Earth

by mkkstartrek

Gul Elim Garak and his prisoner Captain Julian Bashir survive the crash of their ship and find themselves stranded, but all is not as they are expecting. The late twentieth century Earth to which they've crossed over offers many challenges for the two, but at least the natives are friendly... Note: this story contains AU Garak/Bashir slash content, as well as some adult language.

"Garak... Garak? Garak! GARAK! Are you all right?"

"Don't call me 'Garak,' Terran. The title you are to use is 'Gul.'"

"I beg your pardon, Gul. Are you all right, or did you manage to smash your fucking head against the fucking console?" There was no answer. "I said -"

"I heard you, Terran." Gul Elim Garak of the Klingon-Cardassian Alliance stirred and awkwardly hoisted himself up against the seat of the scout ship; rebel captain Julian Bashir crouched uncertainly a little distance away, poised for an attack despite the short lengths of cable restraints attached to his wrists and ankles. Garak winced involuntarily at the sudden pain as his charred fingers made contact with the hot metal of the chair. He pulled his hand away and, grasping the cooler fabric surface of the seat cushion, slowly rose to his feet, his head lowered against his chest. Bashir took a step closer, then stopped and wrinkled his nose in disgust.

"What's that horrible smell?"

"Undoubtedly my hand, Terran. If you would be so kind as to bring me that small case mounted on the wall -"

"Why the hell am I to be kind to you, GARAK? Do you have any idea how you sound? You chase me halfway across space, intercept my raider, beam me aboard your pitiful old garbage scow and then maneuver it directly into some kind of ion storm -"

"It wasn't an ion storm, TERRAN."

"Then what the hell was it?"

"I don't know," Garak finally admitted, leaning across the chair and detaching the medikit from its wall mount himself. He struggled, single-handed, to open it, Bashir continuing to watch him in a kind of defensive crouch. Every few seconds, the ship let forth an ominous, shrill exhalation, which Bashir noted with alarm, Garak barely acknowledged. The gaping hole in the roof let in a crisp, cool rain-scented breeze which helped filter some, but not all, of the smoke that was beginning to make Bashir's eyes water. After spraying his injured hand with a cooling compound and then repairing the small amount of surface damage with a dermal regenerator, Garak flexed his fingers and smiled in satisfaction. The ship creaked again. "There. Good as new."

"Wonderful. Now if you don't mind, Gul -" Bashir extended his arms. "I'd really like to get off this thing before it blows up around us." He paused, glancing meaningfully at the arm restraints into which Garak had securely fastened him.

"Oh, don't be in such a hurry, Terran," Garak purred, less irritably now that the pain in his hand had eased. "There's really nowhere for us to GO once we leave the ship. After all, the readings may have been garbled but there's not too much doubt that we're in the middle of a - sizable forest." The ship creaked again. "We'll just wait here quietly and patiently, for an Alliance repre-" The hull of the ship groaned as if in pain, as fat droplets of rain began to splash down onto the console through the open roof.

"You were saying, Gul?"

"We'll wait under the trees. I'm sure our somewhat unorthodox arrival was noted by the local sector administrators." He pushed Bashir roughly by the shoulder toward the hatch-like doorway, which wouldn't budge.

"We'll have to climb out the roof."

Garak didn't answer, but awkwardly hoisted himself up onto a chair and reached for the jagged edges of the roof opening. With a grunt, he struggled to take firmer hold and slowly levered himself upward, Bashir standing below. When he had managed to pull himself all the way up onto the surface, he crouched precariously at the edge of the opening and peered back down into the darkness within.

"Well? What are you waiting for?" Bashir stared upward, anger beginning to rise. "Are you helping me out of here, or do I go down with the ship?"

"You ARE very nicely imprisoned inside there, Terran. I could leave you there until we're discovered and you're taken to a local detention center." Smoke began to pour out of a ruptured conduit as the sizzle of damaged connections grew louder. "On the other hand, now that I've captured you, I have no wish to see you perish and render yourself useless as a trophy of battle." He reached down to grasp hold of Bashir's wrists, then with difficulty pulled him upward as Bashir wildly tried to loosen the restraints hobbling his ankles. "Stop kicking," Garak panted. "You're only going to pull me back down with you."

A tempting idea, Bashir reflected, then decided that getting off the severely damaged ship should be his top priority. So he, desperately trying to ignore his own feelings of helplessness and humiliation, waited patiently for Garak to pull him all the way up onto the roof; he could not even grasp the edges well enough to hoist himself upwards. Once he was safely on top, he slid down the other side of the scout ship, feet first, behind the Cardassian, landing in a knee-deep cluster of ferns. Garak had been able to break his fall by spreading out his hands; Bashir, unable to regain his balance, pitched forward and fell face-first into the mud of the forest floor.

"Son of a BITCH!"

"Are you all right, Terran?" Garak called over to him, amusement in his voice. "Did you hurt anything?"

"Mind your own fucking business," Bashir muttered.

"Well, if you're going to continue to be so foul-mouthed... fine." A loud peal of thunder echoed through the forest. "I don't really blame you. It isn't often lately that we so easily capture one of your annoying little rebel ships. I couldn't believe my good fortune - that storm, or whatever it was, springing up out of nowhere directly in front of you..."

"Yes I know. I was there." Bashir tried ineffectually to brush the mud and twigs off his legs.

"Ah. Indeed you were. Well, you have no idea of the joy I felt, Terran, when I managed to transport you off that rusty little contraption just in the nick of time - and the look on your face - I don't think I've ever seen a rebel so positively helpless with rage."

"Why didn't you record it, then, so you could enjoy it at your leisure?"

"Oh, believe me, I did." Garak began to move through the forest away from the ship, Bashir reluctantly following - after all, he was still hobbled by restraints and the Gul was armed; it didn't appear, then, that he had much choice, as he was in no condition to wrestle the weapon away from him or attempt to flee in the opposite direction. He sighed. Soon enough, the Sector Administrator for the Alliance would be told that a Cardassian ship had gone down in the North Central Unit and a representative would arrive to escort them to some local governing office. While there, Bashir had no doubt that he'd be treated to a night of sadistic fun and games from Alliance officials as well as some of his fellow Terrans, while Garak was being wined and dined by the local VIP's, and as a bonus firmly back in the Regent's good graces. Damn - what did he think he was going to accomplish by fleeing to Earth? Not even his own mother would have welcomed him home, knowing the Alliance was after him. Still, the rebel movement was growing on Earth, growing larger by the day, and maybe, just maybe, he could have interested a few of them in making the journey to Terok Nor... He was startled when Garak began to curse in Kardasi at the scanning device he held.

"Stupid, worthless piece of Klingon garbage. This is ridiculous."

"What is?"

"According to these readings, Terran," Garak spat, "we are nowhere NEAR the Sector 12 governing center. I can find absolutely no sign of it even using long-range scans."

"So maybe we're not near it - maybe we crashed somewhere else."

"No, I distinctly remember that we were headed for the southern segment of the North Central Unit - the Sector 12 center should be no more than five or six hundred of your kilometers away. At that distance, they'd have easily spotted us going down and sent a ship."

"That was a pretty bad storm, though," Bashir replied, unnerved at the fact that Garak was confiding this much to him. "Maybe it's just something wrong with your scanner. Or something happened to THEIR scans." He continued walking, lost in thought - if, as he fervently hoped, he and Garak were cut off from communication temporarily, that could possibly give him enough time to attempt some sort of escape. But not with the Alliance-issue restraints still fastened - he'd never be able to cut them off, and would be hopping around like a rabbit every time he fell. He was already becoming severely irritated at the "baby" steps he was forced to take, Garak marching resolutely ahead of him. Suddenly, the Cardassian stopped and let out another curse.

"What is it now?" Bashir moaned, nearly crashing into him.

"I'm reading nuclear fission radiation, Terran, lots of it. Erratically displaying traces around us. The use of nuclear fission is BANNED by the Alliance, as you are no doubt aware."

Bashir brightened - rebels against the Alliance, way up here in the north woods? Controlling a nuclear reactor? Possibly planning large-scale movements against their Klingon-Cardassian oppressors? No, it was too good to be true, much too good. It was all a pleasant fantasy, brought on by his exhaustion, irritation, and smoke inhalation from the crash. But there was something about the radiation that was severely annoying Garak, he could tell. What was it? He struggled to remember. What was it about fission radiation traces that would make the Alliance nervous? He continued to hike through the underbrush, pondering the problem, when he heard a faint click and noticed that one of his wrist restraints had opened. Best not to reveal that fact to Garak, who was beginning to run, staring at the scanner display with a dumbfounded expression.

"This - this is not -"

"This is not WHAT?"

Garak stopped and stared at him. "This, my brilliant fighter, is not the North Central Unit at all."

"Well, of course it is." Bashir could not even comprehend a possibility other than that of his eventual imprisonment and return to Terok Nor. "I saw it on your ship displays - we went down over the woods near Lake Cardassia. We're in the middle of the continent, east of the Bajor Range -"

"You can stop reciting those admittedly impressive names," Garak snapped. "We are near those places geographically, yes, but they're not the same ones you're naming."

"Yes they are! Where else would we be? What are you saying?"

"I'm saying..." Garak stopped, hesitated, then started again, "I'm saying - we're not on Earth at all."

"Not on EARTH? What are you talking about? I was headed directly for it when you caught up to me! I was just about to maneuver my ship directly through the orbit of their moon to lose you, when you -"

"This is not OUR Earth, Terran. Nowhere near it. There is precisely one Cardassian here in the entire range of this scanner, there are pockets of nuclear radiation, there are no Klingon prison camps nearby, there are widespread communications broadcasts on frequencies banned by the ruling Alliance council..."

"So in other words -"

"We've crossed over."

"Son of a bitch."

"I agree." By unspoken mutual consent, both men stopped walking and stared, mystified, at the trees around them, the rain continuing to drip down from the overhead branches.

"I heard about that - Sisko came from - from over there."

"Yes he did. Sisko and your counterpart, among others." He didn't elaborate, and Bashir was too stunned to let the words register. Crossed over. It was simply not possible. He had heard rumors about what it was like on the "other side," rumors of widespread peace and happiness, unending sexual fulfillment as well as enough food and drink at every meal to satisfy an entire army of Klingons. He had also heard that, on that other side, the Cardassians were not only NOT in power over Earth and the Terrans, they were actively trying to court those Terrans' favor and gain their good will. Impossible. As long as Bashir had been alive, he had feared Cardassians, had fought them, had slaved under them and been punished by them in various painful and humiliating ways... and now, with one botched capture by Gul Elim Garak and the help of a spatial anomaly, he was free of all that. He was free of Cardassians. He was even free of THIS Cardassian, as one by one, his remaining wrist and ankle restraints clicked open. Garak was still armed but Bashir could now utilize the element of surprise to escape him and, one second later, he did.

"STOP!" Garak bellowed, attempting to draw his phaser as Bashir knocked him to the ground and administered a savage kick to his midsection. Then with a howl of laughter he threw the now useless cuffs onto the enraged Cardassian and disappeared through a row of pine trees. He heard the snap of a phaser being fired and braced himself for a fall, but nothing happened. Smiling almost maniacally with glee, he clawed his way through a thick patch of brush at the side of a roadway and tumbled down into the road. He was free - and on an Earth that was likewise free. Twin lights in the distance seemed to bore down on him, growing brighter and brighter as they reflected off the wet pavement. Bashir barely had time to register the fact that the lights were attached to a vehicle of some mysterious type before it skidded to a slippery stop in front of him. A window opened and a man's irritated voice echoed through the trees.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?!"

"I'm sorry -" Bashir climbed to his feet. "I fell - I walking in the woods." He thought rapidly - on this Earth, people would be willing to help each other, he reasoned, to lend a hand and not regard each other with gloomy suspicion. He'd try for some of that help, anyway. "Listen - I got lost and would really be grateful for some transportation..." He hoped the man would take the hint, although the terrifying-sounding vehicle seemed to be in no better shape than the damaged ship had been. It coughed and sputtered as Bashir squinted through the falling rain at the bright lights. Strange - even on his own Earth, most transportation was accomplished much less noisily and more efficiently. This odd sort of "ground car" had a small, cramped front compartment as well as a flat open portion at the rear of the vehicle, no doubt used as a base for the transport of cargo to waiting ships at the spacedock.

"Sure, climb in," the man replied, and Bashir hesitantly approached the back of the vehicle, preparing to hoist himself up into the open, wet cargo bay. "No, over here - the door," the man told him, as Bashir stared, puzzled, through the window at the wheel the driver was holding in his lap. How could he control the vehicle by that method - what about the command console? Still, he obediently walked around to the front of the contraption and opened the door.

The seat was piled with written documents, bits of food, and containers in varying shapes and sizes. The generous stranger cleared most of the debris onto the floor with one arm, the other one still resting on the incongruous wheel. "There you go - sit down." Bashir sat. "And close the door, will you?" the man then instructed, bemused. Bashir reached for the door, located the handle, and pulled it closed. The vehicle roared to sputtering life and Bashir braced himself, startled, against the back of the seat.

"Easy... easy, pal. You never rode in a pickup before?"

"N- no." Whatever that was. Bashir continued to stare, frightened, out the front window as the ground car sped up, then he nearly jumped through the roof as the man turned a dial on the command console and another man's shouting voice filled the tiny cabin.

"Bottom of the eighth, two men out, swing and a miss - strike two!"

Bashir was horrified. Swinging and missing? Strikes? "They're - they're being beaten!" he exclaimed, shocked. The beatings were being publicly announced - what kind of place was this after all - but the bottom of the eighth what?

"No," the man laughed, "no, they're actually up by two runs!"

"Ah! Then they're escaping - running for it?"

"No, they're - this is a baseball game. You're not from around here, are you?" Bashir didn't answer. "Your accent sounds English. My wife and I were in England two years ago. Fascinating place - but not much baseball there, right?"

"No, not much 'baseball' there," Bashir agreed, watching the command console fearfully. England, hmm? So he was thought to be from England? His mother, years ago, had emigrated from the area that used to be called England to the remote colony where Bashir was born, so England would work just as well as anywhere. He only hoped he wouldn't have to answer too many questions about it - this man obviously knew nothing about the "North Central Unit" or any of the other place terms with which Bashir was much more familiar. "Yes, I'm from England," he repeated, more confidently now. The man grinned.

"So you're visiting up here?"

"Yes, just visiting. From England."

"Where are you headed?"

"Hmm?"

"Where are you headed? Where can I drop you off?"

"Oh - well - I'm not really sure - I don't recognize any of these.." He looked out at the darkening fields, and tried desperately to think of a convincing destination. He was no doubt far enough away from Garak now that the Cardassian had lost his trail. A narrower road, half hidden by overgrown weeds, sprang into view in the lights from the "pickup," and Bashir made his decision. "There - there it is. You can drop me off here, thank you." He'd hike down the road and find some sort of shelter for the night, then continue on his way. This man was starting to seem eager to get rid of him - he probably lived in the general area and was going home.

"The Carlson place? You want to be dropped off THERE?" the man asked, confused. What did he mean by that - Bashir looked again and, at the end of a long gravel drive, glimpsed the reflection of windows from a structure half hidden in the trees. It seemed dark and secluded, as far as he could tell, and would be absolutely perfect.

"Well... yes, if you don't mind."

"No, I don't mind - but I didn't know anyone was staying there. Are you renting it?"

