Disclaimer: I don't own Star Trek or any of it's characters/properties/etc. I'm also not making any money off of this.
Notes: I have no idea where this came from. a whole bunch of things at once but really I thought it would be fun to write a western that's still Star Trek at the heart and not entirely an AU. This doesn't start out as M but likely will go there later. I also thought it would be fun to get to write an older Julian in a different setting as well. C&C is always welcome. No real warnings for this part.
The dust is everywhere. It blows hot across the plains with every whip of fierce wind and Garak can feel it seeming to seep into every billow of the light shirt that he purchased on a whim. Shoddy work. He shakes at the fabric fastidiously as the sun continues to beat down and he walks past a human female wearing a bonnet to shield her face from the blazing heat. When the wind stops so does Garak, in the center of the worn dirt road, letting his head fall back to simply bask in the oppressive heat. He breathes in, not caring that it's dry like the desert and not humid, not that warm wet caress of the heavy jungle air. It is warm, and unlike Bajor, unlike Terok Nor it carries no memories for him. He has had enough of memories, after all.
There is nothing but the sensation of dust and heat and while Garak cannot be sure of how long he stands there he does not detect an unusual amount of time going by. Nothing unseemly for certain. He sighs as he picks up the single suitcase- a bargain for his old gear. The latinum he acquired for such a simple switch of luggage should last by his estimation a good several months while he settles in as long as he's not overindulgent. Garak wears a proper smile as another female walks by, another human by the look of her who gives him a curious look but continues on with little interest. Ah, yes, the Cardassian settlement is several days' journey from here and you don't exactly fit the part of a trader. Or perhaps he does, he considers as his clothes seem to match the simple garments of those few wandering either side of the main road. Yes, you fit the part perfectly, but they've never seen you before have they?
A worthy challenge for the proprietor of a new business. Garak takes a moment to study the oval display once more as if he can hardly believe it himself. Elim Garak. Occupation Tailor. Assignment Westworld. Westworld. He scoffed at that when he first heard it and he does the same as he puts the small PADD back in the sack slung over his shoulder. West of what, was his first question. His research led him to a rather tongue in cheek Federation reference to some old cultural time period some pre holonovel something or other called a "moovee". West of civilization is what Garak has determined the planet to be with some of the strangest most advanced primitive sciences he's ever laid eyes on. Metal, the briefing had indicated was abundant and they'd yet to figure how so many mining the land had never mined it dry. There were even whispers, half corroborated fables of streams of latinum trickling out of the mountains at night only to disappear like some mythical shades in an instant. Scientists, the wry humor of the report noted tended not to fare well outside the city limits and even then...
Garak feels the oddly heavy phaser they call a gun holstered beneath the carefully tucked shirt at his back. He'd been assured the device held the same accuracy as a standard phaser but he knows better than to believe a word from Dukat. Dukat of course is the reason that he's here at all and he carefully tucks that thought away not giving it sunlight to birth nasty vengeful tendrils; not yet. After all, he has work to do. Garak walks slowly, eyes scanning the various signs hanging the primitively constructed buildings. Wood, he thinks or some sort of plant material but he isn't certain. Metal ornaments everything, signs, railings, windows. He can't help but note the entire town might at any moment go up in a grand conflagration. He files that tidbit away noting the spacing of the buildings make poor fire breaks. He walks slowly, certain his gait isn't quite proper with the stiff leather shoes. He gave an enterprising young Ferengi three slips of latinum before boarding the steam carriage here to shine them and spent the trip with strangely shiny shoes and all the data he required to fill in the gaps.
Yes, food will feed the body Elim, but to feed the mind, to fill the empty spaces with information should be a far better investment. He has a name, of course. Quark. That was more than he was given on the PADD and he was assured by the young man, Nog, that his uncle was the man he needed to see if he was going to be staying there long term. Garak reads off the signs for the sheriff, the general store, and sees a tacky display of a gambler's den right beside a large non denominational temple. Now if I were a Ferengi in a small down of exiles and marauders... His feet take him straightaway to the brightly polished sign reading "Quark's" the closer he approaches. Garak sees easily the shimmering outline of a Ferengi profile beside; the first artificial light outside the oddly flickering gas lamps that he's witnessed since his arrival. He's not disappointed when he steps inside and sees the large dabo tables- a familiarity in a sea of the strange.
