Disclaimer: Almighty Paramount owns it all, except for the original characters that are part of this story.

Author's Note: Yes, another lo-o-ong story, and I can't thank my wonderful beta readers Gabi and Romanse enough for putting up with me. This story wouldn't have been finished without you -group hugs her betas-!

I should probably let you know that this story contains a bit of a mystery, and I hope you'll bear with me for a while. Eventually, all questions will be answered :).

As usual, I'll be updating every two or three days; feedback of any kind is very much appreciated! I've been struggling with this monster for ages, and it would make me very happy (and speed up my posting) if you let me know what you think!

Thank you, and... enjoy!

It was the smell of oil and dirt that woke him up. He swallowed and realized that it wasn't so much a smell as a taste in his mouth, of grease and grime and things not meant for human consumption. He coughed, and noticed that there was something hard pressing against his cheek. Something that felt like stone.

He opened his eyes. It was a pavement. His hand lay only centimeters away from his face and as he raised it, wincing at its soreness, he saw in what little light there was that it was as grimy as the taste on his tongue. He must have lain here for a while.

He blinked and slowly, his surroundings turned from blurred shapes into things. Things that cast dark shadows, that he didn't recognized at all. Things that made no sense to him.

Moving slowly, he placed both his hands on the stony ground and pushed himself up. His joints ached dully and there was a prickling pain in his left arm, which must have gone to sleep. The vile taste in his mouth was still there, and he spat out, only to find that there was hardly enough moisture in his mouth for him to do so. His throat felt raw and ached from the lack of water.

When he had finally reached a sitting position, he looked at his surroundings once again, but they made no more sense than they had a minute ago. He was in some sort of dark alley, with high brick walls on either side and various things cluttered on the paved ground. Something dark and square loomed up on his right, and he squinted, recognizing it as a waste container whose lid didn't quite close on the large pile of garbage inside. An old carton filled with broken bottles sat on the ground beside it, as well as an old chair and a plastic bag full of things he couldn't quite make out in the dim light of the streetlamp further down the alley. He could smell them just fine, though, and found his nausea returning as a result.

How had he come to be here?

He swallowed. It was cold here, wherever "here" was, and the overall he was wearing was damp from lying on the ground. He knew this wasn't right, that he was supposed to be somewhere else, but where, he had no idea. All he knew that this place frightened him in a way he could not understand.

Something moved next to the waste container, and he jumped, turning around.

"Who..."

Two green spots glittered in the darkness, and a moment later a small shadow darted out of its hiding place between wall and container, crouching in the middle of the street. It was a cat. He stared at it, and it met his gaze, its large green eyes glowing like emeralds. Then it blinked and continued its way, stalking towards the other end of the alley with its tail raised high in the air. It had obviously decided that he posed no threat.

Good thing Porthos isn't here, he thought, then frowned. He had no idea who or what Porthos was, or why it was a good thing that he wasn't here with him and the cat. It was as if the thought had come out of nowhere, from a place deep inside his mind that he could not access. He knew he should know who Porthos was, that he should know just what was wrong here, but he didn't. It was as simple as that, and it scared him in a way he could not have explained.

He wiped his hands on the trousers of his jumpsuit and got up. His muscles were sore and he felt cold all over from lying on the pavement where he must have passed out. Why had he passed out? He could not remember, like he could not remember much else. There seemed little else in his mind except that he was cold, sore, thirsty and scared.

"Charles," he said, and wrapped his arms around himself. "Charles... Tucker. Trip."

The sound of his own voice was calming in its familiarity, as were the words he had spoken. Charles Tucker, Trip, that was his name. He knew that. Who was Charles Tucker? He did not know. All he knew was that he, the person who had woken up in this dark and dirty backstreet, was called Charles Tucker, and that he should not be here. He also knew that there was more that he should know, a lot more that would have helped him understand what was going on here, buried somewhere in his mind. But he could not seem to go there, any more than someone caught in a nightmare couldn't wake up on their own accord, even if they realizes that they were only dreaming.

