Lieutenant JG Roy Bancroft - Appetite Optional
Carter Schimpff
(( Outside the Slug-Nasium, Ferenginar ))
It was a strange store, there was no denying that – but then again, everything on this particular street felt like a bit of a fever dream hastily authored by a Ferengi with latinum in his eyes and zero moral compass.
Roy’s uniform boots made soft squelching noises with every step, and from somewhere unseen came the constant gurgle of a drainage system doing its best to pretend it wasn’t overwhelmed. At least it had stopped raining… for the time being.
Neon signs buzzed and pulsed in every color not found in nature, advertising everything from ‘custom-tailored lobe wigs’ to ‘guaranteed authentic imitation Romulan ale.’ Each storefront seemed to compete for attention using a combination of flashing lights, aggressive sound cues, and – in one alarming case – a disembodied holographic head that screamed discounts in multiple languages.
This particular store, however, had arrested him.
Most Ferengi shops at least pretended to specialize in something: ‘fungus and fungus accessories’ – he wasn’t falling for that one again, ‘hot rocks and foot oils,’ or ‘slightly cursed but legally sellable heirlooms.’
This one, on the other hand, seemed to offer a little bit of… everything. And much of it was deeply confusing to Roy.
Peering through the glass, his breath fogging it slightly, he tried to discern what exactly this establishment was. Among the chaos he could make out: a wall of amphibious creatures, each housed in a glowing orb; a ‘make your own destiny’ kiosk that featured dice the size of ripe melons; and, most disturbingly, a slowly rotating Fleet Captain Addison MacKenzie trading card in a stabilized anti-grav field.
That was when he felt it – the prickle.
A slow, creeping tingle began at the nape of his neck. Not cold. Not fear, exactly. More like the soft electrical warning of incoming judgment.
MacKenzie: ::squinting:: Is that... Doctor Bancroft?
Munro: Response
He had the sudden urge to hide, his eyes flicking left and right. Could he blend in with this display? Pretend to be part of the ‘non-refundable oddities’ section perhaps?
MacKenzie: Why is it that any time I've seen him out of Sickbay he's either looked like he's lost, or confused?
Munro: Response
Roy pretended to study the display more intently, brow furrowed in mock consideration. He was halfway through decoding what he was now convinced was blinked Morse code from the bow-tied fish when he felt a tug at his collar.
There was a faint metallic ping – his JG pip had leapt from his uniform like a rat from a sinking ship.
Years of surgical training kicked in. Roy snatched it mid-air with two fingers, flipped it once in his hand, then clipped it back on.
Then came… the throat clear.
MacKenzie: Looking for something, Doctor Bancroft?
His shoulders tensed – only slightly. That voice. He knew that voice.
He turned slowly, one hand still adjusting his collar. A polite smile – wide, practiced, and only partially terrified – slid onto his face like a screen saver. His eyes, however, betrayed his quiet dawning horror.
Bancroft: Captain! ::to Munro:: Commander! What a… profoundly unexpected meeting.
Munro: Response
MacKenzie: Commander Munro and I were just about to grab something to eat. Would you like to join us?
Roy blanched – visibly. He looked, for a moment, like someone who had just been asked to perform spoken-word poetry in front of the entire Federation Council.
Bancroft: I… can’t think of a single reason to decline, ma’am. ::beat, then attempting optimism:: What are your cuisines of choice?
oO Please don’t say officers. Please don’t say junior medical officers. Please. Oo
Munro: Response
MacKenzie pointed to the window.
MacKenzie: What about this place? Do they have anything to eat?
Roy turned back to the glass. One of the toads – green, squat, and strangely majestic – was now twirling a baton with a kind of grim flourish, like it knew something he didn’t.
Bancroft: I mean… possibly? It likely depends on your definition of ‘edible’ – and whether or not you believe morality applies to appetizers.
Munro/MacKenzie: Response
Well. It seemed he wasn’t getting out of this that easily.
Roy squared his shoulders with the fatalistic determination of a man marching into a very small, very polite war. He pushed open the door to the shop and was immediately greeted – not by a chime, but by a loud, recorded Ferengi voice shouting ‘Hooray! Profit!’
It echoed off the walls with unsettling enthusiasm, as if the concept itself had achieved sentience.
(( ‘Appetite Optional’, Ferenginar ))
Each step Roy took inside felt like a hostage-negotiation-gone-bad between his dignity and his dread. The air was warmer than it had any right to be and smelled faintly of spice, ozone, and something pickled.
From a recessed niche in the wall, a creature the exact size and shape of a pineapple blinked slowly at them. It made a low burbling noise that Roy could only describe as ‘regretful.’
A Ferengi host emerged from behind a curtain made entirely of semi-translucent credit chits, hands clasped, teeth gleaming like they’d been polished with pure ambition.
Host: Welcome to Appetite Optional! May your culinary thresholds be expanded. Table for three, right over here.
He gestured with both hands, ushering them toward a perfectly ordinary-looking circular table – three modest wooden chairs, a clean surface, and no obvious moving parts.
Which, Roy thought grimly, was exactly what made it suspicious.
He stopped just short of the table, squinting at it warily.
Bancroft: It’s… normal. I don’t trust it.
Munro/MacKenzie: Response
Roy nodded slowly, as if acknowledging a series of unfortunate possibilities. He waited – carefully – until both women had taken their seats before lowering himself into the final chair with textbook posture. Elbows close. Spine upright. Hands folded with surgical precision.
MacKenzie’s presence across from him wasn’t hostile – but it had mass. And Munro, his running partner, he knew, could almost certainly sense his discomfort – and was more than smart enough to guess the reason for it.
That terrified him even more. He even thought he detected a wry glint in the blonde Commander’s eye.
Above the table, three menus blinked into view – shimmering holograms that rotated between languages in a slow, deliberate cycle. Andorian. Vulcan. Denobulan. Then, for one horrifying instant, an image of someone screaming – before flicking neatly into Federation Standard.
Bancroft: I’m sure that was just a glitch, right? Not a… customer testimonial?
Munro/MacKenzie: Response
TAG/TBC!
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Lieutenant JG Roy Bancroft
Medical Officer
USS Artemis-A
A240205RB1