Disclaimer: Not making any money etc. But guess what? Paramount does not own the Drown Malcolm Month, and we're not giving it up –smiles-.

AN: As usual, Gabi and Romanse worked their beta magic. Thank you!

This is an answer to Roaring Mice's challenge, and I quote: "November is Drown Malcolm Month. So, go on, do your worst to the poor dear."

Well, I tried :). Hope you like it!

Part I

November 1, 2129, Leicester, England

He could hear the splashing of water, their shouts and laughter as, one by one, they left the showers and trudged to their waiting towels. Reflected by the tiled walls, the sounds mingled so that he could not make out what was being said. Muffled clanks followed as the lockers were opened, clothes pulled out, and, more often than not, knocked onto the wet floor of the changing room. If he were out there, he knew his would be the first to land in a puddle of water, followed by his towel, and, on a particularly shitty day, his shoes, too.

"Pick 'em up, Reedie, go on! Don't get yourself wet, though, or you gonna choke again! Aaghh, help me, help me! I'm gonna drowwwn!"

He had to admit that it must have looked funny, that first day when the instructor told them to get "acquainted" with the water. Malcolm would have been perfectly happy getting acquainted at a safe distance, say, a few kilometers, or at least the bench on the far side of the pool. Mr. Davis, of course, wouldn't hear of it. He told the class to play quietly (meaning, please don't drown anyone just yet) and went to Malcolm, who was lingering on the stairs, hating the way the water wobbled around his ankles and tugged at his toes.

"Come on, Martin, there's nothing to be afraid of."

Behind the instructor's back, Patrick Cooper mimicked someone having a panic attack, without the sound effects, of course. Philip and Frank, his best friends and fellow participants in the popular sport of Let's-Chuck-Reed-Into-The-Dustbin, went into hysterics and almost drowned themselves laughing.

"I'm Malcolm," he mumbled, and instantly realized that he had made a mistake. Grown-ups didn't like to be corrected, and especially not by runty-looking eight-year-olds in faded plaid trunks.

Mr. Davis' smile slipped only for a second. "Well, Malcolm then. Why don't you join us so we can get started?"

Malcolm told himself that there was no way around it, that he would have to go in eventually, so he might as well get it over with. His legs had other ideas, though. They wouldn't move, and his hand, turning traitor, grabbed the railing like a life line. The water circled his ankles, a snare ready to pull him in.

"Well?" Mr. Davis was still smiling, but Malcolm heard the impatience in his tone. "Just go in slowly, Mar-, I mean, Malcolm. It'll be all right."

Patrick Cooper rubbed his face, imitating someone crying their eyes out.

"Boohoo, Reedie, you afraid?"

Five minutes later, Malcolm had moved down one step, the water now coming up to his shins. Mr. Davis was no longer even pretending to smile.

"Come on, now, don't be silly. It's perfectly safe."

It wasn't.

"Come on, Malcolm." A glance snuck at the clock. "Just do it."

Just do it. Philip and Frank flapped their hands, splashing water in his direction. Just do it.

He couldn't.

But suddenly he was in the water, thighs, belly, chest, and there was a hand on his arm, dragging him forward, come on, Malcolm, see it's not so bad, and the water had him in its grip, pulling him down, closing around him, closing around his throat, and he couldn't breathe, he fought and struggled but it wouldn't let go coming closer closer-

He came to on the tiled floor next to the pool. Passed out from hyperventilating, Mr. Davis said, and behind him Patrick, Philip and Frank were hopping around like mad chickens, clutching at their throats and pretending to suffocate. The rest of the class was in stitches, of course.

Yes, quite funny, and it continued to be funny every week, everybody looking forward to the swimming lesson and Reed's next panic attack. Mr. Davis refused to give up on him. "Everyone can learn how to swim. You just have to want it."

That was exactly the point; Malcolm didn't want it. And he couldn't make himself want it, no matter how hard he tried. It was like swallowing bitter medication or getting the belt when he'd misbehaved; he could get through it, but he couldn't make himself like it.

He never tried to skive the lessons; he'd rather face the water and the teasing than have Father find out that Malcolm had disobeyed him. It was the Rule Number One in the Reed household: disobedience in any kind or form was unacceptable.

Malcolm shifted on the seat of the toilet, suppressing a shiver. He was clad only in his wet swimming trunks, and if he hid in here any longer, he would be late. Mum allowed him twenty minutes to change and walk down the three streets to their house, and Malcolm guessed that he had been in here at least ten. Well, he could make it if he ran. Malcolm was very fast when he wanted to be.

