Title: Alone In Darkness
Authors: Sita/T'eyla
Rating: PG-13
AN: Thanks to Les1 (thanks for the compliment - "evil"!! ;) - and we promise to keep updating regularly), Exploded Pen (Sita: "Trip's not a fool!" - T'eyla: "Who is? What will happen to Malcolm?" ;) ), Aeryn Lavanthia (nice to hear that someone appreciates our cliffhangers! ;) ), Gabi2305 (na, bei den ganzen Cliffhangern können wir die Leute ja nicht so lang hängen lassen - wär ja fies), stagemanager (a new one! Keep reviewing! We love you! :) ), The Libran Iniquity (ach, wir hätten auch gerne ein Wörterbuch in dem Schimpfwörter stehen. Im Oxford Advanced stehen nur ganz wenige, und da steht daneben "should be avoided by learners"... hihihi... von wegen. Was, wir sind böse? Nein. We are eeeevil - that sounds much better), jazri (a lot of questions - hopefully some of them will be answered in this chapter...), Daria (yes, we know... but it's sooo much fun... muhahahaha ;) ), Keran (oh... don't go hating the aliens, they're just some poor little aliens who want to have some fun... just kidding. We hate them to - and we invented them... -are scared of themselves-), PJ in NH (thanks for the compliment... and there's some more angst to come!), Dacker Spaniel (it's so great to hear a native speaker say our writing's good... it's very encouraging!), WhtevrHpnd2Mary (okay, here are the answers to your questions in the right order - or at least the answers we can give without giving away too much. Trip's all done with Malcolm, but Malcolm's still in for some character torture. Archer does not love T'Pol (dagger glare), if there's going to be any pairing it won't be A/T'P... and now we got a question of our own. What's "The Chute"? ;) ), skully (yes... guilt trips to no end... ;) ), katt (glad you think it's suspenseful!), Maraschino (ugh - this AN is getting ridiculously long, sorry about that...) and Spike26 (hmm... we don't think we're quite done with 'em yet - harhar... ;) ) for reviewing. Sorry you have to listen to our endless babblings... but, hey, you don't have to read these ANs (just so you know...). Now, finally, on with the story...
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Chapter 7
An hour had passed since they had taken Reed away, but Trip was still sitting where they'd left him, staring down at his hands. He had killed him. He had killed Malcolm. Strangled him with his bare hands, pressing his thumbs into his throat, watching Malcolm's face turn first red, then blue, and feeling Reed's body go limp. When the assistants had grabbed him by the shoulders and yanked him away, Reed hadn't been moving at all, showing no sign of life as the assistant picked him up and carried him away.
Only when the door had slid shut behind them, only when at least fifteen minutes of silence had passed, Trip had realized what had actually happened. That he was now a murderer. That he had killed the man who he had once thought to be his best friend. Trip was dismayed when he thought of what he'd done, that he'd killed a man just like that, but the fact that Malcolm was dead, murdered, didn't trigger any particular feeling within him. Actually, he felt a certain satisfaction at the thought of Malcolm being dead, and while something at the back of his mind was screaming at him that he'd done something terribly wrong, again there was that voice in his head, whispering things, leaving no room for anything else.
You did right. He deserved no better. One less to play dirty, cruel tricks on you. You did what was necessary. And you know you'll do it again if there is need.
Trip kept staring down at his hands, slowly turning them over. It was reassuring to know that they were able to kill, and that he could make them kill whoever he wanted. Anyone who wanted to harm him, anyone who wanted to play tricks on him, he could kill. Just like that.
That's right. Whoever you want. You are alone now, but that doesn't matter, because no one is going to play any tricks on you anymore. You won't let them.
Trip listened to the voice. He listened to it real close without trying to fight it, and realized that it was speaking the truth. He was alone, but that was alright; he had the voice that told him what to do, and he had his hands to defend himself against them. All of them.
"But what about their weapons?" he murmured, still staring at his hands without really seeing them. "What if they come up with new tricks, what if I fall for them again, what if-"
You're not going to fall for any tricks, the voice screeched, sounding a lot more agitated than before. You're not going to believe them! You're not going to believe anyone, anything, you hear me? Never again, you can't trust them, you can't trust anyone, understand, the only thing you can trust is what you know, are you getting this-
Trip clamped his hands over his ears, trying to shut out the painful high-pitched screaming.
"Yes! Yes, I'm gettin' you! Stop it!"
Good. The voice had calmed down again. Because that's what's important. Reed's dead, but that is not important, they are not important, the only thing that is important is not trusting anyone.
