Disclaimer: I don't own Enterprise or any of it's characters. The story is mine, however, archive if you wish, but please askI do not make any money from this, it is for entertainment purposes only.
Author's note: Any errors in translations… I'm sorry… I had to do it by machine, I can't afford any actual translators. The French should be okay… as for the rest sheepish grimace … well, if you can fix it for me… let me know.
Chapter 14: Transformation
"This was a great idea, Mal." Trip dumped some flexible metal strips beside the beginning frame for the trebuchet. "I probably couldn't have gotten hold of half of this stuff if I asked for it… just because most people wouldn't know what to look for."
"Where did you get those?" Malcolm gestured towards the metal strips.
Trip grinned wickedly. "Well, you know how Jonathan's got an actual bed, instead of a wood slat bunk like ours?"
Malcolm's eyes grew wide and he looked from the strips to Trip and back again. "You took the supports out of Jonathan's bed?"
Trip sighed. "Not all of them." As tempting as it had been, the whole idea was to not get caught. "I had to sneak in and borrow a few from some other counsellors as well. It got tricky when one of them came in… and let's just say that some of them could probably stand to meet up with some girls."
"Excuse me?" Malcolm furrowed his brow.
Trip pulled out a pad and switched it on. "Under good ol' Kenny's bunk. I haven't seen anything like that since Mary Jane Wessler and Bobby-Joe Connelly decided to do an extensive anatomy study in the sports equipment store-room – I needed a shotput to serve as a counterweight for this thing I was building." He turned the pad off again. "I'm still not impressed. I mean they say that when we enter puberty, that sort of thing becomes interesting… but I don't see how it's a spectator sport." He stuffed the pad back in his pocket.
"Why are you keeping it then?" Malcolm sounded like he was asking innocently… but Malcolm could be a little too observant at times, too.
" 'Cause… 'cause I can download other stuff on to it. And it's not a good thing to have lying around in a camp full of kids." Trip could feel his ears turning red. He wasn't sure why he'd kept it… he just… kept it.
"But it wasn't just lying around… you said he had it under his bunk." Malcolm seemed to be enjoying Trip's discomfiture.
That's not fair. You're too young. Malcolm was only ten… he wasn't ready for girls, yet. "Yeah… but anybody could have found it. What if it had been one of the younger kids… that kinda thing can scar you, you know."
"Apparently, some people like that sort of thing." Again Malcolm sounded too innocent to be true.
Trip choked. "I can't believe you're saying stuff like that. Malcolm, you're ten. I don't know grown-ups that say stuff like that." Forget his ears… the flush had spread to his entire face.
Malcolm fell down laughing. "You should see your face. I thought nothing embarrassed you. I may only be ten… but I sometimes overhear people talking, you know. And I know what they're talking about, even if it sounds disgusting."
"Ohhhh." Trip pulled the pad out of his pocket and dropped it on the ground before stomping on it until the display shattered. "You are a horrible, evil, person, you know that? I thought you were just this shy little kid… but you are really and truly evil. And to think you had my parents fooled into thinking you were polite."
Malcolm laughed even harder, until finally he lay on the ground, gasping. "I used to be… but then I met you. You were the one who said I should learn how to swear."
"Swear, hell, yeah. Talk about stuff like that… Shit, Mal… that's just sick." It was one thing to be trading crude jokes with Jonathan… but what Malcolm was coming out with… "That's just sick."
Malcolm began drying his tears with his fists when a loud shouting from the main camp reached them.
"Somebody is really pissed." Trip started back towards the yelling. Given the volume, really pissed just might have been an understatement… they sounded incensed. Reaching the path, he broke into a jog, not even waiting for Malcolm to catch up.
He pulled up short as they reached the edge of the cabin area. Kendricks yelled at Jonathan, too loudly to be understood while Dutretre stood beside Kendricks, crying and rubbing his butt.
"Wow." Malcolm spoke softly… not that it really mattered. "Just like in the movie."
