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x-x
Before
Trip opened his eyes to see the floor of the shuttle above him and he lay still for a moment, assessing his injuries. He groaned and, realising that he probably wasn't hurt but for bumps and bruises, tried to move, but the debris over him prevented it. Freeing his arm, he pushed a box and some metal sheeting off his body, releasing himself, and he stood slowly. He stumbled, then straightened, steadying himself with a hand against the wall.
"Malcolm?" he called, his voice hoarse. Hearing no response, he looked around and saw Malcolm's hair sticking out of some debris at the far end of the shuttle. "Shit," He muttered and, limping slightly, started moving debris out of his way. Reaching his friend, he knelt and started pulling away the rubble. He checked Malcolm's pulse and breathing. "Okay," he sighed, taking in the cuts on the other man's face, and several red marks that looked like they would bruise. Otherwise, he couldn't see any injuries, and he let out a breath he didn't realise he'd been holding, relieved.
Trip looked around for the aid kit, smiling slightly when he saw that it was still on the wall above him, where it should be. He grabbed it and pulled out the smelling salts – old fashioned, but effective. He cracked them open and waved them under Malcolm's nose.
Malcolm shot awake and tried to move, hissing in pain as his eyes slammed shut.
"What?" Trip asked, alarmed.
"My back," Malcolm replied, his voice low, his eyes still closed.
Trip carefully slid his hand behind Malcolm's back, feeling wetness there. He moved it until he came up against something solid and cold, metal, maybe, a support pole or something, that was thrust into the right side of Malcolm's back. This was bad, he thought. Bad, bad, bad.
Trip removed his hand cautiously, wiping the blood onto his trousers unconsciously. "Um, I don't want to move you," he said, trying to keep his voice calm.
Malcolm lay there, his breath harsh, his eyes still closed. After a second, Trip saw his brow wrinkle, and his eyes opened. Frowning, he said one word. "Smoke."
As soon as he heard the word, Trip realised that he smelled it as well. He turned to see smoke coming from the front of the shuttle, and then a sudden burst of flame. "Oh, no, no," he said loudly as he strode to the front, pulling the fire extinguisher off the wall as he walked, still limping slightly.
He tried to put the fire out as the cabin began filling with thick, acrid smoke, the blackness swirling and spinning in front of him, curling along the surface above his head and sinking faster than he would have thought possible. Stumbling back, unable to stop the flames, he bent down below the smoke and made a quick retreat, coughing as he returned to Malcolm's side. "We have to get you out of here," he said nervously as he knelt down. "Um, I'm going to have to push you forward, away from…"
Malcolm nodded and closed his eyes, bracing himself.
Trip placed his arms behind Malcolm's back, sliding them in, one above the metal pole, the other below it. "On three," he whispered. "One, two, three…" Trip pushed, sliding Malcolm's body away from the pole. Malcolm hissed in pain, but moved a bit, just enough to slide away from pole and slump forward. Trip glanced at the wound, at the blood dripping off of the pole, before he pulled Malcolm up, triggered the door, and stepped out.
Trip dropped Malcolm onto the grass several metres away from the smoking shuttle. Not taking time to look around him, he rushed back into the shuttle, forcing himself through the black smoke and the heat. Unable to see, he scrabbled for the aid kit and pushed himself back out.
Trip dropped down next to Malcolm, glancing over to see his friend crumpled there, unconscious, his shirt torn where the pole had gone through, the wound on his back bleeding freely. As the shuttle burned nearby, smoke roiling from the open doorway, Trip rifled through the tiny aid kit, pulling out bandages, which he thrust against Malcolm's back. Holding them there with one hand, he tugged out his communicator and triggered it. Nothing.
x-x
NowTrip watched as a new group of internees entered this area of the camp. Every day, there was a new group. He slumped onto the ground beside Malcolm, sliding a bowl in front of him as he began eating from his own. When he noticed that Malcolm made no move to start, he reached over and jostled the bowl with one word, "Eat."
