runrundoyourstuff:

Principle

DS9 ficlet, rated G, 565 words

—

The moment after the rush of pride that floods her veins and pulls a smile from her weary lips—after Damar gives an impassioned speech which could have come from the lips of Shaakar himself and his compatriots seize on his words, raise their fists in the air and pledge themselves to the cause of their liberated homeworld—Kira feels the foundations on which she stands shake from beneath her as surely as the Cardassian gravel.

Her, proud of Cardassians. Proud of Cardassia—the whole Prophets-forsaken race of them. She’d shot Bajorons as collaborators for less.

No, pride is a feeling. Feelings don’t determine loyalty—that had been one of the first lessons she’d learned in the Resistance. If someone helped the Enemy—no matter how guilty they felt, no matter what lies they told themself or half-baked cowardly justifications—if they aided the enemy, they were a Collaborator…and therefore an enemy themself. Feelings don’t matter, only actions. And if Kira examines her actions…wearing the uniform of a foreign power, aiding two Cardassians—at least one of whom was a member of the occupying force on Bajor—in a struggle to reinstate the Cardassian Union…if she examines those actions…

(“But isn’t it the principle of the thing that matters?” Captain Sisko had asked her, when he first broached the subject of this assignment with her, when his advice to simply put her personal feelings aside proved somewhat ineffective.

“Say more.”

“You’ll be fighting for freedom! Self-determination! The right of an occupied people to exist autonomously on its homeworld! Are these not the causes to which you have dedicated your life, Colonel?”

“No.” And despite herself, despite everything that was demonstrably not funny about the situation, Kira found herself laughing. For some time, Sisko had been more than her commanding officer, more than even her friend. He was the Emissary, a prophet, a link between her people and their gods. He was of Bajor. And so it was easy to forget, even during these past several long years of war, that he was not himself Bajoran. But then something like this would escape his lips to make the chasm between them so alarmingly obvious, some speech about principles, doctrines so abstract that they could only come from the mouth of someone from the Federation. Someone who had grown up in a world where one could afford to make decisions based on values.

“No,” she continued, wiping the water out of her eyes. “I didn’t dedicate my life to some idea of freedom! I dedicated my life to the Bajoran people! It just so happened that for a long time, that meant fighting for our freedom!”)

And now, Kira iterates to herself as she stands in the shadows of this alley on Cardassia Prime, the interests of her people lie in defeating the Dominion, which just so happens to require aiding these people whom she once would have been willing to die to defeat. There is no contradiction here, just a deep irony.

And if the causes seem similar, if seeing a group of people pump their fists in the air and cry out in commitment to freedom stirs the same feelings in her that it had when she did that herself…well, any resemblance to principle is either a product of the fact that she’s wearing a Federation uniform or merely a coincidence.

[ao3]

dycefic:

writing-prompt-s:

Evil-Mart provides a vast array of tools and gadgets that is essential for the common villain-of-the-week. You work as a cashier there. Unfortunately all your coworkers mysteriously called in sick today, so you alone have to handle the long line of increasingly disgruntled customers.

Everyone has that one story about the time EVERYONE called in sick and they had to work a shift totally alone. Mine was a little different, though.

See, I work at Evil-Mart. It’s actually a really good job – benefits are top notch, pay is excellent, and management really cares about the wellbeing of employees. For good reason – most of us are, if not family, certainly part of the Family. All the staff are from the families of henchmen and minor villains. It’s easier for everyone that way.

Unfortunately, while the official ‘bad guys’ excel in many areas, catering isn’t one of them.  I don’t know why, but it’s just not something we’re good at. Anyway, there was a big team dinner for Evil-Mart one night, to celebrate the store’s tenth anniversary. And the next day, nearly the whole staff were out with food poisoning. And by nearly the whole staff, I mean … well, it went like this.

I was on the opening shift, and usually when I get there, there’s already two supervisors there. This time… nothing. The door was still locked. I knocked a few times, then called the front desk. Still nothing.

The third time I called, a voice answered that I didn’t recognize. “Who is this?”

“Rebecca Kahn, I – “

She sounded like she was about to cry. “Are you calling in sick too?”

