come_sailaway | Especially the lies

Entry tags:

Especially the lies

Who: Garak and you
Where: The buffet, Tommy Bahama, elsewhere
What: A toplevel for your fashion lizard needs.
Warnings: As needed

Windjammers

He kept a low profile during the flowers; it seemed wisest, given the unknown effects, and for a man who deals in secrets, and for one who hadn't established himself much socially yet, it seemed best to avoid putting himself in an awkward situation.

Still, he must eat. And it's not as though he's unfamiliar with human cuisine, no, and sometimes it's perfectly fine, but it never quite looks appetising to him. Different palates, he has to assume, plus a general unfamiliarity about how something is meant to look. Garak hovers over the buffet line, looking dubiously at the different dishes.

Tommy Bahama

He cannot wear only the clothes he came in. Neither can he settle for this, apparently. Even if he wanted to pick from some of the more respectable items, the sad truth is that so many of the collars are simply not equipped to deal with, fit, or just look good on a wide, ridged Cardassian neck. Fortunately, he has certain skills. He does need material to work with, however, and he picks through the fabric carefully, looking for shirts that can be adjusted, dresses that can be salvaged for smaller pieces, interesting patterns or fabric.

And, despite everything else, it's almost nice to focus on something like this.

Occasionally he makes little observations aloud: "Well, that's a pattern for someone." "Hm, would these work together?" "No, the drape is all wrong."

Wildcard

You know where to find me

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"Oh I say, not that one," someone comments from nearby, "the pleasant salmon colour is a tremendous bit of false advertising for how difficult it is to launder. These dashed synthetic fabrics, wot."

A perfectly handsome man with an armful of shirts (being dutifully returned now that Giles has returned to himself) emerges from behind a mannequin, draping a necktie over its arm.

"Have we met?"

"Is it? What a pity. I wonder if I can find something in a similar shade that's of better quality."

He turns with a smile, equal parts curious and friendly. "I think I would remember if I had made your acquaintance. Garak, at your service."

Now that's a line straight out Ossie's playbook. A demure hand goes to his lapel, his smile perfectly flattered.

"Mr Garak, what a fascinating name. You'll have to tell me where it's from. A pleasure," he inclines his head gently.

"I believe there's a stock of linen shirts over this way. You'll want to keep close to the entry, you understand, this place goes on forever."

"Linen, is it? I can do something interesting with linen, I think."

Garak moves to follow, his eyes on Ossie. "It's a Cardassian name, but there any number of people here who haven't met a Cardassian. It does rather make me something of a spectacle."

"Spectacle is such an ugly word. I do hope people haven't been making you feel too unwelcome. The manners on some of them," he tuts to himself.

It's reminiscent of taking a leading step in a waltz when he asks-

"Are you a tailor, Mr Garak?" a gentle push, to see how he reacts.

"Oh, no, people have been quite welcoming. It's... refreshing." Because he's used to being the odd one out, but being the only Cardassian on DS9 is a different experience than being the only Cardassian on the Serena Eterna.

Garak looks down at the clothing over his arm. "I am, in fact. It's just as well, given the selection we are apparently given to work with."

"Marvellous, I do hate having to give people a stern talking-to," and he laughs in a small tittering manner.

"Just dreadful, is it not? Beachwear without the fun of it, formalwear made casual-" Ossie clicks his tongue, "if I weren't fortunate enough to have alternative arrangements, I say I would have gone quite mad already. The souvenir shop aboard isn't much better, unless youre a fan of branded t-shirts for this place."

Edited 2023-10-12 08:37 (UTC)

"Some of the fabric is fine enough, and the trousers are perfectly serviceable, if plain, but I can't be expected to do a thing with these necklines."

Garak clucks his tongue about it, holding up a perfectly ordinary shirt with a perfectly ordinary crew-neck collar that would never fit on his wide, ridged neck.

"What alternative arrangements might those be? If you have some well-kept fashion secret, I would love to hear about it."

Unfortunately this isn't a Spirit Halloween yet, and Ava's disappointment is contained behind a mask. Not her usual Ghost mask that's shoved into her drawer and unworn for the past year. But a newly regained costume that almost resembles it if reworked in a completely different style.

She's about to turn and vanish, when she spots a familiar figure doing a familiar activity of struggling to find what he's looking for amongst the infinite racks of colorful resort wear. She went through the same months ago while trying to source materials for her wedding dress.

Ava quietly floats closer, up from behind Garak. Shadows trail in the space between her feet and the floor, disguised within her natural shadow.

Approaching almost like the predator that makes his residence here, she makes her presence known with a whisper.

"I like the one with the fish." Also unlike her other mask, this one does not distort her voice. He should be able to recognize it.

He startles in a way that speaks of more than mere tailorhood, the way of someone used to expecting danger, of someone prepared at any given moment to fight; as he turns, and recognition dawns, he shifts into a show of distracted relief, a hand resting on his chest.

"Ava! How quiet you are, you gave me quite the start. That is you under that outfit, isn't it?"

The lightest giggle as she innocently waves the long white sleeves back and forth, the fabric fluttering with shadow.

"Could be somebody wearing my skin. Happened last October. But don't think there's any ghosts left to possess." Normally she'd be more regretful towards the lost souls.

"Ah," Garak says, not in the least sure how he should take this statement, "I see. I don't suppose there's much point in my asking for information only you would know to prove it's you?"

He doesn't have that much experience to draw on, after all.

"I will have to be on the alert for, ah, possessions." He was already on alert. This is just one more thing.