"Renting it?"

"Yeah, no one's been living there in years - last I heard, Annie Carlson was in a nursing home somewhere and the place is going up for sale. But you're renting there now?"

"Well, no - I mean, not exactly, but -"

"Oh, now I get it! You're from the English side, right?"

"The English side -" The English side of what?

"Of the family - I know her husband was from England - so you're a nephew or something?"

"Yes." Bashir said no more, letting the assumptions continue to flow without his active control.

"I hope they got the place ready for you - got the raccoons and the bats out."

Bashir's head was swimming from all this. The vehicle slowed down and he opened the door, preparing to jump out - the man stopped the vehicle with a squeal of tires.

"WAIT a minute, buddy! Wait'll I stop the damned thing!"

"Oh - I'm sorry," He obediently sat still, rubbing his hands together nervously, until his host would dismiss him. "Thank you for the ride, Mister -"

"Mike - call me Mike. And you're welcome. Are you sure you don't want me to drive you up to the house? It's a long walk in the dark."

"No thank you - the rain seems to be stopping, and anyway I did want a walk. Thank you anyway." Bashir climbed down from the high seat in the vehicle, then turned and addressed his chauffeur, who was already preparing to depart. "This area, Mr. - Mike. I'm so new here that I can't even remember what it's called. Where am I?"

"You're right outside Mercer." Mike looked at him curiously.

"Oh yes, that's right. Thanks."

"You're welcome. Enjoy your stay here - hope to see you again. Bye."

Bashir raised his hand in farewell as the odd transport lumbered off down the road, spewing unpleasant fumes in its wake. So - he was near "Mercer," which was located "up north" - did the man mean the North Central Governing Unit, or some other "up north"? He should have asked more questions, prolonged the ride a little, tried to gain more information - but that would only have led to more questions in return from his garrulous host, questions he was too unprepared and too disoriented to answer. He sighed and headed up the road in the dark, the one that led to the "Carlson place"... The road was evidently not a road at all, but a dirt path of some sort to the property in question. Bashir stumbled several times over weeds and branches, then plunged his booted foot into several centimeters of water that had accumulated at a low point in the gravel. A light drizzle continued to fall, but did little to obscure his vision as he pushed through the thickening overgrowth, becoming thoroughly drenched in the process. Suddenly the path opened up into a wide, grassy area. Directly in the enter of this area was the structure, a house.

Bashir had never seen a house of that design. A long porch dominated the front of the building, with a smaller main entrance and a plethora of windows that seemed, in the darkness, to be gaping at him like large black eyes. The house appeared to be made of wood - wood! - a fact Bashir found incredible - wood on "his" Earth hadn't been used in structures for several hundred years, it was too scarce and of such poor quality. Nothing could have been further from the case here, though - there was clearly an excess of wood, with trees everywhere and large piles of chopped wood scattered about the yard at random. Bashir, with trepidation, climbed the creaking steps of the porch and tried to peer into one of the windows, but the inside of the house was as black as a tomb. He shuddered. Thunder rang out and a fresh burst of rain began to pour, with the porch providing little protection after all - the roof over the porch leaked somewhat, and the rain blew onto it from the side. Bashir shivered and, reluctantly, reached for the door handle - but the door wouldn't budge. He gave it one powerful kick and it sprang open.

He stepped inside but could see nothing in the darkness. He bumped into a large object, a box or a piece of furniture, and let out a yelp of surprise. It echoed throughout the house but caused no other reaction. Bashir moved slightly closer to the open doorway and crouched there just inside it, out of the rain but close enough that he could feel the moisture on his cheek. He closed his eyes. He didn't think he slept, but it seemed that only moments later, he awoke to the sound of footsteps plodding through the wet grass and mud up to the house, then stopping. Bashir, his heart pounding, was instantly awake, and peered around the door frame at the intruder.

It was First Officer Garak, standing on the lowest stair of the porch, studying the readings being displayed by his hand-held scanner. Bashir silently cursed himself; in his panic, he had forgotten all about that particular piece of equipment. Garak looked up and saw Bashir's eyes on him; he smiled victoriously.

"Thank you for the walk, Terran - however, you're seriously mistaken if you think you can flee from me as long as I hold the weapon and the scanning devices." With one smooth movement, he had withdrawn his phaser and fired; Bashir had no time even to react before he crumpled to the dusty floor of the doorway. Damn - the radiation must sporadically disrupt the Alliance devices but wouldn't always disable them, he hazily decided. Damn.

"Light stun. VERY light stun - I will be only too happy to increase the setting every time I'm forced to use this weapon. It's your choice." He touched a control, then replaced the phaser in his uniform. "Now, to see about this shelter you've found."

"G- G- Garak," Bashir was disgusted to hear himself slur, "w- what do you think they're going to do to you here on THIS Earth when -" he paused and tried to focus, "when they find out you're holding a Terran prisoner? Cardassians on Earth in this reality don't hold -"

"I'm sure you're not the first Terran - human - prisoner who ever tried to escape capture. You're not leaving my sight, my rebel friend. Not for a moment. We WILL be rescued here and you WILL be coming back to the Regent's ship with me as my trophy. And, believe me, that will be very enjoyable, very enjoyable indeed - well, probably not for YOU..." He quickly snapped the restraints back onto Bashir's wrists and ankles.

"Wonderful." Bashir didn't resist, but tiredly closed his eyes against the newly-developing headache left by the First Officer's weapon. Garak was using the scanner as a source of illumination now, moving around the room, examining it and occasionally glancing over to Bashir, who was still groggy. The weapon had most certainly been fired in the woods - but it had not been effective there. The fact that it was effective now was a fresh source of uneasiness for Bashir, who reflected that he'd never be able to be certain of when the Gul could overpower him and when he couldn't...

"It's cold, Terran. I want to build a fire, since we're going to be forced to stay here overnight. That brick structure in the wall is most likely a hearth of some kind." Bashir glanced over at the arched opening to which Garak was evidently referring. "Gather up some items to burn in it." Bashir had a sudden vision of lunging for Garak and then stuffing the mighty Cardassian Gul into the hearth's gaping mouth, but instead he slowly hoisted himself to his feet and shuffled painfully around the room, collecting small wooden and paper objects.

Paper. He had never seen this much paper. Strange, that this alternate reality which seemed to pride itself on its technical achievements, if the rumors were true, should be using so much more paper than Bashir's own reality. He found a large stack of old brittle papers in a corner, and, in the dim light provided by the scanner, crouched down to examine the images he saw displayed there. Two men, shaking hands - two human men. A vehicle of the type he had ridden in earlier that evening. A man throwing a large ball at a circular metal hoop. An item of underwear, evidently, on a nearly-naked human female. Bashir grinned; Garak noticed his preoccupation and snatched the papers away from him, then brought the scanner closer to them.

"Hmm. Interesting. Obviously, Terrans in this universe have an unusual conception of appropriate -" He stopped and stared at a corner of the yellowed paper. Bashir tried to look over his shoulder but Garak angrily pushed him away, then continued to stare.

"Gul? Gul Garak?" Garak frantically pawed through the papers, bringing the light close to several more sheets as he became increasingly agitated. Bashir again moved toward him. "Would you mind telling me, Gul, what you're so upset about? It's just a Terran in some underwear."

"Shut up - we're leaving." The rain continued to pour outside the doorway. Bashir flinched.

"LEAVING? In this rain? After finding this place? Where are we going?"

"Back to the ship, Terran. We're getting it moving again and leaving immediately."

"You're insane - that ship had a hole in the roof the size of this room - and the leaking conduits have probably already -"

"We're leaving," Garak repeated. "Now." He pushed Bashir toward the stairs; Bashir's restraints nearly sent him toppling down them; he staggered forward and stopped.

"WATCH it!" he barked. "You break my neck and I'm not going ANYWHERE. Just what is the problem now? You already figured out that we crossed over. What's the fucking hurry?" Garak paused, his breathing still rapid and his mannerisms still agitated. He thrust the paper under Bashir's face and held the light near it.

"Do you see that, Terran? NOW do you understand?" Bashir saw nothing but a meaningless collection of yellowed words and images. Most Terrans of his class were not regularly taught to read, and he had only picked up a few simple words.

"What am I supposed to be -"

"There. Look there. In the corner." Bashir looked, not seeing. "The DATE! The DATE, you idiot!" He grabbed the paper back from Bashir. "Thursday, February 14, 1991." He fell silent.

Bashir remained mystified. What was so significant about the Earth date February 14 to Garak? Cardassians didn't even follow the traditional Earth designations - they had been trying for years to stamp out the system entirely; they weren't even happy with the stardates that most Terrans used. So why should any one Terran date have any more significance to him than any other - the papers were so old that the date had long since passed anyway... "Yes, I understand now," Bashir replied condescendingly. "February 14 - you're right, we must leave at once." He smirked.

Garak shot him a withering glance. "Not the day; the YEAR, you imbecile. 1991. 1991!"

"So what?" Bashir was only familiar with stardates and had no idea what Garak meant.

"1991, Terran, is nearly four hundred years in Earth's past. We have not only crossed over in space but also in time."

"Are you sure? These papers seem very old." Garak gave an incredulous bark of laughter.

"Four HUNDRED years old? I don't even think they're four YEARS old, you stupid Terran." Bashir gaped. If this was somehow true, if the ship had passed through some kind of passage that displaced not only dimension but time itself - time, of course, being yet another dimension... Bashir hopped down the stairs, Garak behind him, and began to move forward as fast as the restraints would allow, through the rain and the underbrush. He was not going to be trapped four hundred years in the past in ANY reality, especially not as Garak's captive. "Would you please remove these fucking things?" he screamed, as the cable between his ankles caught on a branch and he was pitched forward into the mud.

"It's hopeless. It's beyond repair."

"I can see that, Terran."

Bashir stepped back and surveyed the wreckage. "Some of the cooling systems seem to have failed - and I think that smell is coming from the life support system."

"Unfortunately so," he agreed.

Bashir flexed his arms. It felt good to once again be free of those damned cuffs - and this time, when they had snapped open one by one, he had taken care to hide them in the undergrowth as he trudged behind Garak, not hand them right back to him like a present. The rain continued gently falling, soaking his clothing and dribbling down the Gul's armor. Bashir wasn't sure, but he thought he could even see the mighty First Officer begin to shiver in the damp cold. Good - Cardassians hated the cold. Garak sighed with resignation.

"I suppose we had better salvage what we can, and then, if we're unable to completely hide the ship here, I'll initiate the self-destruct sequence so that -"

"WHAT?!"

"Terran, we can't let this ship be discovered."

"Why not?"

"Because - I was debating whether you needed to know this, but... the Terrans - humans - of this time period, while properly respectful toward Cardassians and other members of the Alliance... without calling it the 'Alliance' at that time, of course..." Bashir waited patiently as the First Officer seemed to uncharacteristically fumble for words. "Well, they'd be only too happy to - steal - Cardassian technology, and I would prefer to keep a few things secret."

"Uh-huh." Bashir leaned back against a tree trunk and regarded Garak skeptically. "Right. You're the only Cardassian within the entire range of your scanner, you yourself made the mistake of telling me." Garak looked uncomfortable. "The only one. Now, I may be nearly uneducated by your standards; after all, the Alliance isn't too interested in schools for Terrans. But I seem to remember that four hundred years into our OWN past, Terrans believed they were alone in the universe, at least on my Earth." Garak wrenched open the door of the ship and disappeared inside. Bashir raised his voice and shouted in to him, grinning, "In fact, I seem to remember hearing that we KILLED the first Vulcans who tried to make contact with us! Something about experimenting on them and then slowly dissecting them. Do you remember any of that, too, sir?" No answer from within. Bashir smiled. "I find it difficult to believe that THIS society is much different. Did I tell you about the Terran I met? Barely spoke, just growled at me like an animal? If he was suspicious of ME, just think how he would react to YOU." He warmed to his theme. "Oh, I'm the one who captured you after all, Gul Garak. And now you're going to find out just how pleasant your captivity is." He began to laugh, then choked as the phaser blast hit him squarely in the chest. "Damn, damn, damn..." he groaned, sinking into unconsciousness.

"Ignorant Terran. Why didn't you run again, when you had the chance? No, you're too simple-minded for that." The last things Bashir saw as his eyes closed were the First Officer's mud-spattered boots; he opened his eyes to a similar sight, but this time, he was lying on the dirty floor of the abandoned house, securely tied hand and foot with straps from the ship. A gray early-morning light filtered in through the dirty windows as Garak moved about the room, carefully arranging different objects that he had evidently brought from the downed ship. Bashir was amazed at the variety and the size of the things Garak had been able to carry; no, perhaps he didn't carry them, perhaps he had... He flinched as the Gul neared him and stopped, centimeters from his face.

"Ah - I see you're awake now. Excellent - you can keep watch while I get some sleep."

"H- how did you bring all this here..."

"I was able to coax a few minutes of power out of the transporter, fortunately. I managed to salvage power packs, tools, food, some clothing, weapons - oh, and a lovely subdermal communicator and neural implant for you!" He smiled happily. "I can now follow you with ease and listen to everything you say, should you again make contact with any of the natives - and if I don't like what I'm hearing, Terran -" He spread his hands meaningfully. Bashir closed his eyes.

"As I said," Garak repeated, leaning down and hoisting Bashir into a sitting position, "you're going to stand guard while I sleep."

"Stand guard? Tied up like this?"

"Obviously. You're going to shout to me if you hear or see anyone approaching. Then I can be prepared to deal with them." He settled Bashir against the side of a filthy and dust-covered gold sofa. "In my opinion, Terran, you ought to spend this time composing your confession to the Regent and hoping he doesn't slit your throat. When we get back, he's not going to be pleased at some of the things I have to report to him."

"When we get back? From an alternate universe four hundred years in the past?" Bashir laughed but Garak cut him off.

"I've set an emergency subspace beacon to transmit our coordinates every ten hours - that should enable the power supply to last at least six months; I have no doubt we'll be rescued in a fraction of that time.":

"And just where is this beacon?"

"No." Garak shook his head. "No, I won't allow you to find or disable it. Now, if you will be so kind as to sit facing that doorway, Terran - that's right," he had grabbed hold of Bashir's shoulders and forcibly pivoted him around, "and listen carefully for any unexpected visitors, I will be only too happy to leave you to your own thoughts for a few hours." He disappeared through a doorway branching off of the short corridor leading away from the room; Bashir shouted after him.

"What if they get IN? How am I supposed to stop them for you?"

"No one will be able to get in that quickly; the locks I've installed will ensure that. I simply want to keep the curious unable to enter in the same way we did."

"And I want them to find us; I'm going to tell anyone I can about you and about exactly what you are -" He screamed. Garak had evidently activated the threatened neural implant and Bashir thought his head would split open. His vision slowly cleared as he lay against the sofa, gasping for air, Garak silent in the other room. "You fucking son of a bitch!" he roared, but there was no response, and he was too tired and too afraid of another bout with the implant to extend his tirade. So he settled back with half-closed eyes, watching the light filtering through the rags covering the windows, and sighed dejectedly.

"We're going to need some of the local currency, Terran."

