Disclaimer: I do not own these characters; I am merely re-interpreting them a little.

Author's Note: This is SERIOUSLY Alternate Universe. I am neither American, or British, so if I've gotten a few cultural issues (like what school is like, especially in GB) I am very sorry, let me know and I will do my best to rectify the problem, provided it doesn't prove to be the thread that unravels the entire story. In that case, well it is an alternate universe. My email is on my profile page -- please feel free to contact me directly -- that's what it's there for. I would also like to mention the debt of gratitude I owe to Gordon Korman[1]. I Want To Go Home gave me a serious boost on this thing, gave me the inspiration on how to get these two brats together.

A/N 2: This is what happens when your muse makes like Marty McSorley and hits you upside the head with a piece of hardwood. Oh, and for those of you wondering? There really is a Hell's Gate. It's not that far from Hope.

Chapter 1: At Hell's Gate

# # # #

Trip Tucker slouched down in the shuttle seat, music cranked in his ears, and all his attention apparently focussed on the pad in front of him. So focussed, in fact, that it was clear that he was deliberately trying to ignore the people around him, all of them excited to be heading off to this great opportunity in the British Columbia woods, where they could spend some healthy time outdoors getting to know other kids from around the world. Trip, however, was not, and had no intentions of being a happy camper.

"I. Don't. Want. To. Go." Summer vacation was not a time for 'educational opportunities' as his parents described it; it was a time for hanging out with friends, going swimming, camping, hiking and just plain goofing around.

"That's what this is all about." His mother told him, when he presented that particular argument. "There's some other kids from your school going. And you'll make new friends there, you'll be sad to leave them."

"Yeah the entire freakin' chess club. Bunch of f…"

"Trip."

He gave her an ugly look, but said nothing. Swearing At Mother fell under the category of Crimes Punishable by Long Term Confinement. Which would be preferable to leaving town, but somehow he knew she'd bend the rules this time and send him anyway.

"Besides…" He tuned her out at that point, let her prattle on about how very few kids ever got picked for this kind of a chance (well, send one of those other poor slobs then), and how he should really look forward to it (yeah, like dental surgery) and how just a little change in his attitude could really affect his perspective.

"You're the one who keeps saying he wants to join Starfleet," His father had less sympathy for Trip's position than his mother. "You're going to have to do a lot of things you don't want to do then. This experience will be good for you, and you can put it on your application."

"I've changed my mind. I'm going to be an indigent artist." He wasn't sure what indigent actually meant, but it sounded good.

"Fine. Then you can be an indigent artist who went to camp." His mother closed the argument by refusing to argue the point further, something which always infuriated him.

"We're almost there, guys. Everybody ready?" Mr. Calvin, math teacher and faculty supervisor for the Chess club, was almost more excited than his students, leading them in a rousing cheer. Trip added a comment of his own, resulting in a glare from the teacher.

"You might try showing a little enthusiasm, Mr. Tucker. Your teammates here at least seem to understand how lucky they are to have won…"

Teammates. Yeah, right, like he shared anything in common with these geek-freaks. Chess club had been one of his father's ideas, implemented over the howls of protest.

"You need something to balance out all those athletic pursuits, Trip. You can't just play baseball, and football and ride your skateboard everywhere. You need to develop your mind." Like dad could understand what a loser pursuit chess was, he'd been president of his chess club back in high-school. Loser.

In response to his teacher's comment, Trip waved a hand idly, sarcastically in the air. Mr. Calvin sighed, but said nothing, just turned his attention back to the salivating geeks.

Yippee. Yes, this was certainly going to be the best summer of Trip Tucker's entire life.

# # # #

"Canada?" Malcolm Reed stared at the permission form his father handed him – neatly signed – a permission form that stated Malcolm Reed, age ten, was allowed to travel abroad without the presence of either of his parents, to a… convention, he supposed, of other, similar aged children from around the planet, taking place in… he looked again, British Columbia.

"That is where this is being held, yes." His father didn't even look up from his desk to answer his son. "Your headmaster informs me that this is an excellent opportunity for you to expand your horizons along with some of your classmates."

Wonderful. So other kids from school were going, too. Nobody he'd get along with, he could pretty much guarantee that. A lifetime of being shoved down hallways and pummelled while in bed had left him with the ability to sleep with one eye open, and an innate distrust of anybody he was institutionalized with. At least he'd grown used to the ones he had, knew their quirks, what set them off, and knew all the quiet places to hide from them. There'd be no escaping them on a shuttle to Canada, and once there… well he could hardly expect better treatment, could he? All the others would be in their own little groups, not likely to let in an undersized shy kid whose greatest talent was an ability to disappear. Especially not when his wonderful classmates got talking about him.

