Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There was moment, as he opened his eyes, of calm confusion. This isn’t my room. This isn’t my bed. This isn’t right .

Where am I?

Julian squinted at the unfamiliar ceiling above. It wasn’t very high: he might even be able to reach it standing up, though he had no desire to. The fluorescent lights, so bright they almost seemed blue, revealed every grime and stain on it in delightful detail. The walls, etched together from big panels of metal, were equally unpleasant, with the added charm of the large and chunky screws jutting out. An efficient, if not a pretty, build.

Damp. That’s what the air smelled like. Of damp, old mold, and sweat.

Quietly, Julian rolled himself over onto his stomach, almost falling off of the narrow bed. He breathed out in relief, and flicked his gaze around the room. There were eight or so beds besides his, some of them occupied. Everyone either sound asleep, or pretending to be. Three tables, barely higher than the beds, were placed in a straight line across the room, which wasn't large, and ended to a door. Not much else was visible from his low viewpoint, not without getting fully up first. It's what he should do. Get up. Get out. The door was right there, all he needed to do was go to it. See if it was locked.

Instead he closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. He felt dizzy. Worse than a second ago, his pulse speeding up just from turning his head.

One sickening lurch, and Julian fell against the bed, shuddering. His heart had missed a beat. Immediately the rhythm returned to normal, yet the sensation of falling lingered. Made every breath feel wrong and uneven. Julian wiped beads of sweat from his brow and swallowed.

Something had been given to him. A sedative most likely, though definitely not the kind the Federation would approve of. The drug throbbed in his veins, chest and head. Louder and louder, till his breaths turned into dry, shallow heaves. Acidic bile burst into his mouth. He gulped it down, nearly gagging it right out again.

Trembling, he pressed his face into the thin pillow, hands clutched to chest. For a long time he lied there, still and terrified to move, no longer interested in the door and its lock.

The room had a bleakness to it, even with the bright lights. They’d remained unchanged, as if no time had passed since he last was awake. Julian hesitated to move, not keen to test his ability to hold in vomit again. To his relief, no dizziness or real discomfort came, and after another minute, he grabbed the edges of the bed, and slowly pulled himself up.

What awaited him was the cold, harsh stare of a Romulan woman. Stood by the door, her gaze felt piercing even from two metres away. Julian waved. A small smile tugged at her lip as she turned to peer through a grated window on the door.

“He’s awake.” Her tone was clipped but not unkind. On the other side of the room another Romulan nodded. He glanced at Julian, looking even warier of him than his companion. Julian gave him a wave as well, and a smile, but he only scoffed and continued to guard from his dark corner, head held high.

Julian had never been to Romulus, but he was relatively certain it wasn't where he was. He swung his legs over the edge, and oh, the floor matched the other surfaces quite nicely. Good thing he still had his shoes on.

“Where-” He coughed, and started over, voice still raspy, ”Where am I?” The woman answered without looking away from the window.

“An internment camp, of the Dominion,” She leaped back from the door, “They’re bringing him in.”

The door slid open. Two Jem’Hadar soldiers walked in, dragging a bloody Klingon with them. They dropped him, turned and left without a word. The Klingon growled as he hit the floor, where he stayed, unmoving.

Julian scrambled up and ran over to him, intending to help, but the Romulan pushed him back with a shake of her head.

"I'm a doctor--" Julian moved past her, and touched the Klingon's left shoulder.

He snarled angrily. Julian held his hands up and backed away a step. The Klingon began to struggle up, slowly, unable to use his left arm. The Romulan gave him an unimpressed look, and frowned at Julian as well.

“They make him fight so they’ll learn the best way to defeat Klingons.” She explained, “Usually they stop before he gets too hurt.” She took a hold of his right arm. “But not today.”

The Klingon allowed her help and finally got up to his feet. Julian eyes flickered over him, from one injury to another. Not all the blood could possibly be his, but a fair amount had seeped from a cut on his forehead, the red slugging its way down his face, neck and into his hair. The way he clutched his left arm was more than familiar due to Miles’ special brand of stupidity. A dislocated shoulder. And what of the injuries he couldn’t see? Broken bones were very likely, internal bleeding a worrisome possibility. Even brain damage, if the hit had been hard enough.

“When did he hurt his arm?” Julian asked, eyes dark.

“Two days ago.”

Two days. Julian turned to the door. He took few tentative steps towards it and pressed the opener. Not locked. Good to know.

He blinked at the sudden brightness. A window, or a light on the wall, right behind the door. Julian turned right, and found himself in a hall of sorts, with high walls and pillars. Dozens of Romulans, Cardassians, and various other species loitered about. All prisoners, like him. With them were the Jem’Hadar, phasers at the ready. After a quick search, he recognised the two he was after, standing guard not far from the room he’d just left.

"Hey!"

Both turned to look. Julian walked up to them. He had to bend his neck a bit to look up into their faces.

“That Klingon needs treatment-”

The back of a Jem'Hadar hand hit Julian’s jaw. It threw his head to the side, but he kept his balance, and quickly straightened back up with a glare.

“He is severely injured-”

Another slap, on nearly the same spot, and this one stung enough to make his eyes water. Blinking, he lightly brushed his jaw and grit his teeth.

“And could very well die-”

One sharp kick to his left knee, and Julian collapsed with a grunt, caught by the two Jem’Hadar, who promptly dragged him back to the room, and shoved him onto its grimy floor.

“Don’t cause trouble,” he was told by the one who’d hit him, “And less harm will come to you.”

The door closed behind him. Julian peeled himself off of the floor and got up to his knees, only to groan when he felt pain across his assaulted knee. A bruise probably. Nothing worse, he hoped. A quick lick told him all of his teeth were still firmly in place, something to be grateful for, even when the taste of iron pooled on his tongue. He spat it out in a small, bloody glump. A grated window on the ceiling cast a shadow on the floor and gave it the appearance of tiles, one of which he’d managed to hit dead on. He stared at the red spittle glistening in front of him. What a lovely day it was turning out to be.

A pair of boots stepped into his line of vision. The Klingon, face still covered in blood, held out his uninjured hand. Julian took it, and was pulled onto his feet, now close enough to recognize the face behind the bloody mess.

“General Martok?”

Martok pointed Julian to a bunk and offered him half a cup of water, which he accepted with a grateful nod. The water had a dusty tinge to it, but it was cool and soothed his aching throat. He took small sips as he gave his new companions a quick once over. In this barack there seemed to be five prisoners in total, Martok and himself, the two romulans and a Breen. What a fun combination; he was the least lethal person around.

Martok leaned on a wall and watched Julian drink, eyeing his uniform with interest.

“You’re Starfleet.”

Julian gulped down the last of his drink and nodded.

“Yes. I’m the Chief Medical Officer on Deep Space Nine.”

“I’ve never been to Deep Space Nine, yet you recognize me.”

A hollow cold settled into Julian’s stomach. How long had the Klingon been here? Two years? If so, he would not have any idea of the attempted invasion of Cardassia by his people, or the war and the attack on the station.

“I... have some news.”

The female Romulan, Kaisla, bristled when Julian told them about the changelings, and at once examined the blood he’d left on the floor. She and Janok, the male Romulan, had been part of the Cardassian and Romulan fleet on it’s failed attack on the Founders’ planet, "which was where they and several others of their people had been captured"

Julian recognized their uniforms as ones worn by the Tal Shiar. Kaisla certainly held herself like one. Much like a stern hawk, she’d returned to her post at the door immediately after Julian was proven to be human. Something about her polite yet straightforward demeanour appealed to him; she addressed and answered his questions with a mix of subtle sympathy and humour, which gave an impression of a person not only intelligent, but also sincere and kind. At one point she even caught Julian’s eye to give a little head-shake and a smirk, when Janok failed to veil his distrust of him properly.

The Breen didn’t speak once, and neither did Martok, who sat next to Julian on the bed and listened without interruption, eyes downcast and calm. When Julian made it to the death of his replacement however, he snapped into motion.

“The changeling is dead? By whom?”

“It was a joint effort, I’ve been told. Can’t say for certain, I wasn’t there when it happened.” Julian’s gaze wandered from Martok’s injured head to his arm.

“I’d really like to take a look at that.”

Martok only gave him distracted hum, disappointed maybe by the loss of opportunity to reclaim his honour from the Changeling, or relieved by the knowledge of their demise. Julian couldn’t tell. What he did see, was the pain the Klingon was in, in the way his breath came out in controlled puffs, and in the stiffness with which he held himself.

“It’ll only get worse if--”

“I'm well aware--”

“Let the poor Doctor have a look, Martok.”

No one in the room had spoken. Confused, Julian stretched to look past Martok, and saw the Breen and Janok rush over to the opposite side of the room, and after getting a nod from Kaisla, moved one of the beds aside to pry open the panel behind it with a knife of some sort. The metal came loose with a soft clang, and from the dark, a pale hand reached out.

Julian remembered taking a runabout to Cardassia. Alone and angry, determined to save a life that many had considered worthless, including the man he’d gone to meet, a man who he knew to be dead. And yet, that very man now struggled to get up before his eyes, and managed it only when aided by Janok. Once on his feet, he huffed and turned to look at Julian, a smile in his eyes.

“Doctor Julian Subatoi Bashir.”

Julian smiled as well, not meaning it, and nodded in greeting.

“Enabran Tain.”

Of course he had lived. Julian imagined men like him reached absurd levels of survival out of pure spite. They had only met once, but that one time had been enough to form an unfavourable opinion, only amplified with what he’d learned from Garak and Odo. His death hadn’t upset him in the slightest, while the mood it had given Garak certainly had. For a week or so Julian had worried over his secretive friend, who’d once again withdrawn, only to soon act as if nothing had happened, when whatever sorrow he’d carried lightened enough to be brushed aside. He’d quietly resented Garak for it. Maybe he still did, as unfair as it was.

Janok slid the bed back in its place. Tain dropped his blobby being onto it with a great thud. The metal springs squeaked under his weight as he settled in, with a few groans and breathless hisses to help along. The motion shook the bulge of fat under his chin. Julian bit his lip. He was quite like a toad, wasn’t he? Somewhere far, far away, there had to be planet with a nice, cozy bog in a desperate need for a retired spymaster.

“It’s very good of you to come all this way.” Tain said, cheerfully wry. “A shame you didn’t bring Starfleet with you.”

Julian ignored the comment, and walked over to Tain’s side to grab a hold of his wrist. Tain’s pulse was racing, and his skin felt clammy, tacky and strangely rubbery. The only proper comparison Julian could make was to Garak. His hand had felt dry, like the skin of a snake, but smoother. And cold. Colder than it should’ve been. A memory of freezing glass sprung to his mind. One of his first great science experiments, to heat glass beads in his hand after taking them out of ice, and counting how long it took to for them to feel warm again.

