I know you...
Who: Garak and Doctor Bashir (closed)
Where: Hotel room, Pool, Cafe, Other
When: The wee hours of the morning after Garak's arrival.
What: As Garak settles in, he discovers there is something more familiar about this place than he could ever have imagined.
Garak didn't sleep well. Although he made a thorough search of his things that he found in his room, he couldn't find the pills that Doctor Parmak had prescribed him. Unsurprisingly, the nightmares returned, the dead faces in the sea of ash, the screams of billions of lives snuffed in a few moments of fire and apocalyptic bombardment, black ash running through his fingers like sand, and no matter how tightly he held to it, he couldn't stop the flow. He awoke three separate times from his fitful sleep. Upon the third awakening, he gave it up entirely, picked up his Preloc novel from his bedside, and attempted to settle his mind with some reading. The narrative didn't possess its usual charm. He attributed it to his situation more than the dreams, at last rousing himself from bed with his windows still dark, dressing in a clean tunic and pair of trousers, securing his disruptor and his key, and quietly exiting the room.
His leather ankle boots made no noise upon the plush carpet as he walked. He bypassed the lift, concerned that its rumble and ding might awaken any light sleepers who shared his floor. The stairwell was an uncomfortable place, full of curves and shadows that could conceal anyone with the inclination to hide. He absently fingered his disruptor in its holster as he considered the phaser damage in the garage. Nothing sprang out to accost him, however, nothing that wasn't already dwelling in his troubled thoughts. He stepped into the hallway leading to the lobby and took a moment to decide where to go next.
Still being cautious, he made his way through the dead silence with something else nagging at his mind, and then he realized what it was. He heard no whir or whine of any sort of power source whatsoever. However the climate was being controlled, there were no traces of it. Whatever was powering the lights made no lively hum. He paused and closely eyed the ceiling lights but learned nothing of interest. Choosing an ornate door at random, he pulled it open. The first thing he noticed was a smell, caustic and unpleasant, the next a vast pool of water in a room of columns and windows. Lip curling in an unconscious expression of distaste, he stepped into the room. Spotting no fish in the water, he believed he understood its purpose. With the water shortages, one would never find such a thing upon Cardassia. No one had ever shown him such a thing in his time on Earth, perhaps sensitive to how he would feel at such a wasteful display, but he knew that humans enjoyed swimming. It didn't explain the horrid odor of the water.
He stepped closer, took a thorough look around, as vigilant as any animal at a watering hole, and squatted to dip one finger. He was surprised to find the temperature pleasant, as he had been expecting it to be cold. Standing once again, he shook his finger dry. Just that one dip told him that whatever the chemical was, it was not at all compatible with his scales. He'd be drying and peeling within an hour of exposure, he was quite certain. Aside from the odor, he couldn't deny the beauty and tranquility of the room. He wondered if daylight would rob it of its mystery or simply change the quality and show it in a new light altogether. His eyes and nose made the decision for him that it was time to go, the first watering, the latter stinging. Perhaps it was an odor humans found calming or soothing, although he couldn't see how that was possible.
He skipped the next door for no real reason that he could articulate and tried the third lining his path. It opened onto a rather generic looking cafe. He smiled faintly. Attempting to make me feel at home, are you? he wondered. In this hotel that was nothing like the space station of his former exile, to find a place as little like the Replimat and yet to have both remind him strongly of that time was equal parts unnerving and oddly comforting. He searched the nooks and crannies large enough to conceal another before allowing himself to settle in. He had not lived as long as he had through several assassination attempts by letting his guard down.
No sooner had he taken a seat than a waiter approached from a doorway he was certain had not been there during his search. The man bore a tray with a glass of warm rokassa juice, a steaming mug of red leaf tea, a bowl of sem'hal stew, and a pretty dessert bowl filled with I'danian Spice Pudding. Garak took note that this man had even less life in his expression than the mysterious concierge. He tried to make eye contact with him to no avail. "Excuse me?" he said. There was no reply. When the waiter finished setting his table with his dishes, he turned and walked away. Shortly after he passed through the door by which he had entered, it disappeared as though it had never been there at all. Garak didn't quite see it happen. It occurred from one blink to the next.
