Ensign Roy Bancroft - Instruments of Subtle Intrusion
Carter Schimpff
(( Primary Sickbay - Deck 7, USS Artemis-A ))
The Petty Officer hopped down from the biobed with the careful enthusiasm of someone who wasn’t quite ready to make eye contact with their own life choices.
Roy offered a professional smile – the kind that said “you’re physically fine” but very much did not say “I’ll omit this from your medical records.”
He placed his tricorder down, took exactly one beat, and then deadpanned:
Bancroft: So. Just to recap – if you must combine massage oil, a lava lamp, and interpretive Vulcan meditation techniques, maybe wait until you’re off duty. Or at the very least, not in a Jeffries tube.
The Petty Officer nodded mutely, face radiating the sort of sheepish energy typically reserved for cadets caught breaking into Boothby’s gardening shed on a dare.
Roy gave a small, sympathetic nod in return.
Bancroft: Also – and this is just a general rule of thumb – if you need to use the phrase ‘I didn’t know it would glow that much,’ maybe stop and reevaluate everything.
He gestured toward the door.
Bancroft: You’re good to go. Hydrate. Stretch. ::a beat:: And if there’s a higher power in your life, maybe check in. You’ve… been through something.
Roy turned to reset the biobed but caught movement from the corner of his eye: a young woman approaching, tall and unmistakably fit, with sleek black hair and the confident stride of someone who ranked high enough to ruin your day – but probably wouldn’t do it for sport.
She was wearing gold. Which meant she wasn’t a new, higher-ranking doctor sent to crush his soul under the weight of unattainable performance standards. That meant he could relax.
Slightly.
Storm: Excuse me, Doctor.
He straightened to an easy at-attention and summoned his best professional smile. With two-pips, you could never tell – some wanted charm, some wanted clinical perfection, and some just wanted to play with you before they ate you.
Bancroft: Good morning, ma’am. What can I help you with?
Storm: Do you have a moment. I’m new aboard the Artemis, and I need to report for my physical.
Ah, a physical. He relaxed almost imperceptibly. That, he could do.
He didn’t recognize her, which didn’t mean much. The Artemis seemed to have more Lieutenants than the Ferengi tax code had loopholes.
Bancroft: I’m Dr. Bancroft, and you’re in luck – physicals are my specialty ::wistfully:: Scanning, poking, prodding… and, of course, everyone’s favorite question: ‘when was your last regular bowel movement?’
He smiled benignly. Underneath that, though, was the assessing eye of a trained diagnostician. There were two types of people in the universe: those who tolerated annual physicals… and those who arrived only under threat of administrative consequence.
She hid her reaction to his words well.
But not well enough.
Bancroft: ::casually:: I’m relatively new here, ma’am ::squinting with one eye:: and I’m betting you are too?
Storm: So new that I just came from reporting in to the Captain … Fortunately, sans airlock.
Nailed it.
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?
As her eyes followed his gesture, he smoothly palmed his tricorder and a few peripheral scanners into the right pocket of his coat – slight of hand honed by dozens of casual diagnostics performed on officers who didn’t want to feel examined.
Storm: Response
They began to walk. Roy gestured amiably with his left hand – pointing out key features like the isolation suites, the CMO’s office, and the spot near biobed #6 where Crewman Jenkins had once “evolved” into a hyperintelligent iguana – while his right hand, discreetly buried in his pocket, was quietly waving diagnostic instruments in Storm’s general direction.
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.
This wasn’t a standard physical, not according to the book, anyhow. He hadn’t pulled her chart and this wasn’t taking place under the interrogatory lights of a biobed.
But she looked – objectively – to be in excellent condition, and the passive scans he was taking would give him everything he needed to perform a complete assessment after the fact.
Besides, comfort – especially with new crew – often outweighed strict procedural orthodoxy.
Storm: Response
TAG/TBC!
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Ensign Roy Bancroft
Medical Officer
USS Artemis-A
A240205RB1