Disclaimer: Square Enix owns Sephiroth and Aeris. Paramount owns Star Trek. I own the laptop where this was written.
Author's Note: As reluctant as I am to announce to the world many and various proofs of my own insanity, I figure, what the hey . . . It's my fic. And consider yourselves warned: this is my drabble/nonsense fic.
And this bit of drabble/nonsense is:
For Ardwynna M.
Because we all miss our Trek
Here's Sephy and Aeris . . . With Trill Spots
Based on the Star Trek: Deep Space Nine episode "Facets." The one major discrepancy is that I have Dax's most recent host as Joran. (You know, the nutter.)
The shuttle docked without incident, and Jadzia Aeris Dax rummaged around in her centuries-long memory for her bravest smile. Part of her, the part that was only twenty-two years old, had wished vaguely that the shuttle would burst into flame, or that the guardian aboard would contract a space virus that would require her to be quarantined planetside-- preferrably back on Trill. Maybe then the Council would allow her to be the only Trill to simply not have a zhian'tara.
"You look tense," Kira Nerys whispered to her.
Drat.
She'd been trying to look calm and confident, and with a hint of that "fully-integrated" look that meant there was really nothing she could gain from a zhian'tara. She shot an even tenser smile at her friend.
"What's this all about, anyway?" Nerys asked, but Jadzia didn't get a chance to answer, because the shuttle door swung open, and both of them hurried forward to help a woefully overburdened guardian, by the name of Mananda Rinn, with her series of trunks.
They piled the whole mess onto an antigrav lift and made their way to the debriefing room, making small talk about the journey. She saw the unspoken question in Mananda's eyes:
Why in heaven's name did you make me track you down like a criminal, hauling all this delicate equipment out here, instead of coming home and getting the ritual done like everyone else?
"She's thinking no such thing," Dax's soothing voice echoed with the certainty born of centuries. "That's just your own guilt talking."
Her friends sat in a semi-circle around the briefing room table: Kira Nerys, ex-freedom fighter and now the station's second-in-command; Julian Bashir, station doctor; Leeta,the dabo girl and her boss, Quark, owner and operator of Deep Space Nine's only bar. Beside Quark sat Miles O'Brien, Chief of Engineering, and beside him was Captain Benjamin Sisko, her closest friend, who had known her when she was Curzon Dax. Off to one side, chin resting on his breast, sat Constable Odo-- the changeling, head of station security.
"You're probably wondering why I asked you here, and I want to start by thanking you all for coming. I chose you because, out of everyone on this station, you are the people I feel closest to, and I'd like to invite each of you to be a part of my zhian'tara."
"Zhian'tara? What's that?" Quark wanted to know.
Jadzia opened her mouth to answer, but the guardian spoke first, beginning a lengthy diatribe about what an honor it was for them to have been chosen, and how important the "Trill Rite of Closure" was for Jadzia Aeris as a joined Trill. Jadzia let this go on until it got embarrassing, then interrupted.
"Basically," she said, "I need to borrow your bodies."
Jadzia Aeris and Kira Nerys stood beside an ornately carved cauldron, waiting for Mananda Rinn to finish the preparation. It seemed like quite a bit of bother: purifications of the room, the equipment, temperature adjustments, all done to a relentless droning chant in High Clerical Trill-- which neither she nor any of her previous hosts had bothered to learn. Jadzia studied her reflection in the cauldron's misty white fluid. Her bangs rose up over her forehead, and her two curling sidelocks partially obscured the line of brown, leopardine spots that trailed from her temples down the sides of her neck.
I look young.
After sharing eight lifetimes as Dax, she knew how to enjoy the prettiness of youth, without fearing the onset of wrinkles and sags.
But am I too young, too inept, just like Curzon said? The hosts who had Dax before me-- they were pioneers in their fields: am I strong enough to face their disappointment in me?
And what about Joran? Am I strong enough to face him?
Jadzia Aeris Dax held the dubious honor of being the first an only Trill to be selected for joining-- after being washed from the Initiate Program. By an odd stroke of fate, she was given Dax-- the symbiont of the very man who had failed her from the course. Of course, she knew now that she'd been given Dax because Curzon was killed by Joran Sephiroth, the madman who had nearly destroyed all of Trill. Joran had forcibly joined himself with Dax as part of his quest for immortality and godhood, making the Dax symbiont-- tainted.
