Chapter Text
He’s only pretending to be asleep.
Cardassian hearing cannot contend with a Vorta’s enhanced auditory abilities, but those footsteps clanging up the metal stairs to the van’s door are unmistakable, carrying the same grave foreboding of a funeral march. The sunlight streams through the window’s ratty blinds and hurts his eyes — Damar, sprawled on the cot, sheet kicked up over his still-booted feet, has the good sense to drape his forearm over his face before he hears the door rattle and shake, jolting open with a crash.
Everything that follows is deduced solely from sound. The shifting of the intruder’s weight creaks the vehicle, a slow, deliberate procession as those notoriously weak eyes struggle to spot the lone occupant amidst the piles of clothes, trash, bottles, ashtrays. A determined, purposeful stomp rattles through the van as Weyoun marches over, yanking the sheet off of him unceremoniously.
Damar still pretends to be asleep. For all he knows, he could be dreaming; the voice that follows always seems to haunt him in his nightmares.
“Do you have any idea,” Weyoun asks, a tremble of imperceptible fury warbling the edges of his strained, quaint tenor, “what time it is?”
Feigning sleep is one thing, but the groan that builds from his chest when he tries to sit up is entirely genuine. It’s agonizing, this tour bus, the uncomfortable cot masquerading as a bed, the stale, recycled air, the grueling schedule. The carpet is home to a dazzling assortment of miscellaneous stains and every article of clothing left aboard for more than an hour carries a permanent smell of cigarettes. Neither Damar nor Weyoun have managed to grasp basic organization; Weyoun often vehemently accuses Damar of slovenliness, while Damar retorts that Weyoun’s piles of painstakingly collected junk are the hallmark of a hoarder.
The empty bottle of kanar at the foot of the bed is sturdy enough not to shatter even as it lands on the faded orange shag rug with an unceremonious thump. A look of scorn slithers across Weyoun’s haughty face, recoiling as if Damar is something particularly unpleasant stuck to his shoe.
“Two,” Damar informs him. He spits the single syllable, glaring at Weyoun with narrowed eyes.
“It’s three ,” Weyoun seethes, his words clenched between his teeth. The bundle of papers crinkles in his hands as his thin fingers cinch the sheets tight, a vibrant tremolo of pure, undiluted rage rattling through all five-foot-whatever of his tiny body — his expression stills, his jaw tightens, and he heaves a tired sigh, returning to his typical composure. He is not just Damar’s manager — he is Damar’s keeper, and Damar takes snide pleasure in ensuring his job is as difficult as possible.
Damar rolls his eyes and the room spins in tandem. Succumbing to nausea and nascent annoyance, he pushes the heel of his hand into his eyesockets, unsuccessfully attempting to stave away a migraine. “Get up,” Weyoun insists, “you have soundcheck in an hour. I’ll let them know it’s very likely you’ll be late.” Damar, ever eager to please, manages to scoot himself to the edge of the bunk and sit down squarely on the plush carpet.
The acrid burn of his manager’s mustard yellow suit leaves his retinas scorched, green flowers crawling over the fabric like bacteria. Weyoun’s mod affectations are laughably outdated, but it seems all Vorta are dedicated followers of the carnabetian army: they’re always decked out in those hideous patterns, those clashing colors, their little chelsea boots and their sneering smiles perched atop those dainty paisley scarves.
“I told you,” Weyoun continues, taking Damar’s silence as an invitation to fill in the blank margins of the conversation, “you had a show tonight. The first of the most important set of shows in the entire tour! And what do you do? Can’t help but to — imbibe a bit, can you?” he sniffs, hand recoiling as he uncovers the sticky remnants of a spilled bottle sloshed across a pair of discarded jeans. “I hope it was worth it. You’re a mess,” he mutters, flinging the soiled garment aside. “And if you don’t make tonight go perfectly —”
“Just because you love being miserable doesn’t mean I have to rot with you,” Damar snaps in retort, his voice gruff with sleep and misuse. He staggers to his feet, the low ceiling of the van disorienting him. Weyoun narrows his eyes, but otherwise says nothing — he gathers a passably clean shirt off the floor and thrusts it into Damar’s hands, vanishing past the narrow door to micromanage something else.
It reeks in here. Damar’s shirt sticks to his skin, and there’s an itch beneath his scales on account of the useless van shower. “It’s this — horrible bus ,” he grouses, ducking his head as he meanders after his manager, “I can’t sleep at night. Maybe I could , if you didn’t keep this place so damn cold.” Gathering up a few stray papers scattered over the sticky, linoleum-topped dining table, Weyoun casts him an equally frigid glance. He turns back to his work. “You aren’t tired?” Damar presses, shouldering past him as he peels his shirt off and yanks the new one over his head. “You aren’t sick of,” he says, making some vague gesture, “living on the road for a year, all these shows — you aren’t sick of Keevan ?” he scoffs, yanking down the blinds. There he is. That motherfucker. Reading some stupid Terran novel and smoking a poorly rolled joint in a plastic lawnchair next to Yelgrun.
“I am a professional .” Weyoun’s drawl is infuriating. “Don’t pay attention to the roadies,” he sniffs, “and start paying more attention to yourself. Your career. What’s left of it, at least. Four more shows — and you haven’t debuted a single new song from your next album, have you? Tell me, Damar, are you even working on it?” he accuses, a narrow-eyed glance sent his way as he tidies up the last of his paperwork. It’s deftly stowed under his arm.
“Yeah,” Damar grunts noncommittally, a brazen lie, “day and night. I’d like to see you be inspired in this miserable dump,” he grumbles, reaching for the neck of a half-full bottle (only to keep his headache at bay, clearly), but Weyoun wordlessly snatches it away, dropping it onto the bench.
“The album,” he says curtly, “is your job. And this,” he continues, yanking the checkbook from his ugly jacket pocket and flapping it inches from Damar’s face, “is my job. And if we both do our jobs adequately, this tour will go all according to plan, and we can be through with this unpleasantness, for the sake of both our careers. I trust,” the Vorta continues, his voice low and tight like an overtuned string, “our faith in you was not misplaced.”
