Ensign Roy Bancroft - Cleaned, But Not Forgotten
Carter Schimpff
(( Primary Sickbay – Deck 7, USS Artemis-A ))
Time had been behaving oddly since Galaris IV.
Some hours passed in the blink of an eye. Others dragged their heels like children refusing to leave a playground. Today was one of the latter – long, slow, and loud with the kind of silence that came only after near catastrophe.
Roy was elbow-deep – literally, to the elbow – in a trauma crash cart, running inventory for the third time. Every hypospray, every dermal regenerator, every anabolic protoplaser.
It was reassuring. Predictable. Unlike, say, war. Or ethics.
His thoughts were scattered. Disconnected. A reel of moments that wouldn’t quite play in the right order.
He still wasn’t sure he shouldn’t have been airlocked for what he’d done in that damp cellar in Breetia Township. But Lieutenant Sadar – who, if the rumors were true, had been proverbially airlocked herself – had delivered what might have been the gentlest tongue-lashing in Starfleet history.
His punishment? A heaping of extra duty shifts with Lieutenant Meyers – who was, tragically, still in this department and seemed deeply committed to interpersonal hostility.
Perhaps it was Sadar’s parting gift. Or her final lesson in what had been a tragically short working relationship.
Then there were the nanoparticles.
That particular ethical migraine throbbed in a category of its own. He had blinded an entire population. Or, at least, enough of one to make the math very uncomfortable.
And yes – he’d tested the theory on himself first. That didn’t bother him. He’d made peace with the idea of dying on principle a long time ago. But the bigger question – the one that lingered?
Was it ethical?
He’d disobeyed orders in that basement because of his oath: to heal, to help, to preserve life. And then, not long after, he’d technically helped preserve life by disabling millions in one brilliant, horrifying stroke.
Was that hypocrisy? Growth? Cowardice?
He didn’t know anymore.
The more he thought, the more tangled it got. Every answer led to another question, and every question led to that same knot in his stomach.
Until–
Vhysa’lia: ::interrupting:: And what might you be working on over here?
Roy startled – just slightly – as the voice cut through his thoughts. He turned, blinking once at the unexpected visitor. The corner of his mustache twitched, indecisively, somewhere between a smile and a wince. His eyes flicked from her face to her collar – Lieutenant Junior Grade – then back again, recalibrating.
New. Friendly. Possibly lethal.
Sometimes the friendliest ones were the most dangerous. The ones who smiled while playing with their food.
Bancroft: Lieutenant! Just doing some inventory on this trauma cart. ::deadpan:: Glamorous, I know. Try not to be dazzled.
Vhysa’lia: Oh, that’s fantastic. ::holding out her hand to shake, with a slightly apologetic laugh:: Where are my manners? My name’s Vhysa’lia, and yours is…?
The Lieutenant was laughing. Apologetically. And now there was a handshake involved.
Classic misdirection.
Roy resisted the urge to narrow his eyes in suspicion. This felt like the opening move in a very polite ambush. Still, protocol was protocol. He extended his hand with the wary precision of a man defusing a landmine.
Bancroft: ::cautiously:: Ensign Roy Bancroft, Medical Doctor.
He said it like he wasn’t entirely sure it wouldn’t be used against him later.
Vhysa’lia: It is a pleasure, Dr. Bancroft. ::slight pause, looking around and taking the sights of sickbay in:: It looks like we’re both somewhat new here together - you, to the Artemis, and me to this department.
New to the department?
Ah. Yes. The name clicked now – Counseling, if memory served. He didn’t recognize the face, but that wasn’t saying much. He’d spent most of his brief time on the Artemis, well… not on the Artemis.
Had command already appointed a new Assistant Chief Medical Officer? It wouldn’t surprise him. There was a new XO, after all – and rumor had it she preferred her to-do lists completed before she finished writing them.
Still – this Lieutenant hadn’t tried to eat him yet, metaphorically or otherwise. And if Vhysa’lia was his new space mom, he figured the least he could do was be polite.
Deferential. Non-threatening. Possibly southern.
Bancroft: ::with a cautious smile:: I assure you, Lieutenant, the pleasure’s mine. And you’re quite right – I’m new to the Artemis. But I do recall seeing your name on the counseling roster. ::a beat, lightening slightly:: Decided to trade in the inkblot holos and feelings journals for bonesaws and protoplasers?
Vhysa’lia: Counseling just wasn’t the thing for me, I wanted to be back doing something more… hands on. I’ve missed it! ::huge grin:: But enough about me, how are you liking the Artemis? ::gesturing to his work:: You’re certainly fitting in already, the whole ship seems to be full of… “work-a-holics”, I think is the phrase?
The Lieutenant said they’d missed it – “hands-on work” – with a grin so broad it felt like a sunrise in Sickbay. Which, Roy figured, was better than most other things that dawned in Sickbay.
Then Vhysa’lia had gestured to the trauma cart – his chaotic little temple of order – and said he seemed to be fitting in. Called him a workaholic, even.
He’d been called worse. By worse. And answered to most of it.
The word didn’t sting, but it didn’t quite sit right, either.
Was he a workaholic? Not exactly. He loved the work, sure. He was committed to his duty. Constantly pushing to be more. Be better. Be enough.
But – he didn’t crave the grind.
He just… didn’t trust himself with free time. Too many loose thoughts and nowhere safe to set them down.
Still, she’d said it kindly. Maybe even curiously. So he met her grin with a half-smile of his own.
Bancroft: ::mildly:: I wouldn’t say I’m a workaholic, but I do love the work. ::gesturing to the trauma cart:: I also don’t like leaving things to chance. Around here, problems tend to evolve if you don’t catch them early.
He paused, studying the Lieutenant’s features. Still bright. Still smiling.
Bancroft: ::more upbeat:: I love it here on the Artemis. She’s like her crew – purposeful, dramatic, competent, and just slightly unhinged. ::a beat, wryly:: And, nobody’s tried to airlock me yet, so I’m calling that a win.
Vhysa’lia: Response
Roy turned back to the trauma cart, gave it a final once-over, then reached for a tray of used medical equipment – tricorder probes, sterilizers, hyposprays, dermal regenerators – all in various states of disarray. They’d been scrubbed of blood, but not memory. Even cleaned and sterilized, they still told a sobering story of what had happened here recently.
Bancroft: With your leave, Lieutenant, I’d like to get this tray of equipment reset, refurbished, and back in order. ::glancing over:: If you’re serious about getting hands-on again… I’d be grateful for your help.
Vhysa’lia: Response
He slid the storage bin between them so they could both dig in. It was the kind of simple, steady work that didn’t require too much eye contact or emotional investment – a luxury in Sickbay.
Roy let silence hang between them for a moment as they worked, then spoke again – casually, as though he hadn’t been turning the next thought over for the last twenty minutes.
Bancroft: ::lightly:: Do you ever wonder what we’re really doing here? ::beat, then quickly:: Not on the ship. I mean here, in Sickbay. Whether we’re actually helping. Or just making people comfortable while the universe chews through them a little more slowly.
He didn’t look up from the hypospray he was scanning. There was no edge to the question, no visible angst. Just curiosity – worn down at the edges by recent events.
Bancroft: That was a bit deep for small talk, wasn’t it? My apologies. I forgot to put on my manners this morning. ::beat, softening:: Tell me about you, if you would. Did you get your degree at Starfleet Medical? Or somewhere else?
Vhysa’lia: Response
TAG/TBC!
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Ensign Roy Bancroft
Medical Officer
USS Artemis-A
A240205RB1