Hearts of two worlds
The smile slips from his lips as he leaves Captain Kirk's inauguration. Ignoring the life affirming celebrations of the other officers he makes his way to the observatory, wanting to be alone. He cannot legally drink their booze nor does he want to, for glad as he is to be back on earth and in one piece the idea of celebrating is nauseating.
To him the mission has not been a success; Vulcan may not have been his planet but it has been destroyed none the less. Billions killed in just one day. Federation and Vulcan alike mourn along with the rest of the universe. His scarred heart aches as he recalls the implosion of Vulcan, its image burned across his brain. The Vulcan massacre resonates deeply in him, pulling at old wounds that bleed deeply.
He stares at the holograph of the universe above him, the fake stars perfect replicas of the ones he had been staring at mere hours ago. He stares at the miniature Earth straining his eyes trying to make out the remains of his homeland, of Russia. His eyes briefly linger on the desolated land of his birth before moving higher towards the stars and along the solar systems.
He thinks of the vulcans tittering on the edge of extinction as he silently counts the more fortunate federation planets. He thinks of their culture and wonders if it will endure, if in a hundred years there will be anyone to remember their accomplishments and innovations. Or will the universe forget about them, reducing years upon years of their culture into little more than a footnote.
He wonders if like him, they will have to claw at every last trace of what was once theirs. If they will have to fight to hold on to an odd and complex language that few speak and none wants to learn. He wonders if they will have to remind others of their artists, writers and inventions. He wonders if the help they have been promised will appear or if they will be left to fend for themselves as he had been.
A quiet choking sob rouses him from his thoughts. Startled he pulls his eyes from screen. He searches the seemly empty room the darkness for the perpetrator of the devastating cry. Eventually his eyes fall on a hauntingly beautiful girl. Chekov's heart breaks at the sight of her. Filled with a sudden desire to comfort and protect her, he draws closer to the miserable maiden.
She sits alone in the far corner of the quiet room. A thin layer of red dirt coats her seat, the dust of a now nonexistent planet. On the dark sombre deck her long flowing yet torn blue gown glistens with the reflections of fake stars. She stares upward at the image planet Vulcan, her pretty dirt streaked face expressionless but for her sad watery eyes. Long ebony hair spills down tall straight shoulders. Captivated by her beautiful arched eyebrows and elegant pointed ears he stares at her, unable to speak.
Sensing his presence she glances at him and beckons for him to come closer, to sit down beside her. He obediently sits down, careful to maintain a safe distance between the two of them, for he doesn't wish to add to her pain. Her gaze returns to the constellations above their heads, watching as the program plays out its cycle repeating over and over.
She rests a tired head on his shoulder as he cries thick hot tears, enough for the two. A bandaged hand wipes at his cheek soothing him. He smiles at her and she pulls him closer enveloping him in a hug. Drowsily he entwines their hands together as sleep claims them both.