Lieutenant JG Roy Bancroft - Four Warm Meals Walk Into a Corridor
Carter Schimpff
(( Jefferies Tube, Deck 4 – USS Karnack ))
They’d bought themselves a sliver of quiet by doing what any sensible Starfleet officer did when confronted with an apex predator in a dark corridor: they’d fled into the nearest maintenance tunnel and slammed the hatch.
Their plan had taken shape in hushed murmurs broken by the occasional rousing speech: find fire extinguishers in nearby damage control nodes, use the CO2 discharge like weaponized winter, then seal hull breaches until the Karnack stopped being an open-air buffet for the Dark Things.
It was, as mid-hunt plans went, terrifying in practice and, annoyingly, quite reasonable. They were on the hunt for the first damage control locker when Storm let some of the strain slip through.
Storm: Hopefully it’s not far…
Roy saw the moment she faltered.
It was almost nothing – the equivalent of someone tripping in the darkness. Someone else might have missed it, or written it off.
He did not.
The sight of it sent a quiet, unwelcome spike of cold through his gut – far more personal than he cared to examine. He told himself that he would feel for any of his crewmates. That he was simply observing, assessing, cataloguing as he always did.
He was a well-adjusted physician. A professional. This was just… an abundance of doctorly care.
There was nothing he could do, anyway.
Any attempt to reach her in these narrow confines would be clumsy at best, performative at worst, and an intrusion she’d resent in any case.
Asking if she was alright would be worse.
If she said she was fine, he’d hear the lie. And if she admitted she wasn’t – what then? I’m sorry?
Bancroft: Can’t be. This close to Engineering, with all of the EPS conduits radiating out like arteries? I’m surprised we haven’t already found one.
When Jovenan opened the damage control node, the tube filled with the sharp crack of displaced current and the thin hiss of escaping air. The scent of scorched circuitry drifted back toward them, acrid and metallic.
Roy leaned slightly to see past the others. Green chemlight shimmered over something round and metallic in Jovenan’s hands.
A fire suppression canister. Step one.
Jovenan: Seems to be intact. ::hands the extinguisher over:: It creates a stream and a cloud of very cold gas, but it has a limited range, and it won’t stop the momentum. If the predator is jumping or running towards you, it might collide with you before it realises it’s hurting.
The extinguisher was passed down the line until it reached his hands.
Storm: So we need something to slow them down before they get to us, giving us the advantage. That might be possible.
Silveira: We pick our spot to make a stand. We might have enough places to ambush it.
Bancroft: ::nodding:: There’s more than enough debris in those corridors to turn them against what might hunt us. We won’t lack for obstacles.
Jovenan: What’s next? We need to start working on our actual task, but is it better to wait until the predators find us, or do we, um, start hunting for them or luring them with fire or something?
Storm: I’ll defer to Commander Silveria’s expertise, but I think we need at least one or two more of those extinguishers before we do anything.
Silveira: I agree, I would rather not risk it failing or run out of juice quickly.
Bancroft: We’ll need at least one apiece. No one should be caught empty-handed if something shows up.
Storm: My concern is that if we try to attract them, we might get a whole lot more than we can handle. If we only had one opening to defend, it would be more possible, but with an entire corridor and four holes in the outer walls? That’s a lot of ground to defend, and we could end up with a friendly fire scenario, even. Or do you disagree, Commander?
Alex looked at Commander Silveira and he nodded, tipping his head in the direction of the outer hull.
Silveira: No, not at all. That’s why we need to find a good place to set up. We know one is out there. But there could be more.
Bancroft: Agreed.
Jovenan: Response
Storm: The first tactical rule of thumb before planning a major offensive is to have solid intel. That’s just not something we can get in this case. We’re walking blind.
Silveira: I know, but we can’t really run a proper recon, we will need to adapt and improvise.
Bancroft: We may not be as blind as we think. ::glancing at Storm:: As long as we stay tight, nothing will sneak up on us.
Jovenan: Response
Storm: I think our best bet is if we can get the majority of the holes closed up quickly, and there was only one way they could come at us, then we could try to draw them into an ambush, but not before then. That would be suicide.
A small pause followed.
Storm: And dying today doesn’t fit into my schedule.
The humor was small, almost defiant. The sound of it moved through him like air into a room long sealed. His worry didn’t vanish – it simply softened at the edges, its grip easing just enough to remind him that she was still fighting.
Silveira: Not today… Neither tomorrow. And we will get this box match of a ship back up there, even if we have to grow wings and push it.
A thin smile curled into the corners of Roy’s wild lumberjack beard.
Jovenan: Response
Silveira: OK, first get a few more of these. At least two more. ::He looked around, searching for another node:: Then I say we follow Lieutenant Storm's plan. We get the stuff and start welding down the holes. Always keeping surveillance and safe. The more we close the less they come.
