Power Play

[PSGarak]

(Since I've noticed a lot of cross posting between Ad Astra and here, I figured I'd share this here, too. It now has a sequel, but because I have it posted for the August challenge over there, I'm waiting until that ends to post the sequel.)

Gul Dukat strode down the promenade, one of the few areas of Terok Nor that resembled a standard space station rather than an ore processing facility. Largely due to his benevolent hands-off attitude towards those legitimately involved in trade and commerce, several shops selling various wares managed quite stiff competition for the hard earned currency of the Cardassian masters of the Bajoran sector. He took considerable pride in the fact that those under him had less reason to grumble than those under his predecessor. Even the annoyingly ingratiating Ferengi, Quark , was proving more useful than he would have thought possible.

He enjoyed these morning strolls with all eyes upon him, those under his command, the merchants, and of course the laborers being marched to and from work details. Despite four assassination attempts by Bajoran resistance fighters, he was fit, healthy, and not about to be cowed. Hiding behind personal guards and protocol might suit others in his position, but it was something he would never do. The instant the Bajoran scum smelled fear, there would be no end to their machinations. No, it was much preferable for them to see that despite their best efforts, he walked among them with a smile on his face and seemingly little care in the world.

“Prefect Dukat,” a perfunctory looking Glinn hurried to catch up to his longer legged superior.

Brekor, he thought with an inward roll of his eyes. If anyone could spoil a perfectly pleasant morning it was this officer who should have turned bureaucrat. “Yes?” he said in his most magnanimous tone.

“Prefect,” he said again, licking his lips nervously, “it's...it's your pants.” His voice dropped to a sotto whisper Dukat had a hard time picking out from the background noise of the station.

“My pants?” Dukat raised an eye ridge ever so slightly, almost certain he had heard wrong.

The Glinn nodded convulsively. “Yes, Prefect. There's a rip,” he gestured discreetly with a gray finger toward Dukat's posterior.

“My pants are ripped,” Dukat replied as levelly as he could under the circumstances. How many people had already seen and dared to say nothing, or worse yet took amusement at his dishabille? Irritation simmered beneath his icy glare. “Is that all, Glinn Brekor?”

“Yes, Prefect,” the unfortunate nodded once more, looking as though he would rather be anywhere but there.

“Thank you for informing me,” he said, managing to convey more menace than gratitude. He continued to glare until the unctuous little ball of nerves beat a hasty retreat from his line of sight. He had two choices, neither of them palatable. He could walk all the way back to his quarters, ensuring that anyone who had not gotten a good look on his first pass would have a second chance, or he could duck into the new tailor shop he had insisted on having opened and deal with its proprietor. The thought of actively avoiding Garak rankled. Why should he? He needed a service, and it would be satisfying being able to extract it on demand rather than having to pay.

Setting his lips to a smirk any familiar with him came to dread, he changed his course to angle toward the tailor's shop. “Garak's Clothiers”, as the newly created sign proclaimed, was lit from within and apparently open for business. He stepped through the open doors and quickly scanned the shop. A soft chime announced his arrival. So pedestrian, he thought with satisfaction. One would never guess how far our tailor has fallen.

“One moment,” Garak's unmistakable voice called from the back, steadily increasing in volume as he approached. “I've just received a shipment of fine Deltan silks. I don't suppose you'd be...interested.” His last word trailed off as he emerged and realized the identity of his visitor. “That goes without saying,” he added smoothly. “What brings you to my humble shop, esteemed Prefect Dukat?”

Had he not know better, Dukat might well have bought the deferential act. He couldn't detect the slightest note of disrespect or displeasure in the man's voice or posture. To all outward appearance, Garak was pleased to see him. He hoped the act annoyed the actor as much as it did him. “I'm in need of your services,” he answered, seeing nothing to be gained by not getting straight to the point. He turned just enough to show Garak the rip, still unsure himself of just how large or obvious it might be.

“Do you wish to leave them here?” the tailor asked.

"I do not,” he said. “There is no reason that you can't perform the repair right now with me still in them. I have an appointment this morning, and I don't wish to be late.”

Garak's blue eyes were as impossible to read as his bland smile. “In that case, permit me to fetch the appropriate colored thread and a sufficiently fine needle.”

Dukat gave a bare incline of his head and stood at parade rest while he waited for Garak to retreat to the back. He had no fear that the other Cardassian would be foolish enough to attempt to prick him or otherwise sabotage the repair. He was, however, somewhat disappointed that Garak didn't have a stronger reaction upon seeing him or being requested to serve him in such a menial way. He pondered this and various ways that he might yet provoke the disgraced operative while watching the standard morning traffic pass by just beyond the open doors.

Garak returned to him, the picture of professional efficiency, with his needle already threaded and a precise length cut for the mending. “This will take but a moment,” he informed him. “And do hold still. I would hate to hurt you.”

I'll just bet, Dukat thought dryly. He folded his arms across his cuirass and spread his feet hip width apart. “I must say, I'm very impressed with how quickly you finally settled in once you had the proper motivation.” He still felt his threat of putting Garak to work with the Bajoran slave labor if he continued to delay the opening of the shop was a stroke of genius. It was such a shame that the exile had taken him seriously at first threat. He would have greatly enjoyed carrying it out.

Garak's touch with the needle and thread was so light, Dukat could barely tell the repair was in progress. “It is truly amazing what one can accomplish with proper motivation,” Garak agreed. “To look at the place, one would suppose I had been here for quite some time already, and my account books bear out the impression. It was generous of you to provide me with such an opportunity.”

With his back safely to the man, Dukat allowed himself a small scowl. Liar, he thought. There is no way he could possibly turn a profit this quickly, not when ordering fine Deltan silks. He felt himself relax again at this mental assertion. Only an idiot would trust anything Garak had to say about anything, even as trivial as the ambient light or temperature. “I was positively delighted to be able to do so,” he said with equal measures of truth and spite.

He heard Garak inhale for a response that never came. Blindingly bright white flame blossomed just five doors down and across from the clothing shop, followed almost immediately by a deafening boom that shook the entire station and sent a fine web work of cracks spreading across the clear doors and windows all along the shops of the promenade. Activating his wrist com, Dukat barked, “Status report, now!”

Only static met his request, and all outside the shop erupted into full chaos, with merchants screaming and running for cover, Cardassian guards pulling together into formations, and Bajoran laborers suddenly breaking free of their chains to rally resistance to the guards. Although the guards were firing energy weapons on the Bajorans, Dukat realized to his dismay that at least some of the Bajorans were firing back. Alarms claxoned throughout the refinery, and why weren't the damned fire suppression systems responding? That chemical fire was spreading far too fast.

