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wolf-in-a-suit · 6 years

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Freedom of press: Dominion style

Show: Star Trek DS9

Summary: Gul Dukat, the undisputed winner of the war, will not let anyone make fun of him! So, a hunt for the culprit- you- ensures. Throw in a Vorta, and a Ferengi, pushing their noses into other people’s business and there you have it: One stressful day, for the resident human left on DS9. Well, dear reader: I wish you the best of luck!

The day Gul Dukat started hunting a ghost, began with people smiling at his passing figure. Bayorans once more in the clutches of the Cardassians- with a little help from the Dominon- oppressed, and under his thumb on Terok Nor: Were smiling at the man, that conquered them! Were their delusional brains finally snapping? He passed the center of operation, and there it was again. Somebody sniggered behind his back! The great military leader whirled around, but every officer wore the exemplary of an impassive expression. Though, something had caught his keen eye.

He took three well measured strides to the youngest officer on duty, a small Bayoran male, and snatched the data pad in one fluent motion from his hands. Exalting at the horror crawling onto the young man’s face, Dukat allowed a self-satisfied smirk to grace his features. However, after his eyes ghosted over the first sentence, the muscles in his face began to loosen, the grin disappearing. After a whole paragraph his teeth were clutched tight, and the blood in his body reached critical temperature. "Who wrote this?" He demanded. Only silence answered, at first. Finally, the young officer caved under the intensity of the smoldering black eyes. Stuttering he grasped for any word, in order to form a coherent sentence: "Nobody knows w...who p...posts these... articles. We’re... not even... s...sure if it's a Bayoran o...or someone else." Black eyes narrowed, a very low voice, promising years of pain for the next transgression- or disrespectful gulp of breath- retorted: "Articles!?" The s stretched into a long, hostile hiss. Looking at the terrified faces of the personnel, he knew he got all the information- as pitiful as it had been- out of them. When the Gul reached the conference room for his daily meeting with Damar, and that weasel Weyoun, he was seething. Articles, indeed! There existed quite a few of them. Each a greater jab, at the competence of the new ‘already crumbling command - short ACC' than the last. One of them described himself, attending the great harvest ceremony of Bayor as a guest of honor,- he could be quite persuasive, and ever the diplomat- Weyoun had claimed, attending would smooth things over with the locals. The first thing that assaulted his eyes was a photo of him stumbling into the Kai, in a very much undignified manner. If he remembered correctly, this had been the result of one of these filthy farmers tripping him- the last thing he ever did-, yet the article came to a very different conclusion: 'It's so nice to see our esteemed Gul enjoy himself, after all that hard work keeping a few officers on DS9 in check. Though, perhaps he should cut back on the Kanar, lest he starts molesting our Kai.' The audacity! He would see whoever was behind this decaying in the depths of the Cardassian work camps! "Why the gloomy face Dukat? What possibly could have irritated your normally so composed person, hmm?" The Vortas eyes twinkled with mischief, blue lightning mixing into the violet hue of his eyes. Bam! In one swift motion the Cardassian slammed down the pad, right before the diplomat. To Dukats ire this did little to impress, least of all startle the hated man. The only reaction Weyoun graced him with was a raised eyebrow. "And what could that be, now?" "Some low life has the gall to ridicule us in anonym articles!" He pressed through gritted teeth. He expected surprise, anger perhaps, or panic on the face of this annoyance. What he got was: A fake yawn.

"I must say, it took you quite some time to stumble upon them. Not that I expected better of course." Dukat was dumbfounded, then anger from an untapped source deep inside, welled up. In contrast, his demeanor became very still. "How is it..." he began in an almost civil tone "that you don't inform me, about rebels UNDERMINING OUR OPERATIONS!?" The scream was a hot coal that finally dropped, very liberating. The Vorta, like always, payed no heed and had simply grabbed the pad and started reading. Here that little weakling sat, legs crossed, the pad held before him: The picture of a man on a slow Sunday, reading the comics in the morning paper. A chuckle shook his whole frame. "This is my favorite: ‘I must defend our beloved Gul on his actions against the drunk, ninety year old Bayoran: Everyone who came into contact with someone at such a headstrong age can agree that there is no escape, no action against a cane crashing to your behind’. Weyoun turned the pad and sure enough, a picture of an old Bayoran connecting his cane with Dukat's hindquarters littered the display. With a lightning fast flash of gray scaled hands the pad was snatched from the Vorta’s grasp and flung through the room. Crash. The impact, and cluttering of tiny pieces to the ground was the only sound resonating in the suddenly very silent room. Gul Dukat took a deep breath, flaring nostrils stilled somewhat. When he opened his eyes again, they shifted like lava of a Vulcan on the verge of erupting. "I will find the one responsible! And. Make. Them. PAY!"

