HELL OF A GAME!

BOLD indicates open for new plotting. links for open unplotted calls. currently: none.

DS9 CANON. (plotting preferred) capt sisko / jake sisko / brunt / kasidy yates / miles o’brien / worf / martok / elim garak / damar* / laas / the founder / weyoun (any)* / lwaxana troi / mora pol / **other cameos as needed by plot.

ORIGINAL CHARACTERS. (plotting required) kinatud detka (cardassian military) / prorall kalnok (cardassian scientist) / uktu niwes (bajoran prylar) / zeveth (vorta scientist)*** / axel (alien smuggler) / find additional information here, or ask :)

NON-DS9 CANON. (plotting required, interacts w/ respective era and/or DS9 AU) ENT: phlox TOS: spock DISCO: jett reno SNW: uhura, hemmer PIC: vadic

*Damar and Weyoun are reserved only for @/kardasior / @/vortacloned <3

**special case threads running for Julian Bashir and Nog, currently discontinuing any new threads for either of them.

"take it. like this, in two hands."

he holds the bat'leth out toward the boy, eyes darting to check over his grip.

“ Turning of tides warrants the thinking of Starfleet, we must not allow ourselves to be so assured of victory that it gets wrenched from our grasp. ”

crouched down, hands folded over each other and acting as a pillow for sharp chin, mutt’s head cocks to the side, resting against the cool surface of the counter. the voice does pull him his silent observations, but, due to familiarity, he doesn’t turn around. he stands, and looks at phlox once he’s seated, the chair closing the difference in height between them.

“ liked it so much, she nearly bit my fucking finger off. “ typical gruff and coarse language is paired with the barest ghosts of a tight-lipped smile. he deliberates, chewing slightly on the inside of his cheek. his next words come in stilted – but nevertheless, confident – denobulan. “ i wasn’t aware they had as sharp of teeth as they do. “

His enthusiasm drew hers forth, a little smile and a light in her eyes despite her uneasy state. “There’s nothing like it,” she told him, soft but excited. “Whole worlds and times open up– the universe is so much bigger than I imagined! It’s… well, take this place. Do you have any idea how different it is from the Wheel– you know, the first human space station with artificial gravity? The designs are so similar, but the culture, the technology, the size, the knowledge!”

Some color came back to her cheeks as she spoke, excitement bringing blood to her face. Perhaps the dizziness waned, or perhaps she was simply distracted from it, but she felt better for talking. 

“The actual travelling– when it was a vehicle it was fine, but without that it’s disorienting. Going from one place to another travelling through a dimension you can’t see… It’s a little like beaming, actually,” Zoe added, as it occurred to her.

“Ahh, yes, the Wheel!” He turned back from the computer where he had quickly drawn up a pertinent file. “Of course! Every kid on Earth learns about the Wheel by the second year of school, but-- you don’t mean to say that’s where-- excuse me, when-- you’re from?”

The doctor was a beacon of youthful interest. So he was often told, and so it was true, regardless of the fact that he had only recently passed into the wizened age of 30.

     DAMAR HAS had enough. 

     HE HASN’T, actually ( the phantom thought of inquiring if Weyoun would mind joining him in his quarters is snatched up and ripped into a thousand pieces as soon as it manifests in the more pathetic corner of his addled brain ), but he entertains a mortifying fantasy of the Colonel or the Captain walking through the door at the wrong time and getting the wrong impression about the Legate and the Diplomat. He casts his gaze to the window, the faint reflection of the two of them like a mirage among the stars – it’s always been the two of them, standing in the shadows of the decaying, bloated corpses of their enormous empires, right hand of the Founder and adjutant to the Prefect of Bajor himself. Weyoun’s prim and poised posture, his even expression on his uncannily symmetrical face – Damar’s persistently shameful slouch, the way he can never get his hair to stay quite in place.

     THE HAND along his arm commands his attention, and he readily gives it. Weyoun has authority imbued in his veins and Damar has never quite grown out of a knee-jerk respect for his superiors. That poisonous smile gives him a headrush, but – no attachments. No holding back. He has to be ready. He’ll die for his planet if that’s what this war requires of him. Whatever Weyoun thinks, whatever he’s so certain about, being all right – it’s just his ego talking. 

