"The truth is usually just an excuse for lack of imagination." – Garak

This short story takes place a short time after the finale of Star Trek: DS9. Garak contemplates his past as he begins to decide what path he will take for the future of his people. Please, I not only love, but NEED the criticism so fire away.

Star Trek is owned by Paramount, and was created by Gene Roddenberry. None of the characters, settings, or ideas of Star Trek is mine, and never will be. I'm just a loyal fan.

2375, Deep Space Nine

It seemed so long ago that he had first stepped into this small, ugly retail space located on the promenade of Terok Nor. He had never wanted to come here at all, but as he had told Ziyal what seemed like a lifetime ago, who would've ever suspected him hiding out in one of their most hated enemies strongholds? His training and intuition had served him well, and for years he had went nearly unnoticed as the lonesome Cardassian tailor. There were always suspicions, but no one with evidence. He just allowed the imaginations of the bored, naïve, and stubborn to flourish as he allowed himself to perform in his own theatre, creating a life he never wanted and a meagre living he despised only within himself.

He walked over to one of his shop displays and took the fabric of the dress into his hand. His connection with such a materialistic item was much more intense than he had ever imagined it could've been – he felt connected to every stitch, every weave, and every change of the fabric. It truly was a thing of beauty. Mila had always said he could be anything he wanted before he joined the Obsidian Order. Of course, he had never imagined himself becoming a tailor on Terok Nor in order to save his life. He imagined himself using whatever talents he discovered to further his own advancements. He had done that many times under Tain's watchful eye, most notably on Romulus. There were days when he sometimes missed those gardens and the hours he put into tending them. But most importantly, he would always remember why he made himself such a successful gardener. It was a shame he never took it up again.

No, it wasn't a shame. Plants were too menial a task for a man with a bubbling imagination, and a set of skills few rarely possessed. And just as he was drawn to gardening, so too was he drawn to cutting cloth and creating beauty in the fullest; he remembered speaking with Julian long ago about the simplicity of it all, which was true. But yet, as he looked upon it now, how could something once considered so simple create something so – well, he wasn't going to use his own opinion on the subject of aesthetic beauty in the case of style, but from what he had heard it seemed nice.

He let the delicate dress go and began to wander aimlessly around the shop. He took in the different colours and variations, the multitude of designs and fits that he had created for every race, every gender or, in rare cases, the genderless. Since he had first took up the profession his skills had grown exponentially, and he didn't feel wrong or pretentious for admitting that to himself. In fact, he knew he was good and on many an occasion he never failed to show it.

"I do wish that there was a way to imagine this predicament, Elim," he spoke to himself in a low, almost chit-chat like voice as he continued to admire his creations. "You paid your dues. The Finance Ministry is inviting you home –" He paused for a moment, remembering what state Cardassia was left in since the end of the War before asking himself, "Is it home anymore?"

It was uncharacteristic of Garak to be solemn as he was now, but then again it was also uncharacteristic of the Cardassian Empire to be left in ruins after a devastating galactic war. Almost nothing had prepared him to face the reality. He had been trained in the Obsidian Order, the best of the best in galactic espionage, to represent what he considered to be the greatest Empire and the greatest race in the galaxy, his own proud people: the Cardassians and their glorious Empire. But that was the reality and the situation he was faced with, and the only thing his training could do was keep him focused, cold, and calculated.

Garak wasn't faced with the simplicity of the bolts of fabric beneath his fingers any longer. He didn't have to hold the veil above his true self anymore. The Obsidian Order was broken, and most of his enemies were dead because of the War. All that stood between him and the next step was the daunting task of determining what the next step was going to be. He had no idea how he could integrate himself into Cardassian society ever again after being exiled.

What was he saying? He was a Cardassian. Integration would be the simplest part of the web. How could he help rebuild? What use was a tailor and a spy in a broken Empire that needed heroes budding with honesty and passion, or a strong leader with a new direction for Cardassia. All Garak had ever known was the Order, spinning the webs of lies to protect himself, of being distant from everyone, even his own people, for the security of his beloved Empire. How could a lonesome tailor with a shady past help rebuild the shattered Empire that had once been an object of galactic wonder.

"Elim, instead of spinning a web of your own fabrications, you have created an impossibly large web of truth – breaking your own rules," he said to himself, almost finding comfort in the lack of silence he created in talking to himself. It distracted his mind from the facts ahead.

There had been a time when he found the task of assassinating Proconsul Merrok daunting, or the time when he helped Sisko fabricate evidence that helped his plot to assassinate Senator Vreenak that forced the Romulans into the Dominion War – but now he found himself deciding upon his own fate, which would have direct impacts on the course and stability of Cardassia itself. With Damar out of the way, Cardassia was left without a leader. What would – no, what could Elim Garak the tailor do about that?

"Garak?"

The familiar, soft voice of a man as close as any had come to Garak permeated the air and shattered Garak's reverie. He didn't turn to face Julian Bashir standing in the entrance of his shop, instead acting as if he was taking a keen interest in one of the last sweaters he had ever made.

"Come in, Doctor. What can I do for you today?"

Bashir didn't immediately answer Garak. Garak heard his soft footsteps enter further into the shop and then flank to his left. Judging by Julian's pace, he might have seen Garak speaking to himself and wanted to a chance to 'be there', as human's called it, for a friend. How thoughtful.

"I just thought I should let you know – well, I am letting you know now – your transport leaves in half an hour."

"How very thoughtful of you, Doctor, though I would venture to guess that isn't the only thing you have to stutter to me," Garak said with one of his cunning smiles, turning to face Julian with a look that could fool anyone into making one believe Garak already knew what you were about to say.

Bashir looked at the floor for a moment, staring at his feet as if he was preparing to say something, or, perhaps, keeping himself from doing so.

"Well – no," he began slowly, looking up and running a hand through his flowing brown hair. "I just wanted to come say good bye and good luck. You're going home."

"At least to what's left of it, Doctor."

Bashir let out a breath, almost as if he knew a comment such as that was coming. How could he not? His own home, Earth, had been threatened during the War. Luckily it hadn't come to such an abrupt end as Cardassia's.

"However, I have finally managed to pay my debt to the Finance Ministry," Garak drove on, turning to face Julian fully. "It seems that this outcast spy is going home after all."

"You and your lies – for some reason, I've come to respect it over the seven years I've known you. But here's some food for thought. You once said to me, 'Truth is in the eye of the beholder, Doctor'. The truth is, Garak, you're as honest as the next man – cunning, but honest. The lies are you, your true self. But alas, these are just the musings of a young man –"

"Genetically altered, of course."

"Of course."

Nothing else needed to be said. Julian had come to say what he wanted to say, and Garak had nothing else left but to leave it all behind and go. He heard Julian's footsteps slowly begin to fade away, but then Garak realized he had one thing left to say.

"Doctor!" He heard the footsteps stop near the entrance, and he sighed with relief that he caught the man. "Whatever happens to me, I suggest you keep to your word and never invite me for dinner."

"Oh, I don't know about that, Garak. I may have you over for the simple fact of necessity – who knows what I might force you to eat for the sake of galactic security."

"Using my own, past lies against me. Doctor, you have truly been taught well."

"I've said it before, and I'll say it again: I had a good teacher."

Garak nodded. If he were any other person, any other soul, he would say more. But that wasn't who Elim Garak was. He was distant, rigid, and determined. The words friend seemed to hang on his lips as Bashir eventually left the shop, but Garak couldn't force himself to it. That wasn't who Elim Garak was, and nor would it ever be so.

"To Cardassia, then. As the human Shakespeare loved to write so much, 'Adieu!'"