Kendricks caught sight of them and charged over. "You did this. I know you did this you little…"
Jonathan caught up and grabbed Kendricks by the arm. "Hey. Back off. Right now."
"Did what?" Trip blinked innocently. It looked like Jonathan and Kendricks were going to get into it again, and while a fight between the counsellors might be entertaining, it would also cause more trouble than Trip needed at the moment.
"He fell through his bunk… someone took the support slats out." Kendricks leaned in close, breathing in Trip's face, clearly believing he knew who that someone was. "Look me in the eye and say you didn't do this."
"I didn't do it." Trip never took his eyes away from Kendricks'. Kendricks shook with rage, but finally stormed off to take care of his injured camper.
Jonathan waited until Kendricks was out of earshot, then turned to Trip. And odd smile ghosted Jonathan's lips, and he crossed his arms over his chest. "Okay, hotshot, now tell me the truth."
Trip shrugged. "I did it." That was almost like Mom.
Jonathan nodded. "And would you care to explain why?"
"I wanted to see what would happen."
Jonathan arched an eyebrow in more shades of Fiona. "Try again, Mister."
"He's an ass, so I'm not sorry he hurt it?" He couldn't tell Jonathan the truth on this one… not without getting Malcolm in trouble as well. Besides… it wouldn't have happened if Dutretre didn't have a habit of crashing onto his bunk, which factored into Trip's decision to remove more slats from it than anyone else's.
"I see… well, I don't quite happen to believe you… but I don't suppose you'll be willing to divulge your true motives, so… I have no choice but to assume that Malcolm was involved as well."
"He wasn't. He never touched those." At least not while they were still bed slats, and weren't just random pieces of lumber. Trip could feel his heart starting to beat faster. He didn't like the look that was on Jonathan's face – the counsellor looked almost amused rather than angry. Uh, oh.
"But I'm certain he's somehow involved in the larger plan." Jonathan sighed, but that odd, crocodile-like smile stayed – and Trip knew what a smiling croc generally meant. "And since he is such a mature, responsible young man who would hate to see you suffer alone…" Jonathan gestured towards the cabin. "After you, gentlemen."
# # # #
My ready room, gentlemen. Jonathan herded his miscreants into the back room, then stepped around in front, and turned to face them. Malcolm stood at strict attention, and even Trip had his arms clasped – in front of him, rather than behind him in a typical at-ease style – and looked suitably nervous.
"This kind of behaviour is reprehensible. Someone could have been badly hurt, as opposed to the slight bump he received." Jonathan fought to keep from laughing… it had been funny… Dutretre hadn't really been hurt at all. And after what he did to Malcolm… still, he couldn't condone those kinds of actions. "Now, it is clear that the standard punishments practiced at this camp have little effect on you. So…" He walked over to his dresser and picked up a couple of pads of paper and some pencils. He'd grabbed them earlier, hoping he wouldn't need them… But I should've known better with these two. "Three hundred and fifty lines: I will not destroy camp property. I expect them by dinner… and they will all be handwritten. That's three hundred and fifty each, Mr. Tucker, not any kind of mathematical permutation between the two of you." He could see the blood draining away from Trip's face – clearly the boy hadn't expected anything along these lines. Bad one, Jon.
"Lines?" Trip squeaked. "Lines?"
"Lines." Jonathan let his wolfish grin spread even wider. This one might actually work, if Trip's initial reaction was any indication.
"You can't make me write lines… nobody writes lines anymore. It's barbaric… it's ineffective… it's cruel and unusual. You can't do that, it violates my constitutional rights."
"Ah, but we're in Canada. The United States Constitution isn't in effect here. And Malcolm isn't even an American citizen." Jonathan couldn't be sure of the legalities involved… but it didn't matter because lines – while unusual – weren't excessively cruel, no matter what Trip thought.
