A career in carpentry had never been entirely right for Richard Bashir. It had seemed like a good idea, when it had first attracted his attention - good enough to occupy seven full months of his life. But as with many other pursuits, he had started to feel increasingly out of place. There had to be something better - something more suited to who he was. He couldn't let himself miss that chance while looking in entirely the wrong direction.
He had worked almost obsessively to fashion the genuine mahogany crib, with all the details precisely suited to a mid-twentieth century style. At least there had been sufficient time to finish, before he left the carpenting trade behind him. Only the best, for the arrival of his first-born child.
Amsha's had not been a difficult labour, but a night of painful exertion had left her exhausted, too weary even to lift her head. But once the baby had settled into sleep, Doctor Palyath had smiled at the proud new parents - satisfied enough to allow them some time alone.
A child, thought Richard as he recalled the doctor's smooth face. The woman could hardly have seen a day away from school. Her hair had been cut into a thick bob with almost Vulcan precision. Her almond shaped eyes were wide like those of a deer, with long, curving lashes - and darker even than the caramel-cocoa hue of her skin. A brief parting smile only added to the youthful impression.
In the hours following, as Richard's family slept, he rested his head against a wall and gazed up at the symmetrical textures of the ceiling above. The touch of the Sandman was weighing him down as well, in spite of the pressure of a wall against his back. Even the immediate memory of his baby's first cry remained, and he held to it as long as he was able.
"Richard-?"
The face of his wife had lost none of its pallor - gleaming with spidery lines of white from the sweat across her brow. Her smile was tired, but endearingly sincere as she wrapped tired fingers around the hand of her husband. As captivating as it had been when Richard Bashir was a foolish youth, and Amsha the shy young woman in the house across the street.
"Can you believe it?" she whispered, quietly exhausted. She glanced to one side, as a mound of tangled shapes began to squirm in the shallow crib at the far end of the room. Soft, flexible blankets, wound into a cocooning bundle, came remarkably close to burying the creature within their folds. Amsha was weeping, tears gathering to crystal dew across her cheeks. "We have a son."
"I know," was all that Richard could say in response. He knew that other thoughts must have shown in his eyes, so many unspoken words that they ran together like flooded rivers converging - too powerful for even the steepest banks to contain.
He felt his own cheeks turn slightly moist at the sight of Amsha's smile, perhaps even at the sound of a softly whispered name - and found himself drawn to where the strange new life-form continued to stir in the midst of all the covers.
Carefully, he lifted the boy with both large hands and spread one across the back of his soft, downy head. The baby gurgled at his father's gentle touch, small clear bubbles spilling from between his lips. A settled face - as smooth as the touch of a warm Spring breeze. And with the tiniest beginnings of fine, dark hair arranged across his forehead like the flourishes of a calligrapher's brush.
His half open eyes were dark as black pearls, scrutinising the brand new world as though it would show him every answer that his elders had forgotten. One tiny hand passed clumsily across his nose, with a wrinkled palm directed outwards - and barely large enough to grasp the circumference of his father's index finger. After a long moment spent in contemplation, his mouth shifted slowly to a silent yawn, and he drifted into the calmer realm of sleep.
Only one door at its very end was there to give a contrasting shade to the next short, narrow, and otherwise featureless passage. Its image bobbed and expanded with every reluctant step as Bashir and the Bolian advanced towards it, until the walls seemed to close around them like a journey down some burrow or abandoned mining shaft.
To hesitate now would only strengthen the Bolian's misconceptions. He pressed forward, but covered the distance with trepidation.
The woman paused two steps in front of him, where a thin strip of circuitry extended around the inner circumference of the corridor. A soft blue-white glow extended all the way inward from the walls, and Bashir's breath snagged in his throat when he saw the speckled burst of energy. "What was that - a forcefield?"
"It's nothing to worry about." Half of the Bolian's mouth lifted into a lopsided, placatory smile. "We don't keep prisoners here."
Bashir stepped back. "Then why is there a field over the door?"
"Some of our patients can get a little unruly," his blue faced minder assured him. "That's all. But I doubt you'll have any real problems while you're here."
That depends on how you define unruly, thought Bashir with some unease – even as he shook his head with a noncommittal shrug.
"Well, that's a blessing, anyhow," the woman remarked as she keyed in a five digit combination on a lock embedded in the wall.
At the touch of her hand upon the controls, the door slid open.
Bashir was immediately confronted by a pair of dark, piercing eyes. A grinning face emerged from within, coming almost close enough for their noses to touch - "Who's this, mm? A new guy? Where's he from?"
"Now, Jack. You don't want to get overexcited."
This voice was tired, and a little wary. The speaker wore a Starfleet uniform identical to Doctor Nikos', with an undershirt of clear blue-green and two miniscule pips of reflective metal fastened to her collar. She was fair haired, Julian noticed, but with a touch of grey - and older than his Bolian guide. The lines of her face were determinedly set as she moved to intercept the sudden confrontation. But the frenetic young man dodged easily around Bashir and his companion until he had squarely repositioned himself in their path.
"Jack…" The Starfleet lieutenant's voice was taut and low.
The hem of his jacket slapped against itself as the man whirled around to challenge her directly. "What's the matter, Doctor - am I breaking the rules again? Getting too close, making everyone uncomfortable?"
"Jack-"
"Fine!" The pale-faced interrogator glared once at Bashir, taking in the entirety of the other man's appearance with two sharp jerks of his head. He inserted one fingertip between his teeth, and retreated to the back of the room, scowling repeatedly over his shoulder. "Wasn't that interested anyway."
Two long rows of bulky red chairs were arranged around five low, rectangular tables at their centre, each fastened securely to the floor. There were others, scattered around the edges of what Bashir could only guess was some variety of communal lounge. Barely half of them paid any attention to their unfamiliar new companion.
"Julian's going to stay with us for a while - isn't that right?" There was a clear, deliberately moderate cadence to the Bolian's answer – careful not to alarm an already unpredictable crowd. Jack cast another glance from his place at the corner of a smooth blue carpet, and continued to chew on the tips of his fingernails.
"That might be fun," said another voice.
It was easy to locate the pair of women positioned on the nearby chairs. One sat at an indirect angle with her hands in her lap and legs pressed together - never even glancing his way. But the other, taller woman grinned broadly at the new arrival with a mouth outlined in scarlet. She lounged easily against the padded back of her seat, and fixed her predatory gaze upon him. Bashir suppressed an inward shudder, setting a cool, stoic mask across his face. There was something clearly mocking in the woman's smile - a distinct impression that she was sizing him up for something.
The woman's face was plaguing Bashir's thoughts even as he forced his gaze away. With a quietly unsettled cough, he focused instead on the stripes of light cast inward through a series of tall, straight windows.
"Does this mean you'll be our friend?" A much shorter man shuffled towards them with a slight forward tilt to his spine. He moved purposefully until he was close enough for his eager, beaming face to fill the greater part of Bashir's vision.
"I…" What could he say? The Bolian orderly and the quiet Starfleet doctor were watchful - silently encouraging – but offered few hints on where the conversation ought to lead. There was tension in their faces, both tentatively hopeful that their newest arrival would settle quietly into this place, and that the place might gradually accustom itself to him.
Bashir glanced once more at the others around them, and finally back at the expectant older man. Frowning for a moment, reaching for an answer that felt right to him, he found that his shoulders had slumped in a long and heavy sigh.
"Possibly." He turned away. He was conscious of every distant wall, as though by some unwanted extra sense. Every step heavy and deliberate, he surrendered to the forward momentum of his feet, but realised there was no sure way to isolate himself from the stares of others in the room.