Bashir didn't answer, but gazed forlornly into his cup; he was tied to a chair at a rickety table after another demonstration of the effectiveness of the implant Gul Garak had installed in his brain. At least the Gul was consenting to supply him with food and drink in a timely fashion. Bashir knew Garak wanted him alive, but that didn't mean he had to be kept particularly well nourished. But Garak had brought him to the table and given Bashir as much food and drink from the ship's emergency stores as he himself had eaten. The meal, though, could hardly be called pleasant - a shouting match had very quickly turned into another torture session for Bashir, who now sat sullenly and silently, finishing off the last few drops of his kanaar. At least the heat from the beverage was serving to numb some of the pain in his head.

"I said, we're going to need local currency. I've been studying those newspapers; provisions in this society are readily available but only with some means of exchange."

"I thought we were going to be rescued in a few days. You brought everything we need from the ship."

"Well... I've found it wise, in the past, to never rely more than necessary on the efficiency of the Regent's troops. I want to be prepared for a - possible longer stay."

"Ah." Bashir tipped the cup upside down and tried to coax the last drop of kanaar into his open mouth.

"An amusing technique." Garak smiled sarcastically. "However, to return to the matter at hand - we need currency so you can procure more food for us, and some water, and any other items we may find we need here."

"Food? You can go hunting for that, once the supplies run out."

"I would prefer to be guaranteed an adequate supply, Terran." He took a swallow of kanaar. "I feel that your successful - somewhat successful - contact with the inhabitants of this place can be used to our advantage - you claimed the natives regarded you as nothing more than a tourist." Bashir had been forced to backtrack on his earlier assertion that he had been growled at and intimidated, once Garak began more thoroughly reading the local newspapers. "You can be a tourist again, going into the local town, purchasing supplies for us, and discouraging any attempts to contact us or harass us. This property seems to have been abandoned for years - you will announce to others that we've been allowed the use of it and need to be left alone."

"What for?"

"You'll think of some reason, Terran. I look forward to hearing more examples of your characteristic cleverness. If I don't -" Bashir flinched, causing Garak to laugh uproariously. "We'll begin our explorations tomorrow. Tonight, we will work on turning this place into a suitable shelter and clearing away more of the debris to make it habitable by Cardassians."

"I'm to work with my arms and legs tied."

"I suppose not." Garak smiled at him. "I can ensure your cooperation with the implant."

"Then why did you bother doing this in the first place?" Bashir rocked the chair back and forth on its legs; his own legs were tied to them.

"To allow myself to enjoy my meal in peace. It's difficult, constantly needing to discipline you - you have no idea how much easier it would be to have simply let you self-destruct with the ship. But I'm much too compassionate for that, much too kind. I've always been too kind."

"I'm touched."

"Yes, I knew you would be. You can convey your thanks to the Regent."

"He really has you jumping, doesn't he?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"He really has you by the balls."

"The - 'balls'? I'm not familiar with that - allusion."

"Like hell you're not. I'm sure you're VERY familiar with the Regent's, while you're lying in his bed, licking them -" He screamed and let out a long and bitter string of obscenities directed at Garak, Garak's parentage, and all Cardassians in general, but Garak had risen and left the room, sending one more jolt through the implant and causing Bashir to collapse against the table, nearly smashing his forehead into his plate. "Stupid... fucking... Cardassian... " he gasped, closing his eyes and willing the pounding to stop.

It eventually DID stop, as Bashir, thoroughly cowed and subdued, silently obeyed Garak's instructions as the two men worked to clear the first level of the house of dirt and debris. Paper, garbage, and other waste was burned in the fireplace, the supplies brought from the destroyed ship were carefully hidden in different areas of the rooms, and Garak even managed to fashion an effective lighting system from several of the power packs he had salvaged. The place looked almost... pleasant, Bashir reluctantly decided, surveying the results from his vantage point at the table where he had been allowed, this time, to remain untied. He looked longingly in the direction of the bedroom the two had cleared, wondering if there was ever any way he could persuade the Gul to let him, too, sleep on a mattress. Another sleep spent tied up on or against the broken-down sofa, with the headache he was nursing, would be too uncomfortable to contemplate.

He spent the night tied up on the broken-down sofa.

"Today, Terran, you're going into town, this 'Mercer,' to try to procure us a little currency," Garak announced brightly. Bashir had just finished burning the last remnants of breakfast in the fireplace; all clean-up chores had now officially become his.

"And just how am I to do that?"

"You'll think of a way - you Terrans always have."

Bashir, exhausted and becoming more and more wary of the implant, still couldn't keep a flash of resentment from surfacing. "Is that a compliment?"

"If you like," Garak smiled, his blue eyes twinkling. "I have to admit, some of your kind are most intriguing. When they weren't stealing from me, I found their pathetic attempts to wheedle their way into my favors and my bed quite amusing." Bashir closed his eyes and forced himself not to answer. "In fact, there was one Terran in particular - I forget her name, of course, but I think you knew her." Bashir gritted his teeth and again didn't answer - Garak was undoubtedly referring to a woman named Mary* whom Bashir had befriended at Terok Nor, who had confessed she was regularly attempting to seduce Gul Garak in an effort to improve her job assignment - Garak had instead had her sent back to the mines and no Terran had ever heard from her again. "Maybe," Garak chuckled, staring at Bashir with a glimmer of appreciation, "you can find something you can - sell."

Bashir flinched but showed no other reaction. Garak, intrigued, rose to stand near him, his blue eyes locking with Bashir's. "This stay is somewhat difficult for me, you realize. We Cardassians are accustomed to more warmth and - companionship - in the evenings than are you Terrans; I confess that I find it - uncomfortable - here, both because of the temperature and otherwise." 'That's too fucking bad for you,' Bashir seethed, but he knew full well where the monologue was headed and his heart began to beat faster. He had only been Garak's prisoner - what? Three days? The Cardassian overseers were notorious for sexually using their Terran slaves and, while they were never as violent with them as the Klingons were, they certainly weren't gentle seducers either. Bashir had so far experienced only casual contact from them, crude groping and even cruder innuendos, but nothing more. All that was very soon to change, no doubt, and that was something he vowed he would not allow here. This was already prison enough for him.

"Fuck you, Garak," he shouted, landing a booted foot directly in the Cardassian's groin and leaping for the doorway; he was unconscious from the pain of the implant within seconds, as he landed particularly hard on the wooden floor.

"We're going to have to reach a truce of some kind," Gul Garak intoned. Bashir opened his eyes and blinked in the late-afternoon sun. He was lying in the room that had become Garak's bedroom, and was stretched out across the bed. "I can't keep activating the implant every hour or you're going to be of no use to me here."

"Then," Bashir drawled, unsteadily hoisting himself to a sitting position, "you'd better learn to keep your fucking hands off of me -"

"Yes, yes," Garak replied impatiently. "There is no need to go off on another obscenity-laced rant, Terran. I'll leave you alone." Bashir blinked again. "I was in error, threatening you." He seemed sincere enough, but Bashir had no doubt he had carefully rehearsed this little speech all day. "We have to work together here, to cooperate. Our - baser instincts - will have to be submerged for the present." Speak for yourself, you fucking bastard, Bashir groaned silently. The pounding in his head was definitely becoming too much to endure. He groaned out loud and rolled onto his side. "I'll get you something to eat," Garak offered. "And perhaps an extra serving of kanaar."

"Wonderful," Bashir whispered, and Garak disappeared. Bashir gazed around the room, at the old photographs mounted on the incongruously flowered wall covering, the yellowed lace spread on the bed on which he lay, the small glass bottles arranged carefully on the bureau, the small doll dressed in dusty pleated skirts, sitting perched in a shelf - no, this was not a room for a Gul in the Cardassian military, this was a Terran female's bedroom, from some reality he couldn't even fully imagine yet. And yet here he was, a part of it. Perhaps a permanent part - Garak seemed awfully intent on making himself at home in this structure, and Bashir began to realize why. Gul Elim Garak had been no friend to the Regent, OR the Alliance, after ignominiously losing Terok Nor to the rebels - it dawned on Bashir that the Regent would hardly risk ships and troops in a life-threatening journey through a spatial anomaly to catch one possibly traitorous Cardassian and his lone Terran hostage.

Thus, he and Garak could be trapped on Earth, this Earth, for a very long time indeed, in a society that would regard both of them as freaks and curiosities, if not worse. Garak could by far have the more terrifying fate, but Bashir himself, were he to remain linked somehow to the Cardassian, would be nearly as much of an oddity and a prisoner. Yet he saw no way, given the implant and Garak's tracking devices, to escape the Cardassian's baleful influence. It was hopeless; his fate was to be joined to that of Gul Garak, so cooperation seemed by far the better if not the least distasteful choice. When Garak returned with Bashir's tiny 'meal,' Bashir kept from snarling or baiting him, as the two ate in a cool but slightly less hostile silence.

"All right, this is what you're to do," Garak instructed, early the next morning; he and Bashir had hiked the short distance to the town, cutting across fields and through wooded areas, and were now crouched in the bushes near a fueling post of some sort. Vehicles intermittently pulled up to several monitoring devices where hoses were then attached. While this process was going on, both Garak and Bashir had noticed that occupants of the vehicles would eventually enter a small building from which the smell of food enticingly emerged. "You're to go inside that building and try to find some currency for us, some 'money.'"

"And just how am I to do that? Rob someone?"

"No, Terran, obviously not. You're to use that Terran charm of yours to figure out a way to steal it unobserved. Surely you've done similar things in the past." Bashir recalled the time he and two of his companions had managed for days to gradually remove the food and supplies from a Cardassian overseer's storage locker; best not to tell Garak about that, as Garak had personally accused the Cardassian of lying and carelessness and had him sent to Breen. Bashir grinned at the memory.

"I'll do my best, Gul." He stood up and brushed the leaves off of his clothing. "I'll let you know what happens."

"I'll be able to HEAR what happens, Terran," Garak smiled, tapping his forehead. Bashir winced. If Garak were for some irrational reason to choose to activate the implant while he was among humans here... no, Garak would never be so foolish. Nor would he himself, though. He pulled open the glass door of the odd little building.

Mike, his local host of a few days before, was leaning against a counter, and smiled happily at Bashir's confused entrance. "Hey! I was just talking about you! How are things going, out at the Carlson house?"

"They're - they're fine, Mister Mike -"

"Mike."

"Mike."

"Well, that's good to hear - that house is a complete wreck. I don't think anyone's been in there for ten years - even the vandals avoid it."

"The Vandals?" Bashir, recalling the few scraps of his Earth history he had been taught by his mother and in his pitiful school, remembered that the Vandals and the Goths had overrun most of Earth in the Middle Ages, conquering the British islands and from there journeying to America, where they set up a flourishing but savage society that lasted well into the 2100's. And they were evidently HERE too, on THIS Earth, no doubt roaming the countryside and casually slaughtering anyone in their path. This situation could prove to be unimaginably difficult after all. Bashir shuddered.

"What's the matter?"

"Have any Vandals been sighted near this area? Any hostile movements?"

Mike and the man standing on the other side of the counter both looked puzzled. "N-no, nothing TOO hostile," the man replied, trying to suppress a grin. "That is, unless you don't like graffiti sprayed on the school doors for the third time this month. Or to get TP'd." Bashir shuddered at the thought of what that particular torture might entail. "And it's only going to get worse as Halloween gets closer."

"Halloween?"

"Do you have that, in England?" Mike asked him. Bashir decided it was safe to shake his head; he really had no idea. "Well, it's a - I guess you'd call it a 'holiday,' but an odd one. All kinds of witches, vampires, ghosts and goblins take over for a couple of days, you see tombstones sprouting up everywhere..."

Bashir recoiled involuntarily. This was beyond belief; not even Garak would be able to believe what he was no doubt listening to through the subdermal communicator. So they weren't safe even on THIS Earth; if the Vandals didn't get them, the goblins would. And ghosts - it was difficult enough to get through the night alone in that creaky old house without now worrying about ghosts menacing him. He wondered what a "goblin" was, but had no doubt it was something equally frightening and unsavory. And tombstones sprouting everywhere - so periodic mass murders and purges were the rule rather than the exception here too. What had he and Gul Garak inadvertantly done? They'd be dead within days, if these people were to be believed. He resolved to cooperate with the Gul in every way possible from that day forward, to ensure his own survival.

The door opened then and a young human female entered. She had evidently been fueling her vehicle outside at the monitoring devices, as Bashir could see a small but rusted contraption stationed near one of them, very close in fact to where the Gul was hiding in the bushes. She looked at Bashir with interest, and a smile crinkled her upturned face.

"Jenny," Mike said, "this is a tourist from England. His name is - what IS your name?"

"Julian," Bashir automatically answered, "My name's Julian."

"I'm glad to meet you, Julian," Jenny said. "Those clothes are VERY cool!"

"Thank you," Bashir replied uncertainly. He was wearing his rebel outfit of tunic, pants, and leather boots, his long hair trailing partway down his neck.

"I love punk rock. Or is that 'out' now? Are you Goth instead? I'm sorry - I don't keep up, way up here!"

"No, I'm definitely not a Goth!" Bashir exclaimed, horrified that they'd now perhaps try to turn him in to any local authorities... But Jenny and the two men were only smiling with amusement. Bashir smiled then too - this was fun, like pretending to understand a foreign language. Jenny grinned very sweetly at him, and Bashir was transfixed. How nice it was to be treated so kindly by a female, to be treated with patience and respect - everyone in the little establishment was watching him, but not with fear and disgust - with interest and cordiality. In fact, he even thought he detected Jenny secretly mouthing the word "wow" to one of the men, for what reason Bashir didn't know. Jenny paid for her fuel with paper currency and in addition purchased a box of some sort of beverage containers and a bag of what she called "doughnuts" - they smelled tantalizing to Bashir, who eyed them hungrily.

"Can you - do you suppose you could - help me carry the soda to the car?" the girl asked him shyly. "I need to bring this to school - it's my turn. But I'm afraid I'll drop the doughnuts on the way."

"We can't have that," Bashir gallantly agreed. "We can't have you dropping the doughnuts, now can we?" Jenny giggled and fumbled in a container she was carrying, the one that held her money, for her "keys." Bashir watched the process with interest. Then he helped the girl settle her purchases on the car seat, he chatted with her for a moment while she got settled into her own seat, and he waved to her as she drove away, while stealing sidelong glances at the bushes in which Garak was ensconced. Too bad poor Jenny had never noticed her wallet being extracted from her purse.

Bashir took care to remove the currency from it and hide it in a different pocket, before re-entering the little store. "Thanks for helping her," the man behind the counter greeted him. "Now - what can I do for you?"

"I'd like a bag of those 'doughnuts,' please," Bashir announced triumphantly.

"I have to admit, Terran, these 'doughnuts' are surprisingly good," Gul Garak commented between bites of a large coconut-covered concoction. "A little too sweet, I suppose, but good nonetheless." Bashir was silent. "And the one filled with that red mixture was good too - I wonder what that's called." Bashir didn't answer. "Terran? Are you still there?"

"They said Halloween was coming soon. They said there'd be ghosts, and tombstones, and the Vandals acting up again..."

"If you recall, they also called it a 'holiday.' I wouldn't get too concerned. It's probably just a commemmoration of some historical event. Don't forget, this Earth is not YOUR savage Earth; these people seemed completely unafraid of this approaching crisis, as far as I could tell through the communicator."

