Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Enterprise characters, and I'm not making any money from this story.

Warning: This is another dark story. Contains implications of sexual assault.

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Chapter 3: Into the fire

Trip Tucker, carrying a folded blanket and a pair of shoes which had seen better days and were probably too big for him anyway, followed Lieutenant Reed down the dingy corridor of the prison. Bare bulbs swinging from wires on the ceiling cast eerie shadows on the concrete block walls. Ahead of them Trip could hear an ungodly racket which seemed to be composed mostly of shouts and metal clanging against metal. At the end of the corridor a heavy metal gate was opened by a guard. The prisoners, about a dozen of which Trip was the second, filed out into a huge gray courtyard with a very high ceiling. Rows of cells with bars for doors, three stories stacked on top of each other, lined the walls for as far as Trip could see. In nearly every cell, prisoners leaned through the bars, shouting at the newcomers. Ahead of him, Malcolm hesitated as if unsure of which way to go. One of the guards prodded the Lieutenant in the back with his club.

"To your left! Get moving!" the guard shouted over the din. "Stay on the yellow line!"

Trip started to follow Malcolm, but another guard whacked him on the leg with her club. "You!" she shouted. "To your right! Second level!"

As Trip turned to obey, he got a glimpse of Malcolm twisting around to catch his eye. A guard yanked him back into line and he marched off in the opposite direction.

A female guard, a huge woman with forearms as big around as Trip's thigh, led Tucker and two other prisoners up a flight of stairs and down a walkway on the second level. She stopped at the third cell. A buzzer sounded and the door swung open. She pointed her club at Trip. "In there," she said in a bored voice.

Trip stopped in the door. "What about my friend?"

"The little guy? What about him?" she shrugged.

"Where's he going?"

"I ain't got time for this. Get in the cell."

"Just tell me where he's going." Trip insisted

"What, you two got something going? You some kinda fairy?"

"No, I just-"

The guard clubbed Tucker on the shoulder. "I told you to get in the cell. Now move it!" Trip practically fell into the compartment and the guard slammed the door shut behind him. He picked himself up and turned to face his new cellmates. Of the eight bunks, three were occupied by men of various shapes and sizes. The other five appeared to be empty. Trip moved toward an empty bunk.

"That's my bed," came a low growl from the bottom bunk to the left of the door.

"All right," Trip muttered under his breath as he set his blanket down on a different bunk.

"That one's mine too," said the voice. "In fact, they're all mine."

"Then where the hell am I supposed to sleep?"

The owner of the voice unfolded himself from the bunk to his full height. Tucker found that his eyes were even with the man's chest.

"That ain't my problem, now is it?" the man snarled. Tucker heard a snicker from one of the other inmates.

Trip felt his chest tighten. The built-up anger from the events of the past few days exploded out of him, and without even conscious thought he found himself driving his shoulder into the man's stomach. It was like hitting a brick wall. Tucker bounced off and landed on his back on the floor. An enormous hand grabbed him by the front of his prison-issue gray shirt and tossed him effortlessly against the bars of the cell. The engineer slid to the floor, gasping for breath. The huge man moved in close and grabbed a handful of Trip's shirt, rancid breath hot on his face.

"Listen up, boy. I don't care where you come from or how important you were on the outside. You belong to Tazmin now. You sleep where and when I tell you to. You wanna take a piss, you gotta ask me first. Got it, boy?"

Tucker tried to push the hand away. "Leave me alone! I don't belong to you or anyone else!"

Tazmin shook him roughly, slamming the back of his head against the bars. "What's wrong with you, boy? You wanna get beat?"

"By you? I don't think you got what it takes!"

A massive fist slammed into Trip's cheekbone, snapping his head back. "You're gonna learn some respect, smart mouth."

Trip heard a snicker from one of his other cellmates. He twisted away from the huge man's grasp and sprang to his feet. "You plannin' on teachin' me, boy?" he taunted.

With a roar Tazmin lunged at him. Trip tried to sidestep but Tazmin anticipated his move and slammed into him, knocking him backwards into the bars. Trip turned as he fell and hit his face on the cold steel. He tasted blood in his mouth from a split lip. In an instant Tazmin was on him again with fingers wrapped around his throat.

"Do we have an understanding?" Tazmin asked.

Trip gagged and clawed at the fingers but couldn't dislodge them. As he couldn't speak, he just glared at Tazmin with naked hatred in his eyes. The big man smiled and slowly loosened his grasp.

"Get up, you little piece of shit."

Trip took his time getting to his feet. His throat burned, but he wasn't going to give the man the satisfaction of knowing he had hurt him. Me and my big mouth, he thought ruefully.

Tazmin settled himself back on his bunk, hands folded behind his head while Trip picked up his blanket and shoes. Since the beds were apparently off- limits, he wrapped the blanket around his shoulders and curled up on the floor in the corner.

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"All right, people," Archer said. "Since the police aren't interested in finding out what really happened, it's up to us." He looked around the briefing room at his assembled bridge crew, keenly aware that it was missing two key people. "Does anyone have any suggestions about where to start?"

