Post by Deleted on Sept 16, 2011 15:01:09 GMT -8
The doors slid closed behind him and Dakbar stood in complete darkness, the room as black as his mood. Without sight, his other senses increased and he could smell her blood, the odor drifting up from where he had smeared it across his abdomen. He tore at the jacket, slinging it far from him, not caring where it landed, but the scent was still there. It taunted him, a reminder of what he had almost done, what he could not finish. Stomping across the room, he left a trail of clothing in his wake until he stood in the center, fists clenched at his sides. Why was it always a woman?
He remembered that day at the Academy where he had stood, angry and tense as now, but in a fountain, the water causing the black fabric of his clothing to run, creating rivulets of black, swirling and mixing with the pure liquid until everything was gray. The cause of his anger then was also on the ship now, a constant reminder of that day. He knew how hard it was to work with her, to pass her in the hall, to stand beside her during training exercises and not remember. Now, there would be another. She would tell others, they would avoid him. Add Chloe to that mix. Three women, all used by him in some way, a sisterhood of his failures.
He thought of his mother, then. How she had hoped he would be the first of many who would blaze a new trail for Cardassia, for the lives of their people. Her idyllic thoughts were what got her killed. "It was not my fault," he whispered, but the words were hollow. He knew it was a lie. His refusal, his lofty goals were what killed them. At the Academy, he was in the perfect place. Already accepted, already through the scrutiny of Starfleet, he was to be the dagger that slit the throat of the Federation's plans. When he was assigned to the Talon, he became the prodigal son. Not to his parents, but to those who desired conquest.
Dakbar's anger grew with every thought as he relived those memories. A cousin had been killed and his parents had sent him a single note to the Academy. "Order and chaos." He knew what had happend. The Obsidian Order had reappeared. He took the next transport back home, ignoring the pleas of his instructors to stay.
The room had been dark, just like this one. He had called out to his parents, but blackness was his reward. Waking up, hours later, in a place of which he still didn't know the location, it all began. Retraining. Dakbar laughed sarcastically. Torture was a better word. He refused at every turn until they released him. When he returned home, his parents were dead in the square. It was a message that he could not ignore in order to protect his sisters and brothers. Sending that message was the hardest thing he had ever done, at least, up until that point.
What followed left an indelible mark on the Cardassian. Pain, training, followed by more pain. He balked several times, requiring them to start again. Weeks he went without food, he was denied medical care. At one point, they brought in his sister until he finished a task. Always.. neverending.. they threatened his family.
Dakbar took in a sharp breath at one such memory. It was the last time he saw his sister. In a fit of rage, Dakbar reached down and grabbed the coffee table, hurling it across the room, smashing the holoprojector in its path. Next came the couch, then a chair, a lamp, and anything else he could get his hands on. They were all symbols of his memories, thrown away, discarded as he wished he could do so easily with the thoughts that swirled in his head.
"Lights," he shouted, and he was sadistically happy when the carnage displayed around him. It wasn't enough. He continued until the only things unbroken were himself and the ironwork on the wall. His bare feet crunched through broken glass and debris as he made his way back to the overturned coffee table. From the underside of it, he withdrew a communication device and threw it on the floor. It was his connection with those who controlled him. Tossing it on the ground, he lifted his foot above it.
They will die.
His foot halted, just inches above it. He lifted it again, this time determined to crush the mechanism.
We will assume you have failed...
"I. Do. Not. Care!!" Dakbar stomped on the ground, beside the device with each word.
...if we lose contact.
Dakbar's scream of frustration echoed in the room. He bent down and picked up the intact device, his knuckles white. Breathing heavily, he stared at it. It was magnificent in design, simple to operate, and, thus far, had not been traced, mostly because of when he chose to use it. Blood from his fingers streaked the silver surface and he panicked. There would be no denying he knew about it, should it be found if he left it like that, but he would worry about it later.
Leaving bloody footprints across the room, he walked into the bedroom and placed the device in a drawer, then sat down on the bed. Putting both hands behind him, he grabbed the cover and drew it forward, wrapping it around himself. Unfortunately, it reminded him of Rychel. Throwing off the blanket, he began pacing, feeling caged.
Just forget.
