Ensign Roy Bancroft - Ghosts in the Rain (Part 2)
Carter Schimpff
(( Outskirts - Breetia Township, Galaris IV ))
When the Grunt finally sighed to a stop, Roy disembarked with care, boots squelching into mud that looked like it had been soaking in sorrow for a decade. He felt the eyes before he saw them – Grunden civilians tucked into doorways, under awnings, behind blown-out windows. Not hiding, exactly. Not welcoming, either. Just... watching.
Roy adjusted the strap on his medkit and gave the nearest observer a short, silent nod. It wasn’t returned.
He didn’t blame them for staring. If the roles were reversed, and three foreign strangers in clean uniforms came rolling up to his neighborhood in a tactical carrier with shiny boots and questions, he’d probably stare too.
He glanced sideways at Sadar and Cole, quietly grateful not to be alone. Then he looked back to the broken streets ahead, and felt the weight of the town settle onto his shoulders like damp wool.
Sadar: ... I-I don’t like being out and about like this. ::to the others:: Let’s start with some general canvassing. Get a feel for the town.
Bancroft nodded his acknowledgement, words failing him once again as he took in more of their desolate, war-soaked surroundings.
Cole: ::surveying the surroundings:: Agreed, wouldn’t want to ruin a first impression.
Sadar: Ideally, we find a place that's a good benchmark for the general development of the community here. A clinic would be best - you can tell a lot about a society based on its medical advancement - but a town hall or, uhh, a center of commerce could also work. Preferably one that's still functional despite ::gestures to some of the more dilapidated buildings:: this.
Bancroft: ::glancing from side to side:: Given the state of things, we might have to settle for anything with four walls and a functioning door hinge.
Cole: ::gesturing towards one of the buildings:: We should move carefully, there might be some unexploded ordnance in some of these buildings.
Bancroft didn’t love that.
The prickle down his spine was instant — the same involuntary shiver he got whenever an incoming subspace call blinked across his PADD with the words “Mom (Quarterly Check-In).”
He tried to shake it off. The prickle declined..
As the trio cautiously advanced, the mud clung to Roy’s boots like it had opinions on his presence here. If it did have opinions, they certainly weren’t favorable.
Breetia wasn’t a ghost town, but it was – this part of it, at least – a town seemingly full of ghosts. Stone buildings, patched and re-patched with scorched wood and sheet metal, lined the streets of the slums like crooked teeth. A cracked sign, charred and dangling, read "COMMUNITY CLINIC – HOPE IS A DUTY." Someone had scrawled a line through “a duty” and written “water” in its place.
Or, at least, that’s what the translation function of his medical tricorder told him.
Up ahead, a Grunden child – pup? – darted across the road, her arms outstretched as though she were piloting a vehicle. She held a bent length of pipe, making popping noises with her mouth.
Grunden child: Zap zap. You’re a Kobyar. You’re dead!
Bancroft: ::quietly:: And we wonder why peace takes generations.
Cole/Sadar: Response?
A gust of wind carried the smell of damp ash and boiled root vegetables. Somewhere nearby, a generator sputtered its last few volts like a smoker coughing through retirement. The sharp tang of antiseptic tickled his nose, though it was faint – probably homemade. Probably not enough.
He glanced sideways at Lieutenant Sadar and Ensign Cole, then back to the road. A Grunden shopkeeper stood on a half-collapsed stoop, replacing a cracked window with what looked like charred hull plating from a Grunt. The man looked up but offered not a word.
Roy offered the ghost of a smile. It wasn't returned. He felt more out of place here with every muddy bootprint he left in his wake.
About thirty meters from the parked Grunt, they came upon what might have once been a school – its front doors blown clean off, the word “KNOWLEDGE” carved into a lintel now scorched black.
A wet cough echoed from the alley beside it.
Roy paused.
Someone – Grunden, middle-aged, slumped on an overturned bucket – was seated just inside the shadow of a doorway. His arm was bandaged, but poorly. Stained through. The fingers on his free hand twitched as he noticed the passing Starfleet officers. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to.
Roy’s hand drifted, almost unconsciously, toward the medkit at his hip.
oO It’s a simple fix. Dermal regenerator. Hypospray. Thirty seconds and he walks away clean. Leave it as-is and… infection, probably. Sepsis, maybe. Oo
Roy didn’t move.
A long breath. One heartbeat. Two.
And then the Grunden man stood – slowly, stiffly – and turned into the alley’s deeper shadows, vanishing between two crumbling buildings.
Roy’s fingers flexed. Empty.
He exhaled through his nose and kept walking.
oO I did nothing. Exactly what I was told to do. So why does it feel so wrong? Oo
He fell back into step beside the others.
Bancroft: ::quietly:: I know we’re supposed to observe, report, investigate – and not interfere. ::his blue eyes swept the desolate streetscape once more:: But some days, “just watching” feels like the worst possible choice.
After another moment he glanced at his fellow Ensign.
Bancroft: ::glancing at Cole:: You ever wrestle with that in your line of work? Drawing a line between “mission protocol” and “doing the right thing”?
Cole/Sadar: Response
Bancroft: ::to Sadar, softer:: Lieutenant… I used to think juggling medical ethics was the hard part. Turns out that’s just the warm-up act. Now it’s diplomacy, politics, and making sure we don’t accidentally embroil Starfleet in a planetary civil war by offering a bandage to the wrong person. I know that’s the right call… but why does it feel like it isn’t?
Sadar/Cole: Response
The trio’s hushed conversation was cut short by the hollow, sad wail of a siren somewhere up ahead. The dissonant, alien notes echoed off the shamble of buildings before them, muffled by the wet air and thick mud. The hair on the back of Roy’s neck rose.
Bancroft: ::quietly, eyes darting back and forth:: Air raid siren? Intruder alert? Cultural symbol? Or just someone’s idea of an appropriate lunch bell?
Sadar/Cole: Response
TAG/TBC
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Ensign Roy Bancroft
Medical Officer
USS Artemis-A
A240205RB1