He opened the door. The showers were empty, a forgotten towel lying in a crumpled heap on the bench in front of the lockers. The clock on the wall said a quarter past five. No way he would make it now even if he ran all the way home. Somewhere deep down in his belly, a familiar knot tightened just a little. Mum would tell Father he had been late, and Father, of course, accepted only strict punctuality.

At least his clothes would be dry this time. Count your blessings, as Aunt Sherry would have said, although Malcolm wasn't entirely sure what "blessings" were, and why they had to be counted. Maybe it was another way of time-keeping.

He was about to slip his undershirt over his head when a hand grabbed his shoulder, startling him so bad that he dropped the shirt.

"Where you been, Reedie, hiding in the lav again?"

Patrick, of course. They had been waiting for him. Malcolm's eyes flickered to the door that led to the foyer. Maybe he could make a break for it yet-

"Uh-uh, Reedie." Frank shook his head. "Not gonna run for it this time, baby boy."

He hated that nickname even more than "Reedie" or, when Patrick was having an especially good day, "Runtie". Having skipped a year, Malcolm was younger than the other boys in his class, and of course it made him the perfect target. Not that his being a target needed perfecting. Sometimes he wondered whether he had been born with a big red "L" on his forehead which he somehow failed to see when he looked in the mirror. It would certainly explain some things about his life.

He shook off Frank's hand. "Leave me alone."

"Leave me alone!" Philip mocked in a squeaky voice, clutching at his throat. "Ohh, I'm gonna choke! I'm hypoventerlating! Help!"

That's hyperventilating, you dumb fucker, Malcolm thought, but there was little comfort in knowing the correct word for the condition that had totally and utterly humiliated him in front of his entire class.

Patrick was the first to recover from his bout of laughter. "Whatcha think, Reedie, maybe we can do something about your little problem. You want us to give you a swimming lesson?"

Philip stopped his choking routine and grinned. "Yeah, let's give him some extra training!"

Malcolm tried to back away, bumping into the bench. "Fuck off," he said, trying to keep the rising panic out of his voice. "Just leave me alone."

"I don't think so, baby boy." Patrick grabbed his arm. "Time for your extra special swimming lesson. Get 'im!"

Malcolm kicked and fought, knowing at the same time that he didn't stand a chance against the three of them. He was lifted off his feet and carried towards the door that led to the pool, and the panic climbed to the surface, spilling into his voice as he screamed for them to let him go.

Patrick sniggered. "Don't start choking just yet, Reedie, we ain't even started."

"No!" He could see the pool, blue and smooth and terrifying, and his breath quickened in his throat. He couldn't let it happen, couldn't let them throw him in.

His foot caught Frank in the stomach, and Malcolm's terror mingled with a brief moment of satisfaction when the older boy cried out in pain.

"You little fucker!" A fist caught him in the jaw, and the world grayed out for a moment. "Just for that, you're going in at the deep end!"

The panic returned full force, and he struggled, bit and scratched, clawing at every accessible bit of skin.

"Listen to that, he's choking already!" Patrick laughed. "Now let's see if you can choke and swim, Runtie! One..."

They swung him back, and he squinted his eyes shut, not wanting to see-

"..two... three!"

For a short, frozen moment, he was airborne, and then the water engulfed him, closed all around his body. He screamed, his mouth filling with water. The world had turned into a blur of blue, there seemed to be no air at all, and somewhere someone was laughing, but it didn't matter, nothing mattered, he was trapped, and the water was pulling him down, its cool, smooth fingers digging into his ankles. He saw bubbles rising in front of his eyes, saw his own flailing hands, and then, further down, the thing he had always known was there. It was lurking at the bottom of the pool, shapeless, colorless, waiting for him. He had never seen anything so terrible in his life. The image stayed even as his movements grew weaker, and just when the world started to fade away, the thing rose, smoothly, silently, like a cloud of poisonous smoke. It's coming for me, he thought just before his mind slipped away, coming to get me.

After that, there was only darkness.

Slam.

The punching bag swung back, and he sent it on its way with a hefty kick, right into the middle of the Starfleet logo.

Thud. It was amazing how good it felt. Might feel even better if there was a photo of Payne pinned on it.

