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The promenade of Deep Space Nine was a busy place, but with the exception of Constable Odo, it was not a particularly observant one. People walked by, seeing only their intended destination or some other equally distracting vision. As was his habit this time of day, Odo was in Quark's bar, questioning him about some suspected extralegal activity. Quark probably knew nothing about the entire event, but Odo took at least as much pleasure in harassing him as he did in actually getting useful information, so he still counted it as a worthwhile use of his time.

As it so happened, Odo's apparent fascination with Quark left no one observant enough to notice the sudden appearance on the promenade of a rather anachronistic blue box. It was not the sort of box one would expect to see on a space station. It was made of wood, not metal, and had words on it in an archaic form of Federation Standard. These words, in glowing white letters, proclaimed the object to be a "Police public call box". If asked, very few people on board the station would have ever heard of a "Police public call box", and even fewer would know precisely what the box was for. In fact, only Dr. Julian Bashir had ever actually seen the image of such a box, and even that only because of his rather childish fascination with holoprograms. Of course, the relative ignorance of the station as to the historical significance of the public call box was largely unimportant, due to the fact that this box was nothing of the sort.

By all rights, the box shouldn't even have been there. It wasn't supposed to be in this universe, and it's "pilot" (aka "That backseat driver who doesn't realise he's in the back seat") had previously been under the impression that there were no remaining ways to traverse universes without bursting a hole in at least one of them. He was quite surprised, therefore, when he discovered a loophole - or more accurately, a wormhole. Being exactly the sort of person who delighted in going places he probably shouldn't go, and having some time to kill while he waited for a friend to take some "time to herself" for a week, he thought it would be best if he took advantage of the opportunity.

Really, he could have spent several days simply examining the wormhole he'd found his way into. It was a marvellous creation - for it was an artificial construction - and he was immensely curious about the implications of the design. However, he had been led to believe by one (or perhaps several) firsthand encounters that the wormhole is actually a living space for some transcendent entities and they would appreciate it very much if he kept his time-distorting ship out of their consciousness before he gave them a headache, thank you very much. He, himself had been trying to fathom how he could leave before he gave timeless entities a headache, but he eventually decided to file it in his "wibbly-wobbly" cabinet and leave.

And here he was: the land beyond the wormhole. Or space, or whatever. He knew it had to be space - no matter what dimension one was in, space stations always had that unmistakable design - a poorly-concealed attempt at compromising between an enjoyable living space and an efficient one. Even if he had somehow misinterpreted the decor, however, there was still no confusion about the spinning. It was a very slight sensation - so slight he doubted many of the station's occupants could even feel it - but it was enough for recognition (and, in some cases, mild nausea).

Fortunately, today was not a day for nausea, and the Doctor (an identity which had become a title, or a title which had become an identity- no one could tell) was able to stroll along the promenade with relative ease. The TARDIS was still unnoticed, and what with all of the diverse creatures on the station, the Doctor figured he probably would be too.

His figuring would probably have been correct, had it not been for two things. The first of these things was his own doing - his humanoid appearance may have blended in on the station, but his clothing did not. To anyone whose business it was to know about the trends and styles of the time, he was sorely out of place in his bow-tie, suspenders, and patched tweed jacket.

The second of these things was the presence on the promenade of a man whose business it was to know these things (and, really, anything else which may or may not eventually come in handy). His name was Elim Garak, and he was currently meandering down the promenade with Dr. Julian Bashir on the way to lunch.

"Now, really Dr, I fail to see how you could possibly see more value in these melodramatic farces than you do in good, Cardassian literature!" Garak smiled at Julian as he delivered this comment, creating a slightly unnerving contrast between the statement and the delivery.

Julian was far less reserved than his conversational partner, and gestured dramatically as they walked. "But Garak, Shakespeare is not a 'melodramatic farce!' Hamlet is widely considered to be a classic piece of literature."

