DISCLAIMER: These are not my characters, I am merely borrowing them, age regressing them and dropping them into a new setting. Other than that… actually, I think I'm just channelling the story.

Author's Note: Thanks (as always) to my wonderful beta readers, gaianarchy and silvershadowfire: you guys found the holes I missed. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Thanks to all of you who have reviewed so far…I'm glad everybody's enjoying this as much as I am. There's lots more to come… so please keep reading, and pass the word if you really like it. As I've said before: my email is on my contact page if you have any questions or suggestions to forward along. I can also contact you by email (myself) to let you know when each new chapter goes up. Like I said… Thanks for the reviews, and enjoy the story!

Chapter 5: Tears and Fears

Dear Mom and Dad, Trip bent over his letter home, pursing his lips as he considered every word. I think you should be informed precisely what conditions I have been subjected to. Since this camp has started I have been insulted, physically abused, used as slave labour and deprived of food. My cabin supervisor whose name is Jonathan Archer – he underlined the name several times and bolded it – is the one responsible for these maltreatments. He has harassed me constantly – including the use of derogatory language (he'd had to look up derogatory) and assault. He even went so far as to leave me without clothing.

The only saving grace is my new friend Malcolm -- though I fear he is not entirely stable. Malcolm had fallen off a log during a wander in the woods. However, I suppose I must be grateful to have someone to talk to – when you consider the times I have spent in solitary confinement in the cabin.

I miss you all, please give my love to Elizabeth and James and tell them I truly hope to see them again soon.

Your loving son,

Charles.

Jonathan picked up the letter and stared at it for a moment before turning his gaze to Trip. "You don't really intend to send this, do you?"

Trip gave him a look. Of course I do, asshole.

"But it's all lies." Jonathan dropped the letter back down in front of Trip, amazement written all over his face.

Trip just shook his head. He'd been very careful about that. Every single word was true. That's what had taken him so long.

"I mean, how can you say Malcolm is…" Jonathan glanced over at Malcolm who struggled with his own letter, picking it up and putting down several times without adding a thing.

Trip raised a single eyebrow. Oh, and you're the psychologist now? There was nothing Jonathan could do to stop him from sending the letter and he knew that Jonathan knew it. What, buddy? You scared?

"Fine, then." Jonathan snatched up Trip's letter and tucked it into the envelope he'd brought to collect them in. "If you want to play those kind of games… be my guest." He leaned in close so only Trip could hear, "I just wonder what your 'friend' would think if he knew your opinion of him."

I guess I hit a nerve. Trip shrugged, watching as it infuriated Jonathan further. What's the matter? You can't handle it anymore? And he'd thought this guy was good. So much for appearances. He leaned back on his bunk and closed his eyes, effectively dismissing Jonathan from his consciousness.

"If I'm ever tempted to become a parent, I'll just remember you, hotshot." Jonathan muttered it just loud enough for Trip to hear.

Didn't work for mine. No, they had to go and have two more just to try to get it right. Trip fought back a sigh and waited for Jonathan to go away.

# # # #

I am definitely going to be fired. Or arrested. Jonathan trudged up to the main hall, the envelope heavy in his hand. He'd have to download and send Tucker's letter intact… otherwise it would look like he was hiding something, which would be worse. The funny thing was that it wasn't apprehension that held top spot in his emotions -- it was disappointment. I thought he had more to him than that. The last thing he expected was for this kid to run crying to Mommy and Daddy.

Then again, maybe that's his problem. It would certainly explain the spoiled brat attitude. If he were allowed to get away with everything at home… then he wouldn't take well to dealing with rules.

Jonathan sighed. "Oh, God. I just don't know anymore." At least Tucker's parents had signed the release forms, even if they hadn't fully read them. It gave him small comfort though.

"Anyone begging to go home, yet?" Dino ran up behind him and slapped Jonathan on the shoulder. "I got about three. 'The food stinks.' 'I'm bored.'" He shook his head. "Every year."

Wordlessly Jonathan handed Dino Tucker's letter.

