AN: Hey guys! Thanks for all the reviews and support! Here is another chapter (and a long one at that…maybe by my standards XD). Anyway, here it is. Oh! And also, I give credit to St. Valentine for the "Russians are real men!" phrase, and for her making me put Chekov's accent in…it just…wouldn't have been the same. To which I am dreadfully sorry if I get it wrong. I tried my best. OKAY! I'll shut up now.

Chapter Two: Resilience

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"Damnit, Chekov! Get your sorry Russian ass outta that chair!"

The young ensign was drawn out of his mathematical reverie. He didn't even need to turn to know whose strident voice it was. In the past, he would have acted rather abashedly towards the doctor, yet, since he knew him a bit better, an aggravated sigh, followed by a few silent Russian curses, was all he did. He quickly sent his work off to the energizing team and his eyes slipped closed for a brief moment. Things had been rather tense these past few hours, and he didn't feel that the doctor was helping things at all. Chekov felt was the brunt of the doctors abuse, and wasn't too keen on that fact. He wasn't a grease monkey; he was an ensign, and a brilliant one at that. He knew, for a fact, that it was also because of his Russian patronage. He felt that everyone he had encountered thus far, in Starfleet, just…didn't care about where they were from. Chekov found this to be rather pathetic. If everyone else were Russian, they'd definitely share his sentiment. He turned his chair so that he faced piercing blue eyes and the classic asymmetrical brow of Bones McCoy.

"Misteer McCoy. I vas onlee recalcoolating ze Cygnus' trajektory. Eef I

hedn't--"

"Well you're done now, right?". The young navigator turned to look back at his work, more so to escape the steely gaze of the doctor. This attitude was insufferable to work under. Though the doctor wished to rush headlong into this mission, time was of the essence, time to make sure they didn't end three feet outside of the ship's hull, freezing and asphyxiating to death in less than fifteen seconds. Chekov liked being alive; after all, he was sure he was a great asset to the crew. No one was a lighting calculator like he was. McCoy was about to pull the nineteen year old from the chair, yet Chekov stood before he even laid a finger on him. The boy straightened his shirt and nodded "Vell, I em now…sir." The last word was laced with venom so thick that his compatriots turned and looked at the scene.

Bones, partially at a loss of what to do, glared at him and spun on a heel, motioning him forward "Well, c'mon then! You've already wasted a good chunk of my time!" Chekov waited for a moment in sheer frustration. He clenched and unclenched his jaw briefly before heading after the doctor

"Yes, sir." The ensign managed to say with great difficulty.

As they exited the lift, (which seemed like days, in the way that Bones was staring the young Ensign down), they stepped into the tumultuous activity of the crew. Another mustard uniform traversed Chekov's vision. "Hello, boys. What took you so long?"

"Sorry, Captain. I was just tryin' to pry Ensign Chekov away from his…calculations." Bones took a withering glance back at Chekov. Another blow to his Russian pride, he "tsked", trying to ignore it as best he could. Kirk had a smile placed on his face as the lift doors hissed shut. He pressed a button as he regarded the two of them, nearly laughing.

"C'mon, McCoy. Lighten up a little, will ya?" Kirk's charm almost seemed to resound through the fragile shell of the lift. Before the doctor could even formulate a reply, Chekov quickly blurted out, "Keptain, kuld ju plees restate ze reeson vy I vill accompany ju? I do not excel et physical feats. So…vy me?" The last portion Chekov was rather sorry to admit; yet he found that it actually gave him character for doing so. At least he was admitting that he wasn't good at everything. Unlike some people…Chekov visibly snarled at Bones.

Kirk was about to answer when he felt a sharp glance from his right. The doctor, with his wonderful, nurturing ways, managed to answer him adequately enough: "Have you forgotten that you're Russian, boy?"

Chekov placated a most exquisite look of boredom on his face "Eef ju ar referreeng to my eckting as trenslator on zis meesion, zen, no, I heven't."

"Damn right, you wouldn't," McCoy crossed his arms over his chest, regarding the wall a bit too intently, briefly attempting to take up Chekov's accent, which sounded more French than anything "Russia zis, and Russia zat! And I suppose the saying 'Rome wasn't built in a day' was coined in Russia, huh?"

"Gentlemen, please." Kirk gave them a bemused glance before the lift doors slid open. McCoy's face began draining of that purple hue that seemed to take residency under his skin as of late. Chekov, on the other hand, chewed his lower lip with disdain on the very fact that he was attacking his culture, his motherland. The Motherland. The young ensign drew in a deep breath. Russians were the better men; though they defended their patronage with great vigor, they knew when to stop. Chekov assured himself that being petty at the moment would certainly not be helping his situation. After all, what would Captain Kirk think? Better to be "mature" and stick Doctor McCoy with the penknife later. The bright entrance of the energizing room awaited them.

