# Lieutenant JG Roy Bancroft - Low and Ready
Carter Schimpff
(( Holodeck 1 - Deck 2 - USS Artemis-A ))
Bancroft: ::sighing theatrically:: Alright fine. Let it be a cautionary tale, then. Still – ::gesturing around them:: We’re here. We’re learning… things. We’re growing as officers. I see this as an absolute win.
Lieutenant Storm didn’t answer. She just looked at Imril, then at him, black eyes boring through him a few seconds longer than he’d expected.
Then she touched Roy’s elbow. Just a brief pressure, but deliberate.
She nodded to indicate the side of the room and moved there without a word, trusting he’d follow.
He did.
There was a part of him – young, wired tight with childhood programming – that still read being singled out as a prelude to failure. Not feedback. Not coaching. Failure. A red mark on a test he hadn’t even started yet.
But there was another part of him – quieter and more recent – that didn’t read it that way at all.
There was something in the way she touched his arm. The tone of her voice. The absence of sharp edges. It felt less like criticism and more like… care.
Storm: ::Her voice low:: Roy, I was playing with you earlier when I said this won’t hurt much. ::Bouncing her head back and forth:: I can sense you’re nervous. Relax. You’re going to do fine. Okay?
This was an unusual feeling for him. He was used to being judged. Assessed. He was far less used to being reassured.
Damned Betazoids.
Not that she was wrong. He was nervous. The strange part was trying to decipher why.
Storm smiled again – genuine and gentle – and gave his upper arm a soft squeeze. Very touchy, this one. Normally he’d have minded, only just. Strange that he didn’t.
She mouthed ‘you’ve got this’ before returning to the center of the room where Imril waited. Roy followed without comment, his expression neutral.
Storm: Let’s get this underway. Computer: Set up two targets on the far wall, both equidistant from each other and the sides. Give me a firing line on the ground at seven meters.
The requested elements shimmered into existence with that subtle photonic flicker unique to Starfleet holodecks: targets at the far wall and a glowing white line on the deck before them.
Storm: Why don’t you each grab a phaser and stand on the line, but don’t fire. Let me see how you aim first.
Roy watched as Imril selected a phaser, their fingers deft on the controls. Power output adjustment. Safety confirmed active. All proper.
He picked up his own, mimicking the adjustments quietly. He knew what to do, academically. Practically? That was still very foreign.
Bancroft: ::murmuring:: Alright, Roy. Let’s see if the hands that heal can aim straight, too.
From the corner of his eye, he watched Imril step forward into a textbook-ready stance – shoulders squared, lead foot forward, elbows bent just enough. Storm circled behind them, making a few gentle corrections. One hand to the spine. A subtle pull at the shoulder.
Storm: That will give you more stability.
She circled again, eyes sharp.
Storm: Keep your feet shoulder-width apart and just barely bend your knees.
Another pass, then a satisfied nod.
Storm: ::To Imril:: That’s good. Go ahead and relax for a moment. ::Turning to Bancroft:: Okay. Let’s see your stance, ::Her eyes softened the next word:: Lieutenant.
Roy stepped up, phaser in hand. He had been studied before – by examiners, instructors, critical peers and impossible patients – but something about Storm’s solid black eyes made this feel slightly different. Like she wasn’t just looking at him, but into him.
He chalked it up to the phaser. That was easier to name. He wasn’t used to carrying something designed to harm. His hands were trained for other things.
Storm: You’re not a lumberjack. Keep your elbows bent slightly. You’ll have better control.
Roy smiled faintly, allowing her to adjust his elbow downward a fraction.
Bancroft: Thank you.
oO I’ve never liked holding one of these. Doesn’t matter how much training I get – it still feels like a small betrayal of what I promised to do. Or not do. But… I get it. I do. Oo
Storm: Let’s see what you both have.
Roy raised the phaser, lined up the sights, and fired. Three sharp pulses of light streaked downrange.
One struck low, around the target’s abdomen.
oO Gut shot. That’ll be an absolute mess to sort out. Oo
Another hit near the left shoulder.
oO If it missed the axillary artery, they’ll be fine. If not… Oo
The third just clipped the left flank of the target.
oO Flesh wound. Non-emergent. Oo
None were center-mass. None were clustered. But none missed entirely, either.
Not good. Not bad. It was somewhere in that squishy middle space he disliked most intensely of all.
He re-engaged the safety, lowered the weapon to the practiced ‘low and ready’ position, and took in a breath that he didn’t release right away.
Bancroft: Great shooting, Imril.
In truth, he hadn’t seen a single one of their shots. He’d been too focused on his own. Not exactly a poster child for battlefield awareness. He filed that away for later under ‘things to improve.’
Storm: Response
Imril: Thanks. If I’m being honest, since the City-Ship I’ve been spending time in a holoprogram that involves a lot of shooting. If I’m being more honest, the program lets me cheat.
Bancroft: ::shrugging:: We use simulations all the time for surgical training. ::beat:: Funny how what starts out feeling like ‘cheating’ sometimes ends up, after enough reps, becoming real-world muscle memory. If it works, it works.
Storm/Imril: Response
Roy nodded, the line of his shoulders settling as he stepped back up to the firing line. He adjusted his stance deliberately – one foot slightly ahead of the other, knees soft, elbows tucked.
Bancroft: Like this? ::beat, quirking a brow:: Feels a little… wrong.
And it did. But then again, he knew that sometimes replacing bad muscle memory with good muscle memory could feel wrong at first. That didn’t mean it wasn’t progress.
Healing and repairing a body often worked much the same way – sometimes you had to make the patient more uncomfortable so that they could, in the end, become better.
Storm/Imril: Response
He inhaled slowly, let half of it out, then held. Eyes forward. Focus tight. And this time, his awareness widened. Not just the target. The room. The people in it. The edges – they mattered, too.
Bancroft: Ready, ma'am.
Storm/Imril: Response
TAG/TBC!
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Lieutenant JG Roy Bancroft
Medical Officer
USS Artemis-A
A240205RB1