Wood. More wood greets him but so do more artificial lights, scantily dressed dabo girls and other tables and wheels that he's never before had a chance to envision. He sees men sitting back with cards, large brim hats hiding their faces, a veritable consortium of facial hair, woven fabrics and even an Andorrian with two antennae comically poking through the band of the hat on his head. Natives. Garak deduces quickly, easily separating the travelers, those recently arrived from even those aliens born to this strange hostile world. Their dress apes perfectly but he can see the subtle mismatches. A Trill wears some amalgamation of styles and colors, a feather boa around her neck bright as to be blinding but then, he supposes that could simply be the Trill individuality, itself front and center. Garak drinks it all in from the variant hemlines, the endless ruffles of red and black, the stiff starched shirts, the rolled up sleeves some seeming light as a breeze. Garak watches it all as he slowly makes his way to the bar knowing that for all his newly minted knowledge of intergalactic fashion he'll need to relearn another lifetime in a matter of weeks. He finds even that small challenge, that little puzzle to be a pleasant one.
The boards creak beneath his feet, the soles of the shoes loud and announcing but drowned easily by the crowds and the instruments fillings the massive space. Garak meanders through it all easily, hand light on his luggage but aware, engaged nonetheless. He pauses, staring down pleasantly a young pickpocket catching the slender wrist.
"I do beg your pardon, I'm afraid I'm still acclimating to your planet's charming customs but..." he trails off noting that the young man is Cardassian and shows caution but not fear. He definitely has potential.
"I didn't filch your wallet, mister," he declares, the use of the vernacular confirming Garak's assessment that he's native born. Garak doesn't answer him deciding a little fear now and then never hurts to sharpen a young man's character.
"Not Mister... Just Garak," he answers letting his smile lean just a touch toward the predatory. He sees that flicker of nervousness and feels the flex of wrist testing his strength. Yes, that's much better. "No, I'm well aware that my belongings still rest safe upon my person although I cannot help but notice your interest. You have a sharp eye for a well made bag. I'm told it's Rigelian ox leather though," he drops his voice leaning in dramatically. "I do have my suspicions it may be replicated."
"What do you want?" the young Cardassian half growls at him. "I may be a thief... and I'm not saying I am but thieves, we take, we don't give away nothing, old man." Old man? Garak is nearly frozen, that insipid grin still plastered to his face and he huffs internally at the audacity of this youngster who's clearly gone native. Ah, take the child away from his home, from order, from civilization and here you have chaos. He might as well be an Iotian for all the manners he displays. Garak sighs but still doesn't release his grip.
"My, what a precious child this delightful civilization has birthed now if you would be so kind as to tell me where I might find Quark perhaps I can see my way to make his acquaintance rather than the local constable." Garak isn't certain that's the right word, "sheriff" echoes in his head as well as those blue eyes get big for a moment before-
"You dishonorable Centaurian slug!" The cry draws his attention, the Klingon stands two tables over sloshing what is no doubt a large metal pitcher of blood wine over the wooden surface. "Do you think my eyesight is so weak that I did not see your sneaky hand pull that ace from beneath the table?!"
"Are you questioning my honor?!" He sees another Klingon seated across stand as well. They don't wear the traditional Westworld attire but he finds it difficult to conceive of any Klingon assimilating to local custom no matter how many generations they may be removed. They could be offworld but he catches sight of the hilt of a d'k tahg that appears different than those he's traditionally seen. A souvenir? Do Klingons even have use for souvenirs that aren't bleeding? Garak watches the tension grow, sees a man come rushing out from the direction of the bar and he smiles. Ah, and there's your good fortune today, Elim, right in your-
"Gul's balls!" The epithet escapes him as sharp teeth sink into his hand, the boy running back through the crowds as Garak instinctively cradles his wounded hand.
He sees a man at the bar watching him, chuckle into a pint of whatever beverage he's drinking and his dignity thanks the State that that solitary man seems to be the only one not intent on seeing this blood feud in the making. Garak hisses, holding the bleeding wound as one more Klingon rises to insult the proprietor's weak wine. The young thief has already disappeared and Garak can't help but feel that perhaps he is getting old for being so completely careless and amateur. It hurts. Oh the wound to be sure, but the sting to his pride is far worse in his opinion than whatever cheating card nonsense the group of Klingons has determined to fight over.
