someone who couldn’t afford it. Eldrin walked that edge more than once: smoothing a dispute here, burying a number there, coming home with the kind of silence that asked not to be poked. Kei filed those silences away. She learned, without anyone saying it aloud, that status wasn’t a wall—it was a bigger target. What she also learned, and kept, was the habit of space. On Repor you stood where you could see an exit; you didn’t let strangers at your back; you kept a mental count of who was in the room and who had gone quiet. That wasn’t paranoia—it was literacy. Before the pirates, before captivity and escape, Kei’s bones already knew the grammar of dangerous places. Repor taught her to read it. Abduction It didn’t start like a raid; it started like a detour. The security detail rerouted Kei’s transit under the excuse of a protest outside the safehouse—standard risk language, believable enough that no one argued. The corridor they chose ran hotter than it should have; the environmental readouts were “within tolerance,” but sweat collected under Kei’s collar and the air tasted like old batteries. She clocked the first wrong note when the rearmost guard fell a step back and didn’t correct—sightlines collapsing, angles gone. Then the second: a freight hatch ahead that was supposed to be mag-sealed showed a smear of grease across the latch, fresh, low. By the time she opened her mouth, the lights cut to emergency and the world narrowed to torches, shout-echo, and the percussion of boots on metal. The ambush was practised and mean. Stun first, then pain to keep her compliant—rib shots, a baton across the forearm that left a line she still carries. Hands on her cheeks, rough, turning her face for a lens. A voice in her ear that smelled of spice and solvent said her name wrong on purpose. They killed the senior guard to make a point. They left the youngest alive to carry a message. Someone filmed her on her knees with a cuff under her chin and blood on her lip; later she’d learn the clip went out across half the colony inside the hour. Segal’s people understood theatre. They made fear into a broadcast. The exchange was arranged because Eldrin would always choose his child. He arrived with the brittle calm of an executive forced onto a street corner—company jacket over a shirt gone limp with sweat, two cases in hand and the sort of smile you use on board members who are about to vote you out. Kei remembers the smell of heated dust, the tacky feel of her split lip when she tried to wet it, the way the wind got under the edges of the tarp roof and made it flap like a slow heartbeat. She remembers the math of it—the distance between guns, the slope of the ground, the uselessness of the security badges lying face-down in the dirt. Segal didn’t take the cases. He took Eldrin’s breath with a single round, centre mass, and let him bleed in front of her so the lesson would be permanent: leverage isn’t a negotiation, it’s ownership. They bound her with a shock cuff that was both restraint and conversation. Every time she looked too long at her father’s body, they tapped the control. Every time she tried to speak, they tapped it again. On the transport up, a man with careful hands set her broken forearm and told her, almost kindly, that she was valuable, that valuable things get looked after, that obedience would keep the voltage low. Kei learned the rules of her new world in the time it took the shuttle to clear atmosphere: you are property; grief is a luxury; and if you want to live long enough to change anything, you survive first and remember everything. Captivity & Survival Segal didn’t run a dungeon; he ran an economy. Pain was the currency, predictability the contract. Days were measured in tasks—carry, clean, count, keep watch—and in the little negotiations of not getting noticed. The shock cuff taught posture and silence. Food taught obedience: bowls slid across a floor, timing irregular enough to unsettle the body. Sleep came in slices, sandwiched between lights that never truly went dark and footsteps that never truly went away. She learnt to move when the guards’ attention crested and to freeze when it ebbed. She learnt that begging bought you nothing but sport. Work became apprenticeship because she made it so. In storerooms and engine bays she watched hands, not faces—how locks yielded if you angled the pick shallow, how a cheap camera ghosted at the edge of its own infrared, how a man who bragged about knives actually favoured his right knee. She filed passwords by the shape of the mouths that spoke them, mapped patrol routes by the squeak in a boot sole, and timed the shock-cuff’s recharge by the sting in her bones. A bored gaoler taught her cards; cards became practise at reading tells. A mechanic showed her a field strip to pass time; field strips became the habit of breaking things down to what they were made of and building them back in her head. Close-quarters violence was not a revelation—it was an inevitability. When she couldn’t win, she learnt to last. When she could win, she learnt to finish. The mind had its own war. Grief and rage didn’t vanish; they got organised into smaller boxes she could carry. On bad nights, a voice she later named Dodian threaded through the dark—calm, cruel, efficient—offering shortcuts she refused when she could and used when she had to. She practised stillness until guards forgot she was listening; she practised blankness until men lost interest faster. The body healed crooked where it had