Originally written for the entficathon 2008. Warning: Some swearing, references to violence and adult situations (It's rather tame for a Mirror Universe fic, really ;) ).

Betaed by The Libran Iniquity, who helped tremendously. Thank you!

Ugly bastard. Freak show. Scarface.

That's what they call me. Oh, not to my face, not anymore. Got enough of that when I wasn't Commander Charles Tucker but a lowly ensign, one who finished his shift in Engineering and went straight to the galley to put in another four hours as a kitchen slave. The chef used to call me "pizza face", which is sort of funny if you think about it. He was one hilarious son of a bitch, that one. They found him in a Jeffries Tube, I hear, with a carving knife protruding from his neck. The final punchline, I guess.

Those days are over, and I can't say I'm sorry about it. My life's a lot better now, and not only because I left "pizza face" behind. I have my own quarters, for one thing. There's just enough room for my bunk, my console and a chair, and a tiny washing unit, but I like it that way. I can be on my own there. No farting, snoring, or groaning of the guy in the bunk over mine choking his chicken. No people. What luxury.

Yeah, life could be worse. Officers get their fair share of rations – booze, smokes, drugs if you pay the quartermaster a little extra. We have unlimited access to "leisure amenities" (meaning, the online database and the gym), and free choice among the lower ranks. If nothing else, that last privilege helps keeping my staff in line. Who wants to find themselves in Ugly Bastard Freak Show Pizza Face's bed? No one, that's who. They'd rather kiss a Tellarite, or spend some quality time in Reed's brig (don't know which I would pick, myself). So, my department's efficiency rates are up to par, and if someone's planning to dispose of Ol' Scarface, I usually learn about it a few days in advance. Last one was Ensign Baker. I can't be bothered to take care of them myself, so I always tell Reed, and he... well, let's just say, he takes pride and joy in his job. Perverse little bastard.

Do I ever use all the privileges of my rank? No, I'll have to say that I don't. I slept with T'Pol, a few months ago. Most of the Terrans on board wouldn't touch a Vulcan with a barge pole, even one with assets like hers, but I don't mind. I'm not in the position to be choosy, you see. Besides, she had that problem. I still don't quite get what it was, and she seemed reluctant to discuss it, but it had to do with Vulcan biology. She had to find a mate or die a slow, agonized death all on her lonesome. Faced with those options, I guess even Pizza Face doesn't look half bad.

I don't fuck any of my staff, despite the rumors. Why not? I don't want them, for one thing. T'Pol, being a Vulcan and all, didn't care about looks. She didn't flinch at having my face close to hers, or recoil when she saw the place between my shoulder blades that's as scarred as my right cheek. Granted, she didn't do much of anything, just lay there and thought of England, I guess. Or Vulcan, in her case. But it was better than nothing, nothing having been the status quo for almost a year.

Compared to the rest of our merry crowd, I don't lead a very exciting life. I don't have orgies in my quarters, I don't inject the non-Terran members of our crew with poisonous substances and take notes on their slow demise, I don't plot and scheme and blow the Captain in his ready room, I don't plant explosives in my engineers' quarters. Wish Reed would find another way of weeding out the weak; I've lost count of the charred bulkheads I had to replace because of his methods of staff management. Then again, considering that he's always willing to get rid of my would-be assassins, I guess I shouldn't be complaining.

Okay, so I won't argue that I'm a boring sort of guy. Wanna know what I do for a hobby? I play the harmonica. Seriously. The Captain likes to spend his off-time in his Jacuzzi with a crowd of hot and willing ensigns, Phlox enjoys vivisections (animals or aliens, he's not picky), Reed designs new instruments of torture or blows up parts of the ship, Hoshi, well, she's usually in the Jacuzzi with Archer. And me? Pizza Face sits in his quarters and plays his blues harp.

Well, so sue me. It helps me relax. And best of all, there are no people involved.

The bottom line is that there's not much I would change about my life. I've thought about it, you know. Wouldn't be difficult to arrange a little accident with the gravity plating in Archer's quarters, say, crank it up to 5 G. Oops. I'd send someone to clean up the mess and move in the next day, have a whole ship at my beck and command.

