Lieutenant JG Roy Bancroft - Weaponized Hasperat
Carter Schimpff
(( ‘Appetite Optional’, Ferenginar ))
MacKenzie: Prestige dishes? If you really think that's a smart idea, Doctor...
Bancroft: In my experience, ma’am, the line between ‘smart idea’ and ‘catastrophic lapse in judgement’ mostly comes down to how things turn out in the end. And in this case, well… only one way to find out.
He delivered it pleasantly, the way one might discuss weather patterns. MacKenzie’s expression suggested she was fully prepared to let him find out.
Then MacKenzie swivelled, her attention slicing across the table like a guillotine aimed at their First Officer.
MacKenzie: Commander, you've hardly touched your gagh.
Munro, who looked several shades paler than Starfleet regulations generally allowed, raised her hands.
Munro: Yes, I'm not feeling the best. I think it's all the … moisture … in the air :: raised her arms in surrender :: kills my appetite.
Munro: I guess that means there's more for Doctor Bancroft :: watched MacKenzie eat more :: Or yourself.
Roy glanced at Munro with a sympathy so quiet it was nearly invisible. The Commander was doing her best to appear dignified while, most likely, debating whether vomiting in front of a superior officer was a court-martial offense.
And if Ava was going to get caught in the crossfire of this escalating culinary duel, the least he could do was get her reinforcements.
He lifted two fingers in a subtle but practiced signal. The proprietor materialized instantly, sliding across the floor with a fluid grace that belied his toothy, shark-like grin.
Bancroft: ::gesturing toward Ava:: Three fingers of Lagavulin neat for my friend over here, if you please.
The Ferengi nodded, his ears wiggling with professional enthusiasm, and scuttled back toward the front counter. Roy watched him vanish toward the front of the establishment and caught a fleeting flash of auburn hair in the corner of his eye – but no, it had to be a coincidence.
Before he could think further on it, MacKenzie’s voice snapped him back to the table.
MacKenzie: Doctor, I believe you were going to place another order. Was there something that caught your eye?
Munro: Oh :: takes a breath :: I don't think I can eat another bite. I'll just have a drink. A strong one.
As if summoned by the precise shape of her despair, the Ferengi reappeared with a tumbler of amber liquid and placed it reverently before Commander Munro.
Roy took another composed bite of gagh. Composed being relative – the little creatures writhed like they were filing escape paperwork. Still, years of Bancroft upbringing ensured his posture remained impeccable, his expression politely serene. One did not flinch at dinner. One certainly did not flinch under a Captain’s scrutiny.
Bancroft: Cheers, Commander. It’s one of my favorites. I’m sure it’ll help settle your stomach.
MacKenzie: Response
Munro, emboldened by the drink or perhaps by sheer survival instinct, leaned in.
Munro: So Doctor Bancroft, where did you learn to fortify your stomach?
Roy shrugged lightly – the elegant, almost apologetic gesture of a man confessing to growing up in a war zone.
Bancroft: My mother believed every child should learn two things young: how to make small talk with Admirals, and how to eat whatever’s put in front of you with a smile and a ‘thank you.’
A beat. He considered his next words, then surrendered to honesty.
Bancroft: My family often treated dinner like a training exercise. If you showed weakness, you got seconds.
MacKenzie: Response
Munro: You come from a Starfleet family right?
Roy was mid-sip when she asked. His own drink, a harbor of respite amidst the culinary chaos of the rest of the table, threatened to betray him. He coughed once – softly – then cleared his throat with as much dignity as he could muster.
Bancroft: ::clearing his throat:: Yes ma’am. My father was in operations – brilliant man, very precise, very… er, structured. And my mother… well, she’s Dr. Margot Bancroft. ::a beat:: She has very… strong… feelings about how Starfleet doctors ought to conduct themselves. ::beat, gentle smile toward MacKenzie:: She and I disagree strongly on some of those.
MacKenzie/Munro: Response
Roy set his fork down and took a careful sip of his drink.
Bancroft: Yes ma’am – some. That a doctor ought to have answers before the patient’s questions are even formed? I can respect the philosophy behind that. And that if you aren’t exceptional at what you do, you should get the hell out of Sickbay? Well, hard to argue with that either, when lives hang in the balance.
He cleared his throat again, quieter this time. It was almost – but not quite – an admission of vulnerability.
Bancroft: Many of her other opinions, however… ::eyeing MacKenzie meaningfully:: don’t bare repeating in any company, much less present company, and I reject completely.
MacKenzie/Munro: Response
He opened his mouth to answer, but froze as a scent – no, a tactical assault on the senses – rolled across the room like a biothermal shockwave.
Spice.
Ferocious spice.
His stomach clinched automatically as the smell grew stronger.
The Ferengi arrived with the swagger of a man carrying a platter that radiated enough scoville heat to sterilize medical instruments.
Roy realized, belatedly, that he had smelled the dish long before its arrival. His sinuses recoiled. His eyes, traitorously, watered slightly in self-defense.
The platter descended.
Hasperat.
But not just hasperat. Weaponized hasperat.
Bancroft: ::blinking rapidly:: I… didn’t order this.
The Ferengi gave a wide, toothy grin.
Ferengi: It comes complements of… ::face scrunching up:: actually, I didn’t get her name… but she claims to be a friend of yours. In any case, the latinum was real, so I didn’t ask any questions. Bon apetit!
MacKenzie/Munro: Response
TAG/TBC!
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Lieutenant JG Roy Bancroft
Medical Officer
USS Artemis-A
A240205RB1