"I suppose so." Bashir continued to trudge through the undergrowth; the town was situated in the midst of a sizable forested area, and he and Garak simply followed a path through the trees to get to and from the "Carlson place," with the aid of Garak's scanner. Any intruders could be taken care of by Garak's weapon. Still, Bashir felt uneasy at being out in the open with the Cardassian, away from the shelter of the old house; he had very quickly gone from hoping Garak would be captured to trying to protect him from the local inhabitants. His inadvertant slip in the fueling station didn't help matters any.

"What are your plans?" Mike had asked him, as Bashir's doughnuts were being gathered and put into a bag. "What will you be doing while you're up here?"

"Pardon me, Mister - Mike, but you keep saying I'm 'up' somewhere. I was wondering if you could tell me what that meant."

"Oh, that's just a local term, I guess. Here in Wisconsin we always say 'up north' when we mean the northern part of the state. I don't know why we do it, really. It's no more up than Milwaukee is down."

"I see." In truth, Mike's words were little more than gibberish to Bashir, but at least he knew he and Garak were now in "Wisconsin," awaiting the arrival of the Alliance or whoever would eventually locate their signal.

"So, what ARE you doing?" Mike persisted. "Do you fish? Hunt? Go boating?"

"Yes, I like to do all of that. I love to swim, too."

"Well, it's a little too cold for swimming, unfortunately. Oh - I just remembered - are you a gambler?"

"What do you mean, a gambler?" Bashir warily asked; it was illegal for Terrans to gamble, although he had certainly enjoyed making the odd bet or two on the outcome of some fight - when he had anything to bet with.

"I mean, do you play slots? Blackjack?" Bashir looked puzzled. 'Play' slots? What kind of slots could one 'play'? "You see, there are a couple of casinos near here, run by Native Americans - my wife and I went down to Lac du Flambeau last week and won five hundred dollars on slots." He beamed happily. Bashir smiled back politely, his thoughts in a whirl. These 'slots' sounded like a MUCH safer and more foolproof way of procuring currency than stealing from defenseless young women; he already knew that 'dollars' were the units of currency in question, because he had seen Jenny use them to purchase the doughnuts. Maybe, if these 'slots' produced enough money for him, he could find a way to fill her wallet with dollars and return it to her; his deception of the pleasant and guileless young girl was already bothering him. But there was the little matter of finding Lac du - wherever that was, as well as the 'slots.' Perhaps if he asked Mike...

"I think - I would be interested in playing 'slots' sometime."

"Well, my wife and I are going back this Saturday. We could give you a ride, if you'd like."

"No, I think I need to go there on my own. How long would it take to walk there?"

"WALK there? Julian, Lac du Flambeau is about twenty miles from here - you'd be walking all night."

"Oh." Bashir's face fell. So much for that little plan.

"How did you get up here, anyway, if you haven't got a car?" Mike persisted.

"Someone else - brought me. Dropped me off."

"Well, then, let us take you with us. You'll have a great time there - you may even win some money." I'm SURE of it, Bashir thought, once I get the hang of playing a 'slot' for the purpose of winning money from it. But there was no way he could go off and leave Garak alone; Garak would never allow it, for one thing.

"I can't go with you. Garak -" He stopped.

"Erik?"

"M-my - brother."

"Your brother? Your brother's here with you?" Bashir nodded, every muscle in his body tensed in preparation for the jolt of pain that Garak was shortly going to be sending him. Nothing happened, however, and he slowly began to relax. "Well, bring him ALONG!" Mike was saying happily. "We'd love to meet him!"

"N-no, I can't. He can't meet anyone. He's - he's quite seriously, ah, deformed." Mike and the man behind the counter froze. Bashir himself, shocked by his own words, began to babble to break the sudden uncomfortable silence. "And what are THESE?"

"Huh? What are WHAT?" the man asked him, jolted out of his thoughts.

"These little packages." The front of the counter was lined with small square brightly-colored packages, all tantalizingly arranged for maximum visual effect. Bashir picked up several of the brightest ones and tossed them into the bag. "I'll take these too. What are they?"

"Bubble gum, of course," the man said, gazing puzzled at Bashir; he then punched keys on a machine nearby, announced, "That's three fifty-eight, please," and waited patiently. Bashir fumbled in his pocket, pulled out a green piece of paper with the number twenty printed on it, and handed it over.

"I can't say I was pleased to hear my name mentioned," Garak was saying, as Bashir struggled to keep up with him. "And you have no idea of how much danger you were in during your little description of my - deformity." He smiled savagely. "In fact, I'm almost inclined to punish you tonight for that error - but then again, it's no more than I can expect from a slow-witted Terran like yourself." He continued to munch on the doughnut. "And, much as I hate to admit it, your spreading the tale of my appearance will serve to keep people away from us. I have a feeling humans of this time period are just as easily frightened as the Terrans of our own. This 'Mike,' though, is a little too talkative for my taste." It takes one to know one, Bashir thought, as Garak continued to lecture him. "And I don't recall giving you permission to SPEND any of this money yet; I simply wanted you to find some for us."

"I know," Bashir admitted. "But those - doughnuts - smelled good, and I was still so hungry after those ship rations... and I couldn't very well come in to the store and then leave without buying anything, could I?"

"You didn't need to buy so many of these things, though. They're too sweet. I have a feeling they're not good for us." He bit into another cream-filled doughnut, his fourth during the walk. "And what else is here in this bag? What was it they called these packages?"

"Bubble gum."

"'Bubble gum'? What's that?"

"I have no idea."

"Then why did you BUY it?"

"I was - confused. I was trying to distract them, after saying your name. And there were so many of these things there - they must be a very popular food."

"Perhaps a nutritional supplement of some kind, judging by the small size."

"I don't know. Maybe."

"Hand me one of those packages." Bashir complied; the Cardassian fumbled with all the paper that sealed both the package and the cubes of gum within. "You probably can't read this, Terran - it's called 'Bazooka.' We'll have to keep that in mind, in case we want to purchase this again."

"All right. Bazooka." Bashir watched as Garak bit gingerly into one of the pink squares of gum, then hesitantly put the entire piece into his mouth. He made a face but nevertheless began to chew for several seconds; Bashir opened a square of the gum and began to chew it as well. After a few moments, both men turned to each other. "I like the sweet taste," Bashir admitted, "but there's something strange about this gum. I chew and chew and -"

"I agree. A most unpleasant texture." Garak stopped walking and swallowed the mass of pink gum in his mouth. "Don't purchase this for us again. Stick to doughnuts." Bashir nodded.

The day passed slowly, as there was little for the two men to do in the old house; Bashir fell asleep on the deteriorating couch, then awoke, still slightly sick to his stomach from the doughnuts, and paced back and forth in the small living area. "Stop it, Terran - you're beginning to get on my nerves," Garak barked. Bashir flopped down into a chair and watched the Cardassian paging through an old-fashioned paper book he had found in the room. The daylight began to fade and Garak activated one of the power packs, which cast a circle of yellow light all around his bowed head as he silently read; Bashir remained sitting in the shadows, fidgeting impatiently. He finally jumped to his feet, grabbed three books for himself, and sat down on the edge of the sofa just outside the circle of light. Garak raised his eyes briefly to watch him, the faintest trace of a smile on his lips, before he turned again to his own book.

The truth was, Bashir had never been taught to read more than a few dozen words in either English or Kardasi - he knew numbers, as they were thought to be most useful in Terrans' work, but little else. So the first dusty book he opened presented him with a sea of incomprehensible alphabet letters; no matter how many pages he turned, the confusing letters never resolved themselves into words he could understand. The second book was no better - he amused himself for a few minutes, staring at the photos, but they were all of humans he did not know and he was able to decipher no other information about them. Frustrated, he picked up the third book, with a colorful representation of two Terran children and a friendly-looking little dog; Bashir was charmed despite his bad mood, opened the book, and was pleased to find himself able to understand the words. The descriptions he painstakingly worked out fascinated him, and the drawings were lively and amusing. He smiled and became totally absorbed in his task, till a shadow fell across the page and he looked up, startled.

"What's this? Found a good book?"

"I..." Bashir began, uncertain of what the Gul was getting at.

"Let's see what sort of prose captures the mind and the imagination of a brave Terran like yourself. What has so captivated you tonight, my friend?" Bashir tried to cover the page with his hand but Garak pulled the book away. "'Oh Father. See Spot,'" he recited; Bashir noted that "father" was the one word he hadn't quite been able to decipher. "'Funny, funny Spot. Spot can play,'" he read, in a mocking voice. Bashir began to flush with shame and again tried to pull the book away; Garak laughed uproariously.

"I'm going outside," Bashir muttered, trying desperately to suppress his rage and embarrassment, a rage that was nearly causing tears to form at the corners of his eyes.

"You're staying here, Terran."

"I need to go -"

"No - you just did that an hour ago. I'm ready for bed, and you are too. If you can manage to put the book down, that is." He smirked again and Bashir with tremendous effort stifled the urge to strike him - the Cardassian's finger was never very far from the implant control. Garak pulled Bashir's hands roughly behind his back, tied them together, then pushed Bashir onto the couch and tied his legs. The routine was the same every night and Bashir forced himself to endure it patiently. Then Garak disappeared into his little bedroom, extinguishing all the power packs as he went, leaving Bashir alone and in darkness.

He was wide awake, having slept all afternoon, and in the darkness his mind began to run over all the events of the day, the incidents in the store, the walk through the woods... the fear of the appproaching Halloween - Garak had called him ignorant and superstitious, but old habits died hard. He thought of poor Jenny who had been so nice to him, and who had no doubt been frantically looking for her money all day. Then he thought of the pictures in the book he had been reading, and how little time he had left on Earth; the Regent would soon find them and he'd spend the rest of his days in a Klingon prison. He sighed. If only he had been able to read a few more words of the book, to give him something else to think about... but the book was obviously written for children, and very young ones at that. No wonder Garak had mocked him with such joyful hilarity. What a fool he must be. He felt another tear at the corner of his eye and didn't try to rub it away this time.

"Well, you've certainly been cooperative today," Garak commented, placing a small glass of kanaar in front of Bashir, who sat slumped at the table. "The perfect Terran - quiet, obedient, hardworking..." Bashir didn't answer. "In fact, you've been downright sullen. And I don't like sullen."

"So - what do you want from me?" Bashir raised his head to ask.

"Just remember who I am." As if I could forget, you sadistic Cardassian bastard, Bashir thought. His foul mood, his remembrance of being ridiculed the previous evening, his depression at being trapped in that mysterious place, unable to seek reassurance from Garak, unable to look for it from anyone else... He closed his eyes and let his chin flop down onto his chest. "What's the matter? Are you sick?"

He opened his eyes; Garak was staring at him with a barely perceptible hint of concern on his face. Bashir didn't answer him. "You know," he went on, "I was - discouraged - about our chances for survival here. I think I'm getting tired of being imprisoned in this dump in which we find ourselves. Yet trying to break the monotony by travelling to that town has dangers all its own..." What is he doing, Bashir thought - is he actually trying to apologize in some way? Explain his actions? The high and mighty Gul Garak, the one who controls a torture device in my brain? Worried about MY mood? Bashir, amazed, stirred a little in his chair. "This place is worse than a prison, you know. This is like a musty old tomb." He stood up suddenly and strode over to the bookcase. "Here - you'd like this one better than that one you had last night."

"I can't read it, Gul. You know that. You keep the Terrans ignorant."

"I think - you can manage most of it. You can ask me any words you don't understand. Maybe that will help you to learn them." He held the book out toward Bashir, who pointedly ignored it. "Here - take it. I myself have begun to read some of it and - well, I think you'll enjoy this one. It's very imaginative, and for both adults AND children." Bashir turned sideways to avoid the book; Garak let out a sigh of disgust and moved to the opposite end of the room, where he peeked through the cloth that hung at the window. "All right, sit there in silence, Terran. It's getting dark; I'm going to bed. No use wasting any more power than necessary." He moved toward Bashir, preparatory to tying him up for the night, but Bashir, full of a sudden and overpowering dread of being left alone again in the dark and depressing gloom, obsessed with his own thoughts, stood up and reached for the book himself.

"Let me take it."

"Are you sure you want it?"

"Yes."

"All right - here." Garak magnanimously granted him the book and, settling himself into another chair, watched as Bashir opened it and stared, puzzled, at it. "What's the matter?"

"I don't know this one." Garak rose and stood next to Bashir, leaning over him slightly as he looked down at the opened page.

"'Certain.'" Bashir looked over at him, then down again at the book, and nodded.

"'One thing was certain,'" he mouthed silently, "'that the white kitten had had nothing to do with it - it was the black kitten's -" He stopped.

"What is it?" Garak hadn't moved from his side; Bashir pointed to the offending word with his finger. "'Fault.' The 'a' and the 'u' together usually sound like 'aw.'" Bashir nodded again; Garak pulled the book out of his hands impatiently. "You know, maybe I could read this TO you, a little bit of it anyway. You follow along to see what I'm reading, and that way perhaps you'll learn it." Bashir nodded imperceptibly, nearly unable to believe what was about to take place. The Gul must either be feeling more guilty or more lonely than he ever had in his life, he decided - and while not abandoning his Cardassian sense of authority, had taken to nearly _wheedling_ Bashir to persuade him to move to the couch, where the two sat uncomfortably, their knees nearly touching. "All right," Garak said, "let's begin. Watch where I'm pointing. 'For the white kitten had been having its face washed by the old cat for the last quarter of an hour, and bearing it pretty well, considering...'" Bashir was transfixed. It was three hours later that the two finally put the book down, and Garak trudged off to bed, completely forgetting to immobilize Bashir. Bashir, his mind occupied with thoughts of the Red Queen, the White Queen, Alice, and the incomprehensible Jabberwocky, was instantly asleep.

"We're going to be low on food and water unless we make another journey into that town," Garak announced the next morning. "I want to keep as many of the ship's rations saved as I can. So I suggest we use a little more of our money to procure additional supplies. Not doughnuts, though."

"No," Bashir hastily agreed.

"And we'd better move quickly - I find this time directly after sunrise the best, but if we wait any longer, I'll be unable to risk travel."

"Well, you COULD always stay here."

"I could, but I won't."

"Why not? You've got the communicator in me, you've got the implant - where can I possibly go?"

"I don't know, but I'm not going to risk it nevertheless. You're too valuable to me here." Bashir resignedly got to his feet. "And you're going to have to change clothing."

"What FOR?"

"I recall the young Terran female commenting on your clothing - you can't be seen wearing the same things every time you meet someone; it may look suspicious. And there's also the fact that the odor is starting to be none too pleasant." Bashir found himself becoming embarrassed; he hadn't thought about such a thing, locked up every day with First Officer Garak, and was surprised to find now that Garak's comment shamed him somewhat. "I was able to bring a few additional garments for myself from the ship - try one on and we'll see if it's suitable."

It was NOT suitable. Bashir, shy and awkward about standing in his underwear in front of the Gul, felt even more awkward at the silly picture he undoubtedly made, in clothes two sizes too big for him, styled for an entirely different and much wider neckline. "No," Garak said, shaking his head, "this is worse than what you had on. We'll have to see if we can find anything here. I'm sure there must be clothing of SOME sort in this structure."

There was, in drawers and closets on the upper level. Most of the garments were quite worn and were still too big, but Bashir slipped his legs into a pair of blue trousers that felt nicely warm and bulky in the chill air of the room. He then found a heavy red shirt with a word painted across it; the shirt seemed to be close to his size, so he slipped it on over his head. Garak stood back and surveyed him.

