AN: Another adventure! In which Dukat schemes and Damar does all the legwork. (Many, many thanks to l'ombre de tes yeux for the idea. Go check out l'ombre's The Art of War and its sequel Masquerade for some seriously epic Deep Space 9 goodness.) Also, I apologize in advance for what I'm sure are the gross inaccuracies of the technical side of this fic, but it's all in good fun, so take it with a grain of salt. I'm certain I know more than Dukat, at any rate.

A Slice of Dominion's
Part Three: Grades

"Look at this. This is appalling."

Dukat threw the report down on the table with disgust. Two other sets of eyes followed its trajectory—one wide with curiosity, the other narrowed in annoyance. Both sets alit on the large black F printed in the top corner of the first page. Dukat rounded on the owner of the annoyed eyes. "I blame you."

Damar all but lunged out of his chair at the accusation. His eyes flashed from annoyance to anger. "You think this is my fault?" he growled. "I wasn't even here—"

"Which is why I blame you," Dukat finished. "We would have passed this inspection if you hadn't taken three weeks' leave for that ridiculous kanar festival back in Cardassia—"

"Which you cleared me for months ago," Damar shot back. "You practically begged me to clear out of here when you found out Kira Nerys was filling in as the delivery driver over at Deep Dish Nine; what did you do while I was gone, lure her here with a pizza order and then drag her around the store, showing her your dazzling aptitude for management and suggesting that the two of you go off and start your own pizza chain together?"

Dukat's indignant look at the sarcasm was all the proof Damar needed.

"You did, didn't you?"

"What I do," Dukat answered, "is none of your business."

The room lapsed into a tense silence. Weyoun picked up the report and began to flip through it, still wide-eyed with curiosity. "This is impressive," he finally said. "There are violations in every category." He looked up from the report. "How did the two of you manage this?"

"It was his fault!" Dukat and Damar answered in unison, each pointing a finger at the other.

Weyoun held up his hand, an amused quirk twitching at the corner of his mouth. "Gentlemen, pleeaase. I'm inclined to hold you both accountable." He watched as Damar's angry scowl took on a hint of smugness and all self-satisfaction drained from Dukat's face. Just then, though, a shadow flickered across Weyoun's expression. "But if the Founder discovers that this establishment has been shut down because we've failed the health inspection, she will place the blame on me. And I don't intend to disappoint the Founder." He flipped through the report again, to the back page. "The final notes here state that 'a follow-up inspection will be performed to determine whether the violations have been addressed sufficiently to avoid closure'. Do we have a time frame for when this inspection will take place?"

"One week," Dukat answered.

Damar's eyebrows shot up. "To fix a month's worth of your screw-ups?"

Weyoun thought for a moment. "One week . . . Well, I suggest you get started then." He put the report back on the table and stood up to leave. "If you must speak to me, I'll be at my office. Running the other Alpha City stores. The ones not failing." He gave them a pointed look as he walked out the door. "And not run by Cardassians. Clean this mess up, please."

An uncomfortable silence followed Weyoun's departure. Dukat stared at the door. Damar stared at the report. Neither of them moved. The minutes ticked away: minute after agonizing minute of thick, grating silence. Finally, Damar cleared his throat. "What do we do now?"

Dukat huffed. "Well, I for one have no desire to pick up the pieces of a situation that would not have happened if you had not been gone."

Damar gave an incredulous hoot and shook his head. "You still won't admit that you made a mistake."

"Cadassians don't make mistakes." Dukat answered.

". . . You did this on purpose, didn't you?"

Dukat turned to him then, and Damar met his gaze. "Just like with the pizza boxes. There's no way this could have happened on its own, unless you just didn't show up at all last month. Did the ovens get cleaned once? Did the floor? You have to leave detailed instructions for the Jem'Hadar, or they won't know what to do each day. I think you like making my job impossible."

"Damar, I would never dream of deliberately putting you in an inconvenient situation," Dukat replied. A smile appeared at the corner of his mouth, half smirk, half fondness. "But I must say, it is beautiful the way you rise to a challenge. It is a great relief, knowing I can rely on you."

There was silence again, while the two of them looked at each other. Finally, Damar puffed out a sigh and pursed his lips, turning back to the report. "We have one week to fix this, or Weyoun will have our heads."

