![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
When the start gun cracks and the noise reverberates in his ears, he takes off, weaving through people that aren't going as fast as he is; Pavel Chekov is no sprinter and he doesn't put on speed quickly, but his long strides require room to move, and the best palce for that is out front of the mass of people. Kirk's--the other Kirk, the older one in Milliways--advice sounds in his mind as he lets his body slip into a cadence of footfalls; don't expect to do well, or even finish. He knows it was just advice to keep him from hurting himself, but he hates it when people treat him like a boy that doesn't know any better. It makes him push just a little faster, just to break away from the group he's in, finding himself trailing the leaders.
He'd best slow down, he knows. Going too fast will only tire him faster, and this is at the core an endurance race; forty kilometers, Pavel recites in his head, breaking it down. One hundred thirty-seven thousand, two hundred and eighty feet. Each of his strides is two feet almost exactly from heel to heel; sixty-eight thousand six hundred and forty strides. He's at less than five hundred now.
The first kilometer goes by and Pavel keeps his pace for the next thirty-eight, letting all the numbers and the seconds ticking by--the incessant clock in his head that he can't turn off, that drives him to distraction when he isn't doing anything with the rest of his mind--drift away and leave a comfortably dark blank space that he imagines to be like space itself, dotted with bright thoughts like stars and the enveloping closeness of a vacuum he can zip through with ease, once he has coordinates. His legs are on autopilot now, just enough function diverted to controlling them that he doesn't run into anyone.
He thinks about a lot of things over the course of the race; his classes, his parents waiting to hear how he's doing, what he's going to need to clean out his dorm room since the door to Milliways opens into it from the unoccupied closet that would be his roommate's if he had one. Milliways sticks in his mind, and all the people he's talked to that he can't tell anyone about--the thoughts flit past his mind's eye and get organized away where they won't get lost.
It's only at the stumble because he missed a step that he's jerked back to here and now--what time is it? How long as he been running? It can't have been too long, he realizes, because he's still more or less in the same place he last remembered actually being in reference to the runners still surrounding him. He's dropped back a few places, but he's in the top twenty-five easily. That's unexpected. What's even more inexpected is that he has two kilometers left of the race--and right now he's feeling very good, even with the wave of tiredness that hits his legs and makes him twitch. Pavel might have needed to pay more attention to the race, because he doesn't even notice that he's thirsty, that his skin isn't wet with him sweating anymore.
The last kilometer is the hardest part, he knows, and his leg is starting to do more than ache; his brain is finally processing the catalogue of discomfort the marathon is causing, but Pavel ignores it, speeding up with every passing stride; he wants to win. He can see the finish line and the projected ribbon across the running path and if he can only speed up a little more, he'll be in tenth place, in third place--
And now he's in second--
Pavel's brain doesn't immediately register it when he crosses the ribbon first, breaking the projection with his torso. It's one of the only things he doesn't register: his knees decide of their own accord to bend, and he lets himself drop fifteen feet past the finish mark, sliding off his knees and ankles to sit heavily on the ground. The surprised murmurs swarm his ears like bees, indistinguishable in the mass of noise. He's fifteen!--No, that can't be right, you can't be serious!--We'd best get him water, he looks pale--What was the time again? He tunes it out, just sitting there with his chest heaving as he struggles to catch his breath and stand back up.
When the award certificate is pressed into his hands he smiles, and slowly--with help--makes it back to his dorm nearly an hour and a half later. It's a shower first, but immediately after, once he's dressed and with still-damp curls mking his scalp cold, Milliways sounds really good.
He'd best slow down, he knows. Going too fast will only tire him faster, and this is at the core an endurance race; forty kilometers, Pavel recites in his head, breaking it down. One hundred thirty-seven thousand, two hundred and eighty feet. Each of his strides is two feet almost exactly from heel to heel; sixty-eight thousand six hundred and forty strides. He's at less than five hundred now.
The first kilometer goes by and Pavel keeps his pace for the next thirty-eight, letting all the numbers and the seconds ticking by--the incessant clock in his head that he can't turn off, that drives him to distraction when he isn't doing anything with the rest of his mind--drift away and leave a comfortably dark blank space that he imagines to be like space itself, dotted with bright thoughts like stars and the enveloping closeness of a vacuum he can zip through with ease, once he has coordinates. His legs are on autopilot now, just enough function diverted to controlling them that he doesn't run into anyone.
He thinks about a lot of things over the course of the race; his classes, his parents waiting to hear how he's doing, what he's going to need to clean out his dorm room since the door to Milliways opens into it from the unoccupied closet that would be his roommate's if he had one. Milliways sticks in his mind, and all the people he's talked to that he can't tell anyone about--the thoughts flit past his mind's eye and get organized away where they won't get lost.
It's only at the stumble because he missed a step that he's jerked back to here and now--what time is it? How long as he been running? It can't have been too long, he realizes, because he's still more or less in the same place he last remembered actually being in reference to the runners still surrounding him. He's dropped back a few places, but he's in the top twenty-five easily. That's unexpected. What's even more inexpected is that he has two kilometers left of the race--and right now he's feeling very good, even with the wave of tiredness that hits his legs and makes him twitch. Pavel might have needed to pay more attention to the race, because he doesn't even notice that he's thirsty, that his skin isn't wet with him sweating anymore.
The last kilometer is the hardest part, he knows, and his leg is starting to do more than ache; his brain is finally processing the catalogue of discomfort the marathon is causing, but Pavel ignores it, speeding up with every passing stride; he wants to win. He can see the finish line and the projected ribbon across the running path and if he can only speed up a little more, he'll be in tenth place, in third place--
And now he's in second--
Pavel's brain doesn't immediately register it when he crosses the ribbon first, breaking the projection with his torso. It's one of the only things he doesn't register: his knees decide of their own accord to bend, and he lets himself drop fifteen feet past the finish mark, sliding off his knees and ankles to sit heavily on the ground. The surprised murmurs swarm his ears like bees, indistinguishable in the mass of noise. He's fifteen!--No, that can't be right, you can't be serious!--We'd best get him water, he looks pale--What was the time again? He tunes it out, just sitting there with his chest heaving as he struggles to catch his breath and stand back up.
When the award certificate is pressed into his hands he smiles, and slowly--with help--makes it back to his dorm nearly an hour and a half later. It's a shower first, but immediately after, once he's dressed and with still-damp curls mking his scalp cold, Milliways sounds really good.
