Title: The Girl Who Couldn't Sing Along
Author: Erin (dinobot_47@hotmail.com)
Series/Code: DS9, Ezri Dax
Rating: PG

Synopsis: Fifteen minutes in the life of Ezri Dax after her arrival on 
DS9

Comments: This was written based on *initial* reports I read on Ezri's 
character (the joining was unwanted and she doesn't get along with her 
symbiont.) It's not a very deep piece, but it's a bit of an experiment 
for me, to see if I can create sorta-rounded characters. I would 
appreciate comments and criticisms, but *please* send them by email. 
Thanx.

*
Ezri Dax's legs thrashed, kicking soapy water everywhere, splattering 
the floor and walls with more stains, her head and arms beating a [] 
tattoo against the rim of her bathtub. In the eyes of anyone unfamiliar 
with Trill physiognomy, Dax would appear to be suffering a grand mal 
epileptic seizure. That interpretation could not be any further from 
the truth. Ezri was arguing with her symbiont.

It had only been three weeks since her joining, and she was not 
adapting very well. The voices in her head, the new, inexplicable 
personality traits, behavioral anomalies that she never had and new 
body language, she couldn't stand any of it.

So she yelled at her symbiont.

Most of the time, it would argue back. She had only recently been 
joined, they would say, and should understand that some of the most 
prominent Trills in history had not chosen to be bonded with their 
symbiont. Why, even the First Joined had had the sessile creature 
forced inside her.

It would be a learning experience. She should not fight. It wasn't 
polite, argued Dax, and it simply wasn't proper to show this side of 
their society to aliens.

Ezri had heard that argument so many times that she felt she might go 
insane. To prevent that, she simply forced her symbiont to shut up.

Some joined Trill could distance their humanoid consciousness from 
their symbiont's. A few could not. Ezri was one of the latter, and when 
she tried to, she suffered from her pseudo-seizures.

The bruises and the mess never bothered her, for she believed in her 
heart of hearts that she would one day convince Dax that she was right 
and it was wrong. On that day, it would finally learn to keep its 
opinions to itself. (That will be the day we receive a *host* 
transplant,) Curzon said, his dour voice tinted with anger.

(Wouldn't that be *wonderful*,) jadzia said wistfully, (We might 
actually get a host with more than two brain cells to rub together)

"Shut up," she screamed, her voice hoarse, "just shut up, all of you!" 
She pounded on her abdomen, short nails tearing at a newly healed scar, 
stretched a vivid red against her pale skin. Tearing out her symbiont 
would condemn them both, but it would be worth it to be free of the 
voices, if only for a few hours. 

The edge of a fingernail caught on the scar tissue and tore a strip of 
flesh off her belly. Blood began to ooze from the wound into the dirty 
bathwater. She began to dig her nails into the raw flesh, frantically 
trying to dig down to the symbiont. They wouldn't stop her, not this 
time...

(Oh, Ezri, don't.) Lela. The only voice Ezri could marginally tolerate. 
The chipper old battle-axe reminded Ezri of her mother. (My dear, you 
cannot go out that way, bleeding to death in your bathtub. If you *do* 
do yourself in, at least pick a more spectacular way to go out.)

Sometimes, she sounded too much like her mother.

(You can't, you can't. I won't let you die!) Jadzia, Ezri's 
predecessor. Ever since her death only a month ago, she had become 
insufferable. She had made it her goal since then to ensure that 
everyone, but especially Ezri, experienced even a fraction of the 
suffering she endured. (I 
have...things I have to tie up before you can die.)

"You mean killing Dukat and having Worf get me pregnant." Ezri said, 
stating what had been breathtakingly obvious since Jadzia's voice 
joined the choir of the symbiont. Kill Dukat and have Worf's child were 
the only thoughts Ezri had heard from Jadzia since she was joined to 
Dax.

(Exactly,) Jadzia nodded in confirmation.

"That's what I don't get about all of this," continued Ezri, "I mean, 
why do you want to kill Dukat?"

(Yeah, all he did was zap her with an energy beam, [techno-babble]. And 
she was robbed of any chance at survival when Bashir was forced to 
remove the symbiont,) Verad drawled in sarcasm. (What's so bad about 
that?)

(He murdered me,) Jadzia sneered in reply.

