Mathematical Barbarian

Fictober22

Chekov is really good at math. But there is one problem that he just can't seem to solve.

Fandom(s): Star Trek TOS
Character(s): Pavel Chekov, Hikaru Sulu
Tags: Genfic, Ficlet, Pranks (Gone Wrong)

Rating: Teen+
Content Warnings: N/A
Word Count: 702
Type: Oneshot, Standalone

Collection: Fictober22, or, Pavel Chekov's Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Month

Written for Fictober 2022
Day 7: “Check that again, are you sure?”

Chekov was very good at math. Perhaps unnaturally good at math. He didn’t consider his abilities any better than anyone else's, nor did he act like it. But his friends were very intrigued by his uncanny ability to solve complex equations in a record time, and all without the need to use a computer or writing anything down.

Today, Sulu was quizzing him over lunch, stop-watch in hand. Chekov didn’t mind this very much. After all, it took very little effort on his part. It actually took Sulu much more effort just to come up with the questions.

Sulu had just read out another one of his problems for Chekov to solve, starting his timer. Chekov took a bite of his sandwich and considered. He had his answer before he even had a chance to chew.

“Sixty-three point eight degrees, and negative twenty-eight point two vertical.” He rattled off through a mouthful of sandwich. Sulu stopped the timer.

“Interesting,” said a voice from over Chekov's shoulder. Chekov nearly jumped out of his skin and spun around in his seat to see Mr Spock lingering behind him.

“Mr Spock, I didn’t realize you were there.” Chekov said, willing his heart rate to slow back down. “What is interesting?”

“Your answer to Mr Sulu’s problem,” Spock said, matter of fact. “Check that again, are you sure?”

Chekov blinked dumbly at him. “I… was sure until you asked me that.”

“Hmm.” Spock raised an eyebrow at him and walked away. Chekov stared after him, stunned.

Sulu looked at him. “What was that?”

“I think my calculations were off.” Chekov replied. “Can you repeat the problem, perhaps I misheard.”

Sulu did as requested, and Chekov ran his calculations again. He frowned.

“Same answer?” Sulu asked.

“Same answer.” Chekov grumbled. “Let me see that.” He snagged Sulu’s PADD and slid it closer to him, and studied the problem that was written on it. He frowned. Nothing was written down any differently than he expected.

Chekov got up, abandoning his sandwich. “There are things I need to do before shift starts.” He said, abruptly ditching Sulu in the cafeteria.

Chekov did not appear on the bridge at the beginning of his shift. Nor did he show up in the next fifteen minutes, profusely apologizing for losing track of time. Attempts to comm him were unsuccessful. Sulu volunteered to retrieve Chekov, which is how he ended up walking into Chekov’s quarters and right into the lair of a madman.

The previously white walls of Chekov’s quarters were covered from floor to ceiling in black marker. Even the floor and ceiling hadn’t escaped the treatment, though Sulu had no idea how Chekov managed to get up high enough to write on the ceiling tiles. All of the writing was numbers, numbers, and more numbers. Equations. Chekov knelt on the floor, facing away from Sulu, scribbling furiously on the floor.

“Uh,” Sulu said cautiously from the doorway. “Pav? You alright?”

Chekov turned his head and regarded him out of the corner of his eye. “Must… find… mistake…” He growled, turning back to his floor writing.

Sulu rubbed a hand through his hair, guiltily. “Oh, uh, you didn’t make any mistakes, Pav,” he chuckled nervously. “Thing is, I asked Mr Spock to tell you your answer was wrong. It was a prank.”

Chekov stopped writing, but did not turn around. “A prank.” He said, neutrally.

“Uh, yeah,” Sulu said. “Got you good, huh?”

Still facing the far wall, Chekov said, in a dangerously quiet voice. “Hikaru, I am going to kill you.”

“With… what?” Sulu asked jokingly, trying to lighten the mood.

Chekov got to his feet, walked to the synthesizer on the wall, and said, “Battle axe. Sharp. Hot.”

Sulu slowly backed out of the room as the synthesizer produced a very, very large axe, with a very, very sharp blade that was glowing very, very hot. Chekov picked up the axe and turned toward Sulu, a feral gleam in his eyes.

Sulu put his hands up. “A-alright Chekov, good prank, you’ve got me pretty-”

He was cut off by Chekov’s primal shriek of rage that preceded his charge at Sulu.

Sulu turned on his heel and started running. “OH SHIT-”

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