Thanks so much for your comments and reviews.

x-x

Malcolm stared at the door leading to the sleeping quarters, where the medic's station probably was. He felt like he'd been staring at a lot of doors lately, and supposed that there was some grand metaphor behind all that, but he could be arsed to bother with the analysis.

He should probably just leave, but Dzohn had made a good point: he should at least get his hand treated. It would be better to get it checked here than let it get infected and end up in hospital. Or worse. And Dzohn had promised there would be no questions.

So he pushed open the door and stepped through. Asking the first person he saw where the medic was, he was pointed to a nearby open door.

When he entered the small room, the lone person inside looked up from a device on her desk and nodded in acknowledgement. "Have a seat," she said, her eyes already back on her work as he settled into the chair beside her desk. She tapped a few keys, and ran a hand through dark hair. "There," she said. "That'll run for a while." She gave him a small smile. "What can I help you with?"

He lifted his bandaged hand and, before he could even say a word, she was already bustling over it, peeling back the grubby bandage with an empathic hiss. Malcolm looked at the swollen palm, turning away and ignoring the pain as she did her work.

She cleaned it carefully and sealed a bandage over the injury. Catching his eye, she said, "I'd like to give you an injection against the infection. Are you allergic to anything?"

Malcolm shook his head, and she answered with a quick jab to his palm.

Eyes still on her task, she said, "Can I ask your name?" When Malcolm didn't answer, she looked up. "It's all right if you don't want to tell me. It just makes it easier, if I have something I can call you."

Malcolm hadn't been there long enough to know what was and wasn't a common male name. "What name do you like?" he asked.

She studied him for a moment. "Dusan." She began putting the bandages and other materials away. "It means 'spirit'." Finishing her work, she looked up at him, her smile lighting her brown eyes. "I'm Ryba, which means nothing so nice."

Malcolm ran through the translations in his head. "Fish?" he finally asked, surprised.

Ryba put on a mock-offended air. "It's a very common name." The device on her desk gave a sharp 'chirp', and Ryba glanced down at it. "I have to take this."

Malcolm stood. Just as he was about to leave, he heard Ryba's voice. "Dusan." He turned back to her and saw her typing into the device in her hand. Attention focused there, she said, "There are showers..." and she waved her free hand to the right.

He nodded even though she wasn't looking at him, and he could feel himself blushing as he left the room. He was probably pretty rank, no doubt. He was certainly filthy. And the very idea of a shower...

x-x

Malcolm let the water wash over him, glorying in the sensation. It'd been days - no, longer. Probably since Enterprise since he'd had a water-shower, and since... maybe a week since he'd used the sonic shower on that tramp steamer. He ran hands through his wet hair, pushing it back from his face as water streamed down and steam came up to meet him.

It was a small cubicle, just big enough for one person, the frosted glass sides offering some measure of privacy in the large public washroom. Hearing a click over the thrum of the water, he realised that his clothes were done. Following the pictographs on the wall, he'd put his clothing, jacket and all, into the little device outside the shower area that somehow magically cleaned the fabric without need of water or any obvious soap he'd been able to identify. Trip'd probably love it.

His hands froze at the thought of Trip. Shaking his head, he stepped from the shower and it shut off behind him. He felt a soft 'puff', and jets of air hit his body, surrounding him in warmth as they dried him, driving away his thoughts of Trip, and Enterprise, and home.

Dead on his feet, he slowly slid back into his clothing. It was late, and he was in no real hurry: he had no place to go. Sinking onto a bench with boots in hand, he leaned back against the wall and stared at nothing, letting his eyes unfocus. He'd leave in a moment; he just needed a minute.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed before he heard someone step beside him. A soft voice said, "Number seven's available," and he felt a hand at his elbow, helping him up. Stumbling forward, he found himself sinking down onto a mattress, footwear still in hand. Putting the boots between the pillow and wall for safe-keeping, he pulled up the blanket and let himself go.

x-x

Malcolm woke in bed with blankets twisted around him. Heart thrumming, sweat cooling on his skin, he knew he had dreamt, but the images were already fading.

