Chapter Text
Julian had spent almost an entire week locked up in isolation. He thought it had been a week anyway. His internal body clock wasn’t working particularly well without the regularity of meals and roll call which made up their days here. It wasn’t the first time he’d been separated from the rest, and likely wouldn’t be the last. The Dominion thought that this method would break his spirit, but it just made him more stubbornly determined. He knew himself enough to know that he would continue to rub the Vorta and Jem’Hadar up the wrong way, for as long as it was within his power to do so.
Social contact was critical for Julian, more so than the average person, and he craved regular conversation. The more complex, the better. His only interactions during solitary confinement had come with his meagre water rations, but the guards didn’t speak or acknowledge him in any way. Being left alone in the dark had been tortuous, the oppressive silence was almost deafening. Without stimuli, he’d had no distraction from his gnawing hunger pains. His optimistic stomach still expected feeding. Ridiculous, given how long he’d gone without sufficient sustenance.
In Julian’s lowest moments the terrifying reality of being totally cut off from Starfleet and his DS9 colleagues was paralysing, but the solitude enabled him to focus his anger where it belonged. He had never been one to walk away from a challenge, and that competitiveness was a significant reason why his patient success rate was so high (on top of his enhanced intellect, of course). He was incapable of giving up if there were still unexplored options remaining. No matter how low the odds appeared, it was always worth taking a chance when there were lives at stake.
Julian, upon his release, had been unceremoniously hauled to his feet and dragged into the glaring corridor. Stumbling blindly, he forced his eyes open and willed his pupils to adjust to the harsh change in light. As he was escorted back to the main prison, he tried to discreetly straighten his spine. The cell had been bereft of anything resembling a bed and wasn’t quite large enough for him to stand up or lie down comfortably. As a result, he had spent most of his time huddled in the foetal position, trying to keep his extremities warm. He never thought he’d miss the thin mattress of his bunk so much. It wasn’t comfortable, by any stretch of the imagination, but would feel sublime after the last few days. And to think, he used to complain about the softness of his bedding back on the station! His cosy personal quarters had been the epitome of luxury and seemed like a dream to him now. He wished he’d appreciated them more at the time. Yet another qualm to add to his mounting list of regrets.
Catching sight of the low circular structure ahead of him, Julian unconsciously shivered and dropped his gaze. Deyos, the Vorta who ran the camp, lauded the barbaric fighting ring as a chance to learn the prowess and weaknesses of the various Alpha Quadrant species. But as far as he could tell, all it seemed to do was keep their numbers down and offer the guards an outlet for their built-up aggression. The Jem’Hadar were soldiers at best, brutal killers at worst, and entirely ill-suited to be watching over weary and underfed prisoners. The Dominion’s treatment of captured enemy agents differed greatly from the United Federation of Planets. However, Julian was realistic enough to know that when it came to times of conflict, nobody’s hands stayed clean for long. If he had to, he would fight to protect those he cared about; Hippocratic oath be damned. He also had no intention of dying on this rock and would defend himself accordingly. He still had some tricks up his sleeve although he fervently hoped that he wouldn’t need them.
On that subject, Julian hadn’t taken more than a brief turn in the ring himself. Following his arrival in camp the Jem’Hadar had been eager to test their new human specimen, but he hadn’t played along. Much to his opponent’s disgust he had quickly yielded after a couple of rounds, careful to keep his ego in check. He didn’t need to impress anybody and had no desire to reveal exactly how Starfleet trained its officers for combat. If there was any truth to Deyos’ taunting words, he was duty bound not to risk exposing Federation military tactics. Julian also hadn’t trusted himself not to be too quick or too strong, he could do without people noticing that he was more than he should be. Especially a keen-eyed ex-spymaster with a spiteful streak, whom he was already on thin ice with as it was.
While Tain worked on the technical element of their escape plan, Julian had endeavoured to keep him and as many of the other detainees as alive and well as he possibly could. Providing that they were successful he intended to return and liberate those left behind in this hellhole, preferably with a fleet of star ships at his back (the more the merrier!). He hoped to get support from the Admiralty for the venture, but he knew there were no guarantees. In the meantime, he freely offered up his skillset to be utilised by all the residents of Internment Camp 371, be they; Obsidian Order operatives, the Tal Shiar, or unknown aliens from the Gamma Quadrant.
