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PS-El: Part II
Oct. 22nd, 2021 07:02 pm( The next day... )
Open: Aftergame
Aug. 25th, 2021 11:08 pm( OOC Notes )
Pavel Andreievich Chekov -- civilian scientist, former lieutenant on the USS Enterprise, and veteran of no less than three out-of-universe abductions -- has finally come up with a means to travel to other universes.
There are, of course, many ways to get to other universes, but prior to this moment, there has never been a way to enter a specific universe intentionally. All recorded trips to other universes have been accidental, random, and irreplicable. Chekov's targeted extra-universal transportation device (he really needs to come up with a catchier name for the thing before he presents it to Starfleet's Bureaus of Engineering and Research) removes all randomness from the equation, allowing safe and reliable travel to universes that that fall within parameters established by the traveler.
Theoretically.
After several years of theorizing, three years of almost nonstop labor, and some assistance from Montgomery Scotty -- former crewmate, frequent collaborator, and the only person in Starfleet who doesn't think that the Russian's trip to other universes left his genius brains slightly scrambled -- Chekov's prototype is ready to be tested. The twenty-six year-old is almost entirely certain that the test will prove non-lethal even if it isn't successful. The device has all of the same fail-safes as a transporter, making it highly unlikely that its user will be lost in-transit or beamed into the vacuum of space. At worst, it will break after one use or fail to reassemble its operator in the intended universe. Yes, either of those scenarios would be terribly unpleasant, but Chekov is choosing optimism. He needs to believe that it will work. He needs to have faith that the friends that he made in the City, the prison, and the Fleet can be found again.
Chekov does a final survey of his work room to ensure that all of his notes and schematics are in order and easily accessible. Although his motivation to create the device was primarily selfish, targeted extra-universal travel will have its uses to Starfleet; it would be a shame for all of his work to be lost along with him. Scotty will undoubtedly be able to decode Chekov's notes and create a new device, should things go poorly during this test run.
The device is roughly the size of a tricorder -- too small, most would think, to generate the massive amounts of energy required to move from one universe to another, which usually involves entire starships or powerful natural phenomena. It needs to be small. Popping into a universe in something the size of a starship tends to create problems, and Chekov does not want to start with a problem.
He enters his target universes' parameters, takes a deep breath, and vanishes in a swirl of light.
Pavel Andreievich Chekov -- civilian scientist, former lieutenant on the USS Enterprise, and veteran of no less than three out-of-universe abductions -- has finally come up with a means to travel to other universes.
There are, of course, many ways to get to other universes, but prior to this moment, there has never been a way to enter a specific universe intentionally. All recorded trips to other universes have been accidental, random, and irreplicable. Chekov's targeted extra-universal transportation device (he really needs to come up with a catchier name for the thing before he presents it to Starfleet's Bureaus of Engineering and Research) removes all randomness from the equation, allowing safe and reliable travel to universes that that fall within parameters established by the traveler.
Theoretically.
After several years of theorizing, three years of almost nonstop labor, and some assistance from Montgomery Scotty -- former crewmate, frequent collaborator, and the only person in Starfleet who doesn't think that the Russian's trip to other universes left his genius brains slightly scrambled -- Chekov's prototype is ready to be tested. The twenty-six year-old is almost entirely certain that the test will prove non-lethal even if it isn't successful. The device has all of the same fail-safes as a transporter, making it highly unlikely that its user will be lost in-transit or beamed into the vacuum of space. At worst, it will break after one use or fail to reassemble its operator in the intended universe. Yes, either of those scenarios would be terribly unpleasant, but Chekov is choosing optimism. He needs to believe that it will work. He needs to have faith that the friends that he made in the City, the prison, and the Fleet can be found again.
Chekov does a final survey of his work room to ensure that all of his notes and schematics are in order and easily accessible. Although his motivation to create the device was primarily selfish, targeted extra-universal travel will have its uses to Starfleet; it would be a shame for all of his work to be lost along with him. Scotty will undoubtedly be able to decode Chekov's notes and create a new device, should things go poorly during this test run.
The device is roughly the size of a tricorder -- too small, most would think, to generate the massive amounts of energy required to move from one universe to another, which usually involves entire starships or powerful natural phenomena. It needs to be small. Popping into a universe in something the size of a starship tends to create problems, and Chekov does not want to start with a problem.
He enters his target universes' parameters, takes a deep breath, and vanishes in a swirl of light.
A Piratocracy
Jul. 30th, 2021 01:25 amAfter Blackbeard's miraculously successful fuckery and the mess that followed, Chekov kept more-or-less to himself.
Some of it is lingering embarrassment over his outburst on the bridge. The rest is a result of his talk with Frenchie; that made it very clear to Chekov that he is in a place that he doesn't truly understand with no escape plan. The Enterprise isn't coming to his rescue because it is no longer under Captain Kirk's control. He can't contact Starfleet because he fled the scene of a murder and is now a criminal. Talking to his friends, currently scattered across the quadrant, is unsafe until he can set up a means of communication that Starfleet won't be able to track back to the Revenge. And, on top of that, the longer he stays with a pirate crew (are they officially pirates now that the infamous Blackbeard is in residence?), the more difficult it will be to go back to his former life.
It's a lot to think about.
Chekov occupies himself with projects that don't really need to be done. He still sees his crewmates often enough -- with common sleeping quarters and the galley, isolation is virtually impossible -- but he isn't seeking out socialization. Some of the things he said to Frenchie were quite stupid and he's afraid of tripping up around someone less forgiving.
Perhaps if he had been talking to his peers more regularly, he would have known about the elections sooner. As it is, Chekov is unaware until he sees the hand-drawn posters on the walls of the Revenge:
CAPTAIN ELECTION
TODAY!
Do your duty!
VOTE!
The penmanship is immaculate with many lovely flourishes.
And is that... a ballot box?
Chekov puzzles over the poster and the box, wondering if this is a pirate thing or a uniquely Stede Bonnet thing.