"I know," Trip said. "Not trustin' anyone, I won't trust anyone. I won't believe them. I won't fall for their tricks."
Suddenly, he felt a grin spread on his face. It was so easy. He couldn't believe that he hadn't seen it before. If you trusted people, they went and played their tricks on you. If you didn't they wouldn't. As simple as that. He chuckled, getting to his feet. It seemed so funny, letting his eyes wander over the walls and wondering where their surveillance camera was, it seemed so funny because that camera was of no use to them anymore. Now that he'd found a way to sabotage their plans, nothing would be of any use to them, and they could do whatever they wanted but they wouldn't get him.
"You hear me?" he asked, the grin still tugging at his lips. "You won't get me, no matter what you do. I don't know what you're up to, but it doesn't matter, because I won't fall for it. You hear me? I won't fall for your tricks!"
The thought of them sitting somewhere, hating him for messing up their plans, for killing Reed to mess up their plans, struck him as the funniest thing he'd ever heard about, and Trip let out a laugh, the sound of it making him feel even better.
"Too bad, huh?" he asked, turning around to face the other wall. "Too bad I spoiled your fun, too bad I killed that ass-licker of yours so you can't use him to play any more tricks on me! Well, I'm sorry, folks, but hey, c'est la vie! Maybe some day you'll find someone else, but not me! You hear me? Not me!"
Another laughing fit forced him to his knees, and he knelt on the floor, holding his stomach while tears were running down his cheeks, but he never noticed. Why should he be crying? There was no reason for him to cry, everything was alright, wasn't it, they weren't going to get him, and Reed wasn't going to get him either, for he was dead. Reed wasn't going to get him for he was dead. The idea was hilarious, and so Trip decided not to notice his tears, laughing and laughing as he knelt on the stone floor of the cell, listening to the turmoil in his head as the silence around him continued.
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The first thing Malcolm became aware of was that he wasn't getting enough air. His eyes flew open, and he tried to take in a deep breath, at the same time feeling a cough rise in his sore throat. As he fought to breathe and cough at the same time, he almost choked, and felt a familiar panic take hold of him. This had happened before, he'd been lying on the floor before, not being able to breathe while strong hands were closing around his throat-
Trip. Trip had attacked him, had tried to strangle him to death.
Slowly pushing himself into a sitting position, Malcolm put a hand to his throat and forced himself to breathe evenly. After a while his lungs filled with oxygen again and his panic ebbed away. Taking a look around, Malcolm saw that he was back in the cell where they'd given him the injections, and that he was alone. A headsplitting ache was raging behind his forehead and he felt a dull throbbing in the back of his head where he'd hit the floor. Involuntarily he raised his hand to feel for the source of the pain, flinching as his fingers made contact with the sore spot. As he brought his hand away, there was blood on his fingers. It was half-clotted and sticky, and Malcolm realized that he must have been here for quite a while.
Without really noticing what he was doing, Malcolm awkwardly got to his feet and stumbled over to his corner where he'd spent so many hours curled up, leaning against the wall and trying to fall asleep. Now he carefully let himself slide down the wall, drew his knees to his chest and rested his aching head against the cold concrete, closing his eyes.
He felt like he would have liked to cry, but the memories of what had happened left his emotions so tangled up and confused that Malcolm didn't even find it in him to shed the tears that were burning in his chest. Trip had tried to kill him, and Malcolm had no idea what had made him so angry, could find no explanation whatsoever that made any sense. As he replayed the horrible scene over and over in his mind, the look of hate in Trip's eyes came back to him, as well as the things he'd said. Things that made no sense. Trip had accused him of being a traitor, of conspiring with their captors to play tricks on him and Malcolm just didn't know what would make the Commander think so. For it was clear that Trip was really convinced that Malcolm had betrayed him in some way. It hadn't been some drug-induced delusion. Trip's eyes had been full of hate, disgust and maybe even madness, but they had been clear, not glazed over and hazy like the eyes of a drugged person. Trip hated him, and he had no idea why.
But maybe that wasn't the truth. Maybe Malcolm did know why Trip hated him, after all. Suddenly an image came to his mind, the image of himself cowering on a chair in a blue lit room, trembling, shaking his head, saying "No, I won't." No, he wouldn't go through these tests again, no matter at what cost, even if it meant betraying Trip. And he had betrayed Trip. The moment these words, "No, I won't" had left his mouth, he'd condemned Trip to the same thing he'd gone through, and he'd known it. They'd told him they'd take "the other subject" and it wasn't like Reed had been too scared to understand what they'd meant by that. He'd understood perfectly well. And even though he despised himself for what he'd done, he knew he'd do the same thing again. That knowledge made him hate himself even more, for it meant that he was a traitor, and that Trip had every right to be disgusted with him. To hate him.