Julian had hit a snag right off the bat as not many had wanted anything to do with him. Most people seemed rightly suspicious of the gesture from the lone Starfleet officer and were no doubt expecting an ulterior motive, his association with Tain only added to that distrust. He found it difficult to explain that he just wanted to be useful and that this wasn’t a way to curry favour, nor was it a scheme designed to make others beholden to him. He was hardly going to start demanding compensation or payment from his patients! Coming from a world that had free and open healthcare for all, he struggled with the concept that treatment could be perceived as transactional. Even with the initial reluctance Julian faced, he was slowly being allowed to at least patch up the latest combat casualties following their turn in the ring. It was a small victory, but a welcome one.
Smirking to himself as he walked, Julian could admit that he took a perverse pleasure in his ability to irritate the guards. Being able to exert a small level of disobedience was strangely empowering. He felt like he channelled Garak in those rare moments of defiance, in more ways than one. He was always physically unthreatening in his stance, so as not to provoke the First or Second’s wrath. He’d witnessed enough prisoners being knocked around for simply looking like they might square up to the Jem’Hadar to know that it was best to avoid blatantly challenging their authority. No, the situation had needed a lighter and more subtle approach, and he’d learned from the best.
To that end, Julian fought to keep his attitude superficially pleasant and polite. He remained calm and managed to withhold verbalising his objections until the end of each bout. Instead, he efficiently prognosed and treated injuries and gave his advice on whether the combatant was well enough for another round. Often the guards would ignore him and proceed with their fights regardless, but he didn’t allow his frustrations to show. He continued to operate in this manner, as though he was indulgently educating their captors and patiently waiting for them to learn from his example. The attitude he’d adopted was that they were childlike in their ignorance, which wasn’t their fault. Almost identical to the way Garak fondly sighed at his so-called naivety whenever his Federation ideals shone through. It was a tone that he knew inside out and could easily replicate, along with the Tailor’s signature smile.
Julian mentally scolded himself for getting swept up in his memories, it didn’t do him good to dwell upon his friendship with Garak. He was overwhelmed with guilt for allowing their get-togethers to dwindle. For all his concern, Garak hadn’t seemed too badly affected and was presumably still well-tended by lovely Ziyal. Not that he was jealous of their growing relations. Certainly not. He didn’t have any right to be bitter or to feel sorry for himself and it was a good thing that the Cardassian was expanding his social circle. For too long Julian had felt the pressure of being his only real friend and point of contact on the station. Although now that was no longer the case, he found that he missed being needed. Such selfishness wasn’t becoming, not to mention that it was horribly unfair to Garak, but he couldn’t help the way that he felt. He had always been very singular in his attentions, a trait that often left him blind to what was right in front of him.
Julian, feeling his control slip, was unable to stop the sudden onslaught of cascading thoughts and emotions. His stomach plummeted and he started to clam up, exactly the reaction he’d been trying to prevent. Had he missed his chance with Garak? Was he too late to apologise for the errors that he’d made? Had Ziyal managed to succeed where he’d failed? He found himself adrift without their heated literary debates and treasured them immensely, often replaying them in his mind. Did Garak ever miss them too? Or simply miss his company?
That was unlikely, Julian thought angrily, remembering that his duplicate would be filling in for him adequately enough. It was unfortunate timing that he had been kidnapped whilst his relationship with Garak was under strain. Had they been closer, he would hope that Garak (out of everyone) would have seen through his impersonator. Martok wisely advised him against getting lost in the what-ifs of the situation and instead concentrate on what they could do today, insisting that there was still chance of escape yet. Although, the General had been horrified to hear of his replacement’s influence on the Klingon Empire and was shamed by the dishonour of its actions.
A sharp push to Julian’s shoulder shoved him over the threshold of the barracks, an unnecessary action as he was clearly co-operating. He landed awkwardly and gritted his teeth to keep from crying out, refusing to give his tormentors the satisfaction. The Jem’Hadar seemed to relish upholding their dominance and took every chance to manhandle the inmates. It was tiresome and reminded him of unhappy days spent picking himself up off the school playground. He’d paid the price back then for being noticeably slower than his peers, a vulnerability that brought out the worst in his classmates. Even at home he was repeatedly put down by his father for not fitting in and allowing himself to be picked on, as though he’d had any say in how others viewed him. The tough love didn’t have the desired effect and instead caused him to retreat further into the safety of his own world. Of course, that was before Richard Bashir gave up on his son entirely, arranging instead to have the problem ‘sorted out’ once and for all.
