x-x
...Water, lit from the lights above, blue, yellow, and grey.
He was trapped.
So damn cold.
He should have told... told...
Eyes snapping open, Malcolm's heart raced as he stared up at the dark ceiling. He'd thought he was, that the medications, or the extra sleep had... But now, a mere two days after Phlox had taken him off the stuff... He groaned and turned onto his side, pushing away sweat soaked sheets. Bleary eyes found focus on the clock, its numbers glowing faintly in the darkness. Oh-three-hundred. He could get up, like he used to do, or he could at least try to get some sleep. God knew, he was tired.
But if he slept, the dream...
But if he didn't, he'd hardly be able to function, and someone - Hoshi, or Tucker, or Phlox - might notice, and then he'd be back to square one. No. Dreams be damned. He just needed to get through tonight. He could deal with the rest of this after tomorrow was done.
Rolling onto his stomach, he pulled his covers back up.
...briny water filled his mouth and nose...
x-x
Malcolm stumbled out of bed and ran through the usual process of getting ready for the day: quick piss, quick shower, and so on, doing everything by rote, because today his mind was elsewhere. It was to be his first day back on duty since the incident on the bridge, and he was nervous. Needlessly, perhaps, but it was there, nonetheless. He shrugged into his uniform, taking it from where it had been hanging over the back of his door; ready, even if he wasn't.
Malcolm gazed at himself in his bathroom mirror. Above his crisp uniform, his face was looking a bit wan. Understandable, actually. He wasn't sure if it was because today was to be his first day back on duty, or if it was because the damned dreams had started again last night. Or maybe both - perhaps the dreams had been prompted by his anxiety at his return? He'd managed to get some sleep despite them, but he was tired, and it showed.
Still, it was nothing with which he couldn't cope. The chill he took care of by wearing an extra layer under his uniform. The tiredness he'd pass off as being from nerves, if anyone should actually ask. He did look far better than before, and he'd at least started regaining some of the weight he'd lost. Despite his lack of appetite, he'd been quite careful to make sure he was eating regularly.
But the bloody dreams... Maybe he should stop and see the doctor. Or, no. It was likely that the dreams were simply due to his anxiety over his return. They'd no doubt disappear as soon as he felt comfortable again. No need to bother Phlox.
Archer's voice came across the comm. "Lieutenant?"
Malcolm straightened and, with a last, passing glance in the mirror, went to the comm. unit by his door. "Yes, sir?"
"We've been invited to visit some folks on a planet a few hundred light years away. I know it's your first day back on the job, but, you up for a trip?"
Malcolm felt a thrill of anticipation. Up for a trip? He'd love the chance to get off this ship, set foot on actual earth. "Sir, yes, sir," he said.
"Shuttle bay, ten minutes," Archer said, clicking off.
Malcolm clenched his fist, adrenaline pushing off the last vestiges of tiredness. First day back, and a mission. Things could not be better.
x-x
Malcolm stood on the white platform, focusing on keeping his stance relaxed, but he had to shift his balance slightly as the waves caused the surface below him to move. He apologised when his arm knocked into Ensign Sa... into Hoshi beside him, but it really could not be avoided. The small platform was big enough for their shuttle and a few people to stand upon, but not by much. He, Tucker, Hoshi and Mayweather pretty much filled it. In fact, they'd had to come down in shifts - Archer and his lot had already been down and through, as had another group lead by T'Pol, and Mayweather had so far been doing the shuttling. He seemed eager to stop the back-and-forth trips and start exploring.
Malcolm squinted off into the distance. The planet was sunny, certainly. Blue skies, the occasional cloud - quite Earth-like, if one only ignored the fact that nearly the entire surface of the planet was covered by water. The place would actually be pretty, if it weren't making him so anxious.
Apparently, they were to collect here, and then, one by one, head through a lock of some sort, which would transport them to where these people actually lived, far beneath the sea.
There was a brief crackle, and then, despite the lack of anything that looked like speakers, Archer's voice seemed to fill the space around them. "Trip?"
"Captain?" Tucker glanced at those around him. "We're all here."
"Good." There was a pause, and then Archer continued. "It's an unusual experience. The lock actually fills with water before you transport."
"Excuse me?" Tucker said, exchanging a surprised look with Mayweather. Mayweather, with what Malcolm had come to think of as typical Boomer composure, simply shrugged. Hoshi, on the other hand, looked to be just on this side of panic.
"Takes just a minute, but I thought you should know." He hesitated again. "The lock fills, you're transported into a large pool, and swim up to the surface."
Hoshi piped in. "The Celadonians didn't say anything about that, Captain."
"They don't seem to think it's a big deal," Archer replied. "And I haven't really been able to get them to understand. But if anyone is particularly uncomfortable with this, they should probably wait this one out."
"But the Celadonians had said they wanted to meet each department head," Tucker said. "They'd seemed pretty insistent. Won't someone skipping out on them cause problems?"
"I'd be willing to take that risk."
