Ensign Roy Bancroft - Grok and Roll
Carter Schimpff
(( Main Mess Hall – Deck 3, USS Artemis-A ))
It had started innocently enough. A passing comment. A casual request.
Now, he was seated at a table in the mess hall surrounded by the cheerful clatter of utensils, the low murmur of off-duty conversations, and – most notably – the fully operational absurdity of Galaxy-opoly.
Tho’Bi: ::to Cole:: Your weapon of choice!
Cole: Response
K’Wara reached across the table and plucked the ‘Recently Returned USS Voyager’ game piece with confidence.
K’Wara: You joining us?
Bancroft: ::grinning:: Me? Pass up a chance to be financially ruined by a Ferengi? I wouldn’t miss this, el-tee.
Meris: ::nodding:: I’ll be... I’ll be this piece. ::setting CVN-65, the USS Enterprise nuclear-powered aircraft carrier, into play::
Meris made their selection with some hesitation – an antique hunk of naval engineering Roy vaguely recognized from a high school history course he’d mostly slept through.
They set the USS Enterprise CVN-65 into play with the solemnity of someone placing a sacrificial pawn on an unfamiliar chess board.
Roy couldn’t fault the energy.
He waited politely, then reached for a piece of his own: the tiny, very defiant-looking USS Defiant.
The moment his fingers touched the metal, it shrieked, “Perhaps today IS a good day to die!”
Roy nearly dropped it. He glanced sideways. No one reacted. Apparently this was perfectly normal.
He placed it gently on the starting square, eyeing the angular little warship with equal parts admiration and imagination. It would, he thought, look rather sharp with a caduceus painted on the hull. If he survived this game, he might look into that.
The Holo-Ferengi sneered… smiled? Honestly, with Ferengi, it was always a bit of both – and trained its gaze on Meris before swiveling to Tho’Bi.
Holo-Ferengi: ::sneering:: No profit to be won in a solo game!
Tho’Bi: ::to the Holo-Ferengi and shrugs:: Rule of Acquisition number one hundred and sixty-two... ::beat:: even in the worst of times, someone turns a profit.
The Holo-Ferengi howled with delight, clapping its hands together like a child who’d just discovered non-washable paint and a blank, flawless wall.
K’Wara: All right, Holo-Grok, set the scene.
Holo-Ferengi: Any likeness to real people, including the illustrious Grok Brothers, is purely coincidental and in no way representative of the Grok Brothers’ approach to legal requirements associated with the hologame industry. If you find yourself recognizing someone, congratulations! You’ve either discovered a lucrative business opportunity or a very expensive lawsuit. Proceed with caution, and remember: profit is the only true reality; everything else is just a cheap holo-illusion.
Roy blinked. The monologue went on. And on. It was somehow both a legal disclaimer and an origin myth.
Holo-NOT-Grok: The goal of this family-friendly game of commerce is to outwit, outmaneuver, and outbid your rivals through cunning trades, ruthless economic conquest, and strategic bribery until you control the majority of the galaxy’s wealth – and preferably some starbases for good measure. Each businessman starts with 1,000 bars of gold-pressed latinum, the true currency of power. Using the starships you’ve generously taken off Starfleet’s hands for a not-insignificant sum, you must travel across the Quadrants to purchase trade stations and starbases.
As a thousand shimmering bars of holo-latinum arced across the table and stacked themselves with smug precision in front of each player, Roy leaned forward, momentarily dazzled.
Tho’Bi: ::to himself:: Really good noodles.
Meris: Noodles? This is already more complicated than I expected.
Roy nodded with mock solemnity – the kind reserved for awkward funerals and ill-timed business mergers. Noodles. Economics. Someone wasn’t making it out of this game emotionally intact.
Bancroft: ::dryly, examining his pile:: My father once told me if you ever find yourself staring down a mountain of fake money in front of a simulated Ferengi… you’ve made a wrong turn in life. ::beat:: His lessons were oddly specific.
Cole: Response
K’Wara: I’m sure it was a 'not-significant-sum', though I’ve never known a Ferengi to call any sum of latinum insignificant.
Holo-NOT-Grok: The starting player is decided by an opening bribe to the bank. Which is me. ::Ferengi smirk::
K’Wara: Of course it is. ::interacts with player-station:: I’ll make the opening bid – ten bars of gold-pressed latinum.
Tho’Bi: ::slaps hand on table:: Fifteen bars.