He’d snapped the string by accident when playing once. Many discoveries were made that day. Fire burned through thread, for example. And broken necklaces made unhappy mothers.

Julian shook the silly thought away and glanced at the panel, safely back in its place. The secrets behind it efficiently blocked by both the bed and it’s occupant.

“What were you doing in there?”

“Escaping.” Tain wheezed and snagged his arm out of Julian’s grip, “What are you poking me for?”

“Your pulse is very fast, and I’m poking you, to find out why.” Julian pressed along Tain’s neck with his fingertips, as gently as he could, “Are you in any pain? Have you felt nausea, flashes of cold or discomfort in your chest or abdomen?”

“I’ve spent hours working in a tight space with poor air conditioning.” Tain swallowed, the wet sounds of saliva very audible, “In other words, I’m old, Doctor.”

Julian glared, but withdrew his hands.

“I suggest you rest then. There isn’t much I could do anyway.”

Tain let out a throaty laugh. It made the bulge on his neck shake again.

“Doctors aren’t much use without their equipment and supplies.”

“Equipment and supplies aren’t much use without doctors,” Julian whispered back.

With a wry huff Tain closed his eyes, and turned his back on Julian. Conversation over, apparently.

Everyone else had returned to their beds, so Julian did the same, though only after he received a warning growl from Martok, when he caught Julian eyeing his arm. He knew it was the pain that made Martok grumpy, he’d dealt with similar patients in the past and all of them caved in eventually. Of course not many had been Klingons. Oh well. No matter how much the General moped, Julian had set plans and they very much involved the realignment of that arm within the hour. There was also the matter of his scarred over eye; The changeling’s version of Martok had had both eyes, which implied the he’d lost it here, in a fight with the Jem’Hadar. Once they made it back to the station, he’d fix that, too.

Something crinkly landed on his lap. With a frown, Julian picked it up. A packet of field rations. Across the room, Kaisla gave a mock toast with her own packet, then peeled the grey wrapper off and took a bite. Julian answered in kind, touched by her continued care, and unwrapped his dinner.

The food was as enjoyable as he’d expected. Tasteless and disturbingly moist. As he chewed, Julian wondered whether he ought to let the world know of his superior snack design, in the hopes that the day would come, when none needed to suffer this, not even in captivity. He took a deep breath and fell back to lean against the wall, and exhaled. His jaw still hurt. Head too, now that he thought about it. The knee seemed alright, for the moment. The worst pain came from the anxiety, of having the time at last to think. A brief thought of the changeling, that probably had replaced Julian, popped into his brain, and made him feel ill. He needed to escape. Before whatever plan the Dominion had was put into motion.

At some point Janok had got up, to walk circles around the room. From the door to the other end, for whatever reason. He’d been a prisoner for over two years, and after all that time, one didn’t question anyone’s choice of entertainment, limited as they were. The Breen seemed to prefer sleep.

When he reached the door for the ninth time, Janok stopped, and quickly ran back around.

“Deyos is coming,” He warned, “With Jem’Hadar.”

Deyos turned out to be a Vorta. He sauntered inside with three Jem’Hadar, one of them holding a grey medical case. Martok received a look of disdain, like one would look at a race horse who had done poorly and lost him a lot of money. Then Deyos turned to Julian. The distaste was still there, but behind it a bit of curiosity. It made Julian feel inanimate.

“It’ll be very interesting to see if you can prolong his life.” He stretched each word longer than necessary. It made him sound bored, rather than interested. Mocking. He then nodded at the Jem’Hadar with the case, who placed it on the table nearest to Julian.

“We’ll call it a welcome gift. For you.”

The unsettling lilt of Deyos’ voice sent a unpleasant shiver down Julian’s back. The Vorta certainly had a talent for disturbing, though this one seemed to favour the unsubtle taunting type of mean.

“Thank you. It’s very--" Julian paused to dial down the sarcasm. He’d been punished enough for one day, and could do without more. "...kind of you.”

The malicious smile that appeared on Deyos’ face did nothing to ease him, or Kaisla, who alternated between sneering at the gift and it’s giver.

“Yes,” said Deyos, in a tone that implied Julian now owed him a debt, or the very least compliance. On instinct he wanted to rebel against it, but instead held his tongue. Both Martok and Tain were in desperate need of treatment, and if the price was silence, he’d pay it, for now.

None in the room spoke. After a bored sigh, his curiosity and cruelty sated, Deyos turned around and left, his entourage not far behind.

The moment the door shut, Julian bounced up to look into the case, only to again be stopped by Kaisla, who grabbed him by the arm.

“I’ll have a look first. Can’t have you dying on the first day.” She muttered, and gave a pointed look toward Martok, half awake in his bunk. The pain in his arm had to be agonizing by now.

Julian relented, and stepped back while Kaisla circled the case, and after about a minute, dared to touch the back of it, sliding it so that when opened, it would face the wall. She popped the lock, and when nothing happened, turned it over.

Hope was for fools, and while Julian disliked thinking of himself one, he couldn’t help feeling he’d earned the title when he saw the case’s contents. Long white strips of cotton. Disinfectant. No painkillers, or hyposprays of any kind. Better than nothing, but not by much. Kaisla squeezed his arm in sympathy, and went to lie down in her bunk.

With a sigh, Julian turned to Martok, who stared at the case with wonder. An opportunity, at last, for Julian to sneak in close, and take a careful hold of his arm. Martok froze, and stared him down with his one fearsome eye. Julian arched a brow. Martok huffed, amused, and nodded.

First he had to remove part of the armor. Only the piece protecting the shoulder, which after a permission from Martok came off without too much of a hassle. The shirt he wore underneath was thin enough, and so Julian began, gently, to massage the shoulder, starting from the trapezius, and then down to the deltoid. Down, and down, on the same spot over the upper arm, till he felt the bone slide back into the socket. The low snarl Martok let out at the first touch turned into a surprised huff of laughter.

“That’s not the way I’m used to.”

“How’s the pain?” asked Julian. The shoulder would ache, even with the arm realigned, though he doubted the Klingon would admit to it.

“It’s no longer making me angry.” Martok bowed his head, ”Thank you.”

Julian grinned and gave Martok’s shoulder a light pat on his way over to the case. He returned with a piece of cloth and the small vial of disinfectant.

“So,” Julian sat down next to Martok, opened the vial, dabbed the cloth with its content and pressed it to the head wound. “What’s the plan?”

Chapter Text

Illness has sounds. Wrong sounds, of malfunction and looming tragedy. Lungs crackled and coughed, hearts faltered in their beats, voices grew faint from exhaustion.

Bones made sounds, too. They cracked, crunched and snapped, sometimes too silent to even hear, muted inside meat. 

The Jem’Hadar scraped the bottom of his boot against the floor, an ugly, sneering grin on his face. He stepped back, out of reach. Martok snarled low in his chest and crawled, left hand held against his ribs.

Outside the small ring, Julian crossed his arms. Brow furrowed deep with bleak focus, he watched Martok inch closer toward his goal. He’d kill him. If that hand was broken, Julian would kill him--

The bell rang its hollow clang; Martok clutched the post with one hand and dragged himself upright, shoulders hunched tight. Through heavy breaths, he spat at the Jem’Hadar and flicked his hair back. Julian shut his eyes with a pained sigh. Klingons .

A deep breath and he looked again, just in time to see Martok lunge and smack his head against the Jem’Hadar’s nose.

Blood burst from the Jem’Hadar’s nostrils, and spilled over his mouth and chin. He spluttered, and retreated toward the edge; the other guards around the ring hissed through their teeth, shaming such an act. Martok stood tall in the middle, drops of pink sweat trailing down his forehead.

The Jem’Hadar shook the blood on his face off like a dog, and with a furious, redded growl, rammed his fist into Martok’s chest.

Martok grabbed the arm and twisted. A blink, and the Jem’Hadar was on the ground, on his back, gasping for air. Martok brought his foot on the neck and crushed his throat.

The resounding crunch left a sickly shudder in his chest. Julian didn’t like death, especially not the unnecessary violent kind. Even so, his tense stance eased; most days three defeats were enough to satisfy the Jem’Hadar. If that course continued, Martok would now be declared victorious, and not face another challenger.

Ikat’ika stepped forward, over the ring and the corpse. With each step Julian’s blood turned to ice; Ikat’ika rarely bothered to fight. When he did, his opponents were often left with injuries far more severe than those done by the other guards. A collapsed lung, that had killed the Kzinti. Crushed neckbones of a Cardassian.

Martok’s eye.

If Martok was nervous he of course didn’t show it. He and Ikat’ika circled each other, hands up and ready to strike. The Jem’Hadar around them watched, transfixed.

Ikat’ika darted to the left.

His fist crashed into Martok’s jaw with crushing force. Julian couldn't help blinking from the sound, heart jumping to his throat. Martok swayed and collapsed, face down.

A human would’ve died. Martok didn’t. He blinked slowly, lifted his head off the floor, and aimed a venomous one-eyed glare at Ikat’ika, fists clenched.

“Victory is life.” Ikat’ika’s monotone was echoed with a roar, the Jem’Hadar chanting in a near delirium;

“Victory is life! Victory is life!”

Within minutes the Jem’Hadar dispelled, back to their more mundane duties. Ikat’ika was the last one to leave, shooting the Jem’Hadar corpse into ashes before walking away. Once he was far enough, Julian leaped to Martok, who’d risen to his knees, and offered a hand.

“Next time you hear a bone snap--” He grunted, pulling Martok up, “consider staying down.”

Martok huffed, not quite in amusement and without further comment, headed toward barrack 6, head held high. Julian watched him go and with an annoyed exhale rolled his eyes and followed.

He caught up with Martok a few metres from the door, and waved at Kaisla. She nodded and vanished from view. With both of them inside the barrack she returned to her spying, a brief once over given to the blood covering Martok’s face. Martok collapsed into his bed while Julian pulled the medkit from under it.

Klingons were resilient; Martok showed no signs of concussion, and his jaw, while bruised, was not broken. Trying to check his teeth ended with a shove and low, warning rumble, so Julian focused on the cuts and bruises; Quite a few were on the left hand, as he’d expected, with two fingers broken and a third very near to being so as well. He sighed. Getting them mended was going to be tricky.

“You know I was serious about the staying down?” He said, glaring at Martok from under his brows. It wasn't his fault that the Jem’Hadar fought, but clenching broken fingers into a fist was. Martok slumped backward in the bed and closed his eye with a scoff.

“I will do what is honorable. If the choice becomes that of life or death, rest assured I will choose life for as long as it serves a purpose.”

“Perhaps you should first consider the choice between two hands or one.”

Julian yelped as the broken hand was roughly ripped from his hold, the face at the other end baring his fangs.

“I value your efforts, Doctor,” Martok growled, “but there’s only so much I’ll allow.”

Julian resisted the second eyeroll of the day threatening to break through and crouched down to pack the antiseptic away, carefully wrapping a bit of gauze around it.