"But why handwritten? I mean it…"
"Oh… I'm supposed to give you a pad so you can write one and have it make 350 copies? No, Mr. Tucker… I'm not that naïve. Three hundred and fifty. By dinner. Which gives you about an hour and a half." Jonathan smirked and handed them the paper and pencils. "Enjoy." The look on Trip's face was just priceless: for the first time he actually looked twelve years old – the world weariness had disappeared in favour of confusion and shock. Only when they'd left did he let the full grin develop. And that, gentlemen, is how you run a tight ship.
# # # #
It could have been worse. Malcolm began his lines, neatly printing each one on a separate row on the sheet. He could hear Trip scribbling fiercely, then swearing as his pencil broke.
"This is stupid. Nobody gives lines anymore. They're an ineffective form of punishment… and they're only getting in our way. An' three hundred fifty in less 'n' two hours? Does he want to give us carpal tunnel?"
"You know, this complaining just slows you down." Out of the corner of his eye Malcolm could see Jonathan leaning over Trip. "Getting in your way of what, might I ask?" Jonathan reached over and tore the sheet away from Trip's pad. "It's supposed to say 'I will not destroy camp property.'"
"It does say that." Trip made a grab for the sheet, but Jonathan crumpled it up. Malcolm began a new line.
"In English amigo. Not whatever language that happened to be." Jonathan leaned over and glanced at Malcolm's. "I will be checking your grammar on that, you know."
"You know it then?" Malcolm asked, in flawless Latin, which he'd just finished his latest line in. He had been writing everything in English… but Jonathan wasn't being very nice to Trip.
Jonathan narrowed his eyes. "I expected it from him…"
Je ne détruirai pas la propriété de camp. He rechecked his tenses and continued. Eu não destruirei a propriedade do acampamento. Latin, French, Portuguese… that should be sufficient
"That's right, hotshot. Keep showing off." Jonathan flicked a finger into the top of Malcolm's head. "Maybe by the time you go home, you'll have the ability to get kicked out of school, too."
"Promise?" Malcolm didn't even look up. He never thought that he'd be classed as the trouble kid… but then again, who knew it could be such fun? Besides… getting expelled could only count as a bonus. Father would hate it…but I'm not sure I like Father that much, anyway. At least Trip's parents didn't expect him to follow in the family career… though they did seem a bit concerned that he'd be like a cousin and enter the mortuary business. I could ease their concerns… Trip might like dead bodies in the movies, but he doesn't like the idea of them close up. But getting expelled… well, it would definitely hurt his chances Navy wise… it would get him away from Jonesy… and wherever else he ended up, he'd at least be showing up without the 'goody-goody' reputation. So far, he couldn't see a downside.
Jonathan laid the back of his hand against Malcolm's forehead, as though checking his temperature. "Are you sure you're feeling all right? Because it sounds like you've had a brain transplant with a donation from Tucker over there. What happened to the nice, polite child who I met at the front gate? The one who barely spoke, except to call me 'sir?'" Jonathan didn't sound angry, he sounded amused.
"He's dead. I killed him." Malcolm kept a straight face, even as Trip snorted above him. Father might not be impressed with this new self… but Malcolm liked it. It's nice to not just stand there and take it anymore. He could see now why Americans had been willing to fight an entire war for independence… once you got a taste of the feeling, you never wanted to go back. Even if it didn't completely work for them.
"I don't suppose…"
"Il est mort. Je l'ai tué." So French was easier than Latin… he could translate it over again, if Jonathan really wanted him to. This was such a good feeling – talking back. It gave him a rush… made him feel something other than weak.
Trip said something in Spanish, and Jonathan gave them each a light smack in the back of the head. "Get your work done. Otherwise it's going to be five hundred lines each: I will not torment my counsellor with foreign languages."
"Eu não torment meu conselheiro com línguas extrangeiras." Malcolm replied. Maybe there were advantages to being a 'Navy brat' after all. Take Portuguese for example… would he take the time to learn it now, when it would be a foreign language? But since he'd learned it alongside English… it was no different than any of the others he'd picked up along the way. They were just… there… so I learned them. It wasn't as though he'd taken a course or anything. The Latin was enforced by school… but there was something interesting in learning the language of a people who'd conquered a large portion of the globe. Learning their language gives you insight into their way of thinking… and thus their military tactics.
