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“I can’t anymore! I’m leaving!”
Quark lifts his face from his hands to witness Birk slam his drink tray on the counter and march toward the exit. “Get back here! You have two hours left on your shift!” The menace in Quark’s statement is somewhat lessened when it ends with a pathetic hiss. He covers one ear with his palm and calls for Birk again, but fails to muster the concentration to properly threaten the waiter’s job.
“Hey, Prak! You just picked up a few tables. Prak! Hey!” Quark hisses and vaults over to the bar, his irritation and frustration growing with every step he takes. “Prak!” He grabs the waiter’s shoulder with more force than necessary and spins him around. Bar rags are hanging from Prak’s ear canals.
“What?” Prak’s voice is too loud for the ambient noise, and Quark hisses in pain again.
“Birk left. Cover his tables.”
“What?!”
“I said B-- oh, Losses, get those things out!” Quark yanks the rags from Prak’s ears, and the waiter squeaks in pain like air escaping a valve. “Birk went home. Cover his tables.”
“Boss, I’m already covering for--”
“For Kola, that’s right. Just... get back to work.” Quark rubs at his forehead. “And don’t stuff your ears! That table over there has been calling for you!” He returns to the bar to grab the abandoned drink tray but can’t resist slumping against it for a moment. He hears Morn take a breath and the sticky click of his lips separating as a prelude to a monologue. “No, not now, Morn. Spare me. Too many noises already, and I don’t need you adding to it.” It’s a small blessing that Morn actually shuts his mouth, but Quark will take whatever pennies of relief he can find at the moment.
It’s been three days since Quark put in the first requisition for repairs and three days and two hours since the high pitched screech started. None of the patrons seem affected, but the Ferengi staff has been suffering for 44 hours. Four Cardassian engineers have paid the bar a visit, but every time the ticket is closed with a dismissive “could not replicate” status. No manner of threats, pleading, or bribery has convinced the engineers to conduct a proper search for the source of the piercing, grating, head-splitting, profits-forsaken noise. He begged the last woman to assign the ticket to Rom, but all available engineers with experience on the Federaji technology and subroutines have been pulling double shifts on reprogramming and repairs.
So Quark pours drinks, serves drinks, closes tabs, and wishes for a swift death while making plans to point the sharpest knife in his arsenal at his brother’s testicles until the sound is gone.
He tries to focus on all the other sounds, the ebb and flow of conversation, dabo wheels, and the chime of glasses mugs on tabletops. This bar is insignificant in comparison to an entire moon, just a dark hole carved into a once-lonely Cardassian space station burdened with a galactic war. But it’s his tiny kingdom, his home, his snail shell. These patrons are all players in his orchestra, and Maestro Quark knows every note from every instrument as if the score is written into his DNA.
So when two players enter the bar preparing to join the session, Quark takes notice on a subconscious level. Dukat and Weyoun, principal leads, masters of their parts. Normally Quark would be mildly interested in whatever passive aggressive battle is about to play out between the duet, but their underhanded games hold no appeal today.
Just as Quark turns to greet them, Weyoun stops in his tracks and winces tightly. Quark wishes he were in the mood to enjoy the sight of the Vorta’s perfect mask of control slipping. “What is that?” Weyoun practically growls. Dukat turns with a questioning expression.
“What is what?”
“That sound! Is that some kind of music?” Weyoun shakes head as if filing off water.
“Weyoun, I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, I do!” Quark calls out and approaches the pair. “You can hear that, huh?”
“It’s painful !” Weyoun places a pale finger in each ear, face contorted, and furred tail whipping back and forth.
“Yeah, and it’s been going on for over three days! Half my waiters have forfeited their wages to avoid coming in and the other half are threatening to quit.”
Dukat opens his arms in a shrug. “I’m sorry, but I simply can’t hear it, but clearly it’s uncomfortable for some of your more sensitive patrons.” His tone morphs to a light scolding. “Quark, you really should submit a repair requisition.”
“Don’t you fucking start with me, Dukat!” The orchestra screeches to a halt, the patrons riveted by the small bartender exploding at the station master. The silence would be a relief if Quark weren’t quivering in a barely-controlled seeth. “I’ve had four, four of your people in here. But they tell me, ‘it’s not a problem, Quark, you’re making things up to be a nuisance, Quark.’ I’ve had it!”
Quark opens his hands to let the drink tray clatter to the ground. “You used to run a tight operation, Dukat, but you’re slipping! The Federation is a disorganized collection of fools, but they made decent landlords at least. So if you want your next rent payment you can get me an engineer with ears who gives half a damn, or you can get your own damn springwine from a DAMNED REPLICATOR! ”
The boil is lanced, and with the pressure relieved, Quark finally notices he’s become the main attraction. Even Weyoun has unfolded from his hunched position a bit to watch the exchange with intrigue.
“Well!” Dukat huffs. “All you had to do was say something, of course.”
“We need to take a look at your requisition process flows, Dukat,” Weyoun interjects with a slow shake of his head. “We can’t have the business alliance threaten to mutiny while we’re trying to win a war.” Quark knows he’s less than a pawn on the Dominion’s chessboard and even though he has a general dislike for the smarmy purple bureaucrat (he reminds Quark too much of that snake Brunt), he can’t help but feel a spark of gratitude towards Weyoun.
Weyoun’s placid mask shifts to a stern scowl when he spots Damar a few meters away gazing upon the scene like he’s at a comedy holo. “You, get over here! Now!” Weyoun barks.
Quark is fully prepared for Damar to dig in and refuse to comply; he knows the Cardassian to be a silent stubborn boulder for anyone except for Dukat. But he’s shocked when Damar abandons his glass of Kanar to stand before Weyoun and lock eyes with him. “Fix this, Damar.”
Quark glances at Dukat, expecting the Gul to step in, but Dukat is staring at his claws in apparent boredom. “Weyoun,” Quark explains. “I don’t know how much you know about Cardassians, but we’re going to need a female.”
“Oh, he can do it. Can’t you?” Weyoun says without breaking the stare.
“I’m off duty,” Damar insists, lips curled into a pout.
“Not any longer.” Damar finally breaks eye contact to throw a longing glance at his half full glass. “That will wait until you prove yourself useful,” Weyoun commands. “Come on, I’ll pinpoint it for you since your ears are practically useless.”
“If you don’t trip over a barstool while searching for it,” Damar grumbles quietly enough that Quark assumes Dukat couldn’t hear it.
“I never trip, unlike you two hours after your shift ends and you’re sloshing with that terrible drink. I think it’s coming from here.”
Quark stares at the retreating pair then peers up at Dukat. “Those two…”
“Yes, they don’t get along. But I find Damar to be an excellent adjutant. Weyoun will come around on him. Now,” Dukat makes his way to a stool at the bar, and Quark follows in a confused daze. “None of that replicated springwine which you joked about earlier, Quark. Something from a real bottle, please.”
Quark stares off towards the bickering pair making their way towards his storeroom as he pours the Dukat’s glass, considering whether he should keep an eye on them behind closed doors.
But when the ultrasonic whine stops half an hour later, Quark repays them with a data rod granting them access to two hours in the holosuites free of charge.