Mirror!verse Remix Fic: Proving Ground (The Rush of Blood Remix) [Part One]
Title: Proving Ground (The Rush of Blood Remix) [Part One]
Pairing: Sulu/Chekov with implied others
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: hazing, threats of physical and sexual violence, actual violence and mayhem, general mirror!verse nastiness. Highlight for specific possible squicks:
mention of attempted non-con, mild bloodplay, paddling, spanking, implied underage, mentions of torture, forced nudity, attempted murder.
Notes: Written for the issenterprise Mirror!verse Remix Challenge. Inspired by echoinautumn’s incredibly delightful Rush Week. Thanks to vellum for the beta and jaune_chat for all the pep talks. Also, for kink_bingo
Summary: Pavel Chekov has a plan to join the most prestigious fraternity at the Imperial Academy. Despite the brothers’ rigorous system of testing new recruits, Chekov is determined to prove himself worthy, no matter the cost.
Chekov re-adjusted the strap of his shoulder bag to surreptitiously check if the blade concealed against his belt was still in place at the small of his back. In return the warm, flat metal pressed against his skin, a comforting weight.
Around him, people passed by in a steady stream: an upperclassman in his sleeveless summer cadet uniform, a trio of fresh-faced girls in civilian clothes, a Tellaraite professor with the gold sash of an officer. The smell of salt rolled in on the ocean breeze, like a vacation resort Chekov had once visited in Yalta. The air was much warmer here than in Moscow; he made a note to himself to see if the change in temperature would affect his pace for distance running.
Chekov had just left his father at the parking lot of Archer Hall, where all the first year male cadets were warehoused in dreary eight-by-eight foot blocks. Andrei Chekov had given him a confident nod and a pat on the back. He couldn’t speak anymore, not since Romulan spies had ripped out his tongue during an interrogation. But Andrei’s stoicism had earned him a reward: a place for his precocious only son at the prestigious Imperial Academy.
Every student here had some pull or political connection; Chekov was not naive enough to imagine that his father’s status as a minor hero offered him any protection. In any case, he needed none. Chekov had a plan. He would earn a place in one of the Academy’s most highly regarded fraternal orders, and enjoy all the benefits thereof as he rose through the ranks.
He passed by the rows of monolithic, mind-numbingly homogeneous dorm buildings until he stood at the foot of the broad stairway leading up to the foreboding facade of Archer Hall. He imagined something different in his future: a large, old-fashioned house on a tree-lined street, fitted with all the modern conveniences and populated by sophisticated, interesting brothers as intelligent as he. Chekov would get there, he knew with absolute confidence. First, he had to prove himself.
--
Chekov chose the bed with the best view of the door. His roommate, with whom he’d exchanged a few messages, would have to settle for the more dangerous berth. He’d begun unpacking his books-Sun Tsu’s The Art of War, Machiavelli’s The Prince, Fyedorovna’s latest treatise on modern torture methods-when a shadow darkened his doorway. Chekov turned to face the intruder, casually dropping his hand to within easy reach of his knife.
A large man with an ugly grin on his face stood blocking the hallway. “What have we here?” His close-shaved hair and muscle-bound arms made the man look like a thug; Chekov judged it unlikely that this man had great influence on campus.
“I am a new student,” Chekov said. He reached into his pack to pull out more books, but kept a sliver of attention on his visitor.
“Yeah, I know. Cute, too.”
Chekov chose not to respond. He did take note of the laughter and chatter drifting in from the hallway. Whatever he did, he’d have an audience: all to the good, in his mind.
The large man not-so-subtly took stock of Chekov’s room. “Looks like you haven’t really settled in yet.”
“I have only just arrived. I will make friends.”
“Sure.” The man took a step inside the room. “Runt like you, you’re going to need some help watching your back.”
Now the conversation was moving in the expected direction. Chekov slid down onto his bed and looked up at his visitor. “What do you mean?”
“I bet you don’t know much about how the system works here at the Academy.” The man stuck and his chest and leaned forward, watching Chekov expectantly. “The fraternities are the way to keep yourself protected.”
Chekov held back a smile. Of course he’d studied all the campus fraternities to decide which one would best suit his talents. He’d also done research on the rival fraternities in his usual thorough manner. In fact, if he had to guess, he’d peg this specimen as a Tau Kappa Phi; those brothers had a reputation for favoring blunt force as a problem-solving strategy. Still, there was no need for Chekov to tip his hand just yet. Instead, he widened his eyes and let his mouth drop open slightly. “What fraternities?”
“There are a few on campus. Some better than others. Then there’s mine. TKP.” He stuck out his chest farther, which Chekov hadn’t thought was possible. “In our fraternity, brothers look out for each other and stick together. We made sure our brothers avoid any… trouble.”
Chekov licked his hips and let more of his natural accent creep into his voice. “What kind of trouble?”
His visitor grinned and lumbered two steps closer. “All kinds of stuff can happen when you’re on your own for the first time, right kid? A frat can give you a place to belong. People you can count on. If you don’t have brothers… Well, I imagine a pretty thing like you--.”
Chekov didn’t wait for the dolt to finish that thought. He hooked his foot under the guy’s knee and pulled even as he lunged forward with a shout, aiming a blow with the heel of his hand right for the solar plexus. When the guy went down-and he went down hard-Chekov rushed forward and planted his foot carefully across the man’s thick throat.
Footsteps pounded down the hall. Chekov’s doorway filled with curious faces. The man tried to rise, but Chekov shifted more weight onto his foot, and the man stilled. He might have felt sorry for this man for having his humiliation witnessed by so many, but this was necessary to build Chekov’s reputation. Besides, this man should not have been so stupid to assume that Chekov would be at the Academy if he was the pathetic creature he’d been impersonating.
“You will not bother me again,” he said, taking care to enunciate clearly for the benefit of the onlookers. “Clear?”
The man’s hand twitched, as if he might attempt a strike. Chekov shifted his weight forward, pressing down on his throat and eliciting a pained grunt. “Clear?”
The man managed a strangled, “Clear.”
Chekov nodded and stepped out of the reach of his victim. The crowd in the doorway leaned forward. This was the most dangerous moment. The man would either decide to leave with the remainder of his dignity to make a plan for retaliation, or attempt to regain his honor immediately by defeating Chekov in front of an audience. The man stumbled to his feet and brushed off his clothes. He turned toward Chekov.
Chekov’s hand hung casually near his concealed knife. Slitting a man’s throat on the first day might establish a fearsome reputation, but doing so publically might draw unwanted attention from the administration. He’d rather not kill this man, but he would if he must.
Just at the moment when the man looked as if he might move, a voice rang out from the doorway. “Hey Cupcake! Getting a good look at the new prospects?”
Into the room stepped a man with piercing blue eyes and an amused grin. Right behind him came an equally amused cadet, this one dark-haired with the muscular build of a dancer or a wrestler. Chekov recognized the emblem on their blood-red shirts: DXT, for Delta Xi Theta. These were fraternity brothers from the most prestigious organization on campus: the golden boys of the Imperial Academy, who went on to get their pick of desirable posts, and who Chekov was determined to join.
“Back off, Kirk.” The man-Cupcake-turned to face the intruders. “I’ll recruit whoever I want.”
“Yeah.” Kirk’s smile widened. “You can try.” He waved both hands at the others crowding the doorway. “Remember, kiddies, rush starts next week. Hope to see you all at Delta House on Monday at nineteen hundred hours. No matter what anyone tells you, no recruiting is supposed to go on until then. So if anyone tries, you be sure to report it. Dean Pike-that’s Captain to you, Cupcake-doesn’t take too kindly to frats that break his rules.” He looked over his shoulder to wink at Cupcake.
The dark-haired cadet said, “Don’t you all still have some moving in to do?”
The onlookers scattered. Cupcake straightened up to his full height, shot Kirk a venomous glare, and stomped out of the room.
Kirk looked Chekov up and down. His smile faded. “Monday. Nineteen hundred. Delta House.”
“Be seeing you,” said his friend.
The two walked out, and Chekov found himself alone. His knife went back into its concealed sheath, and Chekov’s adrenaline high began to taper off.
The doorway darkened again, and Chekov rose quickly, half-expecting Cupcake to have doubled back. But there stood only a smallish young man with wildly disheveled hair, thick glasses, and an enormous pack slung over his back. “You Chekov?”
Chekov nodded slowly.
“Good.” With effort, he slung his pack onto the floor. “I’m in the right place.”
--
That evening, after engaging in perfunctory niceties with his new roommate, Vincent, Chekov went to the campus library to access the special electronic archives. With a little searching, he found a photograph of last year’s DXT officers. He should really have recognized the ones who’d been in his room that morning. Kirk was, of course, James T. Kirk, the president of DXT. The other man had been Hikaru Sulu, DXT’s Discipline Coordinator two years running.
Chekov replayed every step of their encounter in his mind, scrutinizing his actions for flaws. He had intended the incident to make an impression on his year-mates. He hadn’t considered that the president of his chosen brotherhood would be present. In his recollection, his actions still seemed the best response to the situation. Hopefully they wouldn’t count against his hopes to become a brother.
Chekov carefully studied last year’s photographs, paying special attention to those brothers who hadn’t been seniors, and therefore would presumably still be a part of the brotherhood. He wanted to be well prepared for Monday night.
--
MONDAY
Chekov adjusted the route of his morning run to carry him past Delta House. It looked much as he’d imagined: huge and old-fashioned, grand rather than monolithic, and situated on a tree-lined street that seemed somehow more solemn than the campus itself. He occupied the rest of his run with generating maps of run routes for next year, when he would live there.
That evening, having planned his course in advance, he timed his arrival at Delta House for two minutes to seven. Young men crowded the lawn outside. Chekov scanned the crowd and picked out several faces he’d memorized from the archival photographs: S'chn T'gai Spock , the tall and solemn vice president of DXT and one of the few Vulcans on campus; McCoy, a medical track cadet whom everyone called Bones, and there, at the edge of the crowd, talking to some young cadets, Sulu.
“I thought I’d see you here.” Chekov turned to see Jim Kirk looking him over with a predatory smirk. “Aren’t you a little young to be a cadet?”
