Elim Garak (simpletailor) wrote in parabolical, @ 2008-12-14 10:29:00 |
|
|||
The Promenade was a rush of people evacuating the habitat rings for the docking ports. Bajoran mothers dragged their children by the hand, calling out to their husbands to hurry up with the bags. Shop owners were closing up their doors and grabbing what last bit of merchandise they could before the ships departed. The Federation personnel on Deep Space Nine had been on high alert since the announcement of the invading merged Dominion and Cardassian fleet. They were working overtime to evacuate all Bajoran (and, in some cases, non-Bajoran) citizens to the planet. It was more than a hub-bub of traffic and frenzy. It was like a blowout sale on Denevan crystals.
"You're sure you won't come with me?" Ziyal asked, almost pleadingly, as she and Garak followed the crowd to one of the main docking ports.
Garak almost laughed, but to protect her innocence he stifled his instinct to do so. She was young and still had a lot to learn about the world, and about him.
"I don't think I'd be very welcome on Bajor."
"I'm not going to be very popular there, either," she replied.
Garak paused in the middle of the pathway, turning to face her. She was afraid. He could see it in her eyes. But she always seemed to be afraid. Perhaps it was to be expected. She had known little else than fear since she'd been reunited with her "family." But Garak just grinned. He had a certain knack for making even the most disastrous of situations seem so casual. If he'd learned nothing else from his time in the Obsidian Order it was to turn nonchalance into a method of self-preservation. Calm. Casual. Almost disinterested. It made him look like the brave man he wasn't. But, if nothing else, perhaps it would calm a young girl's wounded heart.
"My dear, you are half-Bajoran. So at least half of you will be accepted. Besides, I'm sure Major Kira's friends will take good care of you," he said.
There was a pause and Garak could tell that Ziyal was choosing her words carefully. She wanted the impossible from him. A former member of the Obsidian Order seeking refuge on Bajor? It was like asking him to willingly walk into a prison camp he would no doubt never be able to leave. But he forgot that she didn't see things that way. To her the Occupation only broke apart her already broken family.
"But what's going to happen to you?"
Garak's smirk was uncanny. And this was how the simple tailor used his best nature to solve unsolvable problems.
"Let me tell you a story. I once knew a Cardassian, a dashing, handsome young man with a promising career. And then one day, through no fault of his own, he found himself exiled and alone, with nowhere to turn. But did he give up? No. Instead he struck upon a brilliant plan. Rather than fleeing for the rest of his life, he sought shelter in the one place no one expected him to go. In a stronghold of his people's most hated enemies. There, surrounded by hostile strangers, he built a life. And there, against all odds, against the merciless logic of the Universe itself, he thrived."
For the first time since their farewell began, Ziyal smiled, amused and comforted by his comical mannerisms. It was a silly story, but it made her adore him even more. Even in the far reaches of the universe, the knight in shining armor fantasy soared.
"By becoming the greatest tailor in the Galaxy."
"The moral, my dear, is to never underestimate my gift for survival."
The bustle of people around them was like a noisy buzz in the back of Garak's brain. The Promenade was normally an open and spacious place, but at the moment he was beginning to feel a certain claustrophobia settle in. As though his mind expected the Bajorans to enclose upon both of them, shuffle them back and forth, until they were crushed by the mob. But that was more than an over-exaggeration of the senses. It was a busy place, but hardly a scene of overpopulation. Garak took a deep mental breath and tried to focus on the young lady in front of him.
Ziyal hadn't noticed any sense of despair in Garak, although she probably had a secret hope that he would be saddened by her absence. She was admiring his expression, trying to mentally memorize every varying coloration of grey in his skin and every curve of his facial ridges. Such was the fascination of a young person in love. She leaned in for a kiss--
. . . . .
Garak felt a very familiar tingling sensation as his molecules began to scramble themselves and convert into energy. Normally he wouldn't notice the almost tickling stimulation of his body, because normally he knew when he was going to be transported. But this transporter lock took him completely by surprise. Ziyal's face, once clear in her closeness, suddenly blurred and blinked out of existence.
