candothat: (Sad: Kicked puppy)
[Chekov was conscious well before evening, but he can't for the life of him remember anything. Why is he in a hospital bed? What happened to his hand? Why does everything hurt? More importantly, perhaps, who typed the last entry on his network device and who replied to Lucy and Delacroix this morning?

It was him, of course, but scopolamine has a way of messing with memories. Pavel remembers a random jumble of things: fighting someone in a mask, Korra, watching trees breathe in the park...

In the hope that someone can fill him in, he grabs his network device and starts an audio recording.]


If there is anyone-- [He pauses to clear his throat. He sounds like he hasn't tried talking for days, even to his own ear.] If anyone can tell me what happened this weekend... I would be most appreciative.

[Well, would you look at the time. Just a few hours until midnight.]

Поздравляю с Новым годом. I had no plans for celebrating the new year, but I doubt this would have been included in them.


[COMMENTS]
candothat: (Default)
[action]

[Somewhere outside of City Solutions, Chekov is doing what he can to help others escape The Things running about today (or slithering around, as the case may be). Mostly, that involves shooting The Things with one of the laser guns he made when he first entered the City.

That's what he was doing, anyway. The gun has stopped working and Chekov, with his engineering knowledge temporarily traded away, 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. He grudgingly pulls out his network device.]


Derrmo... Pavel, you are an idiot. Trading away knowledge...


[video]

Howl, Sophie. If either of you are home, would you please go into my room and see if--

[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: his network device.

The picture flickers. The quality of the feed is poor, but a swearing Chekov is visible, 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 network device the ground and--]



[action]

[--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...


[COMMENTS]

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Chekov, Pavel Andreievich

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