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Bashir was pacing for what felt like hours. The rusted grey walls didn’t offer him much solace, and he was sure his cell was becoming slightly smaller each day. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the cold wall of his cell, sliding down until he was sitting, hands clutching each other to stop him from tearing out his hair.
One week. One whole week of isolation on this god forsaken asteroid. All because he complained—no, cautioned—against cutting rations. Now his blunder meant that rations were cut even further for everyone. He should have just stayed silent. But he was never that good at being silent.
This was day five. Or at least he thought it was. It was hard to keep track, even for Bashir. The anguish of not knowing what was happening in the Alpha Quadrant was clawing at him from the inside out. Or maybe that was just the hunger talking.
But, as the days slowly passed him by, the hope of getting out of this internment camp got fainter.
And while his anxiety kept spiking every day to new peaks higher than he thought possible, he found his thoughts drifting to food more and more. Specifically, cake. Even more specifically, sponge cake. With strawberries. And cream.
Every time his thoughts drifted to this glorious and magnificent cake, guilt rushed over him. How could he think about food when his fellow prisoners were potentially being beaten. Or dead. When his fellow Starfleet officers were putting their lives on the line to defeat the Dominion. When he wasn’t even sure if Deep Space Nine was still intact. It could be space dust and rubble for all he knew.
He was completely in the dark as to what was going on in the Alpha Quadrant. His captors certainly weren’t saying anything. But thinking about cake meant he didn’t have to think about the many gruesome ways his coworkers—no, friends. Family—could be killed. And he wouldn’t be there to save them.
His confidence was breaking. His hope extinguished. He knew he wasn’t getting out of this place alive. Clinging to the thought of having a perfect slice of cake was slowly becoming all that kept him going.
Victory is life, the Dominion kept parroting. Not for Bashir. For Bashir, the freedom of choice is life. And with freedom comes the opportunity to choose cake.
Victory is life.
No, victory is cake.
He made a sound that was part laugh and part sob at his awful joke just as the door unlatched and creaked open. A Jem’Hadar stepped through and grabbed the front of Bashir’s dirty Starfleet uniform, pulling him to his feet with ease and dragging him down the hallway.
“What—” Bashir started, but was shoved through the threshold to barrack six.
“Move!” the Jem’Hadar said as Bashir stumbled forward inside and, instead of his cellmates, came face to face with Worf and Garak.
Bashir’s initial shock morphed into visible disgust. Was this the Dominion’s idea of a sick joke? A wonderful new way to torture him. It can’t be them. Unless… Unless Tain’s message got through.
The hope that had left him reignited. Just barely. An echo of it, but it was enough.
Maybe Bashir would get that cake after all.