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Infirmary. He was in the infirmary, he could tell this from the soft conversations around him, half caught whispers of injuries and illnesses. Malcolm opened his eyes a crack, only to close them immediately against the brightness. Everything lately was too bright and brittle, and God, he was too. He felt... Drugged for sure, he could tell that much. And he felt like complete and total pants - everything ached. He tried to move and a wave of dizziness almost took him, so he stilled. He was strapped down and had some sort of collar immobilising his neck.
This had been a spectacularly bad idea.
He could have killed himself. He'd taken a calculated risk, which easily could have become a suicidal one. He'd been banking on the fact that they'd probably be watching, or at least would have checked on his cell due to Trip's shouting. He'd been relying on the idea that they'd get him down quickly.
Malcolm heard people talking nearby, and he become conscious of the fact that they were talking about him. Something about his hand, and how that should have signalled...he missed the rest, then caught "...incident in the hallway..." He heard someone say something about an evaluation, and someone else mentioned the psych ward.
It had been a spectacularly bad idea, but it had worked. He let himself sleep.
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Malcolm placed both hands along the rim of the sink and stared at himself in the mirror above it. This was the first time since he'd entered prison - who knows how long, maybe weeks, now - but this was the first time he'd seen his reflection. The man looking back at him looked familiar, but...Malcolm ran a gentle finger along the bruises, a livid band around his neck. Ligature marks, and under his eyes more bruises where he'd broken blood vessels, and red marks across his cheeks. Finally, he met his own eyes, red rimmed and still slightly too bright.
A surge of anger hit and he lifted a fist in a sudden rush. Then, slowing his movements, he pushed his fist towards the mirror. He stopped the motion just before he hit the glass, instead placing his palm against the smooth, cool surface. He lowered his hand back to the edge of the basin, and let his head hang down.
His emotions had been off lately. Perhaps it was the drugs, or something else, but he felt wrong, somehow. But at least he was in the asylum.
He'd left Trip back there. Perhaps worse, he'd let him think...but he couldn't do this if Trip knew. It was his job as a security officer, and his responsibility as a friend, to protect Trip. He knew that the guards would probably question Trip, so he couldn't know the truth. He could suspect it - he a smart man - but not know for certain. Trip was good at a lot of things, but lying wasn't one of them.
But it wasn't just that. It wasn't just protecting him from the guards. It was also protecting him from all this.
Malcolm's head flashed up and he stared into his own eyes. The glass cracked in front of him, pulling his image into shards.
In surprise, he saw his own hand at the impact point, his eyes reflected around it hundreds of times and staring back at him. He pulled away in shock just as the orderlies came rushing in.
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Malcolm sat at a table in the common room, ignoring the conversations flowing around him.
He was trying not to talk. His throat hurt too much, although the docs had said there would be no permanent damage. And his voice wasn't quite his own right now.
It was better to speak as little as possible anyway, as that made it easier to keep up the persona and give less away. He'd been here, in the asylum, for a few days, maybe. He wasn't quite sure of how long. He'd lost track when he'd spent the first days coming down off whatever meds they'd initially dosed him with. Today was the first day that he'd felt clear of the worst of their effects, and even now he wasn't sure he was actually feeling normal. He pushed those thoughts aside and instead focused on the business at hand.
Speaking of "hand", he thought as a smile crept over his face. He looked down at his injured hand, newly bandaged after the incident with the mirror. He still wasn't sure what, actually, had happened that day. He laughed aloud, and one of the patients across the room stared at him. Malcolm looked away.
First day clear enough, anyway. He'd spent it observing the movements and schedules of the techs, doctors, orderlies and other patients; the deliveries of medical supplies and food; slowly trying to piece together the patterns. He hadn't had the freedom to explore yet, as he was still under fairly constant observation. Still, he was allowed out of his room and into this common room, and to and from the doctor's offices, so he was starting to get a fairly clear picture of the layout. As he'd suspected, patients here were allowed significantly more freedom of movement than the prisoners in the general population. He was certain that he could use that to his advantage.
But whatever he decided to do, he knew that he needed to get it done quickly. There was a doctor...
In fact, he'd just come from that doctor's office. He could already tell that she was going to be a problem. She seemed just a bit too observant, and she was asking all the right questions. Malcolm was playing up the "not speaking" thing, so it was easy enough right now not to answer, but that probably wouldn't last forever. That, plus the fact that Trip was alone in prison, and Enterprise wouldn't wait forever...God, they could be gone now. What were the odds on Enterprise still being there?
He shook his head, trying to eliminate his mental doubts with the physical motion. He couldn't think that they were gone. He couldn't...he just...Malcolm felt the anxiety building so he stood, his chair falling in a clatter as he pushed away from the table. Then the eyes of everyone in the room were on him, and that was worse, so he turned away. There had to be somewhere...his eyes searched the room, desperate for escape, for peace, for a place where he could be alone to think. He could feel his breath heavy in his chest and he cradled his injured hand as he started to move toward the far door.
He felt a hand on his arm and he pulled away violently. An orderly, it was one of the orderlies and then there were more of them. He cringed as he felt their hands on him but he just, just managed to restrain himself from striking out as they lead him out of the room, a man at each elbow. He could feel the eyes of the other prisoners on him as he left.
Malcolm tried to gain control of his breathing. He needed to focus on getting away from here, and quickly. If Enterprise was there or wasn't there didn't matter. He could figure out what to do next once they got to that point.
The orderlies lead him to his room. One had him sit on the bed while the other paged the doctors, one wary eye constantly on Malcolm. Malcolm sat there, trying to look calm, but he knew that his efforts were probably failing. He could feel the trembling, his hands shaking, and he knew that he wasn't quite himself. This wasn't him.
A doctor entered the room, and Malcolm instantly recognised the injection device that he was carrying. "No," Malcolm tried to say, but his voice failed him. He tried to back away, but the orderlies were beside him again, and then he felt the sting as the medication was injected into his upper arm.
Malcolm froze there for a moment. It was as if he could feel the drug snaking through his system, leaving oily traces wherever it touched. That was...that was really nice, actually. He let his head loll back and stared up at the ceiling. Each tile had such an interesting pattern. Why hadn't he ever noticed that before?
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