Lieutenant JG Roy Bancroft - A Side of Pagh
Carter Schimpff
(( Deck Five, Sector Three, Compartment Eleven - USS Artemis-A ))
Bancroft: Tell me, do you always pray after events like that? Or was the ceremony just that intense?
Roy let the question hang in the incense-sweetened air, fingers absently tugging at a loose thread on his cuff. He was standing just close enough to the wall to look like he wasn’t hovering, but far enough from the furniture to avoid committing to sitting down. Classic guest energy.
Jaran: Oh, I pray like this every night, if I'm able. And some nights when I'm not. As much as I struggle speaking to people, speaking to The Prophets comes very easily to me.
Roy nodded slowly, genuinely trying to process that. An expert on religion of any kind, he was most certainly not. His (very) old-fashioned Southern Baptist upbringing had earned him exactly one lukewarm baptism, a Sunday School certificate with glitter glue on it, and several hallway wedgies courtesy of the deacon’s sons.
Beyond that, theological rigor hadn’t really been part of the Bancroft family brand. It was more of a passive inheritance – like needlepointed hand towels you were never supposed to actually use.
Bancroft: That’s… honestly very beautiful. I usually just mutter darkly to the ceiling. Sometimes the computer mistakes it as a prompt and answers me. But I’ve never spoken to a deity before.
He’d barely finished speaking when he noticed Jaran’s hand rising toward him.
A handshake?
He didn’t think the conversation was over, but maybe this was Jaran’s polite way of wrapping things up. After all, Roy was technically a guest in these quarters now. He lifted his own hand in response – half-questioning, half-ready.
It stalled midair. Jaran’s fingers didn’t extend for a shake as expected – they diverted, gently curving inward and up, coming to rest lightly against his ear.
Okay. Not a handshake.
He cast a glance side to side, unsure if he’d just been blessed, cursed, or inducted into a secret society. Regardless, he felt he ought to return the gesture in some way. He resumed the upward motion of his hand, hesitated for a moment of internal calculation, then gently patted Jaran on the head.
Jaran: Wow, I thought I'd broken that habit. I am so sorry. Would it help to know your pagh is strong?
Roy smiled to hide the confusion storming behind his eyes. He dropped his own hand back to his side in concert with Jaran’s.
Pagh, he was almost certain, was a Klingon dish. Fermented and served wriggling. What that had to do with his earlobe escaped him entirely.
Bancroft: I… appreciate that. I think. Is that like good cholesterol, or is it more of a vibes-based thing?
Jaran: Response
Roy thrust his chest out slightly in mock-pride, his easy smile returning.
Bancroft: Ah, that makes… so much more sense. Sorry about the head thing, by the way. I feel like that’s something you don’t do to a person mid-soul-reading. In my defense, I’ve never been spiritually complimented before and I panicked.
Jaran: Response
TAG/TBC!
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Lieutenant JG Roy Bancroft
Medical Officer
USS Artemis-A
A240205RB1