Patin's Lessons Part ∞ – The Dance of the Boot
Posted on Wed Nov 5th, 2025 @ 6:52pm by Patin
1,280 words; about a 6 minute read
Mission:
Character Development
Location: Celestial Temple
A Lesson in Momentum, Anatomy, and How to Use a Jaw as Leverage
The Celestial Temple shimmered with that usual quiet glow, like a sunrise trapped in glass. Patin had long since gotten bored with all that serenity. She’d begun stacking the luminous orbs that drifted around her—one, two, three high—balancing them like juggling pins.
You disturb the stillness.
“Yeah, well, stillness gets dull.” She added a fourth orb and stepped back, arms crossed, proud. “See? Perfect balance. Just like me in a fight.”
You do not fight. You are... among us.
She grinned. “Oh, you’d be surprised. Even in here, I can throw a punch if I need to.”
Explain.
Patin’s smile went sideways, the mischievous kind. “You ever hear of The Dance of the Boot?”
We have not observed such a ritual.
“Oh, it’s no ritual. It’s an art form. Bajoran martial expression... with velocity.” She flicked her wrist, and the orbs she’d balanced began to spin faster and faster, blurring until they became a cyclone of light. “Let me show you.”
The Temple folded in on itself, light becoming shadow, warmth becoming the metallic tang of ore and sweat. The smell hit first—industrial, choking, burnt minerals and misery.
Refinery #12, Bajor, During the Occupation
Patin stood in her old resistance leathers, the patch on her arm torn and re-sewn so many times the thread looked like scar tissue. She was younger, stronger, blood still warm from fury.
She whispered into the comm, “I’m in. Power relay’s on the east catwalk. Guard rotations are thin, but they’ve got one of those spoonheads with the gold shoulders, supervisor type.”
Nozzie’s voice crackled softly in her ear, calm but carrying that command tone she always had. “Patin, do not blow it yet. We need confirmation of the prisoners’ location.”
“Copy that,” Patin replied, already setting the first charge. “I’ll keep my finger off the trigger, for now.”
The Prophet-voices murmured from beyond the illusion, You defied command.
“Strategic improvisation,” Patin corrected them. “And anyway, this is where it gets fun.”
A Cardassian patrol appeared, two soldiers, armor glinting in the dim refinery light. Their boots clanged against the grating. Patin crouched behind a crate, counting their steps like a drummer waiting for the beat to drop.
“One-two... one-two... pivot.”
She stepped out, grabbed a pipe wrench, and let the music of chaos begin.
The first Cardassian didn’t even have time to shout. She swung low, letting her smaller frame slip under his reach. “Always hit the hinge,” she whispered to no one and everyone, “never the lock.”
Her boot came up, size nine, worn at the heel but full of history, and planted squarely under his chin. Momentum did the rest. His jaw snapped shut with an audible clack as he fell backward into the railing.
The second soldier lunged, but Patin had already turned the first one’s body into a weapon. She used his collapsing mass to pivot, spinning herself around and throwing her full weight into the next strike. The sound that followed was part grunt, part crunch, part music.
“That’s the dance,” she said proudly. “You keep moving, keep spinning. Don’t let gravity decide your tempo.”
You equate violence with... rhythm.
“Everything’s rhythm, sugar. Even prayer.”
The second Cardassian managed to grab her arm. Bad move. She used his grip to pull herself closer, then slammed her forehead into his ridges. He staggered, confused by the sudden introduction of Bajoran skull geometry to his face.
She twisted, grabbed the hinge of his jaw, because anatomy is destiny, and used it as leverage. A sharp pivot of her hip, a roll through the shoulder, and the big man went flying into the control panel. Sparks lit up like fireflies.
“I told you, jaw’s a hinge, not a handle.”
Smoke rose. The refinery lights flickered. Somewhere, alarms began to scream.
“Time to dance out,” she muttered, slapping the detonator. The charges blew in a wave of golden light, roaring through the catwalks and turning Cardassian efficiency into a fireworks show.
In the chaos, she freed the prisoners. One, a trembling Bajoran woman, clutched Patin’s arm and whispered, “You’re mad.”
Patin winked. “That’s why it works.”
The scene froze there—firelight painting her face, smoke curling around her grin—before dissolving back into the soft, unending glow of the Temple.
You used... footwear as a weapon.
“Boot,” she corrected, dusting off nothing. “Specifically my boot. Broke the sole, but it was worth it.”
This... dance. You claim it teaches... momentum?
“Oh, plenty. Momentum, anatomy, leverage, improvisation, and how to turn a bad situation into a worse one for your enemy.” She stretched her arms like she’d just finished a good stretch after a long nap. “But really it’s about confidence. You can’t hesitate in a fight, not even when the odds say you should be dead.”
You speak as though fate itself may be... struck.
Patin laughed—, an honest, belly-deep sound that echoed through eternity. “Dropkicked, darling. The word is dropkicked. I once hit a fate so hard it forgot its own prophecy.”
Metaphor.
“Not this time.”
You... defy inevitability?
“I question inevitability. Then I knock it over and steal its lunch money.”
There was silence for a while, golden, radiant silence, full of cosmic bewilderment. Then one Prophet spoke, softer this time.
You are chaos contained in shape.
Patin tilted her head, smiling gently. “No, I’m Bajoran. Chaos is just my dance partner.”
And this... boot?
“Oh, that old thing? I still have it. Somewhere. Might start a museum: ‘Patin’s House of Explosions and Footwear.’”
You jest.
She winked. “Do I, though?”
The Prophets said nothing, but the Temple shimmered subtly, like it was trying not to laugh.
Patin kicked one of the glowing orbs, and instead of scattering, it began to spin, just as before, hovering in a lazy circle.
“Lesson’s over,” she said. “Remember, kids: when life grabs you by the jaw, use it for leverage.”
You are a paradox, Patin.
“I’m Bajoran, love,” she said, stepping backward into the light. “Paradox comes standard.”
The temple quieted again, its golden light curling like smoke around her thoughts. The echoes of the refinery, iron, sweat, shouts, dissolved into stillness. For a moment she wondered if she had dreamed the whole thing, if the boot, the jaw, the chaos were all tricks of some celestial humor.
She sat cross-legged on the nothing floor, looking at her hands. Still calloused. Still hers.
Why fight? one voice asked, the tone neither curious nor kind.
“Because someone has to start the rhythm,” she said. “Even if the dance is ugly.”
The voices whispered among themselves, an infinite conversation about will and gravity. She let them. Her eyes wandered to the light, warm as a hearth, and she smiled the way you do when you’ve made peace with your own noise.
She snapped her fingers, and with a shimmer of Bajoran sand, a pair of battered boots appeared at her feet. The laces were frayed, the soles thin, but they were hers.
“Can’t forget the music,” she murmured, slipping them on.
When she stood, the floor rippled beneath her like water. Somewhere, faintly, the universe kept time to her step, thud, pause, thud, a rhythm only the stubborn could hear.
TBC
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