Lieutenant JG Roy Bancroft - Shared Absurdities
Carter Schimpff
(OOC: Apologies for the extra sim – trying to get caught up before the next mission comes!)
(( Grand Cultural Enrichment Theater – Ferenginar ))
Ferengi theater, Roy had decided, operated on an entirely different definition of tragedy.
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.
Roy felt Natasha shift beside him before he saw it – her shoulder angling closer, her laughter already coiled and waiting. When she spoke, it was with an unbridled joy he didn’t often hear in her voice.
Cole: This is where he dies again, isn’t it?
Roy didn’t look at her right away. He was too busy clocking the stage wings, where Bob Cratchit and Tiny Tim loomed with expressions that suggested contractual vengeance.
Bancroft: Honestly, the way Romulan Cratchit and Klingon Tiny Tim are leering at him from the wings, it’ll be a miracle if he doesn’t die.
If there was a god of timing – or at least one with a wicked sense of humor – it chose that exact moment to intervene.
The Ghost of Christmas Futures spasmed mid-hover. Its projected robes glitched violently, the scrolling numerals accelerating into nonsense as sparks leapt from the rigging.
Ghost of Christmas Futures: ERROR. CHARITY SUBROUTINE NOT FOUND.
The drone convulsed once, spun in a tight, undignified circle, and then vanished straight down through a trapdoor with a hollow clang that reverberated through the theater.
There was a heartbeat of stunned silence from all in the theater.
Then, from somewhere beneath the stage floor:
Ghost of Christmas Futures: ::muffled:: This unit regrets the loss of narrative cohesion.
The room detonated – though perhaps not in the way Cole was most used to.
Laughter roiled through the audience in waves – sharp, unrestrained and joyous. Roy felt it hit him like surf, breath leaving his lungs in a helpless bark as Natasha doubled over beside him, shoulders shaking, one hand braced against her knee light she might actually fall out of her seat.
Cole: ::through laughter:: I don’t care how this ends, this is already the best future.
Roy wiped at his eyes, surprised to find them wet, his face aching in that familiar, wonderful way that came only from laugh too hard for too long with a good friend.
Bancroft: ::tears of joy:: I don’t think either of us have laughed this hard since the whole ‘Bolian mime’ incident!
Onstage, the Narrator reappeared in a flurry of panic, scrambling into position as though sheer momentum might restore dignity to the production.
Latinum – prop, Roy was certain – followed soon after.
Narrator: ::frantic:: And so! Having seen the errors of his projected margins—uh—ways! Scrooge resolves to embrace generosity!
Scrooge sprang upright, flinging the slips into the crowd with manic abandon, shouting about loss leaders and generosity as if volume alone could retroactively imbue the gesture with a modicum of sincerity.
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!
Nat nudged Roy, still laughing, her elbow light against his arm.
Cole: ::laughing, nudging Roy:: If this ends with a spreadsheet encore, I’m framing the playbill.
Roy nudged her back without thinking – easy and reflexive, the kind of movement born more from familiarity than intent.
Bancroft: I’ll buy us the commemorative frames. I’m sure they’ve got those for sale.
They were probably right next to the ‘emergency exit’ merch and the souvenir abacuses.
As the chaos onstage continued to spiral toward something resembling an ending, Roy settled back into his seat, breath finally evening out. The laughter lingered in his chest, warm and unforced – the kind that left behind a gentle hum.
There was something quietly perfect about spending this old Earth holiday sitting shoulder to shoulder with a friend who knew the same ridiculous stories, laughed at the same absurd beats, and made the noise of his life feel lighter just by being in it.
Cole: Response?
As the curtain fell and the actors – if they could really be called that – assembled before it to take a bow, the stage lights flickered again.
Bob Cratchit chose that moment to break character entirely.
With a snarl that felt deeply personal, he lunged across three other actors, brandishing a tiny silver dagger. Tiny Tim followed a heartbeat later, roaring something about honor, restitution, and compound interest, his crutch raised like a ceremonial weapon.
The Narrator screamed.
Security rushed the stage just as Scrooge avoided a misplaced swipe of Tiny Tim’s cane, which cracked Bob Cratchit squarely across the back of the head instead.
The house lights snapped on.
Thunderous applause erupted – not polite or measured, but feral. The kind given when expectations had not merely been subverted, but thoroughly mugged in an alley.
Roy rose with the rest of the crowd, still catching his breath. Around them, Ferengi patrons argued loudly about whether the ending represented brilliant satire or gross fraud. He glanced over at Natasha, a broad smile on his face.
Bancroft: I’m so genuinely glad we did this, Nat.
It wasn’t a grand statement and wasn’t trying to be. It was simply the truth, offered easily, as they turned with the crowd and headed for the exits.
Cole: Response?
TAG/End Scene for Bancroft
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Lieutenant JG Roy Bancroft
Medical Officer
USS Artemis-A
A240205RB1