Lieutenant JG Roy Bancroft - Rylorian Sunset

[Carter Schimpff]

(( Fohledi Nature Reserve, Rylor ))

Bergmen: Brake fluid, almost full, and about two quarts of motor oil, which should be ok? But I guess this joke of the tape will not be enough, right? ::to Bancroft:: Have you any in your compartment?

Imril: Never joke about duct tape. It keeps grudges.

Roy crouched beside the bike, one forearm resting casually on his knee as he leaned in to get a better look. Up close, the situation had a certain… honesty to it. Oil where oil ought not be, components no longer aligned with their original intent, and an overall aesthetic best described as recently humbled.

Bancroft: I’m afraid my kit is tragically limited to items intended to keep people operational, not whatever this is. ::gesturing lightly at the bike:: Though I admire the optimism.

Imril set to work with practiced efficiency, peeling back the outer casing to expose the internals. Roy watched the process with polite attentiveness, the same expression he reserved for briefings that were clearly important and only partially his problem.

Imril: ::Poking around for rocks or other debris:: We have two dings in the line. See them here? I think by way of emergency repair I could cut the bad end off and re-attach the new end to the reservoir joint. There’s enough slack to do it.

Bergmen: Ok, your field of expertise, I will take your word for it…

Roy leaned slightly to one side, peering past Imril’s shoulder at the damage, then back to Bergmen.

Bancroft: “Field of expertise” is doing a lot of work in that sentence.

Imril continued, outlining options that sounded increasingly surgical in nature.

Roy straightened a bit, folding his arms loosely as he listened – expression attentive, if faintly amused.

Imril: Option one, I break my promise and perform a little surgery. And you two get to be my nurses, and help wipe off aaaaallll of this leaked oil up as best we can, to prevent an overheat when the engine gets up to speed… Option two, we just call this bike in as totalled and Ollie can ride with me? Please say Option Two.

Bergmen: Depends. One sounds like quite a long and laborious operation requiring the entire surgical team… while another…

Roy’s gaze shifted briefly to the bike, then back to Imril, then to Ollie – conducting a quick, silent comparison between patient and machine.

Bancroft: In my professional opinion… she’s dead, Im’.

Ollie laughed.

Bergmen: Yeah, given our situation, we should also consider our security as well, agree. So, option two it’ll be.

Roy inclined his head once, as if a particularly reasonable diagnosis had just been confirmed.

Bancroft: Concur.

Imril: Response

He stepped back as Ollie retrieved the beacon, giving him space while keeping a casual eye on his movement—less concern now, more habit than anything else. The call to the rental agency was brief. Efficient. Almost suspiciously so – as if this sort of thing was a fairly regular occurrence. 

Roy watched as the beacon was placed, the bike now officially transitioning from ‘problem’ to ‘someone else’s problem.’

He reached up, pulling his visor back down with a soft click as Bergmen finished.

Bergmen: Ready when you are.

Roy swung back onto his bike, settling into position with an ease that suggested he had, at the very least, learned something from the last hour or so. He kicked it into gear and twisted the throttle, rumbling up towards an overlook higher up the mountainside.

Bancroft: =/\= Looks like a nice spot a few hundred meters up to watch the sunset. Y’all game? =/\=

Imril/Bergmen(?): Response?

(( Some time later ))

They didn’t speak when they reached the overlook.

There wasn’t much point.

The mountain fell away beneath them in long, sloping lines of shadow and gold, the last light of Rylor’s sun stretching thin across the horizon as if reluctant to leave it. The air had cooled, just enough to notice. Just enough to feel.

Two bikes idled down to silence. Three figures remained.

For the time being, no one moved to fill the space. No one reached for humor, or commentary, or the easy instinct to make a moment smaller so it could be handled more comfortably.

It was the kind of stillness that only existed on the far side of something – earned, not given. Carried quietly in the set of a shoulder, the absence of tension where it might once have lived, the simple, unspoken understanding that everyone present was, against a not-insignificant set of odds, still there to witness it.

The light shifted. Softened. Began its slow retreat.

And for a little while, three officers – three friends – stood at the edge of it, saying nothing at all.

Not one of them took it for granted.

TAG/End Scene for Bancroft

(OOC: Chris, Thomas, feel free to retcon that ending as you prefer. I tried to write it ambiguously enough that it could be read as ‘just a moment’ rather than ‘nobody said or did anything ever again.’)

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Lieutenant JG Roy Bancroft

Assistant Chief Medical Officer

USS Artemis-A

A240205RB1