“I’ll try to find a splint.” He muttered and left Martok to his brooding. A brief look around their bare quarters offered little help. All they had were a few cups, old wrappers and other trash. Nothing in the medkit was sturdy enough either. Perhaps the wrappers from the rations could be fashioned into something.

His eyes brushed past Tain’s bunk. Perhaps… Julian walked to it, and dug up the shiv from under the mattress. It wasn’t very sharp, but it should do. He returned to Martok with a gleeful grin.

“Take off your armor, please.”

Janok left his corner to assist Martok out of the armor. He gave a loud, disapproving sigh when Julian went to cut a piece from the back, and with a quirked brow suggested he try the pauldrons instead. This ended in a brief squabble; Janok insisted on the pauldrons, for the leather there was stronger and would last better through a fight. Julian worried about weakening anything protecting the still healing shoulder, doubting also the capabilities of their primitive cutting tool. Martok grew tired fast.

“There.” He pointed at the long tasset like part on the side, then tossed the armor on the table, the resulting thud enough to silence them. “Now shut up, and do it if you must.”

Cutting through the hardened piece of leather was about as easy as he’d expected; half an hour of sawing and swearing and sweating was the price paid for a sturdy, jagged edged splint. With aching fingers he wrapped it around Martok's broken ones, then tied the thing in place with the gauze.

“ There .” Julian wiped the sweat off his face and let out a long breath. “You won’t die today.” He then glared, voice mockingly cheerful and a little scolding. “Maybe tomorrow, when Ikat’ika finally rips your arm off-- ”

Martok’s breath puffed warm over Julian’s face.

“Good,” he drawled, teeth glimmering. “I shall whack your head with it.” Martok tucked his arm over his stomach and lied down, muttering sleepily as he shut his eye. “Thank you, Doctor.”

Julian rolled his eye with unrestrained relish. Klingons .

Next stop was by the wall. Tain crawled inside it everyday, to do his work, of which Julian knew way too little. A message to be sent to allies, of whom he was not permitted to ask about.

“Tain?” He gave the panel a sharp knock,“Time to have a break.”

“I too would rather not be bothered at the moment, Doc tor.” The word doctor was said with an amused emphasis on the first syllable. Tain tended to do that. He also liked to pause before saying it, to make sure his entertainment over the word was truly understood.

Seemingly out of patients, Julian shoved the shiv back under the mattress and sank onto the bed, flexing his aching hand. Sore, red dents, left from the shiv, stretched over the palm. He traced them idly, wondering what he would do once the antiseptic and gauze ran out completely. After 11 days most of it was gone, as Martok was not the only one in need.

Movement on his left caught his eye. Janok stood ready by the wall, the same way he had on the day of Julian’s arrival. He’d not known then that Janok stood there in case Tain needed assistance, warning him of guards and such. The movement was him trying to keep in a yawn. Squinting, Julian creeped toward him, and gave a threatening wiggle of his evil, doctory fingers.

Janok frowned at him in confusion, then froze, eyes growing large.

“There’s nothing wrong with me.” He squeaked, trying to back deeper into the wall, unsuccessfully.

“Oh, I’ll find something,” Julian took another step. “Maybe take a few tests… ”

“I was sleepwalking!” Janok crossed his arms and turned his nose up, “It wasn’t personal! Kaisla, tell him.” Kaisla’s gaze left the window long enough to give him a look of keen disinterest. Janok harrumphed.

Careful not to rile Janok up too much in case it induced more nocturnal restlessness, Julian raised his hands in surrender and backed away from the fuming Romulan.

“Think I’ll go for a walk.” He said and winked. Janok flipped him off, a very human custom he was well versed with, as he liked to often demonstrate.

“The scenic route?” Kaisla asked.

“Absolutely.”

“Have fun.”

Julian walked under the tall, black shadows of the askew columns, breathing in the chill air of the hall. He suppressed a shiver, eyes wandering high up to the round windows full of stars. On the station he’d considered such a view extraordinary, but here he wished for sunlight, to ward off the bleak grey walls and cold white lights.

Only one window had an accessible view of the asteroid’s surface. It wasn’t round like the others, but a much larger rectangle that covered most of the wall. Groups of prisoners loitered around it, hoping to claim the only real peek into the world outside. Today the Cardassians were in luck, five of them leaning onto the railing below the window like lizards on a sunlit rock, stubbornly spread out to keep others at bay. Julian couldn't help stealing a look as he passed, earning a vicious glare from one reptilian.

The Jem’Hadar glared too. It was the phaser rifles that made Julian take their stares a tad more seriously, and generally avoid looking at them if it could be helped. That’s all it took really. Keep quiet, don’t stare, don’t run, and voilá; You probably survived your trip to the bathroom, which were somewhat fancy for a prison camp, with sonic showers that burned the skin off of overly optimistic humans. Even shaving kits were attached to the wall, with irritatingly short cables, the purpose of which presumably was to keep anyone from using them to escape. Julian had suffered through a shave with the scorching tool the day before yesterday, quite content not to do it again until desperation hit.

The window. The showers. Then the dead end.

At first glance it looked like the start of a large hallway, connecting to a storage facility or something equally large. A closer look revealed an empty cube, about five metres deep and wide, with no lights, no switches or electric panels of any kind. Just a plain, simple wall, and therefore suspicious.

Strangest thing of all was the lack of guard. The Jem’Hadar did show a spectacular disinterest in anything except the fights, but were they really so comfortable as to leave a whole section empty? Julian found it unlikely, and so he looked around every day, in hopes of discovering something the others hadn’t in the two years they’d spent there.

Squinting in the dark, he softly tapped on the old wall, ear pressed against it. While the sound wasn’t exactly hollow, he was 87,2% convinced there indeed was a space behind it, closed off, possibly unused, possibly not. If their keepers were to be believed, there was no way out of the camp, not without a ship to beam to, which they certainly didn’t have, nevermind a transporter to actually do the beaming. It was probable that the Jem’Hadar kept their vessels in orbit, but maybe not all of them.

After a few more taps Julian straightened and eyed the rough wall from afar, sighing. It was a long shot. Much longer than the one they were aiming for in the barrack. And so it seemed that in Tain he’d have to trust, at least until the crew on Deep Space 9 figured this mess out.

He gave the wall one last knock before giving up for the day and walked to the opening, stopping to graze one of the thin metal beams embedded into the columns. An askew ladder all the way up to the ceiling. Looking at it made him want to climb. Would be good exercise too, though the Jem’Hadar might not see it that way.

”Hello.”

Julian whirled around, wide-eyed, ready to explain he had not been planning any sort of escape. Only it was not a Jem’Hadar or a Vorta, but a Cardassian man who had spoken. Tall and broad, standing a few steps away, hands behind his back. There was an awkwardness to his smile, as if he’d not quite mastered the talent, or simply hadn’t done it in a long time.

”Hello.” Julian replied, a little breathy, pulse still settling. The Cardassian bowed.

”I am Ikbeal Zarkell.” His not quite a smile grew into a toothless grin, a finger raising to twirl and point. “You are Doctor...”

“...Bashir.” Julian finished for him. Zarkell nodded, slowly and several times.

“Yesss,” He drew the s into a long, soft hiss, “that was it.”

Julian had a faint memory of him. A few days ago he’d seen him outside barrack 5, where he’d gone to check on three other Cardassians, though only one had allowed himself to be treated.

”Do your friends need help? I’m not sure what more I can do--”

”A Starfleet officer.” Zarkell’s deep voice boomed as he took a long step closer. “All alone, surrounded by Romulans, Cardassians… Had you seen one before? One of my kind?”

Julian frowned.

”...Yes.” he said after a small pause, quirking his brow in disbelief, “Plenty.” Zarkell kept nodding.

”Of course, I heard you were stationed in Terok Nor. How close?”

”Excuse me?”

Zarkell leaned in, close enough for Julian to feel his breath.

”How closely have you seen a Cardassian?”

”Very. Now if you’ll excuse me--” Zarkell stepped in front of his path.

”That uniform… ” Zarkell drew a slow look down and back up. ”Starfleet. The Federation... Both are vile to me.” His hand curled over Julian’s shoulder, ”The Bajorans were vile to me.”

Julian shoved, hard . Zarkell staggered back with a groan. Julian tried to leave again, but fingers snapped on his wrist.

”I fear you have misunderstood--”

Julian choked out a laugh. ”Well, I do apologise,” He tugged at his arm. Zarkell yanked, spinned him so Julian’s arm twisted behind his back, and with his whole body slammed him to the wall.

Nothing. No sound. No vision. Pain. Searing pain, through his head, and right arm. It wasn’t held anymore, painfully contorted between him and the wall. Something sharp tore into it, his other hand in a cold, bruising grip. He cried out in shock, trying squirm free. A sweaty palm pressed over his mouth.

”They’ll kill you.”Zarkell hissed hotly in his ear,”All that trouble you’ve already caused, and here you are, making a ruckus again.”

Zarkell moved the hand from his mouth to his shoulder. It kneaded, claws digging through fabric to skin. Vomit caught in Julian’s throat. He tried to move his left arm again, but Zarkell had his wrist pinned tight, chest and knee pushing against his.  

Blood thrummed in his ears, loud, like an old engine, hot flares rippling down his spine and bones, air squeezed out of his lungs into a silent scream.

Stop -

Zarkell pressed closer, pushed him deeper into the wall. Julian convulsed, aching eyes turning over and fluttering shut. His body shivered, empty of everything but the coils of pain tearing at his hand, the smothering stench of sweat, and the rough, wet pressure on his neck--

Stop.

Julian shut his eyes. His hand trembled, tacky blood sliding over it. He took a deep breath, held it, and with a quiet cry, ripped the arm free.

His world flashed white. The arm throbbed, skin torn and reeking red. Blinded, he reached for Zarkell’s face, feeling for an eyeridge, and shoved his thumb in its center.

Zarkell shrieked, hands flying to cover his eye. Julian stumbled out of his reach, and onto the floor.

He expected another grab or pull. It never came. Only a thud, and a choked groan.

“I can’t kill you.” Martok snarled, “Not here. But I swear, if we are ever freed from this place, and I see you again--” Zarkell gurgled against the grip on his throat. Martok squeezed and squeezed, till Zarkell’s eyes shone white, and tossed him toward the main hall. Zarkell fumbled up and ran, hand on his bloodied face.

There was blood on the floor. His blood. Heavy droplets ran down the back of his outstretched hand, over to the metal tiles in three long, thin streams, stretching toward the wall, further each time he blinked.

“Doctor?” Julian flinched at the hand on his cheek, and blinked at Martok, who was crouched next to him with a stern look in his eye.

“Are you able to stand?” He asked urgently. Julian nodded, slowly sitting up.

