A/N: Thanks for the reviews – as you can see, they motivate me to keep writing! As for those of you who've been wondering where Dukat's got to (E, I'm looking at you...) then wonder no more. He's back, and he's vicious.

Also, to anyone wondering about the blanked-out stardates – you'll see what I mean – that is because I have honestly no idea what the stardate would be at this point, and I'd rather not guess and show up my woeful ignorance about the workings of the TrekVerse. Just insert whatever numbers sound plausible and go from there, if this sort of thing is important to you.

A/N Supplemental: loxKardasia, in response to your very long and detailed review, there is another (equally long and detailed) addendum at the bottom for you. And no, I didn't get the message – but FFN have recently disabled external links on profiles due to excessive spamming. They'll probably fix that soon though.

WARNING: This chapter contains violence and references to distressing themes.

11: HOW DID IT COME TO THIS?

And our time is running out

You can't push it underground

You can't stop it screaming out

How did it come to this?

Muse

This had been the longest week in Dukat's long, complicated and at times utterly nightmarish life, and by the end of it he could almost feel his own sanity crumbling away, hour by agonising hour. He'd paced until his feet hurt. He'd panicked until he couldn't see straight, then repressed the panic until he couldn't think straight. He'd tormented himself endlessly with the grotesque images of dying Cardassians printed on the inside of his eyelids every time he closed them. He'd shouted and cursed at nothing in sheer impotent fury with himself, with the situation, and most of all the fact that he was stuck in this godsforsaken cell and totally helpless when he had to get back to Cardassia and somehow fix the mistake he'd made, he had to get out of here!

They were coming for him today, to take him to the penal colony. Escape plan? He'd been over that already. Wait for the guards to turn up, attack them and make a run for it? Hah. No. Throw himself at the forcefield until he passed out, then try to escape from the medical bay as soon as he woke up? Definitely not, however tempting it was to be pointlessly self-destructive. Wait until he'd got to the penal colony, then try to escape? No, dammit, no! He felt like a wild sehlat in a cage, forced to watch as carrion stole its food and predators killed its mate and young; Sloan couldn't have invented a better torture if he tried. And the bastard was right, this was his fault. He'd been the one who thought of sending Nerys to Cardassia – in fact, he'd been the one who thought he was being so damn clever by double-crossing the Dominion in the first place, and the one thing he hadn't planned for was that the Dominion were double-crossing him right back. Whyhadn't he seen it? Because he was a blind, stupid fool, that's why. He tried to console himself with the knowledge that you weren't meant to be able to tell a changeling from a real person, but that wasn't the point. He'd made a huge, catastrophic mistake and now Cardassia would pay for it. Again. And so would Nerys. It was like one of the laws of the universe: no matter what he tried to do, no matter how carefully he planned it, everything he gave a damn about ended up being destroyed.

Over my dead body, he thought furiously, leaping up and pacing yet again; he was nearly climbing the walls in frustration, he hadn't slept or eaten in gods only knew how long and his nerves felt like overloaded power lines, the need to escape so strong he could almost see it. Come on, think, think, you idiot, he berated himself; you schemed yourself into this mess, now scheme yourself out again. There has to be a way.

But what was it?

He'd come up with what felt like hundreds of possible plans, though it was probably just the same few running over and over again through his scrambled brain. Most of them were accordingly wild and incoherent, but one or two of them might just work. He wasn't in good physical condition for fighting, but he was wired enough to try out of sheer desperation – and in any case, if he didn't punch someone pretty soon he felt like he'd catch fire. Maybe that was the best idea? Simple, quick and dirty, and if he was fast enough they'd never know what hit them. But two against one wasn't good odds; even if he managed it (and that was a big if) he'd then have to find his way to the hangar without getting caught, not to mention stealing a ship, and they'd all be looking for him...

Too risky, he decided. Trying to escape from the penal colony would take far too long and likely be impossible. But if he waited until he was being transported... if he could manage to get rid of the guards, then he'd already have a ship. True, a Federation ship of unknown size with an unknown number of crew/civilians/other prisoners on board, added to the fact that he didn't know where the hell he was... Again, a lot of ifs, but it would have to do. Right now he'd settle for anything.

He just hoped they came for him soon, before he went totally and utterly crazy in here.

He got his wish: Willetts and another burly guard he'd never seen before arrived within the hour. The new guy bent Dukat's arms behind his back for the handcuffs, almost dislocating his neck-ridges, while Willetts just smirked at him.