“Old enough.” Chekov lifted his chin and kept eye contact with the fraternity’s blue eyed president. “I get along.”
“Roo!” Kirk shouted.
Chekov wondered if that was some sort of insult.
Then Sulu appeared at Kirk’s side, scowling. “Don’t call me that.” He glanced over at Chekov. A half-smile etched itself into his hard face.
“Look what the cat dragged in.” Kirk threw an arm around Chekov’s shoulder. “Our little scrapper.”
“My name is Chekov,” he said evenly.
“I know.” Sulu extended his hand for Chekov to shake. “Hikaru Sulu. That’s Jim Kirk.”
“I know.”
Sulu’s half smile grew sharper.
Kirk shot Sulu an unreadable look. “Get him checked in. We’ll start in two.” He disappeared into the crowd.
Sulu handed Chekov a padd and stylus. “Here’s the sign up. You are here to rush, not just to fawn over Kirk?”
“Fawn?” Chekov couldn’t help his incredulous reaction, and he knew Sulu noticed. “No.” He quickly took the padd and began to enter his information. He didn’t bother looking up to say, “More than rush. I intend to become a brother.” He handed the padd back to the still enigmatically smiling Sulu.
“We’ll see.”
The crowd hushed as Kirk mounted the stairs to the house and turned out to face the onlookers. Judging from his easy grin, Chekov would wager he hadn’t prepared a word of this speech in advance.
“Welcome to one of my favorite weeks. Delta Xi Theta carries our tradition of excellence all year, but this is the only time you,” he pointed at a huddle of fidgeting cadets in the front row, “Have a chance to become one of us. The lives of those we choose will be forever changed. You’ll be one of an elite brotherhood, and you’ll never be alone again. Once you’re DXT, you have loyalty for life. So this week, the chance for reward is great, but so is the risk. If a brother tells you to do something, you do it. Understand?”
A tentative “yes sir” rattled through the crowd. Chekov did not participate. He saw Sulu note his silence.
“More details about the week will be sent to your padds. For tonight, we welcome you to our home. Let’s do this.”
Kirk pulled open the huge, old-fashioned front doors to the house. The crowd surged forward. Chekov held back, observing. He had yet to see anyone among the rushes that he considered serious competition. Tonight his time would be better spent getting to know the DXT brothers; he wouldn’t bother sizing up his rivals unless one became a threat. Thus decided, he started to head inside when he realized Sulu was still watching him.
“Yes?” he said carefully.
“You’re a funny kid, Pavel Chekov.” Sulu clapped him on the shoulder and walked off.
Chekov had already begun to follow when he remembered he’d introduced himself by last name only. He warmed at the idea that Hikaru Sulu had bothered to look him up.
--
Spock hauled the collapsed rush off the table by the back of his shirt and hauled him away from the table. Chekov wasn’t sure how many drinks the man had managed, but he’d at least put up a valiant fight against Spock. Too bad the kid hadn’t realized the futility of engaging in a drinking contest with a Vulcan.
“Who’s next?” Kirk scanned the crowd. His eyes caught on Chekov. “You.” He stretched out his hand to point. “Come on, little Russian. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Chekov pushed his way forward through the crowd to take his place at the table. At the head of the table, Bones, who up close was scruffy and broad-shouldered, said, “For God’s sake, Jim, the kid can’t weigh more than one ten soaking wet!”
Chekov seated himself at the table and looked up at Bones with exaggerated dignity. “Do not worry. The Russians invented drinking games.”
“See? Fair match.” Kirk laughed and punched Bones in the ribs affectionately.
Sulu appeared from somewhere behind Bones and handed him a fresh bottle of some amber liquid. “Has he paid the entry fee?”
“Not yet.” Kirk settled back in his chair with a dangerous smirk.
“Here.” Sulu snatched a die off the sticky surface of the table and dropped it in Chekov’s hand. “Roll it.”
Chekov looked down at the die. He hadn’t witness the start of the last game; he’d been off watching a brother named Scotty put together a bong from some used poly-synthetic cups and a discarded brassiere. He had no idea how this contest worked, but he had confidence in his ability to pick it up as he went along. He rolled the die.
“Five!” Sulu crowed.
“Good Christ,” Bones muttered. He lined up five shot glasses across the edge of the table and filled them all from the bottle Sulu had brought. “Remember kid, this ain’t vodka.”
“What is it?” Chekov peered curiously at the unlabeled bottle.
“Some whiskey-like concoction that Scotty makes in that still of his,” Bones explained. “Probably not poisonous.”
“Nah, it’s good,” Kirk said. “Bottoms up, kid.”
Chekov looked at the line of shots and quickly estimated their effect on his response time and judgment. He fervently regretted consuming a variety of drinks with other brothers earlier tonight. He grabbed the first shot and held it aloft. “Za pobedi,” he said. He threw back the shot and hardly registered the burn in his throat before he slammed down that glass and grabbed the next. All the shots were gone in under a minute.
From across the table, Kirk watched him with an expression of apparently mixed admiration and pity. “All right. Let’s get started. Spock!”
Spock came weaving through the crowd holding a fully set up chess set in a remarkable balancing feat. He slid it gracefully onto the table between Chekov and Kirk. “Gentlemen, I believe you’re familiar with the rules?”
--
Chekov frowned at his bishop. He knew Kirk had done something important with his rook in that last move, but he couldn’t see the end game. That was bad. His papa had always told him to know his enemy’s end game. His hand went sluggishly to the bishop; he picked it up on the third try. He turned the cool piece over in his hand as his eyes scanned the chess board.
From behind him, Sulu dropped a hand on his shoulder. “Sure you know what you’re doing there?”
He sounded amused, which made Chekov scowl. Four of his pawns, both knights, and a rook lay lined along the edge of the table next to the shot glass he’d had to empty each time he lost a piece. Kirk certainly seemed well-versed in chess strategy. Also, he seemed unaffected by the vile moonshine Bones kept pouring him. Still, Chekov knew he could win this game if he could just think through the muzzy softness that pervaded his brain. He turned to fix Sulu with the most derisive glare he could muster. “I have been playing chess since you were still clinging to your mother’s apron strings. I do ‘know what I am doing,’ thank you.”
Chekov paused just long enough to watch Sulu’s expression shift to surprise before he returned his attention to the game. The little distraction had cleared his head, and he could see now what Kirk was attempting. He plopped his bishop back on the board, threatening Kirk’s knight.
“That’s it, kid.” McCoy poured another shot and held on to it. “A little overconfidence never hurt anyone, right Jim?”
“Never.” Kirk grinned and moved out his queen, just as Chekov had expected.
Chekov nudged his remaining rook forward. “Check.”
“Suit yourself,” Sulu said. He patted Chekov’s shoulder once more. “You’ll see.” He moved off into the crowd.
Kirk laughed. He moved his king aside, out of harm’s way, and leaned back in his chair. “You know, you’re doing pretty well for having so much of Scotty’s battery acid in you.”
Chekov tightened his jaw. He was playing better than “pretty well.” He could taste victory, even through the astringent flavor of alcohol. His eyes caught on a gap in Kirk’s defenses. With an anticipatory smile, he picked up his queen and dropped it out of reach of Kirk’s knight, right in position to take the king next turn. Certainly Kirk had no way to win now.
Kirk grinned, and took his turn. “Checkmate.”
Chekov stared at the bishop Kirk had just moved. Then at Kirk’s rook and the knight positioned to cut off his king’s retreat. The reality of the loss took several seconds to penetrate the fog of Chekov’s intoxication.
Kirk picked up an empty shot glass and held it up for Bones to pour. Someone shoved a glass into Chekov’s hand, and Kirk clinked glasses. “Good game, kid. What’s your name again?”
“Chekov. Pavel Andreivich.” He had enough luck left to remember that, at least.
“Alright, Chekov.” Kirk threw back his drink and watched until Chekov followed suit. “You can come back tomorrow.”
--
Chekov kicked off his shoes and squinted at his bed, trying to remember its function. Vincent was speaking, but Chekov had tuned out the flow of words after the first sentence about tonight’s party at Gamma Epsilon Mu. The way his head felt now, he wasn’t sure he would ever again have the brain cells to spare to remember anything other than how to lose at chess.
Eventually, Vincent seemed to notice his lack of response. “How’d it go at Delta House?” he asked.
Chekov was saved from having to make a response when his padd beeped to alert him to an incoming message. The text came from Sulu, Hikaru, and Chekov’s booze-soaked brain had to work to interpret it:
DXT Rush Week Schedule
Monday: Game night
Tuesday: Public service project
Wednesday: Written exam
Thursday: Field night
Friday: Beach BBQ
19:00 nightly, Delta House
Lateness will not be tolerated.
Pledge invitations sent Saturday.
- HS
P.S. Looks like you don’t know what you’re doing after all.
“Well,” Chekov said to Vincent, who still seemed to be waiting for an answer. “It went well.”
Chekov stumbled over to his bed, fell into it, and dreamed of impressing Sulu with his prowess every one of those cryptically named activities.
--
TUESDAY
Chekov spent much of the day popping pain pills and wincing at sunlight and loud noises. By evening, he had finally begun to feel human again.
When he arrived at Delta House at ten minutes to 19:00, the door was unlocked. Inside, he followed the sounds of talking and laughter to the living area, the site of his ignominious defeat the night before.
Kirk emerged from a group of brothers standing around and drinking. “Chekov.” He pointed to a pile of data sticks on a low table. “Pick one.”
Chekov took the nearest one without hesitation. He saw no point in speculating as to their content or significance, and vacillating would only make him look weak.
He offered the stick to Kirk, but Kirk only shook his head. He turned back to the group. “Roo!” he called.
Sulu detached himself from the general revelry and came toward Kirk with heavy steps. “I told you--.”
“You’re with the Russian,” Kirk interrupted. “Have fun.”
Sulu held Kirk’s eyes for a moment longer than was comfortable. Then he snatched the data stick from Chekov’s hand, grabbed Chekov by the wrist, and dragged him out the door.
Once outside, Chekov tugged his arm free. “I do not need to be led around like a child,” he snapped.
