Summary: "They were experimenting. Trying to break us. It was only a matter of time before they tried waterboarding." The Klingons have a little time and a couple of prisoners. As he waits for news on Malcolm's condition, Trip recounts two weeks of torment.

Consider this a non-November entry for "Drown Malcolm Month." I became rather obsessed with Malcolm's aquaphobia and I wanted to explore his psych a little bit and see if he could handle a brief period of water torture. I'm pleased to say that Malcolm survived the experiment and is more or less his melodramatic self, although he hasn't been speaking to me lately. Huh, wonder what upset him...

Disclaimer: I own nothing related to Star Trek, its voyages, or the past crew members of the Enterprise. I do have in my possession a couple of my sister's action figures. Sadly, the most profit I'll make is if I toss them onto a yard sale table for twenty-five cents apiece.

All mistakes are my own.

Klingon Numbers in this Chapter:

Soch-maH jav - Seventy-Six

Soch-maH Soch - Seventy-Seven

Soch-maH chorgh - Seventy-Eight

Hut-maH wa - Ninety-One

Hut-maH cha - Ninety-Two

Hut-maH wej - Ninety-Three

Hut-maH jav - Ninety-Six

He doesn't know how long it's been. He doesn't know if they've been proclaimed dead, or if the Enterprise will even attempt to reclaim their bodies. He doesn't know if there will be anything left to recover, once the Klingons have finished with them.

Strange part is, he doesn't even know what the Klingons want.

His head hurts - hasn't stopped since they turned up the heat in this dank, cramped cell - and he hasn't moved from where they tossed him after the last session. Two more fingers on his right hand are angled sharply to the left. One of them seems to hang, dangling on a puffy skein of skin and muscle. Probably no joint left to support it. He stopped feeling nauseated about that after the fifth round or so.

Breathing in sharply, he snorts, purging a blood clot from his nose. Fresh ooze trickles down his chin and he instinctively brushes it against his shoulder. Finally, he can breathe a little. His ribs are intact - they haven't started the life-threatening injuries yet - but he figures his body is one swollen bruise. The Klingons know how to throw a punch without battering anything internal. It's been … how many sessions? How many days? Trip only knows that he hasn't sat down or lain comfortably in what feels like weeks. The Klingons singled out nerves and pressure points - he should probably admire their knowledge of human anatomy - but they didn't start snapping fingers until recently. The first one freaked him out. He nearly bit through his tongue focusing on not begging them to leave his hands alone. The second finger they almost….

Ah, there's the nausea again. Curling onto his side, Trip coughs out bile and groans as inflamed muscles clamp up, jolting in time with his heaves, racking him from the base of his skull to his shoulder joints. What he wouldn't give for an Andorian ale and an analgesic.

The cell door beside his own swishes. He can't see anything outside of the crude metal walls, but he can hear his captors' gutteral laughter, accompanying the soggy splat of a drenched body hitting the floor, and the wheezing coughs of someone who's been submerged past the point of human tolerance - again.

"Malcolm?" Trip doesn't wait for the guards to leave before he crawls to the cell wall that separates them. He hears more coughing, and the wretched splutter of someone vomiting water. Finally Malcolm answers him.

"I don't think we have to worry about sanitation in this place."

Huffing, Trip weighs the options of chiding his friend's dry optimism versus feeling relieved that he's still making quips. The lieutenant started baiting the Klingons early, trying to draw their attention from Trip, but his stupid bravado only earned him a bruised larynx and a few more knocks to the head. The Klingons wouldn't be distracted from the appeal of two prisoners to batter to death.

Listening to Malcolm's rasp, Trip wishes the Klingons would be more forgetful of methods that did work. They've worked their way up several levels by now, from sleep deprivation to ramming hot needles under his fingernails to - Trip's personal horror - grotesquely dislocating a few joints. He hasn't lost his mind in a fit of screaming just yet, but that may only be a matter of time. If they follow through on that threat and take a welding torch to his eye….