"Pardon, me, Keptain Quirk, but vould zee Cygnus computer translate for ju?" Chekov queried, following closely behind.

Kirk had already reached the energizing pad and shook his head "Lieutenant Uhura tried to assess contact within the vessel, but apparently the ship's computer isn't very responsive. After all, if we're also going through files, we won't be too good at reading Russian."

"Cyrillic, sir. Ees zee name of our written lenguage." The Ensign just about blurted out. He was about to say something when Kirk nodded.

"There, you see? It's perfect." Kirk's visage tracked McCoy's, who glowered, yet Chekov did not see this as his gaze fell on the bright smile of Montgomery Scott. The young ensign smiled back; a man he could truly respect. Though the Scotsman and the Russian had their differences, he seemed to be a man proud of his heritage. And what wonderful stories he had too, of sullen and beautiful landscapes, pouting greenery and low hanging clouds. Chekov promised himself that he'd go to that place, since all he really knew was the cold, looming horizon of the Urals and, in summer; the fresh plains of the steppe in burnished gold; and the deep, crystalline waters of the Volga. He couldn't help but smile that was kindled in the pink of his lips.

"Well we're wasting time by talking not saving innocent lives." Those piercing blues refracted their light on the ensign and he blinked. Chekov was now reddened both with embarrassment and anger. The Ensign was very aware of the fact that he wasn't a child anymore. He knew he was lucky to have joined Starfleet at a young age and to have been part of the crude christening of the Enterprise. But two years had passed, and he had hoped that it had at the very least, changed their opinion of him. He wasn't so sure about Bones. These calculations were very important, otherwise, a mere fraction off and they'd end up in five feet to the left of the ship, dead already. Smart enough to know not to argue, as this had happened some times before, Chekov clenched his jaw and nodded.

Montgomery Scott had the open mouthed look of sheer indignation placated serenely across his face. McCoy gave him a look and sniffed, grabbing the strap of his bag for comfort as he made his way to the pad. "Damnit, man! What're you waiting for?"

"Scotty" (as he was affectionately known) quirked an eyebrow in his direction and gave Chekov a sympathetic glance, "Don't mind him, lad. He's just very passionate about his work."

"Are we finished talking about my mannerisms yet? 'Cause I don't got all day, and I'm sure those survivors on board don't either." McCoy nearly bellowed, and the engineers that assisted the head engineer looked a bit petrified.

A sarcastic grin encompassed Scotty's features as Chekov entered the circumference of the pad. He gave the young Ensign an encouraging wink, which did actually make him feel slightly better. "What the doctor ordered."

The Ensign heard the familiar harmonious ringing in his ears as everything began to turn a white with bright yellow hues.

The contrast was nearly sickening, and blinding for that matter. Chekov suddenly felt the heat flare up around him, like being suddenly placed in an oven and having the door shut on them. He felt a burr of frustration prick the recesses of his mind, "Vell, doctor, eef I vere Russian or not, I beliewe eet vouldn't matter enyvay." The darkness consumed them entirely, despite the long tendrils of vermillion etching themselves into the dark. It was only so much light, and bad at that. The noisy thrum of the backup generators emanated throughout the cavernous hull of the docking bay, making their existence known cacophonously. The Ensign, being from a particularly cool climate, was not at all adjusted to this sort of heat. The abrupt shift in temperature was staggering, and he didn't want to stay any longer that he had to. McCoy sighed deeply, and probably would have given him another staggering look had the darkness revealed such iconic frustration "Dammit, boy! I'm a doctor, not a fortune teller!

"Well," Kirk glanced to Bones, attempting to put their quarreling aside "I guess we should start looking for any survivors. I mean…that's what you're here for right?" Chekov's frustration eased a bit, knowing that the snide doctor was whirling in uncertainty. The Ensign's fingers pulled at the now uncomfortable black turtleneck, as the doctor cast his gaze about, a beam of a flashlight aiding his visage further. Abandoned husks of shuttles lay nestled within their shells of darkness, like sleeping giants.

"Well…I doubt that there's gonna be anyone here. If there was, they'd already have escaped by now…" Even as they began to turn their attention to the nearby door, a very loud clank emanated from the far reaches of the room, refracting across the walls to their ears. Chekov felt his insides convulse at the sudden disturbance of the monotony of their environment. Then he shook himself. Stop being a coward! What is there to be afraid of? It's nothing…and you've got the Captain…and the doctor – He thought reluctantly - Steel yourself. After all, Russians are real men! After a few moments of straining in the dark, it came again; hammer against steel, shrill and ardent. At once, phasers were drawn, the red glow giving them an even sleeker look. Pavel despised them, even though they were necessary at the moment, and, yes, did make him feel a bit safer but he did not prefer violence, only because he wasn't terribly good at combat. The captain preceded first, cautiously as usual, his supple frame silhouetted in an abstraction of red. "Identify yourself." He spoke softly.

