A burst of phaser fire screeched past his ear and hit the tree in front of him, shattering the bark into a million tiny fragments in his face. Chekov ducked his head instinctively as he ran past it, the splinters showering into his hair. He ploughed on into the forest as fast as he could. He had no idea how long he had been running – it seemed like hours. His throat was hoarse with panting. Thin wet branches whipped his face as he pushed through. His face was raw with the red welts they had caused. Thorns pulled at his arms as if trying to impede his progress, but he didn't care. He was sprinting as fast as he had ever run before. He knew that he had to get away at all costs. He mustn't be caught. He stumbled over a log, crying out as his ankle twisted and his knee buckled under him. He reached out for a branch to stop himself from falling and he kept on going . His leg held firm. Slipping on the lush slimy grass, he turned his head momentarily, his eyes wide with terror, to try to catch a glimpse of the Tikari, his pursuers. The forest shielded them from his view. They were fully camouflaged and knew their forest home with an intimacy he could never match. He was met with another streak of plasma. He ran on faster, leaping over rocks and the uneven floor of the forest. The bright afternoon sunshine barely penetrated the canopy of thick foliage above him. He had no idea where he was running to. He didn't have a plan at all. He just knew that he had to get away. Fear and adrenaline gave him an endurance he didn't know he had.
His breath came in ragged gasps as the terrain began to steepen. It was a mountainous area and rocks and saplings jutted out of the hillside in increasing density, forcing him to choose a path that he was sure would be obvious to his pursuers. It was rough and narrow and looked like it had been made by animals .He scrambled upwards, his legs burning with the effort of climbing. His fingernails tore into the mud and soft mulch in front of him, grasping for any roots that he could cling to. Eventually the land began to plateau but he had to stop. He was finally exhausted. Amidst a small clearing he found a hollow. He threw himself into it onto his hands and knees. He bowed his head, panting and coughing. He shut his eyes and strained his ears for any sounds of pursuit – the slightest crack of a branch that might indicate that they were there. He held his breath, but the forest retained its primordial silence. He slumped down and leant back against a tree, ignoring the damp ground beneath him seeping into this trousers. He raised his knees and balanced his elbows on them, holding his head in his hands as he tried to calm his breathing. He needed to keep as quiet as possible. He put his head back and wiped the sweat and hair from his eyes with his hot, muddy hand, taking steadier breaths of the cool afternoon air. As he looked around him it occurred to him that in any other situation, this place would be idyllic. It reminded him of the deep forests of home that seemed to stretch on for ever. He looked down at his heaving chest and ripped uniform and realised that the mustard gold of his shirt stood out from the surrounding greens and browns. He hurriedly pulled it over his head and scrambled over to a pile of leaves under a bush and gave it a hasty burial. His black long-sleeved undershirt and black trousers would make him a less obvious target, he hoped. He dug into his pocket for his communicator and flipped it open, pressing it to his chest to try to muffle its usually welcoming chirrup. He turned the small silver knob on its face with his shaking hand trying to lock onto a signal, but he couldn't find anything. Uhura had told them that communications would be difficult. As usual, she had been right. He climbed stiffly to his feet, hoping a little more elevation might help. He coaxed the dial around again. Nothing.
Suddenly he caught a slight rustling in the trees out of the corner of his eye. He turned his head in the direction of the sound and froze. All his senses seemed to slow down everything around him as he analysed every sound, smell and movement. The drip, drip of recent rain marked out the seconds at the periphery of his perception. The faintest sound of a twig snapping behind him made him spin round. He took a great gulp of air, preparing to run again. He saw a shadow move in the bushes. With an explosion of momentum he dropped the communicator and charged forwards and onto the path. He had only gone a few yards when he came up short, skidding into a deep peaty puddle. There in front of him was a Tikari, his darkly tanned face smeared with mud so that only the white of his grinning teeth was visible above his glittering black eyes. Chekov hesitated, assessing if he could barge past and maybe dodge round the man, but he immediately recognised the impossibility. The man saw him make the decision and shook his head patronisingly, whistling through his sharp teeth. Chekov hurled himself back in the direction he had just come. Another Tikari appeared from behind a tree and blocked his way, this one levelling his small phase pistol before him with one eye on the sights. He made a soothing noise to the Russian before calling out to his companion. Chekov looked behind him and back again in rising panic – the other man had been joined by several others. He could hear more approaching through the undergrowth either side of him. He didn't want to give up this easily. He flung himself through the bushes to his right but fell straight into the arms of one of his pursuers. He was surrounded. He cried out in alarm and struggled as the man clamped his strong arms around his waist, lifting him off the ground. Punching and kicking with all his strength he managed to buck himself free. He fell onto the ground with a thud and scrambled away as fast as he could, the sound of Tikari laughter ringing in his ears. He suddenly felt a hand grasp his ankle and pull him back along the ground. He was rotated sharply onto his back. Three other Tikari were immediately upon him, kneeling on his arms and legs, pinning him down to the earth. He looked up into the short muzzle of a pistol, gasping for air, hearing himself pleading 'nyet, nyet' at a distance. Above it was the man he had first seen, still grinning with a hungry triumph. The man saw the fear in his eyes and said something to his companions without taking his eyes off him. Chekov couldn't understand their language but the guffaws and approval with which they responded sent a wave of dread down his spine. One of them kneeling on his arms grasped his chin and turned his head from side to side, sticking a large grubby finger into his mouth to force it open to look at his teeth. He patted him on the cheek before turning and nodding up to the man with the pistol. The last thing Chekov remembered was seeing the pull of the man's finger on the trigger and a blast of blinding energy ripping through his chest.