Turtles: the final frontier

[starcharter]

Characters: Chekov and YOU
Date: Today-ish
Location: Absolutely everywhere
Situation: Chekov has been snatched from the Enterprise and dropped shoeless and confused into a city on the back of a turtle. Clearly the solution is to look around and go shopping.
Warnings/Rating: None


At first, he'd thought it was a very, very strange dream. Of course, that theory was debunked about two minutes in when he pinched himself. Then he was carted from a grand palace to a reasonably large city. He couldn't identify this particular race of aliens, but it's clear that their technology lags far behind the Federation's. So he stays quiet. So do they, actually. The few questions he asked-- generic questions-- he'd gotten little scraps of information and a lot of 'that's the Emperor's business.' A monarchy. That explains the palace, he supposes.

Once they show him his suite (it was pretty nice) and dropped some money into his hands (money? How outdated), Chekov decides to set off. He needs to change out of his uniform, just to be safe. The Prime Directive is that one rule you don't want to break in Starfleet. Even hinting at the fact that he was from a world more advanced than this one is a bad idea. He needs to blend in as much as he can.

A little hard to do when you're standing shoeless in the middle of Metal Sector.

Alright. He focuses: clothes, food, crew, answers. Without any kind of Starfleet communication device, he's going to have to hoof it around the city. Just as well: not having a mental map of this place bothers him; he might as well start making one now.

Comments

[starcharter]

"The Corps is different?"

He blows on his noodles and takes a bite.

[imaginate]

He tilts his head, wondering how to sort it out. Jim had understood immediately, as had Spock. McCoy - well he didn't need an explanation. All he'd had to do was scan Kyle and look at the scar tissue.

'A little. For starters, there's only three ranks.'

Four, actually - one that was his alone - but he doesn't enjoy talking about it.

[starcharter]

Chekov is very much used to the rank-and-file. Another organization having a different structure isn't entirely out of his realm, but he doesn't know exactly how it would work.

"Three? Ah, one for new members, one for officers, and one for everyone in between?

[imaginate]

'One for everyone, two for officers. Rookies have no rank.'

Partly, he's stalling, attempting to figure out how to explain the rest of the organisation, when for most of his career, there wasn't one.

[starcharter]

"Which rank are you? Ah, if it is not too rude to ask."

He doesn't mind the stalling, if he even notices.

[imaginate]

Torchbearer. Which was a name, but he doesn't go into that. It'll be uncomfortable for both of them, because Chekov wouldn't enjoy reminding Kyle he was the last of his kind.

'Honour Guard. Second in command, when command's needed.'

[starcharter]

Maybe he's imagining it, but there's an odd feeling in the atmosphere. Not quite discomfort.

"Very impressive. I am still an ensign: the lowest rank of officer. But I am happy doing my work, rank or no. It is the same for you, right?"

Kyle doesn't seem big on formality or the rank-and-file after all.

[imaginate]

'Exactly the same,' he replies, with a smile. Bullet dodged. 'How's your meal?'

[starcharter]

Chekov smiles back. Ah, that was the problem.

"Very good. The tastes and textures are unique."

[imaginate]

'Do you get food like this on the ship? We don't, where I'm stationed. It's mostly alien cuisine.'

[starcharter]

"We have a machine-- a food synthesizer-- that creates any food it has on file. Millions of recipes."

Chekov takes another bite and swallows.

"But I sometimes used to try my friends' food when I was with the Academy. Andorian cuisine is my favorite."

[imaginate]

'And it can create any food in the universe?' It sounds useful, and his expression is wistful. If only it could save his mother's recipes, but that was a regret, and he tried not to have those.

'Tell me more.'

He loves hearing stories, and his posture shifts to that of an attentive listener. The Corps kept its own history alive orally, because the Book of Oa could be edited, and facts were often omitted.

[starcharter]

"Any food it has on file, yes. That would mean almost everything in Federation cultures and a few non-Federation ones too."

Chekov pauses for a moment and decides to go with a story rather than an explanation about how it reorganizes proteins and creates molecular structures.

He leans forward conspiratorially.

"I tried some Vulcan food once. Plomeek soup. It is bright purple so it reminded me a little of borscht. Ay, what a disappointment. Very bland and watery. Don't tell Commander Spock, though."

[imaginate]

A low whistle. That's incredible, but it would put the Corps' excellent cook out of a job. Not to mention the foodfights wouldn't be as much fun.

He missed them. Every time he sees Jim's crew it's a taste of home, and yet not. Because they're similar, his Lanterns are so close he can almost feel them, and the ache is more acute.

But he wouldn't want them trapped in Keeliai. Not when there's a war to fight.

Kyle leans in to listen, as though Chekov is conveying a secret. 'My lips are sealed,' he replies, amused. 'You might find one lying around Sinbrilee, stuff from home sometimes shows up.'

[starcharter]

"I suppose I should not be surprised, but I would hope the Emperor would bring more useful things here."

Like the Enterprise. Or phasers.

[imaginate]

'Or more useful: send us home.'

He knows they have a job to do, but he wants to return as soon as he can.

[starcharter]

He nods, a little sombre.

"It would not feel right to me to leave people in such a dire position."

He might've been dragged into this unwillingly, but he's going to make the best of it.

[imaginate]

It really wouldn't, and Kyle reflects the drop in mood, chewing his food slowly.

'I've been here almost eight months,' he offers, as a tangent.

[starcharter]

"The Captain said he has been here for three." Now Chekov's picking at his food.

"I wonder at her choices. I don't think a navigator will do her much good without something to navigate."

[imaginate]

Kyle rings up a construct of a small fist, which punches Chekov, friendly, on the shoulder.

'Hey, chin up. You're smart, you'll find somewhere to put that brilliant mind. There's a lot more than just navigation to be done.' A beat. 'Maybe you could talk to the turtle about the stars here.'

[starcharter]

Chekov jumps at the construct, mostly out of surprise than actual concern.

"Talk to the turtle? Does it talk back?"

[imaginate]

'... Sometimes? It's talked to me once, but that was a dream. Telepaths can communicate with it but they get overwhelmed after a few seconds. I warned Spock not to.'

[starcharter]

"I am not telepathic; I don't know how I would communicate with it even if it did not overwhelm me."

100% human, bro.

[imaginate]

He laughs. 'You're a little too serious sometimes, friend.'

[starcharter]

He laughs too. "I have been told that before. I accidentally slipped into 'work mode.'"