"Spanish isn't foreign…" Trip muttered. "It's the second official language, you idiot. They made it official about eighty years ago."
"Actually… if you want to get technical, English is a foreign language to America. It was brought over by European emigrants…" Malcolm stopped speaking as another light smack landed on his head.
"Enough. Both of you." Jonathan sounded like he was laughing, though. "I'll see you at dinner." He walked out the door, shaking his head.
"Wow, Mal, that's pretty cool. You know a lot of languages?" Trip leaned down to look at Malcolm, seeming to forget about the deadline.
"I know basics in a few… my family is in the military so we travel extensively. I've been all over the world. What about you?"
"Like I said, Spanish is the second official language of the States… there's a lot of Spanish speakers in Florida… even up North where I live. You just grow up hearing it all the time, and…"
Malcolm nodded. "That's exactly how I learned them. Apparently it leaves you without an accent as well."
"That's cool." Trip returned to his writing. "Do you really think Jonathan will be checking these?"
"It's possible. I doubt he'll check every single line though… or even count them. I think he just wants to keep us occupied and bored for a while. And to give the impression that he's punishing us… I don't know that he's too upset with us at all."
"You coulda fooled me," Trip muttered. "He gave us lines."
"It could have been worse. It could have been… push-ups or something along those lines."
"Don't keep saying lines," Trip moaned. "I hate doing stuff like this. I'd rather do push-ups, push-ups are doable."
"I don't know… I think I prefer this." Malcolm had never been good at push-ups… it was another grating point with his father. You want me to be in perfect physical condition… even now. Push-ups weren't everything, though… just because he couldn't do more than fifteen at once… well, he'd survived death, and that had to mean something.
"Yeah, well, you also play chess. You have your share of mental problems."
"Like I said… I can teach you."
Trip suddenly dropped his lines and jumped down from his bunk. He rummaged in Rodriguez's things and pulled out a small chess set. "Come on."
Malcolm sighed and kept writing. "Trip… Jonathan is going to be expecting some lines from us."
Trip ignored him, setting up the board. "Come on… this won't take long."
Malcolm sighed again and set down his own lines… he'd been experimenting with some calligraphy. "Okay." He took the empty position… it looked as though he would be playing white. "Now, do you know any of the basics?"
"Shut up and play." Trip ordered. It was an order… even Stuart Reed Himself would have obeyed those tones.
Fifteen moves later it was over, and Malcolm found himself staring at his captured king in shock. "How did you…"
"Like I said… don't waste my time." Trip packed up the board and put it back. "It's not that complicated a game."
"Oh." Malcolm couldn't think of anything else to say. He'd always considered himself to be pretty good at chess – he could see why Trip looked at it with such disdain though. "That's why you…"
"Hate Chess Club." Trip climbed back up to his bunk and began scribbling again. "They treat me like I'm stupid… like I can't play. Hell, they don't even ask… they just ignore me. But if I did something like that to them… they'd hate me even more." He grew quiet for a moment. "I guess everybody needs something to feel superior about."
Most people wouldn't pick up on that. Most people as multi-talented as Trip took every opportunity to show how good they were… and they never realised the resentment it bred. And most people as multi-talented and picked on, as Trip was… well, they usually took every opportunity for revenge. I know I would. The idea of humiliating Jonesy at anything… I still wish that he was the one who fell through his bunk. At the same time… he could see why people thought Trip couldn't play chess… he stuck by the rules, but his style was so unorthodox that anyone used to responding the familiar and classic patterns would be overwhelmed. He does things that seem stupid… until you realise that he's just set up a trap. "How many moves ahead do you think, anyway?"
"I don't." Trip's answer seemed impossible. "You start doing that, and you can't adapt to what the other guy is doing. I just take it one move at a time… every move is a new game. Every time I try to set up a long-term strategy… well the other guy just sees right through it, so I don't. It's why I like to play black… when I have to play. It forces you to make the first move… but every move changes the possible patterns and routes to take."