"Whoa." Dino handed it back. "You aren't seriously going to send that, are you? I mean on the bright side, Mommy and Daddy will probably yank him out of here, and you won't have to deal with it anymore."

"Yeah, well I am never going to get into the Academy with a criminal record – no matter who my father is. This kid… this kid is going to ruin my career."

"Jeeze, lighten up, Jon. They can't touch you if you haven't done anything, right? And we'll all swear what a brat the kid is… no way he'll get away with it."

He's gotten away with everything else. Jonathan's shoulders slumped. "It's just… he's got no idea how far too far is. Malcolm? The one he calls 'unbalanced?' That's the one person who's been willing to put up with him this entire time. And that's," he slapped the letter for emphasis, "how Tucker pays him back. Unbalanced. Like Tucker should talk."

"Like you should, Jon." Dino grinned. "Come on… who's gonna believe something like that anyway? I mean maybe his parents… if they're the 'precious-boy' type…"

"His father's namesake? There's a high possibility." Oh, God, why of all people did he have to get saddled with Tucker? "All I know is that I am not looking forward to this."

Dino made some sympathetic noises then loped off ahead.

Yeah, right, pal. Be there when I need ya. It wasn't Dino's fault. But Jonathan still couldn't help feeling a little betrayed.

# # # #

"So, what did you write about?" They'd been given an hour's worth of free time and Trip had taken off as soon as Jonathan left. He'd only paused briefly to give Malcolm a chance to catch up before heading off into the woods.

"Oh, stuff. Letting the family know what's been happening. Nothing much." Trip picked up a small piece of debris from the ground and threw it.

"I didn't really write anything. I couldn't think of anything to say." Malcolm stopped, not even realising he had.

Trip turned around, two paces later. "Nothing to say? What? I'm that boring a personality?"

Malcolm shook his head, rapidly. "No. No. But…I can't tell them about you. I mean… my father thinks rules are important and they're supposed to be obeyed. He'd say I wasn't supposed to talk to you again, if I told him."

Trip grinned. "You know, I think that's the biggest compliment I've received all year. So you're going with 'it's better to ask forgiveness…'"

"Actually I think that it's 'it's easier to ask forgiveness.' It's probably better to ask permission." Which is why Malcolm had always done it. Somehow, though, he didn't feel like asking now. No matter what Trip said about him in his letter home. He'd caught Jonathan's question about 'how could you say that?' but it didn't matter. Trip hadn't said anything truly nasty to his face, which was novel in and of itself.

"Whatever. God, though: the look on Jonathan's face…" Trip smirked. "I wish I had my camera." He paused for a moment. "So, what makes your dad so big on the rules anyway?"

"He's Royal Navy," Malcolm explained. "Reeds have been RN for several generations now. I was supposed to be the next."

"Supposed to?" Trip pulled back like a horse confronted by something strange. "So you're not planning to follow family tradition."

Malcolm blushed and looked down at the ground. "I'm afraid of drowning," he mumbled.

"What?" Trip closed the gap between them. "You're what?"

"I'm afraid of drowning." Malcolm's head snapped up and he stared Trip right in the face. "Are you happy?"

"Well, only if it makes you happy. Personally, I don't think it's that big a deal. I mean, I can't imagine myself being afraid of drowning… what with living on the ocean and all…but everybody's got something, right?" He said the last part a little to manically, as though he was trying not to think about something.

"I've heard you do a lot of diving." Malcolm couldn't believe what he'd just heard. Trip Tucker coming close to confessing a weakness? He felt it prudent to change the subject.

Trip's eyes lit up like they were battery-powered. "I love it. It's got to be the greatest thing in the world. I mean it's just you and the water… it's so…amazing. There's a whole other world down there, and almost nobody ever sees it. It's like… coral. Everybody thinks it's a rock or something… but when you're down there… looking at it… you can tell it's alive. There's so many colours…it's just…amazing."

"I wish I had the courage to do something like that. I just…"

"Hey." Trip dropped down so he was sitting on the damp earth. "It's not that big a deal. I mean – like I said – I'm not afraid of drowning. If I was… I don't think I'd do it either." He kicked at the dirt. "So, what are you planning to do?"

