archiving this blog! it was annoying to have a sideblog, d.amar deserves his own blog --> @kardasior
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archiving this blog! it was annoying to have a sideblog, d.amar deserves his own blog --> @kardasior
[ MUTT. ]
he expected as much to find damar here. he’d stuck his head out of the storeroom, and saw his imposing silhouette hunched over cup and bottle. (he hadn’t had quark’s permission to be in there, in the first place. mutt simply remembered what rom had shown him a few years prior, opening the lockseal in under fifteen seconds. what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.)
it is odd how many times he and damar had opportunities to speak with each other. it is almost as if the legate sought him out. mutt wonders why. figures he feels guilty. knows he does. everything about the defeated hang of his shoulders and constant reeking of alcohol read deep, gnawing guilt. (there’s that saying of only the dead seeing the end of a war, and mutt thinks of it, now.) but they’d already had that conversation, and mutt hoped this one went better than the last, even if getting damar to storm away had made him feel triumphant.
i don’t want to think at all. how familiar that sentiment is. the grey days are the worse. days where he feels neither good or bad. where he doesn’t even want to think about how much he hates himself. it’s those days, the days of doing nothing, that’ll kill a person. a hand reaches out, covers the glass’s rim. the other grabs, quick, at the bottle’s neck when it is released for a few seconds. he slides them away before any protest can be made, never breaking eye contact. he takes them with him when he goes behind the bar. the used glass is thrown into a pile of other unwashed items, what mutt will occupy himself with while talking. the kanar bottle is placed with other miscellaneous bottles on the display rack.
“ then do something about it. your second chance. even if you get it wrong, takes guts to admit you did. “ mutt, stubborn as he is, might be a touch hypocritical. damar needn’t bring it up, if he notices. “ you doing all of this on an empty stomach? “ it is mutt’s way of asking if he wants anything.
IT’S DELAYED, like static over an intergalactic transmission; Mutt’s already put the bottle away by the time Damar makes an uncoordinated effort to reach for it, fingertips outstretched into nothing before he gives up and drops his arm with a clatter onto the countertop.
( somehow, desperately reaching for nothing is a succinct metaphor for damar’s life. every triumph -- every victory -- every mistake -- every defeat. no matter what he did or didn’t do, he is still just a miserable drunk drowning his sorrows at the bar. )
❝ WHAT, AND I’m supposed to let you lecture me about my -- bad habits ? ❞ he scoffs, vivid scorn alight on his voice, every syllable bleeding into one another as he struggles to maintain coherency. ❝ Oh, but of course. I need your advice, more than anyone’s, about the best way to drink myself to death. ❞
MUTT HAS patience beyond what Damar ought to be allotted. An apology gnaws at his bones, and he knows he just has to spit it out like a rotten tooth. He’s sorry. He’s so terribly sorry. He might not be kinder or gentler or any better with his words than he was when he was Dukat’s lackey, but he is sorry. Not just about Ziyal -- not just about the blood Cardassia left on Bajoran soil. Those are things this Terran could never absolve him of. He’s sorry about how he treated Mutt, during the Occupation, when he failed to see personhood beneath the grime, beneath that pinkish mammalian skin and those odd round pupils in those strange, alien eyes. But the apology refuses to surface: the only time he’ll spill his guts is when he stumbles back to his quarters in the morning and pukes.
❝ WEYOUN WAS obsessed with you. ❞ It comes as an awkward segue, but Damar’s charisma is lacking even when he hasn’t been drinking. ❝ He had this whole psychographic -- profile -- something -- on you. He was desperate for an excuse to throw you off the station, kept telling everyone to watch you and catch you the moment you did anything suspicious. He thought you were dangerous. ❞ He wasn’t necessarily wrong.