Some of it is lingering embarrassment over his outburst on the bridge. The rest is a result of his talk with Frenchie; that made it very clear to Chekov that he is in a place that he doesn't truly understand with no escape plan. The Enterprise isn't coming to his rescue because it is no longer under Captain Kirk's control. He can't contact Starfleet because he fled the scene of a murder and is now a criminal. Talking to his friends, currently scattered across the quadrant, is unsafe until he can set up a means of communication that Starfleet won't be able to track back to the Revenge. And, on top of that, the longer he stays with a pirate crew (are they officially pirates now that the infamous Blackbeard is in residence?), the more difficult it will be to go back to his former life.
It's a lot to think about.
Chekov occupies himself with projects that don't really need to be done. He still sees his crewmates often enough -- with common sleeping quarters and the galley, isolation is virtually impossible -- but he isn't seeking out socialization. Some of the things he said to Frenchie were quite stupid and he's afraid of tripping up around someone less forgiving.
Perhaps if he had been talking to his peers more regularly, he would have known about the elections sooner. As it is, Chekov is unaware until he sees the hand-drawn posters on the walls of the Revenge:
CAPTAIN ELECTION
TODAY!
Do your duty!
VOTE!
The penmanship is immaculate with many lovely flourishes.
And is that... a ballot box?
Chekov puzzles over the poster and the box, wondering if this is a pirate thing or a uniquely Stede Bonnet thing.
Years and years ago, when it had been time to leave the City, Pavel Chekov had shared one of his favorite sayings from home on the network:
If all the options are bad, choose the one that hurts the least.
He'd been fairly optimistic then in the face of bad options--sad, of course, to say goodbye to his friends and those who had become more like family, but pleased that he'd get to keep his memories of the City. Saying goodbye does not erase someone from your life, he'd said, confident and nineteen and too young to wonder if holding on to people after they were gone might be less than ideal.
And, back then, he hadn't been alone. Isaak Sirko was going to cheat death and return home with him. The Ukrainian was going to put his life of crime behind him and open a bar in the twenty-third century.
(It hadn't worked. Pavel had ended up in Marina, and he hasn't seen Isaak since.)
It's been at least six years since he left the City--maybe as many as nine, if Pavel's suspicions about how time operated in MarinaNova are correct--and the years have not been terribly kind. Pavel has lost more friends than the seventeen year-old version of him that first entered the City could have imagined he would ever have. On the rare occasion that people returned, it was never with all of their memories. Crew mates came and went--six times, in Kirk's case--and had not always been eager to embrace Chekov as he was. He has fallen in love three times; all three times, it ended with her leaving (or, in Kitty's case, him leaving and finding a different version of her). If nothing else, the years have taught him that love and acceptance are never guaranteed.
So now, six (or nine) years after leaving the City, Pavel is ready to leave the Fleet. He doesn't bother making a public post on the network. He has no words of wisdom or optimism, and even if he did, there are very few friends left to share such things with. Not enough friends to warrant a broadcast.
Even though he still doesn't know where 'home' is, he has decided that he will return to his original universe. Maybe his crew won't want him there, and maybe he's no longer officer material, but that's where his father is. Andrei Chekov is the one person who asked Pavel to stay, years and years ago when he had been fourteen and determined to join Starfleet. Pavel had left, of course, and their relationship had remained icy. Civil, but not warm. He owes his father a conversation, at the very least.
Maybe, once he's back, he'll quit Starfleet. He could become a professor like his mother had been, or he could work in the shipyards like Andrei.
Or maybe he'll stay with Starfleet and hope that an apology and promise to visit will be enough to mend things with his father. Maybe he'll have a chance to do something brave and heroic. Pavel has always wanted to be a hero; that hasn't changed in his years in other universes.
Or maybe, whether he stays with the fleet or not, he'll uncover the secrets of controlled intra-universal travel. He could visit the near future in the version of his own universe where Nero didn't destroy Vulcan and find the Voyager. Janeway and Chakotay and Harry wouldn't remember him, but he'd like to see them again regardless. Pavel could search for Isaak. He could scour the universes for the friends that he has lost--see how Howl and Sophie are doing, if Peter Vincent is still drunk somewhere, if Korra and Hei are together or if that inadvisable team-up fell apart. He'd look for Tessa and Ginny and Delacroix and Doc Brown, and Doc Brown would be impressed with his innovations and understand the science behind it.
He would check in on Lucy. For the last six (nine?) years, he has hoped that she was able to find happiness at home. He likely wouldn't talk to her if he found her; nothing good would come of that. But he'd like to know how she's doing.
He'd say hello to Kara and meet her sister. He'd track down Felix Gaeta and offer him a new identity in the twenty-third century. He'd go see a live Walkure concert.
Maybe he would stumble across another version of himself--a Pavel who did make it home with Isaak after the City, or a Pavel who stayed with Kitty in Marina. Or maybe it would be best if he didn't know how his life would have gone, had things been different. Maybe it's best just to imagine that those Pavels are happy.
He doesn't know what will happen once he returns to his own universe. He isn't even convinced that he'll make it back there; his last attempt to go home, after all, led to MarinaNova. Even if he makes it back, neither the hosts nor the Interceptors guaranteed that they would keep their memories.
Forgetting would be a kindness, but Pavel hopes he remembers.
If all the options are bad, choose the one that hurts the least.
He'd been fairly optimistic then in the face of bad options--sad, of course, to say goodbye to his friends and those who had become more like family, but pleased that he'd get to keep his memories of the City. Saying goodbye does not erase someone from your life, he'd said, confident and nineteen and too young to wonder if holding on to people after they were gone might be less than ideal.
And, back then, he hadn't been alone. Isaak Sirko was going to cheat death and return home with him. The Ukrainian was going to put his life of crime behind him and open a bar in the twenty-third century.
(It hadn't worked. Pavel had ended up in Marina, and he hasn't seen Isaak since.)