Appetite he hadn't been aware he possessed awakened at the scent of the food. Reluctantly, he tucked his napkin at his throat to protect his tunic of a fine russet material, took up his spoon, and dug into the stew. He could easily starve to death if he took the attitude that everything presented was intended for harm. That couldn't be the case, because the Doctor seemed healthy despite his obvious frustration with his captivity. He suddenly chuckled and said aloud, "Well, it's definitely not home cooking, and I should be thankful of that." He thought fondly of Mila and her mediocre culinary skill, wondered how he ever managed to put on a single dreket of weight eating at her table.
The food was truly delicious. He ate at a very leisurely pace as was his wont, extremely grateful that the food wasn't part of what reminded him of Deep Space Nine. How anyone subsisted upon replicated rations without wanting to cut out his own tongue was beyond him. Away from home for less than a week, and already you're thinking picky thoughts? It was true. He was thinking of everything except the state of his homeworld right at this moment. It would serve no purpose but to madden and frustrate him. Living with that constant concern and worry was only productive when he was able to be there and exert his influence. Cut off as he was, it was the ultimate exercise in masochistic futility.
It was this thought that occupied him while he dipped his spoon into the dessert confection. Perfection, he thought. He had never had better, not in Paris, Cardassia City, or Plonn Mok, the only Idanian city he had ever had the occasion to visit in person. He tucked away all of his larger concerns to revel in the quiet experience of the treat, a skill at which he had become much more accomplished since the war, taking the little pleasures as they came. He washed it down with the last of his rokossa juice, sat back, and sighed a small sound of contentment. The door swung inward to admit another to the cafe. Garak watched alertly, his expression schooled to pleasant neutrality. It was time once again to play the role he perfected in his exile and set the ambassador and politician aside.
Where: Hotel room, Pool, Cafe, Other
When: The wee hours of the morning after Garak's arrival.
What: As Garak settles in, he discovers there is something more familiar about this place than he could ever have imagined.
Garak didn't sleep well. Although he made a thorough search of his things that he found in his room, he couldn't find the pills that Doctor Parmak had prescribed him. Unsurprisingly, the nightmares returned, the dead faces in the sea of ash, the screams of billions of lives snuffed in a few moments of fire and apocalyptic bombardment, black ash running through his fingers like sand, and no matter how tightly he held to it, he couldn't stop the flow. He awoke three separate times from his fitful sleep. Upon the third awakening, he gave it up entirely, picked up his Preloc novel from his bedside, and attempted to settle his mind with some reading. The narrative didn't possess its usual charm. He attributed it to his situation more than the dreams, at last rousing himself from bed with his windows still dark, dressing in a clean tunic and pair of trousers, securing his disruptor and his key, and quietly exiting the room.
His leather ankle boots made no noise upon the plush carpet as he walked. He bypassed the lift, concerned that its rumble and ding might awaken any light sleepers who shared his floor. The stairwell was an uncomfortable place, full of curves and shadows that could conceal anyone with the inclination to hide. He absently fingered his disruptor in its holster as he considered the phaser damage in the garage. Nothing sprang out to accost him, however, nothing that wasn't already dwelling in his troubled thoughts. He stepped into the hallway leading to the lobby and took a moment to decide where to go next.
Still being cautious, he made his way through the dead silence with something else nagging at his mind, and then he realized what it was. He heard no whir or whine of any sort of power source whatsoever. However the climate was being controlled, there were no traces of it. Whatever was powering the lights made no lively hum. He paused and closely eyed the ceiling lights but learned nothing of interest. Choosing an ornate door at random, he pulled it open. The first thing he noticed was a smell, caustic and unpleasant, the next a vast pool of water in a room of columns and windows. Lip curling in an unconscious expression of distaste, he stepped into the room. Spotting no fish in the water, he believed he understood its purpose. With the water shortages, one would never find such a thing upon Cardassia. No one had ever shown him such a thing in his time on Earth, perhaps sensitive to how he would feel at such a wasteful display, but he knew that humans enjoyed swimming. It didn't explain the horrid odor of the water.