"If you think that I will sit here while he insults my honor!"
"You will let such an insult stand, Ferengi?!"
"Gentlemen, please!"
"The time for pleas is far past! Step aside!"
"Rom!"
"Someone call a doctor!"
Garak barely feels the pain in his hand as he watches the practiced skill with which the tables around them seem to move and it's then he takes note of how easily the carefully constructed colosseum comes to life amidst the hand wringing and high pitched begging until the path is clear, and the Ferengi in the long coat draws himself up, steps back and starts taking bets of all things. He hears the odds favoring Kang 3:1. Someone else bets on Kor. And he notices while the crowd gathers around him and he slowly edges back towards the entrance that the three are far older than he thought at a quick glance. A routine then. Garak shakes his head and as he sees the melee begin with the Ferengi he's positive is Quark amongst the rest of the solicitous waiters standing out boisterously he decides that his post will need to perhaps wait in favor of medical attention. Ah, off to a fine start already, aren't you, Elim? Perhaps this won't be the dull slip into nothingness as you feared after all. It's difficult to maneuver the heavy suitcase but he manages, quite proud that the sharp eyes little huckster doesn't seem to notice him bleeding on the floor. Doubtless that would be a neat excuse to squeeze a few strips of latinum out of him.
Garak shoulders easily through the swinging door of the saloon taking note of the large gears controlling the metal gate from a pocket door to the left. He doesn't see a keypad and resolves to investigate later. Gears. Mechanics, modified machines seem to be the calling card of this strange new world and he wonders if perhaps the bargain he'd gotten at the busy station was such a bargain after all. He frowns as he considers this and in that moment of contemplation does not consider the figure rushing towards him after a red headed dabo girl towards the doors he's standing in front of. Garak sees her of course, a flurry of green and black ruffles hiking up the skirts to better clear the steps. He catches her speaking to someone, a hand releasing possibly as she steps around him with a twirl.
"They haven't started yet, thank the prophets but you know how they are and Quark's head is too full of latinum to care that one day they're gonna..." She trails off and looks at him with a particularly ugly expression that reminds him of far too many memories when he sees the familiar wrinkle of her nose. Ah, of course. A Bajoran of all things.
Garak keeps the smile up curious beyond her presence here to see who it is that's trailing behind her. The doctor, he assumes as he watches her swishing rear enter the building and he thinks perhaps if the Klingons have not yet eviscerated each other he might have the man take a look at his-
Ceiling.
At least that's what Garak sees at first when he realizes it's his back that's hit the ground and the slats are in front of his eyes. And then stars. No, just two, two brilliant hazel stars looking down at him from behind thin wire framed glasses. Have they even eschewed such simple medical procedures as ocular correction? Garak has no idea why that's his first thought as he sits up, following the man sitting back on his knees with a flurry of apologies. Yes, you are certainly getting old if that's the first thing that comes to mind you poor poor bastard. The second thought comes to him as he takes in the short tussle of dark hair, tanned sun kissed skin half hidden beneath a salt and pepper scruff of beard. The man looks at him still stammering about his clumsiness as he begins an overly enthusiastic examination of Garak's seated form.
"...have no idea how I didn't see you I'm so terribly terribly..." Breathless, comes to mind from the rush of conversation soon followed by boyishly good looking- in spite of likely being the same age as he. But no that definitely comes from within, from that energy, that restless motion of tall slender body.
There's a myriad of other thoughts none of which have anything to do with his assignment, exile, whatever Tain has decided to coin it that flicker through him as he catches the scent of some alien tincture and strong clove. He finds it strangely soothing just as he finds the ceaseless babbling mouth... very full human lips equally exotic and alluring. The man's eyes are just as tireless as the rest of him darting quickly yet not seeming to miss anything. "...right nothing seems to be... I'm sorry here I am banging on and I haven't even... er... that is..." It had occurred to Garak as the shuttle touched down and he made planetfall on this odd bastion of outlaws and exiles that there was a strong possibility that he was meant to remain here, doomed to never again see his home world. And as the man- Dr. Julian Bashir he catches the name immediately- starts to examine his hand with gentle, skillful fingers still kneeling in front of him, Garak realizes that it may not be so terrible of a prospect after all.