It's been at least six years since he left the City--maybe as many as nine, if Pavel's suspicions about how time operated in MarinaNova are correct--and the years have not been terribly kind. Pavel has lost more friends than the seventeen year-old version of him that first entered the City could have imagined he would ever have. On the rare occasion that people returned, it was never with all of their memories. Crew mates came and went--six times, in Kirk's case--and had not always been eager to embrace Chekov as he was. He has fallen in love three times; all three times, it ended with her leaving (or, in Kitty's case, him leaving and finding a different version of her). If nothing else, the years have taught him that love and acceptance are never guaranteed.
So now, six (or nine) years after leaving the City, Pavel is ready to leave the Fleet. He doesn't bother making a public post on the network. He has no words of wisdom or optimism, and even if he did, there are very few friends left to share such things with. Not enough friends to warrant a broadcast.
Even though he still doesn't know where 'home' is, he has decided that he will return to his original universe. Maybe his crew won't want him there, and maybe he's no longer officer material, but that's where his father is. Andrei Chekov is the one person who asked Pavel to stay, years and years ago when he had been fourteen and determined to join Starfleet. Pavel had left, of course, and their relationship had remained icy. Civil, but not warm. He owes his father a conversation, at the very least.
Maybe, once he's back, he'll quit Starfleet. He could become a professor like his mother had been, or he could work in the shipyards like Andrei.
Or maybe he'll stay with Starfleet and hope that an apology and promise to visit will be enough to mend things with his father. Maybe he'll have a chance to do something brave and heroic. Pavel has always wanted to be a hero; that hasn't changed in his years in other universes.
Or maybe, whether he stays with the fleet or not, he'll uncover the secrets of controlled intra-universal travel. He could visit the near future in the version of his own universe where Nero didn't destroy Vulcan and find the Voyager. Janeway and Chakotay and Harry wouldn't remember him, but he'd like to see them again regardless. Pavel could search for Isaak. He could scour the universes for the friends that he has lost--see how Howl and Sophie are doing, if Peter Vincent is still drunk somewhere, if Korra and Hei are together or if that inadvisable team-up fell apart. He'd look for Tessa and Ginny and Delacroix and Doc Brown, and Doc Brown would be impressed with his innovations and understand the science behind it.
He would check in on Lucy. For the last six (nine?) years, he has hoped that she was able to find happiness at home. He likely wouldn't talk to her if he found her; nothing good would come of that. But he'd like to know how she's doing.
He'd say hello to Kara and meet her sister. He'd track down Felix Gaeta and offer him a new identity in the twenty-third century. He'd go see a live Walkure concert.
Maybe he would stumble across another version of himself--a Pavel who did make it home with Isaak after the City, or a Pavel who stayed with Kitty in Marina. Or maybe it would be best if he didn't know how his life would have gone, had things been different. Maybe it's best just to imagine that those Pavels are happy.
He doesn't know what will happen once he returns to his own universe. He isn't even convinced that he'll make it back there; his last attempt to go home, after all, led to MarinaNova. Even if he makes it back, neither the hosts nor the Interceptors guaranteed that they would keep their memories.
Forgetting would be a kindness, but Pavel hopes he remembers.
IC Contact (II)
Mar. 4th, 2014 08:21 pmYou have contacted the device of Ensign Pavel Andreievich Chekov.
Please leave a message.
[ooc: Feel free to leave an IC message or start up random IC action; just kindly indicate which!]
[Chekov is in the cottage's living room, red engineering uniform on, surrounded by all of the things he can't take home with him. (The important things are in a dufflebag and a backpack, and Everett is coming along, too. A genius can probably think of a way to explain the suitcase, the dog, and the decidedly non-regulation haircut, right?) He's smiling at the network device. No need to end on a teary note.]
I have been here for seven-hundred and twenty-four days. It would have been two years, as of the sixth of March. Not so long as many people, but I have outstayed most of my crew--some of them twice--and the majority of friends I made when I first arrived. Overall, I have been happy--happier, sometimes, than I am at home. But I will be glad to return. I last left home during a difficult time, and there will be many funerals and speeches to endure before our long leave, and after leave, the five-year mission. Everett will go to Petersburg to live with my father; he is lonely and will enjoy the company. I will have the chance to see the night sky from Earth. I've missed them, more since I traded my memory of them to the witches in October. Maybe the memory will return.
Mostly, I'm glad that I will keep my memories. Forgetting has been my greatest fear about leaving. Too many memories, bad and good but all important, have been made in the City to be forgotten. It will be strange since almost no one will have any of these memories, and I may find it difficult to explain some things, such as aging slightly. But memories! Those are more valuable to me than anything else I am taking with me. As long as I remember those I have met, leaving will not be so hard as it would be otherwise.
I will not go into a long discussion of memories and friends because it is too soon for nostalgia, but I want to share an old Russian saying: If all the options are bad, choose the one that hurts the least. None of us, I think, are happy to be leaving, even if we miss our homes. Personally, I'm unsure if I have made the decision that hurts the least, but it is the right one. I hope that for you, my friends and even those who are not my friends, the option that hurts the least is also the right one. Try not to be too sad. As long as we all go home with our memories, we will continue to exist in the lives of one another. Saying goodbye does not erase someone from your life.
There is one more Russian saying I want to share, and it is a happier one, I promise. Nothing is permitted and everything is possible. This is my favorite saying. The City has proven it true, and it will always prove true in our futures. Maybe we will meet again. The laws of physics may not allow it, but it is not impossible.
Also, is there anyone remaining in the City who would like a motorcycle? I have a very nice one, but it is too cumbersome to take it with me.
And finally, I would like to say goodbye to most of you in person. This is no way to say goodbye.
[Private to the Voyager Crew]
I wanted to have something clever or insightful to say to you, but all I can think of is thank you. I had forgotten what it was like to be a part of a crew until mine arrived, and when they left, you allowed me to be a part of yours. I will always be grateful for this. Thank you also for sharing some of your science with me. Captain Janeway, I promise that I will not use any advancements from beyond my time, except, perhaps, for personal use.
If I am still alive in your time and you return home--and you will return home--please say hello. That me will be very different from me, but he will like meeting new people and discussing whatever scientific advancements will be current. If I am not still alive, I hope that I died very heroically. Should that be the case, don't be sad.