"Would that be before or after the Founder has his?" Dukat remarked amusedly. When Damar shot him an annoyed glance, he held up his hands in a placating gesture. "Damar, I have no intention of allowing this establishment to close down. Contrary to what you may believe, I do have some stake in its well-being."

"Only because your name is on the business cards," Damar grumbled, but the annoyed look had left his eyes. "Personally, I hope the Founder does have Weyoun's head. Working with that man is like working with Jell-O."

"Jell-O?"

"It's a Terran food. It's sweet—too sweet—and it's slippery, and if you don't handle it carefully at first you could be burned, and it's annoying as hell to deal with once it's set."

Dukat chuckled. "Damar you surprise me. I did not know you were a man of such worldly cuisine. Or of such metaphor."

"That wasn't a metaphor; it was a simile."

"Cardassians don't make mistakes, Damar."

"Oh, well excuse me—"

"Cardassians don't make mistakes . . . but Terrans do." Dukat leaned forward across the table, an unmistakable gleam in his eye. "All we have to do is convince the health department that there is no need for a follow-up inspection. Then, we will have 'cleaned this mess up,' as our Jell-O friend put it, and no one will be the wiser. We won't even have to lift a finger. I don't see what needs fixing in the first place; we had a very successful month."

"You already have a plan."

"Oh, certainly. And one that will send our dear friends over at Deep Dish Nine into a mess of their own. Weyoun was right about one thing: this restaurant is run by Cardassians, not those blockhead Jem'Hadar. We are going to fix this problem the Cardassian way."

"With subterfuge?"

"With style, Damar! We escape our own destruction, deal our enemy a blow in the process, and it's all over before anyone suspects a thing."

Dukat leaned back in his chair, a satisfied smile spread across his face. Damar shook his head, but a hint of a smirk twinkled in his eyes. "You're talking like a soldier again," he said. "What are you thinking?"

Dukat leaned forward once more, his smile turning conspiratorial. He tapped the papers in front of him, his finger hitting the large black F.

"We are going to fake the report."

Damar stood in the shadows, as close to the building as possible. Though it was freezing outside, he was grateful for the weather, for it meant he had an excuse to shield his face. Being in this part of town was risky enough for any Cardassian, what with the Bajorans having taken back their borough, but he knew that if anyone saw him in particular it would spell disaster for the plan. He glanced quickly over his shoulder. No one else had any reason to be back here behind the building, but with that pathetic excuse for an apartment complex where seemingly every employee of Deep Dish Nine lived just down the road, he wanted to be sure. He mustn't be spotted. At least, not by the wrong people.

A grating sound pierced the night air, and he pressed closer to the building as the loading dock door opened. Two women stepped out into the cold, one with a cigarette in hand. From their slight frames and heavy makeup, Damar guessed they were some of Quark's dabo girls. How Quark managed to bring in enough money to keep his bar open at all hours was a mystery, but at the moment it was something else Damar was grateful for. He watched as the woman lit her cigarette. How to approach, without frightening the two and ruining everything? Slowly, he walked out into the parking lot, emerging from the shadows, his feet crunching on the compacted snow. He felt their gaze lock onto him immediately. He made his way toward them, trying to look non-threatening. When he reached the steps leading up to the loading dock platform, he stopped. The woman with the cigarette watched him, her body language casual, but Damar saw the guard in her eyes. He cringed inwardly. He had no intention of harming this woman, but of course she didn't know that. Just get it over with, Damar thought. It's bad enough two other people have to see you. "I need to see Quark," Damar called from below.

"Who's asking?" the woman called back. She threw the cigarette down and ground it into the concrete, her eyes not leaving him.

". . . A friend of a friend," Damar replied after a pause. He hoped that would peak Quark's interest enough to come out.

"A friend of a friend . . ." the woman repeated. Her eyes narrowed. "Hmm." She motioned for the other woman to go back inside, following behind her when she opened the door. "I'll . . . let him know you're here." They quickly disappeared behind the loading dock door, leaving Damar at the base of the steps. A few minutes later the door opened again, accompanied by the loud sounds of complaining. Damar caught the phrases "this had better be good" and " . . . dock your pay" as Quark stepped onto the loading dock platform.

Quark shivered and rubbed his hands together, an irritable look on his face. "Well, what do you want?" he demanded. "Do you know how cold it is out here?"

Damar took that as his cue to approach. "I require your services," he said, ascending the steps.

"You require my services." Quark arched his eyebrows. "Now what services would those be? Who are you?"