But as I said, I'm a boring sort of guy. Too much trouble, too many people to bribe, kill, or blackmail into accepting the change in command. I don't need that kind of thing. I don't even need the Jacuzzi. What I really like is being on my own, in my own space. I don't have to be Captain to be able to do that.

Besides, I like working with the engine. Even if the goddamn radiation made me look like Ernst Blofeld. Yeah, the scarred guy from that old James Bond movie, the one who kills Bond in the end and rakes in all the cash. Watching movies is another one of my exciting hobbies.

I don't want my life to change, which is why I'm kind of worried. You see, I've got this file system thing. Not for real; if anyone ever discovered something like that on my console, I'd be dead quicker than I could say "classified information". It's all in my head. Whenever something unanticipated happens, it goes into one of the files. I've got a file marked "assassins", and one "assassins taken care of", cross-referenced to the first one. So far, the number of entries in those two files are the same. There's one that says "hostile fire" and one "hostile fire – damage repaired", one marked "Captain unhappy with efficiency" and one "visit to sickbay". You see a pattern emerge. I need to keep things in a balance, or I'll go crazy. If I start worrying about stuff like that, if it keeps me up nights, I won't be able to focus on my work. And focusing on my work is crucial. I don't want to end up like our first chef. Carving knife, remember? That's not going to happen to me. So I keep the file system.

Now, this thing has happened. This thing I can't put into any of my files, because it's neither hostile fire nor an assassination, or even one of the Captain's disciplinary measures, one of those that leave you bleeding and groaning on the deck. Yeah, yeah, I know, how thick can a person get. Just create a new file if the old ones won't do. The thing is, I wouldn't know what to name that file. I don't have the slightest idea. And that's where the worrying starts, the staying up at night. And I don't need that.

It started in the messhall. I don't go there as a habit. I prefer to eat in my quarters, where I don't have to listen to the chattering around me or worry that someone will empty a small phial of something-or-other into my glass when I'm not looking. Every once in a while, Archer invites me to eat in the Captain's mess. Then I have to sit there, watch him and Hoshi find creative uses for their dinner and act as if I wasn't half-choking on Porthos' horrible, stinking farts. If any dog ever had gastrointestinal problems, it's that one.

No, usually I try to avoid both the messhall and any place that Archer's hellhound has been smelling up with his godawful fumes.

On that day, I was sitting in the messhall, though. Maybe I'd seen enough of the tiny closet I call my quarters; maybe I'd forgotten that I usually prefer to eat alone. I don't know. I don't think much about these things, you see? Too busy keeping carving knives at a safe distance.

So anyway, I was sitting there, reading reports and eating my meatloaf. Alone, as usual, but I like it that way. T'Pol would probably sit with me, just because I don't constantly check out her tits, but aliens aren't allowed into the messhall. They have to pick up their food from the galley and eat in their quarters. That is, if they get any at all. From what I hear, Chef likes to do a little selective rationing.

So, I was alone, and there was a group of Reed's MACO department at the next table. I don't like the MACOs; nobody does. They're mostly ex-cons, given the choice between indentured slavery back on Terra or joining Starfleet's security forces. The penal system seems to have got an endless supply of them, which is good, because we go through them like water. Whenever we raid a ship or attack a colony, they're the first to be shot, maimed or left as hostages in the rare case that we have to negotiate. Needless to say, we never recover any of those "hostages".

No one likes the MACOs, and you bet that they don't like us. They live in fear of Archer and Reed, hate Hoshi and Phlox, don't care about Mayweather (weird, nobody seems to care about him), and have nothing but contempt for T'Pol and me. For her because she is a Vulcan, and for me because I'm an ugly bastard who doesn't kill anyone and still manages to stay alive. It doesn't agree with their weltanschauung, I guess. Don't look at me like that. I read a lot. There's not much else I can do when I'm alone in my quarters, is there? A guy can only play the harmonica so often.

These MACOs in the messhall had come off shift a while ago and were well on their way to getting plastered. That's what they do. I didn't pay them much attention. MACOs go straight into my "general unpleasantness" file and are never looked at again.

Then I heard my name. One of them, Hayes, said something I didn't understand, and the rest of them started laughing like the bunch of loons they are.