"You'd make a horrible soldier." Malcolm reaffirmed his earlier assessment. "Seat of your pants reaction is the worst way to fight."
"I'd make a horrible General," Trip countered. "And I wouldn't want to be a soldier, anyway. I'm allergic to being shot at."
"But don't you decide the strategy in the sports you play?" That had to be typical Trip overstatement; Malcolm doubted Trip had ever had the misfortune to actually be shot at.
"Yeah… 'specially when I'm quarterbacking… but that's one play at a time. You don't plan a touchdown when it's third and ten and you're fifty yards downfield from the end-zone. You go for the ten that's in front of you… get the first down, and then you work from there. If you happen to luck out with a touchdown because your receiver's hot… or he's unguarded… then it's a bonus. Other than that… it's one play at a time. Just like baseball… if the guy hits or misses the pitch… it changes everything. I mean… you can be going for an intentional walk… and if he manages to hit it, and you're not ready for it… you're toast."
"Oh." Malcolm began counting his lines… it had to be close to three hundred fifty, after all… and he really didn't want to do more than that. A thought occurred to him… a slightly horrifying thought, though not as horrifying as it would have been a few weeks ago. I'm turning into an American.
# # # #
I don't believe this. Jonathan stared at the papers in front of him while his campers stared at him curiously, with the sole exception of the two authors. And 'authors' is a good word for it. Whatever this was… it wasn't the lines he'd asked for. Malcolm handed his in… precisely three hundred fifty – if Jonathan was doing the math right – but in about four different languages and three separate handwriting styles. Trip's… well it was crumpled and torn, and not only was the handwriting illegible, but it was impossible to tell where one line ended and the next started. He'd simply run his sentences one after the other… completely devoid of punctuation, or – in the bits Jonathan could decipher – any kind of consistent spelling. But Malcolm's the one who screwed it up on purpose. I knew Tucker would be a bad influence on him. He couldn't help but smile at the thought, though. Looking at the change… Malcolm had needed a bad influence just to bring him out of his shell. I wouldn't want to be the one picking on you in a couple of years. Give the kid a chance to grow… and he could be very adept at vengeance indeed.
"May I have your attention please…"
Ah, yes. And now for the announcement looked forward to by the counsellors almost more than the campers. Jonathan scanned the table when the magical words came out, watching the varied reactions on his charges' faces.
"… Annual Dance…"
A few lit up, a few looked disappointed, but Trip… Trip looked like he'd have a heart attack.
"What's the matter?" Rodriguez poked Trip and sneered. "You were the one who was complaining that there were no girls."
"Hey…" Jonathan could see the violence looming in Trip's eyes. "Knock it off."
"You said you weren't going to punish somebody for stating facts," Rodriguez threw Jonathan's words back at him. "And he did…"
"Shut up." The retort came not from Trip, but from the newly minted Malcolm. "Just because you couldn't attract the attention of a girl if you paid her…"
"Oh, and what would you know about it, baby…" Rodriguez turned his attention to Malcolm – maybe thinking it was safer.
"Boys… boys. Be nice." Given the last breakfast, Jonathan knew he'd have to at least sound fair. "Malcolm, stop picking on Chester. Chester, stop picking on Trip. And Trip…"
"Stop behaving myself?" Trip raised an eyebrow, mockingly.
Everyone else started laughing, and after a second, Jonathan joined them. "Okay, you've made your point. Thank you for not being a pain in my side."
"Given that I've nearly developed a case of carpal tunnel syndrome…" Trip muttered.
"Carpal tunnel syndrome?" Kiprusoff leaned over and looked at Trip quizzically. "From what?"
Trip jerked his head towards Jonathan. "Ask him."
Jonathan held up the papers. "Lines."
"You give lines?" Kiprusoff's expression changed to one of amazement. "Nobody gives lines… they're ineffective."