But for Malcolm, those primary methods ended a long time ago. Ninety-six seconds changed everything.

What Trip wouldn't give to buy that time for his friend. Over and over and over again…..

It started with a simple away mission. (Isn't that how he always looks back - a simple morning, an average day, a mere, ordinary circumstance - something that any other time, he'd placidly overlook? They've been on more infiltration missions and botched up rescues than Trip can count, and he still nails this one down to a blase, routine happenstance.)

They stopped to replenish the reserves for the antimatter generator. (Strange, Trip can't even remember the name of the planet anymore. Some place with forests and a small cove, and such an oxygen-rich atmosphere that the crewmembers were only allowed to remain on the surface without breathing apparatuses for short periods of time.) Once the last shipment was safely stowed onboard, he and Malcolm detoured to the cove to see if the local flying insects really did reach the size of dinner plates. Malcolm had just crouched down to inspect a butterfly with the wingspan of both his hands when Trip felt a sharp pain in his neck - much akin to the nip of an oversized mosquito.

He reached for the insect just as a vault of dizziness made him wonder if he shouldn't have left his breathing apparatus behind. Even as he stepped back, Malcolm smoothly sprang to his feet and fired just past his ear. Something heavy collapsed into the foliage and Trip fell on top of it, blinking as a large fern swelled and replicated itself into three identical copies. Someone growled a curse. Malcolm yelped. Pushing himself up on shaky arms, Trip focused on the sounds, his fingers sliding over his phaser as he squinted at two - no four - images of the lieutenant braced against a Klingon, his right arm wrenched behind his back.

Before Trip could force his limp fingers to cooperate, his hand was kicked away from his weapon. Colors spiralled into a disorientating kaleidoscope and he squeezed his eyes shut, welcoming the perfect blackness.

That was day one. The day before Trip finds himself in a five-by-six holding cell, with no view of the outer halls, and no sound except for muffled conversation whenever he and Malcolm are both conscious. Not that there's much to talk about in these box cages.

There's a six-inch grate in the floor and some sort of spigot on the ceiling way overhead. No bunk, no food hatch, no water. The Klingons haul Trip out of the cell routinely the first two days. The door swishes open and he is hustled out, forced to walk the length of the hall, all the way to the chamber where he can see machines and wicked-looking tools, as though they want him to know what is coming and anticipate the worst. Trip tries to estimate the minutes between rounds, but the scheduled walks are intentionally erratic. He quickly loses track of time.

As far as he can tell, this "exercise routine" takes place four or five times an hour - never long enough for him to snatch more than five minutes of sleep. The same is happening to Malcolm, judging by the swish of his cell door opening, but they are never taken out at the same time.

- Until the first time when they're ushered into the chamber together. Surrounded by the mockery of their captors, they're pushed into the center of the room, blindfolded, and chained upright. Evidently it's a sort of game - one Klingon takes a turn sneaking around, while the prisoners try to assess who is about to feel the punch and from where. Jeers follow if someone makes a pained grunt.

They're both log-tired, dehydrated, and sensory-deprived. It isn't long before Trip's exercising some multilingual curses, and Malcolm is using some words that Hoshi would deck him for if she heard him muttering in front of the younger crewmen. At one point Trip hears the thud of a boot on flesh, and he smirks when he realizes that it's a Klingon who hollers. He's right proud of Malcolm's aim, even though the end result is that their bare feet are soon scrabbling for purchase on a steel-grated floor.

Steel-grated. Like the sort of flooring used for ancient medical decks; the kind that prove mighty convenient for draining blood.

The Klingons don't draw blood on the first session, however. Heck, they don't even beat out a tooth. They pull their punches effectively, raising swollen lumps and purple masses that throb as Trip lays alone in his cell, but they leave their prisoners in one piece.

That's only the first session.