"Hey Tucker!" Hayes called. "Can't you come to the messhall after everyone else is gone? D'you think anyone wants to eat their dinner looking at that?"

He pulled a grotesque face and mimed a creeping zombie. The rest of the halfwits laughed so hard that one of them fell off his chair, spilling his drink all over the deck.

"Yeah," another one of them, Sergeant Kemper, added. "It's disgusting. Makes me wanna throw up. You oughta be kept out of the messhall for hygienic reasons."

Why do they get away with stuff like that, stuff that's so outrageously insubordinate that anyone else would face immediate execution? Well, because they're MACOs. What use is there in executing someone who'll be so much spacedust in another week's time? Besides, we can't waste them. They're to be had for the asking on Terra, but we don't always have time to go back and restock our supply.

I gave Hayes the finger and got up to leave. Maybe I'm a coward, but I'm also not stupid. I'm not going to get into a fight with six of those hulking goons, much less when they're drunk.

Their laughter followed me as I left the messhall. I went into the next bathroom and had a look at the face in the mirror. The MACOs were assholes, but that didn't mean they didn't have eyes. That... thing on my face. Scar would be too kind a word. Giant boil is more like it, something that got infected, burst and spilled its acidic contents all over my face, leaving a cracked and scabby trail in its wake. Of course that is not what happened; I know that. What happened is radiation, a constant bombarding with delta rays that dried up my skin cells and closed my right eye so I can't see properly anymore. But what I saw in the mirror looked infected, unclean. Disgusting.

So, I smashed the mirror and left. What was I supposed to do? They were only MACOs, after all, and what they did went under "general unpleasantness". General unpleasantness is something you learn to deal with at a very young age, or you don't survive.

That was when the thing happened, the thing I've kept turning round and round in my head and which still won't fit into any of my files. I walked down the corridor and that was when I saw them. Hayes and Reed.

Now mind you, I don't like Hayes, but Reed's another matter. Between you and me, I'll admit that I'm a little afraid of him. He's insane. Not insane in a mad-scientist way like Phlox, or schizophrenic like Ensign Novakovitch. No, even worse than that.

How do I know? Well, that's another thing. You see, Reed sometimes comes to my office in Engineering and tells me stuff. Often it's about his little torture projects, because he needs help with the mechanics of something or other. He's got a whole shelf of those projects, carefully labeled and alphabetized, and cross-referenced as to which body part they're supposed to maim, bruise or cut. Did I mention that my hobbies are dull? Yeah, well. The strangest thing is that he never seems to actually build one of those things. He only designs them and spends endless hours discussing them with me. Because, he says, I've got a mechanically structured mind, and he likes that. Me, I don't know whether to feel insulted or not, but I never contradict him. Why I'm such a spineless coward? You've obviously never seen that mad glitter in his eyes. A guy with eyes like that could tell me that I'd make a good dog toy for Porthos and I would only nod and carry on with whatever I was doing. I like my intestines where they are, thank you.

That's not all he tells me. He once told me that he believed in a great, shape-shifting spider that rules the universe, and will one day return to destroy the world as we know it. If the turtle doesn't stop it first. He read that in a book somewhere, and it made sense to him. So he's prepared for the end of the world to come at any given time.

He also told me that he hates the MACOs and Captain Archer and about everyone on Enterprise. He wouldn't mind blowing the whole thing to kingdom come, but so far, the opportunity hasn't presented itself. Besides, he said, he likes our little chats.

So, I saw Reed and Hayes, and at first I thought they were engaged in some sort of brutal, aggressive kissing (the only kissing I can see Reed engaging in). Then I noticed that their mouths weren't touching, and that Hayes' face was contorted with pain. And then I noticed that Reed had his left hand clamped around Hayes' balls, while he used his right arm to pin the man against the wall. Hayes' eyes were bugging out of his head, leaking tears of pain.

Reed calmly turned his head, and didn't seem at all surprised to see me.

"Hello Commander," he said.

I stared at him. "What's going on?"