It’s a sore spot; Weyoun has reminded him time and time again that Dominion Records has placed their utmost faith into the propulsion of Damar’s career, and if his unnatural launch into the sky-high tops of the hit charts is anything to go off of, they have spared no expense. Gone are the days of music for music’s sake, he laments, artists now nothing more than some glorified cracked actor bedecked in peace signs and blue jeans, ghost-writing lyricists and mastermind producers lurking in their “self-made” shadow. A plastic pantomime, false idols made of glitter glam rock, faker than a Vorta’s good intentions.
Things had been different back then, simpler, real-er. Music was something he cared about, something he loved. Things had been different when he worked with Dukat.
“Take this,” Weyoun instructs, shoving the setlist into Damar’s hands (he’s rearranged it, again, and for an alien completely lacking in aesthetic comprehension, he only manages to make it more nonsensical each time). “And follow it, this time, I do not need a repeat of you getting confused in front of all those people because of your careless unprofessionalism—”
Damar flings the door open, and the stream of sunlight cuts through Weyoun’s diatribe, the Vorta bringing the papers up to cover his vivid, violet eyes. “I thought you were chewing me out ‘cause we had somewhere to be, man,” Damar grouses. Weyoun’s expression flickers like a skipping record — what manifested in that brief margin of time between his now tightly-controlled look of scorn has faded from Damar’s memory. He settles back to his stony, impassive indifference, unreadable, unknowable, alien in all the worst ways.
He quips, “we’ll finish this conversation later,” and it’s his turn to shoulder past Damar as he heads down the stairs.
—
“You two are late ! I charge for that, you know. It already costs to cancel the show ahead of time, but it costs more just to not show up at all.”
Quark’s titular owner is deceptively unimpressive, a well-dressed Ferengi of indeterminate age, that clever flash of avarice alight in his cerulean eyes. Even with those gaudy platforms, he’s only marginally taller than Weyoun. Quark carries himself with an easy nonchalance, a wry smile etched through those crooked, sharp teeth; his voice is warm, welcoming, oozing an easy charisma as genuine counterfeit latinum. But despite the bad acting, Quark must surely know what he’s doing — a promoter doesn’t yank his dingy venue from the depths of obscurity to the star-studded heights of glamor without a bit of well-placed passion.
Damar recalls — though it was quite some time ago — having played here when it was still called Terok Nor: his band was a flop, the dingy stage lights turned off at their leisure, and they struggled to draw an audience of anyone but hecklers. Seeing it now, with the refurbished bar glittering with bottles procured from every corner of the galaxy and the bevy of famous faces immortalized in holo-photos on the wall, he feels a second-hand sort of pride swell in his chest. This is the sort of music history he wants to consider himself a part of.
“My sincerest apologies, Mr. Quark,” Weyoun says mournfully, ducking his head in practiced deference, “we had some — difficulties this morning, but I assure you, this won’t happen again. We’re honored you’ve invited us to play at such a historic venue, and I couldn’t think of a better place for such a shining, rising star,” he praises, a rictus grin etched on his lips as he clasps Damar’s limp arm, “to end his most successful tour to date. Dominion Records is always pleased to collaborate with such an exemplary promoter.”
“Oh,” Quark interrupts him with a tepid laugh, “the pleasure is all mine! It’s a good investment — you, my friend,” he says with a grin, dropping his tone to something a bit conspiratorial as he elbows Damar, “are well on your way to being the hottest Cardassian musician since Dukat tanked his career in ‘64! Dig this: your tickets for tonight sold out in moments , and that was only during the pre-sale event. Tomorrow’s are practically gone. Gentlemen, I assure you, we will be making a fortune these next few days!” he exclaims excitably, and Damar finds his gaze wandering to Weyoun. Quark certainly wouldn’t notice, too unaccustomed to Weyoun’s eccentricities, but there was something — odd, for a moment, a barely perceptible tightening of the Vorta’s jaw at the mention of Dukat. It’s gone in an instant; Weyoun swallows, and his face returns to its passive neutrality, a pleasant, congenial smile gracing his gray lips.
“This place is pretty small, which means we run out of space like that ,” Quark continues, snapping his fingers and startling Damar (Weyoun doesn’t even blink). “See, the scarcity drives up the demand, which gets those prices up, up, up . ‘Cause the privilege isn’t just seeing our fine friend here on stage,” he says, a blue-nailed hand clamping on Damar’s slouched shoulder, “it’s being able to brag that you saw Damar — at Quark’s .” There’s an expectant grin punctuating the end of his sentence, and Weyoun decides that means he ought to laugh in agreement, playing the people-pleaser as per usual.
“What an excellent business strategy!” he commends, clasping his hands together. “I am so pleased to hear that you are as efficient a promoter as I’ve been told. Damar and I have so been looking forward to this, and you, Quark, are so much more than either of us would have ever been led to believe.”
Damar scoffs. This certainly wasn’t the same Weyoun from last week, grousing about how that “miserable, covetous Ferengi” was swindling them out of half the ticket profits because of the flat-fee payment he offered to book them for four nights.
Quark replies, crossing his arms with a smarmy smirk, “flattery doesn’t get you discounts, Mr. Weyoun. But I appreciate the praise. This is some thankless work, y’know,” he says flippantly. “Maybe you’d be shocked to realize it, but I do this all for the music,” he assures them, and despite his somewhat artificial charm leaving a lingering aftertaste, there is no disputing these words are genuine. The music business is still business, and Quark is a Ferengi, through and through.
“Hey,” he grins, pointing a blunt, blue nail at Damar, “I’ll be listening tonight, and I expect you to blow everyone’s minds.” Damar’s face grows sallow as he clenches his hands into fists, suddenly nauseated to be reminded of the impending show.
“No promises,” Damar manages, the miserable little quip forced out between teeth clenched in the passable imitation of a grin. If Quark is shocked to see his headline star has less charisma than a Breen, he doesn’t show it: his mind is on the money, and there is a fortune to be made if they all play their cards right.
“I need a word with you,” Quark explains, pointing a solemn finger at Weyoun, “but you are free to head on back. Your roadies hauled your stuff over hours ago, your band is up there practicing, and my sound guy is waiting for you on stage. And might I suggest, for the future,” he proposes, that charming grin spreading like gangrene as he and the Vorta head towards the bar, “that Ferengi roadies work twice as hard as Vorta ones, and even if they’re more expensive, consider it an investment for the future. Time is money, right? See, if you get set up in half the time as you usually do …”
Perhaps Weyoun’s casual malice comes out so abundantly around Damar because he saves it all especially for him; from what Damar can catch of his interactions with Quark, the Vorta is nothing but gracious, all cheery smiles and delighted laughs. It’s almost comical, watching those slithering fakers ply each other with shallow compliments, but Damar has his own pit of all-consuming misery to focus on, not Weyoun and Quark’s business dealings.