'You'll love it on Earth,' he jeered. 'Siberia. Coldest place on the planet that's still inhabited. They say it can reach fifty below in the winter...'

Dukat ignored him; he'd heard about Siberia already, and he had no intention of going there if he could help it. He ignored the pain in his shoulders and neck, too; his arms were twisted awkwardly behind him in a position that no Cardassian could hold for very long, but he couldn't imagine they'd keep him like that for the entire trip. After all, the saintly Federation had rules about causing lasting harm to people, even prisoners. He had no such reservation. He'd enjoy beating the hell out of Willetts as payback for all that "interrogation" over the last month or so, and also purely because the guy was an idiot. This feeling only intensified as Willetts jammed a black bag over his head, blocking out all the light, and the two of them hustled him out of the cell. This wouldn't do; he needed to see what kind of ship they were putting him in before they got there, and the bag didn't smell too good either. He doubted they'd take it off him, but it was worth a try...

'Hey!' he complained. 'I can't breathe in this thing!'

''Fraid you'll just have to put up and shut up, Cardie,' Willetts responded cheerfully, jabbing Dukat in the head with the butt of his phaser. 'We've got orders not to let you be seen leaving here, so the hood only comes off once you're on the shuttle. Come on, keep moving.'

Dabo, Dukat thought, grinning in the fusty confines of the bag. A shuttle... that meant two crew at most – one to pilot, one to keep an eye on him – and run-of-the-mill pilots weren't usually much good at physical combat, it wasn't what they were trained for. Shuttlecraft were also one of the few Federation vehicles he knew anything about, which meant controlling it wouldn't be a problem. He might just pull this off if he timed it right. Shuttles weren't too fast, though; warp 1 if he was lucky, and no weapons to speak of. Cardassia was a hell of a long way at those kinds of speeds, even without the inevitable zigzagging, doubling back, hiding and general time-wasting he'd have to do in order to avoid anything the Federation sent after him. Still, things were definitely looking up...

His moment of glee was interrupted by Willetts hauling him round a corner so violently that he tripped and fell on his knees. He gritted his teeth as he struggled upright and continued stumbling along blindly, trying to ignore the guards' laughter. Things had to be looking up, mainly because they couldn't actually get much worse.

He felt rather than saw the hangar around him when they got there; the lower air pressure of a much bigger space than a corridor and the cacophony of transit-related noises made it obvious where he was. Willetts and the other guy dragged him a little further, then he heard the noise of a shuttle door opening and he was roughly shoved inside. He was unable to break his fall with his arms stuck behind his back, and his head bounced off something hard enough to make him see stars. He clenched his pinioned hands into fists as Willetts laughed and yanked the bag off his head, the sudden bright light making him wince and screw up his eyes.

'Slipped over again, huh?' Willetts sniggered. 'We'd better get you sat down, we can't have you falling all over the place when we're moving...'

He undid the handcuffs and Dukat had a split second to appreciate the release in his aching neck before he was forced down into the passenger's chair at the back and his hands cuffed once more, in front of him this time. He smiled over the top of Willetts's head as the big man did up the restraints. Several pounds of metal around his wrists was as good a weapon as any, and two-handed punches had long been a favourite of his. It would hurt, but it would hurt Willetts more, and that was what mattered. The pilot was a skinny little Vulcan who gave him one impassive look then turned back to his console. The guy was probably stronger than he appeared, but Dukat reckoned he could take him. But never mind all that for now. If he shoved his worries about Cardassia and Nerys to the back of his mind then he almost felt cheerful, for the first time in far too long. He relaxed as far as he was able within the restraints, glared at Willetts once more for good measure, suppressed a smirk as the big guy looked away nervously, and waited for the shuttle to start. Things were looking up.

An hour later, he was getting twitchy again, not to mention freezing cold; Willetts had made him sit right next to the cooling units, probably deliberately, and his hands and feet were going numb. He'd been listening to the telemetry, in between faking the early signs of space-sickness, and he didn't want to get too close to Terra. But he'd learned that the shuttle was warp-capable, just about, which was better than nothing. Right. Time to act. Luckily enough, they were just starting to go through some turbulence, which would make his excuse for needing to get up all the more plausible. He stole a glance out of the corner of his eye at Willetts, who was sitting side-on to him, and shifted in the restraints, grunting slightly like he was in pain. Willetts didn't react, so he did it again a little more obviously.