"And one Ra'taj coming up, for my favorite human of the station." The Ferengi slid a steaming cup over the counter, his smile exposing sharp, bend teeth gleaming in the light. Expertly snatching the cup and taking a swing of bitter liquid, a trained motion almost second nature after years spend on DS9, you watched the short man with a dubious expression. "Quark, I am the only human on the station." He scoffed "Semantics! Any paying customer is a good customer, even-" and here he regarded your beverage with distaste "-if they prefer to drink something destroying every flavor receptor on their tongue." You couldn't hold back a grin. "Rule of Acquisition number... ?" "That's just common sense honey, speaking of which..." He leaned over the counter, his eyes losing their mocking quality. "I love good reading material like the next guy, but in times like these, it's the writers who lose their heads first! Would be really stupid, to poke a sleeping Tark if you ask me." "Quark, are you worried about little, old me?" While you feigned surprise, Quark blocked with the shrug of his shoulders. "Not at all, I just have too much Ra'taj on my hands, and you're the only customer drinking that stuff!" The last swing of the bitter brew streamed down your throat and you knocked on the bar in parting. "I think you're just going soft, in your old days." The annoyed look of the barkeeper followed your exiting form. Slowly, the annoyance was replaced by worry, and dread creeping into his expression. This was however, easily hidden once a new customer entered. "Welcome to Quarks! What can I help you with? " Sweat formed on your brow and trickled down your neck, even though it wasn't anywhere near warm in the cargo bay. He was on to you! You simply knew it. Trice this day, you had tried to link your pad to the main computer, in order to publish your newest article and every time Gul Dukat had somehow appeared out of thin air in the vicinity. You had no idea how he did it. Your only consolidation was his searching gaze, indicating that he wasn't onto you just yet. But judging from the smoldering look on his square features, it was only a matter of time. So, that was how a rabbit felt when the snake slowly sneaked around it, ready to smother all air from its tiny lungs. Speaking of air, had it always been this hard to breath? Crash. The steel tire vibrated only for a second, the pain in your fist however would sting for quite some time to come. 'Pull yourself together! You knew this could happen, don't chicken out now!' Red defiant, untamed hair flashed through your inner vision. Major Kira would never weaver like this! Fresh air streamed into your lungs, after the large inhale your hands were only left somewhat shaking. You stepped next to the console, ready to begin the upload. The rhythmic beeping of the control panel soothed your clenched muscles.

"Well, this certainly is interesting!" You whipped around and sure enough: Behind you sitting on a crate, legs crossed was Weyoun. The embodiment of the powerful Dominion, crushing any resistance in its way. With a steaming cup in hand, he was the very picture of confidence, and superiority. And,... was that smell... you sniffed, catching the scent of Ra'taj. The creepy smile on the man’s face let no room for doubt: ‘No, I don't enjoy it, just showing off, how much I know about your insignificant existence.’ When he realized, that you got the message, his smile stretched even wider, almost turning feral. Violet eyes, gleaming in the dark. "My, my such courage. Such… defiance." His cheerfulness did little to hide the cutting edge of his tone, dragging over your flesh ready to draw first blood. The only thing you could choke out, was a weak: "How d..did y...you know?" "My dear, you didn't delude yourself for one minute that I wasn't aware of what is going on, on my station, hmm?" "N...no!?" 'Damn this stammering, Kira would be ashamed!' "Well then." With a wush and an inexplicable grace, the Vorta flopped down to the floor. "While your articles have been, rather... amusing. I think, it would be time to try your delicate hands-" here he gingerly took your cold hand into his "-at something new. Before Gul Dukats reputation- or your life- is damaged, beyond repair. Wouldn't you agree?" These unnatural eyes burned into yours, driving the point home that this wasn't a request. While the tightening of his grip on your hand added: 'I might be a diplomat, but this isn't a negotiation. Don't let it become a tribunal!' Your nod was very weak, but he seemed to still pick up on it, in the shadow filled room.

"Excellent! Now that we are probably acquainted, I look forward to seeing you far more often." His purr sent shivers down your spine, fear and something you couldn’t place, mixing into an unknown emotion. The weight on your hand vanished and instead of the humanoid skin, the ceramic of a cup warmed your too cold extremities. "Drink up! After all, you have a long shift ahead, and you must be exhausted after writing for three days, on that new- very amusing I might add- article about Damar." If your blood pressure was low before, the ice setting in your veins at his words couldn't be very beneficial. The Vorta turned and headed to the door. "Such a shame, that no one is going to read it." With the wush of an automatic door, he was gone. But the sentiment of paranoia he gifted you with, would stay with you for a long time to come. In the end, you stood frozen in the dark room, not daring to move a muscle. Finally, when the warm glow of the cup dissipated, you started to regain control of your shaking muscles, and headed out.

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miayamsemarang · 4 years

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