Maybe interuniversal travel will be mastered in your lifetimes. If that is so, I hope to see you.
[Private to Lucy]
I know that you will not want to say goodbye in person. Please reconsider? You are my first everything and I think I will keep being too in love with you to fall in love again, so please, I would like to see you a final time.
[COMMENTS]
I have been here for seven-hundred and twenty-four days. It would have been two years, as of the sixth of March. Not so long as many people, but I have outstayed most of my crew--some of them twice--and the majority of friends I made when I first arrived. Overall, I have been happy--happier, sometimes, than I am at home. But I will be glad to return. I last left home during a difficult time, and there will be many funerals and speeches to endure before our long leave, and after leave, the five-year mission. Everett will go to Petersburg to live with my father; he is lonely and will enjoy the company. I will have the chance to see the night sky from Earth. I've missed them, more since I traded my memory of them to the witches in October. Maybe the memory will return.
Mostly, I'm glad that I will keep my memories. Forgetting has been my greatest fear about leaving. Too many memories, bad and good but all important, have been made in the City to be forgotten. It will be strange since almost no one will have any of these memories, and I may find it difficult to explain some things, such as aging slightly. But memories! Those are more valuable to me than anything else I am taking with me. As long as I remember those I have met, leaving will not be so hard as it would be otherwise.
I will not go into a long discussion of memories and friends because it is too soon for nostalgia, but I want to share an old Russian saying: If all the options are bad, choose the one that hurts the least. None of us, I think, are happy to be leaving, even if we miss our homes. Personally, I'm unsure if I have made the decision that hurts the least, but it is the right one. I hope that for you, my friends and even those who are not my friends, the option that hurts the least is also the right one. Try not to be too sad. As long as we all go home with our memories, we will continue to exist in the lives of one another. Saying goodbye does not erase someone from your life.
There is one more Russian saying I want to share, and it is a happier one, I promise. Nothing is permitted and everything is possible. This is my favorite saying. The City has proven it true, and it will always prove true in our futures. Maybe we will meet again. The laws of physics may not allow it, but it is not impossible.
Also, is there anyone remaining in the City who would like a motorcycle? I have a very nice one, but it is too cumbersome to take it with me.
And finally, I would like to say goodbye to most of you in person. This is no way to say goodbye.
[Private to the Voyager Crew]
I wanted to have something clever or insightful to say to you, but all I can think of is thank you. I had forgotten what it was like to be a part of a crew until mine arrived, and when they left, you allowed me to be a part of yours. I will always be grateful for this. Thank you also for sharing some of your science with me. Captain Janeway, I promise that I will not use any advancements from beyond my time, except, perhaps, for personal use.
If I am still alive in your time and you return home--and you will return home--please say hello. That me will be very different from me, but he will like meeting new people and discussing whatever scientific advancements will be current. If I am not still alive, I hope that I died very heroically. Should that be the case, don't be sad.
Maybe interuniversal travel will be mastered in your lifetimes. If that is so, I hope to see you.
[Private to Lucy]
I know that you will not want to say goodbye in person. Please reconsider? You are my first everything and I think I will keep being too in love with you to fall in love again, so please, I would like to see you a final time.
[COMMENTS]
action, January 30th/31st
Jan. 31st, 2014 09:46 pm[Okay, but has everyone forgotten that there's snow outside and Anonymous is setting up all kinds of amazing things? Dogsled races! Dips in the ridiculously cold ocean among the icebergs! Free hot chocolate! Chekov, being his own boss, gives himself both days off on account of all of the misery accumulated throughout the rest of January. There's nothing like some bracing winter excitement to lift the spirits.
Shut up, he's Russian.
He makes the most of both days. Dogsled racing on the thirtieth? Yep, he's there, hanging on for dear life and trying to remember which words the dogs respond to. (He doesn't win, but he makes it across the finish line with no injuries that require hospitalization, so he considers himself victorious.) Polar bear swim on the thirty-first? Why not! Chekov is practically obligated to participate! His plan to outlast everyone else braving the icy ocean waters fails when an inability to feel his limbs complicates doggy-paddling, but it was fun while it lasted.
Chekov barely sets foot indoors. He can be found almost anywhere in the City, running or starting snowball fights or watching moonlight sparkle on the snow after the sun sets. It's two days of enjoying the City without worrying about disappointing anyone or dwelling on those who have left. Chekov thinks that he has earned it.]
[COMMENTS]
Shut up, he's Russian.
He makes the most of both days. Dogsled racing on the thirtieth? Yep, he's there, hanging on for dear life and trying to remember which words the dogs respond to. (He doesn't win, but he makes it across the finish line with no injuries that require hospitalization, so he considers himself victorious.) Polar bear swim on the thirty-first? Why not! Chekov is practically obligated to participate! His plan to outlast everyone else braving the icy ocean waters fails when an inability to feel his limbs complicates doggy-paddling, but it was fun while it lasted.
Chekov barely sets foot indoors. He can be found almost anywhere in the City, running or starting snowball fights or watching moonlight sparkle on the snow after the sun sets. It's two days of enjoying the City without worrying about disappointing anyone or dwelling on those who have left. Chekov thinks that he has earned it.]
[COMMENTS]
[Chekov knows that he shouldn't be surprised when his failed attempts to contact Captain Kirk lead him to the Hall of the Missing and, ultimately, the realization that the majority of the remaining crew of the Enterprise is no longer in the City. Disappearances frequently happen in groups. Spock, Kirk, McCoy, Uhura... most of them had come and gone before this, too. Chekov really should know better than to be surprised. Kirk might be able to bend the rules at home, but it was foolish to hope, even for a moment, that he would be capable of doing the same in the City.
It's tempting to stay off of the network and immerse himself in a project, but his crewmates were well-liked and it's only right to keep the friends they have made informed.]
Captain Kirk, Doctor McCoy, and Lieutenant Uhura are no longer in the City.
[Brief, formal, to-the-point. Unfortunately, one other party needs to be contacted.]
