poly_chromatic | 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.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[Should he say something? Is it rude? But it's hard to pretend he doesn't understand the Russian, and it's even harder to ignore a video like this. So finally he clears his throat delicately, frowning slightly.]

What remarkably unpleasant balloons.

[Meyer is the lucky guy who alerts Chekov to the existence of this entry. And of course it can't be deleted. Where's the fun in that?]

Scheiße!

Yes, very unpleasant.

You speak German, too? Or, at least, swear in it? Impressive.

[A pause, and then...]

I hope you're not taking what those balloons say to heart.

Ah--not well. Enough to survive in Germany and enough to swear.

[And it's rude to swear in the native tongue of the people around you, so Chekov has made it a personal mission to learn profanities in as many languages as possible.]

There is truth to what they say.

That's the most important information to learn in any language, as far as I'm concerned.

[Forgive him his skeptical raised eyebrow, Chekov.]

It sounds more like a litany of insults than anything else. I wouldn't give it much credence.

Swearing, particularly.

[Be skeptical all you want, sir. There's enough truth to bring Chekov down.]

I try not to listen to what talking balloons say to me on principle.

A wise principle. I assume you can't pop them?

If I can, I have not discovered how.

Not in the normal ways, most likely. They'll be gone by midnight, but that's likely no comfort at the moment.

It could be worse. They could be trying to kill me.

[His attempts at humor are falling short tonight. But, unknown to him, Meyer's comment on Chekov's linguistic abilities made one of the balloons deflate and disappear. There are too many left for it to make much of a difference.]

Admittedly, being killed by an insulting balloon would be an embarrassing way to go, but somehow I don't see that particular fate befalling you.

Yes, I intend to die a far more dramatic death than that.

[Most days, that would be a quip. There's a lack of quippiness today.]

I'm not sure a dramatic death is necessarily something to aspire to.

Useful, then. As long as it is not ordinary.

You do seem like the kind of person who'd aspire to die in a useful way. I'll just be happy if I make it to a reasonable age.

[He doesn't ask for clarification because, yeah, he really wouldn't mind dying if it was in a useful fashion.]

What age do you deem reasonable?

Older than fifty, generally, but I'll be impressed if I make it that far.

May I ask why?

I work in a field that is...

[How does he phrase this without sounding sketchy?]

... traditionally somewhat dangerous.

You are not referring to operating a casino.

Operating a casino has a certain level of danger implicit within it, I'd argue.

[But no, he's not referring to that.]

If you are operating it dangerously.

[Meyer is a very clever person. In Chekov's experience, very clever people are usually in danger only when they have wittingly placed themselves there.]