     ❝ THE INFORMATION you gave us on the Breen dampening weapon could change the course of the entire war. This could be it – it could all be over, sooner than a month. The Colonel and I … and Garak, ❞ Damar grumbles as he rolls his eyes, ❝ leave tomorrow for the mission. No matter what happens, we will be victorious, and that weapon will be in Federation hands. But – if I, ❞ he starts, looking back down at their boots, his lips thinning into a grim line, ❝ if I, ❞ he tries again, fingers squeezing down on Weyoun’s brittle ones, ❝ if I don’t come back. If I die. Then … ❞

     HE GIVES a bitter smile. He seems tired, resignation heavy in the lines of his face. Neither he nor Weyoun were ever the type of person for sentiment, despite how dangerously close they skirt to it. ❝ It’s your fault. That means the so called ‘ intelligence ’ you found was bullshit, and you’re as awful at your job with the Federation as you were with the Dominion. ❞

A LAUGH dances from the Vorta’s throat, and his eyes shine with it.  “ Oh, this is what I find so fascinating about you, Corat Damar! ”  He curls his hands into the Legate’s, frail, sly things slipping unafraid under the power of a leader of Cardassia.  “ Always the pessimist! And such blind confidence! How gratifying it is to know that in your final hours, it will be me comforting your thoughts by taking the blame. ”

Weyoun knows his own power; it was divined to him. It’s the reason he can look so fond and feel so insidious, the reason he can slide his hand from the Legate’s now, and smooth it up to direct Damar’s gaze with no more than the lightest touch.

“ But I’m afraid I can’t afford you that comfort, as my information is sound, ”  he continues, equally light,  “ and you will see me again. Whatever faith in me you lack, this time I will prevail. We both will. There is no acceptable alternative, not for the Dominion, not for Cardassia... ”

                   vorta pride. or maybe dominion pride? siraba isn’t sure which it is, and she doesn’t really care. she’s met a lot of cocky, arrogant people in her life, and they’re all the same. but any scientist worth their beans always puts the science, the TRUTH before their own ego. and siraba knows that if zeveth is as good as she claims to be, she didn’t get there by feeding her own ego. which means that there’s at least a little bit of her that’s going to be willing to listen.

“it’s not about whether the research is federation or dominion. i don’t love the federation either. it’s not as if they’ve ever done very much for me. but an answer is an answer, no matter who or where it comes from. you know that. i know you do.” siraba shakes his head, pointing to something on the screen. “i know this won’t be a one-time easy fix. it could take generations, like you said. and we’re not doctors. it’s not our responsibility to save as many lives as possible. but what we can do is protect future ones. if we can modify the recessive gene to function more like a vaccine, then it may not help the jem’hadar already reliant on ketracel-white, but it may prevent it moving forward. now. is that something you can do, or not? after all. YOU’RE THE EXPERT.”

Zeveth must be satisfied with what she hears, because she tips her chin up and away from broad disdain with a sniff. Facts are facts, that remains. But when it comes to Federation practices and biases, here they will have to acknowledge they may be relying on an uncontrolled variable. Very well. They’ll try and try again, if they have to, at any cost. At least the Ferengi seems to be on the same page.

“ just the habitat ring, ” sheila responds, now having straightened herself out. “ forgot my PADD on my way out - only realised i’d left it behind when i got to the promenade. ”

sisko’s offer catches her by surprise, causing her to do a slight double take up towards him. surely, she thinks, he’d have something more pressing to attend to, rather than escort the elderly around the base. “ oh! y’sure? i mean- only if you’re not busy, of course. ”

                quark gives a tight-lipped smile, his own awkwardness and inherent discomfort in talking about this beginning to set in. or maybe it’s fear. the confirmation that this is real. that it’s happening. or maybe he just really, really hates talking to people’s parents.

“it’s…. recent,” he admits, which is both the truth, and a lie. it’s certainly been long enough — long enough for nog and jake to get engaged and married, and turn to pestering the two of them about it. “but… thank you.” 

relieved that mora took the news as well as he did, quark sighs and sinks down onto a stool, tapping through the files on the holo-screen in front of him. “i’m sending the information now,” he says. “but don’t worry. my people will be handling all the preparations. all you have to do his show up.” he looks uncertain for a moment. “i’m HOPING it won’t be a conflict, but really, that’s up to you. now, i know you and odo have had your disagreements in the past, and i also know that it’s been a long time since you last saw each other. frankly, he doesn’t talk about you much, and i think he tries to put the past behind him as much as he can while he figures out who he is as an… individual, or whatever, but—”

quark shrugs, and takes a shot. “you’re like, basically his dad, right? you’re pretty much the only family he has — more than the founders, anyway. so. i think he’d want you there, even if he doesn’t know it yet. he’ll regret it if you’re not.”

the doctor shakes his head, gently removing his glasses and folding them.

