Lieutenant JG Roy Bancroft - Tis the Season to Maximize Shareholder Value
Carter Schimpff
(( Grand Cultural Enrichment Theater – Ferenginar ))
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. Wielding 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.
Roy had no doubt she would. Natasha Cole – the original inventor of his now-beloved nickname – was many things. Bright, bubbly, and by turns deadly efficient and sharp.
There were very few people indeed in whose company he felt more physically secure.
Bancroft: ::faux-grandiose:: Natasha my dear, there are only a handful of people around which I’m ever this relaxed. If something wicked my way comes, I do hope it isn’t terribly attached to its limbs.
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.
Natasha tossed a few pieces of kettle corn into her mouth.
Bancroft: ::chuckling:: That’s live theater for you. Chaos… though I’ll grant you this is by far the most of it I’ve ever seen.
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: ::crying with glee:: It's already gone so badly wrong and he hasn't even said his first line!
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.
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.
Roy leaned sideways toward Cole, masking his mouth with his hand.
Bancroft: I mean, it would be historically significant. Probably the first cross-species maiming in Dickensian history.
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.
He was momentarily caught short. It wasn’t often Natasha allowed herself to be this open – at least, not around him. Witty? Certainly. Charming? Without question. But this quiet softness, this rare unguarded edge – it startled him, and not because it didn’t fit her. Quite the opposite, in fact.
And for that – for being allowed even this brief glimpse below the armor – he was quietly, thoroughly grateful.
Bancroft: ::eyes twinkling:: I am too. It’s been ages since I’ve been able to see live theater. ::elbowing Cole:: And the company isn’t half bad, either.
Cole: Response
Before Roy could come up with a retort, the lights flared back to life with a stomach-churning jolt, this time accompanied by the triumphant blare of what could only be described as ‘capitalist fanfare’ – full brass, zero melody, and enough volume that Roy wondered at the structural integrity of the theater’s ceiling.
Narrator: Behold! The Ghost… of ChristmasPresent!
Center stage, a trapdoor sprang open with a loud hiss. From it rose a Ferengi wrapped head to toe in red- and white-striped gift paper, glittering bows attached haphazardly here and there. His arms were outstretched as though he were a prophet.
oO Hell, maybe he is a prophet here. Oo
Ghost of ChristmasPresent: ::pointing ominously at Scrooge:: SCROOGE! ::grandly:: I bring festive cheer! Seasonal incentives! A limited-time offer of spiritual reinforcement – no exchanges, no refunds, all sales final!
Bancroft: ::delighted:: Oh, this is going to be good.
Cole: Response
The ghost leapt toward Scrooge with remarkable agility for someone entirely encased in paper.
Ghost of ChristmasPresent: Your miserly, conniving ways are respected near and far. ::dramatic pause, looking at the audience:: But I feel the chill wind of charity in this breeze, Scrooge. Beware the call of–
The lights slammed off momentarily, the darkness broken by a flash of simulated lighting and thunder, then lit back up.
Ghost of ChristmasPresent: ::nauseated:: –altruism. Eugh.
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: Response
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.”
Cole: Response
TAG/TBC!
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Lieutenant JG Roy Bancroft
Medical Officer
USS Artemis-A
A240205RB1