Not only that, but it was all apparently outdoors. God knew what lay lurking in the Canadian wilderness to set off his allergies… would anyone there know how to deal with that? He didn't bother asking, knew the decision was made and he was now going, despite any concerns he may have. Having supplied the appropriate forms, his father had no more use for him; he'd been dismissed.

North America. He'd heard about Americans, hadn't been too impressed. Brash, self-important, always thinking they knew everything about everything. Canadians were supposedly the politer breed – they hadn't fought a revolution with Britain, had merely bled the mother country dry – but then again, this was the country that invented the bloody spectacle known as ice-hockey. Even football – he supposed if he had to talk to Americans, he'd better learn to call it soccer – wasn't as brutal as that.

Why me? Malcolm sighed, and then left the room to go pack. No sense delaying, it wasn't like he had a say in the matter.

# # # #

Welcome to Hell's Gate.

How appropriate. Trip read the sign, looked around, then buried himself in his distractions again. From what he gathered, the entire place consisted of rocks, trees and cliffs. Not a beach in sight. Worst of all…

"No girls." Mr. Calvin confirmed to one of the others. "It's an all boys camp, girls get their own camp, their own experiences."

"I thought segregation was forbidden by law." Trip didn't even look up for acknowledgement of his comment.

"This is going to be a long summer for you, Mr. Tucker. Can you even pretend to be having fun?"
Now Trip did look up, a patently fake wide-eyed expression on his face. "Wow. This is just so exciting, I may just die." He held out his arm and pretended to study his wrist.

Mr. Calvin turned away; it was clear he had finally given up. Good. They didn't like each other, no sense pretending that they did. Mr. Calvin only liked the preppy geeky kids who showed all their work in nice neat handwriting, not slobs with barely legible penmanship and a proclivity for taking short-cuts. At least I get the answers right. And not out of the back of the book, either, though he'd been accused of it often enough. He probably didn't help the issue with his refusal to do the homework, but what was the point? Either he knew it – wherein it was pointless to do the same thing over and over and over – or he didn't, and staring at a word problem for half-an-hour wasn't going to make him understand it any better.

One bit of information did catch his attention, though. "You guys are going to be split up, now. They want to mix up the cabin assignments, give you all a chance to meet new people. So don't be afraid to just say 'hi', you're going to be as new to them as they are to you."

Great. Now I can finally lose these morons. Not that his bunkmates were likely to be any better. Hell, he'd probably get stuck with some kid who still wet the bed and cried for mommy at night. That does it. I get top bunk.

# # # #

Hell's Gate. Malcolm hoped that it wasn't an omen. So far this trip had been – at the very least – like old-time purgatory. Hell, but with the possibility of early release. Dante would have felt quite at home, here. Could've added another circle on for small boys who had the unfortunate luck to find themselves born into a naval family and possessive of a strong case of aquaphobia. He'd done some reading on these North American 'summer camps' and hoped that they weren't expecting him to swim. Or go out in a boat, for that matter. His father hated that in him, thought that a Reed should have no problems on the water; naval service was bred too deeply to ignore.

"You will be given random lodging assignments. Each of you will be placed in a cabin with boys from other parts of the world, and it is hoped that you will make an effort to get along with them."

"Great." Jonesy, possibly the biggest eleven-year-old Malcolm had ever had the extreme displeasure to run across elbowed his seatmate and partner in harassment in the ribs. "We get to lose poncy-Reed." He put a sad look on his face, leaned over towards Malcolm. "You're going to miss us, aren't you, Reed. All alone with nobody to keep you company. Don't worry; we'll be there. We'll make sure you don't get lonely."

Malcolm's relief at finding he wouldn't have to share any more confined space with Jonesy evaporated. The bigger boy's threat was unmistakable, unless you were an adult and thought that Jonesy was the natural-leader/admirable type.

The other boys all snickered, and Malcolm closed his eyes, wishing he were already there. Then again, his new companions probably weren't going to be any better.

# # # #

They piled off the shuttle and collected their luggage, geek-boys actually checking the tags to see that they didn't have their bags mixed up. Trip didn't need to, he was the only member of the chess club who already owned a big enough bag when the notices came out, and it was the only not-new piece on the shuttle. He doubted anyone would steal it either: he'd simply dumped all his sweaty football gear on the floor and stuffed the clothes his mom had picked out for camp inside. Anyone willing to brave that… well, aside from him that was.