The strap of his guitar case eats into his shoulder, adjusting its weight as he heads towards the back. Vulcan would have to freeze over before he lets Keevan transport this guitar — he’s had this telecaster since ‘66, a dazzling cherry red burning brighter than the suns of Cardassia itself, and he doesn’t intend for harm to befall it any time soon. There’s a nondescript staff entrance from the bar and lounge in the front to the actual stage in the back, plastered over with the peeling corners of posters long since torn away. But his own, much to his humiliation, stares back at him, empty-eyed, affixed on the door like an execution order.
He doesn’t even think to acknowledge the two individuals standing stalwart at the door. The tall human man gives him a polite nod, one that he returns stiffly; he’s well dressed, a bit older than the typical rock ‘n roll crowd of overenthusiastic teenagers. Bald, but with a well-trimmed goatee, he’s got a natural poise in those broad, square shoulders, an oddly intellectual affectation about him like a beatnik just past his prime. But the alien who stops him from going through seems far less gregarious, and Damar can’t place his species despite something terribly familiar about his uncanny face, features so slight it’s as if they were pressed into his skin by a sculptor’s barest touch. Regardless, the scorn that radiates from his scowl is clear as day.
“Your pass, sir?” the alien asks, a voice like tumbled gravel. The human man raises an eyebrow at him, a sympathetic smile quirking at his lip.
Damar scoffs. “Real funny,” he grunts, and he makes another move to shoulder past him, only to be met with a deceptively strong hand pushing back at his chest. The alien’s human companion shakes his head, his shoulders shaking with a quiet laugh.
“Perhaps you’ve misunderstood me. I asked for your backstage pass.” So the alien is a security guard; that explains his lackluster choice in clothing, all that drab, bland beige offset by a very daring pair of brown trousers. Damar balks at him, disbelief creased into every line in his face. This is entirely preposterous. He isn’t some fawning groupie, some tabloid reporter, he’s — him , he’s a nascent star, a headliner, he’s teetering right over the brink of finally becoming a household name. And what is fame good for if not for situations like this? He is endlessly scrutinized, worked to the bone, propped up as a record label’s glorified puppet and wrung dry for every infinitesimal drop of artistic prowess — and he can’t even go through a door ?
He jerks his head back to an empty bar, neither Weyoun nor Quark anywhere in sight. He turns back, irritation curling his lip, and the security guard regales him with a stony, practiced indifference, staring down at him from his tall, beak-like nose.
“You can’t be serious. That’s me ,” he grouses as he jabs a black-clawed finger at a poster.
“I am well aware. But I do not make concessions for people just because they happen to have their faces printed on posters,” the security guard remarks impassively, and Damar is suddenly overcome with the urge to tear that horrible thing off of the wall. It doesn’t even look like him — he wonders who people see when they look at that poster, his sideways, careless glance, the pretentiously mused hair cascading over his shoulder, the cigarette dangling limp from his lips. A marvelous study in manufactured authenticity.
“I — ” and his shoulders sag in resignation, carding a hand through his stringy hair. “I don’t have a pass. My manager seems to have neglected to give me one,” he grumbles, trying to will the burgeoning migraine away, and he doesn’t have to see it to feel the indifferent glower of the door’s guardian.
“Just let him through.”
It’s the human’s voice. He lifts his head, and he’s met with an easy smile, a hand lifted in breezy reassurance. “Take it easy, Odo, I’ll go with him. Keep an eye on him, right? I’m sure our rockstar here just wants to get ready for his big night,” the human says, and the alien — Odo — stares at him with those cavernous eyes, icy blue pinpricks peering out of deep sockets. He scoffs. He grumbles. He hems and haws. He, finally, opens the door.
“Very well. I’d hate to be the reason he goes on stage unprepared . And I fully intend,” Odo remarks, “to have a word with you about our protocol regarding my expectations for your behavior at this venue.” Damar, well versed in Weyoun’s patronizing nagging, acknowledges the statement with nothing else but a sneer and a lazy salute. It’s difficult to resist kicking the door closed when it slams behind him.
“Don’t mind him,” the human says lightly, laughing at Damar’s roiling annoyance, “he just runs a tight ship — metaphorically speaking. He’s just had one too many run-ins with troublemakers. Rest assured that Odo’s a decent guy underneath the — ” and he makes a vague gesture, “ — everything. Do you catch my drift?”
“Man, I just got here. I haven’t even done anything yet. This is – this is Quark’s ,” Damar grouses, “not a Bajoran temple. What does he expect me to do, go back there and meditate?”
“Hey, hey, I hear you, man! But like I said — he runs a tight ship. Don’t let this get you down. You play your show, you play by his rules, and you’ll have no trouble. Besides,” he remarks, turning his attention to Damar, “I can’t tell you how excited I am to finally hear you live tonight.” He folds his sunglasses into his pocket, continuing with enthusiasm, “I heard your band practicing up there. Now that’s some real talent. I hear you write most of your stuff yourself? That you even play most of the instruments in your recording sessions? They weren’t lying when they said you really did it all!”
Damar grunts. He doesn’t want to be having this conversation. “I just don’t trust other people not to ruin the stuff I make,” he mutters, ducking his head as his hair curtains his face. “I’d do these shows without session musicians if I could.”
“Session musicians are one thing,” the human concedes sympathetically, “but these are some fine folks playing with you tonight — Damar? Corat? I’m sorry,” he laughs, “I don’t think I’ve got a hand on what is and what isn’t polite with Cardassian names.”
There’s something about his laugh that wrings all the tension from Damar’s shoulders, effused with a warmth that makes him remember what it’s like to talk to people without immediately being frustrated. It’s nothing like Weyoun’s grating simper, which is the only laugh he’s heard in recent memory. This tour has been abysmal, he realizes — he never knew how desperate he was to rush to the finish line until he saw the end before him. He wanted this so badly, he dreamed of becoming a star — now, it just doesn’t feel sustainable. “Just Damar is fine,” he mutters.