"That's what I tried to tell him," Trip confirmed. "The man won't listen to basic psychological research. And he's willing to risk a child's health… hell, you'd think he'd never heard of the term 'repetitive motion injury.'"
"I hate to break this to you, Doctor, but there's very little statistical data to back up the allegation that a mere three hundred fifty handwritten lines is sufficient to cause any sort of repetitive motion injury, let alone carpal tunnel syndrome. So stop being so dramatic… it's not like I could read them anyway." As soon as the words left his mouth, Jonathan regretted it.
"And he wonders why he…" Rodriguez didn't even get a chance to finish before a glass of milk hit him full in the face.
"Malcolm! I said, that's enough." Jonathan lifted the now empty glass out of Malcolm's hand and set it out of reach. He not only killed that kid… he buried him twenty-feet deep. "Just for that… you're not going tonight."
"Then I'm not going either." All heads turned to look at Trip who shrugged. "Hey. He's my friend. And seeing as that was in defence of my good character…"
You shit. Jonathan closed his eyes and counted to ten. I've been looking forward to this. Malcolm I could leave on his own… but the two of you together I'm not going to trust. But if Amy Bryson's there again this year… I can't not show up. Not with all of these woods around, and all the campers locked up in the events hall, too distracted to notice the temporary disappearance of a couple of counsellors. If he didn't know better he'd swear Trip planned this… as it was he just wanted to swear. Trip thought it was bad that there were no girls here? Most of us… forget baseball, kiddies. This is our highlight of the summer. Much as I love working with you guys… I deserve to get something out of it. A nasty thought occurred to him, an evil thought so perfect that it begged for execution. "Actually… you are going."
"You can't make me."
And here we are… back at the beginning. "Wanna bet?"
"You can't make me go to a dance. That violates my fundamental rights…"
"Like I said, we're in Canada, hotshot." He leaned across the table to speak right into Trip's ear. "And since Jay says he hasn't seen the slightest sign of you around the Arts and Crafts cabin… I'm forced to assume that you're not doing your project." Though, given Tucker, it was probably what he'd stolen the wood for. And why I wonder what you're really building. Somehow a trebuchet just didn't seem… big enough… especially if it was a scale model. I'd expect you to go for something a little more… combustible. "As a result… hmmmn… Dancing, or lines?"
"I think…"
"You should go." Malcolm looked directly at Trip… but the message passed between them was too coded for Jonathan to interpret. He thought he heard a slight emphasis on the word 'go,' but he couldn't be sure. What ever it was, Trip seemed to understand, because he settled back and nodded.
"Okay, I'll go."
Now that he had what he wanted, Jonathan wasn't so sure he wanted it anymore. What the hell are you two up to?
# # # #
Well, this is a real winner. Trip idled near the exit, watching as campers milled awkwardly together under the watchful – and not so watchful – eyes of their counsellors. In fact… Jonathan seemed to have forgotten everyone's presence, save for the girl whose hip he had his hand on. Yeah, pal… real attentive to your responsibilities here. Maybe if Melissa were here this dance might be worth something… but she's the only girl for me. Oh well, it wasn't like this was going to take long. Given that Kenny boy had already disappeared, and Dino looked like he was dying for a smoke… Off you go, and then off I go. After all, he never said he'd stay.
"Having fun?"
Trip nodded a response to Dino's question and sipped his drink. "Just getting a feel for things."
"Good." Dino slipped out the door, and Trip listened to his footsteps crunching on gravel. He counted off a few more seconds then followed, ducking off into the woods, then taking as direct a route as he dared to the cabin.
"Hey, Mal. Let's go." No answer came and he opened the door to look in. The cabin was empty, save for a note on Trip's bunk. Trip read the note and smiled. "Atta boy, Mal. A step ahead of me, already." Kid learned quick – he'd adjusted to the change in timing like a pro. He stuffed the note into his pocket and headed off to their clearing.
