Lt. JG Natasha Cole - The Ghosts of Profit Margins Past
Natasha Schell
(( Outside the Grand Cultural Enrichment Theater – Ferenginar ))
Natasha had arrived at the theater and noticed she had beaten Roy there. He was probably taming his mustache or something, the thought of Roy trying to wax it into curls at the ends made her laugh, which got some odd looks from some passersby.
She leaned on a nearby railing and people watched, crossing her arms. Several different species were bustling into the theater, which looked gaudy and garish. It reminded her of some politician of ultimately little importance from earth’s past.
She looked up at the marquee with a bit of a squint, it’s blinking and flashing acting like a beacon in the rain, calling to all seeking shelter, and entertainment.
THE GRAND PREMIERE OF A CHRISTMAS CAROL
A Heartwarming Tale of Fiscal Triumph
While she stood there looking at the sign she wrapped her coat around her to keep relatively dry. She had a thought; he didn’t think this was some elaborate joke did he. If he bailed she would have to get … creative with her retribution.
Glancing down from the marquee, she spotted him.
Bancroft: ::winking:: Still think this is a good idea?
Cole: ::smiling:: Oh come on, where is your sense of Adventure.
As they stepped into the theaters’s atrium, a swarm of Ferengi ushers bombarded them with offers from ‘headsets for authentic Earth-accent translation’ to as they described extremely ‘limited-edition peppermint-scented earplugs’, which she was fairly certain was a Ferengi sex thing. She wasn’t about to yuck anyone’s yum, but the face she made clearly indicated she wasn’t interested and they began to disperse.
Cole: Should we check our coats?
Bancroft: Pardon, is there a coat check?
Attendant: Two slips of latinum.
Roy fished two slips out of his pocket and handed them over. The attendant grinned widely and gestured six meters to the left, where a small alcove sat beneath a glittering sign:
COAT CHECK
5 Slips of Latinum
Bancroft: ::dryly, to Nat:: I think I just got charged for asking a question.
Cole: ::not even trying to hide her chest shaking laugh:: Here ::laughing:: I’ll cover the coat check. ::passes them 10 slips for the two of them::
As her long coat slips off, it reveals a soft rose-mauve wrap top paired with a high-waisted black midi skirt tied neatly at her waist, the fabrics creating a warm, feminine silhouette accented by a simple gold necklace resting on her collarbone; finished off with understated black low heels, giving Natasha’s outfit a quiet elegance, with an effortlessly put-together charm.
Entering the theater proper it was a vast, gilded space that smelled faintly of … laminate glue. The seats were arranged in rows around a gaudy golden stage. A holographic display hovered above the proscenium arch, shimmering with the words:
A Christmas Carol
(Adapted from ancient Earth tradition by the Ferengi Association of Cultural Appropriation and Profitability)
The lights overhead twinkled as the two of them took their seats, and Roy flipped open his ‘Official Playbill’ (for that’s what was inscribed on the front of the document) and began reading aloud to the both of them in a low voice.
Bancroft: ::squinting:: Okay. According to this, Ebenezer Scrooge is being played by ‘Zibol the Magnificent,’ a Ferengi actor renowned for his award-winning performance in Guess Who Touched my Latinum.
Cole: Sounds a little pretentious, but go on. ::leaning towards Roy to follow along::
Bancroft: Bob Cratchit is being played by… ::eyes narrowing further:: a Romulan named S’Vek. Claims to be a former member of the Tal Shiar turned method actor. There’s a footnote that says ‘may improvise.’
Cole: That sounds like walking chaos. Please tell me they have a Klingon playing Tiny Tim?
Roy studied his program intently as he ran a finger down the list.
Bancroft: I’ll be – you’re absolutely right, Nat. Tiny Tim is being played by a Klingon. And, apparently, not just any Klingon. He’s the reigning champion of 'Babies and Bat’leths', Ferenginar’s most popular child-gladiator reality show.
Cole: Why am I not surprised ::letting out a small laugh::
Roy continued looking at his program.
Bancroft: Oh, this is fantastic. The Ghost of Christmas Present is played by… a Ferengi in gift wrap. Because they misinterpreted it as ‘ChristmasPresent,’ no space. There’s a large bow involved.
Cole: This is going to be brilliant, glad we got snacks.