❝ ... I READ about what happened. ❞ This is his second chance, as Mutt put it so quaintly. ❝ About Thoutania. ❞ And this is the first step of said second chance -- there’s something there, on the tip of that forked tongue, but the Legate resigns himself to a grim, bitter smile, coughing slightly into his elbow. ❝ No. You don’t want my pity. You’ve made it this far -- lived through that, and you didn’t turn into this, ❞ he grouses, vaguely gesturing to himself, a self-pitying mess, an infected laceration wasting away through pain he refuses to heal. ❝ No pity, ❞ he assures him, ❝ but -- respect. Give me that glass. I’ll raise a toast to you. ❞
[ trying to type replies while wasted ] Ahaha its ok guys im just channeling my inner damarrrrrrrrrrrrrr
[ QUARK. ]
it’s pretty hard to believe this is real, even though quark remembers every minute of the previous night ( damar, likely, does not ). damar is not quark’s typical lay — even if he is, sadly, his type, in a horrible and twisted way — but he remembers everything that led them to this point now. and honestly? it’s not so bad. somehow, though, he thinks telling damar that won’t make things any better.
“tea, huh?” his voice is uncharacteristically quiet as he slides into the chair next to damar. “didn’t know you like tea. didn’t know you drank anything non-alcoholic.” he watches him pour the shot in. “….spoke too soon.”
all the same, he holds up his hands as if to stop and/or reassure damar that his presence is not entirely unwelcome here. “just slow down. i’m not the kinda guy who kicks his guests out first thing. i’m a gentleman. take your time, take a shower, do whatever.” he hesitates. “let me make you breakfast before you make yourself sick drinking booze on an empty stomach.”
DAMAR’S GOT almost a foot and a half on Quark in terms of height, but the Cardassian still flinches and practically jumps out of his scales when the diminutive little Ferengi takes a seat next to him, hiding behind his mug as he drinks it down in a single swallow.
❝ I’M NOT eating tubegrubs for breakfast, Quark, ❞ he sneers, that oh-so-attractive xenophobia rough around the edges of his already gruff voice. The ugly look on his face falters -- it’s hard to laud Cardassian superiority in a situation where he is, clearly, the sole loser. The Legate pinches the bridge of his tall nose, heaving a heavy sigh as he pushes the cup away from him. ❝ But I’ll eat something. I heard you used to be a freighter chef. Maybe you know something ... Cardassian, ❞ he mutters.
❝ LOOK. I ... ❞ And it’s difficult to find the courage to even awkwardly pat Quark’s hand despite who-knows-what they got up to last night. From the way every single part of Damar is sore, it must have been ... something. He’s a bit glad he can’t remember. ❝ I should have never let this happen, ❞ he grumbles, sinking further into the chair with his hands over his eyes. ❝ I don’t want to give you the wrong impression. You’re a ... decent friend, Quark. Things turned out unexpectedly, ❞ he manages, a piss poor excuse for another one of his famously bad decisions, ❝ and if I weren’t ... inebriated ... I promise you. This wouldn’t have happened, ❞ he assures both Quark and himself.
[ WEYOUN 6. ]
“ 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.
“ Yes… I never doubted it. The moment I heard the news of your little adjustment in allegiances, I knew you were on a desperate, hopeless, passionate fool’s errand. ” His loathsome smile twists. “ I knew you’d be all right. Just like me. ”
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. ❞
“I have never been allowed to be holy, / I have never been forgiven for wanting.”
please read rules before following. art credit: J
[ EQUIPMENT MANAGER. ]
pel listens, and tries to understand. damar’s right, they don’t really get it. they like this industry, they like the work, but they’re a behind-the-scenes kinda person, through and through. they’re not like quark — his job requires him to be an artist in his own right, even if he’s not the one up on stage. pel’s does not. and they probably will NEVER get it, not entirely. but they listen nonetheless. they’re about to say something, anything, something about asking damar if he knows what HE wants, when he says that. pel’s back stiffens, and they stop what they’re doing, letting the cables drop to the ground with a thud. when they stand, the look they give damar is withering. “really,” they say flatly. “i was a fe-male living on ferenginar. tell me more about how i don’t understand feeling trapped, mister damar.” pel shakes their head and rips a strip of gaff tape off a roll with their teeth. “why do you care so much about what ‘the man’ has to say? just do whatever the fuck makes you happy.”
