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Memory Gifset: Asking
Jul. 11th, 2017 12:02 amStar Projection: Yellow
Source: Canon (from Beyond)
Time: 2263 (age twenty-two)
( Presented without context. )
Source: Canon (from Beyond)
Time: 2263 (age twenty-two)
( Presented without context. )
Jul. 11th, 2017
Memory: Failing
Jul. 11th, 2017 12:17 amSource: Canon(ish) (Into Darkness)
Time: 2260 (age nineteen)
CW: Death (not graphic)
It's the engineering room of a ship: a cavernous metal room full of ramps, catwalks, displays, and machinery. The scene is illuminated by red emergency lights and the occasional flash of something malfunctioning--or worse, exploding in a shower of sparks. A klaxon is blaring. Most alarmingly of all, gravity isn't working. Red-shirted men, women, and others, many of them injured and some of them shouting indistinctly, are trying to navigate the mechanical carnage. A few bodies float lifelessly through the chamber.
Pavel, floating several feet above the ground, frantic, and covered in dirt and oil, is digging inside of a sparking panel, one arm looped though the panel's handle so he doesn't drift away from it. The Russian's expression is equal parts concentration and panic.
There's a sudden, alarming lurch and a distant roar. Bright white lights turn on and the alarms fall silent; gravity reasserts itself. Pavel's downward descent is halted by the handle, but not everyone in engineering is so lucky. Screams are cut short as bodies collide with ramps and railings and the cold metal floor.
Pavel lets go of the handle and drops somewhat gracelessly to the deck. For a moment, he stares blankly at the still body of a young woman in a red uniform. Her blonde updo is matted with blood and her blue eyes are wide open. She's older than him, but still so young.
(There's a flash of a memory within the memory: Pavel behind a console, looking at a transporter pad where a Vulcan is reaching out to nothing.)
The engineering section spins back into focus. Are there more alarms going off than there were before? Is that even possible?
The Russian's communicator, miraculously intact, crackles to life and Kirk's voice summons him to the bridge. Pavel answers (yes sir, I will be there immediately), squares his shoulders, and heads for a set of grated stairs on unsteady legs.
Time: 2260 (age nineteen)
CW: Death (not graphic)
It's the engineering room of a ship: a cavernous metal room full of ramps, catwalks, displays, and machinery. The scene is illuminated by red emergency lights and the occasional flash of something malfunctioning--or worse, exploding in a shower of sparks. A klaxon is blaring. Most alarmingly of all, gravity isn't working. Red-shirted men, women, and others, many of them injured and some of them shouting indistinctly, are trying to navigate the mechanical carnage. A few bodies float lifelessly through the chamber.
Pavel, floating several feet above the ground, frantic, and covered in dirt and oil, is digging inside of a sparking panel, one arm looped though the panel's handle so he doesn't drift away from it. The Russian's expression is equal parts concentration and panic.
There's a sudden, alarming lurch and a distant roar. Bright white lights turn on and the alarms fall silent; gravity reasserts itself. Pavel's downward descent is halted by the handle, but not everyone in engineering is so lucky. Screams are cut short as bodies collide with ramps and railings and the cold metal floor.
Pavel lets go of the handle and drops somewhat gracelessly to the deck. For a moment, he stares blankly at the still body of a young woman in a red uniform. Her blonde updo is matted with blood and her blue eyes are wide open. She's older than him, but still so young.
(There's a flash of a memory within the memory: Pavel behind a console, looking at a transporter pad where a Vulcan is reaching out to nothing.)
The engineering section spins back into focus. Are there more alarms going off than there were before? Is that even possible?
The Russian's communicator, miraculously intact, crackles to life and Kirk's voice summons him to the bridge. Pavel answers (yes sir, I will be there immediately), squares his shoulders, and heads for a set of grated stairs on unsteady legs.
Memory Prose: Dancing
Jul. 11th, 2017 12:24 amStar Projection: Blue
Source: Roleplay (MarinaNova)
Time: ~Age idek time is hard in RP
( In a pretty good place. )
Source: Roleplay (MarinaNova)
Time: ~Age idek time is hard in RP
( In a pretty good place. )
Memory: Fighting
Jul. 11th, 2017 12:30 amSource: Roleplay (Polychromatic)
Time: ~Age eighteen
Somewhere in a darkened city full of running and jumping and slithering Things, Chekov is doing what he can to help others escape danger. Mostly, that involves shooting the Things with one of his homemade laser guns.
That's what he was doing, anyway. The gun has stopped working and Chekov, with his engineering knowledge temporarily traded away via Deity magic, can't get it running again. He's tried pushing buttons, removing and replacing parts, hitting the stupid thing, swearing at it in a variety of languages... and it's not responding. This would happen when he tries to be heroic.
"Derrmo... Pavel, you are an idiot. Trading away knowledge..."
There's a scraping sound. Chekov pauses. Behind him, a manhole cover lifts and is pushed aside by what might have been, in a previous life, a set of hands--gnarled, knuckle bones visible through a glistening coat of slime and rot.
Even as he turns to look, something whips out of the manhole and wraps itself around Chekov's legs. It drags him towards the hole and the grabbing hands. The young man yelps and reaches for the useless gun, but it's too far away. He twists and hits the thing around his legs with the only weapon at hand: a small communicator. It doesn't so much as faze the Thing and now he's halfway down the manhole, holding on to a crack in the cement above ground to prevent the creature from dragging him under. He slams his communicator on the ground and--
--disappears from view, a jagged, broken piece of plastic--a remnant of the network device--firmly in hand.