"I recommend we interview witnesses who may have seen Lieutenant Reed and Commander Tucker with the woman at the bar," T'Pol said. "Perhaps they were followed by the real killer. Someone may have noticed."

"Captain, I don't think the native Aslandians will be very eager to help us," Hoshi added. "They seem to have a 'thing' about outsiders. I think we should start by interviewing other off-worlders. We may get more information that way."

"All right, thank you, Hoshi. T'Pol, you and Hoshi hit the bar. I'd like to talk to some of the Administer's neighbors. Maybe one of them saw something that implicates someone else. Travis, you're with me."

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The sun was just setting as T'Pol and Hoshi entered the outdoor bar, and the place was crowded with people from a wide variety of species, all apparently enjoying themselves immensely. Loud, pulsating music overlaid the hum of conversation.

"Do you recognize anyone?" T'Pol asked Hoshi. The Ensign looked around. In the dim light, it was hard to tell.

"I don't know. We'll just have to ask people. Excuse me," she said to a man sitting alone. "Were you here two nights ago?"

The man shook his head, as did the next two people she asked. Before long, the two Enterprise officers found themselves at the bar, and Hoshi realized that she definitely recognized the bartender. He was an off-worlder who had served her a drink the last time she was there. He had even flirted with her. When she raised her hand to motion him over, he came quickly.

"What can I get for you ladies?" he asked smoothly, hands on the bar.

"Information," T'Pol replied.

The bartender looked over his shoulder at his boss, a native Aslandian, who was watching from the other end of the bar. He pulled out a rag and started wiping the bar as he answered. "What about?"

"Do you recall these two men?" T'Pol laid a picture of Tucker and Reed on the bar.

"Those the ones convicted of murdering the Administer's wife? Yeah, I remember them."

"Did you see them with the murdered woman? She apparently met them here."

"Is that what they said? I saw them meet someone, but not Mrs. Rodrigo. Looked kind of like her, though. Red hair."

T'Pol and Hoshi exchanged looks of surprise.

"Are you sure it wasn't her?" Hoshi asked.

"Positive. Mrs. Rodrigo's been in here before. This lady was shorter."

"Why did you not give the police this information?"

The bartender shrugged. "Nobody asked me. Besides, I didn't think it mattered. It was the wife who ended up getting killed, so who cares if they met her here or somewhere else." From the other end of the bar, the boss started making his way toward them.

"I gotta get back to work. I-I can't get involved in this."

"Are you aware that Administer Rodrigo intends to introduce information which would make it illegal to hire off-worlders?" T'Pol asked. "You would lose your job."

"I'm gonna lose my job right now if I don't get back to work. So, are you gonna order drinks or not?"

"I think not," T'Pol answered as she turned away.

Hoshi read the man's name from the tag on his shirt. "Thank you, Urev," she called. He moved on to the next customer without responding.

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By the time Archer had had five doors in a row slammed in his face, he was getting a little discouraged. So far their canvass of the neighborhood had netted them only insults and bruised egos. But still he and Mayweather soldiered on.

The door of the sixth house was opened by someone he recognized, the old woman who had testified at the trial. She stood blinking at him in the sunlight.

"Yes? What do you want?"

Archer racked his brain until he finally came up with her name. Lusha something, Lusha Brevald.

"Mrs. Brevald," he said hopefully. "We're gathering information about the murder of the Administer's wife."

"I already told the judge everything," the woman said, starting to close the door. Archer held it open.

"We were just wondering if you knew anything else. You seem to be very observant."

"Well, it pays to keep tabs on one's neighbors. People behave mighty strangely around here."

"Oh, how's that?" Archer asked conversationally, shooting a glance at Mayweather.

"Well, just yesterday I saw the Administer stepping out, and he wasn't even wearing mourning colors. And the young lady, that secretary of his, was done up like a sunrise bird. I never saw such a thing!"

"His secretary?"

"Oh, yes. They're together all the time now. She used to only come around on the evenings Mrs. Rodrigo was out with her friends. The Administer certainly works odd hours."

"I see," said Archer. "Well, thank you for your time, ma'am." After the old woman closed the door, Archer turned to Mayweather.

"Looks like the Administer may have been involved in some extracurricular activities," said the Ensign.

Archer nodded. "Let's go meet up with Hoshi and T'Pol. I'm sure they'll be interested to hear this!"

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"Trip! Over here!" Malcolm shouted over the noise in the cafeteria. It had been nearly a week since they had entered the prison, and Malcolm felt he had adjusted fairly well to his new environment. His cellmates weren't the most talkative bunch, but they mostly kept to themselves, which Malcolm appreciated. Trip didn't appear to be faring so well, however. Reed was getting a little concerned about the man. Judging by the collection of bruises, he seemed to be getting in more than his share of fights. So far Trip had refused to talk about it.

Tucker settled his lunch tray on the table next to Reed's and sat down on the bench. Malcolm immediately noticed he was sporting a fresh mark on his left cheekbone. "Another fight, I see," he said.

The engineer rubbed the spot. "It's nothin'," he mumbled.