"I thought this country was supposed to be cold." Instead, it was hot, almost as hot as back home, and just about as humid, too. Water, water everywhere, and still to hot to think.

"Canada has summers too, you know, Tucker. And we're not that far from the Washington State border. Actually you're standing in the middle of a rainforest."

"Well, why isn't it raining, then?" His question had the desired effect in that it cut off a lecture into the natural beauty of the place. Yeah he could see it was beautiful, and it was seriously natural. Enough said.

"Let's see, here." Mr. Calvin held two envelopes, one full of names and one full of numbers. Trip knew because he'd looked inside of them first chance he'd gotten. They were supposed to be secret, so Trip had made damn sure he had a look at the contents.

"Donovan, you're in Cabin eleven. Rodruigez, you've got six." He droned on, matching names with numbers. "Tucker, you're number three. Are you listening to me, Tucker? What cabin number are you?"

Trip displayed his third finger for the teacher, counting from the thumb.

"You know, Tucker, I've had about enough of you. All I can say is thank God you're someone else's problem now."

"I love you too, teach. Can I go?" Without waiting for an answer, Trip stalked away down the path, heading in what – he assumed – was the direction of the cabins. If it wasn't? Well, what the hell. Maybe he could get good and lost and rot out here. That would make everybody happy, wouldn't it? At least he wouldn't have to put up with slimy Mr. Calvin for two months, the man made his skin crawl. Piss-brain. Maybe Mr. Calvin would get lost out here and rot instead. Wouldn't that be a gift?

So. Cabin 3. How appropriate. Proof that God really did have a sense of humour.

# # # #

Malcolm stared around him, taking in the sheer number of kids all standing by their shuttles, collecting their bags and receiving their cabin assignments. One in particular caught his attention: an older dirty-blond kid with a scowl that easily set him apart from everyone else here. A scowl that clearly said: I don't want to be here. As Malcolm watched, the boy made a decidedly rude gesture towards the chaperone of his group, then left, despite the fact that he must have been given the same instructions Malcolm had just heard: stay here, at the entrance, until the counsellors came to collect you.

There goes Trouble. Malcolm hoped he wouldn't be assigned a cabin with that one… It was obvious the kid had a few problems with basic manners. Worse even, than Jonesy. Up until a few minutes ago, Malcolm hadn't thought that was possible. Now…

"Reed, you have Cabin Three. Any questions?"

Of course, he received the last assignment; he always ended up last in everything. He wondered again who he'd be matched up with, tried to figure it out by watching the behaviour of the others. Some of them looked scared, shy, while others milled around boisterously. Almost everybody stayed clumped together with the ones they'd come with.

"Hey, Reed. You going to give us a kiss goodbye?" Jonesy appeared behind him, gave Malcolm a hard shot to the spine. He leaned in close towards Malcolm's cheek, laughing as Malcolm pulled away.

"Cabin Three?"

Saved by the bell, or by the mega-phone in this case. A tall skinny teenager stood over by the gate, motioning people to come forward. Well over 183 cm; he looked like a giant in this crowd.

Malcolm picked up his bag (not before Jonesy spit on it, but what else was new?) and trudged across the pavement. So far, it seemed like a real mix of kids was going to be in with him, six others in total. Seven? Each school had been allowed to choose eight kids; perhaps someone had decided to drop out too late for a replacement to be called.

"Hi." The teenager greeted them as they walked up, lowering his mega-phone to speak to them on a more personal level. "I'm Jonathan Archer, I'm your cabin counsellor for the summer. This is the third summer I've done this, and I guarantee you that every summer, everyone has had a great time. Now I'm going to do a quick roll call, make sure everybody's here. When I call out your name, say 'here' or 'present' or something, so I can connect your name with your face, okay? Arishamu?"

"Here." A short Japanese kid with purple streaked hair.

"Dutertre?"

"Present." Stocky, blond, Dutch.

"Hong?"

"'ere." Chinese-Australian from the looks and sounds of it.

"Kiprusoff?"

"Yes." Another blond, this one Swedish.

"Lemaitre?"

"Oui."

"Reed?"

"Present, sir."

The teenager lowered his pad, and smiled. "You don't have to be that formal here, Reed, can I call you Malcolm? My name's Jonathan, or John, there's definitely no sir about it." His eye caught the insignia on Malcolm's bag. "Think of it as a vacation from the navy."

Malcolm nodded, not sure what to say. It's how I was brought up seemed like such a weak argument, but he couldn't just throw away formality because someone asked him to.

"Sanchez?"

A small dark haired boy nodded, said nothing. Jonathan made a note on his pad then: "Tucker?"

