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x-x

- Now -

Malcolm watched, shivering, as Polobians and other aliens frantically tried to help the injured. He was sitting on the ground in a makeshift triage centre, leaning back against some hastily stacked containers, one hand holding the bandages that someone, in a rush, had given him to press into his side.

He was so bloody cold. And tired. God, he could barely keep his eyes open, so why even bother? He let them sink shut.

Someone stepped over his legs and he looked up in surprise, blinking rapidly. His head hurt, really hurt, worse than earlier, the pain flowing to take up his entire being, then ebbing away and leaving him spent. The bright sunlight was an agony, so he turned his eyes away.

There were so many people here, a swirl of activity spinning around him as he sat, pressing the bandages into his side. He should probably get up and help, but he felt like he was rooted to the spot. Even the thought of moving was more than he could bear.

A frantic-looking Polobian, arms full of bottles of what looked like water, glanced in his direction and said something. Malcolm could hear the flow and cadence of her speech as it went by him, but he was too tired to respond. He watched as she shook her head, then moved on.

His hearing was starting to return, but he was still having trouble distinguishing sounds - speech, even if he'd had UT, was impossible to understand - but despite the ringing in his ears, he could hear the steady, muffled thump and thunder of artillery fire as shells hit in the near distance. That much he could hear.

Oddly enough, his side felt all right. Actually, he couldn't really feel it at all. He looked down at his injury, trying to use his eyes to tell him what he couldn't feel. He saw blood slowly coming through the fabric bunched in his hand. His hand was shaking. He looked away, up again at the masses around him.

So many others here were far worse off than he. And still there was no sign of Trip. Turning his head slowly and squinting against the sunlight, he could see people going through the rubble of the restaurant courtyard where they'd been. He should be over there, helping them, but he couldn't quite get himself to stir.

So damn cold. It had been such a warm day. Maybe he was in shock. A small laugh escaped him. Had to be that, because his only other option was that the cold he was feeling was due to blood loss, and then he'd really be in trouble.

He let his head fall back against the crates and stared at the sky, still so perfectly blue.

x-x

When Malcolm opened his eyes it was to twilight. The darkening sky was lit by fires. Their light blocked out the stars and cast a sickly glow over the plaza.

He was lying on the ground, and someone had placed a coat over him. He pulled it in closer against the chill, his teeth actually chattering. He hadn't felt this cold, this absolutely frozen since the incident in the shuttlepod with Trip during their first year out.

Turning his head slowly, afraid to reawaken the headache, he looked over to where he'd been sitting with Trip. The restaurant was just a pile of rubble. He'd probably survived because he'd been in the outdoor café. He doubted that anyone inside the structure had made it out.

Trip had gone inside.

Malcolm forced his thoughts away from that, instead trying to figure out how much time had passed since the blast. He was unsure. Enough so that he was stiff from sleeping on the ground; enough so that there was less activity now, although there were still people walking about, helping the injured and sick; enough so that there was no longer anyone working over the rubble that had been the restaurant.

They'd either given up on finding survivors, or all the survivors had already been brought out. But if Trip had been found, someone would have notified him. After all, when compared to the Polobians, who were all deep red skin and dark hair, Malcolm and Trip were obviously of the same species.

Malcolm grabbed the ankle of a passing Polobian, almost tripping the man in his haste. Apologising despite the fact that he knew that the Polobians didn't have mechanical translators, Malcolm pointed a frantic hand towards the rubble that was the restaurant, then raised his brows in a question.

The Polobian squatted beside him, frowning. He said something that Malcolm didn't catch, then shook his head sadly. He pointed his hand to Malcolm, then held up one finger. He shook his head again, then he said one of the few local words that Malcolm had learnt, "No."

Malcolm nodded and turned away. He didn't need full hearing, or knowledge of the language, to understand. He'd been the only survivor from the restaurant. Everyone else had died. He stared at the smoke, rising orange and grey into the darkened sky.

All those people, dead, and Trip among them.

Dead. He mulled over the word, considering it. He didn't feel anything. He should feel something, right? But all he felt was numb. Cold, inside and out.

Malcolm shifted the coat, his hand shaking, and saw that someone had properly bandaged his side. There was an edge of a bruise forming around the lump that was the injury, and now it hurt, a low painful throbbing. And with each breath, there was a slight but growing wet feeling in his chest, a pressure, as if someone had set a weight upon him.

He felt a small smart in the crook of his arm and pushed up the sleeve of his jumper, revealing a small pinprick and bruise. Needles, right: primitive but effective. His headache had lessened, so someone had probably given him some painkillers. He knew that there was no way that a Polobian medic, if the person even was a medic, would have had any knowledge of how a drug might affect him. He found he didn't care.

He pulled the coat around him again and noticed his hand, darkened by blood. His blood. He flexed his hand and pulled it into a tight fist.

There was a commotion as a vehicle moved into his field of vision and they started loading patients onto it. It was the first vehicle he'd seen. Another vehicle came just behind the first, then a third. They were probably transporting those with the worst injuries someplace safer and with more of an ability to care for them. Apparently, it had taken them this long to get in here. Things must be really bad out there if infrastructure and communications...

Stupid, stupid, he said to himself, fumbling for his communicator before falling back in disappointment. His trousers had been torn where the pocket had been, and the device was gone.

A group of Polobians came by and one pointed at him, then spoke to the others. She stepped to his side, squatted down and said something. Malcolm could make out the voice, but the words were both beyond his hearing and his understanding of the local language, so he shrugged and said, "Sorry," pointing to his ears.

