Ensign Roy Bancroft - The Weight of the Name
Carter Schimpff
(( Holosuite 6 - Deck 221, Deep Space 224 ))
(( Sitting Room, Late Afternoon, The Bancroft Estate - Kiawah Island, South Carolina, Earth))
The simulated humidity didn’t cling – it perched, polite as a dinner guest sweating through a monogrammed linen jacket. Afternoon light slanted in golden beams through plantation shutters, diffused across heirloom bone china and the faint scent of lemon verbena.
The furniture was museum-worthy in that distinctly Southern way – carved cherrywood, intricate needlepoint, and upholstery that had never been comfortable but was certainly expensive.
A ceiling fan traced lazy circles overhead, more for ambiance than function. Somewhere in the distance, a bird called once and never again – as if even the local wildlife knew better than to interrupt a Bancroft.
Margot Bancroft reclined on the edge of a settee that had likely outlived several generations. Her silver hair was pinned in the same style she’d worn for three decades – not out of habit, but because it was efficient.
Her Starfleet commendations sat tucked on a sideboard, next to a modest bowl of peppermints and a framed photo of her younger self – holding an infant Roy as if someone had handed her a very small, underperforming clipboard.
She looked up just as the sitting room door slid shut behind her son.
Margot: ::politely:: Roy.
Her tone was clipped and formal, like a diagnosis delivered on a sterling tea set.
Margot: You’re three minutes early. I do hope you’re not trying to make up for something. ::gesturing to a nearby chair:: Sit, darling. You look like you haven’t been sleeping. Should I be concerned?
Roy took the offered seat uneasily. Truth be told, he’d rather have stayed standing – or, better yet, not have been here at all. But he knew better – Margot Bancroft didn’t make requests.
She gave orders.
Bancroft: ::flatly:: Hi, mama. No, ma’am, nothing to be concerned about. I’ve been sleeping just fine. How have you and dad been?
Margot offered a nod so slight it might’ve been mistaken for a muscle twitch, then settled back into the settee with one ankle crossed neatly over the other.
Margot: Your father’s well, thank you for asking. He’s discovered what he believes is a marginally more efficient logistical scheme for supplying outlying starbases and has been working at it with the enthusiasm most men reserve for an affair.
She plucked a peppermint from the bowl, turned it between her fingers, then placed it precisely back where it had been.
Margot: As for me… oh, the usual. I’ve been mentoring a few of the newer faculty. One of them submitted a proposal for an interspecies cardiac response matrix. Adorable, really. Like watching a toddler try to waltz.
Her smile was narrow, polite, and deeply dangerous. She shifted her gaze back to Roy.
Margot: But I imagine you’re far too busy for that sort of academic babysitting. Your work on the Artemis must be… stimulating. ::a beat:: So. Tell me everything. Have you published yet? Diagnosed anything exotic? Saved a colony from a rare disease? Or– ::voice softening into syrupy sweet tea tones:: –have you simply been making your little rounds and sleeping just fine?
She smiled again. It was dazzling. And utterly without warmth.
Roy fought the urge to recoil – it would only be seen as a sign of weakness for her to further probe and poke at. He squared his shoulders and took a deep, slow breath.
Bancroft: Well, I wouldn’t exactly call it leisurely, mama. We just came back from a mission to Galaris IV where we were dropped into the middle of an active planetary war–
Her eyebrows lifted a polite millimeter, just enough to suggest interest – or disbelief.
Margot: A war, you say? Well, that does sound dramatic. How thrilling. ::beat:: Of course, when I was your age, we didn’t drop into the middle of wars – we ended them. ::airily:: But I suppose it’s all the same these days.
She gestured vaguely with one hand, as if brushing away an invisible spec of lint from the otherwise pristine room.
Margot: And what did you contribute, darling? Triage under fire? Improvised bone grafts using alien polymers? Did you earn yourself a commendation? ::a beat, her eyes narrowing a millimeter:: Or did you manage to find a particularly brave way to take cover and monitor vitals simultaneously?
Roy fought hard to keep his temper from flaring.
Bancroft: ::crimson creeping up his neck:: I think I availed myself well, if that’s what you’re getting after. Under Captain MacKenzie’s leadership, the crew brought a decades-long war to an end and uncovered an Orion Syndicate plot to keep the conflict going for profit. ::a pause:: It’s a bit early yet for commendations, wouldn’t you say? I’m barely three months out of the Medical Academy.
Margot gave a small laugh – not necessarily unkind, but with the distinct timbre of someone privately amused by how low the bar had gotten.
Margot: Oh, Roy. Of course. Three whole months. My, how the time flies by when you’re sitting idle.
She reached for a crystal glass of something amber that hadn’t been there a moment ago – a subtle flex of the holoprogram, perhaps – and took a sip to accompany her abject disappointment.
