Lieutenant JG Roy Bancroft - Cha Cha Cha
Carter Schimpff
(( Market District, City One – Rylor ))
Rylor had the sort of afternoon light that made everything feel slightly unreal.
The sun hung low over the whitewashed market walls, scattering amber across narrow streets that smelled faintly of citrus peel, sea salt, grilled shellfish… and garlic.
A remarkable amount of garlic, actually.
Roy Bancroft passed three consecutive food stalls that appeared to specialize in applying garlic to otherwise innocent ingredients with something approaching religious fervor. One merchant was selling braided cords of it. Another had garlic butter. A third appeared to be roasting entire bulbs over open flame with the solemnity of a sacrament.
Roy made a small mental note.
Local cuisine: aggressive.
Shore leave had dispersed the crew of the USS Artemis-A across the city like confetti.
Roy had intended – sincerely – to spend the afternoon doing something restful.
Instead, he found himself standing in front of a small medical supply shop tucked between two stone buildings.
Which, in hindsight, probably said something about his psychological state.
The shop – unlike the surrounding buildings – looked as though it had been assembled from spare parts of three different centuries. The interior was dim, lit mostly by the amber glow filtering through the front windows and a pair of old-fashioned lamps mounted behind the counter. Glass cabinets displayed antique hyposprays beside hand-blown vials and curious instruments that Roy was fairly certain had last been considered “state of the art” sometime during the heyday of Phlox.
Possibly earlier than that.
Behind the counter stood a man who appeared to be approximately two hundred years old.
He was tall, unnaturally pale, and wore a long dark coat despite the warm air in the shop. His hair was slicked back with a meticulousness that bordered on ceremonial, and his smile revealed two teeth that were… well.
Prominent.
Roy, being a physician, tried very hard not to jump to conclusions about dental morphology.
The man inclined his head politely.
Shopkeeper: Welcome, young doctor.
Roy paused.
Bancroft: I’m sorry, have we met?
The man’s smile widened slightly.
Shopkeeper: One recognizes one’s own kind.
Roy hesitated.
That was not, technically speaking, how medical licensure worked.
Bancroft: You… can tell I’m a physician?
The shopkeeper gestured vaguely at Roy’s posture.
Shopkeeper: You carry yourself like one who has spent many long nights contemplating the circulatory system.
Roy nodded slowly.
Bancroft: I suppose that’s one way to describe medical school.
The man extended a pale hand.
Shopkeeper: Doctor Flagermus Acula.
Roy stared at the hand.
Then, with the quiet professionalism that had carried him through numerous awkward diplomatic situations, he shook it.
Bancroft: Lieutenant Roy Bancroft, M.D.
Acula’s eyes lit faintly with recognition.
Dr. Acula: Ah. Starfleet.
Roy tilted his head.
Bancroft: You serve?
Acula chuckled softly.
Dr. Acula: One might say I practiced for… quite a long time.
Roy glanced around the shop.
Several shelves were devoted almost entirely to phlebotomy instruments.
Not modern ones.
Antique ones.
Needles.
Lancets.
Glass blood vials.
There was even – Roy noted with growing curiosity – what appeared to be a hand-cranked transfusion pump from the very early Federation period.
Bancroft: Interesting specialty.
Acula followed his gaze.
Dr. Acula: Blood is such an underappreciated field of study.
Roy nodded thoughtfully.
Bancroft: I’m a general practitioner myself, with a specialization in microsurgery, but I do appreciate a good hematology case.
The old man leaned forward slightly.
Dr. Acula: Tell me, Doctor Bancroft…
His voice dropped conspiratorially.
Dr. Acula: Have you ever tasted–
He paused.
Dr. Acula: –a particularly rare hemoglobin variant?
Roy blinked twice.
Bancroft: ::hesitantly:: I generally try to limit my tasting of bodily fluids.
The pale doctor waved dismissively.
Dr. Acula: A shame. Some of the rarer species have fascinating iron profiles.
The older doctor moved around the shop with a fluid grace Roy found difficult to categorize. He produced a small glass vial filled with dark red liquid.
Dr. Acula: Synthetic, of course.
Roy examined it.
Bancroft: Hemoglobin stabilizer?
Dr. Acula: Vintage recipe.
Roy raised an eyebrow.
Bancroft: How vintage?
Dr. Acula smiled again.
Dr. Acula: ::airily:: Oh… late nineteenth century.
Roy did some quick mental arithmetic, then decided not to pursue that line of inquiry.
Instead, he gestured toward the coat.
Bancroft: Aren’t you warm in that?
The man glanced toward the front windows where the sunlight slanted across the floor but stopped short of the counter.
Dr. Acula: I find the daylight… unpleasant.
Roy nodded slowly.
Bancroft: Photosensitivity, huh?
Dr. Acula: Something like that.
A small silence settled between them.
Roy’s physician brain began quietly assembling data points.
Pale skin.
Unusual dentition.
Obsessive interest in blood.
Strong aversion to sunlight.
Possible centuries-old medical practice.
He cleared his throat.
Bancroft: Forgive the question, Doctor, but what field did you say you practiced?
Dr. Acula clasped his hands behind his back.
Dr. Acula: Phlebotomy.
Roy waited.
Dr. Acula’s smile widened.
Dr. Acula: Exclusively.
Roy nodded once.
Bancroft: Of course.
Another pause.
Dr. Acula tilted his head.
Dr. Acula: You seem skeptical.
Roy considered his answer carefully.
Bancroft: I’m a physician, Doctor. ::gesturing to the vial:: I deal in evidence.
Dr. Acula leaned slightly closer.
His voice lowered.
Dr. Acula: And if the evidence suggested something… unusual?
Roy thought about the Orion Syndicate.
Nanoparticles.
A space fungus named Jeff.
He sighed quietly.
Bancroft: At this point in my career, Doctor, I would consider very little impossible.
Roy inclined his head and began preparing a careful retreat toward the door, already planning the polite backward exit that seemed most appropriate when leaving the company of an elderly phlebotomist whose relationship with blood appeared to extend somewhat beyond the professional.
Just as he began to move, the small bell above the shop door tinkled softly.
Both doctors looked toward the door with identical expressions of mild surprise, as though neither of them had expected the shop to receive another customer.
MacKenzie and/or Morgan: Response
TAG/TBC!
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Lieutenant JG Roy Bancroft
Medical Officer
USS Artemis-A
A240205RB1