Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek. I do own Chekov's dad, the strange
woman in the photo and Ensign Chêchanna.
~~
Attacked: Part Four: The Art Contest
~~
Reviewer Response:
Broken Infinity: Heeheehee...I love evil cliff-hangers....
May Solo: Yes ma'am. Doing it now.
Penguin Queen: It's not weird. It makes you feel sorry for them.
Ariennye: Okay, I'm living up to the deal. I didn't think you'd update that fast...
I-Am-Bug: You're scaring me too.
SherryGabs: So is everyone, it seems...
~~
A/N: Sorry it's taken me so long to update...but I have to be in a depressed mood to write depressing stories...
~~
McCoy had told Chekov that he had to stay in Sick bay for another week; his ribs had healed properly and the Doctor was concerned that they could break again very easily.
It was during this week that Ensign Chêchanna, new in from Space Dock, broke her hip by falling out of an Engineering Inspection Hatch and broke her hip and pelvis. She was assigned to the bed next to Chekov's.
It was also in this week that the Psycho-Analyst Peterson ran a test on the crew and discovered that moral had sunk by 16.8%. He brought it up at a Staff Meeting and it was decided, mainly by Lieutenant Uhura, who usually took such meetings over by sheer willpower, that an Art Contest should be run.
So, when Ensign Chêchanna was brought into Sick Bay, bandaged up, been given a thorough warning not to be so silly again from Scotty, then finally left in peace, she pulled out a sketching pad and a pencil (such things she always seemed to carry around) and started to draw something lightly on the paper.
Chekov kept his back to her, and the sheets pulled up to just below his ear. He hated lying in Sick Bay. It always made him feel helpless, like everyone else on the ship was working but he could not, and that that mean that everyone hated him and called him lazy behind his back.
Just like at home. Whenever he had a cold, whenever he had the flu. It had always been the same.
"Vhat your problem is," His father had spat at him one day when he had slid over on some ice in Moscow's central park area, broken his ankle and had been let of school by his mum, "that you're too scared to go out into the real world. Look at you. You could have gone to school today; all you had to do vas use that crutch-thing the Hospital gave you. But did you? No. I can't believe I have YOU for a son."
And he had cried. And, of course, that had just made it worse. In Chekov's childhood home, you were not allowed to cry. If you did, you were beaten.
Chekov closed his eyes and winced as he felt the ghost of his father's belt across his back. His silky black hair fell over his face, hiding the tears that had started to form in the two shining brown orbs, then put his hands over his mouth to hide a sob.
He didn't hide it well enough, however, for Chêchanna looked up from her sketchpad and studied his quivering back for a while before asking, "you alright?" She had a thick Liverpudlian accent, which was laced through with a little concern.
Chekov bit back whilst answering, "I'm fine." In a snippy tone. Chêchanna sighed in a mock-impatience kind of way and shook her head.
Stupid men and their stupid pride*. They refused to show any kind of emotion unless their favourite Aerospace Football Team had lost** and they are drunk. Then there were bar stools being thrown everywhere.
"You sure you're alright? D'you want me to get the Doctor? Chekov?"
The Russian turned around, startled and forgetting about his red eyes and wet cheeks, "How d'you know my name?"
"We went to the Academy together. I sat behind you in Geometry. I flicked rubber bands at you, remember?"
"Sort-of." Right now, his memories were all in a haze. He lay on his back and stared at the smooth metal ceiling, the arm that wasn't in a sling behind his head.
"So, what happened to you?" Chêchanna asked between rubbing out a line in her drawing and correcting it.
"Fight." Chekov replied simply. If she did remember him that well from the Academy, she'd know that he always gotten into fights.
"Again?" Evidently, she did, "what is it with men and fighting anyway? It's not very attractive."
There was a bell ringing in Chekov's head. He did remember Chêchanna. She was always getting into fights as well. He opened his mouth to argue as such, but then remembered she won every verbal fight as well and shut it again.
He felt the metal rod along his jaw line and glowered. Why couldn't've his attacker broken his jaw? Then he wouldn't have to talk to anyone and it would be great.
"Whose the woman on the monitor, then?" He sat up at this question and glanced at the Monitor screen. The picture of the woman from his file was still displayed there. He must have fallen asleep and left it on.
"Vhat's it to you?"
"Well, seeing as though I just drew a picture of her, I ought to know her name." He looked at the sketchpad's open page that she was holding up to show him. It was perfect.
"Anastasia." He replied through gritted teeth, "Her name is...WAS, her name WAS Anastasia Andreievich Chekov."
Chêchanna wrote the name at the bottom of the pad next to her signature, then looked up and frowned at him.
"Wait a sec. Wasn't she your mum?"
"Yeah. So?"
"What happened to her? You're talking about her in the past-tense."
"Yeah vell..." Chekov looked over at her with fresh tears hiding behind his eyes, "she vas murdered, vasn't she?"
