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Memory: Lato'li
Jan. 20th, 2019 01:58 amSource: Roleplay (Drift Fleet)
Time: October, 2017
The planet may be recognizable as Lato'li. The battered ship that Pavel is contemplating, its dented panels stripped away to facilitate access to its dead engine, may be recognizable as the Tourist.
The "Let go of me!" that breaks the stillness is unmistakably Kirk.
Pavel immediately runs towards the shout, drawing his gun--an inelegant thing from the ship's armory that he's kept on his person since they crashed on this awful planet--as he goes. The Russian reaches the other man's position and trains his gun on the Lato'li that's attacking a thrashing, bleeding Kirk. Even though the alien doesn't look inclined to pause and talk it out, Pavel isn't about to pull the trigger without trying to diffuse the situation another way. "Stop or I shoot!"
The alien doesn't so much as pause. Kirk lashes out at the creature's head, but instead of relenting, it tightens its hold on him. "Chekov! Shoot!" he yells, striking the alien to no effect.
Pavel hesitates a moment longer before pulling the trigger, aiming low. The bullet embeds itself harmlessly in the ground a couple of feet short of Kirk's attacker. The alien spares Pavel a glance and evidently decides that he isn't a threat. It's steely grip on Kirk tightens further still.
He shoots again and, this time, he doesn't aim to miss. He doesn't necessarily aim to kill either, but the shot strikes the attacker's chest and it drops soundlessly to the ground.
It doesn't get back up. The gaping wound in its chest is clearly not survivable. Pavel freezes, horrified, gun still pointed at the creature as Kirk clambers to his feet.
It takes the older man--focused as he is on watching out for other threats--a moment to notice Pavel's distress. “Chekov,” he says, placing himself between the Russian and the body, “Chekov, look at me.”
He looks up as ordered, blinks like some sort of startled prey animal, and comes back to himself enough to lower his weapon. Another moment passes before Chekov collects himself fully. "There will be others," he observes blankly. "Do you know, are all of the others inside the ship?"
"Fenris probably isn't, but that's fine. He can handle himself." Kirk grips Pavel's shoulder and gives it a firm squeeze. "Get inside. I'll do a perimeter sweep." It's an order, not a suggestion.
Pavel nods, still detached. "Yes sir." He makes his way back to the ship and quickly--automatically--returns to repairs.
The Russian is kneeling by an open panel and toying with a tangle of wires when Kirk returns.
"Chekov, help me," Kirk commands. While the captain's oozing head wound indicates that he does indeed need some help, the authoritative tone is clearly for Pavel's benefit.
Pavel jumps to his feet, somewhat more with it than he had been. "How badly hurt are you?"
"Not bad, thank goodness. Head wounds always bleed a lot." Kirk makes his way through the eerily silent halls of the damaged Tourist, Pavel trailing behind. "But they're a bitch to bandage on your own, so I need you to disinfect and bandage it for me."
"I can do that," Pavel confirms, "although I think that you are asking me to do this more for my benefit than for yours."
"Maybe I am, maybe I'm not, but it doesn't change the fact I need help bandaging my head."
They make it to what qualifies as the ship's medbay and Kirk takes a seat. Pavel wordlessly gathers the first aid kit and disinfects his hands.
"Don't take it all on yourself," Kirk says after a suitably long pause.
"I don't know what you mean." Pavel makes himself busy, going through the basics of wound treatment with the adeptness expected of a Starfleet lieutenant.
"Yes, you do." Kirk's reply is firm. "Like when you couldn't grab Spock's mother for the warp off Vulcan. You can't take it all on yourself."
Pavel frowns, possibly in response and possibly in concentration. "Yes I can," he replies quietly. "We are all fully responsible for our actions and their consequences."
"That's true, but responsibility can be equally shared as much as the consequence," Kirk says, tone gentler. "And sometimes responsibility is less about an active choice, and more about the one we had to make. There are going to be times, especially as you move through the ranks, that you have the make the hard choice. Often, those choices are the ones that never rest easy with you, nor should they. You made one today when you saved me, Chekov."
He watches Pavel intently, but the Russian continues studiously avoiding eye contact. "You don't have to be okay with what happened," Kirk continues. "I don't think you should be, not entirely. But you did the right thing, the hard thing."
"I know that it was what needed to be done." Pavel's voice is very, very quiet. "I also know that command officers are required to make difficult decisions. What I don't know is if I will be able to do that. I thought so, but..." He trails off.