"Who was it this time?"

"I said it was nothin'. Just drop it, ok?"

"Look, Commander, we're going to be here for quite some time. It might be a good idea to start trying to get along with people."

"Damnit, Malcolm, I don't know about you, but I don't intend to spend the rest of my fuckin' life here!" Trip's voice rose in intensity with every word.

Malcolm studied Tucker closely. In addition to the new bruise, the man had an impressive collection of contusions and abrasions on his face and neck. Reed suddenly realized that a yellow-green mark, about the size of a plum, on the side of Trip's neck was most probably a thumbprint. Whoever had made that mark would have to be huge. Why would Tucker pick a fight with someone so big? Maybe he hadn't had a choice. . .

A deep voice from behind interrupted their brewing argument. "Boy, you're sitting in my seat."

Malcolm turned around and found himself facing a leg as big around as a tree trunk. He looked up into the face of the most massive man he had ever seen. The newcomer appeared to be talking to Trip, who was trying to ignore him. Malcolm was surprised to see Tucker's chin quiver.

"Didn't you hear me, boy? Get outta my seat!"

Tucker didn't move. The giant took hold of the shoulder of Trip's shirt with a meaty paw and yanked him from the seat. The engineer stumbled backwards, nearly falling into another inmate who shouted and dropped his tray. Malcolm scrambled to his feet in a vain attempt to help, but was shoved back down onto the bench by one enormous hand. As Trip regained his balance, Malcolm spotted the guard making her way over to the scene. The inmate who had dropped his tray pushed Tucker in the chest, knocking him into the giant who caught him in a full Nelson hold. Trip squirmed but could not get free.

"Break it up, break it up!" the guard yelled, wading into the melee of inmates who were all shouting at once. She began to club people indiscriminately until she finally reached the two men at the epicenter of the disturbance. The giant was still, but continued to hold a struggling Tucker in his iron-tight grip.

"What happened here?!" the guard asked angrily. Several men started talking at once, and the guard yelled for silence. "You," she pointed at the giant, "What happened?"

"This boy tried to take my seat. Then he knocked down my buddy here. I think he was trying to start a fight."

"That's not true!" Tucker cried.

"Shut up!" the guard bellowed in response. "Kid, you're on kitchen duty. The rest of you, finish your meals and get outta here!"

"Fine by me, ma'am," said the giant as he released Tucker's arms. He picked up his tray and headed toward a different table. The guard pushed Trip in the back with her club, shoving him toward the kitchen. Malcolm followed.

"What about me?" he asked her.

"Huh?"

"I'd like to help in the kitchen."

The guard stopped, looked Malcolm over, and grinned. "This must be your little buddy, huh?" she said to Trip, who looked at the floor and didn't answer. "Forget it, little buddy. Your friend has been asking for this since day one. He's working off his punishment alone."

Malcolm hesitated. Since Tucker didn't seem to care one way or the other, Reed decided he was done trying to rescue someone who didn't appear to want rescuing.

"Fine, I'll see you later, Trip," he said, then headed back to the table to finish his lunch.

Malcolm took his time eating, watching the door to the kitchen in hopes that Trip would reappear. When he had taken the last bite, he stayed in his seat. Although Tucker didn't seem to care, Reed didn't feel right abandoning him. He felt the least he could do was wait for him. Finally he noticed a group of four inmates headed toward the kitchens. They said something to the guard at the door, who nodded and let them enter. Malcolm felt a little better. At least Trip wouldn't be working alone. He stacked his tray on the pile and strolled out into the yard, one of the last to leave the cafeteria.

Trip Tucker leaned over the sink, scrubbing the last big pot with all his strength. He had to admit it felt kind of good to have something to take out his frustrations on, since he found himself completely incapable of fighting the real source of those frustrations. He was so intent on his task that he didn't hear the group of men come up behind. His first clue to their presence was a hand on his shoulder. He spun around and saw that he was surrounded.

"What do you want?" he asked quickly, eyes darting from one to the other.

The inmate in the middle, tall and lean, dark-haired with a puckered whitish scar running from ear to chin, smiled toothily and said, "Tazmin asked us to pay you a social call. He said you were having a little trouble learning the rules."

Trip tried frantically to think of something to say, some response that would prevent the beating he was sure he was about to get, but he came up empty.

Two of the other inmates grabbed Tucker's arms while scarface punched him in the stomach, then slammed a fist into his jaw when he doubled over. He waited for Tucker to straighten up before continuing.

"It's time you figured out how things really work around here," the man said as he unbuckled his belt Suddenly Trip knew what was about to happen, and he began to fight, lashing out with his fists and twisting desperately to get away, but in vain. One man got an arm around his waist and slammed his forehead against the corner of the counter, stunning him. The floor tilted up to meet him as he fell. A crimson liquid, which must have been his blood, flowed into his eye, stinging. Tucker felt woozy; the fight drained out of him. The two who had grabbed him began kicking him in the stomach, ribs, and back. Finally they took hold of his arms and hauled him to his feet, where scarface waited for him, sneering.