Hardly anyone calls him Corat. No one is close enough to him, no one has tried.
He’d prefer it stays that way.
“Damar,” the human repeats, careful consideration placed into each of those two, simple syllables. He extends his hand — such a human affectation, but one Damar is, at least, familiar with — and Damar gives it an awkward shake. “Ben. Benjamin Sisko,” he introduces himself, and that’s — Sisko — that’s Benjamin Sisko —
Damar stares, slack jawed, and immediately relinquishes his grip, recoiling as if he’s been electrocuted. Sisko is one of the most respected producers in the world, the quadrant, the whole entire galaxy, a man of talent, tact, and endless grace. Owner of his own unique, exclusive label, it is a blessing to get your album produced by his hallowed, holy hands, but he’s notoriously elusive to work with: he’s picky with his artists, looking for some special little spark only he seems to recognize. He’d turned down Dukat more than once, much to Dukat’s neverending frustration, and Sisko’s repeated rejections were among the reasons Dukat finally signed with Dominion Records and nuked his own career at the apex of his popularity.
“As I was saying,” Sisko says, taking the merciful hint that the best way to get over Damar’s stupefaction is to simply not acknowledge it, “these guys really know how to rock . They’re some of my most frequent and best collaborators. I recommended them personally to Quark and your manager for your shows here tonight.”
There has to be more to say. These are the times Damar wishes he had Weyoun’s gift of a gilded tongue. He ought to thank him – perhaps, at the very least, admit how honored he is that Sisko has an interest in his work, tell Sisko he’s more than glad to talk to him and he would kill a certain Vorta manager for the hallowed chance to work with him in the future. But the lingering astonishment leaves his throat constricted like a python, barely a sound eking through. He finally manages to splutter out an affirmation: “shit, man. That’s far out.”
At the very least, Sisko laughs.
They round the corner to the backstage area, Damar stepping over wires spilled over the ground like entrails. He hears it all before he sees it; the rich, velvety thrum of a bass being plucked, an anxious, tinny tangle of someone tapping away at a hi-hat. Voices, chatter, a loud laugh, the vibrant sounds of enthusiasm coalescing into a rancorous din that muffles together into a cottony fuzz of background noise. They all look at him, eyes of every color imaginable, admiring, expectant, eager whispers tangled among the droning mish-mash of instruments. Damar’s brief bout of earnest excitement leaves him, and he has suddenly never felt so haggard.
And between all the chaos, the kaleidoscopic flashes of lights and glamorous clothing and aliens from every corner of the quadrant, she stands out like a fiery inferno blazing in the empty night. Her close-cropped hair is a deep, tomato red, her lips that vivid crimson color she’s always seemed to favor. Her eyes are sharp as steel, matching the equally serrated smirk she wears on her face; the Bajoran stares at him, tilting her chin up in defiance, calloused fingers curled around the neck of her bass as if she fully intends to swing it at his head. Her ubiquitous single earring catches the light, a twinkling shimmer like a star.
“Damar,” Sisko introduces, “Nerys. Kira Nerys. The best bassist you could ever find. I’m sure you’ve heard her work – she often does session work for me at my studio.”
“We’re – acquainted,” he manages.
She had to have known. You don’t just sign up for a show like this blind. Then why’d she agree? They both knew it’d probably be best if they just never worked together again, not after all that. This is preposterous — Sisko seems too well-intentioned to have orchestrated such a cruel twist of fate, and Weyoun is too obsessed with ensuring the show goes well to take the time to torment him with his ex-bandmate. Damar splutters, the blankness of shock hardening into a callous scowl. He steadies himself as a pang of anger seizes his better judgement — it’s not Kira he has a problem with, he reminds himself sternly, it’s the fact that Kira is too closely associated with the cumulation of all his past fuck-ups.
“You really ought to hear the solo she’s been working on — it’s got that richness you were really missing in the studio version. She’ll round you out perfectly. I still can’t believe,” Sisko says, turning towards the Bajoran, “you said you’re unacquainted with Damar’s work.”
Damar grits his teeth so hard he feels like he might split fissures into his molars.
“Oh, no , Damar and I go way back,” Kira concedes, all cheer and charm as she gives a playful little punch to Sisko’s shoulder. Sisko looks appropriately puzzled, and she clarifies, “I’m just not so familiar with his newer work, that’s all. I don’t listen to the stuff Damar puts out these days – I’ve never really been too keen on popstars ,” she says through the curve of her lovely crimson lips, and Damar feels his own lip curl back in fury, his claws digging into the palms of his own hands as he watches Kira cock her head, that fiery arrogance alight in her dark eyes.
“Damar!”
He whips around at the sound of his name, his long hair following in an arc, and the human who had greeted him looks appropriately terrified, balking at the vicious anger alight on the Cardassian’s visage. Damar blinks — he steels his expression, working the tension out of his jaw with a swallow. The human, at least, does not seem terribly offended. “I really hope I’m not being a bother – is this a bad time? I just can’t tell you how delighted I am to work with you. I was just starstruck when Ben recommended this gig for me! I’m a big fan, actually,” he says eagerly, snatching up his hand and shaking it with rapturous enthusiasm, “and I loved your last album. So far out! Listened to it every night, nearly wore the record out in the first few months! So sneaky of you to have triplets in the last bit of Veja Ketan , it’s as if you know that those are a drummer’s worst nightmare — and the time signature switches at the beginning of Niala’s Eyes ? You do not make this easy! But I assure you, I will not mess up. I have been practicing for weeks ,” he chatters excitedly, his dark eyes blazing with the sort of overeager fervor Damar hasn’t felt in years. Damar feels exhausted just listening to him.
“Thank you…?” he offers lamely, feeling wrung like a used dish towel.
“Oh, you are very welcome. Julian! Julian Bashir!” the human chirps, releasing his hand. “My God, and you were just saying you know him?” he asks in astonishment, whipping around to Kira, who offers him a pitious shrug. “You never mentioned that! How do you work with the Corat Damar and you just neglect to mention anything about it!”
“Julian, c’mon, don’t be a groupie. This is a soundcheck, not a bloody meet ‘n greet,” another human calls out to him, sounding appropriately exasperated as he leans against an amplifier with a coil of wires draped over his shoulder.
