PROLOGUE:

CHEKOV'S ESCAPE

Pavel Chekov was young. He could at least venture into that self-deprecating train of musings, though it made his Russian blood simmer with revulsion at his own thought process. As he sat there in contemplative repose, back against the wall, his head bowed so that the relentless drip that cascaded from some leaking pipe above him pelted his now frizzy and unkempt curls.

It was dank and dark and a repugnant scent filled the air with a thick intensity that would make even the most durable man sputter and choke. But Chekov had passed the nearly unbearable state of olfactory mourning a long time ago; the pale flesh of his wrists, however, were beginning to chafe against the harsh bite of steel and plastic cuffs.

All he needed was a plan. He needed to find a plausible way to relinquish the cruel hold of the cuffs around his more than capable wrists and trigger a malfunction in the system that would allow him enough time to escape, and therefore generate a distress call to the Enterprise. After they beamed him back to the ship, he would resume his duties.

Of course they'd still need him…how in the world would they replace his prodigious scientific aptitude in such allotted time? They were searching for him, he knew. Or at least, he hoped, he prayed. Conflicted, Chekov assured himself indignantly, with the help of little Russian curses, that the crew had not abandoned him out of sheer frustration at his newfound ability to find himself in a less than fortunate situation. The edge to his curses lent him not a glimmer of hope; in fact, it only made the suspension in purgatory more agonizing than the chafing on his wrists that had now elevated into sores from his consistent movements.

Day one had at last faded into the gray early morning of the imprisonment, and already, as little dashes of rose-pink and orange sunlight began to creep across the horizon, the formula for an escape plan had molded itself in Chekov's head. As his captors entered the code for the door and herded a willowy, demure looking woman into the ice-stricken hold, Chekov dared not draw his eyes away from the scene. Nor would he allow the memory of the code to flicker out of his mind as the opening to the hold grew wider, the mouth of the entrance yawning as it coaxed another bout of frozen air into the damp compartment. He felt his cheeks swell with a surge of warmth as his thin body attempted to ward off the impending cold.

Across the little amount of space that separated the two, Chekov scrutinized his newly found company. From the manner of her tattered garments and slump of her meager shoulders, he could easily identify her as a Klingon slave, but unmistakably human. She shuddered, enveloping her frame with quaking arms as her eyes wandered around the hold, taking in the aura of her surroundings. At last, her languid gaze drifted over Chekov, who watched her intently, waiting for her to take note of his presence. Her focus sharpened almost instantly.

"I will get us out of here, da?" He hissed quietly across the stretch of rusted metal that separated the two hostages.

She furrowed her brow merely a moment, processing his difficult pronunciation, and then nodded.

"I just need to get us out of these cuffs…here, come," he motioned her over, taking a hasty glance toward the bolted door. "I will not hurt you. You can trust me."

She said nothing, but heeded his beckoning. Carefully, her eyes drifting solemnly toward the door to make certain they would not be caught, she inched toward Chekov, reaching him in a matter of moments.

"Now, enter the code 9398564."

The cuffs slid off as the girl entered the code.

"Turn around," he said. "We have to hurry, before they take off and we cannot escape. I can have us beamed back to the starship I am assigned to, and they will help us."

A low, throaty rumbling sound began to shudder like trembling jolts throughout the large expanse of cabin. Chekov wasted not a moment in pondering the sound; he knew it all too well, and snatched the girl's hand, who was taken by surprise as she craned her neck toward the resonation of the thunderous engines.

9398563…

"Jump!" He shouted, and before the girl had even a moment's hesitation, Chekov shoved her out of the cargo entrance, and took the plunge a second after. The ship lifted off the snowy, ice-covered terrain and climbed toward the atmosphere, where it disappeared behind a film of thick white clouds.

"Easy, nyet?" he chuckled, brushing the flakes of ice that had stubbornly clung to his mustard yellow uniform. The girl lay like a broken porcelain doll in the snow, splayed and fractured in her brown woolen rags.

"Are you alright?" He asked, lifting her up with a gentle tug. "I am sorry if I at all hurt you."

She gave him a small smile of gratitude, and Chekov was glad to see not a flicker of doubt or resentment lay in the fields of color of her eyes.

"I am Pavel Chekov," he said, pulling out the hand on which her head had been resting and clasping it with hers.

"Lily," she said.

Chekov grinned cordially and, noticing the girl looked as if she were about to faint from the intense cold, shrugged the jacket from his sinewy shoulders.

"I will get you back home for you, Lily," he promised. "Wherever that could be."

A/N:

I loved Pavel Chekov. Hands down. Original series, and in the new Star Trek 2009. So, without further ado, I'd like to introduce you to my story. Action and romance! Anyway, I warn you - my writing is not up to par. I usually write better than this, so expect better.

Disclaimer - Chekov belongs to JJ Abrams, Gene Roddenberry, Anton Yelchin and Walter Koeing.