Thanks so much for the reviews, everyone! I appreciate every single one of them, and it's great to know that you're along for the ride!
Since it has come up, I thought I'd drop a quick note here that this is not an AU, even though the initial setting may seem so. Thank you for asking!
And now, on to Chapter 2...
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Chapter 2
As they stepped out onto the street adjoining the alley, Trip remained where he was for a moment, not sure whether he wanted to go on. Back in the alley, the unfamiliar surroundings had kindled a feeling that there was something wrong and out here, the feeling intensified in a way that alarmed him.
The street was deserted for the most part, and the only sign of life was the occasional lit window in the buildings that lined it on either side. What caught his eye, however, were the vehicles parked on the sides of the lane. They were wrong, or maybe not wrong, but... there were wheels where he would have expected to see something else, rounded shapes where he expected streamlined contours. For some reason, the vehicles confused him more than anything else had so far.
He glanced at Malcolm and saw that the other man was also staring at the... cars. That was what they were called; another piece of knowledge from the apparently inexhaustible source in his subconscious. Malcolm's expression was blank, but Trip sensed that he did not like what he was seeing. It was an unsettling experience, seeing things and feeling that they should look different, without knowing exactly what was wrong with them. Too close to insanity for his tastes.
"Come on," he said. He didn't want to look at those cars any longer. "We've gotta get goin'."
They didn't, of course; they had nowhere to go. Malcolm said nothing, and quietly turned away from the vehicles, following Trip as he walked down the sidewalk.
They passed several doors with small, fenced-in areas in front of them. Trip guessed that they were supposed to represent front yards, but hardly any of the people living here had gone to the trouble of decorating them. Mostly, they seemed to be used as a place to deposit trashcans and plastic bags. The house fronts matched their shabby appearance; even in the dim light, Trip could see that the plaster was coming off the wall and that several of the windows they passed had no panes and were sealed with pieces of carton or newspaper sheets.
Suddenly, one of the doors several dozen meters ahead opened and a man stepped outside - or rather, was pushed outside. The person who had pushed him screamed a few unintelligible swears at him, then slammed the door shut again. For a few seconds, the man stood swaying in his front yard, then turned around and tottered towards the gate.
"Evenin'," he said to them, leaning heavily against the fence. "Bitch threw me out," he added as a way of explanation. "Fuckin' bitch. Ain't gonna let me back inside. Never does."
Trip only nodded and quickened his pace. He didn't want to talk to the man, and could see that Malcolm didn't either.
"You got somethin' to drink?" the man continued, his bleary eyes taking on a hopeful expression. "Bitch ain't gonna give me nuthin'. Said I'm fucked up enough."
"We haven't got anything," Malcolm said. The man swayed again, then suddenly he started laughing.
"Haven't got anything," he repeated in a poor imitation of Malcolm's accent. "Haven't got anything!"
Trip saw the way Malcolm's lips tightened at the man's drunken mocking, and took the other man's arm.
"Come on," he said. "Let's go."
"Fuckin' Brit!" the man shouted after them, still guffawing. "Go back to Limey Land! Haven't got anything! Fuck off, will ya!"
"What an idiot," Trip said. The lines around Malcolm's mouth softened a little, and Trip was pleased to see it. Suddenly he realized that there was something else he knew about Malcolm, something he had known all along. Malcolm was from England and he spoke with a British accent. And it seemed that wherever they were, it was not Malcolm's home country.
In the meantime, it had started to drizzle, and combined with the cold wind, the raindrops began to feel icy on Trip's face. Vaguely, he remembered another place, warm and sunny, where the temperatures wouldn't drop even in the cold season. It was a place he knew... a good place. Maybe his home.
"I'm American," he said quietly. "But I'm not from here... at least I don't think I am."
Malcolm sighed. "This is crazy. How can I know I'm from England but at the same time not remember what it looks like?"
Trip shook his head. He had no answer to give.
"At least we're together in this," he said, so quietly that he wasn't sure whether Malcolm had caught the words.
"Yeah," Malcolm said. "At least that way I know I'm not crazy. Or maybe I am crazy, and you're part of my hallucinations. Although why my subconscious would choose America of all places I don't know."
Trip chuckled, and understood that this was something Malcolm would do; fire a round of sarcasm when you expected it the least.
