Ensign Roy Bancroft - Mycelium, Myself
Carter Schimpff
(( Third Promenade - Deck 229-230, Deep Space 224 ))
The problem with shore leave, Roy decided, was that it left far too much room for thinking.
Not the productive kind of thinking – the kind that let you solve a complex case or improvise a new surgical technique. No, this was the idle, spiraling, absolutely-no-good kind of thinking. The kind where the brain wandered off leash and started sniffing around things it had no business revisiting.
The counselor had suggested a hobby.
Holophotography? Too banal.
Rock climbing? He’d had more than enough adrenaline recently.
And so, Roy Bancroft – newly minted chef de cuisine – had come here. To the Third Promenade of Deep Space 224. In search of stupid ingredients to cook a stupid risotto for his stupid mental health.
Finally, he spied what he’d been searching for: a fresh fruit and vegetables stall. He didn’t know whether mushrooms grew naturally anywhere near this region of space. But, he reflected, they were a fungus, and those seemed to grow in the strangest of places.
The Lurian shopkeeper beamed at him – or, at least, Roy thought it was what passed for a bright smile on a Lurian – as he approached. It was disconcerting.
Shopkeeper: You’ve got the look. The look of a man who’s got too many thoughts and not enough relief valves, eh?
Roy resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the theatrics.
Bancroft: ::deadpan:: I’m just here for some mushrooms.
The shopkeeper chuckled and rubbed his hands together in apparent delight. Roy immediately regretted coming here.
Shopkeeper: You’re in luck! Fresh shipment just in from Rathos Prime.
He over-theatrically pulled back a cloth to reveal a small tray of mushrooms. Most were shriveled, gray, and harmless-looking. One, however, glimmered faintly.
Were his eyes playing tricks, or did the glimmering mushroom just… breathe?
Noticing Roy’s mild apprehension, the shopkeeper waved his hand dismissively.
Shopkeeper: It’s perfectly natural. Just an illusion – hydraulic movement of the capillaries, you see.
Bancroft: ::cocking an eyebrow, unable to look away from the mushroom:: That’s what people say right before they die in holodramas.
The shopkeeper pointedly ignored this.
Shopkeeper: It’s rather rare, actually. Renowned across this region for its meaty flavor, this particular mushroom is grown and tended by a sect of monks who never speak. The Fungus of Peace, they call it.
Roy frowned at the shopkeeper.
Bancroft: That’s… ominous branding. How do they ‘call’ it that if they never speak?
The shopkeeper’s smile widened.
Roy looked back at the mushroom. It looked... inviting. Enticing. Like it wanted to be picked. Like it had a little fungal voice whispering: I’m different. I’m special. I’m artisanal.
After another moment’s consideration, he scooped it up and dropped it in the pouch slung over his shoulder, simultaneously dropping payment in the Lurian’s outstretched hand.
Roy didn’t at all like how wide the Lurian’s smile now was.
Bancroft: If this kills me, I’m haunting you.
(( Quarters - Deck 5, Sector 3, Compartment 11, USS Artemis-A ))
The thing about risotto, Roy had read – and was now quickly discovering – was that it demanded your full attention.
No multitasking. No distractions. No thoughts of planetary war zones or morally gray decisionmaking. Just you, a wooden spoon, and a pot of slowly thickening carbohydrates.
He stirred slowly, deliberately, watching the arborio rice release its starch in creamy little swirls. The replicator could have done a half-decent job supplying most of the ingredients. But Roy, ever the overachiever, had insisted on foraging. For ambiance. And self-delusion.
Roy glanced at the mushroom – the mushroom – now resting in the prep bowl beside his cutting board.
It was humming faintly.
Roy squinted.
Bancroft: ::muttering:: Nope. Not breathing. Just an illusion caused by hydraulic movement of the capillaries. ::beat:: Which is a patently ridiculous sentence. I hate this hobby.
Knife in hand, he leaned forward and sliced the cap cleanly down the middle.
The moment the blade hit flesh, there was a pop – like a breath exhaled into the ether.
Roy flinched.
