AN: This is written for the delightful Deep Space Nine AU, Deep Dish Nine, which originated on tumblr (go check it out at deep-dish-nine dot tumblr dot com). The basic premise is that DS9 the station is now DD9 the pizza joint, on Earth, approximately now-ish and not in the future, where everyone is human. Different species have now become different ethnicities, and everyone does something vaguely analogous to their canonical job (e.g. Sisko runs the joint, O'Brien fixes everything, Julian is a med student, etc.). Deep Dish Nine's rival is Dominion's Drugs—PIZZA (run by the mysterious Founder; Dukat manages the chain closest to Deep Dish Nine). Since most of the lovely fic already written is centered around Deep Dish Nine, and since I have an overwhelming love for Dukat and Damar (and Garak, and basically Cardassians in general, but whatever), I thought I would write a bit from the Dominion's side of things.

In this particular story, Dukat finds his daughter's artwork a bit unusual. (Some of the art described here I just made up, and some of it I based on existing DD9 stories, but most of it actually exists on the DD9 tumblr, and it's fabulous and amazing.)

A Slice of Dominion's
Part One: Portraits

"Ziyal, I'm concerned about these pictures."

Dukat sat in the living room of his posh Cardassia Heights home, his daughter beside him. The spring sun streamed through the tall windows, thrown open to welcome the fresh and inviting outside air. Birds sang their cheerful songs, somewhere in the distance a child was laughing, and a sweet smell drifted from the kitchen, where the housekeeper was—on Dukat's orders—preparing a special lunch. The smile on Ziyal's face announced that it was a very pleasant day indeed.

Dukat was not happy.

When he'd heard the news that his daughter would be coming home from the university for the weekend, Dukat could not have been more pleased. Throw open the doors, he'd said, tie back the curtains, this house has been shut up for far too long. Make it sparkle from top to bottom. I want it to shine for my daughter! She deserves nothing but the best—and make her something wonderful to eat while you're at it. Whatever they're feeding her at school must be appalling. Dukat had hoped, secretly, that this show of dotage and generosity would convince Ziyal to return home for good. The dorms were no place for a fine young lady such as herself, and she visited far less often than Dukat would have liked.

Yet now, with Ziyal seated on the sofa beside him, her final term project spread out before them on the coffee table, the warm welcome he'd so carefully prepared seemed to turn to stone in his stomach. Just what was he looking at, anyway? What were they teaching at this school?

Ziyal's smile melted at Dukat's words. She picked up a drawing and studied it, her brows knit together as though she were trying to understand just what it was that was objectionable about it. "I don't understand, Father," she said. "They're not finished yet, but . . . you've never been worried about my assignments before. They're not due for another three weeks. These are only drafts."

Dukat pursed his lips, thought of a different way to approach the issue. "Tell me more about the assignment."

Ziyal straightened her posture, placing the picture back on the coffee table with the rest of the collection. "Well," she began, in a tone that suggested she'd had to explain this on more than one occasion, "we're supposed to take something ordinary, some slice of life we see every day, and represent it in a style that's both outside of what we normally do and compliments the situation." A small hint of a smile crept back into Ziyal's face as she studied the drawings. "Finding the material was the easy part. It's been working with the complimentary style that's been the most challenging. I know they're different, but . . . do you think they're good?"

They were good. They were very, very good. Dukat was having trouble finding a single flaw in the execution of pencil to paper, of brush stroke or of color or of proportion. His daughter was a marvel of artistic excellence; he would argue into the ground anyone who even suggested otherwise. But, as he examined picture after picture, he began to think that perhaps she needed to be removed from the university's environment after all, if this was what she thought was commonplace.

. . . four faces: himself, Ziyal, Damar, and that insufferable tailor Garak of all people . . .

. . . himself, standing smugly as Damar cast him a murderous look from behind his Dominion's clipboard . . .

. . . Garak again, and Weyoun, who was apparently the "employee of the month—forever" . . .

. . . Garak again, and that med student plaything of his, sipping coffee and wrapped in a scarf? . . .

. . . himself, staring over the counter of Deep Dish Nine at cashier Kira Nerys . . .

. . . himself, leering over the counter of Deep Dish Nine at Kira Nerys, while Ziyal looked on and that Dax girl gave him the evil eye . . .

. . . Nerys again, holding out a "special delivery for Mr. Dukat" which had FUK U spelled out in pepperoni . . .

. . . Garak again, modeling some ostentatious coat . . .

. . . himself, sitting at Deep Dish Nine and looking furious as that Klingon stared him down from behind the counter . . .

. . . himself, leaning over the register of Deep Dish Nine to slip Nerys a business card with his personal phone number scrawled across the back . . .

. . . himself, eating a slice of pizza while seductively staring at Nerys . . .

. . . Ziyal, handing out cards apologizing for some lecherous behavior on his behalf . . .

And the style . . . what had she said about the style? Something that compliments the situation? Dukat scanned the drawings again, trying to see past the subject matter. Well-executed as it was, the style Ziyal had chosen for her artwork—especially the drawings of him—was . . . comical.

Dukat opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it. Opened it again, closed it and pursed his lips. He tilted his head slightly, considering, and looked up when he felt Ziyal's expectant gaze upon him.

"Well, Father?"

"Hmm?"

"What do you think?"

Dukat sidestepped the question again. "You mentioned these are going to be displayed in the campus gallery at the end of term?"

Ziyal beamed with excitement. "Yes, most of them. All of the junior art students get gallery space this semester."

"Ah."

Dukat returned his gaze to the drawings. The tilt of his head, the exaggerated stretch of his smile, the undeniably disturbing gleam in his eye . . . Was this really how he appeared to others? As some sort of comic book villain? No wonder Nerys snarled at him every time he tried to charm her out of a slice of pizza and possibly more. He would have to definitely up his game. Perhaps he could take a page out of that insufferable tailor's book after all; the man was indisputably suave. And perhaps he should thank his daughter for bringing the situation to his attention, and not mention just how utterly disagreeable he found her theme. And why couldn't she just paint more flowers, for goodness' sake?

". . . Yes, Ziyal. They're very, very good."