He reflexively reached for his sidearm phaser only to have his hand grasp air. Whirling on Garak, he had just enough time to hurl himself to the side, at the last moment realizing he wasn't the man's target. A feral eyed Bajoran woman went down just a few bare steps from where Dukat had been standing, the twisted homemade blade in her hand dropping to the floor of the shop and bouncing end over end.

Garak tossed him his weapon and dove for the woman, moving much faster than Dukat would have ever credited his ability for his age and relative stoutness. He slung her over his shoulder and immediately started for the back of the shop. With the fire and the firefight raging through the promenade, Dukat didn't even think to question whether he should follow, hoping it would buy them at least a few moments. He had to shout to be heard, “Won't we be trapped?”

Shooting him a withering look, Garak cut sharply to the right, past a curtain flap into his stock room. He slung the limp Bajoran woman to the floor like a sack of rulots and dropped to his knees, running his fingertips along the smooth floor until a fingernail caught a tiny latch and a large panel swung soundlessly upward. Wordlessly, he eyed Dukat, the silent challenge apparent. Go first, if you dare.

(cont' next post)

 

[PSGarak]

With no time to argue, Dukat stared hard at him as he dropped down to Garak's side and swung his legs into darkness. He had no idea how far he'd fall, but he needed one hand to hold his weapon. There was no way he intended to allow himself to be disarmed a second time, even if the first time resulted in his life being saved. Awkwardly, he swung himself downward braced with his free hand. The drop wasn't as bad as he expected, and he flexed his knees to absorb most of the impact, his boots clanging on metal grating.

No sooner did he have his balance than Garak's tenor rang down to him, “Catch,” and the dead weight of the Bajoran came crashing down. He bent to take the brunt of the impact on his shoulders, awkwardly twisting his knee in the process. It was too soon to tell if it would continue to cause him problems or just throb and subside.

“Damn you!” he snarled up at Garak. “You almost broke my leg!”

“Sorry,” Garak said a bit breathlessly, swinging down into the bowels of the refinery beside him and closing the hatch above them with a soft click, “but we were a little pressed for time. I do believe that explosion centered on your meeting place, Prefect.”

It was too dark for Dukat to see anything at all, despite Cardassian proclivity for low lighting. He found to his surprise that now that he couldn't see Garak's distracting bland facade, he could hear what he had not heard before, a small measure of emotion in that smooth voice: smug satisfaction. Vole stench filled his nostrils, and he inhaled more shallowly. “Never mind that,” he snapped. “We have more pressing problems. If that fire continues to burn—”

“I'm well aware of our predicament,” Garak cut him off. Dukat could hear him lifting the woman and settling her once more. “This way,” he said, moving down the narrow metal tunnel to Dukat's left.

Keeping his phaser trained in the general direction of the sound of the tailor's footsteps, Dukat followed. More rumbles echoed ominously from a greater distance. He could only wonder if there were more bombs or if the fire was raging in earnest and destroying valuable equipment and monitoring systems. How had the Bajorans managed to orchestrate this under their very noses? It was nothing like the previous assassination attempts. Those were crude ploys carried out by fewer than five slaves. This was as close to open rebellion as he had seen in his tenure here. If he survived this crisis, he determined then and there that he would put elaborate safeguards in place throughout the entire computer network. He'd have them embedded in the very core, and if it meant that every living soul died on Terok Nor at the next attempt, it was a price he was willing to pay for sheer spite.

Don't get ahead of yourself, Skrain, he thought. You're still not out of this.

He resisted asking questions as they scurried further from the raging fire every bit as furtively as voles. It was bad enough having to follow Garak blindly who knew where, but to be beholden to him for saving him from the woman was an indignity almost too much to bear. He longed to shoot him in the back and be done with him, but he knew if he did that, he could wander the dark tunnels for an indefinite amount of time. He might even run into rebels. No, better to play along, at least for now, and then seize control of the situation once he was in a better environment for it.

Periodically, he tried his wrist com to no avail. He decided they must be jamming the signal somehow. On the chance that they might try to track him using it, he turned it off entirely.

“Wise decision,” Garak's voice drifted back to him. “I'd have suggested it myself some time ago had I any faith you'd care to listen.”

“When I require your tactical input, I'll request it of you,” he retorted acidly.

“Of course,” Garak said.

Dukat frowned thoughtfully. Was that strain in the tenor? Perhaps the weight of the unconscious woman was wearing on him, or perhaps it was something else. If he was careful, he could possibly turn it to his advantage. “Do you even know where you're going?” he demanded in an irritable tone of deliberate provocation.

“Patience, good Prefect,” the tailor rallied, although there was still something not quite right about his voice.

Dukat committed this bit of knowledge to memory. In the future, if he wanted to hear what Garak was really saying, closing his eyes might help. It felt strange to trust one of his weakest senses, but the more they spoke, the more he was certain he was right. Garak didn't seem quite as good at controlling his voice as he was his body and facial expressions, and when Dukat was deprived of more dominant sensory input, he could tell. His knee began to throb in earnest, and he could feel the fabric of his pants leg pulled tight over it. It was swelling. Pain was something he didn't handle well. For the first time since swinging into the tunnel, he was grateful for the pitch darkness so that Garak couldn't see his grimace.

The footsteps ahead of him slowed, so he slowed as well, futilely narrowing his eyes. “What are you doing?” he asked, suddenly suspicious.

“Feeling for something. It would be much easier if you'd take the prisoner for a moment,” the tailor answered.

“Just put her down,” Dukat snapped.

“I don't think that would be wise,” Garak retorted. “She has been feigning unconsciousness for some time now.”

Dukat heard a sharp, feminine intake of breath followed by a muttered curse from his would-be assassin. “I have my weapon trained on you,” he said to her. “I don't need to see you to shoot you, and I'm not as merciful as my subordinate. Put her down, Garak, between us.”

Garak snorted very softly as though to dispute the fact, but he did what he was told. Dukat heard the woman's bare feet slap the metal grate none too gently. After a few moments, Garak exclaimed, “Ah, here it is! You may find these accommodations a bit more to your liking, esteemed Prefect.”

A bluish circle of light flared, quite dim but startling after the weight of such complete darkness. Dukat squinted and almost cursed under his breath much as the woman had. Just off the unused maintenance tunnel was a nearly egg shaped alcove room, large enough to accommodate the three of them, a computer display terminal, a Cardassian style sleeping pallet, and several crates of supplies. The walls were honeycombed with noise suppressing micro-mesh, and a small signal array jutted through a slender slit in the ceiling. Garak slid the door panel into place behind them, closing it seamlessly.