The lights dimmed. A single spotlight illuminated the center stage, where a Ferengi narrator stepped forward wearing a powdered wig and holding a scroll that unrolled all the way to his feet.
Narrator: ::clearing his throat:: Once upon a time, in the chilly fiscal year end of old Earth, there lived a man of vision. A paragon of efficiency. A hero of profit, maligned by fools and freeloaders alike… Ebenezer Scrooge!
The crowd, mostly Ferengi, erupted in thunderous applause. A spotlight hit stage right, where Scrooge entered, cackling and draped in sparkling gold robes.
Scrooge: Bah! Humbug! Altruism is a pyramid scheme!
He pointed accusingly at the audience as he spoke. Natasha couldn’t help herself and stuck out her tongue, doubtful the Ferengi could see her.
Scrooge: You lot! Are you maximizing your quarterly profits? No? Then you deserve your misery!
The set was a baffling hybrid of Dickensian fog and Ferengi luxury. A holographic cityscape flickered to the rear of the stage, occasionally glitching between Victorian London and ‘sunset on Risa.’ Which made Natasha snicker thinking of it getting stuck on the wrong projection.
Scrooge sat himself behind a ‘desk’ – or, at least, that’s what Roy would have called it. In reality, it was an enormous latinum slab on stilts.
Scrooge: ::gleefully:: Three more evictions today! Glorious.
Suddenly, the prop door to Scrooge’s ‘office’ slammed open, a full beat too early, and a cloaked figure stalked just outside the spotlight trying to follow him.
The figure peeled back his hood to reveal the pointy-eared face of Bob Cratchit. His outfit was mostly era-appropriate, save for the disruptor holster peeking out beneath his waistcoat and a vial of something chartreuse hanging from his belt.
Natasha admittedly changed her posture slightly as she spotted the holstered disruptor. Realistically it was probably disabled and was more for aesthetics as a prop, but she’d be horrible at her job if she didn’t track it.
Bob Cratchit: ::voice low, conspiratorial:: Esteemed Auditor Scrooge… I require one additional solstice cycle of personal absence. My son, Miniature Timothy, is… undergoing recalibration.
He said it as though he was confessing to high treason.
Scrooge: ::enraged:: The only thing you’ll be recalibrating is your retirement plan, Cratchit! Request denied!
Bob Cratchit: I anticipated this. ::loudly:: Activate contingency protocol five!
He stepped to the side of the stage, tugged at the curtain dramatically, and gestured as if summoning someone from the wings.
A beat passed.
Then, from stage left, a burly Klingon youth in a ragged Victorian smock hobbled into view. Weilding a comically undersized cane and glared at Scrooge with the seething intensity of a boy whose first word had been ‘betrayal.’
Tiny Tim: ::waving the too-small cane:: DEATH TO SCROOGE!
Bancroft: ::whispering to Cole:: Is he… going to assassinate Scrooge?
Cole: No more like a concussion, it's too small for anything drastically life threatening.
Bancroft: ::sipping his overpriced fizzy kelpwater:: God bless us. Every one.
Cole: ::leaning in slightly, eyes still tracking the stage:: Relax. If Tiny Tim goes feral, I’ve got you covered. If anything comes flying off that stage, I’ll catch it before it hits you.
Bancroft: Response
Cole: Especially the Klingon child.
Onstage, the Klingon “Tiny Tim” tried to menacingly hobble toward Scrooge, but his comically small cane caught on a floorboard, sending him pitching forward. He recovered with the dramatic fury of a warrior denied glory, roaring loud enough to rattle the holographic backdrop, which flickered hesitantly again between Victorian London and sunset on Risa.
A Ferengi stagehand sprinted out, un wedging the cane before sprinting back offstage as if being hunted.
Natasha stifled a laugh behind her fingers.
Cole: You know… I expected chaos. I didn’t expect the chaos to have choreographed stagehands.
She tossed a few pieces of ‘kettle corn’ into her mouth. It was over caramelized and too sweet, but what was deeply suspicious, it was annoyingly good.
Bancroft: Response
Cole: And yet somehow? I’m invested.
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: Response
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.
Bancroft: Response
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.
Bancroft: Response
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: Response
Tags/TBC
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Lt. JG Natasha Cole
Security Officer
USS Artemis-A
Writer ID A240205NC4