Ensign Roy Bancroft - Cracks in the Facade
Carter Schimpff
(( Cellar - Outskirts - Breetia Township, Galaris IV ))
Roy looked up as a length of rope slithered down from the hole in what had recently been his floor and was now, inconveniently, his ceiling. Moments later, Cole followed – controlled, efficient, her landing on the dusty cellar floor significantly more lithe than his own had been.
Cole: That wasn’t a graceful dive. You okay?
Bancroft: I’m alive, the civilians are alive, and I only mildly regret every life choice that brought me to this exact moment. So… above average for the day, really.
He looked back toward the Grunden woman – unconscious, pale, but breathing steadily. Her daughter sat curled beside her, head bowed, fingers knotted in the hem of her mother’s tunic like it was the only thing anchoring her to the world.
A knot caught in his chest – a sudden collision of pride, guilt, and the creeping fear that he'd crossed a line he couldn’t uncross. He had done a good thing, of that he was sure. In the moment, alone, still stunned himself from the fall, it hadn't felt like there was any other choice. But had he done the right thing?
Time would tell, he supposed. The road to hell was paved with good intentions – and he’d just poured some fresh concrete.
Sadar: H-How are your injuries, Ensign? And the Grunden civilians?
Her words caught him by surprise and, when he looked up, he found Lieutenant Sadar watching him.
Not scanning. Not studying the door. Watching him.
Their eyes locked across the dim cellar, and in that stillness, something passed between them — not accusation, not quite. Curiosity? No. Concern. Calculation. Quiet dismay, maybe, or just the reluctant confirmation of a suspicion.
She glanced toward the woman, then back to him. Her expression didn’t change. No words. Just a long moment that stretched taut like a suture.
Roy reached down and brushed dust from his uniform, slow and deliberate – a gesture that said, I did what I had to. He met her eyes again. Held them. And then, finally, he turned to look at the door.
Bancroft: ::offhandedly, with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes:: I’ve got a shoulder that’s registering a formal complaint and some new ventilation in my uniform, but nothing worth a chart entry. ::nods toward the civilians:: They’re shaken, but not stirred. The little one’s a trooper. Cole would like her.
Sadar: ... Hm? Oh, uhh, s-sorry. L-Let’s take a look at that door of yours.
Bancroft watched his Mizarian superior draw her tricorder from its holster and flip it open, scanning the strange door.
Sadar: Odd. I-It’s not an off-world metal, but it’s, uhh, definitely been put up in a, mh, strange place. ::examines:: No handle that I can see...
Cole: ::aiming at the doors edge:: We can cut a hole and not risk structural collapse.
Gila blinked, confused, as she watched Ensign Cole produce her phaser from her belt.
Sadar: C-Cut?
Bancroft: ::with an inappropriate amount of delight:: Nice.
Roy drifted into position between the civilians and the door – an act of precaution disguised as nonchalance – and watched with open admiration as Cole launched into what could only be described as a passionate disagreement with an inanimate object.
Cole: ::popping the spent power cell and replacing it:: Subtlety’s overrated.
Bancroft: ::looking at Sadar and gesturing at Cole with his thumb:: Finally, someone who understands the therapeutic value of property damage.
Gila sighed.
Sadar: It got us through, and that’s the important thing. ::looks at the Grunden civilians:: If this place seems more structurally sound - and safe - we’ll have them relocate until the mother wakes up. ::to Natasha: You’re in the lead, Ensign Cole.
(( Mysterious Facility - Underground, Breetia Township, Galaris IV ))
Bancroft dropped into a crouch and squeezed through the door behind the others, careful to angle his shoulder so the jagged metal didn’t finish what the Grunden flooring had started. The interior was oddly sterile, the ozone bite of the phaser cut mingling with the musty scent of air that hadn’t moved in decades. His boots slid across a floor that felt too smooth, too deliberate, like something daring to be discovered.
Sadar: Tricorders out... Lifesigns first, then tech.
Bancroft: ::flipping his tricorder open:: Either this place is empty or it’s really trying to be. I’m picking up faint lifesigns ahead – just one or two, but they’re weak. Something’s off about them.
Sadar/Cole: Response
Sadar: That’s... Okay. Ph- ::deep breath:: Ph-Phasers out. Ensign Bancroft, Ensign Cole got hurt in the explosion before. Check her shoulder.
Cole continued her slow march forward, scanning the hallway ahead with a practiced sweep of eye, tricorder, and phaser. By now, Roy knew better than to ask her to stop – and he certainly knew better than to ask her to lower the weapon.
He settled for hobbling alongside her at an awkward angle, tricorder in one hand and detachable sensor in the other.
Bancroft: You know, Cole, if you wanted more quality time, you didn’t have to go and get your shoulder blown up. ::scanning the results on his tricorder:: No bleeding, no fractures – just some soft tissue trauma near the joint. I can dull the pain, but we need a Sickbay for a proper repair.
Cole: Response
Sadar: Good... W-We’ll be seeking out those lifesigns first. Ensign Cole, take point.
Cole: Response
The corridor they entered was tight and lined with angular panels that hummed faintly under the tricorders’ scans. The walls bore no labels, no markings, just the sterile chill of purpose-built precision. The dim lighting pulsed every few feet, not enough to illuminate clearly, but more than enough to feel watched.
Bancroft: ::dryly:: Love what they’ve done with the place. Early doomsday chic.
Sadar/Cole: Response
As they moved deeper, the air grew cooler – filtered, somehow, as if something deeper in the structure was alive and waiting. Power readings increased in intensity, leading them into a circular chamber. A single console sat in the center – untouched by dust, its interface lit by an eerie green glow. Strange symbols flickered across the screen: scrolling diagnostics, alien glyphs, and a set of progress bars quietly updating themselves.
Bancroft: ::eyeing the console warily from a distance:: I don’t know what that says, but I’m pretty sure it’s not “welcome, honored guests.”
Sadar/Cole: Response
TAG/TBC
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Ensign Roy Bancroft
Medical Officer
USS Artemis-A
A240205RB1