“I wouldn’t think so.” Sulu’s scowl melted into something more contemplative. He kept moving, but made no further move to shepherd Chekov. They reached central part of the Academy campus, and Sulu stopped in the shadow of the biology building’s greenhouse. He turned his serious gaze on Chekov. Chekov hadn’t known eyes could look so dark. “Tonight’s test is a public service project. You need to do something for us.”
“What is this ‘something?’”
We need to know how far you’re willing to go for the brotherhood. Do you understand what loyalty means, little man?”
Perhaps the mocking term got under his skin, or perhaps he’d simply reached his limit of tolerance for Sulu’s derisive treatment. In any case, Chekov felt a fierce urge to not only prove his worth to the brotherhood, but to show Sulu that his skills were beyond reproach. “I understand more than you know,” he snapped.
“Prove it.” Sulu held out the data stick from the pile at the house.
Chekov snatched it deftly from his hand and shoved it into his personal padd. Almost immediately, up come stats on Elias Gandrin, a low-level administrator in academic affairs: pictures, contact information, schedule, schematics of his apartment and his office. Loyalty. A test.
Chekov searched Sulu’s face for clues, but Sulu kept his expression meticulously blank. Apparently he expected Chekov to draw his own conclusions. He looked again at the data: medical history, known allergies, combat proficiencies on record. All the information an assassin needed. When he glanced up at Sulu, he realized his heart had begun to pound against his ribs. “What has this man done to DXT?”
“Yours is not to reason why,” Sulu said crisply.
“No no.” Chekov held up a hand to stop Sulu. “I only mean that if we are to send a message, it is best to relate the retribution to the crime, yes?”
“Yes.” Sulu’s eyes remained unreadable, but Chekov thought he caught the slight pull of a smile at the corner of Sulu’s mouth. “He tampered with four brothers’ records to get them on academic probation, then requested favors to correct the mistake.”
“I see.” Contingency plans spun through Chekov’s mind. He didn’t want to show Sulu all his tricks, in case he became an enemy at some point. However, he wanted to do well enough to impress Sulu and the other brothers. And then there was always the possibility that DXT was using him as a pawn, and would disavow any knowledge of his actions. Or perhaps they were testing him to see how easily he could be manipulated into taking on dirty work. If he was going to do what he thought they were asking of him, he’d have to cover his tracks well.
Chekov paused to consider what he might do if he were attempting to weed out weak prospective members. The logical course would be to require candidates to display the traits most highly valued by the brotherhood: cunning, ruthlessness, and loyalty. He glanced once more at the information scrolling across his padd, then up at Sulu. “I hope you can keep up.”
--
According to the schedule, Gandrin worked late (and more importantly, alone) on Tuesdays. With Sulu in tow, Chekov walked right up to the front door of the main administration building, bold as brass. “You should wait here. I will only be a moment.”
“I need to observe you the whole time.” Sulu stopped him with a hand curled around his arm.
Chekov reconsidered this in regards to this plan, and shook his head. “Impossible to get in with more than one. But I tell you what I will do, and you will believe when you see it happen.”
“How do I know you’re not going to slip away and contact someone to do the job for you?”
“Who would I call?” Chekov asked. At the surprised expression on Sulu’s face, Chekov realized his mistake. Sulu had a house full of brothers to call on for favors; Chekov had no one. He didn’t want his lack of political connections to count against him as prospective pledge. More than that, he did not want Sulu to think of him as a lonely person. He should not have drawn Sulu’s attention to that inequity. He quickly went on. “Besides, I promise when I kill him you will be watching.”
Sulu nodded, satisfied.
“Good. I will tell the desk attendant I forgot something in the building for a professor. He will be very angry if I forget. She will let me in without checking my ID.”
“Will she,” Sulu said skeptically.
Chekov scrubbed a hand through his hair to tousle it, slouched, and looked up at Sulu with wide, frightened eyes. “Please! I must to get this folder for Meester Spolin, or he will be wery angry!” Chekov squinted to force a tear and affected a deep, shuddery breath. “You do not know what he is like, what he will do--!”
“Okay, okay.” Sulu laughed and held up his hands in mock defeat. “That gets you in. Then what?”
“I disable the lock on one of the service doors at the rear of the building, here.” Chekov pointed to the map on his padd. “I grab a file, come out, thank the desk attendant profusely so she remembers I left at such-and-such a time. Then I return to you and we begin our real work.”
“Okay. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
--
Sneaking in the back door Chekov had opened posed no problem. Chekov had always been good with maps; he easily led Sulu through the labyrinth of service corridors to an unlocked stairwell. As they climbed the stairs, Chekov went over his plan in his head, looking for flaws.
“Tell me something, kid,” Sulu said. His low-pitched voice seemed perfectly pitched not to disturb the quiet of the building. “You ever done this before? Killed a man?”
Chekov looked back at Sulu, whose eyes were dark in the dim light of the stairwell. “Yes,” he said shortly. “Have you?”
“I’m just saying that you’d better think about if this is what you really want.”
Chekov stopped and turned back. “Did you do this when you rushed DXT?”
“Yes,” Sulu said simply.
“It is not a difficult thing, to take a man’s life.” It had been, once. Chekov remembered the struggle to force knife through bone with childishly weak hands too small to properly fit the grip of his knife. He’d never seen Sulu handle a blade, but he had trouble imagining him young and clumsy, or frightened as Chekov had been when his very first kill bled out beneath him, watching the light drain from his eyes and knowing how easily he could have been the one cold on the floor.
The memory sent a shiver through him before he could suppress it. He hoped Sulu had missed it in the low light. “The main thing,” Chekov went on quickly, “Is to make sure the death is necessary for one’s goals. DXT wants to send a message, so I will do this.” He resumed climbing the stairs. “Once Gandrin is dead I can use his computer to correct the mistake he made. I will also send a notice signed by him to the dean apologizing for the mistake. Then it will be obvious why he was killed.”
“You don’t think that might lead an investigator back to DXT?”
“Are you concerned more about an investigator, or about maintaining the brotherhood’s reputation?”
“You’re cute.” Sulu stopped again. Chekov turned around to see Sulu wearing that inscrutable, infuriating half smile.
Chekov made a rude gesture and kept walking. His heart had begun pounding again.
The sixth floor hallway was dark. At the entrance to the office adjacent to Gandrin’s, Chekov paused, and Sulu came to a halt behind him. Decoding the lock took longer than Chekov would have liked, but eventually the door popped open. Chekov waved Sulu through. “After you.”
Sulu paused fractionally, probably wondering if Chekov planned to knife him in the back. Chekov could hardly fault him for that. Sulu bowed gallantly and glided past Chekov into the room. He moved completely silently. Chekov spared a thought for how Sulu must look when on the hunt: intent on his prey and nearly invisible in the shadows. He put such distractions out of his mind and followed.
Pale light filtering through the window made the empty office marginally lighter than the hallway. Chekov went right to the glass-paneled door that led onto the patio. He found the lock panel mounted on the wall and motioned Sulu over. “From here, I will disengage the patio locks for the whole floor. Just a moment.” He pried off the panel cover with the flat of his knife and set to work. Sulu stood over his shoulder, observing silently. Next to them, the patio door gave a quiet hiss.
“There.” Chekov pushed the door; it glided open. “All right.” He hefted his knife. Now he showed his commitment. He would be giving Sulu and his brothers something to hold over him, but he would also earn their respect. Sulu would see his courage. “Follow close,” he whispered. He slipped out onto the patio with Sulu trailing like a shadow. In the office next door, a single lamp silhouetted a shadowy figure sitting at the desk.
Chekov gauged the distance from door to desk and decided he had little chance of entering the room unnoticed. Speed would be the key. He shifted his grip on his knife, sucked in a breath of the humid night air, and moved. The door slid aside under his hand. His victim had no time to stir before Chekov drove the knife into his throat.
Chekov jerked the knife back immediately. Something was wrong. The knife slid out too easily, with an unpleasant ripping sound and none of the resistance of flesh. Chekov spun away quickly to put his back to the wall and looked around wildly for traps.
There was only Sulu. He leaned in the open doorway and began slowly to clap. Chekov looked from Sulu to the figure in the chair and back, but he couldn’t wrap his head around the situation.
Sulu reached out to press a command on the environmental panel. Light flooded the room. In the desk chair sat propped an effigy of a man, complete with wig and sewn-on, button eyes. A jagged rip marred the cloth throat, right where the trachea would be if he had been a real man.
Chekov couldn’t quite move, still submerged in the adrenaline rush of the hunt and the sudden fear of a trap, and denied the release of a victim’s blood pouring out over his hands.
“You did well.” Sulu walked toward him slowly, as if approaching a skittish animal. He reached out to settle his hand over Chekov’s fist that still clutched his knife, and gently pushed his arm down. “Let’s get you back to the house.”
--
Kirk pressed a bottle of beer into Chekov’s hand. “You made it back.”
“Of course.” Chekov flashed a confident smile, but his nerves still thrummed from unexpended energy.
Sulu pried the cap off his beer. “I think he’s disappointed he didn’t get to draw real blood.” He threw a weighty look at Chekov.
Chekov kept smiling and hoped he didn’t show how close to the quick Sulu had cut.
“Well obviously we can’t leave a trail of bodies every rush week,” Bones piped up from the couch. “Pike likes us, but I think he’d frown on that.”
Kirk dropped down beside him. “Some of the guys want me to move kill night back to later in the week, but I believe in separating the wheat from the chaff early. Why bother with rushes who aren’t into the same things we’re into?” He gestured around the room, where only a dozen or so other potential pledges had yet returned. “Efficiency is key.”
The rest of the evening seemed uneventful in comparison. Chekov passed the time trying to drink his lingering adrenaline rush into submission. He sat on the couch listening to Scotty tell stories of sorority girls he’d seduced as a pretext to steal parts from the physics lab. Chekov could barely keep his eyes open by the time the party began to break up.
On his way out the door, Sulu held up his beer bottle in salute. His eyes seemed to see right through Chekov to that place inside still ringing with the need to shed blood. “You--.” He closed his mouth on whatever he’d been about to say and shook his head. Instead, he said, “See you tomorrow, little man.”
