Lt JG Imril - Like A Latinum Cowboy
Chris Taylor
(( Ferenginar ))
Imril: I'll cover it.
It didn't seem right to make Cole pay to walk down a path that she didn't know she'd be taking when she met up with Imril. They produced more half-slips and handed them over to the booth attendant. Giving one of the resultant tickets to the security officer.
Cole: Thank you Imril.
Imril: Response
Natasha glanced down at the ticket, turning it over between her fingers. Of course it was laminated, embossed, and faintly glittering—nothing on Ferenginar went unadorned if it could be monetized.
Cole: ::dry:: I half-expected this to double as a coupon or a legally binding waiver.
Imril: I suppose it is. It binds them to let us down there.
Did it bind the two of them to have to go down there? Probably not. Railroading tourists was far from the best way to ensure repeat business.
They followed the ramp down into the Undercity proper, the sound shifting as the street noise dulled into a hum of machinery and voices. Ahead, a massive sign flickered to life in aggressive gold lettering:
BRYYK’S BOFFLES
Escape is Optional. Profit is Inevitable.
Cole: ::reading it aloud, amused:: Well that’s comforting.
Imril: ‘Profit is inevitable’… for whom? As if we didn’t know.
Inside, the lobby opened up into a cavernous space divided by velvet ropes and holo-banners, each advertising a different “experience.” Ferengi attendants barked pitches with the enthusiasm of auctioneers, gesturing dramatically toward each entrance.
Cole: ::eyes scanning the options:: Oh wow… they really leaned into themes.
Imril: ::Reading aloud:: Orion Lair. Maze Of Merptropolis. Iconian Legacy. Tomb Of The Mushroom Men…
Each doorway featured a holographic ‘amuse-bouche’ in the form of a holographic painting of the crafted spaces beyond. The Orion Lair, for example, featured a lot of seating pillows, low tables covered in food, drapes, and fountains which spouted fire rather than water. For all its openness, the scene exuded a cage-like atmosphere.
There were corridors as well, leading deeper into the facility. A nearby hall was titled above with the words Lorg Lattinum’s Debtor’s Prison (In synergy with Marauder Mo Mediasphere Inc.). And blocked at floor level by a sign labeled in several languages as Reserved For Private Party.
From an opening near that one, a Ferengi sauntered towards the pair. He was wearing a leather vest flecked with eye-catching gold. A matching swatch of material was fastened to the back of his head in the Ferengi tradition. His shirt was a cacophony of colors laid out in small gingham squares. His relatively dark pants were partially obscured by rigid chaps that matched the vest. Wide-footed boots bore golden spurs that jangled as he stopped before Imril and Natasha. Strapped to his side was an Ancient Earth shooting iron. Or maybe it was a price gun.
Ferengi Cowboy: Hoo-dy, pardners! I reckon you folk’d enjoy a spell in the wild and weird West! Where intrigue and adventure await, amid the glittering allure of the California gold rush! If you’re brave and clever enough to claim them!
Imril was pleasantly surprised at the show of initiative. Of coming to where the customers were, of putting on this act. This was a fellow who was working the floor when others were shouting from their hard-kept domains.
They looked to Natasha.
Imril: Sounds good to me. You?
Cole: Response
A brief round of haggling followed. Afterward, the cowboy rubbed his hands together, clearly happy to have reeled in new fish. From within his vest he produced a thin whistle. He blew into it, and it gave no sound that Imril could hear. A teenaged Ferengi girl appeared right quick, dressed in a smart golden-brown uniform, her ears joined by a shimmering chain which draped over her collar. She flipped open a security case, presenting its emptiness to Imril and Natasha.
Ferengi Cowboy: ::Smiling deeply:: All scanning devices are required to be checked prior to entry into any of our presentations. Bryyk-Co Entertainment Platforms LLC and its subsidiary services are not responsible for stolen or lost properties which have not been properly checked and thumbprinted by accredited personnel.
If Imril had had a scanner on them, it wouldn't have taken so long to find this place…
Imril: Don’t have any, sorry. The combadge stays with me. Starfleet protocol, non-negotiable. ::raises their collection of baubles:: But you can hold the bag… After I see your accreditation.
Both Ferengi nodded and produced identification on thin translucent slips. The engineer knew a thing or two about identification docs, their authentication and forgery. But was happy to let the security officer verify.
Cole: Response
Once all stowables were stowed and the latinum exchanged, the cowboy handed over a pair of electronic tickets. The girl went one way, and the cowboy another. Leading Imril and Natasha towards the corridor from which he’d come.
Ferengi Cowboy: ::Pointing forward:: Saddle up and haul out! Yee-Haw!
Imril: ::To Cole:: I have to admire the theatricality.
Cole: Response
As the California Gold Rush was part of San Francisco's history, Imril had taken time at some point to read up it years ago. They could only guess at how a Ferengi entrepreneur might interpret the eclectic mix of legend and reality that embodied those frontier days.
Imril: ::To Cole:: I’m vaguely familiar with the Wild West era. Do you know much about the time period?
Cole: Response
Tags/TBC
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Lieutenant JG Imril
Engineering Officer
USS Artemis-A
A240110I12