Lieutenant JG Roy Bancroft - Orbiting Strangers
Carter Schimpff
(( Deck 7 – USS Artemis-A ))
To say it had been a challenging morning for Ensign Roy Bancroft was putting it mildly.
He, along with the rest of the Artemis Medical staff, had finally discharged the last of the lingering patients from the Boraxian mission – thus closing the book on what Roy had come to call (privately, poetically, and with just a hint of trauma) Much Ado about Spiders.
The final acts had included a hostile arachnid the size of a shuttlepod and the unforgettable sight of a man who transformed himself into a living flambé.
As mornings went, this one ranked somewhere between ‘emergency dental surgery’ and ‘surprise call from his mother.’
But all that was behind him now.
He had a rare, open stretch on his duty schedule, unencumbered by trauma, fire, or giant insects. Captain MacKenzie was still off ship de-worming orphans or glaring a planetary leader into submission – or whatever it was she’d been called away to do. Chief Morgan was off duty. And for the first time in days, Roy had been blessed with a glorious, uninterrupted block of time labeled Admin.
He approached Sickbay with a soft sigh of satisfaction. Yes, the morning had been chaos. Yes, his brain still occasionally screamed when he closed his eyes. But the next few hours? They’d be very peaceful indeed.
Just him… and his PADDwork.
No trauma cases. No xenopathological mysteries. No senior officers around to silently judge his posture.
And, nearly as importantly, no patients threatening to claw the mustache off his face.
The double doors parted.
Roy stopped short.
Inside, at the far end of the otherwise-empty Sickbay, was Doctor Jaran. Expected. They were on shift, and perfectly pleasant company from the little he'd interacted with them.
Standing beside Jaran, though, arms crossed and utterly antithetical to any vision of ‘relaxing afternoon,’ was Samantha Richards.
And next to her, like a hallucination summoned by the very fear of peace itself, stood Fleet Captain Addison MacKenzie.
MacKenzie: You’re here, we might as well check your hearing. ::gesturing to Jaran:: and I’m sure this doctor is just the right person to conduct the exam–
Roy blinked twice, frozen on the threshold.
He considered all the decisions in his life that had led him to this moment, and concluded that every single one of them had been a massive mistake.
Bancroft: ::softly, to no one in particular:: Nope.
He stepped backward into the corridor like a man tiptoeing away from a tiger’s den. The doors whispered shut before him.
Without a word, he turned on his heel… and walked quietly – and quickly – away.
(( Time Passes ))
(( Deck Five, Sector Three, Compartment Eleven - USS Artemis-A ))
Roy stepped into his quarters with the smug satisfaction of a man who had successfully avoided interacting with any member of his chain of command for an entire afternoon.
He hadn’t meant to disappear for that long – really. But one thing led to another: he sat down in a supply closet for a moment of quiet reflection, accidentally napped for seven and a half minutes, wandered into the mess hall for a deeply mediocre sandwich, and spent forty-five unaccounted-for minutes in a Jeffries tube trying to avoid any possibility of crossing paths with Captain MacKenzie.
But now? Now he was back. Back to his sanctum. His fortress of solitude. The one place on this ship where he could unbutton his collar, reheat some tea, and momentarily pretend he wasn’t a recently traumatized junior medical officer.
The doors parted.
His sanctuary had been… altered.
Something floral, spicy, and – at least to Roy’s sinuses – vaguely medicinal curled luxuriously through the air. The lighting had shifted, too, thanks to the flickering glow of several ceremonial candles.
oO Super. More flames. Oo
His eyes swept the compartment. A neatly folded set of uniforms. A small shelf of mementos. And, in the corner, what could only be described as a shrine – delicate, reverent, and arranged with the kind of intentionality he usually reserved for surgical instruments.
Kneeling beside it all was Doctor Jaran, mid-prayer.
Roy froze. Half in the doorway, half out. Like a raccoon caught raiding someone else’s lunchbox.
He didn’t breathe. He didn’t move. He certainly didn’t want to interrupt.
He definitely didn’t want to be asked to join in. Some people did that.
Jaran finished their prayer and stood with all the unbothered grace of someone who absolutely belonged there – which was more than Roy could say for himself, given the fact that he was currently clutching half a sandwich in a napkin.
Jaran: Doctor Bancroft. I hope you don't mind that I made myself at home. And that you're not allergic to incense.
Roy fought the sudden, powerful urge to cough. It would’ve been rude by any cultural metric, and he had zero interest in beginning his new roommate dynamic as the guy who disrespected the wormhole aliens.
Bancroft: ::strained, overly polite:: Not at all! The scent is… ::searching for words:: very delicate. And mysterious. I hardly notice it!
A wisp of incense curled past his mustache like it knew he was lying.
They stood in silence for a beat – Roy wondering why he couldn’t simply act normal, and Jaran, presumably, deeply regretting their new quarters assignment.
Jaran: Well, I'm pretty easy to get along with. You'll barely notice I'm here. But I need to get dressed for tonight's festivities in Elysium. I'm sure you do too. We can chat more later!
Ah. A masterclass in graceful exits.
Roy offered a short nod of respect. Once he’d established himself as something other than a bumbling idiot, he’d absolutely be asking for tips on how Jaran did that.
Bancroft: ::dryly, with a touch of resignation:: Yes, of course. Can’t wait. Nothing like a mass social gathering in a giant room with six of our supervisors. Really helps one unwind.
Jaran gave him a polite nod and retreated toward the closet area, finishing the last lines of their prayer with quiet reverence.
Roy remained for a moment, lightly smoked, still clutching the remnants of a now-forgotten turkey melt in one hand.
(( Time Passes ))
(( Deck Five, Sector Three, Compartment Eleven - USS Artemis-A ))
The doors whispered open, and Roy Bancroft stepped inside like a man returning from battle.
He had survived the ceremony.
Barely.
Not the awards themselves – those were fine. Lovely, even. Getting pinned with a new pip and recognized for not dying horribly was something he was strongly considering building his entire personality around.
No, the true enemy had been the small talk afterward.
And not the delightful sort – the half-sarcastic kind he’d had with Cole, Bergmen, and Imril. No, he meant the other kind. The tight-smiled congratulations from superior officers. The ones who called you by your first name like you were old friends… and then added an extra shift to your schedule when you made the mistake of replying in kind.
Also, he was pretty sure someone had hugged him.
He loosened his collar as he stepped further into the room. Jaran was kneeling by the shrine again – was that just a default resting place for Bajorans? He didn’t know, and didn’t think he should ask.
Recently extinguished candles released soft curls of smoke that coiled into the air. The lighting was dim, reverent. Peaceful in a way Roy rarely encountered unless unconscious.
Jaran looked at him. Two new roommates, orbiting each other for what ended up amounting to a single rotation.
He felt suddenly aware of the passing of time. Not just of this day, but of assignments. Of ships. Of who stayed, and who moved on. Of the weirdly sacred transience of shared quarters on a starship.
And, because he was Roy Bancroft, he said the first thing that came into his head.
Bancroft: ::lightly:: Careful – if you keep making this place smell like inner peace and emotional stability, I might just decide to stay.
Jaran: Response
He gave a small smile, warm and a little worn around the edges.
Bancroft: Tell me, do you always pray after events like that? Or was the ceremony just that intense?
Jaran: Response
TAG/TBC!
===
Lieutenant JG Roy Bancroft
Medical Officer
USS Artemis-A
A240205RB1