One of his 'lessons'. Forget the past, let it go. It was easier to push it aside when you had pain clouding it anyway. Here, on a perfect starship, everything was sterile, even your emotions. Having a bad day? Don't show it. Dakbar snarled and unlocked another drawer. Sifting through vials, he pulled one out and tossed the cap back inside. It rattled among the vials, then dropped to the bottom of the drawer. Tilting his head back, Dakbar took a long drink, then put the empty vial back where he had found it. He closed the drawer with his knee and shook his head. He barely made it back to the bed before sleep overpowered him. It was a dreamless sleep. Anyone finding him there would have thought him dead if they didn't look too close. An arm and a leg hung loose over the edge of the bed.
The potion only had a short lifespan in the body, and, an hour later, he woke up, then cursed in Cardassian at the futility of it all. He considered taking another, but knew it was too dangerous. At one point, he had almost lost Chloe to it, though she never knew. Would that be so bad? Dakbar stared at the drawer, but his hands were tied. Taking his life would break contact, and his family would die. But you'd never know.
He sat down heavily on the bed. What choice did he have? His other sister had a child, another on the way, possibly even born by now.
Rychel.
How could he choose one over the other? Philosophers would argue that until the ends of time. Dakbar knew the answer. Family first. It was what made Cardassian life worth living...or so they said. However, it was easy to argue away that point if you weren't xenophobic.
Turn yourself in.
It was the first time the thought crossed his mind. It had to be her influence. Starfleet would arrange somehow for him to continue his transmissions, giving false information, all from the comfort of a cell somewhere. He would never feel the warmth of a woman's body against him, never see his family again. What was the point.
Running a hand over his ridged head, he stood and returned to the living room. By now, the blood on his torn hands had dried, as had the bloody footprints across the room. It would take a while to get things back the way they were, but he had no visitors anyway. Only Rychel.
He clawed at his head. Stop thinking about her! She was a Bajoran. She was the enemy. They were all the enemy, all oblivious to his mission and what lay ahead. She'll be dead soon. He nodded with his thoughts. A malfunction. It would be easy to arrange. He would have to wait, though. If she were like all other women, she would tell someone what had happened. Her death would have to wait. It would give him time to plan.
Pulling a PADD out of the rubble, he carried it back into the bedroom and sat down. With a little research, he was able to figure out her routine, her duties, what parts of the ship were 'hers'. Dakbar didn't know it, but his planning had put his reservations about his mission on the back burner. It gave him something to do. Inactivity was the spark for darkness and, for the moment, Dakbar had stepped just outside of its clutches once again.
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He remembered that day at the Academy where he had stood, angry and tense as now, but in a fountain, the water causing the black fabric of his clothing to run, creating rivulets of black, swirling and mixing with the pure liquid until everything was gray. The cause of his anger then was also on the ship now, a constant reminder of that day. He knew how hard it was to work with her, to pass her in the hall, to stand beside her during training exercises and not remember. Now, there would be another. She would tell others, they would avoid him. Add Chloe to that mix. Three women, all used by him in some way, a sisterhood of his failures.
He thought of his mother, then. How she had hoped he would be the first of many who would blaze a new trail for Cardassia, for the lives of their people. Her idyllic thoughts were what got her killed. "It was not my fault," he whispered, but the words were hollow. He knew it was a lie. His refusal, his lofty goals were what killed them. At the Academy, he was in the perfect place. Already accepted, already through the scrutiny of Starfleet, he was to be the dagger that slit the throat of the Federation's plans. When he was assigned to the Talon, he became the prodigal son. Not to his parents, but to those who desired conquest.
Dakbar's anger grew with every thought as he relived those memories. A cousin had been killed and his parents had sent him a single note to the Academy. "Order and chaos." He knew what had happend. The Obsidian Order had reappeared. He took the next transport back home, ignoring the pleas of his instructors to stay.
The room had been dark, just like this one. He had called out to his parents, but blackness was his reward. Waking up, hours later, in a place of which he still didn't know the location, it all began. Retraining. Dakbar laughed sarcastically. Torture was a better word. He refused at every turn until they released him. When he returned home, his parents were dead in the square. It was a message that he could not ignore in order to protect his sisters and brothers. Sending that message was the hardest thing he had ever done, at least, up until that point.
What followed left an indelible mark on the Cardassian. Pain, training, followed by more pain. He balked several times, requiring them to start again. Weeks he went without food, he was denied medical care. At one point, they brought in his sister until he finished a task. Always.. neverending.. they threatened his family.