Still, lifestream symbionts were rare enough that the Council opted not to kill Dax outright. Instead, they attempted to repress Joran Sephiroth's memories, then gave the symbiont to Jadzia. If the memories resurfaced and killed her-- everyone would assume that it was because she was an unsuitable host: Curzon had been right to fail her.
The memories had resurfaced when Jadzia began bat'leth practice, but her friends had rallied and gotten the Council to undo the memory-repression techniques that nearly killed her.
What would the other hosts think, when they saw what Dax had been reduced to?
Mananda Rinn smiled her readiness, although she did not pause in her chanting. She rested one hand on Jadzia's middle, where Dax resided, and the other hand on Kira Nerys' head. A white shimmer began at Jadzia's abdomen, travelled up the guardian's arm, and flashed for a moment as it disappeared into Kira's forehead.
Kira had her eyes closed, obviously a little reluctant at the thought of losing control of her body-- even if it was only for a few hours, and the guardian had assured everyone that they would be able to reassert their own personality at any time.
"It will be like an out-of-body experience: you'll be able to see and experience everything, but you will feel another presence guiding you. You'll be able to regain control just by willing the other presence out of the way."
"Have you ever had a-- personality who was unwilling to leave a host body?" Kira had asked.
"Sometimes," she replied, "It is good to be alive again, you know. But I've also had the opposite be true: once, a host body refused to let a personality go back to the symbiont. It was a woman, nine months pregnant, and her water broke during the zhian'tara. The poor man went through eight hours of labor before I was able to convince them both to separate."
The guardian had smiled at her own amusing anecdote, but the male members of her audience went a little pale. Kira, for all her Bajoran inclination towards the spiritual, was not particularly excited about the thought of an out-of-body experience. Jadzia Aeris took it as the compliment that it was a that Kira, indeed all seven of her friends, were willing to swallow their squeamishness and participate.
The last of the light died, and Kira Nerys lifted her head.
But it wasn't Nerys anymore.
The hard, fierce set of her mouth had softened, and there was a gentle sag to her shoulders.
"Now I will leave you two to get acquainted," the guardian said as she excused herself.
Lela, Dax's first host, smiled over at Jadzia Aeris, then paused as she caught sight of her own reflection in the milky water. "Oh my," she said. "You know, there was a brief time when I was a girl, when I would have paid a great deal for skin this color."
For a moment, Jadzia wasn't entirely sure what Lela was talking about: all of her memories from that lifetime were gone. Then she remembered an article she had read about Lela Dax before being joined. Lela had been one of the first women to be elected Legislator and had been the very first female Legislator with skin like Sisko's (apart from the lines of ivory spots running down either side of her face.) She had been a first-host, which was considered far less prestigious than later hosts, because the symbiont's presence benefited her only slightly. But seven centuries ago, the young symbiont Dax was all that was good enough for a dark-skinned Trill, and a woman at that.
Lela Dax laughed. "I love that look!" She was grinning broadly at Jadzia, "You know, in my day, everyone thought being a first-host was some sort of stigma. 'Almost-hosts' we were called. So short-sighted we are. Now, I'm always the first at each new hosts' zhian'tara-- and I get to see the surprise when they realize how much I am a part of them . . . And how much they will be a part of the next lifestream symbiont's host."
She gave Jadzia an affectionate chinchopper, and Jadzia Aeris realized that she had just made a friend. This woman who had lived nearly seven centuries ago understood her, understood how to carry one's self with dignity even when being thought of as second-rate. For the first time Jadzia thought this ritual might indeed have been a good idea.
The other hosts were each wonderful in their own way. Jadzia learned that her hairstyle came from Audrid Dax and she accepted some useful hairstyling tips from Audrid/Quark, feeling a little sorry that she'd selected a bald host for Audrid. Her predilection for little jackets actually came from Torias Dax, who turned out to be far more flamboyantly gay than Jadzia had imagined. Emony, the dancer, sparred with her and almost won. Miles O'Brien was gracious about the fact that Tobin Dax bit off two of his nails: a terrible habit of Tobin's which seemed to have only gotten worse now that he was dead.
She caught herself biting her own nails, though, when it came time to join Curzon with Sisko.
Confrontation time.