He stepped closer, took a thorough look around, as vigilant as any animal at a watering hole, and squatted to dip one finger. He was surprised to find the temperature pleasant, as he had been expecting it to be cold. Standing once again, he shook his finger dry. Just that one dip told him that whatever the chemical was, it was not at all compatible with his scales. He'd be drying and peeling within an hour of exposure, he was quite certain. Aside from the odor, he couldn't deny the beauty and tranquility of the room. He wondered if daylight would rob it of its mystery or simply change the quality and show it in a new light altogether. His eyes and nose made the decision for him that it was time to go, the first watering, the latter stinging. Perhaps it was an odor humans found calming or soothing, although he couldn't see how that was possible.
He skipped the next door for no real reason that he could articulate and tried the third lining his path. It opened onto a rather generic looking cafe. He smiled faintly. Attempting to make me feel at home, are you? he wondered. In this hotel that was nothing like the space station of his former exile, to find a place as little like the Replimat and yet to have both remind him strongly of that time was equal parts unnerving and oddly comforting. He searched the nooks and crannies large enough to conceal another before allowing himself to settle in. He had not lived as long as he had through several assassination attempts by letting his guard down.
No sooner had he taken a seat than a waiter approached from a doorway he was certain had not been there during his search. The man bore a tray with a glass of warm rokassa juice, a steaming mug of red leaf tea, a bowl of sem'hal stew, and a pretty dessert bowl filled with I'danian Spice Pudding. Garak took note that this man had even less life in his expression than the mysterious concierge. He tried to make eye contact with him to no avail. "Excuse me?" he said. There was no reply. When the waiter finished setting his table with his dishes, he turned and walked away. Shortly after he passed through the door by which he had entered, it disappeared as though it had never been there at all. Garak didn't quite see it happen. It occurred from one blink to the next.
Appetite he hadn't been aware he possessed awakened at the scent of the food. Reluctantly, he tucked his napkin at his throat to protect his tunic of a fine russet material, took up his spoon, and dug into the stew. He could easily starve to death if he took the attitude that everything presented was intended for harm. That couldn't be the case, because the Doctor seemed healthy despite his obvious frustration with his captivity. He suddenly chuckled and said aloud, "Well, it's definitely not home cooking, and I should be thankful of that." He thought fondly of Mila and her mediocre culinary skill, wondered how he ever managed to put on a single dreket of weight eating at her table.
The food was truly delicious. He ate at a very leisurely pace as was his wont, extremely grateful that the food wasn't part of what reminded him of Deep Space Nine. How anyone subsisted upon replicated rations without wanting to cut out his own tongue was beyond him. Away from home for less than a week, and already you're thinking picky thoughts? It was true. He was thinking of everything except the state of his homeworld right at this moment. It would serve no purpose but to madden and frustrate him. Living with that constant concern and worry was only productive when he was able to be there and exert his influence. Cut off as he was, it was the ultimate exercise in masochistic futility.
It was this thought that occupied him while he dipped his spoon into the dessert confection. Perfection, he thought. He had never had better, not in Paris, Cardassia City, or Plonn Mok, the only Idanian city he had ever had the occasion to visit in person. He tucked away all of his larger concerns to revel in the quiet experience of the treat, a skill at which he had become much more accomplished since the war, taking the little pleasures as they came. He washed it down with the last of his rokossa juice, sat back, and sighed a small sound of contentment. The door swung inward to admit another to the cafe. Garak watched alertly, his expression schooled to pleasant neutrality. It was time once again to play the role he perfected in his exile and set the ambassador and politician aside.