Warning

Posted on Tue Feb 3rd, 2026 @ 1:04am by Civilian Federation NPC & Lieutenant Commander Sora Bernadotte

2,677 words; about a 13 minute read

Mission: 7. Guile
Location: The Denorios Shard, Deep Space Nine
Timeline: 2439-08-12, 20:30

Tucked away into the curve of the Promenade, The Denorios Shard was an oasis of life amidst the cold, industrialized Cardassian geometry of Deep Space 9's Promenade. The entrance to the small shop was draped in heavy Bajoran silks of deep indigo and violet, they were so thick that they managed to drown out the heavy footfalls of the traffic outside the room on the metal deckplate. As soon as you crossed through the door it was like you'd left the 25th Century behind and returned to an ancient monastery, the sterile smells of the station's life-support replaced with the fragrant aroma of incense and ancient parchment.

The inside of the shop was awash in a perpetual twilight, the darkness pushed back by the flickering fire inside the stained-glass lanterns, shadows and low light playing over the features of the room. A low obsidian-topped table was centralized in the room, flanked by curved couches covered in Bajoran silks like those covering the doors. A shimmering Bajoran glow-sphere pulsed its soft, rhythmic light on the table. A deck of prophecy cards worn smooth by the fingers of countless freighter captains and station residents sat nearby, spread out around the table. It was hard to tell if they were part of the show, or a decoration made known.

The harshness of the bare metal walls was softened by intricate velvet tapestries and shelves crowded with an impossible collection of relics from throughout the quadrant. Shards of crystal harvested from the Denorios Belt decorated a mosaic, Vulcan meditation lamps were alight with an inner fire, and intricate brass horoscopes spun lazily in the low gravity. While the Starfleet officers in the nearby wardroom might speak of logic and sensors, this small sanctuary remained dedicated to the intangible, offering a moment of quiet reflection for those hoping to find a glimpse of their "pagh" amidst the sprawling uncertainty of the Bajoran Sector.

Lezku Opra sat at the apex of the room staring into the glow sphere with a fiery intensity. A living testament of the Bajoran spirit, her life had been one of challenge and hardship. Born during the final years of the Cardassian Occupation, she spent her childhood in the refugee camps of Valo II, where she learned to navigate the black markets of the Alpha Quadrant just to survive. Her life has been a series of reinventions: a teenage courier, a security contractor, and most recently, a freighter captain hauling supplies along the backwater worlds of the Cardassian frontier.

Though she was nearly eighty, Opra possessed a fit physique forged by a lifetime of hauling cargo and mastering Bajoran martial arts. Her attire was a contradiction, if not a study in functional spirituality. Befitting the captain of a freighter, she was wearing a high-collared, ribbed tunic of slate-gray layered beneath a long, open vest of heavy, terracotta-colored wool. The fabric was thick enough to have warded off the chill of a freighter’s cargo hold, yet it was fastened with an intricate silver brooch shaped like the Celestial Temple itself, light shimmering off of it like the ripples of the wormhole itself. Her sleeves were pushed back to her elbows, revealing forearms corded with the lean muscle of a veteran pilot. Upon her right ear hung a heavy, antique d’ja pagh crafted from tarnished silver and a single, jagged piece of dark glass. It was not a piece of jewelry meant for beauty; it was a relic of the Occupation, a fragment of her family’s history that she kept hidden in the floorboards of refugee camps from the Cardassian masters. Unlike the stereotypical mystic, she remained grounded in scuffed, ankle-high Militia-style boots, a reminder of her troubled past that was unescapable.

Pulling her hand back away from the ear of the customer before her, she provided the hard-won perspective of someone who had stared down both Gul Dukat’s legions and the vacuum of deep space and lived to tell the tale. Little of what she was saying could be heard, but the customer was visibly shaken by what was being said. Rising, the customer ran from the room as quickly as she could, nearly knocking into the new arrival as she fled. Opra remained seated, not rising with the practiced hospitality of a merchant. Instead, she simply turned and looked at the new arrival, a look of derision playing across her features.

"The air in here is still, traveler," the Bajoran former Captain said in a low, gravelly voice, "but your pagh is creating quite a wake." She offered a slight tilt of her head to beckon the customer in, silently offering the nearby seat. "I've spent eighty years navigating the stars, and I've learned that most people only come looking for the Prophets when they've lost their own way. Sit. Tell me if you're looking for a destination, or if you're just tired of drifting."