Malcolm tried to keep his posture relaxed, but inside, he was far from it. He was already anxious, and he could feel a bead of sweat make its way down his back. It was bad enough, standing on this platform surrounded on all sides by ocean, but the idea of going into some chamber and having it fill with water - yes, he'd dealt with submersion before, as part of his training. But it hadn't been pleasant.
Tucker's assessing gaze moved from one to the other of them. As it rested on him, he gave a sharp nod, trying to keep his breathing calm and even. He could do this. He had to. In reality, there was no way to refuse without potentially causing an interstellar incident, and he was not going to be the one who did so. The Celadonians had expressly stated that they wanted to meet all department heads. Even Chef had been invited down. Malcolm clenched his fists, trying to rationalise away his rising panic. It would take only a second, really, and then through the magic of Celadonian tech, he'd end up in their undersea city. He simply needed to find a way to get through this.
As Tucker and Archer discussed the final details, Malcolm noticed that Hoshi still seemed quite nervous, but he was far too tense himself to be of much help. He was watching her shift uncomfortably when Mayweather moved to the edge of the platform, and only then did Malcolm become aware of a softly glowing grid pattern on the area just under Mayweather's feet. White walls appeared around him almost instantly, and then disappeared, taking Mayweather with them.
Tucker let out a low whistle and a muttered, "I'll be damned." Catching Malcolm's eye, he raised a brow. "Next?" he asked.
Hoshi stepped forward. "Actually, can I go?" She cast Malcolm a look as if in understanding, and Malcolm realised that maybe he wasn't hiding his anxiety as well as he'd thought. "I'd rather get this over with," Hoshi added softly, almost seeming apologetic. At Tucker's nod, she closed the cover to her translation device, thus making it as water tight as possible, then stood on the now-dull grid. After a few moments, it began to glow again, and like Mayweather, she was gone in a flash.
"Want to go?" Tucker asked.
Malcolm shook his head. "You can go ahead."
It was only when Tucker gave a jaunty salute, then disappeared, that Malcolm felt the brunt of his panic set in. Heart racing, he began readying his equipment for submersion, although most of it was designed to be able to be immersed in water for brief periods without any special preparation. He'd do the prep anyway. He needed the time. Trembling fingers made him clumsy, so each task took extra care, but even so, he was done in mere moments.
He stared at the grid. It was glowing, ready.
"It's your go, Reed," he muttered. Bracing himself, he stepped forward.
Walls rose, gray around him, and suddenly he was standing in a small chamber. The water started coming in immediately, pooling around his feet, then swiftly rising past his ankles, knees, waist, chest, and Malcolm tried not to breathe, not to think, not to feel as the water rushed past his chin. Unable to help himself, he tilted his face up to the bright ceiling, taking in a gasping breath just as the water closed over his head. His eyes darted around the cramped space. The chamber was full now. Chest tight, eyes wide open despite the sting and his desperate desire to shut them, he tried to keep still, but he was trembling in his cold and fear, and the salt water was making him buoyant. He thrust a hand toward the ceiling to support himself, the water slowing his movements. Already, his fingers were so cold he could barely feel the smooth surface, but he left them there, anchoring himself.
He'd known it would be bad. Small space, stand there, let the water fill it - damn, it was cold - up past his head, don't panic, the pressure would equalize, the door - it looked like a door - in front of him would open, he'd be out and being picked up by the locals in no time.
Tucker was already in and through. Tucker had already been through this. Tucker was likely fine, probably already sitting at some reception drinking bloody mai tais or the local equivalent, and if Malcolm could just get through this, he'd be there with Tucker and the others, on their way to meet Archer and damn it, what was taking them so long?
And they'd insisted, the bleedin' locals, they'd insisted that all the department heads make it down to their location, cultural exchange, didn't want to risk offense, oh-bloody-no. Even Chef had been there, part of the first group to come down.
And why not? Chef wasn't afraid of drowning. He wasn't afraid, not like, not -
His body shook and, unable to stop himself, he gasped, briny water filling his mouth and nose. His throat closed and he choked and coughed, but that just made him try to breathe the liquid in again, and losing his grip, his head hit the ceiling.
Water, lit from the lights in the ceiling above, blue, yellow, and grey. And cold, he was so damn cold. And it hurt, feck, his chest. He should have told...
His lungs burned from lack of air, and his vision tunnelled out. He was going to pass out. He couldn't. He couldn't let himself. If he did, his body's reflexes would take over, and he'd breathe, not at first, but soon enough, and if he did, and he was unconscious, water would enter his lungs. He'd drown. He'd... He should have told...
He struggled, arms thrashing against the walls, the hinge of the door cutting his hand as he moved.
...told Trip that he was afraid of the bloody water.
A thin trickle of darkness trailed from the injury, and he could hear his pulse in his ears, feel his heart pounding in his chest, and he couldn't keep himself from trying to breathe, trying to cough, and, and. And.
And.
He stilled.
And he'd thought he could get through this.
His vision blurred.
He'd been wrong.
As the world went grey around him, and then black, a fleeting thought came to mind: So this is what the dreams were on about.
x-x
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