[Starfleet Comm Frequency // Unhackable]
Lieutenant Sulu and I are now the only officers of the Enterprise in the City.
[In other words: your orders, Captain Janeway?]
[COMMENTS]
It's tempting to stay off of the network and immerse himself in a project, but his crewmates were well-liked and it's only right to keep the friends they have made informed.]
Captain Kirk, Doctor McCoy, and Lieutenant Uhura are no longer in the City.
[Brief, formal, to-the-point. Unfortunately, one other party needs to be contacted.]
[Starfleet Comm Frequency // Unhackable]
Lieutenant Sulu and I are now the only officers of the Enterprise in the City.
[In other words: your orders, Captain Janeway?]
[COMMENTS]
accidental video;
Dec. 15th, 2013 06:40 pm[ooc: Chekov has, like, three minutes of screen time in the new movies and all of his scenes are very short, so here are several of them mashed together! The network would only see 1:00 to 2:25.]
[COMMENTS]
[The recording starts mid-conversation (caused, perhaps, by excited gesticulating). Chekov's voice is loud and clear; any number of other voices can be in the background, along with the occasional clink of glass on glass and the roar of laughter. The words of whoever he's talking to can't be made out.]
--method of teleportation that you are talking about does not lead to the destruction of the individual. I think that you misunderstand how the process works.
[A pause. More background noise.]
No, no no no. Our identity depends upon how the constituent molecules that we are made of are arranged, not upon which molecules have been arranged. There is no difference between one carbon atom and another, do you understand? And so if the position of everything that makes us up is copied perfectly and this information is transmitted and we are annihilated and reassembled, we will, in the end, be the same person as we were at the start.
[His conversational partner apparently has something to say to that.]
No one is killed. I cannot be more specific about the process, but I understand your concern about personal identity and the destruction of the individual being teleported.
[A much longer pause.]
Now you are making the assumption that there is something more than the physical arrangement of constituent particles that leads to this thing called the individual. Unless you are telling me that there is an immaterial soul to be concerned with, what is the concern? From the perspective of the individual being teleported, the process is nearly instantaneous and they experience no cessation of existence or consciousness. As I said, arrangement is what matters.
[Short pause.]
Of course duplication would be possible, that is why any technology capable of copying individuals down to the quantum level would necessitate a number of safety precautions. Responsible engineering can prevent paradoxes like the one you pose.
[Another long pause.]
No, I have not. What is the Ship of Theseus?
[OOC: Open to action at the Wolf's Den. Sorry for backdating, but yesterday's curse was perfect and I missed it and everything was sadness. That said, I don't think Chekov's probably the best of philosophers...]
[COMMENTS]
--method of teleportation that you are talking about does not lead to the destruction of the individual. I think that you misunderstand how the process works.
[A pause. More background noise.]
No, no no no. Our identity depends upon how the constituent molecules that we are made of are arranged, not upon which molecules have been arranged. There is no difference between one carbon atom and another, do you understand? And so if the position of everything that makes us up is copied perfectly and this information is transmitted and we are annihilated and reassembled, we will, in the end, be the same person as we were at the start.
[His conversational partner apparently has something to say to that.]
No one is killed. I cannot be more specific about the process, but I understand your concern about personal identity and the destruction of the individual being teleported.
[A much longer pause.]
Now you are making the assumption that there is something more than the physical arrangement of constituent particles that leads to this thing called the individual. Unless you are telling me that there is an immaterial soul to be concerned with, what is the concern? From the perspective of the individual being teleported, the process is nearly instantaneous and they experience no cessation of existence or consciousness. As I said, arrangement is what matters.
[Short pause.]
Of course duplication would be possible, that is why any technology capable of copying individuals down to the quantum level would necessitate a number of safety precautions. Responsible engineering can prevent paradoxes like the one you pose.
[Another long pause.]
No, I have not. What is the Ship of Theseus?
[OOC: Open to action at the Wolf's Den. Sorry for backdating, but yesterday's curse was perfect and I missed it and everything was sadness. That said, I don't think Chekov's probably the best of philosophers...]
[COMMENTS]
action // video
Oct. 23rd, 2013 03:50 pmACTION;
[Chekov may have woken up with a cluster of sullen, chatty balloons that look like they belong at a misery-themed party shadowing him, but he's not about to let a nonlethal thing like that prevent him from going about his day as usual. They follow him during his morning jog (he takes care to avoid the pockets of strangeness that have been popping up, as there is only so much weirdness that he likes in his life at any given moment) and to the City Solutions Laboratory. They trail him to the labs that have been taken over by Starfleet (he doesn't linger there) and to the hospital where he visits friends who were injured in the recent attacks, glowering, as ominous and dark as any potentially hostile region of space.
( More action! )
VIDEO;
[Judging by the view--the back of Chekov's head--this is not an intentional recording. He's sitting at Lucy's baby grand, tense, posture hinting at anger. The talking balloons are still hovering over him like a raincloud, chatting away. There are fewer than there were earlier, but the remaining faces seem eager to make up for this by being exceptionally strident.]
Vy ubili yeye.
Failure.
Ty brosil svoyu sem'yu.
Slishkom medlenno.
You killed her.
Their deaths were your fault.
Bespoleznyy.
Useless.
[They've been at it all day and Chekov doesn't want to hear it anymore. In an effort to drown them out, he launches into what must be the angriest and most aggressive interpretation of Rachmaninov's Prelude in C sharp minor of all time. He's not great--out of practice rather than untrained--and it only takes about a minute and a half before the balloons, which have only grown louder to combat the piano, reduce the boy to discordant keysmashing.
He gives up after a particularly enthusiastic plunk of the keys and mumbles something at the balloons. The network device doesn't pick his words up, but it's safe to assume that he didn't say anything pleasant to the specters.]
Failure.
Slishkom molod.
Ty brosil svoyu sem'yu.
You'll never succeed.
[Maybe an angry rendition of something by Balakirev will be more effective. Watchers won't get to find out; the video ends abruptly.]
