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As Malcolm walked up the near-deserted street, he luxuriated in the feel of the warm sun on his back. It was the first time he'd been really, truly warm since he'd gone underground with Malla the day before, and the sense of warmth, plus his hope that Rodos' "connection" had worked, had served to brighten his mood considerably. He certainly felt better than he had just after Rodos' odd ceremony.

He began to hear noise: voices, music, movement. Malla, walking beside him with some others from the group, said, "We're almost there."

They had come outside to attend a make-shift market, where they were hoping to trade goods and services for things needed. Malcolm was attending for - actually, for no reason, really; for the company, perhaps, and the chance to help the group if he could.

As they rounded the corner, he took in the bustle of people, all dressed, like Malla and the others, in old, torn clothing, most rather dirty looking. He cast a glance down at himself. He was still fairly clean - if he stayed longer, he expected that would change. At this point, all it did was mark him as "new". He decided to be cautious.

Stalls had been set up beside the road, running along both sides of a central, grassy median, and the place was packed with people trading. Some of the stalls seemed quite formal affairs, with tents or cloths strung up over tables, while others were as simple as objects strewn on the ground, a shopkeeper sitting beside them. Despite the activity of the market, the people in the vehicles on the road paid them no mind, as if they weren't there at all.

Ah, that's right, thought Malcolm, reminding himself. They probably can't see us. Or don't.

As they moved through the market, brushing past fellow shoppers, it began to rain; a slow drizzle that quickly turned to a downpour. Malla lead the group to a grassy area on the median under a small shelter, although action continued around them despite the rainfall. Malcolm sat on a low wall, listening to Malla and the others discuss the things they'd look for, and what they were willing to trade.

"Malcolm!"

Malcolm stilled, listening carefully. He was sure he heard someone calling his name.

The shout came again. "Malcolm!"

Trip's voice, coming from across the street. Malcolm stood, peering over the heads of the crowd, over the vehicular traffic, and stepped away from the shelter, the rain wetting his hair, his shoulders.

He frowned - Trip wasn't there. Maybe in his hope, he was hearing things, he thought. He continued staring in that direction, the rain now soaking him. He heard a soft voice from his side, Malla asking, "What's wrong?"

He turned to her, shaking his head. "I thought I heard..." His voice caught, and he gasped. Malla was gone, the rain, the market, was gone. Instead, he was standing on the empty median in the middle of a road, vehicular traffic rushing by on both sides. It was sunny, and the sudden brightness made him squint. His head whipped around, taking in his surroundings, then he looked down at himself. His clothing, which had just been clean, was now filthy. He looked at his hands, also filthy.

Suddenly he felt ill, nauseated, the headache he hadn't realised had gone now back in a rush. God, it was...his legs buckled, and he fell to his knees on the grass.

He heard a shout, "Malcolm!" and he looked up, dizzy with the sudden movement. He saw Trip dart across the street towards him, cautious of traffic, but casting worried glances in his direction.

And Malcolm was standing in the market, the rain dripping down his neck, soaking through his tunic. He looked down at himself.

And he was on his knees on the grass, Trip kneeling in front of him, talking to him, his voice low and even. Trip was looking at him intensely, like he was trying to get his attention. Head pounding, squinting against the too-bright sunlight, Malcolm looked down at himself again. He was ragged, dirty, still wearing the clothing he'd been given for the ceremony. He looked up again, into Trip's now-frantic face.

"Where have you been?" Trip asked. "We've been looking all over for you. Even sensors..."

Malcolm shook his head, trying to ward off the confusion. Vehicles were rushing around them, and Trip was saying...something, he'd lost track. And it was too sunny, and he didn't know where he was, or what...he moved his eyes to the ground, trying to focus, to settle himself. He stared at the grass below him, and sank back on his heels to allow his hand to reach it. He plucked a few blades, then realised that Trip was still talking to him, so he looked up. "You didn't recognise me," he said, surprised to hear his voice so raspy.

Trip had stopped speaking when Malcolm began. Then he replied, seeming confused. "When I went through security and turned around for you, you were gone. What happened?"

Malcolm just stared at him.

"We've been looking for you," Trip said. "Where have you been?"

Malcolm shook his head, then winced as the movement worsened his headache. "No, I was there, I...You didn't recognise me. I was no one to you."

"Malcolm, I think you're sick," Trip said carefully, as if he was trying to calm a frightened child.

Malcolm felt a sudden chill, and wrapped his arms around himself for warmth. "I have a headache," he said quietly.

Trip reached out a hand, and Malcolm looked down to see Malla's hand on his arm. He looked at her, shaking as the rain began to chill him. He shook his head, the pain gone. "I think I'm going mad."

"Why?" she answered.

"My friend was just here. I..."

Malcolm felt a tug on his arm, raising him to standing, and the pain was back.

"Who are you talking to?" Trip asked.

Malcolm froze, unable to respond in his fright and confusion.

"Malcolm?" Trip asked, staring into his eyes. "We need to get you to the shuttle, back to Enterprise." He gave Malcolm's arm a gentle tug, but Malcolm remained rooted. Then, in a strong voice, Trip said, "Malcolm, come on."

Malcolm exhaled, suddenly realising that he'd been holding his breath. He stumbled forward, allowing Trip to guide him. "Something's wrong," he whispered.

"I don't think you're nuts," Malla said, the rain streaming in rivulets down her horn. "I think that, maybe, the contact is working."

They were walking, Trip casting frightened looks in his direction. He realised that Trip thought that he'd gone mad, completely barmy. Fabulous, he thought. This is what they meant when they'd said that his life wouldn't be the same. Unable to help himself, he grinned. You can go back, but you come back crazy.

Malcolm looked away from Malla, taking in the activity of the market around them. "Something's wrong."

She leant towards him, and whispered. "You knew that it would be hard, that things will have changed."

He nodded. "I know."

Malcolm found himself in the shuttle, sitting on a bench in the back, his legs pulled up, arms wrapped around them. He was rocking slightly and he realised that he was humming. He tried to place the tune, then laughed, smacking his hand over his mouth to stifle it, but not before Trip, in the copilot's chair, turned back to him with a sharp look.

"Sorry," Malcolm said from under his hand. Unable to help it, he smiled, then laughed again. Then he winced against the headache.

Trip cast a concerned glance at Travis, who was piloting. Then he unstrapped himself and squatted in front of Malcolm. "What are you laughing at?"

"Realised what I was singing," Malcolm said. He hummed, then started the song, his voice showing more enthusiasm than art. "Cures you whisper make no sense, drift gently into mental illness." He looked at Trip, smiling broadly. "Appropriate, yes?"

Malla leant in and kissed his cheek. "Be careful," she whispered.

Trip was beside him on the bench. When had Trip moved? His friend said something.

"Hmm? Sorry?" Malcolm said, disoriented, closing his eyes against the pain.

"What are you seeing?"

"No one, nothing," he replied, not really able to focus on what Trip was saying. "I have a headache."

Trip reached over and, very gently, began to rub the back of Malcolm's neck. Malcolm sank into the touch, drifting. He was so tired, and his head hurt so much.

"I keep seeing things," he whispered, not entirely sure if he was referring to Malla, or to Trip.

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