Dukat shot him a murderous look. “You've been stealing supplies from the station and secreting them in this dirty little vole nest?” For the time being, he was content to ignore the prisoner whose eyes darted between them like a caged animal's as they spoke.

“On the contrary,” Garak countered, setting all deference aside and fixing Dukat with what could only be described as an inquisitor's glare. “Do you honestly believe that you are the only person I answer to here?”

Neither Cardassian blinked or so much as twitched a breath for the space of several seconds. As much as he was loath to do it, Dukat looked away first, his ridged jaw clamped tight. Of course, there was the possibility that Garak was bluffing, but if he wasn't and Dukat moved against him for following Tain's orders, the consequences could be particularly unpleasant. He didn't need the coldness in the other man's eyes to tell him that.

The Bajoran prisoner snorted contemptuously. “Can't even control your own man,” she said, but a tremor in her voice betrayed her bravado for what it was. “Some leader you are.”

Both Cardassians shifted their focus to the filthy woman. Now that he could see her more clearly, Dukat realized she was not nearly as old as he had first thought. She was barely more than a girl, in her mid-teens at the most, with bedraggled tendrils of brown hair matted halfway down to her mid-back and nearly black eyes. He raised his fist to strike what for him would be a very casual blow to her face, just enough to teach her some respect, but Garak held up a hand to stop him. No stomach for this? Dukat thought with some surprise. It didn't fit with what he knew of the man at all.

“Don't sully yourself, Prefect,” Garak said with the offhand air of someone discussing the weather. “Let me do my job. If you could just hold her from behind and don't let her move too much?”

Despite himself, Dukat felt his mouth go a bit dry as he positioned himself and grasped the girl's wiry arms. It wasn't as though he hadn't performed interrogations before. He was quite adept at them, and he felt no love for this wretch that had tried to kill him. No, it was this unholy partnering and the implications that went well beyond this little Obsidian Order style cell, the thought of helping a man whose hands had once coaxed agony from his own father, agony strong enough to break him utterly and lead to his slow execution for treason.

Garak stepped closer, and the girl kicked out at him suddenly and violently, using Dukat's grasp for leverage. In two movements Dukat's eyes followed well but that probably seemed little more than a blur to the prisoner, Garak snapped off two kicks of his own, breaking both of her knees. She howled in pain and sagged in the taller Cardassian's grasp.

“It's very unfortunate I had to do that,” Garak said in an instructive tone, addressing not the girl, but Dukat. “Building to pain is much more effective than something so drastic and immediate. Now I'll have to monitor her for shock, and I may even have to waste some drugs I was hoping I wouldn't have to use, as they're in short supply.”

Dukat barely registered the scant weight of the girl in his grasp. He couldn't tear his eyes away from Garak's as he spoke. He willed himself to see something, anything, beyond the look of a somewhat bored instructor in the glassy blue, but there was nothing. Had he been more able to focus, he would have also consciously rather than subconsciously noticed that whatever odd strain had claimed the inquisitor's voice in the tunnel was now gone without a trace. Are these the eyes my father saw? he thought, appalled.

Garak turned away to open one of the neatly stacked crates. He moved with graceful precision, setting aside a hypospray and selecting a few vials to use in it, each with a different purpose, to stave off shock, to dull the sharp pain of the broken knees, to keep her awake, to revive her should that fail. Dukat shifted his hold so that he supported the prisoner with his arms beneath her armpits and his hands clasped at the back of her neck. She moaned and struggled until he let her have some of her own weight on her broken legs. That subdued her with a high pitched whimper.

“Don't do that,” Garak said without looking his way. “Support her fully, and keep her upright.”

Numbly, Dukat obeyed. All thoughts he had of wresting control from Garak once he had high ground were distant now. It took all of his focus and mental discipline just to maintain his own self-control while the man went about what he did so well. He couldn't stop thinking of his father, and he had witnessed enough state interrogations not to need a vivid imagination to know what had been done by this man, the one before him treating him as though he were some wayward student in need of better instruction while he tortured a girl. It was as though the girl were secondary, and his target was—Dukat blinked with the realization and refused to allow himself to complete that thought.

Bastard, he thought furiously, more internal curses directed at Garak following that first, some of them words he would be embarrassed to speak in the company of anyone civilized. You think to torture me? Me! Resolve tightened within his chest. For the memory of his father, he vowed to stay strong and let nothing this beast said or did touch him where it truly hurt.

It was hard, harder than he ever imagined it could be. Each nuanced touch from Garak, a pressure point here, a subtle twist there, a sharp jab to delicate nerve clusters, played the girl in Dukat's arms like an instrument string pulled too taut. She thrummed with agony, and he could feel every tremor to his core. In each shudder, he felt an echo of his father, until he was as desperate for the girl to crack and give them the information Garak wanted about the assassination attempt and uprising as she was for the pain to stop.

Please, he thought fervently, just give him what he wants so this can end. He didn't know what was worse, the endlessly patient, repetitive questions for their prisoner or the commentary the torturer kept directing at him as though the two of them were teacher and pupil on friendly, familiar footing. “It really helps if you can dig beneath that tendon just so. You see there, how she quivers? But when I release and press here....”

I'm learning one thing, he thought grimly. I'm learning I only thought I hated you before. That hatred became his one salvation in the ordeal. It burned him so deeply and viscerally it eventually wiped away any ability he had to connect the Bajoran to his father. His locked fingers behind the girl's head longed for one thing only, Garak's powerful neck in his grasp.

“All right!” the girl suddenly shrieked and sobbed at the same time. “Allrightallrightallright! I'll talk! I'll tell you! I'll tell you! Just please stop. Please stop. Pleasestoppleasestop....” her words trailed into incoherent sobs, and Garak relented at last, allowing her to catch her breath to fulfill her promise.

They both listened carefully, every name annunciated in broken syllables committed to eidetic memories. Not surprisingly, the Bajorans had outside help when it came to obtaining the energy weapons and the ultritium resin for the bomb that had been intended to take out Dukat instantly and would have succeeded had he not stopped to get his pants mended.

Once he obtained which sectors of the refinery were targeted, Garak turned his attention away from Dukat and the girl so that he could focus on his computer array. He began inputting algorithms that would wrest any systems still under rebel control back to Cardassian hands and monitored what he could of the situation above. He hummed lightly under his breath as he worked.

“You did well,” Dukat whispered close to her ear. “You held on as long as you could, but there's no shame in bowing to Cardassian authority. You're just misguided. You don't understand how much we're helping your people. You can't possibly understand.” He shifted her in his arms so that he cradled her, brushing back sweat streaked hair from her muddy forehead.

It was a few moments before he realized Garak was finished with the computer and simply looking at him with a skeptical air. “Is that something they teach you in Central Command?” Garak asked dryly. “Because I've never seen that technique before.”