By session two, the blindfolds aren't utilized. The prisoners are chained facing away from one another, and Trip struggles between focusing on his captors as they circle him with iron-clad fists, and looking over his shoulder whenever Malcolm bites down a holler. The Klingons strike the same marks, metal thunking into tender flesh, and they heartily congratulate one another whenever an old bruise bursts into a patch of trickling blood and broken flesh. They aim to pulverize their captives this time, splitting skin over Trip's eyebrows; his jaw; shoulder blades; shins; everywhere they can find a bony prominence. He sees a fist draw back just before his nose is crushed, and spends the rest of that session trying to breathe between cracked lips.

They're both doused with water, washing away old and fresh blood, and Tucker sucks at the moisture as it runs down his limbs. His parched mouth feels relief - marginally - and he hears one of the Klingons tell his companion, "Next time," before he is dragged back to his cell.

"What do you suppose they mean by that? 'Next time?'" Malcolm murmurs, pulling Tucker from an oblivious haze.

"Dunno," Trip mumbles. He doesn't want to know. Doesn't care. He just wants to shut his eyes until the pain melts away.

If only he'd been more attentive to the apprehension in Malcolm's voice. Maybe he could've distracted him. Ordered him not to panic. Kept him going longer than that sparse minute and a half before everything went downhill.

If only.

Session three can't have been that long after the last beating, but it's long enough that Trip's skin feels stretched and he doesn't have enough moisture to wet his split lips. He's dragged into the chamber and thrown to his knees, followed by Malcolm on his right. A bucket of water is placed in front of him.

"Have a drink, petaQ," the Klingon behind him coaxes.

Malcolm draws in a hiss and faintly shakes his head. Grimly Trip takes a deep breath and clamps his jaw, averting his eyes from the tempting gleam of clear, fresh water. Any minute now, his resistance won't matter. The Klingons will still -

Before he can finish the thought, gnarly fingers grab his hair and thrust his head forward. Water gushes past his ears, swishing his hair, muffling all but his pounding heart. He counts the seconds. Fifteen. Thirty. Forty-five. The fingers adjust and he is hauled backward, barely emitting a gasp before water closes around him again. Fifteen. Twenty-five. Forty. He didn't even have time to draw half a breath! At a minute and five seconds he's balking against his captor, hands twisting futilely against their bonds as his body demands air.

One minute and fifteen seconds. He's yanked to the surface, held for a space of five seconds, and thrust under again. He can no longer count heartbeats; his blood is thundering to escape his chest and his vision swings between swarms of brown and an expanse of watery grey. Fifteen seconds. Twenty. Forty-five. Another breach for air. There's no predicting the times between desperate gasps. He's pulled back again and catches a brief glimpse of Malcolm under the water, two Klingons holding him down.

Twenty seconds. One minute. One minute and ten. He's no longer thirsty. In fact, he never wants to see a swimming pool again.

He's raised to the sounds of riotous laughter, and dimly hears the seconds being repeated around him.

"Soch-maH jav! Soch-maH Soch! Soch-maH chorgh!"

Momentarily forgotten, he leans against the Klingon's legs, looking towards Malcolm. Instantly his fatigue vanishes and he surges to his knees, choking on a curse. "You're killing him!"

Wracking against his captors, Malcolm is twisting; bucking; thrashing; kicking out until a third Klingon grapples for his legs. The bucket almost capsizes twice, and the Klingons holler for more water, hollering in mirth as it splashes over the lieutenant's head.

"Hut-maH wa! Hut-maH cha! Hut-maH wej!"

Ninety-four. Ninety-five. Ninety-

Throwing himself to the side, Malcolm temporarily shakes off the Klingon latched onto his left shoulder. He sucks in air and releases it in a frantic yell, bashing his head into the second Klingon's skull. There's no level-headed control that Trip associates with the meticulous head of security. This man is fearsome; uncontrollable; he's positively wild.

"Hut-maH jav!" the lead Klingon crows.

Ninety-six. Ninety-six seconds for the impenetrable Malcolm to lose control. Ninety-six seconds for panic to set in. Ninety-six seconds for him to break free, expressing his terror in a burst of inhumane strength.