No answer, and the silence seemed to confirm Malcolm's fear. No. Not that, anything but…

"No Tucker? Charles Tucker? I've got here Charles Tucker the Third…" Jonathan's voice trailed off as he realised he wasn't going to get a reply. "Okay, well I'm sure we'll get an answer on the Tucker question soon enough, meantime, let's get you settled."

Malcolm picked up his gear again and followed his counsellor down the path, hoping against hope he was wrong, that Tucker had fallen sick, or something, or had decided not to come…

# # # #

They really could have done a better job on this place. Trip stared up at the ceiling; close enough to touch as he lay down on his bunk. Well, if he sat up and really reached for it he could touch it, which qualified as close. Rough-cut square beams slanted down, if you ran a finger along them you'd be sure to get a nasty splinter. Cracks were going to open up in that roof, too, not a good idea if Mr. Calvin was right and this really was a rainforest. As for these walls… Well he hoped the kids around here liked draughts, because there certainly was going to be a lot of them.

The door opened and a tall kid entered, followed by a gaggle of shorter ones, like geese.

Hey, ma, the kids are home. He didn't move, did nothing to catch anyone's eye, but someone spotted him anyway. Short, dark haired kid with that pulled in look of the terminally shy. Would probably want to drone on about his coin collection and how much he liked bugs. Worse yet, he'd probably turn out to be a chess freak. Kid had that look: too skinny, too pale. Face was priceless, too, like he'd just gotten a big mouthful of shit and didn't want to say the word.

The tall one walked over, tapped Trip on the shoulder. "You're Tucker, I assume?"

"Wow. My reputation spreads already." Trip drawled. He didn't take his eyes from the ceiling, the place could've been on fire and he wouldn't have moved.

"So, will that be Charles, then? Or Charlie?" Kid consulted a pad, then looked back at Trip.

"Only if you like the taste of blood." He hated Charles, it was so formal, so teacherish, and everybody called his dad Charlie.

Kid didn't even blink. "Well, I'm either John or Jonathan, you pick, and you can get around to telling me what you would like to be called in a minute, okay?"

"They teach you cheery in counsellor school?" This game was too easy, just a way of finding where the buttons were. Pushing them later was the fun part.

"As a matter of fact they did, and if you keep this up, you're going to see it. Now everybody's got half an hour, get your stuff put away and we'll meet outside to do the camp tour." He tapped Trip again, dead centre in the chest. "Including you, hotshot. No exceptions this time."

Trip said nothing, did nothing. He didn't plan on joining any stupid tour, especially not with these losers.

"Don't think you can get out of it, hotshot." The counsellor read his mind, even as he walked to the small, separate room at the back of the cabin. Trip had been tempted to claim it, but figured it'd be too grandiose a start. "I mean no exceptions."

Make me, hotshot. Two could play that game, and there was no way he was losing to some overgrown weed who'd just gotten over his acne. Trip allowed himself an inner smile; at least he'd found himself a semi-decent adversary.

# # # #

Oh, God. Malcolm looked up at the figure on the bunk and had to suppress a groan. It was him, and he already had that Jonesy look like he owned the place. First words out of the kid's mouth confirmed Malcolm's darkest fears about him. American. If that accent got any more Southern, he'd be speaking Spanish. Not just American, but what did they call themselves? Rebels? This Tucker certainly lived up to that description, mouthing off to Jonathan like it was something he did every day. Jonathan certainly took it well enough, better than Malcolm's father ever would have. Malcolm couldn't even imagine himself talking to his father like that; he'd never get past the first word. Jonathan gave them half an hour, and the other kids were all fighting over bunks now, keeping away from Trouble. Which meant that, as usual, Malcolm got the short, dirty end.

Sighing, he set his stuff down at the foot of the bunk. Of course I couldn't get the top one. He wasn't going to ask for it either, had a fairly good idea what the answer was going to be.

"So what are we supposed to call you?" He asked it softly, hopefully too softly for Tucker to hear.

Tucker shot him a look. "I really don't care. Personally, I wouldn't care if you didn't call me at all. It ain't my idea to be here."

Isn't. Isn't my idea. What kind of English skills did they teach in America anyway? "Well, I didn't precisely have a say in the matter, either." Why did he care about someone who clearly didn't want people to care about him?

He ducked under the bed and began stowing his belongings in the space not already occupied by a large, battered and rather smelly bag. The words weren't much above a whisper -- it was a miracle he heard them, almost wasn't sure that he had – words tinged with a deep, almost familiar sadness.

"Trip. My name's Trip."