Roy felt the instinctive response rise in him, automatic and unexamined.
Aye, sir.
The words gathered at the back of his throat, reflex and respect assembling them.
But before they could leave him, Silveira added, almost as an afterthought:
Silveira: If you agree, Commander.
Jovenan/Storm: Response
They crawled along to the next damage control node.
Silveira: I am not sure if our little climb has brought us to deck three yet. Do any of you got a better look at the Karnack’s deck plant?
Roy let his gaze drift along the inner curve of the Jefferies tube, searching for anything — a maintenance stencil, a faded marking, the geometry of the junctions — that might anchor them within the ship’s wounded anatomy.
Further down the passage, half obscured by shadow, he caught the faint outline of a plaque bolted to the bulkhead.
DECK 4.
The plaque may as well have read: Congratulations – you’re still in peril, but at least you’re not lost.
Bancroft: ::pointing:: Looks like we’re still on 4. That’s good news - not far to go to get back.
Returning to their original point of entry made sense – tactically, structurally, almost elegantly. The four of them already knew that section of hull. They understood its weaknesses. And further down that corridor, four of their people were working to coax life back into the ship.
Tamio. Doctor Jaran. Imril. Nat. If the Dark Things did come for them there, they’d have reinforcements nearby. Good ones. Competent ones. The sort who did not generally respond to existential predators with interpretive dance.
Well… with the possible exception of Jaran.
Jovenan/Storm: Response
They retrieved more extinguishers – cold cylinders of finite reassurance that they were – and began the crawl back the way they had come. It was an activity rapidly becoming the ship’s least glamorous team-building exercise.
The motion had just found its rhythm when Silveira faltered, eyes squeezing shut as though the darkness around them had suddenly flashed sun-white.
When he opened them again, something in his expression felt fractionally displaced. He lifted a hand toward them in a small, dismissive gesture.
Silveira: I’m OK… Just a flashback or something… That transporter might have done a number on me, but we have things to do. Let’s move we got to plank these holes and kick some Things up if they bother us again.
That transporter might have done a number on me. Roy yet to hear of a positive prognosis that came after a sentence like that.
His brow lifted slightly, the motion half-lost in the green wash of chemlight that carved unfamiliar shadows into the Commander’s face. The color lent everything a faint unreality – as though they were no longer inside a starship, but somewhere submerged and far too quiet.
Over the last half hour, Roy’s attention to the Commander had shifted by degrees – from passing curiosity to something more deliberate. The hesitations were small. The cadence only fractionally delayed. But they were the kind of tics a physician learned early on never to ignore.
There was nothing to be done here in the dark. Still, when Sickbay breathed again – when scanners hummed and light returned – Commander Silveira would not be taking so much as a shower before he received a thorough examination. Roy did not yet know what he expected to find.
He only knew he expected to find something.
They reached the hatch Roy had sealed earlier.
He rested his hand against the locking mechanism, feeling the cool metal beneath his palm.
Bancroft: Ready? Steady?
He briefly considered adding ‘don’t panic’ to the list, but wisely decided against it.
Jovenan/Storm/Silveira: Response
He turned the wheel slowly and lifted the hatch.
The corridor beyond lay in shadow, moonlight spilling through the hull breaches in long pale ribbons. The torn edges of the ship gleamed like exposed bone.
They slipped out into the silence, extinguishers in hand.
Bancroft: ::whispering:: I suggest we work in pairs – one repairing, the other watching the other’s back with an extinguisher ready.
He didn’t say that he’d also be watching Silveira, though he certainly would be.
Not openly or theatrically. Just one eye, always tracking – posture, breathing, body language. Something about the man felt increasingly untethered, as though intention and action were no longer perfectly aligned in his mind.
Jovenan/Storm/Silveira: Response
Wordlessly, he handed the acetylene torch to Alex. Confusion flickered across her face – distorted by shadow and green light – and sharpened swiftly into indignation.
Roy held her gaze. If those things came back, she’d be – at best – at a disadvantage. At worst? Completely incapacitated. It was a decision rooted in pragmatism, not heroism, machismo, or any misguided desire to look gallant in poor lighting.
A quiet plea blossomed across his face:
oO I know you hate it. I know you’d rather be the one standing guard. But you know this is the right move. Oo
Roy didn’t know if she had heard him – telepathically or otherwise – but he could only hope she understood.
Bancroft: ::whispered:: Let’s make quick work of this. The others are counting on us.
Jovenan/Storm/Silveira: Response
TAG/TBC!
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Lieutenant JG Roy Bancroft
Medical Officer
USS Artemis-A
A240205RB1