"Budweiser."

"What?"

"Your shirt - it says 'Budweiser.' I wonder what that means."

"Don't you know?"

"I never heard the term before - but if it's important enough to be worn on clothing, maybe it's a message of some kind. Perhaps a designation of authority." Bashir quite liked the sound of that, and posed for a moment in front of the dusty mirror. Garak watched him for a while and finally said, "Or - who knows? - perhaps it's a label instead; perhaps a 'Budweiser' is a troublemaker or a nuisance, and the shirt is meant to announce that fact." Bashir began to protest; Garak then picked up a heavy jacket that Bashir had at first flung across the bed. "Here - you'll need this too - it's getting very chilly in the morning."

Bashir took the jacket from him and turned it around. "'Harley Davidson.' Garak, I can't wear this - this obviously belonged to someone named Harley Davidson - look, it's been embroidered with his name. It's going to look as if I stole it, or at least that I was lying before."

"What do you mean?"

"I already told them my name was Julian." It was too bad, he reflected, that he hadn't found the jacket before his first visit to the town; offering them the information that his name was "Harley Davidson" might have made him less conspicuous and helped him blend in even more. Well, it was too late for that now. He shrugged into the jacket and modeled again for the mirror.

"You look fine - much warmer, too. We'd better go," Garak interrupted him.

"Are we going back to the same place?"

"Well... I don't like to, since they may have come to the realization that you're involved with the missing money. But then again, the proprietor knows you now and would be a good source of information for us - it may be best to curry his favor." Bashir nodded, and the two again hiked through the cool early-morning air, both of them still shivering as they walked, Bashir a little less so in his sweatshirt and jacket.

"Good morning!" the man behind the counter happily called out, as Bashir pushed open the glass door of the building.

"Good morning. I was wondering if I -"

"That's a great shirt! That's the old Bud logo!"

"'The old Bud logo'?"

"Yeah, the Budweiser logo on your sweatshirt. Where'd you find that?"

"Oh - I don't know. Somewhere." Bashir began to wonder if wearing 'the old Bud logo' was going to endanger him in some way, perhaps by pointing him out to the witches and the local Vandals... The man had begun speaking again.

"Do you drink Bud, in England?" Bashir flinched, horrified - drink BUD? But the man was pointing to a glass case in the corner of the room. "Over there - do you have that in England?" Bashir recognized the boxes as being similar to those Jenny had carried the previous morning, but she had called them "soda," not "Bud" - still, they must be nearly identical and Bashir became curious. He walked to the case and extracted a large box of "Bud," which he carried back to the counter.

"I do now." He then returned to the shelves and took six bottles of water - the liquid was clear, anyway - and six bottles of a beverage that reminded him very much of the pale yellow variety of kanaar that Garak so favored - these bottles had a beautiful representation of a bird with wings outstretched and appealed to Bashir visually. He also procured a selection of food items from other shelves and piled them all on the counter.

"Wow!" the man exclaimed. "Having a party out there?"

"Hmm?"

"Well, I mean - this stuff you're buying..."

"This is what my brother and I always eat and drink," he responded, growing more worried that he was somehow making himself conspicuous again as the man laughed and shook his head. Perhaps he had made a mistake - "Oh, and, by the way, I didn't steal this jacket - I found it."

"What's that?"

"The jacket - I know it says Harley Davidson, but I didn't take it from him - I found it."

"That's... great," the man replied, giving him an odd but amused look. "I'm sure Mister Davidson can spare it."

Garak had not been pleased - the Budweiser box was not only expensive but rather awkward to carry back through the woods with all the other bottles and packages. Bashir dropped it twice, stumbling over branches, as with his other hand he held on to a large bag containing the bottles of what Garak informed him was 'vodka.' Garak carried the bottles of 'Thunderbird,' two boxes of something called "Ho Ho's," ten 'Snickers bars' and a large can of peanuts that the man had assured Bashir went well with 'Bud.' "I really wish there were some way I could do the shopping, Terran," the Cardassian grumbled. "These items you choose for us - I find it difficult to believe that this is standard nourishment for these people."

"Well, no one seems too surprised when I BUY it - it must be fairly standard." Bashir hoisted the box to his shoulder at last, and found he was better able to keep up with the Gul's rapid stride. "Let's hurry - I hear more vehicles on the road - I don't want anyone to catch a glimpse of us." Garak looked at him with surprise but said nothing.

Bashir puttered in the upstairs rooms all that day, trying on more clothing and carrying bulky pieces of equipment downstairs so Garak could examine them - he found himself grudgingly admiring the Cardassian's methodical technique in scanning, dissecting, and analyzing the different devices he uncovered. With the help of his tool kit and a power pack, Garak had even managed to coax flickering life out of an oddly-shaped box that broadcast snowy images through its square viewscreen - no matter how Garak tried, however, he couldn't make the images clearer or the sound more coherent. "This is a communications device," Garak announced to Bashir, "but an extremely primitive one - the information only flows one way and is very unsophisticated." 'Obviously,' Bashir thought, as he crouched down to look; he could barely make out a single detail. Suddenly, the hazy image became much clearer as Garak snapped a wire onto a connection at the back of the device. "Ah! This helps considerably! Now let's see what we can learn." He grew silent and stared at the screen, as did Bashir - two creatures, vaguely similar in facial features to Cardassians but much smaller and more alien, were 'talking' to one another. The 'Bud' logo Bashir had become familiar with appeared on the screen; he excitedly pointed it out to Garak.

"Yes, I see it. This product is evidently of great importance to this society - no wonder it's emblazoned on your shirt." He paused. "This is what we'll do, Terran. Tonight, we'll enjoy some of the food you purchased, we'll drink these beverages, and we'll watch more of these broadcasts. Maybe you and I together can begin making some sense of this culture." 'Maybe we can', Bashir thought - and afterward, they could go back to the book and re-read it or find another one to read. Either way, he was happy to be spared, however briefly, from the dark nights alone in the room.

Four hours, twenty cans of beer, three bottles of Thunderbird and two bottles of vodka later, Garak and Bashir sprawled, half-sitting, half-lying, on the couch, the room lit only by the glow of the device Garak announced was called a "television." Bashir burped once, then laughed as he saw Garak look disgustedly over at him. "Sorry - another Bud?"

"All right." Garak reached for the can. "But I'm not sure if it's wise - I don't think I've given my body enough time to properly assila- assima- get used to the alcohol yet, Terran."

"You keep calling me that," Bashir interrupted him. "Terran. My name is not 'Terran' - it's Ju-ju-lian."

"All right, 'Ju-julian,'" Garak mocked, and both men laughed quietly. "I'll call you that, if that's what you want. Give me another one of those Buds."

"I just did."

"Ah - so you did." He looked down at the can he was holding. "An intriguing concoction. No wonder it's so highly prized - what are we going to do when we run out?"

"Buy more." Bashir took another long drink.

"With what money?"

"I'll have to get some more. But I don't want to steal it. I want to win it playing 'spots.'"

"Slots."

"Right - slots."

"We'll see." Garak fell silent, then sat forward abruptly, catching Bashir's instant attention. "I don't believe it - I can not believe what I'm seeing." Bashir stared blearily at the small black and white image.

Garak's mouth hung open as he gaped at the screen. A spacecraft was slowly drifting through space, against a black backdrop of stars, to the accompaniment of eerie music. "These people don't HAVE passenger travel to other planets yet - I'm sure of it." The view had cut to the inside of the ship's cabin where a man was tirelessly running. "The news broadcast said this was 1998. Even in OUR universe, they had no such capability at this time. I'm amazed at their achievement. Maybe there's hope for us here yet." He grew silent again, watching the broadcast for a few more minutes. "Well, that explains it," he finally announced. "This is obviously just a hypothetical representation. I don't think they'd interrupt a communication from this 'HAL-9000' computer for another message from Budweiser."

"Well," Bashir timidly offered, "maybe they really DID interrupt an actual message, if this information is so important -"

"Nonsense." Bashir, chastened, stopped speaking. "This is obviously some kind of entertainment broadcast, not a news broadcast. Look - the two men are back where they were before the message was interrupted. I've got to go outside." Garak slowly lumbered to his feet and threw open the creaking door, then strode out onto the porch where a bright full moon was shining down onto the tangled yard. "Greetings, moon!" he shouted, beginning to unfasten his trousers. Bashir clumsily tried to stand up.

"You - you can't just do that off the porch! That's disgusting - I'll step in the puddle!"

"Oh? Who's going to stop me?"

"Well, maybe *I* am, maybe I'll -" He froze. Garak, looking in toward the room, had continued to move backward on the porch and suddenly fell down the stairs, landing with a thud on his back. He lay, half draped across the lowest stair and the ground, blinking up blearily at Bashir.

"Help me up?"

"Garak! Are you all right?"

"I fell."

"I KNOW you fell!" Bashir was already leaning over him agitatedly. "Why were you walking backwards? You have to be more careful - you know perfectly well you're drunk!"

"I'M drunk? Terran, let me tell you a little something about Cardassians and intoxicack- intoxicating beverages..."

"Tell me later," Bashir muttered, laboriously trying to hoist him up. "Here - put your arm on my shoulder - there, like that. Now hang on as I stand up." It worked, barely, as Garak lurched forward slightly but still managed to stay on his feet. "Are you in any pain?" Garak looked at him oddly but said nothing at first, then,

"Still have to go."

"Okay, go - then we're going to bed." Something about his choice of words didn't sound quite right to him, but he shrugged it off. Garak staggered toward the bushes and, seconds later, was carefully climbing the stairs, his arm again around Bashir's shoulder. They lurched into the bedroom where Bashir nearly flung Garak down onto the bed, then turned to leave. "I'm going upstairs for a minute - I want to find more blankets. I'm freezing out there."

"I'm freezing in here," Garak sighed, awkwardly trying to remove his boots while lying on his back.

"Why should you be? You've got all the blankets."

"Doesn't matter." He had finally managed to pull a boot off and collapsed, exhausted. "I'm still cold. I shiver all night." Bashir blearily digested this image, of the mighty First Officer huddled, freezing, under some raggedy blankets, then shrugged and started to leave. "I'll look for some for you too. I'll take a light up with me."

"Aren't you afraid?"

"What?"

"Afraid," Garak answered, a mysterious gleam in his eye. "Of goblins. After all, it IS close to Halloween, and it IS dark up there..." He pulled the blanket over his chest finally and closed his eyes. Bashir stood, unmoving, at the doorway.

"N-no, I'm not afraid. But I don't want to fall down the stairs, either. I'll wait till morning."

"Very wise," Garak answered, his eyes closed. "Very wise. Good night, Ter- Julian. Sleep well." Bashir again didn't move. "Turn out that light." Bashir continued holding the emergency lantern, his hand beginning to tremble. He didn't know if it was the Bud or the cold or simply Garak's words, but the thought now of lying in the dark in the front room, all the ghosts of that house swirling around him... He turned off the light and sank down to the floor, hoping the Cardassian wouldn't notice he hadn't left. "What are you doing?" Garak had noticed.

"I'm just - staying to make sure you're all right."

"I'm fine. You may leave now."

"Well... all right. In a second."

"NOW. I can't sleep with you staring at me like that." He rolled over onto his other side. "Be grateful I'm not tying you to that sofa. Besides, you said you were going to look for blankets."

"No, I - I'll look in the morning."

"It'll be too late in the morning - I'm cold NOW. Go upstairs and look."

"I can't." Garak sat up abruptly.

"I gave you an order - go upstairs and LOOK!"

"I CAN'T!" Bashir shouted. "There are ghosts up there! There are ghosts EVERYWHERE in this damned place! I want to go home - I want to go -" Garak tried without effect to quiet him down, and finally leaned out of the bed and grabbed his arm.

"I said, stop screaming! I was not serious! You Terrans and your liquor - no wonder we have to forbid you to drink it. You're positively babbling."

"I am not."

"Yes you are."

"No I'm not." Bashir had been near tears; he thus didn't notice that Garak's hand was still on his arm, pulling him toward the bed.

"All right. If you won't go upstairs, and you won't leave, then you'll just have to stay here with me." He moved aside and pulled open the blanket. "But take your boots off first."

"Hmm?" Bashir rubbed his tear-streaked face with the back of his hand.

"Take off your boots and climb in. And hurry - I'm freezing." Bashir, scarcely registering what he was doing, pulled off his boots and climbed in, then lay at the edge of the bed, grasping it so he wouldn't fall out of it. The communications device, unheeded in the other room, kept up a soothing drone as the two men were very quickly and very deeply asleep.

Bashir awoke to an unusual sensation, the feel of a reasonably soft mattress under his body. He stretched, then groaned as the room seemed to spin around him. He flung his arm out sideways and it landed hard across the chest of his Cardassian companion, who with an irritated "oomph" sat up. "What did you do that for?"

"I was - I forgot you were - in here."

"Why shouldn't I be in here? This is my bed." Bashir, in truth, had forgotten why HE was in there, but was too dizzy that moment to crawl out. While his body was no stranger to a variety of alcoholic beverages, the foreign ingredients were no doubt responsible for the nausea he was feeling. He lay back, embarrassed, against the musty old pillow, and turned to look at Garak. The Cardassian was now sitting against the headboard, Jenny's wallet spread out over his lap, the remaining currency arranged in piles on the tattered blanket. Interesting - he could have obviously counted that money anywhere at all but had chosen to do it while remaining in the bed. It was certainly pleasantly warm, compared to the stale chill of the air - no wonder Garak had stayed. The thought was strangely heartbreaking, to think that Garak would crave Bashir's warmth that much, and therefore unembarrassing; who cared what Smiley or the others would call him if they could see him then. He could, however, just imagine, and struggled again to get up. The room seemed to sway a little less vigorously as he did so.

"It'll pass, don't worry."

"What will?" Bashir blinked.

"The Bud. You'll get over it. I did. Just watch out when you step onto the porch." Bashir winced at that. "And... I've been thinking. You're right - I think we need a little more currency than this. I'm amazed the young female had this much to begin with."

"Maybe she had just received it as a gift - or she has some sort of job for pay," Bashir mused, regretfully.

"Perhaps. But we're going to need more, and I see no reason of running the risk of having you steal it, when this gambling establishment can provide all the money we need."

"Well... I don't know about that. If it were that easy, EVERYONE would be rich around here..."

"I know that, Terran," Garak snapped. "Do you think I'm ignorant too? But all the people around here aren't from the Alliance, four hundred years in the future, are they? You're going to take one of the scanning devices with you, and after ascertaining the proper way to manipulate the gambling device, this 'slot machine,' you'll manipulate it and win. It's simple."

Bashir paused at the doorway. "No, it's not. Did you forget - I can hardly read, much less figure out how to use one of those things on an unfamiliar machine and get it to work undetected. I'm sure there are security patrols who'll see me and ask me what I'm doing, and -"

"You're right, you're right." Garak resignedly closed his eyes. "It's too complicated. I expected too much from you. You're right." Bashir was flattered that he had thought of something - security - that the First Officer had overlooked, but he was vaguely insulted at Garak's expression of defeat.

"Well, maybe I could try to -"

"No, it's hopeless. You can't read, you have very little technical expertise -"

"Listen, I was a PILOT, remember! And a damned good one!"

"Right. Of a raider. My point exactly."