"He was possessed when he killed you, Ezri interrupted, seemingly 
oblivious to Jadzia's anger. In truth, she enjoyed toying with Jadzia. 
She relished the thought of the Perfect One lowered to such depths just 
because she was murdered. "Jadzia, Arandis killed Curzon and he doesn't 
want to see her dead."

(That's different,) the old man said hotly, (I was in the throes of 
jamaharon. Jadzia was murdered because she got in Dukat's way.)

"It's not different," she replied sweetly, "Dukat was possessed by one 
of those pah-wraith things. You should bear your grudge against that. 
It should have been obvious even to you, Jadzia. How many Cardassians 
do you know of that can shoot beams of energy out of their hands?" She 
said, stepping out of the bath and pulling a thick robe over her naked, 
soapy figure.

(Ezri.) Lela, using a tone Ezri thought only her mother had a patent 
on. Concerned scolding. (You should wipe that soap off. It's horrible 
for your skin.)

"Whatever. I wipe it off before I put my uniform on."

(You changed the subject,) Jadzia said. Ezri rolled her eyes. (Always 
you, isn't it, Jadzia. You might be dead, but in your eyes, you're 
still the host,) she thought to herself in that small part of her mind 
that was still *hers*.

Out loud, she replied simply, "I didn't. Lela did." The *only* thing 
she enjoyed more than upsetting Jadzia was pitting parts of her 
symbiont against itself. When they fought amongst themselves, Ezri was 
free to do what she wanted to, without their interference.

(Ezri,) Audrid started, (Why do you mock Jadzia's desire to have Worf's 
child?)]

"I'm not," Ezri stuttered in defense. "If Worf got *me* pregnant, it 
wouldn't be her child, it would be mine."

(It's parentage is unimportant. Jadzia desires Worf's child. I dpoubt 
she would care if it were your DNA instead of hers that contributed to 
it's development.)

"Oh, First Joined," Ezri groaned. "Audrid, could we please agree not to 
discuss this issue ever again?" Audrid did not reply, and Ezri simply 
rolled her eyes.

The bathroom door opened, and Ezri stepped through. She stopped in mid-
stride at the sight of the man she hated the most. Worf, Jadzia's 
husband, was standing in her living room as if he owned it. In his 
eyes, he lived with her. In his eyes, they were still married, a fact 
which pleased Jadzia to no end.

Every night she changed her lock codes, and every night the symbiont 
would take control and send Worf the codes, with an invitation to 
visit. Whenever she would try to change the codes before the 
'designated' time, her hands would sudddenly stop working.

Her quarters, as small as they were, were no longer hers, nor was her 
mind.

(Oh, Worf!) Jadzia thought in delight, and Ezri had to clamp her lips 
shut to 
prevent Jadzia from speaking those words out loud.

"Get out!" She screamed. "Get out, *get out*, GET OUT!" She bellowed 
those two words until she could feel the station vibrate under her 
feet. Loud enough so that even that thick-skulled Klingon would finally 
understand that she hated him.

"Dax!" He exclaimed, his voice filled with more warmth than he had ever 
shown Jadzia. It made Jadzia jealous, but it was not the kind of 
emotion Ezri wanted to encourage in the recently deceased woman.

"I'm not Dax," she stated calmly, clearly. She would have bellowed it, 
screamed until her voice was hoarse, but in one of Curzon's few moments 
of sympathy, he had explained that using such tones with a Klingon 
meant one was attracted to them.

(We could knock him unconscious and drag him into the corridor,) Joran 
suggested. He was one of her least talkative voices, and for that, she 
was grateful. He frightened her with his temper and the grudges he held 
against the Universe.

(Jadzia is an expert in Klingon martial arts. Emony can fight better 
than most soldiers I know. Curzon wasn't so bad himself, when he was 
younger,) he continued, his silken voice whispering in her ear. (I 
don't have such a bad aim myself.

(We can still do it even if they don't want to. All we need is a heavy 
object...Hm, like that stone carving. Smash it into his head, he would 
drop like a rock)

"But that's a family heirloom!" She protested. "It would break... It 
would shatter Worf's skull!"

(It would be worth it for the drip, drip...drip, drip of Worf's blood 
and brains draining out of his fractured skull. You would be rid of 
him...Wouldn't it be worth it?)