to: ribs that clicked in cold air, a forearm that ached in storms, a shoulder that never sat quite right after a restraint went on too tight for too long. She kept the scars because removing them would have felt like lying. Years stretched. Loyalty shifted like sand around anyone who served Segal long enough to understand him. Kei learnt what everyone learnt: that cruelty gets bored and that boredom is a crack. She made herself useful without becoming trusted, visible without becoming seen. The day she stopped counting was the day she realised she knew more about the place than most of the men who claimed to own it—where the secondary power bled into heat exchangers, which vent vibrated off-frequency when a perimeter drone failed, which medic cut voltage on a cuff if you asked him about his daughter before lights out. Survival wasn’t luck. It was literacy sharpened to a blade she kept hidden until there was finally something to cut. Escape & Reckoning In the end it wasn’t bravery; it was timing. Segal’s network split along a hairline crack—two lieutenants at each other’s throats, a shipment that didn’t land, guards drafted to show the flag at the wrong door. Kei felt the pattern loosen. She’d already mapped the blind cone of a corridor camera and the two-beat delay on a bulkhead sensor after power-cycling. She baited a gaoler into overusing the cuff until the contacts blistered her wrist and the circuit fouled; when the next shift swapped restraints, she palmed the dead unit’s clip. That night a maintenance panel came off in silence, and she slid into the belly of the place with a rag round her mouth to keep the metal stink out of her teeth. She moved on breaths and remembered floors, counting access rungs by the ache in her bad forearm. At the perimeter she bled the service line just enough to trip a fault and rode the distraction to a landing bay. A shuttle sat warm, nose-to, like a dare. She made it take her. Freedom didn’t arrive as relief. It arrived as quiet—too much of it—broken by the rattle of her own breath and the old craft’s cough as it pushed through atmosphere. She kept low, dirty and small, ghosting between waystations, paying in favours and stolen fixes, never staying long enough to be a story. The first time she slept without a door she could brace, she woke convinced she’d made a mistake. She flew, she walked, she kept moving until the need to turn and look behind her dulled into a habit she could carry without it eating her alive. Finding Segal wasn’t a quest; it was a job done in pieces. She sorted rumours like ledgers, crossed names with routes, followed the small economies of fear to a cold moon with thin air and a facility that pretended to be decommissioned. Getting in was simpler than it should have been—decay breeds slack. She avoided the cameras because it pleased her to do it properly and because some habits are the bones you keep. Segal slept with a light on and a bottle open, a man who believed the worst part of his life was behind him. She stood at the foot of his bed until he woke enough to understand, and then she ended him neatly. No speech. No patience for a man who had spent hers. She left the room the way she’d found it, minus a monster, and took nothing but the knowledge that he would not wake again. There was no afterwards worth naming. No cleansing rain, no sudden softening. Vengeance didn’t fix the tilt of her shoulder or the way she watched doorways; it didn’t bring her father back or smooth the sense that spaces were traps until proved otherwise. What it did was remove a weight she’d carried so long she’d almost mistaken it for a limb. She didn’t forgive, she didn’t forget. She simply stopped owing him the future. Then she did what she always did: she kept moving. Drift Years She didn’t fall into Starfleet; she drifted towards it in stubborn, necessary arcs. After she ended Segal, the news of El Auria’s fall hit like a pressure drop—world gone, people scattered, names turning into memorial lists. She hadn’t been there for the screaming sky; she was already adrift when the Borg erased the map. What it changed was simpler and crueller: there was no home to steer back to, no family to find by following old routes. For a long while she lived under other names and on other people’s schedules—courier runs, protection work, the kind of jobs you can take without answering questions. She trained with ex-mercenaries and disavowed agents, layered disciplines until close-quarters control felt like a second spine, and used rage as a compass when her own didn’t point anywhere useful. Survival paid the bills; the hunt for what was left of Segal’s shadow paid the rest. When the killing was done and the void remained, she built a small crew around an old freighter that should have retired and didn’t. They ran the quiet lanes—staples, filters, cheap medicals—rarely staying long, because people left, or died, or drifted off when the money ran thin. The ship held together the way some families do: with tape, stubbornness, and the choice to keep showing up. Kei never let herself stand too close to it. She remembered exactly what happened when you did. Work took her sideways into a monarchy on Skywalke, where she was hired to bodyguard Princess Origana. The girl grew into a thoughtful queen, kind in ways that made Kei uncomfortable because it asked for a softness she kept locked. Fifteen years of watchfulness turned into something almost like belonging. When new advisers insisted on a “proper” royal