“No, but the door’s locked and I can’t get in.”

“You’re here? At the store?”

“Yes, and I only have two minutes or I’ll be late clocking in and – “

“Wait right there! I’ll be right down!” The phone slammed down, and a couple of minutes the door swung open. “Thank God!” the woman exclaimed. I vaguely recognised her from meetings, but we’d never spoken before, but now she grabbed my hands and squeezed them as if I was a long lost friend. “Did you have a special meal last night?”

At that point, light began to dawn. “Yes. Knuckles Levy from the warehouse and I both had the kosher meal.”

Keep reading

I wrote a bit of Garashir goodbye scene fix-it. Not really long enough for ao3.

***

“You’ve been such a good friend. I’m going to miss our lunches together.”

“I’m sure we’ll see each other again.”

“I’d like to think so. But one…can never say.” Garak places a hand on Julian’s shoulder. “We live in uncertain times.”

But at that moment, a rare certainty falls over Julian. He covers Garak’s hand with his own.

“Garak, wait. What if-”

But Garak pulls his hand away and steps back.

“Doctor, if you are entertaining the idea that you could convince me to return with you to that torture chamber of a space station, your optimism is truly boundless.”

“What?” Julian blinks. He can still feel the texture of Garak’s hand under his own. “No, I mean quite the opposite actually. Cardassia needs doctors. I know I am not a true expert on Cardassian physiology, but I’ve learned a great deal from your visits to the medbay. I think I could be useful here. I want to help.”

Garak freezes. For a moment, his face betrays the surge of emotion in his heart. Then he smooths it over into his customary placid smile.

“Cardassia would be privileged to have you.” His smile fades and he shakes his head slightly. “It won’t be easy.”

“I am aware.” Julian nods grimly. “No one here has reason to trust me. Supplies will be short and facilities will be in shambles. I don’t know how much support I’ll get from Starfleet. I may have to take a leave of absence–possibly even resign my commission.”

“You sound serious. I admit I am surprised.”

“You thought we would all go back to our comfortable lives and leave you here.”

“It’s what we deserve.”

“Garak. No society deserves this.”

Julian lays a hand on Garak’s upper arm. Garak steps away, but he turns to fix Julian with a penetrating stare.

“Doctor, what is your true reason for helping Cardassia?”

“I told you. I want to work where I am most needed, and that is here. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“I cannot argue the point. But surely there are Federation planets that could use your talents.”

“Of course, but this is where I want to use them. Why are you pushing back against this?”

Garak steps forward into Julian’s space.

“I am simply curious about your true motivations.”

“What else do you think my motivations could possibly be?”

Julian’s heart is pounding. Garak is so close, his blue eyes scrutinizing Julian’s soul.

“You are proposing giving up your entire career to aid the hostile and suspicious population of a planet not long ago your enemy. You want me to believe it is simply out of the goodness of your heart?”

“My heart, Garak.”

“Yes, the blood-soaked organ in your chest your race has hallowed as the chamber of honor and emotions.”

“You are impossible.”

“I have been told s-”

Julian kisses him.

Seconds pass and Garak doesn’t react. Julian pulls away, an apology already forming on his lips, when Garak claims them for his own. They kiss for minutes, maybe hours. Finally they are simply pressed together, breathing in each other’s scent.

“It is a noble effort to pursue your calling,” Garak says, stepping back. “Perhaps we will see each other sooner than I thought.”

Julian holds Garak’s eyes.

“We will. I do need to return to DS-9 temporarily to request reassignment, pack my things, and hopefully gather a good amount of medical supplies to bring back to Cardassia. Will I be able to find you when I return?”

“I shall endeavor to meet you when you arrive. Perhaps we can have lunch.”

“I would like that.” Julian smiles and then grows serious once again. “Garak – stay safe.”

“I always do.”

edosianorchids901:

Prompt submitted by my beloved @aprindea. Enjoy!

“This might sound crazy, but I’ve been dreaming of you.”

____________________________________________

“Good morning, my dear.” I smiled broadly at Julian over the viewscreen of my decrepit, oft-malfunctioning comm unit. “And how are we today?”