The bag swung forward again, back for more, and he attacked it with a flurry of blows, left, right, middle, wham, bam, thank you, Mr. Commodore, sir. The gray cover was dented like a tin can from his gloved fists, a dark smudge printed across the logo. The sole of his gym shoe must have rubbed off.

He jumped and turned in mid-air, his heel connecting hard with the side of the bag. Pop. He smirked. That one would have sent a real opponent crashing into the wall.

Falling into stance for the next round, he became aware of a strange sound, like a balloon deflating. The bag was no longer swinging back and forth; it dangled limply, a steady trickle of blue grains spilling on the training mat below. His last kick must have split the seam.

Breathing hard, Malcolm watched the bag bleed on the floor, and suddenly noticed that the room around him had fallen silent. Everyone had stopped what they were doing, their expressions ranging from surprise to open shock as they stared at him. Malcolm glanced at the rapidly shrinking bag and back at his audience. He hadn't even been aware of anyone watching him.

Trip was the first to speak. "Looks like you finally killed the poor thing."

Malcolm wasn't sure how to respond and settled for an apologetic shrug. His face grew warm under their stares. He must have looked like a madman. Which wasn't even that far from the truth, if he was being honest. When he had entered the gym, he had been furious enough to rip the bag out of its fixture on the ceiling and pound it into the deck plating.

Well, that's essentially what you did, Reedie. Can't blame them for thinking you're completely bonkers.

"I... I'll be back later." He nodded at the spilled intestines of the punching bag. Wouldn't be fair to Maintenance to leave it as it was. "Commander," he added, avoiding Tucker's eyes. He wasn't sure he liked the concern he had seen there. No one said anything as he left, and Malcolm breathed a sigh of relief as the gym door closed behind him.

He took a quick shower and made it as far as the changing room without encountering anyone. His hands ached, and although he had worn gloves, his knuckles were red and abraded from the force with which he had driven his fists into the bag.

Aww, hurt yourself, Reedie? Poor whittle baby boy, what a shame.

Well, damn it all to hell. He didn't care what they thought, didn't care what anyone thought. The excruciatingly embarrassing conversation with the Captain was over and done with, and no one else needed to be told about his predicament. It wasn't as if they could do anything to help. It wasn't as if he wanted them to do anything to help.

Malcolm slipped his black undershirt over his head. If he was quick, he could still make it to the messhall without encountering any of the senior crew. He'd grab a sandwich and go back to the gym later tonight. He didn't want any audience when he cleaned up the mess he'd made.

Murderer returning to the scene of the crime. The thought almost drew a grin, which was a first in today's track record. His mood had plummeted like a rock when the Captain had - quite apologetically – read the Commodore's memo to him, and it had been in the dumps ever since. Malcolm couldn't even remember the last time he had ruined a punching bag during training. Must have been quite a while.

"Malcolm?"

Damn. Malcolm turned around and tried for a neutrally polite tone of voice. "Yes, Commander?"

Trip, a towel wrapped around his hips, plonked down on the bench next to Malcolm. "Don't "commander" me, Mal." He leaned back, eyeing Malcolm thoughtfully. "What's wrong?"

"I don't know what you mean," Malcolm muttered.

"Mal, you went nuts in there." Trip indicated the door to the gym. "It was scary to watch."

"I suppose I got a bit... carried away." Malcolm picked up his gym clothes. "If you'll excuse me, sir, I've got a few reports I need to finish."

So much for his sandwich. Trip would want to join him in the messhall, and Malcolm wasn't really in the mood for dinner and a chat. Well, he still had one or two rations bars back in his quarters. It wasn't as if he was really hungry.

Leaving the changing room, he felt Trip's eyes on his back, and wished the Commander would leave well enough alone. He had quite enough on his plate without the prying questions, and, once they knew, the incredulous stares and the "amusing" comments.

Oi, Reedie, looking forward to the lesson? Uggh, help me, help me, I'm gonna choke!

Look at those trunks, what are they, baby size? Poor baby boy, he so afraid, boohoo!

Hey, Reed, what's that on your back, someone push you into a fence or something? It looks disgusting.

Well, Stuart Reed had quite literally not pulled any punches when he learned that his son was failing the swimming class.

Still failing them today, sir. But you wouldn't be surprised to hear that, would you?

He might as well draw up a reply to Payne right away. Maybe he'd even manage to keep the invectives to a minimum.

Malcolm sighed and headed down the hallway to his quarters.

TBC...

I'd love to know what you think!