When Pavel fails to pick up his train of thought, Kirk slowly pulls him into a hug.
Time: October, 2017
The planet may be recognizable as Lato'li. The battered ship that Pavel is contemplating, its dented panels stripped away to facilitate access to its dead engine, may be recognizable as the Tourist.
The "Let go of me!" that breaks the stillness is unmistakably Kirk.
Pavel immediately runs towards the shout, drawing his gun--an inelegant thing from the ship's armory that he's kept on his person since they crashed on this awful planet--as he goes. The Russian reaches the other man's position and trains his gun on the Lato'li that's attacking a thrashing, bleeding Kirk. Even though the alien doesn't look inclined to pause and talk it out, Pavel isn't about to pull the trigger without trying to diffuse the situation another way. "Stop or I shoot!"
The alien doesn't so much as pause. Kirk lashes out at the creature's head, but instead of relenting, it tightens its hold on him. "Chekov! Shoot!" he yells, striking the alien to no effect.
Pavel hesitates a moment longer before pulling the trigger, aiming low. The bullet embeds itself harmlessly in the ground a couple of feet short of Kirk's attacker. The alien spares Pavel a glance and evidently decides that he isn't a threat. It's steely grip on Kirk tightens further still.
He shoots again and, this time, he doesn't aim to miss. He doesn't necessarily aim to kill either, but the shot strikes the attacker's chest and it drops soundlessly to the ground.
It doesn't get back up. The gaping wound in its chest is clearly not survivable. Pavel freezes, horrified, gun still pointed at the creature as Kirk clambers to his feet.
It takes the older man--focused as he is on watching out for other threats--a moment to notice Pavel's distress. “Chekov,” he says, placing himself between the Russian and the body, “Chekov, look at me.”
He looks up as ordered, blinks like some sort of startled prey animal, and comes back to himself enough to lower his weapon. Another moment passes before Chekov collects himself fully. "There will be others," he observes blankly. "Do you know, are all of the others inside the ship?"
"Fenris probably isn't, but that's fine. He can handle himself." Kirk grips Pavel's shoulder and gives it a firm squeeze. "Get inside. I'll do a perimeter sweep." It's an order, not a suggestion.
Pavel nods, still detached. "Yes sir." He makes his way back to the ship and quickly--automatically--returns to repairs.
The Russian is kneeling by an open panel and toying with a tangle of wires when Kirk returns.
"Chekov, help me," Kirk commands. While the captain's oozing head wound indicates that he does indeed need some help, the authoritative tone is clearly for Pavel's benefit.
Pavel jumps to his feet, somewhat more with it than he had been. "How badly hurt are you?"
"Not bad, thank goodness. Head wounds always bleed a lot." Kirk makes his way through the eerily silent halls of the damaged Tourist, Pavel trailing behind. "But they're a bitch to bandage on your own, so I need you to disinfect and bandage it for me."
"I can do that," Pavel confirms, "although I think that you are asking me to do this more for my benefit than for yours."
"Maybe I am, maybe I'm not, but it doesn't change the fact I need help bandaging my head."
They make it to what qualifies as the ship's medbay and Kirk takes a seat. Pavel wordlessly gathers the first aid kit and disinfects his hands.
"Don't take it all on yourself," Kirk says after a suitably long pause.
"I don't know what you mean." Pavel makes himself busy, going through the basics of wound treatment with the adeptness expected of a Starfleet lieutenant.
"Yes, you do." Kirk's reply is firm. "Like when you couldn't grab Spock's mother for the warp off Vulcan. You can't take it all on yourself."
Pavel frowns, possibly in response and possibly in concentration. "Yes I can," he replies quietly. "We are all fully responsible for our actions and their consequences."
"That's true, but responsibility can be equally shared as much as the consequence," Kirk says, tone gentler. "And sometimes responsibility is less about an active choice, and more about the one we had to make. There are going to be times, especially as you move through the ranks, that you have the make the hard choice. Often, those choices are the ones that never rest easy with you, nor should they. You made one today when you saved me, Chekov."
He watches Pavel intently, but the Russian continues studiously avoiding eye contact. "You don't have to be okay with what happened," Kirk continues. "I don't think you should be, not entirely. But you did the right thing, the hard thing."
"I know that it was what needed to be done." Pavel's voice is very, very quiet. "I also know that command officers are required to make difficult decisions. What I don't know is if I will be able to do that. I thought so, but..." He trails off.
When Pavel fails to pick up his train of thought, Kirk slowly pulls him into a hug.