Chekov, Pavel Andreievich (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
candothat) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
poly_chromatic2013-10-23 03:51 pm
candothat) wrote in poly_chromatic2013-10-23 03:51 pm
Entry tags:
action // video
ACTION;
[Chekov may have woken up with a cluster of sullen, chatty balloons that look like they belong at a misery-themed party shadowing him, but he's not about to let a nonlethal thing like that prevent him from going about his day as usual. They follow him during his morning jog (he takes care to avoid the pockets of strangeness that have been popping up, as there is only so much weirdness that he likes in his life at any given moment) and to the City Solutions Laboratory. They trail him to the labs that have been taken over by Starfleet (he doesn't linger there) and to the hospital where he visits friends who were injured in the recent attacks, glowering, as ominous and dark as any potentially hostile region of space.
Their constant looming and unimpressed--disappointed, even--glares are a minor annoyance. It's the sounds they make that chip away at Chekov's usual patience and good humor. There's some incoherent grumbling and groaning, but some phrases are perfectly, humiliatingly, horribly clear.
Ty ubil ikh.
Failure.
Too young.
Bespoleznyy.
Too slow.
Pomnyu tvoyu mat'.
Slishkom medlenno.
Their deaths were your fault.
Ty brosil svoyu sem'yu.
You'll never succeed.
You killed her.
Slishkom molod.
Useless.
Vam ne udalos'.
You abandoned your family.
Vam nikogda ne udastsya.
Remember your mother.
Vy ubili yeye.
He tries not to listen to them (and of course they're bilingual, this is the City--why wouldn't he be told off in two languages?). Those who encounter him may find ignoring the grim balloons difficult. They're loud.]
VIDEO;
[Judging by the view--the back of Chekov's head--this is not an intentional recording. He's sitting at Lucy's baby grand, tense, posture hinting at anger. The talking balloons are still hovering over him like a raincloud, chatting away. There are fewer than there were earlier, but the remaining faces seem eager to make up for this by being exceptionally strident.]
Vy ubili yeye.
Failure.
Ty brosil svoyu sem'yu.
Slishkom medlenno.
You killed her.
Their deaths were your fault.
Bespoleznyy.
Useless.
[They've been at it all day and Chekov doesn't want to hear it anymore. In an effort to drown them out, he launches into what must be the angriest and most aggressive interpretation of Rachmaninov's Prelude in C sharp minor of all time. He's not great--out of practice rather than untrained--and it only takes about a minute and a half before the balloons, which have only grown louder to combat the piano, reduce the boy to discordant keysmashing.
He gives up after a particularly enthusiastic plunk of the keys and mumbles something at the balloons. The network device doesn't pick his words up, but it's safe to assume that he didn't say anything pleasant to the specters.]
Failure.
Slishkom molod.
Ty brosil svoyu sem'yu.
You'll never succeed.
[Maybe an angry rendition of something by Balakirev will be more effective. Watchers won't get to find out; the video ends abruptly.]
[ooc: Russian brought to you by Google.]
[Chekov may have woken up with a cluster of sullen, chatty balloons that look like they belong at a misery-themed party shadowing him, but he's not about to let a nonlethal thing like that prevent him from going about his day as usual. They follow him during his morning jog (he takes care to avoid the pockets of strangeness that have been popping up, as there is only so much weirdness that he likes in his life at any given moment) and to the City Solutions Laboratory. They trail him to the labs that have been taken over by Starfleet (he doesn't linger there) and to the hospital where he visits friends who were injured in the recent attacks, glowering, as ominous and dark as any potentially hostile region of space.
Their constant looming and unimpressed--disappointed, even--glares are a minor annoyance. It's the sounds they make that chip away at Chekov's usual patience and good humor. There's some incoherent grumbling and groaning, but some phrases are perfectly, humiliatingly, horribly clear.
Ty ubil ikh.
Failure.
Too young.
Bespoleznyy.
Too slow.
Pomnyu tvoyu mat'.
Slishkom medlenno.
Their deaths were your fault.
Ty brosil svoyu sem'yu.
You'll never succeed.
You killed her.
Slishkom molod.
Useless.
Vam ne udalos'.
You abandoned your family.
Vam nikogda ne udastsya.
Remember your mother.
Vy ubili yeye.
He tries not to listen to them (and of course they're bilingual, this is the City--why wouldn't he be told off in two languages?). Those who encounter him may find ignoring the grim balloons difficult. They're loud.]
VIDEO;
[Judging by the view--the back of Chekov's head--this is not an intentional recording. He's sitting at Lucy's baby grand, tense, posture hinting at anger. The talking balloons are still hovering over him like a raincloud, chatting away. There are fewer than there were earlier, but the remaining faces seem eager to make up for this by being exceptionally strident.]
Vy ubili yeye.
Failure.
Ty brosil svoyu sem'yu.
Slishkom medlenno.
You killed her.
Their deaths were your fault.
Bespoleznyy.
Useless.
[They've been at it all day and Chekov doesn't want to hear it anymore. In an effort to drown them out, he launches into what must be the angriest and most aggressive interpretation of Rachmaninov's Prelude in C sharp minor of all time. He's not great--out of practice rather than untrained--and it only takes about a minute and a half before the balloons, which have only grown louder to combat the piano, reduce the boy to discordant keysmashing.
He gives up after a particularly enthusiastic plunk of the keys and mumbles something at the balloons. The network device doesn't pick his words up, but it's safe to assume that he didn't say anything pleasant to the specters.]
Failure.
Slishkom molod.
Ty brosil svoyu sem'yu.
You'll never succeed.
[Maybe an angry rendition of something by Balakirev will be more effective. Watchers won't get to find out; the video ends abruptly.]
[ooc: Russian brought to you by Google.]