"I don't know. I'm only ten. Do you know what you're going to do?"

Trip shrugged. "Well, my mom wants me to be an architect… but Dad says I'd do better as an engineer. I'm leaning that way, myself. I mean I love building things and seeing how things work. And I'm thinking of going to Starfleet Academy as soon as I'm out of school. Can you imagine? Going to alien worlds… having adventures out there in the stars… that would be the best thing in the entire universe." His face darkened. "I probably won't get in though. I hear they're pretty strict about grades, and since I've got Mr. Calvin-the-dick for Math… not to mention what my English teacher thinks of me. 'Oh, Trip,'" he mimicked, "'surely you could make an attempt to do the reading assignments.' Like I care about what some dead guy had to say about impressing a girl with all his shirts. If they'd let us read anything interesting…"

"What do you mean, interesting?" Malcolm couldn't understand the non-reader mentality. How could someone not find a story interesting? He loved stories – it was another fatal flaw, according to his father.

"Oh, I don't know. Stuff like… H.G. Wells -- War of the Worlds. Or that British guy… Doyle? The Lost World? I mean, can you imagine coming face-to-face with a dinosaur?" He sighed. "Just think about it: getting to meet a stegosaurus."

"Who'd probably eat you." So obviously, Trip was a pulp fan.

"Stegosaurus was a herbivore." He also knew more about dinosaurs than Malcolm. "He might smack you with his tail, but he wouldn't eat you."

"Oh." Malcolm had never considered the alternatives before, but Starfleet sounded interesting. Sure it would be in space… but there was no water in space. You could suffocate… true… but he couldn't drown. Besides, if Trip were going to be in Starfleet… at least there'd be someone there not already inclined to hate him.

"But how come you get bad grades? You're smart enough, right?"

Trip snorted. "Like that means anything. I don't do things their way, so I don't get the marks. 'It doesn't matter if you get it right, just so long as you show all your work.' What kind of reasoning is that? If you don't get it right, how can you say you know it? And if you do get it right, who cares how you figured it out?"

Malcolm sat down beside him. "Isn't that so they can tell where you're going wrong when you don't get it right?"

"Well, that would make sense, if I didn't get it right. The only time I get it wrong is when I do it their way. It's just stupid. And… of course… they insist on a full complement of homework. Mr. Calvin especially loves the homework." Trip made a face.

"Well, that should be easy, then… shouldn't it? Just do the homework and you'll get the marks."

Trip rolled his eyes. "And what's the point? Either I know it… so doing it over and over and over again isn't going to make me know it any better… or I don't, at which point it does me no good to sit there staring at it not understanding a thing. I've got better things to do with my life than waste it on homework."

"But if you want to get into Starfleet Academy…"

"That's what my dad says. He says sometimes you have to make sacrifices to get what you want. I'm twelve years old. Four hours of homework a night isn't a sacrifice… it's cruel and unusual."

"Four hours?"

"Well, maybe not four hours, every night. But there's homework in every subject. English, Math, Science, Computers… even my Electronics class has homework. And since I want to take CAD next year… it's only going to get worse."

"Cad?" Malcolm hadn't realised you could take lessons in that.

"Computer Aided Drafting. Just in case I do go with my mom's suggestion, though it'll help with the engineering too." He picked up a stick and began doodling in the dirt. "Plus there's all the sports stuff… the good thing about being here is I get a break from baseball this summer."

"I heard you were good at baseball." Actually, he'd heard that Trip was very good at baseball, though the other kids had made it sound like a bad thing.

"I am. But that's only 'cause I've got a couple of different pitches and I can psyche out the batter. I can't hit… and anyway, my coach was getting on my nerves. He keeps screaming at me to get better control and stop throwing so many wild pitches… how does he think I scare the guy at the plate? Long as they think that they could get hit, they aren't so confident in what's coming down the line."

"Oh. I didn't know there was so much to it." Malcolm hated team sports, if only because he was always chosen last -- if chosen at all. "I mean, it sounds as though there's a lot of strategy."

