Ensign Roy Bancroft - Fifteen Seconds
Carter Schimpff
(( Roy Bancroft’s Quarters – Deck 5, USS Artemis-A ))
The lights were low. The music was up.
And Roy Bancroft – Doctor, Officer – was dancing like no one was watching. Because, ever since Imril had moved out, no one could be.
It wasn’t even good dancing. It was all elbows and hips and bare feet sliding across the carpet in a loose approximation of rhythm. He’d stripped down to his Starfleet-issue boxer-briefs and an undershirt that read Property of Starfleet Medical – a gift from someone who either admired or deeply misunderstood him.
He spun, misjudged the traction, and skidded into the corner of his coffee table with a yelp.
Bancroft: ::laughing, to no one:: And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I don’t do surgery without shoes on.
He righted himself, then struck a pose – arms out, one leg extended behind, toe pointed – a ballet of bravado and unspent energy.
The music changed tracks automatically: something with a brighter tempo and a messier beat. It made him feel human. Like someone who hadn’t spent the last few weeks navigating subterfuge, moral triage, and ethical quandaries.
He danced over to his replicator.
Bancroft: Computer, one piping hot red leaf tea, if you please!
The cup materialized. He took it, humming along to the song.
Then – a beat. A breath. A tremor.
The cup slipped.
Not far – maybe an inch – but it tilted mid-air, caught against his chest, and sloshed its contents across his hand, shirt, and the carpet.
He hissed, jerking back, eyes squeezing shut.
When he opened them, the liquid soaked into the fabric like–
Blood.
Blood on his hands. Blood on his chest. Blood on the straw in that barn. Blood gushing from the woman’s side as her child screamed.
Please, save my mama.
The mug hit the floor and shattered, sending ceramic shards skating across the floor like shrapnel.
His breath caught.
Then hitched.
Then refused to move.
Bancroft: ::whispering:: No–
He stumbled back a step, hand to chest. The music kept playing – loud, too loud – and it skipped, the same line stuttering like a damaged heart valve. He blinked rapidly, chest tightening, ears ringing, a hot stinging flush racing up his neck and across his face.
He wasn’t breathing. He couldn’t breathe.
His hand pressed to his sternum. Pounding. Too fast. Wrong.
A muscle in his left arm twitched. A nerve misfired down his jaw.
Heart attack, his medical training shouted.
No, panic, his medical training countered.
Then why can’t I make it stop?
He collapsed into the chair beside his desk, knocking a forgotten bauble to the floor. The edges of the room frayed. His thoughts tangled. One part of him wanted to scream for help.
Another part – louder, colder – told him not like this. No one ever sees you like this.
The music kept skipping.
“Lately… I’m lucky if I just feel a little more like myself.”
Commander Munro had opened her mouth to respond–
–then Meyers had appeared.
He’d laughed it off. Brushed past it. But it lingered now. The words unfinished. Unanswered.
“Galaris left a mark, no question,” he’d told the Captain. “But then… so do all the best lessons”
“We rarely get a say in how the galaxy decides to teach us…” She’d responded. Distracted? Uninterested? Annoyed?
The lights flickered. A faint red glow pulsed from the status panel by the door – some minor systems alert, blinking like a dying heartbeat.
He could still hear the little girl.
“Do you ever wonder what we’re really doing here?” he’d asked Vhysa’lia.
“Don’t worry,” they’d smiled. “You can’t scare me off that easily.”
A traitorous thought whispered to him: can’t I?
The pain in his chest was real.
The dizziness was worse.
He was 26. Fit. Trained. Smart.
And none of it mattered.
Am I dying? Am I losing my mind? What the hell is wrong with me?
His body shook. He couldn’t control it.
In the silence between the looping music, he could hear his own heartbeat.
And then, another voice. Cold. Calculating. Southern.
Control is not a luxury, Roy. It is the natural result of competence.
He sucked in a breath.
Held it.
Counted.
One… two… three…
His chest trembled. His lips parted. A sob – sharp and sudden – tore free.
Four… five…
Another sob. This one smaller. Quieter.
Six…
Fifteen seconds.
That’s all he gave himself.
Fifteen seconds to break apart.
Then he sat up. Wiped his face. Swallowed twice, and stood.
Bancroft: ::quietly, flatly:: Enough.
You are not dying. You are not weak. You are a Bancroft.
A Bancroft does not unravel.
Not in public. Not in private.
Not ever.
He reached for a towel and a fresh t-shirt. Gathered the shards of the mug and disposed of them.
The music subroutine finally rebooted, leaving a clinical, sterile, buzzing silence.
He cleared his throat.
Bancroft: Computer, access the medical records for Crewman Tilden. Have the results of the genetic sequencing scan come back yet?
His voice was steady.
Mostly.
End Scene
===
Ensign Roy Bancroft
Medical Officer
USS Artemis-A
A240205RB1