[JP] Lt Alex Storm and LtJg Roy Bancroft - Silence Is Sanctity - Part I
Karen Morris
((OOC: A while ago, Carter and I discussed doing a silent JP together - not one where Roy and Alex refused to talk, but where the inability to talk was baked into the JP. This three-part JP is a result of that discussion.))
(( Ferenginar ))
Ferenginar greeted visitors the way it greeted profit: loudly, insistently, and almost always with rain. Sheets of warm, relentless downpour hammered the capital’s glistening thoroughfares, turning every walkway into a mirror and every gutter into a river of bronze-tinged runoff. Neon advertisements flickered through the storm – smiling Ferengi faces promising “limited-time offers,” “exclusive profit opportunities,” and “once-in-a-lifetime investments” – all of them drenched, all of them thriving.
But tucked between the towering financial exchanges and auction houses stood a structure that did not advertise anything at all.
The Hall of Liquid Transactions had no glowing signage, no barking promoters, no cheerful jingles gilded with opportunity. It didn’t need them. Every Ferengi in the quadrant knew its purpose, and every off-worlder with any sense treated it with the same reverence one might reserve for an ancient shrine – or a live plasma conduit.
The Hall was the closest thing Ferenginar had to a temple.
Not a religious one, exactly – though some would argue profit was the only true Ferengi faith – but a sacred place where the most binding contracts in Ferengi civilization were maintained, interpreted, and, when necessary, contested.
Sound carried differently inside the Hall. Even outside its gilded entrance, the thunder of rainfall faded into a muted hush, as though the storm itself understood the gravity of crossing the threshold.
Inside, the Hall stretched upward into an immense vault, its ceiling lost somewhere high above the subtle shimmer of suspended mist. Channels of gold-flecked liquid flowed like glowing arteries through the marble floor – these were the contracts themselves, encoded in a proprietary Ferengi medium equal parts ink, liquid metal, and alchemical miracle. The fluid moved with the steady pulse of a living ledger, illuminated from within by sensors that tracked every clause, every stipulation, every footnote of every agreement ever forged here.
In Ferengi culture, to disturb these waters was to disturb the very bedrock of profit.
Which was why the Hall maintained one uncompromising rule – posted in thirty-seven languages near the entrance: SILENCE IS SANCTITY.
And then, in smaller letters below it: ALL SPOKEN WORDS ARE LEGALLY BINDING.
It was not metaphor. The Hall’s archivist-AI read auditory vibrations as intent; any audible sound from any participant could be interpreted as a contractual clause. A ‘yes’ might authorize a merger. A ‘hello’ could finalize a sale. An ill-timed ‘oops’ might transfer ownership of a mining moon.
And as for whole spoken sentences… well, entire fortunes had been lost that way.
Thus, the Hall operated in absolute silence – a sacred quiet broken only by the soft ripple of contract-fluid and the occasional clink of a latinum paddle gently stirring legal waters.
On most days, only Ferengi were allowed inside. It was, after all, a cultural cornerstone, and meddling off-worlders had a well-documented habit of asking questions like ‘Isn’t this all a little dramatic?’ or ‘Why does your billing software ask for gratuity after sending an invoice?’ But the Ferengi Alliance had longstanding trade accords with the Federation – agreements that, in their own way, were no less theatrical. One of those accords permitted the presence of neutral Federation witnesses in the event that a contract dispute involved a Federation citizen.
And today, it did.
A minor trade disagreement had escalated into a formal arbitration, and the Federation citizen involved – much to their dismay – was now obligated to appear before the Hall’s adjudicators to review, contest, or confirm the liquid-record of the agreement. For such proceedings, the Hall required: one (1) certified medical officer to affirm that the disputant was of sound mind and not being coerced or impaired, and one (1) certified security or tactical officer to guarantee procedural integrity and verify that neither party tampered with the liquid-archives.
Which was why, on this noisy, glittering, rain-soaked Ferenginar morning, the Hall’s vast doors were preparing to admit two Starfleet officers – invited not as diplomats, arbiters, or warriors, but as quiet instruments of fairness.
(( Outside the Hall of Liquid Transactions – Capital District, Ferenginar ))
The storm had settled into its usual Ferengi rhythm – less rainfall and more a continuous aquatic assault from the heavens. Lightning flickered across the skyline like an accountant’s pen refining a balance sheet, illuminating the glossy towers and waterfalls of neon advertising that clung to them. The street outside the Hall of Liquid Transactions reflected all of it – goldy-orange hues dancing over puddles deep enough to qualify as municipal hazards.
And then, in a brief respite between thunderclaps, the downpour brightened blue.
Two silhouettes coalesced in the pelting rain, the blue-white column of the transporter disappearing nearly as soon as it had shimmered into existence.
The first figure was already prepared: hood up, shoulders square, stance steady. The second figure – slightly taller – materialized just in time for the rain to slap him directly on the crown of his head.
Roy jerked downward in a reflexive hunch that did not quite qualify as dignified. His hood came up a second too late, soaking the top half of his hair before he could yank the heavy rain-slicker forward. Water trickled down his neck in a thin, cold ribbon. Excellent. First impressions: flawless.
He glanced sideways at Storm.
When the memo went throughout the department for volunteers to go down to Feringinar to oversee a dispute at the Hall of Liquid Transactions, she nearly swiped it away, until she saw the stipulation that no talking was allowed. Her eyebrow quirked up and her mouth opened into a soft sigh - the kind that can only be heard by a broken heart.
No one could ask her about her trip to Kelara Station. No one could ask her about the koala bear stuffed into her duffel, and no one could ask her if she had intended to take her mascara off with a device as soft as a Brillo pad. It took her all of two seconds to sign up.