Sora shook her head. Just how had she ended up in this place? Of course, she was more than used to fortune tellers. After all, they were a Cred a dozen on most worlds of the Terran Empire. And every single one of them was a scam artist.

30 minutes earlier...

"You there! You look like you are lost. Come to the Denorios Shard, where the wise and all-knowing Lezku Opra will answer all!"

Commander Bernadotte was not one for superstition, and merely shook her head as she walked past the ranjen. After a few steps, she stopped. She had not encountered a fortune teller in this universe yet - and discrediting yet another one of those frauds certainly sounded like an entertaining way to pass a bit of time. With a shrug, she turned and returned to the Bajoran. "Say, you. Where's this Denorios Shard?"

"You must be the 'wise and all-knowing' Lezku Opra," Sora asked the woman in front of her. "I wonder, if you are as wise as your little shill claims, surely you should already know the answer to your question?"

Opra didn’t flinch. She didn’t even blink. Instead, she reached out with a hand calloused by deck plating and throttle levers, picked up a small carafe of dark, aromatic tea, and poured a single stream into a cracked ceramic cup. The steam rose between them, smelling of bitter roots and ozone.

"Wisdom is knowing when to listen, Commander. Arrogance is thinking you already have the transcript," Opra replied, her voice like grinding stones. She didn’t look at the cards; she looked directly at the space between Sora’s eyes, as if she were lining up a docking approach in a heavy nebula.

"That 'shill' is a Ranjan. He’s spent more hours in prayer than you’ve likely spent asleep. If a holy man is shouting on the Promenade to bring people to my door, it’s not because he’s on my payroll. It’s because he thinks your soul is making enough noise to wake the Prophets, and he’d rather I deal with the headache than him."

She set the cup down with a sharp clack against the obsidian tabletop. The glow-sphere pulsed a deep, bruised purple.

"You see a man in robes and think 'theatricality.' You see a shop with incense and think 'scam.' You’re very focused on the wrapping, Commander. That’s a dangerous way to pilot a ship, and an even worse way to walk through life."

"You didn't come in here to find a path, and you certainly didn't come for the Prophets. You came for the friction." Opra’s eyes narrowed, sharp and observant, the gaze of a captain who had spotted a hull leak before the sensors even tripped. "You carry yourself like someone who is used to a world that yields to her. Your boots hit the deck with the weight of someone who expects the metal to apologize for being in your way."

She gestured dismissively to the empty seat the previous, shaken customer had vacated.

"I don't need a vision to see the uniform beneath the skin, or the ghost of a different sky in your eyes. You think I’m a fraud? Good. Skepticism is a survival instinct. But you’re standing in my shop, wasting the oxygen I pay the Federation for, just to prove you're superior to a 'scam artist.'"

Opra took a slow, deliberate sip of the tea, her expression shifting from derision to a cold, professional curiosity.

"So, let's skip the theater. You’ve crossed more than just the Promenade to get here, haven't you? Tell me, 'Traveler'—is it the silence of this universe that's making you so loud, or are you just looking for someone who isn't afraid to tell you that your pagh is as jagged as a Cardassian bayonet?"

Sora frowned as she listened, and sat in the the chair the Bajoran indicated. "You certainly are very observant." She looked around the room for a moment, taking in the decor. "You call the ranjen a holy man, but I have not yet met a preacher that wasn't some sort of shill, exploiting the superstitions and the naiveté of poor fools. As for seeing the 'uniform beneath the skin'," she added, waving a hand towards the badge on her chest, "not much hiding there, is there. The rest, well, some colourful words and careful observation. Nothing surprising there just yet."

She leaned an elbow on the table and narrowed her eyes. "So far, you have not given me anything that would make me believe you are anything other than a very observant and eloquent woman, playing on the fears and worries of those who come in here. Credit where it's due, I get the impression that you are very good at what you do. I came here out of curiosity. To see if, for once, I would find a so-called mystic who isn't a sham. You haven't convinced me yet."

Opra wasn't offended, actually she was a little bored. She set her tea down and leaned back, the ancient silver d’ja pagh at her ear catching the purple light of the glow-sphere. "Youu want a performance," Opra said, her voice dropping into a low, rhythmic rasp. "You’ve spent your life surrounded by people who perform for you. You think truth is something that has to be proven to you, like a mathematical proof or a sensor sweep."