“Just a minute, Miles!” Julian calls back, and he turns to Damar with a conspiratorial grin, nudging him with his pointy, skinny elbow. “Oh, don’t mind him. He’s acting like a real cool cat right now, but we were scheming to get you to autograph some albums for us later. Which, by the way, I really hope you’ll consider doing for us. Just a couple! It’d mean the world to me – and him. To us.” Another fidgety smile, and Julian zips away, vanishing behind the drumkit like a soldier in the trenches. Kira still stands, stalwart, scornful, regarding him with a cool, collected contempt that makes Damar burn with a matching, much less covert anger.
“I’m heading out there, just to see how it sounds. I’ll catch up with you two later. Mr. O’Brien,” Sisko says, giving a nod and a grin to the haggard-looking sound manager, “you have the bridge.”
“Alright,” O’Brien sighs, exhaustion evident in every step he struggles through, “let’s just get this over with. Hook your guitar up, run through something, anything, I’ll check your pedal…”
Damar’s done this enough times to be able to go through the empty motions with minimal brain power devoted to his actions. It is an utterly unremarkable soundcheck, O’Brien pacing between the three of them as he manages to tame the roiling cacophony of a shrieking wah pedal and a deafening drum solo into something more akin to what most would consider music; through it all, past the curtain of his dark hair, head bowed in concentration as his fingers flit up and down the fretboard, Damar catches glimpses of Kira to his right.
She plays just as powerfully as he remembers, the rolling muscles in her bare arms glistening with a thin sheen of sweat as she attacks her solos without a shred of mercy. The buzzing, electric static distorting the ends of her notes reverb directly into the walls of his skull, and every single skillful snap of the string feels like it’s come directly from the inside of his brain as they raise into a solid, slow crescendo, fingers flying as she begins a steady climb up the neck of her instrument, an unrelenting march blurring together faster and faster — he hesitates, he fumbles, his claw catches and he plucks out a sour, discordant chord that makes the Ferengi sound techs wince and Julian nearly obliterate his cymbal.
Quark returns — sans Weyoun — to tell them to wrap it up, get ready for the show. Damar’s innards twist themselves into funny shapes, practically tumbling out of his abdomen and slithering away to safety. He’s somehow never gotten over the roiling anxiety that accompanies performing live. He’s never felt like a proper frontman, like this was where he was meant to be. Once he’s under the lights, once he’s got his foot on that pedal, once he actually starts to shred, he’ll be fine, but until then, he feels like he might vomit all over Quark’s fancy, fancy shoes.
Kira is the first to leave, yanking the bass off of her shoulder as she drops it into its stand, marching towards the exit.
Damar won’t let her get away that easily.
“Kira,” he barks, handing off his guitar to the closest set of open hands as he bulldozes his way across the stage, stumbling over the coils of wire, “we need to talk.”
She turns, her fists tight, her chin high. She doesn’t even look irritated now, as if Damar isn’t worth the effort — if anything, there’s amusement laced into the corners of her patient little smile. “And what if I don’t want to talk?” she proposes.
“Then you shouldn’t signed on to play four fucking shows in a row with me.”
She laughs, too mellifluous to properly be irritating, and crosses her arms, her earring resting against her chin as she tilts her head. “I don’t know if you’ve heard, Damar, but the world doesn’t revolve around you. This is just a job. It’s a good job. I’m not letting an opportunity like this slip by just because you’re involved. I’m a professional,” she explains, patiently patronizing, and Damar feels a lash of anger flare like fat dripped onto a fire — he’s been spending too much time around that Vorta.
He laughs back, harsh and grating, the thrill of a petty insult too tantalizing to resist. “That’s what this is about? Your career — if you could call it that? I could have sworn,” he says, watching Kira turn away from him in disgust as she moves to close the lid of her empty case, “this was about Dukat.”
She slams the latch shut with more force than necessary. “Still mad you never really took off, aren’t you, Nerys?” the Cardassian sneers.
“It’s not about Dukat,” she retorts, her voice hot with hatred as she spits out those two syllables like a rotten tooth, “it’s how you ended up just like him . Some manufactured crony willing to sell yourself to any passing trend — what’s next? Commercials, cereal jingles, movies? I make music . I make my own music, and I make it on my own terms. And best of all, when I work with Ben, I own the music I play. Can’t say the same for yourself, can you, Corat ?” she seethes, and Damar feels a hot flush of humiliation at the way she says his given name with such acerbation.
“Dukat was – Dukat is a revolutionary artist,” Damar snaps, stumbling slightly, and Kira laughs at him, throwing her head back as if Damar’s just sent her into hysterics.
“He was a sham , and you're just afraid to admit it. And you’re just as much a sham since you signed with Dominion Records.”
“At least Dukat’s got records with his name on the front, songs that still actually play on the radio — ”
“I wrote those songs,” Kira hisses, “and you know it.” Her hand is suddenly tangled in the worn fabric of Damar’s shirt as she hauls him close with a deceptive amount of strength, “and I — ”
The Bajoran’s voice skits to a halt, all the creases of fury marring her lovely face vanishing in an instant. If anything, there’s the barest sliver of confusion rippling at the edge of her expression. Being Cardassian, the tall, sleek ridges sloping down his shoulders prevent Damar from turning his head far to the left enough to see whatever’s behind him that’s so downright distressing. Whoever is behind them is quiet — too quiet to be Bashir, Sisko, certainly not Quark —
“I see Benjamin Sisko’s insistence that his provided crew would be professional was a bit … overstated,” Weyoun says in that strange, soft cadence, his presence as frigidly cold as Kira’s flares fiery hot. She narrows her eyes, shoving Damar back with her palm as she regards them both hatefully.
“We’re just catching up,” Kira says bitterly, and she shoots a last, hateful glare at Damar as she shoulders past the Vorta. Damar balks. His eyes dart downwards as Weyoun’s cold fingers slither around his wrist.
“Kilana’s waiting for you in the dressing room,” his manager informs him coolly. “And might I suggest, Damar, not getting into fights with your backing band an hour before your performance — ”
“You interrupted me!” Damar retorts, yanking his hand free — he could throttle the little nuisance.
“And you,” Weyoun says icily, indifferent to Damar’s nascent anguish, “are embarrassing me. Your actions reflect on both me and the integrity of our label — you are our investment,” he says in a slow, even voice, each word clenched through his tight jaw, “and you are proving to be a disappointment. Dominion Records does not give second chances. Leave your petty squabbles to your free time, and I suggest that you focus on your job.”
