Interlude: Terok Nor/Deep Space Nine; April 2369

Hell is oneself; hell is alone, the other figures in it merely projections. There is nothing to escape from and nothing to escape to. One is always alone.

Eliot, The Cocktail Party

Garak awoke regretfully from a dreamless, drug-induced sleep, eyes bleary and mind hazy. You're being stupid, he berated himself. Weak and foolish. You should be keeping your wits about you, especially now. But it was too much effort. Much easier to take another hit from the wire and coast through the next few hours.

He checked the time. As far as he could tell, it had been quiet outside now for more than twenty hours. He stretched cramped arms behind his neck and decided it was probably as safe as it was going to get. Four days was quite long enough to have been cooped up in this tiny hidey-hole, even with the implant to cushion his anxiety. He slowly released the panel in the wall and squeezed through into the shop.

Or what remained of it. He looked round the devastation, would have felt dismay if the wire had allowed it. Instead he just felt numb. Nearly ten months' work. He had guessed that Dukat would send someone for him before leaving the station and he had heard the visitors. He had hidden himself away knowing that, given the opportunity, Dukat would not just stop at destroying the shop. It was only to be expected, Garak thought. He had, after all, been the one responsible for the end of Dukat's career as Prefect - to add to his litany of sins.

He put his head round the door and looked at the wreckage on the Promenade. His fellow countrymen appeared to have been most efficient here as well. There was a barely-suppressed excitement buzzing round the station. People were rushing about and many appeared to be preparing to leave. Garak stood motionless in the doorway and watched them with a dull absorption - they seemed to flicker past, their urgent movements very unlike his own lethargy.

'What are you doing here?' a voice rasped. He turned and saw Odo striding towards him. Something seemed different about him, Garak mused, without interest.

'This is my shop,' Garak pointed out. That was it, he suddenly realized. Odo appeared to be wearing some sort of new uniform. You should have noticed that sooner, Garak, he thought to himself dryly. You are a tailor, after all.

'That's not what I mean and you know it,' replied Odo.

'What then do you mean, Constable?' He managed a bright smile.

Odo pursed his lips, irritated that Garak was trying to manipulate the conversation so that Odo had to let him know the state of affairs on the station. Well, it was all pretty much settled now. Perhaps the sooner he brought the tailor up-to-date, the sooner he would leave. He was a loose end, a nagging complication to an already complex situation. Odo would be glad to see the back of him. 'The Cardassians evacuated twenty-four hours ago. I'd have thought you'd be keen to go with them.'

'And why would I want to leave, Constable?' Garak asked, all innocence. 'This is my livelihood we're standing in front of.'

Odo peered into the shop. 'Such as it is,' he said pointedly. 'Dukat appears to have paid you special attention. You should feel honoured.'

Garak smiled again. 'A mere inconvenience. I'll have it back to normal in no time,' he said, with rather more confidence than he felt.

'I suspect the incoming Bajoran personnel will not feel much like patronizing a Cardassian-owned establishment. You might have better luck back home.'

I sincerely doubt that, Garak thought.

'This isn't exactly a safe place for Cardassians at the moment. I'd hate to have to investigate a lynching.' Odo added. 'When do you think you'll be leaving?'

'I won't,' Garak said shortly.

Odo frowned. It appeared this particular complication was here to stay. 'We'll see what the Provisional Government has to say about that,' he said and started to move away, then added deliberately, 'Perhaps you'll have better luck building a Federation clientele.'

Garak received this piece of information with a nod of gratitude and a flicker of interest. So the Federation were coming in, as he'd anticipated. He looked dispassionately again at the vandalized and smoking Promenade, the hurried movements of those planning to leave. It's not a situation I'd like to inherit...

So this was it: the grand finale, the culmination of all his schemes. What a great success. Bajor is independent and intact. The Federation are no more than observers. Cardassia is free from an occupation that was costing us far too many lives. And I... He rested his head back against the door frame, his gaze flicking listlessly between his smashed-up shop and the burnt-out Promenade. I'm ruined.