[Chekov is in the cottage's living room, red engineering uniform on, surrounded by all of the things he can't take home with him. (The important things are in a dufflebag and a backpack, and Everett is coming along, too. A genius can probably think of a way to explain the suitcase, the dog, and the decidedly non-regulation haircut, right?) He's smiling at the network device. No need to end on a teary note.]

I have been here for seven-hundred and twenty-four days. It would have been two years, as of the sixth of March. Not so long as many people, but I have outstayed most of my crew--some of them twice--and the majority of friends I made when I first arrived. Overall, I have been happy--happier, sometimes, than I am at home. But I will be glad to return. I last left home during a difficult time, and there will be many funerals and speeches to endure before our long leave, and after leave, the five-year mission. Everett will go to Petersburg to live with my father; he is lonely and will enjoy the company. I will have the chance to see the stars from Earth. I've missed them, more since I traded my memory of them to the witches in October. Maybe the memory will return.

Mostly, I'm glad that I will keep my memories. Forgetting has been my greatest fear about leaving. Too many memories, bad and good but all important, have been made in the City to be forgotten. It will be strange since almost no one will have any of these memories, and I may find it difficult to explain some things, such as aging slightly. But memories! Those are more valuable to me than anything else I am taking with me. As long as I remember those I have met, leaving will not be so hard as it would be otherwise.

I will not go into a long discussion of memories and friends because it is too soon for nostalgia, but I want to share an old Russian saying: If all the options are bad, choose the one that hurts the least. None of us, I think, are happy to be leaving, even if we miss our homes. Personally, I'm unsure if I have made the decision that hurts the least, but it is the right one. I hope that for you, my friends and even those who are not my friends, the option that hurts the least is also the right one. Try not to be too sad. As long as we all go home with our memories, we will continue to exist in the lives of one another. Saying goodbye does not erase someone from your life.

There is one more Russian saying I want to share, and it is a happier one, I promise. Nothing is permitted and everything is possible. This is my favorite saying. The City has proven it true, and it will always prove true in our futures. Maybe we will meet again. The laws of physics may not allow it, but it is not impossible.

Also, is there anyone remaining in the City who would like a motorcycle? I have a very nice one, but it is too cumbersome to take it with me.

And finally, I would like to say goodbye to most of you in person. This is no way to say goodbye.


[Private to the Voyager Crew]

I wanted to have something clever or insightful to say to you, but all I can think of is thank you. I had forgotten what it was like to be a part of a crew until mine arrived, and when they left, you allowed me to be a part of yours. I will always be grateful for this. Thank you also for sharing some of your science with me. Captain Janeway, I promise that I will not use any advancements from beyond my time, except, perhaps, for personal use.

If I am still alive in your time and you return home--and you will return home--please say hello. That me will be very different from me, but he will like meeting new people and discussing whatever scientific advancements will be current. If I am not still alive, I hope that I died very heroically. Should that be the case, don't be sad.

Maybe interuniversal travel will be mastered in your lifetimes. If that is so, I hope to see you.


[Private to Lucy]

I know that you will not want to say goodbye in person. Please reconsider? You are my first girlfriend and my first everything else and I think I will keep being too in love with you to fall in love again, so please, I would like to see you a final time.

[Chekov knows that he shouldn't be surprised when his failed attempts to contact Captain Kirk lead him to the Hall of the Missing and, ultimately, the realization that the majority of the remaining crew of the Enterprise is no longer in the City. Disappearances frequently happen in groups. Spock, Kirk, McCoy, Uhura... most of them had come and gone before this, too. Chekov really should know better than to be surprised. Kirk might be able to bend the rules at home, but it was foolish to hope, even for a moment, that he would be capable of doing the same in the City.

It's tempting to stay off of the network and immerse himself in a project, but his crewmates were well-liked and it's only right to keep the friends they have made informed.]

Captain Kirk, Doctor McCoy, and Lieutenant Uhura are no longer in the City.

[Brief, formal, to-the-point. Unfortunately, one other party needs to be contacted.]


[Starfleet Comm Frequency // Unhackable]

Lieutenant Sulu and I are now the only officers of the Enterprise in the City.

[In other words: your orders, Captain Janeway?]


[ooc: The great Trexodus is upon us. Open to action in any of the places Chekov might usually be found--the cottage, the laboratories, you name it.]