"If you play it right," Trip agreed. "I mean, you can win any game if you pull a big enough head trip on your opponent. No matter how good they are, if they begin to doubt it… if you can play to their weaknesses… you can win. The problem is that the league thinks that everybody should just have fun, so if you humiliate the other guy too much, it's wrong. I've managed to hurt some people's feelings… but if you can't take it, you shouldn't play." His eyes narrowed. "And that's any game. Those chess geeks don't like me either."

"I thought so. They didn't seem to have a lot of nice things to say about you." That had made him curious: in his experience, athletes like Trip were the ones everybody wanted to know.

"Nobody has a lot of nice things to say about me. Which is why I don't have a lot of nice things to say about them." Trip glanced over at Malcolm. "So. What do you do when you're not being shipped off to the middle of nowhere?"

"Not much. I'm too small for sports, really. It's a disappointment to my father… he's very much into athletics. I read a lot. Military history…stuff like that." He knew it sounded so lame compared to what Trip did, but he couldn't pretend to be anything else.

"Wow. That is cool." Strangely, Trip didn't seem to be condescending. "Most guys I know… it's either comic-books – which is okay if they're good comics like Sandman, but most of their stuff isn't – or sports magazines."

"Most people just think it's strange."

Trip shook his head. "No, strange is when you read tech-manuals. And take notes. I'm strange."

"You just have to win at everything, don't you?" Malcolm looked over at his friend – yes, he supposed that would be how to classify Trip – then shook his head, smiling.

Trip grinned. "When I can. Face it, kid, no matter what those bully-boys have told you, you do not have a lock on the 'Freak of the Year' award. Though if you did…" Trip's face grew more thoughtful, "you might not have half the problems with them that you do."

"What do you mean?"

"I may not have a lot of friends, but nobody pushes me around, either."

Malcolm didn't think it prudent to mention Jonathan at this point.

Trip brought him up instead. "I mean, Jonathan? Pure amateur. Doesn't even bother me. Nobody tries to make me scared of them, because they've got no idea how I'll react. Remember what I said about wild pitches?"

Malcolm nodded.

"Well… the batter gets nervous because he doesn't know what I'm going to throw at him. The same with everybody else: they don't bully me because they don't know what's going to happen. I mean, for all they know, I could snap and kill them. So they leave me alone."

"Like what you did with Jonesy." Suddenly Malcolm understood why no retaliation had happened after the mess hall incident.

"Now there's a guy who needs remedial training. Tell me, do you think they use special genetic techniques to make 'em that stupid? Maybe he escaped from a special breeding program." Trip's eyes twinkled. "Giant chickens. For those special dinners. People just think he's human. I know!" Trip pounded the ground with both fists, laughing. "We've got to turn him in to the scientists. He's the missing link between humans and swamp sludge."

"Jonesy's not chicken." Once again Malcolm found himself awed by the older boy's recklessness. Didn't he have any idea how vicious Jonesy could be?

"Yeah he is, that's why he picks on you. Him and his buddies… get any of them alone and they'd collapse like an old boat shack in a hurricane. But your problem is: you're too nice. You don't have what it takes to be really, really nasty."

"I could." From anyone else, Malcolm would've taken the abuse -- would've accepted the fact that he was too weak, too nice. But from Trip – who so far had been almost supportive… it came like a slap.

The sly grin crept back on to Trip's face. "You wanna try? You wanna learn?"

Malcolm nodded. To be able to get back at Jonesy… to get free…

"Okay. But you gotta remember. There is no such thing as fair in things like this. And there's no rules and no such thing as going halfway. It's all or nothing. Are you in?"

"Yes." Malcolm thought for a second, then repeated himself more emphatically. "Yes."

Trip rubbed his hands together. "Okay. We start then. I bet ol' Jonesy has thrown you in the water once or twice, right?"

Every chance he gets. Malcolm didn't even need to say it: he knew the panic was written all over his face.