As Malcolm picked up the bowl, Trip watched the new captives get into line, and he remembered their own arrival at the camp, the smells of the fresh air and the grass almost overwhelming after the long hours enclosed in the crowded transport. Then the flurry and panic as the injured, young and ill were separated from the rest of the group, and he assumed…well, he assumed that they'd been killed.
Trip and Malcolm were lucky; they looked strong, although Malcolm was injured, but hiding it well. The guards didn't check too closely, and Trip had given Malcolm his jacket to cover the blood on his uniform.
Trip glanced over to where Malcolm was sitting listlessly, his eyes fixed on some distant point, the empty bowl in his hand. Trip shook his head.
When they arrived, everything they had: their aid kit, the communicator and translator, even their clothes, was thrown into a huge pile by the entrance. Trip supposed that the items were sorted later, or maybe burned.
So from that point on, they hadn't been able to comprehend any of the conversations going on around them, although they understood what was going on as they were deloused, showered, and given new clothes. And they certainly understood when one of the guards burned an identification symbol onto each of their forearms.
Trip watched as the new prisoners shambled forward, pulling his eyes away only when the guards signalled them to get up and start working again.
x-x
Trip stood for a second, leaning on his hammer. He almost laughed, at what he wasn't sure, but he caught himself just before it could burst out of his mouth.
Malcolm glanced up at him with a question on his face. Trip smiled slightly and shook his head, then lifted the hammer again.
This place was driving him nuts, and not slowly, either. They'd been there only a few days, or a week, maybe, and already he was going numb, dissociating from what was really going on here. He struck the fastener in front of him. Genocide. He struck it again. Holocaust. There were literally thousands of people here, more every day, all being worked to death, and for what? For being Czarna, which somehow made them different, less worthy. He slammed the tie again. Less human. He stopped, almost laughing again. Not human exactly, he thought. Looking around at the other people toiling beside him, he thought, Well, close enough.
He was sick of this place. Sick of sleeping outdoors, with barely any shelter on these brutal plains. Sick of trudging over the undulating hills, pushing through grass up to his knees.
He was sick of the cold, especially at night with the wind howling across plains with no trees for windbreaks, only scrub brush. That first night, it was all they could do just to cuddle up against each other, too late to try to build something. But he was warm right now, the work made him hot.
He was sick of the work. It was physical, and hard. He paused for a second, staring down at the track they were building. A track to eternity, in both directions, and there was nothing else to see; no buildings, no people other than the internees and the guards, not even animals but for a few birds, or what look like birds, in the sky.
He was getting numb. It was like he wasn't even human any more, just hands, and a back, working.
A guard moved nearby, and Trip started hammering again. Earlier, he'd seen someone fall, too sick or hurt to work, and they'd been taken away. Trip had tried to ask the person next to him about it, but he didn't speak the language, of course. But that person understood, indicating what would happen to the sick person with a simple shake of his head. That ill person wouldn't come back.
Trip glanced down to see Malcolm struggling, trying to get the next tie ready. He was tired, hurt, and still feverish.
Malcolm bent down and Trip could see blood and something else weeping out from under the jacket, soaking the edge of his pants. Trip shook his head, and kept working.
x-x
Trip sat with his back against one of the walls of their shelter, Malcolm sitting in front of him as he checked the other man's wound. He took a bit of water from his dinner cup and used it clean away the worst of the dirt and blood, dabbing gently, knowing from Malcolm's posture that he was in pain.
"Sorry," Trip murmured as he worked. He could tell that the wound was infected, the skin around it swollen and red, but with no antibiotics, not even anything to properly clean it with…he sighed. He felt useless. Malcolm was sick, feverish. His wound was infected. He was getting sicker, and there was nothing Trip could do to help. Nothing. They needed Enterprise, and sickbay. He turned his face to the sky. Where were they?
Trip tried to pull himself together as he finished bandaging the wound; smiling as best he could as Malcolm moved away.
Malcolm turned to face him, his eyes dull, and he nodded in acknowledgement.
Trip's smile weakened as he saw the look in his friend's eyes: the hurt, the exhaustion completely visible. "Sorry," he said again, his voice just above a whisper.