The young navigator and doctor were attempting to scan the surrounding area as much as they could for life forms, but the sweltering darkness hid within its secrets, against the prying beams of their flashlights. All three men had placed themselves carefully on the sides of surrounding shuttles, waiting for another response.

Something stirred in the darkness. A sigh of pain.

Chekov abruptly shone his flashlight beam in the vicinity of the noise. A leg stuck out from the helm of a shuttle. "Hello?" He ventured, meekly almost, before McCoy rushed over to the owner of the leg. Kirk did as well, but knew well enough to stay out of the good doctor's way.

"Dammit, boy! Light!" Bones rasped. Chekov advanced slowly as the sickly beam cast shadows over the doctor and the survivor. Despite the fact he wasn't too keen of being ordered around, the ensign was curious himself.

A girl, not so much older than himself as it would seem, lay limp against the shuttles' exterior. Dark hair that was once firmly tied back, hung limply at her shoulder in broken waves. Her tank was soaked with sweat. McCoy checked her vitals, as she appeared to be showing some sign of life. Her head lulled back and forth across the smooth surface of the metal. She seemed to react to the light slightly as she gently raised her hand to block the invading beams from her eyes.

"She's severely dehydrated." Bones was accompanied by the light repetitive hum of the tricorder. The tone of his voice suggested that if they had arrived a minute too late, she could have died. He touched her leg for a moment and the girl sparked to life. A cry of pain was exhumed from her being, yet she choked it back as best she could. Bones continued quickly, "and a badly bruised fibula. Least y' didn't break it." The doctor moved the cerulean light over her shoulder, and made a short grunt, as if querying what was wrong with her.

Chekov was rather envious that he was only the torchbearer as the doctor interrogated her. An angry sigh blew through the porches of his nostrils. Yet he was curious about this girl. McCoy had moved her forward slightly exposing her right shoulder blade. Thin, precise lines traced their way down her back. A pang of sorrow resounded somewhere in the depths of his heart. He suddenly found himself sincerely hoping that she was going to be all right. Kirk crouched and tried to look in her eyes as she still recovered from the pain, now her shoulder being wrapped by Bones. "Got a name, miss?"

"…Ebonfield…Hannah Ebonfield. Engineer...Do you have any water…please? And can we get out of here?" It almost appeared that it took every ounce of her strength to even repeat her own name. Her voice would have been very pleasant, had it not been for her ragged vocal chords. McCoy nodded quickly and rummaged through his bag. He handed her a bottle of water and in earnest, she quickly gulped it down. The men seemed a bit surprised at her thirst; then again, they hadn't known how long she had been there.

The back of a damp hand drew across her mouth, brushing any stray tendrils of water away from her lips. She nodded to the doctor "Thank you…"

McCoy looked at the Captain, nearly pleadingly. "Captain, we need to get her out of here. She needs intensive care." Bones looked deeply at her, as if attempting to keep her grounded with his gaze "Y'can tell me more about how you got that wound when we get back, alright?" She nodded slowly.

Kirk nodded. "Right you are." He touched his Starfleet icon on his chest. "This is Captain Kirk to the bridge. One to beam up." The only response was silence, and a shadow drew doubtful lines across the Captain's face "Scotty. Do you read?"

"Damn…so they've already done it, huh?" Hannah rasped as she struggled to her feet, and leaned against the warm shuttle, already looking like she was about to collapse. McCoy attempted to help her, but she looked like she was about to shove him off, that was, if she had the strength to do so. Chekov had to suppress a smile. He already liked her just for that meager reaction. It was now his turn to look like a functioning member of the group. "Vat… exectly heve zey done?" The girl looked up almost immediately at Chekov's deeply inlaid accent. One that she seemed to recognize all too well. A smile gently cut the curves of her lips, and it filled him with pride. A good thing for an American to be exposed to it in Starfleet. Maybe that's what McCoy needed anyway.

He was brought back to the current conversation at hand as the girl began pressing the cool bottle against her wrists and neck, shuddering at the temperature shift. She pocketed it and shook her head. "They've scrambled our frequency. The computer's a mess…" An aggravated sigh resonated through her being. "I just…don't know what to do anymore." Kirk scanned the docking bay, almost looking for answers. "Well…can't we just go to the engine room? I mean, it'd be the logical thing." A smile tinged the captain's face, only to be covering it a moment later, when he remembered Hannah didn't understand. He sighed and looked around "…Inside joke."

