Lieutenant JG Roy Bancroft - Six Hours
Carter Schimpff
(( Hazardous Materials Lab, Deck 11 – USS Artemis-A ))
Bancroft: You know, I’ve known you all this time, we’ve been together through thick and thin, and I’ve never once asked. What does Imril mean? Are you named for something or someone?
Imril: Sort of. Imrils are a species of bird on Bactrica, sort of like an Earth roadrunner. It’s like naming a human kid Jay or Robin.
Roy nodded along as Imril explained. A bird, then. Somehow that didn’t really fit with what Roy knew of the Engineer. Birds were… flitty. Fragile. And, aside from a handful of species, not particularly intelligent.
He clocked what wasn’t said just as clearly as what was: the careful trimming away of context, the way Imril offered surface facts and left the rest neatly shelved. He was familiar with that. He filed the thought away with the quiet appreciation of someone who knew better to pry unless invited.
Some stories weren’t secrets. They were just… private.
Imril: Is there any particular meaning to the name Roy?
Imril’s question caught Roy flat-footed, though it shouldn’t have. It was the polite thing to ask as a follow-up.
For a heartbeat, he nearly defaulted to the easy answer – the practiced shrug of Roy is just Roy, the conversational cul-de-sac that ended things neatly and without residue.
But he didn’t, because Imril wasn’t just anyone. They’d earned more than deflection.
Bancroft: It’s, uh… well, it’s short for Roybertson. ::a beat:: Which sounds like it ought to mean something but absolutely does not. Entirely made up by my parents. ::another, quieter beat:: Roy was the salvageable part.
Imril: I suppose we’ll have to ask Tho’Bi about his name later.
Bancroft: ::laughing:: Oh, I’m sure that’ll be a whole thing. Might want to set aside an afternoon.
Roy followed Imril’s finger without being prompted, his gaze drifting back to the controlled chaos before them. W.H.I.M.P.E.R. lay there in pieces – not broken so much as paused, caught mid-thought.
He felt the familiar, almost reflexive itch that came whenever he looked at it: the urge to explain, to justify, to annotate decisions that had once lived only in his head at three in the morning.
Imril: If you still have older versions of the firmware programming stored somewhere, including your patch notes, I’d like to run analysis of the revisions over time. I’m particularly curious to know how any changes to the coding paired up with changes to the hardware.
This was the part of the work that always felt strangely intimate to Roy. Not the end product, but the trail of revisions – the false starts, the cautious compromises, the moments where hardware forced his hand and the code had to bend, or vice versa.
Imril wasn’t asking about the machine. They were asking about something much more difficult for Roy to admit to – his process.
Bancroft: ::haltingly:: I’ve got everything… early builds, failed branches, patch notes. ::small, wry grimace:: Most of it’s… not pretty. But it should give you the full picture.
He looked up toward the ceiling, a reflexive movement he’d never been able to rid himself of.
Bancroft: Computer, grant Lieutenant Imril access to the full code repository for W.H.I.M.P.E.R. as found in my personal files, including all revisions, patch notes, branches, et cetera.
Imril: This rebuild’s already looking to be more than a one-day activity/ But then, I don’t suppose it took just one day to make. How many manhours do you already have logged into making this?
Roy knew that Imril hadn’t asked out of impatience or doubt – if anything, the question had been a measure of care and friendship. Still, the realization crept in belatedly – they’d been here nearly six hours.
It hadn’t felt that way. Time rarely did, once he was deep enough into something that mattered. He’d once performed an eighteen-hour surgery and swore afterwards that it couldn’t have been more than ninety minutes.
But, seeing the number on his chrono, plain and unarguable, brought with it a flicker of guilt. He’d taken the better part of his friend’s free time and hadn’t even thought to notice.
Bancroft: Way more than I’d ever planned ::sheepishly:: a bit like today ::continuing:: but far fewer than the prototype deserved. Which probably explains why we’re standing here instead of calling it ‘finished.’
Imril: Response
Bancroft: This… is a lot more complicated than I thought it’d be. ::softer:: I didn’t mean to hijack your entire day. Your shift starts in, what – an hour? Mine too. ::apologetic smile:: Pick this back up later?
Imril: Response
They worked in companionable quiet for a few minutes after that, setting things in order so the project could be resumed later on. Pieces of W.H.I.M.P.E.R. were set aside with care, labeled and ordered in a way they’d never been before.
As he stepped out of the work area, Roy glanced once more over his shoulder at the workbench before the doors slid shut.
It wasn’t abandoned. It was just… waiting.
And for once, he found he was perfectly alright with that.
TAG/End Scene for Bancroft
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Lieutenant JG Roy Bancroft
Medical Officer
USS Artemis-A
A240205RB1