Dakbar took in a sharp breath at one such memory. It was the last time he saw his sister. In a fit of rage, Dakbar reached down and grabbed the coffee table, hurling it across the room, smashing the holoprojector in its path. Next came the couch, then a chair, a lamp, and anything else he could get his hands on. They were all symbols of his memories, thrown away, discarded as he wished he could do so easily with the thoughts that swirled in his head.
"Lights," he shouted, and he was sadistically happy when the carnage displayed around him. It wasn't enough. He continued until the only things unbroken were himself and the ironwork on the wall. His bare feet crunched through broken glass and debris as he made his way back to the overturned coffee table. From the underside of it, he withdrew a communication device and threw it on the floor. It was his connection with those who controlled him. Tossing it on the ground, he lifted his foot above it.
They will die.
His foot halted, just inches above it. He lifted it again, this time determined to crush the mechanism.
We will assume you have failed...
"I. Do. Not. Care!!" Dakbar stomped on the ground, beside the device with each word.
...if we lose contact.
Dakbar's scream of frustration echoed in the room. He bent down and picked up the intact device, his knuckles white. Breathing heavily, he stared at it. It was magnificent in design, simple to operate, and, thus far, had not been traced, mostly because of when he chose to use it. Blood from his fingers streaked the silver surface and he panicked. There would be no denying he knew about it, should it be found if he left it like that, but he would worry about it later.
Leaving bloody footprints across the room, he walked into the bedroom and placed the device in a drawer, then sat down on the bed. Putting both hands behind him, he grabbed the cover and drew it forward, wrapping it around himself. Unfortunately, it reminded him of Rychel. Throwing off the blanket, he began pacing, feeling caged.
Just forget.
One of his 'lessons'. Forget the past, let it go. It was easier to push it aside when you had pain clouding it anyway. Here, on a perfect starship, everything was sterile, even your emotions. Having a bad day? Don't show it. Dakbar snarled and unlocked another drawer. Sifting through vials, he pulled one out and tossed the cap back inside. It rattled among the vials, then dropped to the bottom of the drawer. Tilting his head back, Dakbar took a long drink, then put the empty vial back where he had found it. He closed the drawer with his knee and shook his head. He barely made it back to the bed before sleep overpowered him. It was a dreamless sleep. Anyone finding him there would have thought him dead if they didn't look too close. An arm and a leg hung loose over the edge of the bed.
The potion only had a short lifespan in the body, and, an hour later, he woke up, then cursed in Cardassian at the futility of it all. He considered taking another, but knew it was too dangerous. At one point, he had almost lost Chloe to it, though she never knew. Would that be so bad? Dakbar stared at the drawer, but his hands were tied. Taking his life would break contact, and his family would die. But you'd never know.
He sat down heavily on the bed. What choice did he have? His other sister had a child, another on the way, possibly even born by now.
Rychel.
How could he choose one over the other? Philosophers would argue that until the ends of time. Dakbar knew the answer. Family first. It was what made Cardassian life worth living...or so they said. However, it was easy to argue away that point if you weren't xenophobic.
Turn yourself in.
It was the first time the thought crossed his mind. It had to be her influence. Starfleet would arrange somehow for him to continue his transmissions, giving false information, all from the comfort of a cell somewhere. He would never feel the warmth of a woman's body against him, never see his family again. What was the point.
Running a hand over his ridged head, he stood and returned to the living room. By now, the blood on his torn hands had dried, as had the bloody footprints across the room. It would take a while to get things back the way they were, but he had no visitors anyway. Only Rychel.
He clawed at his head. Stop thinking about her! She was a Bajoran. She was the enemy. They were all the enemy, all oblivious to his mission and what lay ahead. She'll be dead soon. He nodded with his thoughts. A malfunction. It would be easy to arrange. He would have to wait, though. If she were like all other women, she would tell someone what had happened. Her death would have to wait. It would give him time to plan.
Pulling a PADD out of the rubble, he carried it back into the bedroom and sat down. With a little research, he was able to figure out her routine, her duties, what parts of the ship were 'hers'. Dakbar didn't know it, but his planning had put his reservations about his mission on the back burner. It gave him something to do. Inactivity was the spark for darkness and, for the moment, Dakbar had stepped just outside of its clutches once again.
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