When Garak rematerialized he found himself slightly disoriented. He half expected to find himself in the infirmary, the victim of a cruel (and poorly timed) joke by Dr. Bashir. Or perhaps behind an energy field in the brig of the Defiant as Sisko's first Cardassian prisoner of war. A rather extravagant notion, of course, but not entirely improbable. The Captain had never exactly welcomed Garak with open arms upon the station. Though why was beyond Garak. He performed a humble and meagerly profitable service to the men and women of Starfleet. It was amazing how many times they needed their uniforms tailored. But, if the Federation had invested in sturdier fabrics, then Garak would be out of a job. So he certainly wasn't complaining. There was also the horrible possibility that he could end up on the bridge of Dukat's ship facing a phase pistol. That would have been most unfortunate.
His imagination was far from correct in its theories, however. Garak was on a street. An unfamiliar street with ground-dwelling vehicles speeding past and human pedestrians. The buildings looked archaic in Garak's eyes, and tasteless in their decor, for that matter. A female child being pushed along by her mother in a stroller looked up at Garak as they passed. She didn't know if she should laugh or cry. Either reaction would have surprised the Cardassian tailor. As far as he knew all Federation education history pads had added the Cardassian wars into their curriculum. Even a child of four should have been able to point out a Cardassian in a picture book.
But perhaps Garak overestimated the human education system.
The bell ringing and sudden shouting took his mind off his thoughts of the curious glances he was receiving from passerbys. He turned to see a rather rotund fellow with a white beard and a ghastly red suit shaking a bell. Garak simply couldn't help himself. He had to make a comment. So he took the few steps over to the corner of the sidewalk, opened his mouth to speak, and--
"HO HO HO! MERRY CHRISTMAS!"
Garak blinked.
The jolly man with the large belly looked over at Garak, did a double-take, and blinked as well. For a moment he stopped ringing his bell.
The silence between them was awkward.
Then Garak cleared his throat and mustered up the strength to speak the first words.
"My dear sir, I hope you don't take this too personally, but you really ought to speak to your clothier. He's really put you on an unfortunate path of embarrassment and public ridicule. Were I more prepared at the moment for charity I would embrace the opportunity to provide you with a few slips of latinum, because you are sorely in need of it."
The red suit with the white fur was almost as hideous as Dr. Bashir's tennis outfit. Though, to be fair to the poor doctor, at least his tennis attire made for a more arousing view of the sport.
The Salvation Army Santa Claus stared at Garak. And, like the child, it was as though the man didn't know if he should laugh or throw the donation bucket at Garak's head. But he was a Santa, after all. So goodwill had to come first.
He laughed.
Garak found this reaction to be very ... fascinating. He didn't realize he was so amusing.
"You Trekkies are all alike," the Santa said, his accent suddenly less North Pole and more Jersey shore. "But seriously, man. If you're not going to make a donation, could you stand somewhere else? You're scaring away the other pedestrians."
Garak quirked his left eye ridge. The colloquialism trekkies didn't mean anything to him. He wasn't sure if he was supposed to take offense to it or not.
"I'm scaring them away? I'm not the one who needs to lay off the rippleberries and raktajinos. But, if you insist. Just promise me you'll have your wife find you a new tailor. I'd offer my services but I've found myself a bit displaced from my shop."
Garak nodded his respects to the fat man and turned to walk down the sidewalk. Within seconds the bell was ringing again and the Santa was shouting at strangers to have a Happy Holiday! while awaiting clinks of monetary value to fall into his metal donation canister.
The pointing and staring continued as Garak followed the crowds at crossing walks and around the perplexing architecture of the unknown city. Dogs barked at him as they passed. People honked at him as they drove. And the tailor found himself most bewildered when an Earth man raised his hand, fingers splayed in a separated V symbol and told him to "Live long and prosper." He certainly hoped his features hadn't suddenly become Vulcan in this dreamworld.
"It's official," Garak said out loud to himself as he stopped to lean up against the side of a building. "I've gone insane. Either that or this is another one of Dr. Bashir's sick holosuite fantasies. Computer?! Computer! Show me the exit! ... Please?"
[ Opening dialogue credit to the writers of ST: DS9 episode "Call to Arms" ]