guard, Kei left without ceremony; the queen asked her to stay, and Kei declined. She has never been good at goodbyes. The freighter finally failed. She got a distress call off and rode the crash down near a Federation outpost. Starfleet hauled her out of the wreck and, for once, asked questions she didn’t hate. A young ensign—too direct, too clear—asked why she was running. She didn’t have an answer that survived the air. So she tested a different gravity. In 2361 she sat the Academy entrance exam and passed. It wasn’t redemption; it was a framework—constraints she could live with, a manual she could ignore when it hurt the innocent, and, perhaps, a reason to stop moving for movement’s sake. The drift narrowed. Purpose replaced velocity. Starfleet Academy (2361–2365) She entered Security/Tactical because exits, angles, and space-control were already second nature. The Academy gave her language and leverage—policy, procedure, evidence that stands up—without sanding off the edges. She excelled in room entry, weapons retention, and marksmanship, and built the unglamorous habits (clean comms, squared kit, reports that survive hostile review). Holosuite time skewed practical: tight corridors a notch too warm, boarding drills, and night treks to reset her breathing—practice, not escape. Second-year incident: when a dorm-level harassment case kept “going missing” in paperwork, Davaris stepped in during a repeat corridor confrontation. The heat, the corner, the laugh—too close to old rooms—tipped her from warning to action. She cut the aggressor off, told the victim to walk, and applied a fast restraint that ended in a fractured arm when he fought the lock. She took the reprimand and counselling, said little beyond the truth: stop the harm first, pay the price after. By graduation (2365) she hadn’t softened; she’d aligned—constraints when they helped, discretion when they didn’t, and a team muscle she could finally trust. Early Assignments (USS Oban) Her first posting to the USS Oban put discipline around instincts that were already sharp. She handled the unglamorous work—custody transfers, evidence chains, dull patrols—and then the galaxy got loud. After Wolf 359, she led recovery teams through wreckage fields, pulling survivors out of crushed hulls with methodical brutality and none of the speeches. The legend that followed wasn’t about swagger; it was about a security officer who didn’t stop moving until the last body was accounted for. Not all of it was clean. During a Nausicaan piracy sting, a suspect pushed until something ugly pushed back; Davaris put him down hard enough to trigger an Internal Affairs review. No charges—only a reprimand and the understanding that her line is drawn where victims start and predators end. An Orion smuggling case made her reputation in whispers: an asset named Twel surrendered his entire network after one interrogation. He never said what she told him; he only asked for a transfer to a psychiatric unit. Davaris didn’t celebrate. She filed the paperwork, squared the locker, and went back on watch. The pattern was set: exacting reports that survived hostile scrutiny, clean comms under pressure, and a readiness to spend herself when civilians were at risk. By the time the Dominion drumbeat started, the Oban had taught her the Federation way—and confirmed that, when policy and protection diverged, she would choose the latter and carry the cost. USS Moore — Arrival & Ascent Transferred to the newly commissioned USS Moore at the height of the Dominion War, Davaris arrived with a reputation for clean comms and controlled violence—and the ship gave her a broader canvas. In early boarding actions she repelled Jem’Hadar strike teams with ruthless efficiency, and later exposed a Changeling infiltrator on pattern-sense and instinct alone. During the Second Battle of Chin’toka, she held a breached corridor single-handed for seven minutes—long enough for forcefields to come back and medics to clear the wounded—earning promotion to Chief Security/Tactical in 2375. Mid-war, during a corridor clearance on Deck 8, a photon grenade landed at the feet of Captain Stryvek. Davaris moved without thinking—body between blast and command—taking the worst of it. The detonation shredded her armour and dropped her, bleeding out in the smoke. With help minutes away and her vitals crashing, Stryvek initiated an emergency mind meld to stabilise her—lending focus, pain-gating, and the will to keep breathing until the med team arrived. She survived with scars she still carries; he walked away with a thread of her memory and a sharper understanding of the woman who would spend herself to keep others standing. Recovery forged a quiet bond. Stryvek remained formally proper, but he trusted her judgement in ways that showed: a longer leash when rules and outcomes diverged; a habit of asking her for the practical answer before the political one; the occasional studied look-away when she bent procedure to protect people. She never abused it. She simply used it when the manual lagged behind the moment. Peace didn’t feel like peace. In 2376 – The Ch’Rhalas Extraction, she diverted the Moore through a narrow Romulan-controlled corridor to reach a compromised evac site; her shuttle was shot down five kilometres short, she reset a dislocated shoulder, led the team on foot, and brought all ten diplomats out. Commendation issued; quiet questions asked about the incursion; her answer was colder than the briefing room: “I did what the mission