However, Chekov accented, nodding at the captain, then looking to the girl for a response, her face half cloaked in shadow. A light scoff emitted from her, as a sarcastic eyebrow popped heavenward. "D'ya seriously think I'd still be here if I were able to go to the engine room?" That tone suddenly faded, and an odd hush overtook her. Despite the darkness, the fear registered well to the young Ensign as she looked at the captain then to the door. She sucked her lips in, baring the already tender flesh with her teeth; a stray trail of moisture lined her face. The young Ensign couldn't tell if it was a bead of sweat or perhaps a trail of lucid emotion crossing the desert of her skin.

"You don't know what they're like." There was deep-set emotion in her voice. Not only fear, but remorse, and confusion. Chekov's brow furrowed deeply as he despairingly wished to have the key to unlock the engineers mind, wanted to put her at ease. A response fell from his mouth, "Leesten. Ve are 'ere to 'elp. I know ve mey not look like much, but ve are wery powerful –" He could feel McCoy cueing the eyeroll, but he cleared his throat inwardly and ignored it. "-Ve need to know vat happened to zem." She took a mouthful of water in between sentences, so it seemed a time until she was able to respond. She shook her head, dark hair flying this way and that.

"I wish I knew…" She paused and looked at him, as if wanting to call him something but couldn't. Chekov straightened immediately and shirked the intense glower that Bones McCoy was forcing in his direction with a severe eye roll. The Russian boy stood proudly, having been addressed first; blushed even. "Ensign Pavel Andreievich Chekov, at your service." Her face lightened slightly at the display. Chekov noted her lips part slightly, as if of want to say something, but didn't. They closed, and with that, so did their first contact. She turned as Bones began speaking. "I'm Doctor Leonard McCoy."

"Captain Kirk." The captain replied, nodding briefly. The girl grinned briefly wiping sweat from her brow with the back of her hand.

"Good to finally meet you all. Kinda strange, but…." She looked at the door once more and sighed. "I guess we can't really do anything else, but go to the engine room." The engineer finally set off, limping quite successfully, faster than the members of the Enterprise could imagine. Chekov saw Bones raise a hand in attempt to stop her, yet she continued on. There were a few times she almost fell or had to stop yet she finally reached the door. Chekov liked her spirit. Though she seemed to live in fear, she pressed

on, regardless of the consequences. He liked to think that it had been being in the company of Russians. McCoy definetly needed to join this program.

She leaned against the frame. Kirk reached her first, squinting with curiosity, as McCoy and Chekov brought up the rear, and the flashlights. She nodded thankfully to Chekov for the light, as shadows gave way to sickly beams. He noticed that her eyes were inquisitive swirls of green and brown; they appeared to be ever changing. He found something odd in that, something alluring; Chekov understood change, but too much never helped anyone. He thought of near ancient Russian history of the October Revolution, and how he'd learn more about this girl, before he was pulled back to the conversation again by Kirk's musings. "So…When'd'ja loose power?"

The engineer gingerly slid the claw end of the hammer into a panel and jerked it open, giving out a small grunt as the weight on her legs shifted uncomfortably. She then began punching numbers into a keypad, and slid the hammer into a tool loop on her jumpsuit and her eyes darted back to the Captain before continuing. "Maybe a few days? I

dunno…it's hard to tell without sunset or rise." She huffed sarcastically, then seemed to regret it.

Chekov seemed to notice that she was kept avoiding the questions about the crew, yet still persisted. "But, Miss Hannah, vat about zee crew? Ees important—"

"Boy, why can't you keep yer mouth shut?" McCoy jumped on the end of Chekov's sentence. The young ensign heavily resented being called boy, yet he swallowed his words. Hannah turned from her work and rested against the door.

"No…it's important. You should know. I mean, you're here…right?" A sigh broke through her lips, an emotional preface to her trying tale "The USS Cygnus' purpose was to discover and catalogue new species. I mean…that's what Starfleet does. Anyway, about…a month ago, we arrived at a planet, which they later named Epsilon Five. They brought up samples, things that the scientists had never seen before. But…something—" She paused, at the sudden hitch in her throat "—there was an infection. An…illness that they couldn't identify. It was only a matter of time before everyone in the ship…" She broke off, and limped back to the pad, pressing silver buttons with her short fingers.

Chekhov felt such honor at the engineer having been so touched by the Russian crew. He wondered if she could speak his mother tongue. Yet another question, more appropriate lingered from his mouth "Are zey all dead?" she signaled for them to cover their flashlights, and she pressed a final button. The bleak red-stained doors opened with nary a noise. She turned to Chekhov; a sad softness encompassed her eyes, as did a cold harsh fear. It almost seemed she was afraid to breathe, even.

"Dead…I wish they were…"

AN: Cliffhanger! Dun dun dun! Hopefully…they'll get out alive…hopefully.