The Cardassian feels a wordless snarl tug the edge of his lip into an ugly scowl, tension coursing through every ligament in his body — between Kira’s scorching hatred and Weyoun’s frigid scorn, it’s all becoming outright unbearable. He wants to say something, anything, but the miserable weight of fame’s expectations crush his trachea. Every day of the last two years seems to replace the last as a contender for “absolute worst day of his life.”
Inevitably, he says nothing. Damar’s shoulders sag. In resignation, he mutters, “ask Quark to send a drink to my room.”
Weyoun regards Damar up and down. There’s some kind of emotion to be perceived in the way the corner of his mouth twitches, equal parts patronizing pity and vivid disgust, but Damar has never been good at guessing Weyoun’s intentions. “Fine. I’ll come get you when you’re on,” the Vorta informs him. He casts one last glance over his shoulder, narrowing his gaze, he turns away, vanishing into the hall.
—
Vorta do not have the ability to appreciate aesthetics. Damar often supposes that’s why they’re so prevalent in the entertainment industry — it’s all an objective science to them, no confusing feelings or personal tastes involved. Famed as bureaucrats and middle-men, he’s never questioned why Weyoun would work as a manager or why Keevan hauls equipment, but he often wonders why Kilana does wardrobe if she’s just as blind to beauty as the rest of them.
He hates the idea of putting on an act. There’s nothing glam about him or what he does, no glittery eyeshadow, no resplendent feathered trappings, no ridiculous stage costumes. Weyoun always gripes about him going on stage looking like a nobody, and even after investing considerably into his closet, Damar still prefers simplicity above all else. Kilana stands behind him, mussing his hair in the most pretentious, intentionally disheveled way, and he stares at himself in the mirror, eyes unfocused and glazed over in boredom. She might as well be a mortician tidying up a corpse.
“There,” she says with a cloying little simper, patting his cheek affectionately. Vorta are always so cold; Damar had always assumed they were mammals, even if they are more or less just abominations, but their skin retains a glacial chill that’s always felt outright reptilian. “Your jacket?” she offers sweetly, pulling it up over his shoulders. He shrugs it on, the deep smell of leather bleeding past the cigarette smoke, and he runs his finger through the tangled fringe of the sleeves, adjusting the way the dagger-sharp collar rests against the curve of his throat. He catches Kilana and Keevan trading glances at each other through the reflection of the mirror, wearing matching sneers. The Cardassian snuffs out his cigarette in the ashtray, grumbling to himself. Vorta don’t know shit about being cool.
Kilana busies herself tidying up, collecting the little bottle of hair oil and the fine-toothed comb. There’s absolutely no way she could have seen his hand inching towards the bottle at the end of the table, but she must have heard him when he removed the glass stopper. “Are you nervous?” she asks, a sad little pout gracing her lips. “Oh, but you always do such a good job ,” she consoles him with all that saccharine artificiality, “and I’m sure tonight will be just groovy !” The warmth of her voice never reaches her eyes, faker than her plastic earrings.
“It’s just something to take the edge off,” Damar mutters, and he is so absolutely sick of seeing Keevan’s smug face in the mirror. “Piss off, motherfucker. Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” he growls, standing from the vanity chair, and Keevan gives an innocuous little shrug, hefting himself off the couch and folding his arms.
“Good luck,” he offers, the words dripping with outright disdain as a dismissive smirk alights over his gray lips. He meanders to the door, Kilana close behind as she takes dainty little steps in her white vinyl boots. Before she leaves, she flicks on the television set by the door.
“Wouldn’t want you to get bored ,” she purrs, and they both vanish, affording him a rare, privileged moment of privacy.
He grumbles his irritation and finally pours himself a glass, tipping his head back as he downs it all in a single swig. It sticks to his tongue and teeth, burning in his throat and settling like molten lead in his stomach; this is some wretchedly cheap kanar, and he will lodge a formal protest with Quark about it. He’s already paying him a pittance, so the least he can do is provide decent alcohol. He pours himself another heaping slosh, getting to his feet as he walks to the television, twisting the knob. Some western — a human and a Vulcan stand off in the empty desert, guns drawn at the ready. Lame. Some horror — an Andorian with an electric green syringe, grinning maniacally above a reanimated corpse. Garbage. He flips the knob one more time and nearly drops the glass, freezing as his eyes widen and he chokes on a mouthful of kanar.
It’s an old program, a rerun from nearly a decade prior. It's still in black and white, giving it that dreamy haze of unreality, a constructed nostalgia for a time so far gone that it likely only existed in his imagination. It’s a well decorated set, a small, simple stage, velvet curtains and checkerboard tile reminiscent of that midcentury kitsch he so misses; the music starts, the piano, those stirring, sonorous strings, then the warm sound of a brass accompaniment comes to round it out in a swell. The curtains draw back, and a smartly dressed Cardassian man, tall and lean, takes center stage as if the spotlights shine only for him. He has a microphone in his hand, held languid in his elegant fingers.
Somewhere, there’s a someone, for ev-ery-one —
Walking confidently across the stage, the spotlight follows him with an old-fashioned, regal elegance, presented plainly in a black tuxedo with a charming smile. Gone is the age of the ballad, the era of the well-rounded entertainer — but here, for a moment on the television at an odd hour in the night, Damar sees a fractaled glimpse into how simple it all was back then.
Skrain Dukat really was a legendary act. Damar watches, transfixed, settling back in his chair as he’s hypnotized to the way Dukat commands the stage. He was charismatic, he was talented, and he was an excellent vocalist, the very epitome of the sentimental crooner. Damar takes another heavy mouthful of kanar and swallows it down, trying to lose himself in a song he hasn’t heard in ages. This kind of music just isn’t cool anymore — things fade and tarnish, society marches onwards. The good ol’ days become the lost, collective memory of those yearning for simpler times. He knows he ought to come to terms with modernity, but he finds it difficult to abandon the comfort of the past.
For Cardassians, nostalgia was once considered an ailment; those too lost in the throes of it were unfit for life in modern society, for they lacked the prize characteristic of adaptability .