“Hallo, Elim. I’m fine.” He returned the smile, still rubbing sleep from his eyes. “Not exactly morning for you, though. How was your day?”

“Oh, you know. The same, more or less.” I cast a mournful look around my makeshift “house”. “I’ve done a bit more work on expanding the shed, although I’m afraid I’m rather lacking for roofing materials. To be fair, the significant hole would give a lovely view of the stars if not for all the dust and clouds.”

Amusement crinkled the corners of Julian’s eyes. “I wish I was there to share the view with you, even if it is just clouds and dust.”

“I wish you were as well.” Choking pain clutched at my chest – separation was proving difficult to bear. Trying to hide my grief, I asked, “Did you sleep well?”

He gave a lopsided smile that I immediately recognized as mild embarrassment. “I did. And… this might sound crazy, but I’ve been dreaming of you.”

Now filled with an odd combination of delight and heart-wrenching sorrow, I chuckled. “My dear Julian, it hardly sounds crazy. You frequent my dreams as well.”

His eyes misted a bit, and he nodded. “Sometimes I’m not sure if it helps or just makes it more painful,” he admitted softly. “I miss you, Elim. I just wanna be able to hold you again.”

“And I miss you.” I pressed my palm to the viewscreen, and he mirrored the gesture. “And I know precisely what you mean. I consider it a great privilege when I see you in my dreams, but it does add a certain degree of additional loneliness to my waking hours.”

Julian nodded again, giving me a hint of a smile. “It would be nice if our waking hours actually overlapped,” he chuckled.

“Admittedly, the distance does complicate this. It would be rather more convenient if Bajor and Cardassia weren’t essentially the complete opposite when it comes to daylight.”

“Just a bit!” He placed his elbow on the console, propping up his chin on his palm as he studied me. “How are you, Elim? Really, I mean. And don’t lie to me.”

“Me? Lie about how I’m feeling? What a shocking suggestion, Doctor.” I winked at him, and he rolled his eyes. I hardly wanted to go into a long discussion of my various grievances with life, but I did owe him at least something of an answer. “Things have been worse.”

“Right. And?” He fixed me with a stern look, brooking no further reticence. “Elim.”

Pursing my lips, I blinked at him. “My sleep hasn’t been ideal lately,” I began, “and I’m afraid I’m quite stressed of late. Granted, stressed isn’t exactly unusual for me, especially given my current surroundings. We may have a slightly more stable situation here now, but Cardassia is hardly functioning like a proper society.”

“Yeah, I’ve been reading the reports from the relief teams.” Julian frowned, narrowing his eyes and looking me over. I blinked at him again in response, and he gave a slight, disapproving shake of his head. “Garak, have you eaten?”

I answered with a flat smile – I knew I’d forgotten something today.

“Elim!” He let out a huff, frustrated. “Look, I know you’re busy, and I know you’re dealing with a lot right now. But you can’t just… not eat. It isn’t healthy, and you know it only makes you feel worse. You’ve got to take care of yourself, okay? I don’t wanna get to Cardassia and find that you’ve gone and starved to death.”

I brightened at the mention of his arrival. “And when are you coming?”

“Garak!” He glared at me again, and I only widened my smile. “That’s not the point, and you damn well know it. Before you go to bed, make sure you eat something. And have a drink, too.”

“I do believe I have some kanar laying around,” I teased, overwhelmed with fondness for him. I did like it when Julian fussed over me – it was a comforting feeling to know that someone cared.

“Water, tea, or rokassa juice first.” He was in full lecture mode now, which only increased my feeling of warmth and fondness. “Plus some sort of good, solid food. And make sure you actually sleep at some point too, all right? I know how you are.”

I smiled, nodding. “I promise, I’ll take care of myself.”

“Good, you’d better.” Relaxing now that I wasn’t being as obstinate, he grinned. “And to answer your earlier question, soon. I haven’t quite figure out when yet, but it wasn’t exactly hard to convince Starfleet that more medical personnel were needed on Cardassia.”

Relief flooded me, and I felt some of the tension in my shoulders release. “I eagerly await your arrival, my dear Julian.