"What's wrong with a raid-" he began, but Garak cut him off abruptly.

"We'll just have to play by their rules and hope for the best, as I obviously can't accompany you. Here. Take these - this is forty dollars. You're going to use it, as slowly and as carefully as possible, and win us at least forty more."

"Yes sir," Bashir muttered, reaching for the currency. As he leaned forward and caught sight of the rumpled pillow on which his head had rested all the previous night, he wondered if Garak was even going to mention it, and where he was going to sleep the following night. But Garak behaved that morning as if nothing whatever were out of the ordinary; he even reverted to his preferred usage of "Terran," and sent Bashir on his way with very Garak-like veiled threats and promises of retribution if he did not return promptly. Bashir paid them very little attention, so excited was he with thoughts of gambling, adventure and exploration. In addition, however, he was more disturbed than he would ever admit at having to leave Garak alone, but pushed his unease to the back of his mind; Garak was, after all, heavily armed and protected by sensors. Still, Bashir hoped these "slot machines" gave up their currency willingly and quickly, so he could just as quickly return. He was also uneasy at having to share a long ride in the "pickup" with both Mike and his wife Katie, who would no doubt continue to pepper him with questions and assumptions he wouldn't be able to answer - but Mike had told him that they'd be listening to another "baseball game" on the short ride there, so it would probably be all right.

"How much have you got left?" Katie examined the bill clutched in Bashir's hand. "Five dollars, hmm? I told you not to spend it so fast." Yes, you certainly did, Bashir angrily reflected, over and over and over, all the way here. Mike was talkative enough, but his wife had proven to be not only talkative but bossy and overly fond of dispensing advice. Bashir had vowed to stay far away from the couple as he began his thrilled and excited circuit of the casino floor, lights and sounds assailing him from every corner. The couple had shown him how to exchange some of his paper currency for coins and tokens, then shown him how to feed the insatiable machines.

And insatiable they had proven to be. Bashir, dazed, dropped 'quarters' into one, dollars into another, receiving no more than a few coins in return each time for his trouble. It was easy, much too easy, to lose coin after coin in a very rapid amount of time, with nothing to show for it. He took to dropping a single coin in each machine in a row, but that strategy, too, yielded him no great return. That was when Katie had caught up to him and dispensed yet more of her advice.

"Listen, this is what we'll do. Ths is what we always do when we start to run low. We'll each take five dollars and put it into a machine, one at a time. Then we'll split anything we win equally. Okay?"

"Okay," Bashir grudgingly nodded. It was NOT okay, but with five dollars, he knew he stood very little chance of returning to Garak with anything more than empty hands. And, he realized, empty hands would only earn him the Cardassian's wrath, not the spot next to him in the warm bed that he was secretly and yet definitely hoping for. He handed Katie the five dollars, and watched her return to the cashier's window and exchange it for dollar tokens. Then she doled out five tokens each to her husband and Bashir, and the three approached a cluster of unoccupied slot machines.

"What about this one?"

"Jackpot Jewels?" Mike shook his head. "No, I don't like that one. I'd rather try Wild Cherry -" He was, Bashir decided, referring to the gaudily-colored themes and labels on each machine.

"No!" his wife interrupted him. "Look - a Double Diamond Deluxe. Come on, men - our machine awaits. You first, Julian." Bashir dropped a token into the machine and pressed the button. The reels spun but produced nothing. Mike went next - again with no result. Katie won two more tokens with her turn, and the game continued. Each time, the paltry sums returned to the group would be just as quickly eaten up by the machine, but no one wanted to run the risk of switching and losing out on the
payoff that was sure to come at any moment. Bashir dropped his final token into the slot. The reels turned - and stopped on one Double Diamond symbol, then another, and another. Mike clapped his hand over his mouth, Katie screamed, and the machine began to flash on top as a code appeared on the screen. Bashir stared, frozen. "We DID it!" Katie pounded him on the back. "We hit the jackpot! Oh, if only we had had two coins in there..." A casino employee very shortly appeared and handed the group ten one-hundred dollar bills, to Bashir's amazement. Katie doled out three apiece, converted the final one into ten-dollar bills, and handed Bashir three more. "We'll use the last one to win more money, okay?" Bashir nodded, still in a daze.

When no more luck seemed to be forthcoming from the last shared gamble, the three agreed to split up, but not without a last cautionary word for Bashir. "DON'T put it all back in!" Katie lectured him vehemently. "Let me hold onto that three hundred for you!" Bashir hesitated. His nature rebelled against trusting the woman with as much as a fraction of his earnings - and yet, HE had been the one who had done the stealing in the first place; he should be less suspicious. So, handing her the bulk of his money, he sauntered off with two ten-dollar bills, in search of more excitement. "We're leaving in TEN MINUTES!" Katie barked. Bashir nodded.

He decided to give the Double Diamond Deluxe one last chance to redeem itself, before moving on - and stood staring at the machine in disbelief as three more blue-green jackpot symbols dropped down into position.

"So what's the grand total?" Garak asked him, sitting up groggily in bed. "How much did you win all together?"

"Um - let me see - one thousand - two thousand -" Garak took the bills from him, firmly but not unkindly.

"I'll count them... Two thousand, four hundred and forty-three dollars. Good work, Ter- Julian. I'm proud of you." Bashir beamed.

"You realize it could have been more. I mean, I had to 'tip' some of the workers with money, Mike told me, and then I gave him ten dollars for fuel - he didn't want to take it, but -"

"No, that's all right." Garak waved his hand. "It can't hurt to be generous to him." He continued re-counting the sheaf of bills. Bashir shifted his weight.

"Umm... Gul Garak?"

"Hmm?"

"I want to give some of this money to the girl - Jenny." Garak raised his eyes and looked at him. "I've always felt terrible about what I did, and -"

"Just how do you propose to do that, without arousing suspicion? You can't just hand it to her, or she'll wonder why you feel so personally responsible."

"N-no, I thought I'd - pretend to find the wallet outside the gas station."

"I'm sure that area has been thoroughly searched by now."

"Then... maybe I'll drop it into her vehicle when she's not looking."

"Equally suspect."

"Well, I have to do SOMETHING!" Bashir fumed. "She's the reason we were able to win this money at all!"

"I understand," Garak soothed him. "We'll think of something. Now, I thought I heard you carry a package in with you. What did you bring? Not more Bud?"

"No," Bashir hastily answered. "Something they told me has no alcohol - Coke, I think it is. And some popcorn - and a frozen pizza. We stopped at the fueling station."

"Frozen - 'pizza'? What IS that?"

"I don't know - but the picture looked appetizing."

"But Cardassians don't like to eat cold foods - or weren't you aware of that?"

"I don't think we're supposed to eat it while it's still frozen," Bashir stammered. "I think we let it thaw first. THEN we eat it."

"I see." Garak lay back against the lumpy pillow. "Well, I'm too tired to eat right now. We'll save the pizza for breakfast."

"Fine." Bashir stood, unmoving, next to the bed. "I'll- just go to bed now. I'm glad you're pleased about the money."

"I am, Terran, I am," Garak answered, his eyes still closed.

"Good night."

"Good night." Bashir turned for the door, but Garak reached out for his wrist. "Would you care to join me here again? It's even colder tonight."

"I - don't think so."

"That's too bad. I was very pleased with your work tonight, Ter- Julian. I would like to offer you something for your efforts - I would like to offer you the very great privilege of allowing you to - satisfy me. And afterward, I think you'd enjoy receiving my thanks in return." Bashir gulped, disbelieving, and felt his face start to grow a little warmer. All his lonely fantasies, tied up night after night on the couch, hadn't yet gone beyond Garak rubbing his back or Jenny kissing his cheek; he had never dared imagine anything more, much less the mighty Gul Garak offering, for whatever reason, to "thank" him, a lowly Terran prisoner, even though it would be only after making sure Bashir had properly thanked HIM. He gulped again. "Hurry and decide - I'm cold," Garak interrupted petulantly, holding the blanket open with his free hand.

"I - I can't."

"Can't decide?" Garak had never released his hold on Bashir's wrist, and now drew him a little closer toward the mattress so he was leaning hard against it. "Let me try to persuade you, then." He let his other hand trail suggestively down the front of Bashir's old-style trousers, as the human gasped and tried to twist free. This wasn't the way Bashir wanted to be wooed after all - this was a little too sudden for his taste, a little too arrogant, and far too presumptuous of Garak to assume that he would in any way willingly agree to this 'privilege.' He swung out at the Cardassian and felt his arm connect with the side of Garak's ridged forehead. With a roar, Garak yanked him down hard onto the bed and pinned him to the mattress. Bashir stared up at him defiantly, eyes blazing.

"Is that how you treat the Terran who just put over two thousand dollars right into your lap?"

"Is that how you treat a Cardassian who's practically crawling at your feet, offering himself to you, you filthy little Terran?"

"You call that crawling at my feet?"

"I call that complete and total humiliation. 'Asking' a Terran for sexual favors. You don't 'ask' a Terran for anything - you take what you want and, if he won't give it, you beat it out of him. Now get out of my sight and be glad I didn't kill you for that." He rubbed the side of his forehead, wincing slightly. Bashir, released, sat up but otherwise didn't move. Garak looked at him, and their eyes met and locked together. "Filthy Terran."

"Fucking Cardassian. Give me my money back."

"Get the hell out, Terran. Go sleep with the ghosts outside."

"You sleep with them - I think I've earned myself a decent sleep in a comfortable bed."

"You've earned yourself another session with the - What are you doing?"

"Shut up."

"You don't give the orders here - I may have asked for your company in a moment of temporary weakness, but I certainly don't - AHH!"

"That's better. Nice and quiet."

"Ter- AHH!" Bashir had knelt down next to the bed, while continuing his attentions to the Cardassian's intricate and evidently very sensitive set of pubic ridges and other fascinating bits of anatomy, Garak alternately gasping loudly and threatening him. What Bashir knew of Cardassian sexual habits had been learned involuntarily and he had not been a willing student, but one thing was apparent - the Gul had gone far too long without sexual companionship, and it was only a matter of a few seconds before - "AAHH!" Garak screamed. Bashir smiled and tilted his face upward.

"I believe you said something about showing me your thanks."

The morning dawned cold and gray. Bashir awoke to find himself curled tightly against Garak's side, his arm flung across the Cardassian's chest, his face buried in the side of his neck. Rather shocking, the distance he had travelled in just a few days. Extraordinarily satisfying, too, as the pleasantly warm feeling in his groin attested. Garak had proven to be, to Bashir's great relief, a nonviolent lover; his intensity was paired with a surprising but genuine concern that his partner enjoy the experience as well. Bashir wondered who his usual partner on Terok Nor must be, to have instilled such a sense of fair play in the Gul. The Intendant? Perhaps, but the thought that he was somehow "sharing" the Intendant's property was repulsive. Perhaps it had been that Terran scientist, Jennifer Sisko... or perhaps it was another man, another Cardassian overseer... The more Bashir reflected on it, the more surprisingly jealous he became, so he sat up abruptly and gazed around the room.

The money Bashir had brought 'home' with him was still lying in a pile on the table next to Garak; Bashir couldn't help reflecting that it looked like someone's pay for the previous evening. Ah, well, they had each certainly deserved it; the two of them had slept soundly and deeply afterward, the entire night through. They had, because of the cold, been obliged to put most of their clothing back on afterward, but how wonderful it had felt to hold that strong Cardassian body close and actually fall asleep in Garak's arms. Bashir leaned back against the headboard and closed his eyes. 'You're a lonely, sentimental fool,' he told himself. 'This is your Cardassian jailor who's shortly going to deliver you up to the Regent and probably torture you to death himself.' He watched Garak, gently sleeping next to him, thought about what they had just done and what would never really exist between them, and to his shock he felt a tear begin to trickle down his face.

Garak, at that moment, stirred and blinked up at him, saw the tear as Bashir sat quietly leaning back, and, without saying a word, reached up and drew his face down, kissing him on the lips. "Don't cry, Julian. Go back to sleep. It's early yet." That was all - just that moment existed then, no other.

"All right." Bashir slid back down under the thin blankets, waited for the feel of Garak's arms around him, and slept.

"As far as I can tell, Garak, both of these people's previous spouses are dead."

"Hmm." Garak stared at the television screen. "Seems odd, that the families of these two individuals wouldn't have just taken them in. I thought you Terrans - humans - stuck together."

"We do. Maybe they did live with their families till they met and decided to form their own family."

Garak laughed. "You sound like that song they sing at the beginning of the program."

"What?"

"'That this group must somehow form a family,'" he smiled. Bashir ignored him. "What's the father's name?"

"Mike. Mike Brady, I think."

"He reminds me of a Terran who used to work on Terok Nor under me as a unit supervisor - always meddling, always dispensing his damned 'advice'-"

"We can watch something else, you know." Bashir irritatedly reached out to change the channel.

"No, that's all right; I wasn't really in the mood for television anyway."

"What WERE you in the mood for?"

"A game of Vulcan pebble-jumps, Terran - what do you SUPPOSE I was in the mood for?" He reached for Bashir, who slid further away on the couch but didn't get up.

"You have to ask me more politely than that. I want to watch television now, anyway."

"You've been WATCHING television all day," Garak growled, exasperated. "I think I'm going to have to limit your viewing to one hour a night."

"You wouldn't dare."

"Oh, I would, though," Garak growled again, lunging for the television and turning it off despite Bashir's halfhearted attempts to block him. Then he reached for Bashir, hoisted him into his arms, and began marching toward the bedroom. "Time for all good little Terrans to be in bed, Julian." He bit Bashir's ear and continued walking, as Bashir, trying not to laugh, pushed at his chest.

"Garak," he suddenly became serious, "will you let me read to you afterward? I'm getting better and better at it."

"You certainly are," Garak admiringly agreed, as Bashir's hands began to tease and to stroke him while he fumbled to open his clothing. "You, Julian, are becoming quite INCOMPARABLE at it."

"No, I meant -" Garak covered his mouth with his own and kissed him, then opened wider and began to gently bite Bashir's lower lip, his partner starting to moan with anticipation. Their hips slid together as they both wrestled on the bed, breathing hard, blankets tangling around them. "Hurry!" Bashir managed to choke out, as Garak struggled to remove his boots. "I want -"

"Shh," Garak whispered against him. "Keep quiet. You're going to do what *I* want."

"GARAK!" Bashir protested loudly, then groaned as the Cardassian slid down his body and began kissing him through the thick fabric of his trousers. "Garak, PLEASE! Will you please hurry up and unzip these things!" He tried to sit up but the Cardassian pushed him back down; he groaned again, then sat bolt upright, nearly throwing Garak to the floor. His hear pounding, he whispered, "What was that?" They both listened.

Someone was on the porch, knocking at the door.

Garak reached quickly and menacingly for the scanner lying on the bedside table; Bashir saw no weapons, but then again, Garak had never left them out for him to find anyway. "It's a female," Garak hissed, "I believe a young female. Probably your girlfriend. You undoubtedly disobeyed my orders and invited her to -"

"NO!" Bashir shouted, as Garak smacked him on the mouth to get him to stay quiet. "No," he whispered again, "I didn't even SEE her today. I left the wallet with the man at the gas station. I didn't even ask when she'd be back. I -"

"Stop babbling and get out there." Bashir began to hurriedly and nervously fasten his clothing; his arousal was all but forgotten now in his panic, but he had little doubt that the sudden interruption was only serving to make the Gul even more annoyed than usual. Why had Jenny come all the way out here, if it was indeed Jenny? And after dark, all alone - he froze. She had BETTER be alone. He could probably get rid of her easily enough, but what if she had brought the local security force? Or curious friends? Or witches? Bashir was becoming more and more nervous. It WAS close to Halloween, too horribly close for comfort. "Get OUT there!" Garak rasped, pushing him off the bed.

