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Garak really only had himself to blame.
When it came to the complex process of meshing isolinear circuits and tri-silicate quantum-data storage devices, it was it was a delicate process. Garak excelled in delicate process. There was a reason he was a successful tailor despite being entirely self-taught. The quantum nature of the processors meant that it was easy to accidentally fry the circuitry from collapsing quantum states, if it wasn’t effectively grounded. When he was tinkering, he took things slow, planned out his processes and utilized safety miniature force fields where appropriate. Especially when working with anything as volatile as his current project.
Usually, he did this without a problem. Unfortunately, he’d been on a tight turnaround. In his haste, he’d been sloppy. He hadn’t grounded his work effectively. He’d been rushing. It was only his safety force-fields that saved him.
If you could call this saved.
Somewhere far away the alarms were screaming. The red safety lights were flashing. Garak was having trouble processing it. His eyes swam. His ears rang. His head ached. The room was filled with smoke and his lung stung with it. He tried to move and found, to his confusion, he couldn’t move his legs. He found that his arms were slow and clumsy in response.
He shook his head to try and clear it, to try and assess the damage. The room spun in response and he fought down bile. Droplets of something hot and wet splashed onto his face. In a very far away place, Garak recognized this as not good. In a far away place, he could taste hot metal on his tongue.
The room filled with blue light. Two very familiar figure emerged from the dissipating transporter beam. He watched as the lithe form of his doctor and the comforting form of Nurse Jabara were bathed in flashing red light. Julian was across the room and kneeling beside Garak in a second, the sound of his cry lost beneath the fog.
Garak fought to speak, “Ah Doccct’or, I’m s-ssorry to in’konvience you.”
Whatever Julian said in response was cutoff as Garak found himself descending into the darkness of unconsciousness.
When he rose through the fog of oblivion, the pain was gone. His body felt light in a way he couldn’t recall ever feeling. His mouth still tasted of dried blood and an oxygen mask crowded his face. The sound of beeping and frantic movement surrounded him, but the numb feeling in his ears had lifted and he could hear again.
“I want two units transfusing now and another four replicated. T’rrel, what are our coags doing? Jabara, have you got our pressors?” Julian’s voice said to his right, a professional tone hiding the frantic edge in his voice.
“Drawn up at 3mg/mL and ready, what rate did you want, Julian?” Jabara’s voice responded from his left.
“INR is 3.5 seconds,” a monotone voice to his left said, “Platelets at 97.”
“Start at 30mg/hour,” Julian responded, “That’s too long for a Cardassian – did our medical data include coag factor replication?”
“I took the liberty of beginning synthesization while you were placing the epidural, Doctor,” the voice responded.
“Cheers, T’rrel-“
Garak’s eyes blinked open to the blinding lights of the surgical suite above him. He could see figures moving around him, their red figures blurred and indistinct. His hands felt tight, and he looked down to find them strapped to the table. He jerked found his legs completely devoid of movement. He glanced down and, through the blur, saw a mess of leaking carnage. Something hard pressed into his left ear.
“Ungf!” Garak grunted in frustration as he found the restraints – drawing all attention from the room to him.
“Garak!” Julian’s voice cried and the skinny form of one of the red figures descended above his face. Bashir’s large, hazel eyes stared down at him worriedly even as he carefully held his sterile form away from Garak. Bashir studied his face carefully.
Garak blinked back the confusion and fog of unconsciousness, “So what’s the prognosis, Doctor?”
Bashir smiled a practiced, reassuring smile but Garak could see the tension his eyes, “You’ll live. You’ve given us quite a scare – cracked skull, fractured ribs, pnuemothroax and severe abdominal trauma. Nothing I can’t fix. You never do anything by half-measures. Do you, Garak?”
Garak breathed slowly, taking in the information, “And you have finished … repairing these injuries?”
Bashir held himself very still for a moment.
“And I am waking up from surgery?”
Bashir hummed non-committally, “Well, normally in these situations we need to secure a patient’s airway but we don’t have a confirmed muscle-relaxant on file which will work on Cardassian biology to paralyze your larynx. Given the damage to your lungs we can’t afford to compromise your conscious state and risk further respiratory com-“
“DOCTOR!” Garak exclaimed in interruption, the cry so strenuous on his hoarse throat that he immediately descended into deep, hacking coughs.
Bashir grimaced in apology, “Right, right, sorry. Um, we can’t afford to put you to sleep right now, Garak. I’ve numbed you from the neck down so you won’t feel any pain during surgery – just pressure and touch, alright? Do you understand?”