"I'm not killing anyone," she shouted, driving the heels of her hands 
into her temples until the room began to spin.

(You wouldn't even be convicted, if that's what you're afraid of! All 
you would have to do would be to say your symbiont made you do it. That 
part, at least, is true. And when Trill authorities conduct a 
zhian'tara to question all the personalities, I can guarantee that 
everyone will come across as mad. You'll be lucky if they let you keep 
even half of us!)

It was the ultimate punishment for a deviant voice in the symbiont. The 
errant personality was transferred, using the zhian'tara ritual, from 
the symbiont to a very dead corpse, usually that of the former host if 
it was still available. (They should have done that with you,) Torias 
grumbled. 

(They didn't, mine predecessor, for a very good reason!) Joran 
chortled, (for when I was murdered by our dear symbiosis commission, 
the technique hadn't been developed yet. It was invented a year after 
Jadzia had the...mercy to integrate me with the symbiont's 
personalities.)(How unfortunate,) Curzon interjected. (Yes, how!) Joran 
said, his braying laugh echoing throughout Ezri's mind. (Pour symbiosis 
commission, couldn't kill off Joran!)

(Do not mock them,) Audrid interjected. Her voice held a quiet fury 
Ezri recognized quite well. She had been subjected to it whenever she 
dared mock Jadzia's desire for children.

(I am not mocking them, my dear commissioner. Why, if it were not for 
them, I would be dead now. They have granted me immortality...stuck 
with the lot of you,) he grumbled, (but immortal, nonetheless)

"Joran, don't fight," Ezri started.

(Oh, Ezri, I thought you liked it when we fought.) Had he been flesh at 
that moment, she knew he would have been pouting and verging on tears. 
He was an excellent actor. How else could he have fooled the symbiosis 
commission all those years ago?

(He committed fraud. He falsified records,) Audrid retorted. (He lied 
to the initiate commission and he used his talents as a musician as 
leverage. His...modest fame as a composer influenced his evaluators.)

"Oh, Audrid, lay off Joran. Joran, leave her and Torias alone. Can we 
please get back to how I can get Worf out of my quarters?"

(Hurt him)

(Reason with him)

(Tell him politely)

(Make love to him!)

(and them throw that icon at him!)

 "Joran, Jadzia, no. I'm not hurting--or screwing--anyone," She replied 
in exasperation, raking her fingers through her short, spiky black 
hair. "I just want him out of my quarters." 

(You really ought to grow it out,) Emony said, a propos of nothing.

"What?! What does that have to do with anything?"

(Your hair, and I just thought you would look much nicer if it were 
shoulder-length, or at the very lest came down to your earlobes.)

"Why don't I just shave my head, would *that* shut you up?"

(That would look nice too. Um...so long as you have a symmetrical 
skull.)

"If I'm stuck with the lot of you inside my head, you might at least 
help me with my problems. How do I get rid of Worf?"

The choir's voices grew, melding with each other. A deep bass 
contrasting with a light alto, a baritone joining in at odd moments, 
and a backup of low, indistinct singing. Their melody swept through 
Ezri's mind and for a moment, she was singing with them.

//Throw the carving at him,// the voices ordered. She wrapped her 
fingers around the crude stone idol and hefted it above her head. She 
could hear the blood rushing in her ears and she nearly tasted the 
adrenaline pumping through her system. The chorus of voices became one, 
drawing her under their influence.

If she threw the carving at Worf, for a moment, she knew she would be 
welcome.

A grunt passed her lips, and she felt the carving being lifted from her 
hands. It crashed into the wall only millimeters from Worf's head, 
shattering into millions of tiny fragments.

She bared her teeth at him and growled, simply because Curzon told her 
to. Emotions Ezri couldn't recognize flashed across Worf's face. He 
fled the room, and she crumpled to the floor in exhaustion. 

And suddenly, the carving thrown, Worf gone, she remembered what a 
growl meant to a Klingon. She knew the emotions that had passed over 
Worf's face before he fled.

She felt used.

She *was* used, a puppet in the machinations of her voices.

"Is that what I am," she said bitterly, her voice shaking with a 
repressed sob, "just some toy you can use to further objectives you 
never achieved in your lifetimes?"

The choir did not deign the question answerable. After all, it was 
obvious.