"Yes-- quite." Zeveth stiffens, bristles under a shield she raises in spite of herself, in spite of the Founders' many great, undeniable evils. Coldness enters her bearing, "but They needn't have been pleasant to your solid, Federation standards to be worthy of the compassion you claim to champion."
The moment the words leave her tongue, she bites it.
She has inhabited this station long enough to recognize that the doctor must have become more comfortable in her presence, that he feels free to speak his mind without consequence. It is something she welcomes.
However... in her heart of hearts, she cannot deny that the Founders are still gods to her. Still holy. Still demanding of undying faith. The complications keep her restless.
"Forgive me." Her mouth has gone dry. She bows her head. "It is-- difficult, sometimes. Words cannot describe what They are to look upon, perfect, exquisite visions of life, itself... and They proclaimed to love us, that we were extensions of Themselves."
But then she fixes the doctor with a subtle smile, like a shared secret. "Why then, were They so reviled by us? No. You stand correct. I, too, regret that things did not play out differently. Even gods can be wrong-- and, indeed," she laughs, uncharacteristically nervous, "unpleasant."
Zeveth's laboratory is nestled in a small room off the Promenade between the Section D airlock and the jumja stand, not far from where the Dominion Embassy still sits. The door slides opens with a code, revealing neatly-kept instruments, a single biobed, computer, and a work table laid out with something bubbling in progress, a stark, pale liquid collecting drop by drop in a beaker below. The place might have belonged to a machine, if not for several haphazard stacks of padds.
"Welcome to my little cell," she says, half-joking, though it's not without a hint of pride. She moves to eye-level with the sample of liquid. "White, for our Jem'Hadar friend. Continuation of our current examination. Down 81% original potency. Less addicting, but still vitalising. Only able to sustain one unit for six of your Bajoran hours, though, I'm afraid. Igana has grown quite irritable with me."
She straighens, a laugh under her breath, and shuffles through a few padds until she finds one for the doctor. "Take a look at the original baseline. These were the average measures for the effect of White on a standard unit, including acceptable deviations, aberrations, and unit loss."
Unit loss. She speaks like a Vorta, cool and unaffected.
Below the numbers lie descriptions written in what must be her own voice, precise, straightforward dialogue that drives straight to the point. Even her reflections, which hint at a more singular personality and even an underhanded sense of humor in the pursuit of lengthy questions, settle with little bias or flower, even for a Vorta. She is as she was designed: the ideal scientist and researcher, even more so in the abstract, perhaps, than for the Dominion itself.
"Now, take a look at this one. This is where we are today. Of course, I only have one test subject..."
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