THE FOLLOWING silence is stifling, the Cardassian blinking before he drops his gaze to the floor and mumbles something between an apology and excuse. Broad shoulders hunched and hair curtaining his face, he looks a bit like a mangy dog without the dazzle of the spotlights. ❝ Being happy isn’t good enough. Life’s a gas and then you get complacent. You don’t make good art when you’re happy, ❞ he insists bitterly, carefully avoiding another segue into a you just wouldn’t get it lecture. Being a Ferengi fe-male does sound hard -- but being Damar is, as far as he’s concerned, a never-ending misery unlike any other. ❝ It’s hard to explain. Not that you wouldn’t understand. Just that I’m shit at explaining things. ❞
HE AWKWARDLY hunches down, coiling the wire into his hand as he stares at the scuffmarks on the floor. ❝ Look, ❞ he struggles, offering Pel the cord, ❝ I don’t want to seem -- vapid. Pretentious. ❞ It might be too late for that. ❝ I want us to get along. If I’m going to work here, I gotta find one person who doesn’t hate me. ❞
[ INTRUDER. ]
IT HAPPENS IN SLOW MOTION, the way bruno’s mad scramble for the vent is sharply interrupted by the sound of electricity hitting metal. he yelps, stumbling backward. he’s already tripping over his own feet and the hem of his poncho when the cardassian collides with his side, and then they’re both falling off the bar and onto the ground. he lands on his back, the glass crunching unpleasantly under him. even in the dark, he can make out the phaser between his eyes.
“¡está bien, está bien! estoy abajo, me queda abajo. ¡MIERDA! miércoles.” he raises his hands in surrender as best he can in this precarious position, not wanting to run the risk of the man being trigger happy.
“i was just hungry! i’m not — you can ask odo! or… or uh… comandante kira! they know me!”
A MOMENT passes while the translator adjusts; anything other than Federation Standard is still a work in progress for the databases, and through an electronic whirring and a staticky splutter of feedback, the rapid-fire rambles give way to just barely coherent Kardasi.
AN UGLY scowl creases the Glinn’s face, weighing his options as he keeps the gun trained on this sniveling vole of a man. He has the feeling he’s lying ( what would Odo and Kira have anything to do with some stowaway ? ), but he risks incurring Kira’s -- and Dukat’s -- wrath if he’s wrong. He hauls him to his feet, the soles of the Terran’s worn sandals dangling above the glass-strewn floor. ❝ Doesn’t matter, ❞ Damar hisses, ❝ because you’re still trespassing, friend of the Constable and the Major or not. Turn around, ❞ he orders, and he activates his comm badge while he shoves him against the bar and checks his pockets for weapons.
❝ DAMAR TO security -- unidentified Terran in the bar, first floor. Low threat. I’ll take him to -- agh ! ❞
HE SWEARS as he yanks his hand away, a skinny, snarling vole still clamped down on his finger. Violently shaking his arm, the rodent dislodges and lands an impressive distance away from them, scampering back into the vent behind the dabo table as Damar fires two ineffectual shots in its general direction.
[ MUTT. ]
he’s had about enough of damar’s despondent self pity. it draws a line between his brows, something cold and indistinctly wolfish into the line of his gaze.
“ ‘least you’re trying, this time around. not just listening to orders, a shit excuse, but thinking for yourself. “
HE TIPS the glass back, grimacing when he realizes he’s so used to the alcohol it barely even burns in his throat; after hours, Quark’s is empty, the long shadows of the unoccupied stools like the bars of his shitty little self-made prison.
❝ THINKING FOR myself, ❞ the Legate scoffs. Damar seems to cling to his misery; it’s a stubborn, albeit flimsy suit of armor, something easy to wallow in when the peril of reality is too much to handle. ❝ What does it look like I’m doing ? I’m trying, ❞ he slurs, punctuating each consonant with a sloppy slosh of kanar mostly onto the countertop and somewhat into his glass, ❝ to do anything but think. I don’t want to think. For myself. For anyone. About anyone. I don’t want to think at all. ❞
CARDASSIAN PRIDE runs deep; there’s something mortifying in Mutt seeing him like this, his callous stoicism nothing but a flimsy veneer for miserable man beneath. It’s a comfort, then, in knowing Mutt never had a very high opinion of him anyways.