Damar walked closer. He glanced around again, then pulled his scarf down and pushed up the hood of his jacket to reveal his face. "It's me."

Quark's eyes lit up. "Damar! What a pleasant surprise!"

"Shh!" Damar shot back. "Keep your voice down." He shrugged his hood back down over his eyes again. "Is there somewhere we can talk?"

Quark shivered once more. "Come inside. We'll go to the office. No, on second thought, come with me." He led Damar through the loading dock door and down the back hallway of the bar into what appeared to be a stock room. Leaving the lights off, Quark shut the door behind them. Their faces glowed eerily in the illumination of the red 'EXIT' sign on the wall. Damar smirked as he noted how clichédly perfect the situation was: this clandestine meeting in the dead of night, in the dark of some nondescript back room. But he kept his thoughts to himself.

Quark pulled up two stacks of milk crates and seated himself on one, motioning for Damar to take the other. "So, Damar," he began, "to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?"

"I need a favor."

"Damar, I don't deal in favors."

"Just hear me out; we think it'll be worth your while."

Quark inclined his head. " 'We'? Intriguing. Go on."

"We need you to get your hands on Deep Dish Nine's health inspection report."

"The health inspection report? What for?"

"We need you to make a switch."

There was a pause as Quark considered what Damar had said. Realization dawned on him. "You want me to switch Deep Dish Nine's report for Dominion's Pizza's report." An amused look crossed Quark's face. "Really, I didn't realize things were so bad over there."

"That's none of your business. Will you do it or not?"

"And what do I get out of all of this? Deep Dish Nine brings me customers—more than that ridiculous taco place Dukat used to run. Why would I do something to jeopardize my business relationship with them?"

Damar leaned closer, conspiratorially. "Because, when Deep Dish Nine is shut down, you can buy up their lease and expand your bar. You'll finally have enough room for that massage parlor I hear you've been wanting."

Quark scratched his ear, thoughtful. "Rule of Acquisition number ninety-five: Expand or Die," he muttered to himself. There was another pause. Damar sat like a statue on his milk crates, not daring to break the silence. Too much was riding on this deal for Quark to refuse. Finally, Quark let out a chuckle and stood up. Damar followed suit.

"You know, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship," Quark said, extending his hand. "I'll do it." Damar grasped Quark's hand and they shook. "But promise me one thing," Quark continued, staring seriously into Damar's eyes. "Don't let Dukat beat me to it and reopen his taco joint. That place was terrible."

Damar nodded. "You have my word."

"Great!" Quark pushed the milk crates back to their place and opened the door of the stock room. "I'll have a formal contract drawn up for you to sign by the morning."

"This can't be traced back to us," Damar warned.

"Don't worry, don't worry. It's just between us. But I want some assurances that you'll keep your end of the deal."

"Very well."

"Excellent. I'll see you tomorrow then. We'll go over the details in the morning. I trust you know the way out?"

Damar nodded. Quark gave him a small bow, cupping his hands together in the traditional Ferengi gesture, then walked down the back hall in the direction of the bar. Damar headed for the loading dock. He'd done his part; the plan was in motion. He'd leave Dukat to work out the details.

On second thought, perhaps not. He was the one who had gotten them into this mess in the first place.

"Okay it's like this."

The next day found Damar and Dukat back at their places around the break room table of Dominion's Pizza. Quark had joined them, bringing along the promised contract. Dukat had refused to sign it, balking at Damar's promise to let Quark buy out Deep Dish Nine. He and Damar had made no such agreement beforehand, Dukat had stated. And since it was his plan in the first place, it should be his terms under which it operated. Quark had asked him if he had a better offer, and when Dukat couldn't come up with one Quark had launched into a justification for why he should end up with Deep Dish Nine.

"In order to switch your reports, I need the file number. Which means I have to physically get my hands on the report from Deep Dish Nine, which means I have to go over there and somehow get into their office, and then find the report, all just so I can see the file number. Then, I have to hack into the health department database and use the file number to look up their report, providing the inspector has already submitted it and it's not just sitting at home on his laptop."

"Her," Damar interjected.

"I beg your pardon?"

"The inspector was a woman."

"Oh, even better. A female. Do you know how sneaky female health inspectors are? Anyway, after I've found their report, I have to download a copy, after which I have to do the same thing with your report, so that I can re-upload both reports under the opposite file number. I'll have to alter the business name on each file as well."