Chekov scowled at the nickname. “Goodnight, Roo,” he said, and made a quick exit.
Back at his room, Chekov spared only a glance for Vincent, and quickly determined that he was asleep. He stripped off his clothes and slipped beneath the covers. Chekov blinked at the chrono on his bedside table, which flashed: 03:51. His first class started all too soon, but despite the late hour he was still wired from the evening’s activities.
His naked skin felt itchy and too hot against the thin sheets. If he couldn’t have blood, he’d have to settle himself with a release of a different kind. He wrapped a hand firmly around his half-hard cock, which had been distracting him all evening. He pulled at himself roughly, and quickly brought on a full erection. He smiled as he remembered Kirk’s words: efficiency is key. Thinking of the DXT brothers brought to mind Sulu. Chekov pictured him too easily in his mind’s eye: serious-faced and intent as he’d been on their outing this evening. He moved like an athlete and like a killer. Too quickly, Chekov’s hips slammed up, and he spilled his seed against the sheets. He meant to wipe away the mess, and the mental images that had fuelled his release, but sleep pulled him down and carried him away from such paltry concerns.
--
WEDNESDAY
Chekov’s classes passed in a daze. He took notes, but couldn’t have named one of the admirals mentioned in the afternoon’s Imperial History lecture if his membership with DXT depended on it. Instead, he’d feverishly repeated to himself bits and pieces of information from the archival information he’d studied on DXT, in case tonight’s scheduled “written exam” turned out to require knowledge of fraternity trivia.
At nineteen hundred, he dragged himself across campus to Delta House. Inside, rushes-a third fewer than there’d been on Monday-sat spread around the living space. The brothers stood clustered off to the side, talking amongst themselves.
Chekov took a seat and waited, keeping himself deliberately still. The man sitting on the couch to Chekov’s right wiped his hands on his pants nervously. Chekov sifted through his mass of DXT trivia to remember the name of this rush, who he was certain he’d met on Monday. Riley, he was fairly certain.
“Have you studied?” Chekov asked.
“How would I have studied, genius?” Probably-Riley said. “I have no idea what the hell they’re going to test us on.”
“Right.” Chekov gave him a smooth smile, just to see if he could rattle him.
“Sure…” Apparently Riley had an affinity for sniffing out bullshit, because his brow-furrowed look of concern melted into a laugh. “You’re a funny guy, Pavel.”
Chekov had just enough time to wonder what that was supposed to mean before Spock stepped to the center of the room.
“Gentlemen.” Though Spock hadn’t raised his voice above its normal speaking volume, all conversation hushed. “Tonight’s written exam will test your ingenuity and bravery.”
McCoy began handing out a small black cylindrical object to each of the rushes; Chekov couldn’t yet see what they were.
“You are to bring back as many tokens as possible, to be placed on your body,” Spock continued. “Each token will be assigned a point value based on the status of its bestower and the location on which it is transcribed.”
Across the room from Chekov, another rush, an Andorian, spoke up. “What kind of token?”
“A signature.” Spock held up one of the items McCoy was distributing, and Chekov at last recognized it as an old-fashioned writing device.
McCoy tapped Chekov on the nose with his marker before handing it to him. “Don’t worry, kid. A little ink is good for the skin.”
--
Chekov had a plan. He’d memorized the map of campus and the surrounding area as soon as he’d known he was enrolling in the Academy, so he knew exactly where to go.
Riley, following close behind him, had no such advantage. “I’m telling you, freshmen girls. Tell them we’re with DXT, they’ll give us whatever we want.”
Chekov gripped his marker hard and forged ahead, past the edge of campus and onto a narrow street overhung by towering oak trees.
Riley stopped short where the sidewalk turned. “Nu uh, man. I am not going in there.”
Chekov paused. It made no difference to him whether Riley accompanied him or not, but he wanted to experiment with the concept of working together for when he had the DXT brothers as allies. “It’s a sorority. There will be many women.”
“No way.” Riley crossed his arms over his chest and planted his feet. “Those sisters are ruthless. They’ll tear you apart.”
“We will get more points for Lambdas.”
“We’ll stay alive if we get more signatures from girls who are a little less fond of knives.”
Chekov shrugged and continued up the path.
“Chekov! Pavel!” Riley followed him a few steps, then shook his head and turned back. “Fine. One less competitor.”
Chekov straightened his back and pressed the chime at the side of the entry. After only a few seconds, an Orion girl threw open the door. She looked him over with the eye of a predator. “Trick or treat.” She leaned against the side of the door. “What do you want?”
“I am here to see Nyota Uhura.”
“Uhura?” An amused smile blinked into existence in the mist of her delicate features. “Why should she want to see you?”
“I have a message for her. I have just come from Delta House.”
The woman’s bright eyes widened, and her smile curled up further. “Stay.” She slammed the door in his face.
Chekov glanced over his shoulder to see Riley give him a sympathetic wave from twenty yards down the path in the fading twilight. Chekov turned back to the door. He didn’t have long to wait before the Orion threw it open again.
“Come in,” she said sweetly.
The foyer behind her was dark. Any number of enemies could be lurking there. Chekov readied himself, and stepped forward. The moment he crossed the threshold, strong hands seized and held him while other hands patted him down. He fought the instinct to struggle: here in the lion’s den, resistance would only assure his death. Fingers slid beneath his shirt and snatched away the knife concealed at his back. More fingers ferreted out the knife in his boot and pulled it out. Then the hands withdrew and the lights flipped on.
The Orion stood nearest the door, but now there were two other women, both blondes: one with an elaborately piled hair-do, and another whose blue eyes were sharp with suspicion.
The Orion held up Chekov’s knife: the one that had been concealed at his back, the one that had belonged to his grandfather. “You said the Deltas sent you?”
“I said I had come from Delta House. I am here to see Nyota Uhura.”
“What’s all the fuss?”
The first thing Chekov noticed about the woman was her legs. As she descended the lengthy staircase, they seemed endlessly long and smooth. He had seen pictures of her at DXT events in the archives, but in the flesh her beauty was even more apparent. Chekov could understand, objectively, why her favor would be sought after.
“Boy came to visit and brought his weapons.” The Orion woman held up the knife. “Not very polite.”
“Oh Gaila. Did you expect the little lamb to walk around campus without any protection at all?” She reached the bottom of the stairs and held out her hand. Gaila laid the knife on top of her palm. Uhura regarded it critically. “This is Russian military. Well taken care of, too.” She looked up a Chekov. “Kak tebya zavut?” she asked. What is your name.
“Chekov. Pavel Andreievich.” He hadn’t expected her to speak his native tongue. He should have anticipated that a renowned linguistics student would have proficiency in several common languages. “Ya k vam prishol na pol’zu.”
“A favor?” She’d had no trouble understanding him, then. “You’re bold.”
Taking notes of her amused manner, Chekov decided to alter his tactics. “Ckazali, chto Spock otnositsya k vam.” I heard that Spock belongs to you.
“Yes, although I don’t know that he’d put it that way.” Her smile thinned. “Did he send you here?”
“No. I came on my own”
“As much as I’m enjoying our guessing game, time is running short, Pavel-chik.” She stepped toward him. The other women closed ranks in a circle around Chekov. “Tell me why you’ve come.”
“I need signatures from women around campus. Naturally I came to the best.”
“It’s rush week.” She sounded thoughtful.
“Yes.”
“Those Deltas never change,” said the woman with the elaborate hair.
“You mean Jim Kirk never changes,” Gaila corrected her.
Chekov held up the marker he’d been given. “You are to sign my body.”
“If you think--,” Gaila began.
“Wait.” Uhura took a quick step forward. “I think we should oblige him.” Her thin smile did not inspire confidence. “Christine, gather the sisters.”
--
Chekov stiffly climbed the stairs to Delta House. He pushed the door open and limped into the living room with one minute to spare before the deadline. He was the last to arrive.
The brothers were crowded around Kevin Riley. He had stripped to his shorts. Signatures in black ink scrawled across his torso and legs like tattoos.
“What does this say?” Sulu was asking. “Elena Mahussy? Mucrusty? What?”
Riley strained to see the signature on his shoulder blade. “Uh…”
“Never heard of her,” Kirk said. “No points.”
Riley’s face fell, the perked up again. “No, it was Ma’ha’lai. That’s it! Elena Ma’ha’lai! The daughter of that captured Surrian lord. She’s a second year cadet.”
“There is such a student,” Spock observed.
“Alright, Riley. Three points for that one. That brings us to-what’s the total, Scotty?”
Scott stared at a computer console, manipulating a scoreboard display projected against the far wall. “Ninety one.”
“Nice work,” Kirk said. “Have a seat.” His eyes drifted to Chekov, still standing stiffly near the doorway. “Pavel. Step up.”
“Yes sir.” Chekov concentrated on moving smoothly as he went to stand in front of Kirk. He took little notice of the other rushes already seated around the room, some of whom had ink marking their hands, necks, faces, and any other exposed patch of skin.
“First, we need a report,” Kirk said. “Tell us where you went for your mission.”
“Lambda Phi Omega.”
A hush fell over the room like an unexpected loss of power.
Spock broke the silence. “You simply walked up to the sorority house?”
“Yes, sir.”
“This I am dying to see,” Kirk said. “Get your clothes off, Chekov.”
Chekov pulled his shirt over his head carefully, trying not to catch fabric against skin. He shed his pants and briefs and stepped out of them so his audience could get the right impression. He knew the effect would be striking; his pale skin provided an excellent canvas for the bright red signatures that had been etched into his flesh with his own knife: into his chest, down his back, along the inside of his thighs, and beyond.
The watching brothers crowded closer.
“Does that say Janice Rand?” Scott asked.
“Christine Chapel.” McCoy pointed to a signature carved into Chekov’s belly.
Sulu moved around Chekov’s side for a better look at the marks on his back. “Gaila.”
Spock approached and touched his fingertips gently, almost gingerly, to the delicate letters carved into Chekov’s ass. “This is Nyota’s signature,” he said tightly.
“Well.” Kirk’s blue eyes gleamed at Spock. He didn’t turn back to Chekov, but went to Scotty’s scoreboard instead. “Let’s give the guy some points.”
