Disclaimer: Just checking… aaaaand, ooh, look at that: they're still not mine.
Author's Notes: Part two. Thanks for the lovely reviews so far – and the final part's already written, so worry not. You'll just have to wait…
Hope
Trip comes to in the line for breakfast, shuffled between a beaten-looking Klingon and Cauley, who is chewing her hair. He blinks and twists his head around, looking for Malcolm, because this is really important, he's never awake outside the cell, he remembers things happening, but he's never there—
He finds Malcolm four spaces ahead of him, with the same startled, hyperaware expression he must have on his own face. Their eyes meet, and a message passes between them: stay awake. Distracted, he steps back and bumps into the Klingon, who starts and growls uncertainly.
Trip realises then that he's not bound: his hands aren't tied, he's not chained to anything… of course. He doesn't have to be, as long as he doesn't know what's going on.
They don't give you food at breakfast, do they?
He's awake. He's aware. He meets Malcolm's eyes again and understands at last: do anything to stay that way. Anything. It's worth it.
He sees a guard, in its formless armour, prodding random people along, unarmed, like the other dozen up and down the corridor…
(He doesn't remember much after that, just flashes – but he remembers some, and that's an improvement.)
He remembers that it's like a silent movie at first – like there should be lots of yelling, but instead there's a ripple, a mutter at most. Then there's shouts off to either side, and the ripple grows to a roar, and he can't remember the sight of anything but he can remember breathlessness, and then white tile, bright light, clean, sterile, wicked things that hurt…
He remembers quiet. Then there are voices, rising and falling, distorted, just out of earshot; then he hears close by:
"… Quite remarkable… a growing number… who actively favour memories… sense of self over personal wellbeing, actually using… pain—" and then someone else says something, and the voices move away again.
He remembers that like it's the most important thing in the world; it's significant for some reason that he can't quite grasp right now, and he wants to remember it so he can ask Malcolm, but he's in such incredible agony that he can't even keep a grip on the idea…
He wakes up on the gleaming white floor of their cell. His first thought is that the assholes must have cracked his ribs or something, because every breath feels like fire – he clenches his fists against the sensation and a bolt of pain stabs from fingertip to elbow, leaving a roaring throb in its wake.
There's a ragged, bleeding hole in the centre of each palm, as if someone's stuck a spike right through his hands.
He gasps and flinches as bloody, white fingers grasp his own, and hey, what do you know? There's holes torn through those hands too, front to back, an ugly ring of pink scar tissue building around the edge from the from the previous dozen times.
"I remembered," Trip laughs hoarsely, as they clumsily bandage each other's hands with torn-up strips of the ubiquitous clothing. Malcolm gives him a quick half-smile, and talks eagerly with him about what they can remember, filling in each other's gaps – but Trip can see how ashen his face is; there are hitches in his breathing that he can't hide, and his movements are painfully stiff.
"What did they do to you?" Trip murmurs at last.
"Nothing they haven't before," Malcolm stubbornly replies, but there's a cynical noise from Cauley's patch of the room. He sets his jaw. "I suppose they've just done it a bit too much."
After that, they're mostly silent until it's lights out again; and if they curl around each other too closely, too warmly for friends, neither says or does anything to bring it to the other's attention.
"You remembered today," Malcolm whispers under Cauley's snores.
"Yeah, I did," Trip says proudly, and then they gasp and go silent as the guard stops outside their cell, peering in suspiciously through the softly humming lattice; they wait until he's several cells away before they even dare to breathe again.
Then Trip remembers something. "Are there always that many people fighting?" he asks, though he thinks he knows the answer already.
Malcolm's eyes gleam. "No," he confirms in a satisfied undertone. "Never that many, not even in the beginning."
"You think more people are waking up? Maybe they're learning about the pain?"
Malcolm frowns to himself and is silent, thinking. Trip bites his tongue, watching Malcolm's face – pale, much paler even than it usually is; his cheekbones are very prominent, and Trip wonders how many meals he's missed in the white rooms. He looks down, then, at their bandaged hands, which are curled together between their bodies. It's slightly chilly in their white cell, but the warmth between them, around their hands, is terrific.
At last, Malcolm says in a low voice, "I wonder… I don't think it can be very long before they – whoever is doing this, whoever is watching us – before they work out what we're doing… if they don't know already—"
"Dammit!" Trip says suddenly.
"What?" Malcolm says, startled. "Trip, what is it?"
"Something…" Trip squeezes his eyes shut. "I don't believe this. Something I can't quite… dammit, I had it. I just had it, I just remembered…" But it's gone.
He feels cool fingers touch his brow, and looks up into Malcolm's concerned grey eyes. "Never mind," Trip says. "Never mind. I'll remember it sometime." Malcolm is still frowning at him, so he grins in the dark and says, "Hey, you sounded like you had a plan going there, fearless leader?"
Malcolm sighs. "I just… Well, I suppose that if we're going to escape, it'll have to be soon. You saw how many woke up this morning. If they're anything like us, all it will take is a little pain to wake them again. Who knows? We may even be able to wake up more than that – either way, there would be too many for all the guards to subdue, and if we can start a riot and then stay in the middle, we may be able to get out of that corridor without anyone noticing us. From there, well…"
"We'll have to wing it," Trip finishes with a wry smile.
"I admit it's not much as plans go." A chagrined admission.
"What if everyone tried to get out at once?" Trip asks. "They couldn't contain that many people, like you said, and wouldn't we be safer in a group like that?"
"I'd thought of it," says Malcolm. "It's a possibility, but there's too many things that could go wrong: we could easily get separated, or attract a whole army of guards, whereas with just the three of us… well, it would be extremely difficult to evade capture if someone sees us, but with just the three of us, we stand a much better chance of avoiding being seen in the first place." He adds ruefully, "Not to mention the fact that very few people around here are likely to speak English."
Trip's heart sinks momentarily. He would have felt better if they could get more people out. But he can't imagine what will might happen if they're separated; as it is, it'll be difficult to keep a hold of Cauley, who is barely together at the best of times.
"When?" he says.
"Tomorrow. It'll have to be."
"Tomorrow," Trip murmurs, and gently takes hold of Malcolm's hands.
He has good dreams that night.
He doesn't remember them, but they're good.
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