Lieutenant JG Roy Bancroft - Race/Off (First 1km Segment)

[Carter Schimpff]

((( OOC: As Liv noted, if you'd like to spectate (heckle) feel free to tag yourself in! )))

(( Brew Continuum, Deck 3 – USS Artemis-A ))

Morning aboard the Artemis possessed a peculiar kind of quiet. Not silence – a starship was never truly silent – but a steady mechanical murmur that suggested competence in motion. Life support whispered. Consoles chirped. And somewhere on the vessel, no doubt, a screaming Ensign was being prodded towards an airlock at the business end of a broomstick.

This was Addison MacKenzie’s ship, after all.

Roy Bancroft sat alone at a small viewport table with a PADD and a mug of coffee. He had reached that rare and fragile state known to Starfleet physicians as ‘a moment off.’

The coffee was excellent. The PADD held a handful of medical reports that required only cursory attention. Outside the viewport the mottled blues and greens of Rylor turned slowly beneath the ship.

Roy lifted the mug.

The last sip was warm, bitter, and reassuringly terrestrial.

Then his combadge chirped.

Munro: =/\= Lieutenant Bancroft =/\=

Roy tapped the badge absently, still scanning the PADD.

Bancroft: ::grumbling:: Not a moment of peace–

He cut off his own sentence and tapped his combadge.

Bancroft: =/\= Bancroft here. =/\=

Munro: =/\= You should warm up, Roy. It's time. I'll send you the details. =/\=

There was a brief silence after the channel closed.

Roy slowly lowered the mug.

“Warm up.”

The phrase hung in the air like an unfinished equation.

He stared at the coffee.

Then at the PADD.

Then back at the coffee again.

Understanding arrived in stages.

First: the race.

He had not forgotten the challenge, exactly. He had simply assumed – as one often did with things said many months prior – that time would quietly dissolve the matter. Or, at the very least, that he’d receive some sort of forewarning.

Second – and far more alarming – the coffee.

Roy looked down at the empty mug – his third of the morning – with new and deeply suspicious eyes.

Then, after a brief moment of medical self-assessment that would have impressed any Starfleet gastroenterologist, Roy tapped his combadge again. His stomach was now a ticking time bomb, and there wasn't a moment to waste.

Bancroft: =/\= Bancroft to Operations. Udesky, if you’re on. =/\=

Udesky: =/\= Udesky here, Doctor. What can I do for you? =/\=

Roy rose from the table, already gathering his PADD.

Bancroft: =/\= I require a site-to-site transport. Brew Continuum to my quarters, then immediately to Transporter Room One. =/\=

There was a pause.

Udesky: =/\= Er… Doctor Bancroft… only officers of higher rank are authorized to request site-to-site transports, sir… unless this is a medical emergency? =/\=

Roy stopped walking.

For a moment he considered the situation with the solemn seriousness of a man evaluating a developing clinical crisis.

Bancroft: ::grumbling:: =/\= It might well turn into one, Udesky. Noted. Bancroft out. =/\=

He broke into a brisk jog toward the corridor. 

(( Running Track, Kerrit Dromos, City One – Rylor )) 

Transporter light faded in a brief shimmer around Roy Bancroft’s boots.

The air on Rylor felt immediately different from the filtered sterility of the Artemis. Warmer. Richer. It carried the faint scent of unfamiliar vegetation and distant water.

Roy straightened slightly, adjusting the sleeve of his running shirt as though he had not, moments earlier, sprinted through a starship’s corridors with the quiet urgency of a man negotiating with both time and gastrointestinal biology.

Ahead of him lay the track. Around him, something Roy had not anticipated in the slightest: an audience.

A small but enthusiastic cluster of Artemis crewmembers had gathered along the edge of the track. Some leaned casually against the railing. Others sat along the low steps, watching with the relaxed curiosity of people who had discovered unexpected entertainment during Shore Leave.

Roy slowed as he approached, his physician’s eye automatically cataloging familiar faces.

A few nodded.

One or two waved.

Someone – the action happened so quickly he couldn’t be sure of his eyes or the true culprit – raised a hand and flashed an exceedingly rude gesture at him.

Any: Response

Vailani: Response

K’Wara: ::innocent smile:: And good to see you too, Lieutenant Vailani. Here to spectate?

Vailani: Response

K’Wara: Please, sit with me. I think they’re about to start.

Roy exhaled softly through his nose.

Of course there were spectators.

Starfleet officers could detect recreational competition at distances normally reserved exclusively for subspace communication.

He was about to step toward the track when a voice from the crowd called out:

Garlanak: Doctor! Odds are still shifting!

Roy turned.

Ensign Garlanak stood proudly beside what appeared to be an increasingly complicated betting arrangement involving three PADDs, a small stack of chips, a selection of brightly colored Horga'hn, and a carefully arranged case containing vintage Captain Proton action figurines.

Roy blinked once.

Then he looked back toward the track.

