Lt. JG Natasha Cole - The Ghosts of Margins Yet to Come
Natasha Schell
(( Outside the Grand Cultural Enrichment Theater – Ferenginar ))
The lights dimmed sharply, too sharply, and for a moment the theater plunged into pitch darkness. Someone in the audience yelped. Then, with a sputter, a single spotlight blasted down onto stage left.
A whispery, eerie flute began to play … or tried to. It wheezed like someone was forcing air through a malfunctioning biomimetic duct.
A shimmering figure drifted forward… or rather attempted to drift. The harness suspending them jerked twice, failed to lift, then yanked them upward at a steep and slightly dangerous angle.
The Ghost of Christmas Past played, according to the playbill, by a Vulcan wearing shimmering ethereal robes and an expression of deep regret, spun helplessly in half-circles above the stage like a dignified Andorian wind chime.
Cole: ::quiet gasp-laugh:: Oh no. Oh no, they put a Vulcan on wires.
Bancroft: ::crying with glee:: It's already gone so badly wrong and he hasn't even said his first line!
The Vulcan ghost rotated midair, robes tangling in the harness.
Ghost of Christmas Past: ::utterly monotone, rotating slowly:: I… am the Spirit of Christmas Past. This… is highly illogical.
Natasha covered her mouth with both hands, shoulders shaking violently.
Scrooge, ever committed to the performance, stepped back and lifted his arms dramatically.
Scrooge: Spirit! Have you come to torment me with visions of my miserly misdeeds?
Ghost of Christmas Past: ::deadpan, still spinning:: That is the narrative intention, yes. Assuming this rigging system ceases attempting to murder me.
A Ferengi stagehand raced out, grabbed the wire controls, panicked, and overcorrected sending the Vulcan ghost swooping across the stage in a wild arc. The audience gasped. Several Ferengi cheered. Natasha made a noise somewhere between a snort and a strangled squeak.
The wires jerked again, lowering the Vulcan enough to barely skim the top of Scrooge’s head.
Ghost of Christmas Past: Behold… your past… ::pause:: And perhaps an occupational hazard report.
Cole: ::whispering:: If he collides with Tiny Tim, I’m buying the holorecording.
Roy leaned over covering his mouth to mask it as to not interrupt those around them.
Bancroft: I mean, it would be historically significant. Probably the first cross-species maiming in Dickensian history.
Natasha leaned back in her seat, eyes glittering with amusement. This was… fun. Ridiculous, messy, loud fun.
Cole: You know, Roy… for all the absurdity? I’m really glad we came.
Bancroft: ::eyes twinkling:: I am too. It’s been ages since I’ve been able to see live theater. ::elbowing Cole:: And the company isn’t half bad, either.
Cole: ::giving him a playful smile:: He’s humble too ::laughing::
Before Roy could come back with a retort, the lights flared back to life with a eye wincing jolt, this time accompanied by the triumphant blaring noic of what could only be described as ‘capitalist fanfare’ – full brass, loud, and enough reverberations that Natasha was eyeing the building hoping they wouldn’t have to help evacuate the place.
Narrator: Behold! The Ghost… of ChristmasPresent!
Center stage, a trapdoor sprang open with a loud hiss. From it rose a Ferengi wrapped head to toe in red- and white-striped gift paper, glittering bows attached haphazardly here and there. His arms were outstretched as though he were a prophet.
Ghost of ChristmasPresent: ::pointing ominously at Scrooge:: SCROOGE! ::grandly:: I bring festive cheer! Seasonal incentives! A limited-time offer of spiritual reinforcement – no exchanges, no refunds, all sales final!
Bancroft: ::delighted:: Oh, this is going to be good.
The ghost leapt toward Scrooge with remarkable agility for someone entirely encased in paper.
Cole: Talk about charging someone.
Ghost of ChristmasPresent: Your miserly, conniving ways are respected near and far. ::dramatic pause, looking at the audience:: But I feel the chill wind of charity in this breeze, Scrooge. Beware the call of–
The lights slammed off momentarily, the darkness broken by a flash of simulated lighting and thunder, then lit back up.
Ghost of ChristmasPresent: ::nauseated:: –altruism. Eugh.
Scrooge gasped. So did Roy, though for very different reasons.
Bancroft: ::shaking so as to hold back laughter:: This is the absolute best misinterpretation I could have ever dreamed of.
Cole: I genuinely don’t know how it could get better. ::laughing::
Ghost of ChristmasPresent: To remind you, Scrooge, of the right way forward, I bring to you this eve a message most sincere in these festive times!
