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From: "Keith & Jessica Bratcher" <campbratcher@psci.net>
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Date: Sun, 9 May 2004 22:51:41 -0500
Subject: [ASCEM-S] NEW DS9 "Nineteen Shades" 1/12 (G/B) [NC-17]
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Title: Nineteen Shades
Author: Penumbra
Contact: penumbra at clinched dot net
Series: DS9
Rating: NC-17 for m/m sex, language, implied violence
Codes: G/B, O'B, D, Qu
Summary: When a group of Cardassian dissidents arrives on DS9, one of
Archive: Go right ahead, as long as you keep this long-ass header
intact. Pweeze.
Disclaimer: (gong) Paramount owns all / with Viacom. Please don't 
sue; / treat this as fair use. (gong)

Assorted Warnings: explicit m/m sex; implied icky violence;
four-letter words; numerous Cardassian traditions, Kotra rules, and
Kardasi words I pulled right out of my ass; obfuscated amateur chess;
some mush that hopefully avoids melodrama and excessive purple prose;
occasional Brit English spelling and vocabulary. All mistakes herein
are exclusively mine.

Setting and Spoilers: Set a day or two after episode 5x22 'Empok Nor'
so spoilers galore for all that came before that. 

Feedback: Comments, constructive criticism, and mash notes accepted
with heartfelt gratitude either on-list or via email at the contact  
address above. 

-------------------------------------------
Nineteen Shades, by Penumbra (part 1/12)
-------------------------------------------


P r o l o g u e
- - - - - - - - 

Elim Garak was a man of considerable vice, yet he had his virtues. One
of them was ruthless self-honesty and that night, such a trait allowed
him no sleep. 

They pained Garak, the recent defeats that were both personal and
collective. Dukat, that insufferable fool, had aligned Cardassia with
the Dominion -- a move with immediate tactical advantages, but with
strategic implications that were frankly appalling. To be first
humiliated with Bajorans and then Klingons, his proud, strong people
had been reduced to the punching bag of the Alpha Quadrant, but that
in no way warranted Dukat's actions. And now Jem'Hadar soldiers
strolled down streets he, a natural-born Cardassian, could not.

Strolling along the upper level of the Promenade at the early hours of
the morning, Garak paused at a window that faced the wormhole. That
moment, there was nothing but the vast blackness of space dotted with
the steady light of distant stars. One of those stars, he knew, was
Sli'i, the star Cardassia Prime orbited. If he were to close his eyes,
he knew he could feel the memory of its light, hot and golden and
somehow soothing, as if he'd stood underneath it just yesterday. But
he knew better than to torment himself so. It would only serve to
remind him what he'd lost in the game of games he had played and lost
that one time in a lifetime of victories both bloody and sweet. So he
kept his eyes open, watching the faint reflection of his image in the
window, tracing the sharp shape of his form and glossing over the look
of loss and defeat that he knew was lingering in the depths of his
eyes. 

His sombre reverie was broken by the sound of quiet footsteps
approaching from behind him. Watching the space behind him in the
window, Garak had to suppress a start of surprise when the stocky,
genial figure of Chief O'Brien appeared next to him. Finally turning,
Garak offered the man a neutral, bland smile and a nod of greeting. 

"Chief O'Brien."

"Good morning, Mr. Garak," he said in a tone much less hostile than
Garak had expected, and turned to stare out of the window. 

"What has you up at such a despicable hour, chief?" Garak said
lightly. "Not the view, certainly?"

"Nah. It's just that some of the secondary plasma conduit repairs we
do are better done when there are fewer people around," O'Brien
huffed, glancing down at the Promenade that was blocked by plasma
rerouting tubes of varying colours and thicknesses. "And you?"

Garak straightened and in a fugue of gestures, rolled his eyes,
sighed, and shrugged. "Ambassador Troi's colour choices for her new
summer dress have left me somewhat agitated and restless. Fuchsia with
crimson lace, if you can believe it." Pausing, he indicated the
Promenade with one hand. "I also enjoy the station better during the
small hours. The lights are more merciful than in the daytime."

That earned him a strange look from O'Brien but no additional
commentary. For a moment, they stared at the stars, standing side by
side in silence that was not quite companionable but friendly enough,
like the meeting of ships passing in the darkest night where any sign
of life was welcome. Although Garak could see the chief only from the
corner of his eye, he could clearly hear it took the chief two tries
before he could continue their conversation. 

"A few days ago you asked me to play a game of Kotra with you. Is that
invitation still open?"

Garak glanced at O'Brien and then stared openly, for once surprised at
the depths of the man. He hadn't thought a soldier like the chief
would ever manage to utter such words of interest and geniality at
him. But then again, Garak thought, he himself had been a soldier of a
far more destructive, devious nature, yet he was still well capable of
decorum. He tried to detect signs of pity or any hidden agendas in
O'Brien's mien, but none were obvious. Schooling his features to their
most inoffensive again, Garak turned back towards the field of stars
outside and smiled at his reflection.

