Shining Star: A Pavel Chekov Fanfiction

Twelve

Pavel is fourteen years old when he walks into his first class at Starfleet Academy.

He is not excited. Yes, he is embarking on what has been his dream since he was a little kid, before he even realized it. But he is not excited. He's kind of apprehensive. Well, maybe it's more like nervous. Okay, he's flat-out terrified.

What if the people here are just like the guy who Rosalind Franklin-ed him at Moscow State? (Since he never actually learned that guy's name, he's started to call him James Watson, after one of the two people who dissed Franklin and took basically all the credit for discovering DNA's structure.) He sped through that school, thanks in part to all the classes he had tested out of before entering college, and had graduated at the top of his class last year—and man, is he glad to have put that behind him. The last thing he wants is for Starfleet Academy to be more of the same. He tries to convince himself that it won't be—these are the smartest minds in the galaxy, all united under a common passion for exploration, enlightenment, discovery. That's kind of the whole point of Starfleet, and kind of the opposite of James Watson. But there's still that little voice in Pavel's head that keeps whispering, It will never change. You will always be nothing but a novelty, a tool for people to use and then throw away. Nothing more. He tries to silence the voice, but he can't. Especially not today.

The shoulder pads in his new crimson Academy uniform (which he had to get in the smallest size—he's tiny, even for his age) weigh down on him. It's a little uncomfortable. He constantly has the feeling of wanting to shrug it off.

As he enters the lecture hall for his first class, Navigational Comp, he looks around. Before, he'd make a beeline for the front row and go straight to the seat in the center, but now he's worried it might make him look overly eager. But he doesn't want to sit in the back, either, lest his teachers think he's a troublemaker. He finally chooses a seat in the fourth row, a little to the left.

There are only a few other people in the room this early: a girl with green skin and hair a million shades of red, staring off into space and daydreaming. An Andorian woman tapping her fingers against the table. (It's kind of annoying, but Pavel just tunes it out.) A short guy with light blond hair playing games on his Padd.

Pavel starts organizing his things, then realizes that might make him look like a stereotypical nerd and quickly stops. He ends up just staring at the front of the room, like the green-skinned girl, and tries to recite perfect square numbers to calm his nerves.

He's gotten all the way up to 676 when he hears the loud thump of someone dumping their stuff on the desk next to his. He turns and sees a youngish guy—Asian-looking, with dark hair and a half-grin on his face—sitting down. "Hey, do you mind if I sit here?"

"Erm, not at all," Pavel says.

The guy does sit down. "Exciting, huh? Our first class at the Academy. What are you looking to do in Starfleet?"

"I...I would like to be the navigator of one of the starships." Pavel mentally curses himself. Vould. Nawigator. His Russian accent is showing. Not even the English-only days with Mrs. Brezhneva have fully gotten rid of it.

But the person sitting next to him either doesn't notice or doesn't care. "That's cool. Maybe we could be assigned to the same ship." His half-smile expands, becoming full, genuine. "What's your name?"

"Pavel."

"Hikaru Sulu." He holds out his hand, and Pavel shakes it.

He can't help but smile. This man, Hikaru, has friendship potential. Maybe the Academy won't be so bad after all.