Star Trek's 40th anniversary. Whoo-hoo!

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Malcolm slipped the knife into Trip's arm and glanced at Hoshi, smiling at her look of horror and revulsion. Just beyond her shoulder, he noticed a slight rustling in the brush, and someone stood. It was a reflection of himself, and he locked eyes with it, enjoying the horror there as he slid the knife down and out of Trip's flesh. Eyes still on his mirror-self, he approached Hoshi...

Malcolm woke with a door in front of him. He blinked in confusion. He'd just been in bed in his quarters, and now he was...where was he?

His vision cleared and he realised that was standing in front of someone's room. Hoshi's. Hoshi's quarters, and he could feel the tension radiating through his body, his breath coming fast and harsh to his ears.

His hand hurt, and he looked down at it, dazed. It was red, and there was warmth... the only warm thing about him. He was bloody near freezing. Lowering his gaze further, he realised that he was clad only in pyjamas.

Something warm hit the top of his bare foot and he looked down. Another drop fell, this one hitting the floor beside him. Blood.

He looked again at his hand and realised that his palm was wrapped around a knife blade, fingers clenched so tightly they were white with the pressure. He recognised the knife - it was the one his father had given him for his thirteenth birthday, which he'd kept hidden at the bottom of his footlocker. He opened his hand and let the blade drop. Head sinking down, he put a bloody hand to the wall beside Hoshi's door. Good lord, what was he doing here? He'd come here with a knife, and he didn't remember...

He remembered the dream and his stomach dropped.

He'd been trying to kill Hoshi. He'd already hurt Trip, and he'd been... What kind of a monster...

Heart in his throat, he turned and ran.

Malcolm raced down the corridor, mostly empty for night shift, not caring if people saw him. His bare feet pounded the deck plating. Nothing made sense. He felt like it used to - hell, he remembered that it did, but something had changed, and he wasn't entirely sure what. He just knew he couldn't stay here. He was clearly a danger to others. To Hoshi. Maybe to Trip.

He couldn't remember if he had already gone to Trip's quarters. He didn't want to know. He remembered sticking the knife into Trip's arm, drawing it down. Enjoying it, enjoying his screams. Knowing that Hoshi was next... He shook his head to rid himself of the imagery.

Entering the launch bay, he crouched on the deck beside the door, checking for anyone in the room. It was still and silent around him, the bay almost empty of equipment - there must be a team on a mission, which meant that attention would be on mission control, not this launch bay.

He placed a hand on the plating below him, cool to the touch, his blood smearing there as he pushed off and ran for the lone shuttle in the bay.

Leaping into the ship, he slid into the pilot's seat and readied for take off, ignoring the steady stream of doubts and incriminations in his head. Triggering lift-off, he heard a voice across the ship's comm.

Malcolm reached out with an unsteady hand and shut it off. Eyes to the stars, he made his escape.

x-x

NOW

Malcolm stood outside the door of the shelter, running through the reasons why he should leave, rather than going in. He wasn't homeless. Well, technically he was. But he could take care of himself. He rolled his eyes. Yeah, that'd been working quite well lately, thank you.

He'd had a time of it, even getting to this planet. After leaving Enterprise, he'd left the shuttle on the first planet he reached, setting its beacon so Enterprise could find it. Taking only what simple items he could carry in one of the shuttle's packs, he hitched a ride to the next system, trading one of the blankets he'd taken for a pair of boots. Then on to the next, trading additional trinkets until he'd finally reached The Shade Planet, supplies exhausted.

He lifted a hand to the door and laid his palm flat against its surface. End of the road.

It was the smell of the coffee that finally did him in, and he pulled open the door to a burst of warmth, light and noise.

Malcolm stood just inside the door of the... well, he supposed it was a cafeteria of some sort. There was a series of long tables filling the room, each one crowded with people eating and talking. Too many people for his taste, in too enclosed a space. A man brushed against him as he passed, and Malcolm, tension escalating, almost turned and left.

Then he smelled the food.

The counter along the far wall was piled with plates and trays full of various unidentifiable foodstuffs, and Malcolm's feet took him there before he could even think. Avoiding all eyes, he took a plate and piled it high with unidentifiable things that he thought were probably breads, despite their deep purple colour, as well as something yellowish that reminded him of potato. He poured a mug of something that wasn't-quite-coffee.

He sat at the table closest to him, avoiding the gazes of the others already there. As the table fell silent around him, he put his plate down and lifted the mug to his mouth, the cup shaking slightly in his hands. He took a sniff, then a sip. The hot liquid tasted of bitter and dark, warming him from the inside out. Mug to the table, he ripped off a bit of the bread and ate it. He closed his eyes at the sensation as he chewed, then swallowed. It could be the worst bread in the world, but bloody hell, that was good. Eyes to his plate, he took another piece, careful to go slowly.

Grasping his cup to take another sip, he felt, rather than saw, someone sit beside him. Malcolm glanced at him, then away. It was the man who'd invited him here: Dzohn. Malcolm tried to ignore the presence, but he could feel eyes on him so he finally turned, eyebrow raised.

"Same deal, every night," Dzohn said, voice pitched low. "All you need to do is show up and eat." He nodded toward one of the doors leading off the room. "You don't have to stay here if you don't want to, but you're more than welcome. Bunk's through there." He glanced at Malcolm's bandaged hand, still clenched around the cup. "We have a medic, clean that up at least."

With that, the man stood and left without a backward glance.

x-x

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