On to part two
Pairing: Sulu/Chekov with implied others
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: hazing, threats of physical and sexual violence, actual violence and mayhem, general mirror!verse nastiness. Highlight for specific possible squicks:
mention of attempted non-con, mild bloodplay, paddling, spanking, implied underage, mentions of torture, forced nudity, attempted murder.
Notes: Written for the issenterprise Mirror!verse Remix Challenge. Inspired by echoinautumn’s incredibly delightful Rush Week. Thanks to vellum for the beta and jaune_chat for all the pep talks. Also, for kink_bingo
Summary: Pavel Chekov has a plan to join the most prestigious fraternity at the Imperial Academy. Despite the brothers’ rigorous system of testing new recruits, Chekov is determined to prove himself worthy, no matter the cost.
Chekov re-adjusted the strap of his shoulder bag to surreptitiously check if the blade concealed against his belt was still in place at the small of his back. In return the warm, flat metal pressed against his skin, a comforting weight.
Around him, people passed by in a steady stream: an upperclassman in his sleeveless summer cadet uniform, a trio of fresh-faced girls in civilian clothes, a Tellaraite professor with the gold sash of an officer. The smell of salt rolled in on the ocean breeze, like a vacation resort Chekov had once visited in Yalta. The air was much warmer here than in Moscow; he made a note to himself to see if the change in temperature would affect his pace for distance running.
Chekov had just left his father at the parking lot of Archer Hall, where all the first year male cadets were warehoused in dreary eight-by-eight foot blocks. Andrei Chekov had given him a confident nod and a pat on the back. He couldn’t speak anymore, not since Romulan spies had ripped out his tongue during an interrogation. But Andrei’s stoicism had earned him a reward: a place for his precocious only son at the prestigious Imperial Academy.
Every student here had some pull or political connection; Chekov was not naive enough to imagine that his father’s status as a minor hero offered him any protection. In any case, he needed none. Chekov had a plan. He would earn a place in one of the Academy’s most highly regarded fraternal orders, and enjoy all the benefits thereof as he rose through the ranks.
He passed by the rows of monolithic, mind-numbingly homogeneous dorm buildings until he stood at the foot of the broad stairway leading up to the foreboding facade of Archer Hall. He imagined something different in his future: a large, old-fashioned house on a tree-lined street, fitted with all the modern conveniences and populated by sophisticated, interesting brothers as intelligent as he. Chekov would get there, he knew with absolute confidence. First, he had to prove himself.
--
Chekov chose the bed with the best view of the door. His roommate, with whom he’d exchanged a few messages, would have to settle for the more dangerous berth. He’d begun unpacking his books-Sun Tsu’s The Art of War, Machiavelli’s The Prince, Fyedorovna’s latest treatise on modern torture methods-when a shadow darkened his doorway. Chekov turned to face the intruder, casually dropping his hand to within easy reach of his knife.
A large man with an ugly grin on his face stood blocking the hallway. “What have we here?” His close-shaved hair and muscle-bound arms made the man look like a thug; Chekov judged it unlikely that this man had great influence on campus.
“I am a new student,” Chekov said. He reached into his pack to pull out more books, but kept a sliver of attention on his visitor.
“Yeah, I know. Cute, too.”
Chekov chose not to respond. He did take note of the laughter and chatter drifting in from the hallway. Whatever he did, he’d have an audience: all to the good, in his mind.
The large man not-so-subtly took stock of Chekov’s room. “Looks like you haven’t really settled in yet.”
“I have only just arrived. I will make friends.”
“Sure.” The man took a step inside the room. “Runt like you, you’re going to need some help watching your back.”
Now the conversation was moving in the expected direction. Chekov slid down onto his bed and looked up at his visitor. “What do you mean?”
“I bet you don’t know much about how the system works here at the Academy.” The man stuck and his chest and leaned forward, watching Chekov expectantly. “The fraternities are the way to keep yourself protected.”
Chekov held back a smile. Of course he’d studied all the campus fraternities to decide which one would best suit his talents. He’d also done research on the rival fraternities in his usual thorough manner. In fact, if he had to guess, he’d peg this specimen as a Tau Kappa Phi; those brothers had a reputation for favoring blunt force as a problem-solving strategy. Still, there was no need for Chekov to tip his hand just yet. Instead, he widened his eyes and let his mouth drop open slightly. “What fraternities?”
“There are a few on campus. Some better than others. Then there’s mine. TKP.” He stuck out his chest farther, which Chekov hadn’t thought was possible. “In our fraternity, brothers look out for each other and stick together. We made sure our brothers avoid any… trouble.”
Chekov licked his hips and let more of his natural accent creep into his voice. “What kind of trouble?”
His visitor grinned and lumbered two steps closer. “All kinds of stuff can happen when you’re on your own for the first time, right kid? A frat can give you a place to belong. People you can count on. If you don’t have brothers… Well, I imagine a pretty thing like you--.”
Chekov didn’t wait for the dolt to finish that thought. He hooked his foot under the guy’s knee and pulled even as he lunged forward with a shout, aiming a blow with the heel of his hand right for the solar plexus. When the guy went down-and he went down hard-Chekov rushed forward and planted his foot carefully across the man’s thick throat.
Footsteps pounded down the hall. Chekov’s doorway filled with curious faces. The man tried to rise, but Chekov shifted more weight onto his foot, and the man stilled. He might have felt sorry for this man for having his humiliation witnessed by so many, but this was necessary to build Chekov’s reputation. Besides, this man should not have been so stupid to assume that Chekov would be at the Academy if he was the pathetic creature he’d been impersonating.
“You will not bother me again,” he said, taking care to enunciate clearly for the benefit of the onlookers. “Clear?”
The man’s hand twitched, as if he might attempt a strike. Chekov shifted his weight forward, pressing down on his throat and eliciting a pained grunt. “Clear?”
The man managed a strangled, “Clear.”
Chekov nodded and stepped out of the reach of his victim. The crowd in the doorway leaned forward. This was the most dangerous moment. The man would either decide to leave with the remainder of his dignity to make a plan for retaliation, or attempt to regain his honor immediately by defeating Chekov in front of an audience. The man stumbled to his feet and brushed off his clothes. He turned toward Chekov.
Chekov’s hand hung casually near his concealed knife. Slitting a man’s throat on the first day might establish a fearsome reputation, but doing so publically might draw unwanted attention from the administration. He’d rather not kill this man, but he would if he must.
Just at the moment when the man looked as if he might move, a voice rang out from the doorway. “Hey Cupcake! Getting a good look at the new prospects?”
Into the room stepped a man with piercing blue eyes and an amused grin. Right behind him came an equally amused cadet, this one dark-haired with the muscular build of a dancer or a wrestler. Chekov recognized the emblem on their blood-red shirts: DXT, for Delta Xi Theta. These were fraternity brothers from the most prestigious organization on campus: the golden boys of the Imperial Academy, who went on to get their pick of desirable posts, and who Chekov was determined to join.
“Back off, Kirk.” The man-Cupcake-turned to face the intruders. “I’ll recruit whoever I want.”
“Yeah.” Kirk’s smile widened. “You can try.” He waved both hands at the others crowding the doorway. “Remember, kiddies, rush starts next week. Hope to see you all at Delta House on Monday at nineteen hundred hours. No matter what anyone tells you, no recruiting is supposed to go on until then. So if anyone tries, you be sure to report it. Dean Pike-that’s Captain to you, Cupcake-doesn’t take too kindly to frats that break his rules.” He looked over his shoulder to wink at Cupcake.
The dark-haired cadet said, “Don’t you all still have some moving in to do?”
The onlookers scattered. Cupcake straightened up to his full height, shot Kirk a venomous glare, and stomped out of the room.
Kirk looked Chekov up and down. His smile faded. “Monday. Nineteen hundred. Delta House.”
“Be seeing you,” said his friend.
The two walked out, and Chekov found himself alone. His knife went back into its concealed sheath, and Chekov’s adrenaline high began to taper off.
The doorway darkened again, and Chekov rose quickly, half-expecting Cupcake to have doubled back. But there stood only a smallish young man with wildly disheveled hair, thick glasses, and an enormous pack slung over his back. “You Chekov?”
Chekov nodded slowly.
“Good.” With effort, he slung his pack onto the floor. “I’m in the right place.”
--
That evening, after engaging in perfunctory niceties with his new roommate, Vincent, Chekov went to the campus library to access the special electronic archives. With a little searching, he found a photograph of last year’s DXT officers. He should really have recognized the ones who’d been in his room that morning. Kirk was, of course, James T. Kirk, the president of DXT. The other man had been Hikaru Sulu, DXT’s Discipline Coordinator two years running.
Chekov replayed every step of their encounter in his mind, scrutinizing his actions for flaws. He had intended the incident to make an impression on his year-mates. He hadn’t considered that the president of his chosen brotherhood would be present. In his recollection, his actions still seemed the best response to the situation. Hopefully they wouldn’t count against his hopes to become a brother.
Chekov carefully studied last year’s photographs, paying special attention to those brothers who hadn’t been seniors, and therefore would presumably still be a part of the brotherhood. He wanted to be well prepared for Monday night.
--
MONDAY
Chekov adjusted the route of his morning run to carry him past Delta House. It looked much as he’d imagined: huge and old-fashioned, grand rather than monolithic, and situated on a tree-lined street that seemed somehow more solemn than the campus itself. He occupied the rest of his run with generating maps of run routes for next year, when he would live there.
That evening, having planned his course in advance, he timed his arrival at Delta House for two minutes to seven. Young men crowded the lawn outside. Chekov scanned the crowd and picked out several faces he’d memorized from the archival photographs: S'chn T'gai Spock , the tall and solemn vice president of DXT and one of the few Vulcans on campus; McCoy, a medical track cadet whom everyone called Bones, and there, at the edge of the crowd, talking to some young cadets, Sulu.
“I thought I’d see you here.” Chekov turned to see Jim Kirk looking him over with a predatory smirk. “Aren’t you a little young to be a cadet?”