I got really sick and slept for like four days straight :| but i am better now
false alarm i have covid #gay #fail
I got really sick and slept for like four days straight :| but i am better now
i love men and masculinity. surely this is some sort of sign of being an alpha male straight guy myself. *holding my earpiece receiving information suddenly looking shocked* oh. oh okay. oh that’s bad news. and i have to suck them? oh my god
[ EQUIPMENT MANAGER. ]
the certainty with which damar speaks gives pel pause. they stop what they’re doing — sorting through some tangled wires ( something that decidedly isn’t their job, but they’re doing anyway because no one else was ) — and turn to look at him, hands on their hips. they look bored, unimpressed. “don’t be stupid,” pel says dismissively. “if your show was a flop, quark would have kicked you out of here after the first night. i KNOW you know that. you’re not blind are you? you’d have to be, to not see those crowds.” they shake their head, returning to coiling cable loosely in their hands. “if you ask me, your manager is getting to your head. i like the guy fine — he’s great to do business with — but he clearly isn’t a music person. just keep doing what you’re doing, mister damar. you’re a sensation.”
DESPITE HOW often Damar finds his part difficult to play, bitter and brooding have always come naturally to him; slouched against the wall, shoulders hunched with his hands stuffed in his jeans, the curling tendril of smoke from his cigarette wafts up to the ceiling. ❝ You don’t get what I mean, ❞ he grunts, anguished with the appropriate amount of angst. And like every tortured artist, he marinates in his self-pity rather than help Pel sort through the wires. ❝ I’m a commercial success, maybe, but what the man says makes good money doesn’t always make good music. I’m not changing enough, ❞ he complains, throwing the end of his cigarette onto the floor as he crushes it with his heel, ❝ I’m just -- stuck. A wash-up, barely a year into my debut. You wouldn’t get what it feels like to be trapped, ❞ he insists, awfully presumptuous despite the fact that he can barely remember the equipment manager’s name ( pil ? pul ? pol. ).
[ GUL DUKAT. ]
███ DUKAT; //. HE LISTENS WITH PIQUED INTEREST. he’s no engineer but he also knows more than most would believe. however he follows easily with how damar speaks, not quite a simplification but rather a direct description. clearly the glinn had given this much thought. how interesting what goes on in that head of his when not at the bane of dukat’s own demands. he snorts, moving to sit back down at the desk & prop up his chin against a fist. he’s silent as he takes in the information. mind racing with the general worries or concerns one could ask about. wondering if such a solution presented to weyoun would be enough.
certainly it wasn’t enough for him. he leans back then, the chair bouncing with this weight fingers tap against the surface of the table. " i don’t like it." he speaks finally, frankly looking directly at damar. " the range radius, i agree with you there is too much room for error here. everything else seems somewhat feasible."
the statement lingers in the air. purposeful. curious to see what damar’s reaction would be. " i want you to continue to adjust this plan, but i want you to provide alternatives. i can recognize the hard work you’ve put into thisl but one knows we always need a failsafe, & a failsafe for the failsafe. i want to be able to destroy these mines in one go & be done with it." a tap on the desk with the palm of his hand. the matter was closed. damar had his orders. most of them, anyway. " &&. i want you to still talk to ziyal. make sure she’s comfortable. i understand you aren’t very fond of her but that is something you need to get over."
STONY FACED and impenetrably sullen as always, every single one of Damar’s facial features are in their usual spot ( dour frown -- furrowed brow -- a line by his nose brought on by a persistent grimace ). But despite Damar looking entirely unphased, there’s a twinge of shame ricocheting around his chest, embarrassed that his preoccupation with engineering has intruded into his professionalism once again. Most of all, he’s disappointed his plan is not up to Dukat’s standards. ❝ Of course, sir, ❞ he concedes, fingers stiff as he grips the PADD and takes it back under his arm. He shouldn’t have bored Dukat with this nonsense -- he should have used his time wisely, tracking the enemy fleet, planning troop movements, doing something worthy of the promotion he’s still hoping Dukat will honor him with.