"Any information I gave you could just as convincingly be made up by somebody not me, and you'd have no way to verify," Ava confirms the futility of it. "But if my goal were to hide my identity, I wouldn't have suggested the possibility of having stolen it at all. That'd be rather counterproductive."

She goes through the racks of clothing. "You have more immediate fashion concerns anyway."

"Mm, it would seem counterproductive, but there's something to be said to making yourself as obviously harmless as possible."

He says it innocently, with a bright smile.

"And I do. I suppose it's just as lucky that I'm a tailor. Remarkably few of the collars in here are equipped for Cardassian anatomy, even if I did want to wear any of them as they were."

"I am absolutely harmless," she wiggles her sharp claws at him in contradiction of the claim.

"That your primary occupation, or a hobby you've picked up out of necessity?"

"As harmless as I am, I'm sure."

Oh, he likes her.

"I do find it useful to cultivate any number of skills," Garak says, "but I did have a shop for some years. Wonderfully straightforward work, and yet one must have an eye for small details. Rather satisfying work."

Which is not really an answer to her question.

"Details are important." If the first comment wasn't deliberately giving himself away, the second certainly does. Because Ava listens not just for what people say, but what they don't. The type of people that use such evasive tactics so seamlessly (hehe) to avoid mentioning their occupation fall into a rather specific category that Ava herself is trained to identify.

"I bet you had a number of interesting clients."

He considers, briefly, how he wants to answer that.

"There's been a few. Quite a variety of interesting people passed through the station, in addition to the more permanent residents, but I usually had quite enough to keep me busy. There were always just the local merchants in need of a custom suit or an elegant gown -- and who doesn't need someone with an eye for colour to help them through a difficult choice -- though there was that Betazoid diplomat who was seeking something rather daring."

Garak looks her over for a moment. "Now, your outfit is something interesting indeed. It's very elegant, and yet... very practical." He gestures to the claws. "For a certain purpose. Something Romulan about the shoulders, but a little more Bajoran and Vulcan -- well, I suppose there's no sense in trying to make comparisons."

"Daring?" she asks, hoping there's a fun story behind that. One that he's willing to share.

"Ah, the inspiration is from Earth. Japanese samurai, I think. I'm not exactly an expert on the cultural history. But they were warriors. This sort of mask though I believe was used more in plays? And the claws aren't exactly... necessary, but effective. Hypothetically. Haven't had need to put them through anyone yet."

There's absolutely no reason for Maximilien to set foot in the Tommy Bahama ever again, and with the disappearance of Jade he doesn't even have a benevolent reason for science. He's planning to never be within a meter of all that poly-blend floral trash.

But he does have to walk by it on the way to other places, hands behind his back, giving the appearance of haughtily strutting everywhere. Because he is.

So when Garak eventually leaves with his treasures, he'll encounter a stylish metal man appraising him cooly with red glowing eyes, deciding if he wants to talk to anyone who was just in there. They're probably contaminated. Is lycra contagious?

"Greetings, you must be new."

Oh, this is an interesting person. A mask, or an armoured suit? No. No, this does seem to be someone fully mechanical. A person, or a thing, or something in between? The attitude, at least, is very much a person sort of vibe.

Garak smiles, adjusting the clothing he has draped over one arm. It's at least the nicest material he can find. "I am, in fact. And to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?"

"Maximilien." And he gives a polite nod of his head, because first impressions and all that. "My apologies for the lack of proper attire here. It's something I've wanted to rectify for quite some time."

But he's hesitated to complain about it since complaining is what got them the Tommy Bahama in the first place.

"Have you, now?" Garak inclines his head to a politely curious angle. "You feel some sense of personal responsibility for the clothing available on board? I was not under the impression there was much trade at all going on here."

"There's no trade. No economy. No financial transactions of any kind." Though his demeanor doesn't change, his tone gives the impression of a petulant toddler kicking his feet.

"It's unconscionable really."

"How very Ferengi of you," Garak remarks, neutrally, politely.

"But I suppose that we haven't the population here to sustain a real economy. Or at least, no one seems to have instituted one."

He's unsure if that's an insult or not so he's going to not comment on it.

"No, not any longer, there were many more of us a year ago though. Over a hundred, but now we're hovering around sixty by my estimation. It's reassuring that there's still new passengers, and that hopefully the place won't fall into further disrepair."

"How very fortunate I am," Garak says, with the faintest of dramatic sighs. "Not only am I in some sort of dimensional prison ship, I am in a dimensional prison ship that is suffering neglect. At least," he adds, smiling brightly again, "the company has been first rate."

"The neglect is a new development brought on by some of the passengers. But yes, the rest of that is a correct assessment." Both that Garak is fortunate to be here and in first rate company. You're welcome.

"Some of us are more accustomed to scintillating conversations than others. And it's always a pleasure to meet someone who can elevate the ambiance. I trust others have been helpful and shown you around? Explained the situation we've found ourselves in?"

Look who's appearing with a tray and a plate ready to be stacked high with greasy food!!

"Hey!! You're still here!" Yeah, super reassuring. "Iiiiit's... Garret, right?"

He's trying okay.

"Garak," he corrects. "I am indeed still here. Is it surprising that I am? Surely there isn't anywhere for me to go."

"Garak, sorry, got it." It's those wacky alien names that give him trouble!

"Oh, yeah, ummmmm, sometimes people show up and then they just disappear again. Used to be that your ~soul~ or whatever got sucked into the engine to be tortured for eternity for fuel, but I guess now they just... fwip! Disappear forever."

"... how very charming."

Well, that's certainly something he hadn't quite heard before, and it's unpleasant news; his smile falters a little.

"And I don't suppose there's any good advice about... avoiding such a fate?"

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Especially the lies

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Windjammer

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