Standing opposite him was Ava Munro.

She looked entirely – frustratingly – at ease.

Relaxed posture. Loose shoulders. The subtle rhythm of someone who had already been stretching for some time. Perhaps even taken a light lap to loosen her legs.

Roy clasped his hands loosely behind his back and approached with the fabricated calm of a man determined not to appear hurried.

Munro: ::deadpan:: Bancroft.

Roy inclined his head politely.

Bancroft: ::steely eyes:: Commander.

Then the corners of his eyes crinkled slightly.

Bancroft: Issuing the challenge months ago and collecting on it without warning is an exceptionally effective strategy. I’m very impressed.

His gaze drifted briefly toward the crowd.

K’Wara: Obviously, Ava has this in the bag. Not even a question. What do you figure?

Vailani/Any: Response

Munro looked to the gathered crew.

Munro: You can forfeit if you like? I'm not sure your dignity would remain intact but it's an option. If you're not ready?

Roy’s eyes flicked once – almost involuntarily – toward the trees lining the edge of the track. Or, more appropriately, the support buildings nestled beneath them. One of them, surely, was a restroom.

A physician’s brain was an unfortunate thing.

It never stopped calculating.

He returned his attention to Munro with a small, easy smile.

Bancroft: I appreciate the concern, Commander. ::beat:: I assure you my dignity has survived far worse than five kilometers.

Whether it would survive this five kilometers was another matter entirely.

Munro: Response

Vailani/Any: Response

A voice from the small crowd called out: “Alright – runners ready!”

Roy stepped to the starting line beside Munro.

The track stretched ahead of them in a long red arc beneath the warm Rylorian sky.

Five kilometers.

Normally a comfortable run.

Today, Roy suspected, it might prove educational.

He rolled his shoulders once and drew in a slow breath, settling his pulse the way he had been taught years ago on muddy academy training fields.

Beside him, Munro looked utterly relaxed.

That was never a comforting sign.

“Three!”

Roy’s mind ran through a quick inventory.

Legs: functional.

Lungs: cooperative.

Stomach–

He chose not to finish that thought.

“Two!”

Munro shifted slightly into a runner’s stance.

Roy mirrored her, though perhaps a fraction more conservatively.

“One!”

A beat of perfect stillness.

“Go!”

Munro exploded forward.

Not recklessly – but decisively.

Within seconds she had already established a stride that spoke of confidence and preparation.

Munro: Response?

Roy allowed Munro the early advantage. At least, that’s what he told himself.

He had no desire to burn unnecessary energy in the opening stretch. Distance running rewarded patience. Discipline.

Restraint.

Ahead of him Munro’s stride remained strong and efficient as they rounded the far curve of the track, her lead extending to several comfortable meters.

Roy noted the gap with quiet approval.

Good form. Controlled breathing. Excellent cadence.

She had clearly prepared.

Roy lengthened his stride slightly as they approached the far straightaway.

Four hundred meters passed beneath his feet.

His breathing remained steady.

His stride remained controlled.

Everything appeared to be–

At approximately the five hundred meter mark, Roy Bancroft experienced what he would later classify as an abrupt, deeply unfortunate, and entirely predictable physiological development.

His legs suddenly felt… heavy.

Not tired.

Heavy.

Like someone had discreetly replaced his quadriceps with industrial-grade duranium.

He conducted a rapid internal assessment.

Heart rate: elevated but acceptable.

Respiration: slightly accelerated.

Muscular fatigue: very premature.

Roy’s physician’s mind began assembling possible explanations.

Hypothesis one: inadequate warm-up.

No. The Tour de Corridors had seen to that.

Hypothesis two: Commander Munro had chosen an aggressively ambitious opening pace.

Highly unlikely. She was ahead, but not that far ahead.

Hypothesis three: the coffee.

In retrospect, though he couldn’t have known it at the time, the coffee had been a catastrophic tactical error. His stomach roiled.

He lengthened his stride again, attempting to close the growing distance between them.

His hamstrings responded with the quiet, stubborn resistance of personnel who had not been properly consulted about the day’s operational plan.

Roy adjusted his pace slightly.

Then slightly again.

He had no intention of collapsing in the opening kilometer of a race that now involved witnesses, wagers, and MacKenzieBot memorabilia.

Ahead of him Munro remained steady, her stride carrying her smoothly around the next curve.

Roy allowed himself a small, thoughtful nod, easing his breathing into a slower rhythm.

Damage control.

Pace management.

Professional dignity.

By the time they approached the one-kilometer mark, Munro held a clear lead.

Not enormous, but decisive.

Roy watched the distance between them with the calm focus of a physician studying a stubborn diagnosis.

He was behind.

That much was undeniable.

But the race was young.

And Roy Bancroft had never been particularly fond of early conclusions.

Munro/Any: Response

TAG/TBC!

===

Lieutenant JG Roy Bancroft

Medical Officer

USS Artemis-A

A240205RB1