Martok didn’t have the time to wait. He grabbed Julian by his arms, and hauled him to his feet. Waves of pain blackened his eyes again; he groaned and tried to touch his head, but Martok had his hand, his bloody, ripped hand, bleeding on his. He assessed the damage then let go, to pick on the gauze of his other hand, the very one Julian had wrapped with great care.

“Oh no,” Julian pleaded, shaking his head, weakly wincing from the vertigo it caused, “Don’t you dare-- ”

Martok ripped the whole splint off with one efficient swoop. Helpless and miserable for it, Julian watched him stuff the leather under his bracer, trying not to pout as Martok roughly bandaged his hand.

“I’ll have to fix that again you know.” He muttered. Martok said nothing. He tied the gauze tight, and bent down to look Julian in the eye.

“Keep the blood hidden from the guards.” Julian frowned and nodded, pulling his sleeve down. Martok clapped his shoulder.

They walked side by side through the hall. His head felt heavy, as did every step. A humming static in his ears muffled surrounding sounds and thoughts; time felt stilled, somehow, him too, like his head was floating through a blurred tunnel while his body didn’t move. He didn’t notice how Martok shielded him from the eyes of the Jem’Hadar as they passed, or the steadying hand on his shoulder.

Another Cardassian, thin and frail, stood restlessly by barrack 6. Her arms hugged close to her chest as she shifted weight from one foot to the other. At the sight of them she froze and fled, hunched over as she went. Martok watched her go with a small sound of displeasure, gently steering Julian inside.

The final steps from the door to his bed were a blur. He remembered a vague sensation of being lifted, and irritating strands of hair itching his face as he was roughly covered with a blanket.

He lied there a while, breathing off the pain. Eventually he slept. Not deeply, dimly aware of the room and the people in it, their voices and movements soft shadows in the fog. Among them he heard Garak; the particular lilt of his voice, rising and falling as if amidst a long lecture of great importance. Julian tried to focus on it, understand what it was he was saying, yet the more he tried, the fainter his whispers became, eventually fading out completely.

Julian opened his eyes. The bright, bluish light above stung them and made his head throb, but the dizziness had passed, faster than maybe was normal for a human. He didn’t dwell on the thought, and rolled to his side.

Neither Martok nor Janok were in the room. Tain and the Breen slept. Kaisla was looking at him from the door, as always, hands loosely crossed over her stomach. She tilted her head.

“How long was I asleep?” asked Julian, voice soft.

“A couple of hours.” She walked toward him. “They just opened the water supply. Janok went to get it.”

“And Martok?” Kaisla shrugged.

“So he’s running around with broken fingers.” Julian sighed, “How marvellous.”

She said nothing, looking at his hand. It was bleeding through the gauze. Julian sat up, careful to not jostle his head too much and nodded at the medical case, still under Martok’s bunk.

“Could you bring that to me, please?” She did, and opened it.

He winced when peeling the gauze off; it was stuck to the skin, and pulled at the gnarled wound. Hardly lethal, but whatever had torn him had been sharp enough to nearly lacerate his hand from knuckles to his wrist, fat beads of blood still seeping from the deepest cut. He tossed the drenched gauze aside, silently mourning it’s waste, and dug out the antiseptic.

It stung. It really stung, like acidic needles scraping through skin and bone. His lips pressed to a hard line from the effort, breath coming through his nose in deep, controlled bursts.

Kaisla watched from afar, wringing her hands.

“Do you need--” She trailed off, awkwardly gesturing at the bloody mess. Julian looked up at her and smiled. Kaisla was friendly, had been from the start, but also distant, not caring much for the bickering and such that went on around her, happily existing in a separate, serene realm of her own. Seeing her pace and flit about was funny in a way.

He finished the clean up quickly, then offered her the roll of cotton strips they used for gauze. Her hands were cold and timid, careful not to tug or press too hard, so careful, that finishing the job took longer than it would’ve if Julian had done it himself. Once she was finished, Julian touched the back of his head and grimaced.

“And if you don’t mind..? I don’t think there’s any bleeding but--”

Wordless, she carded through his hair, as light and cautious as she had been with the hand. Julian hummed, and closed his eyes.

“There's a bruise,” She said, “nothing’s cut open.”

“Thought so.” He murmured, then exhaled loudly, shoulders moving with the force of it, “I do seem to have a mild concussion, though.”

Kaisla stilled and pulled her hands back.

“Shit.” She said, like she’d just heard news of the world’s end. Julian snorted.

“It’s fine.” He assured, smoothing down his hair, “I’ll just rest for a few days. Though I would like someone to wake me up every couple of hours, just to check I'm still alive.”

Kaisla didn't even smile at the joke, nodding seriously. She got off the bed, and returned with a ration bar in her hand, nudging Julian’s shoulder with it. His throat closed up from the thought of eating, but he managed a quick smile and took it.

“Thanks.”

Each bed without an occupant got a packet as well. Kaisla threw the last on Janok’s and sat on the floor to eat hers, leaning her back against Julian’s bed.

The food was brought to the barrack. In the morning one Jem’Hadar came, asked how many prisoners there were, counted to check and gave them a box with three rations each. Kaisla was the one in charge of the box.

“Janok and I are the last of our division,” She had told him one night , “Half of the Tal Shiar died within the first month, most from their injuries.”

At the end of the day she counted the wrappers, to make sure everyone had eaten their share.

“None of our high ranks made it here. Some of the low ranking officers decided it would be a good time to get rid of the competition for promotions.”

Food and water were available. But the Jem’Hadar and the Vorta didn’t care to play carers, so each barrack distributed the resources themselves.

“Outright killing got you killed too, so they made pacts. Who to feed and so on. The guards didn’t care, and a few got shot from making a fuss about it.” She’d quietly fumed when recalling the details, her mouth a hard line, black eyes glazed. Janok had stayed silent through her tale, fiddling with an empty cup.

“All the stupid assholes who got into that game are dead now. And many who just got in the way. It wasn’t just Romulans either. There were five Guls when we got here. Now there are two.”

“Who was the Cardassian outside?” asked Julian.

“Kikbo. She ran in here, out of breath. Shook Martok awake.” She took a bite, and talked through the chewing, “Said she was worried about “the Terran” and wanted us to go and find you.”

Kikbo. He couldn’t recall ever having seen her. Not that strange, as there were many barracks he’d not been to yet. Brows knitted in thought, he bit into the moist lump, nose wrinkling from the clammy taste.

“What are these things?” He scowled at the packet, worried it might be alive enough to provide the answer, “I’ve had field rations before, but these are vile.”

Kaisla, with a look of pride and delight, leaned in close.

“They’re Romulan.” She whispered. Julian’s face fell, mouth turned down in horror.

“You’re joking.”

She grinned.

“I think they got them from our ships. It was Cardassian rations for awhile, and now Romulan. They must have the replicator pattern too though. Should’ve run out.”

“Classified recipe, is it?” Julian muttered, dangling the thing between his thumb and forefinger. Kaisla peeled off more of the wrapper and waved the bar under his nose.

“Notice how they smell a bit damp?”

Julian glared and nodded from a safe distance.

“We used to heat them up to make it worse. Leave them in each others bags. And when you unwrapped it…” She wrinkled her nose and shook her head. “Smelled like piss soaked entrails”

She bit off a big chunk. Julian gagged out a horrified laugh, .

“I thought you wanted me to eat?”

Kaisla’s voice picked up speed as she raved on, waving and pointing the half eaten bar around.

“Easy to make, keeps you alive and sort of healthy, at least if you’re Romulan. And the Cardassian ones were way too spicy and... weird.”

Julian found himself smiling at her oddly aimed enthusiasm. Maybe she could finally be the one to dare and try his recipe from the academy days, if the matter of field rations interested her so. He’d have to remember to offer her one once they were freed, before she returned to Romulus. Might make her laugh.

“Not to be pessimistic,” Julian lied down, leaning on his arm, head propped on the palm, “But why do they bother? I understand keeping Martok and Tain alive, they’re leaders of their people, but us? We’re not important. Not from Dominion’s point of view anyhow.”

Kaisla shrugged and nibbled the bar.

“Have they ever questioned you?” Julian prodded gently, “Or anyone?”

“Not to my knowledge. They know more of Romulan intelligence than I ever have anyway.”

He squashed his cheek, elbow sinking deeper into the pillow. Why keep them here, if not for questioning? Was camp 371 like an old biscuit tin of the Dominion, used to keep in people they currently had no use for, but might suddenly find themselves needing, one day smugly patting themselves on the back for having had the foresight to not throw them away.

“Should I hope they’ll question me then?” He joked halfheartedly,” Might mean they don’t know anything.”

Kaisla gobbled up the last of her meal and brushed her hands on her thighs, doing her best to smooth down the crinkly wrapper.

“Why bother,” She said, and pushed herself up, “They’ll just ask the other you.”

The other him. In his room. His infirmary. On the holodeck with Miles and Jadzia, sitting across from Garak, waiting for the right moment to--

“Has he eaten?” Julian asked, nodding at Tain.

“Hm?” She’d stared at his hand again. Suddenly he felt the pain of it, thrumming in tandem with his pulse. The ache in his head was getting worse, too. Anger boiled in his chest; What did she know? Maybe there wasn’t a changeling wearing his skin. Maybe there had been. But nearly two weeks had passed, and that was a long time under the scrutiny of spies and Starfleet officers. Besides, the camp had to be far from the station. It was normal, even probable, that finding him would take some time.

Sighing, he closed his eyes, then gave Kaisla a pleading look.

“Could you go see where Martok is? I’d like to fix that splint before his fingers fall off.” Kaisla hesitated, looking between him and Tain, but gave a curt nod. Once the door closed, Julian threw his blanket aside and crept toward the opposite bed.

“You are quick to make friends, Doctor.” Tain said, fully awake.

“You too.” There was no space to sit on the narrow bunk, so he kneeled by it, “Martok seems to like you well enough anyway.” he broke a piece off the bar and offered it to Tain.

“Yet you don’t.” Tain took the food, “Have I ever been anything but civil in your presence?”

“In tone, perhaps. Usually it’s the sentiment of your words I find reprehensible.”

Tain laughed.

“You’ve been dining with a Cardassian for years, and yet make the claim that the intended sentiment can be easily understood from words alone.”

Julian clenched his jaw. Tain hadn’t mentioned Garak before. Not once, not even in vague reference. He'd preferred it that way.

“I’m glad you still remember the intricacies of Cardassian conversation,” He stood and looked down at Tain with a smile, “You were their leader and yet not one of your people has visited you or talked to you while I’ve been here,” His expression turned to exaggerated puzzlement,  “Then again, I probably just missed them.”

Tain didn't react. Slightly pleased with himself anyway, Julian went to fill Tain’s cup, only to realize Janok hadn’t returned with the canister yet. One cup was full, placed on the table nearest to Julian’s bed. He picked it up with a small smile. Janok was terribly decent, despite his prickliness. He poured half of that water into another cup, and handed that one to Tain, along with the rest of his rations. 