The Ghost of ChristmasPresent flung open his arms once more, face pointed toward the ceiling. A shower of confetti cannons erupted from both sides of the stage, the confetti hovering mid-air to spell out “TIS THE SEASON TO MAXIMIZE SHAREHOLDER VALUE.”
The confetti slowly drifted down, clinging to Scrooge’s robes and the edges of the stage like festive shrapnel. A Ferengi stagehand hurried out to sweep it aside, slipped, recovered, and pretended none of it had happened.
The lights dimmed again—this time more deliberately.
The music cut out entirely.
A low, ominous hum filled the theater, vibrating through the seats. Natasha felt it in her ribs first, instinctively straightening, eyes narrowing as she tracked the source.
Cole: ::quietly, to Roy:: Okay… this one feels different.
Bancroft: Response
A massive shadow stretched across the stage as a holographic projection flickered to life—tall, angular, and unmistakably Ferengi in silhouette, but elongated and distorted, its eyes glowing an unsettling ledger-green.
Natasha picked the playbill up from Roy’s lap.
Cole: ::reading fast:: Oh no, Roy. ::beat:: The Ghost of Christmas Futures is being portrayed by… “Automated Profit Projection Unit 9-B. Courtesy of the Ferengi Commerce Authority.”
Bancroft: Response
The projection stabilized, resolving into a floating Ferengi-shaped drone, draped in translucent black robes patterned with cascading numbers, loss charts, and profit margins scrolling endlessly across its body.
It did not speak.
It simply pointed, one long, skeletal finger extending toward Scrooge.
Scrooge recoiled dramatically.
Scrooge: Spirit! You are more terrifying than taxation without loopholes! Speak! Tell me what horrors await!
The drone’s eyes flared brighter.
A massive bar graph slammed into existence behind Scrooge, labeled:
EBENEZER SCROOGE – END-OF-LIFE PROFIT SUMMARY
The graph was… flat. Completely flat.
A collective gasp rippled through the Ferengi audience.
Ghost of Christmas Futures: ::monotone, amplified:: Projection indicates terminal condition. Zero dependents. Zero mourners. Zero legacy monetization.
Audience: ZERO LEGACY! ZERO LEGACY!
Cole: ::hand over her mouth:: Oh that’s brutal.
Bancroft: Response
The drone shifted, projecting a second image—Scrooge’s funeral. The stage filled with a single folding chair, occupied by a bored Ferengi reading a padd.
Ghost of Christmas Futures: Attendance optimized for efficiency.
The audience erupted—half horrified, half impressed.
Scrooge fell to his knees.
Scrooge: No! There must be… a write-off! A redemption clause!
The drone paused.
Ghost of Christmas Futures: ::processing:: Redemption detected. Low probability. Requires charitable action.
Scrooge: I will donate! I will give generously!
The drone’s eyes flickered.
Ghost of Christmas Futures: Define “generously.”
Scrooge hesitated.
The pause stretched.
Natasha leaned closer to Roy, voice barely contained.
Cole: This is where he dies again, isn’t it?
Bancroft: Response
The drone’s robes suddenly glitched, numbers scrolling faster, the projection stuttering as sparks flew from the stage rigging.
Ghost of Christmas Futures: ERROR. CHARITY SUBROUTINE NOT FOUND.
The drone jerked violently, spinning once, then plummeted straight down through the trapdoor, disappearing with a hollow metallic CLANG.
A beat.
Then, from beneath the stage:
Ghost of Christmas Futures: ::muffled:: This unit regrets the loss of narrative cohesion.
The audience lost it.
Natasha doubled over, laughter shaking her shoulders.
Cole: ::through laughter:: I don’t care how this ends, this is already the best future.
Bancroft: Response
Onstage, the Narrator scrambled back out, trying to salvage dignity.
Narrator: ::frantic:: And so! Having seen the errors of his projected margins—uh—ways! Scrooge resolves to embrace generosity!
Scrooge sprang to his feet, throwing latinum wildly into the crowd.
Scrooge: Take it! All of it! Consider it… a loss leader!
Audience Member: Rule of Acquisition One-Hundred-Nine! Dignity and an empty sack is worth the sack!
Cole: ::laughing, nudging Roy:: If this ends with a spreadsheet encore, I’m framing the playbill.
Bancroft: Response
Natasha settled back in her seat, laughter still warm in her chest. This was ridiculous. It was wrong. It was chaotic. And somehow … Perfect.
Tags/TBC
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Lt. JG Natasha Cole
Security Officer
USS Artemis-A
Writer ID A240205NC4