He shivered, wrapping his arms tighter around himself. Far away, he could hear the sound of traffic, although something seemed wrong with it, as well. Everything here seemed wrong, strange, and it wasn't only the shabbiness of the place. It was the way it felt.

Slowly, almost without realizing what he was doing, he began to walk towards the bright halo the streetlamp had painted on the pavement. Further down, he could see the alley ending into another street, one that was lit with more streetlamps. It seemed a good idea to go there... maybe he would encounter something he would recognize. Or someone who would recognize Charles Tucker.

Something crunched under his boot. He looked down and saw that he had stepped on a piece of glass, one of many that lay scattered on the pavement. Somehow, the sound stopped him, froze him in place. He had no idea where the glass had come from. Maybe someone had dropped a bottle, maybe a window had broken and no one had bothered to clean up the shards - the thing was that he didn't know. He didn't know.

For a moment or two, he only stared down at the broken glass, unable to set another foot in front of the other and continue down the alley. He was still shivering, and could not seem to stop. Charles Tucker, he thought, as if the name might trigger something - memories, images, whatever - in his mind. Charles Tucker. Trip. The third. Trip Tucker.

There was nothing. He closed his eyes and suddenly the nausea rose in his throat, along with a taste so vile that he could no longer ignore it. He bent forward with his arms wrapped around his midsection and began to heave, once, twice. His vomit hit the pavement with a dull splattering sound, and he opened his eyes again, inhaling deeply before he straightened up. The nausea was still there, but it was bearable now, as was the pain in his midriff. It seemed that along with the contents of his stomach, he had rid himself of the repulsive taste.

Something in the corner of his eye caught his attention, and he turned his head, expecting to see that the cat had returned, maybe to check if the intruder on its territory was still there. It was not the cat, however. Something - someone - was lying on the ground on the other side of the garbage container, almost hidden in the shadows. He could not even make out whether it was a man or a woman, only that it was a person. A person that was stirring as if waking up from a long sleep.

He didn't move, not sure whether this new development was good or bad. The person stirred again, coughing quietly, then raised a hand to his head as if to ward off a sudden pain. The way the person moved was familiar, although he had no idea why that would be so. Nothing here was familiar, he didn't even know who he was, so how could he recognize this person?

The person - after the cough, he had realized that it was a man - began to sit up, moving as slowly and carefully as he had before. Now that he was no longer lying down, his features were outlined by the light, and they, too, seemed strangely familiar.

Not sure whether he was doing the right thing, he (Trip, my name is Trip) walked a step closer. The man on the ground had noticed the movement and raised his head, his face now visible in the light of the lamp. Widened gray eyes met Trip's own, and he realized that he knew this man with the dark hair and sharp cheekbones.

"Malcolm," he said, again surprised at hearing his own voice. This man was called Malcolm Reed; he knew that the way he knew that he himself was Charles Tucker.

The man gave no answer and only stared at him, like the cat had done before. For a strange moment, Trip imagined the man scrambling out of the shadows and disappearing down the alley just like his feline encounter had done. He would not have been surprised if he had; nothing the man could have possibly done would have surprised him.

Instead of following the cat, however, the man stayed where he was, staring at Trip as if he wasn't sure if what he was seeing was real. Then he opened his mouth.

"Where am I?"

His voice was quiet and a little hoarse, but Trip recognized its familiar accent immediately. He knew that he had heard this voice before, so often that he would have recognized it among many others.

"I don't know," he answered, and found that it was getting easier to speak past the ache in his throat. "I... can't remember."

The other man sat in silence for a moment, then he began to get to to his feet. As he came closer, Trip saw that the man - Malcolm - was wearing the same strange blue jumpsuit he had on, and that his, too, was stained with dirt and dust from lying on the pavement. His mind filed it away as another inexplicable part of what was happening here, another clue he failed to recognize. Malcolm's face was pale, and there was a sooty smear down his left cheek. Trip could see that he, too, was shivering.