[COMMENTS]
[Chekov may have woken up with a cluster of sullen, chatty balloons that look like they belong at a misery-themed party shadowing him, but he's not about to let a nonlethal thing like that prevent him from going about his day as usual. They follow him during his morning jog (he takes care to avoid the pockets of strangeness that have been popping up, as there is only so much weirdness that he likes in his life at any given moment) and to the City Solutions Laboratory. They trail him to the labs that have been taken over by Starfleet (he doesn't linger there) and to the hospital where he visits friends who were injured in the recent attacks, glowering, as ominous and dark as any potentially hostile region of space.
( More action! )
VIDEO;
[Judging by the view--the back of Chekov's head--this is not an intentional recording. He's sitting at Lucy's baby grand, tense, posture hinting at anger. The talking balloons are still hovering over him like a raincloud, chatting away. There are fewer than there were earlier, but the remaining faces seem eager to make up for this by being exceptionally strident.]
Vy ubili yeye.
Failure.
Ty brosil svoyu sem'yu.
Slishkom medlenno.
You killed her.
Their deaths were your fault.
Bespoleznyy.
Useless.
[They've been at it all day and Chekov doesn't want to hear it anymore. In an effort to drown them out, he launches into what must be the angriest and most aggressive interpretation of Rachmaninov's Prelude in C sharp minor of all time. He's not great--out of practice rather than untrained--and it only takes about a minute and a half before the balloons, which have only grown louder to combat the piano, reduce the boy to discordant keysmashing.
He gives up after a particularly enthusiastic plunk of the keys and mumbles something at the balloons. The network device doesn't pick his words up, but it's safe to assume that he didn't say anything pleasant to the specters.]
Failure.
Slishkom molod.
Ty brosil svoyu sem'yu.
You'll never succeed.
[Maybe an angry rendition of something by Balakirev will be more effective. Watchers won't get to find out; the video ends abruptly.]
[COMMENTS]
action // video
Aug. 12th, 2013 09:49 pm[Chekov is, to put it mildly, alarmed to find the bridge of the Enterprise replaced by the City--the fountain, specifically. As startling as the abrupt change of scenery is, there are, as far as the young navigator is concerned, worse places to find oneself than in a fountain. The shallow water feels good after hours--he can't even begin to guess at how many hours--spent running around in the bowels of a beleaguered ship, issuing orders and trying to nurse failing systems along.
There's no time to enjoy the surprise reprieve. It takes several moments for his City memories to hit and several more for them to fall back into place but, once they do, Chekov has the presence of mind to remove the gold tunic that marks him as a Starfleet officer. Harrison is here. The captain had warned them against making themselves targets.
The captain. Captain Kirk, who's alive...
Chekov, wet curls plastered to his forehead and stripped down to his black undershirt, clambers out of the fountain and disposes of his gold shirt. He fingers his hair into some semblance of order and fumbles for his waterlogged communicator.]
[video]
He--? [Audio and video distort and give way to static. After some minor adjustments, they return. Chekov doesn't look all that different than he did prior to his disappearance (thanks to the City's temporal isolation from other universes, he's actually a few months younger than he was over a week ago, if sturdier), but recent events have given him a somewhat haggard countenance.] Hello? This is En--Pavel Chekov. I realize that very little time has passed--relatively speaking, I mean--but I must ask: Who is here still?
[Starfleet people, that's directed primarily at you.
And, hesitantly:] Has anyone fed my dog?
[COMMENTS]
There's no time to enjoy the surprise reprieve. It takes several moments for his City memories to hit and several more for them to fall back into place but, once they do, Chekov has the presence of mind to remove the gold tunic that marks him as a Starfleet officer. Harrison is here. The captain had warned them against making themselves targets.
The captain. Captain Kirk, who's alive...
Chekov, wet curls plastered to his forehead and stripped down to his black undershirt, clambers out of the fountain and disposes of his gold shirt. He fingers his hair into some semblance of order and fumbles for his waterlogged communicator.]
[video]
He--? [Audio and video distort and give way to static. After some minor adjustments, they return. Chekov doesn't look all that different than he did prior to his disappearance (thanks to the City's temporal isolation from other universes, he's actually a few months younger than he was over a week ago, if sturdier), but recent events have given him a somewhat haggard countenance.] Hello? This is En--Pavel Chekov. I realize that very little time has passed--relatively speaking, I mean--but I must ask: Who is here still?
[Starfleet people, that's directed primarily at you.
And, hesitantly:] Has anyone fed my dog?
[COMMENTS]
This is Ensign Chekov, Pavel Andreievich, navigator of the USS Enterprise.
[Anyone watching will just need to take his word for it, as he isn't currently in uniform. His uniform tunic has been too short in the sleeves for several months now. Oh, the woes of being a still-growing teenager!]
I would request a response from any Starfleet officers or allies who receive this message. Thank you.
If you have only just arrived, you may have questions. I have attached a text file to this message that may, I hope, be useful. If there are other questions or if anyone would like to speak with me, I would be happy to talk.
Captain Kirk? Uhura and I have the communicators working. They can pick up local transmissions, and we have connected all four to a secure channel. I think that is the best that can be done.
[attached file: City_brief]
[COMMENTS]
[Anyone watching will just need to take his word for it, as he isn't currently in uniform. His uniform tunic has been too short in the sleeves for several months now. Oh, the woes of being a still-growing teenager!]
I would request a response from any Starfleet officers or allies who receive this message. Thank you.
If you have only just arrived, you may have questions. I have attached a text file to this message that may, I hope, be useful. If there are other questions or if anyone would like to speak with me, I would be happy to talk.
Captain Kirk? Uhura and I have the communicators working. They can pick up local transmissions, and we have connected all four to a secure channel. I think that is the best that can be done.
[attached file: City_brief]
[COMMENTS]
THE CITY: audio-to-text transcription
Jul. 6th, 2013 06:35 pmThis is the City. Very briefly it is (the accessible portion of) a universe that exists outside of time and space as we know them. If you are visiting you will return to your home shortly.