'Stop squirming, you,' Willetts said boredly without bothering to turn round.

'I feel ill,' Dukat complained, grateful for the temporary hoarseness in his voice. Willetts shrugged.

'Not my problem. Sit still and shut up.'

'It will be your problem if I'm sick on the floor. I really don't feel good.'

'I don't care. Be quiet.'

As they hit a particularly rough patch of turbulence, Dukat let out a convincing-sounding groan and pressed one hand over his mouth.

'Oh bloody hell... Alright, make it quick,' Willetts grumbled, getting up and unfastening the restraints, yanking Dukat roughly out of his seat and shoving him towards the chemical toilet at the back. Now, Dukat decided and pivoted with the shove, bringing his hands round fast and smashing Willetts in the stomach with the handcuffs as hard as he could. Damn, that felt good. The big guy sprawled on the floor, winded, and Dukat seized the phaser out of his belt and trained it on the pilot, who had turned around in shock. He shook his cuffed hands.

'Get these things off me, or I'll shoot.'

'I will not,' the Vulcan answered calmly. Dukat stifled a growl. He'd always hated Vulcans.

'Take them off or I will shoot you,' he repeated through clenched teeth. 'It's a simple choice, now decide before I shoot you anyway. I don't have time for this.'

'Your course of action is illogical,' the Vulcan said, still in that infuriatingly serene voice. 'This shuttle has no weapons and they will send a much faster ship after you. Your attempt to escape will not succeed.'

Suddenly noticing the Vulcan's hand groping behind him for the comm panel and cursing himself for getting distracted by the logic spiel, Dukat snarled and shot him anyway. He barely had time to think before Willetts leapt on him with a yell and sent the phaser clattering out of his hands. Willetts weighed a ton and he punched like an angry Nausicaan, but Dukat fought harder than he'd ever fought in his life, even with his hands stuck together in the handcuffs. They rolled around on the floor of the shuttle, kicking, biting, elbowing, anything as long as it was painful – now Willetts was trying to pin him down, he had to reach the phaser, godsdammit where did it go? He couldn't find it, the metal was cutting into his wrists every time he hit Willetts and it hurt like crazy but he wasn't going to give up, he was not going to –

A flash of orange light made him recoil, then he looked up in astonishment as he found himself still very much alive. Willetts must have fallen on the phaser and it had gone off; the big man was unmistakeably dead, eyes and mouth wide open. Maybe the Cardassian disbelief in luck wasn't quite right after all, or maybe the gods did still exist. Whatever. He'd won and the shuttle was his. Shaking from the exertion of the fight, Dukat rolled the corpse onto its face so those eyes weren't staring at him. Then he swore. How would he get the damn handcuffs off now? He looked at his wrists, which were bleeding and bruised with scales bent the wrong way. Then he looked at the phaser. If he did this wrong, he'd end up with no hands. The prospect was not pleasant. But then neither was the prospect of trying to fly all the way to Cardassia like this.

He stared down at his hands again, and in his sleep-deprived, full of adrenaline, running-on-empty state, the whole situation was suddenly hilarious; the mirth welled up unstoppably until he was sitting there on the floor of the shuttle with two dead people, laughing until his eyes streamed and his ribs hurt. Once he'd finally calmed down, he took stock of his situation. He had a ship. He had a phaser. He had warp drive. But on the other hand he was persona non grata, he was in the middle of Federation space with a hell of a long way to go, there were corpses rolling around the floor and most of all, he had to stop Sloan before the changeling's plan, whatever it was, came to fruition. Things didn't seem quite so funny when he thought of it like that.

Still, first things first, and first thing was getting rid of the damn handcuffs. He eventually managed to free himself, after a fair bit of thought, awkward manoeuvring and no small amount of pain, by wedging the phaser in the crook of one knee and using the toes of his other foot to pull the trigger, while holding the chain of the cuffs over the beam. It was scalding hot and filled the shuttle with the smell of overheated metal, mixing sickeningly with the smell of blood and phaser fire, but he managed to weaken the chain just enough to wrench it apart. The cuffs themselves were still stuck around his wrists but they were no longer chained together, which was a big help. His arms were still bloody and sore underneath, too, but that could wait.

