A/N- Everyone loves Tom Paris. Isn't he the best?
Tom Paris swung on the end of the rope, his tanned skin a perfect complement to the sandy cliff. He flashed himself a rugged smile and pulled himself higher, his freckled face attesting to his regular use of a solar sun-tan booth rather than the pallid skin of his less appearance-worthy crew mates.
He squinted up at the top of the cliff, far closer than it had been. Then Tom coughed on a handful of dust that fell towards his throat. He swore. It was the first thing to ruin his perfect holiday.
"Holodeck," he commanded, relaxing against the cliff, "remove all dirt from simulation."
Abruptly, the dirt cleared, and his teeth flashed in a mischievous looking smile as he pondered his position. Then he started up the wall again. That worked!
Tom spent a while longer straining against the rock, allowing a Hollywood sheen to gather on his perfect muscles. Then a shadow blotted out the sun and he saw another person swinging over the cliff on his rope, causing it to jerk in his hands like a snake.
Tom swore up, shaking a hand above his head in annoyance. "What do you think you're doing?" he demanded fiercely. "This is my simulation!"
When the apparition refused to reply, Tom flexes his muscles hotly, and hatched a cunning plan. "This will show you," he muttered. "Invading my perfect pilot award holodeck time."
Tom raised his voice. "Computer, remove all rope from the simulation."
As Tom plunged down the surface of Yosemite, he pondered that might not have been the best command after all.