Ninety-six seconds for the Klingons to grasp the upper hand.

If only Trip had known what would follow...

"Malcolm." Wincing at the weak, clogged gasps behind the wall, Trip leans against the metal and calls again. "Lieutenant Reed, respond."

"Still here," comes the rasping reply. There isn't even a "Sir" attached this time - Malcolm lost energy for such formalities a few sessions ago. He's slowly drowning, filling his lungs each new round, lying soaked and chilled when he's allowed to rest. Pneumonia is inevitable. Trip isn't sure if he'll make it long enough for Phlox to diagnose it. Every session it's a little longer; a little more creative. One day they won't pull him out in time to pump the water out of his lungs. One day it will only be Trip waiting in his cell. One day...

No. He won't think like that. The Enterprise will find them. It's only a matter of time. They just have to hold on and keep their mouths shut until….

Hang it all, Trip doesn't even know what the Klingon's want! Is this a game for them; dredging two officers to the point of death? Or is it a message to send back to Starfleet? They've upped their game with Trip - he's pretty sure he's going to holler uncontrollably if they dislocate a knee tomorrow - but Malcolm won't be any use to them the longer they keep this up. They're drowning him, bit by bit, session by session, and a waterlogged corpse makes for a poor bargaining chip.

"Bastards, what do you want from us?" Trip whispers.

"Trip…." Malcolm calls to him, his voice as raw as Trip's throat feels. "Tell Maddie that…."

"We've been through this already!" Trip snaps. "I'm not relaying anyone's last messages. As soon as the captain finds us you can tell her yourself."

He can picture Reed's melancholy hunch as the security officer weighs his odds. "S'fine. It's all in my cabin, anyways."

Of course. After their past argument in the shuttlepod, the realist would have pre-recorded all of his last words before embarking on another mission. But there won't be any need for them. Not this time.

"A little water won't kill you," Trip says, only half-heartedly, because it wasn't two sessions past when they held Malcolm's face in two inches of water until he stopped struggling. Tucker will never forget how still his friend lay, his face turned to the side, limp hands outstretched, dark hair curling in a soft halo around him.

"I beg to differ, Sir," Malcolm says thickly, as though reliving the same memory.

Closing his eyes, Trip thunks his head against the wall. "Just hold on," he implores. "They'll come for us. It won't be long now."

Because if the captain twiddles his thumbs for too much longer, it will already be too late.

There's a box inside of the torture chamber. Solid metal, except for the grate in the bottom, it measures about four feet long and two and a half feet wide. Just big enough to cram a man in there if he scrunches up tight.

Trip hates that box.

The Klingons wrench his thumb back until he screams. They whip the soles of his feet and force him to hobble on shards of hot metal. They give him drugs to accentuate the pain and laugh when he hollers over a tiny slice in his thumb.

But they don't try anything new with Reed. They merely perfect their methods.

The box had already been invented for such a fear. Apparently waterlogging isn't all that new among Klingons. Trip can only imagine being stuffed into an antique school locker and thrown into a pool. That's the best he can describe it as the Klingons cram Malcolm's lean frame into the compartment and pull back a panel in the floor, revealing a chamber that's inches larger than the box's frame, sloshing over with tepid liquid. Trip screams louder than necessary as they slide a needle between the bones in his wrist, and he still can't drown out the sounds of Malcolm's panic.

Over and over, it's the same. Tirelessly. Predictably. He can hear Malcolm's nails scrape against the casing as the box slowly lowers into the water. He can envision the lieutenant twisting around, pressing his face against the ceiling as water floods his small cavern. The moment he is fully submerged, the count begins.

Twenty-seven. Twenty-eight. Trip counts in time with the thudding of his overwhelmed pulse. Forty-one. Forty-two. There isn't much room in the box, but he can still hear Malcolm's fists dully bat against the plating. Eighty-six, eighty-seven...