"So, what's he afraid of? And don't tell me you don't know. A guy like you sees and hears everything. There's got to be something that scares him…"

# # # #

If I'd had any guts, I wouldn't have sent the damn thing. If I'd had any sense I wouldn't have sent the damn thing. Tucker's letter ate at Jonathan all night. For once the kid stayed in the cabin, and Jonathan still couldn't get any sleep. What would Tucker's parents think? Would they peg him as some sort of pervert for taking Trip's clothes? You could never tell with parents. Most of the time, with the trouble kid came trouble parents. Kid burns down the cabin: 'Oh, our Mikey couldn't have been responsible for that.' Or worse yet: 'He's just special.' Jonathan's first year here, a counsellor had quit after a parent tore a strip off of him just for telling their kid 'No.' Jonathan had gone a lot farther than that…

He greeted the campers with bruised eyes the next morning and didn't even bother to try and get Tucker out of bed. Instead he just herded the rest of them to the showers and breakfast, unable to eat any himself. I am a dead man. I am not going to eat bran mush for my last meal.

"Hey, Jon." Kendricks came running up, just after breakfast, holding a pad in his hand. Word had spread -- Thanks, D, I owe you one -- throughout the camp about Tucker's letter and Jonathan's concern. Now Kendricks looked worried, too. "This just came in for you, this morning. It's from Florida. I think it's that Tucker kid's parents."

Oh, God. Jonathan extended his hand and accepted the pad, regretting suddenly his lack of breakfast. Throwing up was bad; dry heaves were worse. Sure enough, the return address was Panama City, Florida and it was addressed to Jonathan Archer, counsellor, care of the camp. Nervously he opened the file, and burst out laughing. Kendricks stared at him like he was insane, but he didn't care. "Thanks, pal. I've got to go deliver this." He followed his charges down to the cabin, unable to keep the smile from his face. Stepping in the door, he tossed the pad up onto the top bunk. "Letter from home for you, hotshot."

A dishevelled head emerged from the sleeping bag to glare at him. Then a hand reached out and picked up the pad. The look on Tucker's face when he read it was priceless: a mixture of amusement and disgust. Almost like he'd been expecting it, and was disappointed that no one had managed to surprise him.

Jonathan laughed again and headed off to his room, savouring the look, savouring the single line that comprised the entire letter: Keep up the good work.

Apparently, the kid wasn't the only one in his family with a sense of humour. Jonathan reminded himself to buy the Tuckers a nice thank-you gift when all of this was over. In return for the one they'd just given him. Beat you, hotshot.

# # # #

"Dickhead," Trip muttered after the departing Jonathan, then snuggled back down in his sleeping bag. The guy probably thought he'd won this round -- had no idea how badly he'd lost. I had you going for an entire day. Had the jerk actually figured his parents would buy that crap? He giggled silently even now, thinking about it. 'your loving son, Charles?' Yeah, like that wasn't a clue. The day Mom and Dad fell for that…is the day I write home to tell you I'm dead. They probably wouldn't even believe that -- even if they were presented with a body. They'd wait for a few days, just to make sure he didn't get up.

They're just too damn used to me by now. Nowadays Mom didn't even scream when she found an eyeball in the spaghetti, or a severed finger in the stew-pot. She just hollered for him to come down and take it out, and to stop watching those damned horror movies. And if there was company… well he either behaved himself or didn't see dinner at all.

Idly, he wondered who was baby-sitting his siblings over the summer. Mom and Dad might have been able to find someone, now that Trip wasn't there to help with the interviews. Like the time he'd come in, covered in gore and dropped down onto the middle of the white living room rug to take apart the transmission out of the lawnmower. The babysitter took one look at this kid – whose forehead still oozed – and ran screaming in the other direction. That had earned him You're In Big Trouble Now, Young Man and a good swat on the butt. And he'd had to scrub the carpet until he had all the grease (and blood) out of it. That had been two years ago, but word spread quickly and nobody was willing to take on the Tucker Terror. Finally his parents bowed to necessity and let Trip take on the job himself. That was one thing he'd never let them regret, learning to cook, clean and organize with the best of them. I do a pretty mean French-braid, too – a necessary skill when looking after Elizabeth, whose hair had a tendency to tie itself in knots if not restrained.

