Help, I Accidentally Adopted My God

Chapter 2: Ninth Of His Line

It goes without saying that Weyoun 9 was not like the Weyouns that came before him. He was a runaway, with no Dominion to expand and only one god to serve — a god who seemed more interested in trying to see how far up the wall she could climb than in giving him any sort of command. He was not bereft of purpose, however, as he was also the only Weyoun to be beholden to a non-Dominion captain. His menial cleaning and maintenance tasks were demeaning, but at least he was being told what to do.

But Weyoun was different in other ways, more interesting ways, ways that should've been utterly impossible. He had sharp claws in his fingers, mild venom in his fangs, new strength in his body; his mind felt clearer, less obsessive, more questioning; he saw beauty, heard music, tasted the truly terrible things the Targstomp's cook dared to call food — somehow, Weyoun 9 had been reverted, at least partially, to what his species had been long ago. Before the Founders had gotten to them. Before even Weyoun 1's time.

He was scared when he first realized what had happened; would he lose the intelligence and skills gifted to him by the Founders? Would he become little more than an animal? But, no, his higher functions were still mostly intact. Perhaps he was a tad more emotional, a bit less wary, but he was still the trained and cunning ambassador he'd been for nearly all his lives. He was still scared, though.

He heard chatter here and there, just enough to piece together that something had made the computers glitch on all the newest clones, turned the Federation-captured Vorta into these mix-and-matched half-wild reverts. No one he spoke to seemed to know how or why or if it would keep happening, and the crew tended to get annoyed if he dug too deep (he was hardly the only criminal on board, after all, and his crewmates grew paranoid suspicious easily).

He was so different, but he was still Weyoun, still a Vorta.

He did his best to sew the number 9 into the neck of the simple robe the captain had given him, having never gotten the chance to receive a proper identifying collar. He kept his hair and tail as neat as he could, though his time and tools were limited (he shuddered at the memory of the mess that was Weyoun 6's grooming routine).

He walked straight-backed and at an even pace at first, though quickly learned his slightly-altered skeletal structure now preferred a partially bent, somewhat hoppy sort of walk. Despite his best efforts, he hardly looked the way a proper, well-trained Vorta should.

He risked the company of H'jrel, the Klingon pilot, just to play the basic games they had on board. The man was violent and quite possibly a ex-warlord, but he was jovial and good enough at kadis-kot to keep Weyoun entertained.

Weyoun was polite and humble when speaking to others, though his biting comments behind their backs made Nilar — the Andorian comms officer who was 'definitely not a smuggler' — snort with laughter.

He asked a million questions about things large and small, unfazed by lack of answers or requests (demands) to shut up. He talked and he wondered and he was perhaps not the best at knowing what was appropriate to say when. In his defense, he was an ambassador, not a– oh actually that was a horrible defense, wasn't it? An ambassador who doesn't have the foggiest idea how to properly conduct himself outside of work? What an oversight on the part of the Founders that programmed him...

...what in the Link did he just think?