"Well, I don't know about you, but I'd say we should find somewhere to spend the night," he said, wrapping his arms around himself when another gust of wind blew the rain in his face. "Gettin' a little chilly out here."
Malcolm nodded. "Maybe tomorrow we can try to find out where we are and what's going on here."
Trip nodded his agreement. He wasn't so much interested in where as in why... why had they woken up in a place neither of them had seen before? Why were there blurred images in his mind that he could not seem to identify, but which were familiar to him all the same? Why could he not remember?
"These clothes," Malcolm said suddenly. "They look like uniforms, don't you think?"
In the faint light of the streetlamps, Trip took a closer look at the blue jumpsuit he was wearing. There were a lot of zippers on its sleeves and front, and a thin red trim lining the shoulder parts. He had a feeling he was wearing some sort of shirt underneath, although it did little good in barring out the cold wind. Suddenly he noticed something on Malcolm's arm and took the other man's wrist.
"Wait a minute."
Malcolm stopped, his eyebrows raised in a mute inquiry. Trip pointed at the... picture on Malcolm's left upper arm.
"Look at that."
They both looked at the round image printed on the sleeve of the jumpsuit. It was a picture of some sort of spacecraft in front of a dark sky, highlighted on its left side as if to depict a reflection of starlight. The small image was framed by a circle with a word written in black letters on the white background.
"Enterprise," Trip read aloud. The word sounded almost cruelly familiar, as if it were something he should know like his own name. "Do you think it's some sort of name?"
Malcolm regarded the matching picture on Trip's overall. "I don't know," he said slowly. "Maybe it's some sort of organization. " He let out an angry sigh. "I know the word," he said. "I know it's supposed to mean something. I just don't know what."
Trip nodded. "Yeah. I..." He trailed off, not sure how to put his feelings into words. "Maybe something... happened to us. Some sort of accident. Maybe that's why we can't remember who we are, or why we're here."
"Maybe," Malcolm answered softly. It was all he said, but Trip could see that the idea scared him.
"Let's try and find someplace to spend the night," he said after a short, awkward pause. "It's gettin' really cold."
Malcolm nodded. "Enterprise," he said then, slowly, almost as if he expected the word to trigger something in his mind. It obviously didn't work, as a second later he shook his head and sighed. "What a load of bollocks."
For some reason, this made Trip laugh. He chuckled, earning a "are-you-feeling-quite-all-right" look from Malcolm.
"What?" he wanted to know when Trip only shook his head. "What's so funny?"
"Nothin'," Trip said. Hearing someone swear in a distinguished accent like Malcolm's was funny, but it was not why he had laughed. Maybe it was because "bollocks" seemed to describe their situation so aptly.
"I guess you would say bullshit." Malcolm deliberately drawled the words. "Whatta load o' bullsheet."
Trip grinned. "Gotta work on that accent, Brit."
As he had expected, Malcolm smirked. "I try not to."
The awkwardness of before had passed, and Trip smiled a little as they continued walking down the street. This Malcolm guy was better company than he would have thought at first.
The rain was still blowing their way, and when they had reached the end of the block, the water was beginning to seep through Trip's shirt. Burying his hands in his armpits helped only a little, and he felt himself beginning to shiver. Malcolm soldiered on next to him, head bowed and arms wrapped tightly around his upper body, but Trip could see that he, too, was miserably cold. He considered suggesting that they spend the night in a doorway, but then dismissed the idea. If all the inhabitants of this place were as helpful as the drunken man and his wife, they'd get kicked out as soon as they had sat down. The last thing they needed was to get in trouble with the locals.
They walked in silence for a while, crossing several intersecting streets which looked no different than the one they were following; dimly lit, empty, and littered with trash. Once or twice people passed them by, one woman hurrying to the other side of the street as soon as she caught sight of them. Trip supposed that he would have done the same in her place; if the guy who had told Malcolm to go back to Limey Land was representative of the men who lived around here, she was being smart avoiding them. After the third or fourth intersection, they passed a brightly lit building with large windows, apparently some sort of store. It seemed to be open, but no one wanted to shop at this time of the night; the only sign of life were two stray dogs next to the trash receptacles. Through the shop window, Trip could see rows of shelves laden with bread and canned fruit, and a stall with vegetables in wooden boxes. His stomach began to ache dully at the idea of (mashed potatoes? catfish?) food, and he quickly turned his eyes away. They had no money; he and Malcolm had thoroughly checked the pockets of their strange clothing for anything they might be able to use, but there had been nothing. How they would get their next meal, he did not know, but right now there was no use in worrying about it. If they were lucky, the situation would resolve itself before they seriously needed to start thinking about food.