~~
~~
Attacked: Part Four: The Art Contest
~~
Reviewer Response:
Broken Infinity: Heeheehee...I love evil cliff-hangers....
May Solo: Yes ma'am. Doing it now.
Penguin Queen: It's not weird. It makes you feel sorry for them.
Ariennye: Okay, I'm living up to the deal. I didn't think you'd update that fast...
I-Am-Bug: You're scaring me too.
SherryGabs: So is everyone, it seems...
~~
A/N: Sorry it's taken me so long to update...but I have to be in a depressed mood to write depressing stories...
~~
McCoy had told Chekov that he had to stay in Sick bay for another week; his ribs had healed properly and the Doctor was concerned that they could break again very easily.
It was during this week that Ensign Chêchanna, new in from Space Dock, broke her hip by falling out of an Engineering Inspection Hatch and broke her hip and pelvis. She was assigned to the bed next to Chekov's.
It was also in this week that the Psycho-Analyst Peterson ran a test on the crew and discovered that moral had sunk by 16.8%. He brought it up at a Staff Meeting and it was decided, mainly by Lieutenant Uhura, who usually took such meetings over by sheer willpower, that an Art Contest should be run.
So, when Ensign Chêchanna was brought into Sick Bay, bandaged up, been given a thorough warning not to be so silly again from Scotty, then finally left in peace, she pulled out a sketching pad and a pencil (such things she always seemed to carry around) and started to draw something lightly on the paper.
Chekov kept his back to her, and the sheets pulled up to just below his ear. He hated lying in Sick Bay. It always made him feel helpless, like everyone else on the ship was working but he could not, and that that mean that everyone hated him and called him lazy behind his back.
Just like at home. Whenever he had a cold, whenever he had the flu. It had always been the same.
"Vhat your problem is," His father had spat at him one day when he had slid over on some ice in Moscow's central park area, broken his ankle and had been let of school by his mum, "that you're too scared to go out into the real world. Look at you. You could have gone to school today; all you had to do vas use that crutch-thing the Hospital gave you. But did you? No. I can't believe I have YOU for a son."
And he had cried. And, of course, that had just made it worse. In Chekov's childhood home, you were not allowed to cry. If you did, you were beaten.
Chekov closed his eyes and winced as he felt the ghost of his father's belt across his back. His silky black hair fell over his face, hiding the tears that had started to form in the two shining brown orbs, then put his hands over his mouth to hide a sob.
He didn't hide it well enough, however, for Chêchanna looked up from her sketchpad and studied his quivering back for a while before asking, "you alright?" She had a thick Liverpudlian accent, which was laced through with a little concern.
Chekov bit back whilst answering, "I'm fine." In a snippy tone. Chêchanna sighed in a mock-impatience kind of way and shook her head.
Stupid men and their stupid pride*. They refused to show any kind of emotion unless their favourite Aerospace Football Team had lost** and they are drunk. Then there were bar stools being thrown everywhere.
"You sure you're alright? D'you want me to get the Doctor? Chekov?"
The Russian turned around, startled and forgetting about his red eyes and wet cheeks, "How d'you know my name?"
"We went to the Academy together. I sat behind you in Geometry. I flicked rubber bands at you, remember?"
"Sort-of." Right now, his memories were all in a haze. He lay on his back and stared at the smooth metal ceiling, the arm that wasn't in a sling behind his head.
"So, what happened to you?" Chêchanna asked between rubbing out a line in her drawing and correcting it.
"Fight." Chekov replied simply. If she did remember him that well from the Academy, she'd know that he always gotten into fights.
"Again?" Evidently, she did, "what is it with men and fighting anyway? It's not very attractive."
There was a bell ringing in Chekov's head. He did remember Chêchanna. She was always getting into fights as well. He opened his mouth to argue as such, but then remembered she won every verbal fight as well and shut it again.
He felt the metal rod along his jaw line and glowered. Why couldn't've his attacker broken his jaw? Then he wouldn't have to talk to anyone and it would be great.
"Whose the woman on the monitor, then?" He sat up at this question and glanced at the Monitor screen. The picture of the woman from his file was still displayed there. He must have fallen asleep and left it on.
"Vhat's it to you?"
"Well, seeing as though I just drew a picture of her, I ought to know her name." He looked at the sketchpad's open page that she was holding up to show him. It was perfect.
"Anastasia." He replied through gritted teeth, "Her name is...WAS, her name WAS Anastasia Andreievich Chekov."
Chêchanna wrote the name at the bottom of the pad next to her signature, then looked up and frowned at him.
"Wait a sec. Wasn't she your mum?"
"Yeah. So?"
"What happened to her? You're talking about her in the past-tense."
"Yeah vell..." Chekov looked over at her with fresh tears hiding behind his eyes, "she vas murdered, vasn't she?"
~~