Ensign Roy Bancroft - Your Warranty Hasn't Expired, But...
Carter Schimpff
(( Primary Sickbay, Deck 7, USS Artemis ))
Bergmen: Extraterrestrial, doctor. ::pause:: Not human. Alien. Is that a proper name used on Earth, I believe? But I like that second word…teenager… ::smiles::
Bancroft: ::clearing his throat:: Right. Well. Be that as it may... let’s begin your examination, shall we?
Bergmen jerked his head slightly – probably an attempt at nodding – then grimaced in pain. An unsubtle reminder that, even for the genetically youthful, dignity had its limits.
Bergmen: Y… Yes, please.
Roy grabbed a tricorder from the nearby stand and popped out the scanning pod. As he passed it over Bergmen’s shoulder, he began humming softly to himself. The melody was catchy – absurdly so. He’d picked it up recently from a newly minted… well, acquaintance? Superior officer? Possible existential threat? He hadn’t decided.
Bancroft: ::singing under his breath:: T’Laaaaraaaa told me, not todaaaay…
The tricorder trilled and beeped like an overexcited Ferengi at a clearance sale. Each sound was loaded with diagnostic significance to a trained medic, and – Roy imagined – pure gibberish to anyone else.
Bancroft: ::to himself as he scans:: Mmm. Very interesting. Very, very interesting. ::lightly, still in rhythm:: Not for eternitttyyyyyyy…
He paused, frowning at the readout, then adjusted the pod slightly and gave it another pass.
Bancroft: Irregular inflammation around the supraspinatus insertion point. Bit of fraying on the nearby tendons, too. Not terrible, but not great either. Obviously. Given the pain you’re experiencing.
Bergmen: So, what do you need from me, doctor?
Bancroft flicked the tricorder closed with a jovial snap and clipped the scanning pod back into the top, placing the device on a tray beside him.
Bancroft: It’s not a red alert ‘crashcart’ situation. Your arm isn’t about to detach and file for independence. No need to alert next-of-kin. That said, if we don’t get some maintenance on the internal scaffolding, it’s going to keep filing formal complaints every time you do anything ambitious, like brushing your hair.
Bergmen: Response
Roy consulted a nearby PADD and pulled up the details of Ollie’s visit to Sickbay following his return from the surface of Galaris IV.
Bancroft: Oh yes, they did patch you up quite nicely after you returned from the surface, all things considered. But here’s the rub – when it comes to joint trauma, fixing the injury is only half the battle. The surrounding soft tissue? That’s where the real drama lives. Swelling, microtears, destabilized movement patterns… all of which can start throwing tantrums after the main show is over.
Bergmen: Response
Bancroft: ::raising his hands in a mock-defensive posture, grinning slightly:: Hey, I get it. You’re a Gideon. And yes – I would have figured that out sooner had I not stopped reading your chart in sheer disbelief at your biological age. Don’t worry, you’re still drinking from the proverbial fountain of youth. That said… even fountains need a little maintenance now and then. ::more seriously, but still light:: A week or two of targeted physical therapy and you’ll be back in fighting form.
Bergmen: Response
Bancroft: Physical therapy doesn’t mean your body’s broken. It just means it’s… momentarily cranky and needs a professional cuddle. And you’ve had a rough go of it lately. This is just a little nudge to help you bounce back faster.
He gestured towards Bergmen’s shoulder with clinical detachment and just a sprinkle of theatrical flair.
Bancroft: I’ve no doubt your body would handle things eventually – probably faster than most of the crew, honestly. But pain is optional in the 25th century, which means suffering is… well, kind of a personal hobby at this point. I’m offering you a more comfortable alternative.
Bergmen: Response
TAG/TBC!
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Ensign Roy Bancroft
Medical Officer
USS Artemis-A
A240205RB1