Garak took in the intensity of Bashir’s gaze and nodded slowly, a creeping sense of dread coming over him as he realized Bashir was implying.
“You’ll be awake. I need you to stay awake. You’re still bleeding so I need to start soon. Do I have your consent?”
Garak took in the pleading look in Bashir’s eyes and abruptly thought of every interrogation. The feeling of soft organs against his claws. The tears of his victims. He swallowed around the phantom sensation running along the edges of his mind. He wondered brief about the human concept of karma, “Yes.”
Bashir swallowed thickly and nodded, “Ok, that’s good. Everything is going to be ok, Garak. I promise.”
“Red blood cells are going in. Platelets and coags are ready, Doctor,” T’rrel’s voice said from across the room. Garak barely heard it over the rushing panic in his ears.
“T’rrel, can you get those up?” Bashir replied, finally breaking eye contact with Garak to survey the room, “Alright, TIME OUT!”
T’rrel and Jabara moved to his left side as another figure approached Bashir, holding up a pad for his Doctor. A figure moved behind Bashir to begin painting Garak’s ruined stomach with something. He made to flinch away even as the touch barely registered.
“We have Elim Garak, no allergies, Cardassian Male, date of birth unknown, UR number 2199573. Verbally consented for exploratory abdominal surgery – may or may not include: arterial repair, splenectomy, bowel resection, osteoregen and organ replacement. EBL currently at 1.2L not including estimated large, abdominal haemotoma seen on imaging. Triple antis going in. Does anyone have any concerns?” Bashir said, his voice ringing loudly through the room with a rehearsed rhythm.
The world was suspended a moment as everyone sat still – Garak was absurdly reminded of the human wedding tradition Bashir had informed him of. Then the second ended and everyone was moving again. The figure painting his stomach passed the instruments in their hands off to someone on the side, as Bashir circled around to the opposite side of the bed.
“Computer, activate surgical drape setting 24,” Bashir spoke to the room.
Bashir’s command was followed by the affirmative beep of a followed command and, in an instant, everything below Garak’s neck was obscured by a thick, grey, holographic wall. Garak swallowed thickly as he took it in. The feeling of panic began to prickle at the edges of his mind. Abruptly he realized the loud beeping he could hear was his heartrate and he swore he could hear it getting faster.
“Alright, Garak,” Bashir’s voice said from beyond the wall, “We’re starting.”
The ghost of sensation at the center of his stomach.
“Scalpel.”
He was aware of hands and instruments tugging, pulling, at him. The hands riffled inside him and he listened to the beeping. The bright spotlights above burned into his retinas.
“Could I get the Solok forcep?”
He focused on the beeping and then he knew it was getting faster. Faster and faster and faster. His heart was beating far, far too fast. Was he dying? It felt as though every breath was far too shallow. So, his breath came faster.
“Medium Deaver.”
“Did you want a wet pack?”
“In a minute. Computer, activate surgical retractor 9.”
The computer made the affirmative beep. The sound of sizzling echoed about the room. The scent of electrical fire and blood rose in his nostrils. Then the quiet noise of a fan above his head. His breath was coming faster and faster. His lungs ached. His heart thundered. The frantic rhythm feathered below his eardrum, competing with the loud monitor.
“Can someone sort out that heartrate?”
Something had to be wrong.
Tzenketh crept in from the corners of his mind, a choking fog. The grey, holo wall was far, far too similar a shade to the grey of stone. The air tasted like dust and carnage. A heavy weight descended upon his chest. He was buried. He was dying. There was no escape. He shut his eyes tight against it. He could still feel it pressing into him.
Something was wrong.
There was clamoring happening around him. The sound of voices. Back and forth. All of it blurred together into noise. A distant clanging hidden beneath the loud roaring in Garak’s ears. The beeping shrieked. He was dying. He had to be dying.
He couldn’t breathe.
He couldn’t breathe.
He was going to die here.
He needed to get out.
He needed to run.
He couldn’t move.
He needed-
The theatre lights dimmed. The relief was so sharp and sudden that he shook with it. Then the holo wall disappeared. He felt his entire body tremble with relief. The freedom and space filled his lungs full and true. His heart still beat rapidly but fluttered – a trembling prey animal safe in its den. He took a deep, steadying breath and opened his eyes.
