He read the name on the plaque outside the door again, and the typically dark expression he wore as his ‘relaxed face’ broke into a slight smile for a moment. Once, it had been his name on a plaque just like that, outside a door just like this, on a ship much smaller than this full of eager Cadets. The Prophets worked in mysterious ways, if a person was to believe in such things.

Ros didn’t, he had no illusion that the Prophets were simply a useless collection of (powerful) alien life forms that his people spent far too much time worshipping and following when these creatures clearly didn’t give a toss. Why his people failed to separate gods from aliens escaped him, although he suspected that as a culture the Bajoran people were still too infantile to stand proud as themselves, instead of pawns of a worthless Alien power. The smile slipped from his face again. If the wormhole aliens had been willing to use that power to help his people, things might be different. He would never have been born, to start with.

With a grunt to himself as the irony surfaced in his mind, he reached for the chime. Time to check-in then get to work.

Lt Cmdr Akirel, CE