needed, not what the politics wanted.” By 2382 she accepted Second Officer without ceremony and doubled down on readiness. Training blocks became endurance trials—blackout runs, deck-to-deck sprints, intrusion drills that taught reflex before comfort. A complaint triggered an investigation; she was cleared. The same officer later requested to remain under her command. When official channels stalled on 2384 – Thaxus Trade Guild trafficking, she went off-book on “leave,” put on an old skin as freelance muscle, climbed to an inner circle and ended the op with a knife and a call-in. Debrief awkward; formal reprimand issued; informal thanks recorded; the evidence stood. By 2387, Davaris was the Moore’s paradox and its constant: feared by some, adored by others, and trusted by nearly all to stand the line when it broke—tactician over protocol when protocol failed; warrior who mourned quietly; protector who bled before she broke her word. Brighton Colony — Operation & Aftermath (2387) Brighton was work, not myth: cordons set, casualty lanes held, interiors cleared in dust and heat with clipped comms and no drama. Davaris pushed teams through tight structures while EOD crawled the ruins, handed survivors to Medical with names attached, and kept the square from collapsing into panic. When the noise stopped, she did what she always does—wrote the commendations, tidied the reports so memory wouldn’t fray, and rebuilt rosters to spread the grief and the load. Brighton stands in her ledger as competence under pressure, not a death scene. After Brighton — Stryvek’s Death & Command Transition The loss came later. Captain Stryvek and Intelligence Officer Safi M’Pongo were killed in a shuttle accident—no enemy to name, just absence and the administrative quiet that follows. For Davaris, the weight was personal: this was the man she’d once dragged away from a photon grenade and the officer who’d kept her alive with an emergency mind meld while they waited on help during the war. Recovery had forged a working bond; he trusted her judgement and, at times, gave her a longer leash than most department heads receive. After his death, she closed ranks the only way she knows—armouries squared, duty rotations stabilised, standards tightened so the ship felt held. Captain Calvin Maraj took command soon after. Where Stryvek’s trust had been intimate, Maraj’s is structural—present on the deck, procedure-forward, quick to back clean outcomes. Davaris adjusted without theatrics: results first, explanations ready, readiness non-negotiable. They’ve found a rhythm—his transparency paired with her insistence that drills bite as hard as real fights. |
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| Service Record | 2361–2365 — Starfleet Academy — Cadet, Security/Tactical (graduated 2365) 2365–2373 — USS Oban — Security Officer (post–Wolf 359 recovery ops; Nausicaan piracy sting; Orion smuggling investigation) 2373–2375 — USS Moore — Assistant Chief Security/Tactical (Dominion War actions incl. Jem’Hadar boarding repulses; Changeling exposure case; saved Capt. Stryvek from a photon grenade; emergency mind-meld for stabilisation) 2375 → — USS Moore — Chief Security/Tactical (promoted 2375; held corridor at Second Battle of Chin’toka) 2376 — USS Moore — Ch’Rhalas Extraction (Romulan corridor incursion; mission commendation) 2382 → — USS Moore — Second Officer (additional duty; department readiness overhaul) 2384 — USS Moore — Thaxus Trade Guild interdiction (off-book infiltration; evidence secured; formal reprimand issued) 2387 — Brighton Colony — Ground security lead (cordons, casualty lanes, EOD support; mission concluded) 2387 — USS Moore — Command transition (Capt. Stryvek & Lt. Cmdr. Safi M’Pongo killed in shuttle accident; Capt. Calvin Maraj assumes command; Davaris retains CS/TAC & 2XO roles) |
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| Awards & Decorations | 2365 — Starfleet Academy Commandant’s Note (Professional Conduct & Competence) — for exemplary evidence handling / report standards on final-year practicums. 2374 — Dominion War Campaign Ribbon — USS Moore service. 2374 — Starfleet Purple Heart — injuries sustained shielding Capt. Stryvek from a photon grenade; survived via emergency mind meld. 2375 — Starfleet Citation for Conspicuous Gallantry — held a breached corridor during the Second Battle of Chin’toka until forcefields re-established. 2375 — Promotion to Chief Security/Tactical, USS Moore — meritorious wartime service. 2376 — Starfleet Medal of Commendation — “Ch’Rhalas Extraction” operation; downed shuttle, overland recovery of all ten diplomats. 2382 — Position Addendum — appointed Second Officer, USS Moore, for sustained excellence in department readiness and interdepartmental coordination. 2387 — Unit Commendation — Brighton Colony mission; security cordons, casualty lanes, and EOD support executed to standard under hostile conditions. Reprimands & Administrative Notes 2362 — Formal Reprimand (Academy, 2nd Year) — excessive force while intervening in a dormitory harassment incident (fractured arm of aggressor). Mandated counselling completed; file sealed. 2370s (USS Oban) — Internal Affairs Review / Letter of Caution — Nausicaan piracy sting; use-of-force questioned, no charges preferred. 2384 — Formal Reprimand (USS Moore) — off-book infiltration of Thaxus Trade Guild trafficking ring while on leave; evidence secured and operation collapsed, but procedures breached. Command noted “outcome effective; method unacceptable.” |