Dukat let out an impatient sigh. "I know you've done this before, Quark."

"Oh I've altered reports before, yes. I can do it; you'll get your report switched. What I'm saying is that it isn't going to be easy, so my payoff for doing this should be rather substantial."

Finished, Quark pushed the contract back across the table toward Dukat and looked at him keenly. A moment of silence followed as Dukat considered his options. At long last, he picked up the pen. "Oh, very well," he said, scrawling his name below Damar's. "But do not forget whose idea led to this in the first place. I expect a certain gratitude when I visit your establishment."

Quark snatched away the contract and tucked it safely into his jacket pocket. "Anything for you," he replied, his smile the picture of customer service. "It's been a pleasure doing business with you. I'll let you know when it's done."

"As long as it's done before the end of the week!" Damar called after him, but he was already out the door.

"You know, Damar," Dukat remarked, after a moment had passed, "I wish you had consulted with me beforehand. I had rather hoped that after Deep Dish Nine went under I might reopen my old taco restaurant."

Damar suppressed a snort. "What makes you think the Bajorans wouldn't run you out of business?"

"Oh Damar!" Dukat replied. "Everyone loves tacos! I bet that the people of Little Bajor actually miss my little shop."

Damar grunted his acknowledgment. They lapsed into silence again. At long last, Damar took in a breath and asked, his voice heavy with doubt, "How do you know this is going to work? Even if Quark switches the files, how do we know someone isn't going to show up here next week, just to check?"

"Damar, Damar," Dukat chuckled, "how little you know of the restaurant business. The health inspectors don't talk to each other. It's all done in that database of theirs. When the system flags a report, they'll assign some random inspector to come out and look at it. It won't be that same woman. The system will flag the report, but it won't be our report anymore, and someone will come . . ." Dukat laughed again, low in his throat, a dangerously gleeful glint in his eye. ". . . But they'll go to Deep Dish Nine."

Monday afternoon, Damar arrived at work to find a blinking light on the office phone. He stared at it for a long moment. Neither he nor Dukat had heard from Quark since their meeting on Saturday morning. Either things had gone terribly well, and Quark had forgotten to contact them—unlikely—or things had gone very very wrong and Quark was avoiding them. It was also entirely possible that Quark had contacted Dukat and Dukat had neglected to tell him. But for whatever reason, Damar could not shake the feeling that something bad was on the other end of that blinking light. Taking a deep drink of his coffee, he settled himself at the desk and dialed the store's voicemail.

"Welcome. You have—two—unheard messages. First unheard message. Sent—today—at—6:27—a.m. 'It's Quark. One word: Qapla'. ' End of message. To erase this message, press seven. To save it in the archives, press nine. To reply to this message—"

Damar pressed seven as quickly as he could. He didn't know much Klingon, but that was a word he would recognize anywhere: success. Quark had done it. The health inspection reports were switched. It was over. Damar breathed a sigh of relief and turned his attention back to the voicemail.

"Next unheard message. Sent—today—at—11:03—a.m. 'Hello, this message is for Skrain Dukat. Mr. Dukat, this is Darlene Simmons with the health department. I recently performed an inspection on your establishment, Dominion's Pizza. It has come to my attention that the report that was submitted for your place of business was accidentally filed under another pizza location near your area. It appears that the report for that location was also mis-submitted, but I would like to double-check that I have your correct report on file. If you could please send me a copy of your report, so that I may check it against my records, that would be appreciated. My e-mail is d simmons at health services dot alpha city dot gov. Again, that's dee simmons—ess aye em em oh en ess—at health services dot alpha city dot gov. Thank you for your time.' End of message. To erase this message, press seven. To save it in the archives, press nine. To reply to this message . . ."

Damar sat there, frozen, the phone hanging limply in his hand. He could dimly hear the cool female tones of the voicemail system prompting him with numbers, but his mind did not register the words. It just . . . wasn't possible. They'd done it. Quark had switched the files. It was over. It had to be. And yet, here was the health inspector's message, calling their bluff. Oh, this was not how he had wanted his Monday to go.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed, hanging up the phone. There was nothing left to be done but call Dukat and deliver the bad news. He knew this would happen. A part of him had secretly hoped that Dukat's crazy scheme would work, if only to bask in the giddiness of having pulled off an impossible task. But he had known. Dukat had been in charge for three weeks and they had failed the health inspection, for goodness' sake. There had been a time when he would have followed any command Dukat had given him, without question. They had been soldiers then. Now, Damar knew better. He knew better than to trust Dukat's ridiculous ideas. But he still did. Against his better judgment. Call it loyalty, for what it was worth. And it had landed them in the largest mess Damar had yet found himself. Pursing his lips in frustration, he dialed Dukat's number.

