#SYNTH BAN FUTURE SHENANIGANS LET'S GOOOOO

[ensnchekov-a]

@my-timing-is-digital, x.

An abandoned, dilapidated building on the outskirts of a Federation colony had been his temporary residence — hideout would be a more appropriate epithet to ascribe to this former domicile — for less than a week. The partially disintegrated walls were permanently damp, and draughts wailed lugubriously and at irregular intervals. The sonic phenomenon was, regrettably, an accurate rendition of his present disposition, but to him this was a consolidation rather than an undesirable disturbance; despite his ineptitude to express the state of his emotion, it fascinated him that an element, such as air, could articulate it immaculately. He had deliberately opted to deactivate the chip indefinitely, for he had anticipated the possibility that a frenzy of unquenchable rage could corrupt every last particle of his programming if it remained operative, and thus would provide the Federation with a legitimate reason to apprehend, decommission, and dismantle him should a subsequent conflict lead to casualties. His error would be the pinnacle of their evidence against all synthetic lifeforms; it would corroborate the falsifications the Federation had been spewing at everyone who cared to listen, that androids are compromised and dangerous. Fortunately for him, not everyone believed this preposterous malarkey.

    Someone has been stalking me. The words enunciated by his young associate lacerated through the silence that had engulfed him for over two hours. His ponderous frown levelled out as he turned to face the boy; a youthful countenance staring back at an ageless one. Pavel Chekov was a promising Starfleet officer who had discontinued his career to become a benefactor for a fugitive android who was in desperate need of assistance. Admittedly, Data had increased his vigilance the first three days they spent together, but over the course of 7 weeks, his mental pathways had grown accustomed to Pavel’s sensory input patterns — much quicker than he had initially anticipated. He was fond of the boy, and if they had met under different circumstances he would have gladly introduced him to his old friends and invited him to attend one of Riker’s renowned poker nights. Perhaps some day, in the distant future...

    ‘Ah, I see. Did you manage to shake them off?’ he enquired placidly.

    Chekov’s active affiliation with an individual the Federation deemed highly volatile and extremely dangerous had automatically turned him into a menace to society as well. Perhaps one of the locals, or one of the law enforcers had recognised his face from the news flashes that frequently littered the many screens in people’s abodes, and consequently decided to pursue him to locate the android’s sanctuary.

    ‘Did you procure the supplies you required?’ Data asked curiously; although he could go months without nourishments, which came in the form of his bio-lubricants, Pavel could not.

One fleeting glance at Pavel might be enough for someone to think that he's made a foolish decision or he has been corrupted and led on by these dangerous synthetics, for he is too young to really appreciate the ramifications of his actions. At only nineteen years old, already two years out of the academy and with such a bright future blazing on the horizon, how could he possibly understand that he had thrown this all away to become a person of interest—a radical—just as dangerous to the population as the people he was advocating for?

Before the academy, he'd carved a road of numerous successes and academic achievements. Genius, they'd called him, accepted at fifteen, a full officer by seventeen.

A long, scrutinising look at Pavel would reveal near-unrivalled intelligence burning behind the green of his eyes and a determination to match. It would reveal a man who understood exactly what he was doing, who sat and thought extensively about it and chose this path nevertheless.

He had no regrets. Not even when it meant that moving around could have him snapped up by the authorities and questioned—or worse—for information at any second, or all his security clearances were revoked, or even that the place they were calling home smelled of mildew, rot, and stale water.

Pavel busies himself with unpacking the bag he'd stuffed to capacity and laying everything out in what might have once been a nice kitchen if the elements hadn't gotten to it. He doesn't even attempt to bite back his scoff, throwing an incredulous look Data's way as he replies, "You cannot really believe I would let them follow me back here. I made sure to lose them in a crowd before coming back."

He always has been good at slipping away.

He purses his lips, thinking of the unsettling knifepoints of an unknown gaze he can still feel burying themselves in his shoulderblades.

"I did. There's no working replicator here, but these things will last for a while without going bad. This also made me think. Disguising ourselves while we're moving around here may not be a bad idea. If we are going to keep investigating this lead, it will help us. So I got these, too."

He pulls out a few sets of tightly folded clothes and hands one over to Data, a set of dark slacks and a shirt with a rather interesting pattern on it. "Don't ask where I got them, but these should fit you."