He sighed. That part of the letter had been completely true. He did miss the two of them, even if they were a couple of pains in the ass. But they're my pains in the ass. Whoever's looking after them better damn well be doing it right. Like remembering that Elizabeth liked her macaroni with parmesan, but James would only eat cheddar. Or that Mr. Boos had to be hand washed and fluff dried – never hanged. He knew they wouldn't be getting Storytime, at least not the right Storytime. Elizabeth was probably being read something about Mr. Bunsy right now… when they'd been all the way up to Chapter Six of The Shining. According to her teacher, her reading skills were way above those for a child her age. Sorry about that. He knew from experience what a problem that could be – pitching a fit at daycare when he was four years old because the stupid jerks wouldn't let him near the books; they'd just assumed he'd destroy them because after all, four year olds can't read. Like everything else, he'd taught himself how to do it mostly because he'd never been told that he couldn't.

I can't believe I'm actually getting homesick. Sick of home, yeah, but homesick? Just because I didn't want to come here doesn't mean I wanted to be at home. Besides, homesick was for people who needed Mommy and Daddy for everything, not people who were capable of being independent.

"Are you all right there, hotshot?" Somehow Jonathan must've snuck up on him without him noticing, and seen the look on his face when he thought about his brother and sister. Quickly he resumed his usual glare then turned his face to the wall.

"We're going swimming, hotshot. You ought to enjoy that."

He could almost sense Malcolm turning pale on the lower bunk. "I don't swim. Malcolm and I are staying here and taking up knitting."

Jonathan started to laugh and turned it into a snort. "Good one, hotshot. But I happen to know you're a certified diver. And a swim champ. Now let's move."

"Well, since I'm so good, I obviously don't need the practice. Now f…" He buried the last two words in the pillow, but Jonathan picked them up anyway.

"If you're gonna swear, say it to my face. Don't go hiding away if you think you're that tough."

Obediently, Trip turned over and looked him straight in the eye. "Fuck off." He rolled back to face the wall, ignoring the shocked giggles behind him.

Jonathan sighed. Trip could tell the guy was trying not to lose it, again. "Now that we've got that over with. Out. Lake. Swim."

"No." He knew Malcolm didn't have the guts to stand up to Jonathan, and he also knew what happened to aquaphobics in the water. You panic, you freeze up. You freeze up in the water: you die. He'd seen it happen once… the guy had been lucky enough that the doctors were able to bring him back, but it wasn't an experience that Trip wanted to repeat.

"Tucker…"

He sat up. "No. En, oh, NO. I'm not going."

Jonathan reached out and grabbed Trip's arm. Trip lashed out with his other hand and caught Jonathan across the face.

Jonathan dropped Trip's arm like he'd been burned "Fine. You can stay here. But you are not getting work detail for that one, pal. I'm not sure what I'm going to do with you yet, but I can guarantee it's something you're not going to like." He looked down at Malcolm. "Are you coming?"

"No, sir." Malcolm's voice came out weak and shaky. Poor kid, had to be caught between a rock and a hard place on this one.

I'm sorry. It's all I could think of. Trip could feel himself shaking as unused adrenaline raced through his system. He knew if he'd been pulled out then Malcolm would have gone too…and then they'd really tease you, if you didn't end up drowning. At least now they'd still blame it on Trip 'Bad Influence' Tucker and the kid would be okay.

"All right then. But you do not leave this cabin. Either of you. I find out you did, and you'll be shipped home instantly. And funny, but I don't think your parents would be too happy about that, hotshot."

"Kiss my ass." Trip kept his voice gruff, so Jonathan wouldn't figure out how close he was to tears. It shouldn't have played out like this, it shouldn't have gone this far. It was all I could think of. He couldn't let Jonathan take him this time… he'd had to stop it fast. It was all I could think of…

"You know, hotshot, I am the wrong guy to be telling that to." With that, Jonathan ushered the rest of them out the door and closed it behind him.