Jenny was knocking again. "I'll be listening, and if that female doesn't turn around and leave, suspecting nothing..."

"You wouldn't - do anything - to her?" Bashir managed to whisper.

"I'm going to HAVE to, if she doesn't leave instantly." Bashir bolted for the door, then stumbled as he hurried through the darkened living room and laboriously unlocked the front door. Jenny was a few meters away, walking back to her vehicle parked near the bushes. At the sound of the door, she turned around fearfully, her expression changing to relief when she saw Bashir.

"THERE you are!" she smiled happily. "I was getting scared - didn't you have the electricity turned on yet?"

"The - electricity?" Bashir stammered, then quickly recovered - oh yes, she meant the local power supply. "No, I haven't had a chance yet to get the electricity - turned on."

"Well," Jenny replied, crunching back through the leaves, "it's pretty creepy out here. Good thing there was at least some moonlight." She climbed the stairs and stood next to Bashir. "I know it's a little late, but I just HAD to come out here and thank you. Nobody knew if you had a phone, but the guy at the gas station knew where you lived, so..."

"I'm glad you came," Bashir smiled shyly and sincerely. "I heard you lost your wallet, and when I found it in that ditch, with your picture inside it and everything, I couldn't wait to bring it back."

"Oh, you saved my LIFE! I had just collected all kinds of money for our fundraising dance, and was supposed to be depositing it on the way to school - I cried, I really did. I cried for days." Bashir felt an all-too-familiar twinge of remorse again. "And I think there was even a little more in there than I remembered!" Bashir, not knowing what else to do, continued to smile at the girl. Jenny cleared her throat, her hands twisting in front of her. "Umm... that's actually why I'm here. The dance. The band at my high school is sponsoring a Halloween dance, in two weeks... it's to raise money for our trip to Europe."

Bashir's thoughts were in a whirl. The band of WHAT was trying to raise money for a trip to Europe? The band of Vandals, perhaps? Some kind of ritual dance before the Halloween slaughter? Jenny, oblivious to his unease, continued brightly, "So you see, I brought you a ticket - two tickets, I mean. As a gift, for returning my wallet." Bashir was speechless. "You can come alone, or bring whoever you want. Almost everybody in town will be there, and we'll have great food, and games, and hayrides outside..." Her eyes drifted involuntarily toward the darkened interior of the house; Bashir turned slightly, recalling that Jenny had probably been told that his "brother" lived with him in that house. Luckily, all was still.

He finally recovered his voice, his panic serving to give him strength. "It sounds - wonderful, I think. A Halloween dance." He gulped. "I don't think I can make it, though. My brother -"

"Yes, I understand," Jenny quickly replied, starting back down the stairs, almost as uneasy as Bashir was becoming. "But I hope you consider it anyway. I mean - he's certainly welcome too, and -"

"Oh no, he'd never be able to come."

"Well... anyway, please think about it. I want you to know you're very welcome there. And you don't have to wear a costume, if you don't want to, although most of the people there will probably be wearing them."

"A costume?" Jenny had already reached her vehicle and was sitting inside.

"Yes, you dress up as something or someone different. We're even giving prizes for the best costume - we have really GOOD prizes too! Money, food baskets, certificates for the casino -" Bashir's eyes lit up, as every one of those items would be extremely useful, "and even some dinners for two." She grinned, embarrassed, powered up her vehicle, and began to drive, waving to Bashir as she cautiously made her way down the overgrown road. Bashir stood on the porch for a few seconds, lost in thought.

It was uncanny, the lack of fear these people showed toward such a violent and terrifying occasion; they were treating it almost as a holiday, with dancing, games, and feasting - Bashir was well aware of the Klingon motto, "Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die," but he had never imagined it would be embraced so wholeheartedly by the people of this time and place. Then again, he recalled Garak's words, that the Halloween in this era and reality wasn't the bloodbath he was familiar with, but an inocuous, harmless day of fun. Bashir shuddered. Some fun - the "dance" was probably no more than a means to ambush the unwary guests and slaughter them. The costumes would only serve to conceal the identities of the killers. What a gift Jenny had given him. He sighed and walked back into the house. Garak was waiting for him on the stairway leading to the second floor.

"I heard it all from the upstairs window. My, she's sweet," he smiled sarcastically. "Came all this way to get another look at you, you realize. She only gave you that second ticket out of politeness - she's desperately hoping you'll attend that function alone. Even your poor, deformed brother isn't supposed to be a reason to stay away."

Bashir, amazed, replied, "I can't believe you're bringing that up - does it not even bother you that these people are holding a human sacrifice in two weeks and giving out TICKETS for it?"

Garak shook his head resignedly. "Here we go again. Julian, my boy, I thought we'd been all through this. This is not your Earth, these are not the Terrans you know, and I wish you'd stop approaching everything from such an ignorant, superstitious perspective." He approached Bashir and took his arm. "Come on now - I'm tired. Let's go back to bed." Bashir shook him off.

"No, I'm too ignorant and superstitious to go back with you - I'm not worthy to be associated with you." He knew he was being petulant, but didn't care. Jenny's flattering attention to him, coming out into the country, alone, to look for him, and Garak's evident jealousy were giving him confidence. "I think I'm going to stay out here and read tonight."

"Fine," Garak hissed, storming back into the bedroom and slamming the door, which caused the rusty screws holding it to the frame to give way. The door crashed down to the floor and Bashir, stunned, watched as Garak laboriously picked it up again and tried to work it into position. He finally exploded with laughter and heard Garak laughing on the other side of the door. With one bound, he jumped to his feet, pulled the door open again and leapt onto the bed, pinning Garak underneath his body.

"Jealous of a Terran female, eh?" he smiled, nibbling gently on a particularly vulnerable neckridge. "I may just have to go to that dance, you know, if only to teach you a lesson."

"You wouldn't dare."

"Oh, I would, though," he grinned, recalling Garak's earlier remark, Garak squirming angrily and deliciously under him. "Now where was I?" he growled, tracing his thumbs along the eye ridges, watching Garak's eyes in the half-light brighten with desire. "And don't forget - you said I could read to you afterward."

"Delicious. Absolutely delicious." Garak leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. "I believe you've finally found it - you've finally found the true gourmet food of this place."

"I knew you'd like it." Bashir smiled happily and wiped his mouth with his napkin. "Mike asked me if I'd ever tried it - I said no, and then he had to tell me he heard there were lots of these restaurants even in England!"

"But you were able to explain yourself?" Garak asked, concerned.

"Oh, easily. I told him I was from a very small town." Bashir took another drink of his Coke. "Now the only problem is, how can I get us this food more often? Minocqua was about a thirty minute drive, I think."

"That's too bad." Garak sighed. "I don't think I've ever tasted anything quite as good as this Mac."

"Big Mac. That's called a 'Big Mac' - see? It says it right on the wrapper." Bashir pointed. "I like the fried potatoes better. And the shakes!"

"The shakes?"

"These things." He held up his cup. Garak gazed at him thoughtfully through his blue eyes.

"You know - Julian, I hope you realize that it's not going to be an easy thing for me to... leave you." Bashir, puzzled, felt his heart begin to speed up. "I've grown quite, well, 'fond' of you, you know. In my own way."

"What are you -"

"And I don't mean just in there," Garak quickly went on, gesturing toward the bedroom doorway, "I mean everywhere. You're a very likeable person, you know, deep down." Bashir stared in amazement as Garak looked down at the tabletop and continued, "I want to apologize for hurting you with that implant. But don't worry, the people here will never be able to activate it or even find it, you can be certain."

"You talk as if you're going somewhere without me," Bashir finally murmured.

"Well, surely you realize that the Regent MAY send someone to find us - the distress beacon is continuing to broadcast a signal. I was going to deactivate it, and then decided that there's no possible future for me on this planet, and in this time, and rather than live in constant fear of discovery, I'm going to leave when I'm given the chance. You, of course, will stay here. I'll announce that you had been killed. You're human, so I'll hope they can't identify you with their scans - I won't mention the implant, of course."

"But I can't stay here alone!" Bashir nearly shouted. "I have no identification, no job, no friends -"

"But you're a human, not a Cardassian. You'll be better off here than you ever will be back in the Alliance. They could very well decide to have you executed. I'd rather die myself than let that happen." Bashir, stunned by that proclamation, could think of nothing to say, so after a moment he gathered up the wrappers from the meal, put them into the fire, walked back to Garak and put both his arms around the Cardassian's neck from behind.

"You're not going back with them either," he whispered into Garak's ear. "You're staying here with me - we belong together now. I can keep you hidden forever. I'll continue to win us enough money so we can buy this house, I'll -"

"You're talking nonsense." Garak angrily pushed him away. "I appreciate the sentiment, believe me, but there's no way I'll ever be safe in this place. I can't even go outside at night anymore, now that I know that female friend of yours is apt to come driving up at any moment."

"She only did that twice."

"She'll do it again. And she'll bring others. You're not going to be able to continue to explain me, Julian - I'm going to have to either disappear or move on eventually. If that signal doesn't work, then I'll have to find another solution."

"NO!" Bashir shouted again. "We go together. If the Alliance shows up, I'll surrender and they'll take me prisoner..."

"If the Alliance shows up, I'll stun you and hide you out in the woods. I'll have at least a few minutes' warning of their arrival, don't forget. A warning that you, my friend, will NOT have."

"DAMN you, Garak!" Bashir screamed. "Don't DO this to me! I want you here - I don't want to be left alone here! I am not 'sacrificing' myself for you, I'm making my own decision to stay with you -"

"That was a good attempt." Garak had risen from the table. "But I don't wish to discuss it any more. I've told you my decision. You stay here, I return to the Regent." Bashir, if he had been more observant, would have seen the look of utter despair in Garak's eyes, or heard it in his voice. All he saw was the Cardassian's usual condescending smile, however, so he stormed out of the room, tears of rage burning behind his eyelids. Cardassian bastard - stubborn, uncaring Cardassian bastard. He ran to one of the closets and began madly pawing through clothing, then turned and furiously yanked a sheet off of an ancient old bed. Jenny was stopping by in two hours to see if he was interested in riding with her to the Halloween party. He no longer had to rehearse his refusal speech - he had decided to attend after all, Garak be damned. If he wanted to sit alone and isolated all evening, then so be it. Bashir was going to start making friends - it appeared he was going to need them.

"What in the name of the Great Gul himself... you look like something from 'Lawrence of Arabia,'" Garak announced incredulously, as Bashir descended the stairs. "What ARE those? Bedsheets?"

"No, Garak, this is my thobe and my ghutra," Bashir answered, tightening the cord around his Arab-style headdress. "That's what Jenny called them, anyway, when I told her I needed to invent a costume."

"You told me that you told HER you weren't going to that function."

"Because I didn't have a costume. Well, it must have been a pretty bad excuse because she told me how to make one out of sheets. She watched 'Lawrence of Arabia' too, you know." Bashir continued adjusting his robes, Garak watching him openmouthed.

"You look ridiculous, you realize. You'll make a total fool of yourself at that Terran party."

"On the contrary, Jenny said I looked as if I were completely suited for this kind of clothing. I think she'll be impressed." Bashir smiled, watching Garak out of the corner of his eye, hoping to provoke more of a reaction. He fully intended to give up the 'party' idea if Garak should persuade him properly, but Garak instead began to laugh.

"I thought you were supposed to be from England."

"I am. I mean - that's what they said."

"Well, I've watched English programs on that television set. They do NOT wear this - thobe and ghutra - over there. Maybe this girl simply wants you to provide amusement to the other guests."

"No, she told me the name 'Bashir' isn't English. It's Arabic or something, just like in the movie." Satisfied with his appearance, he walked over to the window and peered out. Garak moved imperceptibly closer. "I wish you wouldn't always insist I shave," Bashir grumbled. "I think I'd look more appropriate with a beard."

"I would say it's too late for that now, wouldn't you? Here comes your Terran girlfriend, to take you to the dance. Have fun." He stalked off to the bedroom; Bashir, with one last regretful glance, opened the door and met Jenny at the car. Her eyes were huge, and her face lit up in an enormous smile as Bashir neared her.

"You look - you look - INCREDIBLE!" she raved. "That costume is FANTASTIC - I TOLD you it would be perfect! I've never seen a better costume on anyone! You look just like Peter O'Toole in that!" Bashir, assuming that such a statement was a compliment, bowed graciously before getting in.

"I can't stay out too late, you know. My brother -"

"Yes, of course," Jenny answered, continuing to stare, making no move to drive. "I'll bring you back whenever you say."

Bashir smiled politely. "That's an interesting costume you're wearing, too - are you an ore processor?"

"An ORE processor?" Jenny laughed, finally backing the car away from the house. "What's that?"

"Oh, it's - nothing. I guess I don't understand."

"I'm a construction worker," she smiled. "I borrowed my brother's clothes." Bashir glanced briefly at the windows of the house before the car disappeared through the trees. He saw an eye peeking out from behind a curtain. Garak had undoubtedly heard the girl's compliments. Good.

The drive to the high school was mercifully short, as Bashir was finding it increasingly difficult to dodge his hostess's more personal question about his family and his life in 'England.' Within minutes, they were in front of the building and moving their vehicle among a sea of other vehicles. "I can't believe this," Jenny giggled happily. "What a success! It's almost as if the whole town is here! Maybe even the whole county!" Bashir smiled, but his stomach began to flutter with fear after all. The Halloween dance, the goblins, the Vandals... he had stupidly invited himself right into it, and now he would pay. Garak and he had watched a television program that included a Halloween party; it had seemed harmless enough, but that was fantasy, not real life. In real life, he was about to enter a mysterious building and be trapped there with hundreds of other people, helpless. He shivered.

"Are you cold?" Jenny asked him.

"No, I'm fine - I'm just nervous," he truthfully answered.

"Well, you have nothing to be nervous about, Julian. You look fantastic! You'll fit right in. I have to find the other people on the committee - maybe you can go inside with - Sharon!" She gestured wildly toward another girl getting out of a car. "Will you take Julian inside? He's the guy I told you about - he doesn't know anybody here, and he's nervous."

"SURE I will!" Sharon happily agreed. Bashir recoiled in terror. Sharon, in her long black hair, wrinkled face, and tall black hat, looked just like -

"You're a witch!" he whispered. The girls laughed merrily.

"Oh, you like the costume, huh?" Sharon said, pleased. "I worked on it all day. But I shouldn't have bothered - you're DEFINITELY going to win!" She grabbed Bashir's arm and propelled him toward the door. Inside, all was light and motion and noise. The function had only just started, but the floor was crowded with dancers, both young and old, all in different, and unfamiliar, costumes, some of which were terrifying to Bashir. He saw a row of three Vandals brandishing long swords, innumerable witches, a headless individual carrying an artificial head on a tray... These people evidently faced their fears by "becoming" them. Bashir was stunned.