This universe's spacetime is both wholly severed from that of other universes and connected to them in a way that defies conventional understanding. It is temporally isolated. What time passes here does not pass in our home worlds and so we all return to our native universes at the same moment as we left.
The City is an intersection of multiple places and times.
The nature of this universe is uncertain. It may be artificial. Not all natural laws apply all the time. The stars move in regular patterns and this indicates that we are either orbiting a star or that our captors are sophisticated enough to simulate the effect of a typical (earth-like) planetary orbit. There is a curvature to the horizon and so the City is most likely located on a planet. There are barriers that prevent exploration of this planet more completely.
Creatures sometimes enter the City from outside.
The City was controlled by beings who called themselves the deities and they were able to put curses on the population and give us things in exchange for memories, items, etc. They may have been members of a technologically advanced race - maybe one that is studying humanoids. They were removed from power by anonymous forces very recently.
Little is known of the anonymous forces. UPDATE - I have worked with a member of this group named Tristero. He has indicated that his group knows little more about the workings of the City than us but they appear to be sincere in their desire to help us.
The City is patterned after 21st century Earth.
There is a clock underground that may be important. There are rumors that the City is sentient (unverified). Magic is real. The dead do not stay dead (verified).
Memories about this world do not persist when we return home. If we come back here after leaving we may or may not have the memories from our previous visit. Memory loss is common.
There is no known way to escape.
This universe's spacetime is both wholly severed from that of other universes and connected to them in a way that defies conventional understanding. It is temporally isolated. What time passes here does not pass in our home worlds and so we all return to our native universes at the same moment as we left.
The City is an intersection of multiple places and times.
The nature of this universe is uncertain. It may be artificial. Not all natural laws apply all the time. The stars move in regular patterns and this indicates that we are either orbiting a star or that our captors are sophisticated enough to simulate the effect of a typical (earth-like) planetary orbit. There is a curvature to the horizon and so the City is most likely located on a planet. There are barriers that prevent exploration of this planet more completely.
Creatures sometimes enter the City from outside.
The City was controlled by beings who called themselves the deities and they were able to put curses on the population and give us things in exchange for memories, items, etc. They may have been members of a technologically advanced race - maybe one that is studying humanoids. They were removed from power by anonymous forces very recently.
Little is known of the anonymous forces. UPDATE - I have worked with a member of this group named Tristero. He has indicated that his group knows little more about the workings of the City than us but they appear to be sincere in their desire to help us.
The City is patterned after 21st century Earth.
There is a clock underground that may be important. There are rumors that the City is sentient (unverified). Magic is real. The dead do not stay dead (verified).
Memories about this world do not persist when we return home. If we come back here after leaving we may or may not have the memories from our previous visit. Memory loss is common.
There is no known way to escape.
I would like to ask a question, if I may. Is there anyone who knows if the group opposing the deities can do as it says? I doubt the wisdom of openly going against the deities, but, if they have found a way to control whatever powers the deities possess, I think they would be worth talking with.
More importantly, where are the meteors coming from? [Because falling rocks are infinitely more important than the growing threat of a rebellion!] If the City is enveloped by a force field, there shouldn't be a way for extraterrestrial debris to reach us. I can only imagine that either there is no such force field, the field allows objects to get in but not out, or there is a reason why our roofs are being compromised by meteorites. The first seems unlikely.
Whatever the truth is, it's not a bad curse. A meteorite is the closest I have been to space in over fifteen months.
[COMMENTS]
More importantly, where are the meteors coming from? [Because falling rocks are infinitely more important than the growing threat of a rebellion!] If the City is enveloped by a force field, there shouldn't be a way for extraterrestrial debris to reach us. I can only imagine that either there is no such force field, the field allows objects to get in but not out, or there is a reason why our roofs are being compromised by meteorites. The first seems unlikely.
Whatever the truth is, it's not a bad curse. A meteorite is the closest I have been to space in over fifteen months.
[COMMENTS]
[Chekov, slightly disheveled, is seated in the cottage's living room (toying, of course, with a gadget of some sort, as the boy has difficulties being still and without a task. There's a stranger seated next to him. He appears slightly older, considerably broader through the shoulders, a good deal taller, and far less inclined to fidget than the eighteen year-old.]
I'm told that this is an acceptable way to address the City. [The stranger has a distinctly Russian accent. It is, however, far easier to comprehend than Chekov's.] My name is Pavel Chekov.
And I believe that you may be a version [wersion] of me from an alternate reality.
Or you may be a version [the 'v' is not mangled] of me.
Being older does not give you the right to be the original Pavel Chekov. Anyway, I think that this is a curse and you will leave in a day or so and I'll still be here.
[The two Chekovs are no longer making any attempt to address the camera. There's a palpable uneasiness between them--a silent war in the making. Both of them manage to remain relatively genial in both expression and tone, but the uneasiness is clear all the same.]
I almost envy you. If this is a cage, as you said, it's a very nice one. The vodka is good, all of the women are beautiful--
Of course the vodka is good; it's mine. Maybe you are older and better at fighting, but I know how to choose a good drink. [Chekov--the one the City is more accustomed to--grabs the bottle of Stoli from his counterpart.] You're far enough into the bottle. Give it to me.
As they say in Russia, "I don't need your valuable directives."
This is my home and my vodka. You should be more courteous.
If you were a better host, maybe... [Taller, less adorable Chekov ruffles the other Chekov's hair. The latter is not amused.] But why fight when we can settle this like men? One more fight, fists only. The winner gets to stay here and the loser goes.
[Chekov rubs a bruised cheek, sulky.] You have the advantage.
I was joking. Let's drink and be friends.
I would rather go running.
Please, do what you like. Perhaps I can become better acquainted with Misses Uhura.
Don't flirt with her--either of her. [Curly-haired Chekov sets his gadget and the bottle of vodka aside and moves out of sight. The other Chekov watches him curiously, reclaims the vodka, and takes a healthy swig.] I say that for her benefit and yours. She dislikes it.
Have a good run!