He glanced down – likely at a padd - and his eyes widened. “Oh damn, I’ve got to get to the Infirmary. I’m sorry, dearest.”

“No, no, it’s quite all right.” I let out a long breath, savoring the sight of him for a moment longer. “Have a pleasant day at work.”

“And I hope you sleep well.” Julian touched his palm to the screen again. “I love you, Elim.”

“And I love you, my dear.”

savorybreakfasts:

“What did I ever do without you?”

“Not your hair or clothing, certainly.”

“Stop. Let’s eat.”

Julian took Garak’s hand and led him to the back of the narrow house. Garak had added rooms to the repurposed shed in a straight line–with the doors open at the front and back the breeze came through in the evenings and cooled them nicely. There was no power to be spared for individual houses, not yet. Julian didn’t mind the lack of cooling as much as the lack of replicators. He was generations past the eating of animal products on Earth, and it was not something he could wrap his mind around. A patient had given him a goat as payment once and it became a pet. Fortunately it was able to meet its caloric needs from the scrubby weeds in their yard. Choosing not to eat him was a choice others found strange but acceptable, but he could never justify, even to himself, feeding Zinyane. Although he sometimes scrimped on his own portions to sneak him a bite.

Garak closed his eyes and inhaled. “It smells wonderful.”

“It’s the usual stewed root veg, but I added some spices from the care package my mum sent. There was some cocoa and dried fruits in there too, so there’s pudding tonight.”

Garak’s eyes lit up and Julian was gratified. He had been so thin when Julian first arrived. He’d brushed off his concern with his usual glibness about having it to spare, but it still made Julian happy whenever he could manage to indulge him. He hated to think of how Garak had suffered here before he’d finally gotten over his moping and gotten himself to Cardassia.

runrundoyourstuff:

Peoplehood

(DS9 ficlet, Rated: G, 586 words)

—

If the situation weren’t quite as painful as it in fact was, Odo might be amused at the display of sentimentality within his own mind. Or at the irony. That after a lifetime of wondering, longing even, he would find the people from which came and decide to turn against them within days. It had hardly been enough time to learn enough about them to claim that he knew them—he hadn’t joined the Link, after all—so it seems stupid, now, that instinctually he thinks of the Founders as “his people.”

“It’s not stupid, Odo!” Kira says, when he manages to vocalize as much after they return to the station. “We all want to know where we come from! To know there are people with whom we share—”

“Share what? Beliefs? Because it has become alarmingly clear that the Founders and I share little in the way of that.”

“Not necessarily beliefs. Common experiences, perhaps.”

“But there are so many experiences that we don’t have in common. They abandoned me on the other side of the galaxy! Left me among people who had no hope of understanding me, whom they knew to be hostile to our kind! Condemned me to an existence of always feeling othered, an outsider, alone—” He stops short when he sees Kira’s face fall. “Major…I didn’t mean—”

“No, it’s alright, Odo. I know it’s been difficult for you.”

“But not…always. You must know how deeply I value…Major, your friendship means worlds to me.”

“I do know that. You don’t need to justify yourself. And I also know there are some things about you that I can’t understand, that no one can understand except other changelings.” She sits down beside him. “With us, you need to explain yourself. Like I have to explain the reality of the Occupation when I’m with non-Bajorans. It’s…nice to be understood without having to explain yourself. We all need that. And there’s no shame in it.”

“Perhaps not,” Odo sighs.

And for some time to come, he allows the words my people fall off his synthesized-or-solid tongue and cringes when they do. It won’t be until later—much later, years later, when several wars have come and gone, when he has lost and found himself several times over, and he’s a permanent part of the Link—that the converse will occur to him: that there are also things about himself that the Founders can’t understand, no matter how perfectly they may be able to imitate his chosen solid form. Things that only that strange collection who happened to live and work on the lone space station orbiting Bajor in the years immediately following the Cardassian withdrawal can comprehend.

It’s a novel thought, that after so many years of searching for one people, he may actually be a part of two, and this is an idea he doesn’t entirely know what to do with. But, if he is to help his people—one of his peoples—grow and learn, as he has vowed to do, then this idea that families and clans can form from the seemingly most disparate of backgrounds—that that is not an inherent contradiction in terms—seems a crucial one for them to understand.

