Lt. JG Natasha Cole - For a Few Slips More
Natasha Schell
(( Bryyk’s Boffles, Ferenginar ))
Once all items 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: They’ve clearly done their research.
Imril: ::To Cole:: I’m vaguely familiar with the Wild West era. Do you know much about the time period?
Cole: ::rolling one shoulder, thoughtful:: Enough to know it’s often heavily romanticized by people who didn’t have to live in it.
Imril: As are a lot of historical periods, really.
Cole: ::glancing sidelong at Imril:: There were some genuinely fascinating engineering feats, though. Railroads, telegraphs, systems built fast, cheap, and under pressure. Not unlike early lunar habitats, actually. Different stakes, same improvisation.
Imril: ::Darkly:: No Lunar natives to clear out first.
She slowed slightly, letting Imril walk half a step ahead as the corridor widened, her tone softening just a touch.
Cole: I grew up hearing stories about Earth that skipped over the messier parts. Turns out history’s a lot more interesting when you admit people were complicated and often wrong.
Imril: Words that often apply just as well to the present. Just ask the Boraxians.
Imril was shaping out to be quite an interesting individual to spend time with; they had a fascinating breadth of knowledge. Natasha caught herself nodding in agreement with some of what they said. Her train of thought was interrupted as their host’s arm ratched into the air twice.
Ferengi Cowboy: ::imitating a train’s whistle:: Whoot woot! Keep them tickets handy, now! Yoo’all have an iron horse to catch! One whose engineer has up and taken a powder for reasons unknown! ::A devious grin:: Or reasons you may yet hear tell about! Yoo’all will be wanting to get to the engineering car to slow her down!
Natasha smiled realizing the Ferengi was doing their best to get them back on track … as it were. She had to admit the Ferengi were gleefully clever with their embodiment to the bit.
Cole: Alright. Let’s see what version of history we’re about to escape from.
The passageway led to a new title, a new hologram. “Last Train To Golden Gulch”. The image was that of a mid-19th Century steam chugging down a dry and dusty valley. The tumbleweed-strewn hillsides pocked with mines.
Ferengi Cowboy: Bryyk’s Boffles thanks you kindly for your patronage. If for any reason you want to pull the brakes on this here challenge, just tap your tickets together. Or call us up on them thar communicators. Ask for Swampfoot Sam. Once paused, the game is over and all hope of refunds forfeited.
Imril: Understood, Thanks. ::To Cole:: Shall we?
Cole: ::slipping into a southern draw, not to far off from the character she was playing with Roy:: Let's mosey on then
The cowboy tapped a few hexagonal glyphs on the control panel. The door opened, and there before them all was a well-furnished, clearly upscale, train compartment. Likely someone’s mobile office, telling by the ornate desk situated to the far end. He waved the pair in.
Natasha followed Imril in; she immediately started clocking anything that could be clues, the trick was what was relevant and what was a red herring?
Cole: Oh wow, they did their research. This looks like it was plucked out of time.
Ferengi Cowboy:Oh, I reckon I forgot to mention a particular piece of information. There’s only so much time before this train runs out of track and makes a right mess. Which, at the present speed, will be nigh about High Noon. Earth Time.
He pointed to an ornate grandfather clock situated near the desk, which was sitting at 11:00. Then smiled, and closed the door, himself on the other side. It was immediately replaced by another door which arrived in a shower of holographic pixels. One of wood and brass, the only one in the cabin. This, then, was the last cabin of… how many?
The pendulum on the clock began to swing. Tick… tock…
Beneath their collective feet the train car rumbled as it moved down the tracks towards its inevitable destination. Imril out of instinct tried the door. It was, of course, locked.
Imril: No points for guessing that. Now to find a key or something to jimmy the lock.
Cole: ::looking round the cabin:: And me without a grenade.
She glanced at Imril and couldn’t help but let out a laugh. She noticed the number of bars on the windows were not the same, the pair on the port side had four and three respectively and the starboard pair six and two.
Imril: I’ll search the desk. Maybe there's a clue in there why a train would have lost its engineer.
Cole: Could be helpful to know. If you find a lock box … try Four, Three, Six and Two. ::Pointing at the windows:: I think I found a clue.
Imril: response
((Time jump 50 minutes and four more train cars latter))
The air was thicker here, coal dust and old oil, the scent clinging to the back of Natasha’s throat. She wiped her hands on her jacket, leaving faint streaks of grime as the train thundered on.
Cole: ::catching her breath:: If I ever complain about Starfleet safety protocols again, feel free to remind me of this place.
Imril: response
She glanced back at the series of levers they’d just bypassed, each labeled with contradictory instructions.
Cole: I’m starting to think the real puzzle isn’t stopping the train—it’s figuring out which solution doesn’t immediately kill us.
Imril: Response
Natasha crouched beside a pressure gauge, tapping it lightly.
Cole: Looks like it was sabotaged, but not sloppily. Whoever did this wanted a spectacle. Cause panic, a story worth telling afterward.
Imril: Response
She stood, turned her head to either side causing a popping noise to be heard, eyes sharp and focused despite the time pressure.
Cole: Which means the fix won’t be obvious. It’ll be the option that feels wrong… but elegant.
Imril: Response
The whistle screamed again … longer this time.
Cole: ::glancing at the clock mounted above the door:: We’re running out of forgiveness from history.
Imril: Response
Natasha stepped toward the final control panel, fingers hovering just above the switches.
Cole: Alright. One last gamble. Let’s make sure it’s the kind we walk away from.
Imril: Response
Tags/End of Scene for Natasha
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Lt. JG Natasha Cole
Security Officer
USS Artemis-A
Writer ID A240205NC4