There's nothing for a minute.
Two minutes.
A bloodied hand grasps the rim of the manhole. Chekov hauls himself up onto the relative safety of the cement, filthy and bleeding but very much alive. He has the presence of mind to replace the manhole cover.
"Eto pizdets..."
Time: ~Age eighteen
Somewhere in a darkened city full of running and jumping and slithering Things, Chekov is doing what he can to help others escape danger. Mostly, that involves shooting the Things with one of his homemade laser guns.
That's what he was doing, anyway. The gun has stopped working and Chekov, with his engineering knowledge temporarily traded away via Deity magic, can't get it running again. He's tried pushing buttons, removing and replacing parts, hitting the stupid thing, swearing at it in a variety of languages... and it's not responding. This would happen when he tries to be heroic.
"Derrmo... Pavel, you are an idiot. Trading away knowledge..."
There's a scraping sound. Chekov pauses. Behind him, a manhole cover lifts and is pushed aside by what might have been, in a previous life, a set of hands--gnarled, knuckle bones visible through a glistening coat of slime and rot.
Even as he turns to look, something whips out of the manhole and wraps itself around Chekov's legs. It drags him towards the hole and the grabbing hands. The young man yelps and reaches for the useless gun, but it's too far away. He twists and hits the thing around his legs with the only weapon at hand: a small communicator. It doesn't so much as faze the Thing and now he's halfway down the manhole, holding on to a crack in the cement above ground to prevent the creature from dragging him under. He slams his communicator on the ground and--
--disappears from view, a jagged, broken piece of plastic--a remnant of the network device--firmly in hand.
There's nothing for a minute.
Two minutes.
A bloodied hand grasps the rim of the manhole. Chekov hauls himself up onto the relative safety of the cement, filthy and bleeding but very much alive. He has the presence of mind to replace the manhole cover.
"Eto pizdets..."
Memory: Dying
Jul. 11th, 2017 12:39 amSource: Roleplay (Polychromatic)
Time: Year 2 (age ~nineteen)
CW: Death (not graphic)
Pavel is lying on a hospital bed, still and pale. A pretty blonde is by his side, awake and curled up uncomfortably in a chair. Her fingers are interlaced with his and she looks as though she's been crying.
Nyota Uhura, expression grim, enters. There are some words exchanged, but it's impossible to make them out. Nyota stoops to hug the blonde before pulling up a chair of her own. More talking, then the Starfleet officer gets up and walks out.
Pavel's fingers twitch. The blonde is on her feet immediately, shouting something, trying to touch him without hurting him. Pavel tries to smile at her, but everything fades away before he can tell if he successfully reassured her.
The hospital bed returns and Pavel looks even worse than he did before. There's a man standing over him. He mutters something that registers as Russian. Not terribly good Russian.
The words (Russian) gain some clarity. "It's going to be rush hour at the hospital soon. This curse has left wounds everywhere."
Pavel croaks, possibly more to indicate that he's participating in this conversation than to say anything.
Nyota returns and does a double-take when she sees the man. The two exchange a few words (English) that drift in and out.
"You must be--"
"--he'd be glad--"
There's a pause. Nyota looks distraught.
Pavel isn't following, but he tries to say something. "Don't worry." (Russian.)
Nyota brushes past the man to hover over Pavel. "Pasha, shh," she says softly, brushing a curl from his forehead. She replies in Russian. "Don't try to talk. You--"
There's a noise--a klaxon? no--and Nyota's voice is barely audible. Not audible. She's gone.
Everything's gone.
Time: Year 2 (age ~nineteen)
CW: Death (not graphic)
Pavel is lying on a hospital bed, still and pale. A pretty blonde is by his side, awake and curled up uncomfortably in a chair. Her fingers are interlaced with his and she looks as though she's been crying.
Nyota Uhura, expression grim, enters. There are some words exchanged, but it's impossible to make them out. Nyota stoops to hug the blonde before pulling up a chair of her own. More talking, then the Starfleet officer gets up and walks out.
Pavel's fingers twitch. The blonde is on her feet immediately, shouting something, trying to touch him without hurting him. Pavel tries to smile at her, but everything fades away before he can tell if he successfully reassured her.
The hospital bed returns and Pavel looks even worse than he did before. There's a man standing over him. He mutters something that registers as Russian. Not terribly good Russian.
The words (Russian) gain some clarity. "It's going to be rush hour at the hospital soon. This curse has left wounds everywhere."
Pavel croaks, possibly more to indicate that he's participating in this conversation than to say anything.
Nyota returns and does a double-take when she sees the man. The two exchange a few words (English) that drift in and out.
"You must be--"
"--he'd be glad--"
There's a pause. Nyota looks distraught.
Pavel isn't following, but he tries to say something. "Don't worry." (Russian.)
Nyota brushes past the man to hover over Pavel. "Pasha, shh," she says softly, brushing a curl from his forehead. She replies in Russian. "Don't try to talk. You--"
There's a noise--a klaxon? no--and Nyota's voice is barely audible. Not audible. She's gone.
Everything's gone.
Memory Prose: Loving
Jul. 11th, 2017 09:47 pmStar Projection: Blue
Source: Roleplay (MarinaNova)
Time: Who even knows, like. Twenty-three? (or age fortyish because magic)
( She's his dreams and his future. )
Source: Roleplay (MarinaNova)
Time: Who even knows, like. Twenty-three? (or age fortyish because magic)
( She's his dreams and his future. )