The recognizable characters appearing in this story are copyright. This story is written for entertainment purposes only. No challenge to the copyright holders is intended, neither should any be inferred.
A/N: Just a bit of fluff I wrote up for fun one day. ;)
Cadet Chekov stood in the deserted corridor trying to calm his breathing. His mouth felt dry as cotton, yet his hands were sweating profusely. He rubbed them on his uniform pants and glanced around. Nowhere to go, really. Like a rabbit in a cage with a python. Now there was a pleasant mental image. "Think positive Pavel!" he mentally berated himself. Perhaps there was a way around this whole inequitable situation.
A crackle of static from around the corner made him jump. "Cadet Chekov is on his way to the administration office. See to it he arrives." The tinny voice had come out of a communicator, obviously. A communicator held by one of the many security personnel, no doubt.
Desperate, and without waiting to have his suspicions confirmed, Chekov turned back the way he had come and ducked around a corner. Had all of security gotten that little communique? He didn't doubt it. Mayson had really seemed ticked this time. And all because of a little ...
"Govno!" Chekov swore softly under his breath. Footfalls. Someone was coming. An emergency access ladder up to the next deck provided an out just in time. Chekov climbed quickly and silently. His military training hadn't been for nothing, but this was getting too close. He slipped into a Jefferies tube, putting as much ground between himself and whomever had just entered the corridor as possible. What exactly was he doing? All of this because of a jar of glob flies released in the annoying instructor's office. Was it worth it? Maybe he ought to be pragmatic and just turn himself in. Chekov's face hardened. Never. He wouldn't give Mayson the satisfaction.
While he considered his options, the resourceful cadet quickly activated a dampening field on his modified communicator—call him paranoid, but he'd just had this feeling that someday he'd want to be able to mask not only his communicator signal, but his life-signs as well. He could just picture it now—some freckle-faced lieutenant in security saying, "Scanning for his bio-signs, sir." Then, "Got him!" two seconds later, followed by Mayson's wicked grin. Well, that wasn't gonna happen.
Chekov continued to move through the Jefferies tubes, and he shifted his position by several decks. Down seemed more prudent than up in this case—lots more room to move and hide. Wouldn't want to head up and up and suddenly have nowhere to go but the bridge. That would be embarrassing. This was a dry-docked starship, past its days of usefulness and no longer space-worthy. It had been permanently parked on the Academy grounds as a training vessel. Several shuttle bays and cargo areas had been modified into academy classrooms and offices. Although Chekov's class was in the midst of three months "aboard ship", there weren't really enough duties to go around, so they still attended several classes, not the least of which was taught by that idiot, Mayson. And Chekov had definitely gotten on the wrong side of that particular fourth-year cadet-turned-instructor.
Chekov paused behind a protruding relay assembly and considered his options. He could go to the administration office as ordered—more like "ordered" in quotation marks, he thought, or he could continue this little game of cat-and-mouse evasion. But for how long? All night? Days? What would Mayson do? Let him go? Mobilize all of security and hunt him down? That would make a lot more music for him to face, he knew. Or perhaps Mayson would live and let live—even congratulate him on his resourcefulness tomorrow.
Somehow Chekov didn't think that was going to happen. If he could just evade security, then slip into his desk in class tomorrow like nothing had happened, imagine the look on Mayson's face! Maybe Mayson would call some guards in. They would take him by force. A hulking red-shirt on either side of him would each grasp him by an arm and march him away to the office.
Oh, Talia Svenson would just die if that happened! Imagine! Her chocolatey brown eyes would open wide in fear and disbelief, her luscious rosy lips would part in a perfect O of surprise, and Chekov, cool-headed Chekov, with utter poise and equanimity, would march away between them, his face set in a perfect poker mask. Then his eyes would flicker once, briefly, to meet Talia's before he was escorted out like a man marched off to the gallows. Oh the drama! The deliciousness of that scene playing out would making any additional music well worth facing. And perhaps later he could slip a communique out to Talia from the confinement-to-quarters that was sure to follow the little "chat" in admin. That would fire up the devious, rebellious streak only Chekov knew Talia had.
Maybe she would sneak in to see him. He imagined her ninja-sliding down a rope from his ceiling vent, clad entirely in black leather. They would speak urgently in hushed tones, ever mindful of the guards outside his door even though the rooms were soundproofed. She would cling to him and rage against the unfairness of it all, then produce some small token she had made for him to lift his spirits. An origami bird, perhaps. Some small, unassuming symbol of camaraderie. She would turn to go, but hesitate, and then he would kiss her—slowly, tenderly, passionately. She would melt into his arms and they would spend the night in his bed before she would slip away into the shadows of the ventilation systems and return to her own quarters undetected.
Well, one could dream.