Malcolm never made it as far as Phlox. Once he'd hit the outskirts of the base, he'd been grabbed, handled, and he'd let the process happen, saying as little as possible as he was shuffled from the custody of the MPs to the cell he was currently in. He'd cooperated throughout, knowing the more he did so, the less they'd feel on edge around him, the easier it would be if he chose to run.

His hands gripped the edge of the bed he was sitting on, the metal frame cool against his skin. He noticed his knuckles had gone white, and he tried to relax his hands, to release the tension he could feel across his neck and shoulders, to breathe deeply. When he realized that he was then twisting and untwisting the hem of the scrubs they'd put him in, he stilled his now clean fingers, smoothing out the seam. He could hear the occasional movement of the guard, muffled by the door between them. As far as he could tell, there was only the one guard, and no other prisoners in this area. Small cell, little furniture – the bed, the toilet, a small sink about made up its contents. At least one camera embedded in the ceiling, no doubt feeding a monitor somewhere in the building. Smooth grey walls climbing to a ceiling crisscrossed with pipes. He could probably reach those pipes if he stood on the sink, might be able to string the sheet from the bed around one of them…

"What are you thinking of?" Trip stood by the door, peering down at Malcolm. Trip hadn't been there previously; last Malcolm had heard from him was back in the woods. But Trip's comings and goings no longer surprised him.

"I've been thinking of possible ways to escape," Malcolm said, lifting his eyes back up to the pipes above him, then looking back at Trip.

Trip gazed at him warily. "You know you're not acting like yourself, right?" Trip walked over, sitting beside him on the bed, shoulder touching Malcolm's. "The Malcolm I know would never consider... What I think you're considering."

"I know," Malcolm said. It was this – that Trip was right – that caused a rising sense of panic. He was not okay; this was not okay. "I know something's wrong. I mean, I'm seeing you, and I'm not sure, even beyond that…" He shrugged, trying to seem calm. "I'm not sure how clearly I'm thinking." Which was, as Trip might say, totally freaking him out. He could feel his heart beat in his chest, a flush in his face. Whatever was going on with him, he was not okay.

"You have been doing some odd stuff," Trip said. "Taking off like you did. Thinking I'm dead." Trip turned to him. "You're not yourself right now, Malcolm." Trip glanced at the camera. "You know they're watching, right?"

Malcolm nodded. He was fast, though. He could probably get it done and be gone before they could message the guard in the hall, unlock the door, and get to him.

Trip shifted, turning to face him. "Listen, if you start thinking about…" Trip looked up at the pipes, then back at Malcolm again. "If you start thinking like that, you talk to me first, okay?"

Before Malcolm could think of a reply, there was a clattering at the door, and it opened.

"I'm Doctor Furman," a man said, dragging a chair through the door. American, from the accent. Dark skin, dark hair, white coat – Malcolm could have guessed he was a doctor of some type, and from his outfit, a civilian at that. "I've been asked to see you." The door stayed open behind Furman, the guard beyond it stepping a few metres away, as if to give them some privacy.

"What type of doctor?" Malcolm asked.

"A psych assessment," Trip whispered, nudging his shoulder.

"A psychologist," Furman answered, planting himself on the chair, leaning back, and looking directly at Malcolm. "They tell me you've been talking to someone in here."

Apparently, the doctor wasn't afraid to get right to the point. Malcolm glanced to Trip, then back to Furman. "Can I speak to Doctor Phlox, from my ship?"

Furman seemed to consider this. "That may be possible, once we're done. Who is it you've been speaking to?"

"Tell him," Trip said from beside him.

"I'd rather talk to Phlox," Malcolm said, pointedly ignoring Trip.

Furman shifted in his chair. "Why did you go AWOL?" he asked, taking a different approach.

"It seemed like a good idea at the time," Malcolm shot out before he could stop himself.

"Malcolm, don't be an ass," Trip said, poking him in the shoulder. "Tell him… Actually," he added, seeming thoughtful. "Ask him how long you were gone for."

"A few hours," Malcolm said. "Less than a day."

"You were AWOL for three days, Lieutenant," Furman said, his wrinkled brow finally hinting at his concern.

Malcolm winced, closing his eyes. If this doctor was to be believed, he'd lost time. What the hell had he been doing for three bloody days?

Malcolm felt Trip leave the bed, heard him move away, but Malcolm didn't open his eyes. He needed… something, but that something did not involve seeing Trip standing behind this psychologist bloke, or psychiatrist, or what have you, and having them both go after him.

"You should tell him what's going on." When Malcolm continued to ignore him, Trip said, "You know I can just keep talking until you tell him, don't you? Because you've got to talk to someone about all this, and if it's this Furman guy, then it's this Furman –

"Shh…" Malcolm responded quietly, raising a finger to his lips. He felt a hand touch his knee unexpectedly, and jumped.

Furman was leaning forward, moving his hand away now. "Who's here?"

Malcolm exhaled audibly.

"Who's here?" Furman repeated.

"Tell him," Trip said at the same time.

Oh, for fuck's sake. "Trip," Malcolm said with exasperation. "My friend Trip… Commander Tucker. Who is supposed to be dead but who will just not shut up," Malcolm said with a pointed look at his friend. He looked back to Furman, who had the grace, or the professionalism, to not seem surprised by this admission. "Trip thinks that I've not been acting myself," Malcolm added. "And I reckon he's right."

"In what way?" Furman asked, leaning back in his chair.

"You mean, other than the 'talking to a dead friend' thing?" Trip added with a laugh.

Malcolm looked to Furman. He raised a finger. "Seeing someone who is dead." Then another. "Going AWOL." Then a third. "Thinking of…" he trailed off, unsure of how he wanted to say this, or if he wanted to say it at all.

"Of escape," Trip added quietly.

Malcolm nodded. "That, yes. Escape."

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