“Oh, stop it,” Dukat said, weary to his core with the inquisitor's game. “The girl has given us everything,” he said. “Surely you can see that.”

“Not everything, Prefect,” Garak countered.

Dukat felt himself involuntarily tense, his arms tightening almost protectively about the prisoner. “What else?”

“An example, of course,” the inquisitor replied smoothly, “of what happens to collaborators against the Cardassian Union. Can you carry her topside with that knee? I believe you'll find your men have much of the situation under control. All that remains is the routing of the implicated and their extended families, unless you have a better plan?”

Conflicting emotions warred beneath the Gul Prefect's careful facade of control, a facade that had endured a great deal of erosion and abuse over the past few hours: chagrin that Garak so easily spotted his wound, vague regret that what he said about the need for an example was true, and above all else, eagerness to punish everyone who bore any responsibility for the extended time he had been forced to endure Garak's company, including the filthy bitch in his arms.

“Let's go,” he said with steel in his voice and all desire for kindness toward the girl expunged. “And Garak,” he paused and waited for the inquisitor to precede him through the door, not wanting his back to him for a single instant after what he had witnessed, “take one more thing from requisitions without my permission, and Tain's protection or no, I'll make you wish you hadn't.”

Garak inclined his head slightly and walked out ahead of Dukat. The Gul could have sworn that as he turned away, he finally saw something in those glass blue eyes of note: amusement.

 

[Gibraltar]

[Imported from my Ad Astra review- ]

This is an unsettling tale on many levels, expertly rendered in vivid detail. The cold, calculating hate between these men is palpable, most especially after Dukat has to watch Garak work as he experiences what his father suffered at Garak's hands. These men, both ruthless in their own way, are as much victims of the Cardassian system as the Bajorans that suffer under their boot-heels. They've been twisted into something dark and obscene, all the while maneuvering for advantage over one another in the great game of chess that is the Occupation.

Really phenomenal work here, kudos.

 

[PSGarak]

I really appreciated the feedback, too, and still do! I hope we get some more entries over there before the deadline runs out.

 

[kes7]

This is professional-quality work. Not for a second did anything pull me out of the story, it all rang so authentic. I'm really glad you posted it here.

 

[PSGarak]

This is professional-quality work. Not for a second did anything pull me out of the story, it all rang so authentic. I'm really glad you posted it here.

Wow, thank you! Since you've said you write for a living, I take that as high praise indeed!

 

[PSGarak]

(Entries have officially closed for the contest, so now I can post the sequel. I just couldn't leave it where it ended. )

The year is 2369. A little less than one year after his exile from Cardassia Prime, Elim Garak learns that the Cardassian Union is withdrawing from Bajoran space. Taking this to mean that he is to withdraw as well, he begins preparations for a new life, only to learn that powerful men hold powerful grudges, and that in places like Terok Nor, hope is as ephemeral as the morning.

Check

Garak entered the last bolt of Gabardine into his inventory interface PADD and set it aside with satisfaction. He stepped back and glanced about his stock room with no small sense of pride. It had been almost a year since his exile from Cardassia, and in that year he had managed to grow his shop from an ill-conceived joke of Prefect Dukat's to a thriving, respected business presence on the promenade. His clientèle included fellow Cardassians and prominent aliens of note, including the notoriously finicky Ferengi. Even better he genuinely enjoyed the work. It meshed extremely well with his natural proclivity for precision and his ability to take pleasure in minutiae that others considered tedious.

Heading into the front of the store, he executed the normal opening routine on auto-pilot, lights on, one final sweep of the display area to be certain the merchandise was neatly hung and pleasingly arranged, and lastly, doors open. The sounds of the promenade enveloped him in a pleasant hum. He could almost convince himself he was part of the community at times like this, almost, but not quite. Self-delusion was the road to ruin, as Tain used to say. He had witnessed it firsthand in his original line of work enough to believe it.

Dukat's ostentatious baritone, amplified by the station speakers, cut through the crowd sounds and lodged itself right behind Garak's forehead scale in the place where he imagined irritation originated in the Cardassian brain. It took a few moments for the words to sink in, but when they did, all desire to tune out the annoyance drained away. Garak moved to stand in his doorway then stood as motionless as everyone else hearing the announcement.

“Denizens of Terok Nor, it is my pleasure to inform you that in the name of better interstellar relations between the glorious Cardassian Union and the varied races of the Alpha Quadrant, Cardassia is to begin an immediate withdrawal from the Bajoran Sector, turning this station and the planet below over to the governance and self-rule of the Bajoran people.”

Jubilant and raucous cheering from the prison details completely drowned out the rest of the announcement. Garak withdrew back into his shop and just to be on the safe side closed the doors. He wasn't completely taken off guard, for even though most of his contacts and resources had dried up with his exile, he still managed to monitor some of the less secure networks of the home world. Rumors had abounded for some time now of the possibility. However, he never believed that the Detapa Council would actually have its way against the wishes of Central Command. He would just about give his second molar to be able to find out how that bit of maneuvering was accomplished.

“Pleasure to inform you, indeed,” he snorted. He took great satisfaction from the thought of how much the decision must be eating Dukat alive. Any way the pompous Prefect, former Prefect, tried to spin it, this would look like a condemnation of his governance for years to come. There wasn't a napkin big enough in all the galaxy to wipe that much egg from his face.

Why was he wasting his time thinking of that fly spec? If Cardassia was pulling out of Bajoran space, didn't that mean he would be expected to do so, too? He glanced around his shop, already seeing it as little more than an afterthought. Thanks to his prosperous year, he was solvent enough to go where he chose, do what he liked. It would be dangerous, yes. There were plenty with scores to settle, not the least of whom was Tain. Still, he had been trained by the best and had already survived more assassination attempts than most of his former peers put together. Why not try to enjoy his unexpected free time?

Humming to himself, he locked his shop doors and began to disassemble his displays. He may have had every intention of abandoning the shop, but he wouldn't leave it a mess. No, he'd find buyers for everything in stock, make certain his accounts were in order, and then go who knew where? “Immediate withdrawal” was a bit of hyperbole on Dukat's part. An ordered withdrawal always took time. He had time to plan.

Within six hours, he had off station buyers for close to sixty percent of his completed stock and promises from all but one of his suppliers that he could return any unused bolts for a full refund minus a ten percent re-stocking fee. He considered calling it a day and returning to his quarters, but then he thought of what was taking place throughout the station. Getting the Bajorans deported back to the planet was just part of it.

