Lt. JG Natasha Cole - Surviving Ferengi Theater Together
Natasha Schell
Scrooge gasped. So did Roy, though for very different reasons.
Bancroft: ::shaking so as to hold back laughter:: This is the absolute best misinterpretation I could have ever dreamed of.
Cole: I genuinely don’t know how it could get better. ::laughing::
Ghost of ChristmasPresent: To remind you, Scrooge, of the right way forward, I bring to you this eve a message most sincere in these festive times!
The Ghost of ChristmasPresent flung open his arms once more, face pointed toward the ceiling. A shower of confetti cannons erupted from both sides of the stage, the confetti hovering mid-air to spell out “TIS THE SEASON TO MAXIMIZE SHAREHOLDER VALUE.”
The confetti slowly drifted down, clinging to Scrooge’s robes and the edges of the stage like festive shrapnel. A Ferengi stagehand hurried out to sweep it aside, slipped, recovered, and pretended none of it had happened.
The lights dimmed again—this time more deliberately.
The music cut out entirely.
A low, ominous hum filled the theater, vibrating through the seats. Natasha felt it in her ribs first, instinctively straightening, eyes narrowing as she tracked the source.
Cole: ::quietly, to Roy:: Okay… this one feels different.
A massive shadow stretched across the stage as a holographic projection flickered to life—tall, angular, and unmistakably Ferengi in silhouette, but elongated and distorted, its eyes glowing an unsettling ledger-green.
Natasha picked the playbill up from Roy’s lap.
Cole: ::reading fast:: Oh no, Roy. ::beat:: The Ghost of Christmas Futures is being portrayed by… “Automated Profit Projection Unit 9-B. Courtesy of the Ferengi Commerce Authority.”
The projection stabilized, resolving into a floating Ferengi-shaped drone, draped in translucent black robes patterned with cascading numbers, loss charts, and profit margins scrolling endlessly across its body.
It did not speak.
It simply pointed, one long, skeletal finger extending toward Scrooge.
Scrooge recoiled dramatically.
Scrooge: Spirit! You are more terrifying than taxation without loopholes! Speak! Tell me what horrors await!
The drone’s eyes flared brighter.
A massive bar graph slammed into existence behind Scrooge, labeled:
EBENEZER SCROOGE – END-OF-LIFE PROFIT SUMMARY
The graph was… flat. Completely flat.
A collective gasp rippled through the Ferengi audience.
Ghost of Christmas Futures: ::monotone, amplified:: Projection indicates terminal condition. Zero dependents. Zero mourners. Zero legacy monetization.
Audience: ZERO LEGACY! ZERO LEGACY!
Cole: ::hand over her mouth:: Oh that’s brutal.
The drone shifted, projecting a second image—Scrooge’s funeral. The stage was filled with a single folding chair, occupied by a bored Ferengi reading a padd.
Ghost of Christmas Futures: Attendance optimized for efficiency.
The audience erupted—half horrified, half impressed.
Scrooge fell to his knees.
Scrooge: No! There must be… a write-off! A redemption clause!
The drone paused.
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.
Natasha leaned closer to Roy, voice barely contained.
Cole: This is where he dies again, isn’t it?
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.
The drone’s robes suddenly glitched, numbers scrolling faster, the projection stuttering as sparks flew from the stage rigging.
Ghost of Christmas Futures: ERROR. CHARITY SUBROUTINE NOT FOUND.
The drone jerked violently, spinning once, then plummeted straight down through the trapdoor, disappearing with a hollow metallic CLANG.
A beat.
Then, from beneath the stage:
Ghost of Christmas Futures: ::muffled:: This unit regrets the loss of narrative cohesion.
The audience lost it.
Natasha doubled over, laughter shaking her shoulders.
Cole: ::through laughter:: I don’t care how this ends, this is already the best future.
Bancroft: ::tears of joy:: I don’t think either of us have laughed this hard since the whole ‘Bolian mime’ incident!
Onstage, the Narrator scrambled back out, trying to salvage dignity.
Narrator: ::frantic:: And so! Having seen the errors of his projected margins—uh—ways! Scrooge resolves to embrace generosity!
Scrooge sprang to his feet, throwing latinum wildly into the crowd.
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!
Cole: ::laughing, nudging Roy:: If this ends with a spreadsheet encore, I’m framing the playbill.
Bancroft: I’ll
buy us the commemorative frames. I’m sure they’ve got those for sale.
Natasha settled back in her seat, laughter still warm in her chest. This was ridiculous. It was wrong. It was chaotic. And somehow … Perfect.
As the chaos onstage continued towards presumably, something resembling an ending, Natasha’s heart felt full. There was something special about spending an old Earth holiday with Roy. This had been the perfect way to spend the holiday.
Cole: That was ::trying to find the right words:: more than I could have hoped for.
As the curtain fell and the actors assembled before it to take a bow, the stage lights flickered again. That’s when Bob Cratchit chose 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 had risen with the crowd, as did Natasha. Applauding and laughing at the sheer absurdity at what they witnessed. Roy had glanced her way and they shared a smile.
Bancroft: I’m so genuinely glad we did this, Nat.
Cole: Me too. I didn’t realize how much I needed it.
As they filtered out of the theater with the rest of the crowd, still buzzing with laughter and Ferengi chanting about profit margins, Natasha glanced sideways at Roy. He was smiling in that quiet, slightly crooked way he got when something ridiculous had genuinely delighted him, the kind of smile that didn’t ask for anything in return.
This, she thought, is what safe looks like.
Roy was the kind of constant you didn’t have to perform for. No expectations, no weight, no careful calibration of words. Just someone who stood beside you, shoulder to shoulder, when things were absurd or hard, or both at once. The kind of friend who knew your history and never used it as leverage.
She leaned in without thinking and pressed a quick, affectionate kiss to his cheek, light, familiar, and unmistakably platonic.
Cole: ::grinning:: Don’t let it go to your head. That’s strictly a “best friends survived Ferengi Theater together” reward.
Natasha fell back into step beside him, content in the knowledge that some bonds didn’t need labels or tension to be real. Just trust. Just history. Just the quiet certainty that whatever chaos came next holidays, or terminally unprofitable ghosts ... they’d handle it together.
End Scene
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Lt. JG Natasha Cole
Security Officer
USS Artemis-A
Writer ID A240205NC4