And then there was silence. Julian leaned on the table as Tain ate. There was a shadow of familiarity in his movements; the careful, precise bites, small sips of water… Garak’s prissy eating habits were something he’d grown to find endearing, in that embarrassing way mundane things became captivating when done by someone… Specific. Seeing them in Tain was irritating.

“It was the uniform.” Tain said, “In case you were going to take the attention as a compliment.” He held the empty cup to be collected.

The table edge he’d held onto cut into his hands. He bit his tongue to hold off the sting, and considered leaving Tain there with his hand stretched out and waiting.

He took the cup, and placed it with the others, rather forcefully.

“Wasn’t planning to.” He lied down on the bed and pulled the blanket to his ears.

“Anything to humiliate the Federation.” Tain said, then sighed, mournfully. “Then again, Zarkell always had a taste for those with natural inclinations.”

The door slid open. Martok walked in with Kaisla, Janok close behind them carrying a full canister of water. Suddenly Tain was fast asleep.

After three days of rest Julian proclaimed himself well enough to move again, and among other things resumed his rounds. Most days Martok came along, claiming he needed the exercise.

“You can’t just ignore your wounds away,” Julian squared his shoulders as he shouted at the towering Klingon, “They won’t heal if you insist on tramping about the compound!”

“I will not sit idle and let this place dull me!” Martok snarled from above, long hair shifting sharply with every angry nod.

“I think he has point.” Julian shot a blazing glare at Ghize, a Cardassian with heavily bruised legs and a sprained ankle from a relatively lucky fight with the Jem’Hadar. Ghize gulped and pulled his blanket higher. Huffing, Julian tightened the makeshift bandage around the swollen ankle and hoisted it up on the bed frame, leaning to poke Ghize in the chest.

“No tramping for you either.” Ghize whimpered and nodded.

Ghize resided in barrack 11, consisting only of Cardassians. It was the fourth new barrack he’d been to in a day, their inhabitants suddenly welcoming him with open and occasionally broken arms. He’d been confused at the development at first, mostly just pleased to have gained some trust among the prisoners, taking it as a hopeful sign of his ability to reach people regardless of race. After three barracks he realized the abrupt change of heart had little to do with him, and all to do with the well liked and respected Klingon trailing behind him. Martok wasn’t an idiot, and Julian was grudgingly grateful of his assistance, though he wouldn't let gratitude distract him from sense. There wasn't a way to force the moronic mop of a man to rest and heal, but oh, he would pester .

Even with Martok’s blessing, barrack 2 continued to refuse entry, no matter how Julian pleaded through the door.

“She’s been ill a long time,” Martok said. He stood tall, a hand on his belt as he gazed out into the raising storm,“Too weak to move on most days. First time I’d seen her walking in three months.”

Julian leaned his arms on the railing. Snow like dust whirled in the wind, the barren rocky scenery even harsher than usual as the stars slid across the sky. Of course it wasn’t the stars that moved but them on the asteroid, fast enough to make the sky spin.

“I wish they’d let me see her.” He said. Martok made a gruff noise, discreetly scratching the scabs on his healing hand.

“Cardassians are a careful people. Sensitive about illness and weakness.”

“Unlike Klingons.” Julian’s lips upturned slightly at Martok’s chuckle, the smile punched off his face with what for a Klingon must’ve been a friendly nudge. While Julian rolled the poor shoulder, Martok cleared his throat, and scooted closer.

“I don’t wish to pry,” He began, “but I have been curious about something since you arrived, and feel compelled to ask.”

“Pry away.”

“You and Tain… You know each other.”

Ah.

“I met him once.” There was a patch of rust on the railing. Julian traced around it, scratching the chipped edges, “A long time ago.”  

Martok leaned forward, a determined glint in his narrowed eye.

“An unusual thing for a Starfleet Officer, to meet the head of the Obsidian Order face to face.” Julian shrugged.

“I guess so. Didn’t really see it that way at the time.” Martok’s gaze stayed fixed on him. When Julian remained silent, he scoffed, voice raising to a dismayed grunt.

“Well? Is there no glorious tale to tell?”

“I’m afraid not.” He dared a grin at Martok’s rough sniff and the following pout. It was a bit cruel perhaps, to deny him a story, even as uneventful as it would be for a Klingon.

“There were some medical records missing from the station computers.” Martok perked up and Julian continued, tone casual, “I needed them to help a patient, so I went to Cardassia to ask for them.”

“And Tain refused...” Martok was nodding already, sure of his guess.

“Oh, he agreed immediately.”

This time he did nearly laugh as Martok bent low to lean on the railing and hung his head in defeat, face obscured behind the excessive hair.

“Very well, Doctor.” Martok grumbled, “I won’t bother you with it more.”

Julian took in the mournful sight of the General. Captured Klingons were supposed to do poorly, kill themselves or go insane. Yet Martok was still here, terrifyingly well considering all he’d gone through; Two years of being too cold, sleeping under too bright lights, regarded only with loathing and contempt.

With a tiny, awkward smile, Julian swept off the tiny rust flakes he’d scratched loose and sighed.

“He was cruel to a friend of mine,” He said softly, and shook his head, “I’ve been thinking about that actually. What to tell them. Everyone assumed Tain was dead, but I know he hoped--”

He made a fist, chest aching as the sting burned away the memory of a cold hand in his.

“What do you think will happen to Tain, after all this?” He turned to Martok with a frown, “The Obsidian Order is gone. I doubt its leader would be welcomed to Cardassia, not after all they lost in the attack.”

Martok’s posture had turned somber, eye aimed to the floor in thought.

“The Federation might be interested in him. Bajor certainly has a claim, which means Cardassia will want him back just to stop that from happening.”

“So from a Dominion prison to a Cardassian or a Bajoran one?” The thought pleased him, but Martok shook his head.

“No. Tain is clever. Too clever. He knows going back to Cardassia is too likely get him executed, and that Bajor likely means imprisonment, but The Federation is inclined toward mercy. You said they didn’t exactly oppose his plan, even though it failed. My guess is he’ll ask for asylum, on your station perhaps.”

Tain had smiled. The whole time Julian had stood there he’d smiled. Not with his mouth or eyes. The smile had oozed out of him, filled the warm, hazy room with its bile.

“I want him to grow old on that station surrounded by people who hate him, knowing that he'll never come home again."

“Is that what you’d give him?” He snapped and gripped the railing, knuckles white, “Cozy quarters on Deep Space Nine? So he can just--” His voice went up, and the Jem’Hadar closest to them snapped their head around, adjusting their weapon. Julian eased his hold and bowed his head, the back of his right hand throbbing.

Martok was quiet for awhile.

“You don’t strike me as a man who holds petty grudges.” He said with care, “Tain has earned my respect, and yet on the day you arrived, he also asked me to not tell you all I know of his plan.”

“Really?” Julian whispered, suddenly feeling very weary. He drew in a slow breath and exhaled in an effort to sound interested, ”Why?”

“I don’t know. Our Romulan friends and the Breen are equally in the dark, so I wouldn’t feel too left out. Would’ve thought nothing of it, but there was something in his tone…”

Martok fell into silence, hand back on his belt. Julian moved on to another patch of rust. He gathered the flakes into a pile, and pursed his lips to gently blow them away. Outside the wind raged on, bringing with it thick clouds of ashy dust, the spinning stars hidden from sight

On day 19, a Jem’Hadar kicked him. Nothing dramatic. He’d been in the process of kneeling to help Martok, therefore not far from the ground and thus quite neatly tumbled onto his back. He got up, annoyed but fine and proceeded to look after Martok as usual. As the day passed, his head began to ache 

“Second impact syndrome,” Julian said, rubbing the bridge of his nose, “having a concussion makes you twice as vulnerable to another during the recovery, which without proper treatment can take weeks. Even a small impact, a shove or a jostle could be enough.”

“You said you were fine.” Kaisla’s arms were crossed. Her face was quite cross as well, voice clipped and ironlike as she glared.

“I am fine.”

“But you have this… syndrome?” said Martok.

“No.”

“Are you sure?” Janok leered at his head with narrowed eyes, as if expecting it to crack open and spill out a brain any minute.

“Well, if I did I’d be dead.” The judgemental semicircle before him remained unimpressed. Julian held in a sigh. Tough crowd.

“The point is…I am not dying. I just need to not hit my head for a few weeks.”

And that was why instead of being outside with Martok, Julian sat in his now usual place by the wall, listening to Tain’s tinkering. He’d never considered himself particularly patient, but after 4 days of this, he’d managed not to crawl all over the walls or bang his head against one while screaming. Something to be proud of.

The sound of a tool clanking snapped Julian from his thoughts.

“Tain?”

“Don’t disturb me, Doctor.”

Julian rolled his eyes and sagged back against the wall. He glanced over at Kaisla, ever vigilant by the door. Hopefully Martok would be back soon, arm still in place. Strangely enough the Jem’Hadar had been easier on Martok for the past few days, based on his injuries. Maybe not out of kindness, but it relieved him to see the general finally recovering.

“Is it normal for Breens to just sleep?” Janok mumbled, staring at the said Breen in a not too friendly way. Julian turned to look as well, and indeed they seemed to be sound asleep, as usual. Sighing, Julian shut his eyes and tipped his head back.

“I don’t think so, though I wouldn’t really know either.”

“I hope they’re sleeping,” Janok muttered, “Or else they’re listening, and I like that even less.”

Tain’s breath wheezed in a cough, unpleasantly. Nearly worried now, Julian tapped the wall with a knuckle, more urgently this time.

“Tain? What’s going on?”

“I tire of your skulking, Doctor. Be silent, or leave me be.” Julian was about to argue the matter further, only to be cut off by the announcer.

“Water supply is open. Refill possible for an hour.”

Julian looked at Janok. He looked at Julian.

Both of them bounced off their beds and reached for the canister. Julian snatched it, a mere inch from Janok’s grasp, and ran for the door. Janok made a rude gesture of the Romulan variety. Julian answered with a human one and waltzed out, right into Martok.

“I’ll be right back.” He quickly held the canister up for Martok to see, fleeing before it would occur for the general to scold him.

Julian passed Jem’Hadar who still sparred in the ring, each other as opponents, and followed the small crowd making its way to the water. A line had already formed. He joined the end of it, lightly drumming on the canister, happy to be outside of the cramped barrack. Technically he was still surrounded by people, but no one was interested in conversation or interaction of any kind. It felt like respite after days spent mostly in the company, and the smell, of his esteemed cellmates.

Someone joined in after him, close enough for Julian to think them a bit rude. He made a point of inching forward, assuming they’d get the message.

They touched him.

Their hand was left there, pressed to his waist, caressing slightly with their thumb. Julian tensed, stomach turning. He glanced at the nearest Jem’Hadar. They looked back. Silent.

