"Это пиздец..." Pavel murmured to himself, after all it was true and talking to himself might just be the only thing keeping him conscious right now. He hasn't looked down at his chest in a while, but his hands still feel hot and sticky, which means he's still losing blood. This had been a scientific away mission, but things had quickly gone to hell when it turned out that the Klingons had recently claimed this planet for the empire and weren't to pleased to see federation officers on 'their' soil. Their security detail had consisted of one officer, everyone else was otherwise unarmed, they hadn't stood a chance. He had called for backup, but there had been no response - possibly the Klingons were somehow blocking the signal and they weren't expected back for hours, so it was likely no one on the ship knew anything was wrong. He didn't have hours, he had minutes at best, but he couldn't think about that now, he had to keep talking. He'd left his channel open, maybe something would get through, maybe. Chekov kept staring up at the silent sky and quietly began to chant. "Звездолет построим сами, понеcëмся над планеты. понеcëмся над галактик, а потом вернёмся к маме." He's still murmuring into his communicator when he hears footsteps coming towards him, and he closes his eyes, expecting to hear a disruptor powering up to fire any second. After all, Klingons don't leave survivors.@cleverlittlefcx[[tw; blood. Translation 1: This is messed up. Translation 2: Build a spaceship for yourself, fly it over the planets. Fly it over the galaxies, and then go back home to mother. (Based on an actual Russian nursery rhyme about an airplane)]]
