Chapter Text
Another prison. Another cell. Garak’s life was a blur of cells, of waiting inside, of watching outside, of shuffling in-between. He stood where Odo had left him, torpid and numb, staring at the emptiness.
Idly, mechanically, he lifted the two small boxes of items he had been permitted to gather from his room – one of clothes, the other of personal items – and set them underneath the low steel bed fastened in the corner. He stood. His eyes, listless, lingered on the pale beigeness of the cell. His fingers brushed the cold beige wall. Slowly, he began to circle the perimeter, drifting his fingers along the still cold wall, once round, twice, registering the too few steps, measuring the too small space.
He had been glib with Odo, back in his shop, teasing and light. He had given the impression of a man to whom the events of the past week and the long months ahead were but a mild inconvenience. Now, alone in his cell, he gave up the pretence.
The totality of his sentence, the reality of six months fell sudden and heavy on his mind. He settled as well as he could on the dense, stiff bed. Slowly, he let his head lower into his hands. He dragged his thumbs back and forth across his temples, pushing back his burgeoning emotions.
He was frightened by his failure, frantic at his helplessness. He was beset by visions of Cardassia dead, lifeless, burning. Cold fear gripped him, then tightened into a vicious heated hatred against the Founders.
He urged the images away. I am disciplined, he thought. I am controlled. He shivered. His head throbbed. I ‘m cold. I’m tired. Everything hurts.
Other, darker images flared and settled. He grimaced, tightened his muscles, pushed back. This is not the dungeon of the Tal Shiar, he told himself. This is not the closet in Tain’s study. This is not the rubble of Tzenketh.
A childish wish for comfort tugged at him. He laughed. Who would come? Likely his actions would repel Ziyal and the others on the station who had begun to regard him with acceptance. Julian had not come. Weedy tendrils of despair wound through him. The walls shifted. His breath shook.
Suddenly, he heard the voice of his father lecturing him from outside the closet. Elim, this is unacceptable, Tain said, calmly, to the sobbing child. You must learn to control yourself. There are worse things in life waiting for you than this closet. Recite. What do you do when you have lost control?
“I ..” Garak began, faltered.
Recite, insisted Tain. What do you do?
“Begin at the beginning,” Garak whispered. He pulled in a faltering breath. Tain was silent. He continued the recitation in a whisper. “Calm myself. Assess the situation. Develop a plan. Take action. Reassess. Adapt. Regain control.”
He began to take slow, deep breaths. Once, twice, again, and again. He focused on each muscle in turn, relaxing his neck, his shoulders, his hands. Slowly, the tension ebbed; slowly, control returned. Good, he thought, good. Now, compose yourself. Composure is control. He sat up, straightened his back, raised his head, folded his hands in his lap. He breathed once, deeply, then sat still, silent, eyes closed, breathing even, calm.
He turned his mind, methodically, to his situation. He had maintained several old Cardassian access codes; he could easily disable the forcefield. He had nowhere to run, but reserving the option of escape calmed him further.
He fell back on the Order’s edicts: protection, the desire to serve; strength, the ability to serve; and intelligence, the knowledge of how to serve . For Cardassia, his lodestone and his anchor, guiding him and grounding him.
He would combat the claustrophobia, isolation, and boredom. He would tolerate the chilled temperature and the brightness of the lights. He would train his body and his mind. He would salvage his connections.
He realised he had little knowledge of Starfleet’s prison regulations, little idea of what to expect. This, then was the starting point.
He stood, retrieved some personal items from the box, and went into the adjoining washroom. He disliked it intensely, the beige and extra brightness as much as the cramped space, but it didn’t matter. He had only to make himself presentable. He did this briskly, put the items away neatly in their box, then commed for Odo.
As the shapeshifter appeared in the corridor, Garak adjusted his demeanour to one of humble contrition. “Ah, Odo, my good man. I do so apologize for troubling you,” he said.
Odo stopped in front of the cell and folded his arms.
“If you think you can comm security every time you’re bored, Garak, think again.”
“Oh, my dear constable, I would never bother you if it weren’t of the utmost importance.”
“I bet.”
“I merely wanted to request a copy of the Federation’s prison rules and regulations.”
“Oh, is that all?”
“But of course! I take this punishment very seriously, Odo. You’ll see, I’ll be an ideal prisoner.”
“I sincerely doubt that. And stop looking wounded, Garak, I don’t buy it for a minute.” He stared at Garak. Garak blinked his innocence and waited.
“All right,” said Odo. “Likely you’re just looking for ways to cause more problems, but you’d do that anyway. And, however ill-advised it might be to give them to you, I suppose it is your right. But be warned, Garak: I’ll be watching you.”
Garak inclined his head politely and offered a small, Cheshire cat grin to Odo’s retreating form.