# # # #
It's not as though I was interested in a dance anyway. Malcolm slunk through the woods, heading out for the building site. They'd lost half the afternoon with those lines, so he reasoned that the best thing to do would be to put a couple of hours in now, then head back to the cabin before the dance broke up. It's not like Jonathan will ever know.
"Well, well, well. What have we here?" A familiar and unwelcome voice drifted from the darkness. Jonesy.
He turned to run – to get out of this mess of undergrowth and back to the relative safety of the main camp. Hong and Dutretre materialised in his path, and grabbed him, pinning his arms behind his back.
"This time isn't going to be so easy, Reedy. Especially since your buddy seems more interested in girls at the moment… I don't think he's going to rescue you." Jonesy stepped in front of him and raised one of his big, heavy fists. "Now you're going to apologise for those nasty things you said about me…"
"Screw you." He spat into Jonesy's face, the most defiant move he could manage. It would, he realised, garner him a worse beating… but at least this time I'm not just taking it.
The blow connected hard with his stomach and would have doubled him over were it not for the other two boys holding him upright. He cried out from the pain – he couldn't help it.
As Jonesy drew back for his next punch a howl of rage sounded behind him. A fast moving object smashed into into Jonesy's back, hurtling him to the ground. Trip pounded on the bigger boy, his words incoherent with rage.
Jonesy shoved Trip away and scrambled to his feet. "Hold on to him… we'll finish that up in a second."
"Like fucking hell you will," Trip growled. "The only thing you're finishing is your days of being able to walk." He stood up himself, blood dripping from a scrape on his forehead. But his eyes burned with manic fire. The two circled one another, looking for an opening, then Trip lunged again. Jonesy stepped aside and shoved, and Trip slammed hard into a tree.
"Give it up. Reedy isn't worth the time." Jonesy sneered and turned back to Malcolm.
"Fuck you, asshole." Trip tackled him a second time, knocking Jonesy's head against the ground. "You're a dead man, you fucking hear me?"
Jonesy grabbed a fallen branch and swung it around, and Malcolm winced at the crack as the wood connected with Trip's ribs. It loosened Trip's grasp, and Jonesy regained his footing, spinning and planting his foot where the branch had just landed. "This is why I'm in charge, you useless piece of shit." He punctuated his words with a few more kicks, including two to the head.
Trip rolled away and climbed to his feet, his newly split lip presenting another source of blood. He spat something from his mouth – as far as Malcolm could tell, it was a tooth.
"Stop it!" Malcolm turned his head away, unable to do more. Jonesy was going to kill Trip – he knew it. Because Trip wouldn't stay down, wouldn't let up. He was smaller than Jonesy, weaker than Jonesy… but he wouldn't quit. Jonesy might be cruel, but Trip was mad… crazy mad. One of his eyes seemed to shine red in the moonlight – Malcolm knew it had to be blood, but it gave Trip the look of something otherworldly: a demon straight out of hell. Jonesy was going to kill Trip… because if he didn't, Trip would surely kill him.
# # # #
"Shh." Jonathan held Amy's hand, pulling her along the path. If she didn't stop giggling… "It's not that far… it's perfect. Soft grass… out of the way…"
"Mmmn. And on a warm night like this…" She rushed suddenly forward and pressed herself against him. "There is no telling what we could get up to."
"Well…" He leaned in to kiss her when they heard the scream – panicked voice that banished any thoughts but terror from his mind, coming from directly in front of them. "Stop it!"
Oh, God. Jonathan dropped Amy's hand and took off towards the sound of Malcolm's voice. Whatever it was…
"Jon?" Amy called from behind him, puzzled. "What is it?"
He didn't waste time with an answer, knowing that he had no time to waste. The only way Malcolm would be screaming like that… is if he's not the one getting hurt. That only left one option… one, horrible alternative. Oh, God, please, no. He drew close enough to catch a glimpse – Jones raising a stick and swinging it at a shorter, blond figure. He ran faster, ignoring the undergrowth that reached out and tried to grab his feet, and the greenery whipping at his arms. "That's enough!" He could see Malcolm now, as Dutretre and Hong released him. But Trip… Trip needed more than just a counsellor right now. Blood dripped down his face from several gashes – more oozed from wounds on his torso. But he refused to stay down, refused to back away. Jonathan stepped between them and snatched the stick out of Jones' hand, shattering it against a tree trunk. "Both of you, just quit it now." He had a fair idea what had happened… but Trip had murder in his eyes.