But how could Trip have known? Had they told him about it, had he maybe watched that interrogation, and if he had, for what reason? Had they planned this, had they staged this situation so they could see how Trip would react? Trip hadn't looked like they'd harmed him during the time Malcolm had been away, let alone performed any tests on him. No, the only thing changed about him had been that inexplicable fury, that mad glint in his eyes as he'd advanced on Malcolm, clearly intending to kill him. Nothing about this seemed to fit, and even though Malcolm suspected that somehow it was them who were responsible for this, he couldn't figure out what they'd done, and why. Maybe all of this was just another one of their games, and they'd never intended to use Trip for their tests, anyway, or maybe they were using him, again-
Resting his forehead on his knees, Malcolm buried his fingers in his hair and tried to shut out the crazy thoughts that were swirling through his mind. Eventually, it didn't matter what had happened, Trip hated him so much that he wanted to kill him, and Malcolm was alone. Now that he'd lost the only person he could trust in this place, the only person here who'd cared if he lived or died, he was truly and utterly alone. In an almost detached way, Malcolm realized that it didn't really matter anymore whether he survived or not. Enterprise was light years away, they couldn't know where they were, and unless Trip and he somehow managed to get out of here on their own - which wouldn't happen - they would stay here for the rest of their lives. They would stay here and their captors would continue to torture them, use them for their tests and cruel games, keeping them alive for as long as possible-
Raising his head, Malcolm groped for the jug and tilted it so he could see if there was any water left. Of course there wasn't; he'd spilled it earlier before they'd taken him to the other cell, and of course they hadn't bothered to refill it in the meantime. What was it to them that his throat felt as if it were on fire, that he couldn't even pour a drink of water, shaking so hard from the drugs they'd given him, what was any of this to them? He was alive, and he wasn't going to die of dehydration anytime soon, so why would they care? He was nothing but a test subject to them, and the only thing they cared about was that they couldn't let him die, not yet, when he still was of use.
His grip on the jug's handle tightened, his knuckles turning white, and all of a sudden, with a sharp jerky movement, Malcolm raised the jug, bringing it down hard on the concrete floor of the cell. It shattered, shards flying in all directions, one of them cutting deep into the back of his hand. It hurt, a sharp pain slicing through his arm, but Malcolm didn't really notice, feeling a deep, angry satisfaction as he stared at the remains of the broken jug. That sound, the noise of the hard material smashing on the floor, had felt so good in his ears, and being aware of the fact that it was him who'd caused that sound made him feel even better. And suddenly there was another sound, much louder than before, making the floor tremble and small crumbs of concrete come down from the ceiling, but Malcolm didn't hear it. Mesmerized, he stared at the blood dripping from his hand onto the shards on the floor, his attention focused only on that one image. Blood. Shards. Destruction.
Slowly, very slowly he reached out with his injured hand, picking up one of the bigger shards and examining it closely. It was triangular, grey and of a hard, smooth material, one of its angles more pointed than the others. Carefully, he probed the point with his thumb, and the second his finger made contact with the sharp edge of the shard, a drop of blood emerged where the skin had been penetrated. Malcolm squeezed the thumb with his other hand, and the bubble of blood grew bigger, breaking and running down his palm towards his wrist.
Again, there was a loud noise, like walls bursting apart and rocks falling, and Malcolm jumped, but didn't tear away his eyes from the shard. Gripping it harder, feeling its edges cut through the skin of his right hand, Malcolm slowly turned his other hand palm up and rested it against his thigh. On his wrist, he could see the veins pulsing, blue against the white skin. Placing the shard's point right next to the outermost of the blue strings, Malcolm applied more pressure, and with one quick movement drew the shard across his wrist. Blood gushed out the cut, soaking his uniform sleeve, and it hurt, but Malcolm didn't notice, quickly changing the shard into his other hand. It almost slid through his fingers which were slippery with blood and rapidly growing numb, and Malcolm gripped it harder, turning around his other hand. The second cut was much easier than the first one, and Malcolm felt blackness rag his vision, letting go of the shard and hearing it fall to the floor with a clatter. Blood was everywhere, on his arms, in his lap and on the floor, and somewhere there was pain, but the only thing Malcolm really felt was relief. A deep, all-embracing relief.
TBC...
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