[Chekov, currently outside in the snowy, picturesque City, is very pleased with his lot in life. He might not be home, but home is no place he wants to be. This place is superior in all ways, and he has learned so much more about quantum physics than he had ever thought possible thanks to the scientific advances made since his time (and far beyond).

Still, the snowy evening evokes memories of Saint Petersburg before the start of the war. Perhaps it's nostalgia that prompts him to make a post to the network. Naturally, he addresses the network in Russian. It's the only language he knows, after all, and the various translation devices in the City haven't made the language barrier insurmountable in the two years he has been here.]

This is the first time I have been reminded of home in some time--not that that is something to complain about. Christmastime has been joyless there for years now, but, when I was a boy [as if he isn't still a boy] and my mother was still with us, we had very pleasant celebrations. Small, of course, but even borscht and pagach is a feast when served with enough pomp.

As my father is fond of saying, "Although there’s nothing to eat, life is fun."

My favorite thing about Christmas was the stories that my mother would tell. They were the same stories every year--I could have told them to myself, but they would not have been as good--and still I could never hear them enough. My favorite was about Snegurochka, the Snow Maiden. It is a long story and I wouldn't want to bore anyone by telling it. My mother teased me sometimes, saying that I was made out of snow and magic and given to her and my father as a gift the same as the Snow Maiden was. That is nonsense, of course, and I told her that, but she knew that I liked to hear the story anyway.

The ending is sad, and that is no surprise. The Snow Maiden falls in love and the warmth of her heart melts her into a puddle. I suppose this only proves that Russians are melancholy even when life is not unpleasant. I prefer to think of it as deep, philosophical introspection rather than inherent sadness and an acceptance of futility. I think that is what the novelists talk about when they write about the Russian soul.

Anyway, there is no Christmas at home any longer. The Bolsheviks have done away with it. That will not stop families from pretending that borscht and pagach are a feast, or mothers from telling their children stories.

[He shifts and brushes some snow out of his curly hair.]

My apologies for rambling. This is a good time of year for nostalgia--a good time to remember what we have lost, and maybe to feel the echoes of joy still left from good memories.

[And off goes the video! Chekov lingers in the snow a little longer before going home.]


[ooc: When Are You From? curse! AU!Chekov's background can be found here (sorry if anything is inaccurate. I tried?). He'll remember being in the City and the people he has met, but those memories will be very different. Russian's also the only language he knows, so... uh, good luck if your character doesn't have a way to translate?]

[A wild memory appears! Naturally, the memory's owner does not know that this is being shared.]


[ooc: Chekov has, like, three minutes of screen time in the new movies and all of his scenes are very short, so here are several of them mashed together! The network would only see 1:00 to 2:25.]

[The recording starts mid-conversation (caused, perhaps, by excited gesticulating). Chekov's voice is loud and clear; any number of other voices can be in the background, along with the occasional clink of glass on glass and the roar of laughter. The words of whoever he's talking to can't be made out.]

--method of teleportation that you are talking about does not lead to the destruction of the individual. I think that you misunderstand how the process works.

[A pause. More background noise.]

No, no no no. Our identity depends upon how the constituent molecules that we are made of are arranged, not upon which molecules have been arranged. There is no difference between one carbon atom and another, do you understand? And so if the position of everything that makes us up is copied perfectly and this information is transmitted and we are annihilated and reassembled, we will, in the end, be the same person as we were at the start.

[His conversational partner apparently has something to say to that.]

No one is killed. I cannot be more specific about the process, but I understand your concern about personal identity and the destruction of the individual being teleported.

[A much longer pause.]

Now you are making the assumption that there is something more than the physical arrangement of constituent particles that leads to this thing called the individual. Unless you are telling me that there is an immaterial soul to be concerned with, what is the concern? From the perspective of the individual being teleported, the process is nearly instantaneous and they experience no cessation of existence or consciousness. As I said, arrangement is what matters.

[Short pause.]

Of course duplication would be possible, that is why any technology capable of copying individuals down to the quantum level would necessitate a number of safety precautions. Responsible engineering can prevent paradoxes like the one you pose.

[Another long pause.]

No, I have not. What is the Ship of Theseus?