"Hello Damar."

"Dukat. We have a problem."

"Oh? And what problem would that be? I trust things at the store are doing well?"

"Don't even try and pretend you don't know what problem. Your brilliant plan? It didn't work."

"Damar, what are you talking about?"

"The health inspector called. She left a message. Apparently the 'files were accidentally switched' and she needs us to send a copy of our report so she can check it."

". . . What?"

"It's done. It's over. Your plan failed, Dukat."

Silence on the end of the line. Then, Dukat's voice, distracted, plotting. "No. No, there is still a way out of this. I will make some calls. You just stay at the store, and leave it all to me. I'll take care of it."

Damar grumbled. "I'm not going anywhere."

"That's the spirit Damar! Stay in the fight."

"But—"

Click! The distinct sound of the line disconnecting. Damar let out an exasperated sigh and rolled his eyes. There was no way this would end well.

The rest of the afternoon passed—mercifully—without incident. The Jem'Hadar put away the frozen goods order with efficiency and Damar instructed them to deep clean the lobby. A Cardassian father brought his young son in to try "the Terran savory pie" for the first time, and a few of the Second on shift's friends stopped by later on. As evening fell, the delivery orders began ringing in. Damar fielded one call requesting the "white pizza", which he promptly disappeared behind the door marked 'Electrical Room' to prepare. As he was packing up the last of the vials of ketracel-white, there was a knock at the door. The First on shift poked his head in. "Sir, there's someone here to see y—"

He was cut off as the door was pushed wide open.

"Well! They didn't tell me this was going on."

Damar turned abruptly. Standing in the doorway was a shorter man, Ferengi by the look of him. He wore a badge around his neck and carried a clipboard in one hand. His eyes twinkled deviously. Stepping into the room, he grinned and looked Damar straight in the eye. "The name's Brunt, HSA."

Damar felt the color draining from his face. "Health Services Association . . ." he muttered under his breath. ". . . You're not supposed to be here until Thursday," he finally managed to blurt out.

The Ferengi snorted. "Relax," he chortled, "I'm here to help you. Although—" he leaned obtrusively to look behind Damar, "—if you want me to overlook this little detail we may have to renegotiate my pay."

"I . . . uh . . . Brunt."

"That's Inspector Brunt to you, pizza boy. What do you say we get started?"

"Started with what?"

"Don't you two talk to each other? I've seen flea markets more organized than this. I'm here to fake your file."

"Oh. I . . . Just a moment." Damar turned back and finished boxing the ketracel-white. He sidled past Brunt into the hall, thrusting the box into the First's hands. "Take this. You know what to do." The First nodded and walked off. Looking back at Brunt, Damar motioned for him to follow. "Let's go to the office."

When they reached the office, Damar closed the door swiftly and looked hard at Brunt. "Did Dukat contact you?"

The Ferengi snorted. "Of course Dukat contacted me; why else do you think I'd be here?"

Damar pursed his lips, considering. "Ferengi don't do business for free. And health inspectors don't fake reports without a bribe. What did he offer you?"

Brunt smirked. "Enough."

When it was clear that Brunt would say no more on the matter, Damar went to the desk and pulled out a packet of papers. "Here is our previous report. I assume you'll need that? Is there anything else you need."

"No, this will do. I'll see you around." Brunt left the office, closing the door behind him.

When Brunt had gone, Damar collapsed into the desk chair, resting his head in his hands. Oh, this was such a nightmare. Those two dabo girls knew something was happening, and Quark knew, and now Brunt knew, and no doubt Deep Dish Nine had been contacted by the health department as well to notify them of a problem in the report. There was no way this would not end badly. If there ever were a day to bring in that kanar flask that he'd gotten on his trip back to Cardassia, this would be the day.

A knock at the office door disturbed his catastrophizing. The Second poked his head in. "Sir? I do not mean to disturb you, sir, but we could use your assistance out here."