He looked around and found the room almost empty. He craned his neck and found only Bashir at the table, Jabara present across the room. He frowned downward at Bashir as his voice fought its way through the haze of panic. Bashir spoke softly, gently.
“Garak, it’s alright. I’ve sent everyone else out,” Bashir said soothingly, “You’re alright. Garak, are you back with me? Garak, can you hear me? It’s alright. We’re going to look after you.”
Garak took a moment, the words slurring in his mind as he fought his way back to understanding. Finally, he nodded slowly.
Bashir smiled beneath his surgical mask, his eyes crinkling in a comfortingly familiar way. His hands shifted and Garak glanced down. It was then he noticed the splattered gore up Bashir’s arms, staining his gloves a deep red-brown. The blood-stained, white cloth in his hands was pressed into Garak’s exposed stomach – hiding whatever lay beneath. His eyes caught this. He couldn’t look away. A phantom of pain shot through his body like a knife. He barely suppressed his whimper.
“Garak,” Bashir said, an alarmed note to his voice as he followed Garak’s eyeline, “Garak, it’s alright. Garak, look at me. Elim! I need you to look at me!”
The name jerked him from his mind like a whip. He forced his eyes up to meet the Doctor’s.
“Great, that’s great, Elim,” Bashir said, his voice low, “Don’t look down. Everything is looking ok, just a few arteries to fix and then I’ll be all done – the damage wasn’t as extensive as it could’ve been. You’re doing really well for me.”
Garak tried to parse the words through his haze. Something buried deep inside him twisted in pleasure at the words. He nodded, slowly.
“You’re doing really great, Elim,” Bashir continued, “But I need you to calm down. Have you ever had panic attacks before, Elim?”
Garak frowned at the question – the concept of a “panic attack” a whole un-Cardassian concept. He was aware of this human weakness and he was unsure how it related to him. He shook his head.
Bashir hummed and then nodded to Jabara in the corner, “Just 1.5mg. Ok, that’s alright, Elim. Just keep looking at me. Don’t look down.”
“Yes, thank you. I got that, Doctor,” Garak snapped in response, hating how the gentleness of Bashir’s voice had tension releasing from his muscles automatically.
Bashir’s eyes crinkled in a smile, “Ok, Garak. I’m going to need you to follow my instructions. Can you do that?”
“What do you think?”
Bashir didn’t even flinch, “I’m going to get you to breathe with me. Can you do that, Garak?”
“I’m not a child!”
“So, you should be able to follow my instructions,” Bashir replied bemusedly.
Garak pursed his lips, “Fine.”
“Close your eyes,” Bashir commanded, his voice low and soothing.
Garak’s eyes widened in irritation, “What?”
“It’s ok, Elim,” Bashir replied softly, “Close your eyes.”
“Doctor, I don’t think-“
“It’s alright,” Bashir interrupted, his soft voice underlain with steel.
Garak spluttered for a moment and then acquiesced, knowing it inevitable. He fought to keep his eyes closed as every instinct screamed at him. His heartbeat fluttered beneath his eardrums, slowing even now just in response to Bashir’s voice.
“Good, you’re doing great,” Bashir said, his voice achingly gentle, “Now, you’re going to breathe on my count. Ready?”
“Yes, Doctor,” Garak snapped.
“Ok, so in…two…three…four. Hold…two….three…four. Out…two…three…four. Hold…two three…four….”
On and on it went.
Bashir speaking softly to him. His voice deep and gentle, commanding the most basic of bodily functions. Somewhere, deep in his mind, the voice of Enabran Tain hissed in displeasure. At his obedience. At his vulnerability. The voice was far away though, very far from his conscious mind.
In. Hold. Out. Hold.
It was all he needed to focus now – doctor’s orders.
In. Hold. Out. Hold.
Bashir’s hands flexed and shifted inside him. It was a curious sensation – as though Bashir had placed his medical bag on his stomach and was riffling through the contents. As though he’d become just another possession. As though his deepest fantasies about the good doctor were finally eventuating in some twisted, warped manner.
He blocked out the smells. He breathed through his mouth. In. Hold. Out. Hold.
In. Hold. Out. Hold.
In. Hold. Out. Hold.
Time slipped past. Time stood still.
In. Hold. Out. Hold.
All there was, was Bashir. His hands pressed deep into his entrails. Reality suspended as Bashir puppeted him. His voice filling his mind with softness. Everything forgotten here, beneath his gaze.
In. Hold. Out. Hold.
Everything forgiven.