It was something he had known was a possibility when he'd joined Starfleet. In the event of war, there was always a chance of being taken prisoner. Sure, it was generally a slim chance, but it still loomed over their heads. Now it had happened, and what was worse was nobody knew.
Julian Bashir sat in a chair in the center of a room. There was only one light, directly overhead and blinding. His hands were bound behind him. In the shadows he could make out 10, maybe 15 Cardassians, a Vorta, and a changeling, the female one. His head felt as though it had been trampled.
"Garak," he whispered. Nobody but the Vorta seemed to notice the utterance, but the Vorta, Weyoun, wasn't known for keeping things to himself. Bashir had been en route to Deep Space Nine from the Gamma Quadrant when the runabout he'd been on had been attacked and the two other officers onboard had been killed.
"Doctor… Bashir, is it?" Julian heard an all-too-familiar voice ask. He squinted against the light and saw the Vorta step into the light, a look of genuine concern on his face. He decided at that moment that he wouldn't trust him.
"My name is Julian Bashir. My rank is-"
"Yes, yes, we've all heard the chant before," Weyoun interrupted, waving his hand in dismissal, "I do hope you'll be more cooperative. I know Sisko is rather fond of you."
Is that a threat? He thought. He took a painful breath and started again, "My rank is Chief Medical Officer of Deep Spa-GHAAGH!" Something hit him in the ribs, hard enough that he heard a crack. The chair fell sideways, smashing his left arm under the heavy metal frame. He whimpered pitifully, pain overloading his brain.
"Cooperate or silence," a gruff voice he'd never heard before ordered. Rough hands, six of them, pulled him back up, setting the chair upright. Julian squirmed, his internal organs felt like they were on fire. In the periphery of his mind, he registered that Weyoun was talking again, but there wasn't enough brainpower not taken over by the immense pain to process what he was saying.
The Vorta's face was suddenly dangerously close to his own, and Julian nearly toppled over backwards in surprise.
"What was your business in the Gamma Quadrant?" Weyoun asked. His voice was cold and Bashir suspected that if he didn't answer in a way that pleased the Vorta, he'd likely be in even worse pain. But to answer would be to give up classified information, and that was something he was not willing to do.
"M-My name is Julian Bashir. My rank is Chief Medi-GRAHH-" Somebody, likely a Jem'Hadar, was twisting his arms further behind him, further than his arms should naturally have gone. Julian kicked his feet wildly, he was certain that something would tear and his arms would be useless. "My rank is Chief Medical Officer of Deep- D-Deep Sp-" His voice caught in his throat as he suppressed a scream. His left shoulder was out of its socket and he was nearly standing now, kicking and wailing in a futile attempt to free himself. "Chief Medical Officer- Chief…" His arms hung limp, torn from their sockets, as his body slammed back into the chair. "Garak…"