Margot: ::casually:: Your father made Junior Grade at the three-month mark, but perhaps there’s been some sort of ::rolling her eyes upward:: clerical strike aboard the Artemis. Or are we simply being more… patient these days?
She tilted her head just slightly, regarding him like a clinical trial that had failed to yield significant results.
Margot: And Captain MacKenzie…
The name came out like it had been polished to a shine and then dusted with arsenic.
Margot: She’s still in command, is she? Hm. ::a longer sip from the crystal glass:: I suppose the criteria for promotion is broader than it used to be. One must give her credit – maintaining command despite her revolving door of subordinates? Remarkable.
She set her glass down soundlessly.
Margot: But back to you. You say you ‘availed yourself well.’ I adore that phrasing, darling – so humble. So vague. ::beat:: Did you save anyone’s life? Make a discovery? Alter the course of the war? Or – and I ask with only the deepest maternal pride – did you simply complete your assignments… competently? ::the smile again:: Because I do understand that ‘competent’ is the new ‘exceptional’ these days.
Roy lifted his chin a fraction. Defiance, maybe. Or armor. Even he couldn't say. He let the comment about his father slide. Roy would only drag out the fact that Reginald Bancroft had also plateaued at Lieutenant Commander, primarily because he possessed the charisma of a wet dishtowel.
The slight against Captain MacKenzie, though… that would be filed away for later.
Bancroft: Actually, yes. I saved the life of a Grundan woman. With her little girl right next to her, begging me to save her. ::swallowing:: While we were being shelled. ::hurrying to continue before being interrupted once again:: And I discovered an otherwise unknown electromagnetically mobilized inert nanoparticle that the Syndicate was using to murder those who attempted to defy them.
She blinked – once – and for just a flicker of a second, something like genuine surprise softened her features. But it passed as quickly as it came, replaced by a look often reserved for students who had somehow managed to pass a test she’d intentionally written to be failed.
Margot: Well. That certainly sounds impressive when you say it all in one breath, dear. Was the woman grateful? I do hope so. There’s nothing quite like the fleeting gratitude of a civilian to fill the void left by a lack of institutional recognition.
She reached again for the peppermint, this time tucking it into her palm.
Margot: Roy, darling… I’m not saying your story isn’t moving. I’m sure it will do wonders at the next mess hall mixer. But when you’re a Bancroft, you must ask yourself: is it memorable?
She smiled – not cruelly, but with the elegant assurance of someone who calculated every action to be memorable.
Margot: You see, survival is expected. Discovery is… interesting. But legacy? That’s deliberate. It’s earned. And it takes more than saving one life and discovering something anyone with a tricorder and half a brain should have found.
Roy let out a long breath through his nose, not breaking eye contact.
Don’t let her see you sweat, Roy. Don’t let her get you out of control. That’s what she wants. That’s what she thrives on.
A churn of guilt over his decision with the Grundan woman, long since adjudicated but perhaps never to be forgotten, threatened to well up in his stomach. He pushed it back down.
Bancroft: ::flatly:: It was memorable to me. And to that little girl. ::a beat:: I'm writing my own legacy, mama. I’m an excellent physician, I availed myself well on that mission, and I will continue to grow and improve.
She regarded him in silence for a moment – a rare quiet from someone who’d long ago mastered the scalpel-sharp utility of a well-placed syllable. Her expression didn’t soften, exactly, but it shifted, ever so slightly.
Margot: Well.
Again, that word. But this time, it landed with something heavier behind it. Something that might, in some lights, be mistaken for disdain.
Margot: Confidence suits you better when it isn’t worn like a borrowed suit. ::beat:: And I imagine the little girl will remember you.
Her gaze drifted – briefly – to the portrait over the mantle, the painted eyes of an ancestor who had likely never once known what to do with a feeling.
Margot: Just remember, darling… everyone grows and improves. That’s called life. Not accomplishment. Not distinction.
She rose smoothly, not a crease out of place, brushing a phantom speck from her sleeve with the same care she might use to wipe down a surgical tray.
Margot: ::sighing theatrically:: But, I suppose even a respectable plateau is better than a decline. ::nod of closure:: I’ll let you return to your… duties. I imagine someone needs to restock the hand sanitizer. And Roy– ::voice softening:: –if you’re quite determined to build a legacy out of sentimentality and second-tier medicine, I do hope you’re at least keeping a journal. That way, when history forgets you, you’ll still have the comfort of rereading your own mediocrity.
She turned as if to leave, but paused – just long enough for the parting shot.
Margot: And if anyone asks about your progress, I’ll be sure to tell them you’re… still getting used to the weight of the name.
She smiled with all the grace of a southern belle posing at an Easter brunch – and vanished from the room, leaving behind only the faintest scent of lemon verbena and a silence that was far too loud.
End Scene
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Ensign Roy Bancroft
Medical Officer
USS Artemis-A
A240205RB1