[OOC: Open to action at the Wolf's Den. Sorry for backdating, but yesterday's curse was perfect and I missed it and everything was sadness. That said, I don't think Chekov's probably the best of philosophers...]

[Chekov is, to put it mildly, alarmed to find the bridge of the Enterprise replaced by the City--the fountain, specifically. As startling as the abrupt change of scenery is, there are, as far as the young navigator is concerned, worse places to find oneself than in a fountain. The shallow water feels good after hours--he can't even begin to guess at how many hours--spent running around in the bowels of a beleaguered ship, issuing orders and trying to nurse failing systems along.

There's no time to enjoy the surprise reprieve. It takes several moments for his City memories to hit and several more for them to fall back into place but, once they do, Chekov has the presence of mind to remove the gold tunic that marks him as a Starfleet officer. Harrison is here. The captain had warned them against making themselves targets.

The captain. Captain Kirk, who's alive here...

Chekov, wet curls plastered to his forehead and stripped down to his black undershirt, clambers out of the fountain and disposes of his gold shirt. He fingers his hair into some semblance of order and fumbles for his waterlogged communicator.]


[video]

He--? [Audio and video distort and give way to static. After some minor adjustments, they return. Chekov doesn't look all that different than he did prior to his disappearance (thanks to the City's temporal isolation from other universes, he's actually a few months younger than he was over a week ago, if sturdier), but recent events have given him a somewhat haggard countenance.] Hello? This is En--Pavel Chekov. I realize that very little time has passed--relatively speaking, I mean--but I must ask: Who is here still?

[Starfleet people, that's directed primarily at you.

And, hesitantly:] Has anyone fed my dog?


[ooc: Action or video! Chekov is back in the City and updated to the not-quite-end of Into Darkness (immediately after San Francisco getting smashed up and Spock beaming down). I tried to steer clear of major spoilers here, but I make no promises for the comments.]

This is Ensign Chekov, Pavel Andreievich, navigator of the USS Enterprise.

[You can trust him; he's currently in uniform. His uniform tunic has been too short in the sleeves for several months now. Oh, the woes of being a still-growing teenager!]

I would request a response from any Starfleet officers or allies who receive this message. Thank you.

 If you have only just arrived, you may have questions. I have attached a text file to this message that may, I hope, be useful. If there are other questions or if anyone would like to speak with me, I would be happy to talk.

Captain Kirk? Uhura and I have the communicators working. They can pick up local transmissions, and we have connected all four to a secure channel. I think that is the best that can be done.

[attached file: City_brief]


[ooc: Fourth wall post! Everyone (duplicates, face twins, and so on) is welcome and anything goes. If you don't fancy network communication, action just about anywhere in the City is fine by me. ]

I would like to ask a question, if I may. Is there anyone who knows if the group opposing the deities can do as it says? I doubt the wisdom of openly going against the deities, but, if they have found a way to control whatever powers the deities possess, I think they would be worth talking with.

More importantly, where are the meteors coming from? [Because falling rocks are infinitely more important than the growing threat of a rebellion!] If the City is enveloped by a force field, there shouldn't be a way for extraterrestrial debris to reach us. I can only imagine that either there is no such force field, the field allows objects to get in but not out, or there is a reason why our roofs are being compromised by meteorites. The first seems unlikely.

Whatever the truth is, it's not a bad curse. A meteorite is the closest I have been to space in over fifteen months.

[Chekov, slightly disheveled, is seated in the cottage's living room (toying, of course, with a gadget of some sort, as the boy has difficulties being still and without a task. There's a stranger seated next to him. He appears slightly older, considerably broader through the shoulders, a good deal taller, and far less inclined to fidget than the eighteen year-old.]

I'm told that this is an acceptable way to address the City. [The stranger has a distinctly Russian accent. It is, however, far easier to comprehend than Chekov's.] My name is Pavel Chekov.

And I believe that you may be a version [wersion] of me from an alternate reality.

Or you may be a version [the 'v' is not mangled] of me.

Being older does not give you the right to be the original Pavel Chekov. Anyway, I think that this is a curse and you will leave in a day or so and I'll still be here.

[The two Chekovs are no longer making any attempt to address the camera. There's a palpable uneasiness between them--a silent war in the making. Both of them manage to remain relatively genial in both expression and tone, but the uneasiness is clear all the same.]