Eyes focused ahead, Julian pushed the hand away. It sidled back instantly, claws digging through the uniform to graze his hip. He nearly flinched, skin crawling hot and cold as he aimed another discreet look at the Jem’Hadar, hoping that for once they’d be useful. The guard remained uninterested, their attention fully focused on the faraway fight.

The line moved. Julian used the moment to shove the hand off and step a little further, hopefully little out of reach. The hand didn’t return. Still Julian’s skin prickled, his grip on the canister tight and clammy. Four were in line before him, plus one by the machine, nearly done. Filling the canister took about a minute, and so he counted; 21 seconds, and the line took a step forward. 68 seconds. Another step. 66 seconds, then a step. 65 seconds. A step.

68 seconds. With steady hands he pushed the canister into the slot, face carefully blank, even if inside it felt like his bones would shatter from the panicked thrum of his heart. The machine locked and beeped. Scanned. Beeped. The water drummed loudly against the empty plastic, softening to a gentle flow as it filled. He counted:

55, 54, 53--

He barely felt it. A brush of palm against his back. A flash of hot breath over his ear. Julian’s jaw clenched. Had he waited? Watched from afar, waiting for him to be alone and surrounded by the Jem’Hadar.

Unable to make a ruckus.

The hand slid up his spine. Into the wispy hairs on his neck, where one fingertip roughly caressed the hairline. He ignored it. He couldn't ignore it, but he pretended to anyway, biting his teeth together till it hurt.

6, 5, 4--

The machine unlocked with a beep. The hand withdrew. With a sharp inhale, Julian pulled the canister out, eyes to the floor as he turned.

He looked at him. There was nothing else he could think to do, nothing that wouldn’t risk his life or the lives of others. It wouldn’t help. One angry glare wouldn’t discourage Zarkell, but Julian felt better for having the target of his silent, brimming fury owlishly blink at him with one eye. The left was drooped shut. Julian frowned. He looked ill. Gaunt.

A smile, like a knife sinking into flesh, stretched Zarkell’s lips; He dropped his canister, and cowered from Julian, whimpering.

Julian gaped at him. The guard, who only a minute ago could not have cared less, aimed his rifle. There was no shot. His eyes darted between Julian and Zarkell, hesitant. Julian blinked at Zarkell’s gleeful face, and the guard. He’d not seen it. Only heard the noise. Deciding not to wait for his confusion to end, Julian fled, walking as fast as he dared, heart leaping at his ribcage.

Inside, Kaisla crowded him immediately.

“What happened?” She demanded, alarmed.

Julian didn’t answer and pushed past her to peek out the window; The guard was talking to Ikat’ika, nodding and pointing at their barrack. Ikat’ika glanced their way, then at the guard. He aimed his rifle, and the guard vanished in a white phaser flash. Two others stepped forward, and the three of them, Ikat’ika as the lead, walked toward barrack 6.

Julian backed from the door.

“Get Tain out.”

No one moved.

“Now!” Kaisla’s sharp command sprung them into motion. Janok moved the bed and started pricing the panel open. Julian ran to help.

“Tain!”

No answer. Julian pressed his ear to the wall. He couldn’t hear a thing. Martok hurried over.

“What is it?”

“I don’t know!”

“Get away from the wall!” Kaisla hissed.

The door opened. Julian quickly stepped forward to draw the attention of Ikat’ika and the two guards, not daring a glance at the panel, held in place by Janok’s back.

Ikat’ika gaze slid from Julian to the canister, left on a table. He aimed the rifle from it to Julian.

“Pick it up.”

Julian tightened his jaw. He wanted to glance back, at Kaisla or Martok, but resisted urge and walked to the table, picking up the canister.

“Open it.”

He popped the cap off and threw it on a bed.

“Turn it over.”

Julian stayed still. Ikat’ika did too, eyes dead and aim steady. Those were his options. Obey or vanish in a flash of white. He locked his eyes to Ikat’ika’s and tipped the canister.

Water spilled over their feet. It soaked into his shoes, and in long, thin streams stretched under the beds, toward the hidden space. Throat tight, he tossed the empty canister against the floor. It clattered loudly, and bounced under Kaisla’s bed. Ikat’ika lowered his rifle.

“Your last portion has been spent.”

Don’t make it worse. That was the rule of interacting with the Jem’Hadar and the Vorta. Be quiet. Don’t look. Walk away.

Julian lifted his chin, and gave Ikat’ika a lifeless stare, voice seeping low.

“You wouldn’t happen to have mop, would you? The floor could use a wash.”

Next to him Kaisla fumed, at him no doubt. Ikat’ika considered him, rifle held loosely, face completely blank. Bones snapped and cracked in Julian’s ears, Ikat’ika’s fist crushing into Martok’s skull over and over, then into his skull, him on the ground, blood spilling over the floor in long, thin streams.

Ikat’ika’s grabbed him by his throat. Julian gasped silently, hands shooting up to uselessly pull at the one on his neck. Ikat’ika squeezed. Only once, only till Julian creaked out one shallow breath. He let go, and Julian fell to his knees in the water, holding a hand to his throat.

“For the next 28 hours, water supply will be limited in barrack 6.” One of the guards collected the canister, “Any attempt to get water from the other barracks will be severely punished.”

Ikat’ika hoisted his rifle to rest against his chest and left with the other two. Julian stayed kneeled, hands around his neck as he breathed.

“Bashir?” Kaisla gently touched his arm, intending to help him up. To the surprise of her and the rest, Julian shook his head and stood on his own.

“I’m alright.” And he was. Ikat’ika had barely tightened his grip.

Janok moved and grimaced when the panel fell with a loud clang. Together they pushed the bed out of the way, Martok raising an expectant brow at Julian. He answered with a frown. Martok gestured at the narrow passage, then at his wide shoulders. Right. He was the doctor after all, and quite a slim one at that. Julian bent down and peeked into the crawlspace. A weak yellow glow illuminated the way. He crawled in.

The hot dampness of the air made sweat prickle on his scalp. He huffed. Every night he shivered in the chill while warmth brewed only a few metres away.

“Tain?” Julian climbed forward, swearing when he nearly banged his head on the low ceiling. He had to squeeze sideways into the small space, a bit taken back by the crampedness. He’d assumed Tain could sit while he worked. Tain clutched his chest under a bundle of glowy tentacle lights. Julian reached to touch his arm.

“Tain? What’s wrong?”

He blinked at Julian and rasped, “My chest… it feels tight.”

“Painfully?”

“Not exactly.”

Julian moved his hold to Tain’s wrist, unsurprised to feel the pulse racing again.

“Alright.” He wiped a sheen of sweat off his lip and gave Tain’s clammy wrist a light squeeze, “We’ll wait until you’ve calmed a little. Then you need to lie down, understand?”

Tain nodded. They waited a few minutes, and with a calm pace crawled out, assisted at the end by Martok. Julian looked over his shoulder at the yellow glow still seeping through.

“The light--”

“I’ll get it.” Kaisla ran from the door and dived in. The light turned off, she returned and pushed Tain’s bed in place with Janok. Martok helped Tain to sit, and gave him the cup with the last drops of water they had. After a few sips, Julian instructed him to lie down, then pressed an ear against his chest.

“Breathe in, deep and slow.”

For once Tain did as he asked without a snide comment and inhaled.

“And out.”

Tain exhaled. Julian listened. It was difficult, without any equipment, to accurately notice anomalies in the lungs or heart. All the more worrisome, to clearly hear the the crackle in Tain’s lungs as he breathed. Julian lifted his head.

“I suppose you might’ve already guessed that you’ve had a mild heart attack.” Tain’s face remained stoic, while Martok and the rest shared appropriately grim looks. “There is a small chance you’ll live, but only if you get plenty of rest.”

“I was nearly finished.” Tain whispered, “It’ll only take an hour. It would be foolish to waste that much time.”

“You could die--”

“A wonder that you didn’t, just now. ” Tain spat, chest heaving. “Have you charmed Ikat’ika as well? His eye might not be so easy to poke out, as he’s well practised in the art.”

“If you die in there,” Julian shot a look at the wall, voice cold, “We can’t get you out. Not without making a lot of noise. The guards would hear. And if we just let you rot, the smell will lead them right to your little project and none of us will ever get out of here.”

Julian tugged Tain's blanket up to his chin and arranged it neatly.

“You will rest right here, for as long as I tell you to. Understood?”

Enabran Tain teased and poked fun. Always smiling, always amused. The head of the Obsidian Order looked at him now, nostrils flared, darkness in his eerily still eyes. His fingers twitched toward Julian. Wanting to grab, to wring. Martok touched Julian’s shoulder and tilted his head to the side. He moved out Martok’s way, Tain’s severe gaze following him.

“What’s another day or two,” Martok said gruffly and leaned in, forcing Tain to focus on him, “Do as the doctor says, and rest. Save your strength, so we may all leave this place."

Tain remained quiet and still, breathing heavily, the air shaking with the fury barely kept in. He then smiled and nodded, turning his face to the side to blankly stare at the wall.

Julian shuffled into his bed and hid his face into his hands with a long sigh.

Eating the rations without water was a grim affair. Julian gave up after the third bite, all out of saliva and hid the half-eaten bar into his pillowcase. He wrangled his wet socks off, hung them to dry on the bed frame, and burrowed his face into the stained pillow with a thud, stomach growling.

Sleep didn’t come easy. Julian tossed and turned on the thin mattress, distracted by the sleepy breaths of his cellmates, Martok’s snoring and the never-ending cold. The sleep he did get was restless, wrecked with odd, anxious dreams of suffocating under an ocean of water. Slowly he sank, deeper and deeper as someone silently watched from above. Blackness swallowed him into overbearing silence, his back hitting the ocean floor.

He became aware then of the mattress under him. Eyes still shut, he tried to roll on to his side for comfort. His body stayed rigid. He tried to lift his arm. It didn’t twitch.

Panicked, his eyes flew open. Above, Zarkell looked at him with a glassed, unblinking gaze, knee on Julian’s chest. Damp hands pressed over his mouth and nose, claws dug into his cheeks, through them, drawing blood--

Julian’s hand curled into a fist. And just like that, Zarkell was gone.

He shifted his leg, to see if he could, and sighed in relief when the knee bent as it was supposed to.

Trembling, he arranged the blanket to cover his freezing feet, and lied back down. The shaking didn’t stop. Afraid of seeing more things not really there, he lied awake, and poked at the yellowing bruises around his wrist. It wasn’t until he heard Kaisla, the wrappers under her mattress rustling as she rose early to collect their food, that he felt a sense of calm creep over him, falling asleep soon after she left a silver packet on his table.

Zarkell still stared at him. Openly, whenever Martok wasn’t close. It had caused Martok to growl out an order to not walk around on his own outside the main hall. Thus the prison compound, which allowed free access for everyone, had at last shrunk into a small, dark room.