Damar pours himself yet another shaky drink, the camera panning slow over the band in a gentle arc. Artists in well-pressed suits dutifully making real music — and then, at the end, tucked away in the furthest row, there’s him. Fresh-faced, prim and proud, his short-hair carefully coiffed; Damar watches himself play, a voyeur to a snippet of the past presented in a staticky little box. His head bows in concentration as he dutifully strums a guitar resting atop his knee, the heel of his foot tapping along to the beat. He had been so proud to perform that day, marveling that he could be privileged enough to be a part of something as vast and wonderful as a song. Even if he was drowned out by the other accompanying instrumentals, he hardly minded; he supposed one day, if he earned it, he could be just like Dukat, swallowed up in the gleaming shine of the spotlights. He knew it wasn’t his place — and until it was, he was content to be just another nameless artist, glad for even the opportunity to catch a glimpse of greatness.
But it’s all over. Dukat is universally loathed and derided as a tacky, tasteless hack. His work was outdated in barely six short years. And Damar has faith in the music he makes now, he knows he’s doing something amazing, but he supposes his time is limited — as the sun rose on the era of the rockstar, the guitar god, the psychedelic warrior, so too will it one day set. Weyoun is like a fly drawn to carrion, and when Damar’s bones are picked clean and he cannot keep up with the grueling meat grinder of the music industry’s ever fickle whims, he will be discarded.
He’s already starting to struggle to keep the public’s interest.
The camera pans back to Dukat, a perfect smile on that thin face, and the camera drifts, again, to a lovely, red haired Bajoran woman plucking a tall double bass —
Three sharp knocks yank Damar from his focus, and he can barely scrabble to switch the television off before Weyoun lets himself in, his nose wrinkled in preemptive disgust. It doesn’t take him long to see the open, half-empty bottle, then the glass with the last syrupy dregs at the bottom. “Damar,” Weyoun says harshly, kicking the door closed with the heel of his boot as he angrily jams the stopper back into the bottle, “I told you — ”
“I’m fine,” Damar retorts bitterly. He wishes it came out as more of a snap, but he’s worn. Weyoun’s irritation dissolves into panic, worry creasing his face.
“Are you sure?” he asks, outright fretting as he wrings his hands, and Damar is astonished at his uncharacteristic act of empathy. “Because we need to get your energy level up , Damar, I can’t have you half asleep on the stage!” he complains loudly, and of course. Weyoun has his priorities in order. “We cannot afford to mess this up. This will make or break us,” Weyoun enunciates, “this needs to be nothing short of perfect. Typical — I asked the Ferengi to send you up a drink , not the whole bottle,” the Vorta says miserably, pacing to and fro as he tangles a hand into his hair. His eyes are wide, frenzied, and Damar doesn’t think he’s ever seen Weyoun look so utterly frantic. He turns to the Cardassian, spluttering, “are you drunk?”
“No.” Damar is guessing. He’ll know when he tries to stand up.
Weyoun heaves a miserable sigh, fingers pinching the delicate bridge of his nose. “I need this performance to be impeccable. We can stall if we need to, say there’s issues with the sound. Damar, I am serious. No mistakes, no accidents, no — ”
“I’ll be fine.” Damar says it like a finality, hauling himself up out of the chair as he splays fingers over his face, pushing into the orbital ridge of his eye socket as if to stave away an impending headache. Whatever Weyoun thinks — whether he disagrees, agrees, or wants Damar dead — is irrelevant. Weyoun hesitates, some minute spasm of emotion caught between his impassive stoicness. It could have been frustration, from the way his jaw tightened, or perhaps even concern, though far less likely. He inevitably settles on a curt nod, reaching forward to carefully adjust the way Damar’s collar drapes against his lapel. He repositions the silver necklace he has askew over his collarbone, fixing a tangle in the chain. Damar looks down at both their shoes, Weyoun up on the tips of his black chelsea boots to fuss over him — there’s a dark stain of kanar on his jeans, but Weyoun’s vision is likely too poor to notice.
Frustrated with the preening, Damar shoves his hands away as he takes heavy steps towards the door, briefly stumbling over the tattered hem of his jeans. He braces his arm against the doorframe, already recoiling from the rancorous din of the audience shrieking for their star. From behind him, he hears Weyoun, who is barely audible above the cacophony: “are you sure you’re okay?”
Damar doesn’t even bother to nod, throwing his hand up in some meaningless gesture of dismissal as he vanishes into the hall.
—
The flashing lights illuminate the throngs of faces crowding at the base of the stage, Damar catching sight of that security guard from earlier — Odo — keeping the audience at bay. It’d already be disorienting even if he were completely sober, the flickering blue lights erratically catching their faces as if viewing a film reel missing every other frame. Worshippers at the altar of rock ‘n roll, devotees praying to the amplifiers and light machines; they are packed in here, crowding each other for a glimpse of their hero, shrieking his name into hoarse incoherency before Damar’s even said a single word or played a single note.
He’s out of it. He’s half blinded from the spotlights, his senses sanded into stubs from drinking one (or four) too many glasses of kanar. He almost wishes he took Weyoun up on that offer to stall, just so he’d have a bit more time to collect himself, or maybe an opportunity to run out the door and vanish forever. He just has to get this over with, and his head hangs on his shoulders, hands gripping the mic in an effort to remind himself where he is, what’s expected of him. The weight of the guitar strap biting into his shoulder feels realer than anything else in the room.
Setlists. Solos. A simulacrum of a smile, something or another.
He never bothers to introduce himself, and it’s never been an issue before. It seems like useless posturing — they all know who he is, because they’ve been chanting his name for an hour. He lifts his hand, placing the heel of his brown boot atop the pedal — maybe a more seasoned showman would wait to captivate them all, hold them at the edge of their seats as he casts that mesmerizing spell, but Damar isn’t quite so attentive. He slams out the first chord like he’s smashed a bottle on the ground.