“Old enough.” Chekov lifted his chin and kept eye contact with the fraternity’s blue eyed president. “I get along.”
“Roo!” Kirk shouted.
Chekov wondered if that was some sort of insult.
Then Sulu appeared at Kirk’s side, scowling. “Don’t call me that.” He glanced over at Chekov. A half-smile etched itself into his hard face.
“Look what the cat dragged in.” Kirk threw an arm around Chekov’s shoulder. “Our little scrapper.”
“My name is Chekov,” he said evenly.
“I know.” Sulu extended his hand for Chekov to shake. “Hikaru Sulu. That’s Jim Kirk.”
“I know.”
Sulu’s half smile grew sharper.
Kirk shot Sulu an unreadable look. “Get him checked in. We’ll start in two.” He disappeared into the crowd.
Sulu handed Chekov a padd and stylus. “Here’s the sign up. You are here to rush, not just to fawn over Kirk?”
“Fawn?” Chekov couldn’t help his incredulous reaction, and he knew Sulu noticed. “No.” He quickly took the padd and began to enter his information. He didn’t bother looking up to say, “More than rush. I intend to become a brother.” He handed the padd back to the still enigmatically smiling Sulu.
“We’ll see.”
The crowd hushed as Kirk mounted the stairs to the house and turned out to face the onlookers. Judging from his easy grin, Chekov would wager he hadn’t prepared a word of this speech in advance.
“Welcome to one of my favorite weeks. Delta Xi Theta carries our tradition of excellence all year, but this is the only time you,” he pointed at a huddle of fidgeting cadets in the front row, “Have a chance to become one of us. The lives of those we choose will be forever changed. You’ll be one of an elite brotherhood, and you’ll never be alone again. Once you’re DXT, you have loyalty for life. So this week, the chance for reward is great, but so is the risk. If a brother tells you to do something, you do it. Understand?”
A tentative “yes sir” rattled through the crowd. Chekov did not participate. He saw Sulu note his silence.
“More details about the week will be sent to your padds. For tonight, we welcome you to our home. Let’s do this.”
Kirk pulled open the huge, old-fashioned front doors to the house. The crowd surged forward. Chekov held back, observing. He had yet to see anyone among the rushes that he considered serious competition. Tonight his time would be better spent getting to know the DXT brothers; he wouldn’t bother sizing up his rivals unless one became a threat. Thus decided, he started to head inside when he realized Sulu was still watching him.
“Yes?” he said carefully.
“You’re a funny kid, Pavel Chekov.” Sulu clapped him on the shoulder and walked off.
Chekov had already begun to follow when he remembered he’d introduced himself by last name only. He warmed at the idea that Hikaru Sulu had bothered to look him up.
--
Spock hauled the collapsed rush off the table by the back of his shirt and hauled him away from the table. Chekov wasn’t sure how many drinks the man had managed, but he’d at least put up a valiant fight against Spock. Too bad the kid hadn’t realized the futility of engaging in a drinking contest with a Vulcan.
“Who’s next?” Kirk scanned the crowd. His eyes caught on Chekov. “You.” He stretched out his hand to point. “Come on, little Russian. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Chekov pushed his way forward through the crowd to take his place at the table. At the head of the table, Bones, who up close was scruffy and broad-shouldered, said, “For God’s sake, Jim, the kid can’t weigh more than one ten soaking wet!”
Chekov seated himself at the table and looked up at Bones with exaggerated dignity. “Do not worry. The Russians invented drinking games.”
“See? Fair match.” Kirk laughed and punched Bones in the ribs affectionately.
Sulu appeared from somewhere behind Bones and handed him a fresh bottle of some amber liquid. “Has he paid the entry fee?”
“Not yet.” Kirk settled back in his chair with a dangerous smirk.
“Here.” Sulu snatched a die off the sticky surface of the table and dropped it in Chekov’s hand. “Roll it.”
Chekov looked down at the die. He hadn’t witness the start of the last game; he’d been off watching a brother named Scotty put together a bong from some used poly-synthetic cups and a discarded brassiere. He had no idea how this contest worked, but he had confidence in his ability to pick it up as he went along. He rolled the die.
“Five!” Sulu crowed.
“Good Christ,” Bones muttered. He lined up five shot glasses across the edge of the table and filled them all from the bottle Sulu had brought. “Remember kid, this ain’t vodka.”
“What is it?” Chekov peered curiously at the unlabeled bottle.
“Some whiskey-like concoction that Scotty makes in that still of his,” Bones explained. “Probably not poisonous.”
“Nah, it’s good,” Kirk said. “Bottoms up, kid.”
Chekov looked at the line of shots and quickly estimated their effect on his response time and judgment. He fervently regretted consuming a variety of drinks with other brothers earlier tonight. He grabbed the first shot and held it aloft. “Za pobedi,” he said. He threw back the shot and hardly registered the burn in his throat before he slammed down that glass and grabbed the next. All the shots were gone in under a minute.
From across the table, Kirk watched him with an expression of apparently mixed admiration and pity. “All right. Let’s get started. Spock!”
Spock came weaving through the crowd holding a fully set up chess set in a remarkable balancing feat. He slid it gracefully onto the table between Chekov and Kirk. “Gentlemen, I believe you’re familiar with the rules?”
--
Chekov frowned at his bishop. He knew Kirk had done something important with his rook in that last move, but he couldn’t see the end game. That was bad. His papa had always told him to know his enemy’s end game. His hand went sluggishly to the bishop; he picked it up on the third try. He turned the cool piece over in his hand as his eyes scanned the chess board.
From behind him, Sulu dropped a hand on his shoulder. “Sure you know what you’re doing there?”
He sounded amused, which made Chekov scowl. Four of his pawns, both knights, and a rook lay lined along the edge of the table next to the shot glass he’d had to empty each time he lost a piece. Kirk certainly seemed well-versed in chess strategy. Also, he seemed unaffected by the vile moonshine Bones kept pouring him. Still, Chekov knew he could win this game if he could just think through the muzzy softness that pervaded his brain. He turned to fix Sulu with the most derisive glare he could muster. “I have been playing chess since you were still clinging to your mother’s apron strings. I do ‘know what I am doing,’ thank you.”
Chekov paused just long enough to watch Sulu’s expression shift to surprise before he returned his attention to the game. The little distraction had cleared his head, and he could see now what Kirk was attempting. He plopped his bishop back on the board, threatening Kirk’s knight.
“That’s it, kid.” McCoy poured another shot and held on to it. “A little overconfidence never hurt anyone, right Jim?”
“Never.” Kirk grinned and moved out his queen, just as Chekov had expected.
Chekov nudged his remaining rook forward. “Check.”
“Suit yourself,” Sulu said. He patted Chekov’s shoulder once more. “You’ll see.” He moved off into the crowd.
Kirk laughed. He moved his king aside, out of harm’s way, and leaned back in his chair. “You know, you’re doing pretty well for having so much of Scotty’s battery acid in you.”
Chekov tightened his jaw. He was playing better than “pretty well.” He could taste victory, even through the astringent flavor of alcohol. His eyes caught on a gap in Kirk’s defenses. With an anticipatory smile, he picked up his queen and dropped it out of reach of Kirk’s knight, right in position to take the king next turn. Certainly Kirk had no way to win now.
Kirk grinned, and took his turn. “Checkmate.”
Chekov stared at the bishop Kirk had just moved. Then at Kirk’s rook and the knight positioned to cut off his king’s retreat. The reality of the loss took several seconds to penetrate the fog of Chekov’s intoxication.
Kirk picked up an empty shot glass and held it up for Bones to pour. Someone shoved a glass into Chekov’s hand, and Kirk clinked glasses. “Good game, kid. What’s your name again?”
“Chekov. Pavel Andreivich.” He had enough luck left to remember that, at least.
“Alright, Chekov.” Kirk threw back his drink and watched until Chekov followed suit. “You can come back tomorrow.”
--
Chekov kicked off his shoes and squinted at his bed, trying to remember its function. Vincent was speaking, but Chekov had tuned out the flow of words after the first sentence about tonight’s party at Gamma Epsilon Mu. The way his head felt now, he wasn’t sure he would ever again have the brain cells to spare to remember anything other than how to lose at chess.
Eventually, Vincent seemed to notice his lack of response. “How’d it go at Delta House?” he asked.
Chekov was saved from having to make a response when his padd beeped to alert him to an incoming message. The text came from Sulu, Hikaru, and Chekov’s booze-soaked brain had to work to interpret it:
DXT Rush Week Schedule
Monday: Game night
Tuesday: Public service project
Wednesday: Written exam
Thursday: Field night
Friday: Beach BBQ
19:00 nightly, Delta House
Lateness will not be tolerated.
Pledge invitations sent Saturday.
- HS
P.S. Looks like you don’t know what you’re doing after all.
“Well,” Chekov said to Vincent, who still seemed to be waiting for an answer. “It went well.”
Chekov stumbled over to his bed, fell into it, and dreamed of impressing Sulu with his prowess every one of those cryptically named activities.
--
TUESDAY
Chekov spent much of the day popping pain pills and wincing at sunlight and loud noises. By evening, he had finally begun to feel human again.
When he arrived at Delta House at ten minutes to 19:00, the door was unlocked. Inside, he followed the sounds of talking and laughter to the living area, the site of his ignominious defeat the night before.
Kirk emerged from a group of brothers standing around and drinking. “Chekov.” He pointed to a pile of data sticks on a low table. “Pick one.”
Chekov took the nearest one without hesitation. He saw no point in speculating as to their content or significance, and vacillating would only make him look weak.
He offered the stick to Kirk, but Kirk only shook his head. He turned back to the group. “Roo!” he called.
Sulu detached himself from the general revelry and came toward Kirk with heavy steps. “I told you--.”
“You’re with the Russian,” Kirk interrupted. “Have fun.”
Sulu held Kirk’s eyes for a moment longer than was comfortable. Then he snatched the data stick from Chekov’s hand, grabbed Chekov by the wrist, and dragged him out the door.
Once outside, Chekov tugged his arm free. “I do not need to be led around like a child,” he snapped.