Everyone felt grumpy. They survived their day without water, and carried on as usual, but the mood had shifted. As long as Tain was unable to work, their escape was on hold, the previously essential tasks now meaningless activities to kill time. Even Kaisla, who didn’t need to stand guard now that Tain wasn’t working, stayed cooped in, barely talking and unusually lethargic. The only one in high spirits was Janok, desperately trying to cheer Julian up by baiting him into short lived quarrels.

“I’ve never understood the colour schemes of Starfleet,” Janok sniffed, “You can spot one so easily. Red, yellow, bright blue… There’s no hiding in those. Grey merges with shadows and most ship interiors, and is generally more pleasing to the eye. Such a glaring race, Terrans.”

“I suppose.” said Julian, not really listening. His uniform had lost its brightness by now, though all the blood stains were invisible, soaked in the black parts.

Despite Martok’s wishes, he had attempted to continue his rounds, accompanied by Janok. But the Jem’Hadar had their eyes on him now. They followed his movement from barrack to barrack, rifles at the ready. The attention made the other prisoners nervous.

“We get that it’s a good thing you think you’re doing,” The Markalian of barrack 9 told him in between coughs, “but we’d really prefer if you’d quit it.”

Sometimes he saw himself, lying motionless in his cot. He watched from above at the crumbled form that he knew to be his body, not quite feeling the scratchy, sweaty clothes, or the ache in his head, or the drain of every heavy breath his lungs drew in. The tiny pinpricks of claw marks on his hip itched, as did the bruises on his wrist. That kept him awake and aware, the itching and the headaches. No sleep. No more suffocating dreams.

Tain slept too. Attending him was the only useful thing for Julian and the others to do. It too felt nearly meaningless; He’d live or he wouldn’t. So far it looked like he was headed for the latter. Two days after his heart attack Tain began throwing up after each meal, unless Julian mixed the rations into a watery sludge. He’d ripped the thin cover off his mattress to clean the brown vomit off the floor, and with Janok smuggled the dirtied rags under their shirts to the toilets, managing to avoid alerting the guards to Tain’s illness.

Tain heaved, shoulders visibly shaking as he clutched the toilet rim. Janok had gagged when the sounds started, and fled outside to wait and warn it the guards came by. Julian stood few steps away, burning his face off with the razor. Previously the shaving had been insufferable, but now the pain felt good, the sharpness of it clearing his head a little.

There was a loud retch as Tain coughed up more brown slime. His hair had grown long enough to get in the way, strands stuck to the corner of his mouth. Julian kneeled on the floor behind him and swept the strands away, quietly holding a comforting hand on Tain’s upper back as it trembled. Tain didn’t say anything. He never did, going out of his way to not acknowledge Julian’s assistance in anyway, effortlessly murmuring a thank you for Janok as he helped him back to bed. Julian didn’t mind. Being a ghost with perpetually pestering presence wasn’t new.

Despite their animosity, Julian had hoped for improvement and was disappointed to keep seeing none. The vomiting stopped and Tain rested as ordered, ate and drank. Yet he looked dead already, scales turning sickly yellow and unpleasant to the touch. Julian kept his observations to himself, hoping to spare the others from the bleak thoughts, though one didn’t need to be a medical professional to soon come to similar conclusion.

Julian lied curled in his bed, itchy and useless, fearing he’d have to give in on Tain’s request after all, allow him to carry on his work and in all likelihood die, or risk the plan’s failure.

Five days it had been, since Tain’s injury. And on the sixth night, came Drem.

Gul Drem. At the time Julian didn’t know her name. It was many months later, back on Deep Space 9 when Martok mentioned her in passing, quiet reverence in his voice, drowned soon by bloodwine.

She was a little younger than Tain maybe, though not by much. A long thick braid was slung over her shoulder and trailed down by her chest, the hairs greying in parts. Her scales were a deep, dark grey, and instead of two vertical lines Cardassians usually had over their foreheads, she had a third. It curved over to the left, above her temple.

“Kikbo has asked for you and the Terran,” Her voice rang soft and velvety, almost girly despite her age. She spoke directly to Martok as she issued her polite yet firm request, “Follow me if you will.”

She left, a tiny bow given to Martok, not even a glance to the rest of them. He followed, stopping at the door to pointedly stare at Julian. He scrambled out of his bed, snatched the wrap of antiseptic from the case and hurried on after him.

Seeing the door of barrack 2 open left Julian with a strange feeling of accomplishment, even though he doubted it was his tenacity that now allowed them in. The momentous occasion was quickly soured by the company outside; Zarkell, leaning against a wall with another Cardassian, a man Julian didn’t know. He ignored them both, but Martok growled as they passed.

It smelled of fever inside. Cardassians, too many for all of them to be from this barrack, filled the room. They flocked near the bed furthest from the door, on the left side. Martok pushed through them, the path cleared for Julian.

Wet rags covered Kikbo’s forehead and neck, hazy half-lidded eyes peeking from under one. Her black hair was thin and untied, so long it spilled over the side to the floor. A young Cardassian man held onto it tenderly as he whispered in her ear, too quiet for Julian to hear. Upon noticing him, the man moved aside and gestured for Julian to sit. He nodded his thanks, and sat on the edge of her bed.

“Evening.” said Julian brightly. Kikbo nodded in greeting and moved the rag off her face.

“Kikbo Lettar.” Her voice was weak and breathy, but an edge of strength remained.

“Pleased to meet you.” He dropped the wrapped vial on the bed, then smiled, “I’m Julian Bashir.”

“Doctor...” She frowned at the vial, and him. “It is late. I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright. I wasn’t sleeping anyway.”

His reassurance didn’t break her bleak expression. Scowling, she placed her hand lightly on his; The gauze was long gone, only a faint scar left.

“Are you alright?” She whispered.

Julian’s lips parted in surprise. Comparing what he had been a month ago to what he was now, it didn’t feel alright. It felt all wrong.

“Yes.” He said, “I’m alright.”

She relaxed a little.

“I wanted to see you…” She laughed nervously and shrugged, “Not for any good reason really. I’ve never really talked with a Terran- Not just because.”

“Well, you certainly found the right one.” He gave her an amused look, whispering a warning with wide eyes, “I talk a lot.”

She grinned. With her permission, Julian carefully moved the rag off her chest and pushed a bit of her collar aside to examine the neck ridges. They were swollen and sickly grey, burning hot with fever.

Kikbo fiddled her thumbs and watched Julian work, open puzzlement in her big round eyes. Julian glanced at her frown, a smile tugging at his lip. He’d received similar looks for weeks now. Male doctors and scientists were not unheard of, but still uncommon in Cardassia.

Kikbo sighed, tapping her thumbs together.

“Can’t think of anything to say...”

“I’ll say something then.” He thought for a moment. The center of his palm itched, warm and comfortable.

“I have a friend, a Cardassian.” Kikbo’s eyes lit up, so Julian continued, “One of his quests in life has been to show me pieces of Cardassian culture, especially literature. Have you read any enigma tales?”

She nodded.

”I hated them, at first. Couldn’t understand the point at all, but he wouldn’t rest until I played through one in a holodeck with him. Naturally, I actually liked it. A lot. He was very pleased.” An oversimplification by all measures. Garak had been a beam of smugness for a week.

“He must be very old to like enigma tales.” She said with mischief, “and brave for publicly admitting to it- ow .” He’d brushed a scale. It was even darker than the others and scabby. Infected.

Julian picked up the antiseptic; there wasn’t enough left to fill a thimble. He tipped it over, and knocked the last drops out on a bit of gauze.

“I was glad to be proven wrong,” He murmured, gently dabbing the scale, “he was so happy I liked something for a change, though I think he still begrudges me for criticizing the Never-ending Sacrifice.”

Kikbo’s delight grew into outrage, her face wrinkling in disgust.

“Eugh! He gave you that travesty to read?” Julian nodded gravely. Kikbo shuddered. “ Ugh . Are you sure he’s your friend?”

“I can accept different literary views,” Julian assured as he rewrapped the empty vial and put it aside, eyes rolling at the ceiling with a small, bashful laugh, “Which, I admit, ours usually are.”

“Of course, since your friend has no taste. I wonder… Hmm. This is a silly question, but uhh… do you like Cardassian food?”

“Most of it, yes.”

“Huh. Well. That is good. It’s not... bland?”

“Bland is not a word I’d use, no.”

Kikbo cackled, loudly. The room jumped, several alarmed looks thrown at the door, worried guards would burst in.

“Ha-haa!” She slapped her thigh once, a wide, shark like grin splitting her face as she giggled. “How excellent .” Though utterly confused, Julian couldn't help grinning with her, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Don’t get too excited, for I have plenty of criticism for Cardassian beverages. Red leaf tea is perfectly excellent , but kanar and rokassa--”

“Rokassa!” She gasped. “I do miss it… You didn’t like it?”

“I haven’t dared to taste. The odour is… strong.”

“Oh, pffft ,” She gave his arm a playful slap, “You should have. You must, next time you have the chance.”

His soul shuddered at the memory of the gooey substance. Jittery with nerves he’d left for his third lunch with Garak, determined not to embarrass himself, only for his senses to be offended with the greasy rankness of fish juice when he approached their table. He’d held his breath through the meal, afraid to offend. Years later he still suspected Garak had intended to shock him on purpose, in the same way he certainly did try with his book recommendations.

He looked at Kikbo with a soft, lopsided smile, and blinked a nod.

“I will.”

She crossed her hands over her stomach with a happy sigh.

“I’m glad you know a good Cardassian.” She said, “I worry-- There is so much more to us than--” Her breath rattled. “We had gods. Kinda like the Bajorans do. My grandmother--” Another rattle. “She talked about them sometimes. It is said we don’t need them, it’s just superstition… But I think there’s something to the idea.” She glanced behind Julian, mischief filling her eyes again.

“Don’t look, but my poor comrades are uncomfortable with this topic.” She whispered and waggled her scaly brows. Julian followed her gaze to a sea of uneasy Cardassians, shuffling on their feet and carefully avoiding eye contact. Drem stood calm among them, a hint of a smile on her lips.

Her eyes snapped to look into his.

He was struck still by the colour of her eyes; A deep and rich carnelian, bright like zirkon. The ironlike chill of them burrowed through him, into his head, searching. Seeing. Unsettled, he looked away, the hairs on his neck standing up. Kikbo smiled tiredly at him, and went limp.

“Kikbo!” The young man kneeled by the bed and pet her hair, hand trembling. Drem moved to stand behind him. Julian felt for a pulse and found it as her eyes fluttered open. Breathing fast, she squeezed his hand, still around her wrist, and grinned wide, a hazy glimmer in her tired eyes.

“It was very nice to meet you.”