He knew that widespread destruction of station systems and equipment would come next, and he didn't trust any of the Central Command lug heads as far as he could throw them. He wouldn't put it past any one of them to “accidentally” shoot him in the back while firing at a control panel, and if it happened, he didn't even trust that there would be much of an inquiry. He had no intention of becoming collateral damage. As much as he hated the thought of braving the tunnel to get to it, he knew his alcove was the safest place that he could possibly be.

Turning out the lights, he walked to the stock room, picked up a palm light, tripped the small floor latch, and dropped gracefully into the tunnel below. His palm light kept the disconcerting darkness at bay but did nothing to prevent the crawling sensation upon his skin from being so closely encased. He forced himself to slow down. Running was undignified when there was nothing to run from. Not all dangers come from without, he reminded himself.

Only when he was ensconced in the egg shaped cell did he allow himself to relax. It was big enough not to trigger his particular phobia, and he had spent enough time in it using the relay to monitor traffic from home that it felt almost homey. He tore open a self-heating ration pack and took a seat cross-legged on his pallet to eat it. He'd take nothing with him from this place, for he was entitled to none of it. It wasn't actually stolen, because it never left the station. It had just been creatively reassigned. He smirked to himself as he recalled how quickly Dukat bought his version of how the alcove came to be. It didn't matter that it was Tain the man feared and not him. The fear served his purposes beautifully and kept Dukat well away from his home away from home for almost a year.

With his belly full and his mind filled with possibilities for his future, he stretched out lengthwise on the hard pallet. He didn't need a computer or an alarm to awaken him. He knew how long he wished to sleep, would sleep for precisely that amount of time, and then awaken. If he was lucky, he could conclude his business in the morning, book passage on one of the ships bound to come for some of the other merchants, and leave behind this hated place without so much as a glance back. When sleep took him, it was mercifully dreamless for the first time in years.

The next morning he had to admit to himself that the mostly empty promenade was a little disconcerting. The floor beneath his feet felt different, too. He realized that he had become so accustomed to the constant vibration of the vast ore processors that it was notable only in its absence. He kept his doors closed and locked so as not to be disturbed while tying up loose ends, retreated to the back, and made some more sales calls.

A persistent chiming eventually intruded upon his awareness. Curiosity overcame annoyance. He walked to the front of the shop and all the way over to the clear doors, tilting his head upward to meet Gul Dukat's gaze. “I'm closed,” he said, helpfully pointing at the fact that his “Open” sign was not lit.

Dukat tilted his head as though he didn't understand and gestured with a finger for him to open the doors. Never in the mood for the man's idiocy, Garak nonetheless complied. The sooner he allowed the pompous windbag to give whatever parting shots he had, the sooner he could get back to his business. He stepped back to admit him. “As you can see, I'm a trifle busy. What do you need?” he asked.

Dukat strode through the doors and made a show of looking about the denuded shop in surprise. “Did something happen?” he asked Garak. “Did the Bajorans rush your store and steal the best merchandise? We've been searching them on their way out. I can assure you, I've found no such evidence, but if you'd like to file a report, I will give it my full attention.”

Oh, this really is tedious, Garak thought, even for him. “No,” he said cheerfully. “Nothing is missing. Thank you for your concern. Will that be all?”

“Actually, no,” Dukat smiled a closed lipped smile. “I would like to commission a suit. Sadly, my duties here never necessitated that I look my best, but as I am soon to go home, I want to make my wife happy to see me. I was thinking something in green and rust, perhaps? You do have the better eye for this sort of thing.”

Just what was he playing at? Garak tilted his head slightly, his mind racing. Something was very, very wrong here. “I regret I can't accommodate you,” he said mildly. “Garak's Clothier's is no longer in business. If you'd like to look at some of my remaining stock, I'd be happy to unpack it for you.”

“No longer in business?” the Gul widened his eyes as wide as they could go. “But why? Have you decided to seek employment at Quark's? Don't take this the wrong way, Garak, but you'd make a hideous Dabo girl.”

Garak blinked twice. He has lost his mind, he thought. He could think of nothing to say to the absurd assertion, so he held his silence. Where Dukat was concerned, less often served as more.

Dukat let out a slow breath, pursing his lips and shaking his head. “Oh,” he said, bass tones laced with regret. “Oh, dear. You don't know, do you?”

“Clearly not,” Garak said, humoring him. “Perhaps you can enlighten me?”

The taller Cardassian's gaze took on a pitying cast. “I hardly know how to say this. Truthfully, I'm a bit embarrassed for you. It shouldn't have to come from me. You deserve better, I think, but who am I to question the head of the Obsidian Order?”

Garak wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake him until he spat it out. Instead, he remained still and gave Dukat his best bland, patient look. Just like Klingon opera, there would be no rushing this, no matter how terrible the melodrama or how unwilling he was to witness it.

“I'm not sure why he didn't tell you himself, but I've been officially informed that you are to remain here,” Dukat continued, “and continue your services as a tailor to the Bajorans and anyone else who happens to come along to help them. Word is that the Federation might be stepping in, but I don't pay much attention to gossip.” He paused and eyed Garak closely. “Are you all right?” he asked. “You look ill.”

Garak was anything but alright, and he hardly heard the last few words Dukat said. He was still stuck on “officially informed that you are to remain here”. It was the closet of his childhood all over again, darkness closing around him, walls pressing in on him, no escape, no hope, no choice but to submit or be left to rot, only this time submitting meant just that, being left to rot.

“Garak?” Dukat said, malicious enjoyment dancing in his ice chip eyes behind the feigned concern.

Rage crawled palpably through his skull, a frisson that left him tingling from scalp to toe tip, not at Dukat, the lackey, the nobody, the blunt instrument Tain had deigned to pick up and strike him with from a distance, no; this emotion was for Tain himself. Betrayed him? he fumed silently. I wish I had killed him a long time ago. I had plenty of chances!

Dukat smiled a half smile. “I see that you need some time to yourself,” he said gently. “I'll come back in the morning to discuss the specifications for my suit, and if you don't finish it before I leave, you can just ship it to my family estate in Lakat.”

Garak watched him turn for the door. His eyes narrowed very slightly. Perhaps this blunt instrument had more than one use. Perhaps he could wrest the petty victory from Tain's hand for once and for all. It would be a Pyhrric victory, but better that than the damnation of being left behind. He waited until Dukat was at the threshold before saying very casually, “Do you wonder if he'd be ashamed of you?”

Dukat paused and looked over his shoulder. “Are you speaking to me?”

“Do you see anyone else here?” Garak asked pointedly. “Of course I'm speaking to you. I'm just curious, and given we are about to part company for what might be a very long time, I thought there'd be no harm in satisfying it.”

Dukat pivoted on his heel and settled to lean in the doorway, his arms casually folded across his breast plate. “It would help if I knew to whom you were referring.”