"Out of my way, Jon." He could hear Trip's breathing, laboured and painful, bubbling through a smashed nose or a mangled mouth. But his voice carried no pain – just cold, deadly anger. His words were slurred, though, and he spat when he finished speaking.
I think that's the first time you've used my name. But he couldn't let this play itself out, or one of these boys would end up dead. "I don't think I take orders from you."
"I wasn't joking, Jon."
"Neither was I." He realised he was banking on Trip's newfound respect, and prayed it was enough to rein in the savage. Otherwise, this is not a good place to be standing. "Stand down. We'll deal with this." He could hear an audience gathering… Amy must have gone back for reinforcements.
"Nobody…"
"Nobody's getting away with anything, Trip." Unfortunately, even with Trip's wounds, it would be hard to prove that this fight was anything but mutual. He doubted they'd buy the defence argument either… after all, Trip could have run for help.
While the others beat the crap out of Malcolm. No… Trip could never have run for help. He'd never sacrifice a friend, not if he could take the beating for them. Jonathan got a better look at the boy now, and wished he hadn't. One eye had swollen closed, and his mouth looked like he'd had a close encounter with a cheese grater. No wonder you can barely talk. From Trip's breathing and stance, a couple of ribs were cracked, if not outright broken. Two fingers on his left hand stuck out at odd angles, and he was covered in blood. Yet he clearly wanted to continue, wanted to take Jones apart. But I can't let you do that. "I know you were only defending someone else… but that's over now. It's over now." He waited until Jones, Dutretre and Hong were escorted from sight before stepping towards Trip. He couldn't do anything while they were there, or he'd undermine what Trip had accomplished. And he had accomplished something… Jonathan saw it in the eyes of the others. They'd been scared… because they'd tapped into something that they couldn't control, that actually formed a threat. Bullies like control… but intimidation is like fire… and you never know if the keg you're playing with is full of sand or TNT.
As the boys left, so did the last of Trip's reserves. He sagged towards the ground, and Jonathan caught him, easing him the rest of the way, cradling him gently. "Hang in there, kiddo. You hang in there, okay?"
Malcolm crouched beside them, his eyes brimming with tears. "Is he…"
"I don't know," Jonathan answered, honestly. He swallowed hard to keep from crying himself. You crazy, crazy kid. After all, how many kids would take this kind of a beating for somebody else? Even if that somebody was a friend? "Don't let anyone tell you you're not a hero, kid," he whispered. If the Academy wouldn't let in somebody like this… well, then I'm quitting, right then and there. Because this is the best and the brightest…this is what humanity ought to stand for. Not the violence, but the heart. The stubborn refusal to lie down, despite overwhelming odds; the willingness to give yourself up for someone else; the defence of the weaker from the stronger. He kept Trip's face tilted downwards so the blood wouldn't run back into his airway, and prayed that it all came from nose and mouth… that it didn't originate in the lungs.
"I want to go with you to the hospital." The tears escaped and began rolling down Malcolm's face.
This time, Jonathan didn't even hesitate. "You bet. He'll be glad to see you there."
"I told him that Jonesy wasn't a chicken, that he'd fight… but Trip took him on anyway. He wouldn't quit… Jonesy kept hitting him, but he wouldn't quit… and he did it to help me…"
"I know." Because Trip wouldn't have lifted a finger to get himself out of danger… it had always been — Jonathan realised — for somebody else. Well, someone's helping you this time…I'm pulling every string I can think of now…there is no way they're getting away with this one. Finally, he heard the sirens, but they brought no comfort, only served to remind how desperate things were. You're right, kiddo… and the sun don't shine in the middle of the night.