So this is a little drabble I thought up while brainstorming story ideas for Star Trek. I took both the liberty of putting myself in Chekov's mind and making up a history for him. I'm not sure what his parents were supposed to be like, but this is what I've put together.
Tell me your thoughts!
I don't own Star Trek (haha that one's almost funny)
It was silent-almost. The metallic hallways conducted the slightest whirr of machinery, and above the hollow ducts let air slide softly throughout the Enterprise. Besides, the silence seemed almost alive itself; a tangible breathing that grew to a roar to those exposed to it.
To Chekov, it seemed as if his whirling thoughts might be enough to wake the ship. He shuddered as his door slipped shut, thunking ever so lightly on the wall despite its air cushioning. After standing still for several long moments he deemed it safe to move, and made his way down the corridor as quietly as he could.
It wasn't as if there was a particular rule preventing crew members from leaving their quarters in the dead of night, but Chekov had too much to think about to be bothered by well-meaning acquaintances. Life in the final frontier was fantastic, miraculous, incredible, and all consuming. Sometimes a person just needed a bit of time to themselves.
He had known this life would be difficult. His mother often questioned him as a child when he would express interest in joining Starfleet. As he grew older this questioning led to challenging, and finally complete opposition. She couldn't understand why her only son wanted to leave the Earth that nurtured him, how he could stand to be away from his family indefinitely while embracing the emptiness of space. Truth be told, even Chekov couldn't fully explain it. The draw to this world was alien to even him, as was so much else he had recently been exposed to. Why give up the comforts of home for this often uncomfortable and always dangerous life?
His father had been more understanding. A sailor himself, he could understand his son's obsession with unpredictability, his longing to be captivated by the unknown. And so Chekov had grown up, supported by his father and looked down upon by his mother. Whether he would admit it or not, it was a primary cause of uncertainty in his life even now, trillions of miles from the earth.
Chekov reached his destination. The door opened with a whoosh, and his found himself on the bridge. He made his way to the navigation consul, sinking into the comfortable chair. "Computer," he whispered softly. "Open blinds and dim lights."
Many had asked Chekov if it was difficult being youngest person (by far) in an adult world. His usual response of "no" or "of course not" often brought sceptical glances, but the truth was this wasn't the first time Chekov had been segregated. Since as long as he could remember he had been different. He was a genius in academics even in first grade, amazing his teachers with language translations and chemistry experiments. He had disproved three of Newton's laws by the time he was in grade 5. Chekov skipped several grades, entering high school early. He had graduated and been accepted by Starfleet by the time he was 14. None of this proved good for human to human relationships, but this he was used too.
He was optimistic. Jim Kirk was a good captain (despite his emotional shortcomings) and Spock a decent second in command (despite his lack of emotional shortcomings). Mr. Sulu the pilot, whom Chekov worked with constantly and was quite young himself, accepted Chekov's eccentricies without question and Uhura provided more of a motherly figure than Chekov's own flesh and blood. He found himself constantly amused with Scotty's witty take on life, and the Doctor, while more of a pessimist than Chekov would have liked, was probably the most accepting of the bunch. Yes, everyone was a little wary of the young ensign now, but Chekov had faith that that would one day respect him for who he was.
And besides, the worst was over. Chekov had spent years proving himself to the world, fighting for a dream he only vaguely understood. He had fought through high level academics, ridicule, and angry Romulan's to reach the position he held today. And he would continue to fight to define himself in this endless universe where the impossible because slightly possible.
The blinds on the bridge stilled, then rose. As Chekov's eyes adjusted to the darkness of space, speck after speck of light became visible until the view screen in front of him revealed an exodus of stars, each on their own journey. His breathing stilled-how could it not? The majesty of this world he was immersed in would never be caught in ink, could not be described in the words of any known languages.
Whenever he felt confused, or questioned his reason for choosing this life, Chekov would need only to glance outside once and he would stop asking why. This world that had captivated him as a young boy had only grown stronger as he matured. This feeling, this draw that defied gravity defined him, gave him a reason to exist. This was his life. And at those moment s nothing else mattered.