She was less fortunate when she found out that her partner was the doctor who had unintentionally distracted her, so Imril could shoot her during their phaser certification. She’d not heard the end of that scuttlebutt around the Security and Tactical Offices. It always evaporated like water at Vulcan’s Forge as soon as she stepped into earshot, but the conversations hung in the air like a phantom vapor. Her temple pulsed with the understanding of the discourse that had occurred only seconds before.
So now, here, she stood with Roy next to her, looking like a cute, wet puppy. oO Damn those blue eyes. Oo She drew in a breath through her nostrils - less chance of dying from drowning that way in a choritzing rain - and gave him a nod.
Roy, meanwhile, took stock of his waterlogged bangs plastered to his forehead.
Terrific. I look like a Labrador lost in a thunderstorm. Stellar start, Bancroft.
He resisted the very strong urge to apologize out loud to no one in particular.
The middle of Roy’s lips looked about to part. Alex pulled the hood of her slicker back a fraction of a centimeter and raised an eyebrow. Her finger indicated the sign inches from where they stood.
Roy nodded, trying to approximate the same level of competence, and together they stepped through the shallow river that passed for a Ferengi sidewalk.
The doors parted at their approach, gliding open with the silent smoothness of a well-oiled profit margin. Inside, the Hall’s vast interior swallowed the storm’s fury, muffling it into a whisper behind them. The air carried a faint humidity – cleaner than the rain outside, but tinged with metallic warmth from the gold-infused contract channels threading through the floor.
Alex unbuttoned the pocket flap over the rainslicker’s pocket and pulled out her PADD slipping it into her pants pocket. She flipped off her rain slicker, folded it in on itself, and laid it over her shoulder. After that, she slipped her PADD back out of her pocket and glanced at it. The two of them had been sent a map to where the proceedings were to take place. According to their instructions, they were to be held on the fifteenth floor. The flashing light led them on through the main floor of the exchange, weaving their way tightly through the throngs of people like a piece of floss through teeth.
Roy adjusted his stride to match hers, careful to keep his steps soft on the polished floor. The Hall’s silence pressed in on all sides – not peaceful, but watchful, like there were a thousand unblinking eyes hidden behind the ledgers.
Thumbprints were affixed to documents. Sour faces and glares were exchanged. At one table, a Ferengi female could be seen silently crying over an adjudication. In this building, silence wasn’t simply the lack of words; it was the lack of any sound at all. Storm looked down at her clunky boots, wondering if they posed a threat to life and limb.
As they threaded through a cluster of Ferengi scribes, Roy shifted closer to her shoulder, offering a subtle barrier between her and a harried-looking broker who nearly clipped them as he hurried noiselessly past.
Silent chaos, he thought. Perfect place for the two of us, apparently.
The map kept a precise tab on each step the duo had taken. The blue line was where they had trod. The red line in front of them directed each step. But as they took another right, the red line dead-ended in a wall, and when Storm raised her eyes to look at said wall, she found an elevator. Beside it were the instructions: “One slip of latinum per person per floor plus a twenty-percent gratuity.” Beside the bright white of the elevator platform protruded a narrow, dark set of stairs which said, “Free, but you assume any risk to yourself or others.”
Alex pointed to the stairs with one hand and the elevator with her other and then held her hands, palms up, in the universal gesture of you choose … and it better be the right choice.
Roy regarded the elevator first. The gleaming platform. The neatly engraved instructions… and the twenty-percent gratuity.
He felt something ancient in his soul recoil.
He shifted his gaze to the staircase: narrow, shadowed, structurally dubious in a way that suggested it had outlived many audits and possibly a coup through sheer stubbornness alone.
Storm’s twin-point gesture – elevator, stairs – finished with an open-palmed ‘your call’ that carried just enough threat-of-disappointment to make him straighten slightly.
Roy pressed his lips together in a thoughtful line.
Okay, Bancroft. Tactical officer watching. Hall of Liquid Transactions. Mission parameters: silence, dignity, no dying, no financial ruin.
He lifted a hand and lightly tapped two fingers against his own chest – ‘my opinion?’ – then made a small circling gesture toward the stairs – ‘we go this way.’
With a nod, Alex took point, which felt like an appropriate gesture since she was a tactical officer leading a medical officer up fifteen rickety flights of stairs. She wondered if she would need his professional help by the end of their trek. Pressing her foot against the first plank, it dipped about a centimeter. Alex looked at the plank sideways, said a prayer to the four deities, put the entirety of her weight on it, and held her breath. Alex could have sworn she sensed a threat of creaking coming from the step, but it stopped shy of carrying it out.
Roy gave the step a measured look – not fearful, just… pragmatic. Ferengi architecture was notorious for being both centuries old and aggressively maintained in the ‘if it hasn’t fallen yet, it must be fine’ school of engineering.
He lifted his brows in a ‘well, here goes’ expression, then stepped forward behind Storm with controlled, deliberate weight. The wood flexed again.
Not ideal – but workable. He adjusted, finding the center of the plank, letting his muscles compensate.
There was a time – not that long ago – when he would have flailed and overcorrected and offered a panicked apology to anyone within ten meters. Now? Now, he simply inhaled, maintained his balance, and moved on.
Alright, Bancroft, it’s a staircase, not a death trap. You’ve dealt with worse.
~*~
Lt Alex Storm
Tactical Officer
USS Artemis
O240103SK2
And
Lieutenant JG Roy Bancroft
Medical Officer
USS Artemis-A
A240205RB1