Ensign Roy Bancroft - This was *Supposed* to be Subtle
Carter Schimpff
(( Primary Sickbay - Deck 7, USS Artemis-A ))
Bancroft: ::wryly:: Airlocks are the leading cause of sudden-onset death here on the Artemis. Fortunately, Lieutenants and above seem to be immune to the affliction. Welcome aboard. ::pointing to the far side of Sickbay:: Is this your first time in our humble infirmary? I’d be honored to give you the tour. ::a pause:: Oh, and may I have your name, Lieutenant?
Storm: Alexandra Storm. And, yes, this is my first time in this sickbay.
Bancroft: –and over there ::gesturing to a yellow line on the floor:: is our Null-Gravity Treatment Unit. ::conspiratorially:: I have no idea what it’s for and, frankly, I’m afraid to ask.
He’d expected at least a chuckle. Maybe a smirk. Instead, Alexandra Storm stopped. Drew a breath. Tilted her head.
Uh oh.
Storm: Ensign?
The single word landed like a gavel, and her expression hovered somewhere between amusement and interrogation.
Bancroft: ::faltering slightly:: Not exactly ‘tour guide gold’ there, huh? ::tilting his head, offering a sheepish smile:: Tell you what. I’ll rope in one of the med techs for a live demonstration at the end. We can both pretend we understood whatever it does.
She didn’t answer for a moment. Just studied him, eyebrows barely lifted. The kind of look someone might use upon catching a raccoon red-handed with last night's garbage.
Storm: Why don’t you pull that tricorder out of your pocket for me?
His heart dropped approximately one-and-a-half decks.
Impossible. He was a secret scan virtuoso. A certified tricorder ninja. He’d once completed an entire genetic diagnostic on a Klingon without the man noticing – granted, the man had been unconscious at the time. Still.
Bancroft: ::sighs, extracting the tricorder, faux-casually:: Oh, this old thing? Model TR-600. Sleek, dependable… fits in a pocket well. I never leave my quarters without it.
Storm: Now, I want you to look at the species that it lists me as on your scans, which I assume you’ve been taking as you’ve led me around by the nose.
She was good. Too good. She hadn’t just detected the scan, but nailed the intent of his entire charade. Either she had a background in intelligence, or she was–
Storm: So what species of humanoid am I, Doctor?
–a natural born mindreader. Right.
His shoulders slumped in theatrical surrender.
Bancroft: ::groans, defeated:: Betazoid. ::muttering:: Naturally. ::a pause:: I mean… come on. That’s hardly fair, ma’am. It’s like playing poker with someone who is the deck.
Storm: Response
Bancroft: ::candidly:: It’s not part of the formal curriculum; I picked it up during clinical rotations back at the Medical Academy. Survival skill, really. There’s an inverse correlation between pip count and enthusiasm for physicals. I’ve found that this method often leaves everyone happier.
He paused, considering his next move carefully.
Storm: Response
Bancroft: ::scratching behind his ear:: Well… I did say often, ma’am. You’ve clearly got a healthy appreciation for personal boundaries. And, if I may say so, an even healthier disdain for nonsense. You have my sincerest apology. ::holding up his hands, one still clutching the tricorder:: I promise – though I’m aware that ‘promise’ is functionally redundant here – that there wasn’t any ill intent.
Storm: Response
TAG/TBC!
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Ensign Roy Bancroft
Medical Officer
USS Artemis-A
A240205RB1