Chekov's Room - Day 15 - Morning - Open
He cracked his eyes open, just a minuscule amount, and even that was painful. His head spun, and he felt as if he swallowed a mouth full of the driest sand on Vulcan. His head lulled to the side as he attempted to sit up, his muscles screamed in protest, locking up at all the vital joints in his back. He fell down onto the bed again, breathing heavily. Dear God! What had he done the night before?
"L-Lights," Pavel croaked, "tventy per-percent."
The room suddenly went from dark to dim. It took a minute, but his vision adjusted, and so did his labored breathing. Inhaling, he rolled over onto his side, wincing as his ribs rested on his arm. With another heave, Pavel rolled right onto the floor. He yelped when his left side made contact, feeling as if his entire body was one giant bruise. "Chyort voz'mi!" He swore.
The pain subsided after slow, ticking minutes. A loud nrummm from his stomach made Pavel realize just how starving he was. Did he eat last night? Come to think of it, when was the last time he ate? He remembered watching as the Bacchus II away party filed out of the Transporter Room - very clearly as a matter of fact because one of the ensigns on that mission had sneezed on him on their way out - and then...nothing.
He really couldn't remember anything.
"Oh, Chto za huy."
He grabbed the blanket off of the bed, wrapping it around his fetal positioned form, and sat up with a grunt. Gritting his teeth, he stood on two shaking legs. It felt like he had the flu; he had that internal chill, and the room was suddenly spinning violently around him. McCoy. He had to see the doctor. With a little burst of energy, he bee-lined it for the door, which opened with a shhhhh. As quickly as it had come, his energy had left him, and his legs fell out from beneath his body. He slouched on the wall across from his room, wrapping the blanket like a tourniquet around his body. Shivering - though it seemed more like convulsing - Pavel licked his chapped lips and blinked.
"L-Lights," Pavel croaked, "tventy per-percent."
The room suddenly went from dark to dim. It took a minute, but his vision adjusted, and so did his labored breathing. Inhaling, he rolled over onto his side, wincing as his ribs rested on his arm. With another heave, Pavel rolled right onto the floor. He yelped when his left side made contact, feeling as if his entire body was one giant bruise. "Chyort voz'mi!" He swore.
The pain subsided after slow, ticking minutes. A loud nrummm from his stomach made Pavel realize just how starving he was. Did he eat last night? Come to think of it, when was the last time he ate? He remembered watching as the Bacchus II away party filed out of the Transporter Room - very clearly as a matter of fact because one of the ensigns on that mission had sneezed on him on their way out - and then...nothing.
He really couldn't remember anything.
"Oh, Chto za huy."
He grabbed the blanket off of the bed, wrapping it around his fetal positioned form, and sat up with a grunt. Gritting his teeth, he stood on two shaking legs. It felt like he had the flu; he had that internal chill, and the room was suddenly spinning violently around him. McCoy. He had to see the doctor. With a little burst of energy, he bee-lined it for the door, which opened with a shhhhh. As quickly as it had come, his energy had left him, and his legs fell out from beneath his body. He slouched on the wall across from his room, wrapping the blanket like a tourniquet around his body. Shivering - though it seemed more like convulsing - Pavel licked his chapped lips and blinked.