Garak gave a slightly patronizing sigh, and waited a moment before delivering his next line. "My dear Doctor, all I'm saying is that with-" he paused for a moment, and his politely argumentative expression transformed into something more akin to curiosity. "Pardon the interruption, Doctor, but have you ever seen that man around before?"

Julian looked in the direction of Garak's extended finger. He frowned and shook his head. "No, but I can't see why it matters. We get new visitors all the time." He smiled. "I think you're just trying to drag this conversation away from the argument you're losing."

Truth be told, this was no small factor in the Cardassian man's actions, but he had never been much of one for the truth, and quickly decided that this one would be just as well untold. "Not at all, Doctor, but I do find myself wondering what such an oddly dressed man would be doing so far away from a holosuite." The man's clothing was out of keeping with the time period, no matter what species he was, and Garak found his curiosity as a tailor piqued (despite his best interests to hate the profession, he had to admit it was growing on him).

Garak's expertly trained eye scanned the promenade, searching for clues as to the strange man's situation. The only thing out of place other than the man himself was a funny-looking box, which Garak had to admit he could not identify. By now he was most definitely interested in the situation, and he gestured to the box as he turned to Julian. "Care to investigate with me before we go to lunch?"

The strange man was casually strolling along the promenade, gazing about at the assortment of shops, people, and simple bulkheads with equal interest. It was, therefore, a simple matter to catch up to him before he got too far out of the way. Garak and Julian approached him, smiling, and exchanged a quick glance with each other before starting the conversation.

"Hello, sir," Julian began. "Have you just arrived on the station?"

The man turned to them, grinning for no apparent reason. "Yes, I suppose I have. This is a space station, then? I thought as much. You don't happen to know the year, do you?"

This time it was Garak who spoke. "Why, yes, of course. This is the space station Deep Space Nine, and the year is 2372." He paused, letting his eyes shift away from the man standing in front of him. "I don't suppose you would mind if I asked how it is you don't already have this information?"

"Yes, I don't suppose you get asked that sort of question very much, do you? I'm the Doctor, by the way. Or at least, you can call me the Doctor. I'm not from around here, obviously. I came from a different dimension using that marvellous wormhole of yours, which as it so happens is a sort of hole in the fabric of reality through which my ship can travel, although I don't think the wormhole's residents really appreciated my interest." He paused for breath, apparently not noticing (or else relishing in) the rather unusual facial expressions displayed by his audience. They were the sort of facial expressions one would expect to see if something unusual had been said, but it was difficult to tell if they conveyed confusion, disbelief, or amusement. Really, this was more than he would ordinarily have said to a pair of strangers, but he supposed the time away from Clara was starting to get to him.

After taking a beat to assimilate all of this information, Julian spoke. "Nice to meet you, Doctor. I'm Dr. Julian Bashir, and this is Garak. Are you a medical doctor?"

Garak, who had been observing both doctors and silently estimating the amount of time they would spend speaking with one another, decided to take matters into his own hands. "If you'll pardon the interruption, Doctor, my friend and I were just on our way to lunch. Would you care to join us and continue this conversation?" He put on his best smile - the one he usually reserved for manipulating Sisko or offending Gul Dukat - and gestured towards the replimat. As the two doctors led the way, he pondered the challenge ahead of him - this man would be almost as much fun to figure out as Dr. Bashir was, and the two of them together should make for some very entertaining conversation. By the time they were halfway there he was already planning the stories he would tell them - which little "secrets" should he let slip today?

Once they had arrived at the replimat and taken seats, it became apparent just how different the two dimensions were. Almost none of the food was at all familiar to the Doctor, and he began to wonder at what point this dimension had split off from his own. Of course, even the few dishes which were theoretically the same bore little resemblance to the ones he knew - it was replicated food, after all. Nevertheless, he daringly picked out a few random dishes he'd never heard of before (and then promptly disposed of the Gagh and picked again) before settling in to talk.