Once he'd altered the shuttle's course, checked thoroughly for any Federation ships and got the engines up to maximum warp, he squinted at the console until he found the environmental systems and turned them up practically as far as they would go. After weeks of being freezing cold, it was glorious to feel properly warm again. He also beamed the corpses out into space (after giving Willetts one last vicious kick), rummaged through the lockers and found rations and an engineer's overall that would do as clean clothes, and even had a perfunctory sort of wash using some water from one of the ration packs. And last of all, he programmed the auto-pilot, set the sensors to their longest range and told the computer to warn him of any changes, then curled up in the pilot's chair to sleep for as long as he could get away with. Cardassia wasn't going to get any closer however much he fretted about it, and he'd be no use to anyone in this kind of state. He may as well take advantage of a few hours' grace, because he probably wouldn't get any later on.


'This isn't working,' Jake finally grumbled after nearly two days of listening to the feed from the recorder they'd planted in Wrightwell's quarters. Ziyal slowly twisted her head round to look at him, her eyes un-hooding and losing that slightly scary, ultra-focused look that reminded Jake just how Cardassian she was. She just shrugged.

'Give it time,' she said impassively. 'He'll do something sooner or later, and we'll hear him. We can't just leave it.'

He shut his mouth. It had made for uncomfortable listening at times, all those things people do when they think they're alone, and sitting with Ziyal in her quarters for hour upon hour in silence was an intense, slightly claustrophobic experience, undercut with the bizarre soundtrack of Wrightwell's mundane movements – eating, moving around, mumbling to himself, breathing, snoring, and occasionally more intimate bodily functions that Jake wished he hadn't heard. He'd felt his face burn sometimes and quickly stole an embarrassed look at her but she never looked back at him, not that he could see, she just sat there with a drawn-in, fearsome concentration on her face which he knew he could not and perhaps must not break. He'd never seen someone her age sit so still; he certainly couldn't do it. Perhaps it was that time in the desert on that faraway planet with nothing for so long.

He found himself doing more looking than listening, in fact, and his growing fascination with her made an already strange situation just that bit weirder and more awkward, until he felt like he was almost choking on the thickness of the air between them. But he couldn't help himself as he sat there, slightly too close for comfort and yet not close enough; he studied the ornate coil of her shiny, jet-black hair studded with silver pins, the delicate arch of her half-formed ridges disappearing into the collar of her dress, the narrow chain of vertebrae in her strong, slim back as she hunched over the recorder. And on the tip of his tongue were words he couldn't say, in the tips of his fingers was the urge to reach out and touch that arch of neck, that glossy knot of hair, those frail bones – if he could just reach out, if he could just...

'Ziyal,' he blurted, suddenly overwhelmed by it all, but Wrightwell's voice coming through on the little speaker interrupted him. Ziyal motioned urgently to be quiet and he clamped his mouth shut.

'Computer, begin log... First Officer's Personal Log, Stardate [XXXXX.X].'

Jake, still half-dizzy with his own impulses and his aborted attempt to confess them, absently noted that Wrightwell's voice sounded cracked and strained, not his usual clipped diction at all. He sounded like he'd been drinking a lot, and there was a heaviness in his tone that indicated a deeply unhappy man. They both bent closer to the recorder, barely breathing.

'I can't go on like this any more,' Wrightwell said. 'But if I refuse, he'll tell everybody what I've done. All the lies I've told, all the ways in which I've disgraced myself and failed Starfleet. And I can't live with that. I know I should never have let it come to this, but it's too late now. It's too late for everything, except this.'

A deep, unsteady breath. Ziyal's eyes met Jake's, and there was fear in them. This didn't sound good.

'If... if anyone finds this log after... afterwards,' Wrightwell continued brokenly, 'I want them to tell my parents that I'm sorry, and... and that I love them. End log.'

His voice cracked on the last words and Jake suddenly knew what was coming, in an icy-cold blast of realisation that washed away his earlier feelings in one horrible rush. He prayed to every god he'd ever heard of that he was wrong, but he knew. And they were too late to stop it.

'Ziyal, he's – '

A single shot. The sound of a heavy body falling on carpet. Then a deafening, thunderous silence that was somehow worse than the loudest din in the world. Ziyal clapped her hand to her mouth.

'Prophets,' she whispered. 'What have we done?'

Jake just stared at her, the sound of the shot and the falling body echoing around his head endlessly.