He initially had no idea how the show could possibly be heard over the welling hysterics, but Miles O’Brien doesn’t disappoint. Julian absolutely destroys the drums, slamming through the songs with a single minded thoughtfulness and an inhumanly mathmathetical precision — his arms move faster than seems physically possible, head bowed in deep concentration as the crashing cymbals compete with the thudding way Damar’s heart beats behind his ribs. Kira’s rich, velvety bass fills in each and every gap, the perfect pounding rhythm over which the guitar shrieks, a wicked distortion careening the ends of her notes into white noise and flaring static. And for all his misery, for all his festering self-hatred and the sickening buzz of cheap kanar and the uncomfortable situation with Kira and whatever’s going on with Weyoun, Damar utterly annihilates the show. Weyoun’s always bitching about hiring a lead guitarist so Damar can be free to be a proper frontman, but Damar has always refused. It’s never been about Damar’s voice, unique as it is, hoarse, deep and tattered, raw like a frayed nerve. It's always been about his guitar, how he outright shreds , his long, dark hair hanging like a curtain as he jerks his head back, gnashing his teeth in focus as his fingers fly in a tangle up and down the fretboard. He uses his nail to bend the string, forcing out a warbling cry from the instrument, and he lifts up the heel of his shoe and stomps on the pedal, a distorted, delirious ripple yanked from the shrieking telecaster like some hazy, cosmic jive.
He strums out a single note, then he raises his arm high in the air, breathless as he continues to skillfully flit his digits over the fingerboard, each sustained note wailing into a slurry of an electrifying vibrato. His pushes the toe of his boot into the wah pedal, curling the edge of the note in the perfect sweet spot to dissolve it all into pure, howling feedback, the amps screaming in protest as he absolutely blows their minds , the audience surging forward in a sustained, screaming wall of desperate hands, reaching out blindly for the chance to touch greatness. The vibrating tremolo practically buzzes the marrow in their bones, and he, for a moment, remembers what it’s like to love music, to lose himself in it, to feel the same fiery passion and vivid ecstasy that Dominion Records seems desperate to snuff out of him. These are the moments he could live in forever, the split few seconds high on adrenaline under the sweltering stage lights that make being trapped in that horrible fucking bus with that horrible fucking Vorta worth it. Maybe his misguided terror of being forgotten and discarded inspired him to decide to destroy everyone’s hearing tonight — this telecaster has seen some shit, chipped and scratched, but it feels like his sole reason to live. His right hand splays over the strings, thinking quick as he yanks the strap off of his shoulder as he lifts his guitar aloft over his head.
He holds the note for as long as possible, heel still firmly on the pedal. It’s a single sustained warble, his arms outright shaking the entire guitar to really force that note to tremble, and the hushed, hypnotized quiet that falls over the audience fills him with the only sense of power he’s ever felt in his life. He breathes, his chest heaving, his arm trembling, and he surveys the slack-jawed bevvy of overwhelmed attendees stretching out into the darkness before him. He grins, welling with elation, and he moves to swing the strap back over his shoulder.
His hand slips over the neck of the guitar, his other hand too off balance to catch the body. Once the adrenaline of a show well done has worn off, he shakily finds himself a bit more disoriented than he remembered. The soaring high of success drops off like a car careening over the edge of a cliff, and he barely manages a strangled noise of shock before the cherry red telecaster tumbles out of his grasp and smashes onto the stage, bouncing once harmlessly, then plummeting to its death in the cleared out area directly below the stage. The neck snaps clean in two as the deafening feedback screeches into the amps. The audience recoils at the agonizing dissonance, and even Damar clamps his hand over his ears, the sound going straight to the roots of his gritted teeth. His vision blurs from the blinding brightness, and he finally manages to tear his gaze away from the ruined guitar smashed below his feet, frantic eyes Kira’s equally astounded gaze. She clutches the neck of her bass tighter as if she anticipates Damar’s coming after it next.
By the time the feedback subsides, there is no room for stunned silence; in a sudden rush, an explosion of frenzied delirium, the audience is suddenly calamitous — not in their objection, but their praise, screaming his name and surging past the overwhelmed Ferengi security in an effort to clamor past the barricade and tear apart the broken guitar like jackals to a fresh corpse. Damar stumbles, a few desperate fans dragging themselves onto the stage, a tangle of hands snatching at his jacket, his jeans, any part of him within immediate reach, and Odo is forced to yank them back, stragglers snapping strings and ripping the wood like their life depends on it.
Damar’s vision still swirls in a kaleidoscope of color, a sharp, tinny ringing piercing his ears. He blindly turns to his right and abruptly leaves the stage, barely avoiding knocking over the microphone in the process. There, in the darkness past the lights, the amplifiers, the equipment, he spies a ghostly white face in the dim shadows; Weyoun’s jaw is slack, hand braced against the wall, flagrant disbelief etched on every inch of his wan visage. He doesn’t need to see the hysterics, because he can more than hear them — they still scream for Damar, they still rattle the walls with their frenzied adoration. Damar has never been able to decode Weyoun’s inscrutability; the Vorta’s strange, hollow eyes rove towards him, his head following in a slow arc to accompany the blank stare. Weyoun never shuts up, but for once, he’s absolutely silent. Damar feels his breath quicken, panic coursing through his bloodstream as he flickers through every possibility of how badly he’s ruined his own life through one stupid, careless mistake, how thoroughly Weyoun plans to destroy his career and snuff out every chance he had at making his mark on music like a discarded cigarette. His eyes rove over every minute crease in Weyoun’s visage, desperate for some semblance of understanding so he can just figure out which of the thousand ways he’s going to pay for his stupid little stunt, but Weyoun is just — staring, all the cunning malice or snide arrogance gone in that barren gaze.
“So what? I fucked up,” Damar snaps, heaving a desperate breath as his stomach churns in wretched apprehension, and Weyoun — laughs.
He throws his head back, fettering into giggles staved behind a dainty hand placed over his mouth; his shoulders shake with the residual amusement, fingers crinkling the paper held against his chest, and the barest flush of lavender dapples over his cheeks from the exertion. “Oh,” Weyoun manages between another choke of mirth, “you — you absolutely did. Egregiously. Entirely! But it’s fine. Damar, really, it’s fine, I promise!” A hand clasps over his shoulder, fingers tightening, and after a moment, Weyoun readjusts his collar again, pressing it down against his lapel. “Don’t worry about anything. I’ll take care of it,” he soothes him, and Damar swallows, choking on his stupefaction. “Get some rest, Damar, and we’ll talk about replacing your guitar tomorrow,” he assures him, and he leaves him with one last, quaint pat to the arm, a vibrant, cheery smile alight on his face. He turns briskly on his little heel, not deigning himself to look back, and vanishes down into the unlit hall.
Damar is in such deep shit.