Consequently, as an adult, Julian had never been able to abide bullying in any form and the guards’ thuggish behaviour wound him up no end. They didn’t tolerate exceptions and viewed his medical interference as a nuisance, despite the Vorta having allowed it to continue. On top of that, his human physique wasn’t overtly impressive and, as such, they didn’t see him as a worthy adversary on any level. His knowledge and skills as a doctor, which brought him so much personal pride, meant literally nothing in the eyes of his captors.
Julian could concede his reputation as ‘just another weak human’ did have some advantages. Away from his closely scrutinised ringside efforts the guards mostly ignored him, enabling him to move uninhibited through the barracks without drawing attention. This was a tactic that he’d seen expertly applied by Kalenna; one of his Romulan accomplices. She did exceptionally well to keep a low profile and seemed able to blend into the background at any given moment. According to Martok, the single occasion when Kalenna was forced into the ring had been a notable success. She never elaborated on the matter herself, but the General had proudly deemed it a ‘glorious day’, vehemently opposing her cool indifference. The rest of her captured comrades weren’t so lucky and had been steadily picked off one by one. From what he could piece together, the public fights with the Jem’Hadar weren’t the only violence they had been subjected to. By the time he’d joined the misfits of Barrack 6, Kalenna was the last woman standing and had been duly inducted into Tain’s ranks.
General Martok had the opposite problem; viewed as the sole opponent of worth amongst the population he was selected to fight at least once a week. This accolade meant that the Jem’Hadar were careful not to grant the Klingon an honourable death and always held themselves back from inflicting fatal injuries. The rest of the prisoners, however, were fair game. Over the month or so that he’d been detained, Julian had witnessed the needless deaths of numerous Romulan and Cardassian inmates. The victims who succumbed to their injuries or were too badly wounded to warrant treatment were immediately disposed of. None received any sort of burial rights. Each kill, having temporarily appeased the bloodlust of the guards, granted the rest of them an extra day’s respite. The selfish relief following such an event rippled through the prison, a grim reminder of just how desperate and futile their daily lives had become.
Julian couldn’t feign indifference and keep his head down in the face of such pointless and avoidable suffering, much to Tain’s annoyance. The ailing senior Cardassian had made his own feelings perfectly clear, he saw Julian’s continued efforts to tend to their fellow prisoners as conceited and risky. But he was a doctor, dammit! His bunkmates could hardly expect him to sit back and do nothing when there were people in need. Well, maybe the pragmatic Romulans could see merit in Tain’s point of view, but he knew that General Martok understood the compulsion to be true to yourself. Nobody expected the Klingon to hold back or act in a manner contrary to the warrior he was. The General would keep his head raised and fight on, through relentless torment, until the bitter end. Was it so inconceivable that the solitary human in their midst would have a similar strength of conviction?
As Julian steadied himself against the bulkhead and waited for his light-headedness to pass, he saw the now-familiar profiles of Kalenna and Martok emerging from the crowd ahead of him. The Romulan caught his eye and looked pointedly at his aching shoulder, but he quickly shook his head; he wasn’t badly injured. Kalenna let out a wry half smile and nodded, seemingly content with his assessment. His fellow conspirators were relieved to see him which implied that Tain was still hanging on and needed tending to. He took a fortifying breath and tried to rally; this was good news. He’d been convinced the unwell Cardassian would take a turn for the worst while he was away.
The inhabitants of Barrack 6 converged outside their quarters, glad to be reunited once more. Julian’s brain, having finally caught up, identified something else; they weren’t alone. Following closely behind the General were two wholly unexpected newcomers to Internment Camp 371’s happy family. Well, shit. He’d never been so overjoyed and yet so disappointed to be reacquainted with those unmistakeable bright blue eyes. Their uniquely piercing gaze had become an unshakeable fixture in his dreams as of late, often following him all the way through into his waking hours. His unconscious mind hadn’t done them justice though, they were even more unfathomable and beautifully luminescent in person. A splash of vibrant colour amongst this miserable sea of endless despair.