“I wouldn’t think so.” Sulu’s scowl melted into something more contemplative. He kept moving, but made no further move to shepherd Chekov. They reached central part of the Academy campus, and Sulu stopped in the shadow of the biology building’s greenhouse. He turned his serious gaze on Chekov. Chekov hadn’t known eyes could look so dark. “Tonight’s test is a public service project. You need to do something for us.”
“What is this ‘something?’”
We need to know how far you’re willing to go for the brotherhood. Do you understand what loyalty means, little man?”
Perhaps the mocking term got under his skin, or perhaps he’d simply reached his limit of tolerance for Sulu’s derisive treatment. In any case, Chekov felt a fierce urge to not only prove his worth to the brotherhood, but to show Sulu that his skills were beyond reproach. “I understand more than you know,” he snapped.
“Prove it.” Sulu held out the data stick from the pile at the house.
Chekov snatched it deftly from his hand and shoved it into his personal padd. Almost immediately, up come stats on Elias Gandrin, a low-level administrator in academic affairs: pictures, contact information, schedule, schematics of his apartment and his office. Loyalty. A test.
Chekov searched Sulu’s face for clues, but Sulu kept his expression meticulously blank. Apparently he expected Chekov to draw his own conclusions. He looked again at the data: medical history, known allergies, combat proficiencies on record. All the information an assassin needed. When he glanced up at Sulu, he realized his heart had begun to pound against his ribs. “What has this man done to DXT?”
“Yours is not to reason why,” Sulu said crisply.
“No no.” Chekov held up a hand to stop Sulu. “I only mean that if we are to send a message, it is best to relate the retribution to the crime, yes?”
“Yes.” Sulu’s eyes remained unreadable, but Chekov thought he caught the slight pull of a smile at the corner of Sulu’s mouth. “He tampered with four brothers’ records to get them on academic probation, then requested favors to correct the mistake.”
“I see.” Contingency plans spun through Chekov’s mind. He didn’t want to show Sulu all his tricks, in case he became an enemy at some point. However, he wanted to do well enough to impress Sulu and the other brothers. And then there was always the possibility that DXT was using him as a pawn, and would disavow any knowledge of his actions. Or perhaps they were testing him to see how easily he could be manipulated into taking on dirty work. If he was going to do what he thought they were asking of him, he’d have to cover his tracks well.
Chekov paused to consider what he might do if he were attempting to weed out weak prospective members. The logical course would be to require candidates to display the traits most highly valued by the brotherhood: cunning, ruthlessness, and loyalty. He glanced once more at the information scrolling across his padd, then up at Sulu. “I hope you can keep up.”
--
According to the schedule, Gandrin worked late (and more importantly, alone) on Tuesdays. With Sulu in tow, Chekov walked right up to the front door of the main administration building, bold as brass. “You should wait here. I will only be a moment.”
“I need to observe you the whole time.” Sulu stopped him with a hand curled around his arm.
Chekov reconsidered this in regards to this plan, and shook his head. “Impossible to get in with more than one. But I tell you what I will do, and you will believe when you see it happen.”
“How do I know you’re not going to slip away and contact someone to do the job for you?”
“Who would I call?” Chekov asked. At the surprised expression on Sulu’s face, Chekov realized his mistake. Sulu had a house full of brothers to call on for favors; Chekov had no one. He didn’t want his lack of political connections to count against him as prospective pledge. More than that, he did not want Sulu to think of him as a lonely person. He should not have drawn Sulu’s attention to that inequity. He quickly went on. “Besides, I promise when I kill him you will be watching.”
Sulu nodded, satisfied.
“Good. I will tell the desk attendant I forgot something in the building for a professor. He will be very angry if I forget. She will let me in without checking my ID.”
“Will she,” Sulu said skeptically.
Chekov scrubbed a hand through his hair to tousle it, slouched, and looked up at Sulu with wide, frightened eyes. “Please! I must to get this folder for Meester Spolin, or he will be wery angry!” Chekov squinted to force a tear and affected a deep, shuddery breath. “You do not know what he is like, what he will do--!”
“Okay, okay.” Sulu laughed and held up his hands in mock defeat. “That gets you in. Then what?”
“I disable the lock on one of the service doors at the rear of the building, here.” Chekov pointed to the map on his padd. “I grab a file, come out, thank the desk attendant profusely so she remembers I left at such-and-such a time. Then I return to you and we begin our real work.”
“Okay. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
--
Sneaking in the back door Chekov had opened posed no problem. Chekov had always been good with maps; he easily led Sulu through the labyrinth of service corridors to an unlocked stairwell. As they climbed the stairs, Chekov went over his plan in his head, looking for flaws.
“Tell me something, kid,” Sulu said. His low-pitched voice seemed perfectly pitched not to disturb the quiet of the building. “You ever done this before? Killed a man?”
Chekov looked back at Sulu, whose eyes were dark in the dim light of the stairwell. “Yes,” he said shortly. “Have you?”
“I’m just saying that you’d better think about if this is what you really want.”
Chekov stopped and turned back. “Did you do this when you rushed DXT?”
“Yes,” Sulu said simply.
“It is not a difficult thing, to take a man’s life.” It had been, once. Chekov remembered the struggle to force knife through bone with childishly weak hands too small to properly fit the grip of his knife. He’d never seen Sulu handle a blade, but he had trouble imagining him young and clumsy, or frightened as Chekov had been when his very first kill bled out beneath him, watching the light drain from his eyes and knowing how easily he could have been the one cold on the floor.
The memory sent a shiver through him before he could suppress it. He hoped Sulu had missed it in the low light. “The main thing,” Chekov went on quickly, “Is to make sure the death is necessary for one’s goals. DXT wants to send a message, so I will do this.” He resumed climbing the stairs. “Once Gandrin is dead I can use his computer to correct the mistake he made. I will also send a notice signed by him to the dean apologizing for the mistake. Then it will be obvious why he was killed.”
“You don’t think that might lead an investigator back to DXT?”
“Are you concerned more about an investigator, or about maintaining the brotherhood’s reputation?”
“You’re cute.” Sulu stopped again. Chekov turned around to see Sulu wearing that inscrutable, infuriating half smile.
Chekov made a rude gesture and kept walking. His heart had begun pounding again.
The sixth floor hallway was dark. At the entrance to the office adjacent to Gandrin’s, Chekov paused, and Sulu came to a halt behind him. Decoding the lock took longer than Chekov would have liked, but eventually the door popped open. Chekov waved Sulu through. “After you.”
Sulu paused fractionally, probably wondering if Chekov planned to knife him in the back. Chekov could hardly fault him for that. Sulu bowed gallantly and glided past Chekov into the room. He moved completely silently. Chekov spared a thought for how Sulu must look when on the hunt: intent on his prey and nearly invisible in the shadows. He put such distractions out of his mind and followed.
Pale light filtering through the window made the empty office marginally lighter than the hallway. Chekov went right to the glass-paneled door that led onto the patio. He found the lock panel mounted on the wall and motioned Sulu over. “From here, I will disengage the patio locks for the whole floor. Just a moment.” He pried off the panel cover with the flat of his knife and set to work. Sulu stood over his shoulder, observing silently. Next to them, the patio door gave a quiet hiss.
“There.” Chekov pushed the door; it glided open. “All right.” He hefted his knife. Now he showed his commitment. He would be giving Sulu and his brothers something to hold over him, but he would also earn their respect. Sulu would see his courage. “Follow close,” he whispered. He slipped out onto the patio with Sulu trailing like a shadow. In the office next door, a single lamp silhouetted a shadowy figure sitting at the desk.
Chekov gauged the distance from door to desk and decided he had little chance of entering the room unnoticed. Speed would be the key. He shifted his grip on his knife, sucked in a breath of the humid night air, and moved. The door slid aside under his hand. His victim had no time to stir before Chekov drove the knife into his throat.
Chekov jerked the knife back immediately. Something was wrong. The knife slid out too easily, with an unpleasant ripping sound and none of the resistance of flesh. Chekov spun away quickly to put his back to the wall and looked around wildly for traps.
There was only Sulu. He leaned in the open doorway and began slowly to clap. Chekov looked from Sulu to the figure in the chair and back, but he couldn’t wrap his head around the situation.
Sulu reached out to press a command on the environmental panel. Light flooded the room. In the desk chair sat propped an effigy of a man, complete with wig and sewn-on, button eyes. A jagged rip marred the cloth throat, right where the trachea would be if he had been a real man.
Chekov couldn’t quite move, still submerged in the adrenaline rush of the hunt and the sudden fear of a trap, and denied the release of a victim’s blood pouring out over his hands.
“You did well.” Sulu walked toward him slowly, as if approaching a skittish animal. He reached out to settle his hand over Chekov’s fist that still clutched his knife, and gently pushed his arm down. “Let’s get you back to the house.”
--
Kirk pressed a bottle of beer into Chekov’s hand. “You made it back.”
“Of course.” Chekov flashed a confident smile, but his nerves still thrummed from unexpended energy.
Sulu pried the cap off his beer. “I think he’s disappointed he didn’t get to draw real blood.” He threw a weighty look at Chekov.
Chekov kept smiling and hoped he didn’t show how close to the quick Sulu had cut.
“Well obviously we can’t leave a trail of bodies every rush week,” Bones piped up from the couch. “Pike likes us, but I think he’d frown on that.”
Kirk dropped down beside him. “Some of the guys want me to move kill night back to later in the week, but I believe in separating the wheat from the chaff early. Why bother with rushes who aren’t into the same things we’re into?” He gestured around the room, where only a dozen or so other potential pledges had yet returned. “Efficiency is key.”
The rest of the evening seemed uneventful in comparison. Chekov passed the time trying to drink his lingering adrenaline rush into submission. He sat on the couch listening to Scotty tell stories of sorority girls he’d seduced as a pretext to steal parts from the physics lab. Chekov could barely keep his eyes open by the time the party began to break up.
On his way out the door, Sulu held up his beer bottle in salute. His eyes seemed to see right through Chekov to that place inside still ringing with the need to shed blood. “You--.” He closed his mouth on whatever he’d been about to say and shook his head. Instead, he said, “See you tomorrow, little man.”
Chekov scowled at the nickname. “Goodnight, Roo,” he said, and made a quick exit.