She nodded and pointed to him, then to one of the waiting vehicles. Two others came to his side and pulled away the coat, then helped him sit. He hissed as the movement jarred his side, and closed his eyes against the sudden pain, trying to even out his breathing as they helped him stand. They began a slow shuffle towards the waiting vehicle.

Malcolm kept his focus inward and on his breathing, trying to ward off the pain, walking blind. He could smell the exhaust, feel the heat of the engine as they reached the vehicle. As he let himself be settled into a seat he couldn't help but gasp, but he stifled it quickly, eyes still closed. He felt a hand pat his shoulder and move away. A moment later, someone was again by his side and pushing his sleeve up. He felt something cool, and then a prick as a needle entered his arm, and pressure as the drug was released into his system.

Others were settled in beside him, behind his seat, the vehicle rocking with each new passenger. Opening his eyes, he realised that he was sitting at the rear, facing the back window. Directly in front of him was the rubble where Trip was buried.

As the vehicle pulled away, he watched the wreckage get smaller and smaller. He watched until he couldn't actually see it at all. He kept watching.

x-x

Malcolm sat up carefully, each move slow and deliberate. He made sure not to dislodge the blanket that had been given to him when he'd arrived, moving so that it remained on his shoulders. The pain had faded again, a dull roar rather than the sharpness of earlier, but he was still so damn cold. If the blanket slid away, he wasn't sure he had the strength to grab it again.

Taking a controlled breath against the pressure in his chest, he pushed himself fully upright on the cot and looked around the large, dim room. The hospital's power supply had obviously been affected by the attack, and the only light came from lanterns propped on various surfaces.

There were so many other people there, Polobian and alien, all crammed into a space that looked as if it normally was a cafeteria of some sort. There were people lying on cots, sitting on chairs, even sitting on the floor along one of the walls. He could see a stack of trays that had been shoved off to the side, obviously in haste when the room had been transformed into a waiting area.

He had arrived at hospital to find it in a flurry of activity, with too many patients overwhelming doctors who were obviously not used to dealing with so much at once. He could see the fear in some of the staff's eyes, and he could tell that they'd never before experienced an attack of this sort. But he hadn't seen evidence of new bombings since the initial ones. They were being given a respite, however brief.

He'd watched as the most seriously injured had been treated first, then moved elsewhere within the building. Now he was left with those who, like himself, had apparently been deemed able to wait.

The door across the room opened and admitted another person, who limped to the counter that had been set up as an admit station. Malcolm checked his face, then looked away. He had scanned the face of each incoming patient, hoping against hope that one would be Trip. None had.

The lights around him flared with a hiss, and a monitor in the far corner of the room flickered to life in a burst of sound. Malcolm felt his gaze drawn to it along with those of everyone else in the room, which had suddenly gone still.

The monitor was broadcasting pictures of the city. Although he couldn't understand the voiceover, the images were all he needed to understand the extent of the destruction. This had been a major attack.

There were people, Polobian and alien, scrabbling through wreckage, helping the trapped and injured. The imagery jumped to a series of stills of Polobians, then aliens. After a moment, Malcolm realised that they were showing photographs of people who were missing. There were so many. He watched, mesmerised by the flow. His trance was broken when he saw Trip's face flash by, then his own.

The screen cut to Captain Archer, speaking to reporters gathered around him. Although the universal translator was converting his speech into the local language, Malcolm found that if he focused, he could just make out some of the English words underneath.

"...help in the rescue attempts..." Archer said, his face clearly anguished. "...own crewmen missing...blasts, presumed dead..." The film cut to an interview with another alien, and Malcolm tuned it out.

Enterprise thought he was dead. The cold flowed over his cheeks and his chest, and he frowned.

He was so calm. Perhaps he was in shock? He supposed it didn't matter.

Turning away from the monitor, he instead stared down at his hand. Much of the dried blood had gone, worn away, but it was still encrusted around the edges of his nails and in the folds and pores of his skin. He'd love to have the chance to wash his hands, perhaps even shower.

Looking up, he saw a water fountain across the room and he realised just how thirsty he was. Hands to the edge of the cot, he slowly pushed himself to standing.

His heartbeat filled his ears. The light faded and in a rush, the floor came up to meet him.

x-x

Malcolm's eyes fluttered open and he stared off at nothing. There was a steady, muted bleeping somewhere nearby, and the lights were dim.

Cold, he was so cold, and sore, his side especially, and his head. Thirsty, too. Hadn't he...?

He pushed himself to sitting and floated there for a moment, waiting for his head to clear. It didn't, so he went ahead and slid off the edge of the bed, his bare feet making contact with the smooth, cold floor. He stared at his hands, clean now, then rubbed his bare arms. His own clothes were gone and he was dressed in some sort of trousers and short-sleeved shirt. He felt the chill creeping up from his feet, filling him, making him even colder.

He looked up and only then realised that he was swaying, the rows and rows of patients, their blankets glowing white against the dimness of the room, undulating before him. Each person had a monitor beside them. The room was absolutely silent.

Dead, they were all dead. Like Trip.

A medic came to his side and he heard her voice through the fog, soft words seeming purposefully calm as she returned him to bed.

He let her lay him down and bustle over him, checking his bandages, his monitors. It didn't matter what she did.

He was fairly certain that, like the others, he was dead.

x-x

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