[There isn't time for Chekov to be confused when his molecules reassemble on what appears to be a battlefield. He instinctively drops to the ground--not bravest course of action, but projectiles and debris are flying through the air, it's dark, and the lieutenant knows better than to fling himself blindly into a fray.
Blindly being the operative word. Some kind of orange light flickers nearby, but it's nothing compared to the bright white of the Enterprise's transport room. The eighteen year-old reaches for his phaser as he wills the dim shapes around him to resolve themselves into something recognizable. His training tells him that he shouldn't draw his weapon before taking stock of his situation. The imminent threat of death, however, overrides rules and regulations; the Prime Directive is remarkably unimportant in the midst of explosions, incoherent yelling, and--
Lava?
Chekov scrambles to his feet as the ground begins to shake, roil, and crack. All he can do is hope that he's dashing to safety instead of a different kind of death.
The explosion directly in front of him kills that hope. Earth and rocks pelt him in the wake of the explosive boom and he tucks his head and limbs in close to minimize the chances of injury. There's no time, no time for self-assessment, and Chekov is running again with his phaser drawn. If he's injured, slowing down to think about it isn't going to help him. He has to reach some kind of safety and hail the ship.
His eyes are adjusting to the dimly-lit nightmare in which he has found himself. He veers away from what appears to be the heart of the battle, away from lava and explosions and the cacophony of unintelligible voices--and right into an unyielding dark mass. The lieutenant tries to redirect himself at the last second and succeeds only in crashing to the ground, knees-first. Pain doesn't register. He has to keep going, has to see what he hit, and he rolls onto his back and brings the phaser to bear on the potential threat.]
no subject
Blindly being the operative word. Some kind of orange light flickers nearby, but it's nothing compared to the bright white of the Enterprise's transport room. The eighteen year-old reaches for his phaser as he wills the dim shapes around him to resolve themselves into something recognizable. His training tells him that he shouldn't draw his weapon before taking stock of his situation. The imminent threat of death, however, overrides rules and regulations; the Prime Directive is remarkably unimportant in the midst of explosions, incoherent yelling, and--
Lava?
Chekov scrambles to his feet as the ground begins to shake, roil, and crack. All he can do is hope that he's dashing to safety instead of a different kind of death.
The explosion directly in front of him kills that hope. Earth and rocks pelt him in the wake of the explosive boom and he tucks his head and limbs in close to minimize the chances of injury. There's no time, no time for self-assessment, and Chekov is running again with his phaser drawn. If he's injured, slowing down to think about it isn't going to help him. He has to reach some kind of safety and hail the ship.
His eyes are adjusting to the dimly-lit nightmare in which he has found himself. He veers away from what appears to be the heart of the battle, away from lava and explosions and the cacophony of unintelligible voices--and right into an unyielding dark mass. The lieutenant tries to redirect himself at the last second and succeeds only in crashing to the ground, knees-first. Pain doesn't register. He has to keep going, has to see what he hit, and he rolls onto his back and brings the phaser to bear on the potential threat.]