Grateful for the distraction, Damar followed the Second onto the floor. It was indeed a busy night, though the lobby was empty. No doubt the cold was keeping many people home this evening. The change in seasons always produced a spike in deliveries. Damar threw himself into the making of pizzas, hardly noticing as Inspector Brunt walked around the store, scribbling notes. The time flew by. It was nearing 9:00 when Brunt approached and tapped Damar on the shoulder. "I need to use your computer."

Damar brought a hand up to wipe the sweat off his brow, leaving a flour streak through his hair. "You're still here? I'd have thought you'd be done by now."

"Do you want it done, or do you want it done right?" Brunt retorted. "Your computer . . ."

Damar led Brunt back to the office, where he typed in the password and logged on to the computer. "What do you need the computer for?"

"I'm going to alter the original copy on the health department database and download you a new one. If you could pull up the original file . . ."

Damar opened the file of their health report. Brunt made a shooing motion and moved toward the desk chair. "Now, if you'll move, I can get to work. Go box up some more drugs or something, pizza boy."

It was late when Damar wandered back into the office. Brunt still sat at the desk, concentrating intently. Damar stifled a yawn and knocked on the doorframe to get the Ferengi's attention. "Listen, it's almost midnight. We close in half an hour. Can't you finish this on your own computer?"

"The less the report travels, the better, or you can believe I would have been gone long ago . . . There. Done."

Brunt clicked the mouse one last time and swiveled in the desk chair, a satisfied look on his face. Damar moved closer to inspect the computer.

"What did you do?"

"I couldn't even begin to explain the complexities of it to you, pizza boy, but I'll give you the short version: I altered your original report in the HS database—not a lot, just enough to look like you passed. I gave you slightly higher marks on a couple of things. I had to change the time stamp on the report so it'll look like the original, which is what took so long. But here's the important part: when you send it in, if she has any questions, just argue that whatever failed report she saw must have come from somewhere else during the file mix-up. I can tell you a trade secret—for a price." Brunt paused, hand open, expectant. Damar looked at him quizzically, then realization hit. Grumbling, he pulled a single bill out of his pocket. Brunt rolled his eyes. Damar heaved a sigh and pulled out four more singles, shoving the wad into Brunt's waiting hand. Brunt grinned and continued: "We don't actually know whether you've passed or failed an inspection until we go back to the office and tally up the points. We input the information into a program that counts them up for us. And I know this woman. She lives on her computer. It's likely she got rid of her hand-written notes as soon as she made the digital copy. Just be convincing."

"Oh really, is that all?"

Brunt laughed, getting up from the desk chair. "Relax. You'll be fine. If there's one thing I've learned about Cardassians it's that one should never underestimate their powers of deception." He gathered his things together and headed for the door. "Good luck."

"Wait," Damar called as he was leaving. "Before you go . . . Just out of curiosity, what did Dukat offer you? To fake the report for us."

Brunt smirked. "Half your paycheck."

"What?!"

"For a year."

"Hello, this is Damar."

"Damar, we have a problem. I need you at the store."

"Dukat, it's my day off."

"It's about the . . . mess."

" . . . Did you send the report? You didn't send it. I left you a note. Did you follow the instructions on the note. Did the woman call yet. Did Third go home sick again? I told him to get his flu shot."

"Damar. The woman didn't call. I sent the report this morning. She sent us an e-mail in return."

"About what?"

"I think you'd better come and read it for yourself."

". . . Fine."

Damar arrived at the store to find Dukat in a stormy mood. He greeted Damar with a silent glare and pointed at the computer screen. Damar sat down at the desk to read the e-mail. No. No no no. No, this couldn't be real. Not after all that had gone into this. No.

To: Skrain Dukat (dukat. sm {at} dominionspizza. com)
From: Darlene Simmons (dsimmons {at} healthservices. alphacity. gov)
Subject: Re: here is our report
I don't know what your playing at over there, or who's helping you, but the file you sent me is a FAKE. A very good one. But a fake. Some of these things I might have overlooked, but there is no way I would have given you such high points for you're store's lobby. Not when there were crumbs on every surface and a coating of grease I could practically float on. I will be there on Thursday for the follow-up, and you better have things cleaned up by then, or you're employee's will be finding other places to work.

"What did you do, Damar?"

Damar sat back in the chair, stunned. "I didn't do anything. The inspector—Brunt—came, and he walked around and he took some notes . . . no."

"What."

"No. No he didn't. Oh, no." Damar shuffled frantically through some papers on the desk.

