I started this story well in advance for "'Tis but a Scratch" Month, so I would have plenty of time… it went a lot quicker than I had expected. It seems a shame to keep it in the drawer until April, so I hope my readers will forgive me if I post it sooner… :-)

I have every intention to write another one for April, though!

Set sometime in Season One.

My beta reader was RoaringMice, whom I thank.

§ 1 §

They reached the low wall at a run and dropped to squat behind it. Trip fell with his back against it and blew out a breath – it felt good to take a rest.

Silently blessing the solidity of the structure, he mused that there was no doubt this town had been built to last. No prefabricated units like that time, when they had helped those miners relocate their entire settlement to get rid of those overbearing Klingons. No, here was brick and stone – alien brick and stone, but just as sturdy as Earth's own. Buildings showed no signs of decay; and that really made for quite an eerie atmosphere, for a ghost town. It was as if people had vanished at the wave of a magic wand.

Not all people, actually – Trip amended bleakly, as he tried to catch his breath. But for all he knew their pursuers might not belong to this world either. The atmosphere, in any case, had gone from eerie to plain scary in a matter of seconds.

Trip watched Malcolm lean his head back against the wall and blink a couple of times, as if to clear his vision, or his mind. His chest was heaving but somehow he wasn't making any noise, and Trip wondered how the hell he managed that, for he could hear his own ragged breathing, and do nothing about it. It had to do with a Security Officer's training – he decided.

Eyeing the dark stain on the man's uniform, he tried to call back his basic medical training. The injury was definitely too low to have compromised a lung – thank God. But the stain was quite large, and Trip bit his lip in concern. As he opened his mouth to speak, though, Malcolm lifted a determined arm in warning. Trip watched him tighten the grip on his phase pistol; then turn in a crouch to face the wall, lick his lips, and push up to cast a quick glance over their cover.

"I can't see them, but I know they're coming," the Lieutenant said, once he had crouched back down. "We must keep on the go." He cast a look around, his face a sweaty mask of concentration.

"You're bleedin'," Trip bluntly pointed out.

Malcolm glanced at him; then down his left side. "It's only a scratch," he muttered. "It'll have to wait."

Trip looked back dumbly. A bullet – for he was pretty sure the shots he had heard had come from some sort of old-style gun – definitely had to do more than just a 'scratch'. But his mouth was too dry to speak; and unfortunately a part of him knew Malcolm was right: they couldn't afford to stop and take care of his injury just yet; not with those mad aliens looking for them.

Still in a crouch, Malcolm walked the length of the wall, and Trip followed him, wondering whether the man had a higher-than-normal pain threshold, or was numbed by adrenaline, because he seemed totally unaffected by his injury. Probably both.

"Coast seems clear," the Lieutenant said quietly, having taken a peek. He jerked his chin in the direction of a narrow street. "Let's get to that alley." Readying his pistol to lay down covering fire if need be, he motioned Trip to go first, and after casting a quick glance around, Trip took off. Moments later he was in place, phase pistol in hand, ready to return the favour. Malcolm met his gaze, nodded once, and left the safety of the wall.

Mindful of the Security Officer's lessons, Trip didn't let his focus stray from their surroundings; but out of the corner of his eye he caught enough of Malcolm's progress to notice that his 'scratch' was beginning to bother him. Generally one of the most light-footed people he had ever seen, Malcolm appeared to be burdened down, his movements marred by a slight limp.

The Lieutenant reached the alley and flattened against the wall beside him. "Lovely sunset," he breathed out casually, passing a sleeve across his brow.

Trip shot him a look. It hardly seemed the time to admire the view. But, come to think of it, Malcolm was probably just trying to ease the tension.

"Yeah. Should've brought my camera," he quipped back.

It got him the flash of a smile; Malcolm looked satisfied, as if he had achieved the wanted result.

And it was a view. One of the three suns of this planet was disappearing behind a chain of rather tall mountains, turning the sky to fire. High above, it was already a deep blue-green. Night was coming faster than they had expected. But it wouldn't be long before another sun would rise.

"Maybe at midnight those people will turn into pumpkins," Trip said, though he didn't manage quite the same light tone as before.

Malcolm let out a soft huff. "Don't count on-"

He cut himself off and pulled Trip behind him, pinning him against the wall with an arm across his chest.

Voices.

Trip felt the knot in his gut tighten again with a vengeance. There was something deeply frightening about voices you could not understand, especially when you knew they were hostile. If you could not understand someone, likely they could not understand you. No understanding. Scary.

The aggression – from what little Malcolm had told him – had started on sight, before the Lieutenant could have put in a single word of introduction.

Damn scary.

Scans had shown the place was uninhabited, and he and Malcolm had thought nothing of getting separated. They had each been on their own, when things had gone awry. Trip had heard the sound of shots and suddenly Malcolm had reappeared at a run, phase pistol in hand, urging him to 'go'. And there had been that stain on his uniform. No chance to misunderstand what kind of problem had arisen.