I almost envy you. If this is a cage, as you said, it's a very nice one. The vodka is good, all of the women are beautiful--

Of course the vodka is good; it's mine. Maybe you are older and better at fighting, but I know how to choose a good drink. [Chekov--the one the City is more accustomed to--grabs the bottle of Stoli from his counterpart.] You're far enough into the bottle. Give it to me.

As they say in Russia, "I don't need your valuable directives."

This is my home and my vodka. You should be more courteous.

If you were a better host, maybe... [Taller, less adorable Chekov ruffles the other Chekov's hair. The latter is not amused.] But why fight when we can settle this like men? One more fight, fists only. The winner gets to stay here and the loser goes.

[Chekov rubs a bruised cheek, sulky.] You have the advantage.

I was joking. Let's drink and be friends.

I would rather go running.

Please, do what you like. Perhaps I can become better acquainted with Misses Uhura.

Don't flirt with her--either of her. [Curly-haired Chekov sets his gadget and the bottle of vodka aside and moves out of sight. The other Chekov watches him curiously, reclaims the vodka, and takes a healthy swig.] I say that for her benefit and yours. She dislikes it.

Have a good run!

[A door slams. The remaining Chekov gives the camera an apologetic smile.]

Forgive Pavel's ill-humor; he may be mad at me for winning our sparring match. But, if you would like to talk to me, my humor is intact and I have little to do.


[ooc: Chekov isn't getting on well with his Good Side (if you want some tl;dr on said Good Side, it's right here). Actual!Chekov can either be action'd up while out or contacted via the network later on; Other!Chekov is free for network communication. If you fancy talking to both, that can happen later. Do indicate to whom and when your characters are replying!]

[Chekov has been maintaining radio silence since the fifteenth. The rampant alcohol-induced misery in the City, however, prompts a network post.]

Celebrations yesterday, vomiting in the streets today. It feels like the first of January.

My father has told me many ways to cure a hangover--some of the ways are ridiculous--so I will share his better suggestions. Drink pickle brine; the potassium, magnesium, and electrolytes will help. Mineral water is good, too, as is kvass, but I don't know there to find that in the City. If these don't help, jump into a very cold body of water. The cold should be enough of a distraction to make you forget your other miseries.

[There's an uncertain pause.]

Also, I have a question.

I realize that, normally, actions taken during curses are to be forgiven. What if a cursed action is encouraged or preceded by uncursed actions? Say--and this is only an example--two friends have an argument, and that becomes a fight. Maybe the fight is somewhat violent, but not so bad until the curse takes hold and one of the participants does something extreme. When uncursed and cursed are close like that, how do you know where one turns into the other? Is there a time when a cursed action is not forgivable?

[He clears his throat. It's a troubling topic, which is why he feels a need to end on an entirely different note.]

Pickle brine for hangovers. Remember that. You heard it from a Russian, and a Russian never lies about these things.

( Filtered to the Deities // Unhackable )

[Public]

It is nice to have the City quiet again, but yesterday was too quiet. Why are people so reckless about what they lick?

[City: don't answer that question.]

The snow is good. It reminds me of home, but warmer, and with more sun. If we were in Petersburg, there would be less than eight hours of daylight today, and we would likely not see the sun for the clouds. The temperature would be maybe twenty below, Celsius, without wind--possibly colder. I think the Neva would be frozen by now.

This is March, April weather. Anyone who is cold now should be glad that the City is so mild.

[Chekov was conscious well before evening, but he can't for the life of him remember anything. Why is he in a hospital bed? What happened to his hand? Why does everything hurt? More importantly, perhaps, who typed the last entry on his network device and who replied to Lucy and Delacroix this morning?

It was him, of course, but scopolamine has a way of messing with memories. Pavel remembers a random jumble of things: fighting someone in a mask, Korra, watching trees breathe in the park...

In the hope that someone can fill him in, he grabs his network device and starts an audio recording.]

If there is anyone-- [He pauses to clear his throat. He sounds like he hasn't tried talking for days, even to his own ear.] If anyone can tell me what happened this weekend... I would be most appreciative.

[Well, would you look at the time. Just a few hours until midnight.]

Поздравляю с Новым годом. I had no plans for celebrating the new year, but I doubt this would have been included in them.