“ i don’t know, quark. the last time i spoke directly with him since his return was over two years ago. oh, we’ve certainly exchanged correspondence, but nothing of great import. i ask him questions about his life, and he gives me one word answers. i’d had no idea until you told me he was still on freecloud! i’d hoped that maybe, maybe, after so many years, we might have come to better terms, not-- that i’m not grateful for what we do have, and at this point i don’t expect a great deal more, but i can’t tell you with any certainty how he’ll react. still... ”  he straightens somewhat at his desk, looking pleased.  “ i am proud of him, and if you seriously think he’d regret my not being there, then i’ll absolutely make the effort. you can assure him when he finds out, he won’t get any trouble from me. ”

███  KEEVAN; //.   IT IS SO DIFFICULT TO pretend he does not feel a fear that is beyond comprehension. biting down on the sides of his cheek as his jaw clenches to cease such shameful trembling as his face is cradled by the foundress’ hand. smooth, cold. soft in touch, but hardly anything but in motion. she acts like a mother would— but  there is no warmth, no coddling. she is still a god, a supreme being & he is merely the the ant of which he knows at any time she can crush under her thumb. his eyes shut. tight. hiding those blue hues. lips pressed thin as possible. he waits for the moment to be over. he prays. she, before him, to which he prays to & yet in his mind does he pray ! he plead ! 

             she retracts & he allows himself to exhale a breath he did not know he was keeping in. eyelids flutter open, his face flushes. his gaze locked to the floor beneath him. he would do anything to not be here in this moment. why did he allow himself to be lead in such a direction that culminated in this ? his stomach turns in spite of his emptiness. he listens, but he stays quiet. silent. a good boy. his memories are cloudy but by each moment that passes it thins out more & more. the prison, the ship. that captain. the founder of that station. it feels so far away & yet not quite unlike a dream. cowardly is a good term. he focuses, he keeps his mind to the now.

             however the now has yet more fears for him in stow. head lifts, eyes lock now on the face of the foundress. wide & filled with horror. his attention fully switches to the scientist. zeveth. he knows her. he knows. they haven’t met, yet they know each other in a way he can’t dare to articulate. his blood runs cold, his breaths shallow. the scientist looks upon him like prey & she the hunter who is being gleefully handed a free hunt. something stirs within him. defiance. new, bold. forbidden.  ＂ WAIT. ＂ a hand held up at the foundress as if to call her to pause. his voice strained & desperate. all at once does it hit him his actions now. speaking out of turn, demanding a pause. what a fool ! defective ! defective ! a swallow, the hand held aloft trembles but he finds words still.  ＂ —wait. my memory comes to me still. the federation wasn’t aware that i could be reawoken, they don’t understand how we vorta work. i heard things. viewing my memories uploaded to the network won’t provide the information i can recall. i heard things. in that prison, when they tried to interrogate me.

             i-i can prove this to be useful. ＂ head tilts slightly, gaze shifts to zeveth for a moment then back to the founder. hand then moves to press against his chest. he bows deeply.  ＂ my….. defect, can be—- turned into something useful. if you give me the chance. as undeserving as i am.＂

SHE IS CALLED TO PAUSE. the heavy hammer of expectation swinging mere inches from keevan’s head, she turns, and the air is dead with the impending weight of it.

even the scientist has gone rigid.

fear. she can sense it off both solids like a red alert, and she is exorbitantly bored. these are excuses, pathetic, cast out frantically in place of an honest plea -- she never will understand this resistance to the inevitable, and there is little time to waste. war is upon them, and the link is no longer safe.

yet... she cannot deny, it is a loss. keevan had been one of the results of many decades, meant to be more easily upgradeable, adaptable, until that adaptability had proven too great a cost.

“ zeveth. ”

the scientist appears close by her side in an instant.