They never go past ninety-six. It's absurd - Trip knows that in ordinary circumstances Malcolm can hold his breath for longer above ground, and everyone knows that the pressure makes it easier to hold one's breath underwater, but the repeated dunkings and Malcolm's abundant panic made them initially falter at this number, and now it is but one more game.

At ninety-six exactly the box is slowly cranked upwards, allowing one breath - two at most - before it is dropped under the surface. Ninety-four, ninety-five, ninety-six….

They throw Trip down for a respite. The box drops again. Ninety-four, ninety-five….

Ten episodes under the water. Sixteen minutes with minimum air. When they finally drag Reed out of the box, he is a pathetic mass of sodden uniform and splayed dark hair. His body doesn't even shiver; he's past the point of shock.

They're thrown into their cells without ceremony. A hunk of something unrecognizable is flung at the wall above Trip's head, and he hears a similar echo in Reed's cell. He doubts that the man even knows it is there. Fumbling for the hard chunk - something foul and crumbly, but it tastes like salted jerky if Trip imagines hard enough - he gnaws at it with aching jaws and reminds himself that this is going to be over soon enough. He has to keep up his strength. When rescue comes, he will be ready.

"Trip?" There's a listless, congested sigh.

Instantly Trip presses himself against the wall. "Right here, Malcolm."

For a minute, all he can hear is the rattle of fluid as Malcolm breathes. "Trip, I … I think…."

"Save it." Helpless, Trip clamps his teeth through his lower lip, the only alternative to screaming at Reed that he is not going to die, he won't let it happen, and it'll only make things worse if he keeps talking like this. "Just hold on a little longer, Malcolm."

The rasp isn't any better. Trip hates the sound. "If we … if I don't…."

"I made that an order, Lieutenant!" He wants to slam a fist into the wall - into Reed's nose if that makes him see any more sense - but his crooked fingers have suffered enough. Don't you dare talk like that, Malcolm! I won't let them kill you. I won't let them win.

"Don't blame you," Malcolm says strongly. "Whatever happens, I don't….."

Neither do I blame you, Trip wants to say. But he can't give Malcolm any false sense of reassurance - not when he's afraid that one of these days the lieutenant might just forget his training and take a deep gulp, and by the time ninety-six seconds are up it'll be ninety-seconds too late to revive him. So instead, he gives another order. "If I hear one more jaw about dying, I'll personally request that you're demoted to crewman. We'll see how that looks on your perfect report."

He knows that the threat will sting. He also hopes that it will make Malcolm angry. There's nothing better to liven the soul than a bit of honest rage, and Malcolm is getting to be too complacent about his possible demise for Trip's comfort. If he has to drag, intimidate, blackmail, and bully the lieutenant through the aftermath of each session just to be sure he's still hanging around when the search party appears….

He might hate himself for it afterwards, but he'll do it whatever it takes.

The next session, the Klingons don't bother trying to cram a writhing Malcolm into the box. Instead, four Klingons each grab a swinging limb and pin it to the floor. A fifth Klingon takes a wet cloth and spreads it over the lieutenant's face, slowly trickling water over his mouth and nose.

It's no different than the box, the way Malcolm flops helplessly and tries to hold his breath for each count.

Ninety-three, ninety-four, ninety-five….

Trip bellows as his right knee is slammed out of place. After that he can't think around the white haze long enough to count the seconds.

He can't move. Can't hardly even swallow. Breathing is a forced exercise of survival.

"Trip..."

He doesn't care what Malcolm was going to say - heck, he could have been about to inquire on the weather, and Tucker would've knocked him halfway across the cell if he could just make a fist.

"Shut up, Malcolm!"

Silence falls. Trip craves it, and hates it. He just wants everything to stop. The pain; the thirst; the anguish of watching; the not knowing when it will ever end.

He hears a slight shifting, and then the gentle rap of knuckles against the other wall. Malcolm's calm rasp is the best thing he's heard in a long while.

"I'm here, Trip."