“Your father,” he said. He watched with satisfaction as that barb sailed and found its mark.

Dukat no longer looked amused. It seemed as though the temperature in the shop dropped a few degrees between them. “What about my father?” he asked, almost too evenly.

“Must I repeat myself?” Garak shook his head, his tone chiding. “Have it your way. Do you wonder if he would be ashamed of you?” He enunciated the question precisely and carefully this time, as though speaking to a small child.

“No,” the word came out bitten off and tight.

“I suppose it's a moot point,” he shrugged as though already bored of the subject. “He's dead, and what do the dead care or know of anything?”

“I trust that's all you have to say of this matter,” Dukat said dangerously.

Garak was far from done. “Actually, no. You see, I used to think that you and your father were very alike, but in light of this withdrawal, I'm no longer so sure.” As he warmed to his subject, his voice lilted, becoming richer. “As failures go, you have to admit this one is quite spectacular, far beyond his petty plotting behind the scenes. No, here you are, front and center in all of the action, and I have to say,” he paused for a breath, “I truly have to say I am impressed with your attitude and loyalty.

“The Detapa Council just told your superiors to bend over and take it hard, and like the good, loyal Cardassian you are, you are taking it for them with a smile on your face. Your father saw nothing but corruption and rot at the heart of Central Command. I think he'd be positively rolling in his grave at the sight of his son taking the fall without so much as a whimper of protest, but that's why he's a dead traitor, and you get to go home. Oh, it won't be a hero's welcome, and you can be sure that what they say to your face bears little resemblance to what is said behind your back, but you'll have your wife in your arms. Maybe in time you'll even manage to use her enough to scrape the taint of Bajoran females off of your—“

“That's enough!” Dukat thundered. “Not another word out of you, or so help me, I'll—“

“You'll what?” Garak spat, his volume escalating with every word. “Impotent threats, as impotent as you are to stop this travesty of a 'gracious' withdrawal, as impotent as your father was when I used a fish knife to—“

Dukat's roar was one of inarticulate fury. He launched himself full tilt at Garak, and although he could have easily avoided such an uncontrolled attack, Garak allowed it. More than that, he welcomed it, for at least this way, he'd go out on his own terms. He'd be beyond the reach of Tain's control forever, and the idiot Dukat would die an excruciating traitor's death for defying the order to leave him intact.

Pain exploded as Dukat pummeled him, blow after punishing blow. He felt and heard bone break, his nose definitely, possibly his left eye socket. Even as he endured the beating, a detached part of his mind seemed determined to catalog the damage and bear unemotional witness to his folly.

“Fight back, you worm!” Dukat bellowed, astraddle him and shaking him with fists knotted in his tunic.

Garak stared into the furious eyes swimming in his vision and smiled, his lower lip splitting further and spilling warm wetness down his chin. Barely hanging onto consciousness, he let his eyes roll back. The detached watcher in his mind told him the end would be soon at the rate things were going. Focusing again, he saw Dukat's eyes narrow and the madness of fury retreat, replaced with something calculating and measured. No, he thought. Don't let him start thinking. Not now. He tried to say something to coax the anger back, but his vocal chords refused to cooperate. He managed nothing more than an inarticulate moan.

Dukat lowered him prone to the floor and released his tunic, going so far as to smooth the rumpled fabric before lifting his weight from him and standing up. Impossibly tall from that perspective, he looked down on Garak with contempt. “I almost forgot something very important,” he sneered sardonically.

“Mmnnhaahh?” Garak tried to ask, not that it mattered anymore. Like Dukat, he had failed his objective. The rest was just window dressing.

“I owe you my life,” the Gul replied, dulcet toned. “I couldn't possibly kill you. It goes against the very foundation of our society, and as you so eloquently reminded me earlier, I am a patriot. Consider the debt paid. I wish you a long, healthy life, Garak. I can think of no one who deserves it more.”

Dukat disappeared from his view as he stepped away. The steady tread of his boot heels retreated, out of the shop and soon out of the range of Garak's hearing altogether. Garak waited until he was quite certain he was alone before closing the one eye not swollen shut and giving rare release to slow, silent tears. He had never felt more forsaken, and it was a bitter, bitter dreg to swallow.​

 

[Gibraltar]

Brutal. That was uncompromisingly brutal. The both of them enjoyed that troubled moment far too much, each seeking to wound the other either physically or emotionally. In the end, both are scarred, Dukat with having to slink away from the occupation in disgrace, and Garak with having to remain behind in exile.

Dark and depressing... just the way I like it!

 

[kes7]

Wow! Very intense ... yet well-tempered by all that Cardassian wit.

"Don't take this the wrong way, Garak, but you'd make a hideous Dabo girl.”

 

[PSGarak]

Brutal. That was uncompromisingly brutal. The both of them enjoyed that troubled moment far too much, each seeking to wound the other either physically or emotionally. In the end, both are scarred, Dukat with having to slink away from the occupation in disgrace, and Garak with having to remain behind in exile.

Dark and depressing... just the way I like it!

They did enjoy it, in a very twisted way. One of these days, I think I might even go back to the original personal grudge that started this all for Garak. They bring out the very worst in one another. Thank you, and I'm glad you liked it!

Wow! Very intense ... yet well-tempered by all that Cardassian wit.

"Don't take this the wrong way, Garak, but you'd make a hideous Dabo girl.”

I knew that line was a keeper when my long-suffering beta reader, my spouse, giggled aloud. I love the way Cardassians insult. Some of the funniest moments in DS9 for me were the Cardassian grudge matches. They were deadly serious, but some of the things that came out of their mouths were just hilarious. Thanks so much for the feedback!

 

[PSGarak]

(Unless I go back and cover the genesis of the rivalry, this will probably be my last major confrontation between these two. It allowed me to cover some territory I felt the show neglected for the sake of telling the Dominion War story, a decision I understood. Thankfully, I'm not operating under the time and budget crunches they were.)

It's 2374. The Dominion War is raging, and one casualty is the tie that binds two sworn enemies. Elim Garak finally gets a wish, to see an old enemy, Gul Dukat, brought low. Will he take his satisfaction or cede the fight for once and for all? Can the cost of victory ever be too high?

Checkmate

Garak stared at the full glass of kanar on his dining table, its parent bottle of blue liquor beside it. Aside from pouring the glass full, he had yet to touch it. He was thoroughly disgusted with himself for the impulse to drink it at all. Ziyal was dead, and this was the best he could do? Drown himself in kanar? His face contorting briefly, he snatched up the glass and flung it against the wall with all of his strength. Chest heaving, he grasped the edge of his table with both hands, squeezing hard until the moment passed. Love is weakness, his thoughts informed him in Enabran's voice.