Changelings don’t speak, when they’re joined, so instead Odo allows himself to dwell in the steadiness of Sisko’s handshakes, the warmth of Kira’s smile and her kiss, even the glint of Quark’s smirks, and hopes the emotions he sends rippling along the Link is explanation enough.

[ao3]

runrundoyourstuff:

Honorable Victory

(Star Trek DS9 triple drabble, rated: G)

—

“Mr. Garak,” Worf murmurs from his bunk en route back to the Wormhole from Internment Camp 371. His ribs ache in the aftermath of days of beatings by the Jem’hadar and every syllable uttered shoot new pain along them, even with the hypospray Dr. Bashir administered. But he has spent the greater part of the past week in pain for the sake of honor, so he can bear a few more moments for the same reason.

“Commander?” Garak lies on the bunk next to him, at Bashir’s insistance once the runabout was a sufficient distance away from the prison and the appropriate messages had been successfully transmitted to DS9. His voice too is fainter than it usually is, but then Worf supposes that’s to be expected. Garak, too, has been fighting his own battles over the past several days, against enemies no less daunting than the Jem’Hadar. The fact that they occurred within his own mind—that the enemy waged weapons made of fear and closed spaces—was of no consequence.

“I was wrong, when I said you did not know what honor meant. It seems you know a great deal about honor.”

“Thank you, Mr. Worf,” he responds in a veneer more sincere than any Worf has seen from him. If lying is a skill that must be practiced, even for someone as accomplished in it as Garak, then it must also require energy—and Garak has exerted all of his.

“You have achieved victory in glorious battle.”

“I’m not sure there was much glory to be found in my sniveling, but we are here and alive, and I suppose that must count for something.”

“You did not yield. There is much glory to be found in that.”

The muscles in Garak’s shoulders relax. “If you say so, Commander.”

[ao3]

fakecrfan:

writing-prompt-s:

You’re the most recognised and internationally praised superhero, but you don’t fight any crime. Instead, you use your powers over stone and metal to repair the damage caused by the catastrophic fights other heroes get into.

They didn’t call you a superhero when you started. You didn’t claim to be one, either. 

You didn’t have a costume or a sponsor or training or anything like that. You were just a kid who had just seen your entire world knocked down. So, in a moment of childish determination and belief, you thought you could fix it all. 

The first emergence of your powers wasn’t a huge triumphal moment. Moving stone and earth and steel doesn’t matter if you don’t know anything about how to stack things up so they don’t fall back over again. 

Your first attempts crashed right back down again. That was your first lesson. 

—

Even when you got good at what you did, they didn’t call you a superhero. 

You still didn’t have a costume, but you’d gotten your hands on every architectural diagram you could and done plenty of practice. Then you started to show up to the aftermath of battles and put them quietly together again. 

But it still wasn’t right. You couldn’t do much if you didn’t have the diagrams for the buildings demolished–if the city planners didn’t let you have them.

So you stitched together a costume, something bright and colorful that would grab the attention of the cameras on the scene afterward as you tried to work. 

“Look! Someone’s putting those houses back together!” 

The effect was instantaneous. The moment you’d grabbed public attention, there were requests for interviews, think pieces–each giving you a platform to ask for the help you needed. 

This was your second lesson. 

–

You didn’t call yourself a superhero, or come up with the name yourself. You were never really good about all of those things. But once the attention was on you, you got offers from managers and sponsors. One, a blonde with perfect hair who introduced herself as “just Sandy” 

“I don’t have any money.”

“That’s alright,” she said, her grin showing spectacularly white teeth. “All I need is for you to take on some gigs and give me a cut.” 

Sandy set you up. She got you the costume people would know you for, gave you the name, managed all of the PR and set up interviews. Your fame skyrocketed, and soon you were seeing yourself on billboards. 

Soon you had access to hundreds of city plans and blueprints. After enough attacks happened, you learned them well enough to hardly need to reference them. After a few years, you could rebuild a tower in a matter of minutes, and cities in a matter of days. 