'He... he's d-d – '

He couldn't get the word out. Ziyal shook him frantically by the shoulders, her eyes wide and horrified.

'Jake, what are we going to do?' she cried. 'We've got to do something!'

He shut his eyes. This was far worse than anything he saw on Ajilon Prime with Bashir. That was violent, bloody madness, but this... this was a man's lonely, hopeless, infinitely preventable death by his own hand because he could not see another way out of the mess he was in, and sick, gut-churning guilt that they may have contributed to it. They'd thought he was the bad guy, but he was just a guy stuck in the middle of something big and frightening, and Jake hated himself for having the ignorance to think what he did – and as for what he was thinking immediately before it happened, well, that was even worse.

How could they not have seen it? Wrightwell's nervousness in the interview, the way he revealed nothing about his personal life, the way he didn't let anyone get close to him – they had all the pieces and they'd put them together totally wrong. Jake wanted to turn back the clock, but he knew he couldn't. He knew he'd never be able to un-hear that shot, to un-live that experience. He took a deep, shaky breath.

'We've got to tell my dad,' he said unsteadily. 'This has gone way too far.'

Ziyal didn't argue, and as they made their slow, numb way up to Ops, her grip on his hand felt like the only solid thing in the world.

'Jake-o, good to see you! Hello, Ziyal,' Sisko greeted them with a broad smile as they went into his office. 'I'm afraid I'm pretty busy right now, but if you – '

'Dad,' Jake said scratchily. 'Dad, listen. I've got to talk to you for a second. Something's happened... something bad...'

With his father's steady gaze on him and a worried frown replacing the original grin, Jake's throat suddenly closed off and he couldn't get the words out; he hung his head, feeling utterly wretched.

'What is it?' Sisko asked gently. 'Tell me, Jake-o. I won't be mad, I promise.'

'It's Wrightwell,' Ziyal blurted out in a rush, voice shaking. 'He's dead.'

'What!' Sisko exclaimed, almost leaping out of his chair. 'What are you talking about?'

'Security to Sisko,' the comm interrupted in Odo's gravelly tones. Shooting Jake and Ziyal a very suspicious look which made Jake cringe, Sisko hit his combadge.

'Go ahead, Constable.'

'I'm in Commander Wrightwell's quarters, sir. With Dr Bashir. You'd better get down here.'

'On my way,' Sisko said grimly, getting up. 'It sounds like you two had better come with me.'

Thankfully, Bashir and a Bajoran medic had covered the body with a sheet and they were busy carrying it away when Sisko, Jake and Ziyal arrived. Odo was standing by the desk, looking grimly at the phaser which lay on the carpet next to the overturned chair.

'Report,' Sisko barked. Odo looked curiously at Jake and Ziyal for a minute, then shrugged.

'There's not much to report, sir. One of my deputies called me about five minutes ago, saying he'd heard what sounded like a phaser shot coming from somewhere in this corridor. I came down here immediately, thinking to ask the commander if he'd heard anything. He didn't answer the door, so I came in anyway and found him lying there dead with that,' he nudged the phaser with his boot, 'next to his hand. It seems fairly obvious whathappened.'

'Suicide?' Sisko asked slowly. Odo nodded.

'That's what Dr Bashir thinks, though we'll have to wait until he's done the autopsy until we can confirm anything. But I can't see any other reasonable explanation, given the circumstances.'

'My God, why? He seemed perfectly fine when he went off-duty this morning!'

'We know,' Ziyal said in a tiny voice. 'We heard... everything. Show them, Jake.'

Limbs feeling heavy as lead, Jake walked over to the table, bent down and unstuck the recorder; it was still on, and he quickly turned it off before showing it to Sisko and Odo.

'Jake, what – ?' Sisko began furiously, but Odo cut him off, looking sternly at Jake and Ziyal.

'I think you'd better explain. Don't leave anything out, no matter how irrelevant you think it is.'

Ziyal told them everything, her voice shaking and thick as she tried to control her tears – about the conversation she'd overheard, their plan, the interview, and finally that last awful log – which she managed to repeat word for word, before breaking down and hiding her face in her hands. Jake stood there, numbly clutching the recorder, feeling worse than he'd ever felt in his life. Sisko laced his hands over his head, letting out a long sigh.

'I...' he started, then shut his eyes for a moment, utterly flabbergasted. 'And you didn't tell anybody? Jake, what the hell were you thinking?'