"Well," Sisko whispered to her over the guardian's rhythmic chanting, "I always wanted a chance to get inside Curzon's head. Now I get a chance to have him inside mine." She tried to laugh at the joke, but it sounded half-hearted, even to her. "Don't let him laugh you off, Jadzia," Benjamin was serious now. "Those of us who knew Curzon knew he was charming and funny-- and a bullying pain in the a--. Don't let him dismiss what he did to you."
Then he bowed his head and let the white light envelop him.
"Jadzia," Curzon said, smiling broadly. It was odd to see that crooked smile on intense, serious Benjamin's face, but Audrid/Quark had been an even odder match. "Well, well, my old initiate. Come on, it'll be just like old times. We'll grab something to eat and . . . is there any place here where I can gamble away a little latinum?" His smile grew even more charmingly crooked.
Jadzia Aeris was having none of it. "Why did you wash me from the program?" Her voice sounded clipped, a little wobbly, and she felt that some of her confidence had left her now that Curzon wasn't part of her.
Curzon hesitated, seeming to weigh her with his eyes. "You're right," he said finally, unfamiliar seriousness in his tone. "You're right. As much as I would like to spend this time-- avoiding the issue, you deserve an honest answer. Much more than that, really." He took a breath before continuing. "I never meant to get you thrown out. I-- encouraged some of the other Supervisors to look into taking you on as an Initiate. When I was pressed on why, I wrote something stupid about you being a little too-- rigid for what I thought made a good host, but perhaps another Supervisor could help you along . . . Unfortunately, my opinion mattered far more than I thought it did. With the competition as fierce as it is in the Initiate program, even that slight shadow was enough to convince the Directors that you were unsuitable. At the final vote, I tried to keep you in the program-- for all the good that did . . ."
"But why? Why did you want to drop me as an Initiate?"
"I didn't want to drop you as an Initiate, Jadzia . . . I wanted you to be far more than an Initiate to me." He looked away. "I know you thought nothing of it: I flirted with everyone and the fence post, after all. But the truth is, the feelings I had for you were far from appropriate-- and far from fleeting . . . And I knew I never had a chance with you. You were young and madly in love. I was old, bitter-- and horrifically jealous."
Madly in love?
He must have meant Fair, because the single date with the blonde fellow hardly counted. She had gone out with Fair for a while when she was sixteen, but she would hardly describe their affection as "mad," or even "love."
"When I realized I had taken the one thing from you that you wanted," Curzon was saying, "I felt so guilty I almost resigned. I have never been prouder of anyone when I saw you pick yourself up and rejoin the program. I tried to help you along as best I could from the sidelines, but the guilt still ate me. . . The finest thing Joran Sephiroth ever did was run that blade across my throat."
Jadzia opened her mouth to contradict this last statement, but Curzon interrupted. "Now come on, I've only got a few hours to get roaring drunk so I can stick Benjamin with the hangover."
Jadzia snorted. Same old Curzon. "And the bill," she added. "Curzon . . ."
"Mmm?"
"I forgive you."
The crooked smile straightened a little, but he promptly put his arm around her shoulders in that teasing, over-familiar way that she hated. But it was a teasing, comfortable hatred.
"Should I stay here for this one?" Mananda Rinn asked.
The ritual dictated that the hosts be left alone together to talk, but Mananda seemed willing to make an exception in this case. For this final host, Joran Sephiroth, the guardian had moved all her equipment to the brig, and her vat of milky fluid now sat just outside a holding cell.
"We have taken a number of precautions," Odo said. "Joran was a brilliant swordsman, but I doubt he can escape a fully-enclosed forcefield, and there are two armed security guards outside that door."
The guardian responded with a tight smile, unwilling, apparently, to discuss the fact that Joran Sephiroth had been used as an experiment: resurrecting a millenia-old sentient virus that had driven him insane. And no one really knew the extent of his capabilities.
"Let's not forget, Odo-- you'll be in there with him," Jadzia said.
"Swords don't have much effect on me," he replied.
"Still," Mananda said, "you should have a code word, some way to recognize if you are facing Odo-- or Joran."
"Fine. Ceti Alpha Five." In response to her blank look, he added, "It was the name of the-- homeworld of the felon I'm reading about." Odo, never one to leave his work at work, studied various criminal masterminds in his free time.
Jadzia wasn't entirely convinced this would work. The ritual moved memories from the symbiont to the temporary host, but she assumed that most of the "soul" then resided in the temporary host's brain. Odo, technically speaking, did not have a brain, since his true form was a gelatinous blob.