Your powers evolved as your understanding did. Soon, you could read the entire layout of a building just from touching. Then, just from touching the ruins. You no longer need blueprints, then–just your own hands on the metal.

The gigs were simple, too–just fixing up hero bases after they’d gotten wrecked in attacks. Feel good work that paid well. 

With the help of many people, you do more. That’s the third lesson.

—

The problems started with the homeless thing. 

You were in between projects and itching to use your skills more. Creating homes for the homeless seemed like the perfect, feel good project to flex on. 

It was, for the first few weeks. Then came the backlash. City dwellers crying foul, saying they hadn’t agreed to an enormous den of undesirables in their backyards. There were protests, white suburban moms holding up signs about drug dealers and rapists and criminals. 

It wasn’t your choice in the end. Eventually the city mandated that you deconstruct your shelter, or they would do it the hard way. 

Regretfully, you took it down. You did not look in the eyes of the people that had sheltered there as they had to go on their way.

It was the same story in every area you tried to build shelters in afterwards.

—

“Can we just buy the land to build them houses?” you asked Sandy. 

She clicked her perfect teeth. “Sorry, there are laws against building new things in the city. You need mayoral approval to start a new construction project.”

“Why?”

“Well, there are already too many empty houses,” she said matter of factly. 

You stared. “What? Then let’s just buy those and put people in them!”

“You don’t have that much money,” she pointed out. “Not when you’ve been giving it away every year. Also, it wouldn’t do as much good as you think. Just think of the effect on the market–”

This is not why you fired Sandy. But it was the first time you thought of it.

—

Opinion started to turn against you when you began using your interviews and platform to talk about this problem, to demand permission to build or otherwise help. Exasperation turned to hostility when you started to reshape the landscape to be softer to the unhoused, anyway–when you created caves in parks where people could easily shelter, or made every bench large and soft so that anyone could have a place to sleep.

Laws and ordinances passed, all regulating the amount of alterations one was allowed to make to public property. About how many changes you were allowed to make as you were reconstructing a city. The fines for altering things started to heap up. 

Firing Sandy didn’t help. Your good reputation was always as much her work as yours, but after what she said about—you couldn’t. 

You couldn’t. 

You learned not to read the scathing opinion pieces on you. That was the hardest lesson yet.

—

Of course, shit really hit the fan when you were contracted to rebuild another base.

It was a simple enough decision for you. You found out they had been building drones and firing them on civilians. That at this base Techno has been building surveillance technology that would be able to monitor every single person in the country at every moment, and be able to fire upon them with impunity the moment suspicious activity was detected. 

It made you rethink every base you had built in the past.

“No,” you told them. 

“You already signed your contract–”

Instead of dignifying that with an answer, you transmuted the entire area into the rockiest, most impossible terrain you could. Every trick you had learned to make land easier to build on–you reversed it, turning what had once been the base into a precarious canyon of jagged, diamond-hard steel, nearly impossible to remove or build on.

“I said no.” 

—

Stopping the construction of the stadium was the next kicker. 

“You’re insane!” said the heroes who came to remove you.

“They evicted a hundred families for this!” you spat. “Those were people’s homes. It’s disgusting that it’s allowed for the government to do that–much less to do it for-for a stadium? For entertainment?” 

And so you stood there for the next 48 hours, deconstructing every single thing they tried to put on their ill-gotten land. 

Then, they sent the heroes to stop you. You were never the best at fighting, so they knocked you out quickly.

—

They don’t call you a superhero now. Behind bars, you glance over every thinkpiece and profile about the world’s most beloved hero fell. You read speculation about evil, greed, madness. All things you’ve heard about “villains” who came before you. 

It makes you wonder about those people. If maybe you had misjudged them, too.

But that’s alright, you realize after the sting of it fades away. That was the second lesson, after all–more than anything, you need people to be talking. And for all the bitterness in these words, you realize grimly that people will never stop talking.

Once you’ve thought things through, you decide you’re ready. The steel of your cell melts away. After all, there is no prison that can contain you. No earth or stone or metal can withstand your will. 

Your legacy as the world’s greatest supervillain begins with a left turn down the hallway, right to where the other villains are kept.