Ensign Roy Bancroft - Top Tier Goo
Carter Schimpff
(( Primary Sickbay - Deck 7, USS Artemis-A ))
Storm: So what are the scan telling you? That my boots are too old and a little bit worn and my shirt was freshly replicated today? Or nothing so thrilling as that?
Bancroft: ::squinting theatrically at the display:: It’s saying your boots are vintage ‘Ad Astra’ issue with approximately… 62.7 light-years on them? That can’t be right. I’ll have Engineering check the footwear subroutine for bias.
He flicked his tricorder closed with a practiced flourish and stepped to a nearby console.
Bancroft: As for you, Lieutenant… your vitals are excellent. I’m pleased to announce that you are almost certainly not a changeling. And if you are… well, you’re in exceptional health. Top-tier goo.
Storm: I’ve come to a decision about you, Doctor. If we are ever boarded, I’m sending the hostiles to sickbay.
Roy stopped in his tracks and gave the Lieutenant a sidelong glance, one eyebrow cocked, grin fully deployed.
Bancroft: ::hand to chest, mock-wounded:: Why, Lieutenant… sacrificing me to the invaders? I can certainly understand your desire to use me as a Human speedbump – and the Captain would probably promote you – but think of the collateral damage. Jorgenson has children. ::beat:: I think.
Storm just shook her head – whether from disbelief, amusement, or some combination thereof was anyone’s guess. It was the kind of reaction Roy had learned to interpret as a sign of growing affection. Or, at least, grudging tolerance.
Storm: No, because despite your earlier gaffe, your manner is very disarming.
Roy laughed – an honest, full-chested sound. A joke! From Storm! And a good one, no less. There might be hope for the Artemis’ collection of two-pips after all.
Bancroft: ::brightly:: Ah, well played, Lieutenant! ::beat, grinning:: So what I’m hearing is – you think I’m charming enough to lull armed assailants into complacency and irritating enough to be expendable. Honestly? I’ve been trying to thread that needle for years.
Storm: Response
Roy activated the overhead scanner, the soft rise and whir of its sensors casting faint blue light across Storm. He glanced at the readouts – heart rate, blood pressure, respiratory rhythm, temperature – all already logged and frustratingly perfect.
Bancroft: ::feigned distraction:: Hm? Well, yes, I suppose that’s one way to look at it. I, on the other hand, subscribe fully to the ‘any press is good press’ school of personal branding.
Storm: Response
The diagnostic console chirped gently as the cranial scan initiated, casting a real-time image of the inside of Storm’s skull onto his monitor.
Bancroft: I’ve got to say, Lieutenant Storm, you are in pristine health. What’s your exercise regimen? Running? Organizing your boot collection? Emotionally bench-pressing other peoples’ intrusive thoughts?
He adjusted the scan parameters for the bronchial pass, the scanner shifting downward with a gentle sweep as it illuminated her thoracic cavity. The display flickered with yet another impressively clean readout.
Storm: Response
TAG/TBC!
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Ensign Roy Bancroft
Medical Officer
USS Artemis-A
A240205RB1