"Look," Malcolm said, pointing at something on the other side of the street. Trip followed his eyes and saw a large warehouse right across the street, an ugly brick front with a broken window at the very top. It was obvious that the building was no longer in use; its roof was leaking and the pavement in front of the entrance littered with empty boxes and crates.
Malcolm sighed. "I guess this is as good as it gets."
Trip nodded. During the last ten minutes or so, the drizzle had slowly turned into a steady rain, and even though the warehouse didn't look very trustworthy, it was better than staying out here. And in there he was fairly sure there would be no one trying to kick them out again.
They crossed the street, and, at Trip's suggestion, picked up a few empty carton boxes to use as bedding. The metal entrance door wasn't locked, and opened with a creak when Malcolm carefully pushed down the handle.
The room - or rather hall - inside was large, dark, and almost as cold as the air outside. Wooden crates were stacked against the wall in one corner, and in another corner someone had put up a construction of crates and blankets that reminded Trip remotely of a tent. Inside the tent, there was a glow as if of candlelight. Malcolm had also noticed the light and took a quick, quiet step forward, as if to shield Trip with his body should the inhabitant of the tent decide to attack them. Trip frowned; he was perfectly capable of defending himself, and didn't like the idea that Malcolm would think otherwise. He said nothing, though, and a moment later the blanket covering the entrance of the tent moved, taking his mind off the subject. A face peered through the gap between the blankets, dimly lit by the candle inside the makeshift dwelling. Trip saw bleak, baggy eyes, a red nose, and a mouth hardened by cold weather and illness. The black eyebrows drew together, and then the owner of the tent crawled outside, holding something in his hand that looked like a club. Trip tensed, but then he saw that the "club" was only a bottle from which the man had been drinking. He seemed to have downed the greater part of the bottle's contents, swaying and stumbling as he straightened up.
"Who're you?" he asked in a hoarse, bleary voice. "Get the fuck outta here."
"It's raining," Trip said. The man was still frowning, and Trip added, "We're not lookin' for trouble. We just need a place to spend the night."
"You get the fuck outta here." The man raised the bottle as if in a weird salute. "My place. I live here. An' you get the fuck out."
"Well, you'll hardly need the whole place to yourself." Malcolm crossed his arms in front of his chest. "As my friend said, we're not looking for trouble. And we're not leaving, either."
Trip turned his head a little at the word "friend"; it had come perfectly naturally, as if it were something Malcolm didn't even have to think about. And there was no need to think about it, Trip realized. He knew that he and Malcolm were friends just like he had known that he was called Charles Tucker.
The man in front of the tent swayed again. "You're not fuckin' stealin' my house," he said, and Trip noticed an underlying tone of fear in his voice. "It's my fuckin' house. You're not takin' it."
"We don't want your house. We'll sleep somewhere over there." Trip waved at the stacked crates. "Don't worry."
The man stared at him for a second, the bottle trembling in his hand. Then he turned away and crawled back into his "house", muttering something that sounded very much like "fuckin' bastards", and closed the door curtain with a hard jerk. Inside, they could hear him take a noisy slurp from his bottle.
Trip nodded at Malcolm; the guy wasn't going to give them any more trouble. They went over to the corner where the crates were stacked, and found that someone must have used it for a sleeping place not too long ago, and had left behind several beer bottles, newspaper sheets and a box of matches.
Malcolm and he lifted two of the wooden crates off the stack and arranged them so that they shielded the corner from the rest of the room. The space inside was barely wide enough for two people to stretch out side by side, but at least they would be warm that way.
Malcolm picked up the box of matches their predecessor had left. "Maybe we could try and make a fire," he said. Trip glanced around. Except for the carton boxes and the newspaper sheets they intended to use as bedding there was nothing combustible to hand. Then he remembered the broken crate he had noticed earlier on, and got up.
"Be right back."