[A door slams. The remaining Chekov gives the camera an apologetic smile.]
Forgive Pavel's ill-humor; he may be mad at me for winning our sparring match. But, if you would like to talk to me, my humor is intact and I have little to do.
[ooc: Chekov isn't getting on well with his Good Side (if you want some tl;dr on said Good Side, it's right here). Actual!Chekov can either be action'd up while out or contacted via the network later on; Other!Chekov is free for network communication. If you fancy talking to both, that can happen later. Do indicate to whom and when your characters are replying!]
[COMMENTS]
I'm told that this is an acceptable way to address the City. [The stranger has a distinctly Russian accent. It is, however, far easier to comprehend than Chekov's.] My name is Pavel Chekov.
And I believe that you may be a version [wersion] of me from an alternate reality.
Or you may be a version [the 'v' is not mangled] of me.
Being older does not give you the right to be the original Pavel Chekov. Anyway, I think that this is a curse and you will leave in a day or so and I'll still be here.
[The two Chekovs are no longer making any attempt to address the camera. There's a palpable uneasiness between them--a silent war in the making. Both of them manage to remain relatively genial in both expression and tone, but the uneasiness is clear all the same.]
I almost envy you. If this is a cage, as you said, it's a very nice one. The vodka is good, all of the women are beautiful--
Of course the vodka is good; it's mine. Maybe you are older and better at fighting, but I know how to choose a good drink. [Chekov--the one the City is more accustomed to--grabs the bottle of Stoli from his counterpart.] You're far enough into the bottle. Give it to me.
As they say in Russia, "I don't need your valuable directives."
This is my home and my vodka. You should be more courteous.
If you were a better host, maybe... [Taller, less adorable Chekov ruffles the other Chekov's hair. The latter is not amused.] But why fight when we can settle this like men? One more fight, fists only. The winner gets to stay here and the loser goes.
[Chekov rubs a bruised cheek, sulky.] You have the advantage.
I was joking. Let's drink and be friends.
I would rather go running.
Please, do what you like. Perhaps I can become better acquainted with Misses Uhura.
Don't flirt with her--either of her. [Curly-haired Chekov sets his gadget and the bottle of vodka aside and moves out of sight. The other Chekov watches him curiously, reclaims the vodka, and takes a healthy swig.] I say that for her benefit and yours. She dislikes it.
Have a good run!
[A door slams. The remaining Chekov gives the camera an apologetic smile.]
Forgive Pavel's ill-humor; he may be mad at me for winning our sparring match. But, if you would like to talk to me, my humor is intact and I have little to do.
[ooc: Chekov isn't getting on well with his Good Side (if you want some tl;dr on said Good Side, it's right here). Actual!Chekov can either be action'd up while out or contacted via the network later on; Other!Chekov is free for network communication. If you fancy talking to both, that can happen later. Do indicate to whom and when your characters are replying!]
[COMMENTS]
[Chekov has been maintaining radio silence since the fifteenth. The rampant alcohol-induced misery in the City, however, prompts a network post.]
Celebrations yesterday, vomiting in the streets today. It feels like the first of January.
My father has told me many ways to cure a hangover--some of the ways are ridiculous--so I will share his better suggestions. Drink pickle brine; the potassium, magnesium, and electrolytes will help. Mineral water is good, too, as is kvass, but I don't know there to find that in the City. If these don't help, jump into a very cold body of water. The cold should be enough of a distraction to make you forget your other miseries.
[There's an uncertain pause.]
Also, I have a question.
I realize that, normally, actions taken during curses are to be forgiven. What if a cursed action is encouraged or preceded by uncursed actions? Say--and this is only an example--two friends have an argument, and that becomes a fight. Maybe the fight is somewhat violent, but not so bad until the curse takes hold and one of the participants does something extreme. When uncursed and cursed are close like that, how do you know where one turns into the other? Is there a time when a cursed action is not forgivable?
[He clears his throat. It's a troubling topic, which is why he feels a need to end on an entirely different note.]
Pickle brine for hangovers. Remember that. You heard it from a Russian, and a Russian never lies about these things.
[COMMENTS]
Celebrations yesterday, vomiting in the streets today. It feels like the first of January.
My father has told me many ways to cure a hangover--some of the ways are ridiculous--so I will share his better suggestions. Drink pickle brine; the potassium, magnesium, and electrolytes will help. Mineral water is good, too, as is kvass, but I don't know there to find that in the City. If these don't help, jump into a very cold body of water. The cold should be enough of a distraction to make you forget your other miseries.
[There's an uncertain pause.]
Also, I have a question.
I realize that, normally, actions taken during curses are to be forgiven. What if a cursed action is encouraged or preceded by uncursed actions? Say--and this is only an example--two friends have an argument, and that becomes a fight. Maybe the fight is somewhat violent, but not so bad until the curse takes hold and one of the participants does something extreme. When uncursed and cursed are close like that, how do you know where one turns into the other? Is there a time when a cursed action is not forgivable?
[He clears his throat. It's a troubling topic, which is why he feels a need to end on an entirely different note.]
Pickle brine for hangovers. Remember that. You heard it from a Russian, and a Russian never lies about these things.
[COMMENTS]
( Action at the House // Open to Uhura )
( Private Video // Locked to Lucy )
[Action // Open]
[After acquiring appropriate attire and getting over the initial surprise of waking up with a... ah, different body, Chekov spends the weekend playing a game of let's-see-who-can-recognize-me with acquaintances (when he's not at work, of course, as a gender swap is no excuse to call in sick).
He might be seven inches shorter and curvier than normal, but that accent is all too easy to identify.]
[COMMENTS]
( Private Video // Locked to Lucy )
[Action // Open]
[After acquiring appropriate attire and getting over the initial surprise of waking up with a... ah, different body, Chekov spends the weekend playing a game of let's-see-who-can-recognize-me with acquaintances (when he's not at work, of course, as a gender swap is no excuse to call in sick).
He might be seven inches shorter and curvier than normal, but that accent is all too easy to identify.]
[COMMENTS]