❝ THE -- ❞ AND his voice catches in his throat, looking at his boots. ❝ The orbital weapons platforms would be stationed at our outposts, so they can take the strain off of the ships guarding them and alleviate them for the front lines. The mine matrix would need an entirely different solution. I’ll ... work on that, too, ❞ he grumbles, a persistent itch under his armor as he realizes he’s just inadvertently assigned himself another chore.
A GOOD soldier does not talk back to his commanding officers. He shouldn’t have corrected Dukat on the purpose of the platforms -- he shouldn’t have said anything, he shouldn’t have even tried to propose these solutions in the first place. But while he’s busy ruining his good favor with the Gul, he might as well mutter, ❝ I’ll talk to her. I’ll tell her what you told me. But -- if I may speak freely -- Ziyal is persistently ungrateful for all the effort you put into her. She doesn’t appreciate who you are -- what you’ve done for her, for us, for all Cardassians. And I think as long as you let the Major poison her thoughts, she will never embrace herself as a true daughter of Cardassia. She’ll continue to pretend she’s a Bajoran, sir; she’ll pretend like she’s one of them. ❞
[ TERRAN. ]
When it came to what he put in his mouth, Kirei remained undeterred even by the most foul of scents or appearances. For the majority of humankind (though one could argue if the sentiment extended to all life forms on this station, few were not so eager to indulge) consumption was about pleasure; cakes, candy, ice cream with tiny squares of chocolate sprinkled through out, served no nutritional purpose. In fact they inspired little more than lethargy and a clogged artery…But also joy. The joy he couldn’t seem to understand no matter how many foods were filtered through his digestive tract. But if the fumbling days of his youth had brought any promise, it was the novel discovery that eating was far more bearable when it was followed by an abrupt emotional impulse. Fear, pain, delight, disgust. It was a high he couldn’t get enough of; he was addicted to the rush.
Kanar was equally if not more foul than cranberry juice. It smelled vulgar. The black sludge stuck to the walls of one’s throat long after it was consumed, reminiscent of phlegm, but far more obdurate. Kanar could not be dislodged with the pressure of a cough or two. And the taste. Well. Perhaps comparing it to human waste would be too generous.
And yet Kirei delighted in it.
He presses a fist to his lips, fighting back the onset of nausea. “To each their own. I imagine most humans would not take kindly to kanar either.” He shudders. “2327. And what happened to make it so wonderful?”
❝ WHAT’S SO wonderful about 2327 ? Well -- for starters, I wasn’t alive back then, ❞ Damar explains without hesitation, and he tips a brief toast before he drains his third glass. He’s got exceptional coordination for someone who’s been drinking since he woke up; he fills both their glasses again, articulate and determined, and the heavy waft of alcohol drifts on his exhale. No matter how many short-lived sabbaticals he takes from his nasty habit, Damar has never quite managed to go more than a day without a drink. ❝ You probably were, though, ❞ he snorts, adjusting to slouch further in his seat as he wills the alcohol to take the edge off of his headache. He didn’t know humans could live this long, but he supposes that makes this particular human all the more impressive.
THE LEGATE has never taken any care in maintaining his reputation for heroics; somehow, he doesn’t think this man is impressed, anyways, if this man even knows who he is. ❝ And something tells me you aren’t like most other Federaji, ❞ he says in a tired, bored drone, ❝ at least not those -- do good Starfleet types. You’re dour. Bitter, ❞ he scoffs, ❝ cynical. Suspicious. Don’t get offended. ❞ He appraises him, ochre eyes settling on the strange uniform the man wears, the high collar and the symbol on his silver chain. It’s some human religious order. Like the Bajorans -- like that Vorta -- some Terrans still cling to the primitive worship of Gods. ❝ I know your people consider optimism a virtue. But we Cardassians know to appreciate a bit of pessimism. ❞
[ INTRUDER. ]
IT FEELS LIKE HE’S JUST gotten comfortable roaming the station like a person, feeling like he doesn’t need to hide anymore. everyone had been…. welcoming, moreso than bruno felt like he deserved. but all too soon, it was ripped out from under them, and once again bruno was left feeling the burden of their current situation on his shoulders. ‘bruno madrigal makes bad things happen’, they’d always said on the encanto, and the old adage is true — if you hear something enough times, you start to believe it yourself. is it his fault, somehow, that the dominion are here now? he thinks about his family, likely fighting for their lives out there, while he’s…. here. stealing food scraps from a ferengi’s kitchen in the middle of the night.