[ooc: Talk about a crazy weekend. Google tells me that the Russian bit there is basically a "Happy New Year."]

[This post opens to a view of the lake at twilight--on the lake, rather. The video is unsteady; look away if you're the sort of person who is prone to seasickness. Lakesickness. Whatever the network device is balanced on appears to be moving at a good clip.

Oh, wait. The view changes and--yep, that's a giant wooden swan head. Citizens, there is a motorized swan boat doing warp eight going faster than wooden swan boats are probably supposed to go.]

This is the best curse since everything turned to food!

[Not surprisingly, perhaps, that voice belongs to Chekov. Should anyone else be enjoying a nice swan boat ride on the lake... well, be careful. This particular swan's steering system might not be working at optimum levels.]

[The video opens to--well, not much of anything. It's night; the stars are visible, and Chekov's face is lit by the dim glow of his network device. He's remarkably subdued, but he typically does only pause to make network posts when he's in a low or contemplative mood.]

For anyone who has not heard already and knew them, Lena and Asami are no longer in the City. I did not know Asami as well as I wish I might have, but Lena was a good friend. At least she will be happy to be home... she did not like being in the City.

[And changing topics. No one wants to dwell on the negative.]

I have two questions. First, does anyone know how the ship on the side of the mountain came to be where it is? I went inside of it, but there was nothing informative there and most of it was, I think, inaccessible. It looks to me like a spacecraft. I have heard stories in the City of aliens and creatures coming from beyond the barriers, but nothing related to a ship like this.

My second question is this: is it common to experience memory loss in the City? If not, should I be concerned? My medical knowledge is very limited, but if there is something wrong with my brain, I would like to know. It is, after all, the most important thing that I have.

[He ends the feed with a forced smile.]


[ooc: Picture is not IC, just there for your reference.]

[action]

[Somewhere outside of City Solutions, Chekov is doing what he can to help others escape The Things running about today (or slithering around, as the case may be). Mostly, that involves shooting The Things with one of the laser guns he made when he first entered the City.

That's what he was doing, anyway. The gun has stopped working and Chekov, with his engineering knowledge temporarily traded away, can't get it running again. He's tried pushing buttons, removing and replacing parts, hitting the stupid thing, swearing at it in a variety of languages... and it's not responding. He grudgingly pulls out his network device.]

Derrmo... Pavel, you are an idiot. Trading away knowledge...


[video]

Howl, Sophie. If either of you are home, would you please go into my room and see if--

[A scraping sound. Chekov pauses. Behind him, a manhole cover lifts and is pushed aside by what might have been, in a previous life, a set of hands--gnarled, knuckle bones visible through a glistening coat of slime and rot.

Even as he turns to look, something whips out of the manhole and wraps itself around Chekov's legs. It drags him towards the hole and the grabbing hands. The young man yelps and reaches for the useless gun, but it's too far away. He twists and hits the thing around his legs with the only weapon at hand: his network device.

The picture flickers. The quality of the feed is poor, but a swearing Chekov is visible, halfway down the manhole, holding on to a crack in the cement above ground to prevent the creature from dragging him under. He slams his network device on the ground and--]


[action]

[--disappears from view, a jagged, broken piece of plastic--a remnant of the network device--firmly in hand.

There's nothing for a minute.

Two minutes.

A bloodied hand grasps the rim of the manhole. Chekov hauls himself up onto the relative safety of the cement, filthy and bleeding but very much alive. He has the presence of mind to replace the manhole cover.]

Eto pizdets...

I realize that many people are distressed by this curse and I'm very sorry for that, but I have a question: are eighteenth birthdays of any special significance where you are from? At home, eighteen is the age at which someone is considered an adult. It is also the minimum drinking age in many places, as well as the minimum age for a variety of activities that I have been told about but would rather not repeat here.

Are birthdays celebrated here? We age, I know that, but it seems greedy to celebrate a birthday here only to celebrate it again after we have left.

( Private to Doc Brown )

( Private to Delacroix & Pepper Potts )

( Private to Charlie )


[ooc: Yes, he is cursed. No, he does not want to share. Most importantly, tomorrow is his eighteenth birthday. There's also this deity trade thing that happened, but he would rather not talk about that, either. Or Howl. Or...]