"Oh, the Sergeant and I were just having a little discussion," he said, and I could tell he had tightened his grip from Hayes' tearful whimpering. "It's a shame, but we can't seem to reach an agreement. Now, a minute ago I asked the Sergeant whether he didn't believe that he owed you an apology for his inappropriate conduct in the messhall, and he had a little difficulty seeing things from my point of view. Isn't that true, Sergeant?"

Hayes was sobbing now, gasping out the words. "P-please, sir... I..."

"Remember the little discussion we had in your office the other week, Commander? About the thumb-screw that wouldn't be applied to the thumb, but to another part of the anatomy?"

I nodded. How could I have forgotten?

"Well, I believe I can demonstrate its approximate effects to you in vivo, so to speak."

And he twisted his hand. Hayes screamed, and I almost winced. Not because I felt sorry for Hayes; I didn't, not for a second. But I could imagine a little too clearly how much that had hurt.

"Well?" Reed asked, and Hayes, the man who wouldn't apologize to his own mother if he had burned down her house (for all I know, that's why he was in), that man began to stammer that he was sorry, and how it would never happen again.

"Good." Reed smiled, and let go of the man. Hayes slid down the wall. Tears were running down his blotched face and into his half-open mouth. His hair stuck to his sweaty forehead and he was making a low keening sound, like an injured dog. In short, he looked like a real freak show.

Reed nodded at me. "Good evening, Commander."

And with that, he walked down the corridor towards the turbolift. I hesitated, and then I caught up with him.

"Why did you do that?" I asked him. I wasn't angry, just very confused. And to think I had decided that nothing Reed did could surprise me anymore when he told me about the shape-shifting spider.

He frowned at me. "What?"

"Why did you do that? Made Hayes apologize?" I elaborated, in case he had forgotten about the incident already. He is insane, after all.

He gave me a long look, which was strange in and of itself. Usually, he talks with his eyes shifting from side to side as if checking for possible assassins.

"I'm going to take care of you," he said, and there was that mad glitter in his eyes, but this time I couldn't keep my mouth shut. What he had said was too outrageous.

"What are you talkin' about, take care of me? I can take care of myself! Why would you-"

"I'm going to take care of you," he repeated, and I'm still not sure whether it was a threat or a promise. Do you see now, why this thing won't fit into any of my files?

"If someone insults you because of your face, I'll find them and make them suffer. If someone gives you a hard time in Engineering, I'll assign them double combat training and beat them to a pulp. If someone plots to kill you, I'll get rid of them and shove them out the airlock like so much rubbish."

"You do that already," I pointed out, too stunned to say anything else. "Get rid of them, I mean."

He nodded, pleased. "Glad you noticed."

I shook my head. "But... why?"

He shrugged. "It's the little things. That's how you know."

And that was when the turbolift arrived, and he was gone, leaving me standing there gaping after him like a landed fish.

That was it. No explanation, nothing except that short exchange. And he's as good as his word. My department runs smoother than ever, no one calls me Ugly Bastard, not even behind my back, because Reed would find out. He always finds out. I don't even have to go to the Captain's mess anymore. No idea how he did that, but I'm sure that it is his doing. He's taking care of me. And my file system has gone belly-up. My balance has slipped and I don't know what to think anymore. Maybe the end of the world is really near, and the shape-shifting spider will devour us all. Unless Malcolm does something about it first.

Malcolm? Yeah, I call him that now. He told me to, last time he came by my office, and who am I to contradict a guy with eyes like his? Crazy eyes, I mean. Eyes that can make me do anything at all.

He comes by more often now. Sometimes he brings stuff, stuff that even officers have a hard time getting their hands on: real whiskey, chocolate, not-resequenced hotdogs. I asked him how he got those things, and he said he'd had a little chat with Chef. Carving knives? Yeah, I'm sure they came up in that conversation somewhere.

Someone's coming, and I can tell by the steps that it's him. He probably wants to discuss another one of his insane schemes with me, one of his projects. The latest one doesn't involve implements of torture, for once. He's got this idea about invading a parallel universe, killing our doppelgängers and taking their places, and of course I am to help him. I am the one with the mechanically structured mind, after all.

You know, it doesn't really matter what we talk about. It just feels nice not to be alone in here.

Now there's a strange thought.

FIN

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