Lieutenant JG Roy Bancroft - Race/Off (Second 1km Segment)
Carter Schimpff
(OOC: I didn’t include any of the running commentary from the crowd as Roy wouldn’t be able to hear it. Please refer to the most recent sim for this scene –
(( Running Track, Kerrit Dromos, City One – Rylor ))
Roy Bancroft had, over the course of his life, developed a number of professional competencies.
He could stabilize a polytrauma patient in under three minutes. He could intubate in zero visibility. He could maintain calm, measured eye contact while explaining to a superior officer that they were, medically speaking, making an exceptionally poor decision.
What he could not do – what no amount of Academy training had adequately prepared him for – was continue a competitive footrace while being enthusiastically befriended by a creature that appeared to have been designed by a committee of small children and evolutionary chaos.
The Rylorian sabrecat bounded alongside him with unrestrained delight.
It was, Roy noted dimly, magnificent – sleek musculature beneath a coat of iridescent violet fur, long expressive ears flicking with each stride, a tail describing wide, exuberant arcs behind it like a metronome set permanently to “joy.” And teeth – not threatening, not even particularly aggressive, just… numerous, arranged in a grin that suggested the animal was having a truly excellent time.
The sabrecat chirruped.
Roy cast it a brief, sidelong glance, maintaining what he hoped was an air of dignified indifference, as though this were a normal and expected development in a sanctioned Starfleet athletic event.
Bancroft: ::measured, breath-controlled:: I’m delighted you’re enjoying yourself.
The animal surged ahead for a few strides, then pivoted with startling agility and bounded directly back into his path. Roy adjusted – not dramatically, not enough to signal distress, but with the subtle recalibration of someone accustomed to navigating unexpected variables. The sabrecat, unfortunately, interpreted this as encouragement.
It leapt again, higher this time, executing a small aerial flourish before landing precisely where Roy intended his next step to fall.
He avoided it – technically. His foot came down just shy of contact, but the correction required a rapid and deeply undignified sequence of compensations: a fractional lift of the arms, a tightening through the shoulders, a brief and uninvited negotiation with gravity.
He recovered, of course.
But recovery, Roy reflected, was not a cost-neutral activity.
Momentum bled first, then rhythm, and with it the carefully curated illusion that he remained entirely in control of events.
Ahead, Munro continued with effortless precision, her stride smooth and efficient, her pace untroubled by spontaneous companionship.
Roy exhaled through his nose and lengthened his stride again; the sabrecat matched him instantly.
Of course it did.
It fell into step beside him now, its gait fluid and elastic, its bright eyes fixed on him with what Roy could only interpret as affectionate fascination. It chirruped again—softer this time, almost conversational.
Roy considered this.
Then, after a brief internal calculation that bore a striking resemblance to clinical triage, he inclined his head slightly toward the animal and gestured ahead with two fingers.
Bancroft: You see her, yes? ::a beat, perfectly reasonable:: Faster. More energetic. Considerably more engaging.
He flicked his gaze toward Munro, then back to the sabrecat.
Bancroft: I believe you’ll find her an excellent candidate for whatever… ::gesturing vaguely:: it is you’re doing.
The sabrecat regarded him – not blankly or unintelligently, but with a curious, almost thoughtful stillness as they ran.
Then, with impeccable timing, it lowered its head, gave a small, decisive huff – somewhere between a snort and a dismissive exhale – and flicked one ear in a manner that, to Roy’s increasingly strained perception, conveyed unmistakable refusal.
Roy stared at it for half a stride.
Bancroft: Great. Thanks.
The sabrecat chirruped again, brighter now, as if pleased with the clarity of its position.
From the stands, laughter began to ripple – not unkind, but unmistakably entertained.
Roy straightened slightly, reclaiming what posture he could, and adjusted his breathing with deliberate care. His legs, which had earlier registered polite objection, had now escalated to something approaching formal protest. His stomach, unwilling to be excluded from the broader democratic process of bodily dissent, contributed a slow, ominous roll that suggested future negotiations would be… time-sensitive.
They passed the one-point-three kilometer mark with the sabrecat still perfectly matched to his stride.
Roy attempted to accelerate; it surged with him. He eased back; it mirrored him effortlessly. He shifted laterally; it tracked him with unnerving precision. At some point – he could not say exactly when – he became aware that he was no longer merely running a race, but participating in a synchronized exercise with a creature whose enthusiasm vastly exceeded his own and whose understanding of personal boundaries appeared to be entirely theoretical.
Then, inevitably, it escalated.
With a delighted trill, the sabrecat darted forward, wheeled back, and—before Roy could fully process the intent – caught lightly at the hem of his running shirt with its teeth.
Not a bite.
A tug.
Playful. Affectionate. Catastrophically mistimed.
Roy’s stride fractured just enough to matter. His torso twisted, disrupting the careful rhythm of his breathing, and his next step landed a fraction late – an error so small it would have been inconsequential under ordinary circumstances. Here, it propagated outward, unraveling what little stability he had managed to rebuild.
He disengaged with controlled precision, freeing the fabric without breaking stride entirely, though the effort cost him – seconds, certainly, but more critically the fragile equilibrium he had been fighting to maintain.
Ahead, Munro rounded the next curve, clean and unimpeded, her lead stretching not dramatically but steadily, the kind of incremental separation that spoke less of sudden failure and more of accumulating disadvantage.
Roy pressed forward, drawing in a measured breath and forcing his body back into something resembling cooperation. His legs responded with reluctance. His stomach offered a reminder – firm, insistent, and wholly uninterested in negotiation – that earlier decisions had consequences.
There are, Roy reflected, certain physiological developments that demand immediate attention.
This was one of them.
He acknowledged it.
Then, with the disciplined repression of a man who had survived both Starfleet Medical and his own upbringing, he deferred it.
The sabrecat, apparently satisfied with its contribution, bounded ahead once more before veering off toward the outer edge of the track, its attention claimed by some new and infinitely more compelling interest. Roy did not look back. He lengthened his stride, rebuilt his rhythm piece by piece, and forced his breathing into a controlled cadence as the two-kilometer marker approached beneath the warm Rylorian sky.
The crowd’s voices swelled – cheers, laughter, commentary that suggested the race had evolved into something far more entertaining than originally intended.
Roy crossed the marker far later than he would have liked.
He lifted his gaze, finding Munro ahead – steady, composed, and pulling farther away with each untroubled stride.
Munro: Come on, Roy! I expect a challenge!
Roy studied the distance between them with the quiet, analytical focus of a man reassessing a deteriorating situation.
Bancroft: ::under his breath:: Been nothing but challenges back here. ::louder, so Munro can hear:: Be there in just a bit, Commander!
He had intended something pithy. Clever. Perhaps even a touch wily. But at his current distance, any such remark would have landed less as confidence and more as a deeply implausible narrative choice.
He wasn’t truly defeated. Not yet. But the terms of engagement had… shifted.
Considerably.
Munro: Response?
TAG/TBC!
===
Respectfully, I am in tears,
Lieutenant JG Roy Bancroft
Medical Officer
USS Artemis-A
A240205RB1