Past and present merged as Trip refocused on the Lieutenant's voice quietly ordering him to 'go' once again, gently pushing him along the alley. He did as told, knowing Malcolm was best left in command; grateful that the Captain had sent him on this away mission with the Security Officer and not with – say – Hoshi, or even T'Pol.

They hurried blindly through the maze of deserted streets. They must have been going for a good five minutes, when their jog was brought to an abrupt halt.

More voices.

Malcolm cursed under his breath. They looked around for cover, but none was to be found. Unless... Touching the Security Officer's elbow, Trip pointed to a door, and understanding flashed through the grey gaze.

Good thing he always had a few useful tools with him – Trip mused.

It didn't take him long to get the best of the lock. The people who had lived in this town couldn't have been very advanced, technologically; or maybe they'd had a low crime rate. They hurried inside and closed the door softly behind them. Just in time; they heard the rhythmic sound of marching steps, very close. Tiptoeing into the room that opened on the right, they flattened beside its only window and watched a patrol of five people approach: tall, strong bodies; angular features; black, leathery-looking uniforms; helmets; some sort of short gun slung over their shoulders.

Where in heaven's name had they come out of? – Trip wondered. When Archer had decided to launch two simultaneous away missions to this planet, he and Malcolm were supposed to have got the easy one, checking this abandoned town for any useful scrap material; while Archer, T'Pol and Hoshi mingled in disguise with the pre-warp society on the other continent.

All thoughts were erased from Trip's mind as the five men in uniform filed just metres from him, behind the glass pane. It was the first sight he was catching of their enemy, and a shiver ran down his spine. He shifted his gaze to Malcolm, on the other side of the window. The man was leaning with one shoulder against the wall, a block of granite. He didn't even look to be breathing. His eyes were fixed on the scene outside, unblinking; his right arm was stretched down, at a slight angle to the body, pistol aiming at the floor.

The 'soldiers' went off on their way, and Malcolm visibly relaxed, closing his eyes and letting his head fall to the side, against the wall. They stood immobile for another minute, just in case. Finally the grey eyes blinked open again and met his.

"Thanks," Malcolm said quietly.

"Who the hell are these people? They are not supposed to be here!" Trip burst out, an edge to his voice even though he'd kept it low. "And why do they want us dead?"

"Actually, they want me dead," Malcolm amended bleakly. "They only saw one of us; they don't know about you." Putting his pistol back in its holster, he spat out, "I'll be damned if I know. They're the shoot-first-ask-questions-later types."

Trip watched him visibly restrain a flinch as his hand went to his side, and mentally kicked himself. He had almost forgotten about the man's injury. Of course, with someone as stubbornly determined to appear 'fine' as Malcolm, it was almost forgivable.

"Let's have a look at that wound," he said tautly.

"Commander, it's not wise to remain in here for very long," was the slightly frustrated reply. "As I said, it's little more than a scratch, and we'd better-"

"We'll look at that scratch, then, Lieutenant," Trip cut him off, countering rank with rank. Malcolm wasn't the only one who could use it for effect.

He bore into the grey gaze, ready to make it an order. He didn't need to. Malcolm looked back for a moment; then blinked. "All right," he mumbled, and his meek compliance, coming unexpectedly, did nothing but send Trip's anxiety up a couple of notches.

Reaching for his flashlight, Trip was about to switch it on to shed some light in the semi-dark room when a hand stopped him. Malcolm inspected the window frame.

"No shutters," he muttered, after a moment. "No bloody curtains either." He shook his head. "It's getting dark outside. We can't risk having light, however faint, in here; too dangerous."

"Then let's find a back room, one without windows."

Trip looked around. They appeared to be in some sort of sparsely-furnished living-room. Table with chairs; niches with shelves and rows of neatly stacked small cases – all the same shape and size, nothing to distinguish one from the other; a rug and pillows on the floor; abstract works of art hanging on the far wall.

"Perhaps that way," Malcolm suggested, indicating a passageway in the left corner. He pushed off the wall, and Trip joined him, putting a hand to the Lieutenant's elbow, which earned him a self-conscious glance.

The apartment was small: what looked like a bedroom; a tiny toilet; and then one room that had a small window set deep in the wall and placed high up, near the ceiling. Trip went to retrieve a couple of pillows from the front room and, having climbed on a counter, stuffed them in front of the window; then, finally, turned on his flashlight. The cone of light revealed what looked like some sort of kitchen.

Malcolm had gone to what was, in all likelihood, a sink; and was fumbling around, trying to get some water. A trickle finally came out of the tap.

"D'you think it's wise to use that water on your injury?" Trip wondered, his voice clearly doubtful.

Malcolm pursed his lips. "We can't use our scanners, those aliens might pick them up" he said. He regarded the water in thought. "You're right," he added darkly after a moment, turning the tap off. "Better not take a chance."