"Didn't what, Damar?"

Damar found what he was looking for, opened a file on the computer. His eyes flickered between the two, comparing. His heart sank into his stomach. "He did . . ."

"Did what, Damar?"

"I had the Jem'Hadar deep clean the lobby yesterday afternoon. Brunt included the clean lobby marks from his walk-through instead of what was on the original report."

There was silence for a moment. Then Dukat spoke, his voice soft, dangerous: "Damar, how could you?"

"How was I supposed to know Brunt was going to do that? I thought he was a professional! You hired him."

"I told you we wouldn't have to lift a finger—"

"And I did what I thought was best for the store! And now it's over, and it failed, and we have a day and a half to clean it up. I don't even know where to begin. Half of these things we won't be able to do. Where am I supposed to get a refrigerator vent cover in a day and a half? How do I install a new handwashing sink on the floor in a day and a half? How do I get all of the Federation-mandated employee rights posters in a day and a half? Where do I put them? What happens if the Jem'Hadar discover we're supposed to be paying them in actual money and not in ketracel-white? Does Weyoun realize the implications of all this? I better call the team and tell them all to find some slip-resistant shoes by Thursday." Damar reached for the office phone.

"Damar . . ." Dukat stepped forward, head down, hands laced together in front of him. He opened his mouth to speak, shut it. Suddenly his entire demeanor shifted. He looked up at Damar, his eyes soft. "What's done is done. I know you blame me. But I don't intend to let us fail, and I especially don't intend to let any of this reach the ears of our Jell-O friend." He smirked, and the corners of Damar's mouth twitched in reluctant amusement. "I won't give Weyoun the satisfaction. Now, what can I do for you?"

Damar stared at him for a long moment. He knew Dukat was only saying this to save face, only trying to cajole his way back into Damar's good opinion. But he also knew that this was as close as Dukat would come to an apology. And here was that damned sense of loyalty again, pushing him to just forgive Dukat and let him help. Sometimes, transparent as his intentions were, Dukat knew just what to say. Damar hated him for it.

"You will have to lift a finger, you know."

"Anything for you, Damar."

Damn it.

"So this is it then."

Friday morning brought Dukat and Damar to the break room table once again. They sat there in silence as Weyoun looked over the new health inspection report. He kept flipping back to the first page to look at the large black C+ in the corner. Finally, he put the report down. "I must say I'm unimpressed. I had thought that a week's time would have been more than enough to get this establishment cleaned up. And yet you still only scored a barely passing grade. I see there are 'areas of improvement' in many of the categories; you still have work to do, don't you?" Damar and Dukat nodded their agreement. "Oh well, no matter. You passed. The Founder will be pleased to know this."

"I'm sure she will," Dukat replied. "We aim to please the Founder, after all."

"Of course you do. Well, if you have nothing further to report, I'll be on my way. Thank you for keeping me updated." Weyoun stood up to leave. Damar made a gesture to stop him.

"Weyoun, wait. Before you go . . ." Damar headed over to the walk-in refrigerator and disappeared inside. He emerged a moment later with a plate covered in plastic wrap. "Dukat and I have something for you. To . . . show our gratitude for giving us this chance."

"What is it?"

Damar placed the plate in Weyoun's hands. "It's a food. Don't worry about the taste; it doesn't taste like much. It's the texture that's really the most important part."

Weyoun held the plate up to eye level, peering at the large donut-shaped mass of bright green beneath the plastic wrap. He wiggled the plate slightly. The green mass jiggled in response. Weyoun's eyes lit up with excitement. "Oh, this is fascinating! What is it called?"

"It's called Jell-O."

"Jell oh. Jellllll. Jellowww. Even the word is delightful! Oh it's wonderful! Thank you!" Weyoun beamed at the two before walking out of the break room.

When Weyoun had gone, Damar snorted. His mouth twitched into a grin. He cleared his throat, trying to stifle it, but soon he was leaning against the wall, laughing uncontrollably. After several minutes, Damar managed to calm himself enough to make his way back to the break room table. He sat down across from Dukat, still snickering.

Dukat stared at him, his eyes showing both amusement and confusion. "And what is so funny?" he asked.

"I was just thinking," Damar said, between chuckles. "It's too bad Weyoun has such a high tolerance for poisonous substances."

"Why?"

"Because the strychnine I put in his Jell-O will only make him queasy."