Patin’s Lessons to the Prophets, Vol. 1
Posted on Fri Sep 19th, 2025 @ 7:25pm by Patin
644 words; about a 3 minute read
Mission:
Character Development
Location: Celestial Temple
The Temple shimmered with its endless folds of light and time. Where most who entered felt awe, Patin only felt bored. She spat — or at least pantomimed the act of spitting, since the rules of this place made it impossible for anything so crude to stick.
“You lot don’t know the first damn thing about Bajor,” she barked, hands shoved into the many pockets of her battered jacket. “You watch time, you don’t live it. Let me explain.”
A ripple of energy stirred — a thousand voices speaking as one.
We are of Bajor. We are Bajor. We see what was, what will be.
Patin scoffed. “Yeah, yeah. You see it. But do you know what it feels like to wake up in the Southern peaks with frost in your boots, cursing the avalanches you’re about to set off just so some tourist doesn’t break their neck on the slopes? Do you know the sting of Cardassian boots on your back? Or the way homemade arachnid venom burns your nostrils when you’re mixing gas grenades in your kitchen? Didn’t think so.”
The Prophets pulsed, shifting the luminous folds of the Temple.
“Let’s get practical,” Patin continued, lighting up an imaginary cigar with a flick of her thumb. “Right now, Bajor’s in a drought. You know what that means? It means half the farmers are praying to you for rain, the other half are selling ‘miracle’ water filters for three times what they’re worth, and everyone’s cranky as hell. My people don’t just live with hardship, they get creative with it. We’ll water fields with bathwater, make beer out of moss, and swear that roasted cave beetle is a delicacy. Spoiler: it ain’t. But we’ll choke it down anyway because that’s what Bajorans do — endure and laugh while we’re at it.”
A hum rippled.
Suffering as sustenance. Endurance as ritual.
“Now you’re catching on.” She jabbed her cigar into the void like a pointer stick. “See, Bajor isn’t just temples and festivals. It’s grit. It’s defiance. It’s Auntie Yora yelling at her neighbor because he borrowed her shovel six years ago and never gave it back. It’s telling the weather to shove it when it won’t rain, then dancing anyway. It’s standing in line for three hours for bread and then joking about how the bread tastes like someone’s boot. It’s surviving Cardassians and surviving your mother-in-law at dinner, and let me tell you, that’s the real test.”
The Prophets considered this. To them, silence was dialogue.
Patin grinned, smoke curling around her like a halo of mischief. “And don’t even get me started on faith. Bajorans will argue doctrine until the moons go out, but in the end, faith is simple. It’s what keeps you putting one boot in front of the other when everything’s dried up, burned down, or blown to hell. You wanna know what faith looks like? It’s watching your crops turn to dust and saying, ‘Fine. Guess I’ll plant again tomorrow.’ That’s Bajor.”
A surge of light gathered.
You define survival as defiance. You equate living with resistance.
“Damn right I do. Bajorans don’t just survive — we endure. And if you want to understand my people, you better get used to the idea that sometimes the holiest thing in the world is telling the universe to go pound sand.”
The Temple rippled with something new — not laughter, not music, but a vibration close to both. The Prophets had learned something today.
Patin smirked, flicked ash that didn’t exist, and muttered, “Class dismissed. Go on, get outta here before I start teaching you how to swear properly. That lesson takes years.”
RSS Feed