"You're... you're Trip," he said and swallowed before he continued. "Trip Tucker."

Trip nodded, but said nothing. Yes, he was Trip Tucker, and at the same time he had no idea who he was. At the back of his mind, there was a feeling that something had happened, something bad, and that it concerned the two of them - this Malcolm with the smear down his cheek and himself, Trip Tucker. Two people that he knew only by name.

Malcolm entwined his hands as if to keep them from shaking. "I... don't remember anything," he said slowly, pronouncing the words in the precise way that Trip knew so well. "I don't know where we are, I don't even know who I am." He looked at Trip with something akin to panic in his eyes. "I have no idea who I am."

"Me... me either," Trip answered hoarsely. He could sympathize with the fear he saw on Malcolm's face, felt the same thing whenever he looked around and was faced with darkness and things he had never seen before. How could he be awake and aware and at the same time have no idea who or where he was? It seemed like a scenario right out of a nightmare, although Trip was sure that this was no dream. The feeling of the cold air on his skin was too real, Malcolm's voice too clear for this to be something that was only happening in his mind. No; he was here, and Malcolm was too, and there was - had to be - an explanation.

Malcolm exhaled, the condensing air forming a cloud in front of his face. "How... how can we not remember who we are? I... I know your name, and you know mine... I don't understand."

"That makes two of us," Trip said automatically, and once again, something like recognition flared up in him when the other man frowned. He had seen this frown before, and had a feeling that it had often followed a casual remark like the one he had just made.

Malcolm's eyebrows remained drawn together as he studied Trip's face. "I know you, " he said quietly. "I just don't know who you are."

"Yeah," Trip said. "Do you... do you remember anythin' else?"

Malcolm's frown intensified. "No," he said eventually. "I... I have a feeling that there's something I should remember, somewhere in my mind... but I can't." His mouth tightened. "It's as if there is a wall in my head."

Trip nodded. He knew exactly what Malcolm was talking about. "So..." He looked away, at the waste container, the lamp, the brickwalls. And realized that he didn't want to stay here. "What do we do now?"

Malcolm shrugged. His face was still tight, as if he were having a hard time concealing the things that were going on behind his forehead. He glanced at the puddle of vomit on the pavement a few meters away, then back at Trip's face.

"You all right?" he wanted to know.

It was Trip's turn to shrug. He wasn't sure why this man would be concerned with his well-being, although for some reason, the question hadn't really surprised him.

"Queasy stomach," he said as a way of explanation. "You feelin' okay?" The answer seemed to matter more than it should, given that he had only met this guy a few minutes ago.

Malcolm nodded. "I'm fine."

He didn't look fine, but Trip accepted the answer without asking any further. He had a feeling that Malcolm was not someone who liked to be pestered with questions.

"I was gonna go that way," he said instead, indicating the end of the alley. "You wanna come along?"

Malcolm hesitated briefly, the shrugged again. "Might as well," he said, burying his hands in his armpits. "Maybe we can find out where we are."

Trip nodded and began to walk, not looking at Malcolm who was trudging by his side. He was still feeling tired and sore, and a lot more scared than he had wanted to show in front of the other man. Again, he was surprised how much Malcolm's opinion seemed to matter to him. They must know each other really well... and Trip would have given his right arm to know how and why. There must be a reason, an explanation why they had both woken up in some unknown place, why they remembered nothing except for their names and the fact that they didn't belong here. He had a feeling that he wouldn't like the truth if it were presented to him, but that didn't change anything about the fact that it was the one thing he wanted to find out.

He glanced at Malcolm whose eyes were fixed on the pavement a few steps ahead of them. Though it was more for his own sake than anyone else's, he would have liked to say something encouraging. He came up with nothing. Malcolm didn't seem in any mood to talk, staring straight ahead with his hands still hidden in his armpits, and so Trip turned away again, letting out a small sigh that left a white cloud in front of his mouth.

Neither of them spoke as they continued their way down the street.

TBC...

Please let me know what you think of it so far!