And I thought that was adorable. [He's serious enough—both about finding baby Kitty adorable and being unsure of her opinion of him. There are certainly some things in his past that make him think less of himself.]
If you're sure. [A grateful smile, then he plays the disc.
There's Chekov, thirteen and scrawny and with a mess of curly hair that hasn't been trimmed at the sides, standing in a small room with no windows. There's little more than a bed, a desk, and an impressive array of technological devices built into the wall. It's also rather wet; the emergency sprinklers have been activated.
Chekov tries to turn the sprinklers off, first from the sleek computer on the desk, then manually, muttering to himself in Russian about how ridiculous the situation is all the while. When that fails, he places calm calls to both housing services and the fire department. Concern doesn't start to manifest until the water reaches his knees and the lights flicker, then dim. The pale emergency lamps along the ceiling cast the room in a cold light.
One of the wall monitors buzzes with static, then comes to life. There's a male figure, backlit and faceless. "Cold water is a bad way to die," it says, voice distorted. "Quarry water goes down deep, forever, and it gets colder and colder. It's dark. Black. It's like death. I felt it. My brother felt it." And the display goes black. Chekov looks surprised and perplexed, but not frightened.
The water is rising more rapidly now. Getting desperate, Chekov climbs onto the desk and tries turning the sprinklers off manually once more. The sprinkler head breaks off in his hand. He swears and pulls out his communicator. His voice is still steady as he explains his situation to someone named Alex. The conversation, sprinkled with casual comments on how Chekov intends to ask for his room deposit back and how blast-resistant the walls in this dormitory are, ends with a polite "thank you" on Chekov's end.
The emergency lights go out and everything is plunged into complete darkness. A moment later, Chekov's communicator sheds a faint light on the room—on water that has risen past the top of his desk, and on a shivering thirteen year-old. He looks frightened for the first time.
And that's it.
Current Chekov watches grimly. If only he could have summoned this particular poker face last night!]