"You’re right. I am observant. I see the way you don't just walk into a room; you occupy it. I see the way you look at my 'relics' and calculate their street value or their tactical insignificance. But observation only goes as far as the hull plating, Commander. It doesn't tell me why your hands twitch when the station’s power grid hums at a certain frequency. It doesn't tell me why you look at the stars in this sector and see a map of things that aren't there."

She suddenly lunged forward and gripped Sora's right hand. Her skin was like parched leather, but her grip was like a vice, fueled by decades of martial arts and heavy lifting. "You talk about 'shills' and 'superstition' because if the Prophets are real, then the things you’ve done in the dark have a witness," Opra hissed, her eyes locking onto Sora's with a terrifying, unblinking intensity. "You want me to be a fraud. You need me to be a sham, because if I'm not, then that cold, empty throne you’re carrying around inside your chest might actually have to answer for the blood on the floor."

She let go as quickly as she had grabbed, leaning back and picking up her tea as if nothing had happened, "I don't care about convincing you, Sora, I’m a freighter captain, not a recruiter for the Vedek Assembly. But I’ll give you this for free, since you're so fond of 'observation': You aren't looking for a mystic who isn't a sham. You're looking for a mirror that doesn't show you the monster you're afraid you've become."

Sora's mind was racing. How did this woman know so much about her? And yet, there was a major flaw in her assumptions. She smirked. "Quite the show, I must admit. But you are wrong. I am not afraid that I am becoming some sort of monster. I have regrets in my past, yes. But name me anyone who doesn't. If you are looking for a monster, you have the wrong woman." She leaned back in the chair. "How about we stop it with the mystic eloquence and the big words. You think you have something to tell me, know something about me? Then say it. In plain words. So far, you have talked a lot, but said very little."

Opra set the tea cup down. The steam had stopped rising, leaving the air between them heavy and stagnant. She didn’t offer a witty retort or a cynical laugh. Instead, she reached out again, her movements stripped of their earlier aggression. She took Sora’s hand, not in a grip of iron this time, but with a firm, grounding pressure that felt disturbingly like an anchor.

With her free hand, Opra reached up and touched the heavy, tarnished silver of her d’ja pagh. Her fingers traced the jagged shard of dark glass—the relic she had kept hidden from the Cardassians in the dirt of refugee camps. As her fingers brushed the glass, Opra’s eyes didn’t roll back; they simply sharpened, focusing on a point miles behind Sora's skull.

"You speak of 'plain words' as if they are the only currency of truth," Opra whispered, her voice losing its gravelly edge and taking on a hollow, echoing quality. "But some truths are too heavy for your tongue. You say I have the wrong woman? No. I see the woman you are, and I see the shadow of the one you were forced to leave behind."

She squeezed Sora’s hand, her thumb pressing against the pulse point in the Commander's wrist, "The tide is turning, Traveler. The stars you recognize from that other sky are bleeding into this one. You think you are safe because you wear their colors, but the fabric is fraying. I see a predator in a garden, thinking its coat is green enough to hide the stripes. But the gardener is waking up. They are looking for the rot that doesn't belong." Opra’s touch on the d’ja pagh tightened, her knuckles turning white, "A door was left unlatched. A secret you thought was buried under the weight of an entire universe has caught the light. They are looking for the anomaly. The reflection in the mirror that has finally blinked."

She let go of Sora’s hand abruptly, as if the contact had suddenly become searingly hot. Opra slumped back into her seat, her breath coming in a ragged hitch. She looked at the glow-sphere, which had dimmed to a dull, sickly gray. Opra looked up, and for the first time, there was a flicker of something like pity in her hardened features. "They are checking the math, Sora, and your life is the remainder that doesn't fit the equation."

The Bajoran picked up the carafe, but her hand trembled slightly making the tea spill upon the obsidian table. Darkness overtook Opra's voice, "You should leave now before the wolves find the door."

Sora abruptly stood, not even looking at the so-called mystic, and left the shop. On one hand, she still refused to believe that she was anything more than a charlatan. And yet, her words of warning had a certain sharpness to them. "The reflection in the mirror has finally blinked", she repeated to herself, under her breath. If what the Bajoran said meant what Sora thought it did, trouble was ahead. Big trouble.

With quick steps, Commander Bernadotte made her way back to Enterprise. She had a call to make.

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