Trip began to open cupboards and pull drawers, hoping to find...

"Bingo."

He showed Malcolm a couple of neatly folded pieces of cloth.

"Not exactly sterile either," the Lieutenant said, lifting his eyebrows, "but at least they look clean."

He fell back against the sink, unzipped his uniform to the waist, and pulled down the top part of it. Trip shifted the light on his injury and winced.

"That's a lot of blood, for a scratch."

"It's deceiving," Malcolm said, a hint of pain entering his voice. Biting his lip, he carefully lifted his soaked black shirt and undershirt, and inspected himself. "The bleeding has virtually stopped," he minimised.

"Looks bad," Trip countered. "Is the bullet-"

"Yes. Mind if we get this done, Commander?"

Looking up sharply, Trip watched the grey eyes turn rueful.

"Sorry," Malcolm mumbled.

Trip shook his head, not bothering to say anything. He placed the flashlight on the counter, to have both hands free, and heaved a steadying breath.

"Hold still," he ordered softly; then pressed one of the cloths on the injury, eliciting a hiss. "Hurts?"

Now that was a dumb question.

"Not in the least," Malcolm groaned, eyes scrunched closed.

Trip allowed himself a small smile – that was more like the Malcolm Reed he was used to than the biting retort he'd got a moment before.

"Give me a hand here," he said, guiding Malcolm's hand to the right spot. "Hold the cloth in place while I make the other one into strips."

"I must say, Commander, you have unexpected skills," Malcolm commented a few minutes later, in a conciliatory voice.

Trip, who was carefully wrapping the makeshift dressing around his midsection, shot him a puzzled frown. "Field medicine is a mandatory course in Starfleet Academy."

There was the beginning of a chuckle, which quickly turned into a groan.

"I was referring to picking locks," Malcolm explained in a choked voice. "No breaking and entering courses in Starfleet Academy, if I recall."

"Ah – that. I've always been good at takin' things apart," Trip replied with a grin. "You could call it a gift."

"Well, perhaps you should share some of your know-how with the Security complement," the Lieutenant said. His voice was strained but held a touch of amusement. "I bet you could teach us something useful."

Having fixed the dressing in place, Trip straightened. "You think you guys are smart enough?" he teased.

"Try us."

"How's that?" Trip asked, looking at his job in satisfaction. "Not too tight?"

Malcolm gave him a grateful look. "It's great, thank you." He started slipping into the top part of his uniform again, wincing ever so slightly.

"Commander... I apologise," he said quietly, after he was done. "That was out of line, before."

"Forget it, Malcolm." Trip didn't give a damn about 'out of line' at the moment.

As he pulled the zip up, Malcolm cast back an uncomfortable glance. "Sometimes I can be a bit of a..." he trailed.

Trip broke into a grin. "We all know that, Loo-tenant."

His playfulness, however, vanished the moment he reclaimed the flashlight and lifted the cone of light to illuminate Malcolm's face. There was no doubt that weariness was beginning to leave its telling signs on it. Anxiety gripped him again. He knew the Security Officer: he'd try his darndest to hide his real condition; or even put you on the wrong track. That's probably what he had already tried to do, with the banter they'd just exchanged.

Something else worried Trip. He himself might be able to break into a house, but he had no first hand experience trying to escape people bent on shooting you dead. Sure, Starflet gave you some basic military training, but he'd hardly had many chances to put any of that into practice – fortunately. Malcolm's expertise was undoubtedly precious in this situation. He needed the man to keep a clear mind.

He joined Malcolm at the sink, where he was rinsing his hands. "How're you holding up?" he asked. He hadn't been very subtle. Trip knew when the Lieutenant turned to give him a pointed look.

"Don't worry, I'll be okay," he quietly replied.

Trip started to rinse his hands too; glad to get them clean.

"Maybe we should try and contact the ship," he said, with a lopsided smirk. It would be so damn nice to let the transporter grip them; leave this town and all of its ghosts behind.

"You know that's not a good idea," Malcolm replied, in a deep voice. "Communication with Enterprise was difficult, for some reason. We'd only risk attracting attention and giving away our position."

Turning the tap off, Trip blew out a breath. "Then maybe we'd better stay in here until the Shuttlepod comes to pick us up."

But Malcolm shook his head.

"This place could turn into our tomb, if those people manage to locate us." He looked Trip straight in the eyes. "We're better off trying to reach the forest. We'll be more or less safe there. With a bit of luck we can find a clearing where the pod can land, and signal our position when we see it approach."

That meant crossing half the town. Trip restrained a grimace of displeasure. Although he trusted the Lieutenant's judgement entirely, he didn't fancy going out again; he instinctively felt safe within four walls. But he knew Malcolm was right. And that the man would do everything in his power to keep them safe.

"Alright," Trip breathed out. Lifting his eyebrows, he added, "Lead the way."

TBC

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