His eyes snapped open when he heard movement nearby. It took a panicked moment for him to get his bearings. The shelter. He didn't remember falling asleep. He had no idea of how he'd ended up in this bed.

Taking in the soft grey light filtering through the windows on the far wall, he realised that he'd slept through until morning.

Pushing away the blankets, he sat and pulled on his boots, consciously avoiding the glances from the men around him. The room was fairly large, several rows of bunks taking up most of the space, most of them filled with men, like him, who were in the process of waking. Most of whom, for some unknowable reason, kept throwing glances his way. It was making him edgy. Well, technically edgier, because he could still feel the tension of the nightmares thrumming through his body.

Heading for the bathroom, he felt a hand on his arm and pulled away roughly. He'd already taken a couple of steps backwards, hands raised in aggression or defence, before he realised that it was the medic from the night before. Ryba.

"Dusan, it's just me," she said quickly, eyes wide with alarm.

Malcolm winced. "Sorry." He rubbed a rough hand over his face, trying to wipe away the night.

"Are you all right?" she asked, frowning, her eyes frankly evaluating his condition. "One of the men said that you were yelling."

Malcolm nodded, realising the reason why the others had been staring at him. "Yes, it was..." He paused a moment and shrugged. "Dreams."

At least he didn't remember the dream, for which he was grateful. But there was no way he could spend another night here. The last thing he wanted to do was call notice to himself, and if he was the one disturbing the others' sleep, he would become known. That was not what he wanted.

"We offer counselling," Ryba said, but Malcolm shook his head.

They stood in silence for a moment, Malcolm refusing to say more, to give more of himself away. She already knew enough - too much. It was time for him to leave.

"All right," Ryba finally said. "But..."

Shaking his head again, Malcolm walked away. That's all he needed - someone trying to mess with his head. It was already messed up enough. And he certainly didn't want people to get to know him; not even people like Ryba and Dzohn, who seemed to have no ulterior motive. After all, the more traces he left, the more likely it was he'd be found by Enterprise.

Entering the washroom, he faced himself in the mirror above one of the sinks. Perhaps having Enterprise find him wouldn't be so bad. He certainly was not afraid to face justice. It was only right he be punished for what he'd done. His brow creased. What he thought he'd done.

He turned on the tap and splashed his face with water.

At this point he was AWOL, a deserter as well as a traitor. He'd end up in the brig at first, and later, most likely, prison. So long as they kept him locked up, Hoshi and Trip would be safe. Perhaps he could go back.

Drying his face, he stared into his own eyes. No. They'd already confined him to quarters, and he'd escaped. He smiled coldly. After all, he was the damned security officer. He could get out of his own room quite easily, and the brig to him was not much more secure - after all, he'd practically designed the thing.

There was no way, with him on the ship, that they'd be safe. He could not return.

x-x

Malcolm spent the next day and night on the street. Keeping himself in almost constant motion, he tried to decide what to do next. He'd come to this planet out of a desperate need to get away, to give himself some time alone to think. Now that he was here, he realised that he had absolutely no idea of what he should do.

Hungry and exhausted, he finally settled across the street from that restaurant again, watching patrons as they entered and left. He just needed to rest for a moment before he went over there and... and what? He didn't exactly have working papers, so he couldn't ask for a job. He wasn't quite desperate enough to ask for a hand-out. And he apparently wasn't willing to steal.

Closing his eyes, he pulled his jacket more tightly around him and leaned back against the wall. Now what? He'd traded the last of his goods, so he had no way to leave the planet. The only things he had left to him were his mind and body, and he did believe that his mind was too... too damaged. He wasn't sure that he could trust...

That left his body.

His eyes flashed open. He was shocked that he'd consider what he was considering. On the trip there, some had offered payment for...favours. But he'd refused.

He shut his eyes against the thought. This was not what he'd wanted his life to be. He was so far from where he'd expected; where he'd been only a few weeks ago. How had he ended up here?

x-x

Ach, poor Malcolm!

Please leave a comment and let me know what you think of this so far. Thanks!