Back at his room, Chekov spared only a glance for Vincent, and quickly determined that he was asleep. He stripped off his clothes and slipped beneath the covers. Chekov blinked at the chrono on his bedside table, which flashed: 03:51. His first class started all too soon, but despite the late hour he was still wired from the evening’s activities.
His naked skin felt itchy and too hot against the thin sheets. If he couldn’t have blood, he’d have to settle himself with a release of a different kind. He wrapped a hand firmly around his half-hard cock, which had been distracting him all evening. He pulled at himself roughly, and quickly brought on a full erection. He smiled as he remembered Kirk’s words: efficiency is key. Thinking of the DXT brothers brought to mind Sulu. Chekov pictured him too easily in his mind’s eye: serious-faced and intent as he’d been on their outing this evening. He moved like an athlete and like a killer. Too quickly, Chekov’s hips slammed up, and he spilled his seed against the sheets. He meant to wipe away the mess, and the mental images that had fuelled his release, but sleep pulled him down and carried him away from such paltry concerns.
--
WEDNESDAY
Chekov’s classes passed in a daze. He took notes, but couldn’t have named one of the admirals mentioned in the afternoon’s Imperial History lecture if his membership with DXT depended on it. Instead, he’d feverishly repeated to himself bits and pieces of information from the archival information he’d studied on DXT, in case tonight’s scheduled “written exam” turned out to require knowledge of fraternity trivia.
At nineteen hundred, he dragged himself across campus to Delta House. Inside, rushes-a third fewer than there’d been on Monday-sat spread around the living space. The brothers stood clustered off to the side, talking amongst themselves.
Chekov took a seat and waited, keeping himself deliberately still. The man sitting on the couch to Chekov’s right wiped his hands on his pants nervously. Chekov sifted through his mass of DXT trivia to remember the name of this rush, who he was certain he’d met on Monday. Riley, he was fairly certain.
“Have you studied?” Chekov asked.
“How would I have studied, genius?” Probably-Riley said. “I have no idea what the hell they’re going to test us on.”
“Right.” Chekov gave him a smooth smile, just to see if he could rattle him.
“Sure…” Apparently Riley had an affinity for sniffing out bullshit, because his brow-furrowed look of concern melted into a laugh. “You’re a funny guy, Pavel.”
Chekov had just enough time to wonder what that was supposed to mean before Spock stepped to the center of the room.
“Gentlemen.” Though Spock hadn’t raised his voice above its normal speaking volume, all conversation hushed. “Tonight’s written exam will test your ingenuity and bravery.”
McCoy began handing out a small black cylindrical object to each of the rushes; Chekov couldn’t yet see what they were.
“You are to bring back as many tokens as possible, to be placed on your body,” Spock continued. “Each token will be assigned a point value based on the status of its bestower and the location on which it is transcribed.”
Across the room from Chekov, another rush, an Andorian, spoke up. “What kind of token?”
“A signature.” Spock held up one of the items McCoy was distributing, and Chekov at last recognized it as an old-fashioned writing device.
McCoy tapped Chekov on the nose with his marker before handing it to him. “Don’t worry, kid. A little ink is good for the skin.”
--
Chekov had a plan. He’d memorized the map of campus and the surrounding area as soon as he’d known he was enrolling in the Academy, so he knew exactly where to go.
Riley, following close behind him, had no such advantage. “I’m telling you, freshmen girls. Tell them we’re with DXT, they’ll give us whatever we want.”
Chekov gripped his marker hard and forged ahead, past the edge of campus and onto a narrow street overhung by towering oak trees.
Riley stopped short where the sidewalk turned. “Nu uh, man. I am not going in there.”
Chekov paused. It made no difference to him whether Riley accompanied him or not, but he wanted to experiment with the concept of working together for when he had the DXT brothers as allies. “It’s a sorority. There will be many women.”
“No way.” Riley crossed his arms over his chest and planted his feet. “Those sisters are ruthless. They’ll tear you apart.”
“We will get more points for Lambdas.”
“We’ll stay alive if we get more signatures from girls who are a little less fond of knives.”
Chekov shrugged and continued up the path.
“Chekov! Pavel!” Riley followed him a few steps, then shook his head and turned back. “Fine. One less competitor.”
Chekov straightened his back and pressed the chime at the side of the entry. After only a few seconds, an Orion girl threw open the door. She looked him over with the eye of a predator. “Trick or treat.” She leaned against the side of the door. “What do you want?”
“I am here to see Nyota Uhura.”
“Uhura?” An amused smile blinked into existence in the mist of her delicate features. “Why should she want to see you?”
“I have a message for her. I have just come from Delta House.”
The woman’s bright eyes widened, and her smile curled up further. “Stay.” She slammed the door in his face.
Chekov glanced over his shoulder to see Riley give him a sympathetic wave from twenty yards down the path in the fading twilight. Chekov turned back to the door. He didn’t have long to wait before the Orion threw it open again.
“Come in,” she said sweetly.
The foyer behind her was dark. Any number of enemies could be lurking there. Chekov readied himself, and stepped forward. The moment he crossed the threshold, strong hands seized and held him while other hands patted him down. He fought the instinct to struggle: here in the lion’s den, resistance would only assure his death. Fingers slid beneath his shirt and snatched away the knife concealed at his back. More fingers ferreted out the knife in his boot and pulled it out. Then the hands withdrew and the lights flipped on.
The Orion stood nearest the door, but now there were two other women, both blondes: one with an elaborately piled hair-do, and another whose blue eyes were sharp with suspicion.
The Orion held up Chekov’s knife: the one that had been concealed at his back, the one that had belonged to his grandfather. “You said the Deltas sent you?”
“I said I had come from Delta House. I am here to see Nyota Uhura.”
“What’s all the fuss?”
The first thing Chekov noticed about the woman was her legs. As she descended the lengthy staircase, they seemed endlessly long and smooth. He had seen pictures of her at DXT events in the archives, but in the flesh her beauty was even more apparent. Chekov could understand, objectively, why her favor would be sought after.
“Boy came to visit and brought his weapons.” The Orion woman held up the knife. “Not very polite.”
“Oh Gaila. Did you expect the little lamb to walk around campus without any protection at all?” She reached the bottom of the stairs and held out her hand. Gaila laid the knife on top of her palm. Uhura regarded it critically. “This is Russian military. Well taken care of, too.” She looked up a Chekov. “Kak tebya zavut?” she asked. What is your name.
“Chekov. Pavel Andreievich.” He hadn’t expected her to speak his native tongue. He should have anticipated that a renowned linguistics student would have proficiency in several common languages. “Ya k vam prishol na pol’zu.”
“A favor?” She’d had no trouble understanding him, then. “You’re bold.”
Taking notes of her amused manner, Chekov decided to alter his tactics. “Ckazali, chto Spock otnositsya k vam.” I heard that Spock belongs to you.
“Yes, although I don’t know that he’d put it that way.” Her smile thinned. “Did he send you here?”
“No. I came on my own”
“As much as I’m enjoying our guessing game, time is running short, Pavel-chik.” She stepped toward him. The other women closed ranks in a circle around Chekov. “Tell me why you’ve come.”
“I need signatures from women around campus. Naturally I came to the best.”
“It’s rush week.” She sounded thoughtful.
“Yes.”
“Those Deltas never change,” said the woman with the elaborate hair.
“You mean Jim Kirk never changes,” Gaila corrected her.
Chekov held up the marker he’d been given. “You are to sign my body.”
“If you think--,” Gaila began.
“Wait.” Uhura took a quick step forward. “I think we should oblige him.” Her thin smile did not inspire confidence. “Christine, gather the sisters.”
--
Chekov stiffly climbed the stairs to Delta House. He pushed the door open and limped into the living room with one minute to spare before the deadline. He was the last to arrive.
The brothers were crowded around Kevin Riley. He had stripped to his shorts. Signatures in black ink scrawled across his torso and legs like tattoos.
“What does this say?” Sulu was asking. “Elena Mahussy? Mucrusty? What?”
Riley strained to see the signature on his shoulder blade. “Uh…”
“Never heard of her,” Kirk said. “No points.”
Riley’s face fell, the perked up again. “No, it was Ma’ha’lai. That’s it! Elena Ma’ha’lai! The daughter of that captured Surrian lord. She’s a second year cadet.”
“There is such a student,” Spock observed.
“Alright, Riley. Three points for that one. That brings us to-what’s the total, Scotty?”
Scott stared at a computer console, manipulating a scoreboard display projected against the far wall. “Ninety one.”
“Nice work,” Kirk said. “Have a seat.” His eyes drifted to Chekov, still standing stiffly near the doorway. “Pavel. Step up.”
“Yes sir.” Chekov concentrated on moving smoothly as he went to stand in front of Kirk. He took little notice of the other rushes already seated around the room, some of whom had ink marking their hands, necks, faces, and any other exposed patch of skin.
“First, we need a report,” Kirk said. “Tell us where you went for your mission.”
“Lambda Phi Omega.”
A hush fell over the room like an unexpected loss of power.
Spock broke the silence. “You simply walked up to the sorority house?”
“Yes, sir.”
“This I am dying to see,” Kirk said. “Get your clothes off, Chekov.”
Chekov pulled his shirt over his head carefully, trying not to catch fabric against skin. He shed his pants and briefs and stepped out of them so his audience could get the right impression. He knew the effect would be striking; his pale skin provided an excellent canvas for the bright red signatures that had been etched into his flesh with his own knife: into his chest, down his back, along the inside of his thighs, and beyond.
The watching brothers crowded closer.
“Does that say Janice Rand?” Scott asked.
“Christine Chapel.” McCoy pointed to a signature carved into Chekov’s belly.
Sulu moved around Chekov’s side for a better look at the marks on his back. “Gaila.”
Spock approached and touched his fingertips gently, almost gingerly, to the delicate letters carved into Chekov’s ass. “This is Nyota’s signature,” he said tightly.
“Well.” Kirk’s blue eyes gleamed at Spock. He didn’t turn back to Chekov, but went to Scotty’s scoreboard instead. “Let’s give the guy some points.”
On to part two