Lieutenant JG Roy Bancroft - Author of His Own Epitaph
Carter Schimpff
(OOC: This is a follow-on to this sim that was written during the Artemis’ last shore leave)
(( Holodeck 1, Deck 3 – USS Artemis-A ))
(( Funeral Parlour, Kiawah Island, Earth ))
The temperature was exactly 72.1 degrees Fahrenheit.
Cool enough for mourning, warm enough not to seem gauche.
Margot Bancroft would never permit a chill during a viewing. It made the guests shiver, and shivering suggested discomfort. Discomfort, of course, implied poor planning.
The room was dim but tasteful: polished mahogany pews, vaulted ceilings lined with crown molding, and a pulpit flanked by two perfectly symmetrical sprays of lilies. Their scent was dense and velvety, like the chapel was wearing too much perfume. A Starfleet-issue regulation casket sat centered beneath a gentle spotlight, draped with a folded Federation flag. Three bronze pips gleamed softly from a velvet box perched at its head.
An antique organ wheezed softly in the background, playing something minor key and well-behaved. Neither bold nor particularly mournful – appropriately forgettable.
A holoscreen looped through highlights of Reginald Bancroft’s life: grainy stills from logistics symposia, holo-footage of him giving a keynote speech entitled Efficiency in Motion: Reducing Transporter Lag with Quantized Cargo Indexing, and one inexplicable image of a very young Reginald shaking hands with a Vulcan child who looked deeply unamused.
Roy Bancroft paused halfway down the aisle.
He blinked.
Then again.
Then–
Bancroft: ::flatly:: This isn’t the sitting room at home.
Margot: ::emerging from stage right, crisp and poised in pewter mourning silk:: Oh, Roy. Don’t be melodramatic. Of course it’s not the sitting room. That would be inappropriate, given the occasion.
Bancroft: What… occasion?
Margot: The practice of one, naturally. ::beat:: Honestly, darling, if this were real, you’d already be seated in the family section. Appearances must be kept, even when ::looking him over with clinical detachment:: substance proves elusive.
She gestured delicately to the first pew, where two programs rested side-by-side on stiff linen.
Margot: Come. Sit. You’re three minutes late.
Roy glanced at the casket.
Then back at her.
Bancroft: Is Dad dead?
Margot: ::a flick of her wrist, as though banishing a gnat:: Don’t be vulgar. He’s resting. More frequently, yes. And with somewhat less predictability.
She sighed, evidently uninterested in continuing that particular line of conversation.
Margot: Regardless, I find it’s best to plan ahead. Death is like a visiting Admiral – you can’t control when it shows up, but you should ensure the silverware is polished anyway.
She took a seat in the front pew, crossing her ankles with surgical precision. Roy followed slowly, picking up the funeral program off the pew and scanning it.
'A Celebration of the Life of Reginald Wallace Bancroft'
Efficient Until the End
Margot sniffed, reaching into her handbag and withdrawing a second funeral program – this one embossed with a different name.
Margot: Now. Since we’re being thorough, I’ve gone ahead and drafted a version of yours as well.
Roy froze.
Bancroft: You’ve… planned my funeral?
Margot: Of course I have. You’re a Starfleet officer gallivanting across the quadrant under the questionable leadership of Addison MacKenzie. Frankly, I’m shocked you’re not dead already.
She handed it to him without ceremony. The cover bore his name:
'The Life of Roybertson Thaddeus Bancroft'
Average, But He Tried
Bancroft: …Is that the title?
Margot: ::pleasantly:: I thought it struck the right tone. Comforting and neat. You see, darling, I did listen the last time we spoke.
Roy opened the program, eyes scanning the page. His lips parted, then pressed shut again.
Margot: ::reciting from memory:: “He did not shine, but he was steady. And the stars, after all, require darkness to be seen.”
Bancroft: ::deadpan:: You could’ve just written ‘he never met my expectations.’ Would’ve saved on ink.
Margot: Yes, but I wanted it to be dignified. ::beat:: Next: “He served as a regular physician in Starfleet’s medical corps, a noble if often under-glamorized profession – perfect for those with a deep need to be needed… and no particular need to be exceptional.”
Bancroft: Mother.
Margot: I meant that affectionately. After all, not every Bancroft can be a pioneer. Some are… support staff.
Bancroft: Jesus.
Margot: He didn’t return my hails on the subject, but I’m certain He agrees.
She folded her hands in her lap and smiled at him like a dentist about to deliver numbing agent with a large-bore needle.
Margot: Now, I’m not saying that’s the final version. There’s still time for you to prove me wrong. ::airily:: Should you at any point begin to feel so inclined.
He held the program in his lap, just above his father’s, and stared at it.
Then – he laughed.
Just once. Soft, stunned. A tired exhale of amusement, like he’d just watched a magician pull a rabbit from the casket.
Bancroft: I used to think… if I earned enough pips and ribbons, or published enough, or invented some breakthrough device, or saved the right life at the right moment… you’d rewrite things like this.
He paused, rubbing thumb and forefinger on either side of the bridge of his nose.
Bancroft: But I’m not going to live – or die – trying to meet your expectations. Not anymore.
Margot didn’t respond immediately. Her posture remained perfect. Her face didn’t change.
But her silence was… longer than usual. It felt, for once, less like poise and more like static.
Margot: ::icily:: So what will you do instead?
Bancroft: Decide what matters to me. Live a life that feels right to me. Learn when I truly need to be exceptional, and when it’s okay to just be competent. Learn when it’s okay to fail. And not apologize for that in advance.
He rose – slowly, deliberately – and folded the program in half, pressing its spine flat with his palm. Then, without drama, he handed it back to her.
Bancroft: If I die… don’t read this.
Margot: Then give me better lines, darling.
Bancroft: I have been, mama. ::softly:: I have been for a while. If only you would listen.
Margot turned the folded paper in her hand like a rare specimen. She didn’t stand. She didn’t sigh.
But her voice, when it came, was lower than usual.
Margot: There’s a steadiness to you now. Almost like someone who’s convinced himself the mirror tells the truth. ::beat:: Just remember… not every flame leaves behind light. Some just burn through the oxygen.
Bancroft: Then I’ll try to burn bright enough for the people who need it. And let the rest of you breathe something else.
He turned and walked toward the holodeck door, posture steady, face unreadable.
Just before it opened, her voice followed him like the scent of lemon verbena on a humid day.
Margot: Roy.
He paused.
Margot: When people ask me how you’re doing… I’ll tell them you’re… adjusting.
Bancroft: ::without turning:: Tell them I’m forging a new legacy for the Bancroft name. It’ll scare them more.
And with that, he stepped out – leaving the lilies, the empty pews, and the impossible weight of a mother’s standards behind him.
End Scene
===
Lieutenant JG Roy Bancroft
Medical Officer
USS Artemis-A
A240205RB1