“ i want you to put a hold on your procedures. yes, ”  the foundress steps forward, shifting her icy attention,  “ you are undeserving, keevan. you have strayed from the path and you are not as devoted as you once were, that much is clear. but i will give you this chance. see that you do not squander it: if you can prove your loyalty to the dominion, perhaps we can find other ways to help you. ”

she turns away.

     THE SIBILANCE of his name exhaled on that eerie, reedy tenor twists his stomach, his throat swelling tight as he swallows over and over again around the roiling tension clinging to every fiber of his muscles. The Vorta, despite their diminutive disposition, are far from powerless; Weyoun wields deception like a scepter in a bone-white fist, the mere illusion of intimidation somehow more imposing than a seven-foot Klingon with a blood-rusted bat’leth. This is all fake; his Cardassian military training has made the inner mechanizations of his thoughts an impenetrable fortress, disciplined and frigid, cold like bitter steel, but all it takes is for him to say his name, and the stifling fog between them dissipates. The look on Damar’s face is positively Terran: some terrible loneliness in those ochre eyes, the way the scaled ridges over the sockets furrow as if in acute agony. There’s a shuffled, half-step forward, following the Vorta’s lead, and when Weyoun does not coldly step back to maintain his distance, Damar closes the last of the space between them. 

     THE DIFFERENCE in height makes the gesture awkward, and he’s somehow distantly aware Weyoun must be terribly uncomfortable crushed in a constricting embrace against an armored breastplate. But there’s reassurance that he is alive – the warble in his voice was one thing, the tantalizing little flicker in his eyes when his placid mask leaves his face like dropped frames on a staticky video, but the solidity of him – and his strange, sluggish, alien heartbeat, the residual warmth from his unfamiliar, mammalian veins – is somehow all the confirmation needed. Not confirmation that Weyoun is telling the truth – he is still likely lying, even if he petulantly insisted he wasn’t – but that he is alive. That he was not another mistake felled by Damar’s brash decisions and blind loyalty to a lost cause. And that he’ll stay that way – he hopes, more than anything, he stays that way. 

     THE EMBRACE is short lived, and Damar roughly pushes him away after the briefest moment. Cardassian romance is often likened to a lovely flower with terrible thorns; it is, perhaps, the fondest sort of violent shove you could ever give someone you care about. ❝ You wouldn’t, ❞ he spits, ❝ because that involves risk, and you’re a sniveling little coward, always running away from the consequences of your actions. But, ❞ he admits, his voice dropping, the slightest adjustment as if to say he understands, ❝ you didn’t want to compromise your resistance. And I respect that. That is the only thing about you that I respect. ❞

     IT HAS been a very lonely few months. His affection for him is as welcome – and persistent – as a particularly nasty infection. He loathes his smug, shitty face, that whiny drawl in his voice, the way he’s always making excuses. But there is comfort in familiarity – there is something to admire in the strange, selfless bravery of one aberrant little clone. 

     ❝ … CORAT, ❞ DAMAR mumbles, suddenly very embarrassed. ❝ You should … call me – Corat. Well ? We’re going to die any day now, ❞ he sneers, setting his gaze out at the stars in the window, ❝ so just cut to the chase and use my given name. I didn’t have to tell you – you probably already knew it, didn’t you ? You vile little ingrate. It was in your psychographic profile, ❞ he scoffs, sarcastically imitating Weyoun’s posh accent. 

  “ It was, ”  Weyoun’s voice comes out a breathless huff,  “ in your psychographic profile. Corat. ”  His smile, pleased and perverse, is equal to that most affectionate demonstration, which, yes, bent his twiggish bones in unpleasant ways and yes, perhaps left a metal imprint along his softened jaw, but it also ushered in a welcome vitality in an unwelcome place, assurance that all was right. By the Founders they’d been brought together, and by the Founders, in some way, they’d been brought together again, side by side, as it should be.

The hand that crawls like a church mouse along Damar’s arm is nevertheless concrete in its intent -- look at me, is its demand.  “ You have changed, haven’t you? ”  says Weyoun, as though there were anyone else present to listen. It's not because of the more intimate name, Corat, nor that wholly traitorous look, and it certainly hadn’t been evident in the embrace (certainly not); there is a line between the Legate’s eyes now that was never there before, a new burden that cuts deeper than the rest, and it is Weyoun’s distinct obligation to deconstruct it.