Five minutes later, he returned with several wooden boards he had broken into handy-size pieces, and was secretly pleased when Malcolm nodded appreciatively. As Trip began to arrange the wooden splinters on the floor, he had the distinct feeling that this was something he had done before... something he had practized. An image flickered before his mental eye - a forest, people carrying "survival gear"... field training.
The image made no sense and he shook it off, returning his attention to their fire. Malcolm had rolled up one of the newspaper sheets and wedged it between his knees so that he could use both hands to light one of the matches. Soon the paper cylinder was burning, and Malcolm carefully held it against one of the wooden pieces until a thin trail of smoke rose into the air. The crate didn't burn well, producing mostly smoke and only a few tiny flames, but it was enough to warm up their hands, which had grown stiff and red with cold.
Across the smoking pile of splinters, Malcolm smiled at him, and Trip answered with a grin of his own. They had found a place to stay, got a fire going - all in all they could be doing a lot worse.
"Pity we don't have any sausages on sticks," Malcolm said, rubbing his hands together to maximize the warmth.
"Or marshmellows," Trip added. At the mention of food, his stomach rumbled again, and he shifted on the stony floor to get more comfortable. "Know any songs to sing round the campfire?"
Malcolm chuckled. "Can't say I do."
"Well, there's always "Bursts of Starlight"." Trip grinned.
"Oh please." Malcolm rolled his eyes. "If that isn't one of the worst songs ever made..."
Their eyes met, and Malcolm's grin began to fade at the same time as Trip's.
"'Bursts of starlight on the Vulcan sky, remind me of the years that passed us by'," they said both at the same time; quietly, as if they were sharing a terrible secret instead of quoting a line from a kitschy love song.
"What the hell is a "Vulcan sky"?" Malcolm asked softly.
Trip shook his head. "I have no idea."
The lyrics had sprung from the same, inaccessible place in his mind as the dreamlike images he would see; a place that refused to yield any more than the occasional snippet of a life Trip could no longer remember.
Malcolm began to rip apart the newspaper he had used to kindle the fire, throwing the scraps into the flames.
"It's driving me bloody nuts." He raised his head to look at Trip. "It's there, all of it, right there in my head. I can feel it. I just can't remember." His hands closed around the remains of the paper roll, crushing it.
"I know what you mean," Trip said quietly. Then, after a moment's hesitation, he added, "Do you think someone did this to us? Like we were brainwashed or somethin'?"
Malcolm was still staring into the flames. "I don't know," he said. "I guess so."
Trip wanted to say something, come up with a suggestion how they could try and find out more about what had happened, but that was the point - there was nothing they could possibly do. With no idea of what they had lost, there was no way to regain it.
"Maybe..." He trailed off, thinking. "Maybe this Enterprise business has got something to do with it. I mean, there's gotta be a reason why we're both wearin' this uniform, or whatever it is."
Malcolm nodded thoughtfully. "If so, then they did a thorough job erasing my memory. I don't have the slightest idea who or what "Enterprise" is."
Trip glanced at the image on his arm. A spacecraft... did Earth have spaceships? He had a vague idea that they did, but that didn't explain why he and Malcolm had woken up in a dark backstreet in an unknown city. He couldn't imagine how a spaceship came into all of this.
"Well," Malcolm said, returning Trip's attention to the present, "I think I'm going to turn in for the night, if you don't mind."
Trip shook his head and picked up one of the unused splinters to beat out the flames. He would have liked to keep the fire going, but that would have meant one of them having to stay awake to put more wood on.
"Wait a minute," Malcolm said suddenly. At his strange tone, Trip looked up, the splinter forgotten in his hand.
"What?"
Malcolm had begun to spread the newspapers on the floor, but had stopped as soon as he had opened what seemed to be the front cover. Trip could make out a headline in bold capital letters: "Energy Crisis Reaches New Level".
Laying the splinter aside, Trip left his place next to the fire and crouched down next to Malcolm to take a closer look at what was written on the page. For the most part, the headlines announced gloom and doom; poverty rates climbing to new heights, gang fights terrorizing the streets, schools closing down all over the state. What caught his attention, however, was what was printed at the very top of the page... and for the life of him he could not have said why it felt so utterly, inexplicably wrong.
"The New York Times," the heading said, and below: "Wednesday, January 12, 2048".
TBC...
Part of the mystery revealed... or not? Please leave a review and tell me what you think!