Garak bent over the well-lit table, placing careful stitches one behind another in the purple silk. Just the day prior, he had been reunited with his sewing kit from his time on Deep Space Nine--Garak wasted no time in taking Aisling up on her request.

Using the bolt of Bolian silk he had previously discussed with Aisling, he had designed not one but three garments. A tea length, sleeveless frock was perfect for sun-drenched picnics; the silky shorts would make great poolside or bedroom lounge attire; and the long-sleeved tunic would look amazing with flax breeches and a leather style, waist-cinching belt. Garak hummed tunelessly as his hands worked; he had been quite pleased to find that hemming still served to clear his thoughts and focus his mind.

Garak completed the line of stitches and tied off his thread, snipping the tail and brushing off the frock's hem. He held up the finished garment and smiled, pleased at how well the silk draped.

Garak stood and placed the dress on the small pile of the other garments he'd recently made, and he stretched. Garak wondered idly what to do with himself, and he realized with a guilty start that he hadn't dealt with any matters on Cardassia since the trip to Deep Space Nine, weeks ago.

Garak grabbed a padd and pressed in a few commands and codes, and he uttered an oath at the lengthy list of messages and inquiries. He sat on the edge of the bed and tapped away, sending replies and answering reports with his own.

*Scene Break*

Julian scowled at the display on the computer screen. He was leaned forward in his seat, centered in his research station in the Infirmary. Julian reported for his log the disturbing amount of change the virus displayed since only the day before. Bashir was beginning to suspect the worst, as the virus was beginning to show signs of direct threat to humanoids.

Bashir steepled his hands as he tapped a foot. He speculated for his log who had created this virus, how they had infected Bajor, and what counter measures to research. Bashir noted several points of discussion to make before he contacted the Bajoran Council of Ministers.

"Good afternoon," the pleasantly bland clerk greeted him when the computer display flashed to show the Chamber.

Julian wheedled and demanded until the clerk patched him through to the council, and after much debate he convinced them to quarantine the blighted areas and conduct massive research efforts of their own.

"And you're sure this virus will become harmful under the conditions on Bajor?" a minister asked Julian.

"No, I'm not," Julian admitted freely. "But I believe the risks outweigh my uncertainty; this virus is expertly engineered, and I'm not sure we don't have an artificial plague on our hands in a premature stage."

Bashir's proclimation was met with somber faces, and the council dismissed Bashir shortly afterwards.

*Scene Break*

"Would you stop doing that?" Miles demanded, whirling to face Moira. She regarded him with mockingly innocent eyes, as if to say, "Who, me?" O'Brien scowled and muttered, returning his attention to his project on the work station in front of him.

Since he'd gone to Earth to teach, Miles was hardly able to find work enough to keep his hands busy, so he had taken up the habit of puttering. Puttering with gadgets had turned into research into the more obscure physics principles; in turn, Miles found that his puttering had turned into inventing somewhere along the way.

At the moment, Miles was tinkering around with a remote replicator. At least, he was trying to, but he was being infuriatingly distracted by Moira. She was invisible to everyone else, again, and she kept making bloody stupid faces acrost his workbench at him. When she got tired of that, she'd spend a few minutes making the most absurd noises.

"I do wish you'd just quit," O'Brien muttered venomously as he twisted a few spare pieces together.

Moira laughed merrily, and she shook her head.

"I find it irresistible," she replied. "Of all the gin joints in the world, I get outted as a faerie on a station with an Irishman."

"So?" O'Brien said defensively, throwing a glare at her over his shoulder. "What's wrong with being Irish?"

"Nothing's wrong with it," Moira commented with an off-hand shrug. "But the Irish were more in touch with the fae, long after most of us left. They developed an ability, and about one in ten ended up being born with it, and those lucky enough to have the gift were able to see the faeries as an adult."

Miles glanced over to regard her pensively.

"I thought that ability was all over the place," he said, referencing something Julian had mentioned from a conversation with Aisling.

Moira nodded.

"Yes, that's true," she allowed, "but it's much rarer outside of Irish heritage. About one in every ten thousand people of non-Irish heritage have the ability, with the exception of a few pockets of isolated and faerie-friendly cultures across the globe. The Ainu of Japan are a good example."

Miles shook his head, turning a few technical components over in his hands before using a small tool to solder them together.

"Yeah, well, I wish you'd find one of them to bother," O'Brien muttered peevishly.

Moira laughed heartily, and she clapped her hands with relish. O'Brien rolled his eyes, and he did his best to ignore her continuing antics.

XXVII END CHAPTER XXVII

Author's Notes: Just a small chapter of little snippets, setting the stage for some othet stuff.

Once again, thank you for reading.