Bancroft: What the hell was–
Fungus: ~That’s not nearly enough garlic, my man.~
Roy froze.
Very, very slowly, he turned to look at the cutting board. Both halves of the mushroom lay there, completely inert.
He sniffed the air. No toxins. No obvious gases. No sign of hallucination-inducing neuroactive agents.
He touched his temple, then the side of his neck, feeling for fever or pulse irregularities.
Fungus: ~And you’re going to burn the shallots. Stir, chief.~
Bancroft: ::staring at the ceiling: Okay. Nope. No. Absolutely not.
He paced in a tight circle.
Bancroft: This is a stress reaction. A vivid hallucination caused by a combination of unresolved trauma, elevated cortisol, and maybe that coffee I drank earlier in the lab that was labeled ‘experimental’.
Fungus: ~Keep telling yourself that. By the way, you can call me ‘Jeff’.~
Roy screamed into a nearby pillow.
(( Time Skip - 45 Minutes ))
The risotto was, objectively, quite good.
Creamy, earthy, mushroom-free and perfectly al dente. A textbook triumph.
Roy chewed slowly, glaring at the mushroom, now sealed in a specimen jar and sitting on the edge of the table like it was judging him.
Because it was judging him.
Jeff: ~I mean, it’s fine. A little under-salted. But sure. We’ll just call it rustic.~
Roy dropped his fork in exasperation.
Bancroft: Why, out of all the mushrooms in the quadrant, did I have to pick you?
Jeff: ~Look pal, you weren’t exactly my first choice either, alright? But you picked me up, and now we’re trauma bonded. That’s how destiny works.~
Bancroft: I bought you to eat.
Jeff: ~And I bought you fifteen minutes of self-worth and an above average starch finish on that risotto. We’re square.~
Roy banged his head gently on the table.
(( Time Skip - 15 Minutes ))
Roy stood in front of the mirror with a medical tricorder, a neural probe, and the emotional stability of a partially-microwaved calzone.
Jeff: ~You’re overreacting~
Bancroft: You’re a telepathic fungus narrating my life like a sarcastic audiobook. I’m reacting perfectly appropriately.
Jeff: ~You say that like it’s a bad thing. I’m delightful.~
Roy ran the probe over his skull again. Still no anomalies. Brainwaves, neurotransmitter levels, telepathic readings – all frustratingly, insultingly normal. There was nothing to indicate he should be hearing a smug little voice in his head that commented on his dinner plating and called him ‘chief’.
He grabbed his PADD and opened a medical log.
Bancroft: Personal log. Stardate... whatever. Presenting symptom: sentient internal commentary. Origin: fungus-adjacent. Possible causes: trauma, spore inhalation, divine punishment, hubris.
He pulled a cortical stimulator out of his kit. Theoretically, if he could disrupt the quantum sympathetic resonance long enough, he might–
Jeff: ~You’re going to electrocute yourself if you set it that high.~
Bancroft: This level is technically within allowed variances.
Jeff: ~And it’s still technically not a good idea.~
(( Time Skip - 5 Minutes Later ))
The mushroom – Roy would not now, or ever, refer to it as anything other than the mushroom – sat smugly in its specimen jar, now resting atop a stack of medical journals Roy had half-read and fully pretended to finish.
Roy sat barefoot on the floor, sipping iced tea like a man who had finally accepted that reality was less objective than advertised.
Bancroft: Alright. Truce.
Jeff: ~Terms?~
Bancroft: You stop narrating my every decision like you’re the conscience I never asked for, and I won’t drop you into the replicator for matter reclamation.
Jeff: ~What if I just… whisper… judgment instead of saying it out loud?
Bancroft: What if I bury you in potting soil and give it to Richards for her cat?
A pause.
Jeff: ~… Fine.~
Roy exhaled. Set the glass down. Leaned back against the wall.
For a moment, all was quiet.
Then:
Jeff: ~You really should moisturize, though.~
END SCENE FOR BANCROFT (AND JEFF)
===
Ensign Roy Bancroft
Medical Officer
USS Artemis-A
A240205RB1