Spoilers: For the entirety of season 3.

Thank you to everyone who is reading this, and especially to those leaving comments. I'm glad that you're bringing up the questions that you have - those are exactly the questions I hoped would be raised, and they will be answered as the story progresses.

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Trip felt the usual crawly, discomforting feeling of the transporter leaving him as he took a quick look around. They'd materialised in a long alley between close-set buildings, and he could barely see. "Dark," he said, keeping his voice low. He didn't mention the almost overwhelming scent of damp, or the cold that chilled him despite his coat. It was a shocking change from the moderate environment of the ship, and Trip pulled his jacket tighter.

"It's always dark here," Malcolm replied, his eyes moving from the ally's entrance down to the device in his hand.

That certainly explained the pallor that Phlox had helped them develop. Trip's eyes were already beginning to adjust to the gloom, and he suspected that Phlox's injections were giving his eyesight a bit of help.

Malcolm's already pale skin had been lightened to ghostly, and his eyes stood out, steel grey against the white. His dark hair, longer now that it used to be, only served to heighten his sense of otherworldliness. Trip knew that he himself looked just as different, but the overall effect was muted due to his sandy hair and lighter eyes. From what he'd seen in the mirror before leaving sickbay, on him the effect was subdued, if excessively pale. On Malcolm, it was striking. Unlike Trip, though, Malcolm had barely even glanced at himself before they'd left. Apparently, the change wasn't as startling to him as it had been to Trip. He'd been through it once before. From what Jon had told him earlier, Malcolm had spent several months here some time before he'd joined Starfleet. He certainly seemed to know the planet well.

"This way," Malcolm said, nodding toward the end of the alley. He slipped the device, which seemed to be the local equivalent of one of their scanners, into a jacket pocket as he moved.

Trip shifted his small bag to the other shoulder and followed. He found himself casting covert glances at his friend as they walked, as if this would somehow tell him if Malcolm was okay. So far he seemed to be all right, which in and of itself, considering the circumstances, could not be normal. Trip knew that if he'd been rotting in some foreign jail for two years, trying to keep his shit together while being tortured, he wouldn't be at all okay. And yet here Malcolm was, mere hours after being returned, and Trip wasn't sure if his friend really was functional, or if this was all some façade that would crack when challenged. But it did have to be Malcolm, and it did have to be now: Jon was right about that much.

The captain had told him little of Malcolm's past mission on this planet - only that it was related to Malcolm's black ops work, before his Starfleet days. They had used him to infiltrate a group, for what Trip had no idea. But this time, Trip did know - not everything, but enough.

Starfleet intelligence had picked up some chatter - hell, they were always picking up chatter, but this was different. This was detailed, and specific.

A large-scale terrorist attack on Earth, focusing on major cities. They didn't know how it would happen. They didn't know which cities would be hit. But they did know when: May 1, 2156. Three weeks.

The trail of information had lead them here, to a planet where the major governments were more concerned with fighting amongst themselves than with helping Starfleet track down information on an event that hadn't even happened yet. Governments which had outright refused to help, and turned them away. Fuck 'em. They were here now. They'd get what they needed, and leave before the governments even realised they'd been here.

It seemed like they'd been pissing people off left and right ever since they'd gone after the Xindi. Trip wasn't surprised that, as with the Illyrians, some of that was coming back to bite them in the ass.

Malcolm stopped for a moment and pulled out the device again, cupping one hand over the screen to hide its soft glow as he read it. Nodding slightly at something he saw there, he started moving again.

Trip was still unable to believe how far they had drifted from their original mission, and how much Jon had changed. That he was seriously considering using Malcolm like this, when they were not even sure if he was of sound mind - hell, that he'd left Malcolm behind in the first place. It rankled. It bothered the hell out of him.

Trip let himself fall slightly behind Malcolm, and he took a slow breath. He was blaming Jon again, and it wasn't the man's fault - he knew the captain had done everything he could. Once those bounty hunters had captured Malcolm and brought him to the Illyrians, they'd had little choice but to let their justice system take its course. Starfleet had basically ordered Jon to leave him - Trip could still remember the look on Jon's face when he'd told the crew. But still, a big part of him wished they'd used their might and interceded - stolen Malcolm away from them, or... God, anything but left him there. A big part of him still wanted to go back and blow those Illyrians to hell. Trip swore under his breath, drawing a quick backward glance from Malcolm. He'd been angry a lot lately. At Jon. At the Illyrians. At the terrorists. At Starfleet. At himself. He huffed in disgust. Especially at himself.

Trip knew there was no other choice, then or now. At least he'd been able to convince Jon to let him go on this operation.

"I should go with him," Trip had said, his gaze moving from Malcolm to where Jon stood beside his biobed. He hoped he wouldn't have to say more - that Jon would just get it, and let him go. He knew that Starfleet had specifically requested Malcolm for this assignment, but they hadn't specifically said that he must go by himself - just that the core details of the mission be kept under wraps. Trip already knew most of those details. And a terrorist attack on Earth? If anyone on Enterprise should be involved in its prevention, it should be him.

He noticed Phlox approaching from across sickbay as Malcolm shrugged into one of the shirts the doctor kept handy. "I should go alone," Malcolm said, addressing the comment to the captain rather than to Trip.

"No way -" Trip started to say.

Malcolm swung toward him. "It's too dangerous," he said sharply. "These are not nice people, Trip, and your being there could complicate the situation."

"Damn it," Trip said under his breath. Then, louder, "You've been gone for two years." He looked to Phlox, now standing beside Malcolm. Trip's eyes then focused on a newly revealed scar on one of Malcolm's fresh-shaven cheeks, and he lowered his voice. "I'm afraid you may not be... Ah, crap," he said, trying to find the right way to say this. When Malcolm tried to speak, he kept going, his words coming in a jumble. "We have no idea of what you've been through. There's no time for a debriefing, or for any sort of counselling, and you could be sick, or worse," he said, almost pleading, thinking of what he'd seen in Malcolm's eyes, and the scars at his temple. At least, with him there, knowing the old Malcolm so well, he'd be able to see if something was going wrong.

"You plan to act as my babysitter?" Malcolm asked, biting out the words.

Trip closed his eyes a moment. "Malcolm," he said plaintively. "Please."

Jon looked from one to other. Trip found himself unable read his eyes. "See the quartermaster for appropriate clothing," he finally said. "You're both leaving in an hour."

Malcolm nodded and moved to the door. As Trip was about to follow, Jon caught his arm and held him back.

"Take care of him," he said softly, nodding toward Malcolm's retreating back.

Trip nodded. He'd do his best.

x-x

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