"Do tell me, Mr. O'Brien. Since you can't face Cardassians on the
battlefield any more, you thought to engage one over a board game?"

"My motives are far less vindictive than that, I'm afraid," O'Brien
said and smiled tiredly, meeting Garak's eyes on the mirror of the
window. For a moment, he looked far older than his relatively modest
years. "Sometimes, even engineers need to brush up on their tactical
skills."

"Mmm," Garak hummed, temporising as he tried to think of what to say
next. With this man he'd choose honesty, as much as he was able to
deliver on truths -- it was the least he could do. "After our
unfortunate battle of wits aboard Empok Nor, I didn't think you'd want
to socialise with me, let alone play any more games."

O'Brien shrugged. "The inquest cleared you and that's good enough for
me."

With some calculation and natural suspicion, Garak eyed O'Brien, who
was obviously glossing over a complicated truth with a decently
executed lie. Even though he'd not been at his sharpest at the time
thanks to the psychotropic drug, he'd once before underestimated the
chief and Garak vowed never to do so again. He'd never call the man a
friend, but perhaps he could be a favoured foe -- someone to respect
and enjoy in a battle of tactics if not fists. He'd been sorely
lacking in those during his time on Deep Space Nine, as he had in
friends and mortal enemies. The lack of enemies was a refreshing
change, but...

Friends. Garak stifled a sigh as a stab of pain shot through him. 

Cardassians were a social people, talkative to the point of
pontification if not exhaustion and so, to be without a social circle
was perhaps the most torturing aspect of his exile. He had his
customers and casual acquaintances, and then he had Julian who,
unwittingly, was a form of torture as exquisite as anything Garak
himself had ever invented. The chemistry they had was as tangible as
the bulkhead next to him, yet Garak couldn't quite figure out why
their relationship had never progressed from flirtatious friendship to
an affair. 

Was it because of certain naivete on the doctor's part? Perhaps -- the
human was, for all his history and intelligence, young in so many
ways. Or maybe it was his own instinctive inability to do something
that would place him in a potentially vulnerable position that had
prevented him from pursuing Dr. Bashir? Of course -- a hunter did not
pursue when the prey was expected to come to him. So they'd been
deadlocked in their dance of tension that sublimated itself into
arguments and long, lingering looks that were full of undeniable
heat. Garak figured he had made his position clear and it was up to
the doctor to take initiative if he wanted to. If he didn't, well,
that was fate, wasn't it?

Banishing such fatalistic and thus depressing thoughts, Garak turned
to fully face O'Brien.

"I would very much enjoy a game of Kotra with you, Mr. O'Brien," he
said formally and made a minute bow. "What would be a suitable time
for you?"

"I'm doing these late-night repairs this week so before Gamma shift
would be best. Would tomorrow 2100 hours at Quark's be all right?"

"Perfect. *C'ir afs albreyet, h'azkriyet*, O'Brien," Garak said, the
familiar words coming with formality long learned, as was his ritual
gesture of acceptance at the challenge so casually given to him. 

The alarmed frown on O'Brien's forehead told Garak that the chief was
perhaps not quite aware of what he'd signed on for. "What?" he asked
and glanced upward as if he could glare the Universal Translator into
understanding the ancient Kardasi Garak had uttered.

"Perhaps you would also benefit from browsing through the history of
Kotra beforehand," Garak said, not unkindly. He smiled but all it did
was make O'Brien's frown deepen. "The game is of rather ancient
origins and thus carries a considerable burden of formality with it,
I'm afraid. I was merely reminding you that the first and only real
rule in Kotra is, that which doesn't kill you, strengthens you. So all
you need to do is bring your *halizf'et adt*," he explained, touching
O'Brien's chest with two fingers, "your heart of courage with you, and
you will win regardless of the outcome."

"And here I thought it was just a strange-looking variant of chess,"
O'Brien muttered through his crooked grimace and with a self-conscious
air about him, brushed his hand over the spot where Garak had touched
him. 

"Countless empires have fallen and the fates of many men have been
sealed on a game of Kotra, my good man. Should you beat me in my own
game, I promise to share some of those stories with you." Garak smiled
with as warmth as he could muster, for it was an empty promise; this
was a game to him as familiar as the act of breathing. 

"That's all the motivation I need, Mr. Garak," O'Brien said and almost
smiled. Straightening, he flexed his back and glanced at the chrono
display on the wall. "Well, I must be getting back. Plasma conduits
wait for no man."

"Good day, chief," Garak said and inclined his head minutely. 

"You, too."

With that and a nod, O'Brien turned and strolled towards the nearest
turbolift. Watching his retreating back, Garak tried to comprehend
what had prompted the human to make this most unusual overture. 

No matter. Garak glanced at the starfield and smiled. In ten hours
he'd lunch with Dr. Bashir for some verbal sparring and self-torture,
and in seventeen hours, he'd play a game of Kotra with the
chief. Garak had no doubt that by the end of the long day he'd have
some of his answers. 

-------------------------------
End of part 1/12 (prologue).




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