Lieutenant JG Roy Bancroft - We Were Never Here
Carter Schimpff
(( ‘Appetite Optional’ – Ferenginar ))
MacKenzie: I think I'd listen to him if I were you...
Across the table, MacKenzie smiled.
It wasn’t a warm smile.
It was the sort of expression Roy had come to recognize as a warning – a polite arrangement of muscles that carried precisely no obligation toward mercy.
Fring tugged harder.
Fring: But I can't-
The world moved.
There was no dramatic wind-up. No shouted threat. One moment MacKenzie was seated; the next she was most decidedly not. The fork vanished from her hand and reappeared embedded in the table with surgical precision, the tines quivering where Fring’s knuckles had been less than half a second before.
The sound – wood giving way, a metallic twa-a-a-ang – seemed to linger longer than it should have.
It was, Roy realized with a flicker of detached clarity, one of the most unrestrained, unhinged things he had ever witnessed a Starfleet officer do in public.
MacKenzie: ::with a voice half an octave lower than its usual range:: Drop it.
Roy didn’t move – not in any way that would draw attention. Only his hand loosened, just enough, allowing Fring to twist free. The Ferengi vanished in a blur, evidently deciding that whatever fines or citations awaited him were preferable to remaining within fork’s reach of a Captain who had just demonstrated an alarming fluency with improvised violence.
For a brief moment, no one spoke.
MacKenzie dabbed the corners of her mouth with her napkin, composed as if she’d merely corrected a misfiled report. The fork remained embedded in the table before her, still quivering faintly.
Roy exhaled at last and settled back into his chair, aware that his shoulders had been tighter than he’d realized.
Bancroft: ::mild, conversational:: Well. That certainly cleared up the misunderstanding.
MacKenzie: I didn't even have to mention that I was a galactically-renowned surgeon and that I'd take off his lobes piece by piece if he didn't let it go…
Her comment was delivered lightly, almost playfully, as though the image she’d conjured were meant to amuse.
Roy filed that away.
Bancroft: ::pleasantly, not looking at the fork:: It would’ve kept the diplomatic corps gainfully employed for months, I imagine.
Her appetite apparently satisfied by ‘attempted assault with a deadly utensil’, MacKenzie rose and headed for the door of the restaurant. Roy followed without hesitation, the survival-oriented portion of his lizard brain lighting up with relief at the sight of an exit.
Escape vector acquired.
He was almost free.
Almost.
MacKenzie: Not so fast. ::pointing:: Go to the kitchen and ask for a to-go container. Don't bother boxing up the gagh - it's terrible when it's not fresh.
Roy halted immediately. He had learned, in a relatively short span of time, that Addison MacKenzie often telegraphed her displeasure moments before delivering it verbally.
Interrupting that process seemed ill-advised.
The threat – there was always a threat – came a beat later. Not shouted or embellished, but delivered with absolute confidence. It wasn’t violent in nature. It didn’t need to be.
MacKenzie: Doctor Bancroft, if you don't come back to the Artemis with that hasparat, you can find your own ride back to the Borderlands.
Bancroft: ::single nod:: I’ll see us both returned safely, ma’am.
(( Rear Kitchen, ‘Appetite Optional’ – Ferenginar ))
The kitchen was significantly louder than the dining room had been – not in volume so much as activity. Steam hissed from unseen vents. Pans clattered. Somewhere, something oily sizzled with an enthusiasm bordering on malice.
Roy paused just inside the threshold, letting his eyes adjust.
The hasperat was exactly where he’d expected it to be.
Fring had reclaimed it the moment they’d departed the table, the platter now clutched protectively against his chest. Beside him stood the Ferengi Inspector, his PADD tucked beneath one arm, posture stiff and lobes twitching.
Two Ferengi. One prize.
Roy smiled, soft and deferential, and stepped forward with his empty hands clearly visible.
Bancroft: ::pleasant and conversational:: Gentlemen. I’m sorry to interrupt – I promise this’ll only take a moment.
The Inspector’s gaze slid over him, dismissive. Fring’s eyes remained locked on Bancroft’s empty hands.
Roy inclined his head slightly toward the Inspector first. It was important, he knew, to greet authority as authority – even when it came wrapped in greed.
Bancroft: I’m Doctor Bancroft. Starfleet Medical. ::a beat, lightly:: Off the clock, thankfully.
Roy continued before either Ferengi could seize control of the conversation.
Bancroft: There seems to have been a mild misunderstanding out front. I’m hoping we can resolve it back here, quietly, and to everyone’s satisfaction. ::to the Inspector:: I couldn’t help noticing you’re in the middle of an inspection.
The Inspector’s lobes twitched again. Fring made a small, strangled noise.
Roy offered a sympathetic smile.
Bancroft: For what it’s worth, I don’t envy you your position. Running a kitchen on Ferenginar, under regulation? That takes grit, determination, and… ::looking meaningfully at the Inspector:: latinum.
He shifted his attention to the plate of hasperat.
Bancroft: That said – the platter you’re holding is no longer part of your inventory. It was purchased, prepared, and served. At present, it’s merely… let's say 'in transit'.
Fring opened his mouth. The Inspector did, too.
Roy raised a finger – not to silence, but to pace.
Bancroft: Now, if this platter were to remain here much longer, I imagine that might begin to raise all sorts of questions. Chain of custody. Food handling standards. ::a beat, whimsically:: Whether Ferenginar is an appropriate destination for Starfleet officers to come and spend latinum on shore leave. ::a pause, a genial smile:: Questions I’m sure you’re both fully equipped to explore.
The Inspector stiffened. Fring blanched.
Roy pressed on gently, voice warm and almost conspiratorial.
Bancroft: On the other hand, if this dish were to leave the premises promptly – boxed, of course – I imagine it would cease to be relevant to either of you. We could all just… forget about this little platter of hasperat.
Fring’s shoulders sagged as he slid the platter into a to-go box on a nearby counter. The Inspector hesitated only a moment longer before giving a curt nod.
Roy accepted the boxed hasperat when it was offered, careful and respectful, as though he were receiving something fragile.
Bancroft: Much obliged, gentlemen. I appreciate your time. ::tapping his commbadge:: =/\= Bancroft to Artemis, one to beam up. =/\=
As the swirl and sparkle of the transporter beam enveloped him, the box tucked carefully under one arm, he mouthed four final words to the two Ferengi:
We were never here.
End Scene for Bancroft
===
Lieutenant JG Roy Bancroft
Medical Officer
USS Artemis-A
A240205RB1