Wow, this has been sitting on my laptop for a while.
I think I even used some of it in one of my Hetalia fics, because I didn't think I'd ever post this one.
Horray for recycling?
This was sort of the beginning of an 'experimental' phase where I tried repetition as an effect in writing.
It's also very depressing; I'll presume I was in a mood.
Anyway, here you are:
The first thing the world does to a genius is to make him lose all his youth.
"I ken do zat, I ken do zat!"
I can save them…
"I have her, I have her…!"
I lost her…
There was nothing. No pinpoint, no signature, no life sign. There was nothing but emptiness on the computer screen. The spot where Amanda Grayson had once existed had disappeared into darkness. No trace, no signal, no remains. There was nothing.
The young boy glanced up, mouth open slightly in absolute numbing terror as he gazed at his captain. The Vulcans arm was outstretched, reaching into space. Reaching into emptiness, into the nothingness around him. He was grasping desperately, trying to save the woman who had fallen.
He had had her, he had almost had her, and then…
She was gone.
No one spoke, no one moved, no one breathed. They waited, tensions of misery and anguish unraveling into a thick, suffocating air inside the transporter room. Spock's arm dropped to his side, lifeless. The look of complete shock, of such desolate despair – a part of the captain had died just then.
He had done that, he had been the cause of such pain.
It was his fault.
And just as soon as it had happened, the Vulcan had brought his defenses back up. Clear headed, logical, emotionless, he stalked out of the room, heading toward the bridge. He resumed his responsibilities, returning to his duties as commanding officer. And Chekov was left there, lost in the empty nothingness before him.
He had lost her.
He had killed her.
He kneeled at the corner, hidden away in the depths of his room. He clutched the sapphire rosary beads in his hand as if they were his sole purpose of living, whispering muted words of broken prayer in a passionate fervor. His voice slid through the dark room, his accent viscous over the shattered words stumbled over in a flurry of tormented pleas.
He could have been faster. He could have saved her.
If only he had paid attention. If only he had been quicker.
Memories slid to the surface of his mind, his failures creeping up on him, consuming his thoughts, swallowing him. The look of absolute disappointment on his fathers face when he had been accepted to Starfleet Academy, the look of complete heartbreak on his mothers face when he had proposed his decision to her.
The look of absolute agony on his captains face.
He was expected to be perfect. His teachers had demanded greatness of him, of his talent, of his skill. They had set high standards for his brilliance. Anything short of miraculous was unacceptable. They had pushed his genius to the edge. They had pressured him to do better, and better, and better.
But he had failed.
The Vulcan was his mentor, his idol, his role model. The man was precise in his actions, never wavering from his responsibility, never abandoning his duties to others. He never let his outer appearance fade; he never let his emotions dictate actions.
Spock was perfect in every way. He knew everything there ever was to know. He was always alert. He was always prepared. He was never thrown off-guard, always ready for whatever the world threw at him. Never had anyone seen Spock fail at anything.
After a life of being molded into perfection, Chekov strived to be just like that.
Today, today he had been tested, tested in the strength of his power, of his mind.
Today, he had let an innocent person die.
Someone knocked at his door. Perhaps it was Revenge. Perhaps it was Death. He would have gladly given in to either of the two; it was just of fate to bring such things to his doorstep. A bruise for bruise, burn for burn, hand for hand, eye for an eye – a life for life.
"Chekov?" Tears blurred his vision as he glanced at the black silhouette, haloed by the bright white light of the corridor. It was a shadow of an angel, a messenger, a harbinger.
He began to babble in his native language, tears welling up in his deep blue eyes, the translucent azure seas spilling salty streams down his face. The wet trails cascaded down his cheeks, a never-ending river of his guilt.
"Chekov!" It was Sulu; Sulu had come to check on him, rushing to his side with such fierce concern. "What's wrong?"
"I killed her, I killed her. She is gone, and it is my fault. I failed, and it is my fault. I had her, I had her! And then, she vas lost. I let her go. I let her fall." He repeated the mantra like a damaged recording, repeating a message that carried over and over again. The older one listened carefully as he continued his chant, circling around the event again and again. In his minds eye, the boy could see the poor woman on the edge of a cliff, falling downward into an empty black abyss, the hollow pool of oblivion.
"Chekov?" Sulu gently reached out towards him, his hand landing on the boys trembling shoulder. He quietly crouched beside him, trying to hush the boy in a soothing voice. "Pavel, Pavel. Calm down. Take a deep breath; breathe, relax. Come on. Now, tell me: what's wrong?"
The Russian sniffled, his breath wavering as he inhaled sharply.
"I killed her. She is gone, and it is my fault. I failed, and it is my fault. I had her, I had her! And then, she vas lost. I let her go. I let her fall. If only – if only I had been faster, if I had paid attention! If I had been more – if I had been more – I could have saved her. But I failed. She is gone, she is lost. Because I killed her," he whimpered, broken sentences spilling from his mouth. They flowed with wish-washed ease as he confessed his innermost thoughts, pouring like a river from his mind.
Slowly, the darker man slipped closer, his arms wrapping around the young teen in a fluid motion to comfort him, an attempt to protect the boy from his suppressed guilt. The Asian held him close, gathering the child into his lap, not knowing what else to do.
When in doubt, do as your heart tells you, his okasan had once told him. He remembered what she had done to console him, the things that made him feel safe and sound from the endless strife and discord of the world.
The waves of sorrow rolled off the child as a tide, his pale hands clutching at the golden fabric of Sulu's shirt. He buried his face into the crook of the man's neck, crying an anguished lamentation of his misery. Sulu let him cling, let him mourn, waiting for the storm that threatened to tear the poor child apart to pass as all storms do. The endless rain of his tears soaked his collar, a wet stain that Sulu paid no mind to – it would dry as the clouds of regret faded, as the raging tempest slithered into the depths of memory.
Eventually, the sobs subsided, Chekov's shuddering breath evening into a stable tempo. Ashen cheeks were damp, darkened eyelashes moist, his eyes closed in exhaustion. Sulu ran his hand through the thick curls, glancing at the Ensign's bed less than four meters away. Carefully, he picked the seventeen year old up in his arms, carrying him over and laying him on the mattress. A lithe hand tightened desperately around the golden shirt snatched within it, watery indigo orbs fluttering open before closing once more.
"Please, don't leave," he whispered in a muted, heartbreaking tone. "Not yet. Please, stay."
Sulu hesitated, knowing full well the rules and repercussions of the consequences of what would happen if he got caught in the insinuations of the situation. But to leave his helmsman to suffer in silence was certainly not an option. He set his mind firmly, deciding to slide into the small bed alongside the younger one. Sleepily, Chekov nuzzled into his side, pulling himself closer to Sulu.
"You are – safe," he concluded, his accent thick from drowsiness. "I feel safe, here."
"Yes," Sulu agreed gently, rubbing the child's arm. "You are safe here."
"Thank you," Chekov murmured, sighing contentedly as he drifted off to into a peaceful sleep.
Hours later, Sulu lightly removed himself from the boy's side.
He was consumed with the regretful feelings the child had experienced as he trudged back to his cabin, alone.
It is our human lot,
It is heaven's will,
That sorrow follow joy.