And he, in turn, created a sensation of his own as he timidly surveyed the assembled crowd. From out of nowhere, he seemed to be surrounded by females and even a few males, as far as he could tell through the disturbing costumes, all admiring his clothing and asking him more personal questions. He began to feel hemmed in, trapped; a hand on his shoulder made him jump.

"Take it easy!" Mike laughed. "The women are getting to you, huh? That's some costume."

"Thank you," Bashir managed to smile.

"You really look quite exotic in that thing. It's as if you're from another place or something, somewhere really far away. You know what I mean?" Bashir nodded absently, his attention almost fully drawn to an approaching woman wearing a shiny silver jumpsuit and a device holding wires that sprouted from her head.

"Hi," she greeted him.

"Hi."

"I'm Kristen - well, I'm actually Uncle Martin, but Kristen will do."

"Uncle Martin?"

"Yeah, from the old TV show. 'My Favorite Martian' -" At Bashir's blank look, she lowered her voice and leaned in closer. "You've probably never seen the show in England. I'm from outer space, you see." Bashir stared at her. "Yes, it's true, I'm just visiting this planet from Mars - any minute now, a group of my fellow aliens are going to come bursting in here and take over this place." She laughed; Bashir weakly joined in. "But in the meantime... care to dance? Or is that too pushy of me?"

"I don't -"

"Oh, I'll teach you how. I'm eager to get out there - Uncle Martin dancing with Lawrence of Arabia. We're going to make heads turn."

Heads turned. Bashir began to imitate Kristen and move rhythmically to the incomprehensible music, his robes billowing out around him. Several women gathered around to watch; one of them, similarly attired in bedsheets but as a ghost instead, ran up to him as soon as the music stopped and asked him to dance as well. Bashir, still flushed from the previous dance, breathlessly agreed and felt the woman's hands slide seductively up his back. "I heard about you," she whispered. "I heard you're from England."

"Yes," Bashir panted.

"Maybe we can talk later."

"Certainly," he politely replied; the feel of the woman's fingers now on the small of his back was anything but polite, and he was becoming slightly irritated. It was nice to be popular, but he hadn't realized he was going to be the main attraction that evening, and when the music again stopped, he headed resolutely away from the dancers.

It was no use. Another cluster of women surrounded him, hoping to continue the conversation where it had left off. One, attired only in what appeared to be gauze and feathers, suggestively brushed up against him and made him sneeze. Jenny was nowhere in sight; neither was Sharon, or Mike - Bashir was alone and at the mercy of the crowd. 'Not long ago,' he mused to himself, 'this would have been heaven.' But now thoughts of Garak alone in the old house, undoubtedly furious with him, undoubtedly hurt as well... He had to make his exit soon. He had to persuade Jenny to drive him home - or he'd walk, except that he wasn't quite sure of the way and had forgotten to pay attention. Someone brought him a drink and he sipped it absently, eyes roaming the area in search of a familiar face. A large cluster of people had suddenly formed near the entrance; it was difficult to tell what was going on. Voices were chattering excitedly, bright lights were flashing, and the woman who called herself "Uncle Martin" was rushing past him toward the commotion. Bashir, interested despite himself, moved closer to the throng and waited for it to disperse.

"Oh - dear - God," he breathed. His knees grew weak and he grabbed hold of a chair to steady himself. "No, God, no, he didn't. He can't be. That's not him, I'm just imagining this in all the heat and smoke -" He almost began to laugh in his delirium. Gul Garak, majestically attired in his gray Alliance uniform, hair slick and shiny, neckridges proudly exposed and displayed, ridged forehead towering above the crowd, was holding a glass, laughing and dodging a woman's fingers against his neck.

He caught sight of Bashir's stricken face and an enormous smile appeared. "Julian!" he called out. All heads turned to look at Bashir. "I made it here after all - I found a ticket."

"Garak -" Bashir whispered under his breath, his heart almost pounding out of his chest. Garak ignored him.

"Julian, I've just introduced myself to your friends! I'm his brother, you see," he told the assembled group. "We came to this place together, but he doesn't let me go out much!" He laughed, and Bashir, several meters away, could detect the overpowering scent of kanaar, Thunderbird and various other alcoholic libations on his breath; the Gul had undoubtedly finished off his entire remaining supply, in anger or in depression. And now he was here. No one else would be able to tell he was drunk, and God alone knew what he might do or say in this state. Bashir lunged for him and tried to take his arm. "Uncle Martin" had, however, already firmly taken hold of the other one.

"Greetings, fellow spaceman!" she giggled. Garak looked down at her and smiled dazedly.

"Greetings, Terran."

"What planet are you from?"

"Cardassia Prime," Garak pleasantly answered. Bashir's fingers dug into his arm like claws; with a growl, Garak shook him off. "I'm a Gul in the Cardassian military."

"How very impressive," another woman remarked, sidling up to him. "I love your uniform."

"Thank you. I love YOUR uniform."

"And I love the way you did those scales and RIDGES!" she purred, reaching out to fondle Garak's neck. Bashir, with a gasp, grabbed hold of her wrist. "Hey!" she yelped, irritated.

"Don't touch him there - he's very sensitive there," he babbled. Garak glared at him.

"Young woman, you may touch any ridge you please. I may even have some where you can't see them." The women laughed and nudged one another. One of them asked Garak to dance; Bashir stood between them.

"He can't - he's - dancing with me first."

"Oh, that's so boring - you're his BROTHER!" someone whined.

"Well... I meant we're having something to eat first," Bashir blushed, rapidly steering Garak toward the refreshments table. "What in the HELL are you DOING here?" he hissed into his ear.

"I wanted to come to the party. Don't you like my costume?" Garak smiled slyly. "You usually seem to..."

"Garak, have you lost your mind? This is like a nightmare! This IS a nightmare! If anyone, ANYONE, suspects you, we're DEAD! If you keep on with this 'Cardassian' routine -" He smiled politely to an individual in a gorilla suit who had handed him a plate, then steered Garak further away. "I've got to get you home! We're leaving NOW, before you can do any more damage and get us both into such severe trouble that -"

"This is a Halloween party, Ju- Jillian! I'm in costume! I'm a Cardassian!" He broke free from Bashir and took the hand of a stooped-over witch who had been determinedly waddling over to him. "You know," he winked conspiratorially, "my brother is absolutely terrified of you. Let's show him he has nothing to fear." The woman laughed as Garak wrapped both arms tightly around her waist and pressed his face against her neck. Bashir, stunned, could barely move. Garak's arrival had taken attention away from him, and now he stood alone, his mind going over endless terrifying scenarios, his hands shaking. The Cardassian's statements were bad enough but would obviously never be believed; far more dangerous was the fact that he was no doubt heavily armed, and if anything disturbed or frightened him -

"GARAK!" he screamed, lunging for him, pushing other dancers out of the way in his haste.

"What's the matter?" Garak slurred. "I was just showing the young lady my phaser."

"Garak," Bashir begged, "let's go home." He moved closer so no one could hear him. "I want to take you away from here and be alone."

"You want me WITH you! Remember? Wasn't that what you were just telling me? But you left to go to this stupid party... Well, here I am. We're together." Bashir was pulling at his arm, leading him toward the exit, but Uncle Martin had caught up to them and placed a hand on Garak's uniform.

"Where are you both going? The costume judging is in five minutes!" She began stroking Garak's heavy breastplate, asking as she did so, "Just how far down did you make the ridges go?"

"That, my dear lady, is for you to find out," he growled, pulling her into an embrace. Bashir watched in horror as the Gul spent the next five minutes on the dance floor; Jenny and other young people had begun to circulate among the crowd, making notations on clipboards and stopping periodically to converse with one another. Bashir was asked to dance by two women dressed as a camel, and the sight brought admiring stares and laughter from the crowd; Bashir, however, kept his eyes continually on Garak, talking animatedly with a man in a long black cape. Suddenly the music stopped and Jenny herself appeared on the tiny stage.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the Mercer High School Halloween committee wishes to announce the winners of the costume contest." Four individuals - five, if one counted the two-person camel, trooped across the stage when their names were read, to collect their prizes. Bashir breathed a sigh of relief. Garak would NOT be chosen and singled out in front of this crowd. "The next decision was unanimous among the judges," Jenny was saying. "In fact, after we announce it, we'd like them both to say a few words to us on stage." People already began to clap in anticipation, and Bashir noted with horror that all eyes were turning to look at him - and Garak. "Second Prize goes to Sheikh Julian Bashir, and First Prize " she began to read from a card, " goes to his brother, Gul Elim Garak of the Klingon-Cardassian Alliance and First Officer of Terok Nor!" she shouted, becoming louder as she finished the recitation. A roar went up from the crowd as a spotlight played across the stage . Bashir closed his eyes and prayed for the arrival of the Alliance troops, for an earthquake, for a spatial anomaly - he was being pushed, with Garak, toward the stairs, and climbed them shakily, holding on to Garak's arm.

"Just say 'thank you' and let's get OUT of here!" he hissed. The Cardassian pretended to ignore him, smiling out at the crowd and regally holding his head up. Bashir grabbed the microphone. "My brother and I thank you very much, and are grateful for the warm welcome you've shown us. Thank you." He bowed and attempted to pull Garak back down the stairs, as the crowd clapped in unison and Jenny tried to thrust money into his hands.

"Here - your TROPHIES!" another young woman shouted, handing Garak two gaudy statues with small pumpkins mounted on top. Garak smiled happily at her and leaned forward as if to kiss her. Bashir, not noticing, continued to pull him toward the stairs, where Garak promptly lost his balance and fell flat on his back on the wooden floor. Bashir stood looking down at him, all blood draining from his face. Garak was obviously hurt.

The crowd hushed, and several people called out, "Are you all right?" Bashir crouched down and started to speak to him, but a woman dressed in a diving outfit was already kneeling by his side.

"Don't move him," she barked imperiously to Bashir, who was trying to work an arm under Garak's back. "He may be injured." Garak remained silent, momentarily stunned from the fall, and Bashir sank back onto his heels and, still beyond thought, watched as the Cardassian's head was carefully pillowed on someone's coat. "Do you suppose you could help me take some of this makeup off of him? Gently!" she cautioned, reaching for an eyeridge. Bashir gasped, then disguised it as a cough and grasped the woman's hand.

"No, you can't remove any of this - it's all put on with cement, it'll tear his skin off if you try to do that." He ineffectively tried to push her away. "I really need to get him home - he'll be fine if someone will just drive us home, and I can put him to bed..." The woman resolutely shook her head.

"Someone's already called an ambulance. Your brother may have hurt his back. That costume looks awfully heavy - he fell pretty hard."

"You don't UNDERSTAND!" Bashir desperately pleaded, looking around him for support. "We can't pay for medical care -"

"WE'RE paying for it," someone called out. "Everything's going to be taken care of."

"Um - why don't we all move to the other side of the room, and get out of the way?" Jenny suggested. "Clear some space here for the ambulance crew." Bashir lunged toward Garak and, before anyone could stop him, had partially hoisted the Cardassian to a sitting position.

"What do you think you're DOING?" a man shouted. "Stop moving him, for God's sake!"

"Please, Garak," Bashir leaned over to whisper, "get up. You can do it - hang onto me and get up. I've got to get you out of here NOW. If you don't get up and come with me, they're going to find out about us. Listen, Garak - they CAN'T find out about us! Do you HEAR me?" Garak smiled at him and drunkenly nodded, then put both his arms around Bashir's neck and prepared to kiss him. Bashir was already being pulled away by several men, who were attempting to open up the area around the Cardassian so he could be moved. Bashir, in despair, tried to pull free but was roughly held back. Two individuals with a stretcher ran into the room.

"What happened here?" one of them called out. Bashir looked up and nearly fainted.

"Oh my God."

The Regent.

Bashir instinctively drew back as his knees weakened and his heart sped up in an alarming rhythm. The Regent. All his worst fears come true, in the middle of a nightmare from which not even Garak was going to rescue him. Bashir felt his body tense as if it were preparing to run; at the same time, however, it seemed as if an invisible hand reached out and pulled him back at the last instant. He was not going to leave Garak.

The Regent had located their signal and had, himself, come to find them and take them back to Terok Nor. He was clothed in what appeared to be a Terran work uniform, and with him was Jadzia Dax, evidently a traitor, dressed in a similar garment. "Come on, give us some room," she called out authoritatively.

"That was FAST!" someone remarked to her. "And you two work in costume?"

"On Halloween, the entire crew is in costume," she smiled, then became serious again as she helped the Regent move Gul Garak gently onto the stretcher. The remaining crowd stood hushed and watchful as the stretcher was lifted. "Julian," Dax said quietly, "as soon as we get outside, we're beaming up. Watch our backs and don't let anyone come with us." Bashir blinked. His decision was firm, of course - he was going with Garak and the Regent, whatever the consequences, whatever his fate. But as he saw Dax take charge of the operation, warning others out of the way, barking orders to "Worf," as she called him, he felt a strange lightheadedness... They had fully crossed over, after all. This wasn't "his" Earth of 1998, and so these were not "his" Dax and Worf, they were from the other side as well. And they evidently believed him to be one of them. If he could only keep up the deception a little longer, they'd be free of this place and could find some sort of future together in non-Alliance territory. He nearly shouted for joy. Testing his theory, he moved closer to Worf and whispered,

"How did you find us, Worf?"

"We located your signal. We've got the Defiant waiting to take us back, as soon as we give the word - NOW!" he shouted. In a split-second, the four figures dematerialized, an instant before a group of observers reached the doorway and stared, puzzled, at the empty parking lot.

"Do you want me to heat up your tea for you?" Bashir called over to Garak.

"I suppose so." Garak lay on the floor, staring unmoving at the tiny television screen. The news reports were filled with foreboding predictions of the coming Vandal onslaught; hundreds of inhabitants had already been killed, several thousand kilometers away, and the armies were inexorably moving closer. "It's freezing in here."

"We can use another one of those power packs tonight to run the heater."

"All right." Garak gratefully accepted the cup of tea. "You ought to stop using the microwave oven so much, though - it drains those packs too quickly."

"I suppose so." Bashir sat down and sipped his own drink. He heard an owl call in the woods outside the decrepit old trailer. A squirrel or some other tiny creature skittered over the roof. "I hate this place," he proclaimed gloomily. "I want to go in to that town."

"And do what?" Garak turned to look at him. "We've found the perfect hiding place, out here in the woods. Once I get our signal beacon working, they'll find us and get us out of here and no one will ever have been the wiser."

"Maybe," Doctor Julian Bashir agreed. "But I'd like to talk to somebody, anybody. I'm sure I could fool them, and maybe even pick up a little information at the same time. All I know is that we're right outside Mercer, Wisconsin - I don't even know where that IS! I want to find another newspaper."

"The less we make our presence known, the better," Elim Garak proclaimed. "Besides, I don't want to be left alone here."

"I don't blame you," Bashir agreed. "But I found a little currency in the sofa here - I could go to that fueling station and buy us some food. I'd only be gone a short time. Maybe I'd learn something. After all, everybody's probably talking about the Vandal raids tonight. Nobody would pay the slightest attention to me. You could even hide in the bushes outside."

"I suppose we can think about it," Garak sighed. Four weeks since the crash, and he and Bashir were beginning to go slightly crazy from the cramped quarters and the meager ship's rations they had salvaged. A small trip into town might be just the thing to lift both their spirits. "Maybe we'll try it tomorrow morning."