“I don't care,” he said aloud, carefully enunciating every word. “For this one night, you will leave me alone, Enabran. I will have this night for myself, and tomorrow, I'll be the same Elim Garak they all expect me to be, the one they need to help them win this war. Tonight, Ziyal gets her due. You can begrudge me that all you like. You're dead, I'm here, and I get to decide this time what I will or won't allow.”

Deciding to love had been a personal rebellion against his common sense from the moment he made the decision. He had always feared he would pay for it. He just had no idea how dearly until he saw Ziyal's still form in the infirmary. Kira's open hurt was a lash to his vestigial conscience. By all dictates of decency, he should have been able to share that moment with her. Decency had no voice with those raised to the Order, so he had said something typically “Garak” and left her there to claw her own way out of the new hole in her heart. What did he have to offer a Bajoran anyway but cold comfort at best, and if she had returned it? It might have broken him the rest of the way, and that was something he would never allow no matter how much he hurt.

What was there left to any of them but cold comfort in the face of so much loss? He felt every year of his life right then. Were his spine any less stiff, they would have borne him straight to the floor. Instead, he took up a rag to clean the thin blue liquor that had run down his wall and was now staining the carpet. He even minded the glass and took extra care. Ziyal would have never approved of self-inflicted harm, especially not because of her.

He threw away the whole mess in the recycler and kept his back to his empty quarters. Her presence was still there, around every corner, in every shadow, just behind his turned back. He knew what denial was and why he was experiencing it. He rejected it outright and turned to face the emptiness. Take a good, long look, he told himself. Never let it be said no one can see the future. This is your future.

His door chime intruded on his thoughts, this deliberate working through grief at a necessary fast forward. There could be only one person with such temerity at a time like this. It would serve him right if Garak answered the door and vomited every ugly thought he had ever entertained about the naïve puppy of a human right to his face. It wouldn't be the first time he took his wrath out on the doctor. He knew the man would take it, which was precisely why he decided against it. He had no use for martyrs tonight, nor did he understand that brand of loyalty or how he managed to inspire it. “Open,” he said, his voice tired and flat in his own ears.

Doctor Bashir stepped into the threshold, neither in nor out. He looked decidedly uncomfortable, fidgeting his hands until he tucked them behind his back. “Garak,” he said carefully.

“Decide, Doctor,” Garak snapped. “Stay or go. Don't hang about in the doorway like some fickle pet.”

Bashir's jaw tightened, and he stepped into the room, allowing the door to close behind him. “I know you'd rather have your privacy right now,” he said.

“That never stops you, does it?” It just kept coming, this endless stream of venom. He wished the man would snap and put him in his place just this once. He dearly deserved it.

“For once, I'm not here for you,” Bashir said, his voice hardening slightly. He met Garak's challenging glare and held it. “It's about...Dukat. He keeps asking for you.”

The room spun for just a moment, shock and rage vying for control of his tongue and his thought process. Of all the times that the doctor chose to surprise him utterly, it would be now? He underestimated the human's capacity for cruelty. It was with a completely new level of respect that he spat, “I should care about this why?”

“You shouldn't, and perhaps I shouldn't be asking, but I am. I'm a doctor,” he said, at least having the decency finally to look away. “His condition is fragile. If seeing you will bolster it, then I have to ask until a psychologist arrives for him.”

Garak's eyes brightened dangerously. “What makes you think I won't tip him in the other direction? Do you think me incapable? Do you think for one instant I wouldn't, and that I wouldn't enjoy every single moment of it? I don't need to touch him to hurt him, and you're a fool if you think otherwise.”

“Ziyal,” Bashir said quietly. “Ziyal makes me think you won't do that, because regardless of how you feel, she loved her father, and you can't deny it.”

Garak staggered back, finding his dining table with a hand to keep himself from going to his knees. He stared at Bashir as though seeing him for the first time. “You've been paying attention after all,” he breathed. “All of our lunches haven't been for naught. Oh, Doctor, are you certain interrogation isn't in your future?”

Bashir flinched. “I deserved that. Believe me, I know what I'm asking.”

“Do you?” he demanded. “Do you really? I wonder.”

“Yes, or no?” the doctor asked implacably. “I won't hold it against you if you say no. I want you to know that.”

“You think your regard is a factor? Perhaps you haven't learned as much as I thought,” Garak said, turning away because he wasn't completely certain he could keep that lie out of his countenance. He was far from himself that night. Another thought sent a chill through him. Dukat could hurt you tonight. That sword cuts both ways. Oh, Enabran, why is it every time in my life I refuse to listen to you it costs so very much? “I'll come,” he said, still facing his table, “on two conditions and two conditions only.”

“What?” the doctor asked very carefully.

Smart man, Garak thought with the ghost of a smile. “You never bring it up again, and you never ask me why, not now, not ever.”

“That's fair,” Bashir said, sounding relieved.

Don't think you're out of the woods yet, my dear Doctor, Garak thought with unadulterated malice. I'll have my pound of flesh from you for this, rest assured. My favors are never cheap, and making you suffer is all too easy. He turned then, his face set in a mask of solicitousness. “Let's go,” he said.

“If you need more time,” Bashir said awkwardly, “it doesn't have to be right now.”

“Don't tell me you're already losing your stomach for this? You have what you want of me. I'd think you would want to enjoy your triumph and be eager to see it through,” he said, a hard glint in his eyes.

“Look, Garak,” the man said sharply, his accent thickening as it always did when he was irritated, “I take no pleasure in your pain, and I resent the implication. I'll take a great deal from you because I'm your friend, whether you reciprocate it or not, but not that. You want to lie to yourself about my motives for whatever reason, you're more than welcome to do so. I'll kindly ask you to keep those particular lies to yourself.”

Exhibit A: The Doctor Grows a Spine, ladies and gentlemen, Garak thought. Sorry to disappoint, but the long awaited sequel The Agent Grows a Heart will not be showing tonight. Thank you for coming, nonetheless. He gestured the man ahead of him out the door and fell into step with him in the corridor.

They said nothing more to one another on the way. Every step Garak took battered his residual denial. Ziyal would never step here again, or here, or here. They would not walk the Promenade together. They would not lunch in Quark's bar. She would not surprise him in his shop with early dinner. She would not wear the dress he planned but had yet to start with the distractions of the war. He would never make the dress. Every space, internal and external, that she had filled, he systematically emptied with the same dispassion he held for sentiment in others. Let it never be said he was a hypocrite. He was an equal opportunity offender, and he never, ever spared himself.