Julian held onto her wrist and counted each weak beat of her heart, over and over, willing himself to be wrong. Her pulse kept its feeble flutter, uncaring of his will or hers. Julian rearranged her shirt and the damp rag, and forced a smile.

“Likewise.” He swallowed, and lowered his voice to a whisper, ”Goodnight. And thank you.”

She hummed happily and shut her eyes.

Julian stood, surprised to see Kaisla in the room as well, standing behind Martok. He followed her outside, where they both stopped to wait for Martok. He lingered by Kikbo’s bed, speaking in Klingon.

After a few minutes Drem escorted Martok to the door. Zarkell and the other man jumped up and tried to push past her.

“How is she?”

“I can’t let you in.” She pushed them away firmly.

“But she--”

“She hasn’t changed her mind. I’m sorry Khanoc.” Drem shut the door with unchallengeable finality. Without a word, Martok sat on the floor and leaned his back to the wall by the door. Julian and Kaisla joined him. On the left side, Zarkell and Khanoc did the same.

They waited. The Jem’Hadar watched. It was colder in the hall, especially on the floor and soon Julian shivered, rubbing his hands together to coax warmth into his numb fingers. Kaisla huddled closer and linked her arm with his, warm and heavy against his shoulder.

More than an hour must have passed. Kaisla’s shoulder no longer felt warm against his. Then, from the barrack, a choked wail of a man echoed.

Everyone stumbled to their feet; Zarkell and Khanoc ran inside, two Jem’Hadar marching in behind them. The young man screamed again.

“Not yet please--!”

A flash of white light. Steel boots drummed a hollow beat as the Jem’Hadar left, their steps fading away into silence. The doors shut. Tentatively Julian crept closer, and peeked through the gritted window. The young man clawed the ashes on the empty bed, his head pressed against its edge. Drem had a hand on his upper back, her eyes closed. Others kneeled around the bed, Zarkell and Khanoc among them, many rocking back and forth with hands over their faces.

Kaisla pulled him to leave.

Julian woke up gagging. 

“All prisoners must gather to the hall.”

“What’s happening?” Julian muffled into his arm. Janok shook his head, breathing into his sleeve while trying to help Tain up with one hand.

All of them, even the Breen, made their way to the hall. The smell was much worse there, thick and putrid. A choir of wheezes and gags came with it, all the prisoners packed in front of the window. Julian, Kaisla and the Breen ended up in the front row, Martok and Janok behind them, holding Tain upright.

Deyos walked the length of the crowd, a new kind of fury in his eyes. He wore a white half mask over his face, nose and mouth covered. It altered his voice to mechanical drawl.

“Do not hide food. It will rot. Rot will draw bacteria. Bacteria will make you sick.” One Jem’Hadar held a small metal box. Deyos waved at the guard next to him.

“Shoot anyone covering their face.” Hands dropped, inspiring another round of coughs and gags. Deyos nodded at the Jem’Hadar with the box. They turned it over.

Packets of field rations rattled to the floor. All ripped open and oozing brown liquid. The stench of fleshy rot crashed over them. Someone vomited. Julian’s eyes watered as he retched, gripping the fabric of his uniform to keep his hands from covering his face.

Deyos pointed an accusing finger toward the group of Cardassians, all cooped together for comfort.

“You.”

They dragged Zarkell to Deyos, and forced him to kneel. Julian’s eyes widened. On his left Kaisla remained still, arms crossed, her pitch black eyes flat and lifeless.

“What is this?” Deyos kicked the pile. Zarkell shook his head.

“It’s not mine--”

“Curious, considering it was on your bed, under your mattress they were found. Maybe someone else hid them? Anyone want to confess?” Deyos addressed the crowd. No one spoke. He leered at Zarkell.

“Apparently not.”

Zarkell bowed his head, fists pressed to his knees. Deyos made a disgusted noise, the sound echoey through the filter.

“Put him in isolation for three days.”

“The cells are all occupied.” Ikat’ika said.

“Kill him then.” One of the guards aimed. Deyos lifted his hand.

“Wait. Be slow about it. As a reminder to the rest.”

The Jem’Hadar adjusted his weapon. Zarkell’s chest heaved with frantic breaths, a single eye darting through the crowd in search of sympathy. It found Julian. Zarkell’s mouth opened, hand rising to point.

It fell with a shrill scream.

Everyone felt a small horror for the delicious smell of burning meat. Zarkell squirmed and shrieked, clawing at the floor, trying to get away from the searing white ray. Julian stayed still, rooted in place. His heart sped with every sad twitch of Zarkell’s limbs, each ragged scream echoing in his ears. He could stop it. Should stop it.

It stopped. Zarkell’s eye bulged, still looking at him. The body lied limp, charred and contorted, eye and mouth left gaping.

“Daily rations are cut in half as of now.” Deyos said and waved his hand around. “You may return to your… Whatever.” He kicked the rations, muttering, “Such vile beings…”

Zarkell’s body was shot once more. His ashes scattered into a cloud as seven Romulans, Kaisla among them, dived for the rations. She snatched one, and clutched it to her chest as she marched back to the barrack.

The hall emptied of the prisoners. Julian stayed, staring at the ashes, not knowing at all what it was that he felt. Empty, mostly. Sickeningly relieved, too. Guilty, most of all.

The hairs of his neck stood up. He looked over his shoulder.

Calmness surrounded Drem. Inviting yet cold, like the pull of an unknown street in the night, serene and dangerous at the same time. Her lips slid into a smile.

“Don’t look too long. We are not surrounded by the brightest, for there is much they do not to see, but it is best not to tempt their vigilance.”

Drem walked to him and touched his arm, below the crook of his elbow, and pushed something into his hand.

“Go now.” She whispered.

Julian hid the bundle of gauze safely into his palm, and felt the small vial inside. Drem smiled again, with the warmth of late spring, and trailed after her kin before it even occurred for Julian to thank her. He pocketed the vial and headed to his cell.

Everyone was settled in their bunks when he returned. Kaisla munched on the ruined ration bar, expressionless. She’d brought the smell in with it, much weaker now and bearable.

Martok patted the space next to his. As soon as Julian sat, Tain spoke.

“Won’t you thank our lady Khev, Doctor?” He said,“Quite the service she has done for you, at a great cost for all of us.”

He stared at the floor silently. How loathsome, to agree with Tain. All these weeks he’d considered Kaisla the smartest of them, only for her to do… this.

“You shouldn’t have done that.” He said, not looking at Kaisla and sighed miserably, rubbing his eyes. “I appreciate the intent, but… “ Martok cleared his throat.

“I know the Federation has different views when it comes to these things.” Martok gave a little grunt and shook his head. “As do I, but this was called for. One less problem.”

“And a new one.” Janok muttered, “We’ve been slowly starving, and now? Half will die within weeks.”

Julian’s heart sunk with the thought.

“The least I can do is share my food.” He said. Kaisla huffed awkwardly, mouth full.

“You’re already sneaking Tain extra portions.”

“Well, I haven’t been here as long as you. I still have body reserves left.”

Martok threw his head back and laughed.

“Where? You are an insect. Not an ounce of fat anywhere.”

“Guess we’ll eat each other.”  Janok said.

“Who’s first?” asked Julian and side-eyed Tain, who’d already fallen asleep and was snoring quietly.

“I am curious about the Breen myself.” said Martok.

“Janok.” Kaisla threw a bunched up wrapper at him. It bounced off of his head and into his lap.

“I might volunteer.” Janok yawned, “At least then I wouldn’t starve to death. ” He picked the wrapper and tossed it forward to Julian, who caught it with one hand.

Julian crossed his arms, the wrapper squeezed into his fist.

“Really our best option is you, General.“ He said, “Since you’re the only one who comes pre-tenderized.”

Martok laughed and slapped his back with such force the wrapper slipped from his grasp and rolled under Janok’s bed.

The Jem’Hadar didn’t fight Martok that day. It was a silent day, heavy and light at once, slower than the days before, in a pleasant, calming way. Even Tain looked better, though still far from healthy. Kaisla kept resting, recovering from weeks of lesser meals.

He’d forgotten. Like he’d forgotten with Garak. She was Tal Shiar, an actual spy with the capabilities and mentality to match. Though he liked to think Garak would not have been so reckless as to jeopardize everyone for the sake of one’s comfort. Certainly he’d never ask for such a thing.

Zarkell’s remains had been swept away, a few ashy footprints the only thing left behind. All the food was gone too, as the Romulans had had no qualms of cleaning the rations left on the floor.

Julian went on his own to the plain, simple wall. There he traced the sharp edge jutting out, a broken corner of one of the panels, partly peeled back and covered in brown blood. He didn’t stay long. After a much needed shower and a shave, he walked back and spent the rest of the day annoying Janok with vivid details of various illnesses.

By the time evening came the smell had faded. Julian lied on his back, half awake. While he was getting used to the barely existing mattress in a way, there were other complications; Martok’s gurgling snores still took an hour at least to tune out.

A bed creaked across the room.

“Bashir?” Julian’s stomach clenched at Kaisla’s unsure voice. She’d not said a word to him or anyone since morning. He bit his lip and curled to his side, facing the room, though he couldn't see her face from his bed.

“Yes?”

“Dream of sheep?” She whispered, almost too quiet to be heard.

Julian opened his mouth, frowned, and snapped it back shut.

“ What ?”

“Terrans say something like that. For good dreams.”

“Oh. No, it’s uh, counting sheep” There was a pointed silence. When Kaisla spoke, it was with a great deal of offended bafflement.

“... What .”

“You imagine a herd of sheep hopping over a fence and count them. It’s supposed to help you fall asleep.”

“You count imaginary sheep to sleep?” She scoffed. For a moment he was reminded of Miles.

“Well, saying it like that just makes it sound silly.” He said, smiling, “And we don’t. It’s just a thing people sometimes say to kids for some reason.”

Kaisla scoffed again, softer this time.

“Terrans.”

“Makes as much sense as dreaming of sheep.”

“Shh. Listen,” She tapped the bed frame, “I think I hear sheep hooves. Better start counting.”

Julian snorted and closed his eyes.

“Piss off.”

That seemed to be the end of it. Martok’s wheezing had settled somewhat, and so Julian rolled onto his side, jaw clicking with a yawn and pulled the blanket over his shoulder. Now that Kaisla had planted the thought of sheep in his head they of course appeared. He imagined a herd of them roaming Deep Space 9, Odo chasing them around as a sheep dog while Quark tried to discreetly inquire the usual prices of wool--

Kaisla baa’ed.

It wasn’t funny. It really was not, yet Julian laughed, giggling and snorting into his pillow. Janok sat up like an old, disgruntled vampire from a coffin, and threw the bunched up wrapper at his head.

“No,” he said tonelessly, “Martok just stopped. You will not do this. No.”

His giggles died down and the barrack fell into silence. Julian shifted, already mostly asleep, his hand knocking the wrapper off the bed.