Still, the white light flared a little as it entered him, then the forcefield was up . . . and Odo began to morph.
Jadzia nodded a dismissal to Mananda, and watched as the dark, slicked hair lengthened and lightened, becoming a silver-white cascade. His clothes changed as well, darkening into black leather, and two tight rows of leopardine spots-- small and narrow, marking him as a Trill from the northern continent-- ran down from his temples and along the sides of his neck.
His head lifted, and Jadia saw that the face was no longer Odo's-- but that of another soft-featured, thin-lipped man. Although . . . this mouth curved more now than Odo's did, twisting into a mocking smile. Glowing green, slit-pupiled eyes fixed on her.
"Good to see you, Jadzia," he said softly.
All thoughts fled from her. The air in the room felt suddenly thick and close, and she realized she was sweating.
"Have you been practicing your swordplay?" he asked with that same eerie gentleness.
She could only nod, as if she were a child being reprimanded.
"Good. Good. And do you think of me, when you do?"
He took a step toward the barrier and Jadzia took an unconscious step backward, feeling suddenly as if the invisible power of the forcefield was nowhere near enough to keep him in check.
"Sometimes," she managed, feeling a tremble in her voice that meant: 'all the time.' She wished for Mananda, for Benjamin, for anyone, but the only one in the room with her was him.
"You're afraid of me," he said, "You're afraid of the power I represent . . . But you don't need to be. You should not have put off your zhian'tara;. I have been waiting for this day, waiting to give you my strength. That is all I have ever wanted to do . . . Lower the forcefield, Jadzia Aeris." His voice was smooth, hypnotic, and Jadzia felt her fingers twitch in the direction of the console. "Let me touch you."
She broke the stare, looking away sharply. "Joran, that's enough--"
He slammed both fists into the forcefield, oblivious to the sudden snowstorm of energy that increased as he refused to let go, little bolts of white crackling across his hands. "You still don't remember," he snarled. "But I'll make you remember. Lower it!"
His hands were bending now, bleeding together to form a thin arc.
"Joran! Stop it, you're hurting him!"
The arc grew longer and thinner and hardened into steel: a ta'avait-- the Trill equivalent of a katana, only double edged. Just then, the two guards, apparently hearing the disturbance, burst into the room. Joran jerked back from the forcefield then, and slashed at the barrier with the ta'avait, cutting a burning "V" into the field.
He was out.
One of his arms snaked around her shoulders pinning her back to his chest. She would have fought him, even knowing that fighting a changeling would do no good, but the sword pricked her throat, drawing a single bead of blood from her neck.
The guards hesitated: unwilling to shoot her, or their constable.
His lips were on her ear, his breath warm and soft as a lovers'. "Ceti Alpha Five," he whispered.
Then he flung her forward, making her fall to her knees, and the blade sliced through her back, erupting from her abdomen.
Oh God, not Dax! Not Dax!
"From the heart of hell," he said, "I stab at thee."
The guards were firing now, and the sword became a line of golden liquid, slipping free of her. One of the guards caught her as she fell, and the other continued firing at the gold column that leapt upward-- pouring itself into an airduct. Jadzia managed to move her arm, despite the pain in her belly, and hit her comm badge.
"Dax to Sisko," she croaked, "Sir, Joran Sephiroth . . . he's out."
Author's Note: It wouldn't very well be 1001 Nights without cliffhangers, now would it?
And, just so you know, that is the premise here. Crossovers within a crossover. No likee, no readee.
Bonus Drabble from Ardwynna M:
"Don't take too long with the story tonight, Aeris. I'm killing you in the morning."
Aeris snickered up at the canopy. "Yeah, I've heard that before."
"What makes you think I won't?" Sephiroth glared hard, but looks, even his, never could kill.
"It's been forty years, Seph. We have grandchildren."
"So? I said I'm killing you in the morning so dammit, woman, I'm killing you in the morning. And this time I mean it!"
"Of course, dear." Aeris yawned and rolled over. "Good night."
Sephiroth prodded her hard in the shoulder.
"Oh for crying out loud, Seph. I'm trying to sleep. What do you want?"
"Story!" Aeris sighed and propped her pillows up. "Fine, fine, you big baby. Once upon a time..."