Only when they reached the security office could he truly breathe for a moment. This was one place she had never been with him, so he didn't have to banish her. No, that would come when they moved to the brig, and how in the world would he manage that feat? Odo eyed both of them suspiciously. “Doctor?” he said in that querulous way of his that was as much “Odo” to Garak as his weirdly plastic features and slicked back hair.

“He has been asking for him,” Bashir said quietly.

“He isn't in his right mind,” Odo retorted patiently.

Under any other circumstance, Garak might have laughed. The changeling had an excellent point. No one who was sane would request him in his most vulnerable moment, not unless he were a masochist, in which case Garak would just deny him the pain he could inflict.

Bashir simply met the assertion with a long look. Odo threw up his hands and turned away as though to say Dukat's pain was the least of his concerns, and it probably was. The doctor turned to Garak. “Do you want me there?”

Garak blinked at him. “Please correct me if I'm wrong, but you're giving me a choice about that?”

“Yes,” the man said, nodding.

“Are you certain it's only Dukat who has lost his mind?” he asked blandly. “You're trusting me?”

“I'm trusting that you love Ziyal,” he said.

“Twist that particular dagger in me one more time,” Garak said casually, “and friend or not, I will end you.”

“I'll be here if you need me,” the doctor said, either absorbing or ignoring the threat. Garak couldn't be certain which, although the latter would be very foolish.

He met his gaze for some long moments, and in a rare moment of concession turned away first. He clenched his hands into fists as he walked across the threshold to the holding cells. Dukat's voice carried well as it always did. However, it was pitched in a tone Garak had never heard, gentle. Loving. Garak almost lost his nerve right then and there. “You'll love Cardassia,” the voice drifted from the farthest holding cell. “And in time, I know they will love you. Your art is brilliant, and it will speak to our people's souls.”

He closed his eyes, feeling his gorge rise acidic in the back of his throat. Putting one foot methodically before the other, he walked down the cell bank, finally coming to a stop before the one containing his old enemy. Had he not known for a fact who he was, he might never have recognized him. Minus the bombastic swagger and egotism, he looked somehow diminished, small, and fragile, curled as he was on the floor cradling nothing but air.

Sickening. Disgusting. Weak! Just whose voice colored those thoughts Garak couldn't say. There were times he and Enabran were in total agreement. “Dukat,” he said, surprised at how gentle and steady his own voice came in the face of what he wanted to do to the man. If he pounded him to bloody pulp, it wouldn't be the beginning of enough. If he vaporized him, it would only be a start. He was dizzy with loathing and only just self-aware enough to realize it was his own reflected weakness he truly wanted to destroy. Dukat was beyond judgment and reckoning in any meaningful way.

His voice had an amazing effect. Dukat immediately dropped his arms and straightened. Lifting his gaze to Garak, he pressed himself up from the floor and sat neatly on the bunk, his back straight. “She said you would come,” he said, sounding sane and rational except for the glaring fact that he was hallucinating the dead. “I told her she overestimated your capacity for any true feeling. I should learn not to doubt my Ziyal. She's a better judge of character than I give her credit for, but what do you think it says about her that the two men she loves most in the world hate one another beyond reason?”

“Why did you ask for me?” Garak asked, not about to be dragged into the other Cardassian's delusion.

“Because there's nothing I won't do for my Ziyal,” Dukat said, tilting his head slightly. “It hurts her that we're at odds.”

Don't you forgive me, Garak thought in alarm. Don't you dare! You have no right! “Ziyal is dead,” he said, attempting to throw Dukat off the trail he seemed intent on following. “She can't be hurt by anything now.” She can't be hurt ever again, small mercy that it is.

Dukat tilted his head further and laughed softly. “I know he is,” he said, fixing Garak with the most warmth Garak had ever seen in those ice chip eyes. “She says you're stubborn. It's one of the things she loves about you.”

“I'm not interested in having this discussion,” Garak said coldly. “Doctor Bashir brought me here, because in his infinite Starfleet optimism, he thought I could help you in your deluded state. All I have for you is harsh reality, from one Cardassian to another. It's all I know to do. Your daughter is dead,” he said the last four words very distinctly, each of them a dagger to his own heart.

“My daughter is free,” Dukat countered with a look of pity for Garak, made all the more intolerable because of its utter sincerity. “Would you have me believe that you, of all people, don't understand the difference?”

“Hide in your delusion,” Garak hissed. “Bury yourself as deeply as you can go. You want the truth about why I loathe you as much as I do? Do you really think it has to do with that piddling incident all those years ago? As much as I may lie, I know when I'm lying. You never do, and you somehow believe that's enough to absolve you. It isn't. It never will be. You're as damned as I am. You're just too afraid to see it. If losing your daughter isn't enough to open your eyes, I don't know what would be.” Garak's nails dug half moon furrows in his palms, the trickle of blood tickling his nail beds.

“I'll never lose Ziyal,” Dukat said with the certainty of madness. “And you,” he added, again with that compassion that made Garak want to scream with rage, “will never have her again, because you'll never let yourself. I never really understood you before, but Ziyal opened my eyes in more ways than one. You hug one armed, and you say you'll stay, all the while with one foot already out the door. You say I'm afraid? I've never seen a soul more afraid than you, Garak, and for that you have my genuine sympathy. You even fear my daughter, the one person in this world who would never hurt you.”

Only a lifetime of control kept his internal shuddering from manifesting physically. “You sickening piece of filth. I don't want or need your sympathy. You're the one who is pitiable. You're the one who's broken. Not me. We're done here, and I suppose I owe Doctor Bashir an apology for not keeping my word.” He turned on his heel and started for the brig door.

“Are you certain about that?” Dukat called after him. “From where I sit, you sound awfully broken. In fact, you sound an awful lot like me. Maybe one day you'll be able to forgive yourself, Garak.”

Garak stopped cold and favored him with one look over his shoulder. “No, Dukat,” he said harshly. “I don't have the right to forgive myself any more than you do. You can try self-absolution. Maybe you already have, and that's why you've come to this. Sooner or later, you'll see the truth. Don't expect me to find it within myself to pity you then. You've had more chances than I ever will.”

He walked past Bashir and Odo without really seeing them, out of security, off the Promenade, back to his quarters. After seeing his enemy broken and brought low as he had always desired, he felt nothing but emptiness and tasted nothing but ashes. The price was far too high, and had he known what it would be from the outset, he never would have played the game, even if it meant losing before he started.​

 

[kes7]

I said this over at Ad Astra, but this was an amazing piece of writing. It really made me feel for all of the characters. Nice job.

 

[PSGarak]

Thank you. I appreciated the review over there, and I appreciate the one here. It took me a little while afterward to get out of the head space for this one, probably because grief is easier for me to tap than homicidal rage.