'We didn't want to make any accusations before we had evidence, but we couldn't just ignore it.'

'Hmph. In my opinion, he was being blackmailed and couldn't deal with it any more,' Odo muttered. 'You left that thing on all the time? Did you keep the recording?'

Jake nodded, and Odo looked at him shrewdly.

'I can't say I condone what you've done, but it may come in handy. I don't think there's much else we can do now, but I'll start a full investigation as soon as I get the results of the post-mortem. This is a much nastier business than I thought, and I'll get to the bottom of it.'

'Thank you, Constable,' Sisko said. Odo nodded and left, taking the phaser with him. Sisko sighed again, looking at Jake and Ziyal with tired, unhappy eyes.

'What you did was wrong,' he said heavily. 'Very wrong. You know that.'

'I know, Dad,' Jake answered. 'I wish we hadn't done it.'

'It was my idea,' Ziyal mumbled through her hands, still crying. 'I made Jake help me with it.'

'Never mind that now,' Sisko told them. 'What's done is done. I'm not for a moment saying I blame you two for his death, but next time, for God's sake tell me if there's something like this going on!'

Jake couldn't look at his father; he stared at his toes, guilt like a solid block in his windpipe. Sisko rested his hand on his son's shoulder and made him look up.

'Promise me, Jake, that you'll never, ever take matters into your own hands like this again.'

'I promise, Dad,' Jake faltered, and he meant it. Sisko nodded.

'Ziyal, I know I can't make you promise, and I'm more than aware that your people do things very differently to us...'

'I'm so sorry,' Ziyal sobbed. 'I didn't know what else to do. And... and I was scared.'

'Next time, come and speak to somebody,' Sisko said, very gently. 'Now, Odo will probably need to question both of you as witnesses, but that won't be for a few days. Until then...'

He looked at them once more, apparently lost for words, then shook his head, absently set the chair back on its feet, and left the room. Ziyal sank down on the chair, then suddenly realised what she was doing and leapt up in horror.

'Prophets, that's where he was sitting when he – oh, this is horrible!' she cried. Jake reached out and put his arm around her, hating that it was all the wrong circumstances in which to do this, and hating himself for thinking about any other circumstances at a time like this. She clung to him.

'Come on,' he said heavily. 'Let's go.'


Addendum #2 for loxKardasia:

I am intrigued by your character, but there are a couple of things I would like to point out:

Firstly, why would Garak notknow that Nira was in the Obsidian Order with him? The idea of secret services is that no one else knows who the agents are, but the agents would kind of have to know each other (at least in passing) or things would get way too confusing.

Secondly, you have to bear in mind that inserting an original character is always going to screw up the timeline slightly – you just have to do it in a believable way. That I leave in your capable hands.

In terms of character development, I would also say that both Garak and Nira would be especially leery about having relationships with other agents, as they'd both know all too well that romance often has ulterior motives for people like them. They'd be playing each other off, neither being honest but both more interested than they should be, and both struggling with what the consequences might be if they had to end up betraying each other – only neither of them know that the other feels the same. And they'd still betray each other in a heartbeat, but it would hurt more than it used to. Not that they'd admit it.

And what about Tain and the Tal Shiar's pre-emptive strike on the Founders' planet in The Die is Cast? That practically wiped out the Order. Garak survived, of course, but most of them didn't. Does she survive? Think about how he'd feel if he realised he wanted to be honest with her, just once, but he never got the chance because she was listed as M.I.A./K.I.A.

OTOH, if she did survive they'd kind of have to trust each other, because they had no one else left. And, of course, why would they want to work against each other after that, if they were such an "endangered species?" That's where the whole joy and vulnerability come in: they're horrendously vulnerable, but within that is the joy of knowing that they can trust each other, precisely because there's nobody else. A bit weird/twisted/forced-into-it, but sort of fitting for Cardassians, eh?

Here's a quote which I think you'll find appropriate, not just for Garak, but for pretty much any Cardassian who's struggling with their screwed-up, dysfunctional mentality. It's from the song Leif Erikson, by Interpol:

I had seven faces, thought I knew which one to wear

I'm sick of spending these lonely nights training myself not to care

Definitely re-watch the key Garak episodes: The Wire, Tain two-parter (Die is Cast and the other one), Inferno's Light/Purgatory's Shadow, Pale Moonlight, etc. For inspiration, obviously :P

Good luck!