he hears the approach of footsteps, and prepares to retreat back up through the vent door he’s dislodged in the ceiling, when a beam of light sweeps over him. he can’t quite see the person at the other end of the phaser, but from the silhouette, he’s a cardassian. for a moment, bruno stands frozen, terrified, and then in the next second, in an impressive battle between SELF-PRESERVATION && STUPIDITY, he overturns a stack of chairs with a loud clatter and scampers away as swiftly as the voles perched upon his shoulders.
he’s fast, that’s for certain, and clearly knows his way through here even in the dark, but he’s no match for phaser fire. still — all he has to do is make it back to the vent. he just needs to get up onto the bar counter first. the hood over his head obscures his face from damar, and he bolts past him, drawing in short, panicked breaths as he runs.
IN HIS experience, the best way to ensure someone stays put isn’t to order them to halt, but to simply shoot on sight.
TEROK NOR, however, is not under solely Cardassian jurisdiction, and the last thing Damar needs to add to his neverending pile of misery is becoming the inadvertent center of another diplomatic incident with the Dominion. A hissing swear strains through his teeth as he bolts after him, the heavy thud of his boots on the floor as he practically vaults over a table and lunges after the intruder. A stowaway Bajoran -- a Federation spy ? Whoever he is, when Dukat and Weyoun inevitably give him permission to proceed with execution, he’ll take smug pleasure in offing the awful bastard who ruined his night.
EVEN IN the darkness and the erratic flailing of his handheld light dropping from his grip, he sees what he’s going for, the telltale crunch of broken glass as this wretched vole scrambles to hop up on the bartop. The Cardassian manages a handful of cloak in his claws, and he stumbles back when the fabric gives way with a splitting, sharp tear, landing hard on his back. His armor pinches into his spine, gritting his jaw through the searing pain, and he aims his phaser, the bolt of electricity illuminating the room in a fleeting flash of brilliance. There’s a sizzle -- a rickety clang -- and the bolt hits the vent, a warning shot that the next will not be as generous. ❝ I said, ❞ he snarls, ❝ don’t move ! ❞ The last word is punctuated with a particularly graceless lunge forward, tackling him off of the counter and behind the bar -- a viciously cold wetness seeps into his pants, Quark’s inventory taking the brunt of the damage as he holds him down among the broken glass and spilled booze. He still can’t see -- it’s dark, and the hood obscures his visage -- but surely the intruder can see the phaser shoved two inches away from his face.
☆ STARTER FOR @predeciir
FOR ALL the things the Cardassian species is blessed with -- intelligence, strength and an enduring sense of superiority -- they have never been known for having particularly astute hearing.
BUT THE Ferengi complains, constantly, that he hears something in the vents above the dabo tables, that things in the bar are not where he left him. A full container of garnish, prepped the night before and empty in the morning -- missing glasses and strewn cutlery -- Morn’s beloved barstool moved two inches too far to the right. Damar has better things to do. He could be working, he could be sleeping, most importantly, but Quark has promised to wave last week’s tab if Damar can get concrete proof that someone is breaking into his bar at night.
( THIS REALLY seems like a job for that changeling, who can just hunker down in his stupid little pail behind the counter, but Odo is preoccupied entertaining visiting guests. So Damar has inherited yet another unfortunate chore that his superiors just can’t be bothered to take care of themselves. )
THE GLINN grumbles as he adjusts the light in his hand, shoulders slouched in front of the grand doors of the bar as he keys in his security override code. A tired groan gets swept up in the swish of the mechanical lock, golden eyes squinting as he struggles to scan the silhouettes in the dark expanse; one figure, distinctly humanoid as it remains frozen, stands out among the stacked chairs. Exhausted or not, he’s quick to the phaser at his thigh, extended alongside the light as he barks out, ❝ Computer ! Seal the exits. Don’t move. Try anything and I’ll fire. ❞