The Holo-Ferengi interjected, apparently keen to encourage higher bidding.
Holo-Ferengi: Remember, my fellow profit seekers – ::raises finger in the air:: Rule of Acquisition number nine... ::beat:: opportunity plus instinct equals profit.
A massive golden 9 spun into the air above the table like a divine revelation from the Church of Excess.
Meris: Can I bid 1,000 bars?
Bancroft: ::aside to Meris, sotto voice:: You can… but then the Ferengi wins. Trust me, the smug never really washes off.
Cole: Response
Meris: Oh. ::thinking:: Then I shall bid sixteen bars. ::playing it safe::
Cole: Response
Bancroft: ::gesturing to Meris’ bribe and eyeing the Ferengi:: Is… is he panting?
The bidding continued. Roy observed it like a man watching a shuttle drift slowly toward a black hole. Fascinating. Inevitable. Doomed.
K’Wara: I have no clue. ::laughs:: I grew up in the Cammus System, near Gorn space, and didn’t leave home until joining Starfleet. I’ve been accosted by very few Ferengi.
Meris: I can’t say I’ve had much experience with them either. There were no Ferengi in my Academy class – or maybe they just all majored in Economics.
Bancroft: ::leaning in, voice low and conspiratorial:: I bid… one slip.
Holo-NOT-Grok wheezed, its eyes bulging out in a grandiose display of hurt and dismay.
Holo-NOT-Grok: ::laughing nervously:: My hew-mon friend, I’m sure you must have mis-spoken. One sl–
Bancroft: ::interrupting, grinning:: One slip… plus ten percent of my net profits.
Cole: Response
Holo-NOT-Grok: The highest bribe stands with this bold profit seeker!
Roy gave a modest nod. He didn’t truly care about going first – he was here for chaos… and any ancillary existential discomfort he could supply to the holographic Ferengi.
Holo-NOT-Grok: Any final bribes? ::grins::
Tho’Bi: ::shaking head:: No.
Meris: ::thoughtfully:: I’ll lower my bid to nine bars.
The holo-NOT-Grok made a face and scoffed at Meris before it moved on to the next player.
Bancroft: ::arched eyebrow:: My offer stands, Ferengi. As does my dignity. For now. Let’s not test the elasticity of either.
K’Wara/Cole: Response
Holo-NOT-Grok: Behold! ::beat:: Our boldest profit-seeker!
Dabo chips rained down around them like bird seed at a wedding. Meris applauded gently. Roy suspected it was partly for diplomacy and partly because they didn’t know what else to do.
K’Wara/Cole: Response
The holographic Ferengi's face exploded into view again – now embedded in the center of a massive floating Dabo wheel that hovered inches above the table.
Holo-Ferengi: Spin the wheel! ::beat:: The higher the number – the more light-years you can go!
The din of the mess hall disappeared into background noise as Roy focused in on the game.
Bancroft: ::eyeing the Dabo wheel:: I wonder what mildly cursed space calamity the universe has in store for me today.
K’Wara/Cole: Response
Play continued around the table. Meris spun and landed on a wormhole.
Meris: What does that mean?
Their token was instantly sucked into a miniature vortex and vanished with a satisfying slorp.
Holo-Ferengi: Sorry! You lose your next turn! But don’t worry – there’s always Rule 88! 'It isn’t over till it’s over!'
Roy squinted at the golden 88 floating overhead. It looked like it belonged more to a Ferengi nightclub than a family-friendly board game.
K’Wara/Tho’Bi/Cole: Response
It was Roy’s turn next, and he leaned forward and spun the wheel. It landed on thirteen – of course. He counted the spaces aloud in a mock-dramatic whisper as he moved his tiny Defiant.
Bancroft: One… two… three… temporal nonsense… five…
The final square read TEMPORAL ANOMALY.
The Ferengi grinned.
Holo-NOT-Grok: ::smiling evilly:: You’ve been aged forty years. Pay 100 bars of latinum for genetic reconstruction or lose 3 turns due to back pain.
Roy grumbled and slid the required payment into the central pot.
Bancroft: ::muttering:: Forty years older and still not eligible for early retirement. At this rate I’ll be dead and working overtime.
K’Wara/Tho’Bi/Cole/Meris: Response
TAG/TBC!
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Ensign Roy Bancroft
Medical Officer
USS Artemis-A
A240205RB1